[ ᴛᴀᴠʏᴠɪs ᴏɴᴇsʜᴏᴛs ]

you need to go to war to find material to sing.

an update?? I'm crazy.

really short but thought it was cute

...

Taylor quietly stepped into her apartment, the door clicking shut behind her and her coat rustling as she took it off. The last few days had been cold in New York—she never knew whether to expect 80 degrees or 22. But after a long day at the studio, she was finally home, hoping to be greeted by her giant, cuddly boyfriend who usually peppered her neck with kisses.

Yet, he was nowhere to be seen, even though he'd been there that morning, coaxing her to stay.

"Five more minutes," he'd murmured, his muscular arms wrapping around her waist. She had chuckled, left him in bed, and gone to work, suspecting nothing out of the ordinary.

She shook off any concerns. Surely he hadn't left for long; maybe she'd accidentally left her phone on Do Not Disturb. But a small flaw appeared in her logic—she'd set her phone to allow his texts through that mode. Still clinging to her "delusional state," as she called it, she checked her messages.

Nothing.

Maybe the text hadn't sent? But that didn't add up either. They were on Manhattan Island—no lack of cell service here. Besides, he couldn't figure out airplane mode, much less have a reason to use it.

As she stared at her phone, her cat rubbed against her calves, meowing for attention. With a soft chuckle, she sank onto the couch, the gentle thumps of her cats gathering around her.

Just as she stretched, she caught a glimpse of something on the coffee table: a cheap "Elf" lip gloss, sitting in plain sight. Her expression shifted—a mix of anger, grief, and reluctant acceptance, like falling from a cliff and crashing into icy water, every emotion hitting at once.

She inspected the lip gloss, checking if it was hers or possibly a friend's, but came up blank. Resolved now, she stood, determined to find some evidence against the man she had trusted for over a year.

The cats meowed like a choir, as if pleading with her not to venture down the deep rabbit hole. But she ignored them—curiosity killed the cat, after all. She headed to their shared bedroom and rifled through his suitcase, half-expecting some cliché—a lacy black bra like in movies where the girl catches the guy cheating. But this wasn't the movies. His suitcase held the usual: clothes, boxers, a pair of shoes.

Then she paused.

A small box, no larger than her palm, was nestled under his socks and boxers.

Gingerly, she reached for it—until she heard the door open downstairs.

"Taylor, are you home?" Travis's voice boomed across the apartment like a game show host's.

She hastily rearranged the clothing over the box, hoping he wouldn't notice anything out of place.

"Coming, Trav!" she called, quickly fixing her hair in the mirror before walking out to meet him.

A smile spread across her lips as she approached, resting her hand on his chest and kissing him softly. She chuckled as he kissed her back.

"Sorry I didn't tell you I stepped out," he said cheerfully, presenting a box of food and a bouquet of flowers. It smelled of chicken—her favorite comfort food.

With a deep, quiet relief, she let go of her suspicions and settled next to him on the couch. They spent the Saturday night watching American Pie, sharing chicken tenders, and enjoying each other's company.

"But you need your rotten heart
Your dazzling pain like diamond rings
You need to go to war to find material to sing"

- king, Florence + the machine