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Summary
Silvester feels like a girl from the 80s, twirling a twisty phone call around his finger as he lays stomach down on a soft bed in a room drowning in pink fluff. He’s all cartoon heart eyes and stars-and-planets dizziness. Kyle makes him so stupid. All sentimental and squishy and soft and sappy.
“Kyle,” Silvester drawls, hoping his voice drowns out the fluttery beating of his heart, and the excitement currently buzzing behind his teeth.
“Silvie,” Kyle replies, not trying as hard with hiding his feelings. “My dear. My darling. My baby.”
“You’re my darling,” Silvester corrects. “My pretty little darling.”