Not sure if you're still taking prompts, but if you are, how about 'finding the other wearing their clothes'?
The last thing he thought he’d be doing on a Tuesday evening when the sky opened up and let out a monster of a thunderstorm, was leaving the house and getting caught in the rain. And yet, here he is, wringing water out of his clothes in the bathroom sink to get them just dry enough that they won’t leave trails when he takes them to the laundry room downstairs.
He heaves out a heavy sigh but he can’t seem to get mad. Because every time he tries, he thinks of Emma Swan knocking on his door and pulling him down several flights of stairs to soak him to his toes. His best friend is a thunderstorm in herself.
There’s a knock at the door, and he hums in reply.
“I made apology coffee,” Emma calls out. He laughs, as though she has anything to apologise for. She could lead him anywhere and he’d follow willingly, as head over heels as he is about her.
“I’ll be right there, love.”
It takes him a few seconds to gather his clothes in the basket at the corner, to push his fingers through his hair several times and look in the mirror, giving himself a silent pep talk. It’s mostly new, the discovery of the severity of his feelings for Emma. He’s always known he was drawn to her, but there’s something else there, too – a need to never be separated, a sensation of care that extends well beyond the natural, and a word that starts with L that he doesn’t think he should ever utter out loud in her presence. Not now anyway. Someday, maybe.
He hears her humming from the kitchen and smiles to himself.
“Apology coffee and a musical performance? Aren’t I just the luckiest man in the world.” It’s easy for him to slip into a tone of levity, even easier when she teases him right back.
“Please,” she scoffs. “You’re going to have to make me coffee if you want to hear me sing.”
“I make you coffee every single weekend,” he replies, throwing in a pout for good measure.
Emma shrugs, her smirk taking away from her excuse of an apology. She turns around to pick up the mugs from the counter and that’s when he notices it, the deep red fabric that bunches around her arms where she’s pushed the too long sleeves to her elbows. It hangs loosely on her frame, the threads fraying, the small tear in the hem glaring at him in recognition.
He hasn’t seen this sweatshirt in years, had forgotten about it completely, in fact. And here it is, worn by the woman he would never, in his existence, want to forget.
She places the mugs on the table and hesitates when he stays frozen in place. He’s staring, he knows, but he can’t help it.
“I forgot to bring an extra sweater, I thought it would be okay if I borrowed one?” she explains, though it comes out more like a question. He opens his mouth but doesn’t get a word out. Emma’s fingers run along the hem, fidgeting. “I’ll just go put it back in your drawer, I’ll be fine in my shirt.”
He steps in front of her when she tries to pass by him, and shakes his head.
“No, no, I just– my brother gave me that sweatshirt. I simply haven’t seen it in a while, that’s all.”
“Shit, sorry, I should–,” she moves towards his room but he grabs her by the elbow and pulls her back in place.
“Swan, it’s perfectly fine. It even suits you,” he grins. And gods, does it ever. It brings out the gold of her hair and matches the red on her cheeks that’s always present during colder months. And it’s something else, to see her wrapped up in clothing that’s his. He’s pathetic in his longing for domesticity, for wanting it with Emma and Emma only. Unbidden, he imagines her in nothing but his sweatshirt, greeting him on a morning after with intimacy he should not be letting creep into his mind when she’s standing right in front of him.
He coughs, trying to cover it up.
She eyes him warily. “Are you sure?” He knows what she’s asking, Are you sure you want to trust me with this? As though she and Liam aren’t on the same standing in his mind, as though she isn’t deserving of being compared to his late brother. How she doesn’t see his heart beat straight out of his chest when she’s near, he’ll never know.
He gently runs a hand up and down her arm, and she visibly deflates at the gesture. He’s so close to her that he can count the creases on her forehead, knows they won’t leave her until the unnecessary guilt subsides.
“Positive,” he reassures.
And perhaps if he was privy to her thought process, he would expect her reaching up on her tiptoes and placing a soft kiss on his cheek. Instead, he stands there like a fool, stock still, as it happens.
“Thank you,” she practically whispers. She squeezes his hand once before stepping back. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”
He watches her walk to the table, damp curls hanging down her back, at home in a place that isn’t hers. Engulfed in an article of clothing that he associates with warmth and comfort. Completely and irrevocably making his heart pound. He lets out a gust of a breath. A thunderstorm in herself, indeed.