hoodie; shawn mendes
“Babe come on, I’m hungry” Shawn whines from the bedroom door, hands in his grey hoodie pocket as he bounces from one foot to the other.
It’s 9:30pm, and Shawn’s been at the studio all day – only came home half an hour ago – and when he’d slouched into the living room to find you sitting with your laptop, work sprawled out across the sofa, he’d declared that the two of you were going to get McDonalds.
“I don’t have a bra on” you say, turning as you rifle through the drawer he’d cleared out specifically for you. You catch Shawn raising a timid brow, and you shake your head – knowing what he’s thinking. “Haven’t done the washing have you?”
You sigh and shut the drawer, throwing your hands up from your tank top wearing state.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just get somebody to do it for you” You mutter, scorning yourself for not taking your washing home and doing it yourself. You sit on the edge of his bed while you slip your trainers on.