GILDED, daniel larusso x reader

16 | between the lines

"Ali told me that you guys aren't a... thing anymore. Is that true?" The question feels a little too casual coming from me, but it's out now, and I wait, tapping my fingers absentmindedly on his scalp as I try not to stare at the mess of his hair that I'm somehow responsible for.

He pauses. It's subtle, but I feel the shift in him. Like I'd asked the wrong question. His eyes flutter open briefly, just enough for me to catch the fleeting flicker of something behind his gaze.

"Yeah, it's true," he answers softly, his voice laced with the exhaustion of a long day, his face still relaxed, yet something shifts in his posture. He seems far away, even though he's right there in front of me. "Right there, please," he mutters, pointing to a spot in his hair.

I follow his direction, brushing my fingers through the strands. His low, barely audible groan of relief doesn't escape me. It's so soft, almost imperceptible, but it does something to me—something I can't explain. I shift on the bed, trying to stay focused, not let my mind wander to places it shouldn't go.

"She told me it was because of another girl. Is that true?" I ask, even though the words feel a little heavy coming out of my mouth.

Again, he pauses. This time, it's longer. He doesn't answer right away, and I can feel him tense, just slightly. But then his voice is quiet, dismissive. "No, it's not."

His words hang in the air, but he doesn't seem to be in a hurry to elaborate. Instead, he leans his head back against my legs, and his body brushes up against the space between my legs—just enough to make my heart beat a little faster.

I quickly scoot back, my breath catching at the sudden proximity. His head falls against my legs again, and I quickly reposition myself, my pulse a little too loud in my ears.

Daniel doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he's too tired to care. He's looking up at me now, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

"So," I push forward, trying to get past the strange feeling that's creeping up in me, "do you like anyone?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you," he mumbles, his voice low and rough, almost tired in its tone.

I tap his forehead lightly, but not enough to hurt. It's more of a playful gesture than anything, but he still winces a little. "Ow, what the hell was that for?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

"For being a dick," I say, trying to sound offended, but then I catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes—so wide and doe-like—have me losing any semblance of annoyance. "I thought we were friends."

His gaze softens, and he leans back a little further, turning his head just enough so our eyes meet. "No, no, we are, Y/N."

I bite my lip, thinking about his words. For some reason, it feels different now—like there's this unspoken truth between us that neither of us is really acknowledging.

"Do you like anyone?" I ask again, but this time, my voice is quieter, almost like I'm afraid of the answer.

"No," he says again, almost too quickly, like he's trying to convince both of us. I nod, pretending to buy it as I move my hands back into his hair, giving it another soft tug.

The room feels warmer now, quieter. And I realize with a jolt that I'm going to have to leave soon. The night is settling in, and I can hear the distant hum of traffic outside, the faint sound of the city even at this hour.

I shift, trying to get comfortable again, but I accidentally nudge his head with my knee, the movement too close to where he's resting. My heart skips a beat, but I do my best to ignore it.

"Hey," he murmurs, still barely awake, his voice rougher now. "Where are you going?" His eyes flutter open just enough to see me getting up from the bed, his expression confused.

"Home," I say, my voice softer than I mean for it to be. "It's getting late. And we have school tomorrow, remember?"

He doesn't respond right away. Instead, his lips part, and he gazes up at me with those tired eyes, his expression like he's still trying to figure out if I'm serious. But then, without warning, he mumbles, "Stay."

I freeze. His voice is so low, barely a whisper, and I'm almost convinced he didn't say it out loud. But there it is again—so quiet, but clear enough for me to hear: "Stay."

I shake my head, already feeling the pull of home, of the normalcy waiting for me outside his door. "I can't. My mom will freak."

I feel the shift in him as he collapses onto his bed, the soft thud of his body hitting the mattress. His eyes are already closing, his words coming slower now. "Okay," he murmurs, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. He's out cold in an instant.

I stay frozen for a moment, my heart suddenly full for reasons I can't explain. I stare at him for a moment, his messy hair, his soft lips, the way he looks so peaceful now. But I force myself to turn away, pulling the door shut behind me as I leave.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll figure out why the hell my chest feels like this.