P A O L A

22 | Female | She/her | Pisces ♓️| Mexican | constantly daydreaming 🔮✨

[miserymorgue]

orbit | j. abbot

pairing jack abbot x lawyer fem!reader

summary after a sweet kiss, jack abbot works up the courage to ask out his favourite hospital lawyer, who finds herself needing aid. (i HATESUMMARIES)

tags/warnings age gap (mid 20s/mid 40s), workplace r but its lawyer so... hr dgaf, r smokes cigarettes mentioned, r is girlyvibe, loves pink/fashion and all, lowkey an amy santiago variant lowkey gaf about paper lol, embarrassing thing to r + nosebleed/taken care of stuff, medical/lawyer stuff, r=afraid of her blood lol

wc 5.7k words

could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics), part four (luck)

“Princess Peach! You’re back.”

You glance up, already smiling.

Paul Novak—South Fifteen, bed two—propped up, gauze half-hanging off a very clearly re-broken nose. Again. A night regular.

“Hey, Paul,” you call back, stepping around a trolley as you walk beside Parker. “Stunt work going well, then?”

“Amazing. Beautiful. Career’s thriving,” he says, high as hell. “What’re you doin’ later? We should grab—” hiccup—“something to eat.”

“Stop flirting with the lawyer way out of your league, Mr Novak,” Parker says, not even looking up as she doesn’t even pretend to read through the document you handed her, clicking her pen.

“You didn’t read it,” you point out mildly.

“I trust you,” she says, signing. “You wouldn’t hand me something garbage.”

You stop walking.

“I absolutely would not let you sign something without reading it,” you correct, taking the clipboard back before she can finish. “This is a deed of release. It extinguishes your right to bring future proceedings relating to the incident. You don’t get to guess your way through that.”

Parker exhales. “You are ruining my workflow, princess.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, handing it back. “At least skim clause seven—indemnity is broader than standard. They’re trying to capture associated claims.”

Paul squints at you. “Why are you so pink?”

You snort, ignoring him.

“You remind me of my old professor. You should look into being a teacher if this doesn’t work out.” Parker suggests.

“She can teach me anytime,” Paul adds, helpfully.

“Jesus,” Parker mutters. “Concussion’s worse than I thought.”

“Who’s teaching?” a voice cuts in.

You don’t need to turn to know.

“Counselor,” Jack nods when you do, already halfway through pulling his gloves off. There’s a med student trailing behind him, wide-eyed, trying to keep up.

“Doctor,” you nod back. “Hi,” you add to the student, who very obviously clocks the heels first, then the rest of you.

“Paul’s just high,” you offer.

“He tends to be,” Jack says dryly. Then—“Got a legal question. You busy?”

“Always. But never too busy,” You smile, maybe a little more brazen as the night’s gone on. 

You leave Parker with Paul, clipboard under your notebook as you walk, Jack close by to you, hands on his stethoscope.

“How illegal would it be if I let my MS4 here attempt a femoral central line unsupervised? Hypothetically.”

You look at him. Then at the med student, who immediately looks like they’d like to disappear.

“...Pretty illegal,” you say. “Like—negligence per se, breach of duty of care, indefensible in any civil proceeding—illegal. Also just… sort of bad medicine.”

Jack hums, like he’s considering it anyway. “What if I’m in the room.”

“Actively supervising?” you clarify.

“Define actively.”

“Eyes on the procedure, ready to intervene, ensuring competency appropriate to their level of training,” you rattle off. “Otherwise you’re exposing the hospital to vicarious liability, and yourself personally if it goes sideways.”

He tilts his head. “Okay, but what if—”

“—you document appropriately, obtain informed consent that includes trainee involvement, and step in before anything goes wrong?” you cut in, briefly stopping in the hall. “Then you’re fine.”

A beat.

You start walking again. He falls into step beside you without thinking. The student follows.

“Hey, Penelope,” you call, grabbing a pudding off a passing trolley and handing it to the older woman in the wheelchair by the wall.

Her face lights up. “Thank you, darling.”

Jack watches that. Doesn’t say anything.

“Why do you want to do it?” you ask him, like you didn’t just dismantle his hypothetical.

He considers lying. You can see it. Then, a frown and a shrug—“Thought it’d be fun.”

You glance at the med student, then back at him.

“Do it the way I told you,” you say, stopping outside Central Two. “Then it’s still fun, and—” you tap a finger lightly against his chest, “—you don’t get sued.”

His eyes drop, just briefly, to where you touched him. It lingers a second longer than it should.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat, straightening slightly. “Solid plan. Good lawyering.”

There’s a pause—small, but there. Not awkward. Just… held. You swear every second that passes with him could be an hour sometimes with how you feel the blood in your veins almost slowing down to embrace the moment.

Then he steps back into himself again, rolling his neck, resetting.

“Gonna go have some legally compliant fun,” he says, jerking his head at the student. “C’mon.”

You watch him go—how easily he slips back into it, into movement, into noise, like he was never standing still in the first place.

You tried to push away the memory of his lips before it settled too deeply, but it was too late. You’d been thinking about it… constantly, to be honest. Him.

Jack’s mouth warm against yours outside the bar, one rough hand steady at your waist whilst your fingers trailed over his forearm. The street smelled faintly like rain and beer and summer heat trapped in concrete. It had been stupidly sweet.

The kind of kiss that felt dangerous mostly because of how careful he’d been with you.

You’d barely gotten your apartment door shut behind you before your phone rang. His name flashes across the screen: JACK ABBOT:)

You smiled immediately answering it, kicking off your stilettos one by one as you crossed your bedroom.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” His voice came through lower now, roughened by liqour and the late hour. “...Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

You smiled to yourself at that.

“Mhm. All good.”

You dropped your bag onto the chair near your wardrobe, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear while you reached behind yourself for the zipper of your dress.

“You still out?”

Jack sighed dramatically into the phone.

“Oh, yeah. Robby and I are walkin’ off the night.” A brief shuffle of sound. “Wanna say hi to her, man?”

Muffled in the background: “Absolutely not.”

You laughed softly.

Then Jack again, quieter now: “Nevermind. He’s giving me a look.”

You could practically picture it — Robby squinting at him like a disappointed father while both of them wandered through Pittsburgh half-drunk after shift drinks like overworked divorcees.

“You two stay safe,” you said, finally managing to tug the zipper down.

“Us? Safe?” Jack scoffed lightly. “Sweetheart, we are… complete menaces to the public.”

“Mm. Sure you are.”

“Still prime fighting age.”

You snorted.

The dress loosened finally, sliding slowly down your body before pooling around your ankles. You stepped out of it carefully while Jack kept talking, the sound of traffic and distant city noise humming softly behind his voice.

“You laugh,” he murmured, “but Robinavitch threw a guy into a jukebox in ‘98.”

“Oh my god.”

“He deserved it.”

“I’m sure that’s what Robby said to the cops too.”

Jack laughed quietly at that. God. You liked his laugh. Liked how tired it sounded. Older. Warm. Like he didn’t use it often enough.

You tossed the dress over a chair and reached for pajamas.

“So,” you said lightly, “that really the only reason you called? To make sure I got home?”

There was a brief pause. Intentional.

“Uh-huh,” Jack said. “Completely professional reasons.”

You smiled instantly hearing it in his voice already.

Then, quieter:

“Definitely not because I’ve been thinking about that kiss for the last hour.”

Heat crawled up your throat embarrassingly fast.

You sat down on the edge of the bed slowly, phone still on speaker now beside you.

“Very professional,” you murmured.

“I’m an incredibly professional man.”

“Sure thing, Nightcrawler.”

You could hear his footsteps slowing on the other end of the line, voice dipping quieter, more private.

Then:

“You taste like cherries. Is that your lipgloss?”

You let out a startled laugh, face instantly hot.

“Jack.”

“What? It’s true… and also, cigarettes. Which you'd think would be… less hot than it is.”

“You’re supposed to keep thoughts like that to yourself.”

“Too old to start learning now.”

You could hear the smile in his voice.

“You should get some sleep,” he said eventually, softer now. “Long day tomorrow.”

“Mm. You too.”

“Probably won’t.”

“You ever do?”

“Nope.”

You smiled, curling further into your bed.

There was a pause after that. Neither of you hanging up. Neither wanting to first.

Then finally:

“…Alright,” Jack murmured. “I’ll let you go.”

“Okay.”

Another pause.

Then, almost under his breath:

“Sleep well, sweetheart.”

Your chest tightened stupidly hard at that.

You grinned into the darkness after the call ended, phone falling onto the mattress beside you while the warmth of him lingered everywhere — in your mouth, your chest, the quiet hum beneath your skin.

Outside, somewhere across the city, Jack Abbot was still walking Pittsburgh streets with Robby Robinavitch at two in the morning.

And still thinking about kissing you too.

★★★

Jack had never liked lawyers before you.

It wasn’t personal. Rather… inherent, maybe.

Hospital lawyers, particularly, had a way about them—polished, careful, always speaking like there was a transcript running somewhere in the background.

They lived a step removed from the mess. From the blood, the noise, the split-second decisions that didn’t get revised later in a conference room with better lighting and time to think.

They showed up after. Clean. Composed. Asking questions that implied there should’ve been better answers in the moment.

He’d learned early—military, then civilian—that those kinds of people didn’t tend to understand the job. Not really. They understood outcomes.

Liability. Exposure. Words like that.

Not the feeling of someone’s pulse dropping under your fingers while a room full of people pretended not to panic.

Doctors weren’t exactly salt-of-the-earth either—not anymore, maybe never—but there was still something… human about the work. You couldn’t avoid it. You saw too much, too often. It got into you whether you liked it or not.

Lawyers, in his experience, kept a layer between themselves and that.

Until you.

You didn’t keep the layer. Or if you did, it was thinner. Permeable. You asked questions like you actually wanted to understand what it felt like on the floor, not just what it looked like on paper. You stayed longer than you had to. Remembered names. Brought coffee for nurses who’d been on eight hours and counting.

You looked at patients, not just cases.

It threw him, the first time he noticed it.

Threw him more that you looked at him the same way.

So yeah—having a thing for an ED lawyer who kissed him for luck after a night of drinks and darts wasn’t exactly part of any plan Jack had made for himself.

Not that he’d had much of one lately.

It had been easy, at first, to file it away as a one-off. A good night.

A pretty girl, a little too young for him, a little too sharp, a little too alive in a way he didn’t quite trust. You’d kissed him like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was something you did often—casual, warm, quick.

Then you’d smiled after, like it meant something anyway.

Your hours were erratic in a way that almost rivalled his. Sometimes he’d miss you entirely—hear you’d been in, left just before shift change. Other times he’d catch you on the way out, lingering near the elevators with a file tucked under your arm, like you were debating whether to stay.

And sometimes—

Sometimes you’d show up halfway through his shift, drop into a chair like you belonged there, and stay long enough that he ended up walking you out into the early morning.

Those were the ones he remembered.

He’d hear you before he saw you.

Your voice carried—light, quick, threaded with something warm that didn’t quite fit in a place like the ED. It cut through the noise in a way he’d started recognising before he even meant to.

He’d catch himself looking.

Not obviously. He wasn’t that far gone.

But enough.

Tonight’s no different.

He’s halfway through a chart when it hits—your voice, somewhere off to the side. He doesn’t look up right away. Gives it a second, like he’s above that kind of thing.

He isn’t.

His head tilts anyway, eyes flicking up—

“To your left, dude,” Parker sighs, not even looking at him as she types.

Jack exhales through his nose, almost smiling despite himself, and turns.

There you are.

Sitting with Paul—who, notably, does not have a broken nose tonight. Just a fresh set of stitches through his eyebrow and the kind of sheepish look patients get when they know they’re about to be told off.

You’re leaning in slightly, explaining something—contract language, probably, hands moving a little as you talk. Engaged. Focused. And smiling. 

It does something to the room. He notices it every time, even when he tells himself he’s imagining it. Like the edges of things soften a fraction when you do that.

He’s old enough to know that’s probably projection. Doesn’t really change the effect.

You glance up mid-sentence—like you felt it—and catch him looking.

There’s no hesitation. No awkwardness.

Just a small nod, easy, familiar. You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, then drop right back into whatever you were saying to Paul.

Like it didn’t cost you anything.

Jack looks away first.

“Jesus,” Parker mutters under her breath, finally glancing up at him. “You are not subtle.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replies, already back to his chart.

“You don’t have to,” she says. “Your whole face just—” she gestures vaguely, searching for the word, “—does a thing.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is a thing.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shakes his head.

Parker leans back slightly in her chair, watching you now. “Just go talk to her.”

“I talk to her.”

“No, you orbit her,” Parker corrects. “Different. Ask her out.”

Jack snorts. “In my day, there was a thing called courting.”

Parker nearly chokes on that, laughing outright now. “Courting? Oh my god. Sorry, forgot you were born in, what, the 1800s?”

“Had its merits,” Jack says, dry.

“Yeah? What, you're gonna send her a letter? Ask her father for permission?”

“Tempting.” He mutters.

Parker grins. “She likes you, you know.”

Jack doesn’t look up this time. “You need to get back to your charts, you’re thirty patients behind.”

“Deflection, your honour.” Parker jokes.

Jack shakes his head, then looks back up at you.

You’re still with Paul, but you’re laughing now at something he’s said, hand coming up briefly to touch his arm in that absent, reassuring way you have.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

Jack exhales slowly, taps his pen once against the desk.

“Finish your chart,” he says, more to himself than to Parker.

Parker smirks. “Coward.”

“Professional,” he corrects.

“Sure.”

Tonight is slow.

No one says it out loud. Not in the ED. That’s how you curse it.

So everything hums instead—monitors, distant footsteps, the low murmur of nurses catching up on charting. You’ve tucked yourself into one of the curtained bays with Paul, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a file spread across your lap.

You’re focused.

Pen in hand—one of Jack’s, the nice weighty kind he’d handed you offhand like it was nothing—you’re marking up his contract, crossing things out, circling clauses, adding little notes in the margins in rough handwriting.

Paul watches you more than he listens.

“So,” he says, a little slurred, a little too relaxed for someone with fresh stitches in his face, “what’s the deal with you and gramps?”

You don’t even look up.

“Mhm?” you hum softly, scanning a paragraph. “Hold on—this clause is terrible.”

“No, seriously,” Paul insists, nudging the bed rail lightly with his hand. “You and him.”

You blink, finally looking up. “Sorry?”

He nods past you toward the nurses’ station.

You follow his gaze—and there’s Jack.

Of course there is.

Half-turned at the desk, reading something. Still. Solid. Like he’s been there all night and will be there long after everyone else leaves.

You look back to Paul, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

“Oh,” you say lightly. “We’re friends.”

Paul just stares at you.

“Right,” he says slowly. “Definitely just friends?”

You hesitate—just a second.

Your pen taps once against the page.

“Well… kind of,” you admit, softer. “I mean—we’re… there’s a… vibe. I don’t know, we’ve been busy, I guess.”

Paul groans immediately, dropping his head back against the pillow. “Dammit.”

You blink. “What?”

“You,” he says, pointing vaguely at you. “Have a vibe. With the—” he gestures again toward Jack, “—stupid handsome old doctor.”

You laugh—bright, easy, the sound cutting clean through the quiet of the bay.

“That’s harsh,” you say, shaking your head. “He’s not that old.”

Paul squints at you. “You are twenty-three.”

“Twenty-four,” you correct automatically.

“Doesn’t help your case.”

You smile anyway, glancing back down at the contract. “You’ll be fine. Focus.”

“I was focusing,” Paul mutters. “Then I realised I don’t have a shot.”

You look up again, softer this time. “Aw, Paul. Giving up already?”

“So I did have a shot?” he perks up, shifting a little too eagerly.

You grin, sweet but decisive. “No,” you say. “But I’m flattered.”

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

He starts to say something else—hand moving like he’s about to reach for yours, testing the line—

Then stops.

His posture shifts subtly instead.

You feel it before you see it.

You turn—

Jack’s at the foot of the bed.

He’s already reading the chart, like he’s been there longer than he has. One hand resting against the metal frame, the other flipping a page, expression neutral in that way that doesn’t mean neutral at all.

“Paul,” he says, calm, dry. “What’ve you done this time?”

Paul clears his throat, suddenly more alert. “Tom Cruise probably should’ve used the fake knife.”

You scrunch your nose a little at that, instinctive. “He absolutely should’ve used the fake knife.”

Jack’s mouth twitches—barely.

You glance down at the paperwork again, tapping your pen lightly. “You could sue them for that, actually. Liability’s pretty clear if they—”

“Only if you represent me, princess,” Paul cuts in, flashing you a grin, winking.

You roll your eyes—but you’re still smiling, just a little. “Don’t call me that,” you murmur, not entirely serious, eyes back on the page.

There’s a shift in the air. Subtle.

Paul feels it—straightens a fraction, like he’s suddenly aware of where he is.

Jack finally looks up from the chart. One brow lifts.

That’s it. Not a word. Not a look that lingers too long.

Paul clears his throat again. “You know, I—uh—” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, “you got a hell of a lawyer working here.”

Jack hums.

“Yeah,” Paul adds quickly. “Good for you two. This… vibe thing.”

You shoot Paul a look this time—sharp enough to mean stop talking.

He does.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a beat.

Then, casually—like it doesn’t matter—

“Yeah,” he says, closing the chart with a soft snap. “She’s alright.”

It’s so understated it almost sounds dismissive. You catch the tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes. The way his mouth threatens to soften before he reins it back in.

Your gaze drops quickly to the contract in your lap to hide your smile, pen moving again like you’re still focused on clauses and indemnity language.

You aren’t.

And when you glance up—just for a second—Jack’s already looking at you.

Then gone again—back to work like nothing happened.

Like it didn’t just shift something in the room.

“Alright,” he says, snapping gloves onto his hands. “Let’s take a look at that eyebrow before our lawyer here bills you for emotional damages.”

You snort softly.

“I’m gonna finish reviewing this contract for you,” you tell Paul, sliding off the seat. “Then I’ll come back in an hour and we can go through revisions.”

Paul nods slowly.

“And,” you continue very seriously, “I have the best one-point-five GSM paper upstairs to print it on. It feels like heaven.”

Paul blinks.

“It means you’re getting a great contract, Paul,” Jack clarifies dryly as he gently tilts Paul’s chin toward the light.

“Yes,” you nod, a sincere smile, maybe even excitement. “With great paper.”

“With great paper,” Jack echoes, still sounding mildly confused but fully supportive anyway.

You grin to yourself as you disappear back through the curtains, pink cardigan fluttering behind you through the fluorescent blur of the ED.

The second you’re gone, the room quiets strangely.

Jack adjusts the overhead light slightly.

“…You mind if I ask what a vibe is?” he asks eventually, genuinely curious. “That’s… you know, good, right?”

Paul laughs once before wincing.

“Jesus— ow.”

“Hold still.”

Jack carefully presses gauze to the edge of the split skin.

“I think it’s good,” Paul says. “Like… chemistry.”

Jack grunts thoughtfully.

“Your generation doesn’t speak the same language, or something?”

“She was just talking about good printer paper, Doctor Abbot. I don’t know what language she’s speaking half the time, to be honest.”

“Great paper,” Jack corrects automatically.

The thing about Jack Abbot was that he looked easygoing until you watched him closely.

Everybody in the ED knew him as the calmer one between him and Robby. Dry humour. Veteran attending. Night shift lifer. The guy who de-escalated screaming patients by sheer exhaustion alone.

But underneath that easy steadiness was somebody intensely deliberate.

Jack thought things through.

Including you.

Especially you.

Which was why he’d spent the better part of two weeks trying to figure out how to ask you out without making it weird.

You worked with him. Relied on him. Trusted him. 

He didn’t want you cornered into saying yes because he was your ride home at seven in the morning and this… attending happened to be looking at you, and you’d look back with those big soft eyes that made him feel younger and guiltier at the same time.

So, you know, at least he decided: No asking until after the ride offer.

No pressure. Simple. Reasonable.

Unfortunately, reasonableness became difficult around three in the morning after hours of watching you exist.

Watching you charm angry patients into calming down. Watching you ramble excitedly about fountain pens and deposition strategy while eating gummy bears from the nurses’ station candy jar. Watching you cross your legs on a stool while reviewing contracts beside trauma bays like the emergency department was somehow a perfectly normal place to flirt with a middle aged physician.

By three AM, Jack had started bargaining with himself.

If she still laughs at my jokes by sunrise, I’ll ask.

If she asks me for coffee again, I’ll ask.

If she looks at me like that one more time, I’ll-.

“—you’re gonna wanna recheck that potassium before you—”

“Abbot.”

Jack looks up from the chart immediately.

Parker’s already moving toward him through Central.

“South Four,” she says quietly. “Your lawyer.”

Something in his face changes instantly, immediately sharpens, back straightens.

“What about her?”

“Shen’s got her,” Parker says. “Looks like a fall. Nosebleed. She’s…” a slight pause, “not thrilled.”

Jack’s already moving before she finishes.

Pen shoved into scrub pocket. Coffee abandoned.

“Take over for me?” he tosses toward the med students without slowing.

“You got it,” Parker says immediately.

Muscle memory takes over—feet carrying him down the hall on instinct, pace just shy of urgent. You’re in one of the few free private rooms as Jack opens the door.

“The hell happened here?”

Jack doesn’t raise his voice—but it lands anyway.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed in South Four, tissues pressed under your nose, shoulders tight, hair falling forward like you can hide behind it, teary.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly, eyes squeezed shut.

“She won’t let me look,” Shen says, half a shrug from the stool.

Jack’s already pulling gloves on, stepping in. “I’ve got it. Go cover North Twelve—grab my board for ten, help Ellis.”

Shen hesitates. “You sure, boss—”

“Yeah,” Jack says, not looking away from you. “All good here.”

The door shuts behind him.

And suddenly it’s just you and Jack.

Quieter. Smaller.

You sniffle, breath hitching, tissue already soaked through. Your free hand grips the edge of the bed like you’re bracing for impact.

Jack drags the stool in close—closer than strictly necessary—and sits.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Look at me.”

You shake your head immediately. “No—no, I can’t, it’s—” your voice wobbles, “—I don’t wanna see it.”

His brows lift just slightly.

“…You’re telling me you spend all day arguing about catastrophic injuries,” he says, dry, “and a nosebleed’s taking you out?”

“It’s my nosebleed,” you snap, then wince at your own tone. “That’s different. I really don’t like seeing my own blood, okay”

“Alright,” he says easily. “Fair ‘nough.”

No pushback. No teasing—yet.

You swallow hard, breath uneven. “It’s so embarrassing.”

“That part I believe,” he says.

“Jack.”

“Kidding,” he adds, softer. “Mostly.”

You let out a shaky breath.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Keep your eyes closed if you want. I’m just gonna take a look, alright? But you have to let me get a good look, can you do that for me? Hm?”

You nod, eyes staying tightly closed.

His hand comes up under your chin—steady, warm—tilting your face just enough for him to see. Gentle, but firm. Grounding. He watches as a quick tear falls from your eye, your mascara is over your cheeks, blending with the blood slightly.

He takes a second.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Small abrasion here… bit on the other side. Nose is still bleeding but not heavy.”

“Is it bad?” you ask immediately.

“No,” he says. “Looks worse than it is.”

His thumb brushes your cheek with gauze, clearing blood carefully from the scrape. You flinch.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Just cleaning. You’re okay.”

Your breathing stutters anyway.

“How did this happen, sweetheart?” He wonders, voice soft. “You fell or somethin’?”

“Jack, I—God, I fell in front of everyone,” you say, mortified. “Like, properly. I heard someone gasp.”

“Yeah, that’s rough,” he says.

“Don’t—don’t say it like that—”

“Alright, alright.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You wanna hear something worse?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t stop him.

“First year attending,” he says, matter-of-fact, still working at your cheek. “In theatre. Full room. Med student swings a gurney too wide—takes out my leg.”

You pause, eyes still shut. “What?”

“My prosthetic,” he clarifies. “Comes clean off. Hits the floor.”

You freeze. He keeps going like it’s nothing.

“Whole room goes dead silent. Student looks like he’s about to pass out. Scrub nurse won’t even look at me.”

“…Jack.”

“I had to… hop to the side table to get it back on,” he continues, tone dry. “Mid-procedure.”

A beat.

You let out a small, disbelieving sound. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says. “Finished the case too. Perfect appendectomy if memory serves me right.”

You sniff, a shaky breath turning into something closer to a laugh.

“That is—oh my god, that’s… a bit worse than me falling.”

“Exactly,” he says simply. “You’re doing great.”

That steadies you more than anything else so far.

Your grip on the bed loosens slightly.

“Alright,” he says. “Pinch here for me.” He guides your fingers higher on the bridge. “Lean forward. Don’t tilt back.”

You follow, more obedient now.

“Is my dress ruined?” You ask suddenly, quieter. “It’s vintage, Jack.”

There’s that small, inevitable twitch at the corner of his mouth. You’re wearing a pink and black lace looking dress, polka dots. Multi-tonal, as you once put it.

“Bit on the hem,” he says. “Cold water, bicarb. You’ll survive.”

You huff softly. “Thank god.”

He swaps gauze, checking again, then tilts your chin slightly.

“Any head strike? You dizzy?”

“No.”

“Black out?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

His fingers trace lightly along the bridge of your nose, testing.

“Tell me if this hurts.”

“It all hurts.”

“Helpful,” he mutters.

He presses more specifically.

You flinch. “Okay—yeah, that.”

“Mm. Minor bruising, no break,” he says. “No deformity. You’re lucky.”

You crack one eye open, immediately regret it, and shut it again. “I don’t feel lucky.”

His thumb brushes just under your eye, catching another tear before it drops.

“You are,” he says quietly. “My lucky charm, remember?”

You go still for a second.

He’s close. Closer than he needs to be now.

One hand still steady at your jaw, the other resting lightly against your cheek where he’d just been cleaning.

You finally open your eyes.

Slowly.

He’s right there.

Calm. Focused. A little tired around the edges—but steady in that way he always is.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, smaller this time. “Thanks.”

“Kind of my job,” He says, softly.  “I really don’t want to get sued and have Jane as my lawyer. Don't think she's a big fan of me.”

You smile a bit at that. “Of course.”

His hand lingers a second longer than necessary.

Then he drops his hand—professional again—as he reaches for fresh gauze.

“Alright,” he says, clearing his throat lightly. “We’ll clean you up, maybe throw a steri-strip on that if it opens. Then you can go back to running in heels like it’s an Olympic sport.”

You groan softly, tipping your head back against the wall. “Don’t.”

“Or,” he adds, glancing at you, “we invest in better footwear.”

“No,” you shake your head immediately. “They’re perfect. Look at how cute these ones are. They’re Chanels.”

That pulls the smallest real smile out of him. “Yeah? How much were they?”

“Stupid amount. But I get good deals on DePop,” You hum, mood lifting a bit, distracted now from your minor injury. “I’ve got my eye on these Gucci heels.”

“Pink?”

“No, actually," you sigh. "Off-white.”

“Scandalous.”

A beat.

Neither of you moves right away.

Then—

“Hey,” he adds, quieter.

You look at him.

“Next time you’re gonna wipe out,” he says, dry, “try not to do it in my department. Bad for morale.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh despite yourself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.”

Another pause. He swaps the gauze, more slowly now than he needs to.

“While I’ve got you,” he starts, almost offhand—then, “now… how did Paul put it… a vibe?”

You immediately groan, putting your hands over your face now in embarrassment, light around your face as you hide yourself. “Oh my god—don’t. Not right now.”

“I’m just asking,” he says mildly. “Might be misunderstanding generational terminology here. Vibe could mean a variety of things.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “You’re such an ass.”

“So this vibe,” he continues, ignoring that. “That you and I apparently have.”

You drop your hand, giving him a look—eyes still a little watery, lashes clumped slightly from earlier. “I hate this…”

He studies you for a second—quiet, steady.

“…Is that you telling me you’ve got a crush on me?” he asks.

It’s so flat it almost doesn’t land as a joke.

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s a small laugh under it.

He hums, unconvinced. “Doesn’t read very ‘crush’ to me.”

“Yeah?” you tilt your head slightly. “What does it read like, then?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his hand comes up—slow, deliberate—brushing a piece of hair back from your face, thumb settling warm against your cheek.

You go still.

His gaze flicks over you—quick, assessing, then softer.

He shakes his head once. “Not that.”

That’s all he gives you.

You hold his gaze for a second—

Then lean forward. It’s not tentative. You close the space between you easily, like you’ve already decided, one hand bracing lightly against his shoulder as your lips press to his.

Soft—but not shy.

There’s a little heat in it. A little insistence.

He stills for half a second—just enough to register it—

Then kisses you back.

Grounded. Steady. Not rushed.

When you pull back, it’s only by a few inches, breath brushing against his.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Alright. I’m getting the… vibe.”

You huff a quiet laugh, forehead nearly bumping his. “Just ask me out already. God.”

He exhales softly through his nose, almost amused. “Was going to.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Not like this, though. Not when you’re bleeding and crying. Got mascara on your face and everything.”

You frown faintly. “Rude.” You sniff, a small smile creeping back in. “I thought the blood and tears might help my chances.”

He clicks his tongue. “Not particularly, no.”

A beat—then, softer—

“I’ll cook for you.”

That lands differently.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Dinner,” he says, like it’s obvious. “When you’re not… this.”

He gestures vaguely at your face, the gauze, the situation.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Wow. Romantic.”

“I’d still cook for you if you were bloody, teary, Hell, you could break a leg right now, I'll make you a whole turkey,” he adds, a little drier. “Just not my first choice.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“Yeah, I try.”

You nod, softer now. “That sounds nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

You tilt your head at him. “You should probably get back to your patients. This is wildly unethical.”

“You are my patient right now,” he points out, standing anyway.

You tip your chin up at him as he does, eyes following. “Mhm. Leave.”

“It’d actually be more unethical to walk out,” he says. “You could have a concussion. Or—”

“I don’t,” you cut in.

“—a more significant nasal injury—”

“I don’t,” you repeat.

“—or be hiding symptoms—”

“Jack.”

He stops.

You hold his gaze, softer now. “Go.”

A beat.

He exhales, nodding once. “Alright.”

He steps back, pulling his gloves off, tossing them neatly.

“Nurse’ll come check on you,” he says. “Shen’s already started your chart. You need anything—pain, dizziness, whatever—you call me, alright?”

“Yes, doctor,” you say sweetly.

He gives you a look at that. “Okay, but you need anything else that isn’t medical related, also give me a call.”

“Leave me alone, you creepy old man, God,” you add, voice light.

“You’re the one kissing me,” he points out. “The lawyer-client boundary there is being wildly exploited here, and you are... technically in a hell of a position of power.”

“Leave.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it.

He moves to the door, hand on the handle—

Pauses.

Glances back. You’re watching him. Of course you are. A small, almost private smile tugs at his mouth. Even bloody, teary, dress and hair messy, mascara running, you’re doing that thing where the whole room feels lighter. Where his body feels easier to live in than it did before that.

Then he shakes his head to himself, opens the door—

“You’re still the prettiest thing here,” he adds over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Jack.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, and disappears back into the noise of the ED.

The door shuts.

part one | linger + part two | strawberry + part three | optics + part four | luck

a/n: another part strikes again! guys i need to take a writing hiatus soon bc i have to really properly lock in for my exams i am fuckkkked for them!!!! also my team killed at trivia tonight. i hope yall r enjoying! and like i posted, i AM looking for name suggestions for this series lol!

[csi-junkie]

i love joe keery in tank tops as much as the next person ,,,,, but i think the absolute sluttiest thing he can wear is a tie

[djosnoopy]

many thoughts…. head full of many thoughts rn….

[hystericalesoteric]

WHEN I SEARCH UP ANGST I DON'T WANT FLUFF OR SMUT. I WANT GUT WRENCHING ANGST YOU FUCKING IDIOTS

[mr-styles]

bbcradio1 7am. tomorrow. @harrystyles 🪩

[kassy-djomunson]

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

[andrew-garfielld]

Joe Keery as Steve Harrington STRANGER THINGS Season 5 | Vol. 2

[dustibunily]

[stevebabey]

the things we do for love

summary: Quarantine blows. Marginally less so when you're with your boyfriend, but, hey, even that isn't without it's whinging and complaints.

You decide it's worth risking an encounter with Murray (ugh), if it means getting the chance to surprise your love. It just doesn't occur to you that someone else might have the exact same idea.

[established relationship, 4k of nothingness and sweetness <3]

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Funnily enough, despite Steve's eager insistence, quarantine is not what one would describe as fun.

You knew it wouldn't be.

Steve, on the other hand, had insisted on playing devil's advocate.

You think he'd been hamming it up for your sake—or maybe because trying to make light of a little lockdown is far easier than trying to make light of the potential end of the world.

An impossible task on either hand, in your opinion.

Which means, of course your boyfriend gave it his best shot.

"Means we get to spend all this time together," He'd murmured into his kiss, his hands cupping your face sweetly.

It had been just a couple hours after the earthquake rocked through Hawkins and the kisses seemed to well from an endless stream of thank fuck, you're okay, you're okay, you're alive.

Well, they'd started that way.

Then he'd just been kissing you because he loves to do it.

"Like that's new," you'd retorted – though it hadn't come out as snarky as you hoped, given it was smothered beneath Steve's next kiss.

"Yeah, but it's like," He'd stopped and you could see the gears in his head ticking, trying to find a good way to spin this. "We're stuck together," He'd grinned, mouth pink from the kisses. "Couldn't get away if you wanted to."

Then, he seemed to hear himself, reeling it back in with a half grimace.

"Okay, not like, in a controlling way, or anything. In a romantic way. It's romance. You're being wooed right now."

You'd cracked and laughed then, and Steve had captured the noise with another kiss, tasting the sweetness of it on his tongue.

You had to admit, you did admire his perseverance in the face of pretty bleak conditions. Steve's always been one to soldier on despite the wounds. To lead with his heart.

It makes sense that he, in all his loverboy glory, can make the end of the world a little more heart-shaped.

Even if you had been right.

Quarantine sucks.

For some reason, you'd expected to feel a little more… bonded with the town of Hawkins. You're all in this together now, after all. One great big wound in the earth, one great big wall to keep you all in.

It had, just a couple months ago, felt like a traitorous thorn in your side, that you were stuck battling the Upside Down, for the better of Hawkins and the world, whilst the rest of your sleepy town seemed to be none the wiser (not all of them, considering, you know, the flesh monster of '85).

It had been a tough swallow, the sour envy you'd harboured at your other classmates, so unburdened and so unaware – and so, so unlike yourself.

But, at the same, their lack of knowledge meant there was normalcy threaded through your days.

The grocery store shelves had stayed stocked, shelving done by perpetually bored 15-year-olds who dented the cans.

Pizzas still got delivered, so warm the cheese piled up on one side, showing off the lean it'd been on the back of some teenager's bike.

There had still been new records, new movies, new music coming out, filling up the shelves — little things that tell you, despite how the world literally split open at your feet, the world kept turning.

You'd been envious before, a little bitter that you'd been straddled with such a burden and then sworn via NDAs to secrecy.

Why did they get normal?

Why didn't you deserve it too?

The thought seems so childish looking back, hindsight on your side. Now, without any of it, you miss what little normalcy had remained.

Maybe it's why the little gifts are so nice. It's a sense of normal.

Steve has always been the type. It's as though he's got a sixth sense, sniffing out little presents, treats and trinkets he thinks you'll like. Says they remind him of you.

A large part of your shelves hold those memories, mementos of Steve's love to you, littered all around your room.

Ticket stubs, love heart shaped candles, flowers you've pressed in a book to keep.

That's what it used to be like before the quarantine.

Turns out, if put up a big wall, almost nothing new gets in.

Now, gifts look a little different.

Gifts looks like… Always taking the morning drive out to WSQK radio, so that Steve can finish his breakfast in the passenger seat.

Eating and fumbling for sound bites? Not a good combo, he's found.

Besides, there's something honeyed and lovely about watching you drive his car. You have to adjust the seat so you can reach the pedals – which always makes him smile, even if he has to readjust on the drive home.

You fiddle with the mirror longer than you need. You always grumble under your breath about the change from 2nd to 3rd gear.

He watches you lovingly the whole drive, and almost always misses his mouth because of it.

(The crumbs on his floor aren't a gift, but, at the very they are a pleasant reminder.)

It's songs dedicated to you, broadcast out over the airwaves, like little love notes pinned to the radio of every sorry son of a bitch who lives in Hawkins and deigns to listen to the Morning Squawk.

You've had Springsteen and Peter Gabriel, longing and loving. Duran Duran and Madonna, slow jams and love ballads— all requested in the name of making you smile.

You can hear it in Robin's tone when it's for you, her ew, dingus is being sappy voice, that she can't quite contain.

But it never beats when Steve takes over the mic, a murmur over the radio, as he says, "And this one? This one is for my baby."

It's a gift you can't hold, not really, except for in your heart.

It's… putting up with a horrifically strange interaction with Murray, so that you can request a box of Peanut Butter Boppers for your boyfriend.

You try to interact with Murray as little as possible.

He's loud. His eyes are beady in a way that gets under your skin. And quite frankly? He gives you the heebie jeebies. Capital H, capital J.

Plus, you really hadn't liked the look he'd passed around from Nancy to Jonathan to Steve, and then to you, upon your first meeting.

"Ah, so this is Steve," He'd exclaimed giddily – making Steve frown in confusion, his hand tightening on your waist.

"Yeah, I'm Steve, so what?" Steve had said.

He, like you, hadn't been very fond of Murray's 'knowing' look, that was flicking between him and Nancy.

"Nothing! Nothing whatsoever, pretty boy," He'd mused, with a little chuckle to himself.

You'd heard Steve mutter pretty boy? under his breath in confusion.

"It remains a delight to see just how life's plan for us unfolds, doesn't it, Miss Wheeler? I'm just happy to see two happy, happy couples!"

He'd clapped his hands together merrily. Nancy hadn't looked him in the eye, her pinched face pointed down.

You'd been thankful for the extra squeeze Steve had given your waist – softened more when you and Steve shared, what could only be described as, a bitchy look between you.

So, yeah, Murray's strange, mostly harmless, and someone you'd never interact with, if given the choice.

But… your boyfriend has decided boppers are at the top of his quarantine wish-list — as you've discovered through his long, lamented complaints.

The shelves that used to have them in Bradley's Big Buy have long since been empty.

Nothing much new comes into Hawkins that isn't considered essential, something you're painfully aware of. Steve's complaints do dip into the finicky qualities of what qualifies as 'essential'.

It's sugar. You, like, need it to live. Look, I paid attention in Health class – okay, not a lot, but I know that you do need some sugar to live. Babe, why are you laughing?

You're technically not even supposed to ask Murray for personal favours.

Hopper had drilled it into everyone's head, gaze stern and his police-chief voice on. Nothing unnecessary.

Eyes fixing on him through the window of the soundbooth, his headphones on, one pencil behind his ear, and brows furrowed in concentration, you find you consider it pretty necessary. It'll at least stop the complaints.

Or, much more importantly, it'll make Steve happy.

And damn, if you aren't a sucker for that.

Today is delivery day. You'd managed to sneak your order in with Murray last week when he'd been here – and really hadn't appreciated his wiggly eyebrows in response.

"The lady wishes to bequeath her sir with a gift, huh?"

You'd squinted at him, put your hands on your hips, and groused, "Look, can you get them or not?"

Which, unfortunately, had only made Murray laugh, a hearty sound with his head tilted back. It had snapped back upright and he'd stopped laughing in the same moment. Jarring, and precisely why you didn't like talking to him.

"Ah, you two are adorable and you don't even know it." He'd said, the same knowing glint in his eye. "Hush your impatient lips, you'll get your boppers."

Then he'd swung himself back up into his truck and promptly slammed the door in your face.

So, today is the day, now the hour of truth — whether Murray could pull or through, or whether he would stack on another reason to never interact with him again.

"…and frankly, who needs access to the great big wide world? Not me."

Robin's voice glides through the microphone, practised and at ease.

The ON-AIR light above tints the studio a soft red and you watch as Steve punches his new favourite inflatable chicken with a grin in your direction. Robin rolls her eyes at the microphone.

"For those still listening along, hey! Thank you! Really, given your wide, wide range of channels to choose from, we're grateful to be the ones coming through your stereos. So, from those here at WSQK, stay golden, Hawkins…"

She hits a button, record spinning, and then the dulcet harpsichord sounds of Golden Brown by the Stranglers fades in.

She looks over her shoulder, at Steve, and you watch him deliver an encouraging double-thumbs up, a crooked smile of his lips.

Her hair flies as she flips around to face you, grinning, brows raised and you match Steve's motion.

"Four thumbs up, huh?" She says excitedly when she scampers out of the recording room, the ON-AIR sign no longer illuminated. She's bouncing on her toes a bit. "I'm pret-ty decent at this, if I do say so myself. Which I do. I do say."

"Yeah, yeah, no one likes a show-off Rob," Steve says, following her out.

His hairs a bit mussed up from the headphones, one piece sticking up in a funny direction. He's smiling though, widened when Robin turns to him with a scowl.

"Says you, Steven," She says, easily melting back into her smiles.

She pokes out her tongue — a motion which Steve returns in an instant.

"Yes, yes, children," You chide jokingly. Steve's wandered over to your side, drawn like a magnet. His hand is warm on your lower back. "If you'd stop bickering for a moment, you might hear the wonderful sound of deliveries."

Both Steve and Robin, who had devolved into pulling faces at each other, straighten up.

You see Steve tilt his head, almost like a dog, listening for what you know you've heard.

You can spot the moment he hears it too – tires crunching along the dirt road. Brows raise, eyes brighten, a hazel you adore dancing in your direction. Steve's grinning – and honestly, looking probably too excited for a regular delivery drop.

He couldn't know what surprise you had in store for him. Could he?

You think of Murray and his strange glee at your request and wonder if he sold you out in an instant. He probably would. Bastard.

"Ugh," Robin says, cutting off your train of thought as she wrinkles her nose. "Can you perchance not get that expression at the thought of seeing Murray?"

Steve's smile turns to a frown of confusion. He opens his mouth to retort, but you beat him to it.

"I second that," You say, letting the warmth of Steve's hand slide off your back as you begin to wander towards the door.

You throw a teasing smile towards your boyfriend, watching as he flounders for words for a moment. "No one should be that excited by Murray."

"I– oh, c'mon." Steve throws his hands up. "A guy in quarantine can't be excited for deliveries?"

"Not that excited, dingus," Robin says, barely smothering her own teasing grin as she heads towards you as well.

Pushing through the door to the outside, sunlight forces your eyes into a squint. The rumble of the engine grows louder, closer, until there's a sudden squeal of the brakes.

Following Robin, you round the building's edge and your eyes fall on the truck in the middle of the dirt road, engine still idling. You can hear the crunch of Steve's sneakers behind you.

In the body of the truck, you can see a figure moving with a strange motion – and realise when he sticks his head through it, that it's Murray, cranking open the window.

"Ahoy, kiddos!" He calls out.

In your peripheral, you see both Steve and Robin cringe.

There's a rustle within the truck cabin, Murray shifting back in, and then with a drone, the engine shuts off. The door swings open. Two booted feet hit the ground.

You let Robin take the lead.

It's a well-oiled motion for Murray now, evidently, the way he twists the lock on the rolling door at the back of the truck, before sending it up with a loud rattle. The supplies reveal themselves, boxes stacked upon boxes within the metal body of the truck.

At a first glance, it does actually look like a grocery supply—but you know better about what's hidden away under it all.

Grenades beneath the pastel blue of the Rice Krispies boxes, ammunition under the bright colours of the Funyuns bags, weapons of all kinds buried under packing peanuts.

Eyes hunting through the back of the truck, looking for a particular box, you miss the glance Steve gives you.

Nervousness. Poorly restrained anticipation. It mixes together to create a look that is undeniably fond.

Steve's pretty glad Robin doesn't see it, because she'd rib him to death for it.

"Riiight," Murray announces, rubbing his hands together with the likeness of a fly. "Business matters first, then the matters of pleasure, hm."

He turns and delivers an over-the-top wink in your direction.

You wonder if the man has ever looked up the word subtlety in the dictionary before–or if he's doing it just to spite you.

Steve shifts beside you, inching a little closer. Robin looks the same way you feel – nose wrinkled in discomfort at Murray purring out the word pleasuuuure.

She glances back at you when Murray's not looking, clambering up into the truck. You frown a little, scrunching your nose up too, and it's enough to make Robin snort in laughter.

A sudden slam! within the truck steals all your attention back.

"Usual business," Murray says with a smile, a crate now at his feet. "Few new rounds of ammunition, grenades, and the like for Hopper. Gatorade for El."

He slides the crate topped with various cereal boxes across til it reaches the edge. Steve takes the charge, arms flexing at the weight as he lugs the crates to the ground.

You watch, eyes catching on the bulge of his biceps – until you catch Robin's withering glare.

(She's had to put in place a strict 'no flirting while we're at work' rule, which has since escalated to "no heated and charged looks of desire" for her sanity's sake.)

For good measure, you at least try to look apologetic for oogling at your boyfriend's arms.

Whether you're successful, well, that's neither here nor there.

There's only a handful of crates today — the last couple crawls have been overwhelming uneventful — so before too long, you're bouncing on the balls of your feet, eyes eagerly scanning over the remaining crates.

"And now," Murray turns with a flourish, a new crate in his hands. He wiggles his eyebrows, emphatic and resembling two dancing caterpillars behind his wire-rim glasses. "Pleasure."

He drops the box in his hands at his feet – then, like he's done with all the others, he pushes it with a kick, sending it sliding towards the edge of the truck.

Steve catches it just before it slides off the edge, plummeting into the dirt. He pulls it to sit on his hip, arm straining with the weight, body angling it slightly away from you.

You rise on your toes, trying to get a peek instead.

Steve, mouth pulled into somewhat a smirk, only angles it further from your view.

"Have at it, kids." Murray says. You, Steve and Robin all watch as he's scampers down from the back of the truck, pulling the roller door down with him.

It slams shut, making Robin twitch. You're inclined to agree with her reaction, though not due to the truck. Murray's general presence, despite the fact he's apparently done you a favour, still skeeves you out.

As if hearing your thoughts and deliberating doing the opposite, Murray pauses.

Except, he doesn't turn to you. He turns to Steve instead, a smug and very punchable look on his face.

"But–" He begins, looking over his glasses at your boyfriend. "I better not find out that that peanut butter or carbonation led to any… strenuous activity. Okay?"

He claps his hands together loudly, and this time you, Steve and Robin all jump.

"We're in a war people! I don't wanna be having to track down a pregnancy test to sneak in here next, huh? Do I? Do I?"

That sentence took so many turns you're not surprised to see the wrinkle of confusion on Steve's brow.

He clutches the crate tighter, like Murray might take it away from him, and says weakly, "…No?"

"Correct!" Murray exclaims. He claps Steve on the shoulder. "Smart boy." Then he casts a sharp glance to you, then Robin. "Stay safe until the next time, kiddos."

Then, finally, he leaves.

The truck engine starts back up, roaring to life, and leaving only a trail of dust and a handful of crates behind. Robin heaves a crate up into her arms, then peers at you and Steve, hovering around the one particular crate, and sighs.

"Ugh. Don't take forever out here, okay?" She says, spinning on her heels and heading back into the WSQK. She calls over her shoulder halfheartedly, "My queue won't last long, Steve!"

"Got it!" He calls back — but you can tell his focus is on the crate in his hands.

He turns back to you with a grin, eyes bright, and then at the exact same time you both speak.

"I got you something—"

"—I have a surprise for you."

You blink. Something warm prickles over your skin, a genuine delight at the surprise.

Then you grin, realising what Murray had meant about you adorable kids.

You've both tried to surprise each other at the exact same time.

"You got me something?" Steve says, frowning for a moment, before he looks down at the crate in his hands in dawning realisation.

With probably too much force, he plants it in the dirt and sends a few packing peanuts flying. You watch as he digs through them, looking for the contents inside.

Unexpectedly, a can comes shooting up.

You fumble with it for a moment before catching it, clutching it against your chest. Scowling at the lack of warning, you look down at Steve – but he's nodding to your hands, already smiling, eager to see your reaction.

Pulling it back from your chest, the white coloured tin reveals itself as a… Cherry Coke.

Probably the whole damn can in all of Hawkins, given how they'd been out of stock since the first week of quarantine which had driven people to insanity in Bradley's Big Buy.

A can that, yeah, sue you, you've been craving. One that's been your favourite since your first date with Steve at the Hawk and Cherry Coke was the next big thing.

One big cup, two straws shared between you. Here and now, it's a memory re-gifted to you.

"I was gonna, y'know, sneak it back home and let it get all cold first," Steve explains, not even attempting to keep hunting for his own surprise.

He's still knelt down, hands still in the box, but he's looking up at you – squinting even though you're blocking the sun from his eyes.

He's smiling crookedly, pleased with himself — as if he knows he's earned the next kiss you'll give him already.

"Was gonna, like, put it in a glass and see how long it took you to notice." Steve continues, grinning as he watches the affection bloom on your face. Even if he hasn't committed to holding out on the surprise, the thought has clearly been put in.

He raises his hands to a do a pathetic attempt at jazz-hands, paired with an enthusiastic, "Surpriiise. Pretty good boyfriend, huh?"

He's intolerable. Endearing to you, beyond reason. Your horribly whinging, wonderful boyfriend.

With him still kneeling, you have to bend over to kiss him — but Steve knows it's coming. His hands curl on either side of your thighs, keeping your balance for you.

Your hair falls in your face, like a curtain, and you hold it back with one hand. You can't spare any hands to cradle his jaw, but given the ardent shine in Steve's eyes, you can't imagine he minds.

"Pretty great boyfriend," you murmur your agreement, just before you kiss him.

His lips are warm, soft. He's still smiling like he's won the best prize. His hands, gentle where they hold you, flex a little.

You kiss him twice, just because you can. It makes Steve hum against your mouth, a pleased noise, and it's like another gift altogether.

"Now find mine," You mumble when you pull back.

Steve squints in confusion, wiped away when you nod down at the crate still at your feet. He grins, hands diving in, packing peanuts sticking with the static electricity. He shakes them off as he uncovers your own surprise, a box of—

"Boppers!"

You might think boppers contain the secret to killing Vecna, the way Steve lights up at the box in his hands.

"Get outta town!" He gasps, turning them over in his hands, as if he's not quite convinced they're real.

They are. You realise you've signed yourself up for peanut-buttery kisses for the rest of the week now – if they manage to last that long.

"Oh my god, babe," He straightens up, box still clutched in his hands before he looks up at you.

Then, unexpectedly, he tosses them haphazardly into the crate and reaches for your waist.

You're not expecting it – getting tugged forward into his arms, that is – so you stumble a bit. His hands, large and warm around your middle, keep you steady.

"Woah," he says teasingly, hazel eyes affectionate. "Easy there, tiger."

Your own hands have come up to rest of his broad chest, one still holding the can of Cherry coke. You use the opportunity to flick him in chest with your free hand for his teasing. As if he isn't the reason you're stumbling in the first place.

"Easy yourself, Harrington," You mumble in response. It's not nearly much of a comeback as you'd like, but either way, Steve just grins and draws you in a little closer.

"Boppers, baby," he says, his grin bordering on cocky now. "Are you… flirting with me?"

You're sighing before he's even finished his sentence – which only serves to make Steve tug you ever closer, far too pleased with himself.

It's this stupid running joke he loves to make; pretending that you two haven't been dating for years and are, instead, still just dancing around your feelings. Only flirting.

Sometimes he'll fake-whisper a secret to you—and the secret is always that he's got a big, fat crush on you.

You find it annoyingly endearing. It's probably why Steve keeps doing it.

"Oh my god," you mutter, rolling your eyes, though your amused smile gives you away. You push his chest lightly, stepping out his hold, then wave the can of coke lightly. "You're about to lose all the points you just got for this." You warn.

"Impossible," says Steve, bending down to scoop up the crate from the ground.

He puts it atop another and hefts both of them up into his arms, charming smile directed your way.

"We just tried to surprise each other at the exact same time. We're freaking adorable, babe. Points can't touch that."

He says it so factually it must be true. The sky is blue. Hawkins has monsters. You're adorable together.

Though, you're sure Robin's doubting it when she sticks her head out the station door and sees you both still dawdling. Number one reason for Steve's slacking always comes back to him making heart-eyes at you.

"STEVE!" She yells. "SOUND-BOARD!"

"Yeah, yeah, coming!" Steve calls back, a touch of exasperation in his voice. He turns back to you, adjusting the crates in his hands with a subtle flex of his arms. "Jeez, you'd think we're getting paid for this, the way she runs it."

He's shaking his head, tongue pressed to his cheek. The wind ruffles through his hair, playing with the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. A flash of chest hair peeks through, taunting you.

He's so damn handsome you find yourself clutching the can in your hard tight enough that the lip of it bites into your palm.

Steve seems to realise, given the look he gives you – eyes skirting up and down, that smirk back on his face. Insufferable. Unbearable – in the best way.

"C'mon," he urges, tilting his head in his direction. "One last kiss before we head back inside."

You roll your eyes, but press up on your toes to reach his mouth.

"You're welcome." You say, Steve's eyes keenly trained on your lips as you pull back from the kiss.

You hear him make an absentminded uh-huh in response. He's likely too heart-eyed to hear a damn thing.

And with the can held in your hand, Steve's gaze all softened with fondness, that feels like a whole new gift as well.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

[flashphotograph]

Steve Harrington serving looks in Stranger Things season 5

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWENTY

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader. chapter warnings: pregnancy hormones; smut

You hadn't been in Lily's office in months.

You sat stiffly on the chair across from her desk, the same one you’d been scolded in a dozen times before, except this time your stomach nearly squashed against it and there was no hiding it.

The second you walked through her office door, her gaze dropped to your stomach. You’d seen it, the widening of her eyes before she controlled it under that professional stare. You’d spotted that small intake of breath, the movement in her eyes, the holy shit forming behind them.

Rafe was beside you, tapping his knee hard enough to shake the floor while Lily’s incredulous gaze flicked between you both, waiting.

“Well?” she finally said, “Somebody want to tell me what's going on? Because last time I checked, you two were broken up, and this dumbass—” she jabbed a manicured finger in Rafe’s direction, “—was dating Sofia.”

Rafe flinched but didn’t argue. You opened your mouth, then shut it again. What could you possibly say that didn’t sound like a fucking disaster?

Her eyes narrowed, voice flattening. “And now Ruthie Rutherford’s running her mouth to the Islander about you being pregnant?”

Rafe’s hand twitched; you thought he might reach for yours, but he stopped short, curling his fingers into his jeans instead. You hadn’t thought this far ahead, past the Pogues’ living room, where they’d traded mango slices for banana bread and laughter. Not past Sarah’s steady hand at your back.

Friends—done. Family—barely existing, but done. You hadn’t even let yourself think about it. Outside that small circle, you’d assumed there’d be nothing to say, right?

For months, you drove yourself insane with the certainty that the baby wouldn’t make it anyway, that your body would give out first.

You’d braced for it so hard that you hadn’t let yourself imagine a world where you’d need to explain any of this to anyone else. But the baby didn’t die yet. It was still here, heartbeat strong, tiny limbs stretching, reminding you that you hadn’t prepared for this part.

Now Lily was staring you down like you were already guilty. And Rafe was next to you—Rafe, who’d known for a month now, who hadn’t bolted, who kept showing up with heating pads and dumb snacks and a steadiness you didn’t want to admit you’d missed. He wasn’t the boy who’d ruined you at parties. Sometimes—god help you—he was starting to look like the boy you’d fallen for when you were sixteen.

It was a mess.

The last time you’d sat in this office with Rafe by your side, you'd both been nineteen, cheeks burning while Lily held up a grainy tabloid printout. You and Rafe, all teeth and hands and not enough clothes on the back steps of somebody’s yacht.

She’d called it “a public suicide,” you’d called it “being young,” and Rafe had gloated the whole time, squeezing your thigh. You’d left that office sweaty, ashamed, and still holding on to his hand, pretending the world couldn’t touch you if you had him.

It was starkly different now.

“I…” You faltered, throat dry.

Lily raised her brows. “Spit it out.”

"Watch your tone."

Your attention darted sideways to Rafe as he spoke. You closed your eyes for a second, wanting to strangle him for saying it out loud, while another half of you wanted to…thank him...in ways you should not be thinking about right now.

At all.

A year ago, you would've told Lily to fuck off with the patronizing tone. You’d done it before, you two being close enough that she’d taken it in stride. But you weren’t that version of yourself. You felt fragile, so all you could do was swallow the retort scorching your tongue.

Lily’s eyes flicked up to Rafe's, unimpressed. “Excuse me?”

“She doesn’t need you snapping at her.” His knee had stilled now, shoulders squared. "Don’t talk to her like she’s an intern."

Lily looked between the two of you again, less incredulous, more calculating.

“You're right” She apologized, bottom lip jutting out. “I'm sorry sweetheart, it's a lot to process here."

She never apologized unless she meant to.

You nodded once, unsure what to do with the sudden quiet. Your pulse was still pounding, your stomach rolling from nerves, from hormones, from the absurdity of sitting here like this—with him, with her.

You pressed your palms against your thighs, “Yeah. I’m pregnant.”

Lily’s mouth tightened; she already knew, but wanted to hear you say it out loud. “And is it his?”

Her gaze snapped to Rafe again, who sat up straighter, blue eyes hardening.

“Yeah,” he said before you could answer. His voice was low, steady. “It’s mine.”

She sighed and folded her hands. “Okay, I'm not asking how we got here, none of my business, I get it. Now, let’s get practical. Do you want to confirm? Deny? Ignore? Because it’s out there now." The outside world. The whispers and headlines. You’d thought about keeping food down, not fainting in the shower, and iron infusions that left your arms mottled in bruises.

You didn't want strangers knowing. All the months of not letting yourself imagine this moment—it was here now, and you had nothing prepared. No script. No clever way out.

Your eyes flew to Rafe in need of help. For once, he wasn’t bouncing his knee or ready to bulldoze his way through the silence.

"It's your call. I'll do whatever you want."

You’d expected him to take over, decide, and handle it like he always did when things got overly messy.

Lily arched a brow, studying the exchange. “You’re leaving this up to her?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “It's her body, her rules."

You despised how much you wanted to crawl inside that safety, even though you knew it didn’t erase the outcome of your decision.

"Keep it clean, short, professional. No drama. We can work with that.”

Professional.

There was nothing professional about this—nights in the ER, a boy who used to make you cry now folding ultrasound photos into his pockets like they were holy. But you nodded anyway, because it was the only answer you could give.

“I…” Your voice wavered, thin and papery. “I want it to be mine, not a gossip headline. Just—mine.”

Lily didn’t seem to have a quip ready. She studied you, pen hovering over her notepad, squinting, starting to connect dots.

“You’re being awfully quiet for someone who usually argues with me over everything.” Her tone had turned more probing. “Is there more to this?”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

You’d sparred with her enough times to know she’d respect you for it, but you weren’t in fighting shape.

She tilted her chin. “You’re pale. You look like you can barely stay upright in that chair. And the way he—” she jerked her pen toward Rafe, “—jumped down my throat? What aren’t you telling me?”

You glanced at Rafe, who was already watching you, he’d been waiting for this to happen.

“I’ve… been doing treatment. Severe anemia. It’s… complicated. Risky.” You forced the words out, even though they tasted like iron themselves. “The baby and I—we’re both… at risk.”

The pen clattered to her desk. Lil’s mouth parted, a genuine flash of horror softening the steel in her face. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I didn’t want—”

“Sweetheart, I would never make you sit here and talk statements and PR if I knew your health was on the line!” She rubbed her temples, “Are you okay?! Right now. Don’t give me a rehearsed answer.”

You hadn’t expected this much concern—not from someone you hardly talked to nowadays. More of a scolding.

“I’m… managing,” you admitted quietly. “It’s getting better. Slowly.”

Beside you, Rafe moved his hand brushing against the back of your chair, not quite touching you but close enough to feel it.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. Nothing.” She raised a hand before you could argue. “We don’t put out a statement, we don’t confirm or deny. Not until you are ready, not until I know you’re stable. Ruthie Rutherford and her gossip can rot.”

You wet your lips. “How did Ruthie even find out?”

“Isn’t she dating Topper? Wouldn’t she hear it from him?”

“No. Not anymore.”

Lily’s brows shot up. “Really? When did that happen?”

You shifted uncomfortably. “A while ago. He’s… he’s seeing someone else now.”

“Who?”

You hesitated, then said it anyway. “Sofia."

Lily’s gaze flicked from you to Rafe and back again. Her lips parted slowly, a disbelieving laugh slipping out.

“Oh. Wow.” She set her pen down, needing both hands free to process. “So we’ve got Ruthie running her mouth because Topper left her. Topper with Sofia, you two sitting here with a baby on the way—wow."

You dragged your hands down your face, “I know Topper would never tell her. He knows I’d never forgive him if he did.”

“So you’re saying—”

“He didn’t.” Your voice was firmer this time. "He's sprinting in the opposite direction of that psycho."

Rafe snorted, a short laugh breaking through. “Topper’s not trying to get shanked in his sleep.”

“Exactly.” You jabbed a finger toward Rafe without looking at him, heart thumping. “So if Ruthie knows, she's got another source.”

Lily tilted her head, lips pursed, already sketching a flow chart of betrayal in her head. “Which means either someone overheard something, or someone saw something they shouldn’t have.”

You felt weirdly exposed, like even the walls weren’t safe. Rafe, though—he’d gone still beside you.

You glanced at him, uneasy. “What?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, piecing together something he didn’t want to say out loud. Then, finally, he did.

“Isn’t her aunt the new hospital director?”

Your breath caught. “What?”

You’d been so cut off from the elite world, deliberately forming a safe distance, keeping your secrets safe, that you hadn’t heard the whispers, or if you had, they slid past you, noise you’d trained yourself to ignore.

If Ruthie Rutherford knew, then you hadn’t been as careful as you thought.

Lily's lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

“What does that mean?”

You’d been so focused on keeping your circle small, on ducking cameras and pretending the world outside the Pogues’ house didn’t exist, that you hadn’t thought about this.

Hospitals. Directors. Nepotism.

Rafe leaned forward.

“You’ve been in and out of that place for months. Records, appointments, the infusion clinic. You think gossip doesn’t leak when someone wants it to?”

Lily's brows shot up, “If medical information about a high-profile patient is getting out, hat’s not gossip. That’s a lawsuit.”

Your skin went cold. All those hours in the hospital—bruised arms, thin blankets, machines beeping—and now the idea that someone had been watching, whispering, carrying pieces of you out into the world? You were going to be sick.

If Rafe was right—if someone at the hospital had let something slip...Small towns made everything messy. One whisper in the wrong break room, one family dinner with a glass of wine, and suddenly it wasn't private anymore.

Rafe’s head turned sharply toward you. He must’ve seen it, how you froze, fingers white-knuckled. His hand hovered, then landed on the arm of your chair.

“Hey,” he said softly, a grit under the gentleness. “It’s okay. We’re gonna take care of it, yeah?”

“Rafe—” you managed, but it cracked halfway through.

His blue eyes were locked on yours, "Don't worry about it."

Lily let out a sound between a scoff and a chuckle, shaking her head. “Okay, hold up. Time out.” She pointed her pen between the two of you. “I know I said I was gonna mind my business, but when exactly did you two get back together?”

“We’re not!"

Her brows shot up at the sound of both your voices, eyes bright with disbelief, gleeful.

“Please. I’m not blind. This is not ex behavior.”

Rafe’s jaw ticked for the millionth time, but he didn’t say anything.

Your voice came out as a squeak. “We’re not together. That’s not what this is.”

“Mmhm.” Lily leaned back too, unconvinced, a smirk tugging at her glossed mouth. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue. What exactly was this? Rafe’s hand had only just left your chair, but your skin still fucking ached where his fingers had touched.

Before you could sort yourself out, Lily spoke again and you really wished she hadn't.

“You know what? I wouldn’t blame you. My sister’s hormones were crazyyyy when she was pregnant. My poor brother-in-law couldn’t get out of bed for a month straight.”

Heat flooded your face, mortification hitting like a bullet train.

Lily didn’t know that lately, your dreams had been filled with Rafe. Not sweet, innocent dreams either, but the kind that made you wake up breathless, which you blamed on hormones you couldn’t control.

You force out a weak laugh. “That’s different.”

Rafe’s head tilted toward you, he’d picked up on something you hadn’t meant to give away. You shoved your pen into your notebook, scribbling nonsense to have somewhere to look that wasn’t his eyes.

Your brain betrayed you, dragged you straight back to the dream. Rafe’s stubble along your throat. It had been so real you’d woken up sweaty, sheets around your legs, heart pounding like you’d actually done it.

You pressed harder with the pen, ink blotting the paper. Stop. Don’t think about that. Don’t even look at him.

“—anyway, you do what you gotta do,” Lily was saying, completely oblivious to the war happening in your head. She flicked her pen like a conductor’s baton, lips curved in a knowing smirk. “Rest, eat, scream into a pillow, whatever. I don’t judge. And when you’re finally ready to talk to the press, let me know. Until then…” her eyes darted between you and Rafe, “…do whatever it is you two do.”

Your pulse jumped. We don’t do anything. We’re not doing anything.

Fuck, get a grip. It’s hormones, that’s all it is. Months and months without being fucked, no wonder you’re sensitive. No wonder you can’t sit through a meeting without your brain shutting down the second he laughs, or looks at you, or—

You swallowed hard, dragging your eyes back to Lily, desperate for a distraction. You’ve been starving, and now every dream is Rafe—every look, every moving muscle under that perfect fucking shirt, every stupid smirk. No wonder you’re losing it.

You should’ve been furious about Ruthie, about her aunt running her mouth, about your medical life being sold around like cheap gossip. Instead, the anger was muffled; all you could think about was how good Rafe looked today.

Your pen scratched fast across the page, trying to bury the thought before it burned through your skull.

Across from you, Lily clapped her notebook shut, satisfied.

“Alright. That’s my plan. And yours is simple—rest. Do whatever you want.” She winked, then stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be in touch. I got a meeting across town, make yourselves comfortable!"

The door clicked behind her.

You didn’t dare look at him.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?”

“What was what?”

"You almost burned a hole through that paper.”

If you didn’t know better, if you were still that insane teenager sneaking around his truck bed, you’d let him bend you over this office desk right now and figure out excuses later.

You moved in your seat, pulse tripping over itself. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on you. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

You forced a shaky laugh, hoping it would cover the truth.

“That I'm gonna ruin Ruthie's life."

“Right."

You made the mistake of glancing up. His eyes were locked on you, probably seeing right through the mess of denial and hormones and heat in your brain.

What were you supposed to say? That Lily’s joke about hormones made you picture him pinning you against the door? That every nerve in your body was begging for something reckless, something that would ruin you both all over again?

“Drop it. I wanna go home."

“Home,” he repeated, “Funny. Thought you meant our home, the way you’ve been looking at me all day.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Rafe—”

“I'm joking."

"You're not funny."

He stretched his arms out along the chair, baiting you on purpose.

Your eyes betrayed you. They dipped, slow as molasses, down the hard curve of his biceps; the fabric straining against him when he flexed.

“Also not blind.” His eyes flicked down briefly, shameless, before returning to yours.

Don’t rise to it.

Don’t give him the satisfaction. One brow quirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You done?”

You snapped your gaze back to his face, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Didn’t say anything.” His voice sounded amused, raspy enough to curl straight into your panties.

“Your face said plenty.”

The million-dollar shit eating smirk broke free then, full-blown, and shit, you'd missed seeing it.

“Didn’t know you still looked at me like that.”

“I don’t."

Rafe pushed himself up first, while you shoved your notebook into your bag, avoiding his eyes because the smug tilt of his mouth was already burned into your brain.

He waited by the door, hand on the handle, giving you enough space to pass first. Gentleman or menace—you couldn’t decide.

You meant to breeze past him without so much as a glance, but then his palm landed at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway.

Son of a bitch.

Images slammed into you, his hand sliding lower, gripping, shoving you up against the door instead of holding it.

Fuck.

You almost tripped over the threshold, knees wobbling like you’d forgotten how to walk. All because his fingers had brushed your spine. You forced your eyes straight ahead, not at the veins flexing in his forearm.

You needed him to move his fucking hand. Your thighs clenched tight as you strode faster. You weren’t breathing right with his hand burning into your skin like that.

It was a casual touch, meant nothing. Yet, you picked up the pace, storming down the hall, praying the speed was going to keep him out of your head. It didn’t.

“Slow down,” He scolded.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice had an edge to it; it sounded like a warning even though it was worry. His hand pressed firmer against your spine, easing you down the hall like you were made of glass.“You don’t need to be rushing around.”

You rolled your eyes, “I can walk, Rafe.”

You weren’t a fragile doll by any means, or a patient that needed constant babysitting. But shit—part of you wanted to bask in it anyway. He angled himself in front of you, and it enamored you, how natural it seemed for him.

“Rafe—”

“Don’t argue with me about this. You were texting me about your swollen feet this morning."

Why did he have to remember every stupid thing you’d texted him?

My feet look like water balloons. Is it normal if I want lemon popsicles at 3 a.m.? Do heating pads explode if you fall asleep on them? Hypothetically.

You wanted to bury yourself six feet under.

No wonder he was looking at you like he knew every inch of your life, you kept giving him the play-by-play. You should’ve stopped weeks ago, but every time something happened, new cravings, doctor’s update, every ridiculous symptom—you found yourself typing his name before you even thought about it. Your body remembered who it was supposed to tell before your brain could call you out.

Rafe never ignored you, no matter what time it was. He always texted back, sometimes in full sentences, with just “k, I’m on my way” before showing up at your door like it was his job. You weren’t together by any means, and still, you were treating him like he was yours.

“I was updating you,” You grumbled.

“Updating me?” He gave you a look, "If you want a foot massage, all you gotta do is ask."

“A foot massage?” You scoffed, because what the fuck else were you supposed to do except laugh it off. He didn’t laugh, head tilted, eyes dipping down your body, seeing straight through the layers of cotton and denim.

“Yeah. Or whatever else you need.”

Your heart slammed so hard it rattled your ribs.

“Rafe.”

“What?” He murmured. “I’m serious. You think I don’t notice the way you look at me? In there, just now—you couldn’t keep your pen on the page without shaking.”

God. He’d seen that?

“Get over yourself. You’re imagining things,” You tried to throw it under a bus, desperate.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound curling down your being.

“No, baby. I’m not.”

You stumbled again, catching yourself against the wall, and his hand came up instantly, steadying your hip. Big, warm.

You stared at him in awe, chest rising. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, yours flicked to his. Every bone in your body screamed at you to let it happen, but your brain snatched you back.

“Don’t—” Your chest heaved once. “Don’t call me that.”

Rafe's brows furrowed. “What?”

He didn't realize he said it.

“‘Baby.’” The word burned your tongue. “Keep the nicknames to yourself.”

“I’ve called you that since we were sixteen."

“We’re not sixteen anymore.” You gritted the words out, even though your body was still buzzing from his hand on your hip.

His tongue darted over his teeth, biting down on all the things he wanted to say. “Sorry," Rafe stepped back, gave you space like he thought you needed it, "Didn't mean to upset you."

You’d drawn a line, and he’d listened. But the look on his face, you wished you hadn’t looked.

His mouth pressed tight, his hand flexed once at his side, hating being empty. His eyes… they didn’t glare or burn like they usually did when you pushed him off when you were younger. They just fell.

Rafe Cameron, undone by a word.

He deserved it. He was the one who’d left you to figure this whole mess out, who got to swoop in when it suited him, acting like you still belonged to him. He didn’t get to keep the soft parts, too.

Rafe didn’t bolt down the hall the way you expected. He stayed right there, a half step behind you, his shadow matching yours as you walked. Close enough that if you stumbled he’d catch you.

It was comforting, an instinct for him. Even gutted, rejected, his first thought was still to protect you.

The drive was soundless in that brittle sense that comes after someone drops a bomb.

Rafe’s truck—old engine, new tires—windows down enough for the air to wedge itself between two bodies that wanted to say a thousand things and none at the same time.

You stared out at the passing houses, pretending the trees mattered. Rafe kept stealing glances, checking you for cuts. Every time he opened his mouth, you braced for impact. Why exactly, you weren’t sure.

For a second you almost believed the comfort of it, then he did that thing he always did, tried to wedge normalcy into messy scenes.

“How about I cook for you tonight?” he asked, casual as a man asking for the aux cable.

You laughed out loud.

“Since when do you cook?” You let the sarcasm lace the words. “You think I can’t do it myself?”

“What? No—” his head whipped toward you, then back at the road, panic rising his voice. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t sayin’ you couldn’t do it. I know you can take care of yourself.”

You crossed your arms, watching the headlights in the oncoming lane. “Sure."

“No, no, I—I thought maybe you’d want a break. You’ve been running yourself into the ground, and I figured…” His voice trailed.

“Figured what?” You pushed.

He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Figured I could do one fuckin’ thing right, that’s all. Y’know? Be useful.”

You shifted, chewing your lip, not ready to soften yet, "I don't think we should spend this much time together."

You’d rehearsed that sentence a hundred times and finally found the tone you needed.

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

You should be ruthless. The version that remembers the nights he wasn’t there, the weekends you sat in waiting rooms, and no one holding your hand. The other part—fatter, softer, stupid—thinks about how he remembers the precise time you text him about lemon popsicles and shows up with them at midnight.

That part still loves him.

Fuck, it still loves him.

“It’s dinner. Let me do this for you. I don’t expect shit, okay? I just wanna cook for you.”

If he was cruel, it was easier to hate him, but when he was like this, your Rafe, it tore straight through the defenses you had. He spit it out like it wasn't the most domestic thing he could’ve said after weeks of you two pretending things weren't fucking weird.

You cleared your throat, trying again.

“That’s not… You don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” He laughed under his breath, a failed attempted at not trying to sound nervous. “I cook, you eat. Simple.”

The car slowed as he turned onto your street. You felt weird.

“You want me to walk you in?”

Your fingers were already on the door handle. “No. It’s late.”

You could sense his eyes trying to pin you down, read what you were not saying. You nearly caved, almost told him to come inside, and admitted you didn't want to be alone.

You pride won.

“Goodnight, Rafe.”

You shut the door before he could say it back, forcing yourself not to look back as you walked up to the gate. Your fingers shook as you nearly botched the code; the beep sounded too loud tonight.

You knew that Rafe could probably see it from the car, which made every movement feel clumsy. Finally, the lock clicked open, you slipped inside, the gate shut behind you.

You didn't turn around.

Hours later, you were still awake like a fucking idiot, curled under a blanket, a gift from Rafe, phone in your hand, hovering over his contact.

He looked so hopeful when he asked. 

I just wanna cook for you.

You yearned for him in your kitchen, barefoot, making something decent only to watch you eat. You wanted his hands on you, his laugh filling up the empty room.

Instead, you were restless once again, in sheets that felt cold, your body betraying you with every shiver. The fucking stupid TV wouldn't shut up about love. Every channel was a couple kissing in the rain, or slow dancing in kitchens, or falling into bed.

It was probably the hormones; they had been wrecking you lately.

You rolled onto your back, your belly protested, and your hand drops to it instinctively, stroking as if to soothe both of you.

The blanket slipped down, pooling at your hips. It made you feel exposed, betraying you with cravings that had nothing to do with food. Your phone was still clutched in your other hand, Rafe’s name daring you to press call. He’d pick up—he always did when it was you.

Then what? You asked him to come over like a fucking idiot? Let him see you like this—desperate, shaking from need that’s got nothing to do with the dumb movie on screen?

Your brain kept pulling up old snapshots: the night in his car, windows fogged, his fingers inside you while you tried to muffle your moans in his shoulder. Or that time you snuck him into your house after MidSummer and he swore we’d “keep it quiet” but ended up fucking you into the shower's wall so good you couldn’t walk straight the next day at brunch.

You flip the phone face down on the blanket, praying that it would kill the temptation. It didn't.

Your body was unsatisfied; every position wrong, every thought worse. Your pulse wouldn't slow down, your thighs wouldn't stay still. Your whole body was demanding, and the worst part was that your weak heart, traitorous, was reaching for him.

You stared at the ceiling until shadows morphed into patterns that looked like his face. Your brain had decided to torment you with reruns, one of those flashbacks, like Raven Baxter rolling her eyes back before falling headfirst into some memory.

You were back there.

The dock was quiet, only the creak of ropes and the sound of your heels as you made your way up, his boat glowing faintly with the light he always left on for you. You could feel the brush of humid air against your bare arms, the cling of that midnight-blue dress to your skin.

Custom-fitted, Rafe had said, smirking when you twirled for him earlier that night. He hadn't bothered to care about dinner. He handed you a glass of champagne, kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your throat until you were giggling and swatting him away, reminding him you hadn’t even sat down yet.

Rafe had dragged you down the short steps into the cabin, laughing against your lips when you tripped in your heels.

“Easy,” he’d teased.

He had you against the cabin wall in minutes, lips crushing yours, hands squeezing down your sides until they reached the hem of your dress.

He'd groaned, dragging it up your thighs inch by inch. The sound you made when his palm slid between your legs would've been embarassing if you didn't love him with your entire being, but you did. He was cupping you through your pretty white lace that was already damp.

The zipper was torture, his knuckles grazing every inch of your spine as he tugged it down. The dress slipped off your shoulders, it couldn’t wait to pool at your feet.

Rafe's mouth followed, lips and teeth and tongue tracing what the fabric left bare. He worshipped you—collarbone, breast, sucking a bruise just above your bra. You whined when his teeth grazed your nipple through the thin lace, arching into his mouth.

By the time he reached his knees, you were already shaking.

He’d pushed your panties aside with one thick finger, sliding it over your slickness, groaning at the mess he found, eyes flicking up to meet yours as his tongue replaced his finger.

You could still feel it. The way he mouthed into you like he had all the time in the world, dragging his tongue until your hands clutched the rail above your head for balance. The boat rocked, the water slapped against the hull, you swore it all moved with him.

Your thighs had clamped around his head, the sinful sound of his name torn from your lips when he pushed two fingers inside, you’d come hard easily, stars exploding behind your eyelids.

And then—because Rafe was never satisfied with just that—he was crawling over you, pressing you down into the mattress below deck, dragging the condom from his wallet with shaking hands.

You remembered the strain of his biceps as he braced himself, the way he muttered “fuck, I need you”

When Rafe sank into you, the world stopped. His forehead fell against yours, his breath ragged, his lips shaping your name over and over.

“You’re mine,” he’d reminded you, thrusts unhurried and deep, carving his shape into you. “Always mine.”

You’d believed him. Every word.

He drove into you like he had nowhere else to be, hips snapping until you were clawing at his back, crying out his name.

The flashback didn’t stop there.

You could feel how hot his skin had been against yours, the slide of sweat at his temple as he drove into you, sometimes slow and deep, rolling his hips until you sobbed into his shoulder, then fast and relentless, pounding into you so hard the mattress groaned beneath.

Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, and the grind of his pelvis against your clit made your vision turn white. He whispered filth into your ear, broken in ways you were used to:

“Look at you. Taking me so good.” “Gonna cum for me again, huh? Can feel it—fuck—so tight.”

You’d answered, again and again. Pleading, clawing, crying out his name, confessing it to the ocean itself.

The memory pulled you deeper: the scrape of his teeth down your throat, the sting of his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open and still for him. The way he’d tilted your hips just so.

When you came the second time, it tore through you so violently you thought you might never breathe again. And still Rafe didn’t stop, driving into you with his own ragged groans.

Your eyes flew open.

The ceiling was your bedroom’s, not the boat’s. The sheets weren’t tangled with his limbs, only twisted around your legs from hours of tossing. Your hand slipped down against the swell of your stomach.

You weren’t that girl anymore, the one in blue silk, giving herself to him relentlessly.

You were stretched, every curve reshaped by the baby under your palm. Would he still worship you like that? Would his hands still bruise your hips or would his eyes catch on your belly, linger on the stretch marks, and remember who you used to be instead?

The doubt festered. Your thighs pressed together, restless for friction that never came. You rolled to your side, but your belly pressed into your ribs. Rolled to your back, but the weight made it hard to breathe. Every position was wrong.

You reached for your phone again without thinking, screen lighting your face in the dark.

What would you say? That you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he fucked you that night, how your body was on fire remembering it? That you needed him, right now, to prove he still wanted you, still saw you the way he used to?

You dropped the phone onto the pillow beside you and covered your face with your hand, forcing yourself to breathe. It didn’t help. His ghost was everywhere—in your head, in your sheets, in the ache between your thighs that wouldn’t go away.

You hated him. You missed him. You wanted him.

Worst of all—you weren’t sure which of those was stronger.

[i-like-sour-sweets]

I remember seeing this moment from the original podium shot. Knowing now that it was him reacting to his mum saying "I love you" is going to make me sob my eyes out. I love how openly this family loves... the absolute sweetest.

[f1-birb]

MARIO RENZI NEVER FUCKING MISSES

[radicalgraff]

"Forced starvation is a war crime. Stop Genocide"

Mural seen in River Avon, UK

[twostepstyless]

oh… OH

[harrysfolklore]

LANDO FUCKING NORRIS

[paddockclub-deactivated20251101]

missing mullet lando