Nathan Drake Drabble - Blog Posts

the house was quiet, the kind of stillness that only existed in early mornings, when the world hadn't quite woken up yet, but your brain was already humming with the simple rhythm of eggs sizzling in a pan and toast ticking in the toaster.

sunlight spilled through the kitchen window in long, honey colored beams, softening the edges of everything. you stood barefoot at the stove, wearing one of nate’s old t-shirts that hit you mid thigh, sleeves too long, fabric worn thin from years of washes and adventure dust. the only sound was the faint hiss of breakfast cooking… until you heard the floorboards creak behind you. you glanced over your shoulder and smiled. nathan drake, world famous treasure hunter, was standing at the bottom of the stairs looking like he’d been hit by a truck made of sleep. his hair was a mess, shirt rumpled from twisting in the sheets, pajama pants hanging low on his hips. but the thing that caught your eye, the thing that made you pause, was the fact that he was wearing his glasses. you rarely saw them. he usually only pulled them out when he was reading something fine print, or up late sorting through notes. he hated wearing them. said they made him feel old. vulnerable. but this morning? he’d clearly just grabbed them without thinking. they were a little crooked on his nose, still fogged from the heat of upstairs. you turned back to the stove, biting your lip around a grin. “morning, professor.”

he let out a gravelly huff that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “that obvious?”

you slid the eggs off the heat and looked back again, your eyes soft now. “you look good.”

he squinted at you through the lenses, already reaching up to pull them off. “nah, i look like my dad.”

you crossed the kitchen before he could take them off, catching his wrist gently mid-movement. “i said— you look good. keep ’em on. it’s kinda hot.”

his eyebrow arched, the beginnings of a smirk curling on his lips. “hot?”

you leaned in close, your hand brushing against his chest as you reached up and straightened the glasses on his nose with a featherlight touch. “mmhmm. the whole retired adventurer turned domestic husband with glasses look? big win.”

he chuckled, hands finding your waist like they always did. “you keep talking like that, and i'll forget about breakfast.”

“you say that like it’s a threat.”

he kissed you, soft and slow, tasting like sleep and warmth and everything safe. when he pulled back, he was still close enough for his glasses to bump lightly against your forehead.

“seriously, though,” he murmured, “you always this perfect in the morning?”

you wrinkled your nose. “i’m literally in my pajamas.”

“exactly.” he pressed another kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. “perfect.”

you rolled your eyes and laughed, dragging him toward the kitchen island with one hand while the other gestured toward the food. “sit down, professor. eat before the eggs get cold.”

he obeyed, dropping into the chair with a groan and rubbing his face, glasses askew. “married life’s rough.”

you set a plate in front of him and ruffled his already wild hair. “yeah. poor you.”