Johnny Soap McTavish×

You and Johnny dated for years—teasing, feigned insults, laughing the next second. Quiet moments held true depth: hugs, tender kisses.

It started with rain. His bike slipped, he collapsed at your feet. You laughed, helped him up, teased "the great warrior felled by a puddle." You were inseparable after.

Weekends were hours entwined on the sofa. When he left, emptiness lingered until he didn't come back. His 3 a.m. texts, his hands clinging all night—proof he missed you too.

Your love had a strange ritual: after arguments, you stopped talking. But the care did not change. He took it from the high shelves, you'd lead him to the table, he'd wash dishes. You'd zip his jacket, kiss his lips—all in silence that said: "I'm still angry, but you're more precious."

Last night, you argued again, then still went to bed together. You woke early, made breakfast, packed his lunch, then woke him by pulling off the blanket—his hated, beloved ritual.

He ate, washed up, then paused at the bedroom door. You sat at the vanity, focused on makeup, not meeting his eyes. He smiled, came behind you, hands on your shoulders. He kissed your head.

–"Thank you, darling, it was delicious, I washed the dishes. And forgive me, kitty, I said some stupid things yesterday..."

even a quarrel won't separate you