Fics like you say you wanna stand by my side (darlin' your head's not right)

“We don’t actually have to do this,” Sydney reminds Carmy for the fifth time since they left his apartment. “We could go home and make crepes like we talked about. And I’ll like, put candles on them and sing and everything. And then we can fuck on the kitchen counter if you want- like a real birthday party, right?” They’ve managed their way to the front steps of his mother’s house, but Carmy’s yet to work up the nerve to ring the doorbell. He’s leaned against the railing, an arm crossed over his chest and a hand to his mouth, pinching his top lip (a habit Sydney hates). She saddles up next to him, takes the offending hand in her own, squeezes it tight; Carmy finally looks over at her. “Very tempting,” he concedes, a grin flashing before quickly fading, his eyes landing back on the house before them.

Fics like you say you wanna stand by my side (darlin' your head's not right)

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