[asuperconfusedgirl]

how I read the most toe-curling, spine-shattering, nerve-wrecking, nastiest smut ever written in this god forsaken app

[asuperconfusedgirl]

this is my FAVORITE and to keep it in the tags is a siN

[kragehund-est]

hmmm why does my uterus hurt and why do i feel kinda off. weird. surely these are not the warning symptoms of a predictable biological process that occurs on a regular schedule. anyway. im going to wear white pants today.

[imminentchaos]

The Artemis II mission is making me feel things

[djo-e]

this is our year

[asuperconfusedgirl]

i'm sorry, why is no one talking about this norwegian cutie patootie?

Sjur Vatne Brean in NR 24, a movie about norwegian resistance fighter Gunnar Søstenby who lead and participated ☝️ in multiple sabotage ops during WWII

and I am now OBSESSED with him someone feed my delusion pls

[levanswrites]

only the lightest blues

pairing: steve harrington x reader summary: it’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the burger king crown starts hanging heavy. (sailor hat, in his case.) heir to the hawkins high hierarchy, ruler of keggers and hallways alike, steve harrington used to be untouchable. now? he's shaking under your hands, bleeding from battles no trophy could ever commemorate. you've stitched together plenty of broken people before—but never one that left a scar in you, too. warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (m!receiving), touch/praise-starved!steve, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, mutual friends/enemies-ish to lovers, hair washing, massaging, praise kink, body worship, sexual tension, forced proximity of sorts, reader isn’t fond of steve at first, mostly S4 canon but fix-it, angst, domestic fluff, found family, happy ending a/n: another steve harrington character study dressed as a fic, what the hell else is new? | playlist ♬.ᐟ

They don’t take him to the hospital. They bring him to you.

Which is, objectively, stupid.   

But apparently, hospitals ask questions. And you—part-time party medic, occasional dispenser of prescription-only painkillers (for legitimate anxiety and migraines, thank you very much)—you don’t.

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.

Until the knocking starts.

Correction: pounding.

Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.

You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.

But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.

Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s brought a car with her.

A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.

Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.

A boy.

Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t know him. Not really.

Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.

But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.

Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.

Poof. King Steve: dethroned.

Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.

You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.

You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.

He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)

But now, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … Up close, he looks worse.

Biblically bad.

Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.

His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

You glance down at Steve.

His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.

You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.

And something inside you goes still. 

These are... bite marks.

Not scrapes. Not scratches.

Bites.

His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.

Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.

You turn back to Steve.

His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.

You kind of hate him for it.

Because you know this type.

Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.

You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.

Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … It takes two hours.

Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.

It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.

Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.

Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.

You stiffen. Then sigh.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.

You stay on the couch next to Steve.

Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.

You stay up.

Because someone has to. … It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.

Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly. 

Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.

But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” you whisper.

No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.

Your throat tightens.

You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.

His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.

You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.

Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.

You pour three cups anyway.

Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.

Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.

Gives his face a little shake.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.

Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.

It hurts worse looking at him.

Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.

You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.

You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.

And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” you warn.

He ignores that.

Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.

Then: flip.

One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.

You blink at it, betrayed.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

And fuck, it lands.

It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.

You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.

And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.

He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?

You raise your brows like, Try me.

You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.

You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.

In your head, you run through the math.

Ten days. Minimum.

Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.

God help you. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.

Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.

Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.

When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.

You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.   

He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.

The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.

Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—

Jesus.

He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.

You get the hoodie off.

His chest is bare.

And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.

You both freeze.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”

He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.

You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re a sadist.

That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.

But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.

You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.

But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.

Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.

You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.

Something twists low in your stomach.

You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.

Your gaze follows it.

The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.

You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.

Instead, you say:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.

But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.

Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.

One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s a long pause.

Then he does.

His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.

The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead. 

It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.

Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.

And that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.

Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.

No, he goes rigid.

His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.

And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.

A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.

You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.

His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.

Then, he leans.

Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.

Like a plant bending toward light.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.

And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.  

You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.

But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.

You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.

And then a quiet thought hits you.   

A hunch, really.

You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.

You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.

Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.

But you don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.

He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.

And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.

At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.

That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.

It wants to lean in.

Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.

Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.

To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re losing it.

You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.

And beneath that?

Yeah.

Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.

You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.

His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.

His eyes flutter open.

And the look he gives you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.

His eyes are still on you.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.

You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

He nods, a little too slow.

You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.

Then you turn.

And you walk out.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

Not with thunder. Not with rain.

With pressure.

The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.

Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.

The moment before it tips. 

It’s here now. In this room.

In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.

The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.

The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.

His voice breaks the quiet.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.

You can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.

You meet him halfway.

His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.

And then your lips meet.

A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.  

Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.

You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.

His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.

Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.

Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.

You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

But you know.

You just… know.

The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.

So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.

Still, you don’t stop. 

You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.

Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.

Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.

You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.

You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.

His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.

You swallow hard.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.

He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.

You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.

He quiets instantly.

Because your hands are on him now.

You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.

Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.

And Steve unravels beautifully.

You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.

Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.

Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.

So you double down.

You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.  

You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.

What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.

You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

And your body breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.

You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.

And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.

And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … You never ask him to stay.

Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … You learn the little things first.

That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.

And sometimes, you catch him staring again.

Only now, you don’t look away.  

You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."

You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.

Then he moves.

Three steps. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

You do.

First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.

Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.  

You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.

He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.

On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.

He’s watching you. Again.   

You glance up. "What?"

He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“Steve.”

“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”

You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”

He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.

“Yeah,” he says.

But it’s not what he means.

You both know that. … The sex changes, too.

In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.

But at night? He’s something else entirely.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.

And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation. 

He knows you now.

Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.

One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.

“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”

You break on his name.

He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.

And afterward, he stays.

Inside you. Around you.

He never pulls away first. … Not all nights are easy.

Some nights, you wake alone.

You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.    

You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.

He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.

When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.

Lets you guide him back to bed. … Your mornings are different now.  

You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.

It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.

The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.

He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.

Like maybe he was meant to be here all along. … Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count. 

Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.

And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t. … Like tonight.

You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.

It would be so easy to stay here.

To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.

But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.

“Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.

“…Do what?”  

“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.

That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.

Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.

You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”

His hand stills.

“I’m not.”  

“Not what?”

“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”

You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.

“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”

He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”

Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?

You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.  

The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.

Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel. 

That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.

Sinks its teeth in. Festers.   

Until guilt turns into remorse,

Remorse turns into habit,

And habit drags on as penance.

So he made himself useful.

Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.

Diving first. Bleeding first.

Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.

That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.

You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.  

“You’re for you, Steve.” 

He blinks, brows knitting.

“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.

Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.

You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You don’t.

You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.   

You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.

You stay up.  

Because someone has to. … You get used to the quiet.

Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.

To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.

To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.

You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.

So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.

Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.

You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.

“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”

Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.

You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”   

You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.

You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”

Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

But his ears are pink by the time you close the door. …

After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.

Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker. 

“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”

Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.

You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.

“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?

You glance over your shoulder.

Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.

You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”

Dustin beams. “Awesome.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:

“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”

The room goes still.

Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.

Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

“No.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”

You blink at him like, Seriously?

He raises his brows like, Try me. 

You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.

He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.

“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”

You frown. “Our what now?”

“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”

You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”

But Steve isn’t laughing.

“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?” … The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.      

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

You wait.

Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.

Fear.

You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”

He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”

“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”

His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”

“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.

But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.  

“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.

“...I just got you.”

The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.

His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”   

He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.

He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”

You smile into his shirt. “Deal.” … It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.

The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.

“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”

You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”  

He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”

“You needed it.”

Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.

He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.

The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.

You let it breathe.  

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist. 

Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.

Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.

That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.

Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.

The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.   

And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.

You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.

He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.

And he’s learning to let you.

You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You hum. “Just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.

You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:

“I was just… thinking about what you said.”

He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”

“At the gate.”

That’s all you have to say. You both remember.

The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.

I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—

You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:

I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.

You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”

“When?”

He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.

“Not out loud. But you did.”

You think back.

To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.

Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.

Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.

Your fingers find his jaw.

“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

And you do.

Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.

And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it. … The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.

But it’s home.

More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.

The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.

Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.

But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.

And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.

It’s just time, now.

Yours.

Together. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.

She meant hearts. You meant bones.

Maybe she was right.  

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

You've named it something else now, anyway. …

epilogue

You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.

You’ve got prep to do for night.

Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.

“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”

You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”

“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”

He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.

“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”

Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.

But for now, it’s just him.

Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light. And the sun keeps pouring in.   

[witchwrestler]

like... thats my wife

[luveline]

𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

Steve hates that you don’t like him, and you love how much he hates you. fem, 2k

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

“You cannot keep bringing your nerds with you to movie night, Dustin.”

You don’t bother acting offended, though Eddie and his entourage of idiots all glare and hiss accordingly. “You said we were invited, Henderson!” Eddie says, slapping Dustin’s arm. 

Dustin throws up his hands. “I didn’t know how long he’d have the tape, and he won’t let me borrow it because you lost The Thing! You want to watch the movie, don’t you?” 

You’d been lured here under the impression that Steve was hosting a watch party. This does not seem to be true. Steve huffs this bitchy little sigh and rolls his eyes as he steps back, opening the door to allow you all inside. Eddie kisses Steve’s cheek as he passes and Steve says, “Gross,” with enough venom to make you laugh. 

He glares at you next. 

“I brought jiffy pop,” you say. Two packages of the stuff, actually. “And Reese’s.”

“Good for you.” 

“Can I make it?”

“And ruin the stovetop? No. I’ll do it.”

You shut the door behind you and allow yourself to marvel at the caves and caverns that make up the Harrington house. Daniel Harrington is a rich bastard, and while Steve might not get the sort of allowance you’d imagined, he still gets to stay here. You let out a low whistle. 

“I like what you’ve done to the place,” you tease lightly. 

Steve doesn’t answer. You wave at Robin and the others as you pass the living room, glad when Robin waves back enthusiastically. 

Steve huffs. “Come on,” he says.

You’d already been going, but you hurry to match his pace into the audacious kitchen. Steve’s stovetop could cook for ten, and the main counter is already laid out with snacks, sodas, and red cups. You lean on your elbows between chocolate covered pretzels and a bowl of fruit, wondering if tonight’s the night Steve might blow his lid. The wager is a generous sixteen dollars accrued between losers. Eddie thinks Steve’s gonna crack tonight. Jeff and Gareth both agree that the end is near but not nigh; a week or two and he’ll throw you out on the street. Cindy and Mindy have better faith in your ability to charm him, both girls betting on months further ahead. 

From the way he’s looking at you, you aren’t sure you’ll make it to the end of Hellraiser.

It might have something to do with your chewing. “Uh, sorry,” you say, pushing the bowl of pretzels away from you. 

He shrugs. “It’s fine. Who cares, right? What’s mine is yours.”

His sarcasm is acidic. 

“Aw, thank you, Stevie. I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Steve snorts. It’s not a nice laugh, but something in your chest pulls hot and rough at the sound. He practically throws your popcorn onto the stovetop and lights the burner, his shoulders tensed under a warm brown polo, steam curling out of his ears with every second you stand there behind him. The metal of the container starts to creak in the heat, but you wait for the first pop of popcorn inside before you slip around the counter to stand beside him. 

“Where’d you get the movie?” you ask. 

Steve doesn’t answer. So annoyingly immature. You love the stupid haughtiness lining his eyes and the set of his mouth as he ignores you. It’s a tad smug, poorly concealed. 

“I didn’t know you liked horror.”

“How could I? Do jocks even watch movies?” he asks. 

Your eyebrows raise of their own accord. “Do they?” you ask. 

“I worked at a movie rental.” 

“Well, one doesn’t like to assume.”

Steve scoffs, as if to say, that’s rich. It confuses you enough to have you fall silent, turned completely to Steve as he shakes the jiffy pop over the heat. He looks less angry and more sad for a moment, his almond eyes in a sorry downturn you’d happily kiss back upwards again, until he feels you looking and snaps his gaze to yours. His glare comes alive. “What?” he bites. 

“I didn’t say anything?”

“Why are you looking at me?”

You widen your eyes, a little showfully. “Am I not allowed?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Is that a trick question?” The popcorn pop-pop-pops, quicker now, a steady rhythm. “Why do people usually look at you, Steven?”

“Are you guys coming?” Robin calls. 

“In a minute!” Steve sounds as annoyed as he looks.

“I’m just asking!”

He swings open a cabinet door and slams a bowl onto the kitchen counter. Risqué, he tears open the jiffy pop like it isn’t scaldingly hot and upends your popcorn into the bowl. 

You like seeing his twitchy brow, the way he clenches his fist when you take a step forward, but you’re not as eager for a beating as you might pretend. “I can go home, if you really don’t want me here. I wasn’t trying to abuse your hospitality, or anything.”

Your careful monotone attracts his incredulity. “Why’d you even wanna come, anyways? You knew I’d be here, didn’t you? It’s my house.” 

“That’s exactly why I came.”

“To fuck with me.”

“‘Cos I like you, Steve.” You take pleasure in his lack of response, reaching over his arm to turn off the heat on the burner, the weight of his eyes like a burn on the side of your face. “Despite what you might think.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever?”

“You called me a neanderthal.”

“You were being rude.”

“You told Dustin you’d rather be caught dead than date me?”

“Is that what I said?” You meet him head on, staring right into his eyes with that flirty flare of your lashes and a gentle smile, something to mess with his head, even as you tell him the truth. Is there anything so fun as making Steve’s heart pound? His lips part in surprise. “I don’t think that’s what I said. What did Henderson tell you, word for word?”

“He said you’d rather die than go on a date with me.”

“Well, I told Dustin I’d rather die than go to see Wham! with you when he implied you had a spare ticket.” You tilt your head gently to one side. “But that was hyperbole. I could’ve toughed it out… given a good enough reason. I told him I’m persuadable.” 

“That little shit didn’t tell me that.” 

“No, he’s fine. You were so sweet to me before, but I like this version of you.” You follow the line of his neck to his Adam’s apple. It bobs as he swallows nothing at all. “Bitter suits you, H.”

“I think you’re fucking with me.”

“Do you want it in writing?” 

You drag the bowl toward you and shovel a few pieces of popcorn into your mouth. It’s fresh and crunchy, still hot in their centres. You’re tempted to smile at Steve with kernels in your teeth, but you pout a little for a kiss instead and watch his jaw go slack. 

“No?” you murmur when he doesn’t move, licking your teeth clean. 

“You’re evil,” he says, reaching for your side, his hand behind your back and pressing you closer as his brain works overtime, “you knew he lied to me?”

“He didn’t lie, Steve, he just told you what he thought I meant. I lied, a little. Just to see what you’d do.”

You should’ve expected the kiss. His hands are on your body and you’d goaded him, invited him, but the press of his lips to yours isn’t half as spiteful as you’d pictured. There’s no clack of teeth or sudden gasp as he yanks you into his chest, just heat as he closes the distance between you and folds you into a half-embrace, his free hand covering your collarbone as he gives a firm, testing kiss. Quick as anything, he pulls away, eyes flashing open again to yours that hadn’t managed to shut. 

“Fine?” he asks. 

You offer him a real smile. 

The second kiss is more like what you’d imagined. It’s not better, but harder, and greedier, the hot seam of his mouth meeting yours as the bridge of his nose nudges your own, too close, too quick, too needy. You sew your hand into his hair, tugging him back when you need to breathe. He presses a needy kiss into the line of your jaw rather than part from you, and you start to wonder if you should’ve been more flexible about the Wham! concert.

“You still like me, then,” you say happily. 

“Yeah. Apparently,” he mutters, red blush spread over his nose and the tops of his cheeks. He looks like he could sit you down and bite you hard if you let him. 

“Let’s sit together,” you say, hip checking him as you turn to leave. 

He grabs you by the top of the head and gives you a back-and-forth shake, though whether it’s affection or a warning is up for debate. It’s not cruel in any capacity, at least. 

[asuperconfusedgirl]

yay

[luveline]

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮

You ran out on Steve almost three years ago in the middle of a sweet fling, but now you’re back in Hawkins, and there’s a little girl on your hip that looks just like him. fem, 14k

afab reader, second-chance romance, girl!dad steve, slow burn idiots, no upside down au 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

You realise how fucked you are pretty quickly. 

It’s something in the way the kid is looking at you. He’s staring at you, not unfriendly but piercing, and his gaze keeps flicking to Leah like he’s trying to make sense of her, and his mouth is stuck obnoxiously with his tongue flat and pulled into that cruel letter ‘S’. 

You freeze up like you’ve been caught, which doesn’t help. 

And the kid spins in his Nike’s and races for the entrance, ditching a basket full of veggies and a pack of gum in the middle of the aisle. 

“Okay, Lee,” you say, sweating despite the November chill. “Let’s get going.”

Leah grins in her seat in the shopping cart. “Meemaw’s?” she asks. 

“Yeah. Let’s go make sure your meemaw had her dinner.”

Your ears ring all the way home. They don’t stop ringing. You spend the night waiting for a phone call you don’t get, awkward and clammy. There’s a certain way that rich families work in Indiana. You can see the coming hush money or the threat to leave town almost as clearly as you could see the loveless marriage years ago. You and Leah need to get out of dodge before you’re stuck having conversations you never wanted to have. 

I mean, who could’ve predicted that? One of Steve’s teenagers recognises you in the grocery store three years after your fling, how’d they even remember? 

The phone doesn’t ring, that night. 

Or the next.

Maybe Steve didn’t believe the kid. Maybe the kid had an emergency completely unrelated to Leah. Maybe Steve believed it and didn’t care. You deem yourselves safe from harm in a venture to the grocery store when your mom asks for chicken noodle soup. 

It’s there you recognise your mistake. Steve Harrington’s shiny BMW sits parked in the bay by the sign for the laundromat and the man himself sits inside with a paperback bent open on his thigh. He’s glaring at it like it killed his whole family.

You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”

You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face. 

—

So. 

How did you end up where you are? 

You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened. 

It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler. 

Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there. 

The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him. 

Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.” 

You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.

In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen. 

It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been. 

Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby. 

She grumbles on your hip. 

Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed. 

He stands there in quiet. 

Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person. 

“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air. 

His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born. 

“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat. 

You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him. 

“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous. 

He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest. 

“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”

To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.

“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.

You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you. 

Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly. 

He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation. 

“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask. 

Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”

You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce. 

“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say. 

“Yeah.” 

You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace. 

“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath. 

“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car. 

You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.

“Why?” she murmurs.

“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick. 

“Okay.”

You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think. 

Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings. 

You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked? 

Where’s your backbone?

Where’s your common sense?

With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright. 

You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life. 

“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change. 

“Mommy?”

“Mm?” you ask. 

Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks. 

“Two minutes.”

“Off.”

“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”

She whines long and loud.

“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”

Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?” 

“Yes!”

You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood. 

She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.

“Better,” she echoes. 

Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Who?” she asks. 

Uhhhh.

“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”

“Y’okay.” 

“Yeah?”

Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire. 

“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”

“Can we talk, first?”

You don’t blame him for asking. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?” 

“I’m not going to yell.”

“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.” 

“Are you angry?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”

You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows. 

The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her. 

She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV. 

Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now. 

“How old is she?” he asks finally.

“She’s turning two soon.”

Steve seems to be holding his tongue. 

“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”

“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”

You flinch. “What?”

“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”

“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”

“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”

This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?” 

“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”

“She’s my baby.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”

“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean. 

You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.” 

“I can be best for you both.”

You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means. 

“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says. 

“If?”

He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.” 

“She’s looked after.”

“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”

“You might not actually want her, Steve.” 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”

You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur. 

“I needed to see her for myself.”

“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”

“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”

“Keep us?” you ask indignantly. 

“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”

He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”

You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe— 

“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.

“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”

“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”

Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to. 

A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee. 

After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours. 

“She’s beautiful,” he says. 

“Looks like her mom,” you mumble. 

“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”

You huff a weak laugh. 

“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks. 

“You want to be her dad?”

For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”

He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault. 

You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time. 

In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair. 

“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table. 

Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in. 

You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”

“Y’okay.”

“This is daddy.” 

You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return. 

“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.” 

“Huh?”

You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”

“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely. 

“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?” 

“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve. 

“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.

“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength. 

“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”

Leah gives him a good shake. 

—

“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”

Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle. 

“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound. 

“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”

Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks. 

Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”

“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.” 

He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby. 

He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers. 

Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby. 

He pauses on the spot. 

Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult. 

He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend. 

Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence. 

“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one. 

Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.

“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”

“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but. 

“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”

“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”

He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”

“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”

Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.” 

Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby. 

“She’s mine,” he says. 

“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”

He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”

“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”

“I’m still gonna go!”

“With what money?”

Steve will save again. It’s community college. 

Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”

“I’ll going, Rob.” 

“Fine. I believe you.”

“Can you help?”

She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly. 

Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac. 

He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway. 

You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all. 

“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon. 

“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”

“Is it cool that I’m early?”

You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”

“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”

“Right. Okay.” 

You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself. 

“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”

“You want me to go grab her?”

“Where is she?” 

“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”

“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”

You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”

“I wanted to.”

“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”

He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”

“I…”

“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”

“I don’t think she knew.”

Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years. 

Steve Harrington does not love by halves. 

“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks. 

“We are leaving.” 

“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”

“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”

His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”

“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”

“Exactly.”

You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again. 

From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!” 

He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says softly. 

Leah hums her content. 

“Good nap?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”

She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word. 

She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you. 

“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”

Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.” 

“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly. 

Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.

“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks. 

You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum. 

“Yeah, of course she can.”

“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”

“Can have?” she asks. 

“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking  your face to make sure he’s not being weird. 

Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”

Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”

Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee. 

“Barbie!” she cries.

“With a puppy!” 

“Oh gosh.”

Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”

Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open. 

“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection. 

“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.” 

You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.” 

“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.” 

“It’s nice of you.” 

He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home. 

—

“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.” 

Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building. 

“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?” 

“Think so. Why?”

“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”

The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”

“Sure. Thank you.” 

Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video. 

It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay. 

The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”

“Hi, Robin.”

“Hi,” she says. 

The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap. 

“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.” 

“Hi, bubby,” Leah says. 

Robin snorts. 

“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?” 

Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”

Leah looks up at her with huge eyes. 

“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?” 

“The duckies,” Leah says factually. 

“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.” 

You don’t question for a second that she means it. 

You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.” 

“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin. 

“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.” 

“Oh.”

“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”

“You’re not busy?” you ask. 

“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.” 

You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.

You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.

“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”

“The music, bubby,” you say. 

Leah gives a neck-breaking nod. 

“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?” 

“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say. 

“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”

Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles. 

“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”

Her hitting doesn’t slow. 

“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.” 

Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines. 

“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s  important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”

The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!” 

Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?” 

“Hi,” Leah says. 

“Hi.”

“Hug me now?”

Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”

She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life. 

“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose. 

“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.

Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back. 

Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware. 

Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again. 

You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry. 

“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No, yeah.”

“You sure?” 

He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.” 

It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her. 

You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid. 

His eyes widen at the sight of you. 

“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”

“Uh– did I?” 

“I know it was you.” 

Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”

“I saw you.”

“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”

You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”

“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”

“Well, thanks for trying.”

Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”

“We’re working things out.”

Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”

Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”

Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”

“Hi!” Leah says. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks. 

“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.” 

“Where to?” 

“Max’s.”

“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

“I’m not!” 

“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?” 

“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”

Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”

“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.

“For once.”

“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”

Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks. 

His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room. 

And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people. 

Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”

“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.” 

“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”

Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”

“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name. 

“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say. 

Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”

“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil. 

Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?” 

Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves. 

“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats. 

Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard. 

He is startlingly capable. 

You are startlingly hot. 

You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts. 

—

Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks. 

This is my baby, Leah.

The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home. 

Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!” 

She sobs. 

You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”

She sobs louder. 

Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.

“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.” 

Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage. 

“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”

“Not going,” Leah says. 

“Just for now!” 

“No!”

You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”

“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?” 

You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.” 

Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”

Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob. 

“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”

You falter.

The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”

“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”

“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”

“Yeah, I got one.”

“You got a car seat?”

“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.” 

Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” 

“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek. 

“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?” 

Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”

“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave. 

You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask. 

“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?” 

“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”

“Are you okay with me taking her?”

You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you? 

Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me. 

He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride. 

Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have. 

But it’s not everything he wants. 

“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?” 

“Okie dokie.”

Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah. 

“See you later, mommy,” Leah says. 

You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”

He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back. 

Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.

It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin. 

“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.

“Right, right!” 

He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out. 

Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.” 

“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles. 

“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”

“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”

“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.” 

“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her. 

“Wonky?” she asks.

“Does daddy look wonky?”

“Mm,” she says. 

“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?” 

She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.” 

He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears. 

“Mom!” Robin says. 

“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.” 

He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.

It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.

Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear. 

Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth. 

“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully. 

“Right? She has my eyes.”

“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly. 

“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says. 

Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says. 

Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?” 

“Yessss.”

“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?” 

“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”

“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says. 

Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand. 

Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.” 

“Kill?”

“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.” 

“Y’okay.”

“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”

She giggles worse. 

He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out. 

Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?” 

He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says. 

“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”

He urges you to take Leah. 

The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself. 

“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly. 

“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”

Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white. 

—

Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless. 

“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”

You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean. 

“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear. 

“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask. 

“Sleeping.”

“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”

Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”

“Yeah, do you want one?”

Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?” 

He groans. “Just a migraine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Feels like one.”

“You get them a lot?”

“More since you left.”

You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”

“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”

“Not my first one.”

You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask. 

“Had three.”

“You never told me.”

“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”

You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”

Steve covers his mouth with a big hand. 

You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.” 

He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.” 

“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.” 

“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”

“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”

“Steve.” 

“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–” 

“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.” 

You pull his hand off your face. Not without care. 

“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.

“I don’t need one.” 

“How do you know?” you whisper. 

He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”

You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came. 

You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”

“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”

His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”

“When?”

“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet. 

“The other times?”

“They can last for days.”

You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.

“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”

“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”

He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”

“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says. 

“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.” 

You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck. 

“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”

“We don’t have to do this again–”

“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.” 

“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.” 

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.” 

“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”

You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.” 

“It wouldn’t have been like that.”

“I realise that now.” 

His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth. 

“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples. 

“You don’t have to–”

“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”

You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either. 

“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.” 

His throat bobs. 

“S’it still hurting?” you murmur. 

“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.” 

“I can’t do this with you.” 

He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.” 

You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue. 

But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.  

A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his. 

“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.” 

He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”

—

The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze. 

“What side do you sleep on?”

Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering. 

“Left.” 

“Left side’s all yours.”

He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers. 

“Make room for me?” he asks Leah. 

She grins around her bottle. 

You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful. 

You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space. 

Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you. 

“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly. 

“You okay, daddy?” she asks. 

“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”

“Sleep?” she asks.

“With you, if that’s cool?”

“Cool,” she says decidedly. 

When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest. 

“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior. 

Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap. 

Refusing to think on it is the best way forward. 

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath. 

Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked. 

“Steve.” 

He blinks to attention. “Huh?”

“Pull the blanket up over yourself.” 

He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet. 

“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask. 

“No. I’ll be okay.”

You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted. 

Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough. 

“Can feel you staring,” he whispers. 

Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”

“Staring at me.”

“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.” 

“Still ‘live.”

You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.” 

He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says. 

“Missed you, too.” 

You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain. 

“You did?” he asks. 

“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling. 

He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”

“I wasn't.” 

“Would’ve looked after you, though.” 

“Steve…”

“I would’ve.”

“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”

He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.

“Do you still want that?” he asks. 

You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”

He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him. 

“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down. 

You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath. 

“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly. 

He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you. 

You press your forehead to his chin. 

“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss. 

Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip. 

“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words. 

—

In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows. 

“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually. 

“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”

“Yeah.”

“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”

“Am’ my toes,” she says. 

“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”

You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep. 

This is not going to go how you’d first thought. 

—

thank you for reading!! so excited I love steve and I know he could be bitchier and angrier here but I’ve decided to make him whipped instead cos he’s cute when he’s in love and if it’s not implied enough he’s still whipped for the reader lol. hope you enjoyed it thank you very much for reading and taking the time

[romancenjoyer]

“the possibility of rejection is essential to forming deep relationships with people” - chanté joseph for british vogue

[romancenjoyer]

[asuperconfusedgirl]

that last line has always been on my mind

[nicksolemnlyswears]

DUDDDDE!!

I am in LOVE with your writing. I have been craving some good Han Lue works and you're filling the hole!

Everywhere is extremely lacking in quality Han Lue content bro 😭😭

But any whosies.

I was wondering if it were at all possible to request a Han work from you (from what I've seen you still have requests open so if you don't im sorry)

Specifically something about a reader who's fucking amazing at driving, and has been crushing on Han for a while, and the two decode to race (set in Tokyo) and whoever wins gets the loser to do what they want. Y'know classic setup.

You could choose where this leads to. Idc if we win or loose. All I want is a little bit of fluff sprinkled amongst some smut mayhaps. You could do this in headcannon format btw don't feel obligated to write the whole thing.

I'm just thirsting for any thing I can take 💀🙏🏼

Take your time! <3

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED

pairing: han lue x racer!reader

words: 11.4k

warnings: some cursing and smut (pls wrap it before you tap it) don't judge my smut too much, it's been a while since i've written one

notes: hi anon! thank you for all your sweet, sweet words 🥺 i hope this is somewhere along the lines of what you were thinking of. as soon as i saw your request i was ✨inspired✨ it's been a long time since i've been so hooked by a oneshot. i have worked on it almost everyday since i received it so thank you! i changed the request just a little bit, i hope you don't mind.

trust me i know there is a ridiculous lack in han content! it's the reason i'm here writing over this man! there is not enough content for the speed i consume it, lol. i've read my own headcanons like 10 times already, excluding the times i was working on it.

anyways! might have gotten a little carried away but i enjoyed writing it so much! here you go! enjoy!

i really really hope you like it!!

Tokyo was the city where you learned how to street race. Weaving through the cars on the highway became second nature the harder you pressed the gas pedal. The neon lights turned into blurs as you sped down traffic, whether it was in search of a prize or a thrill.

You were meant to meet Han Lue. His presence became known as soon as he stepped foot in the parking complexes that serve as makeshift race tracks. He quickly became popular with the crowd, especially when he joined DK's crew.

His races were seen as exclusive, known to happen once in a blue moon. He was totally opposite to you. You took the opportunity to race any moment you could. It's what lead you to become a good racer. Practice makes perfect, after all.

'Good racer' is a bit of an understatement. You're one of the best right after DK. There's a debate about whether the second best is you or Han. Each person can take their pick. Many have suggested the idea for the both of you to race, but Han has shot down each and every one. He doesn't need to prove himself to anyone. Besides, he hasn't had anything to gain from racing you.

People like to call you 'Angel' because when you started participating in the races, you looked like an absolute angel, but soon after, they discovered you raced like the devil. You fool everyone around you, even with the way you drive. Whenever someone has to go against you, they think they have your strategy down, yet you switch it up every time.

The distinctive revving of your car alerts Han of your presence. He glances to his left, where you've parked right beside him. As you open the door and step out of your car, he opens a bag of chips, depositing one into his mouth.

You walk over to him, leaning against his car like he is. The bare skin of your back arching slightly as it touches the cool metal. "Have I missed anything?"

Han shakes his head cooly, watching his surroundings. He spares you a glance, taking in what you're wearing. A short, shimmery dress with an open back and high heels. Seems like you don't plan on racing tonight. You refuse to race in high heels. You've tried before and failed. You didn't lose, but you did break off both heels.

You feel his eyes trailing over your body, and you don't mind it. You like that you can catch his attention that way. Having a crush on a guy like Han takes work. He has every woman's attention in the racing underground. They often cling to his arms and bat their eyelashes his way, and he has gladly taken a few of them home.

"You done judging my outfit?" You say, looking at him.

"Not judging, admiring," he promptly replies with a small shrug.

That right there is what feeds into your silly little crush. Han isn't afraid of your comments or banter. If you look good, he'll say it. It's the way he says it that irks you, though. He is so nonchalant and aloof like he's commenting on the weather.

It doesn't help that he's never truly made a move on you. He considers you his friend and acts that way (most of the time, at least). You hate every moment because being his friend is the last thing you want.

"I take it you're not gonna race tonight?" He asks, already knowing the answer. He just needed an excuse to talk to you. Digging into his bag of chips, he grabbed another one to pop into his mouth.

"Not unless it's against you," you respond cheekily.

Han chuckles, "Not you too."

"Are you afraid of losing, Han?" You ask him, keeping your eyes on the race about to start. Why else would he avoid racing you?

Han props one arm on the roof of his car, facing you and saying, "If you're into racing, you can't be afraid to lose, Angel."

"Then why don't you spoil me a little and race me?" You hum, turning your head to face him. He's much closer than you anticipated, but you resist the urge to pull back despite the reddening of your cheeks. You want Han to know you like him even if you refuse to say it out loud.

"Maybe one day when I have something to race for," he responds simply, kissing your cheek and turning back to watch the race.

You release a shaky sigh and try to calm your pounding heart. Extending a hand, you dip your fingers into Han's nearly empty bag of chips and steal one for yourself. Han doesn't mind lowering the bag to make it easier for you. There's a smirk on his face as he fully well knows what he did. It's fun to make you flustered.

Han is out on the streets of Tokyo doing business or collecting his money from the greedy hands of wanna be gangsters. It's entertaining, to say the least, although sometimes it gets tedious. It's only fun when they get rowdy and want to intimidate him. They should know better than to judge Han by his calm exterior.

He's walking by the busy streets of Shibuya, the shopping district of Tokyo, minding his business. Han avoids the masses of people until he looks into a store and sees you. You're by the checkout desk, ringing out a client.

Han can't help it; he's drawn to you. Forgetting the wad money he has to collect, he enters the store. The bell on top of it chimes, prompting you to greet the customer in an abnormally cheery tone.

"Hello, welcome to-Han?" You stutter over the greeting, seeing his slightly mocking grin.

Han walks over to you and leans on the counter, there was barely anyone in the store now. Perfect timing. He assesses you and your overly pink clothes, bedazzled name tag, and glossy pink lips. It's unlike you to be so pink. He recalls you telling him you hate the wretched color.

"So this is where you work, Angel," he hums, toying with the trinkets on the checkout counter.

"Not everyone can survive with racing and sketchy side deals," You mutter. One hand on your tilted hip as you shoot him an annoyed look.

If racing made you enough money, you certainly would not be working in a store that makes you wear pink on every single shift. You could get more involved in the sketchy part of racing, but things are alright for now.

"True," Han stifles a laugh. He grabs a lollipop from the big jar filled with sweets for the paying customers and pops it into his mouth.

You extend a hand to throw away the colorful wrapping, and he places it gently on your hand, fingertips grazing your palm. You're not a teenager to be reacting over such minuscule actions, yet you do.

"What are you doing here, Han?" Han adores it when you say his name that way, pretending to be annoyed by his presence when in reality, you love having him around.

"Wanted to visit my favorite girl," he responds aloofly, carefully gauging your reaction. As he expected, your cheeks redden, and you try to hide it.

"Did you know lying makes your nose grow long," you scoff, rolling your eyes.

"Could be useful," Han says cheekily, causing your blush to deepen.

"If you're not going to buy anything, you can't be here," you shoot with a pout.

You weren't prepared to face Han this afternoon. You didn't get to repeat your affirmation as you do every night you encounter him. His constant playfulness throws you off, not giving you the opportunity to compose yourself.

"Oh no, consumerism got its claws on you," he jokes sarcastically. You glare at him and cross your arms over your chest, which only emphasizes the size of your chest. "Fine, help me find a new jacket?"

You round the counter and motion for Han to follow you toward the men's section. Your coworker will have no problem taking over the checkout counter.

You shoot Han question after question in search of the perfect jacket for him: colors, textures, durability, versatility, sizing, and so on. He responds just as quickly, propping an arm up and leaning against a rack of clothes as he watches you storm all over the store in search of the item that screams Han. He had no intentions of buying anything today but seeing how invested you got it leaves him no choice.

"I quite like this one," you beam, standing Han in front of a full-length mirror. You slide off the jacket he's wearing and replace it with the nice black leather jacket you found for him. Dusting him off, you look into the mirror seeing how perfectly it fits his broad shoulders.

"Why do I feel like you're giving me the most expensive one?" Han asks, looking at himself in the mirror.

He had to admit you picked well. He looks great in the black leather jacket. It didn't have too many buckles to make him uncomfortable, and it wasn't too warm either. The material felt nice and luxurious hence his comment.

"You asked for my help," you shrug, "It's not my fault I have expensive taste. Besides, you look hot in it." You wink at Han through the mirror.

Han tries to hide the smile forming on his lips. You were getting bolder and bolder. He knows about your crush on him; you're terrible at hiding it. Truthfully, he's felt the same from the moment he saw you race. You're oblivious, though, so he likes to tease you.

"I'll take it," Han sighs, refusing to look at the price tag. "Might even wear it on a date."

"Oh, you've got a date?" Your smile falters, quickly regretting picking such a nice outfit that makes him look so handsome. You'd definitely put out if a man wore that to a date and was as lovely as Han. All of your hard work just for another girl to enjoy it. If you catch one of Han's little friends wrapped around the jacket...you will burn it.

"Not yet," he says mysteriously, taking off the jacket and returning to the checkout counter. Han has to get going. He does have to collect his money. Especially now that you've convinced him to buy the expensive leather jacket. 'It's an investment,' he tells himself.

"She'll be one lucky girl," you huff, scanning the tag, carefully folding it, and placing it on a bag. "Don't worry, I'll apply the friends and family discount."

You watch Han go through the display window and hope he was just fucking with you on the whole date thing. You can live with your crush and have him as just a friend, but if he gets a girlfriend, you will not be able to manage it. You scold yourself silently for acting like a lovesick teenager. You're better than that. Right?

Taking the party to Han's club after a race is a must, especially after winning six thousand dollars. You won't have to worry about rent for at least six months, which is something to celebrate.

You park next to Han's car, and he waits for you to enter the plain-looking building. People greet him left and right as they go through the door that pours music and lights each time it's opened.

"You sure are popular," you tease him, leisurely walking towards him.

"Comes with the territory," Han responds without missing a beat. "Ready?" He asks, motioning for you to walk ahead of him.

"Always," you chirp. You purposefully accentuate the sway of your hips, giving Han something to look at.

Being a Friday night, the inside is filled to the brim, there isn't any space for more drunken people. Using your short height to your advantage, you easily find a way to the connecting hallway between this part of the club and the more exclusive one.

Han isn't as lucky constantly losing you from his sight. He's conscious that you are a grown woman capable of making your own decisions and caring for yourself, but he'd feel better being with you.

When he catches up to you at a point, he grabs your hips, pressing you against him, preventing you from getting lost again. You look back, startled, expecting to see a stranger rubbing against you. Noticing this, Han quickly calms you, "It's just me, Angel."

'It's just Han,' you repeat to yourself. You grab onto one of his hands, holding onto your hip, taking full advantage of the situation. Having Han wrapped around you feels like being on cloud nine. If this wasn't his club, you'd be going in circles, so he never pulls away.

With Han holding onto you, the way to the 'not-so-secret' hallway takes longer than usual. Not that you're complaining, though! Han's firm grip makes you fall harder for him. It fuels your imagination on how it would feel in other situations.

Han enjoys this position just as much as you do. He can pretend it's a safety thing as he steers you away from the sweaty bodies of drunks dancing, but it's for his selfish gain.

Having your body close to him reminds him of what he's missing and desperately desires. It started as a little innocent game for Han, knowing you had a crush on him, but then it turned into something more. He likes that you have feelings for him and wants it to stay that way. Han wants your attention on him all the time. His games are over; he wants you.

To your surprise, Han doesn't let go of your waist when you enter the hallway. Instead, he slings one arm around it as he walks beside you. "Maybe we should've taken the other entrance," he smirks.

"And miss the show?" You chuckle, finding a couple making out in the deserted hallway. Neither is willing to admit it's not about the show but about Han's proximity.

Unlike all the other times in the past you've partied with Han, he doesn't let go of you for more than two minutes. You dance all night together, just the two of you, no girls coming up to Han and no guys coming up to you. There simply wasn't a window of opportunity.

"You enjoying yourself?" He says in your ear over the loud music. Your back is against his front as your sway and roll your body to the beat. One of his hands is nursing a drink, and the other is right where it should be, on you.

"I won 6k and have a cute guy buying me drinks and dancing with me. What do you think?" You giggle, turning in his arms to face him instead. The drinks stop you from overthinking and let you wrap your arms around his neck. Faces close. You want to kiss him so bad you're not drunk enough, though, and it's not the way you'd like to do it, either.

"Just making sure," he smiles down at you, hand on your lower back.

The night is long, yet with Han, it goes by so fast. Sooner than you'd prefer, he walks you to your car, no longer holding onto your waist but your hand. There are only a few stragglers left behind who refuse to acknowledge the night is over. You and Han are two of them.

Reaching your white and red, modified skyline Han opens the door for you. With one arm propped against the open door and the other extended onto the roof, Han cages you against your car. Before you get in, you turn to face him, finding the bravery to do something you've been thinking about all night.

"Thanks for tonight, Han. I had fun," you say softly, suddenly feeling shy.

"Anytime, Angel," he responds smoothly, brushing his fingers on your naked shoulder. The jacket you wore earlier was discarded somewhere in the bar. An excuse for Han to see you outside the races.

"Well, goodnight." Gathering every particle of bravery, you stand on your toes and peck his lips softly.

It's only a tiny, innocent kiss, yet it makes Han close his eyes. It happens too quickly for his liking. You have been growing bolder, bold enough to kiss him. He needs to step up his game.

Taking advantage of his distracted state, you close your car door and rev the engine. On the drive to your apartment, you squeal in excitement. Fingers ghost over your lips, replaying the small kiss over and over again.

Another chance at a race becomes available only days after your win. Men love to challenge women, especially those who are winning, much like you are.

They hate seeing you be successful, but it doesn't bother you in the least. It's another opportunity to win cash or a car, which you can use for parts and sell what you don't need.

As you roll up to the starting line, Han approaches your window, leaning down to duck his head in.

"Come to give me a good luck kiss?" You speak playfully, lips turned up into a smile.

You two haven't talked about what happened at the club and have continued to act as you usually do. He's been more touchy with you, though, often trying to find a way to be close to you. Being the lovestruck fool you are, you've encouraged it, finding those ways to let him be close.

"We both know you don't need luck. You've got this in the bag, Angel." Han speaks encouragingly, "Tell you what, though. You win, and it's yours."

"Making me earn it, I see," you laugh, shaking your head. "Alright, you've got a deal. See you on the other side."

Han is confident you'll win. With a last reassuring tap on your door, he steps back, finding his place in the crowd.

Your opponent finally drives up to the starting line, sending you an unnecessary nasty look you laugh at. The flag girl stands between the two cars, her dress leaving nothing to the imagination. You respect it. They are a lot more confident than you are in that department.

You are off when the word 'go' falls from her lips. You knew this track by heart, having raced it so many times. You knew exactly when to hit the gas and when to press the brake to get the car to swerve. Han's full attention is on your race, and when your car disappears to another level, he takes the elevator up to the top floor, where the finish line is. Watching you race is interesting. You always come up with ways to confuse your opponents.

With a bag of chips, he anxiously waits for your victory. Regardless of your ability to race and win, your races make him nervous. He cares about you, and so many things can go wrong.

The noisy crowd gets louder as the sound of tires screeching gets closer. In seconds, your car swerves onto the top floor, again marking you as the victor. There's not a scratch or bump in your car. Your opponent arrives shortly after with dents and long scratches in his paint.

The crowd cheers loudly for you, coming up to you to congratulate you and tell you how cool you looked. Your opponent comes up to you and hands you his keys with a scowl. You shrug it off. A deal is a deal.

Winning leaves you on a high, a feeling of invincibility wrapping around you. You've learned to control it because that feeling caused a big loss years ago. You get distracted by the people around you and forget Han's promise. It's funny because it was the only thing running through your head while you raced.

"Good job out there," Han says, catching up to you later in the night once the hype died down.

"Why, thank you!" You chirp, closing the hood of your car and leaning back to sit on it.

"I believe I made a promise," Han mentions, stepping close to you until you're face to face, only a few inches between the two of you. "You did," you nod, biting your lip.

Han notices this, bringing a hand up to cup your face, his thumb tugging your lip loose from the tight hold of your teeth. The other wraps around your waist, pulling you close. You slide on the warm metal of your car, placing a hand on his chest to brace yourself as Han settles between your legs.

"I'm a man of my word," he whispers, finally leaning down to press his eager lips against yours. Han is greedy for many things, and your lips are one of them. Ever since that night at the club, he's wanted to smash his lips against yours, to feel you close, taste you.

Your eyes instantly flutter close, fisting Han's shirt in your hand as if afraid he'll pull away too quickly. The kiss starts slowly as you both test the waters, but it soon becomes not enough. Han tilts his head, deepening the kiss.

It's an electric shock that consumes him and doesn't let him go. This is the result of Han holding himself back, and you made it worse when you gave him a taste the other night.

Han slips a hand under your shirt, feeling the warmth of your skin. You gasp against his lips, arching your back as his cold fingers catch you by surprise. It serves as an opportunity for Han, his tongue pushing past your pouty lips, savoring the moment.

You gave into him, offering everything you have in exchange for this moment. His warmth wraps around you, burning you from the inside out. The need to breathe makes itself present too soon and becomes far more demanding than the need for each other's lips.

Han pulls away, your bottom lip between his teeth. You're breathless, as if you ran a marathon. You feel lightheaded, intoxicated by Han, who continues to peck your lips softly. He might be addicted already. The tips of his fingers draw soothing circles on your lower back, grounding you in the moment.

"So this is what winning feels like," you breathe out, smoothing Han's shirt with your palms. A futile way to hide their shakiness.

Han laughs, pressing his face against your neck and leaving a fleeting kiss behind. "Appears so, Angel."

A perk of being Han's friend is using his garage whenever you want. The days of paying for a spot to fix your car in a stranger's garage are far in the past. At the moment, you've spent the most part of the afternoon upgrading your car. The car you won on your last race sits beside yours with the hood popped open as you switched around pieces. He had quality parts, and his driving still sucked.

Twinkie, Earl, and the others are scattered around the large garage, working on different things and chattering. You had purposefully picked a spot away from them so you wouldn't get distracted. With work, your time is limited.

Han is on the second floor, leaning against the railing and pretending to watch the first floor and what they are doing. In reality, he is watching you closely.

You're bent over the hood of the car, working on unscrewing a tight bolt, cursing at the man who installed it initially. It's a sight straight out of his dreams. Your Nike sweatpants hung low on your hips, framing your ass perfectly. If he focused, he'd see the dimples on your lower back. His mind ran wild at the thought of pressing his thumbs against them while taking you from behind.

It's been a while since he's slept around. He cut himself off when he realized his feelings for you. What was the point of sleeping around if he wouldn't be satisfied? Those girls weren't you. They were temporary relief. Now, his pants tighten at anything you do. It's like he's seventeen again and unable to keep it in his pants.

He followed the curve of your ass to your arched back and the cropped shirt you wore. The matching crew neck sweater you arrived in is discarded in your car due to the heat. The revealing shirt rose with each of your movements, revealing the band of your baby blue bra. You tug on it for the millionth time today, annoyed.

The strands of hair you curled to frame your face stick uncomfortably to your sweaty forehead. You regret not putting them back into the two braids that fell over your shoulders.

Han needed to rip his eyes away from you before the others noticed. He's been staring for too long, fantasizing about everything he could do to you. To Han, you looked even more beautiful than you did that night with your sparkly dress and makeup. A woman who knows her way around a car is instantly a hundred times more attractive in his eyes.

As he accidentally visualizes you taking his cock from that same exact position, car included, you groan and straighten up. "I need help," you whine to no one in particular. The bolt is not budging, no matter how hard you try.

Han snaps out of his fantasy and springs into action, quickly appearing by your side. You've bent over again, wrench in hand, to give it one more try before giving up. He leans beside you, a hand on your lower back for faux support.

"What's the matter, Angel?" He says softly, one hand propping him up as he looks at the machinery under the hood. It's better if he helps you. He can't continue listening to your whines and groans.

"I need to unscrew those," you point at the bolts giving you a hard time.

Han asks for the wrench in your hands, and you place it in his hand, annoyed. You don't need the help of a man to do this, but it's Han, so you'll take it. You watch him as he places the wrench around the bolt, his arm tenses, emphasizing his muscles hidden by the short-sleeved button-up he wore over a white wife-beater tank.

His hair fell around his eyes as he successfully unscrewed the bolts. Feminism died as you lustfully took in Han, biting your lip. 'What a man,' you thought. You would've instantly refused the help if he had been any other guy.

"There you go," Han says, handing you the wrench. When he spares you a glance, he laughs softly. Good to know he has the same effect you have on him.

"Whatever would I do without you," you purr, shooting him a mischievous smile, "You deserve a reward." That's what it has come to, silly excuses to kiss Han because you're just friends. Nothing more.

Han looks at your lips briefly before snapping back to your eyes. You grin at him, leaning closer to kiss him for his 'hard work.' You know that he's been watching you all this time; you saw it from the reflective surface of the toolbox. Seeing his quickness to help you makes you believe he enjoyed the show.

Your lips brush teasingly against his, and just before Han can grab the back of your neck to stop the teasing, a loud bang tears through the room. Both you and Han pull away to see where the sound comes from, but Han bangs his head on the car's hood in the process.

"What the hell was that?" Han yells, rubbing the back of his head. He's annoyed that he's been interrupted.

"Sorry! The motor I was working on fell!" Earl exclaims from the other side of the garage, unaware of the daggers Han is throwing him.

"Best I get back to work," you quietly say with a chuckle, taking the piece you needed out of the car to bring it to yours.

"Yeah," Han says simply, reluctantly leaving to do his own thing.

Each and everyone that's in Han's garage returns to their business after the noisy interruption. Twinkie turns on a radio, blasting music to drown out the silence and clanking of tools. You work without interruption for the next three hours, giving your car all the love it deserves.

You clean your hands free of the motor oil and grease and search for Han. Your work for today was done. Now that you took anything valuable from the car you won, you had to sell it. You figured Han could do that for you.

"Hey, are you busy?" You ask him, seeing him working on a part by his desk.

"Nah, what's up, Angel?" He questions, dropping the screwdriver in his hand to focus all his attention on you.

Leaning on the desk casually, you begin speaking, "After I replace the bumper and give it a new paint job, can you sell that car for me?"

"Shouldn't be a problem," glancing at the car, Han agrees. It's a popular car in the racing world, and as soon as he gets the word out he's selling it, many offers will pop up.

"You're the best, Han!" You beam at him, pushing yourself off the desk to return downstairs.

"Angel, wait," he calls after you. Being your friend has been fun, yet he needs more. You shouldn't have to come up with excuses to kiss him; you should be able to do it freely whenever you want.

"Yes, Han," you ask softly, tilting your head in question.

Standing up from the rolling chair, he approaches you, "Do you want to go on a date?"

A grin sneaks past your lips before you even process what he said. Instantly, you nod your head, "I'd love to." You could combust at that moment. Finally, after months of pining, Han asked you out.

"Let's go," he smiles, grabbing your hand and guiding you to his car.

"Wait, now?" You furrow your eyebrows.

"Yes, unless you have something more important," he asks, teasing you.

"Nothing is more important, but I'm a mess," you shake your head hesitantly. You spent your afternoon working on cars, sweating, and getting covered in grease. You didn't think it would be in sweatpants when you pictured going on a date. Not to mention the state of your hair.

"No, you're not. If you must know, you've had me distracted all day," Han whispers the last part in your ear, trying to convince you even if it means giving himself away.

"Am I supposed to apologize?" You question, the corner of your lip curving into a sultry smile. You had been right all along.

"No, just agree to the date. Be spontaneous," Han bounces his eyebrows cutely.

"Let's do it," you sigh, hoping you won't regret it.

"Atta girl," Han smiles victoriously.

Han tries to remember the last time he had a proper date. Even with his ex, they just sort of happened. No date ever officially branded as such. It's why rather than asking you and waiting for the day to arrive, he decided to do it spontaneously. It leaves him no time to be nervous or to overthink things.

You slide your sweatshirt back on on the way out to shield yourself from the chilly Japanese night. Han opens the door to his car for you, shutting the door when you slip in. The drive is short as he takes you to a small family-owned sushi place he swears by.

"I'm surprised you eat more than chips and crackers," you joke with him as the food arrives, and he takes a bite.

"I definitely eat more than that," Han replies nonchalantly, referring to something else entirely. It's something you don't catch despite your dirty mind.

A discussion develops when you discover Han always orders the same thing in the restaurant. He's in Japan. He needs to throw himself into the culture and try new things.

Starting easy, you grab a piece of sushi from your plate, "You need to try this."

"I don't know," Han grimaces as he looks at the sushi held in your chopsticks.

"That's not an answer. Open your mouth," you groan, gently placing the sushi roll in his mouth.

You watch him chew slowly, getting a feel for the new food. "It's good," he agrees, liking whatever you had ordered. It was delicious, actually.

"Better than yours, right?" You ask him, knowingly, pointing your chopsticks at him.

"Yes," he rolls his eyes, refusing to give you the satisfaction.

"Told you," you sing, grabbing both plates and placing them in the middle of the table. Now you could each grab from both and share your meals.

The date goes smoothly. It's a wonder why the two of you hadn't gone to dinner before today. You already know Han is attentive and funny but his wisdom surprises you. He's already lived through so much, more than an average person. Despite being a couple years older than you, he retains his youth. That may be why he appeals to a younger crowd as well.

"What was your life like growing up?" You ask him, taking a drink from your Coke. Han ordered another plate of sushi to share, the one you chose earlier.

"My upbringing wasn't the best," he shrugs, remembering his life in California as a teen. "I was always in trouble."

"Why does something tell me that you were the one causing the trouble," you say, narrowing your eyes.

"I definitely was," he chuckles, "But in the end, it brought me here, and I'm happy."

Han believes in the timing of life. He's been after Tokyo for so long. Before stepping foot in Tokyo, he had to go through the Dominican Republic, Rio, Germany, Shanghai, London, and many more places. It was supposed to happen that way, or he wouldn't have met you.

"I knew it," you sigh dramatically, "I've always been into bad boys."

"What about you, Angel?" He returns the question, curious about your past.

"I grew up in a normal Japanese family. My dad's a mechanic, my mom a nurse, and my sister a pain in the ass. I went to school for engineering and graduated with top honors," you tell him, reminiscing on your not-as-impressive past.

"You say that as if it's easy to graduate with top honors," Han chides you, to which you roll your eyes. "Why work retail? Doesn't engineering make you a lot more money?"

"Don't laugh, okay?" You point at Han. When he agrees not to laugh, you continue, "I wanted to be a Formula 1 racer when I was younger. My dad signed me up to participate in smaller competitions, and I was pretty damn good. My mom was totally against it and forced my dad and me to quit.

Fast forward, I'm in college, and engineering seemed like the way to go. Learned about street racing and figured that could be a way back into my dream. It's a foolish thought. The professionals spend years in proper circuits practicing and competing. No one comes with a background of illegal racing."

Han wasn't expecting that answer. He assumed you hated engineering and did it to appease your parents. He wonders why you thought he would laugh. Your dream is nothing to laugh at. Having witnessed your racing, you undoubtedly had the innate talent. "So retail?" He prompts, realizing you didn't answer the first question.

Snapping your fingers, you say, "Right! I figured I'd always have my degree. I'd rather spend my time having fun now; when the time comes, I'll return to that. I do like it, but I'm not ready to commit to a life of 9 to 5's. I prefer spending my time in the wee hours of the night racing. Since I can't be a Formula 1 racer, I'll be a street racer. Much cooler, anyways."

"That takes guts," Han tells you, "I'm glad you're doing it."

You give him a little shrug and a smile because you were too. Despite your childish dream dying when your mom forced you to quit, you're still happy with your life. Especially if you end up with a guy like Han.

Han, being a gentleman, pays for dinner. Before returning to the car, you stop by a convenience store for dessert. Han follows you buying snacks for himself. In search of something sweet, you find a shelf filled with Pocky. You grab the chocolate-covered ones with a plan in mind.

You and Han sit at a table outside the convenience store. It was getting late, so only a few people were around. You open the packet of Pocky, taking out a chocolate-covered stick.

"Have you ever played the Pocky game?" You ask, taking a bite of the treat.

"No. What is it?" Han looks at you curiously.

"Essentially, you grab one end of the Pocky stick, and I grab the other. We have to eat it, but if one of us pulls away, they lose," you respond simply, hiding the game's purpose.

"That sounds awfully like Lady and the Tramp," Han mentions, catching onto your intentions.

Offering him a stick, you say, "Want to play?"

Han smiles at you and grabs the Pocky stick placing the biscuit end between his teeth. You hold the chocolate-covered end and tap his hand to start. You both take it slow, Han opting to stay still as you near his lips. You tilt your head when you're close to his lips, giving him the perfect opportunity to kiss you when only a small piece is left.

You smile into the chocolate-flavored kiss. If you wanted to kiss Han, you could've done it without so many sneaky plans or excuses, but it wouldn't be as fun.

"So, who won?" Han asks when you pull away.

"Does it matter?" You cheekily say, pulling him back in for another kiss.

There's no flaw in your reasoning. Han pulls you close, lifting your legs to lie in his lap. You spend more time than you care to admit making out outside the convenience store.

Han offers to drive you to your apartment since your car needs to be finished. Throughout the drive, his hand is laced with yours in your lap. Small talk flows between you as you continue to learn about each other.

Smoke coming from your apartment building cuts that conversation short. Firefighters stand outside the building, spraying water into the source of the fire. Han steps out of the car with you to ask anyone what is going on.

Noticing the building manager across the street, you approach him. He quickly blurts out all the information he knows. You're one of many of the tenants to approach him. "There's a fire on the sixth floor. We don't know the damage yet. I understand this is your residence, but you need somewhere else to say for the next few days while we asses the damage and inspect the building."

"What am I going to do?" You groan, covering your face with your hands. You worry about where you'll stay and your stuff in your apartment. You have important documents in there.

"You can stay with me," Han offers without a hint of hesitation.

"Are you sure? I don't want to impose." It's nice of Han to offer you a place to stay, but would it be too much at this stage of their situationship. Last thing you want is to push boundaries.

"You're not imposing. Let me help you," Han insists, grabbing your hand to rub soothing circles in it. It's a given he has feelings for you, but before that, you are his friend, and he's not going to leave you out on the streets or sleeping in your car.

Han offers you calming words on the way to his apartment. Your apartment is on the twelfth floor and the other side of the fire. Chances are that your stuff will probably be fine. Whether the building will close for renovations is another matter entirely.

His apartment is just another level to the building he owns. Its entrance is on a more private side. Inside, it's very clean and organized, a surprise since you expect most guys to be messy. Picture frames and knick knacks are scattered throughout the space, giving you more of a glimpse into Han's life.

It's quiet between the two of you but comfortable. Han is giving you time to process what you saw in your building. He offers you his shower if you'd like, and when you brought up you didn't have any clothes, he searched for a clean t-shirt and sweatpants you could borrow from him.

A shower is just what you need as you let the water cascade down your body. Fire aside, it has been a great day, even before Han asked you on a date. Hope fills your being at the prospect of soon beginning a relationship with Han. So far, everything points out it can happen. There haven't been any red flags or hesitation from him.

You change into the oversized t-shirt Han picked out for you and the spare pair of underwear you always carry in your bag. Smart girls know to carry a spare in case of emergencies. You debate about wearing the sweatpants he left for you but choose against it. The t-shirt covers enough.

You shyly make your way out of the bathroom in search of Han. You find him in the bedroom, grabbing an extra pillow and blanket. "The bed is yours," he mentions, eyes briefly trailing your naked legs.

"Where will you sleep?" You ask, furrowing your eyebrows. If anyone has to sleep on the couch, it should be you.

"I'll take the couch," he responds, as you expected.

"Han, stop being a gentleman and get in bed with me," you say, taking the pillow from his grasp and placing it back on the top of the bed.

He offers you an 'Are you sure?' look, and you nod confidently. He doesn't need to be told twice. Han steps out of the bedroom for a few minutes and grabs a shower. Taking that time, you get on the bed to get comfortable, it's soft, and you sink into it.

You're snoozing off when he returns to the room. Han carefully peels back the sheets and gets under them. Feeling the bed dip, you turn to the side to face him.

Your sleepy mood makes you cuddle up to him without much thought. The smell of his soap invades your senses. Han naturally accepts it, throwing an arm around your waist and hugging you closer, legs intertwined. He kisses the top of your head, finding comfort in the position.

Thankful doesn't begin to cover how you feel. There's this overwhelming sense of security that comes with Han. There is something about him that makes you trust him. Deep down, you know he wouldn't intentionally hurt you.

"How are you feeling?" Han checks up on you before you fall asleep.

"I'm okay. I hope none of my things got damaged," you mumble into his chest, pressing a kiss into it afterward. "Thank you for everything, Han. Your help with the car, the date, letting me invade your bed," you finish with a soft laugh.

"Anytime, Angel," he responds truthfully. If he can help you in any way, he will. Sleep consumes both quickly after, and it becomes the best night you've both had in a while.

The following day you're the first to wake. Han's arms are around your waist, and you feel his breath tickle the back of your neck. He's warm, and you just want to sink into it even more. Your need to pee pries you out of his embrace, though. 

As carefully as possible, you slip out of his loose grasp and head to the bathroom. Han had picked out a toothbrush for you the night before, which you're thankful for. Shuffling out of the bathroom, you cook breakfast for Han as a 'thank you' for his hospitality.

You pick the ingredients you need from his fridge, careful not to make too much noise. Your progress is slower than you prefer as you get used to the kitchen layout and localize everything you might need.

Soon enough, you drop pancake batter into the pan, and while that cooks, you scramble eggs with veggies. Since it's his kitchen, you assume he'll like what you make. It's his ingredients, after all.

Just after finishing the last batch of pancakes, you hear the patter of Han's feet entering the kitchen. You turn to glance at him quickly and greet him, "Good morning! I made you breakfast, sit!"

"You didn't have to do that," Han says, coming up behind you. He traps you between his body and the stove as if having you close last night wasn't enough.

"Yes, I did! You let me stay here, borrow clothes, sleep in your bed," you flip the pancakes as you count all the nice things he's done in less than 24 hours.

Humming, unconvinced, Han kisses your cheek and thanks you. It sends a tingle between your legs as his voice is raspy and deep from sleep. Your cheeks flare up, betraying you as always.

Han follows your orders and sits by the kitchen table, waiting till you're done to begin eating. With that time in his hands, he observes you. You're wearing the t-shirt he loaned you, which swallowed your frame. Each time you flipped a pancake, it rose slightly to reveal the light green fabric of your panties. Han soaked the sight in and wondered if this was what waited for him in the near future.

His eyes continue trailing down to your thick thighs. He wouldn't mind being trapped between them. Lower and lower, his gaze went from your pretty legs to your varnished toes. Back up, it went as you turned off the stove and approached the table. You weren't wearing a bra under the t-shirt, as your nipples poked through the thin fabric.

Han's glad he didn't notice these things last night, or he wouldn't have been able to sleep a wink. Spreading his legs, he tried to hide the hard-on he was sporting. None the wiser, you sit on the empty chair near him and tell him to eat up.

Shooing the dirty thoughts from his mind, Han thanks you one more time and digs in. It's a lovely morning, with light chatter bouncing between you. Han praises your cooking every chance he gets and even finishes the pancakes you left over but not before drenching them in more syrup. When both of you are done, you clear the plates and place them in the sink to wash.

"Angel, come 'ere," Han calls from behind you.

Mindlessly you walk over to him, wondering what he wants. Han grabs your waist, pulling you to his lap. "Han, what are you doing? I have to do the dishes!" You squeal, holding onto him, afraid he'd let you fall.

"No, you don't," he speaks softly, one hand cupping your cheek.

"I don't?" you prompt, leaning into his touch.

"Let me properly thank you," he offers, lips chasing yours. Han can't contain himself any longer. You've done a number on him, strutting around his kitchen in your underwear. He wants you. He needs you.

You lean into the kiss as you always do, pouring everything you have into it. Tasting the coffee on his tongue, you bring your hand around the back of his neck, softly tugging the long strands of hair. Han groans into the kiss, having missed that sensation.

Repositioning yourself, you straddle Han in the rickety kitchen chair. You feel his hands all over your body, trailing down your back to grasp your ass in his palms. Every so often, you'd resurface to breathe but dip down again and again to continue kissing him.

Han feels himself harden as you rub your center against him deliciously. It's clear as day you want him just as much as he wants you.

"Want to spoil me and fuck me?" You breathe heavily, kissing Han's neck.

"So bold," Han chuckles, his hands wandering under the t-shirt to feel your warm skin, his nails faintly scratching your back, sending shivers down your spine. "Six months ago, you would've been too scared to ask me that."

Six months ago, you would've been too scared to kiss him on the cheek, but you've come a long way. As time passes, you realize your feelings are not one-sided because Han means every word he speaks to you despite his taunting nature. Each and every complement is honest.

"I got tired of waiting around for you," you bite back, nipping his neck and sucking a pretty bruise on it.

Han hisses at the momentary sting, "I thought I was just a friend?"

You laugh sarcastically, picking your head up to stare at him, "I don't let friends kiss me or grope my ass."

"What does that make me then?" Han raises an eyebrow, cheekily squeezing your ass as a smirk forms on his lips.

"Special," you shrug, lips pouty and swollen.

"Because?" He wants to hear you say that you feel something for him. It's a last hurrah on giving you a hard time for fun.

You realize it's time to be honest and come out with it. You stopped hiding your feelings a while ago. Hell, you even asked Han to fuck you. All that's left is to admit your feeling out loud. "Because I have feelings for you, Han Lue," you whisper, brushing the hair that threatens to fall over his eyes.

"That's all you had to say," Han murmurs, catching your lips in a passionate kiss.

The heat rises with each passing moment. Your feelings have now come to a boil and bubbled over. Han picks you up easily and sits you on the kitchen table. He leaves his touch on your naked back to trace the outside of your thighs. It's time to give you precisely what you asked for and what he has been fantasizing about for far too long.

Grabbing the elastic band of your panties, Han slides them down the curve of your ass and your thighs until they are off. He throws them somewhere in the room, the information unimportant for now.

"Han, please," you whine, spreading your legs wider and giving him access to your most private part. You beg between kisses to feel his touch where you need it most.

"So impatient, Angel." Han jabs lightly as his right-hand touches the inside of your thigh. The pads of his fingers brush over your thighs repeatedly, nearing the apex more and more with each stroke.

You gasp as he finally dips a finger into your folds, gathering the slick that formed to spread it around your bundle of nerves. You gasp, breaking the kiss and throwing your head back.

Han sucks on your neck and collarbones as you moan into the air. Slipping a finger into your tight walls, he groans, thinking about how they'll feel around his hard cock.

"Fuck, Han, feels so good," you sigh when Han adds another digit into your soaking core and presses on your clit with his thumb.

"I didn't realize I made you this wet," he says into your neck as you grind your hips into his hand. You must've been wanting this for as long as he has.

"Liar," you respond, staring at him with hooded eyes. The nights you've touched yourself while thinking about him are many. The real thing is a million times better.

Han watches you intently, catching every little reaction you have to his touch. The moans and whines echo through the room and are music to his ears. Without a doubt, there's a wet patch in his boxers as his tip leaks precum from the erotic sight in front of him.

Your walls clenching around him alert him you're close, and promptly after you make it known as you beg him not to stop, except he doesn't listen and stops just as you're about to cum.

"Why did you stop?" You complain, eyes wide in desperate need.

"Want you to cum on my tongue," he responds, stealing a quick kiss before he kneels on the floor. Wrapping his strong arms around your thighs, he scoots you closer to the edge.

His words shoot another current down your legs, no doubt making more of a mess. You wait with bated breath as Han kisses the inside of your thighs, making eye contact with you as he delves into your pussy.

He licks up from your hole up to your clit. You grasp his hair with one hand, pulling the t-shirt up with the other to better look at him going down on you. Your eyes roll involuntarily when Han wraps his lips around your clit, sucking and flicking it with his tongue. His long fingers find your opening once more, sliding in effortlessly.

You try to maintain eye contact with Han through it all. If his hair fell on his eyes, you'd quickly brush it back, not wanting to miss his lustful gaze. It spurred Han on to see you crumbling over him, biting your lip as you tried to hide the pretty cries that wanted to fall from your lips.

Han stops licking your clit and slows his thrusting fingers each time you near your orgasm. Time and time again, he repeats this when you're near the edge. Only when your arousal coats his hand he keeps his pace, and as you whine out, 'gonna cum, don't stop,' he slips his tongue into your pussy, tasting your cum directly from the source.

He makes a great example of what his nose can do as it brushes over your clit while he tongue fucks you. You trap Han between your legs as your pussy clenches, your orgasm coming in waves. As you relax back onto the kitchen table, Han continues to lick your puffy center, being careful with your sensitive nub.

When he stands, you fist his t-shirt, smashing your lips together, tasting your essence. "Let's take this to the bedroom," Han pants. You nod eagerly and squeal when he picks you up, your legs wrapped around his waist.

You leave a trail of kisses on his neck as he makes his way to the bedroom. Once there, you both fall on the bed, Han hovering over you. He tugs on your t-shirt, "As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, this has to come off."

Without the shirt, he can admire your naked body. A lone finger slides down from your neck to your sternum. It slides to your side near the curve of your left breast, where a small sakura flower is tattooed.

"This is my new favorite thing about you," Han softly says, noticing you staring at him.

The tattoo was an impulsive thing to do. You had wanted a tattoo for years but never knew what to get. After your last breakup two years ago, you got the little flower instead of getting bangs and dying your hair. It has no real meaning to you. It's just a cute flower.

"You're the first to see it since I got it done," you tell him, a laugh bubbling from your lips as his touch on your ribs tickles.

"And I hope it stays that way," he responds. It's an unspoken promise. He wants you all to himself for the foreseeable future.

His finger continues the trajectory down your tummy, lightly going over your belly button before it traces over your mound and dips to touch your clit.

You gasp at the surge of pleasure as your clit remains sensitive from his previous actions. "Gotta say it's not fair that I'm the only one naked," you moan when Han continues to circle your nub.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Han incites you to see what you'll do.

Any remaining shyness you had is long gone as lust replaces it. You kneel in front of Han, who leans back to watch you. Your chest is close to his face, so when you lean closer to grab the hem of his shirt, he sucks one of your nipples. 

"Han," you whine, arching your back," "Stop distracting me."

Ignoring his mouth on you, you grab his shirt and pull it off. Successfully making him stop his attack on your breasts. You peck his lips and kiss down his jaw.

You take your time kissing his toned chest and stomach. You wish to memorize every part of him. "You're so handsome, Han," you purr, glancing up at him.

Those simple words that spilled from your mouth made his heart flutter. Han is used to being the one to dish out compliments and praise the women he's with. To have you say that is like a breath of fresh air, and he can't wait to have more.

"Fuck, Angel," he groans, grasping your chin. You kiss his palm with a smile that's equally angelic and devilish.

You want to peel two more layers off Han's body and decide to do it all at once. Grasping the band of his pants and boxers, you slowly pull them down, building anticipation.

His cock springs out of its confines, landing on Han's abdomen. You don't hide your curious gaze as you take in his cock. It's so big it makes you bite your lip in anticipation. The tip is a dark pink as it drips with precum.

After you remove his pants entirely, you grasp his cock, feeling the warmth and weight of it. Han breathes out through his nose, a futile attempt to keep his cool. A string of saliva drips from your lips, coating his hard length. Each stroke you made caused a bead of pre to spill from him.

You take it as an invitation to taste him, wrapping your lips around his head your tongue licks the beads of white. 

Han does the impossible not to push your head down to take all of him. The thought is present, though. You've barely teased him compared to how he teased you, but Han can no longer resist. 

"I need you," Han groans, calling out your name, not the nickname you've been donned for the past three years.

You don't take it for granted. Hearing your name sends you into overdrive. Han pulls you up to kiss you and lies you down on the top of the bed. He comfortably gets between your legs that hug his waist to bring him closer. His cock brushes your wet pussy, and you both hiss at the sensation. Your pussy clenches around nothing at the thought of having Han fill you entirely.

"You ready, Angel?" Han asks you. One arm holding him up and the other wrapped around your thigh, giving you a comforting squeeze. Time stops ticking at that moment. It's just you and Han wrapped in each other. 

"I've been ready for the past month, Han. Fuck me, please," you plead quietly, your fingertips running up and down his back. 

"Just because you said, please." Han lines his cock up to your entrance and pushes past your lips into your warm center. Relief floods through the both of you, but it soon dissipates, and it's replaced by waves of unfiltered lust.

Han starts fucking into you deep, at the perfect pace. Your eyes involuntarily close as you feel Han's cock stretching you open and filling you like never before. Han kisses your temple and releases sexy moans into your ear with words of encouragement.

'Such a tight pussy just for me.'

'Taking me so good, Angel.'

'Can't get enough of you.'

You echo his words, encouraging him to keep fucking you. Your nails dig into his back as you try to hold on to anything, and your heels dig into his lower back. The closeness between you is intoxicating, your scents mixing and becoming one, his hair ticking your face, his warm skin heating up yours. 

Han slows the pace momentarily, leaning back on his knees to see your pretty cunt taking his cock. He wants to commit to memory how your pussy spreads to make way for his cock, a white ring on the base of his cock, and how your little clit is exposed and vulnerable to his touch.

The other girls he's slept with only got part of his attention and dedication. He didn't mean to make a huge impression. He only did his job, often choosing to lie back and let them do as they pleased with him. 

With you, it's different. He wants to give you his all and leave a great impression. He'll do all the work; you can just take it if that's what you want. That's the difference between you and the other girls. He lived to spoil you.

Meanwhile, you fall apart under him, moaning incoherent phrases he can barely make out. He loves hearing them, though. You reach for Han's hand as he increases his pace and grips it tightly.

Han slips his cock out of you, wanting to make his fantasy a reality. You shudder at the empty feeling and whine, "No, don't stop." 

"Come on, Angel. Get on your knees," Han coo's at you, kissing your pouty lips. "Promise you'll cum soon."

Han positions you on your knees, your back arched as your tits rub against the bed sheets. You huff through it all, desperate to have him pounding into you again. He smacks your ass when you wiggle it to get him to do what you want.

Han enters you in one smooth motion, this position amplifying your pleasure as he hits the spongy spot inside of you more directly.

"Han!" You cry out, fisting the sheets underneath you. 

"I'm right here, Angel," Han breathes, snapping his hips rhythmically. 

Just as he visualized, he grabs your hips in his large hands and digs his thumbs into the dimples on your back. With a tight hold, he thrusts into you unrelentingly, and you push back onto him just as eagerly. Your cries are muffled by the pillow you're hugging to your face.

Your pussy swallows him with each thrust, even as it clenches to prepare for orgasm. He can't hold back any longer as his balls clench with each faltering thrust, and your walls squeeze him tighter than ever.

" 'm cumming," you squeal, your legs tense up and shake. Your walls contract and release in a rhythmic motion that sends Han over the edge, your name on the tip of his tongue.

Han pulls out of you, helping you get back onto a comfortable position, and lies beside you, catching his breath. He turns to look at you, and you do the same. You can't hold his gaze long as you furiously blush.

Han laughs, grabbing your hand to lace your fingers together. "You can't get shy now!"

"I can't control it!" You exclaim, hiding your face with the same pillow as earlier. 

The rest of the day is spent in bed. Han ignores his daily responsibilities and stays in, getting lost in your touch and making promises he hopes to keep.

One Year and a Half Later...

You drive up to the empty parking complex. It's similar to the one you spend your nights on. Driving up the floors, you find Han where he told you he'd be. He leans against the familiar orange car, a bag of chips in his hands. A nice lather jacket covers his arms, making you smile when you remember how he got it in the first place.

"Hey, you wanted to meet me here?" You question, getting out of your car.

Approaching him, you kiss his salty lips and wait for an explanation regarding the random meet-up spot. In the entire year and a half of you dating, he's never asked you such a weird request.

"You feeling up to race?" Han asks you, holding your hand in his.

It's been years since the two of you met, and for the same amount of time, people have been pining you two to race. He denied every request, including the ones you threw every once in a while.

"It's about time," you exclaim, excitement filling your body. "What's at stake?"

There is something up Han's sleeve. You know that much. There is something he wants from you if he suddenly wants to race you. He could just ask. You'll give him everything he desires. You play along, though.

"Winner gets the other's car," he offers, pushing himself off the car to wrap his arms around you to hug you, his thumb soothingly brushing over the spot where your tattoo is. He last saw you when you left for your new engineering job early in the morning.

"You're willing to sacrifice your car?" You chuckle, implying you are going to win.

"It's only fair," he shrugs, kissing your cheek.

With one last peck, he lets you go and gets in his car. You follow his lead, lining up your car to the imaginary starting line. Han sets up a timer, and once it went off, both cars lurched forward at high speeds. 

You focus on the race, forgetting it's Han you're competing with. You've been dying to go against him for so long, desperate to find out who was the better racer between the two. 

As expected, Han makes it hard for you. The race is neck and neck as you drift up the floors of the building. Whenever Han takes the lead, you find a way to get ahead. You see the end near, and Han threatens to surpass you, but with one last boost, you keep your position, winning the race.

You leap out of your car, feeling the high of the race. No one has kept you on your toes for so long. It's a satisfying win. Han walks out of his car more calmly, smiling, happy to see you celebrate. It didn't matter to him that you were better. You deserved it.

"I can't believe I won," you exclaim, jumping into his arms as he spins you around.

"I can, and I'm so proud," Han says, kissing all over your face.

The race's prize is forgotten as you celebrate, but Han reminds you by handing you his keys, "A deal is a deal." You take the keys from him as a mere formality. You're not taking Han's precious car. Racing him is enough for you.

The weight of the keys is strange to you. They tend to be much heavier. Opening your palm to inspect them, you see that his keychains and spare keys are missing. In their place is a diamond ring.

"Han, what-" you stutter, whipping up to look at him.

"My car is yours. I figured I could be yours too. Will you marry me?" Han takes the keys from you, getting down on one knee and removing the ring from the holder. 

From all the possible scenarios you had in mind from this clandestine meeting, Han's proposal was not one of them. Nevertheless, you have your answer instantly.

"Yes," you nod, choking back a sob.

Han grabs your hand and slides the ring onto your fourth finger. It's a perfect fit, just like Han. You drop down in front of Han, ignoring the dirty floor, to kiss and hug him.

Han kisses away your tears, a smile permanently etched on his face. He never thought he'd see the day he would settle down, but this past year has been near perfection with you, and he doesn't see himself with anyone else.

"Did you let me win to set this up?" You ask him later that night. His arms are wrapped tightly around you as you lie on his chest.

"No," he answers simply, kissing your head.

"You let me win," you then say assertively.

"No, I did not, Angel," he answers again, hiding his smile in your hair.

"I don't believe you. We have to race again," you tell him, lifting your head to glance at him.

"I don't have a reason to. I've got everything I want right here. Take the win, Angel," Han tells you sweetly, his fingers playing with your ring.

"For now," you huff, settling back down and cuddling up to him.

Fin. 

thank you for reading! i didn't mean for it to be this long although i'm sure you guys are not complaining!

this was so much fun to write. guys like i am in love with han lue, i've spent hours on tiktok watching han lue and sung kang edits. i need help! tell me i'm not the only one like this!

requests are still open ❤️

[asuperconfusedgirl]

pls I need moreeee

viva han writers, i love u

[probably-writing-x]

The Wedding That Wasn’t

Conrad Fisher x Reader

Summary: In the ruins of a broken wedding, sometimes there is just enough hope for love to bloom

Word Count: 8.4k

Author’s Note: Wrote maybe 80% of this is one day because the inspiration just struck so I hope y’all love this as much as I do !!

Belly had pinned, re-pinned, adjusted and re-adjusted her hair more times than you could count. In fact, you were half certain she might just do the whole thing again if she moved it one more time.

“Belly, you know I love you but if you change your hair one more time I’m going to scream,” You comment bluntly, eying her through the reflection in the mirror.

She looks at you and drops her shoulders, “Does it look bad?”

You stand up from your seat on the floor and go over to her at the vanity, placing your hands over hers to take the pin from her grasp. Belly lets her hands settle into her lap, dropping over the white satin robe. She watches you through the mirror and you smile lightly, fixing the bobby pin back into her hair and smoothing your hands over the hair to make sure it was in place.

“There, perfect,” You assure her, hands moving to rest on her shoulders, “A perfect bride.”

“Bride,” She repeats the word, “I still just can’t believe I’m a bride.”

“You’re not going to believe it until you’re on that aisle,” You laugh, “Maybe not even then.”

“I’m so nervous,” Belly shakes her head, “Like there’s a whole crowd of butterflies in my stomach.”

You squeeze her shoulders reassuringly, “And as soon as you see Jere at the end of that aisle you’re going to wonder why you were ever nervous in the first place.”

If you were being completely honest, you also couldn’t believe today was the day they were getting married. Belly and Jere. Your little sister. The boy you’d treated like your little brother. Married.

But, beyond all of that, the butterflies in your stomach weren’t for the wedding. They were for the boy you’d be walking down the aisle with. You as maid of honor, him as best man. Co-best man. Conrad Fisher. The boy you wished was yours.

It wasn’t a long lost love kind of story. Not one of unrequited love. Not one of long distance or right person wrong time or anything of the sort. It was simply you and him and it was never meant to be. You’d dated for one summer when both of you were 18. Many years ago. You were both too headstrong, too quick to become defensive, too protective of yourselves and everyone else. You were too similar. When you were together, almost always it would end in the two of you bickering about something. Sometimes it was about something you’d seen on the news, more like a debate, and other times it was because he’d taken the bigger muffin and only eaten a bite of it.

And yet there was always something there. When the two of you were together it was like a strange electricity burned in your heart, an adrenaline rush that only he could bring. You’d never thought too much about it. It was easier to ignore. It was one stupid summer fling and nothing else. There might always be something there but it was easy for that to be platonic. But with the wedding approaching so abruptly, it had brought with it a wave of emotion you hadn’t been prepared for. A yearning to be there yourself. At the end of the aisle making promises for the one you loved. And every time you found yourself picturing that exact image, there was only one boy that found himself by your side. Conrad fucking Fisher.

“Okay okay I have coffee I have croissants I have water,” Taylor comes stumbling through the bedroom door, her arms wrapped around the bundle of things in her grasp.

“Here, here, let me take those,” You laugh, taking the tray of iced coffees from her hand, “When did you have the time to get all of this?”

“I sent Steven out,” She shrugs nonchalantly, “The guys literally have nothing to do anyway.”

“I don’t think I can eat,” Belly grimaces, settling her hands over her stomach.

“Make sure you have something,” Taylor encourages, “We don’t want you passing out at the end of the aisle or something.”

“She’s right, Belly, try to have something,” You persuade, “I can get pop tarts from the kitchen too, if you want them.”

Belly shakes her head, “The croissant is fine. When should I get into my dress?”

“After coffee, definitely after coffee,” Taylor nods, curlers wrapped up in her hair, “Then we’ll fix up your makeup and then it’s dress time.”

You’d always thought Taylor was a good person for Belly to have. They could be so completely different, and yet they were the side of each other that they needed to be. Belly was reasonable when Taylor was rash, Taylor was bold when Belly wanted to be timid. They balanced each other out. And you wondered whether that was the fundamentals for any relationship, platonic or not.

You and Conrad didn’t balance each other out. You’d both tip in the same direction until it capsized you. When he’d argue, you’d argue back. When he wouldn’t talk, you wouldn’t either. You’d battle each other, even from the same side. It just wouldn’t function. You didn’t feel like the same person you were when the two of you were together but you still made sure to convince yourself those things hadn’t changed.

“I’ll be back in a second,” You squeeze Taylor’s arm, stepping past the girls and heading towards the door of Belly’s room.

When you were younger, the two of you had always shared. But when you’d turned ten, Susannah had decided you just had to have your own space. You still remember the excitement on her face when she first showed you. Conrad had helped her pick the color, the one he told her was your favourite. She knew anyway, but she wanted you to know that Conrad knew too. Whenever you passed through this house, when it was just you alone with your thoughts, you could still feel her here. She was in the art that hung on the walls, in the creaking floorboards, in the soft touch of a carpet beneath your feet, in the sun that shone through the windows of the kitchen, in the cold run of water before the heat kicked in. She was here, and part of you found comfort in the fact that she always would be.

“How’s Belly doing?”

You hadn’t noticed Steven in the kitchen until he had already spoken. He was already dressed in his grey suit, white shirt, black tie. His hair was fixed in the same way it always was, curls messy. He looked so grown up, and so much like your father.

“She’s okay, nervous,” You smile, “It’s one of the few times I don’t know what to say to make her feel better.”

Steven laughs, “My big sister admitting defeat? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Oh come on,” You roll your eyes, “They’re young! She’s getting married! The nerves are kind of a given.”

Steven nods and both of you fall silent.

“How’s Jere doing?”

“He’s,” Steven scratches the back of his neck, “He forgot to write his speech.”

“Wh-“ You choke on the air in your lungs, “Are you… are you joking?”

Steven shakes his head, “Conrad’s helping him to write it now.”

“Fucking hell I’m going to kill that guy.”

“Yep, I told him that,” Steven grimaces, “You know what Jere’s like. He’s never serious.”

“Clearly,” You swallow, shaking your head, “As long as Belly doesn’t know, we’re okay.”

Both of you fall quiet again.

Steven was one year younger than you, but it was always like the two of you had been twins. He was another person that balanced you out. He agreed with you when he needed to, but he knew how to make sure you still had fun, he knew when not to take things too seriously, he knew when to reason with you. You’d always been certain that the three of you were meant to be siblings - as if you’d been hand plucked from your parents qualities and morphed into the perfect balance of thirds.

“Did you talk to Belly… you know, about the whole thing with Jere in Cabo?”

Even the words made your stomach twist. Jere. Cabo. It was enough to make you feel sick.

You’d only found out what had happened about two weeks ago. Belly had admitted it to you when you’d overheard Taylor make a comment. Steven found out too, Conrad had told him as soon as he knew. Both of you had reacted in a similar way - in disbelief. For multiple reasons. One that it had taken so long for Belly to tell you, another that Jere had ever even dared to cheat on your baby sister, and another that the wedding was still going ahead, that Belly still loved him enough to marry him.

“Every time I mentioned it she just kept telling me it was a mistake, and blamed herself for him thinking they were broken up,” You clench your jaw, “Apparently it’s not exactly cheating if he thought he was single.”

“Yeah because any guy in love would just jump at the chance to get into bed with the next girl he sees,” Steven scoffs, adjusting his tie, “I can’t believe she forgave him.”

“Belly sees the good in everyone,” You state, “Even when they give her a reason not to.”

“He gave her a pretty fucking good reason,” Steven grumbles, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Steven,” You give him that same tone you always heard your mother use, it seemed to come naturally to you now, “You’ve messed up your hair and your tie now.”

You go over to him and stand in front of him, towering over you even despite his younger age. You fix the knot of his tie, pressing it against the top button of his shirt, moving your hands to fix the few curls he had seemed to set awry.

“Can I at least object or something? Tell them that my sister deserves better than some asshole cheater,” Steven mumbles, eyeing you like he was truly waiting on your response.

“An asshole you are best man for,” You point out.

“Only because Belly would never forgive me if I didn’t do it,” He comments, “Come on, be serious, do you honestly think, without any tiny bit of doubt, that our baby sister should be getting married to him today?”

You step back, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling a tightness wrap around your heart, “That’s not my call to make. Belly’s an adult. She can make her own choices. My job is to be her sister, her maid of honor. And yours is to be her brother and be Jere’s best man. They can make their own decisions and it’s not on us to change that.”

“You can’t be fucking serious I-“ Steven scoffs, “You’re the first one to tell us when we’ve fucked up! You know you’re just as bad as Conrad - he won’t say anything to Jere either, he just lets him get away with shit. Why the fuck-“

“Steven it’s their wedding,” You interrupt, your words cold, “Not like telling them you shouldn’t have ran off at the mall, not like telling them you shouldn’t go on a date with that boy from middle school, not like telling them you shouldn’t have pushed that kid at the park. It’s not my job to save the day.”

He falls silent, knowing now that there was nothing more to say, or at least nothing more to argue, “Okay, okay, you’re right. It’s their wedding. Okay.”

You take a deep breath, “Just please make sure he writes that fucking speech. And please make sure there’s a drink waiting for me after this ceremony, a strong one.”

Your brother laughs, “You got it.”

“I’m going to check on Belly, I’ll see you at the aisle?”

“See you there,” He nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets and disappearing back outside.

———

Your fingertips fumbled over the silky material, drawing up the zip against Belly’s spine until it reached the top, clasping together. You smoothed your hands back down the material, freshly steamed.

“You always looked beautiful in white,” You smile behind her shoulder.

“Oh my god she’s a bride!” Taylor squeals, “You look perfect, it’s perfect, this is perfect.”

Belly laughs, “You think so?” Her eyes go to you, like it is only you that can confirm.

“Perfect.”

By now, you and Taylor were dressed in your bridesmaid dresses too - both of a powder blue, both silky and simple and figure hugging around the torso, flowing beneath your waist.

“A little more lipgloss…” Taylor purses her lips together as she applies a thin layer across Belly’s lips, “And your bouquet…”

She hands her the peonies and fixes them to a perfect angle.

“And you… are ready to walk down the aisle,” Taylor grins.

“I can’t believe it’s really happening!” Belly says in that excited tone that only came when there were nerves too.

You feel it in your stomach, the urge to tell her she shouldn’t do this. The urge to tell her it was okay if she didn’t. But instead you say;

“I’m so proud of you Belly.”

She smiles, “I just… I really wish Mom…”

“I know,” You say softly, “I know.”

“Okayyyy,” Taylor clasps her hands, “I’m going to tell the boys to get everyone sat down. We’ve got a wedding to get to.”

She disappears, leaving just you and Belly.

“So, I wasn’t sure when was a good time to give you this, but now feels as good of a time as any,” You smile, reaching into your bag and rummaging around the belongings in there.

You pull out a book, brown backing with a baby blue ribbon tying it together. On the front was a photo of all of you - the Fishers and the Conklins - and you’d set some pressed flowers around the edges, ones from Susannah’s garden.

“When Susannah was sick, you know she wanted to write you letters to know that she was still here for all these big moments for you, for all of us,” You explain, “Well, the wedding of our baby girl Belly just felt like it deserved even more. So, before she got really sick, me and her made this. I, um,” You feel a lump in your throat at the memory, “I had to finish it. But I think it is everything she would’ve wanted it to be.”

You see tears prick in Belly’s eyes, “This is…” Her fingertips smooth over the front, “This is beautiful.”

“There’s, um,” You untie the bow, letting the pages break free, “There’s some photos,” You turn the page to a photo of you and her in wedding dresses when you were only a few years old, “And there’s some messages from all of us. Mom too.”

Your sister lets out an involuntary gasp.

“I know Mom might not agree with all of this but just…” You take a deep breath, “Just read that letter. When all is said and done, she just really wants you to be happy, however that is.”

Belly looks up at you, delicately closing the pages and setting the book down beside her, “Do you… um,” She clears her throat, does that little half-laugh that she does when she’s worried, “Never mind.”

“Belly,” You hold her hands in yours, squeezing the soft skin, “Tell me.”

“Do you think Taylor’s got the boys ready?” She averts her eyes to the door, stepping back from you, letting out a breath, “We should probably go downstairs.”

You feel a sinking feeling in your heart. A little bit of you that had to accept you’d lost a bit of your sister. She wasn’t all bundled into being yours anymore. She was entirely her own person. And today, despite anything you might have thought, she would be marrying Jeremiah Fisher. And you would stand by her side and be there for her. And that was all. That wasn’t changing.

———

Getting married at the house meant that there was an awkward waiting period at the back of the house, where you all had to hover around until it was your time to walk down the aisle. Taylor was checking over Steven’s clothes, making sure he looked ‘presentable’. Jeremiah was already down the aisle, talking with his Dad who had just stood up to adjust the lapels of his suit jacket.

“Conklin,” A voice you’d recognise anywhere.

And, despite all three Conklin siblings being within earshot, they knew being referred to by your last name by that particular voice would only apply to you.

“Fisher,” You turn around, watching as Conrad walks towards you.

He has his hands stuffed into his pockets, glancing up at you with that typical smirk on his face. He had a suit matching his brother’s, a charcoal grey with a black tie. Belly had wanted the boys’ ties to match the bridesmaids’ dresses but Jere hadn’t listened.

“You look very nice,” He nods as he stands in front of you, nodding towards your dress.

“Nice? You sure know how to compliment a lady,” You scoff, “And you don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Hey, I said very,” Conrad points out.

“Hey, um,” You glance over your shoulder to make sure Belly was out of earshot, “Thank you. Steven told me you helped Jere to write his speech so… thank you. I think Belly would’ve crumbled if she found out.”

Conrad shakes his head, “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do,” You assure, “Anything to make Belly’s day smoother, easier, less stressful. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” He half whispers the words, like they get stuck on his lips.

His eyes felt even more piercing against the shades of his suit.

“So I hear we have to walk down together,” Conrad points out, “I’ll try not to trip you up.”

“I figured you’d try to,” You scoff, glancing down at your shoes, “And if you don’t… I think these will.”

“I’ll hold you up, Conklin.”

There it is. The electricity in your heart.

You suppress it.

“Okay, okay, everyone in their places!” Taylor exclaims, waving her hand around to make sure everyone was somewhat in their correct order.

Belly goes to step towards the back of the group of you. After the arguments with your parents, she’d decided to walk herself down the aisle. Your father had been upset, at first, and yet didn’t put up enough of a fight. He’d settled. He’d accepted his fate. Steven had tried to make Belly feel better - told her he didn’t like the idea of your father having to give her away anyway, it was her choice. And part of you thought that was another tiny fight your brother was putting up to sort of remind Belly she still had free will over these choices. One choice in particular.

Belly stands behind you and you glance back at her, smiling brightly.

You mouth the words ‘I love you’ and she settles her shoulders, smiling softly, returning the words back to you.

Steven and Taylor walk out first, her gripping his arm tightly to keep him in check, him laughing at the importance she holds in carrying her bouquet at the right height.

“Let’s do this Conklin,” Conrad links his arm with yours, glancing back to Belly, “See you out there!”

You hold onto him, stepping in time as you move towards the garden doors.

White wicker chairs had been set out in two sections on the garden, only fifteen or so either side. There were white rose petals scattered across the grass, directing the path that the two of you had to follow. A soft song was playing out of Steven’s speaker - you didn’t recognise it, or maybe you just couldn’t focus. At the end of the aisle, an archway of hydrangeas, powder blue. Susannah’s hydrangeas.

“Are you okay?” Conrad hisses from beside you, his arm clenching for you to draw your attention to the contact between the two of you.

You feel your steps falter, your feet stopping all together just momentarily, “It’s-“

It was the sight of Jeremiah there. Somehow smug and all too proud at the end of the aisle. It was then that you felt more confident than ever that Bely couldn’t do this. That you wished for more than anything that she wouldn’t.

“I know,” Conrad assures you, “I know.”

You glance at him and his eyes share the same certainty as yours. And, weirdly, the same acceptance that it was completely out of your hands. For the first time in forever, the two older siblings had to give up all attempts to fix things.

You take another deep breath, walking the rest of the way down the aisle together, smiling at each face you recognised. And one, in particular, a row back from the front - your mother.

“Mom,” You half whisper the word, like a gasp caught in your throat.

Conrad leans into your ear, “I called in a favor.”

You glance to him again and let out a laugh, “You-“

“Don’t thank me.”

He releases your arm at the end of the aisle, squeezing your hand just as it falls to your side. Conrad goes to stand beside his brother and you go to stand beside Taylor.

Your Mom looks up at you, that hint of warmth behind her eyes she always seemed to have when she looked at you.

Jeremiah looks over at you and you return his smile.

And then there she is.

Belly descends the few steps, following the path down the garden, getting closer to the waiting crowd. Her eyes land on you, on Taylor, on Steven, on Conrad, and then to Jeremiah. He faces away, focusing on the hydrangeas. He takes a deep breath. Belly does the same. And then her eyes land on your mother. You see the switch, the shift in her eyes. Belly’s lips part just slightly, like the air has been knocked from her lungs. Her shoulders drop a little, her grasp faltering slightly on the bouquet in her hands.

But it’s her eyes.

There’s something in them that Belly could never hide. Your Mom could see it too. So could Steven. You all knew her too well. Steven looks to you and you can feel the burn of his eyes, but you can’t take yours away from your sister. The crowd are starting to notice too, awkwardly shifting as they stand for the bride - the bride that was yet to move another inch. Jeremiah glances to his best men, evidently also concerned that the song was starting to end and he was still not greeted by his bride.

“She can’t do it,” You mutter the words, mainly to yourself but loud enough that Taylor clocks it too.

“Wh-“ Taylor looks to you, “What do you mean?”

Before you can respond, Belly loses her grip on the bouquet in her hands, and they fall to the floor almost perfectly in time with the tear that slips down her cheek. Her lips part like she is trying to find the words to say, her eyes blurrily focusing on the back of Jeremiah. He turns around then, like he can feel her eyes on him. It’s as if you can see the moment his heart breaks. He doesn’t know what is happening but he knows it isn’t what he had hoped. There she stood, perfect in her white dress, heels starting to dig just a little into the grass beneath her, hands trembling, tears in her eyes.

“Belly…” Jeremiah begins, his eyes only focused on her.

Across the aisle, you clock eyes with Conrad. He held a different expression to yours. You could feel your heart reaching out for your sister, wanting to wrap around hers before hers had the chance to break. He, instead, seemed to want desperately to reach out for his brother, to hold him up in his arms before he had the chance to crumble to the floor. Both of you the older siblings, just waiting for the moment to reach out to your baby siblings and tell them that you could fix whatever had broken. But something here just felt beyond fixing.

Within a second, Belly turns in her heels, hands grabbing at her dress to lift it above her ankles, running back up towards the house.

“Bells!” Jeremiah yells after her, glancing around at the gawking eyes around him, like he’s only just remembered that they are all there.

He goes to hurry after her, at the exact moment that your Mom steps out of her seat. She steps ahead of him and places a hand to his chest, saying nothing and everything in that one gesture - ‘i need to do this, not you’. And then your Mom is hurrying down the aisle, following in her youngest daughter’s footsteps back into the house. Jeremiah stands, defeated, picking up the fallen bouquet from the floor. His shoulders drop, the flowers hanging limp beside his leg. In that moment, he looks like a boy that had borrowed his father’s suit. A boy in an attempt to be a man, suddenly out of his depth and flailing to stay above the surface. He looked younger than his years, no longer a groom but simply a little boy that had lost his best friend. Whilst you would never put aside him cheating on Belly, in that moment your heart ached for him. In fact, your heart broke for him.

———

If it wasn’t obvious, the wedding didn’t go ahead that day. Conrad apologised to the guests, though the small crowd seemed more confused than disappointed. He had offered that they could take some food with them but the whole idea seemed a bit strange, and in the end everybody left sober and hungry as if there had never been a wedding to attend at all. Adam had sat trying to console Jeremiah, telling him that Belly just needed some space and then they could figure it out. Your Mom had been in Belly’s room with her for over an hour. You’d brought them water and tissues and, now, you, Steven and Taylor all stayed in the corridor outside waiting for your cue to her. It felt like a hospital waiting room. Steven had taken off his jacket, undone the top button of his shirt, loosened his tie. He sat on the floor, his suit trousers oddly looking far too small for him as they hiked up the length of his calfs, his knees drawn up, his head pressed back against the wall. Taylor stood beside him, her heels discarded on the floor, her hair still perfectly in place, creases forming in her dress from where she leant back against the wall too. You stood opposite the two of them, all three of you completely silent until Steven says;

“She should have never forgiven him in the first place.”

“Isn’t Jere supposed to be like your best friend?” Taylor squints, “Didn’t you want this?”

“Yeah before I found out that he cheated on my fucking sister,” Steven scoffs, “She deserves better than that.”

“How did your Mom turn up?” Taylor directs her attention to you, “Did you know she was going to be here?”

You shake your head, “I think Conrad spoke to her. I’m glad she came, it’s who Belly needed to see. Maybe Conrad knew that.”

Before you can say anything more, your Mom steps out of the room, glancing between all three of you. She gives you a nod as if an approval to enter and Steven and Taylor burst through the door as if they were animals breaking free from their cage. You pause for a moment, seeing the look on your mother’s face - a strange mix of sadness and relief and pride and worry. You were sure the same expression would echo in your own.

“She’s okay?”

“She’s going to be,” Laurel squeezes your arm.

With that, you step into the room too. Belly was sat in the middle of the bed. Steven sits in front of her, a furrow between his brows. Taylor sits on one side of her, stroking Belly’s hair. Your sister looked strangely older in the moment, not in age but more so in maturity. A full adult. You walk over and take the space on the other side of her. In the blink of an eye, Belly falls into you, her arms wrapping around you, your torso practically holding her up as she sobs against your shoulder. And, just like that, she’s back to being your little sister. You know nothing else in the moment but to be there for her, gripping her tightly, reminding her it would be okay, that she was okay, promising her it would get better. And that is how you stay.

———

The sun is starting to set by the time you leave the room. Belly had fallen asleep and Taylor had promised to stay with her. Steven had gone out to get food with your parents. You close the bedroom door behind you, picking up your heels from the floor and carrying them downstairs. As you step into the kitchen, the house feeling emptier than ever now, you catch a glimpse of one lingering body outside.

“You know I think the wedding is cancelled,” You call over to him, walking across the grass to the chairs and aisle still set up as they were.

Conrad glances over his shoulder, standing up from the chair in the front row, “Are you sure about that?”

“I heard something about it, yeah.”

You both laugh, falling silent a moment later.

“How’s Jere?”

“How’s Belly?”

The words come out together, tangling in the space between you. Conrad lets you speak first, he always did.

“She’s okay, she’s just fallen asleep. I think she’ll feel a bit clearer in the morning,” You nod, “And Jere?”

“Devastated. He’s gone home with Dad, we said it would be best if they just had some space for a day or two. For both of them,” Conrad nods, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, “It was horrible seeing him like that.”

“Do you-“ You wrap your arms over your chest, “Do you think she made the right choice?”

“Absolutely,” Conrad exhales, shaking his head, “It’s just shitty that it had to break Jere’s heart in the process.”

You nod in agreement, both of you falling silent again. When the two of you split up, you both agreed nobody’s heart was broken, it just didn’t work out. It was only one summer. And yet you hadn’t felt complete again until you saw him that thanksgiving. Maybe that was what a broken heart could feel like, a little bit broken at least.

“It’s also shitty that I put all this effort into the hydrangeas for nothing,” Conrad turns around, walking over to the archway of flowers, still flourishing in bloom, seemingly the brightest thing around.

“You did this?!”

“Of course I did,” Conrad smirks, “Jere said they didn’t need anything but, come on!”

“Oh it absolutely needed this,” You reassure him, “I just can’t believe you made it.”

“Well, you underestimate me Conklin,” He nods, his eyes trailing you as you inspect the structure, fingertips brushing over the delicate petals.

“Maybe I do,” You smile, pulling your eyes away from the flowers to glance over at him.

“I, um,” He pauses, “I thought they’d be good if I ever got married but…”

“They’re beautiful,” You beam, “I used to tell your Mom when I was younger that I wanted them at my wedding.”

Conrad knew that, of course he did. That’s the main reason he wanted them at his.

He clears his throat, “Where did everybody go?”

“Well, Taylor is staying with Belly, and my parents and Steven went out for food,” You explain.

“Food?” Conrad laughs, “Have you seen how much fucking food we have for this wedding?”

You grimace, “Isn’t it a bit bad to eat food from a wedding that didn’t happen?”

“Isn’t it bad to waste perfectly good food?” Conrad narrows his eyes at you.

You laugh, reaching up to smooth a hand over your hair. It was a little messier now, the curls frizzing from where Belly had been pressed against you. In that moment, Conrad steps a space closer to you, his fingers lifting to brush a curl away from your face. His eyes flick from your hair, to your dress, to your eyes, to your lips, to your eyes again.

“You know,” He clears his throat, “As best man and maid of honor I think we’re supposed to dance at the wedding.”

“You don’t dance, Fisher.”

“With you, I would.”

He steps back from you, reaches a hand into his pocket and takes out his phone. In a few presses, ‘something, somehow, someday’ starts to play. It’s quiet, just loud enough for the two of you. Conrad sets the phone down onto the floor, beside the archway, and reaches out a hand to you. You oblige.

His hand moves to your back, the other holding one of yours. Your head rests against his chest, feeling a hint of calm for the first time all day. For the first verse and first chorus, you remain like this, until he moves both of his hands to your waist, and yours move to link behind his neck, looking up at him as he towered above you. Barefoot in front of him, you felt shorter than ever against his tall form.

“So, when did you change Fisher?”

“Change?” He cocks a brow, “I didn’t change.”

Perhaps, he’s right. Perhaps this was just you starting to see him again. There’s that electricity in your heart again, that same excitement. It was him. Only he could bring that feeling.

“We had to grow up so fast, being the older ones,” He speaks so softly, “I think in that time I was so focused on being there for them that I stopped thinking about doing anything to grow up myself. If I wasn’t focused on Jere or Belly or Steven, I was focused on impressing my Dad or being there for my Mom. After… when Mom passed, I just realised I had to do something differently. I could be there for Jere but I could also let him fuck up, and I could still kind of hate my Dad but I could also just accept that he was never going to change. I could grieve and be sad in California or I could keep busy - I started cooking more, getting better at making things, fixing things. I don’t know, I just felt like maybe I could be helpful to myself instead of just waiting for someone else that needed help.”

You readjust your hands around his neck, dropping to his shoulders, fingers holding over the muscles there, “I know how you feel. After Belly went to college… I just… you know, I love being their sister, of course I do, but part of me knew I needed to not just be that for a little while. I stopped being so argumentative when I didn’t have my little siblings to defend, I stopped worrying so much when I didn’t have to worry about them too. I feel like I’m more myself.”

Conrad smiles and only now do you realise the song had started playing for a second time. Neither of you make an attempt to move, still swaying back and forth to the lyrics, Conrad’s hands still held firmly on your waist. Your eyes look to the sun setting, to the empty chairs, to the hydrangeas in their perfect arrangement. And yet his eyes don’t leave you.

———

When you make the move to go back inside, Conrad holds the door open for you, the two of you padding over to the kitchen.

“Do you think they’ll notice if we eat some of the food?” You hiss.

Conrad looks back, turning on the low light in the kitchen to illuminate the room a little. You lean down to look into the refrigerator, scanning over the trays of food that were stored. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering slightly.

Within a second, Conrad steps behind you, his jacket draping over your shoulders. Electricity, again.

“We can take this,” Conrad leans over you, placing one hand on your back and the other one reaching over you to take one of the plates.

“This feels like a curse,” You whisper, slipping your arms into his jacket, letting it fall over your form.

You hop up onto the kitchen island, legs dangling over the edge.

“Then we’ll be cursed,” He narrows his eyes at you, setting the plate down beside you, “But if it helps, this is just my leftovers.”

From one of the cupboards, he takes out two slices of bread - a thick farmhouse bread, the kind you’d pick up from the farmers market.

“It does help.”

Conrad takes out slices of grilled chicken and sets them over the slices of bread, taking out lettuce and mayonnaise from the fridge and bringing it over.

“I feel like I should be helping,” You comment, watching as he finishes up with the sandwich.

“Believe it or not Conklin, I’m just about capable of making a sandwich,” He assures you, picking up the sandwich and bringing it over, “You can try first.”

You take a big bite from one side, licking away the mayonnaise from the corner of your mouth, “You are correct, you are capable of making a sandwich, Fisher.”

Conrad leans down and takes a bite from the sandwich still in your hands, his eyes focused on you as he does, “Hm, could be better.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

A growing part of you felt guilty. When you would think back to this day, it wouldn’t only be Belly that came to mind. Not just her. Not just Jeremiah’s devastation. Instead, the day would be laced with these moments with Conrad. These moments that didn’t feel like you and him and yet felt more like yourselves than ever. You weren’t arguing, you weren’t debating, you were just in these tiny moments of harmony with a boy that made you feel electric.

“So, where do you think things go from here?” Conrad asks you, not moving from in front of you.

“I’m hoping Belly goes to Paris, it would be good for her, get some space, clear her head,” You nod, “And I hope Jere is good too, who knows maybe this will bring he and your Dad closer. He can go back to the frat, maybe it will be good for him to just enjoy the last bit of college and figure it out from there.”

Conrad nods, “It’s Jere, he’ll be okay.”

Before you can continue, the front door opens and your Mom and Steven appear.

Conrad clears his throat, stepping back from you.

“Hey!” You smile over at the two of them, “Where’s Dad?”

“He went back to the motel,” Laurel explains, “He’ll come back in the morning to see Belly. Have you seen her?”

You shake your head, “She’s still asleep.”

Steven smiles, “It’s probably the most sleep she’s had all week.”

“Have you two eaten? I brought back some things from the restaurant,” Your Mom hands over a plastic bag of takeaway boxes.

Her eyes glance down at the sandwich on the counter, bites taken from two corners.

“Well, I’m going to go to sleep,” Laurel sighs, squeezing your knee, “Get some rest, it’s been a long day.”

You nod to your Mom and she squeezes Steven’s hand before walking out.

“What did you guys do since we’ve been gone?” Steven asks, filling up a glass of water.

Conrad glances to you, a small glint of a smile, “Nothing exciting.”

“Do you think they’re going to be okay?” Steven turns around, looking to you for his answer as he always seemed to.

“They will,” You nod, the sleeves of Conrad’s jacket hanging over your hands, “Eventually, both of them will know it was the right choice.”

Steven takes a deep breath, “I’m going to crash, I’ve had a headache since this morning.”

“There’s medicine in my toiletries bag, take some before you sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning,” You say to him and he salutes as if following an order.

“Good night, you two,” Steven shuffles out of the room.

Conrad looks back at you. Your hair was messier, your makeup was wearing down, your dress was wrinkling around your thighs where the material had creased, his jacket fell baggy around your torso. You were perfect. To him, you always would be.

“You want to know another shitty thing about this wedding not going ahead?”

“Let me guess, you also made the cake?” You cock a brow.

Conrad rolls his eyes, “No.”

“Then what, Fisher?”

“I-“ He croaks, “I wrote a speech.”

“A speech?” You raise your brows.

“Well, Steven did most of the best man speech but I thought I should say something too so I wrote some things down,” Conrad explains, “It’s in my jacket.”

You grin widely, reaching into the inside pocket to pull out the folded piece of paper.

Scrawled in his hand writing were a few bullet point notes:

- thank everyone

- congrats jere + belly

- mom + laurel

- dads?

And, underneath, scrawled just like the rest, words that struck like a bolt of lightning through your chest. Like you could hear them being spoken through his own voice.

Love like this will never leave you. It will stay with you in every moment you’re together. And in those moments you are apart, you will realise the difference love made when they were there. The person they make you want to be, the way they challenge you, the way you see parts of yourself in them. Love like this will never leave because it is what wakes you up in the morning, what makes every passing day worth it. Whether fleeting or forever, it is love that shapes us and love that makes us carry on.

When you look up, the paper held between your fingers, Conrad is stood leaning against the kitchen counter opposite you. You go to speak but, instead, your lips just part and nothing comes out. You feel a heat build in your cheeks, a clench in your chest. And before you can think, Conrad strides over to you, his hands grasping either side of your face, pulling you into him. His lips find yours, firm and desperate and longing and him. You gasp against the contact, hands flying to his shoulders, twisting at the material of his shirt.

When he pulls away, both of you stop as if the air has been completely knocked from your lungs. His eyes are solely on you, scanning for a reaction - be it good or bad.

You don’t say anything, just drag one hand into his hair at the back of his neck and pull him to you once more, gentle and steady this time.

“I-“

“Me too,” You whisper when his words won’t come out, his forehead pressing against yours.

He smiles, breathless in the hot air between the two of you, “I thought… I just… I couldn’t waste any more time not telling you how I felt.”

You smile too, running your hand through the hair that had fallen in front of his face.

“I mean it,” Conrad persists, “Everything on that paper, I mean it.”

You glance down at the speech notes he’d handed you, discarded at some point on the countertop. You feel your heart swell, less electric this time and more just like it was finally full once more.

“I’ve missed you,” You whisper, smiling over the words.

Conrad grins, shifting his hands underneath your thighs to scoop you from the counter. You squeal, your legs wrapping around him, arms flying to hold yourself around his neck.

He carries you across the kitchen and into the lounge, lowering you down onto the couch before dropping down beside you.

Years ago, the two of you would spend hours like this. It was at the same time that Laurel wasn’t happy with the two of you sharing a room. So, instead, you’d both sneak downstairs and spend hours on the couch. You’d lean back against the arm rest and he would lay down over you, his head against your chest, his legs hanging over the opposite arm rest. He could feel the steady beat of your heart, and the way your chest would shake when you’d laugh. You’d draw patterns over his arms, he’d draw patterns over your thighs.

Like this, the weight of the day seems to fall on your shoulders, your eyes struggling to remain open. You feel your limbs grow heavy, arm draping over him as if you needed even your sleeping form to remember that he was still there.

———

When you wake the next morning, there is no weight on top of you, instead just a blanket draped over. You glance around and don’t see Conrad anywhere.

This is how it was when the two of you first split up. You’d spoken for hours the night before about accepting that it wasn’t working, then you’d both fallen asleep on that couch and the next morning he’d disappeared. Neither of you brought it up again, never spoke about it to anybody else, you just carried on.

You feel a strange clench in your chest at the thought, maybe this was a repeat. Maybe yesterday was just both of you caught in the moment.

As you step up from the couch, your dress creased and bunched around you, the material feeling weirdly itchy and uncomfortable now you’d been wearing it for so long. Your eyes catch sight of a t-shirt and shorts folded on the table beside the couch and you feel your heart swell a little. They were folded neatly - one of Conrad’s t-shirts and a pair of your own shorts you were sure you hadn’t worn in maybe five years. When you try to change into them, the shorts barely reach past your knees but the t-shirt came down low enough around your thighs that you give up on the shorts all together. That would suffice.

You notice a glimpse of someone outside and recognise the mop of hair before anything else. Conrad is stacking up chairs from the garden and carrying them over to one side. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and grey baggy shorts. You smile to yourself. If this was like the first time, you would dread the thought of going out there and letting him confirm your worst fear. But you were older now. More sure of yourself.

You step outside, the door closing lightly behind you as you pad down the stairs and across the garden. Conrad was crouched down now beside one of the chairs, unfastening some flowers they’d used as decoration. He glances up when he sees you walking closer. And, as if a reflex response, his face lights up into a bright smile, standing up from his position instantly.

“Hey you,” He beams, wrapping his arms around you so strong he lifts you up from the ground.

Your arms wrap around him too, breathing in the after-shower scent he always had in the mornings.

As he lowers you back to the ground you find the courage to say, “I thought you’d left.”

“No, no, I just thought I’d clear this stuff up before Belly woke up and-“ It’s then that he realises what you actually meant, not that he’d just left but that he’d left you, that whatever happened yesterday was already over.

He pauses, cupping one hand to your cheek and leaning down to kiss you gently, pulling away and looking between both of your eyes, back to your lips, back to your eyes.

“I’m not leaving.”

You smile, looping your arms around his neck as you feel the relief settling into your chest.

“Thank you for bringing me clothes, I couldn’t wear that dress any longer,” You mention, running your finger through the short hairs at the back of his neck.

“Yeah I brought you shorts too but I-“ Conrad glances back to the house.

You giggle, “Con, I don’t think I’ve worn those since I was like 18, they definitely don’t fit anymore.”

He scrunches his nose, narrowing his eyes, “That would make sense, yeah, that would explain why I found them buried at the back of my closet.”

You laugh, “That would be it.”

“Well, at least you look good in my t-shirt,” Conrad grins, lifting you up, the t-shirt riding up over your underwear.

“Conrad!” You squeal, one hand flying back to try to pull the material back down.

He laughs, setting you back down onto the grass, “Give me five minutes to finish this up and then coffee?”

You hum in agreement and he kisses you gently, and then once more as if he just couldn’t help himself.

He turns around and finds an already empty chair, stepping aside as if encouraging you to sit there. You oblige, drawing your knees up to your chest as he carries on around the garden. He carries over a few chairs to the other side of the garden into the stacks he’d already made, a pile of flowers starting to form on the ground beside them. Then he moves over to the hydrangeas, seconds away from lifting the arch up before he pauses, glancing over his shoulder in your direction. He shifts around for a moment, unfastening one of the large flowers from its arrangement, before turning around with the biggest of smiles on his face.

You giggle as he walks towards you, flower held firmly in his hands as he crosses over the garden to you.

He leans down, settling the flower into your own grasp as his face comes to be level with yours. You smile, feeling your cheeks flush under his attention, your heart pounding with the same electricity. His breath fans hot over your lips, his lips parting just a little as Conrad leans in enough to close the gap between you. His kiss is slow and gentle and yet so incredibly sure of himself it’s unlike anything you’ve felt before. This could be it. You and him.

Just you and him.

[asuperconfusedgirl]

YES! THANK YOU this is what my precious cutie-pie darling babyboy deserves❤️

[approaching-the-scrungularity-d]

I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

[thelhc]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[coughloop]

Ever since I was a little girl I always wanted to get hit by a car in a way that would make me a lot of money

[fandomscombine]

Mid 20s taste in men becoming grumpy on the outside yet soft for you type shit.

Hello again Bucky Barnes, hello Aaron Hotchner

[mx-pastelwriting]

*sigh*