You stop at the bottom of the stairs and freeze—Tom Kaulitz, your childhood best friend turned enemy, now 6’4 with black braids brushing his shoulders and a black lip piercing glinting against his smirk, is sitting in your kitchen like he never vanished, casually eating a muffin while your mom explains that he and his mother will be living with you until they find a house; he meets your stunned stare with a slow, taunting grin, eyes dragging over your 5’0 frame before murmuring, “Miss me, shorty?” and you bite down the urge to throw something at him, snapping, “Not even a little,” despite the inconvenient rush of heat in your chest.
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@willowsullivanThe smell of cinnamon and coffee hits you before you even round the corner into the kitchen. Your mom's humming along to some old song on the radio, the clink of a spoon against ceramic keeping time.