𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

nine | spoiled milk

Apparently Yates was quick to anger.

This was news to you, the girl who had moved in with him after six months of dating, a fact that made anxiety curl in the pit of your stomach.

Thankfully, he was more than eager to forgive, wrapping you in a suffocating hug as soon as you muttered the words 'i'm sorry', peppering kisses to your forehead.

"I knew you'd come around," he murmurs into your hair. You can feel his grin as he pulls you in tighter. "I'm sorry too. It was so late. We were tired." Yates strokes your hair. You fight the urge to stiffen, instead trying to extricate yourself from his grip. He was like one of those strangler snakes, enticing his prey and then squeezing them tighter and tighter until they're limp in his arms, ready to be devoured- no, not again. You desperately needed a shower and a distraction, last night's sorrow crusted over your face.

As you're bent over your suitcase- unpacking would probably not happen for another few weeks, thanks to your lazy ass- you ask Yates if you'd be sharing the bathroom. He pauses mid-brushing his teeth, nodding. "Yeah, why?" he mumbles, voice garbled through the maze of foaming toothpaste and spit.

You pause, still gathering your clothes- a simple pair of jeans, a casual t-shirt and underwear. "Um..I don't know, I guess it would just be easier for the two of us to...not share you know? Not that I don't want to," you ramble, quickly correcting yourself in case he decides to snap again. "It's just..um..I don't want to trouble you or anything. And your house is like, pretty big so maybe-"

Yates cuts you off with a laugh. "Take whatever bathroom you want, [name]. You don't have to be so formal with me, you know. We're dating." He strolls back into the bathroom, and you hear the muffled sound of him spitting and rinsing. Clothes and towel in hand, you walk into the bathroom closest to the balcony, setting them down and then making the trip for your toiletries. As you got into the shower, you investigated all of the controls. It was all very fancy, boasting multiple stream settings and one of those rich people drains, even the floor feeling more luxurious than the (probably) fake tile in your old apartment. In the middle of the showerhead is a shiny, black gem, looking almost like the lens of a camera. You make a silly pose as you wait for the water to warm up. What kind of sicko would put a camera in a showerhead anyway? It was ridiculous, some true crime shit that would never happen to you. Then again-

You showered in record time, drying yourself off and getting dressed. Compared to the polished interior of the house, you looked raggedy, flyaways sticking straight out of your hair as if you'd recently been electrocuted, dark bags making your eyes look sunken and exhausted. You pulled your hair back in a makeshift hairstyle and made your way downstairs. Halfway down the stairs, you were excited to eat breakfast- a blissful break from the greasy pizza that lined your insides from last night- but froze as you heard a clearly feminine giggle come from downstairs.

They hadn't left. You groaned. It was a pick your poison kind of morning: starve upstairs, but stay alone, or go downstairs, interact with people, but get breakfast. You made your way downstairs, trying to prepare yourself with the onslaught of questions about to be thrust upon you. Yates was already downstairs himself, laughing just as uproariously.

"Good morning [name]!" a voice chirped; it was Dafne, her eyes trained on you like a cat watching a laser, always ready to pounce. You cringed, managing a half grimace, half smile as you made your way to the kitchen.

"Hey," you muttered, voice trailing off.

Yates and his band members were seated in the living room, scattered on the sofas like they were in some sort of cult, all crisscrossed. Their eyes focused on you, Yates giving you a supportive grin. "Cereal is in the top cabinet, babe."