chris pulls up outside your apartment, fingers gripping the steering wheel tight, nerves buzzing under his skin.
a picnic. he still can’t believe he thought of that.
he’s never been this guy—the one who plans shit. dates, flowers, gestures that mean something. but last night, you said yes. whispered it so soft he almost didn’t catch it, but he did.
and now he’s here, checking the basket in the backseat, triple-checking that he brought the right drinks, the right food—like any of that’s gonna calm his ass down.
and it like he forgets how to breathe.
you step out of your building, the sunlight catching on your skin, your hair, making you glow. a little bag over your shoulder, nails painted something deep and rich, like blood or wine. your white top clings in all the right places, but it’s those tiny-ass, red-and-white ruffled shorts that make his throat go dry.
“shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, trying—failing—to pull himself together.
you smirk when you get close, reading him like you always do. like you know exactly what you’re doing. “you wore this on purpose,” he accuses, voice dipping.
you shrug. “you told me to wear something that makes me feel good.”
chris shakes his head, tongue swiping over his bottom lip.
“you look good. real good,” he murmurs. his eyes drag over you again, lingering a second too long before he forces himself to move, to breathe, to act normal.
the drive is quiet, but not uncomfortable. music low, his fingers tapping the wheel, yours tracing idle patterns against your thigh.
chris takes you out of the city, far enough that it feels different—slower, intentional. the park is quiet, sunlight filtering through the tall trees, open fields stretching out before you.
and when he opens the backdoor, pulling out the blanket, the basket, the effort, you blink at him, lips parting in surprise.
chris raises a brow. “you think i just be winging shit?”
he snorts, shaking his head. “nah, mama. not this time. wanted to do it right.”
because this is new. chris thinking ahead. chris trying.
it’s easy at first. conversations flow naturally, laughter spilling between bites of food. you steal a grape from his hand. he flicks a crumb at you. the old rhythm slips back into place, smooth, effortless, familiar.
but then—you feel it creeping in.
you glance at him, watching the way he leans back on his palms, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his cuban catches the light just right. and before you can stop yourself, before you can swallow it down like you always do—
“i don’t wanna fall back into old habits.”
his gaze flicks to yours, brow furrowing. “what?” you take a breath, exhaling slow. “if we’re doing this… we need to set some boundaries.”
chris watches you carefully, expression unreadable.
you chew on your lip, fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. “i just—I don’t wanna keep pretending like things are simple when they’re not. i don’t wanna just fall into bed with you and act like it doesn’t mean anything.”
chris doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you, jaw tightening like he’s thinking hard. then, finally—
“you think that’s all i want?” his voice is quiet.
you hesitate. “i don’t know.” chris drags a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. “shit.” he shakes his head, looking down, like that hurt him a little.
“nah, i get it.” his voice is rough, but not angry. “i fucked up before, right? so now you think i’m just—what? tryna work my way back into your bed?”
you shift, feeling the weight of it settle in your chest. “i don’t think that’s all you want,” you admit. “but i do think it’d be easy to go back to that. and i can’t do that again. i need…”
chris leans forward, arms resting on his knees, staring straight at you. “tell me what you need.” your throat tightens. “no sleeping together. not until we figure out what this actually is.”
chris sucks in a slow breath, tongue running over his bottom lip.
then—he nods. doesn’t fight it. doesn’t argue. just accepts it.
“alright.” his voice is firm. “no sleeping together.” a slow exhale leaves your lips, relief washing over you. because he’s listening.
you chew on your lip before adding, “no messing around with other people.”chris tilts his head, amused. but his next words are quiet, firm.
“wasn’t doing that anyway.”
you stare at him, something pressing against your ribs, something dangerous.
chris leans back on his hands, nodding to himself. “Okay. No sleeping together. no one else. just us.”
you let the words settle, let yourself believe them.
but there’s more. “i don’t wanna fight all the time,” you add quietly.
chris glances at you, brows lifting. “i mean it,” you murmur. “i know we got our past, and i know it’s messy, but i don’t wanna be… toxic. i don’t wanna argue just to argue. if we got a problem, we talk about it. no ignoring, no running, no letting shit build up.”
chris’s jaw flexes, his fingers drumming against his knee. but after a moment—he nods. “alright. no bullshit. we talk.”
“and no lying to each other,” you add. “not about how we feel, not about anything.”
chris looks at you then, really looks at you."not even little lies?” he teases.you give him a look. “not even little lies.”
chris hums. “damn. you serious about this, huh?” you exhale, fingers tightening around the blanket. “yeah. i am.” chris is quiet for a long moment. then—
“okay,” he murmurs. “no sleeping together. no one else. no fighting just to fight. no lying. just… real shit.”
you swallow. “yeah. real shit.”
the sun is lower when he pulls up to your place, the sky soft with pinks and golds.
chris shifts in his seat, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, like he’s waiting for something.
you hesitate before speaking. “i had fun.”
chris exhales, like he needed to hear that. “yeah?”
he watches you for a moment, like he wants to say something else—but instead, he reaches into the backseat, grabbing something.
and then—he hands you a small bouquet. not roses. not over the top. just wildflowers. simple. thoughtful.
your breath catches. “chris—”
he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “just wanted to do it right.”
your fingers tighten around the stems, heart knocking against your ribs.
chris leans back, watching you with something soft. “so, when’s the next one?”
you blink. “the next what?”
chris smirks. “date.”your lips part, because you hadn’t thought that far.
but then—you realize you want to.
so, before you can second-guess it, before you can let fear creep in, you whisper, “…whenever you want.”
chris smiles, the kind that makes all 32 teeth show.
“damn,” he mutters, voice warm. “i really, really like hearing that.”
labdata: this was longer then i thought it was gonna be hopefully yall like it.the png i made is throwing me off but whatever
