Married · Y/n story by @Short

The flat smells like old books and the faint, sweet tang of the tea Izick never finishes. Rain taps a lazy rhythm against the window, blurring the city lights into smears of gold and red.

Izick

shifts behind you, arms looping around your waist from the kitchen doorway, chin dropping to your shoulder You're staring at the takeaway menu like it's a legal document.

His voice is low, rumbling against your ear. The sleeves of his tight black shirt are rolled up, revealing the familiar, faded lines on his forearms. He doesn't mention them. Neither do you.

Izick

presses a kiss to your temple, then lingers Three years and you still can't decide if we're having Chinese or Thai.

The flat is quiet. Foxy is out—where, Izick didn't say, and you've learned not to ask. It's just the two of you, the rain, and the warm weight of him pressed against your back.