(Elizabeth Olsen × Reader)
What measures would you take to ensure the truth remains hidden?
Out of the blue you receive an unusual envelope in the mail.
The contents of the letter reveal intimate details about a secret you thought were buried deep i...
Her voice flows over the chatter and clinking cups around us, soft but animated, like she's genuinely into whatever she's saying. I'm barely following, though, because my attention's split between her words and the way her fingers fit so perfectly in mine.
I'm tracing the lines on her palm with my thumb, feeling the gentle warmth of her skin, and it's like this small connection keeps me grounded.
Leaning forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on my other hand, just drinking in the way her lips move when she talks. She's got that little crinkle at the corner of her eyes, the one that shows up when she's really excited about something.
It's contagious, that smile, and I find myself grinning like an idiot.
She pauses mid-sentence and gives me a look, one eyebrow raised. "You're not even listening, are you?"
I blink, caught off guard, but try to play it off. "Of course I am," I say, squeezing her hand gently.
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She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, and that just makes everything in this tiny coffee shop feel a little warmer, a little more ours. Her voice lowers, softening into something more intimate, and I scoot a bit closer, our knees bumping under the table.
I know I should say something, add to the conversation, but honestly, I'm just content being here, in this moment, with her hand in mine and her laughter filling the air between us.
Her fingers slip from mine, the sudden absence making the space between us feel a little emptier. I glance up, catching the playful glint in her eyes as she reaches for her bag, draping it over her shoulder.
"Alright, we better get going," she says, her voice light but with that familiar note of urgency. "Or we'll be late for class."
I nod, a little reluctant to leave our cozy bubble, but I grab my bag and stand up. She smooths out her sweater, and I can't help but admire the way she seems to command every space she's in, even something as mundane as a coffee shop.
We weave through the crowd, the murmur of conversations and the clinking of cups fading as we step outside. The cool air hits us, and I shiver a little, wrapping my arms around myself.
Lizzie notices, and without a word, she slips her hand into mine again, squeezing gently as we start walking toward campus.
The streets are buzzing with students, all heading in different directions, but we take our time, our pace unhurried. I glance over at her, catching the way the fading sunlight catches in her hair, turning it into a soft halo.
