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Sam
Jun 24, 2022
In Short Stories
Synopsis: Coming home after a long day of work to the one she loves has never felt better. Word Count: 1735 Date Written: July 2021 Elle walks through the front door after a long day at work. It’s one of the few times where Matthew actually got home before she did and judging by the lack of a suit jacket draped over the back of the couch, he’s been there for a little while now. “Hey,” he calls out from the other room. “Hi,” she calls back, closing the door behind her. The first thing she notices as she takes off her jacket is the smell. It smells like something is on the stove, and she knows that Matthew is likely making dinner. She smiles to herself at the thought. She knows he tries to be home at a decent hour when he can, but it’s still the first few weeks of his new job and he only eats about half his meals in their apartment these days. He’s not entirely at fault for that, considering most of the time when he eats dinner at the office it’s usually with her, but the effort he’s making tonight—the one early night he’s had all week—to cook for her makes her heart flutter. She takes a few steps through the apartment, heading through the living room and on her way to the kitchen. She leans up against the door frame separating the two rooms and just watches her boyfriend for a minute. He knows she’s watching him – he’s as tuned to her as she is to him – and he can’t help but grin a little to himself. He makes no moves to call her out on it. God knows he’s stared at her enough times to let her have this one. All he does is continue on with the cooking, pretending like she’s totally not checking him out. Elle sees the smile sneak up on his face. He likes to think he can hide it when he senses her, but she’s the master of hidden feelings. She can always tell. Right before she asks him about his day, she finally notices the music playing. It’s coming from the stereo in the living room. It’s not all that uncommon for them to listen to the radio or a CD in the evenings, but what is unusual is the song playing right now. “Matthew,” she starts slowly, “what’s going on?” Matthew looks down at the food in front of him with a furrowed brow like he’s doing something wrong with it before looking over at Elle “What do you mean?” “The music,” Elle answers, one eyebrow raised. Matthew looks at the stereo, then at the food, then back at his girlfriend. “…I’m listening to music while making dinner, what about it?” Elle rolls her eyes. “You’re listening to the Goo Goo Dolls.” “So?” “Iris, to be specific.” Now he looked really confused. “Elle, the point? Find it.” “You hate the Goo Goo Dolls,” she explains, arms folded over her chest. “No, I don’t,” he says unconvincingly. “Yes, you do,” she replies, as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world. Well, maybe not the world, but she supposes to them, it probably should be fairly obvious. “No, I-” “Summer of ’98,” she cuts him off, “and I quote, ‘If I have to listen to that goddamn song or that goddamn band one more time, I swear to god Elle, heads will roll.’” “You played Iris 95 times in one week!” his voice rises in pitch and volume in defense of his words. “And you hated every second of it!” she counters. “Yes!” There’s a moment where Matthew realizes that he walked right into that one, and Elle smirks. He lets out a breath knowing he lost that round. “So why are you playing it now?” Elle asks calmly, bringing the tone back down from playful exclamations to a serious conversation. Matthew shrugs and fiddles with the pan on the stove for a minute before he answers. “…because I know you like it.” Elle can’t help but let her smirk turn into a smile at that line. She pushes herself off the door frame and walks the three steps it takes to get to her sometimes very sweet boyfriend. He’s still fiddling with the pan, so she wraps her arms around his midsection and lets her head rest against his back. Matthew pours something into the pan, shifts the contents around a little bit, and then sets it back on the burner. He leans back into Elle a little and lets himself relax. She can feel his shoulders drop three inches, the tension leaving his body almost immediately. Sometimes (read: most times) after a long or draining day at the office, all they really need to feel better is each other. They don’t need to talk—and after days filled with countless meetings, most of the time they don’t really want to—all they need is to be near each other. They learned that part a long time ago, but the part they’re still getting used to now is being able to hug, or hold hands, or sit snuggled up on the couch any time they want to just because they can. Going from best friends to more than friends was the best thing they ever did, and now eight months later, neither one of them is looking back. They’re enjoying the quiet minute together when the song ends, and the next track comes on. Elle, knowing the album by heart, is surprised when a song by an entirely different band comes on next. “Wait a minute,” she muses, looking towards the stereo. “Hm?” Matthew hums, having forgotten about the song already and directing his attention once again towards their dinner. “Is this a mix?” asks Elle. Matthew’s body stiffens at the question, which does not go unnoticed by Elle. “Uh…” She takes a step out from behind him, trying to read his face but coming up empty. Now it’s her turn to look genuinely confused. “You own a mix CD with Iris on it?” she asks incredulously. “…sort of,” is all he manages to say in response. Elle heads into the living room, the notes of another familiar 90s hit floating through the air. She knows the song well, and for a minute she swears she used to have a mix that played it right after the Goo Goo Dolls. She takes another look at Matthew and finally places the expression he’s wearing. Guilt. She hits the button for the next track to play, and gasps when it is yet another hit 90s song that she loves, and that Matthew absolutely cannot stand. “Matthew!” He has the good grace to look sheepish in the kitchen, as he pours the contents of the pan onto two plates. “…yeah?” “This is my Y2K mix!” She hears how dorky she sounds as the words come out of her mouth, but at the moment she does not care. Matthew must hear it too because the sheepish look is replaced by a dimpled grin. “Yeah, see, about that-” “I thought I lost this thing! Where did you find it?” They’ve only been living together for a couple weeks, and there are still several boxes in the guest room that need to be unpacked. Elle doesn’t remember seeing the CD in at least five years, but maybe it ended up under the couch or in a drawer she never went through in her old apartment. Someone probably just tossed it in one of the boxes with the rest of her junk, and never thought twice about it. She thinks that maybe Matthew started to unpack some of the leftover boxes when he first got home, and he found it among a pile of extra blankets or empty file folders. Maybe it was buried under a mountain of old documents. Maybe it was just hidden in the wrong CD case all this time. She thinks that any one of these scenarios could be true, until she realizes that a full minute has passed, and Matthew still hasn’t answered her question. Elle narrows her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “Matthew.” “I may have…” he pauses, running a hand through his hair, “borrowed it at one point.” Elle’s arm shoots out and she points right at him. “Thief!” “There’s a word for this,” he starts, hands raised on the defensive. “There’s a word for this, and it’s ‘borrowed’.” “When did you take this?” “2005?” he asks more than tells. “Liar,” she folds her hands over her chest. “Okay, so I may have hidden it deep in my office around 2001 for it to never be played again.” She knows he’s telling the truth, but there’s more to the story. “And in 2005?” Matthew takes the two plates from the counter and moves towards the table. He sets them down at their usual spots and avoids meeting Elle’s eye. “I took it home.” “Why?” she follows up, sitting down at the table next to him. He pushes the food around on his plate for a couple of minutes before finally taking a deep breath and looking at his girlfriend with a sad smile. “Because you were working halfway across the world that year and I was… missing you.” “…Matthew,” she says softly, the tears already threatening to form. “No, don’t,” he says quickly. “Don’t what?” “Don’t make this a thing.” “I wasn’t—” “Yes, you were,” he says as he covers her hand with his. “It’s a mixtape of all the worst songs from the 90s that was buried at the bottom of a drawer of briefing memos for four years, let’s not get emotional about it. Not tonight, okay?” Elle keeps her emotions in check; her eyes are a little glassy but not a single tear falls. Sometimes it still doesn’t feel real to her that she has this wonderful man in her life. This thoughtful, kind, wonderful man, who she’s just now realizing insulted every song on her favorite CD. “I’m sorry,” she starts in a playful tone, “are you calling I’m Just a Girl a bad song?” He grins. “I’ve always been more of a Spiderwebs guy, you know that.” She scoffs as she takes the first bite of her dinner. “I cannot believe you some days.” “Yeah,” Matthew muses, taking a bite of his own, “but that’s what you love about me.” “Yeah,” Elle agrees, her tone genuine, “that’s what I love about you.”
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Sam
Jun 23, 2022
In Short Stories
Synopsis: Two teens meet in a high school detention room. Word Count: 2091 Date Written: July 2021 He’s never gotten detention before. Christopher straight A student, perfect record, wants-to-go-to-Harvard Nilson has never even come close to getting detention. Until today. The last bell of the day rings and he makes his way down the hall slowly; he’s not exactly in a rush. He’s not sure what to expect, but he knows it can’t be good. His friends are rushing to their lockers, trying to get their books in order before catching the bus home and he desperately wishes he was going with them. Chris readjusts his backpack on his shoulder as he walks into the detention room. It’s the same classroom he had for freshman year English a few years prior, but the mood is definitely darker today. He recognizes a few of the faces in the room, the kids always here for being constantly late or overly disruptive during class. Some of the faces aren’t familiar to him, but he’s not all that surprised by it. He gives his name to the teacher at the desk, and she checks him off the list. The pen makes a tick mark next to his name, and Chris sighs as he thinks about his future falling before his eyes. Chris makes his way through the rows of desks to an empty one towards the back of the room. It’s seated right behind a blonde who’s got her head buried in a book, and Chris thinks she looks more friendly than the rest of the inhabitants of the classroom. He takes the seat. With his bag tucked under his chair, he leans back and waits. The bell rings again, signaling the start of detention and still he waits. And waits. Ten minutes have passed, and nothing is happening. Chris stares at the teacher – one he doesn’t even recognize – waiting for her to do something. He’s starting to get restless in his seat, so he leans forward and taps the girl in front of him on the shoulder. “Hey,” he whispers. “What,” she whispers back, her eyes never leaving her book. “When does this start?” he asks. He sees her eyes flick up, but she makes no move to turn around. “What?” “Detention, I thought it started at 2:30.” “It’s 2:45.” “My point exactly.” She closes the book, finally interested enough to turn around, and she takes one look at him. “Are you new, or something?” Chris blinks. “…no.” She takes another look, eyes trailing down and then back up. “First time here?” “What gave me away?” “You look like someone’s about to come in here with a guillotine.” “How do you know that they won’t?” “Because this isn’t my first rodeo.” “So, you’re a troublemaker?” The girl smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Chris feels something flutter in his stomach and his first thought is this can’t be good. “I’m Chris by the way,” he redirects, “Chris Nilson.” “Ah,” is all she says in return, sounding like everything now makes perfect sense. “You’ve heard of me?” he asks, suddenly very curious. “By reputation only,” she answers. “I’m taking Mr. McCrown’s AP Government class this year. He’s mentioned you and your counterpart a handful of times.” “Counterpart?” “Some guy – or could be girl I guess – somebody named Tyler.” “Yeah,” Chris smiles. “Tyler Wilson, he’s my best friend. We took McCrown’s AP Government class last year, and his AP US History class the year before that.” “He’s got more than a few stories about you guys.” “All good I hope.” “Not even a little bit,” she grins again. Chris smiles back, intrigued by the girl in front of him. “Who are you? How have I never seen you around here before?” “My family moved here about six months ago, I’m still somewhat new,” she shrugs. “I’m Alex Moss.” “Nice to meet you,” he grins. “Well, not that nice, considering where we are right now, but you get my point.” “Uh huh,” she muses before turning back around and picking up her book. That lasts all of ten seconds before Chris is tapping her on the shoulder again. “What?” “So, what are we supposed to be doing right now?” “Whatever.” “I don’t follow.” “It’s detention, Chris, you sit there quietly minding your own business until the bell rings, what did you expect?” Chris’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know… I always pictured it more like an hour of torture and less like a study hall.” “It’s detention at a middle-class prep-school, not a trial for war crimes.” “Still…” he trials off. “So, what landed you in here anyways?” Alex asks. “I can’t imagine you skipped class or yelled at a teacher.” “I took the fall for someone,” he shrugs, not really sure how else to explain it. “For who?” “For whom.” “Chris.” “For Tyler.” “What did Tyler do?” “He didn’t do anything,” Chris defended. “It was bad timing in an even worse situation.” “What happened?” Alex asked quietly. “We were in McNally’s class, and the room was dead silent. We were taking a pop quiz and Tyler’s phone started ringing. In any other class, the teacher would have just made him shut it off, I mean it wasn’t even in his pocket it was in his backpack, but McNally-” “She’s ruthless when it comes to phones.” “Exactly. She walks right over to Tyler and rips his quiz in half, says he gets a zero for trying to cheat.” “That’s horrible.” “I know, I couldn’t even focus on the back half of my quiz after that. I was worried about him, you know? I mean, I know he can take the zero, he has like a ninety-nine average in that class, and McNally drops your lowest quiz anyways, but still.” “And how exactly did you get roped into detention because of this?” Alex asks. “Well,” Chris continues, “after class, she called Tyler up to her desk and told him that she had to give him a detention along with the zero because it was school policy. Tyler started freaking out, begging her not to, and that’s when I jumped in. I told her it was my phone that was ringing in his backpack, made something up about Tyler borrowing it at lunch and how he hadn’t had a chance to return it to me yet. I don’t know if she bought my story or just didn’t care, but she gave me the detention instead.” “And why couldn’t Tyler just take the detention? I mean, it was his phone, even if the punishment seems extreme.” “If Tyler got the detention, he would’ve had to explain it to his dad when he gets home tonight, and his dad…” Chris paused. “Tyler’s dad yells a lot.” “Everyone’s dad yells sometimes.” “Not like Tyler’s dad,” Chris sighed. “He yells at anyone who will stand there and take it, and most of the time that’s Tyler. I think he does it to protect his brothers, like if the old man screams enough at Tyler, he’ll be too tired to take it out on the younger ones.” “Still,” she muses, “he must be a pretty good friend for you to take the fall for him.” “He’s the best person I know,” Chris answers honestly. “He’d do anything for me if I asked.” “Clearly you’d do the same for him,” Alex muses. “So, what, you took the blame for the phone thing so instead of Tyler’s dad yelling at him, your dad can yell at you?” Chris smirked. “My dad’s a lawyer; he doesn’t yell, he argues.” “Something tells me you like to argue with him.” “Only when I think I can win.” “How often does that happen?” “Almost never,” Chris admits. “He’s a really good lawyer.” “But you like to challenge him anyways?” “Yeah,” he shrugs, “even if I don’t win, he still lets me make my case. He might ground me for this, but at least he’ll let me tell the full story before he does.” Alex shakes her head but does so with a smile. “I can see why Mr. McCrown has so many stories about you two now.” “What about you?” Chris asks. “What’s your story, how’d you end up in here?” “Civil disobedience,” she answers casually. “Care to elaborate?” Chris asks, intrigued. Alex take a deep breath before starting. “My friend, Margaret-” “Red hair, crazy eyes, always knows all the gossip about the teachers?” “The very same. So, the other day she came in wearing a tank top, and our math teacher yelled at her for being out of dress code. Margaret argued that the dress code says that tank tops can be worn if the straps are thicker than the width of two fingers.” “Hang on,” Chris interrupted, “we wear a uniform. Tank tops aren’t allowed, polo shirts and button downs only.” “It was a free-dress-day, keep up,” Alex waved him off. “Anyways, she demonstrated that her shirt was within the restrictions of the dress code, but our teacher disagreed. She said it was ‘too revealing’ and sent Margaret home.” “She sent her home?” Chris asked, bewildered. “Yup. Had to miss almost a full day of school for that, can you believe it?” “Wait, so how did that lead to you being here.” Alex grinned. “We came up with a plan.” “I’m not sure I like where this is going.” “We called every girl in our class last night, and we made a pact to all wear tank tops to class today, as a form of protest. We figured she couldn’t give all of us detention.” “That was a mistake.” Alex rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. She threatened suspension too, but then Mrs. Littingham from the next class over came in and she settled the whole thing.” “But you all still got detention?” “Just the three ring leaders.” “Where are the other two?” “They spread our detentions out, said they didn’t want us conspiring in the back row or something.” “Wait, three ring leaders?” “Yes.” “You, Margaret, and…” “Jane Tillman, she’s--” “I know Jane,” Chris interrupted. “She’s my friend.” “Yeah?” Alex smiled. “She’s so cool, she heard of our plan and wanted in immediately. Her social network is how we were able to get the message out so fast.” “She’s good at that,” Chris smiled. “Word has it that she got the school paper to write an article about the whole thing for its next publication. I don’t know who she knows there, but it’s gonna be huge.” “That would be Xavier,” Chris mused. “I know him too, he’s a big fan of the activists. I bet he went nuts when Jane told him your plan, he loves this kind of stuff.” “You just know everybody around here, don’t you?” Chris shrugged. “Only the important people. Jane and Xavier, those two are thick as thieves and they’re great allies to have on your side. If they ever try to rope you into something like this again, I say go with it. They usually know what they’re doing.” “Noted,” Alex grinned. Her instincts already told her to do just that, but she likes that he agrees with them. <hr> The bell rings for the final time that day, and it makes Chris almost jump out of his seat. “It’s over?” “Yeah,” Alex smiles. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” “I mean I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone,” Chris throws his backpack over his shoulders, “unless you’re gonna be here. Then it’s a whole different ballgame.” Alex laughs. “Glad I could make your first time memorable.” The punchline of a joke is just sitting on the tip of his tongue, but she cuts him off before he can say anything. “Don’t.” Chris holds up his hands in surrender as they walked out the front doors of the high school. “Are you taking the late bus home?” she asks. “Nah,” he shakes his head, “I’m gonna walk. Enjoy my freedom now that I’ve done the hard time.” “Me too,” she muses, falling in to step with him. “The walking part at least. I live up off of North.” “I live just a few blocks from there,” Chris smiles. “I’ll walk with you.” Alex grins. “I’d like that.” He makes sure to get her number before they part ways—“So I can call you sometime. For future detention worthy conspiring of course.”—and smiles for the rest of his walk, hands buried in his pockets as he strides along the pavement. It’s almost enough to make him forget he has to explain the whole detention thing to his parents when he gets home. At least it was worth it.
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Sam
Jun 22, 2022
In Short Stories
CW: Swearing Synopsis: Jason comes home after a bad day at work and seeks comfort in his partner. Word Count: 1614 Date Written: February 2022 It’s been a terrible day. To make a long story short, nothing has gone the way it’s supposed to since the moment he woke up this morning. That’s a lie. The four minutes between waking up and hearing the alarm go off were utter bliss, watching the first rays of sun peak through the curtains and fall across the bedsheets. Casey’s hair lit up like spun gold, and the way her nose scrunches up just a little bit when she’s sleeping was enough to remind him this morning just how great of a life he has. Until the alarm actually did go off, and everything went to hell. There was no hot water in the shower this morning, his decade old coffee maker finally broke in the middle of the brew, and protesters in Lafayette Park detoured the detail an extra twenty minutes to get around it all, making him five minutes late to his staff meeting, just to name a few examples. Work was even worse. Meeting after meeting, all on the Hill, all with political advisors who know a lot more about this stuff than he does, and all with a congressman who’s still finding his sea legs. The budget ended up not being all that bad, and there were (thankfully) no discrepancies, but the other meetings still had him reeling for the rest of the day just trying to play catch up. And his staff… Well, they mostly avoided him today, for fear of incurring his wrath after hearing about all the ways they fucked up the healthcare bill negotiations. Not to be redundant, but: it’s been a terrible day. So, when he turns his key in the front door and stumbles in with a headache just starting to settle behind his eyes, the last thing he needs is a dead silent apartment. The TV in the living room is off, and the light in their bedroom down the hall isn’t on. The bathroom door is open, and the kitchen table is empty. Not good signs. He drops his backpack on the floor—because, really, if he has to hold anything more than the weight of the world on his shoulders tonight, he might just lose it—and his coat follows close behind. His shoes are left by the door, and the knot in his tie is pulled loose just before he ditches his suit jacket on the couch and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. They have rules about this in their apartment, rules about cohabitating. Rules about leaving a mess in front of the door, and rules about leaving blazers crumpled on the couch, but the number one rule in their home—the one that trumps everything—is that work doesn’t come home with them. The bad stuff, anyways. Keeping all of work at the office is physically impossible, and more often than not there’s meeting notes and briefing books littering the kitchen table. It’s the anger, the fights, the frustration about what’s being done in the House—whether it has to do with each other or completely separate third parties—has to be left at the door, or else they’d never get away from it. It’s not an airtight rule, and they’re still learning with this whole cohabitation thing, but it works more often than it doesn’t, and it keeps them sane more often than not. And, right now, the shoes, the jacket, the backpack, even the damn tie—all of it feels like work, like the bad day that kept getting worse, like the sound of his boss talking down to him, so if he leaves them in the hallway for the time being—fuck it. If it helps him stop seeing red, he’ll ask for forgiveness later. Jason pokes his head down the hall, takes one more sweeping look around the living room, does a double take at the table before stepping around the corner and into the kitchen where he finds: her. Just, her. The scarlet starts to melt into a pink that then fades out into a white, and suddenly the room is no longer burning red—it’s golden. The moonlight streaming in from the kitchen window bounces off the mop of hair tied up on top of her head, and it’s a different shade of gold from what he saw this morning, but it’s still the same shimmer that is undeniably hers. Casey’s sitting on the counter, the black skirt she had on this morning swapped out for a pair of old gray sweatpants, sock clad feet dangling above the floor. Her head is tipped back against the cabinets, eyes closed with a worry line etched deep between her eyebrows, and her shoulders try to drop another half inch on her deep breath exhale. She has one arm wrapped around an open tub of cookie dough, held securely against her stomach, while the other arm holds a spoon in the air. With remnants of the batter stuck to the steel utensil, she finds her peace in a mixture of sugar, butter, and chocolate chips. Jason leans against the doorway, letting the old wooden frame creak as his shoulder pushes into it. He doesn’t want to scare her, but he wants her to know he’s there. The creak does its job, and she pops one eye open to look over at him from her perch on the counter. She doesn’t move to stand, just picks up her head and blinks once before pointing her spoon at him. “Don’t judge me,” she warns, her eyes deadly, and the tension immediately returning to her shoulders. He holds up his hands in a mock surrender, standing up straight and taking a few steps towards her. On any other day—on any other day—he’d be smiling, probably even laughing, at the sight before him and the absurdity that he just gets to see Casey like this now. Somewhat relaxed and definitely in her element, trying to find the space to just be herself and nothing else for a few minutes. He loves it. He loves her. “Not judging,” he says carefully, the edge that’s been in his voice all day just—gone. He moves to stand between her legs, a small, almost sad smile holding all his emotions in check. His hands run gently up her thighs, and his fingers make soft circles over her hips before his palms lay flat on the countertop on either side of her. He leans onto his arms, shifting his weight forward until he’s fully in her space, and he says quietly: “Just—wondering if you’re gonna share.” Casey cracks a smile at that, a piece of his favorite person coming back in full force as her grin starts to take over her face. She digs the utensil back into the container of cookie dough, scooping out a spoonful and holding it up to his face. He takes a bite from the offered spoon and his mood immediately shifts. “Oh yeah,” he moans dramatically, his eyes rolling back in his head, “that’s the good stuff.” Casey laughs, her giggles filling their too-quiet kitchen, and the storm cloud that’s been presiding over both of them all day starts to ease up just a little. She licks the rest of the batter off the spoon, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his for just a minute before pulling back with her smirk still intact. “Rough day?” he asks around a mouthful of cookie dough. Casey nods. “For the both of us, it seems.” “Yeah,” he sighs, his shoulders dropping on the exhale. His hands skate over her ribs before circling back around to her hips, the warmth from his palms felt through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. She puts the container and the spoon off to the side, reaching out to drape her arms loosely around his neck and pull him in close. Her knees bracket his hips, pulling together to wrap him in a full body hug, and her hand cradles the back of his head, her fingers getting tangled in his curls. “Better now?” she asks, raising her eyebrows as her nails start to lightly scratch at his scalp. He closes his eyes. “So much better now,” he mumbles, his voice losing almost all of its sound by the last word. He kisses her softly, slowly, as the exhaustion starts to take over his entire being, bit by bit. He buries his face in her chest, his arms wrapping around to her back, and his thumbs soothing the tight muscles around the column of her spine. She presses a kiss to his hair before resting her cheek against his head, content to just hold him and breathe for a little while. The bad day slowly starts to get better, and even though most of their problems will likely still be there tomorrow, at least they have tonight. And last night, and tomorrow night, and a hundred more nights to come that they get to spend together. A hundred more nights of coming home and calming hugs and absolutely losing themselves in each other because—well, because life is hard, but this… This is easy. “So…” she starts, dragging out the vowel. “Should we actually make the cookies, or just keep eating the dough?” He shrugs against her. “Probably cookies,” he mumbles into her skin before turning his head to rest his cheek against her chest. “But can we eat a little more of the dough first?” “Yeah,” she laughs lightly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Yeah, we can do that.” The bad days aren’t so bad when he gets to come home to chocolate chips—and her.
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