( ミ☆ ) FOUR
irl | amara vs love

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5 stories added by
amarabelmonte

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⠀⠀⠀⠀Sometimes, when she retreats deep into the very back of her mind where all of her troubles and doubts and insecurities lie, Amara Belmonte starts to wonder if he really, truly loves her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He does. For God's sake, he says he loves her everyday; reminds her practically every hour. It wouldn't be fair on him to assume he doesn't. But the fear is always there; that very real anxiety that slowly, uncomfortably ebbs away in Amara's mind where she wishes it wouldn't.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She loves him too much. That's the trouble. It's funny how loving someone is both the cure and the catalyst for all of her problems. Then again, maybe she's the one to blame. Yes, she decides. Her boyfriend is too pretty and perfect in her own eyes and the rest of the world's, and by God does every fibre of Amara's being just want to hold him close to her for forever, sharing him with no one else but the room. Call her selfish. Call her whipped. But this is exactly how Amara first knew she was doomed to fall dreadfully, grossly in love with Warren Liberato three years ago. And truth be told, she hasn't really stopped falling since.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren himself might be the only person in the world Amara has told this to. She didn't think she could, given he was the one she was thinking about. But the night she told him, the stars were out in LA for once and the moon was hanging high above them, and they were lying in the stillness and the silence together. They were on the hood of Warren's red Jeep Wrangler, not knowing at the time that a small dent from their weight would appear come morning — a dent that is still there to this day. It was dark out — nothing but the sky and the view of Los Angeles below to keep them company — but everything about the way Warren touched and held Amara to him made her feel as though she was living in a fireball of light and vibrant colours.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She'd said the words first. Perhaps she wasn't the first to know between the two of them, but she had said them first. Warren, to this day, won't ever live it down. Apparently he'd been preparing some stupidly cute, thoughtful speech the week leading up to that night but the whole thing had been lost on him once he started to fear she wouldn't say the words back. After all, Warren had said, he was the one chasing her. He was the one pining after 'The famous Amara Belmonte', and apparently that made him less worthy because of it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara told him to shut up. And so he did. She told him to kiss her. And so he did. Then Warren turned it around on her and asked Amara to say the words again. And so she did. Only this time, she got an echo back, because Warren kissed her hard — harder and better than ever before — and told her for the first time out of a million more to come, ❝I love you, too.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara felt her heart explode in her fucking chest and thought she could have died happy right then and there. For all she knows, maybe she did die. It would explain why — even now, almost two years later — she feels as if she's floating in a field of airy starlight each and every time Warren kisses her. This is most likely her love for him talking again, though. And really... how could she have known she'd end up falling for the one person she used to despise?

⠀⠀⠀⠀She hated him. She did. They first met three and a half years ago on set of what was both their first film in their acting careers. It was easy enough at first. Warren was new to the Hollywood scene; a fresh, innocent face for this city to ruin, which is probably what drew Amara to him at first, knowing he'd need someone to turn to if shit ever hit the fan. But she had sorely underestimated him. His sheepish, boyish charm only lasted so long before he got too comfortable and gave into who he really was. And for a while, during filming, all Amara ever saw him as was a walking cliché too cocky for his own good; a copy and pasted jock she'd seen so many hallway versions of in high school.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Admittedly, she'd been a little too hard on him sometimes. She mistook any kind gesture Warren did for her as flirting even though he was just being a normal, decent human being. Then, when he actually did attempt to make a move on her, Amara rejected him harshly even though she actually sort of had a crush on him at that point. He spammed her on Snapchat for the next week after that. He was pouting in every single photo he sent. No caption. No emoji. Just a pout. And though it was cute, she never replied to a single one. So when he took the hint and stopped talking to her altogether aside from when they were on set, Amara knew she had no right to be pissed. But oh, trust her to want something once she no longer has it. Life isn't a movie, but they were starring in one together. And doesn't every girl's crush in the movies fight for them the way Amara wanted Warren to fight for her?

⠀⠀⠀⠀It took another week after that to happen, but to Amara's surprise, Warren came knocking at her trailer on set and apologised for the way he'd been behaving. Amara remembers exactly how he'd looked then, right down to every detail of his face. His dirty blonde hair was wet, like maybe he'd gotten caught in the rain. Or maybe he'd just had a shower — she can't recall that part. Wardrobe was so not going to like that, Amara had thought. Warren's hair was a tousled mess, flying up from his face and his eyes, which wasn't exactly the right look for his character, Bellamy Ronan, but it sure was the right look for him. He was wearing a mustard coloured sweater — Bellamy's preferred choice of clothing, apparently — and that was a little wet, too.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It was his eyes that really got her, though. Blue and thoughtful and brighter than ever, Warren looked up at her from where he stood at the door to her trailer, biting his lip for a moment like he wasn't sure what to say. Finally, he told her that he'd been thinking; thinking away from her because, well, he couldn't think at all whenever she was around — thus the silent treatment. He also told her he'd never felt this real about anyone before — that he never even knew real was obtainable — but when Amara confusedly asked what he meant by that, Warren suddenly got stage fright and gave her one final apology before announcing he had to go, leaving her to wonder why she wanted him to stay.

⠀⠀⠀⠀This, of course, was the moment she first realised she was doomed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thus brings us back to the present, where Amara is plunged deep beneath the recesses of her mind, pondering the thought of her now-boyfriend breaking her heart. She thinks about this twice, maybe thrice a week and then shoves it all back into the abyss among the packing peanuts of her confusion, guilty to have ever even thought of the concept at all.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The only thing that brings her out of her funk this time around is the soft prod she receives against her cheek. She blinks as if realising for the first time she has eyes and turns in that direction, half blinded by the lamplight in the corner of the room, half blinded by a familiar, gleaming smile.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You're not bored of me already, are you?❞ asks Warren. His voice is smooth but low — that perfect balance between awake and sleepy. His accent is broken, southern Georgia waging a war with lazy California, and yet Amara swears his voice is the most attractive sound in the universe.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara shakes her head for no and gives a tiny yawn, but before she can even get the whole thing out, it cuts off due to her face reflexively breaking out into a smile. ❝No, no. I'm good. You're good,❞ she says. She adjusts herself from where she half sits upon him on the sofa; legs draped over his whilst his hand rests on her thigh, keeping her steady, ❝Better than good.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Bad movie then? Nope, wait,❞ — Warren makes a prematurely offended face — ❝don't answer that. You're not aloud to shit all over young Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich. It's illegal.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀One of Warren's all time favourite movies, The Fifth Element, is streaming to the flatscreen TV at the front of the room. Milla Jovovich's character, the kick-ass orange-haired Leeloo flips around onscreen — literally doing backflip summersaults, bullets flying all around her — as the song The Diva Dance plays in the background. It's honestly as far away from a bad scene in a movie as you can get. And it isn't a bad movie at all. It's kind of weird, but it's even weirder that Warren likes it so much. For someone who spent their entire high school career being a jock, he's actually quite the pop culture nerd, though Amara and their friends Elliot and Scout are the only people who know him well enough to believe it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara is still smiling. At first she doesn't know why until she realises it's for the same reason she always does; because she feels... safe. Her gaze flickers back and fourth between Warren and the movie, wrapped up by the excitement of both but ultimately not knowing where to keep her focus. Warren quickly makes the decision easier on her. He starts mindlessly rubbing circles around her thigh, drawing invisible shapes only she can feel. In his other hand, supported half between his fingers and half by the armrest of the sofa, is a textbook he glances at every once and awhile — a secret talent of his, that multitasking thing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He goes to UCLA and says he likes it there enough. Whereas Amara majored in sociology (earning her degree last year) Warren is studying communications like Scout happens to be, but with more focus on the business side of things rather than the journalism. And then there's Elliot. Elliot is a high school dropout allergic to listening and conforming, and that's totally okay. He says he couldn't make a decision on what college to choose, let alone a major, even if he tried. And then there's his whole... dissociative thing, which — despite their hot and cold friendship — he only really confides in Warren about. From what Amara gathers, it keeps him from taking in new information sometimes and he can't quite get anywhere unless there's someone familiar to bounce off of. Perhaps that's where Warren specifically comes along. He was captain of his high school football team, so naturally, he's ridiculously good at giving speeches and rallying people up.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Damn. Amara won't lie, she wishes Elliot would confide in her over that the way he does for everything else. Oh, how studying sociology for four years and being born an empath really overloads her curiosity levels sometimes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She blinks. Touches back down to Earth again from where she'd been floating up in space. Then, hearing and feeling him hum in thought, she glances to Warren as he turns a page to his textbook. He isn't looking at her anymore, but she's looking at him — really looking. It's odd, she thinks, how she never really pays attention to the way they're sitting together until he does little affectionate things like this. For one, it's amazing he isn't uncomfortable given he's got a hundred-and-thirty pounds of girlfriend sprawled across him. He's strong — really strong — but don't get Amara started on that because, once she does, she won't ever shut up about his toned body and muscular biceps and— Shit. There she goes already. Warren's left arm is wound behind her back, hand still on her leg, managing to keep her upright and anchoring her close to him. And although it's late and the strong scent of his cologne has long since worn off, Amara can still smell remnants of vanilla. Warren always, inexplicably smells of vanilla. It drives her fucking insane; a permanent fix for her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She must have been staring at him just a little longer than usual, because a glance up from his homework begs the question: ❝What?❞ Warren turns his head to face her fully, looking a little flustered through his smile. ❝What are you doing?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara shrugs. ❝Nothing,❞ — she blushes — ❝I'm just... I'm looking at you. Pay no attention to me. Go back to... whatever it is you were doing.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He quirks an eyebrow at her almost lovingly, like maybe he finds that adorable. ❝You mean... gettin' an education? Or watchin' the same movie as you?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Oh. She can't believe she forgot they were doing that, if only for a second. ❝Yeah.❞ Blink, blink, blink. ❝Yeah, that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He makes a face and laughs a little, filling the room and her head with the sound of him as he returns to his (last minute) studying, seeming to hide his own kind of blush. ❝Oookay, weirdo...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀It's cute the way he gets a little nervous whenever she has her eyes all over him. He only ever breaks that way around Amara, which is kind of crazy to her, given they're madly in love with one another or whatever. And Warren is, well, quite the model, so he's used to attention and the flash of a camera (Scout is always giving him shit for that, despite her being his photographer), and yet, one glance from his girl is enough to send him spiralling into either a total beet-red blush fest or a raging spout of hormones. According to him — his words, not Amara's — it doesn't help he had a "fanboy crush" on her his Junior year of high school when he first discovered her music, so he's kind of 'living the dream' now that he's dating her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀To be honest, Amara doesn't know what's wrong or right in a relationship; doesn't know what she should or shouldn't do, even now. ❝We'll figure it out,❞ Warren had told her when they first started dating. The word 'Together' seemed to sit on his tongue then, too, because even he had to do some guess work. Whereas Amara had never had a boyfriend before him, Warren didn't do relationships much and had instead slept around. He was open about it, even when Amara assured him he didn't have to be. But he still told her, was honest with her, and let her know that he wasn't so sure how relationships worked himself — at least one that was this real. For a long time, he was so, dreadfully afraid of screwing up his relationship with her (like he had apparently screwed up all the others). And for a long time, Amara was afraid, too. And although they're still figuring things out together to this day, at least it isn't hard anymore. It's a team effort, a two-person vessel. And Warren makes a good co-pilot.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Hey... Have you heard from María lately?❞ he asks all of a sudden.

⠀⠀⠀⠀A little puff of air Amara think's is supposed to be laughter comes out of her nose. Hearing her boyfriend call her mom by her first name, María, is still a funny concept to her; just knowing that Warren is close enough — so interconnected with her family — as to where he doesn't even realise he never says 'your mom' anymore. And María Belmonte, God, she's a damn beacon of a woman full of laughter and warmth and light, even with the chemotherapy treatments she's receiving back home in North Carolina, where she'd rather be — where Amara wishes she could be, but where her mom tells her she shouldn't be.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The news had been a blow; nuclear, as it usually is whenever a person is told someone they love has cancer. Amara's mom is her best friend — was pretty much the only one she had growing up — and though she takes each day in stride, hoping like hell her mom will get better, it's hard. Of course it's hard. She thinks — despite hearing from her mom all the time about how it's all going to be okay — it will never not be hard. It's been eight— No... nine months since she was first diagnosed, and it's currently March. Amara can't believe the year she won a fucking Grammy was also the year her mom got cancer. What a joke. What bullshit. Everything is bullshit.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara watches Warren's hand flex as he turns another textbook page — the same hand that held María Belmonte's shaky one during her first chemo treatment; the same hand that holds Amara's own almost every single day. ❝Mom, uh... tells me she's been good,❞ she finally replies, feeling a little spaced out, ❝I called this morning. She still won't sleep in that new electric medical bed, of course. She'd rather be with dad in their room. Loneliness, maybe. I think she's also just secretly afraid of the thing.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her joke makes Warren huff out a laugh, but his heart's not in it. ❝And the, um...❞ He pauses. Swallows hard. Amara's mom shifted from a Stage I to a Stage II in late December, so it's still pretty fresh. ❝Is everythin' okay with the...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Noticing him struggling, Amara guesses, ❝Treatment?❞ to which he nods. She, meanwhile, pretends not to frown. ❝It's okay. Everything's... okay. She told us not to make a deal out of it, so what we're going to do is not make a deal out of it.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's making a deal out of it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren must notice — because of course he does, like an asshole. His tracing on her leg quickly becomes a full on hold, strong and safe and I've got you I've got you I've got you. ❝Hey...❞ he says in that low voice of his, and suddenly his face is right beside hers, planting a big stupid kiss against her temple, ❝We'll visit her soon, yeah? We'll make a weekend out of it. We'll even drive. Me, my pretty girlfriend, the road... Oh, and you, of course...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She can't help the smile that breaks out onto her face as she rolls her eyes and playfully nudges him away. By 'girlfriend' he means that fucking red Jeep of his. The Jeep on which they said their first "I love you's", stargazed on, made out in, sped, got drunk, had sex, slept, and almost crashed in — all of that and in no particular order. That red jeep. The one that has witnessed every possible high and low note of their relationship. The one with the dent in the hood Warren never did fix, because erasing it would be like erasing a part of her. The one that came and went from the hospital parking lot back home in North Carolina for an entire month when calendars were filled with chemo treatments in oncology and Amara had a tour to finish and couldn't be there for her own mom, so Warren insisted he'd be there for her instead and—

⠀⠀⠀⠀Stop. Breathe. Amara was on the swim team throughout high school — has swam all her life — and knows all the drills for keeping a steady heart-rate so as not to panic or drown underwater. Still, it's hard to keep up sometimes — her biggest competitor always has been herself. ❝Tell me something nice,❞ she forces out, but it's faint, ❝Please.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She feels Warren kiss the top of her head, long and drawn out. Then he pulls away and sits back, but somehow, he's still just as close. ❝Well... I was gonna keep this to myself and reflect back on it at a later date... Maybe as I lay down beneath the stars, felt the all too familiar, encompassing doom that is existential dread...❞ — this gets a giggle out of her, and she can just hear his grin — ❝But hey, since you asked... I had a dream about you last night.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She lifts an eyebrow at him, even though he can't see it. ❝Oh really?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He nods confidently, never the one for shyness. His gaze is dead set on the movie now, which is fine by Amara. She doesn't want him to see that her whole body just got wracked with goosebumps; doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm, knowing he has that kind of power over her. Still, it makes for a nice distraction, and she has to wonder if he can feel the change in her. The tiny, lopsided smirk he has suggests it's possible.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He goes back to drawing on her leg. ❝Yep. We were alone at the beach — or maybe it was a cove? Anyway, it was daytime and really, extremely bright out; practically glowin' orange. And the whole thing was stupidly romantic, too. Like, Leo Carrillo State Beach from Grease romantic. Oh man, if only Danny Zuko were there... Coolest. Threesome. Ever.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara gives him a shove. ❝You dick!❞ she exclaims with this strange, fluttery sort of laughter only he can give her, sinking back into the sofa. She'd been perking up slowly with each and every word he spoke, anticipating his story, and then — like her childhood plans of marrying a real life prince someday — he had to go and ruin it. ❝Tell me we at least had beach sex or something.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He shakes his head, still staring ahead. It almost isn't fair. Even his side profile is pretty. ❝Actually, we just... lay in the sand and talked.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝About what?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Stuff.❞ He shrugs. ❝I don't remember. It was really vivid at first. Like, I was actually there and could understand and hear everything you were saying, but,❞ — he dodges his head to the side as if he were in the movie right now, avoiding something onscreen — ❝I don't remember anymore. Dreams are weird like that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You're weirder.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Wow.❞ He stops rubbing circles on her thigh, but he's grinning. ❝Call me out, why don't you? And here I was, trying to be romantic.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara pokes her tongue out at him. She takes his hand's stagnancy as a sign for her to move, dropping her head against his shoulder as she allows Warren to help readjust her weight on him. The sound of an explosion rings out from the TV — just one of several climaxes of the film — and then Warren's attention is back to the front of the room; his lips parting in awe whilst the blue of his eyes reflect a starburst hue of orange and yellow flames.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Sick...❞ he whispers to no one.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Nerd, Amara thinks, but she doesn't say it out loud. She only lists her head up and blinks at him like he might disappear, fearing for a second that he just might. The blue of his eyes, of course, are what she always finds herself most drawn to. Ironic — or is the right word she's looking for coincidence? — given this amazement was the same thing she had to embody for her character, Demetria Vorne, in their movie together. This made filming scenes with Warren near impossible. After he appeared at her trailer that one fateful morning to apologise, Amara kept screwing all her lines up and couldn't hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds. Apparently that last part was a good thing, though. "Very Demetria of her", their director had said approvingly, even though most of those confusing emotions were Amara's own.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren's hand abandons her leg instead of his textbook (never one to ruin literature) so he can run it through his hair; perfectly swept up yet messy and probably the only thing he loves more than his car and girlfriend. Golden lamplight domes the corner of the room beside him; his tan skin seeming to retain it, at some angles even reflecting it. Shadows carve out his strong jaw and high cheekbones, though his features soften out everywhere else.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Like a reflex, Amara reaches out and traces her index finger along his jaw up to his lips, putting the shape of them to memory. Warren shivers and lets out a low breath, catching her skin, sweeping over her like a warm honey. He tries to turn his head to get a look at the girl responsible for his sudden lack of air, but Amara pushes his chin back and forces him to stay facing forward, not quite done with him yet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What do you think your dreams mean?❞ she asks him. She tries to sound sexy — something she's naturally not — but she's nervous, so the question comes out a little more stiff than she wanted it to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren doesn't seem to notice her slip up, though, and so Amara knows she's got him hooked for certain once he clears his throat, trying to keep his cool despite him melting into her touch. ❝Oh... so first you're rude to me and now you're stealing dialogue?❞ He peers at her from the corner of his eyes, smiling a little as if in knowing. ❝Amara Belmonte... I think you have some explaining to do.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀It's true, she'd stolen that line from their movie. There's a whole opening scene where Bellamy is in the woods, talking to his best friend about a dream, only his had been about flying whereas Warren's dream had been about the beach. Amara supposes there's a little bit of irony to it because, well... right now she kind of feels like she's flying, too. But she's also curious about the beach dream; about what it could mean for her boyfriend; about why she was in it, vivid enough for him to think and feel as though she were real.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren never dreams of the beach. According to him, his dreams always focus on the real world and it's events. And so, before he went and made that threesome joke about Danny Zuko (well, knowing him, it was only half a joke) Amara had been stupidly hoping Warren would say he had an epiphany; a kind of vision, if you will. Like maybe he'd surprised her; had taken the plunge and pulled out a box with a ring. That he'd gotten down on one knee in the sand to ask her those four words; that heavy, anticipated question.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Because you see, growing up beside the water in North Carolina, Amara always dreamed of the beach. She has since she was a kid, long before she knew what public pools were and had chlorine damaged hair. Dressed in her princess gowns and tiaras, pretending to be married to her prince (a teddy bear named Mr. Stuffins), even nine year-old, imaginative Amara had pictured herself getting proposed to on a beach. Some day, she had naïvely hoped, she'd perhaps even get married on one.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren's lashes flutter as Amara glides a thumb just below his eye, tracing the curvature of his dark circles. ❝Uh...❞ — he pauses to breathe, genuinely seeming to be enraptured by her — ❝totally not meanin' to go full Bellamy here, but,❞ — she ghosts along his nose, right over the smattering of freckles found there; her favourite feature about him — ❝I don't,❞ — he sighs, the cover of his textbook shutting down — ❝know what my dreams mean.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara grins. Forgotten is the anxiety and all her worries she once felt weighted down by just minutes prior, now replaced by the love she feels for the one person she allows herself to get lost in.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Got you now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Or have you got me?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren's eyes are closed as if he's fallen asleep. One hand finds the small of Amara's back, just looking for an excuse to hold her. ❝I know what you're doing, you know?❞ Laughter lines appear when he smiles, contagious as ever, youthful. ❝You're good, but you're not subtle.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Damnit.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I don't know what you're talking about,❞ replies Amara, feigning innocent, ❝Don't pay attention to me,❞ — she brushes a hand up, sweeping through the tousled waves of his hair — ❝I'm invisible.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's charting through sacred waters now, and he must know it. No one — and he seriously means no one — touches Warren Liberato's hair. But there is one exception, and that exception comes in the form of Amara Belmonte. She remembers how and when she first discovered he has a thing for her playing with his hair. It was just before they shared their first kiss, which took place in perhaps the most unromantic setting she could imagine.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Five, maybe six weeks into filming, she was in Warren's trailer on set, dodging the pouring rain outside and pacing back and forth, trying to convince herself to just admit out loud that she liked him. The words wouldn't come, though, and Warren had grown tired of watching her look so nervous, and so he stopped her — held her to him, really — and looked into her eyes with so much emotion and concern and feeling, she had yet to realise how close they were. A second passed, then several. And then, before she could stop herself, her hand was on his cheek, following the shape of it up into that unbelievably soft fucking hair of his, working through it. Warren had closed his eyes and looked then how he looks now — breakable, vulnerable, calm — and Amara knew then that he was a goner. But she had already been long gone by that point, and maybe Warren realised this, too, because he opened his eyes and waited a beat before tilting his face closer to hers, glancing between her mouth and her eyes, genuinely uncertain — afraid, even.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara chanted a mental 'Fuck it' to herself and went in for it. She'd kissed him hard, hard enough to leave an impression. Literally. Weeks of pent-up frustration led to her accidentally biting his lip, and it was awful — she felt so awful — and she was so embarrassed she'd messed it up and God, did Warren blink at her like he didn't know who she was anymore — like she wasn't even of the same Earth. But then, just as a stuttering Amara started apologising, he shut her up by kissing her again. And again. And then the day after that. Then for the rest of the week. Month, year, forever, whatever, and so on and so forth...

⠀⠀⠀⠀And so, she'd kissed him first — yet another thing Warren won't ever live down — because he was too gentle with her, too cautious. At least, that was until Amara ended up with her legs wrapped around his waist ten seconds later, pressed against a wall, but nobody else knows that version of the story. Instead, if asked, they say they first kissed when saying goodbye to each other after their first date. A double lie. Their first real date happened an entire month later and ended with their clothes strewn on the floor of Amara's apartment and her breaking her promise to her mom about staying a virgin until she married. Oops. Her mom wasn't too heartbroken when Amara finally told her the truth, if only because that woman is just as in love with Warren as she is and loves to brag about what 'beautiful grandchildren' he and her daughter will have someday.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Keyword there being someday. Amara and Warren joke about having kids — about having this white picket-fenced future — but they haven't actually wanted to sit down and talk about it before. They're simply too young and, in Amara's opinion, too goddamn stupid.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren is living proof of this. Amara traces his eyebrow down to the tiny scar on his left eyelid from when he'd nicked it last year, like an idiot, whilst attempting his thousandth knife trick. It'd almost cost him his eye, and debatably worse, his distraught girlfriend. He'd needed exactly two stitches, and he got them with a shit-eating grin plastered on the whole time, teasing Amara for thinking he'd up and died. It wasn't her fault she cared about him enough to fear he actually might have — the vague phone-call from the hospital that day certainly hadn't helped. And sure, this boy makes her heart do leaps and bounds, but fuck if he doesn't cause some heart attacks, too.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Hey...❞ Amara whispers to Warren now, the movie seemingly abandoned by the both of them. ❝You look tired.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀A groan. ❝Mmmnot.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Huh?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I'm not,❞ he clarifies, but he very clearly is; his awareness fading, ❝Stop it.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She brushes her fingers through his hair more, slower this time, pretending not to understand. ❝Stop... what?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝That.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝This?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yes.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝No.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀His response is a sigh. Amara smirks, enjoying this maybe a little too much. Her other hand takes the textbook away from him without resistance, laying it down on the armrest before snaking back to clasp his wrist; restricting it, feeling his watch and the few hair ties there. He insists on always carrying them on him — spares for Amara. She's always asking. And he's always prepared.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Mar...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She lowers her face to his, her mouth close to his ear, whispering into it. ❝You're cute when you're flustered,❞ — she pecks his cheek with a chaste kiss and draws back again — ❝I've barely even touched you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Fuck,❞ he grunts, ❝you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Ditto, baby.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀ Warren's eyes snap open, assessing where she is; where she isn't. That's when Amara snatches her hands away from him and pulls back, or at least, she attempts to. Warren is much quicker than she is — his fourteen years of football having sharpened his reflexes — so his hand finds hers like a magnet, pulling her back into his chest and intertwining their fingers together.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Don't,❞ he says hoarsely; dazedly, ❝I wanted you to stop, but I didn't say go.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀And then he smiles. He's finally looking at her with those too-blue eyes — giving her his full, unbidden attention — and for a moment it really feels as if the world has ceased to spin, though maybe that's just Amara's stomach doing a dozen backflips, shaking up the rest of her insides in the process like a miniature seismic earthquake contained within her body.

⠀⠀⠀⠀See, this is exactly why she didn't want him looking at her. And God, don't get her wrong, she loves him something fiercely when he does — loves it so fucking much she half wishes he could stare at her for forever — but she can't think when he does because he gets this mischievous sort of look in his eyes like he knows something she doesn't; like he knows she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen even though she refuses to believe it. Most of all, he looks at her, without fail, as of she's the only thing in the room. And shit, God forbid there be anyone or anything around them, because whenever his eyes find Amara's, it's like all he ever sees is her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Shit. Fuck you're beautiful,❞ he says, smiling like a cocksure little bastard.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝And you're a pain in my ass.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You... don't wanna rephrase that?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh for the love of— Shut up.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Anything for my beautiful girlfriend,❞ he puts two fingers to his forehead in a little salute, then, perhaps noticing her frown, ❝Oh, what, you don't like it when I call you that? Tough shit. You best believe it, because I said it. Sealed, stamped, approved. Look, Ryan Reynolds even signed off on it!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You leave Ryan out of this!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Okay, okay! Don't threaten me with that first name basis bullshit,❞ — he holds a hand up in defence as a smirk finds it's way onto his face — ❝...beautiful.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She gives him a pass this time — for calling her that word — because his eyes convey a strength that tells her she should believe him. Amara feels herself blush; knows she must look so small right now, perhaps even visibly embarrassed. She knows it's just her insecurities talking — that very personal, deep self-loathing for herself — but she can't help wondering just what it is he sees in her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her face is bare, her skin full of blemishes and acne around her forehead, but he loves her anyway. She's gotten so used to wearing makeup for her public image that it's become a second skin; this shield for her to hide behind. Warren tells her she doesn't need to hide around him, though, and so she doesn't. She strips off her makeup at home and complains and vents and cries and yet Warren is always there, understanding her in a way no one else can. He says whichever way she chooses to go out, makeup or no makeup, is still her and will always be her. Because no matter what she does, Amara to him is real. And real doesn't lie.

⠀⠀⠀⠀All of a sudden, Warren blinks and slaps his face with a hand twice — softly at first, then a little harder.

⠀⠀⠀⠀At this, Amara coughs on an exasperated laugh. ❝What the fuck?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yeah, what the fuck?❞ Warren sounds confused, but he's grinning at her. ❝I can't believe you're still real, here with me,❞ — he pulls her even closer — ❝and I'm somehow not dreaming?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Warren, we're dating.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I know! Mind fuckin' blown!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh, geez...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara rolls her eyes and lets her head fall, pressing her nose and mouth against his shoulder as if she were kissing it. She knows he's just trying to make her blush, and she hates that it's working. Warren could say the dumbest shit and she'd still love him for it. Then again, a lot of what comes out of his mouth is already pretty dumb.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Maybe I feel the same way,❞ Amara yawns into his shirt, hiding from the cold, ❝I could be dreaming you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Unlikely.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her head lists up. ❝Oh?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yeah. It just wouldn't make sense. I mean, I'm kind of a piece of shit human being. I'm more like... nightmare material, y'now? And besides, did you have a poster of me on your bedroom wall your junior year like I had one of you? I don't think so! You're looking at a stan here!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀That last part makes her laugh through her nose. ❝I know I'm supposed to value all of my fans equally, and I do, but it's really sweet that you had a fanboy crush on me. And embarrassing. For you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Ouch. Sixteen year old me is offended,❞ — Warren kisses her forehead — ❝But at least present-day me gets to do that for real and not have to kiss a wall.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Okay... that was pretty adorable.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He smiles with closed eyes and does a funny little head bow. ❝Thank you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You're awful.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yes.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Stupid, too.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Title of my autobiography.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara's eyebrows shoot up along with the corners of her mouth. ❝Are you just gonna agree with everything I say?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yep,❞ — he pops the 'p' — ❝because you're usually right about these things, and as your loving, supportive best friend who also happens to be your boyfriend, I value your opinion and will listen to whatever else you have to say to me.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Your equally loving girlfriend wants you to get rid of your knife collection.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He points at her. ❝Except that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She makes a face at him. It's said a person often bares resemblance to that of their parents, but — at least to Amara — Warren looks like no one. Perhaps that's why he has this almost... uniqueness to him. Amara has yet to meet his parents, and he doesn't carry a single photo of them around, so she doesn't have another familiar face to put his to. Google could probably dig up some answers, and even though all of that information is made public, it still feels like it'd be a total violation of Warren's privacy. Amara is curious, of course, but she doesn't mind. Warren gets unnaturally quiet and caves in on himself whenever his parents become a topic of conversation, and so Amara has learned not to ask about them. She has her suspicions, though. The way he averts his eyes and clenches his jaw at the mention of the words 'your family' tells tale of some seriously bad blood between them.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Whereas Warren looks like no one, traces of Amara's parents are found in all parts of her face. Her mom gave her most of it; the curved hips, the golden brown eyes, the bold eyebrows, the pouted lips. And her dad, he gave her the brown hair instead of the black; the cleft chin, and the brilliant smile everyone speaks so fondly of. And, although Amara is beyond grateful for all of these things, she grew up shy, like a wallflower post-it note stuck to the lockers at school. Everyone was cooler than her, prettier, smarter, and for that, she began to observe and admire others more than she cared to pay attention to herself.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thus came her insecurities, born out of complete negligence for herself rather than jealousy over others. Thus being why she doesn't want to be perfect for anyone. She just wants to be enough.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You love me... right?❞ she asks Warren very suddenly, hating to sound so serious and small. The words just spill out without her mind to follow, imploring him to answer, to assure her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His eyebrows furrow in confusion, but his eyes are a steely kind of certain and full of so much trust. ❝You're kidding,❞ he frowns. Then, perhaps noticing her very real surge of anxiety, he squeezes her hand and begins monologuing: ❝Xiomara Genoveva Elía-María Belmonte—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Uh oh.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝—I don't know a lot of things. I don't know how to be a good person or the meaning of life or why the fuck we had to learn pi in school, but you? Being with you is the most certain I've ever been about anything, and that fuckin' terrifies me. It terrifies me because I'm totally, insanely, completely fuckin' infatuated with you, Amara, and I don't ever want to lose that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara stiffens, hearing a swell of that very terror in his voice as it cracks; his own personal kind of dread. How ignorant of her to ask that question and not have thought of how he'd feel, first. ❝War...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I'm serious, Mar. Don't make me spell it out.❞ His hand finds its way into her hair now, twirling around a loose strand of it before slowly, lovingly tucking it behind her ear. ❝I can't lose you, okay? I just might die if I do.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara's insides turn into spaghetti along with her worries, blending together into something fuzzy. ❝You won't lose me,❞ she replies hastily, so fast it's almost passive aggressive. The spell of doubt cast over Warren isn't yet broken, though, and so she tries to get him to smile by adding, ❝And did you have to use my full name?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I like it. It's sexy.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝No! Only my abuela calls me that, and it's usually because I'm in trouble!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You are in trouble. Hell, baby, you are trouble.❞ He dips his face down to hers until their foreheads are touching, his hand squeezing hers again. ❝How dare you question my love for the one thing I haven't managed to screw up in life.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh, I don't know about that,❞ — she smiles coyly, tugging at his shirt collar — ❝You've screwed me plenty before.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀This gets a laugh out of him, though it's suppressed at the end by some kind of breathless amazement; his amazement over her. ❝Fuck,❞ he mutters, his favourite word to say other than her name, ❝You're doing something to me, Amara.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Butterflies take flight in her stomach, propelled forward by her nerves. She rolls her eyes and turns her face away to hide the flush of her cheeks. ❝You're so weak.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren gently grabs her by the chin and brings her back to him. ❝Definitely,❞ he says, smiling brighter than ever, ❝I fell for the girl of my dreams and she made me her bitch. Are you gonna list all the reasons why I'm stupid for doing that, or are you gonna shut up and let me kiss you?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth; both of her own wide open. ❝Is there no option for both?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Jesus fuckin' Christ—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀There aren't any fireworks that explode in the sky when his lips meet hers; no fizzle nor bang, no cumulation of sparks. Instead there's a wave, like a fragment of the beach from Warren's dream. First, the retracting of a tide; his hand tangling through her hair, pulling her face closer to his. Second comes the swell of the current where — with his help — Amara shifts so she's sitting in his lap, straddling him; anchoring him down. Third comes the push back inland, the moment the kiss deepens. It's slow at first, unhurried, but then their tongues meet and it's weird and awkward for a second until it's not; until everything they do to one another is fast, desperate. Then finally, there comes the crash against the shore; the part where they're supposed to drown. Only they don't. They pull apart long enough to breathe — just enough to blink open their eyes and smile at each other, like breaking through to the surface and seeing that first spot of sunlight — and then they're kissing again, and somehow, it's even better than before.

⠀⠀⠀⠀No fireworks. No more insecurities or doubts or obtrusive thoughts about their biggest fears. There's just the wave. Just the shore. Just the two of them.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It doesn't last long.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Only after a buzz from someone's phone interrupts them do they reluctantly break away from one another again. Their foreheads are still pressed together when Warren sighs, too heated to want to focus on anything other than his girl. ❝Shit.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀His cellphone is usually in his hand — as Amara's is often in hers — but for the past hour, they've been abandoned on the coffee table nearby; screens blinking to life every now and again with social media notifications put on silent. Texts, on the other hand, shouldn't have been an issue. It's nearly two in the morning, and the only person they know who'd text at this hour just received a lecture about it last week. Then again, Elliot — the spoken offender here — is a pretty jumpy guy and doesn't know how to sit still. Insomnia wracks his brain just as fiercely as it does Warren's, so maybe it isn't too unlikely that Elliot is the one texting his friend now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You... want me to get that?❞ Amara offers, seeing as Warren can't move, what with her being on top of him and all.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He stares at his phone on the table, considering. Then he looks back at her, knowing. ❝I'd rather make out with you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝But—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Another buzz sounds a fraction of a second before Warren's mouth can make contact with her neck. He hovers there, his breath warm on her skin, gentle, but then a greater whoosh of air is blowing against her collarbone and down her shirt when he puffs out another sigh. As a result, Amara shivers, half wanting to punch him with a fist, half wanting to do it with her mouth.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Even though he's pissed, Warren still notices this as he looks up at her, smirking like a bitch. ❝You look cute.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Shut up.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I guess the world really doesn't want us to screw right now, huh?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara pouts, booping his nose with a finger. ❝Aw. You'll get over it,❞ she says, teetering off him and flipping onto the sofa, half hoping she looked cool doing it, ❝Go answer your phone, Icarus. You're flying too close to the sun.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Ugh,❞ groans Warren, rolling his eyes into the back of his head. But he gets up, anyway, and swipes his phone off the table before sitting back, careless about the way he clumsily unlocks it. 0907, the same passcode it's been for almost three years now. September 7th. Their anniversary.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Sucker.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara decides now is as good a time as any to turn the TV off. The movie has long since ended, as has the day's binge of endless Netflix titles. Starry-eyed — still a little weak from her boyfriend's everything — she scours the area for the remote but comes up cold. She turns to Warren for help next, hoping the collaboration of their minds might turn up better results, but something about the way he looks stops her words from coming out entirely.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He's staring at his phone, unblinking, seeming to be rereading a single point on the screen over and over. His eyebrows are knotted together as if he's in pain — like something hurts — but in the few seconds it takes for Amara to sit up straight and realise something's wrong, Warren squares his jaw and starts typing away what might be a reply; slow about it — nervous, even.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Babe?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Still typing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Who is it?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Tap, tap, tap.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Warren.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yeah, darlin'?❞ he answers, head down. The look of hurt is gone, but it's been replaced with something unreadable; a quick thrill of either elation or alarm.

⠀⠀⠀⠀For some reason, this makes Amara's chest feel heavy, knowing whoever it is obviously can't be her. ❝Who is it?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Uh...❞ — finally, he steals a quick glance up at her — ❝It's just Luca,❞ — down again — ❝I think... he just wants to know if Scout's still available to come with us to Paris next week.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Right. Next week. Paris. Amara almost forgot, because it's easy to forget around Warren — even about the troubles of her mom. And binge-watching day or not, the two can only pretend to be normal — private — for so long before all the perks and displeasures of fame come creeping back up on them like a shadow.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Luca — a really nice guy from Samoa with the biggest smile known to mankind — is Warren's talent agent, and Scout, his photographer. Period. It's well known in the industry that Warren and Scout are like an inseparable model-photographer duo. Unless it's absolutely mandatory for him to be photographed by someone else, no one can get Warren to cooperate with anyone else behind the camera unless it's with Scout, and if anyone really tries to push him in another direction, it usually ends with Warren threatening to fire them.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The whole 'Paris next week' thing isn't what strikes Amara as odd, though.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Luca's texting you?❞ she asks in confusion, because her first choice for the texter had been the insomniac, Elliot, ❝At, what...❞ — she checks the gimmicky One Direction watch around her wrist Scout won for her at an arcade last Summer — ❝two in the morning? That's a little rude of Luca, don't ya think?❞ She points furiously at the phone next, her eyes alight with mischief. ❝Oh, I know! Make him feel guilty by... by telling him he's rude!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝He's... not rude, baby,❞ answers Warren, but that slight pause of his doesn't make him sound his usual kind of certain, ❝He's just worried.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Worried?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Who's worried?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Uh, Luca? You just said he's—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Another buzz.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Only after a sharp pain stings her lip does Amara realise she's been gnawing on it. She starts to wonder — mostly just worries — if she's prying by asking these things; doting on Warren just a little too much, too. ❝Do you want me to talk to Luca?❞ she can't help but ask, ❝If he's worried about Paris, I can get my people on it and help smooth things out?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Nervousness appears to trickle back in as Warren reads the new message, his eyes sparking with something strange. ❝It's fine. Luca's fine. Thanks, though.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara believes him despite the tiny, unwelcome screw of doubt that starts to drive it's way deep into her skull. She has to believe it really is Luca he's talking to as well, because she trusts him — perhaps the only person she one hundred percent does in the world, after everything. ❝O–Okay. Um...❞ — she shifts her legs so they're hanging over the sofa now, her socked feet touching the carpet — ❝I'm gonna... I'm gonna jump in bed, maybe. You coming?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝One sec.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She actually pauses, giving him a second. When he starts to type again, she starts to pick herself up and move.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Shit. Fuck!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What? What, Warren?❞ Amara cracks, ❝What is up with you all of a sudden? Seriously, is everything okay?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What? Oh... yeah, fine.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Really? Because you sure are saying that word a lot. Are you fine?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝No. Yes!❞ — he grabs a fistful of his hair in frustration — ❝I don't know!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She stands. ❝War—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀His hand flashes out for her shirt before she can move again — the only thing he can reach — and he grabs onto it, those blue eyes finding hers, asking her to stay. ❝Don't,❞ he mutters, his voice strangely low, even for him, ❝Don't go. I just...❞ — his hand switches to holding one of Amara's when she draws back into him, forever like a magnet — ❝I'm sorry. I'm just... stressed out. Tired. And I feel weird. I just...❞ — a groan — ❝I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think anymore. I just want to be with you. Is that wrong? That I only ever want to be okay with you?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She doesn't know where this is coming from, but she hears him all the same. ❝Of course it isn't wrong. Are you crazy?❞ She says it as less of a question and more of a statement, but he isn't listening. He pulls her close to him so that she's standing over either side of his legs, right until his other hand is able to rest on her waist. ❝Stupid question,❞ — she falls onto his lap, straddling him again, trying to hide her smile but blushing up now and failing miserably — ❝God, you really are crazy.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝For you, I'm a lot of things.❞ His arms coil around her; hands trailing up her bare back, cold underneath her shirt. She shivers. More goosebumps — visible this time. The sound of his phone slipping somewhere between the gaps in the sofa is heard, but he either doesn't notice this or doesn't care. Because he's looking at her again, which can only mean one thing. In the room, there's only Amara. In the room, all Warren sees is her. ❝I'm sorry for acting weird. I just... I don't know. I miss you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I'm literally right here.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He shakes his head. ❝Even then.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara isn't sure what to say to that. Not at first, and especially not when he sounds so... hurt. She has to wonder just what that text conversation contained to make him act this way — but again with the prying thing. Concern and empathy both blossom in her chest, though she hides these feelings well behind a warm smile as she dips down to kiss Warren on the nose, right over his freckles. ❝I'm right here,❞ she repeats softly. Another kiss follows, this time harder and on the lips, commanding, like a tether pulling his awareness back to her, ❝Even if you can't see me, or even if I'm right in front of you, I'm always here just like you're always there. Yeah?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren smiles up at her weakly but immediately abandons the look to work his jaw. He nods for 'Yes' when he can't seem to say anything, dropping his head against Amara's chest and allowing her to pull him into herself, her hand in his hair again — just like she always does, just as she always knows to do.

⠀⠀⠀⠀This lasts maybe a minute or two, comfortable in their shared silence. After a quiet snivel, like maybe he'd been about to cry, Warren pulls his face back and huffs out an exasperated laugh. ❝Well... fuck me,❞ — he rubs his nose against his shirt sleeve — ❝That was... a lot. We're a lot. Why do we have to feel so much? Ugh. It's you. You make me feel stuff. Good stuff. Awful.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara leans back, holding the space between his jaw and his neck to get him to look at her. ❝Oookay, cowboy, I have... no idea what the hell you're talking about right now. And, not that I don't care or anything — I do, okay, you're hurting my heart a hell of a lot right now — but you're very cute when you're emotionally vulnerable.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren grimaces. ❝Not cute.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He's right. His serious face just brings out his stronger, handsomer features. Still, Amara squishes his cheeks together with a hand, teasing him on purpose. ❝The cutest,❞ she coos, ❝The softest ever.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Shuddup,❞ he tries to say.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What was that you said earlier about you being my bitch?❞ Her mouth hovers close to his. ❝Yeah. Warren Liberato is my bitch,❞ — another kiss, two, three, six; each planted in rapid succession all over his face at random — ❝I think I'll print that on a shirt!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her boyfriend's smile looks a little funny with his face still pinched together like that. ❝Eyelubyou.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara releases him. This time, it's Warren who steals another kiss from her before she tells him, with more certainty than she's ever had about anything, ❝I love you too. Good thing we're stuck with each other, huh?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀A pause, like her words have triggered another thought in him. ❝Yeah...❞ he agrees absentmindedly. He grabs her left hand and rubs a freckle on one of her fingers likes he's putting it — the smallest of details — to memory, ❝Good thing...❞

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A/N.
warmara owns my whole ass heart!!!!! i love them so much oh my god!!!!!!!!! love is gross and as an ace i have no friggin cluE if i wrote Affection right but HEY seeing warmara happy makes me happy and i adore them a LOT they're so in LOVE!!!!!

yuck this is so long and romance heavy and lowkey the most PG13 raunchy stuff ever lol. since i'm used to writing slow burn soft n fluffy relationships with my teenage oc's, it was a breath of fresh air getting romantic wit dis chapter because i've honestly never gotten a chance to write like this before??? n i HATE it but um,,,, this is what ya'll have been missing out on apparently oop

p.s: i'm revamping the layout of DC a little (just a bit). the instagram chapters will be different from here on out, i changed the moodboards in the soundtrack chapter, & smaller things might continue to change along the way, so bear with me while i figure things out!

p.p.s: reminder that i love warren and he is very Beautiful to me g'night

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[ Published: June 19, 2019 ]

— Liv