when she finally pulll back, lips slightly swollen, she smirks, a breathless laugh escaping her. “well,” she says, voice low, playful, “i think your shirt’s beyond saving now.” fingers trace the collar as her gaze lingers on his lips.

/ SHE’S IN LOVE YOUR HONOR

‎ don’t call me 𝒏𝐲͟𝐦͟𝐩͟𝐡͟𝐚͟𝐝͟𝐨͟𝐫͟𝐚!

‎ don’t call me 𝒏𝐲͟𝐦͟𝐩͟𝐡͟𝐚͟𝐝͟𝐨͟𝐫͟𝐚!

“oh no,” she says, mock-serious, “not the person you like—how will your reputation survive?” thumb brushes over the now thoroughly wrinkled fabric of his shirt with exaggerated sympathy, “tragic, really. you might have to burn it.”

/ why am i like this