𝐍𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋 ━━ 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘺

𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐢𝐢. chapter twenty one

laying low in each other's arms

✍︎︎

twenty-four hours later, on the brink of noontime, elle added to her instagram story for the first time in a long time. her manager told her that a lot of people, especially her fans, are constantly on her page— trying to find out if she was okay or not, or if she was with drew or not.

and in already deciding to lay low, derrielle didn't post anything.
just a little something that showed a little self-care and quote-on-quote me-time.

which, in retrospect, is only a half-truth.

in reality, she is not in her bed. nor is she alone.
"me-time" her ass.

derrielle is in drew's hotel room. her body flushed against his, snuggling up in his warm blankets and egg-shell-colored comforter.

her head laying upon his bare chest and his chin perching peacefully on the top of her head; his arm wrapped tightly around her hips, her right leg strewn across his hips; his hand running its fingers through her hair as they watch dead poets society on the laptop securely placed on a pillow.

"i needed this," elle mumbles, her fingernail grazing on his arm in tight circles. her wrist is still a bit swollen even after the countless ice packs she put on it last night.

"this is nice," drew agrees, his voice low and tired as his body radiates a certain warmth. "are you sure mad-squared isn't going to report you missing if they barge in your room and not find you there?"

"they're more hungover than us, so i wouldn't worry," she says, leaning up and looking at him with adoring eyes. "unless you are planning on kidnapping me?"

he chuckles, his fingers reaching out and pausing the movie with a single press of the spacebar, "hopefully stockholm syndrome will kick in soon, it'll be easier." his eyes glancing down to her chest— how her supple breasts can be seen swaying from her movement and how her nipples are getting stiffer due to the rough fabric of his brown and beige flannel.