High And Dry | Ch. 3

A Night To Remember | ch. 3

j. laurens x reader

Warnings: swearing, some sexual jokes, not proofread, google translate Spanish cus yah

Wc: 2.8k

After the fiasco in the hotel room, John takes you to his favorite restaurant in Washington D.C., where you have a heartfelt conversation you didn’t know you could.

A/n: heeyyyy I’ve been having a rough time lately w/ my social life, so please be patient w me, but I will try to get chapters out! ty for your support 💕

“Surely this is a mistake,” he scoffed. “They had to have given us the wrong key or something.”

“I can talk to them and ask if they’ll move us to another room,” you frowned. “I’m sorry, I thought when I booked it, it would have two beds. I can always take the couch if they don’t—“

“No, no, it’s okay. Let’s just talk to them and ask if we can switch rooms.” He sighed, pushing forward and sitting on the edge of the bed while you went to the phone.

You dialed the number to the front and waited for someone to pick up, concern still etched in your eyebrows. Were you that careless to not check what kind of room you booked? It was literally your entire job to sort these things out, and you couldn’t do that right? ‘Good lord, Y/n, get it together.‘

“Hello? Yes, um, I think there’s been a mistake in our rooming situation. We have a single bed when I intended to book two,” you put your hand on your hip, glancing at John who was staring out the window from his spot.

“I’m sorry, we’re completely booked for the night. This is the only available room we have,” the front desk attendant spoke, “if you’d like me to refer you to my manager, I can—“

“It’s okay, there’s no need for that. Sorry for the trouble,” you sighed in defeat, hanging up.

“Well?” He raised an expectant eyebrow.

“We’ll just have to make this work. They don’t have any other rooms available. I’ll just sleep on the floor, John, it’s no big deal really.”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” he growled, standing up. “This bed is perfectly big enough for both of us. Besides, who wouldn’t want to sleep with me?”

You grimaced. “When you say it like that…”

He scoffed, shaking his head. A smile grew on his face despite that, and you shared a laugh. The sound of his laughter still felt so foreign to you.

“I promise I’m not as bad as everyone seems to think I am,” he said, grabbing his wallet and phone. He slipped you a spare room card and put one in his wallet.

“What? As a person or in bed?” You asked, tucking the room card into your pocket.

The moment the words left your lips, you slapped a hand over your mouth. Embarrassment infected your face, neck, and ears, turning everything hot. You did not just say that to your boss.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and a wide grin spread on his face.

“As a person,” he responded. “Trust me sweetheart, anyone who’s ever been in bed with me has nothing bad to say.”

You blinked, wondering how the use of ‘sweetheart’ made you so much warmer even after the humility of making an accidental sex-comment to your boss. “I see you’re incredibly humble, too.”

He chuckled, taking a tiny step closer, “You’d feel the same way, babe.” He winked, and in that moment, something shifted between you. As a reaction, your eyes blew wide and he rendered you speechless.

A tense, awkward silence filled the room. He must’ve sensed he crossed a line, because he backed up, turning to the door.

“Let’s go get food now. I’m starved,” he said.

You let out a pathetic squeak in agreement, following him out the door. The walk to the elevator was silent. You were still horrified from what you said to him, and the fact that he responded saying you’d understand, too, if you…well. It’s a difficult thing to think about. All it did was make you wish more and more that he weren’t your boss, and instead someone you got the pleasure to know as a person.

He called another uber, and in the meantime, you lounged in the main area of the hotel. It was bustling with people—men in suits, families wearing souvenir shirts that were definitely overpriced, groups of teenagers all wearing the same shirt that read the name of a middle school. You picked at some of the lint on your sweatshirt.

John cleared his throat. “The place we’re going to,” he started, “was where I used to go with Hamilton, Lafayette, and Mulligan when we were broke and ambitious. The restaurant is a little shady, but the food is incredible.”

You cocked your head to the side, looking at him with curiosity. He continued speaking, fiddling with his thumbs, which was something you never saw him do.

“It’s a burrito place, I hope that’s okay with you,” he adds.

“Perfectly fine,” you nod. He hums in content, his eyes lingering on yours a moment too long.

“You’ll love it, then. I’ve been dying to have their barbacoa the second I left D.C. for New York.” He stopped fidgeting.

“I thought you grew up in South Carolina?”

“I did,” he confirmed, “but I moved to D.C. shortly after my nineteenth birthday. That’s when I met Hamilton. I was out drinking with Hercules and Lafayette—illegally, might I add—and he showed up with Aaron Burr. We clicked like that,” he snapped his fingers for effect, “and we welcomed him into our group. Those were some of the best years of my life, messing around with Alex and them.”

A soft smile was on his face as he looked at the floor, reminiscing about the past. You studied him while he was deep in thought. He seemed truly joyful when talking about his closest friends. It made you wonder what he was like around them. Maybe you’d find out one day, if you ever got to meet Hamilton, that is.

His phone chimed, and he stood. “Our ride is here.”

—

“This place hasn’t changed one bit,” he muttered, holding the door open like a gentleman.

It was shitty in the most endearing way possible. The air smelt of freshly grilled meats and vegetables, and there was a light chatter from the two other people there. Despite the low turnout, the kitchen was bustling with noise of food being seared, followed by a healthy smoke that steamed from it.

His hand hovered on your lower back as he walked you to the front. You scanned the menu, most of it being in Spanish, which was a minor setback considering you didn’t speak any Spanish.

“What’re you getting?” He asked, glancing down at you.

“I don’t know—whatever you’re getting, I guess. I trust you have good taste,” you shrugged. He hummed, stepping to the cashier to order.

“¿Puedo conseguir dos burritos de barbacoa con frijoles pintos, arroz integral y un pedido de guacamole? Y también dos bebidas, por favor.” He swiftly pulled out a card to pay.

You gaped at him in shock. He never once mentioned he was fluent in Spanish. Ever. When the transaction was over, he stepped back and led you to a table fit for two.

“…I didn’t know you could speak Spanish,” you commented.

“Did I fail to mention that? Hm. Weird,” he hummed, sliding into the wooden chair. ”It’s nice I can still surprise you. Sometimes I feel like you know more about me than I know about myself.”

Your eyebrows furrow the tiniest amount. “How so?”

“Well, for starters, you’re the only assistant I’ve had who’s memorized my coffee order. And you coincidentally drink the same kind of coffee that I do. You’re pretty attentive.”

Heat rose to your cheeks at the mention of the coffee incident. He noticed that you conditioned yourself to chug the same caffeine that he does.

“And you’re a bit of a perfectionist. Everything I ask of you gets done immediately, and it’s exactly how I instructed you to do it. Sometimes it’s like you already know what I’m gonna say before I say it. You just read my mind, I suppose,” he rested his chin in his hands, and something about this was intimate. Domestic. Nice.

The realization that he brought you to his spot when he was younger triggered something in you. He trusted you enough to show you somewhere personal, and tell the story that went with it. Now he sat before you, reading into your personality as if you had known eachother since birth. And when did he first figure out you’re a perfectionist?

You cleared your throat, snapping out of it when you realized he ceased talking. “I can assure you there’s a lot I have to learn. I’ve learnt more about you from this trip than I have in my two years of working for you.”

He cocked his head to the side. Why did he, of all people, have to be so cute?

“Really? Oh, I guess with the whole airplane thing…” he backtracked. “Y’know, you never told me who was making those jokes. About you being a bad writer—which is absolutely untrue, but the way.”

You inhaled sharply, thinking back to all the times you’ve walked in with two coffees in your hand, and your coworkers immediately snickering. The worst people about it were a group of girls that seemed to have banded together, straying anyone who wasn't a total bitch away from their group. Think Mean Girls cliques. They’re beautiful and probably capable of writing, but pretty is as pretty does. Part of you felt like they were jealous of you. It was obvious that they all had huge crushes on Laurens. You’d overheard them talking about how he has the “nicest ass in the office.” Whatever they said was out of jealousy, you reminded yourself.

But it was every time you encountered them that they would make a snide comment. It’s taken a lot of restraint to not claw at them. Somehow, women know exactly where to strike. They know exactly what people’s insecurities are, and with you, they pinpointed it and went for the throat.

It provoked feelings you didn't want to address.

Forcing down the scream you wanted to let out and the closing of your throat, you met his eyes again, and he looked concerned. It wasn’t how he usually looked at you. Then again, you weren’t entirely sure what the usual was since embarking on this trip. It has completely shifted the mood in your relationship with him.

“Just a few girls,” you replied. He deadpanned, giving you a look as if to say ‘really? That’s all you’re gonna say?’ And yes, that is all you would say.

“Is it Pam’s little friend group?”

You tried to hide the way your eyes widened. How did he guess that so quickly?

“I—how did you know?”

A scowl formed on his face and he rolled his eyes. “Please. They’re all over me every time I walk by. They think they’re slick with it, too, but they ain’t.” He scoffed.

You blinked in surprise. He knew about that. “So…do you just like, know everything?”

His face twisted into confusion before he burst out laughing. The familiar feeling of embarrassment bubbled up to your neck again. God, could you say something normal for once? Talk about the weather, or the latest baseball game, or maybe ducks? Scratch that—he doesn’t look like a duck kind of guy. Maybe dogs?

“Around the office, yes. I just choose to ignore majority of it. I don’t have time for that gossipy bullshit, y’know? There’s work to be done, and I focus on getting it done.” He leaned back against his chair, the sides of his eyes crinkled with amusement. You found this display of him way nicer than you should.

It struck you to remember some words from an earlier conversation. He said he’s not as bad as everyone thinks he is, to which you responded by asking if he meant in bed or as a person. Very smart decision. Anyway, moving on.

“You said earlier that you’re not as bad as everyone thinks,” you say. “What did you really mean by that?”

He smiles, tapping his nose, “attentive.” A long sigh leaves him, and you could tell he was preparing for a heart to heart.

“I hear what people say about me,” he starts. The atmosphere turns serious, despite the sound of Selena blasting from the kitchen. “I know I can’t expect everyone to like me, but it is a little frustrating when I walk out of my office and everyone is staring at me like they just finished talking shit about me. Talking about how I’m not fit to be in charge, how I’m too mean, too strict, too this too that. They think a couple harmless whispers in the break room will shield them from my reach. But I notice the way everyone flinches when I enter a room—including you.”

You hang your head, guilt panging through you. He continues, his tone taking a darker edge, “but they forget I have the power to make or break their careers.”

A shiver ran through your spine that you hoped he missed. You took a moment to gather your thoughts before speaking, voice soft and filled with empathetic undertones.

“I know what that’s like, and it’s the most awful feeling in the world. But you…you don’t actually care what they say about you, right? You know you’re more than just a boss.”

“I know,” he said, “but as much as I don’t want it to, their words cut deep. It just reminds me of my own insecurities.”

“That’s exactly how I feel!” You let out a tiny gasp. “Sorry. I shouldn’t make this about me.”

“No, no, we were talking about you before this. If anything, I turned the focus on me,” he chuckled.

You smiled, relaxing your shoulders. “It’s a relief knowing other people feel the same way I do. I’ve never really talked to anyone about this—especially not my boss—so this is just so…”

“Weird? Yeah, it’s awkward for me, too. I haven’t voiced this to anyone other than my turtle.”

Pause. Did he just say his fucking turtle.

“I’m sorry, did you say turtle?” You coughed. He laughed, making you feel all giddy and fuzzy inside.

“Yep. I guess you don’t know everything about me,” he smirked. You so desperately wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. “But seriously, L/n, tell me what’s goin’ on with Pam ‘nd them. I’m worried about you.”

The mood contorted and you thought about what to say. Him saying he was worried about you was not on your bingo card for this trip.

“It’s really not anything, they just make a few comments here and there—“

“Orden para John!”

“That’s me,” he mumbled, standing up. “We’ll continue this in a minute.”

Your eyes lingered on him while he retrieved the food. He slid a mandarin-flavored Jarritos across the table, as well as your food. He sat and immediately stuffed his face full of burrito.

“You’re going to choke if you don’t slow down,” you grimaced.

“Has wha’ she ‘aid,” he giggled, his words coming out a muffled mess. You rolled your eyes, trying everything in your power to not laugh at the stupidest joke known to man. Of course he’d make that kind of joke, too.

You took a generous bite of your own food, almost letting out gasp from how good it was. He wasn’t wrong when he said it was the best burrito he’s ever had. It was delectable, the barbacoa was soft and flavorful, and they didn’t overdo the rice, unlike Chipotle. (Fuck chipotle).

“It’s good ain’t it?” He took a swig of his soda.

You nodded, letting out a muffled ‘oh my god, yes.’

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he snickered, his eyes taking on a softer edge as he examined you. “Y’know, you didn’t get to finish talking about Pam.”

A small frown tugged at your lips, and you swallowed. Where to even start. You didn’t want it to feel like you were ratting them out, but they also kind of deserved it. They were rude and disrespectful to everyone in the office, not just you. It would be Justice for everyone who has fallen victim to Pam.

Right as you were about to speak, his phone rang. He groaned, pulling it out to silence it. But he paused when he saw who it was. His eyes lit up, and a wide grin spread on his face.

“I’m gonna go take this,” he chirped, leaving you by yourself. From where he stood outside, you could see him talking animatedly with his hands, laughing loudly and nodding eagerly. Who he was on the phone with, you didn’t know. You couldn’t see his screen from the way he had been sitting.

Your own phone chimed, and you checked it to see who the text was from. Unsurprisingly, it was Abby.

Abby: How’s everything with John?

You: pretty good. It’s been chill so far. We’re getting food rn but he’s on the phone w someone

Abby: Anything happen between you and him yet??

You: girl no

Nothing is going to happen

Abby: ugh. Okay. I’ll manifest it anyway. Have fun at the party, tell me if anything happens.

A playful smile formed on your lips, and you shut your phone off as John walked back in, a new confidence in his stride. You raised an eyebrow at the change in his demeanor.

“Finish up eating soon, ‘cause we got somewhere to be after this,” he sang.

“Umm… where?” You asked, wiping your hands with a cheap napkin.

The bright, charming smile never left his face as he responded. “To see my friend, Alexander Hamilton.”

---

Always

thomas j. x reader

Modern, soulmate au

Warnings: swearing, second hand embarrassment and rushed writing

Soulmates are tied by having the song of whatever they’re listening to written on your wrist. So what happens when you realize your soulmate is the man you deemed ignorant, annoying, and conceited?

Wc: 5.8k

Notes: Stan marsh mentioned??!

No. 1 Party Anthem — Arctic Monkeys

That’s what your soulmate was currently listening to. You’d know because the words were inked on your skin. They’d change in a few minutes, when the song came to an end.

But that’s how it worked with soulmates. Whatever music they were listening to would be written on your left wrist, then erase out into the next song. Sometimes you’d have the emptiness of bare skin, but your soulmate seemed to really be into music. His taste varied from all sorts of genres—country to rock to death metal, and the occasional Chappell Roan or Laufey thrown in there.

Any time you were bored, you’d compile his songs into a Spotify playlist titled “my love” where you’d listen to his songs and dream of him. It was over fifty hours long. Maybe he listened to so much music so that whenever he met you, he’d know. You tried to do the same, but you’re the type of person to listen to the same songs on repeat until you find new ones.

You sighed, gently running your right hand over your left wrist where the words were. It was your first day of college, and you couldn’t help but wonder if this was when you’d meet him.

It was colder than you predicted, so you armored up with an oversized grandpa sweater and leggings. It covered up your soulmate’s song, but you figured you’d know when you met them. People reported feeling a pull to their destined lover.

After trudging through the crowded campus and struggling to find your lecture hall, you eventually entered introduction to philosophy.

Ten minutes late.

Thankfully, the professor didn’t seem to mind (or even notice you for that matter) and you humbly snagged a seat at the top row. The guy next to you gave you a nasty side eye, one-hundred percent judging you for being slightly late.

You gave him a dirty look back and tried to catch up with what Professor Marsh was saying. He seemed to be going on about the syllabus and what his teaching would entail. He yapped a little more, but you were still hung up on the fact you already managed to harbor stares from the curly haired man sitting mere inches from you.

Professor Marsh stopped to pass out a paper you weren’t entirely sure what for, and encouraged the class to talk with those around you. He emphasized becoming acquainted with your neighbors because they’re who you’ll be debating on different philosophical views, and a group discussion would be necessary for your grade in this class.

Begrudgingly, you glanced at the guy next to you. He was the only person sitting near you, save for the person in front of you already in conversation.

“Hello.” You said, forcing a sweet tone. His eyes held amusement as he studied you.

“So you’re just gonna act like you didn’t death stare me earlier?” When he spoke, an unexpected southern accent filled his words.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “As if you didn’t side eye me. C’mon, man, I’m just trying to make friendly conversation.”

“Are you always late to your classes?” He tilts his head, a stupid smirk playing on his lips.

“In my defense, this campus is huge and this is the first time I’ve been late to a class ever. I am a rule follower through and through.” You pledge your hand up.

“Ah, okay, so you’re the biggest nerd in here. Got it.”

“Wh—you can’t make impractical assumptions like that. You don’t know anything about me.” You huffed, a frown spreading on your face.

His eyebrows shot up as he gave you a pointed look. “You’re wearin’ a grandpa sweater. I don’t need to know anythin’ to figure you were probably a hall monitor.”

Lucky guess, you deduced. So what if you were that good of a student that admin appointed you a hall monitor? That’s nothing to be ashamed of. And he was wearing an ugly magenta sweater, anyway, so he has no room to talk. Despite that, your cheeks grew warm and you squirmed uncomfortably, glancing at Professor Marsh to see when he would finally reach your row.

“Grandpa sweaters are cute,” you say, “and you seem like the type to be that loser who was always in detention, anyway.”

He gave you a bored stare. “That the best you got? Seriously, grandpa, you gotta think quicker than that.”

“Don’t call me grandpa,” you snapped. He barked out an airy laugh.

“Then tell me your name.”

“Why should I?” You frowned deeper. “All you’ve done is belittle me the moment I stepped into class.”

“Because I want to know who I’m gonna be spendin’ the rest of this semester sitting by.” He deadpanned.

“Who said I’ll be sitting here tomorrow?”

“Trust me, sweetheart, you’ll be sitting here. I’m way too charming for anyone not to.” He grinned, causing an extreme eye roll on your behalf.

“How conceited of you,” you scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him.

“If conceited is synonymous with incredibly hot and captivating, sure.” His smirk widened, and you swore in that moment, you could’ve hurt a man. You seriously considered it, but bit those thoughts down since it was the first day.

“Keyword: if.” Your jaw tightened.

He was enjoying this way too much. The boisterous laughter and arrogant smile said so.

“So your name?”

“Up yours, asshole.” You snarled. He didn’t respond. Instead, his triumphant smirk grew wider, his whole face lit up in a beaming glow. You followed where his eyes led, which was to a presence behind you.

“I’m glad you took my advice on becoming acquaintances with your peers,” Professor Marsh said. A small stack of papers was held in his hands. You winced, glaring at the annoying stranger next to you.

“I’m sorry, Professor, he—“

“Don’t apologize. I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason to refer to your classmate as a derogatory name,” he sassed, “next time, please refrain from calling others asshole.”

He handed the paper to you and another to the absolute dickwad sitting next to you. You watched Professor Marsh retreat to his desk, speechless from what the hell just happened.

“So I’m assuming I don’t get to know your name?”

His grating voice brought your attention back to him. You turned sharply, a murderous intent in your eyes.

“You.” A seething glare pierced through him. “You got me in trouble, you motherfu—“

“Ah, you can’t say no-no words,” he teased, holding up a hand. God, you wanted so badly to rip that cocky smirk from him. It genuinely made your blood boil, and your hatred almost pulled you to him. Probably because it wanted you to kick the shit out of him even though he was bigger and stronger than you.

“You are insufferable. And I hope I never have to see or converse with you ever again.”

“Well, someone’s cranky today.”

“Well, someone needs to shut the fuck up.” You bite back in a tone equally as sarcastic, if not more.

He was about to respond when Professor Marsh started speaking again. You gratefully averted your attention back to the subject of philosophy. He droned on for a little while longer about the history of philosophy and asked somebody what the point of taking this class would be.

Before anyone could raise their hand, asshole shot his hand up eagerly. You groaned, closing your eyes slightly.

“You, in the back,” Professor Marsh nodded. Asshole ahemed, straightening up to make his presence louder.

“She knows the answer,” he says, pointing directly at you. Fresh sets of eyes were laid upon you, and you grew hot under all of the attention. You slumped a little in your seat and glared at asshole, observing the satisfied smile he had and the utter joy in his eyes.

“Yes?” Professor Marsh waited patiently for you to respond to his question.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, “to discuss multiple points of views on questions with no right answer…?” You spoke reluctantly.

The ravenette instructor nodded, “that’s right. Mostly. Philosophy has no right answer, it’s a string of never-ending thoughts pertaining—“

“You dick,” you whispered aggressively to Asshole. He snickered, keeping his voice low.

“I said you knew the answer, didn’t I?”

“At the risk of embarrassing me in front of everybody! Have you not had enough satisfaction from tormenting me already?!”

He gave you a lame shrug, which really did nothing for you. “Guess not.”

You couldn’t wait to get out of this class already.

—

You shoved both AirPods in your ears as you walked across campus, blasting High and Dry by Radiohead. It was a week into your freshman college experience.

So far, it’s been shit.

You’ve already made an enemy with the guy in your into to philosophy class (who you still didn’t know the name of), your favorite sweater got soiled from getting beer spilled on it, which was your fault for wearing a sweater to a frat party anyway, and you hadn’t encountered your soulmate like you hoped.

Safe to say you were completely crushed by the outcome of college. It wasn’t the time-of-your-life party you imagined. No, it was full of copy paste sorority girls and frat bros who talked grossly about women. The food in the dining hall sucked, and you were too broke to afford groceries.

The only positive experience was meeting your dorm mate: Eliza Schuyler.

She was an incredibly sweet girl, and a genius, too. She had an almost mother-like quality to her which drew you in to want to know everything. Thankfully, she seemed to like you as well, and you quickly became close. Mostly because you’re living in a cramped room with little to no privacy, but that’s besides the point.

Lucky for her, she came back on the second day, her heart pouring with excitement. She met her soulmate, a man by the name of Alexander Hamilton, in her English course. You congratulated her and ignored how you felt like the living version of Falling Behind by Laufey.

You glanced down at your wrist. Casual — Chappell Roan.

Ah, it was one of those days.

Sometimes your soulmate had episodes where he listened to nothing but sad, angsty songs about love. Mac DeMarco seemed to be a popular choice with him, and you wished you could hold him in your arms already.

The familiar family-owned coffeehouse came into view. You breathed in the scent of rich coffee and pastries, an instant hunger hitting you, and jumped into line and patiently waited your turn behind all the other caffeine deprived college kids. After placing your order and waiting at a small, two seat table, the sound of a dreaded voice broke your peace.

It took a minute to realize that voice was directed at you.

“—ndpa? Long time no see.”

Your breath hitched and you took out an airpod, coming face to face with Asshole himself.

“Oh great, it’s you,” you grunted, setting your phone on the table. The screen turns on to flash Dreams by Fleetwood Mac, and asshole glances down at it, an immediate unreadable expression crossing his face.

He tugs a little at his left sleeve, his usual cocky demeanor dropping ever so slightly. “Happy to see you, too.” He mumbled.

You quirked an eyebrow but didn’t question it. “I guess I won’t be staying much longer now that you’re here.”

“W-well, you don’t have to leave ‘cause of me,” he stammers almost urgently. This made you pause. He wanted you to stay? “I only just got here. Wanna talk to you.”

“…Why? You hate me,” a scoff escaped your lips. Genuine confusion was plastered on your face. Why is he acting all suddenly nice—wait, you know why. He just wants to find more ways to berate and argue with you as if him countering every word you speak in philosophy isn’t enough.

“Now, I never said I hate you or anythin’.” He reasons, a nervous smile hinting on his full lips.

“Weird. I’d think after you calling me grandpa and blatantly suggesting I’m stupid every day would give off that vibe, but I guess I was wrong.” You deadpan. His shoulders drop, and a small scowl forms on his face.

“I’m bein’ serious. I don’t hate you, and I really do think we should get to know each other.”

You take a moment to stare at him, examining the sincerity on his features to the stubble he had growing to the dark curls that fell over his deep espresso eyes. “Why?” Was all you could manage to blurt.

“Because,” he huffs, “I just do. With us bein’ close in Stan’s class, I figured we should at least know each others names.”

“Okay, first of all, don’t call him Stan you freak, and second of all, you would know my name if you cared enough to pay attention. But you always have a headphone in, so how could you be?” You batted your eyelashes, venom in your tone.

“He doesn’t care if we call him Professor Marsh or Stan! It's not weird to call college professors by their first names. Besides, it’s way easier to say Stan than Professor Marsh. And I wear headphones so my soulmate—“

“Order for Y/n?”

The barista cut him off, her voice dominating the crowded shop before it hurriedly went back to its chattery state. You sighed, standing up and making your way over to the counter. Latte in hand, you start to move out the door, not bothering to say goodbye to Asshole.

But he didn’t seem ready to say goodbye yet. He followed after you, ignoring the fact his coffee was being made and he likely wouldn’t get it.

“Wait! Not even a hug bye?” He jokes. You didn’t laugh.

“Why are you still talking to me?” You groan, clutching the warm liquid in your left hand.

“Y/n, huh? I’m Thomas,” he says, ignoring your question completely. You rolled your eyes, picking up the pace. His long legs easily kept up with you, however, so it didn’t really do all that much.

“Awesome. Now can you leave me alone? You know my name, what else is there?”

“I’m sure there’s a lot else to you if you’d just let us have a nice, civil conversation.” He grunted, falling into step with you.

“And ruin our rivalry?” You give him a sickening smile. He fights back a mocking face.

“Our rivalry is dead. This is the beginning of a friendship,” he declares. You laugh in his face.

“Sure it is.”

“I’m serious! Why don’t we set up a little hang out sesh, hm? Go to the library, finish up that paper Stan assigned?” He suggested.

“Again, calling him Stan,” you sighed. “But I suppose a little time studying in the library wouldn’t hurt. I know I’ll regret this, but if it’ll make you leave me the fuck alone, I’ll agree.”

“Perfect! Just give me your number and I’ll text you when,” he smiles, and for a moment it looks good on him. Then you remember it’s Thomas you’re thinking that about.

“God—you better not annoy me or I’m blocking you.”

“I would never.”

—

Thomas had planned to meet you later that night around 7. The library closes at 10, so it gives you plenty of time to get the paper done. If you worked non-stop without much distraction, that is. But being with Thomas might dismantle that idea.

For the time being, you shuffled into your dorm, greeting Eliza with a smile. She was talking on the phone with Alexander. Must be nice, you thought.

To have met your soulmate already from chance.

You stayed quiet while she finished up the call, telling him she loves him. Fuck, dude, you’ve been waiting your entire life to hear those words. But they were always at someone else, never directed at you.

“Hey.” She grinned, setting her phone down.

“Hey yourself,” you replied. The latte you were previously drinking was nearing emptiness, so you finished it off and tossed the paper cup.

“No luck today?” She tilted her head, sitting on the edge of her crappy mattress. A small frown formed on your face.

“Nah. But that annoying guy in my philosophy was at Café Serenity and somehow got me to agree to study in the library with him.” You moved to sit on the edge of your bed, facing her. “I did finally figure out his name, though. It’s Thomas.”

“Thomas Jefferson?” She asked, eyes going a little wide.

“I don’t know his last name,” you shrugged, “if Thomas Jefferson is an arrogant shithead, then probably.”

“From what I heard he is. Alex keeps ranting about this guy named Thomas Jefferson, so if it’s the same person…yikes.”

You scoffed, “That’s not at all surprising. Thomas always argues with any point I make. It’s irritating as fuck.”

“And you’re going to study with him, why?”

“I don’t know! He wouldn’t hop off so I just agreed to make him shut up.” You slipped your hands up in defense.

It really was a stupid decision to say yes to him, even worse that you gave him your number. His confidence and stubbornness caused you to cave, although you really didn’t want to. You had no desire being around him.

You may not know much, but you do know that Thomas Jefferson is an exasperating, egotistical piece of shit.

“I have to go. Washington locks the door the moment it turns ten, so lord knows if I want to get to actually learn today I have to hurry.” You rolled your eyes, sighing heavily.

Professor Washington was your English professor, a damn good one at that, but he was strict. Not in a mean way, but he did enforce school rules and a rigorous grading policy. Man would not accept work a second late or if it didn’t meet the word requirements.

“Okay. I’ll be out with Alex tonight, so tell me how it goes with Jefferson,” she smiles sadly.

“I will. And make sure to use protection,” you grimaced. She laughed, telling you to knock it off and hurry to your lecture, which you did.

Thankfully, your speed walking did you good and you took your regular seat next to Aaron Burr. He was a quiet man, very respectful and polite, yet held himself with confidence. You knew you’d be friends the moment you first spoke to him about soulmates. He wasn’t listening to music at that time, and when you checked your wrist it had Love Yourz by J. Cole written on it.

So that ruled him out as your soulmate.

You became friends anyway, and shared feelings of excitement on when you’d meet your soulmate and how you wondered what they were like. He said he had a feeling as to who his was, but he needs to talk to her and figure it out for sure. Said he saw a glimpse of her wrist and it had the classical music song on it. Only Burr would be the type to listen to Mozart unironically.

“How’re you liking 1984?” He asks, referring to the book he recommended.

“It’s actually not bad. It’s not what I expected, but I do like it so far.” You reply, giving him a light shrug. He smiles and nods, and shortly after class starts.

—

You didn’t dress for the rain.

You didn’t even know it would rain.

So after pulling up to the library, drenched and miserable, you beelined for the bathroom to dry everything with shitty paper towels.

All they really did was dry your face and hands. The rest of you—your clothes, your hair, your shoes—was soaked and uncomfortable.

Thomas texted you asking if you arrived alright, and you replied with a bitter “give me two seconds.” After that, you inhaled sharply and walked back out. The library was pretty empty, but it was a Friday night so that wasn’t unusual. Aside from the librarian and the burnt out sophomores in the corner, it was just you and Thomas.

His eyes widened when he saw you, and he stifled a laugh. An immediate distaste bubbled inside you.

“Fuck off,” you growled, sitting across from him. He snickered a little more before collecting himself.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Are you okay? You must be cold,” he apologized, leaning forward on the table.

“I’m fine. I won't be staying long, considering I’m cold and wet and really want a hot shower.” You hugged your arms over your chest in a pathetic attempt to warm up.

A genuine frown spread on his face, and he stood, shrugging off his jacket. “Here, you need it more than me.” He held out the vintage jacket to you.

You stared at it, blinking, unable to form words. Why was he being sweet? You thought he was supposed to be a self-centered asshole, just like you assumed and like Eliza told you, but he was offering you his jacket.

“I…thank you, but it’s okay. I’ll be fine.” You decline after a prolonged silence.

“I insist,” he replies, circling around the table and draping the jacket over your shoulders. He smiled, staring down at you with a softer intent. You glanced at his wrist to see if his soulmate was listening to anything, but it was empty. “There. Now we can start.”

He retreats to his seat and pulls out a laptop, and you do the same. Fortunately, the laptop was safe from the rain but the rest of your bag was not. He starts up a conversation about the details of the paper, but you couldn’t focus.

How could you when his jacket smells like sandalwood and vanilla? And how could you focus when you liked the feeling of his jacket being around you?

You had to force those thoughts down. He’s not your soulmate. He probably already found his, and he was just doing this to be nice. But still, you had to ask. So you did.

“Have you found your soulmate yet?” You blurt.

A twinkle of amusement shines in his eyes, and he promptly pulls his hands off the keyboard. “No. Have you?”

“Not yet,” you reply dryly.

“Why do you ask?” He tilts his head, crossing his arms, and your gaze trailed to his toned biceps and forearms. Fuck, and his chest did that dip thing where—focus, damnit!

“I was just wondering. You’ve never said anything about her, so…” you shrugged.

He nodded, scanning your features. “Well, do you want to talk about her? You seem interested.”

“What kind of music does she like?” You ask, causing him to look down at his left wrist.

“Right now she’s not listening to anything,” he starts, “but she’s really been obsessed with Radiohead lately. It’s weird, but whenever I see a new song, I add it to a playlist so I can listen to it.” His eyes crinkle into a grin.

“No way, I do that too! It’s not weird.” Despite every urge telling you not to get comfortable with him, you do. A wide smile spreads on your face and you perk up a little.

“Really? What’s he like?” He pulls out his phone, probably to show you the playlist. You retrieve yours as well, scrolling until you found it.

“He listens to so much. It’s actually insane. Nothing right now, I guess,” you frown slightly at the emptiness on your arm.

“My soulmate listens to the same four songs on repeat, I swear. Then when she gets tired of it, she moves on to the next.” He rolls his eyes fondly, scooting his phone across the table for you to see.

Shit, this playlist had like, every song you listened to.

“…She has good taste,” you reluctantly speak, eyebrows furrowing. There’s no way…he can’t be. Right?

You turn your phone over to him, and he scrolls a little, eyes widening with each song. Then, a grin overtakes him.

“I have a lot in common with him.” He said.

“Do you?” You mumble in almost a trance-like state.

“Mhm.” He hums, voice low as he starts again. “Maybe we oughta check to be sure we ain’t each others soulmates.” A deep laugh escapes him, and a breathy one leaves you.

“..Yeah, we should.” You pull out your AirPods, as does he, and you put on Vienna by Billy Joel. He puts in his right airpod and scrolls until he clicks on a song.

Reluctantly, dreadfully, and anxiously, you check your left wrist.

Always by Daniel Caesar.

He checks his then shows you it. Sure enough, it says Vienna on it.

“Holy fuck,” you murmur, showing him your wrist as well. “You’re my soulmate.”

“I knew it,” his grin grew wider.

An almost instantaneous bitter rage overcame you. “What do you mean you knew it? How long have you known?”

“Relax,” he motions his hands for you to calm down, “I had a gut feeling this morning but I wasn’t sure. This is great! I’ve waited—“

“No, it’s not,” you interrupt, abruptly standing.

“What?” His face fell. Literally, you watched the excitement dissolve into confusion then hurt.

“It can’t be you.”

The words left you before you could process what you were saying. Shit, you didn’t want to say that. You didn’t want to watch his heart visibly break. How could you just deny your soulmate like that? He was supposed to be yours from the start. You were literally meant to be together, since the moment you came into this world.

It was supposed to be you and him. And yet here you stood, telling him no.

“What do you mean?” His voice cracks, barely above a whisper. He looks like he just got hit by a truck, like he got stabbed repeatedly in the heart.

“I should go,” you mutter, grabbing your bag and shoving the laptop in it. Tears pricked in your eyes, and you blinked them back. You needed time to process this, to come to terms with the fact that this man you absolutely despised was who you’re expected to spend the rest of your life with.

“Wait, Y/n, please,” he calls, rushing to pack up his belongings before chasing after you.

You ignore his pleads and step back into the storm, shielding your bag from the rainwater. He follows after you, shouting out your name, but you trudged through the rain. Eventually, he sighed, dropped his stuff, then sprinted to catch up.

You gasped when his hand met your arm, swiveling you to face him.

“Thomas! What’re you—“

He cuts you off by smashing his lips to yours. You let out a muffled gasp before your instincts kick in, and you find yourself kissing back.

And now you feel it.

The pull.

What other people described when they met their soulmate for the first time. The immediate attraction that they’re supposed to feel, yet somehow, you didn’t feel it upon interacting with him. But now…now you feel it.

Full force desire. Want.

His hands moved down to your lower back and waist, dragging you closer to him. Rain trickled down from the top of your head to cover every inch of you and Thomas, and yet, it felt like it was only you and him in the world. Nothing else seemed to matter except the heightened awareness of the fact you were pressed against your soulmate. It was bliss.

Then the bliss was over.

“Thomas…” you whispered, pushing off of him.

“Y/n,” he whispered back, his tone low and it made you feel all sorts of things.

“I need time,” you say. He nods, one hand caressing your jaw as he backs up. He didn’t seem mad, instead he seemed at peace with your decision.

“I’ll be waitin’ for you. Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart, I’ll always be waiting for you.”

—

“Eliza, I know who my soulmate is.” You blurted, voice desperate as you paced around the tiny dorm. You knew she was hanging with Alex tonight, and you didn’t plan on needing to call her, but this was an emergency.

“What?! That’s amazing! Who is it?” You can hear her perk up. Alex asks her to put you on speaker, which she does so. Alexander briefly says hello and congratulates you before asking who as well.

“So, funny story actually,” you start, a nervous laugh escaping you. “It’s Thomas.”

“What.” Both Alex and Eliza say, equal amounts of distaste in their voices.

“I know, I know—I wasn’t particularly thrilled either. But he’s not a bad guy,” you defend.

“Wow. I am so, so sorry, Y/n. Are you okay?” Alex sounds, and you roll your eyes. Only you were allowed to talk shit about Jefferson. He was your soulmate, after all.

“I’m fine,” you bite, “I just need to process it all.”

“Of course, girl, I’ll be back later tonight and we can talk about it more,” Eliza said. Her words were comforting and you thanked her before promptly hanging up.

So. What to do now other than reflect on the past 24 hours.

Thomas Jefferson, the man who called you a hall monitor and proceeded to insult your sweater, the man who got you in trouble on the first day, the man you swore to humiliate and destroy, ended up being your soulmate. Karma has a way of getting you, doesn’t it?

You checked your wrist. Watching Him Fade Away, Mac DeMarco. Okay, so he is not okay. Got it. You really need to think faster and make it up to him, because you know that even with his cool and collected, cocky exterior, he was still a person with a heart that you probably just shattered. You checked your phone for the millionth time that night, not at all because you’re anticipating if he was texting you, but to your dismay there was no new notifications.

So you sighed, grabbed your shower caddy and clothes to change into, and headed for the communal bathrooms. Not before realizing you were still in his jacket. It hurt you to have to take it off, but you did so anyway and neatly laid it on your bed.

After a lukewarm shower in a shitty locker room, you changed into pajamas and returned to your room, immediately flopping on your bed.

Still no new notifications. And still sad, slow songs listed on your wrist.

The door swung open, Eliza tumbling in. “I’m here! I’m here, tell me everything,” she rushed to your side.

You sat up, jaw slacked open, then started speaking. Slowly, hesitantly, then you picked up the pace and told her everything. The jacket, the realization, the kiss. Every little detail from the curve of his jaw to the glimmer in his eyes when he said ‘I knew it.’

“He said he would wait for me, Eliza, he said he’d wait for me.” At that point, tears you didn’t want in your eyes formed anyway. Hell, you didn’t even know why you were crying. Maybe because you know you’re so fucked up for rejecting your soulmate.

“As much as Alex and I dislike Jefferson, he’s still your soulmate. And you still need to at least give him an explanation as to why you needed time. Get some sleep tonight, and tomorrow you’ll feel better. I promise, love,” she smiled softly, pulling you in for a comforting hug.

In the week-and-a-half that you’ve known her, she’s been one of the most supportive friends you’ve ever had. Granted, one of the only friends since you’ve always struggled with socialization, but she didn’t seem to mind your slip ups or awkward silences.

“I got so lucky that you’re my roommate,” you mutter into her shoulder, tightening your grip. She squeezes you reassuringly.

“I could say the same for you. Now, get some rest,” she pulls off, standing up and retreating to her side of the room.

There was one last thing you had to do, though. You grabbed your phone from the side table, pulling up Thomas’s contact. You had him saved as Thomas (asshole), and since that’s not exactly appropriate for your soulmate's contact, you changed it to Thomas<3.

You: can we meet tmr at cafe serenity? 9 am?

Thomas<3: I’ll be there.

After that was taken care of, you comply with Eliza’s request and go to sleep, Thomas’s jacket lying next to you.

—

Thomas arrived earlier to the coffee shop than planned.

By the time you arrived, he was already sat in a little corner booth, staring out the window. A cup was snugly in his hands, and there was a latte across from him. You sank into the seat, his face instantly lighting up when he saw you.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly, inwardly cursing at yourself for not knowing what else to say.

“Hey,” he smiled warmly, as if nothing was wrong.

“How’d you know I like lattes?” You picked up the cup in front of you, taking a sip. Your order wasn't exactly complicated, but it was still sweet how he went ahead and ordered for you, somehow knowing what you’d like.

“I saw it on your cup last time.” He shrugged, taking a drink of plain black coffee.

“Awh, thank you. Damn, now I really feel bad for last night,” you chuckle in a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood.

“I know I’m not who you expected or even wanted. But I am yours and I am determined to prove that to you,” he brings his voice down, reaching across the table and putting a hand on yours.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Thomas, you are who I want. No, you’re not what I expected, you’re a million times better. You challenge me and still want to be with me despite my flaws—Thomas, you are perfect and I am so, so sorry for saying what I said yesterday. I was shocked, but that’s no excuse. I really want to make things work between us, even though we’ve had a bitter past.” You finish your rant and he smiles real wide.

“I’m so glad it’s you.”

You couldn’t stop the grin that spread on your face, and you leaned across the table and met in the middle for a short, sweet kiss.

“Hey! Keep the PDA to a minimum, you damn kids!” The old lady behind the counter scolded you, and you broke apart in fits of giggles. He stringed his pinky with yours and tugged you out of the establishment, leading you to wherever felt right.

—

A heavy arm hung loosely around your waist, and the soft snores coming from Thomas awoke you. Your eyes fluttered open and you came face to face with the man you’ve come to love.

Eliza was with Alex, so you invited Thomas to spend the night and ended up cuddling in each other's arms. You smiled, careful not to wake him, and shuffled so you were back in his embrace.

This, you decided, was peace. This is what was meant for you.

---

Will you be making a pt 2 for high and dry ?

Yes it is in the works rn 🫶🫶

When do u think chapter 3 of high and dry is coming out? I LVOE IT SM !! NO RUSH!

THANK YOUU but erm tbh it might be a little bit I have very few ideas ☹️☹️

COOKING SO HARD RN. UPDATE EITHER TONIGHT OR TMR

hi my dear! would you ever consider writing for john laurens? p.s all of your works are beautiful and i’ve reread them too many times ;)

Yess yes I’d write for Laurens or Phillip, idk about Alex or Hercules yet but I could def try.

Also idk when I’m gonna be out with new chapters/fics, I’ve been pretty busy so don’t expect much from me for a while. But thank you to everyone who supports 🫶💕

To let everyone know:

Updates (for High and Dry & A Night to Remember) will be slow for these next couple of weeks. Summer is almost here so itll pick up then but the writers curse is hitting bc I just got harassed lol. Anyway thanks for the support from everyone! Stay safe 🫶

oh em gee it’s Friday, HOW WAS UR AP TESTED YO

actually really good, I think I got a 5 but I’ll update y’all when scores come out 😝

---

Hey, roomie! Ch. 2

thomas j. x reader

warnings: swearing, not proofread

After another failed date, Thomas offers some pointers.

Word count: 2.5k

alrrr guys ch 2 done 🥳 thank y’all to anyone actually reading this it means a lot

“Thomas! Did you put my white socks in the washer?” You yelled, pulling out the now pink Nike socks.

“To be fair, you trusted me with your belongings.” He held his hands up in defense with an irritable smirk on his face that made you want to punch him.

“I’ll be sure to remember that next time,” you say through gritted teeth. He laughs, leaning against the wall as he watches you move clothes from a beat-down washing machine to the even shittier dryer.

Week three, already off to a bad start. So far you’ve rolled your ankle during a run because it unexpectedly started pouring, you had to run back in the rain with a sprained ankle that sent jolts of pain through your feet with every step, Thomas won’t stop bothering you, and now all your white clothes are pink because he couldn’t complete a simple task. You even asked him as nicely as you could (so, not calling him a shithead in the process.)

He seemed to get some sort of satisfaction in your misery. It was all just a game to him. He was the cat and you were the mouse, running in circles of pissing each other off.

You sighed, turning on the dryer and pivoting to face him. He was met with your death glare burning a hole in his head, which only made him grin wider.

“Don’t look so happy, Jefferson,” you growled.

“I’m not happy. I’m devastated. My favorite person in the whole wide world is upset with me; now is not the time to feel joy.” He quickly turns his smile upside down and laced his words with sarcasm. You rolled your eyes, pushing past him.

“I don’t have time for your shit. I’m going out,” you grunt. He perks up.

“Where to?” He trails after you, plopping on your bed as you scoured your closet for a casual dress.

“Uh, none of your business?” You scoff, raising an eyebrow at him. He huffs, kicking his foot outward and shifting on the edge of your bed.

“I just wanna know. What’s the harm in tellin’ me, sweetheart?” He pouts.

“The harm in telling you is the potential situation you go with. Can’t have that happening.” You give him a pointed look and he fights back a smirk.

“I won’t follow you. Promise. I planned to stay up gaming with James, anyway,” he quickly defends himself. You give him a suspicious look but decide to just tell him. It won’t hurt to have someone know where you’re at just in case anything goes wrong, right?

“Okay. I’m meeting up with a guy at a bar,” you say, pulling out the familiar black dress and brushing it off.

“Again?” He gapes before furrowing his eyebrows. You give him an offended stare. “I mean, didn’t you just go out with a guy like, three days ago?” He rambles.

“Yeah, so? Don’t slut shame me. I want to have a long-lasting relationship and the only way to do that is to get out there and search.”

“Uhm, I wasn’t slut shamin’ you, but alright. Who’s the lucky guy?” He scoots forward, intently observing you pick out the perfect heels.

“His name is Gary.” You respond quietly.

“Pfft—Gary? The hell kinda name is that—that’s stupid. His name being Gary is a red flag in and of itself.” He laughs, causing your eye to twitch.

“Lay off, Thomas. He’s a sweet guy,” you grunt. He was seriously testing your patience today. “What are you still doing in here, anyway? Go, scram, skidaddle,” you shoo him off and he stands, holding his hands up defensively.

“My bad, just wanted to spend some time with you. How horrible of me, I know,” he states before backing out, shutting the door behind him. You sigh and get changed into the black dress and heels, doing your makeup and hair afterwards to get all dolled up.

—

“Hey! How are you?” You said with a bright smile when Gary found you in the bar. He looked quite handsome. His blond hair was neatly laid to the side and had a slight wave to it, and his piercing blue eyes captivated you.

“I’m good. My, don’t you look pretty?” He grins, opening his arms for a hug. You embrace him and start up some small talk, mentioning things you chatted about online and expanding on those topics. He seemed pretty interesting and didn’t show many red flags. So far so good.

After ordering a few drinks, he suggested doing shots. Bold move, you like it. Or was he just trying to get you drunk so he could take you back to his and lay you on his bed? You couldn’t tell. But he was paying and he smelled nice, so you didn’t really care.

When the end of the night rolled around, you were having a great time. You felt like you got along perfectly. He was sweet and funny and charming, and you thought he liked you, too, but when you asked if he wanted to do this again (or more) he grimaced, looking around awkwardly.

“Listen, you’re really great, but I feel like we would be better friends than anything, you know?”

Ouch. Did you say something wrong sometime during the night?

“Oh. Okay, sure.” You frowned, clutching your purse a little tighter. He hugged you again to let you down easy and then left to his car. A sigh escaped your lips.

Another date failed, and this time it was something wrong with you which you couldn’t shake. How come you can never keep a guys attention for longer than an hour? Are you acting too easy? Too hard to get?

A frustrated groan left you as you called a cab.

The moment you got back, you slammed the door and stomped to the couch, aggressively shoving off your heels and carelessly throwing them on the floor.

“What are you slammin’ doors for?” Thomas walked out of his room, an irritated frown on his lips. You really, really didn’t want to deal with him right now.

“He just wants to be friends. Friends! I mean, c’mon! What am I doing wrong?” You groaned, crashing back on the couch and covering your face with your hands.

Thomas shifts his weight, his frown turning to an uncomfortable one. He opens his mouth to speak, furrows his eyebrows, closes his mouth. Then he opens it again. “Y’know, I can help you if you want. Get a guy, that is.” He adds on quickly.

You stare at him, mind a little fuzzy from the alcohol you ingested. “What d’you mean?“

“I mean I know what guys like. I can give you some pointers, maybe coach you on what to do or say or how to act. You interested?” He slowly moves closer before gently sitting next to you, his knee brushing yours.

You let your mouth hang open for a moment as you knit your eyebrows, weighing your options. On the positive side of this offer, you could possibly be able to land a real man with any advice he gives you. He could be bullshitting and accidentally giving you horrible advice just to ruin your chances with some other man, but the way he’s staring at you so patiently leans you otherwise. He seems genuine. On the contrary, you’d have to actually spend time working with him to learn anything. You’d have to let him call out your mistakes which would be a blow straight to your ego.

Swallowing your pride, you know which decision to make.

“That would be helpful,” you mutter, and a wide grin spreads on his face.

“Great! We can discuss this further tomorrow. For now, you need to get some rest. And shower, you smell like vodka,” he grimaces, his tone teasing you.

“Don’t tell me what to do, asshole,” you mumble under your breath as you stumble over to the shower. He laughs airily, watching you fumble over your own feet.

—

“Did you forget to buy strawberries?” You call while bent over searching the fridge.

“No,” Thomas replies with minimal concern in his voice, “they’re in the bottom drawer. Just look, sweetheart, you’ll find ‘em.”

You roll your eyes, swinging the bottom drawer open and pulling out the plastic cage of fresh strawberries.

It was a messy Saturday morning. You had woken up with a slight hangover, but it didn’t affect you too much. Just a headache and light nausea, nothing a little rest and ibuprofen couldn’t fix.

Thomas had gotten up at a similar time as you since you slept in, and now he joined you in the kitchen for a late breakfast/early lunch. He sat at the small table, scrolling mindlessly on his phone.

You fixed his and your breakfast consisting of eggs, avocado toast, and fruit. He thanked you as you slid his portion across the table to him.

“So, tell me, what went wrong?” He asked, taking a hefty bite of avocado toast.

“I don’t know, that’s the worst part. In my opinion, it was going really well. But when we were outside and I asked if he wanted to do this again, he said I would make a better friend than anything,” you sighed, recalling the memory of being rejected.

He furrowed his eyebrows, pursing his lips and thinking momentarily. After a second, he nods, “well what’d you do to make him think that?”

“Wha—dude, I thought you were gonna help me figure that out!” You huff.

“Whoa, chill out, I don’t know all the details so I gotta ask.” He motions his hands for you to calm the fuck down, which provokes you to narrow your eyes at him. “How did the conversation start? Give me exactly what happened from beginning to end.” He instructs, leaning in with all ears.

“Well first, we said hi, he hugged me and said I was pretty,” you started, trying to recount your conversation with him. If you had been looking for it, you would’ve noticed the slightest flicker in Thomas’s expression when you said you hugged. “Then we ordered some drinks. Talked about each others interests, some stuff we talked about over text like his love for football, although I don’t really care for it too much—“

“Ah, stop right there. When he was talking about football, did you look uninterested or change the topic?” He cuts you off.

“Uh, maybe a little? It’s hard to remember, ‘cause like I said, I don’t give a shit about football so I didn’t listen that intently.” You shrugged, biting into a strawberry.

“Well there’s your problem. If you don’t give him your full attention even on stuff you don’t like, he’s not gonna give you his,” he claims. Your eye twitches.

“So I need to be a better listener?”

“Exactly,” he smiles, “you’re already getting it.”

You roll your eyes, stuffing some blueberries in your mouth. He winces, setting down the toast he was halfway through.

“Maybe don’t roll your eyes too much. Or shove food in your face.” He recommends.

“I only act like this around you because I don’t care what you think,” you rebutted, raising your eyebrows.

“Wow. I’m hurt, princess.” He puts a hand to his chest dramatically, although his tone was mocking.

“Don’t call me princess.” You warned. He laughed, putting his chin in his hands.

“Well then—tell me what I should call you.”

“Call me my name.”

“Ooh, I dunno, I think sweetheart has a nice ring to it. Or maybe mon petit chou—Lafayette taught me that one.” He beamed, giving you a toothy grin.

“I know what that means, that’s stupid,” you rolled your eyes. What kind of pet name is ‘my little cabbage?’

“Hey, don’t insult French culture like that. I love France.” He frowns.

“Don’t care.”

“You know, you should really start being nicer to me. I am helpin’ you out here, after all,” he advises. You let out a dramatic groan, sinking into your seat.

“When I actually have a boyfriend, I will.”

—

You hummed, waiting for Peggy to arrive at the Starbucks you so often frequent. It was a peaceful Sunday morning, not too many people crowded the cafe but just enough to where it felt lively.

You had just finished a run, and already had plans to meet up with Peggy around 8 for coffee, so you decided to push yourself further and just run to the Starbucks. When the door flashed open, your dearest friend walked in and your day instantly brightened.

Her coffee was already sitting waiting on the other end of the table—you knew exactly what she liked so you went ahead and ordered it for her: an iced blonde vanilla latte with whole milk and extra vanilla.

“Awh, you already ordered for me? How sweet,” she cooed, taking the seat across from you. You couldn’t hide the grin that spread on your face.

“Well, I know how bad you suffer from crippling anxiety when it comes to ordering food, so I thought I’d be nice and not let you stutter over asking for whole milk.”

She scoffs, “Way to ruin a good thing. Anyway, how ya been? Jefferson been treating you nice?”

“He’s been okay,” you shrug, “he’s actually helping me out with something. And he initiated it.”

“Oh? Do tell.” She raises her eyebrows, leaning in curiously.

“So you know I’ve been trying to land an actual relationship,” you lean in as well, “and the other night I was frustrated because Gary rejected me. Anyway, Thomas offered to give me some advice on how to talk to guys,” you explain.

“Interesting. He tell you anything helpful?” She asks.

“Eh. Just told me to be a better listener, nothing outstanding or thought provoking.”

“Well, if you ever need any more help, I’m your girl. You know I’ve been with my man Steph for 6 years now, if you’re having trouble keeping someone down,” She offers.

“Thanks, Peggy.” You smile softly.

After catching up with her and just chatting in general, you head back home with another coffee in hand for Jefferson. You figured it wouldn’t hurt to get him something since he is helping you out, and maybe you should be a smidge nicer to him. Not verbally, of course, you’ll always find a way to berate him, but at least show him you care somewhat through the language of coffee.

You enter and he hasn’t awoken yet, so you set the hot black coffee down with his name scribbled on it. He claims that this is his favorite way to drink coffee and all the sugar or milk additives take away from the rich flavors, but you have a theory that he’s bullshitting and secretly loves frappuccinos.

After a quick shower, he still wasn’t up, so you left to run some errands. While at the store, your phone dinged.

Thomas: thanks for the coffee.

---

Hey, roomie! ch. 5

thomas j. x reader

wc: like 2.8k I think

warnings: swearing yada yada the usual

You confront Thomas after he ignores you for the millionth time.

It has been four days with Thomas upset. It was starting to become worrisome.

You did what Peggy advised: give him space. You’ve given him tons of time to think, and he’s still failed to have a full conversation with you. It was starting to become childish. But you figured that he’d come around eventually and things would go back to normal, so you’d play the waiting game if necessary. It was hard when he was always gone though. When he’d left for work on Monday, he didn’t come back until the late hours of the night when all was quiet.

Even on Sunday, he was gone most of the day. Sometimes he would pop in but majority was spent god-knows-where doing god-knows-what.

On the fourth day, you noted he started speaking to you more. He wouldn’t avoid you and rush out of the room anytime you entered. He sat with you at dinner and breakfast (typing frantically on his phone, but still there nonetheless). He left some coffee in the pot for you after he brewed himself some. Progress was being made.

Although you wondered why. Why did you care so much if he was happy with you or not? The thought plagued your mind and you found that every time you looked at him, you wondered what things would be like if he was happy with you. You wondered what you’d be talking about, what new adventure you’d go on, what petty argument would be sparked that ultimately wouldn’t matter, because it’d be over some stupid shit like ‘who has to do the dishes?’ Or ‘which shitty childhood film was the best?’ (The answer is shark boy and lava girl, by the way.)

Instead, you had to wonder what he was thinking about. What his twisted look of confusion, angst, grief, sorrow, and guilt muddled into one means. Pondering what the occasional brush of fingertips meant to him, and if it sent his heart racing as fast as it did yours.

At times, you would catch him staring at you. He would quickly snap his eyes back to whatever was at hand, and pretend like he didn’t get detected. It started getting on your nerves, and you found yourself growing angry every time he’d act like you weren’t there.

It got to a point where you were in the kitchen, cooking mac and cheese because you know it’s his favorite (not that you keep track of what he likes or anything) when he entered and barely acknowledged you. He looked at the pot of mac, nodded to himself, then sat at the table on his phone. By that point you were about to boil over with frustration.

“When is this little game gonna stop?” You snapped.

Thomas peered up at you with furrowed brows. He opened his mouth to speak, but you kept talking before he got the chance to.

“I mean it’s been what, four days? It’s immature. Whatever problem you have, just fucking talk to me instead of ignoring me.”

“Can I speak?” He gives you a pointed look and you glare at him before nodding slightly. “Great. I don’t have a problem with you or anythin’, I’m just tryin’ to work out my own feelings before I talk to you.” He explains calmly, but his tone held impatience and annoyance.

“What feelings? Jealousy because I’m close friends with Lafayette?” You scoff. His eyes widen and he sits up straighter.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of, sugar,” he laughs bitterly. “You can do whatever the hell you want, I’m not your dad.”

“So then why have you been avoiding me?”

“Like I said,” his jaw twitches, “I’m trying to figure out myself first.” Liar. Liar liar liar LIAR!

“And that doesn’t allow you to be able to have an adult conversation with me?” You retort. He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yet you call this an adult conversation…” He mutters just loud enough for you to hear. You roll your eyes.

“I’m trying to confront the problem. Face it, fix it, and make it better.” You cross your arms, grating your teeth.

“Is this really makin’ it better? I mean, c’mon, you confront me out of the blue and keep attackin’ me, then expect me to do all the work in makin’ up!”

You let your arms fall to your side, shoulders slumping and a guilty feeling gnawing at your stomach. For once, you couldn’t think of anything to say back. He was completely right, you started attacking him then wouldn’t let him speak, and you were being a giant hypocrite. You stare at him, his rant processing in your head. When you finally could speak, the first two words that came from your mouth just happened. You didn’t think, you just said.

“I’m sorry.”

Now it’s his turn to stare at you. His jaw is hung slightly ajar as he studies your face for any dishonesty. Then, he sighs—softer this time, less aggravated and more relaxed. There was an excruciatingly long period of silence, of him processing your words and working out his next move. He could either A) choose to forgive you or B) decide to keep the argument going. It’s in his hands now, and there wasn't much you could do other than hope.

By the time he replied, the anger inside of you calmed, but you were still full of questions, and unsaid arguments running rampant through your brain.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry for ignorin’ you, I didn’t know it truly bothered you,” he admits, standing up. “Hug it out?” A cheeky grin spreads on his face.

“Hell no, words are enough,” you laugh. You knew it wouldn’t be completely normal, not for a little while longer, but this came as a relief. It felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You hated fighting with people and walking around knowing someone is pissed at you, so it was nice knowing this feud was finally done.

“C’mon, we gotta hug it out.” He walks closer, his arms open wide as he approaches you.

“No we don’t—oh, you’re doing it anyway okay.” He engulfs you in a bone-crushing hug. The scent of his cologne overwhelmed you, and every pat on your back made your stomach flutter.

“‘M not letting go ‘til you hug back,” he murmurs in your ear. You sigh, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace and wrap your arms around him. You stayed like that for a good five seconds; you were so close your heartbeats synchronized. For some reason, his warmth made you feel safe. Comfortable.

He pulles off, a wide smile on his face, and a look in his eyes you haven’t seen. “That wasn't so hard, was it?” He whispers, his voice gentle.

“Do you have to be an asshole with everything you say?” You joked. He rolled his eyes playfully, the smile never faltering on his face.

“Whatever. You love me. If you didn’t you wouldn’t have made mac ‘n cheese, which I am really looking forward to, by the way.” He beams, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I made mac ‘n cheese because I wanted mac ‘n cheese,” you lie. He saw right through it.

—

“This is the best goddamn mac I’ve ever had,” Thomas exclaims, his mouth still full of food after his first bite. A shy smile creeps on your face.

“Thanks, it’s Tini’s recipe,” you admit. You’re just glad the way your heartbeat sped up from his compliment wasn’t visible.

He scarfed down his first place and went back for seconds, completely ignoring any vegetables you made on the side to balance it out. Man had only one thought in mind and it was pasta.

“If you don’t slow down, you’re going to choke.” You set your fork down in concern, watching him shove as much sustenance in his mouth as possible.

“Hmf—ha’s wha she saih,” he giggled.

You shook your head but you couldn’t deny the grin that fell upon your lips after hearing his shitty joke. It felt a little weird laughing with him so naturally when not two hours ago you would bicker. The switch left you wondering if he was growing tired of fighting. If he longed for talking to you like how you had grown to miss his presence.

The subject bothered you so much, you didn’t wait for him to stop chewing before you asked the question burning in your head.

“Why did you react that way when your friends were over?” You blurt, impatience evident in your voice.

He pauses, swallows his food, and thinks on the matter.

“I was just tired.” He says stiffly. You didn’t think his bullshit excuse was true, but you decided not to push it. For now.

“Hm. Alright.” You stand abruptly to rinse your plate and set it in the dishwasher. He joins you shortly after, a thick silence falling over you.

You knew there was something deeper to his attitude these past days. There had to be. No one just ignores someone for five days because “they were tired.” Part of you wondered if Peggy was right. Did he get jealous because you were play-fighting with Laf? Although what he said earlier was true, much as you hate to admit it. There’s no reason for him to be jealous. There is nothing between you and Thomas, and there is nothing between you and Lafayette.

And there never will be. It is what it is.

You glance at him, studying his features. He was focused on the dish in his large, strong hands that could easily pick you up and pin you down—wait. What was that last thought?

You swallowed, regretfully tearing your eyes away from him. A sudden wave of nausea washed over you, causing you to stumble to the couch to sit down. Or was it being flustered? The line was blurred.

“You alright? You look a little queasy,” he frowns, joining next to you.

“Yeah, I just ate too much, I guess.” You shrugged it off, trying to ignore how the way his leg brushing against yours sent electricity through your entire body. He didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, it didn’t bother him.

“Alright…Wanna watch a movie?” He narrows his eyes at you momentarily before straightening up, then holding the remote up as an offer.

“Sure. Your pick.” You nod and shift to get comfortable. He grabs the blanket that sat next to him and drapes it over the two of you. The couch was small enough to where you almost sat shoulder to shoulder, and the blanket was comically large.

About halfway through Interstellar, you started feeling a little drowsy. Your blinking slowed and your head suddenly weighed like a ton of bricks. Another 40 minutes or so goes by and the voice of Matthew McConaughey droned on and on, blurring into what sounded like the perfect environment for sleep. You fought to keep your head upright, but alas, Thomas’s shoulder seemed like the perfect pillow to lie your head on. Only for a minute, you told yourself. It was the last thought you had before you were lulled into sleep.

You weren’t awake to watch Thomas’s reaction. His features softened, he stayed dead still, and turned down the TV so you could sleep better. His chivalry would’ve made your cheeks flush had you been present to witness it.

—

“The wedding is only a week away! I’m so excited!” Eliza exclaimed.

She was referring to her courtship with Alexander, of course, as they had been seeing each other for more than four years. He had finally popped the question about six months ago, and Eliza merrily accepted him with tears in her eyes.

You were extremely happy for your friend; she was to be a wife in only one week. For most, this tradition is considered the happiest day of their lives. You weren’t sure if you’d ever get married, no, not with your luck around guys. But at least you could support Eliza and Alex.

They were perfect for each other, too. She was just as witty as he, if not more, and both were extremely intelligent. Alex had the penmanship of a poet and Eliza lived in books. It was truly a sight to see them together; neither could stop sneaking glances at the other then smiling, a fierce blush adorning both of their faces

You saw firsthand how he became enamored with her, how he wooed her by sending flowers with letters attached to it. It seemed that any time you spoke to Eliza before they started dating, she always mentioned how sweet Alex was and the latest thing he did to charm her. Typical talk of someone in love, always speaking of their interest.

When she asked you to be one of her bridesmaids, you were ecstatic. Angelica was the only other person to ask you to hold such a title, and that was an honor to you. Of course you said yes, and she went on about her ideas of the wedding.

Eliza wasn't much for “girly” things like that. She had always been the bookworm of the sisters; the one that picked up on studies the easiest and advocated for what she thought right. So it came as a shock when she ranted about her dream wedding, and she was thankful Alex let her do most of the planning.

She just seemed to light up whenever chatting about Alex or the wedding. She went on about how perfect it was when he proposed, and she’s extremely grateful he was able to win over her parents. The Schuyler family only accepts the best of the best into their circle, and Alex wasn't exactly someone that should even go near the Schuylers. Hamilton was a poor, orphan, immigrant who barely had his own name, let alone anything to it. The Schuylers were notorious for their wealth and social status, with Philip Schuyler being a senator for New York.

“You never did tell me what dances I’m supposed to learn,” you say.

“Oh! Right, well there’s going to be a slow-waltz,” she starts. For the next few minutes, she goes into detail about what dances there will be and how it will operate. You, being a bridesmaid, will dance with the groomsmen for a couple waltz’s to please her parents. They were quite traditional after all.

You visualized how it would go: you’d ask either Laurens or Mulligan to dance (Lafayette is completely off the table since he is absolutely hopeless, you’ve seen how he acted at Angelica’s wedding), and then…shit. How do you dance?

You should be able to slow dance from Angelica’s wedding, but upon remembering, you were too drunk to truly dance. You kinda just swung around with Lafayette and laughed every time he stepped on your feet.

Well. This would be a problem. Put learning how to dance on your to-do list for the week.

“Oh god, you don’t know how to dance, do you?” Eliza asked, a worried look on her face. She was very observant, she must’ve noticed the way your face contorted into discomfort after she described the slow dancing.

“Not…really, no.” You give her a sheepish smile.

“Do you think you could get anyone to teach you?” She asked.

You pondered for a moment. How many people do you know would be willing to teach you to dance, and dance well? You know one who absolutely can’t; you know Alex can dance but he’s the groom. You’re not entirely sure how good Hercules or John would be at that type of stuff, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to ask them. Peggy and Angelica could, but they’d likely be too busy to give you lessons. It won’t hurt to ask but you can predict what the answer will be.

That left one person you are in close proximity with.

“I bet Jefferson wouldn’t mind,” Angelica wiggled her eyebrows. He had just entered the living room from the kitchen, and must’ve been eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Can’t you do it?” You whined. She formed her mouth into an awkward line.

“Busy. My husband and I are gonna be out of town for the next couple days, but we’ll be back in time for the wedding.” She shrugged. You huffed, rolling your eyes at her predictable answer.

“What about Peggy?”

“What about me?” Peggy popped her head in.

“If you could teach me to dance,” you pleaded. She stared at you blankly, glanced at Angelica for a prolonged period of time, then smiled devilishly at you.

“I can’t. Ask Thomas to teach you. You live with the guy.” She teased. “Besides, didn’t you say you’re good now?”

“Well…yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want to dance with him,” you squirm uncomfortably. The sisters share a look as if to say bullshit detected. “What?”

“Didn’t you say you fell asleep on his shoulder last night?” Peggy gave you a pointed look.

You paused, opening your mouth for some quick quip, but nothing came out. Instead you flushed with embarrassment and huffed in annoyance. It was true that you fell asleep on the man you claimed to despise. Even if he was maybe—but only a little tiny bit—growing on you. When you woke up that morning, you were in your bed, a blanket neatly draped over you. When you greeted him at breakfast, there was a twinkle of amusement and mischief in his eyes.

“You’re seriously gonna make me ask him?” You crossed your arms and glared at all three of them. They weren’t fazed.

“You might as well. It’s not like it could hurt you or anything,” Eliza shrugged. Easy for her to say, when she danced with Alex for the first time it was ‘the most magical experience of her life.’

“I hate you guys so much,” you sighed. They laughed and Peggy patted you on the back.

“Oh, cheer up, it won’t be that bad. Maybe it’ll be good for your…relationship.”

“I dunno if relationship is the right word…”

---