Katie

25 and living

[honeylesshaze]

“There’s my girl,”

At 3:07 a.m., she stared at Dean Di Laurentis’s contact for a full thirty seconds before pressing call.

The room around her was completely dark except for the dull glow from her phone screen. Her roommate was gone for the weekend, leaving the dorm painfully quiet in a way that made everything worse. Normally she liked being alone.

Tonight it felt unbearable.

The day had been awful from start to finish. A failed exam she’d studied weeks for. A fight with her mom that ended with tears she refused to cry until after hanging up. Then finding out her internship application got rejected in the middle of an already miserable evening.

By midnight she’d convinced herself she was fine.

By two in the morning she was sitting on her bathroom floor trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling that everything in her life was suddenly too much.

And somehow, despite all her attempts to avoid it, her brain kept circling back to Dean.

Which was stupid.

Dean was fun. Bright. Easy. The opposite of whatever emotional breakdown this was.

He’d probably be asleep anyway.

Still, her thumb pressed call before she could stop herself.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Then immediately:

“Hey.”

No irritation.

No sleepy annoyance.

Just Dean’s voice, rough with exhaustion but instantly alert.

Something in her chest cracked a little at that alone.

For a second she couldn’t even speak.

Dean sat up in bed immediately on the other end.

“Hey,” he repeated softer this time. “What happened?”

That nearly did her in.

Because he sounded worried instantly.

Not confused about why she was calling at three in the morning. Not irritated she woke him up. Just worried.

She swallowed hard. “Did I wake you?”

“I don’t care.” Sheets rustled on his end as he moved around. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Baby.”

Two syllables.

Gentle. Quiet. Concerned.

Her eyes burned immediately.

Dean heard the shaky breath she failed to hide and cursed softly under his breath.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

That was worse.

Way worse.

She pressed her hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry. Forget it. I shouldn’t have called—”

“No.” His voice sharpened instantly. “Don’t do that.”

Silence.

Then more softly:

“Talk to me.”

And she tried.

Really.

But the second she opened her mouth, all the exhaustion and stress from the day tangled together in her throat. Suddenly she was crying quietly into the darkness of her room while Dean stayed on the phone listening.

Not interrupting.

Not trying to immediately fix everything.

Just listening.

“I feel stupid,” she whispered eventually.

“You’re not stupid.”

“I cried over pasta earlier.”

Dean was quiet for exactly one second.

“What kind of pasta?”

A startled laugh escaped her through the tears.

“There she is,” he murmured softly, sounding relieved just to hear her laugh at all.

She wiped quickly beneath her eyes. “It was bad pasta.”

“Okay, then your reaction was justified.”

Another tiny laugh.

Dean exhaled slowly on the other end of the line like that sound physically relaxed him.

“Can you open the front door for me?”

She frowned immediately. “What?”

“The dorm entrance.”

Her brain lagged behind.

“…Dean.”

“I’m outside.”

She sat upright so fast the blanket tangled around her legs.

“What?”

“I’ve been driving this entire call.”

Sure enough, through the phone she suddenly heard a car door shut.

Her chest tightened painfully.

“You drove here?”

“You sounded sad.”

Like that explained everything.

Like crossing campus at three in the morning wasn’t even a question once he heard her cry.

Something unbearably soft moved through her chest.

She hurried downstairs in oversized sweatpants and one of Dean’s hoodies she’d stolen weeks ago. The dorm lobby was empty and silent at this hour, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead as she pushed open the main doors.

Dean stood outside beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamp.

Gray sweatpants. Black hoodie. Hair messy like he’d barely bothered fixing it before leaving. His car still running behind him.

And the second he saw her face properly, his entire expression changed.

Gone was the sleepy softness from the phone call.

Now he just looked concerned.

“There’s my girl,” he said quietly.

That almost made her cry again.

Dean noticed immediately too because his face softened with alarm.

“Oh no,” he murmured, stepping closer. “C’mere.”

The second his arms wrapped around her, she completely fell apart.

Not dramatic sobbing.

Just exhausted, overwhelmed tears pressing into the front of his hoodie while Dean held her tightly against his chest.

One hand slid into her hair instantly.

“I got you,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

The warmth of him felt unreal after hours of feeling miserable and alone.

She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Steady. Calm. Grounding.

Dean didn’t rush her.

Didn’t tease her.

He just stood there in the middle of the cold night holding her like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

Eventually her breathing evened out enough for embarrassment to creep in.

“You really drove across campus because I was crying?”

Dean pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You called me at three in the morning,” he said gently. “You never do that.”

The simple honesty of it hit hard.

He knew her enough to recognize this wasn’t normal.

Dean brushed his thumb carefully beneath one of her eyes, wiping away leftover tears.

“Rough day?”

“The roughest."

“Wanna talk about it?”

She hesitated.

Then shook her head slightly.

Dean nodded immediately like that was completely fine.

“Okay.” He squeezed her waist lightly. “Then we won’t.”

No pressure.

No forcing.

Just understanding.

God.

She was in so much trouble with this man.

Dean glanced toward the dorm entrance. “Can I come upstairs or are we getting arrested tonight?”

That finally pulled a real laugh out of her.

“There’s technically a rule against visitors this late.”

“Sweetheart, I play hockey. Rules are suggestions.”

She rolled her eyes, but warmth spread through her chest anyway as she led him upstairs.

The dorm room was freezing when they entered.

Dean frowned immediately.

“Why is it cold enough in here to preserve human organs?”

“The heater sucks.”

“Criminal.”

She closed the door quietly behind them while Dean looked around sleepily, hands shoved into his sweatpants pockets.

Then his eyes landed on her bed.

“Get in.”

She blinked. “What?”

Dean pointed firmly. “Bed. Now.”

“You drove here in the middle of the night just to boss me around?”

“Yes."

Despite herself, she obeyed.

Dean kicked off his shoes and climbed in beside her without hesitation, pulling the blanket around both of them before immediately tugging her against his chest like he belonged there.

The familiarity of it nearly melted her on the spot.

One strong arm wrapped securely around her waist while she tucked herself against him automatically.

Warm.

Safe.

Dean smelled like laundry detergent and sleep and faint traces of cologne.

“You comfortable?” he murmured against her hair.

“Very.”

“Good.”

Silence settled softly after that.

Outside, rain tapped lightly against the dorm windows. Somewhere down the hallway, a door shut faintly before quiet returned.

Dean’s fingers traced slow patterns against her back underneath the blanket.

Not sexual.

Just soothing.

The kind of touch that said I’m here without needing words.

“You know,” he murmured eventually, voice quieter now with exhaustion creeping back in, “I kinda like that you called me.”

Her chest tightened slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Means you trust me.”

She went still.

Because that was the terrifying part.

She did trust him.

Completely.

More than she probably should.

Dean must’ve felt her tense because he tilted his head slightly to look down at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She smiled weakly into his chest. “I just…” Her voice softened. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Dean looked genuinely confused by that.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Like the answer was obvious.

Like there was never a version of tonight where he left her alone hurting.

Emotion clogged painfully in her throat again.

Dean noticed instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart, no more crying.” He tightened his arms around her dramatically. “I’m too handsome to be cried on this much.”

A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.

“There you are,” he whispered again softly.

The room grew quieter after that.

Her body slowly relaxed against him for the first time all day while Dean kept holding her without complaint despite the awkward dorm mattress and uncomfortable position.

Sleepiness tugged at her finally.

Right before drifting off, she felt Dean press a gentle kiss against the top of her head.

“Get some sleep, baby,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time that entire horrible day—

She believed it.

[binchidavinci]

Mister Fix It

(Ryland Grace x reader)

‘Times Ryland mindlessly used his sleeper strength to fix things for you without batting an eye.’

Ryland doesn’t think of himself as strong: he never used to go to the gym because the one time he went, he slipped straight off the stair master and never went back.

Of course, aboard the Hail Mary and on Erid, it’s a different story: Ryland woke up from the coma in decent shape, found that being in even better shape helped you two to navigate space life much easier, and started doing a home workout routine once a day, or jogging along the coast. Muscles for Ryland were not an aesthetic choice; it was just practical to be able to move heavy stuff when you’re one of two people on a space craft (though, once he gets word that you really like looking at his thick thighs and biceps, he starts putting extra work into the more visible muscle groups).

You first discovered your penchant for his strength when you were struggling to move one of the heavy supply crates in the sleeping area. You huffed and puffed, pushing with all your body weight against the box. Ryland walked in mid-conversation about Eridian atmospheric models, still talking animatedly. He stopped short when he saw you panting: you'd always been to proud to ask for help. “Oh, here. Let me get that." He reached down with one arm, gripped the side of the massive metal crate, and lifted it effortlessly onto the shelf while continuing to talk. “—and that’s why Rocky thinks the methane levels might spike next cycle. What do you think?” His bicep flexed and his shirt rode up, revealing a fantastic V-line as he adjusted the crate’s position with one hand.

You just stood there, staring, heat rushing to your face. Ryland finally noticed your silence. Blinking innocently behind his glasses, he furrowed his brows. “Y/N? You good?” You nodded and closed your mouth, a little dazed. “Yeah! Sorry. Just— you’re really strong. That box was like... thirty kilos.” Ryland looked genuinely surprised. “Am I?” He glanced at his arm like he’d never considered it before. “Huh. Anyway, about the methane…”

Later that week, you were trying to reach a book that had fallen behind the small library corner you and Ryland had built in the sleeping area of the ship. It was a bit pathetic since you hadn't been given many books: it was mostly made up of instruction manuals and physics textbooks, but nonetheless, you made it cosy.

Ryland walked past on his way to the lab, but froze and back-tracked, unsure what you were doing. He leaned against the doorway for a moment, amused by your lying down on the floor, groaning and trying to grab the book that had fallen down the back. Finally, you stopped and dropped your head onto the floor, sighing in defeat. "Ryland! Ry!" you shouted over your shoulder, hoping Ryland would hear you from the lab, where you thought he was. "Need some help?" he replied, arms folded over his chest. You almost jumped out of your skin. "Grace! Don't sneak up on me like that!" you huffed. "And yes, obviously, I need some help, please." Ryland obliged, smiling, and strode toward you. He placed one hand on the side of the tall bookshelf and lifted the entire thing a few inches off the ground so you could grab the book trapped underneath.

You peered up at him as he towered over you: his bicep strained visibly against his sleeve as he held the heavy piece of furniture, lightly huffing in effort. He looked down at you; you continued to ogle up his shirt, effectively lying between his legs. "Uh, Y/N?" "Yeah?" you replied, still admiring the view up his shirt. "This is pretty heavy." Your eyes snapped up to his. "Right— sorry." You grabbed the book and rolled out from under the shelf, cheeks burning. Ryland set the shelf back down gently and cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm gonna just... I'll be in the—" "Yeah." You both walked away briskly, unsure what had transpired.

Once you'd finally recovered from that indiscretion a good few hours later, you returned to the lab. Ryland, of course, had forgotten all about it, too immersed in his work. "There she is!" He scooted his wheelie chair back and plucked the goggles from his face. "Wanna help me with this? New paste! Might not taste like—" "Dogshit?" you asked, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Yeah," he nodded, "might not taste like dogshit." You laughed: it was so rare to hear Ryland swear, but you loved to make him blush.

And so you got stuck in helping to reorganise the samples, until one of the large diagnostic machines froze up. Ryland walked over to where you were smacking the machine, half-listening to him explain the new nutrient formula to you. “Oh, stupid thing, it keeps jamming,” he said, interrupting himself. He squatted down next to you, gripped the side of the heavy machine with one hand and tinkered with the underneath, muscles shifting under his shirt and jeans as he repositioned it perfectly without so much as a strained groan. "Try it again?" he instructed, peering up at you over his glasses. You fought to follow his instructions instead of just ogling him for a moment more. "Uh— yeah, s'working now," you stuttered. "Awesome. So, like I was saying, if we adjust the nitrogen ratio by point zero three percent, we should see better growth in the—”

God. You wished he'd cotton on, already.

You were enormously relieved to land on Erid, having been sharing such a close space with Ryland over the past few years. You thought you'd finally gotten away from your perversions, that your fantasies about his thick biceps were just the product of spending too much time with him. Sadly, that was not the case, and his strength continued to be one of your biggest weaknesses.

On one such occasion, you and Ryland were moving supplies off of the Hail Mary and into the biodome. You realised that you’d overpacked the large, garden-refuse style bags, and were now fighting to lift even one up.

“Fuck! Ow,” you cried out: you’d dropped the bag on your foot, leaving you hopping on the spot and cussing in pain. Ryland exited the spaceship, one big bag slung over his shoulder, and headed back down the Xenonite tunnel to the dome. He caught sight of you hopping and immediately furrowed his brows. "Oh— ouch. You ok?" "Yeah, sorry. Just dropped this fucking heavy bag on my left foot—" Before you could finish, Ryland took the bag from you in the arm already carrying one, tucking his arm through the carrier handles. Then, without a second guess, he scooped you up with the other arm, carrying both you and the heavy bags like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Ryland," you moaned, "I can walk.” You protested weakly, face burning as you felt the strength in his bicep supporting you against his side. “I know,” he said, completely oblivious to how affected you were. “But you looked hurt!”

Weeks later, you couldn't take it anymore: you'd taken to openly ogling him whenever he did something remotely related to strength, accepting your fate in the most pathetic way possible.

During a walk near one of the cliff faces in the Biodome, a heavy branch had fallen from a nearby 'tree' (or what Eridians had scrambled together to resemble a tree— to their credit, it looked like the real thing) and blocked the path. Ryland was in the middle of excitedly telling you about a new theory when he noticed. “Oh no, hang on a sec,” he said. He reached down with both hands, gripped the trunk, and rolled it clear off the path. His bicep bulged under his sleeve as he casually moved the heavy obstacle aside and set it down, much as your eyes bulged in surprise. No matter how many times you'd seen Ryland exert his strength, it always amazed you: he just didn't seem the type.

He wiped has hands on his jeans, barely throwing a glance over his shoulder as he kept walking up the path, talking like nothing had happened. “...which is why I think the atmospheric nitrogen might actually be—” You stopped in your tracks, unable to contain yourself any longer. "Would you stop doing that?" you hissed. Ryland turned quickly, tilting his head with an adorably concerned expression. His eyebrows were stitched together in worry. “Huh? Did I say something?” You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "No, Ryland, sorry. It's just—" you paused, suddenly embarrassed. "You are like— built. Like you do all these things, like picking me up and throwing a tree trunk off the path—" Ryland scoffed, interrupting you. "It was hardly a trunk—" You continued, ignoring his logic. "—and it's distracting! You don't even seem to know that you're like... freakishly strong, and It's driving me crazy!" You ceased your barrage, suddenly out of breath. Had you actually just told your only surviving crew-mate, and only human friend for the foreseeable future, 'distracting'? Ryland, too, didn't move; he blinked down at you.

Finally, he spoke. "Are you... objectifying me?" You paused, worried he was serious, until he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Because, I totally get it if you are." "Oh my god!" you shouted, laughing in relief. "You are literally the last man left on this planet: do not get cocky!" You slapped his upper arm until he grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder fireman-style. You squealed, thrashing against his back. "The last and most handsome man on this planet," he smirked.

[yawnzshit]

glasses are the sluttiest thing a man can wear.

[angelverse222]

chemistry lessons₊·˚𓏲ּ𝄢

frank langdon x fem!highschool teacher!reader

based off of this request from anon: i was wondering if you would be willing to write a langdon fic with a high school science teacher!reader. maybe he comes in to an anatomy class or biology class as a guest speaker??? maybe he has to deal with some high school shenanigans??? Just picturing some cute fluff where langdon and reader get to see each other in their elements…thank you!!!

cw: fluff, basically everything in the above request. flirty friends w/ tension, sweet landgon x reader, probably unrealistic medical terms and school system

not proofread! lowercase intentional. ~3.3k words

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the classroom always feels a little louder right before something different is about to happen. you could tell the moment you walked in this morning.

there’s an edge to it. chairs scraping louder than usual, voices overlapping, someone in the back already half-standing on a desk before you even set your bag down. the fluorescent lights hum above you, steady and indifferent, while your juniors buzz like they’ve all had too much sugar at once.

you exhale slowly, setting your coffee on the desk. “okay- no. absolutely not,” you say, not even looking up as you shuffle through your papers. “if i have to start the day by writing a referral, i will. sit.” a few groans. a couple of laughs. but they listen. mostly.

you glance at the clock. 8:12. he’ll be here in about eight minutes. and that thought alone makes something in your chest tighten. not in a bad way, just aware.

you tap your pen against the desk, then stop yourself. you don’t need to be nervous. it’s frank. you’ve known him for months now - coffee after long days, conversations that drift from work to nothing to everything, quiet moments that always feel like they’re on the edge of something more but never quite crossing it. still.

he’s never seen you like this. at work. in your space, doing what you do.

“alright,” you say, pushing off the desk and moving to the front of the room. “phones away. yes, that includes you in the back pretending you’re not texting.”

“i’m not-”

“you are,” you cut in, but there’s a hint of a smile. “and i don’t care enough to argue. just put it away.” a few more seconds of shuffling, and then it settles. you pick up the marker, writing in clean strokes across the whiteboard:

guest speaker - anatomy & emergency medicine

a ripple goes through the class. “guest speaker?” someone asks, immediately more interested. “yes,” you say, turning back to face them. “and before anyone asks - no, this is not an excuse to act like you’ve never been in public before. he is a professional, and you will treat him like one.”

“is he, like, a real doctor?”

you pause, just for a second. a small smile tugs at your mouth. “yes. very real.”

“is he hot?” you stare at them. a beat.

“keep those comments to yourself in front of him, i beg,” you say flatly, but you can’t fully hide the warmth creeping into your tone. the bell rings a second later. and right on cue, there’s a knock at the door.

your heart does something stupid. quick, sharp, before you even move. “come in,” you call, hoping your voice sounds more even than you feel. the door opens, and there he is.

frank langdon looks just slightly out of place in a high school hallway. like something sharper, more grounded, stepping into a world that runs on noise and chaos. he’s in a button-down, sleeves rolled just enough, hair slightly mussed like he ran a hand through it on the way in.

his eyes find you first. they always do. and there’s that small, familiar shift in his expression. something softening, something almost amused. “sorry,” he says, stepping inside. “traffic.”

“you’re on time,” you reply, a little too quickly, and then you clear your throat. “class, this is dr. langdon.” he nods toward them. “morning.”

“good morning, dr. langdon,” a few of them echo, some more sincere than others. you step aside, giving him space at the front, but you don’t go far, leaning lightly against the edge of your desk, arms crossing loosely as you watch.

this is his element. you’ve seen it before. in hospital corridors, in the way people naturally move around him, in how his voice carries calm even when things are anything but. but here, it’s different.

he glances at the board, then back at the students. “so, your teacher tells me you’ve been covering basic anatomy.”

“yes,” you say, “and today we’re focusing on how that applies in real-life emergency situations.”

“right,” he nods, then looks back at them. “which means i’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen.” a hand shoots up immediately. he pauses. “..or you’re going to interrupt. that works too.”

a few laughs ripple through the room. you can’t help it - you smile.

“have you ever, like, actually saved someone?” the student asks. frank tilts his head slightly. “yes.”

“like, recently?”

“yes.”

“like, was there blood?”

“okay,” you cut in, pushing off the desk. “we are not turning this into a true crime podcast.” more laughter. frank glances at you, just briefly, and there’s something in his eyes. something warm, almost fond.

“we’ll keep it educational,” he says, then looks back at the class. “but yes, emergency medicine isn’t clean. it’s fast, it’s unpredictable, and it relies heavily on knowing exactly what you’re looking at.” he picks up a marker, sketching a quick outline of a torso on the board. not perfect, but precise enough.

“if someone comes in with chest trauma,” he continues, tapping the area, “you need to know what’s underneath before you even touch them. heart, lungs, major vessels, where they are, how they’re affected.”

the room quiets. really quiets. and you feel it, that shift. the moment they realize this isn’t just another lecture. you watch him as he talks, the way his hands move when he explains, the slight furrow in his brow when he’s focused. he’s calm, steady, completely in control of the room without ever raising his voice.

it does something to you. more than you want to admit.

“what’s the worst thing you’ve seen?” someone blurts out. you don’t even have time to sigh before the rest of the class perks up, like they’ve all been waiting for someone to ask it out loud.

frank pauses at the front of the room, marker still in his hand. for a second, you think he might shut it down completely. instead, he exhales lightly through his nose. “that’s not really the right question,” he says.

“why not?” another student presses.

he taps the marker once against the board, thinking. “because ‘worst’ isn’t useful,” he explains. “it doesn’t help you understand what’s happening or what to do next.”

there’s a small shift in the room - attention tightening instead of scattering. he turns back to the diagram he started, adding a few more lines with quick, practiced strokes. “what matters is recognizing patterns. knowing what’s normal so you can spot what isn’t.”

you watch him as he speaks, the way his voice stays even, grounded. he doesn’t talk down to them, doesn’t sugarcoat, but he doesn’t overwhelm them either. it’s a balance you recognize, one you try to strike yourself, though his version of it feels.. different. heavier, maybe. earned.

“so if someone comes in and they can’t breathe,” he continues, “you’re not thinking ‘this is the worst thing i’ve ever seen.’ you’re thinking ‘what’s blocking their airway? is it swelling? is it trauma? is it something lodged where it shouldn’t be?’”

a hand goes up again. he nods toward it. “yeah.”

“have you ever had to, like, cut someone open? in the er?” you close your eyes for half a second. frank doesn’t react right away. he just studies the student, then says, “yes.”

a few kids shift in their seats, suddenly more invested. “but it’s not like the movies,” he adds. “it’s controlled. it’s precise. and it’s always a last resort.” he sets the marker down, flexing his fingers slightly before picking up the plastic anatomical model you keep on the shelf. you didn’t even see him grab it.

“you learn where everything is,” he says, turning it slightly so they can see. “not just generally, but exactly. because when time matters, you don’t get to hesitate.”

his thumb presses lightly against the ribcage of the model. “this is where you’d go for a chest tube. here-” he adjusts, “-you avoid the major vessels.”

you step a little closer without meaning to, leaning against the side of a desk instead of yours now. you’ve taught this unit before, gone over these structures dozens of times, but hearing him tie it to real situations, real people, it lands differently.

“does it ever, like, freak you out?” someone asks. he glances up. “no.” a pause. then, more honestly, “not in the moment.” the room goes quieter.

“after?” another student asks. frank’s jaw shifts slightly, like he’s considering how much to say. you feel it - that edge. the line he’s walking.

“after, you process it,” he says. “but during, you don’t have that luxury. someone’s counting on you to stay focused.” you swallow, your arms tightening loosely across your chest. he’s not just teaching them right now. he’s letting something slip through, something real, something you’ve only caught pieces of before.

a student in the back raises their hand halfway, not waiting to be called on. “what happens if you mess up?” you tense slightly. but frank doesn’t flinch. “then you learn,” he says simply. “that’s it?”

“that’s not all,” he replies, meeting their gaze. “but it’s the part that keeps you going. you don’t get better by pretending you’re perfect.”

you don’t realize you’re staring at him until he glances your way. just for a second. but it’s enough. there’s something in that look. something quieter than the rest of this, something that feels like it belongs to just the two of you. you look away first.

“alright,” you say, stepping in before the questions spiral again. “let’s rein it in a little. we are still in a high school classroom, not a surgical residency.” a few groans. a couple of laughs. frank’s mouth twitches faintly. “but,” you add, grabbing a marker of your own, “we can build off what dr. langdon just said.”

you move to the board beside him, sketching out a cleaner version of the thoracic cavity. “you’ve already learned the basic structures. heart, lungs, ribs. yes, you need to know where they are. but you also need to understand how they interact.” you tap the lungs. “if these collapse, what happens?”

“you can’t breathe,” someone answers.

“right,” you nod. “but more specifically?” a pause. frank crosses his arms loosely beside you, watching the class now instead of leading it.

“oxygen doesn’t get into your blood,” another student offers.

“exactly,” you say, pointing at them. “and if oxygen isn’t getting into your blood, what happens to the rest of your body?”

“everything starts shutting down?”

“yes.” you glance at frank briefly. “see? they do listen.”

“i’m impressed,” he murmurs, just low enough that only you hear. your lips press together to hide a smile.

you continue the lesson together without really planning to. him adding context, you tying it back to what they need to know for class. it flows easier than you expect, like you’ve done this before, like you’ve always worked this way. at one point, a student asks, “so could we, like, do what you do? if we learned this?”

frank looks at them. “not yet,” he says. “but this is where it starts.” you nod. “foundations matter.”

“yeah,” he agrees, glancing at you again.

the bell rings before anyone’s ready for it. it cuts through the room, loud and abrupt, and immediately the energy shifts. chairs scraping, bags zipping, voices rising again.

“wait, we didn’t-”

“you’ll survive,” you say, though your tone is lighter now. “we’ll pick this up tomorrow.” a few students linger, of course.

“thanks, dr. langdon,” one says, slinging their backpack over their shoulder.

“yeah, that was actually cool,” another adds.

he nods at them. “stay in school.”

“we are in school,” someone mutters on their way out. you shake your head, amused, as the last of them file out into the hallway. the door swings shut behind them. and just like that, it’s quiet again. you set the marker down, exhaling. “you handled that well.”

“i didn’t scare them off?”

“not completely,” you say. “give it time.”

he huffs out a quiet laugh. there’s a pause, longer now, heavier without the noise of the class to fill it. you lean back against a desk, studying him. “they liked you.”

“they liked the stories,” he corrects. “they liked you,” you repeat. he doesn’t argue this time.

instead, his gaze drifts over the room—the desks, the board, the little details that make up your space. “this is different,” he says. “from what?”

“from the hospital,” he replies. “you get to teach before things go wrong.”

you follow his gaze, seeing your classroom the way he might. “yeah,” you say softly. “i do.”

he looks back at you then. and there’s something in his expression. something quieter, steadier. “you’re good at it,” he says again.

it lands a little deeper this time. you hold his gaze for a second longer than you probably should. “so are you,” you say. another pause. not awkward. just full. then you push off the desk, breaking it before it can turn into something else. “come on,” you say lightly. “lunch before my next class acts up ten times more.” he falls into step beside you without hesitation.

—

the next class is quieter - freshmen. they come in slower, less chaotic, but with that same restless energy. half curious, half distracted. a few of them glance at frank like they’re not entirely sure what to do with him, whispering to each other as they take their seats. you keep it simpler this time.

less emergency medicine, more basics. cell structure, a quick review, tying it back just enough that frank can chime in without the conversation spiraling into questions they’re not ready for. he adjusts easily. you notice that.

he softens the way he explains things, strips it down without losing the meaning. when a student struggles, he waits instead of jumping in, lets them get there on their own. you catch yourself watching him again. not just what he says, but how he is. steady. patient. it fits him more than you expected.

the bell rings, and they file out with a few shy “bye, dr. langdon” comments, one kid nearly tripping over their own feet on the way out because they’re too busy looking back at him. you bite back a smile. “you’re a hit,” you murmur.

“don’t start,” he replies, but there’s a hint of something warmer in his voice now.

—

the last class of the day is louder once again. seniors. they walk in like they own the place, already talking over each other, one of them immediately asking, “are we doing anything today or is this, like, a free period?” you raise an eyebrow. “try again.”

“sorry. good afternoon, ms.” the student corrects, frank chuckling quietly to himself. “mmmhm.”

frank leans slightly against the counter at the back, arms crossed, observing. you keep tighter control this time. structured, focused, but still letting a little bit of the earlier discussion slip in. a quick demonstration with the model, a few guided questions. of course, they push.

“so what’s the craziest thing you’ve seen?” one asks, clearly trying again. “asked and answered,” you say without missing a beat. “worth a shot.” frank just watches, amused, stepping in only when you give him a look; a subtle nod that says it’s okay.

and when he does, they quiet down again. not completely. but enough.

the final bell rings, long and loud, echoing through the halls like a release. this time, no one lingers. they’re already halfway out the door before you can say anything. “have a good afternoon,” you call after them, though you’re pretty sure no one hears you. the room empties. and the silence that follows feels different than before.

heavier, maybe. or just more aware. you start straightening absentmindedly. stacking papers, capping markers, anything to keep your hands busy. frank stays where he is for a moment, then pushes off the counter and walks toward your desk. “you do that every day?” he asks.

you glance up. “what, survive?”

“manage that,” he gestures vaguely toward the now-empty room. “all of it.” you shrug lightly. “most days.” he huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh. “i’d take a trauma room over that.”

“i don’t believe you.”

“you should,” he says, stepping a little closer. “at least in a trauma room, people listen.” you smile, leaning back against the desk. “you’re saying my students don’t?”

“i’m saying they try your patience more.”

“that’s part of the job.”

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i noticed.” there’s a pause. the late afternoon light filters in through the windows now, softer, warmer, stretching across the floor and catching in the edges of everything. you don’t move right away. neither does he.

“you were good today,” you say after a second, quieter than before. he tilts his head slightly. “you’ve said that.”

“i mean it.”

“so do i,” he replies. your breath catches just a little. you look at him, really look this time, and he’s already watching you. closer than he was before, not by much, but enough that you notice. “you liked it,” you add, softer, almost teasing. “being in my world for once.”

his mouth twitches faintly. “i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.” he studies you for a second, then says, “it suits you.” your chest tightens in a way you don’t quite expect. “yeah?” you ask. “yeah,” he says, steady. “you’re.. different here.”

“different how?”

he hesitates, just slightly. “lighter,” he admits. the word lingers between you. you swallow, your fingers curling lightly against the edge of the desk. “that a good thing?” his gaze doesn’t waver. “it is.” another pause. closer now.

you’re not sure who moved first. maybe neither of you did, maybe it just feels like that, but the space between you feels smaller, thinner. charged. “you handled the ‘are you single’ questions well,” you say suddenly, breaking the tension just enough to breathe.

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “i’m still not over that.”

“welcome to high school.”

“is that something you deal with often?”

“not usually directed at my guest speakers,” you admit. “so… congratulations.” he glances at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “you didn’t answer them.” heat creeps up your neck again. “i’m not getting involved in that.”

“mm,” he hums softly, unconvinced. you narrow your eyes a little. “don’t start.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you’re implying things.”

“am i?” you hold his gaze, trying to stay firm, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth now. “yes.” he steps just a fraction closer. “would it be a problem if i was?” he asks, quieter now. your breath stutters, just slightly.

“frank-” “dr. langdon,” he corrects automatically, though there’s no real bite to it. you roll your eyes softly. “no students. you don’t have to pretend.” his expression shifts at that. something softening again, something more familiar. “right,” he murmurs. a beat.

then, quieter, “y/n.”your heart does something stupid at the sound of it. you look at him, really look, and for a second it feels like everything else has faded out - the hallway noise, the end-of-day rush, all of it. just him. just this.

“you heading out?” you ask, your voice softer now. he nods slightly. “yeah. you?”

“in a minute.” another pause. neither of you moves. then, finally, you push off the desk, grabbing your bag. “walk me out?” you say, light but not entirely. he doesn’t hesitate. “yeah.”

---------------------------------------------------------

a/n: i hope you enjoyed this anon!! thank you so much for the request + idea <3

writing on my laptop is so fun im never going back

@wouldyouuratherr

[benzene-babe]

I saw a post that said “it’s crazy how the Pitt has brought up the question of who does the internet hate more, a complicated woman or a drug addict”. I laughed and showed it to my husband and this conversation ensued:

Me: I think I hate the complicated woman more

Him: I hate the drug addict more.

Me: Nooooooooooo

Him: You only feel that way because you think he’s hot.

Me: 😮

Him: If he wasn’t hot, you wouldn’t like him.

Me:….. okay fair.

[cryonme]

saw u were askin for langdon and squealed bc im in love with that man😋

mayhaps a grumpy x sunshine where reader stopping by the er bc he forgot smth from home and meeting the pitt crew and they’re like “you’re with him??”

somethin cutesie or hurt/comfort🙏🏽🙏🏽

going to be combining these two! ⬆️⬇️

I freaking loveeeeee a grumpy x sunshine german shepherd bf moment.

anon, your wish is my command! 🫡

send me a request!

everybody who worked with Dr. Frank Langdon at the pitt knew that he was not pleasant to be around. if you missed a step, spoke out of turn, made a mistake, he’d nearly bite your head off.

he was smart, capable, quick and reliable. but if there was one thing that Frank Langdon wasn’t, it was friendly.

he was polite with patients, polite with colleagues, giving curt nods and quick “thank you’s”, never waiting a moment longer than he had to for small talk or pleasantries.

“Dr. Langdon-“

Frank didn’t even turn, typing rapidly on the keyboard to update his current patient’s chart.

“don’t interrupt me while I’m with a patient.” he snapped.

he recognized the voice as Santos, which, if he ever felt bad about his attitude at work, it was definitely never with Santos.

she rolled her eyes, bringing her lips together in a purse before crossing her arms.

Langdon’s attitude annoyed her more than anything else at work. but she’s been yelled at more times than she could count to know to just roll her eyes and walk away. for her own good, and everyone else’s.

“look, I don’t wanna be in here talking to you either. trust me. but there’s a patient in central 5 who, for some reason that I can’t figure out, only wants you to work on her. so will you come, please?”

Frank stilled, his typing coming to a full stop.

“what happened?”

he’s trying his best to keep his voice steady, as to not pique the interest of his patient or the annoyingly nosy R2 standing only a few feet behind him.

“car accident. nothing major, smacked her head on the wheel. said she was on her way to take her husband lunch or something? she’s really nice, can’t imagine a world where you would know her. do you know her?”

he didn’t need anymore information. he knew that it was you.

he finished up typing his sentence before turning to his patient.

“Dr. Santos here is going to finish up for me, she’s just gonna ask you a couple questions so she can fill out your charts. you’re gonna be just fine.”

he gave the patient a nod, and was out of the room, not sparing Santos a second glance or giving her even a moment to protest.

“Langdon! where’s the fire?”

Dana and Robby were often the only 2 people brave enough to go toe to toe with Langdon, and make it out with nothing but a smirk on their faces.

“no fire. my wife is here?”

Dana smiled, bringing a hand to rest on her hip. ever since being the only person who had the pleasure of meeting his wife after bumping into each other at the supermarket, she loves to rub it in his face. holds it over Frank’s head that she and his wife have regular wine nights and coffee dates.

“sure is. sunshine, rainbows and all. central 4, go get her.”

“Santos said central 5. idiot.” Frank groaned and shook his head, making off in the direction of where Dana said you are.

and he was horrified by the sight played out in front of him. you, surrounded by Robby, Whitaker, javadi, mckay and Mel. all of them beaming as you talked, hanging onto every word. and there you were, like sunshine in the middle of all of them, only a swelling bruise on your forehead and a busted lip to show for the car accident you were in.

“see! there he is, I told you my husband worked here!” you smiled, relief flooding you in the presence of your husband. “hi, baby.”

“I’m sorry, langdon, this is your wife?” Robby asked, gesturing to you with eyebrows raised.

then he turned to you, moving his hand to point at Frank, “this is your husband?”

around the room, jaws dropped.

but Frank actually couldn’t care less if he tried.

“sweetheart, what happened to you?”

“sweetheart?!” mckay basically screeched, this being an entirely new side to their infamous senior resident.

Frank was pulling off his stethoscope in a second, pressing it against your chest as he sat you up, one hand firm on your back.

“I was just trying to bring you your lunch-“

“breathe in.”

you took a beat, breathing in.

Frank repositioned the stethoscope.

“and some asshole rear ended me, making me rear end the person in front it me.”

“breathe out.”

you breathed out.

“I shouldn’t have called him that, maybe he was having a bad day. that was mean.”

Frank shook his head, “that was really sweet of you, baby. but you ended up the ER, I think you’re allowed to call the guy an asshole.”

Frank sat back, taking you in. your sweet hands were clutching his lunch box, knuckles going white. you were shaking like a chihuahua, eyes blown wide. you looked really nervous.

“hey, you’re gonna be okay, baby.” he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, securing his hand around the back of your neck.

“maybe a couple broken ribs, possible minor concussion. nothing a night at home with some ice cream and Sex and the City can’t fix.”

you shook your head, wanting to explain but Frank spoke first, addressing his colleagues.

“did any of you order a CT? chest x rays? anything?”

everyone was silent.

“are you kidding me? none of you bothered-“

“of course we did Frank, jeez. what kind of doctors do you think we are?” Robby defended himself and his residents.

“hang tight, alright? it’s coming.” Robby clapped him on the back. “let’s give these two some space alright?” he offered, giving you a friendly wink.

once you were alone, Frank’s attention was fully on you, only after glaring at everyone as they made their way out of the room.

“my poor girl, all banged up. I could’ve gone a day without lunch.”

Frank helped your hand, bringing your conjoined fingers up to his mouth so he could place a gentle kiss to your wrist.

your face crumpled, lips quivering as you began to cry. “I’m sorry.”

Frank’s heart broke as he shook his head, holding your hand tighter.

“the car’s all messed up and now you have to take time out of your work day to tend to me because I’m so stupid-“

“Hey…”

Frank thinks his voice is the softest it’s ever been in the walls of the ED.

“and I don’t want you to be mad at me I just- I just wanted you to have a nice lunch, you work so hard and”

Frank cut you off with a kiss on the lips, holding your face firmly, but not harshly.

“I love when you make me lunch, thank you.” he whispered, worried that raising his voice anymore would startle you in your panicked state.

“I could never be mad at you, baby. never.”

“you don’t know that.”

Frank nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I do know that. I know you would never do something on purpose to make me mad.” he kissed your nose.

“never, ever mad at my sweet girl.”

Frank was snapped out of his dreamland with you by a small cough.

“um. I’m gonna pretend like I’m not still super weirded out by this. radiology is ready for you, Mrs Langdon.”

[happy74827]

Hang Tight

[Steve Harrington x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: When a night goes wrong in the middle of nowhere, you call the one person you trust to come running—no questions asked. [Tagging: @ladybuggirl2002]

WC: 2556

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Distress, Protective!Steve, Comfort After Trauma [TW: Panic Attack, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault]

Actually insane how it has taken me till the END of the series to start writing st characters. Inspiration strikes when it wants to ig 😭

『••✎••』

The night air clawed at your skin like it had teeth, sharp and unforgiving, as you stumbled into the phone booth at the edge of the gas station lot. Your skirt was twisted around your thighs, streaked with dirt from the gravel you'd scrambled over, and your blouse hung open at the collar, one button popped loose in the chaos. Blood—his blood—smeared the cuff of your sleeve, sticky and cooling against your wrist. Your fingers trembled so badly you could barely grip the receiver, fumbling through your purse for quarters that scattered across the booth floor like spilled tears. The metal enclosure felt too small, the glass walls closing in, fogging with your ragged breaths. Outside, the junkyard loomed dark and twisted, a graveyard of rusted cars that mirrored the mess in your chest—everything broken, nothing fitting back together.

You snatched a quarter, jammed it into the slot, and dialed the number etched into your memory from a crumpled napkin. The rotary wheel spun slowly, each click echoing like a countdown:

Ring one. Ring two. Nothing.

"Please," you whispered to the empty line, pressing the receiver harder against your ear. "Please pick up."

A third ring dragged on, and then—finally—a groggy mumble, thick with sleep and irritation. "Jesus Christ—Dustin, it’s two in the goddamn morn—" He cut himself off. "What is it now? If this is about your radio again, I swear to—"

The voice stole your breath, but not in a bad way. It was him. And just hearing it, even pissed off and half-asleep, made the shaking in your hands ease a fraction.

"It's not Dustin," you managed, your voice cracking like thin ice. "It's me. I… I just—Can you come get me? Please, Steve?"

Silence stretched for a beat, the kind that lasted too long, and you heard the rustle of sheets, the creak of bedsprings as he bolted upright. Papers shuffled—his nightstand, you pictured it, the drawer yanking open with a bang. A pencil scratched frantically against something, probably that beat-up notebook he kept for work shifts.

"Whoa—hey, hey. Slow down. You’re freaking me out. Where are you?" His words tumbled out now, all the grogginess burned away, replaced by that edge you knew too well: worry, sharp as a switchblade. He was scribbling, you could hear the pencil scraping, the flip of pages. "Okay—okay. Tell me exactly. I’m grabbing my keys."

You rattled off the gas station name, the road number, the turnoff by the junkyard—your words slurring together in a rush, breath hitching on every other syllable. It wasn't coherent, just a jumble of panic spilling out, but he didn't interrupt. He just breathed heavily on the line, like he was holding himself back from yelling through the phone to come faster.

Before the line went dead, he assured you he’d be there within ten minutes, tops. You could tell by the way his voice dropped low and steady at the end, almost as if he was already halfway out the door, keys jingling in his fist.

"Don’t move. I’m on my way, alright? Just hang tight."

The receiver clicked back into place with a hollow thud, and you slid down the booth wall, knees buckling until you sat on the cold floor amid the scattered quarters. The metal bit into your back, but you barely felt it. Your mind went blank at first, then replayed it all in jagged flashes: his hands too rough, too sure, the way your shove turned into a swing that cracked something wet and final. The run through the dark, branches snagging your skirt like claws, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to push it away, but the tears came anyway—hot, silent, soaking into the knees of your hose.

Time blurred. The fog on the glass thickened, your breath coming in shallow pulls that did nothing to warm the ache in your chest. Everything felt heavy, like you'd left pieces of yourself scattered back there in the dirt.

Then—a grip on your arm, firm but careful, yanking you from the haze. Your eyes flew open, a scream catching in your throat as you jerked back, hands flying up to shove whatever it was away. "No—get off—"

"Hey—hey, no, no. It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re okay."

Steve's voice cut through, low and urgent, his face filling the booth's doorway—pale under the buzzing light, eyes wide with his own panic. He was crouched low, one knee on the floor outside, his free hand raised like he was approaching a spooked animal. His hair stuck up wild from sleep, T-shirt twisted at the collar, like he'd thrown it on in the dark. You froze, the fight draining out as recognition hit, your body sagging against the glass.

He looked wrecked—brows pinched tight, mouth a grim line, scanning you like he was cataloging every tear in your clothes, every smudge on your skin.

"Jesus, you scared the shit outta me. I was yelling your name—you didn’t even move. I thought—" He cut off, swallowing hard, and squeezed in beside you, the booth too small for two. His hands found your shoulders, and he gently shook to pull you back entirely. "Hey. Look at me. You with me? C’mon—say something."

You nodded, jerky and small, but words wouldn't come. Instead, you lunged forward, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him down until he was half-sprawled on the floor with you. He grunted in surprise but didn't pull away—instead, his arms banded around your back, strong and sure, hauling you into his chest. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar mix of soap and faint cologne from his jacket, your fingers twisting into the soft cotton of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. He held you just as tight, one hand stroking down your spine in slow, soothing lines, his breath warm against your hair.

"Shh, I've got you," he murmured, voice muffled against your temple. He rocked you slightly, like you were something fragile he was afraid might shatter if he let go too soon. "You're okay. Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Just breathe."

You clung to him, the world narrowing to the steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek, drowning out the distant hum of the gas station's neon sign. But his words—we'll handle it—twisted something in your gut. He thought this was bigger than it was. Thought it was monsters or curses or the kind of nightmare that came with glowing red skies and vines snaking from another dimension. Not this. Not some asshole with wandering hands and a smirk that made your skin crawl.

"Steve," you whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark in the dim light, searching yours with that fierce protectiveness you'd seen a hundred times—usually aimed at Dustin or the others when things got dicey. "It's not... It's not what you think."

He blinked, confusion flickering across his face as he wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb, the touch so gentle it almost broke you all over again. "What do you mean? You call me at two a.m., sounding like the world's ending, from a goddamn junkyard payphone? And you look like—" He gestured vaguely at your disheveled state, his jaw tightening as his gaze snagged on the bloodstain on your sleeve. "Like you just fought off a demo-bat or worse. If this is some Upside Down thing again, you gotta tell me, okay? We’ll call Dustin, or Hopper, or—"

"No," you cut in, shaking your head, a watery laugh bubbling up despite everything. It sounded wrong, too brittle, but it eased the tension in his shoulders a fraction. "It's nothing like that. No monsters. No gates. Just a really shitty date."

He froze, his hands stilling on your arms. "A date?" The word came out flat, like he couldn't quite process it. His brows furrowed deeper, and he leaned back against the booth wall, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his side. "Wait, back up. You were on a date? Here? In the middle of nowhere?!"

You nodded, staring at the scattered quarters on the floor to avoid his eyes. Heat crept up your neck—embarrassment mixing with the lingering adrenaline. You'd been so excited earlier that evening. No one had ever asked you out before. Not really. High school had been a blur of awkward crushes and missed connections, and after graduation, with all the Hawkins weirdness, relationships felt like a luxury you couldn't afford. But when Mark—some guy from the video store down the street—had flashed that charming smile and suggested a drive-in movie, you'd said yes without thinking twice. You willingly dressed up, styled your hair... bought a new skirt, even. It felt like maybe things were finally turning normal for you.

"It was supposed to be fun," you mumbled, picking at a loose thread on your blouse. "He picked me up, and we went to the drive-in. But then he drove out here instead of taking me home. Said he wanted to 'talk.' But it wasn't… talking he wanted." Your voice cracked on the last word, and you swallowed hard, the memory flashing again: his breath hot on your neck, hands grabbing where they shouldn't, ignoring your protests until something in you snapped. Your fist connected with his nose in a sickening crunch, blood spraying as he yelped and reeled back. You'd bolted from the car, heart racing, not stopping until you hit the gas station.

Steve's face went through a whirlwind—confusion melting into realization, then hardening into something darker, angrier. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle tick under his skin, and his grip on your arms tightened just a fraction before he forced it to relax. "A shitty date," he repeated, like he was testing the words, his voice low and rough. He glanced down at the blood on your sleeve again, and his eyes narrowed, piecing it together. "That blood… he didn’t…"

It took you a moment to realize what he meant, your eyes widening as you shook your head frantically. "No, no—God, no. It's his. I punched him. Broke his nose, I think." You flexed your hand experimentally, wincing at the dull throb in your knuckles, the skin split and raw. It hurt like hell now that the adrenaline was fading, but in the moment, it had felt like nothing—just survival.

Steve's expression shifted again, a flash of surprise cutting through the anger, followed by something almost like pride—though it was quickly overshadowed by concern. He took your hand gently, turning it over in his to inspect the damage, his thumb brushing lightly over the bruised skin.

"Jesus," he muttered, his voice a mix of awe and exasperation. "Remind me never to piss you off." But there was no humor in it, not really. His eyes met yours, searching, and whatever he saw there made his features soften. It reminded you of the day you befriended him—how he, beaten and bloodied after that altercation with Jonathan and telling Tommy and Carol basically to go screw themselves, found you sulking on a random bench near the park. You thought no one would notice you that day, but he did, as he did now.

Speaking of, you were glad Steve didn’t ask who you were on a date with. You knew he'd have the guy’s job at the video store by morning, but you also knew Steve tended not to think things through when it came to the people he cared about. And as much as you’d like Mark to experience some sort of cosmic retribution, you didn't want it to be at Steve's expense. Especially not after witnessing how "skilled" he is at throwing punches.

"Let's get out of here," he said, already moving to help you up. His arm wrapped around your waist, supporting you as you swayed slightly, legs still shaky. He grabbed your purse from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder along with his own jacket, then steered you out of the now quarter-infested booth and toward the beat-up BMW parked at the edge of the lot. The car looked lonely under the streetlight, driver's door still ajar from when he'd bolted out.

He opened the passenger door for you, waiting until you were settled before closing it and jogging around to the other side. The engine roared to life with a comforting rumble, and Steve fiddled with the heater, blasting warm air at you before settling in to drive.

Just as his hand went to grasp the back of your seat, eyes flicking over his shoulder as he prepared to reverse out of the spot, you grabbed his wrist. The world tilted for a moment, but then, as his eyes met yours in the dim light of the dashboard, it made you realize something you hadn’t before. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the fear, or the relief of seeing him, but you were seeing him. Really seeing him. Not just the high school jock he used to be, not just the babysitter for the party, but Steve. The guy who came when you called, the guy who held you while you cried, the guy who was ready to fight monsters for you even when the only monster was a guy from the video store.

You realized in this moment that you never needed to go out on that date at all, that you already had everything you were looking for when you said yes. He was right here the whole time. Sure, maybe he was just being a good friend, but as you watched him, the familiar lines of his face softening with concern, the way he bit his lower lip when he was worried—it was all right there.

"Steve," you whispered again, and he froze, his hand hovering just above the seat, his body half-turned toward you. "I—"

But you didn't know how to finish. How could you put into words the sudden, overwhelming realization that everything you'd been searching for, everything you'd foolishly hoped for on that disastrous date, was already sitting in the driver's seat of this car? That the safety, the care, the warmth you craved was in the touch of his hands and the worried lines of his face? So you did the only thing you could think to do: stare at him, hoping he understood.

His brows pulled together, confusion and concern warring in his expression. He must've seen something in your eyes, something beyond the fear and the aftermath, because his gaze softened, and he leaned in closer, the car's small space shrinking until all you could see was him. He let go of the seatback, and his hand came up to cup your cheek, before pulling you close enough that he could press a soft kiss against your hairline.

A soft, chaste kiss. Not like the one you had tried to push away earlier. This one was gentle, respectful, and filled with a warmth that spread through your chest, chasing away the last of the chill from the night air. And as he pulled back, his eyes searching yours, you knew. You knew he felt it too.

"Let's get you home, yeah?"

[earth2starkey]

₊˚⊹ accidents don’t hurt | steve harrington x reader

summary: breaking a glass sends her back to a childhood where mistakes were met with anger instead of comfort. steve doesn’t raise his voice or demand explanations, he just holds her through the fear, the shaking and the realization that accidents don’t have to hurt anymore

warnings/tags: past emotional abuse, childhood trauma, trauma response, panic response, accidental injury, blood mention, hurt/comfort, comfort, gentle caretaking, protective steve harrington, soft steve harrington, emotional vulnerability, crying, reassurance, healing, no use of y/n, no spoilers,

wc: ~3.6k

───୨ৎ───

The house settles around you in the way it always does at night. It isn’t exactly quiet, just calm enough that the sounds blend together instead of demanding everyone to pay attention to it. The television murmurs from the living room, voices overlapping each other with the faint hiss of static that never quite disappears. Someone laughs on the screen, bright and distant and comforting. The floor creaks softly as the house cools, and somewhere, a clock ticks.

The kitchen light casts a warm yellow glow over the counters, the linoleum floor, the sink full of dishes that’s been waiting all evening.

You stand there for a moment before turning on the tap, hands resting on the edge of the counter, shoulders slightly slumped. You can hear Steve shifting on the couch behind you, the rustle of fabric as he changes positions, the clink of a bottle being set down on the coffee table. He’s relaxed and comfortable.

You roll up your sleeves and twist the faucet on.

Warm water spills over your hands, steam curling upward. The smell of dish soap cuts clean and sharp through the lingering scents. Garlic. Tomato. The accents of ingredients Steve had used when making dinner that night. You like the way the warmth sinks into your skin, the way the rhythm of it gives your hands something to do while your thoughts drift.

You rinse a plate, scrub it clean, set it on the rack. Another plate. A fork. A saucepan that takes a little more effort, your fingers pressing harder against the sponge as you work at the dried sauce.

The clink of dishes is soft, almost meditative.

You dry your hands briefly on the towel slung over your shoulder and reach for the last glass sitting near the edge of the counter. It’s slick with condensation, cool against your fingers. It slips without much of a warning. There was no slow-motion moment where you think you might catch it.

Just a sudden, weightless drop, and the sound is sharp and violent in the quiet kitchen.

Glass shatters against tile, exploding outward in a spray of fragments that skitter and bounce, catching the light before settling. The crack echoes, ricocheting off the walls, too loud, too sudden, too final, and your body immediately locks up.

Your breath stops halfway in, chest seizing tight. Your hands hover in front of you, fingers curled like they forgot what they’re supposed to do. The world narrows down to the broken glass at your feet and the echo still ringing in your ears.

For a split second, you are not here.

You’re much smaller.

The floor is colder. Your heart is already pounding because you know what comes next. You always know. The yelling, sharp and immediate. The way the air turns heavy, like it’s pressing in on you. The way mistakes become proof of something wrong with you.

What did you do?

Look at this mess.

Why can’t you be careful?

Your chest tightens painfully and you don’t wait for the sound, you brace for it.

Your eyes snap toward the doorway, panic sharp and immediate, scanning for movement, for the shape of someone about to appear. Your muscles tense, shoulders creeping up toward your ears.

Fix it.

Fix it now.

You drop to your knees fast, not at all carefully or thoughtfully.

The tile is cold through the fabric of your pants, biting, but you barely notice. Your hands reach out automatically, grabbing at the largest shards of glass, fingers shaking as you scoop them up.

You need to be quick. You need to make it disappear before—

Footsteps.

Heavy, fast footsteps. Moving from the living room toward the kitchen, and your heart slams violently against your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, the words tumbling over each other in a rush. “I didn’t mean to, I’ll clean it up, I swear, I’m fixing it—”

Steve appears in the doorway and then stops short.

The broken glass scattered across the floor. You on your knees in the middle of it, hands already reaching for more. Your shoulders hunched, head bowed, braced like you’re about to be struck.

His stomach drops.

“Hey— hey, whoa,” he says immediately, voice sharp with alarm, not with anger. “Honey, stop. Don’t move.”

You don’t hear the difference.

Your fingers close around another shard. The edge bites into your skin, sharp and hot. A sting flashes up your arm before your brain can catch up. Blood wells quickly, bright and red against your skin.

You barely notice.

You just need to be faster.

Steve crosses the room in three long strides.

“No, no, no,” he says, dropping down beside you, hands hovering for a split second before he commits. He grips you under the arms, firm but careful, and lifts you up in one smooth motion, pulling you away from the mess.

Your breath leaves you in a broken sound.

“Steve, I’m sorry,” you gasp, panic bleeding into your voice. “I didn’t mean to, please, I can clean it, I—”

“Hey,” he cuts in, stronger now, grounding. “Look at me.”

You can’t.

Your eyes stay fixed somewhere past his shoulder, unfocused, your body rigid in his hold like you’re waiting for the moment his voice changes. Waiting for the anger to surface.

He feels the tremor running through you.

“You’re okay,” he says, softer. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart.”

The words slide right past you.

He lowers you carefully into a kitchen chair, positioning your feet well away from the glass. Only then does he pull back enough to really look at you.

That’s when he sees the blood.

A bold red line trails from the pad of your finger toward your palm. Another drop falls, dark and heavy, hitting the tile with a quiet sound.

Steve’s chest tightens.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re bleeding.”

You follow his gaze, staring at your hand like it belongs to someone else.

“It’s fine,” you say automatically. “It’s not bad. I can just—”

“No,” he says gently, but there’s no room for argument in it. “No, baby. Sit. Don’t move.”

He grabs a towel from the counter and kneels in front of you again, slower this time. Careful. Like you might break if he moves too fast. He takes your hand in his, cradling it instead of grabbing, pressing the towel around your finger.

Your whole body is shaking now. Not subtle tremors anymore, but deep, uncontrollable shivers that run through your arms and legs. Your breathing is shallow, uneven, your chest rising and falling too fast.

“Does this hurt?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head, even though it does. Even though everything does.

He helps you to your feet a moment later, his arm steady around your waist, guiding you out of the kitchen and toward the living room. The television noise feels surreal now, like it belongs to another world entirely.

He settles you onto the couch carefully.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Don’t move, okay?”

You nod, even though you don’t think you could move if you tried.

“I’ll be right back,” he adds. “I just want to make sure it’s safe.”

You watch him go.

The sounds from the kitchen reach you in pieces. A broom scraping softly across tile. The quiet clink of glass being gathered. No sharp movements, no slammed cabinets, no angry sighs that make a pit form beneath your chest.

Your body doesn’t trust it yet.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt, fingers trembling. Tears slide silently down your cheeks, your breathing still shallow, still braced. You sit exactly where he left you, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap like you’re waiting for instructions.

When Steve comes back, he stops in the doorway.

You haven’t moved. You’re still crying, quietly now, tears tracking down your face without sound.

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs.

He crosses the room slowly and sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush. He doesn’t touch you yet. He just opens his arms, inviting.

You hesitate for half a second, but then something in you gives way.

You fold into him, forehead pressing into his shoulder, fingers clutching the back of his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear. The sound that comes out of you is small and wrecked, torn straight from your chest.

Steve wraps himself around you immediately.

One arm comes firm around your back, anchoring you. The other hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing slow and steady like he’s lending you his rhythm.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Your body shakes hard now, sobs breaking free in uneven waves. Your shoulders hitch with each breath. Steve doesn’t rush you, he rocks you just barely, murmuring low reassurances into your hair, repeating them as many times as it takes.

“You’re safe, sweetheart.”

“I’m right here.”

“It’s okay, baby.”

Time stretches and your sobs eventually soften, turning into quiet, hitching breaths. You don’t pull away and Steve doesn’t loosen his hold. His hand keeps moving slowly along your back, grounding, steady.

You stay like that for a long time.

Eventually, you whisper, “I thought you were going to yell.”

Steve’s arms tighten around you just a little at that, something tightening in his chest as he holds you close to him.

“I would never,” he says softly. “Not for that. Not at you.”

You pull back enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen from the sobs, your naked lashes clumped with tears.

“When I was little,” you say, voice shaky and barely being holding together, “breaking something meant I’d messed up. It meant yelling. It meant I had to fix it fast, before it got worse.”

He didn’t rush you and he certainly didn’t interrupt to tell you that he already knew bits and pieces of the childhood you were explaining. He just listened patiently, jaw tight and his eyes entirely focused on you.

“I learned that if I was quick enough, quiet enough, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” you continue. “Even if it hurt.”

Steve exhales slowly, his thumb brushing under your eye, wiping away a tear.

“You don’t have to do that here,” he says. “You don’t get punished for accidents. Or feelings. Or needing me.”

Your face crumples again, the grief cutting deeper than the fear ever did. Steve pulls you back into his chest immediately, holding you tighter, one hand resting over your heart, feeling it slow.

“We’ll take it slow,” he murmurs. “As slow as you need.”

You curl back into him, finally letting your body relax, your breathing evening out as you lean fully into his warmth. And he doesn’t move or rush you. He just holds you, steady and tight, until the house goes quiet again.

Until the fear fades and being held by him feels like enough.

[colouredbyd]

all that matters

steve harrington x reader

summary: when borrowing steve’s car ends in an accident that destroys his darling car, you’re left shaken and terrified of his reaction. except when he finds you, it’s painfully clear he couldn’t give a fuck about the car.

word count: 2.1k

warnings: car accident, totaled car, panicked sobbing, slight bleeding minor injuries, blood on face/hair, guilt, hurt/comfort, comfort, reassurance, overthinking.

“He’s going to kill me.”

The words spill out of you before you can stop them, thin and shaking, ripped straight from your chest. 

You barely recognize your own voice. You’re staring ahead, eyes unfocused, fixed on nothing and everything at once. Not the spiderwebbed windshield. Not the hood crumpled inward, steam ghosting up into the air.

All you can see is Steve’s face when he finds out. When he sees the car. His precious car.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”

You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”

Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.

The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.

If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.

Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.

The woman sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”

She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.

You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.

“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”

Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”

She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”

“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”

You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. There’s something steady about her, practiced, and it almost makes your chest cave in.

“Can I take a look at you?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”

Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”

She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.

“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”

“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”

You try. The breath stutters anyway.

“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”

She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”

“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.

You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”

“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. God—the car—”

She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”

You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally washes it by hand, like it’s some sacred thing, and shows it off every chance he gets.”

A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”

Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”

“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”

“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”

Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”

The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his jaw tight, disappointment cutting deeper than anger ever could. Your stomach twists, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.

Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”

Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.

Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—

A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.

You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.

You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.

Terrified.

His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving, fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.

Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”

They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register. Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”

The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.

He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.

“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”

You can’t.

Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”

Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.

“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”

“—look at me,” he says, low and steady. “Hey. Look at me.”

Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.

Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.

“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”

You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.

“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”

Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.

“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your heart drop.

You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he steps closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.

“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense.

You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you. 

His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.

You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”

He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.

You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They stopped. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”

Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”

In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, not breathing. He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.

You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”

His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”

He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”

You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”

He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”

You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”

“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”

Your throat tightens all over again, heart warming up at his sweet words.

“Now, come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”

“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”

You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.

[writing-the-stars]

Careful Hands

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: After surviving the Upside Down, you learn to live with the scar it left behind — and the growing distance it carves into your relationship with Steve Harrington. When his careful hands and constant restraint make you question whether he still wants you, you decide to force the truth into the open. What you uncover isn’t rejection, but guilt — and the fragile work of learning how to heal together.

Warnings: ANGST!!! (Like we're soaking in it), Post-Traumatic Injury (Nothing too graphic), Miscommunication Trope, Hurt/Comfort, Body Image Insecurities, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor's Guilt. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: Another Stevie fic!! This literally came to me at 3 AM and I was like MUST WRITE. I really like this one. Steve is just so good at hurt/comfort. Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoy and that you have a wonderful remainder of your day. -Nebula

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

You rub at the rough skin hidden beneath your shirt, thumb tracing over every ridge and raised line. It still aches sometimes, especially when it rains, but not like tit used to. Not like the sharp, blinding pain from those first weeks after the hospital. After the Upside Down. After everything.

Now it’s more of a dull, lingering reminder that never quite lets you forget.  

You stare up at the cracks in the ceiling as you lie on Steve’s bed, listening to the familiar sounds of Hawkins drifting in through the open window.

Steve sits beside you, back against the headboard, one arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. His thumb moves in slow, comforting circles against your arm, just like it has a hundred times before. He’s always been good at this — being gentle,  being steady, being there. 

But lately, it’s been different. 

Reserved.

His arm around your shoulders is warm and familiar, but there’s a distance threaded through it, something unspoken that presses heavier than the quiet in the room.

You shift slightly, angling your body closer to him, testing the space between you. He doesn’t pull away. He never does. But he doesn’t pull you closer either.

And that digs at you. 

There was a time when Steve’s presence was effortless. When his hands found yours without thinking, when his closeness felt instinctual rather than intentional. Now everything feels deliberate. Like he’s constantly weighing something in his head, holding himself back, or forcing himself to stay exactly where he is. 

You’ve tried to convince yourself you’re imagining it. 

Trauma changes people. Healing isn’t linear. Of course things feel different after everything you’ve been through.

But still, your stomach twists, the truth becoming harder to ignore. 

Somewhere along the way, this strange, hollow feeling erupted between you. Kisses grew softer, shorter. Lingering looks turned into quick smiles. Hands met with hesitation instead of hunger. 

You don’t want to doubt him. Steve has never given you a reason to before. 

But something is wrong. You can feel it, like a song played in the wrong key. And not knowing why — that’s the scariest part. The questions you don’t yet have words for, stacking up quietly in the back of your mind.

The weight of it settles behind your ribs, pressing there tenderly, relentlessly. 

Steve shifts beside you, sitting up just enough to look down at your face. “You good?” he asks softly.

The question leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Of course he noticed. 

He’s always been the perfect boyfriend. His ability to tune into the smallest changes in your mood, the slightest hitch in your breath is one of the things that make Steve… Steve. It’s just that right now it feels cruel. 

Because in every other area of your relationship, Steve is perfect. He is the attentive boyfriend, the thoughtful friend, the guy who always shows up when you need him. During your recovery, he brought you your favorite snacks, sat through movies he hated just to keep you company, never once made you feel like anything less than the most important person in the room.

But when it comes to the next level of your relationship — the physical intimacy that once came so easily — it’s like there’s a wall between you now. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t try to be affectionate. It just feels too controlled. Like he doesn’t want to go further than he has to, like he wants to give you just enough. 

And when he looks at you with that soft concern in his eyes and asks if you’re okay, you want to scream. 

I don’t want your concern. I want you to want me.

You take a deep breath, nodding and forcing a smile before looking up at him. “Yeah. Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie — not entirely.

You are exhausted. Exhausted from overthinking, from wondering why he always seems to shy away, from questioning whether your scar has become something ugly in his eyes. Whether he sees it as a mark of weakness. Whether that’s why his hands never linger the way they used to.

The months since the incident had blurred together into doctor’s appointments and whispered conversations you pretended not to hear. Into Steve hovering just a little too closely — always watching where you stepped, always ready to catch you if you stumbled. At first, it had been comforting. Proof that you were loved. That what you all had gone through mattered.

And for a while, the scar felt like a badge of honor.

You’d survived something impossible. You’d fought monsters and came back. Sometimes, when you caught glimpses of it in the mirror you’d think, Yeah. I did that. I lived.

But things have changed. Slowly. Quietly. Like a song fading out before you realize it’s ending.

And you’re starting to think maybe he doesn’t want you like that anymore. 

The thought twists dark and ugly in your stomach. But you don’t want to tell him that. Don’t want to burden him with these spiraling doubts. Don’t want to feel like you’re asking for something he isn’t ready — or willing — to give.

So instead, you give him a much simpler answer. 

Steve seems to accept it, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your hair. 

Except this one is different.

It isn’t one of the careful, distant kisses he’s been giving you lately. The ones that make your chest tighten in a way you’ve tried not to think too hard about. This one lingers, just a second longer than usual. A warmth that makes you feel like he’s really there, like he isn’t holding anything back. 

Like he’s trying to say something without words, trying to close the distance between you in a way he hasn’t for a while.

You swallow hard, trying not to overthink it. But that small moment, that quiet press of his lips against your hair, sends a spark of hope through you. 

Maybe tonight.

You shift in his arms, turning toward him, your knee brushing his thigh. The contact is brief, almost accidental, but you still feel a spark run through you. It feels like an invitation, like he’s finally letting the wall between you crack just a little.

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He smiles immediately — that familiar, heart-aching smile that once made your knees weak without effort. You pull your lip between your teeth, anticipation coiling tight in your chest. His gaze drops to your mouth, and his lips part as he exhales, warm and shaky, the breath ghosting over your skin.

The air between you has changed. Thickened with something unspoken. 

You can feel his warmth close to you, like a pull you can’t resist. His eyes lift back to yours, and there’s something different in them — a flicker of desire, maybe, or longing. You’re not too sure. But it’s enough to make your pulse stutter.

Everything about this feels more… present. More urgent. Like he’s finally letting his guard down enough for you to see him — to catch a glimpse of the real Steve. Your Steve.

You want more. You need more. 

Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in, closing the distance between you. There’s no turning back now. 

His lips brush yours, light at first — tentative — but when you don’t pull away, the kiss deepens. Loses all the careful restraint from before. It’s hungry. Desperate. 

His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, and you gasp against his mouth as the heat between you flares. The spark you felt before ignites into something wild and undeniable. You shift instinctively, settling over his lap, your heart pounding as you cling to the hope that this crack in the wall will finally become something more.

You kiss him harder, more urgently, desperate to feel the connection again — to know this isn’t just a fluke. His lips move against yours with a fervor you didn’t realize how badly you’d missed. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and for one fragile moment, it feels like everything is finally aligning. Like the distance between you is melting away.

But just as quickly as it began, Steve pulls back.

His hands remain on your waist, but the grip loosens, like he’s forcing himself to let go.

You blink up at him, breathless, your pulse racing as the world shifts beneath you. You can see it immediately — the wall rebuilding behind his eyes.

“Hey, uh—” He rubs the back of his neck, his voice trailing as he searches for words. “I, uh... I’m kinda tired,” he mutters, almost sheepish. “It’s been a long day.”

Your stomach twists. 

Tired? That’s it?

His thumb absentmindedly traces a slow circle against your arm — a familiar, once-comforting gesture — but it does nothing to ease the ache spreading through your chest.

“I just want to hold you close right now,” he adds, as if that makes it better, but the words don’t land like they used to.

Your heart sinks, disappointment clawing up your throat so sharply it nearly steals your breath. You’re not even angry.

It’s just… you’ve never felt more alone in his presence. 

Even with his hand still resting on your waist. Even with his voice gentle and his words meant to comfort. All you can feel is the distance that’s growing between you.

You inhale shakily and force a small smile, hiding the hurt as best you can. With a nod, you slide off his lap, the loss of his warmth immediate — jarring.

"Yeah," you say quietly, trying to sound casual, "It’s fine. I get it."

You move to the other side of the bed, folding your legs beneath you like a shield, pulling your knees to your chest as if the space between you will ease the tightness behind your ribs.

But the emptiness only grows.

You tell yourself not to read into it. That Steve Harrington loves you. That he’s still here. Still choosing you. Still perfect in every way that matters.

But as you stare out into the dark beyond the window, feeling the careful space he keeps between your bodies, a quiet, terrible thought begins to take root.

What if he’s only staying because he feels like he has to?

And for the first time since the scar healed, it doesn’t feel like proof of your strength.

It feels like the beginning of something breaking.

-*-

You stand in front of the mirror, fingers hovering at the lace trim of your lingerie, staring at your reflection like it might tell you something you’ve missed. The room is quiet — too quiet — and your heart is beating faster than it should for something as simple as getting ready to see your boyfriend.

You chose this babydoll set with intention. One of Steve’s favorites, a birthday gift you had gotten him before the world went to shit again. It feels strange, suddenly being so deliberate about something that once came so easily.

Your hands move automatically to the scar marking your skin. It itches — not painful, just there. A constant, quiet presence you’ve been trying not to connect to the growing distance between you and Steve.

But the thought keeps circling back anyway.

What if this is why?

The idea had crept in slowly, insidiously, until it stopped feeling dramatic and started feeling… inevitable. What else made sense? What else explained the way he wanted to be near you, but never with you anymore?

You think about the first time it happened. Curled together on the couch, legs tangled, a late movie playing softly while his fingers traced idle patterns against your sleeve. You’d shifted closer, let your hand slip beneath his shirt, only for him to still — just enough for you to notice.

“Maybe later,” he’d murmured gently, stopping you before you could go any further.

Later never came.

Then there was the kitchen. Standing too close while he washed dishes, pressing kisses along his jaw until you felt his shoulders tighten. He’d turned his head at the last second, your lips landing against his cheek instead of his mouth.

“Careful,” he’d said with a small smile. “You’re gonna make me drop a plate.”

You’d laughed because it felt easier than asking what he meant. He’d laughed too and the moment dissolved. 

The worst was the night in bed. Facing each other in the dark, knees brushing, your hand resting over his heart. You’d leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving him every chance to stop you.

He had.

“I’m just… not in the headspace tonight,” he’d whispered, hand closing around your wrist. “Can we just sleep?”

You’d nodded. Of course you did. You always did.

And you started noticing things you wish you hadn’t.

The way he changes in the bathroom instead of with you in the room now. The way his hand hovers near your waist before settling higher, safer. The way his gaze flickers — just briefly — whenever your scar might be visible.

You exhale shakily, turning your gaze from the mirror before you. You walk over to your dresser where your small collection of perfume bottles sit. You reach for the one with the golden top, spritzing a little at your wrists and neck. The familiar scent blooms in the air, and despite yourself, you smile. 

It’s his favorite. 

The one he once buried his face into your neck over, laughing, saying you were trying to kill him.

The memory twists something tight in your chest.

You hate that you’re doing this. Hate that you’re planning something that feels so much like a trap. Hate that you need proof at all.

But you can’t live in this in-between anymore.

You can’t keep wondering if every rejection is actually about you. About the scar. About what your body looks like now. About whether he’s still attracted to you or just staying because he feels like he should.

So tonight, you won’t let him hide behind excuses.

Tonight, you’re going to give him every reason not to pull away.

You stop at the mirror one last time, fluffing up your hair to add more volume. You meet your eyes in the mirror, searching for hesitation. For guilt. For some sign that you should stop.

Instead, all you see is resolve — fragile, aching, and desperate.

You grab your jacket.

If Steve still wants you, you’ll know.

And if he doesn’t—

At least the not knowing will finally be over.

-*-

Steve’s house is already lit when you pull into the driveway.

The sight of it — warm, familiar — makes your chest tighten in a way you don’t have time to unpack. This place has always felt safe. A second home. Somewhere you belong. Tonight, it feels like a question.

You sit in the car for a moment longer than necessary, fingers curled tight around the steering wheel. Your heart is still racing, thudding loud in your ears. You take a steadying breath, catching a faint trace of your perfume on your wrist as you move.

Too late to turn back now.

When you knock, the door opens almost immediately.

Steve stands there in soft sweats and an old Hawkins High sweatshirt, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. The sight of him hits you harder than you expect — the familiar comfort of him mixed with something sharp and aching. His face lights up when he sees you — easy, familiar, unguarded. Relief washes through you. 

He still looks at you like that.

“Hey,” he says, smiling easily. “You’re here.”

Like there was ever a doubt.

He pulls you into a hug and you let it linger.

Your arms slide around his neck, your body settling against his chest instead of pulling back like you usually do. His hands rest at your back, steady and warm — and then you feel it. The subtle shift. The way his breath stutters just slightly as he inhales.

The perfume.

You feel his chin dip, almost unconsciously, like he’s trying to place the scent. Like it’s hit something deep and automatic in him. His grip tightens — not much, just enough that you notice.

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move at all.

You stay right there, cheek against his shoulder, giving him nowhere to escape the feeling. His thumb drags slowly across your back, a grounding gesture that’s suddenly a little less controlled than usual.

“You smell…” he starts, then trails off, clearing his throat softly. “Nice.”

It’s understated. Too understated. But his voice is lower now, and you feel the words more than you hear them.

When you finally pull back, you don’t go far. You stay close enough that your hands are still resting on his shoulders, your bodies still brushing. His eyes flick down your face, lingering just a fraction too long before meeting your gaze again.

You don’t step away.

You watch his Adam's apple bobs just a fraction too quickly, betraying the control he’s trying to maintain.

You step inside, letting him close the door behind you. The house smells faintly of clean laundry and whatever he cooked for dinner earlier. Normal. Domestic. Everything the last few months have been trying to convince you is enough.

“Do you want me to take your coat?” he asks.

“No, I’m okay for now,” you reply, not quite ready for him to see what lies underneath.

He gives you a strange look, but otherwise accepts it.

He leads you into the living room, settling onto the couch like he always does, patting the space beside him in silent invitation. You sit, leaving no space in between you like you normally would. Your thigh presses against his, solid and intentional. Steve shifts — just a little — like he’s suddenly aware of every point of contact. His knee bumps yours. He doesn’t move it away.

Steve glances down for half a second, then back up at you, a faint crease forming between his brows.

“You okay?” he asks, reflexively.

You smile. “Yeah. I missed you.”

Something in his expression falters at that. Not discomfort — something softer. Something dangerous.

The movie he queued up for you plays, forgotten. You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his instead of resting them loosely like you have been. Your thumb traces slow circles over his knuckles, absentminded enough to feel natural.

Steve’s jaw tightens. You feel it in the way his hand curls more firmly around yours. In the way his shoulders square, like he’s bracing himself against something he doesn’t want to name.

You lean your head against his shoulder.

The air between you feels heavier now — thick with everything neither of you is saying. You shift in your seat, rolling your shoulders slightly.

“It’s hot in here,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Steve glances over. “You want me to—?”

“No,” you say quickly, already standing. “It’s fine.”

Your fingers curl around the zipper, tugging it slowly downward. The movement is deliberate, measured, casual — but you know the effect. You slide the jacket from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

It’s such a simple motion. Casual. Almost careless.

But the moment the fabric slips from your shoulders, Steve freezes.

His eyes are wide and unmistakably caught. The babydoll set you’ve chosen with care — delicate lace, soft fabric that clings just enough — is laid bare before him.

For half a second, he forgets himself.

His gaze drags over you like his brain is trying to catch up with what he’s seeing. His mouth parts. His hand tightens around the edge of the couch, knuckles whitening as if he’s physically anchoring himself in place.

“Oh,” he breathes.

It’s barely a sound. But it hits you harder than any touch could.

Heat blooms in your chest — sharp and terrifying and hopeful all at once. This is what you needed to see. This reaction. This proof that you’re not imagining it.

Steve swallows, visibly. His eyes flick away, then back again, like he can’t decide which is worse — looking or not looking. He drags a hand through his hair, restless, a tell you’ve known forever.

“You— uh,” he starts, then stops, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it. “You okay? I mean— yeah. You’re—”

He cuts himself off again.

The restraint is almost painful to watch.

His knee bounces. His jaw tightens. Every line of his body is screaming don’t, even as something else is clearly pulling him forward. His hands stay glued to his own thighs, fingers flexing like they’re fighting muscle memory.

You don’t move closer.

You don’t have to.

You just stand there, heart hammering, letting him see you. Letting him struggle. Letting the truth sit in the space between you.

Because whatever he’s afraid of — whatever’s been holding him back — it isn’t lack of attraction.

And you can see it all over him.

Steve finally looks away — hard, like it takes effort. His jaw tightens, shoulders tense, as if holding himself together is a conscious fight.

He exhales, a rough, frustrated sound that fills the quiet space between you.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but the words hit your chest anyway.

You take a step closer — not into his space, not yet. Just close enough that he can’t pretend you’re far away. The electricity between you hums, low and taut, vibrating in the air like a wire stretched too tight.

He rises abruptly, like sitting is no longer an option. Now you’re eye-level, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

His hand lifts slowly, almost unconsciously, hovering near your waist. There’s a tremor in his fingers, a hesitation that betrays the months of restraint he’s been carrying.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough, raw — a mixture of command, plea, and confession.

You don’t.

You close the distance slowly, deliberately. Your chest brushes against his, the heat and scent of him hitting you full force. Every nerve in your body hums with anticipation, with longing you can’t name.

His eyes meet yours — desperate, conflicted, yearning — and in that instant, everything he’s been holding back shatters.

He kisses you like he’s been holding his breath for months, hands finally gripping your waist firmly, lips hot, rough, and urgent. It’s not frantic; it’s relief, confession, and desperation all wrapped together. Every careful, measured restraint crashes down at once.

His hands roam over your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you into him like he can’t believe you’re really here, really in his arms. Every inch of you is alight, every nerve on fire, and for the first time in months, it feels like the world has melted away.

You cling to him, letting yourself feel every ounce of what’s been denied for so long. Your fingers thread through his hair, tug lightly, anchoring him — daring him to give in fully.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t pull away. Not for a second. Not even as the world around you seems to collapse into that one, searing kiss.

You melt into him. His lips part, tongue brushing yours in a slow, teasing, urgent rhythm. Relief, longing, and want crash together so violently it makes your head spin.

This is what you’ve been missing. The weight of him close. The warmth. The way his breath stutters when you shift just a little closer, the quiet sound he makes like he’s forgotten how to be careful.

You tug at the hair on the nape of his neck, and he exhales against your mouth — low, shaky, wrecked. For a moment, it feels like the world narrows down to this. 

You guide him back a step, just enough that he bumps into the couch. He lets out a soft laugh against your mouth, breathless, and sits without breaking the kiss, hands still anchored to you like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

You don’t.

You climb into his lap, careful but confident, and this time he groans — quiet, involuntary, immediately swallowed as his arms tighten around you. One hand slides up your back, warm and steady, fingers spreading like he needs to feel all of you.

He’s kissing you like there’s no wall. Like there never was.

His hands roam, exploring, lingering and, almost without thought, his palm glides just a little farther, brushing the skin where the fabric has shifted.

Where the scar lives.

The change in him is instant.

Steve freezes.

Not pulls away — locks up. Like someone flipped a switch inside him. His breath catches hard in his throat, chest halting mid-rise. His hand goes still against you, fingers splayed like he’s been burned.

You feel it before you understand it.

He breaks the kiss abruptly, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he inhales sharply, like he needs air. His hands fall away from you completely, retreating to his own knees.

“I—” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

The words hit you like ice water.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes aren’t on you anymore. They’re fixed somewhere over your shoulder, jaw tight, guilt written all over his face.

“Steve?” you whisper, voice trembling.

Steve moves before you can process what’s happening.

His hands come up — not rough, not angry — but sudden, misplaced, pushing at your hips just enough to break the contact. You slide back onto the couch cushion with a soft, startled breath as he stands abruptly. 

He backs away a step, hands running through his hair and stopping there, elbows flared like he needs the pressure to keep himself grounded. “I— uh…” He swallows hard, voice tight, scrambling for something that feels safe, anything that will explain why he’s suddenly acting like this.

Your heart is pounding too loudly now. You’re still warm. Still dizzy. Still very much where he left you emotionally, even if he’s already somewhere else.

“Steve,” you say again, quieter this time.

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping, breathing hard like he’s just run a mile instead of crossed a room. He won’t look at you.

“I shouldn’t have let that happen,” he says finally. “I’m just— I’m tired, okay? It’s been a long day.”

The words feel wrong the second they leave his mouth.

Tired.

You stare at him, chest tight, trying to reconcile the man standing in front of you with the one who had been kissing you like he was afraid to let go.

Your vision blurs before you realize you’re crying.

It’s silent at first — tears slipping down your cheeks without a sound. You swipe at them quickly, embarrassed, but it’s too late.

Steve notices immediately.

“Hey— hey,” he says, panic flashing across his face as he moves toward you. “What’s wrong? Hey, c’mere—”

He reaches for you.

You flinch.

Not away — but still enough to stop him short.

That’s when he really looks at you.

Your shoulders are shaking now. Your hands are clenched in your lap like you’re holding yourself together by force alone. The wall you’d been building inside your chest finally collapses.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, the words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t mean to—this is stupid, I know it is, I just—”

“Hey,” Steve says urgently. “No. Don’t do that. Talk to me.”

You let out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob.

“I just thought—” You swallow hard. “I thought maybe tonight would be different.”

His brow furrows. “Different how?”

The question lands like a knife.

You look at him then, really look at him—at the space between you, at the careful way he’s holding himself, at the concern in his eyes that never quite turns into want.

Your voice is small when you answer.

“I thought maybe you’d want me again.”

The room goes very still.

Steve’s mouth opens. Closes. His face drains of color.

“What?” he breathes.

“You don’t have to do this,” you rush on, the words spilling out now that you’ve opened the door. “You don’t have to stay with me out of obligation. I know things are different. I know I’m different. And I just— I don’t want you to feel like you owe me something because of what happened.”

Steve shakes his head slowly, like he doesn’t understand the language you’re speaking.

“Where is this coming from?” he asks, stunned. “Why would you think that?”

You gesture helplessly between you. “Because you won’t touch me anymore. Not like you used to. And every time I try, you pull away. And tonight—” Your voice breaks. “Tonight was all I needed to know.”

He stares at you, realization dawning too late.

“Oh,” he whispers.

Not because he agrees.

Because he finally understands.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else.

You inhale slowly, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry in front of someone who doesn’t deserve to see it. When you exhale, something in you goes quiet.

“It’s fine,” you say.

The words come out too steady. Too practiced.

You slide off the couch, smoothing your hands over your thighs like you’re brushing the moment away. Like none of it mattered. Like you didn’t just let yourself hope for something you knew better than to expect.

Steve looks up at you sharply. “Wait— what are you doing?” 

You’re already reaching for your jacket.

The motion is casual. Dismissive. Final.

“I should go,” you say lightly. “It’s late.”

Your fingers find the sleeve, tugging it toward you. You don’t look at him as you slip one arm in, then the other. It’s easier that way. If you look at him, you might remember the way he kissed you five minutes ago — like he never wanted to stop.

Panic hits him all at once.

“Hey— hey, wait, no, that’s not—” Steve lunges forward, stopping just short of grabbing your arm like he’s afraid that would be crossing another line. “You don’t have to leave. I didn’t mean it like that. I just— I’m not—”

He exhales sharply, hands dragging over his face. 

“Just stay,” he blurts. “Please. I didn’t mean— I just— I’m not thinking straight, okay? I’m bad at this, I always have been, but that doesn’t mean—”

He stops when you finally look at him. The look on your face seizing him. 

Your expression isn’t angry.

It’s worse than that.

It’s careful. Closed off. Like something important has already been decided.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say gently. “You don’t have to stay with me because you think you’re supposed to.”

Steve’s stomach drops.

“What? No— that’s not—” he starts, voice breaking. “That’s not what this is.”

“But it is,” you insist gently. “You’re a good person. You always do the right thing, even when it hurts you. Especially when it hurts you.”

You tug your jacket the rest of the way on, like armor.

“And I think you’ve been staying because you think you should. Because you think leaving would make you a bad guy.”

Steve shakes his head hard. “No. No, that’s not—”

You smile a little, sad and resolute. “Steve.”

The way you say his name sounds like a goodbye.

“You’ve been so careful with me,” you continue, voice soft. “And I appreciate it, Steve, I do. Everything you’ve done for me. But I don’t want to be something you feel responsible for,” you say, voice trembling despite yourself. “I don’t want you forcing yourself to want me. That’s not fair to either of us.”

You watch his face — the way the confusion shifts into horror, into guilt so sharp it almost looks like pain. His chest feels tight. He takes a step toward you, desperate now.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. You can see the words stacking up too fast, the guilt choking him before he can grab onto anything solid.

“No, no. That’s not—” he says, the words tumbling over each other. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand enough,” you cut in softly. “And I love you too much to make you stay somewhere you don’t want to be.”

The sentence hits him like a punch. His chest feels like it’s caving in.

“I don’t want to break up,” he says, voice barely holding together. “Please don’t say that like it’s already decided.”

You swallow hard, eyes shining. “I’m not deciding anything. I’m just… giving you an out.”

The words devastate him. Steve Harrington looks at you like that might be the worst thing anyone has ever offered him.

And that’s enough to keep you right where you are — standing there with your jacket on, fingers curled around the zipper like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Steve’s chest rises and falls too fast, eyes shining with something raw and terrified and far too close to the surface.

“You think I don’t want you,” he says quietly.

It’s not a question.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The space between you is already full of it.

Steve swallows hard, jaw flexing like he’s bracing for impact. When he speaks again, his voice is rough — scraped raw by weeks, months of holding this in.

“I can’t look at it,” he admits.

Your breath catches.

“The scar,” he clarifies quickly, like he hates himself for not saying it right the first time. “I can’t—” He breaks off, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t look at it without seeing exactly where I screwed up.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest. “Steve—”

“I was supposed to protect you,” he says, the words tumbling out fast and wrecked. “That’s my job. That’s always been my job. And I didn’t. I failed. And every time I touch you, every time I get close—”

His voice cracks.

“I see it.”

The room feels unbearably still.

“I remember how scared you were. How much it hurt. How I wasn’t fast enough. Or strong enough. Or smart enough to stop it. And I just—” He shakes his head, breath shuddering. “I don’t know how to want you without hating myself at the same time.”

You feel another wave of tears sting your eyes.

“You think I pull away because I don’t want you?” he continues, eyes finally lifting to yours, glossy and desperate. “I pull away because I don’t deserve to. Because touching you there feels like admitting I failed you. Like if I let myself want you the way I used to, I’m pretending it didn’t happen.”

His voice drops to almost nothing.

“And I can’t do that. I can’t forget.”

The words land heavy and awful. You stare at him, heart aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I see that scar and all I can think is that you trusted me. You were with me. And you got hurt anyway.” His hands curl into fists. “So yeah. I get careful. I get stupid. I convince myself that wanting you makes me selfish, because wanting you means touching something I broke.”

His breathing is uneven now. He looks terrified — not of you, but of what he’s admitting.

“I don’t see something ugly when I look at you,” he says fiercely. “I see you. I see what you survived. And I see my failure.”

He exhales shakily.

“And I don’t know how to live with that.”

The confession hangs between you — raw, unpolished, devastating.

This isn’t rejection.

It’s self-punishment.

And suddenly, painfully, you understand.

You don’t move right away.

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him — at the boy you love standing in front of you like he’s bracing for a blow he thinks he deserves.

Your chest aches. Your hands tremble at your sides.

“Steve,” you say slowly, carefully, taking a step toward him. 

He tenses like he expects you to pull away again, like he’s already preparing himself for the loss.

“Hey,” you say softly.

One word, and his shoulders sag just a little.

“You didn’t fail me.”

His eyes snap back to yours.

“You didn’t cause it,” you continue. “You didn’t choose it. And you didn’t leave me. You were there. You’ve always been there.”

Steve shakes his head, overwhelmed. “But you got hurt.”

“Yes,” you say quietly. “And I lived.”

The words settle between you — firm, unyielding.

You lift his hand before he can stop you, pressing it over your heart. His fingers tremble under yours.

“This scar isn’t proof that you failed,” you say. “It’s proof that I survived something awful. And you don’t get to take that away from me by turning it into a punishment.”

His throat works as he swallows.

“You don’t owe me distance,” you whisper. “You don’t owe me restraint. And you definitely don’t owe me suffering.”

Tears spill over now — his, silent and wrecked. He looks at you like he’s coming undone from the inside out.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say, voice softening. “I need you to be here. With me. Not hiding from me because you think you don’t deserve me.”

You reach for his face, hesitant — giving him time to pull away if he needs to.

He doesn’t.

Your thumb brushes his cheek, wiping away a tear before it can fall.

“I don’t see my scar and think about what I lost,” you tell him. “I think about the fact that I’m still here. I think about how hard I fought. How hard we fought.”

Steve exhales a broken sound, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“I’m not fragile,” you murmur. “And I’m not something you broke. I’m still me. And I still want you.”

The words undo him completely.

His forehead drops against yours, breath shaking, hands gripping your arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice wrecked and bare. “I never stopped. I just… didn’t know how to forgive myself.”

You close the distance fully then, wrapping your arms around him, holding him the way he’s been holding himself together for too long.

“We’ll figure it out,” you promise quietly. “Together. Okay?”

He nods against you, clinging now — not out of guilt, but relief.

For the first time all night, the space between you disappears.

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[sacredsorceress]

steve harrington x teacher!reader

————————

being teacher steve’s coworker at the middle school and all the kids know that he’s madly in love with you meanwhile you’re clueless.

they’ll never bring it up to you because you’re a teacher who looks like they’ve got their life together: you’re smart and funny but with a healthy amount of privacy and ability to hide your romantic feelings for your coworker. But when it comes to Mr Harrington? those kids pick up on the way he talks to you in the hallway, always trying to plant his hand against the wall suavely, but ultimately fumbling when the kids rush through the hallway poking good fun at his expense. He’s obvious- painfully obvious from the way he talks about you in class without you being there and can always be seen laughing with you between classes- the warm, deep kind that was more than just polite but the indication of a true bond.

The way Steve looks at you at assemblies and how he’ll always save a seat for you. If a kid makes the mistake of being disrespectful to you in front of him, steve pulls him aside and absolutely lays into them- he takes no shit in this instance (which, would lead to arguments between you two of steve accidentally undermining your authority with your students which he profusely apologizes for but says he can’t stop because he hates to see you treated poorly)

if you wear a new dress, get a new haircut or do anything of note, the kids are sure to tell mr. harrington the second they come into class, before they even have the chance to put their books down. sometimes he’ll wave them off, but other times he’ll genuinely fall victim to their trap and go “what? really? and when was that?” because he’s just so obvious.

the kids would laugh and whisper behind his back about what a lovesick fool he is for you. unfortunately steve teaches sex ed so he cant escape the snickers of “is that what you do with miss-?” questions from the class clown. that was the one time he ever gave a kid a detention.

for the most part, the kids think it’s a one sided infatuation until at one of the baseball games steve coaches he gets hit in the head hard by a baseball. it’s a big game with half the school there and before steve even has the chance to fall, you were out of your seat, running through the bleachers towards him.

when you finally got to him, skidding to a stop in the sand, you took off your own sweater to hold it to his bleeding head. you gingerly placing his head in your lap as you waited for the ambulance, mumbling promises about how he was going to be okay and to just stay awake.

the kids knew then that it was more than a silly, unrequited crush, but the beginning of a relationship that they were more invested in than their own parents.

[voidreynolds]

back on you • steve harrington

summary: dustin wants to set you up with his other older male friend in an attempt to help you move on from your first love— or so he tells you. really, dustin wants your ex boyfriend to get jealous. luckily, it really doesn’t take much to make steve harrington jealous, especially when it comes to you.

warnings: events of season 5, blood, gore, panic attack, nightmares, injury, language, banter, sibling dynamics, jealousy, possessiveness, over protective ex. friend!eddie feature! not even a real love triangle, sexual themes, not completely cannon (it’s FANFICTION YOU’LL LIVE) 🤷🏼‍♀️

you stared blankly out the window, nursing a coke just to have something to do. you really needed to get out of the house… you could call nancy. you could call robin. you could take yourself to the movies, or to get ice cream…

you did none of that.

“holy shit, please tell me you haven’t been sitting there all day.”

“of course i haven’t.”

you had.

dustin groaned, “why don’t you just call him…”

“no.”

“you know he would come crawling back to you. literally on his damn knees…”

“dustin, drop it—“

“why don’t you? you have not given me a single reason why you broke up. i asked him and he wouldn’t tell me—“

“you asked him!? dustin! stay the hell out of it!”

“if you aren’t going to call him, if you don’t want him back, why don’t you at least try to move the hell on?”

god, he knew nothing.

as if you hadn’t tried.

as if it was possible…

“just shut up, will you?” your voice was soft, though felt tears coming on again, “i don’t want to talk about this.”

“just give me one real reason why you broke up. then i’ll drop it.”

“i couldn’t keep seeing him covered in blood, barely coming back to me. jumping in to every single fight and never once winning.”

“but he always makes it back to you!”

“yes. but i will not be the reason that he doesn’t one day.”

dustin didn’t bring it up again.

you had parked outside of the family video again. you knew it was damn stupid. you had never actually made it inside. just parked outside, hating yourself, missing him, hating yourself even more. dustin had been asking to rent all three star wars and have a marathon. maybe he wasn’t working today. maybe it was just robin and you wouldn’t have to feel that weird thing your chest did where it felt like you were dying, every time you saw him.

he was.

and it did.

your pulse leapt significantly as soon as you saw the head of hair over the counter. at least this job didn’t have him in a v-neck sailor uniform— where you could see the edges of his chest hair— or the stupid sailors hat— that really should not have been such a turn on for you.

steve stopped mid sentence with robin, eyes lighting up immediately and making your stomach flip. he hopped right over the counter, ignoring robin, ignoring the line of customers. you had half a mind to turn and run out the door, but you had promised dustin that this friday— today— you would finally have the damn marathon.

“hi…” every time he greeted you it was like he was sighing in relief.

“hey, steve…”

“how um— how are… what are you—“ steve wrestled with himself to not say something stupid and scare you off, “can i help you find something?” you were staring at him too much, you realized with horror and quickly looked at the nearest poster on the wall.

“i’m here for star wars… dustin has been wanting to do a marathon. and i’ve been putting it off—“

“because you have to see me?”

“no—“

yes.

“i’ve just been…. busy.”

you had read twenty eight books this month and thought about steve longer than any of them had taken to read.

steve nodded, not wanting to point out that he always knew when you were lying, “they are technically on hold right now.”

shit.

“but…” steve hoped over the counter, pulling out a brown paper back labeled clarke and shook the contents out of the bag. you looked around in concern, knowing he would most definitely get in trouble for this, and very much hoping mr. clarke was not around to see this. steve gestured to the pile of movies, including saturn 3, somewhere in time, blade runner, space raiders and multiple other sci fi movies that you were happy dustin had his friends to go see with. “i don’t think he’s lacking in his.. science fiction experience for the weekend. if anything, i’m doing him a favor.”

it was sweet, though you were rather concerned about him losing another job, “can’t you get in a lot of trouble for that?”

“probably.” he leaned in slightly, “i’ll blame it on the system. accidental double book. happens all the time…”

you really doubted that. even still, you stacked them in your arms and tried not to smile too much at him, “thank you, steve. dustin will be very happy.” steve eyed you as he rang you up, mouth twitched up in a smile, “as long as dustin is happy…”

you locked eyes with steve for far too long, feeling the air slowly trickle out from between the two of you. the video store seemed to shrink and suddenly you could not remember why you had even broken up with him. robin coughed, loudly, ringing the customer bell repeatedly until steve looked away from you with a murderous expression.

“what?”

“customers.” robin motioned vaguely, but the store was pretty much empty.

“there’s no one here—“ you shouldn’t have said it. robin was just trying to pull you away from each other— like you had once told her to do— and to keep you from once again becoming like two colliding supernovas who lost all sense of reality and regard for anyone else….

“then steve needs to finish stocking—“

steve did not want to. he continued to glare daggers at robin before turning back to you with those soft brown eyes, “let me know if they’re just as good the third time…” you had loved star wars. you and steve had gone to see all of them in theaters and were the only reason dustin got into them. watching these movies had always been—

“hey you should come too.”

what the hell was wrong with you?

“you and robin…” good save. “both of you— should come..tonight. i think the whole party is coming so it would be nice not to be the only grown up.”

you used that word lightly, as you had just sat outside in your car staring into the establishment out of anxiety of running into steve like he were a elementary school crush.

robin just stared at you from behind steve, accusingly, dumbstruck, wondering what the hell you were thinking.

you hadn’t been thinking at all…

steve was smiling, not even trying to play cool about it, “yeah… i’ll be there.” steve didn’t take his eyes off you, though his tone was mocking, “robin? will you be there?”

robin had plans. steve knew robin had plans. still, she took her role as best friend and interceptor very seriously, “i’ll be there.”

shit.

what the hell had you been thinking? you couldn’t handle steve coming over and watching several hours worth of movies in a dark room. you couldn’t even handle going into where he worked. in daylight. surrounded by people.

“shit—“ you tossed random things around the room as if the thought of a messy house was the worst of your problems. it wasn’t like it was a date. it wasn’t a date. you had company coming over— fourteen year olds and steve and robin, not the president.

“hey—“ dustin stopped just inside the door, “what are you doing?” you froze, having been scrubbing the couch cleaned, “nothing.” you stood up, arms at your sides guiltily, “cleaning. we have people coming over, you know…” dustin raised an eyebrow, watching you like he was concerned you were going insane, “right… um, about that.” oh no if he canceled, you might drop dead. “i saw steve today… and he said you invited him over?”

“and robin—“ you added very quickly, before pausing, “when did you see steve?”

“oh, i went to family video to make sure you got the movies.”

great. he didn’t trust you at all…

“yeah, mr. clarke was there, said he was missing star wars. steve said there must have been a mistake in the system—“

you eyed him in silence, “you know i’ve had them rented—“

“are you sure you didn’t just walk in there and steve jumped over the counter, asked what you wanted and then pulled them out of a reserved order?”

damn.

“i can always take them back…” your tone was warning and dustin went running into his room with a very wide grin, “oh by the way!” he paused to look back at you, “i invited eddie. thought it would make things interesting. wear something nice.”

you spun to look at him, mouth hanging open, “what—“ you had met eddie several times already, you liked eddie just fine. he was someone you could even— loosely— consider a friend— wear something nice?

“what the hell does that mean—“ dustin’s bedroom door shutting was the only answer.

steve showed up twenty minutes early, leaving you with no time to be a nervous wreck or rethink and change your outfit again. dustin let him in without waiting for you and you nearly ran into him, coming into the kitchen, “you’re early…” you weren’t upset. steve shrugged, never taking his eyes off you, “is that okay? i figured i could help with food or….whatever.” dustin looked between you and sighed— you were both pathetic.

a second knock came later, deaf to both you and steve, who were stumbling around in the kitchen in conversation, trying not to stand too close to each other. dustin opened the door and ushered eddie in, parading him through the living room and into the kitchen, where steve stood beside you, “you remember eddie, right?” dustin shoved him right between the two of you, eddie muttering apologies and swearing at dustin.

“hello—?” you nodded to eddie politely, “how have you been? how’s hellfire?” as if dustin didn’t keep you updated. eddie was still staring at dustin for an explanation but perked up slightly at the mention of hellfire, “good! hellfire’s been great. the campaign is really developing, the story, i think, is my best one yet.”

you nodded along, occasionally commenting— you did know some things about dnd. dustin had begged you to play an entire campaign with he, mike, will and lucas. you understood the basics. you knew the monsters… eddie was apparently floored that you, a girl, knew so much about dnd and the way his eyes lit up had been noticed. especially by steve. “isn’t that just, like, all dice?”

you glanced at steve and almost laughed at the look on his face. his cheeks were red, hand gripping the side of the table tightly, eyeing eddie like he was a demogorgan. oh brother.

“is what all dice?”

“dragons and dungeons…”

oh, he knew the right name. he was being an undermining little shit.

dustin was almost smirking, taking in the look on steve’s face like it was an accomplishment.

“dungeons and dragons.” eddie had taken offense to the wrong name and you held back a laugh. “you use dice. that isn’t all of it—“ you tuned the debate and argument that followed out, just watching the pair in silence.

“steve—“ you shot him a look, warning, exasperated, only slightly amused by his behavior.

“i’m just saying, it seems like a waste of time and it’s not theres any strategy—“ he would never say this to dustin, you knew.

“steve…” your tone turned more pleading and he snapped out of his smug droning and looked at you. “what?” his eyes were soft on you, tone innocent, “i’m just curious…” he was an idiot. and yet the thought of him being so jealous over you just talking to eddie... goddamn it, you didn’t hate it. you raised your eyebrows, just staring at him in disbelief. “what?” he said it softer, this time a dare, wanting you to acknowledge it. you narrowed your eyes slightly, turning back to eddie, “it’s good to see you again. make yourself at home, let me know if theres anything you need.” steve dropped a cup beside you and swore.

dustin had gathered blankets and pillows from your room and his, as the kids piled onto the couch. max had joined lucas, and you offered to take the floor. steve joined you without a word, handing you a soda silently, sitting just far enough so your knees didn’t quite touch. dustin kicked you from above, on the couch, and you grunted, “sorry, that was an accident.” he did it again and this time steve turned and acknowledged him with a glare. he wanted you to move over. closer to steve. eddie awkwardly sat on the other side of you, smartly avoiding steve.

“thanks again for inviting me, dude. and for having me,…. dustin’s sister.”

you corrected him with your name, smiling in amusement, “no problem, eddie. the more the merrier…” apparently. robin had almost been late, tucking in on the other side of steve. she had tried to sit between you, but steve had pushed her over, conveniently moving his knee so there was no room. robin punched him in the arm and the two began to argue in whispers.

“haven’t you guys seen these movies like a dozen times?” max got shushed, but lucas answered, “only two. i think dustin is at four. mike is at three.”

“we have seen them four times, not that it’s a competition.” steve chimed in and you thought about elbowing him.

“you are all nerds.” robin shook her head.

“i’ve seen them only once. i saw them all in theaters, of course. i just think there should be more fantasy stuff…”

steve opened his mouth to say something to eddie, but you beat him to it, “i agree! sci fi is cool, but when are we getting more dragons and swords? like why can’t we get lord of the rings movies? what about narnia?”

eddie almost jumped up, “yes! thank you! exactly!“

steve was appalled, staring at you with his jaw hanging open, gesturing in a frozen shrug, “what…“

robin was trying not to laugh, secretly wishing she had been here earlier to see more of this one sided competition for your attention.

steve nudged you, leaning in, “remember the halloween we went as han and leia?” you smiled despite yourself. you had taken the boys trick or treating, they had argued about who was luke, who was yoda and who got to be darth vader. mike had demanded that he was obi wan and no one argued. “we were…what? fifteen?” “fourteen.” it had been almost six years ago already. “you never did wear leia’s gold bikini…” you hummed, smirking slightly. he was in dangerous territory. reminiscing, his suggestive tone…

“i miss you.” you felt like a jolt of electricity went through you. “steve—“ you kept your voice quiet, but stern. warning. “no, i know. i know… we broke up. i get it. but it’s been a month now. can’t i miss you? can’t we just…try to be friends? at least be able to be in the same room as me…”

you couldn’t. there was really no universe where you were able to be in the same room as him and feel nothing. there was no casual friendship, there was nothing and no amount of time that had gotten rid of your feelings. really, there was no universe or dimension where you could ever look at steve as just a friend. you stood up, mumbling an apology for bumping into eddie on the way.

steve followed you. of course he did… you paced in the kitchen, arms folded across yourself as if it would keep you calm. “i’m sorry… forget i said anything, i’m sorry. just come back and watch the movie, i— you’ll miss your favorite scene— han solo is on…” you didn’t care about the movie. you didn’t care about han solo— not unless it was steve in the stupid costume again.

“hey—“ steve grabbed your shoulders and gently eased you to stop pacing. you were crying now. shit, you were crying again. steve swore softly and knelt slightly to look you in the eyes. you looked away. “i’m sorry. i didn’t—“ you turned, pulling out of his grasp and took a deep breath.

“i miss you too.”

god, still— so much that it hurt.

“okay… so then why—“

“i can’t steve! i can’t do it. it’s too damn hard to… shit, i miss you so much but i—“

“hey,” steve grabbed your shoulders again, now forcing you to face him, “i’m right here. i’m right here… standing in front of you. i haven’t gone anywhere. i’m not going to go anywhere. talk to me.”

you couldn’t.

“i can’t. i can’t do it again…”

“do what?

“steve—“

“do you still love me?”

you stopped short, breath ripped from your lungs.

“because i still love you. you know i still love you— tell me you don’t still feel the same way and i’ll drop it.”

god, now you knew where dustin got it…

steve had gotten closer now, eyes locked onto you like an anchor that held you in place. he searched your face, brown eyes expectant, hands holding your wrist to keep you from turning away again.

you couldn’t lie. not to him. not to him looking at you like that… not with him pleading for you to voice what he already knew— what you wouldn’t let yourself entertain.

stupidly, betraying the act of how strong you actually thought you were, you kissed him.

steve pulled you against him in one quick motion, snatching your wrist again and looping it around his waist. this was stupid. this was so stupid and so dangerous— the feeling of his lips on you again, his arms braced on either side of you, the way you had to tilt your head back to be level with his mouth—

“shit—“

shit!

steve stumbled when you pulled away, like his body had been completely dependent on you to stay upright. he said your name. softly, in question, pleading…

“no.” you ducked under his arm and began pacing even faster. he said your name again, this time a sigh.

“you realize you kissed me?”

yes. damn you…

“come back over here. hey— stop pacing, come on..” his voice was so soft, so pleading and so patient that you almost did go to him. but you stopped short, breath coming more rapid, chest constricting slightly. it wasn’t a new thing— the panic attacks. the over thinking and the flashes of worse case scenarios.

“hey, whoa—“ steve’s eyes softened further, eyes growing wide as he stepped towards you. he had always been the only one to talk you down. he had always been there for the worst of them… “breathe. look at me… hey—“ you did. his soft brown eyes locked on you in the same way they always had been, his hands gentle on your elbows, holding you in place, grounding you to him. you took a deep breath, letting your eyes drift from his own.

“i can’t….” steve’s soft expression only faded for a moment, guilt, disappointment, heartbreak flickering over his face briefly, “okay.”

“i can’t…. i can’t do it again, steve.”

“do what?” but he knew. you had been the one to end things, you had been the one to just kiss him, and now you were breaking his heart all over again. he understood. he didn’t agree and he hadn’t gone without a fight, but he understood.

i can’t do this anymore. you had said it to him just over a month ago, tears in your eyes, clinging to him like he were going to disappear. i can’t worry about both of you. i can’t keep seeing you covered in blood, i can’t watch you jump in front of the fights anymore. dustin was enough… you lost sleep worrying about losing both of them. waking up in a panic, covered in sweat, despite steve being in bed beside you. i can’t lose you.

“i can’t lose you.”

steve cupped your face in his hands, eyes searching yours with the softest expression. his mouth turned up just slightly, “you’re not going to lose me…”

you shook your head, hand on top of his, tears falling from your eyes, “you don’t know that… you can’t promise that.”

steve stepped closer, “i’m not going anywhere. when have i ever not come back to you?”

“i can’t be the reason some day you don’t…”

your name again, more pleading.

“can you promise me you wouldn’t sacrifice yourself? for me. for anyone else?”

steve hesitated, searching you, wishing you had asked him to promise anything else in the world.

you bit your lip, stepping back, letting go of his hands. you just shook your head, looking at him sadly, sick and relieved that he had proven your point.

“i still love you. that’s why i can’t…”

you disappeared into your room and steve left without another word.

the kiss was still stuck in his head, two weeks later. despite not having seen you, despite not having mentioned it and despite trying not to think about it. he could still feel you against him, he could still taste the coke on your tongue.

steve swore, dropping the stack of videos he had been carrying. robin eyed him, raising a single eyebrow. steve hated when she looked at him like that.

“are you going to tell me what happened at the movie night or are you going to continue being a liability in the work force?”

“liability in the work force? it’s a family video.”

“okay. this is the third stack of movies you’ve dropped since this morning.”

“nothing happened at the movie night.”

it was technically true… nothing had come of the kiss, at least.

“did you have a fight? did you piss her off?”

steve almost dropped the movies again, swearing and huffing in frustration, “no, robin– no. we didn’t have a fight.” that would have been better…

“okay well i’ve never seen you walk out of there so quickly and so quietly. and the way she just disappeared into her room—“

“robin—“

but they had both shut up as they looked out the window and saw you and dustin rushing towards the store. steve’s heart dropped, immediately rushing to worst case scenario. “—so majorly screwed—“ dustin looked slightly ill, already breathless from panic.

the paleness of your face and your frantic expression had steve jumping over the counter and rushing to you, half expecting you to be severely injured. “what happened?” his hands were on your face before he could even think, “are you okay?”

you put your hands on top of his, dwelling on the way he was keeping you grounded. you took a deep breath, “something’s..happening again… i don’t— i don’t know…. eddie— said that—“

“eddie?” steve’s hands moved from your face and he stepped back, “this is about eddie?”

“holy shit, dude, this not the time to be jealous!”

“i’m not jealous—! i don’t give a shit about eddie— i don’t care!”

“steve.” your tone brought him back, eyes locking onto you, “this isn’t about eddie.”

it was— kind of.

“this is about the upside down… something happened.”

steve floored it, trying to focus on the road and dustin’s many many holes in his story. “are you sure eddie didn’t just…” steve clicked his tongue and made a gesture over his throat.

“no, steve. eddie isn’t a psychopath murderer who snaps girl’s limbs and gouges their eyes out.”

steve turned to glance at you, eyebrows raised, unconvinced. “dustin’s right. eddie is eccentric but he would never do that… i don’t think he would hurt anyone—“

“oh i forgot eddie was your close personal friend! i forgot you knew him so well—“

“steve.” your tone was short now, glaring at him in disbelief. he was being ridiculous. insane, even. to be jealous now. “steve harrington, i need you to stop being so damn jealous and listen to me.” steve looked briefly like a scolded puppy, staring at you with a guilty expression, eyes wide that you had blatantly called him out.

“i need your help. okay? i do. i’m asking. because if this is what we think it is again, this will effect everyone. it has nothing to do with eddie.”

you didn’t really care about eddie unintentional being wanted for murder. but dustin thought the world of him and you cared about dustin. steve gritted his teeth, jaw clenched as he continued to stare at you. he swore again and tightened his grip on the steering wheel, “where am i going…”

“why would he tell you where he was hiding? if he’s actually in trouble—“ “he didn’t tell me! that’s why we had to hack into the family video system, to find—“ you shushed both of them, passing dustin the backpack as you dug through the trunk of steve’s car. steve leaned against the roof of his car, looking stuck between anxious and impatient. you wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for dustin. you knew steve would not be out here if you hadn’t asked him personally. you felt better knowing he was out here with you. as much as you hated to admit it…

you hesitated at the door to the boathouse. you knew it was stupid– but if things from the upside down were back, you didn’t want to go in blindly. “dustin, flashlight…” your brother passed you the flashlight and you exchanged an anxious glance with robin.

“i’ll go in first.”

“no you won’t.”

“just give me the flashlight—“

“no, harrington.”

steve pushed past you, glancing at you with an innocent expression. you huffed, grumbling to yourself and grabbing his wrist. steve looked at you cautiously and you entered the boathouse side by side. you held the flashlight and steve held a canoe oar, both bracing for worst case scenario. dustin had picked up a paddle, while robin held a second flashlight, “eddie?” she whispered, despite knowing they were alone in the woods.

“eddie?”

“eddie..?”

dustin poked at the tarp over a canoe with held breath.

“i don’t think he’s here, man—”

before the word was fully out of his mouth, steve was screaming, being shoved backwards, pinned to the wall with a knife to his throat. you screamed, running forward as panic took over.

“eddie!”

“whoa—!”

“eddie, whoa! it’s me! it’s us! it’s dustin—“

eddie’s head snapped backwards, eyes wide and jaw set like he was going to go through with it. “it’s us! you know steve—!” the knife was lowered from steve’s throat and you felt your heart start beating normally again and air fill your lungs once again. steve stumbled forward, out of breath and holding his throat. he nearly collapsed into you and you didn’t think twice when you wrapped your arms around him to steady him.

“sorry—“ eddie eyed you apologetically, eyes still wide in fear, “i’m sorry about that— thought you were…someone else…”

“yeah—“ steve wheezed out, massaging his throat, “-fine—“ you turned to steve, hand gently on his throat, relieved that eddie hadn’t drawn blood. steve’s eyes locked onto yours, breathing slowing, heart rate not decreasing as you numbly still rested your hand on his chest.

the eye contact broke and steve felt like he was falling. you turned to dustin, pulse rising as he urged eddie to tell the full story.

eddie was pale when he finished, a haunted expression that you had seen too many times to doubt. “i know it’s insane…” eddie’s haunted expression stared out, over the lake, eyes glossy and almost dazed.

it was insane. too insane to be made up… you had learned not to let hawkins surprise you. you had recognized the look of terror and disbelief in eddie’s eyes.

“we’ll find a place for you to stay… and we’ll tell the others.” robin had seen enough of her own horrors this last summer not to doubt— though a monster that possesses your mind and then eventually snaps all your joints, pops your eyeballs and levitates you was a bit too much for her. understandable…

“you can stay with us.” dustin was quick to volunteer your house, despite. being the smallest and one of the most obvious places the police would look.

steve, unsurprisingly, disagreed, “no, henderson.”

“no?”

“no. you’re a known friend. cops will be at your house searching tomorrow.”

“you just don’t want him with my sister!”

“henderson— no. that’s a stupid plan— maybe the stupidest plan i’ve ever heard, actually.”

you sighed, hoping this would not turn into another competition or metaphorical size comparison. steve wasn’t wrong, despite his very nonsubtle reasons for not wanting eddie at your house.

“can’t you just camp out here?”

you gave steve a glare, eyebrow raised, trying to silently remind him not to project his jealousy right now. steve met your eyes guiltily and sighed, “he can stay at my house…. it’s huge and my parents are never home… problem solved.”

steve sounded so excited.

your lip twitched up, reminding yourself that he would not even be out here if it weren’t for you.

“oh good,” robin breathed, “i was going to offer my house but i’m terrible at keeping secrets…” it was astonishing, really, how bad she was at keeping her mouth shut.

steve slowed his pace, stepping in stride with you and lowering his voice, “so it’s obviously connected, right? creepy monster snapping limbs? making people see creepy shit in their minds?”

it had to be. hawkins could only handle one other dimensional world of monsters at a time. you just shrugged, “just when you think it’s over… again. some creep with a clock comes along.” steve actually laughed and you did too, despite the seriousness of the situation.

now you were tromping through the woods at night, with a wanted suspect, laughing over another entry to the end of the world.

“dustin, i need you to go tell the others. robin, stay at our house tonight in case the cops come asking questions— just stay hidden.”

“and what about you?”

“i’m going with steve.”

it was a horrible idea, once again. steve still had the ability to cause all critical thinking to go spilling out of your head like it was a water slide. you sat with steve in silence, watching eddie finally stop pacing and then eventually fall asleep. you sighed, swearing quietly. “what the hell are we going to do?”

“i was hoping you would tell me. i mean my parents are going to come back eventually. and sooner or later, cops will be asking you questions about the club your brother is in. i don’t want you going down for this.”

“no one is going down for this. we just have to keep him hidden for now— either there’s never another attack again, or people will find out it has nothing to do with him.”

steve shifted beside you, hand still resting over his mouth in deep thought, “you’re sure going very far out of your way to protect him.”

“he means a lot to dustin.”

“only to dustin?”

you stood up, head snapping towards him accusingly, “i’m not doing this with you. yes, to dustin. dustin is the only reason i was out there, risking getting shot or becoming an accomplice.”

steve knew it was stupid. he knew he was being stupid and jealous, yet he couldn’t help it. dustin had found another older male friend and now he was getting close to you too. he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. he knew you were telling the truth. he knew dustin had probably begged you. and you had come to him…

“don’t think it’s anything more than what it is.”

steve nodded, though now he found it hard to look you in the eye, “i know—“

“and don’t think that i didn’t have anyone else to ask.”

steve looked up, eyes softening on you with a soft smile, “i know…” nancy wheeler may have even been a better choice, knowing his history of never winning fights.

you sighed again, “it’s late.” one forty five in the morning. “god, what has my life come to…” you stood up and steve followed, “you can have my room. if you’re tired…”

“i’m not.”

you woke up, still on the couch, completely wrapped in steve’s arms. shit. you had slept through the entire night without a single nightmare— and slept late. you hated that you knew why… you pulled yourself off of steve’s chest, looking around groggily. eddie was still passed out on the floor, awkwardly slumped against the wall like it had been just a normal night. the walkie was beeping constantly, dustin’s insistent “come in” repeating like an alarm clock.

“dustin— what is it?” you tried to wipe the exhaustion from your body, but you really wanted to curl back up on the couch and drift off again in steve’s arms.

“turn on the news. shit is serious—“

steve was moving to turn the tv on before you could process the weight of his words.

national news coverage of hawkins, indiana.

“oh, shit—“

“you’ve got to be kidding me…”

a serial killer, they said. a sick and twisted individual that gouges his victim’s eyes out and snaps all of their limbs. pictures of chrissy showed on the screen and you had to look away, swallowing the bile in your throat.

so much for letting it die down…

“can you be trusted to stay put while we are gone?” eddie scoffed, glancing up from the fridge, “i don’t need babysitters. i appreciate what you’re doing for me, but i’m not going to be stupid enough to leave.”

steve eyed him like he did not believe him, but he tossed him the extra walkie and crossed his arms, “if there’s a problem, you radio. me or her, not dustin. dustin stays out of this.”

you had to keep your legs locked to hide the way steve’s overprotectiveness of dustin effected you. eddie glanced between the two of you, eyes shifting back and forth like he was studying. “what’s the deal with you two, by the way?”

“there’s no deal with us— that’s not— that isn’t what we’re talking about!” you huffed and eddie almost smiled, “right… yeah, it’s just—“ he pointed between the two of you, “weren’t you guys together, like, forever or something…”

“five years—“

“since we were thirteen—“

“right…..” eddie sat back slightly, eyes narrowing, still studying the two of you, “and… and you’re not…now? for some reason..?”

“she couldn’t handle seeing me covered in blood anymore.” steve shrugged like it was no big deal.

“it’s not just— that’s—“ you tossed your bowl in the sink with a huff, “i don’t have time for this.”

the image of steve beat to a pulp flashed in your head again. it hadn’t even been the goddamn monsters that time— any time… but you had no clue where dustin was, where steve was, why no one was responding on the walkies. then your brother shows up, frantically pounding on the door with lucas’s little sister in tow and tears in his eyes.

“steve’s in trouble, it’s bad.”

those words had been enough to send you into a blind frenzy, flying out the door in pajama shorts and steve’s old swim team shirt.

and then when you finally saw him… more bruised and bloodier than you had ever seen him. eye swollen shut, blood covering his nose to his chin, coating his teeth. jaw fractured, cheek fractured, nose broken, more concussed than should be humanly possible. yet he was smiling, crashing into you with a hug, as if the world had not just temporarily stopped for you.

“i’m sorry—“

but he had made it back to you. broken and completely traumatized, but still alive.

“he was unconscious for most of it—“

steve had winced at the color leaving your face. he pulled you closer but you had lost all feeling.

“i can’t….”

you had said, hours later after the mall imploded, the town fell apart and the end of the world was temporarily put on hold.

“i can’t do this anymore. i can’t worry about you and dustin. i can’t watch you run off into danger like you’ll actually win the next fight. i can’t do it, steve. i can’t lose you. i can’t watch you sacrifice yourself and jump in front of every fist.”

now, as you looked over at him in his car, you realized he was the same person he had always been. selfless, despite what others may think, wanting to be the only one getting hurt, needing to protect the people he loved with a fierceness that would get him killed.

“steve, i—“

“steve—? harrington? henderson? are you there?”

“nancy?”

“i take it you’ve seen the news…”

“yeah.”

“i take it munson isn’t a psychopathic serial killer?”

“not exactly.”

“where are you?”

“on our way back to steve’s.”

“we’ll meet you there.”

“no— my house. not steve’s…”

dustin greeted you and steve before you had even parked. “what are you—“ “how’s eddie? is he okay? is he going to stay put?”

“i—“

“what are you doing home, henderson?”

“they cancelled school. you think they would let us back there with what’s going on?”

steve apparently did.

“national news, you know.” he was practically dragging you through the door. max was there too and robin likely had never left.

“what… were you two doing all day?”

you exchanged glances with steve, “we went back to eddie’s trailer. wanted to see it for myself… see if there was any…signs.”

“they just let you in?”

“i said i was eddie’s mourning sister. they didn’t question it.” brown henderson curls came in handy for once…

“they believed that?”

you shrugged, “i can be very convincing…” your lip twitched up and you saw steve smirk. “it felt like the upside down… there wasn’t any dust particles or…a tear… i don’t know…” you paused, fidgeting with your fingers.

“and where’s eddie now?”

dustin glared at max and she threw her hands up in defense, “i’m not going to turn him in! i just think it would be a good idea to talk to him. see if he saw anything.”

“you think we didn’t think of that?” steve crossed his arms, now giving max the same expression dustin was.

“we did talk to him. he didn’t see anything… just… chrissy getting snapped— and levitating and…. then blood—“ your stomach turned just thinking about the pictures. dustin was staring at the newspaper, the pictures blacked out more than they had been before.

“it just doesn’t make sense… the mind flayer hasn’t… well before, he didn’t—“

“i don’t think it matters. this is obviously still the upside down. do you know anything else that has possessed and killed and made bodies levitate?”

you were starting to get a headache, groaning as you took a seat. your heart rate jumped again, stomach twisting against the stress that was creeping in.

“hey—“ the conversation in the room faded and it was just steve. his hand was on your knee, kneeling in front of you with a soft expression. “i’m fine…” the blood. the broken bones… it was all back. the upside down, the death… steve covered in blood suddenly, unconscious on the floor— you jumped up, room spinning. you nearly tripped, disappearing through your room before the tears could start.

“hey, are you—“

dustin met steve’s eyes and steve just shook his head. max opened her mouth to voice her concern but dustin waved her off. “you should go. nothing i say matters. it’s you she wants, no matter what she may say…” steve’s lip twitched up, moving to follow you.

you fought to breathe in slow breaths, deep and even, hiccuping over the rapid hyperventilation threatening to boil over the surface. you didn’t know what had even triggered this— lately it had been nothing. you heard your door crack open and you didn’t need to look up to see who it was.

“i’m okay—“ you really weren’t.

“it’s fine not to be, you know. we’ve seen some serious shit…” steve stopped before he reached your bed, hand reaching out but not yet touching you.

you actually laughed, snorting despite the bubbling panic, “that’s one word for it…”

“you know what i mean. and you’re so.. fucking strong. god, most people who have seen what we have would go insane. people older than us— they wouldn’t be able to do it, you know. when dustin first told you about the upside down— god, you didn’t even question him, you just heard that he was in trouble and grabbed a gun. you didn’t even call me—“

“that was the first time you yelled at me…” in the byer house, with nancy and jonathan. steve had no idea what had happened, only that you were acting distant. you threw yourself right in as the bait and that was the only time you had ever seen steve scared, “you ended up getting involved anyway… all i wanted was you safe.”

“yeah, so much so that you pointed a gun at me.”

you cracked a smile, “i didn’t want you getting hurt.”

steve sat next to you, cautiously, as if he expected you to get up. he was smiling to himself, “as if i would let my girl stand in front of danger alone…” he turned to look at you, expression soft, “you just jump right in. never really caring if you got hurt, as long as everyone else was safe.”

well that sounded familiar. “i think the time you jumped in front of hargrove and pulled out that gun was the moment i realized this wasn’t going to just be a high school sweetheart phase. i knew i had always loved you… but right then i knew this was different. god, i don’t think i’ve ever been more terrified of you than i was then, either. hargrove had beat the shit out of me, and there you were, staring him down like he was just a disobedient lap dog.”

your lip twitched into a smile, “i think you were just delirious from the concussion and the fact that you could only see out of one eye.”

steve laughed, “that was definitely not the reason.” he shifted closer to you— just enough to be intentional, “my point is, you’re allowed to be scared. especially now. you’re allowed to show it, you’re allowed to let it out. you’ve kept it buried, covering it up and carrying on like this is all normal. it isn’t normal. nothing about any of it… we’ve lost people, we’ve been run thin, we’re exhausted… and i know we aren’t the same. there’s no possible way for us to be the same kids we were before all of this. i know that. i know this…. whole thing… isn’t ideal for a relationship. i know you’re scared. i know things aren’t…easy. but…”

your eyes met his momentarily and you blinked away the tears. he was right. you were scared. fir everything he just said. for keeping it all inside for all this time… you shook your head and let out a weak laugh, “you know, the worst part is i’m not scared. not of the upside down, not of the mind flayer or any other monsters he’ll throw at us.” it was ridiculous now that you voiced it. you should have been terrified to even get out of bed in the morning. “you want to know the only time i was ever truly scared?”

steve probably didn’t, but he shifted closer, breath held. “after the mall. when i still couldn’t find dustin. when i couldn’t find you. when i didn’t know where you had been for twenty four goddamn hours. and then you found me. stumbling into my arms, covered in blood, looking like you had been fucking tortured…”

steve looked away, “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—“

“no.”

“i didn’t think anything would—“

“that cannot happen again.”

steve looked back up at you, “i’m sorry.”

“it was bad enough when it was just you. but when it was both of you– and i didn’t know— i couldn’t get ahold of either of you…” steve moved closer, grabbing your hands in a sad attempt to stop your tears, “that cannot happen again. i can’t sit at home oblivious, not knowing that you were almost fucking killed! not knowing that my brother is involved and—“

“it won’t. it won’t…” steve held your face gently, “you know i would never let anything happen to dustin.” you did know that.

“that’s why it can never be just the two of you again.” it was like steve finally understood. the air was pulled from the room and all steve could do was look at you. “you are not sacrificing yourself for him. i will not lose either one of you.”

steve was silent, his stomach sinking, chest tightening. he understood now. you would rather it be you than him or dustin. losing him was worse than losing your life… his eyes were still locked onto you, more intense, eyeing you with a clarity that made his head spin.

“i can’t promise that we all survive this.”

“i know…”

“and i’m not going to promise not to act recklessly if you or your brother are in danger.”

you just stared at him. not good enough.

“i can promise to be careful. i can promise not to jump in front of every single bullet or fist or other dimensional deity.”

better… but still—

“can you promise to stay beside me no matter what? never in front of me. never again somewhere else entirely, where i have no idea if you’re alive or dead…”

steve was so close to you now. his expression soft, desperate as it searched your face. it all made sense now. you weren’t mad at him. you hadn’t hated him for protecting your brother… he scared the hell out of you. he was one of the only things in this world you cared about and he constantly wanted to swing for heroics.

“i promise.”

the breath caught in your throat, heat spreading throughout your body, tension building in the mere inches between you now.

“steve…”

“i know. you’re scared to lose me. i know i always jump in front of danger… i’m sorry for scaring you. i didn’t… i never stopped to think about how much me being beat up and bloody scared you… i was always just thinking thank god it wasn’t you. thank god it wasn’t dustin… i was always just so relieved to come back to you, to know you weren’t in danger and that i had survived to come back to you…” steve put his hand on either sides of your face, “i always came back to you.”

you were crying now— hating yourself and the way you let the goddamn fear swirl in and twist itself around your mind and squeeze, until it took control. “what if you don’t?”

steve took a deep breath, hesitating, searching your face once again, “i always have so far… a little bloody, a few less brain cells and a bruised ego, maybe…”

you wanted to laugh, but it never came.

“hell, i got tortured and drugged by russians and i still managed to only think about getting back to you. there’s nothing… not a single goddamn thing that will keep me away from you. not russians, not a million demogorgans, not a portal to another world, and definitely not some creep that snaps bones…”

you rolled your eyes, though the tears in your eyes and your smile showed that his speech actually hadn’t been cheesy at all.

steve almost laughed at himself, eyes soft as they locked onto yours. he brushed his thumb along your face, wiping the tears. “i love you. and i really fucking miss you…”

you sniffled, smile spreading, “i love you too…” it was like a parasite, really. no matter what you did or tried, there was no getting over him. there was no moving on, no finding someone else, no shaking steve harrington. it had been a month and a half since the breakup, yet now it felt like nothing had changed between you. now that he was inches away from your face, hands locked with your own, sitting beside you on your bed again, looking at you like he always had. he still never felt further away. it had been stupid you had been stupid. so goddamn scared, all because steve protected with a fierceness that turned reckless. and he had always come back… or— you knew, you would go to hell itself to bring him back.

steve leaned in, lips grazing against yours so delicately it was almost not there. he was asking, hesitant, wanting to see where you stood. your arm looped around his neck, fingers sliding through his hair to pull him closer. steve’s breath caught, eyes closing against the feel of you.

“i love you,” it was like a sigh of relief, and your only answer was to kiss him.

the kiss grew rapidly, soft brushes turned heavy, needy and desperate. steve’s hands found your hips, pulling you into him as you threw both arms around him. your pulse roared in your ears, heart hammering inside your chest. you had never forgotten the taste of him, the way he held you, the way his mouth felt against your neck. you muttered a curse, head falling back onto the mattress as he pinned you gently between his legs, mouth never leaving you.

the door burst open, and robin cursed, “you guys— shit—!“ steve dragged his head up, chest already rising and falling rapidly. you knew there was nothing robin could ever do to earn a more serious glare. if looks could kill, she would drop dead like a dropped doll. “you need to get out here—“ but the shaking in her voice and her frantic tone had you both jumping to your feet.

“we have company.” the entire group had ran into the kitchen, crouched behind the half wall. steve’s eyes shifted to you, cold and warning— reading for another goddamn fight. “lucas radioed and warned us. said they were looking for eddie…”

“shit—“

historically, people were harder to deal with than monsters. you straightened your clothes and pulled your most charming smile as you moved for the door. you opened it to a fraction of the hawkins football team, “can i help you?” it had come off as polite and casual— despite your tendency for panic attacks you were good under pressure. “hi,” the kid hesitated, eyeing you like he was surprised by you. he pulled himself out of his daze and smiled, “miss henderson…” oh brother. “is your brother home? my name is jason and i’m…” hell no was he talking to dustin. “dustin?” you had gotten out of most things by playing dumb, “i honestly don’t know where he is, he’s supposed to be home by now.” jason narrowed his eyes, not believing you. smart kid… “who’s car is parked out front?” your hold tightened on the door, “excuse me?”

“there’s two cars in the driveway… i’m betting only one of them is yours.” he stepped closer to you and you held the door handle, hand behind your back frantically motioning for the group to move. “i thought you were just looking for dustin? is something wrong? is dustin in trouble?” this kid was about to be.

“no, ma’am. of course not. we just need to ask him a few questions…” you shifted again, tenser, tone shifting in warning, “he isn’t here.” jason’s mouth twitched up and your eyes narrowed. “do you mind if i wait here until he gets home? you said he needed to be back soon…”

shit.

“if you insist. but he might not come back at all. he likes to stay over at friends’ houses.”

“mike wheeler. we were already there.”

fuck—

jason’s tone was flat now, cautious, warning.

“is there a problem?“ steve opened the door, hand above your head, arm out stretched against the door frame.

the team was momentarily silenced, the slightest flicker of anxiety crossing their face, “harrington?”

“yeah?” you knew steve’s mild irritation was greatly underplayed, “is there a problem?” now it was his voice, that held a warning.

“they said they’re looking for dustin? asked if they could wait here until he shows up…” steve took his eyes off you and turned them back to the new age of jocks, eyes narrowing further, “what do you want with dustin?”

a different kid spoke up this time, “what do you care? aren’t you only screwing his sister?”

jason– the ring leader in the front, shot his friend a glare, arm out to shut him up— but steve was faster. he grabbed the kid by his shirt and shoved him down the steps. steve harrington had mastered the role of overprotective asshole boyfriend. and he played it with pride…

“whoa, okay! easy—!” jason spoke again, realizing his chances of hospitality were vanishing. “i’m sorry about him— look, we just want to talk to henderson. i assure you it is important…”

steve let go of the kids shirt and turned his glare to jason, once again doing all the talking, “she told you he isn’t here.” it was not a suggestion to leave.

“do you mind if we just… take a look? not that we don’t believe you… it’s just— maybe we’ll find something that will give us some idea on what happened.”

“you’re here about the murder?”

“chrissy was my girlfriend… the cops aren’t doing a damn thing.”

steve could at least understand where he was coming from. unfortunately the cops would find nothing— and never be able to prove eddie’s involvement. “i guarantee you dustin had nothing to do with that. he was home. i was here.”

“no. of course he didn’t. i know that… he’s just a kid.” he was fourteen. two years younger than this kid. “but maybe he might know something about who did…”

steve had to stop himself from pacing, standing like a guard dog as he watched— only jason was allowed— him wander through the house like damn sherlock holmes.

“you won’t find anything.” your arms were crossed across your chest, hoping to hide their shaking.

“is this henderson’s room?”

shit.

“yeah?” the door was locked and your heart jumped into your throat. please be smarter than that…

“mind if i take a look?”

this kid thought he was the goddamn police. but the sooner he was out and realized there was nothing here, the sooner he would leave and never come back.

you just eyed him suspiciously and opened his door with a sigh. empty. thank god. jason looked surprised— like he knew you were lying but was really thinking that’s where he would be.

jason returned empty handed, jaw tight, “and this is your room?” the only place they would be. your throat felt tight suddenly and your chest constricted.

“you’re not going in there.” steve just eyed him, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, daring him to argue. it was reasonable. what boyfriend would want a random boy snooping through their girl’s room— jason had a moment of clarity and seemed to come to his senses, “right… of- of course not. i’m sorry.”

good.

the front door opened and dustin stood with both of jason’s sidekicks hands on his shirt. dustin smiled at you sheepishly, hands up in surrender, “hey guys— what’s…going on?”

little shit must have climbed through the window.

“henderson—“

“get your hands off of him or you’ll leave here with more than just disappointment.” they seemed to be more scared of your threat than anything steve had said. they released dustin and stepped back.

“i haven’t seen eddie. i know that’s why you’re here.” dustin had even dropped a bag on the floor from his shoulder, like he was coming back from somewhere.

“you’re sure?”

“uh, i think i would know if i’ve seen or talked to someone, asshole…” dustin walked right past jason, moving for the fridge. god, you loved that kid so damn much.

jason desperately threw an arm out to stop dustin, “well do you have any idea where he might be?”

one glare from steve and jason lowered his hand from dustin’s chest.

“try the boat house in the woods. otherwise i don’t know what to tell you.”

they had already been there. lucas had told him the same thing. you all already knew eddie could never return there.

“we were already there…”

“then i guess you’re just shit out of luck.”

dustin stared him down without a flinch and it was like looking in a mirror. but steve’s reflection was also there and you realized startlingly that you and steve had unintentionally raised this kid to be equal parts both of your traits.

jason nodded, bowing his head, “thank you for your time.” he left without a word and steve fought the urge to slam the door on his ass. you looked at dustin with a fond smile, pulling him in for a hug, “gross— get off me.”

“you’re a damn genius, you know.”

dustin smiled up at you, arm around you in a sad embarrassed brother hug, “you would all be lost without me.”

it was truer than you would ever let him know.

steve had his hand on your thigh on the drive back to his house. it was innocent, just a reminder that he was there. your hand was over his, tired, half focusing on his words, lost in thought.

eddie greeted you at the door and you almost forgot he was there. “thank god, i’m starving.” the pizza was still fresh, though you and steve had eaten before you left. you stocked the kids up with pizza, robin promised to hold down the fort, and you had— only almost— forgotten about eddie and the sad lack of food in the harrington house.

“sorry it’s so late. something… came up.”

eddie froze mid bite, “were you two having an anatomy lesson?” you stared at him blankly, not wanting to correct him and say no, actually, that was interrupted.

“jason and his goons were looking for you.”

“oh shit.” eddie paled for a moment, looking between the two of you, “wait, who?”

“football team.”

“oh… scary.”

the way eddie was being so casual about it was getting under your skin, but you blamed it on stress, exhaustion and mild frustration.

“you know we’ve put our asses on the line for you.”

“steve—“

“no, you know what, dustin came to us because he was worried about you. we’ve been through shit too, we didn’t need this on top of it, alright?”

eddie had stopped eating and looked between the two of you, now guilty, “look, i’m sorry. don’t think i don’t appreciate it. i know the kid was worried, but i can take care of myself…”

you scoffed, only because it was too late for this fight. steve stood up now, so did eddie.

shit—

“oh really? you can take care of yourself? so why don’t you?”

“steve…”

“don’t talk to me like you’re better than me, man. we’re both social outcasts leading a meaningless life. i know you don’t give a damn about what happens to me and you’re only doing this so your dick seems bigger to your girlfriend—“

“oh, whoa—“

“i don’t think you should be starting shit with me, munson. i might not win in fights, but i’m sure the police will.”

oh, fuck—

“steve—“

“are you threatening me now?” eddie’s voice had dropped, “i really don’t think that’s a good idea, given your track record with fights and the fact that i’ve already held a knife to your throat once.”

your heart was racing, stomach bubbling as alarm bells went off in your head. they were both such goddamn idiots.

“eddie—“ your fingers twitched at your side, mentally noting how far away the knives were and being sure you could get to them first, “sit your ass back down.”

eddie’s eyes turned to you and for a moment you didn’t recognize him. you had pointed a gun at people before. you would not feel guilty about calling the police on a friend. dustin would eventually forgive you…

steve was tense, anticipating, just waiting to strike. “hey.” you stepped between them now, hand on steve’s shirt, voice like a growl. he was too tense. jaw clenched, arms flexed like a spring waiting to uncoil. adrenaline rushed in your ears and you tightened your hold on his shirt. eddie’s mouth twitched, glaring daggers into steve like it could actually hurt him. “sit. down.” you stepped towards eddie, once again preparing to go toe to toe in a screaming match. but eddie’s eyes found yours, expression still tight, eyes murderous. but he backed up, shoulders relaxing slightly, rubbing his hand like his clenched fist had hit something.

“you aren’t going anywhere. you’re both acting like goddamn feral animals. god—“ you looked between them and their now guilty expressions, “things are tense. things fucking suck. we are not going to start beating the shit out of each other. let’s save it for the real threats.” you looked between them again, expression scolding, eyebrows lifted in disbelief, “yeah?”

the way they both looked like scolded puppies was not missed. they both muttered agreements and turned away from each other. you shook your head, still watching them in disbelief. “damn idiots.” you muttered it to yourself, but they had both heard you.

“i’m sorry. things are tense… i just… sorry.” eddie couldn’t look you in the eyes now and it reminded you greatly of dustin’s guilty look when he was younger.

“sorry.”

you ignored both of them, including steve’s brown puppy eyes and just walked past them. “i’m going to bed.”

steve found you in his bedroom, not even a full minute later. his guilty demeanor would have come off as exhaustion if you didn’t know him so well. “i’m sorry…about that.”

you didn’t glance up from his closet, digging through it to find something more comfortable. steve stopped just behind you, eyes pleading, hand hesitant to wrap around your waist. he never did know what to do with himself if you were mad at him— and god, the silent treatment may as well have been exile. “i didn’t mean any of that… i wouldn’t turn him in.”

“i would have.” you didn’t look up, didn’t hesitate as you spoke. your tone wasn’t angry, it wasn’t accusing. it was casual, stating a fact, “if he attacked you.”

steve’s breath caught in his throat. hand snapping forward to your hip, stopping you before you took a step. you would have turned in a friend— a friend that meant a lot to dustin— for him. it seemed insane. it seemed excessive and yet you had pulled a gun on billy once for him too…

your eyes fell on his, breath catching at the look he was giving you. like he didn’t quite know what he was looking at, like it had been a long time since he properly looked at you.

“steve…” you weren’t sure why you said his name. maybe part of you wanted to make sure he wasn’t in a trance. or maybe you just had always liked the way his name felt on your lips.

the way he felt on your lips…

steve’s hand was still on your hip, his other arm now around your lower back, pulling you into him. you watched in slow motion, the softness in his eyes, the longing in his expression, the way he slowly leaned in. cautiously, like he was waiting for permission. you threw your arms around his neck, all decorum and poise thrown away. you stumbled into him, desperately clinging like he would disappear. steve caught you, already breathless from the adrenaline surging through him. his softness and caution was gone, now meeting your heavy, desperate kisses with the same enthusiasm.

your back hit the mattress, steve mumbling apologies against your neck for the roughness. you dragged him down with you, bed springs squeaking against the shifting weight. steve had somehow become an even better kisser. it was a stupid observation, you realized, as he was pulling his shirt over his head— but you hadn’t thought it was possible. he had been more desperate, more needy, more possessive, kissing you like he was out of time.

your vision started to blur as steve trailed down your collarbone, pausing every few seconds to suck on your skin. his fingers gentle circled under your shirt, gentle, affectionately. he dragged his mouth from your shoulder, pausing to look down at you, “god, you’re beautiful.” you ran your hands through his hair, watching him practically melt under your touch, smiling, “i missed you…” steve’s mouth twitched up, waiting to finally hear those words, “i missed you too.” he met your lips again, this time softer, still desperate, still longing and needy, “i love you…”

“i love you too…”

you woke up much later than usual. full sun was already creeping through the curtains, bright enough to tell you it was long past eight. you had been stayed out most of the night already, add on the almost fight and the extra— several— hours with steve and you hadn’t actually fallen asleep until after four o’clock in the morning. clothes were thrown across the room, and steve was curled up with your bra under his head. you snorted, shaking your head and watching him in adoration. his arm was still draped over you, nose nestled against your chest, mouth partially parted and somehow still smiling, even in his sleep. his breath was hot against your skin, causing goosebumps definitely not from the cold.

you shifted, tucking your arm under your head and taking him in. his grip tightened around you as you shifted, pulling you closer, tucking you right against his chest. you brought your hand up, thumb against his cheek. he hummed contently, leaning into your touch slightly. you ran your fingers through his hair, just taking in his sleeping form, letting your fingers linger against his messy hair. you missed the feel of his arms around you. you missed waking up next to him… you missed the way he fit so perfectly against you. you missed the content smile on his face afterwards, the one that would linger, sometimes even in sleep, until morning.

“good morning, beautiful…” steve placed a lazy kiss against your shoulder. then your neck. then finally found your lips. his hair stuck up in every direction— not having been helped at all by your fingers running through it.

“i love you.”

another kiss.

“i love you too…” you nestled your face against steve’s chest, arms around him once again.

“do you think if we just stay here the world will disappear? or at least slow down for a while…”

god, you wished…

“let’s test it…”

************

taglist:

@v-crazy @yagurlannastasia @midnightmusets @youngbrokefab @husbandb3at3r @lovesflourmorethananything 🫶🏻

a/n: not sure about the ending but i genuinely got burnt out writing this and didn’t see why it needed to go on any longer 😬😅

[thatfoxygrl]

Clumsy Girl | Steve Harrington x Reader

summary : when you try to change yourself into the girl you think Steve would like, you're reminded of why you fell in love with him in the first place. word count: 2k content: fem!reader, slightly insecure reader, odd reader, lowkey jonathan byers coded reader because I love him, petnames, kissing, sexual undertones but no actual smut, hurt/comfort, fluff a/n: been rewatching Stranger Things and fell back in love with Steve Harrington (I have not seen season 5 yet, so pls no spoilers) takes place right before season 3

You swear you don’t know how you did it.

One second you were stumbling over some jazzercise move, neon lights and the loud hum of Madonna's “Material Girl” blaring through the studio speakers, and the next you were flat on your ass.

It’s only now, with a throbbing ankle and your boyfriend hovering over you, pressing an ice pack into your leg, that you regret listening to some girls you heard raving about the new studio that opened up in the mall while in line for Hot Dog on a Stick. 

“So, why did you decide to join Jazzercise, again?” Steve muses, looking over you softly in the storeroom of Scoops Ahoy.

His shift ended 30 minutes ago, just in time to see you hobble your way into the shop with a meek smile.

“Not that I’m complaining, big fan of the outfit,” he adds slyly, and you can’t help the way your cheeks tinge with heat. 

You’d gotten all ready, slipping on some baby blue tights, and your old pair of cream-colored leg warmers – the ones you used to wear for ballet before you’d forced your mom to let you quit. You’d even bought a new leotard from the athletics store a few shops down the way.

Now, though, you just felt stupid.

“I just heard some girls talking about it” pretty ones, you don’t add, chewing on your lip instead as you gaze around the bland room. It had only been a few months since you and Steve started dating, a few months after he tried talking you up in the Scoops Ahoy line, and you nearly slapping him in the face because you thought he was playing a joke on you.

You weren’t ugly, or even unlikeable, by any means, but you were shy and lived the majority of your life with few friends and even fewer boyfriends. In fact, your Saturday nights throughout the years consisted mostly of watching over your neighbor's son while he played video games with his own friends. 

So god forbid you decide that maybe you should try something new – get out of your comfort zone. I mean, sure, Steve wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity these days, but he had friends. Even if they were years younger. 

It wasn’t even that you minded being alone, but it was the way you never really had much to do other than reading, listening to music, working, and occasionally sneaking your boyfriend through your bedroom window that made you wonder if maybe Steve was getting a bit tired of the lone wolf routine you were so accustomed to.

“Y’know if you wanted to get my attention, you could’ve just said so. Didn’t have to go hurting yourself,” he jests lightly, shoulder brushing yours to try and nudge the frown off of your face and soften the crease between your brows.

You huff a small laugh, rolling your eyes as you lean your head back against the cold wall. “Yeah, yeah, don't get ahead of yourself, Harrington.” you tease, lifting your ankle off of the table and effectively knocking the ice pack off. 

It feels better, but the embarrassment still stings in a way something physical can’t. You should’ve just gone to the bookstore like you’d planned, picked up that new book you’d been eyeing the last time you were there. Would’ve saved yourself the humiliation and onslaught of self depreciation wiring its way through your chest.

“Hey, what's wrong?” he murmurs softly, eyes glossing over your face as his hand itches to brush across your cheek. Even after only a few months of dating, he could read you better than most people in your life.

“Nothing, I just” wish I liked more normal things so I didn’t have to resort to stumbling around like a baby deer on rollerskates, “wish I had better foot coordination” you muse, brushing off his worry with some cheap laughter as you pick at your nailbeds.

Steve, to his credit, can tell you're lying but doesn't push. Not yet.

He’d changed out of his uniform in the employee bathroom before you came in, and was now donning some worn jeans and an old t-shirt that made you feel utterly foolish that you didn’t bring a spare change of clothes.

He watches you eye him with a soft smile, reaching around to grab his Members Only jacket off of the table before wrapping it around your shoulders gently. “Lets get you home, sweet girl” he hums, offering up his hand to help you up – ever the gentleman. 

You nod, hair falling in front of your face in an attempt to cover the way your eyes soften at the nickname. You take his hand, only wincing slightly as you stand on your swollen ankle, and let him lead you out of the now nearly vacated mall. 

You’re just thankful the escalators are still running, because if you were forced to hobble down the stairs like this, you think you’d actually die. It’s only when you see the familiar maroon hue of Steve's beamer parked out in the lot that you finally feel a sense of relief. 

The warm summer air brushes across your face gently as Steve helps you into the passenger seat, taking extra care to press a soft kiss against your forehead. When the door closes, you take a deep inhale and press your back into the familiar leather interior, eyes closed.

Steve wastes no time hopping into the driver's seat and turning down the Journey song blaring from the radio before pulling out of the lot. Well, this was easy, maybe you really were in the clear-

“Wanna tell what’s really wrong?” he hums, fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel as his eyes never leave the road.

And there it is.

You hate to admit how clever it was, trapping you in an enclosed space where there's no avoiding confrontation. You felt like an emotionally stunted cat backed into an alleyway.

“It’s just been a long day,” you offer quietly, wrapping Steve’s jacket around yourself a bit tighter as you stare at the blurring trees from the passenger window.

“So then let’s talk about it,” he adds, tearing his eyes away from the road to look at you, really look at you.

God, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so beautiful, even when frowning.

You chew on your lip, wishing you had stuffed some of your peach lip smacker in your purse before you’d left the house earlier. “You have to focus on the road, Steve” you muse, deflecting slightly as you look at him.

What you don’t expect is for Steve to slam on the brakes of his precious car as he swerves onto the shoulder of the road, putting the gear in park as he turns to face you expectantly. 

You huff out a weak laugh, “Well don’t you just have all the solutions” you mumble, a reluctant smile gracing your lips as you wring your fingers together.

To Steve's credit, he doesn’t smirk or laugh, just leans in a bit further to rub gentle circles on your wrist.

“Well, that’d only be true if I figured out how to make you feel better. So, help me out here?” he murmurs, voice soft as not to spook you too much.

It feels like coaxing a cat out of a hiding spot, and much to your chagrin, it’s working.

“I just feel embarrassed,” you huff, eyeing your ankle with such venom Steve’s surprised it doesn’t wither away. “I hate jazzercise” you grumble, and Steve can’t help the small smile that breaks out onto his face.

“Then why did you go?” he laughs, a hint of incredulity in his tone, and you feel your body freeze up.

“Because it’s normal, it’s what everyone does,” you point out quietly, and suddenly all of the laughter is sucked out of the car and your seatbelt feels too tight.

“So what?” he hums softly, scooting a little closer – well, as much as the center console will allow.

“Steve,” you murmur quietly, internally begging him to stop, to pretend like this all never happened.

But then again, Steve never was one to back down.

“No. Who cares if it’s what everyone else does, that doesn’t mean you have to do it” he murmurs, eyebrows furrowed in your direction. 

It’s like something in you snaps, “I notice how people look at us when we’re together, Steve. ‘Oh look, there's Steve and the weird loner chick’” you mutter, hands rubbing over your face aggressively. “I just wanted to feel like I fit in, for once. Like it’s not crazy for people to think you could actually be into me,” you add, quietly.

And for the first time since you two got in the car, Steve's face drops. For a second, you think he’s mad at you before he turns towards the backseat and pulls a paper gift bag onto his lap.

How long has that been back there?

“Steve, what-” you’re cut off by the resounding sound of a cassette tape settling on your lap. You feel your heart still in your chest as you read the title, The Queen Is Dead by The Smiths. “How- It’s only been out for a few days?”

“John at RadioShack owed me a favor,” he murmurs distractedly, hand still digging around in the bag before he pulls out something else. And this time, it takes everything in you not to cry.

It’s a copy of The Handmaid's Tale, the exact book you were eyeing at the store the last time you and Steve went. “Steve…”

“If you couldn’t tell, I like you the way you are. I like that you listen to The Smiths and Bowie, and read dystopian feminist novels, and don’t hesitate to almost slap me when I’m being a dick.” Steve's rambling now, hands gesturing wildly as you will back tears.

“Steve-” “and I like the way you don’t base your self-worth around how many friends you have, or the amount of parties you’ve been to, because none of that is important-”

“Steve-” “you taught me that none of that matters.” He finishes, eyes searching yours rapidly as you clutch the cassette and paperback between shaking fingers.

“Steve. I love you,” you whisper, voice shaky and so quiet that you’re sure if you two weren't sitting in a dead silent car, then Steve would’ve missed it.

Its the first time either of you have said it – you both felt it, of course you did, but the timing never felt right. 

Not like now, when the throbbing of your ankles dulled to nothing and the only thing you can really feel is the warmth of Steve’s eyes over you like a warm blanket in winter, because for the first time — possibly ever — you feel seen.

In fact, you don’t even exhale fully before you feel the familiar warm press of Steve's lips to yours.

It’s the blur of lips molding together and the warm hand brushing your cheek that make you forget why you were even upset to begin with.

It’s only when you’re both weak and breathless that Steve pulls away, hand still grasping your cheek as he looks at you with soft eyes.

“Well, if it wasn’t obvious – and Dustin’s been telling me it’s been glaringly obvious since our first date – I love you, too” he murmurs gently.

You don’t know what else to do, so you press your forehead against his with shuddering breaths, a weak laugh escaping your lips.

“Even when I force you to listen to The Clash’s discography from start to finish,” you tease softly.

Steve only laughs, nodding slightly as he looks at you, “Yes, even then.” he muses, pressing a delicate kiss to your temple. “Now, let’s get you home, clumsy girl.” 

You stifle a smile, intertwining your fingers with Steve’s as he pulls back onto the main road.

You don’t know how much time has passed since you left the mall, but for the first time in a long time, you feel lighter.

[writing-the-stars]

More Than I Deserve

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: After another fight leaves you unraveling at a party, you call the one person you’re convinced you don’t deserve anymore. He comes anyway — not to scold you, but to stay.

Warnings: ANGST (It's what we do over here), Emotional Distress, Anxiety Spiral, Self-Worth Issues, Hurt/Comfort. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: STEVIE!!! It's finally his turn. I'm so excited about this fic. The moment it came to me I had to stop everything to write it. This one is for all my insecure baddies out there. I see you and I feel you! I just wanted something really soft and raw with Steve. Anyway, thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoy and that you have a wonderful remainder of your day.

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

The house is too loud — loud in the way a headache is, throbbing and pulsing until it settles inside the softest parts of you. The lights are too bright, smearing into hazy gold halos that make everything look soft and indistinct. The air is thick with the kind of cloying cigarette smoke that gets into your hair and settles on your skin like something you’ll never quite wash off. The bass rattles through your ribs — a low, relentless thrum under the haze of cheap beer and cheaper cologne. It’s a typical Hawkins party, the kind you’ve been to a dozen times, but tonight it feels worse.

Tonight, it feels wrong.

Because you were supposed to be here with him.

You smile, trying to laugh at something your friend Stacey says, but the sound slips out thin and fragile, collapsing under the weight of the ache in your chest before it even leaves your mouth. It doesn’t sound like you. Nothing tonight does. You feel detached — miles away from yourself, from this room full of people you’ve known since middle school. Like you’re moving a half-second behind your own body, watching yourself through glass from somewhere far away.

All you can focus on is the echo of your fight with Steve, still bouncing around the hollow space behind your ribcage. The sharpness of your voice, the way his breath hitched in frustration, the words that came out too fast, too loud, too loaded.

It hadn’t even been about anything real — or maybe it had, which is the part that scares you. You can’t even remember what started it. You just know that one smart comment from you had escalated into you both raising your voices, saying things you didn’t mean. Or maybe things you meant too much.

Lately, everything with Steve feels like balancing a match between your fingers — warm and bright and wonderful until you’re staring at a blister you didn’t notice forming.

Stacey drifts toward Gregory Stevens from your biology class, her laugh bright and airy, floating above the music like it weighs nothing. You envy it — her ease, her lightness, the way she can live inside a moment without dissecting its edges.

She doesn't know. 

And God, you don’t want her to. 

How do you explain the hollow ache that’s been lodged in your chest ever since you walked out of Steve’s house hours ago?

Well — stormed out. Your voice sharp, throat tight, saying you were done talking to him. You slammed the door hard enough to rattle the Halloween wreath still hanging there from last weekend. You didn’t look back. And he didn’t follow. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe that’s what hurts the most.

You told yourself coming to this party would help. You were supposed to be here with him anyway. Supposed to kiss him in a corner, steal his beer, tease him for flirting like you’re still new, still thrilling. Supposed to feel happy tonight.

Instead you feel ridiculous — angry at him, angry at yourself, angry at how nothing tonight sits right on your skin.

God, you hate fighting with Steve. But it feels like the only way you know how to talk to each other now.

The music shifts to a song he loves — a song he put on the mixtape he made you when you first started dating — and the vice around your chest tightens. Desperate for a distraction, you stand abruptly and push your way toward the kitchen. You grab a beer you don’t even want, but you need something, anything, to take the edge off.

It burns on the way down, metallic and sharp, fitting in a way that makes your stomach twist.

The crowd swallows you whole on the way back. Bodies packed too close, faces smearing into color and movement. Someone slams into your shoulder; someone else laughs too loudly; a couple stumbles past wrapped around each other, and for a split second, you feel the ghost of Steve’s hand at the small of your back. Feel the way he always guides you through rooms like this. Firm, warm. Steady.

You blink hard, but the feeling doesn’t fade. 

You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re fine. And you try to be. 

But after almost an hour of pretending, the lie starts to splinter. The noise is scraping at your nerves, the taste of alcohol churns in your stomach, and your head feels too full — swollen with thoughts you can’t outrun.

You need to leave.

You need air that is yours.

You need home.

Or whatever part of it still belongs to you tonight.

YYou shoulder past bodies, slipping through the crush of perfume and sweat and someone’s half-burned cigarette as you weave your way out of the living room. You’re looking for Stacey, and when you finally find her, she’s… not exactly available.

The bedroom door is cracked open, a blade of warm light slicing through the dark hallway. Stacey peeks out, breathless, her lipstick smeared and hair mussed — touched by Gregory in ways you’re pretending not to notice. She looks annoyed you interrupted, but not enough to hide the fact she’s having a better night than you. 

She’s busy, and you’re not. You’re stuck in your own head, suffocating on the weight of a fight that’s still raw and throbbing beneath your ribs like a bruise you keep pressing just to feel something.

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the tightness in your throat. This isn’t where you’re supposed to be — not alone, not spinning out in a stranger’s house while everyone else is busy being young and unbroken.

Stacey’s expression sharpens, a pointed little grimace that says, Seriously? Right now?

 You force a smile that doesn’t reach anything beside your teeth.

“Sorry,” you whisper, though you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. Existing, maybe.

She nods toward the hallway. “Can this wait? I’m kinda… y’know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. It’s fine. I’m fine. Just— go back.” Your voice wobbles on the last word.

She doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she does and doesn’t care. The door shuts before you can even fully turn around.

You stand there for a moment — long enough for the paint on the wood to blur and sharpen as your eyes sting. The muffled thump of music vibrates through the floorboards, laughter bubbling up the stairs like you’re submerged and listening from underwater. The party is still going strong — but you feel like you’re fading out of it, slipping through the cracks.

You’re alone.

At a party you don’t want to be at.

With no way home.

And Steve—

You swallow hard.

You don’t want to think about him.

But you miss him so much your teeth ache with it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, nails pressing into your skin as you try to breathe normally. You need to go home — somewhere quiet, somewhere not here, somewhere that isn’t pulsing with someone else’s noise. The problem is… you don’t know how.

You drift down the empty hallway into a quieter wing of the house, where the music softens to a dull heartbeat behind drywall — a heartbeat you’ve fallen out of rhythm with. You lean against the wall and let out a breath that stutters on the way out.

You wish Steve were here. 

Or rather — you wish things were still good enough that he would be here with you.

Your throat tightens. You press your knuckles to your lips, trying to breathe through the tightness.

You briefly consider walking, but it’s too far, too dark, too late — and midnight in Hawkins has its own kind of silence. The kind where every rustle in the trees feels like a warning.

Calling your parents is out of the question. If they found out you weren’t at Stacey’s like you said — if they knew you were at a party at midnight — you’d never see daylight again.

So you stand there, heart thudding unevenly, fingers trembling, knowing exactly what it means.

You only have one option.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

You walk back through the party, weaving through the same crush of bodies. Someone sloshes beer dangerously close to your shoes, laughter erupts from somewhere behind you, sharp enough to make you flinch, like it’s aimed at you. More noise, more reminders of how not-okay you are. 

By the time you reach the kitchen, your pulse is high in your throat. The overhead light flickers tiredly, humming like it’s had enough of tonight, too. 

You step up to the phone mounted on the wall and pull it free, the curly cord snapping lightly against your wrist. The buttons are worn, their numbers nearly erased by years of other people’s conversations. 

Each click of your fingers against the buttons echoes too loudly in the small kitchen as you punch the number in — muscle memory burned into you the same way everything about him is. 

You take a shaky breath as you bring the receiver to your ear. The ring hums through the line, tinny and distant, like it’s coming from somewhere far away.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

Your stomach twists, shame blooming hot and sour beneath your ribs. With each ring, something in your chest pulls tighter, like you’re bracing for impact you know is coming.

You shouldn’t be doing this. He’s probably still furious. Still hurt. You said you weren’t talking to him.

Your breath catches, vision blurring and you blink hard, fast, forcing the tears back down. 

Why would he come? Why would he want to?

Your thumb hovers over the hook. You’re seconds from hanging up — sparing yourself the humiliation — when the line clicks softly.

Silence stretches — thin, fragile.

“…Hello?”

Steve’s voice is low, thick with sleep, warm even through static hiss. Rough around the edges in that way you secretly love.

Guilt slams into you, sharp and immediate. You close your eyes.

“Steve?” The word slips out small, barely there — more breath than sound.

There’s a shift on the other end, fabric rustling like he’s sitting up fast.

“You okay?” His voice sharpens instantly, still gravelly but awake now, threaded tight with worry. “It’s late — what’s going on?”

You hadn’t even thought about the time. Hadn’t imagined him curled beneath blankets, breathing softly into a pillow. You picture him half-asleep, soft snores spilling from his lips, whatever dream he was wrapped in dissolving because of you.

The guilt doubles, crushing.

“I—I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I shouldn’t have called. I just—” Your throat closes, humiliatingly tight. “Forget it. I’ll figure something else out.”

“Whoa, whoa—hey,” He cuts in immediately, voice steady and grounding, like a hand bracing your shoulder. “Don’t do that. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

That calm insistence slices right through your panic, leaving you aching with relief and something like grief. Your throat burns with the effort of holding everything in.

“I’m just…” You try to swallow the knot in your throat, but it doesn’t budge. “I’m kinda stranded. Stacey’s… busy. And I don’t have a ride home.”

Silence stretches for a moment. Not cold. Not angry. Just quiet — like he’s listening with his whole chest.

“Where are you?” he asks finally, voice low and even.

“The stupid party on Maple,” you whisper, fingers winding around the phone cord so tightly it squeaks. “I just want to go home, Steve. I’m so tired.”

There’s a sound you can’t quite place — maybe an exhale, maybe the soft scrape of him getting out of bed.

“I’m coming,” he says. No hesitation. No edge. Just certainty. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten.”

Your knees nearly give.

“Steve, you don’t have to—”

“Not arguing,” he says, gentle but stubborn in that way only he can be. “I’m on my way.”

The line goes quiet, the soft click ringing in your ear long after he’s hung up. You stay there for a moment, staring at the dead receiver, feeling your heartbeat catch against your ribs.

He’s coming. 

Even after everything tonight, he’s still coming.

He’s still choosing you.

 -*-

The night air is cool, crisp, almost tender against skin that still feels overheated from the press of bodies and the storm inside your chest. You pull your jacket tighter around you, wrapping your arms around yourself like it might hold the broken pieces of you together. 

The porch light buzzes overhead, a tired, electric sound. Moths drift around it in lazy, unhurried spirals, wings dusting the glow like they’re caught in a spell they don’t know how to escape. From inside the house, the party bleeds through the walls — muffled bass, scattered laughter, the clatter of something being knocked over. 

Sounds of a night you were supposed to be enjoying. A night you tried so hard to pretend you were fine for.

Instead, you’re curled on the top step, knees drawn in, shoulders hunched, making yourself small. Like if you take up less space, the ache inside you might learn to do the same.

You stare out into the dark yard, past the edge of the porch where the light can’t quite reach. The world beyond it feels impossibly still, suspended — like everything is holding its breath.

 And for the first time tonight, you let yourself be still too.

You draw your knees in, heels pressing against the wood, every muscle tight. You thought the cool air would help — that stepping outside would tamp down the chaos clawing at your ribs. But it doesn’t quiet your thoughts. Doesn’t stop the tears burning behind your eyes. Doesn’t do anything to ease that frantic, hollow feeling spiraling inside you.

You feel childish. Out of control. Exhausted.

You dig your nails into your palms, trying to ground yourself as your mind replays the fight with Steve on a relentless loop. Every sharp word. Every irritated sigh. Every moment you talked past each other instead of to each other. It all twists together until you can’t tell which part hurt the most — or which part you’re most ashamed of.

The fight hadn’t even ended when you stormed out. You’d just hit a limit. That point where frustration tipped into hurt, hurt curdled into anger, and anger cracked open into this bruised, aching emptiness in your chest that hasn’t let go since.

You think about Steve — how good he is to you. How patient. How gentle even when you’ve been sharp and tired and picking fights for reasons you barely understand yourself.

You think about the way he answered the phone. How fast he woke up. How quickly worry overtook sleep.

How, the second he realized you needed him, he didn’t hesitate.

A hot tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. Then another. And then everything gives way — your face collapses into your hands as the sob finally tears out of you. It’s jagged and raw, not the tight, careful crying you’ve been choking down all night, but something cracked open and wild.

You don’t know what hurts more — the feeling of being so completely lost, or the shame curdling tight in your chest. Shame because you know you haven’t been fair to him. Shame because you love him and you’ve been acting like you don’t. Shame because you don’t deserve the kind of love Steve is giving you. Not after the way you’ve been lately.

Difficult. Moody. Stretched too thin and lashing out at the person who least deserves it. Pushing him away instead of saying you’re scared. Or stressed. Or insecure. Or hurting.

You sit there on the porch, breath shaking, heart aching — waiting.

And somewhere down the road, a car is already turning toward you.

The soft crunch of gravel pulls you out of yourself — tires rolling slowly into the driveway.

Your head lifts, breathcatching sharp and painful in your throat.

You know it’s Steve’s car.

Your heart lurches — relief colliding with guilt so sharp and messy it makes you dizzy.

He came.

Despite the fight.

Despite the late hour.

Despite everything you said that should’ve made him stay away.

His headlights sweep across the yard, cutting through the dark before settling on you like a spotlight you’re not ready for. For one terrible second, you feel exposed — small and obvious in your hurt, curled on the porch like something broken and forgotten.

You scrub at your face with shaking hands, trying to pull yourself together, trying to look like someone who deserves to be helped.

It doesn’t work.

The car door shuts, firm and final, and when you look up again he’s already moving — jogging toward the porch with long, urgent strides. He sees you then. Really sees you.

You can tell by the way his pace stutters for half a step.

By the way his shoulders tense.

By the way his face softens like something inside him has given way.

He doesn’t look angry.

He looks scared.

He takes the steps two at a time, worry etched deep into his tired features, eyes scanning you like he’s checking for injuries he can’t see. 

“Hey,” he says breathlessly, dropping down in front of you. “Hey… what happened? What’s going on?”

His voice is soft — too soft for someone who had every right to be upset. Warm and threaded with concern in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I’m fine,” you choke out — a terrible lie, obvious in every trembling breath, every blotchy tear-stained patch of skin. You turn your face away, heat flooding you with embarrassment.

This is the part where people usually pull back. Where they sigh, or get annoyed, or remind you of all the ways you’ve made things difficult.

Steve doesn’t do any of that.

He doesn’t comment.

Doesn’t hesitate.

He crouches in front of you where you’re curled on the porch step, bringing himself down to your level. His hair is still mussed from sleep, sweatshirt thrown on in a hurry, hands a little unsteady like he left too fast to think. 

Somehow that just makes everything worse — because he came like this. Because he didn’t even stop to fix himself before running to you.

“Sweetheart…” His voice lowers to that gentle, coaxing register he uses only with you. “Look at me.”

You shake your head quickly and cover your face again as the shame burns hotter. You can’t. Not after the fight. Not after waking him up. Not after insisting you didn’t need him — only to call him in the middle of the night because you’re falling apart on a stranger’s porch.

This is the moment people leave.

This is the moment they decide you’re too much.

But Steve doesn’t move away.

He just rests a warm hand on your back, slow and steady, grounding you. His thumb moves in a small, absent-minded circle, like he’s reminding you that you’re real. That he’s here.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You can talk to me.”

There’s no if.

No as long as.

No when you calm down.

Just you can.

And that simple, quiet kindness — him being gentle when he has every right not to be, him showing up when you’re sure he shouldn’t. — breaks something open inside you completely.

Your breath stutters and your shoulders shake as the sob rises up and spills over. Because he’s here. Because he cares. Because you’re convinced he deserves better — and he still came anyway.

A sudden burst of noise shatters the quiet around you all at once.

The front door bangs open behind you,music and laughter exploding into the night. Voices slur across the yard. A girl stumbles over the doorway, giggling like nothing in the world is wrong.

Steve tenses in front of you. You see it in the tight set of his shoulders, the little clench of his jaw. His hand slides protectively down your arm, thumb rubbing once across your sleeve.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and final in a way that leaves no room for argument. “You don’t need to be out here. You don’t need to be anywhere near this.”

Before you can protest — before you can even draw a real breath — he slips an arm under your knees and the other behind your back.

You gasp as he lifts you effortlessly off the porch, hands flying to his shoulders.

“Steve—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. And that soft certainty — the way he says it like a fact, not a reassurance — undoes you all over again.

You tuck your face against his shoulder, the scent of his sweatshirt — detergent, warmth, something unmistakably him — crashing into you like a memory you didn’t know you needed. Your breath hitches. 

Steve adjusts his hold, tightening it like instinct. He carries you across the yard with slow, deliberate steps, angling his body to shield you from the noise behind you — like he can block out the whole world if he tries hard enough.

By the time he opens the passenger door and lowers you gently into the seat, your breaths are coming in small, broken hiccups. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t tell you to calm down. Just waits, patient as gravity.

He crouches again, hands warm against your knees, eyes lifting to yours — soft, sleepy, worried.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.”

You’re not.

God, you’re not.

And being treated like you are — like he already believes you will be — makes your throat close up all over again. Tears spill hot and fast down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I’m so— I’m sorry, Steve.”

You wait for him to say it. The you can’t keep doing this. The I’m exhausted. The quiet recalculation of whether you’re worth the trouble.

But instead, his brows draw together, confusion flickering across his face like the thought genuinely hadn’t occurred to him. “Sweetheart… why are you apologizing?”

“Because…” Your voice breaks. You shake your head, staring at your hands twisting uselessly in your lap. “Because you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have come.” Your chest tightens. “I don’t— I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Steve goes utterly still, like the words stop him mid-breath.

“What?” he breathes. “Baby… what are you talking about?”

You laugh — a tiny, miserable sound — and wipe at your face with the heel of your hand.

“All we’ve done lately is fight. All I’ve done is start fights. And you still—” Your voice trembles. “You still got out of bed in the middle of the night to come pick me up from some stupid party, and I don’t understand why. I don’t understand why you’re still being kind to me.”

His expression softens — slow and heartbreakingly tender — like he’s seeing the shape of the wound beneath everything else.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, quiet and sincere.

The question knocks the air out of you.

“Because…” You curl inward. “Because no one’s ever done that for me before. And,” you struggle to breathe, “and every fight we have, I think you’re gonna realize I’m not worth it. That you’re wasting your time on me. That you’d be happier with someone who isn’t—”

“Stop.”

The word is gentle, but it lands firm enough to still you.

Steve moves closer, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushes away your tears one by one, patient and soft, like he’s trying to erase the hurt with his touch alone.

“Look at me,” he says, softer.

When you finally do, there is so much love in his face it physically hurts. His eyes shine, soft and warm. There’s no frustration there. No regret. 

He’s looking at you like you’re not a burden, not an obligation — like you’re his. 

“I’m here because I love you,” he says slowly, every word deliberate. “Not because you’re perfect. Not because you don’t cry or get overwhelmed or say the wrong thing when you’re hurting. I love you because you’re you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your breath shutters violently.

“But we keep fighting,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he admits with a soft, rueful smile. “We do. Couples fight. That’s normal. That doesn’t mean I love you any less. It doesn’t mean I want out.”

You try to swallow the ache in your chest, but it only breaks wider.

“It just means we’ve got stuff to figure out,” he continues. “And I want to figure it out with you.”

Another tear slips free. He catches it with his thumb before it can fall.

“There’s no one else I’d rather fight with,” he murmurs. “No one else I’d rather love. No one else I’d wake up past midnight for.”

His voice softens further. “You’re it for me.”

Something inside you finally loosens — the tight, braced part that’s been waiting for the catch.

“I love you,” he says simply. “So much. And I’m not going anywhere.”

That breaks you open in the best way.

You lean forward and kiss him. He meets you halfway, fingers curling into the fabric at the back of your neck, grounding you there. The kiss is soft and desperate and relieved — an apology and a promise wrapped into one. He kisses you back like he’s been waiting for you to come home to him.

When you pull away, your foreheads stay pressed together.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

His smile curves against your mouth. “I know.”

He kisses you once more — slower this time, steadier — like sealing something fragile and important between you.

“Let’s get you home,” he mutters, standing up and closing the passenger door. Once he’s inside, he starts the car — only when he knows you’re settled — and drives you home. 

Not yours. His. 

Because tonight, he needs you close — closer than the hollow space this argument carved between you. And you need somewhere warm that feels like safety. 

As the lights of Hawkins blur past the window, Steve reaches over, laces your fingers through his, and doesn’t let go.

If you want to be a part of my tag list, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you (If you don’t specify, I’ll just assume you want to be on the general list)!

Taglist: @msmimiandrew @marvelgirlie-4

[em1i2a3]

Send The Pain Below

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: After you return from a mission severely injured, Bob can’t help but offer you as much help as possible.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts cause Bob. Hurt/Comfort, Fluff (kind of?), Mentions of Injuries/Blood

Author’s Note: Hey y’all! I had this on my WIP list and wanted to get it out, this wasn’t a request I just randomly wrote this and literally didn’t have a clue on how to end it to be quite honest lol. But I didn’t want it clogging up my drafts, and the idea was good in theory.

Word Count: 4,859

The elevator doors of the compound slid open with a quiet hiss, and you stepped out like your body might give out if you stopped moving for even a second.

Your boots landed heavy on the tile, your limp was masked only by sheer willpower and the remaining adrenaline you had running through your veins. Every step sent a bolt of pain up your legs, through your hips, lancing into your ribs and shoulders like tiny barbed wires that threaded themselves deeper with each shift. You didn’t stop to breathe–because it felt like if you tried to, your ribs were going to break.

Throughout the entire ride up to your living quarters, you hadn’t been still for a moment. You paced the tight space of the elevator like a caged animal–shaking, twitching, trying to outrun the memory of the fight. The metal walls had felt too close, too quiet, too loud with your thoughts.

Now, in the open hallway, your ears were still ringing. All you could smell was blood and dirt–iron and ash clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. You didn’t know if it was your blood or someone else’s. You didn’t want to try and figure that out though.

“Hey, I called medical, they’re waiting for you.” Bucky’s voice echoed from the living room. He knew you were coming. He had been communicating with you through your comms the entire mission, and he had gotten a call from the extraction team who gave him a heads up on the damage you had taken.

”I’m fine.” You muttered back. Your steps were stiff, bordering on robotic. Blood had soaked through the fabric at your waist and dried in large dark patches. You were grateful you wore black tactical gear, because if you didn’t it probably would’ve looked like you worked at a butcher shop. One sleeve was ripped open, revealing a long, nasty cut that ran from your bicep to your elbow, and your back felt like it had been slammed through a concrete wall–and it actually had, or at least maybe in your haze you had convinced yourself that happened.

It was your first solo mission. A simple infiltration, Valentina had said. The mission description screamed that it was going to be quick and easy, you had planned it out so much, and you did everything right.

But it hadn’t been enough.

You rounded the corner into the living room, and all the conversations and commotion died instantly.

“Holy shit, Y/N.” Yelena said under her breath, getting up from the couch. You continued to drag yourself towards the washroom, ignoring the comment.

”Y/N, you’re not fine kid, come on–let’s not try to act tough right now. You need to go see medical.” Walker added, following suit with Yelena. You didn’t slow your steps, nor did you look back, because you knew if you stopped now you’d be glued to the floor, and you wouldn’t be able to keep moving.

You could feel the weight of their stares burning into your back as you made your way towards the washroom with one hand trailing the edge of the wall to stabilize yourself. Your vision was swimming–edges soft, depth distorted–but you knew this floor, this hallway, this layout, and thankfully you could walk it blind if your sight gave out.

“Y/N you’re literally leaving a trail of blood across the floor, this isn’t a walk it off type of situation here.” Ava commented, joining in on the pestering, her voice sharp and worried. Yet you still didn’t answer them, you just kept moving.

”Is she even hearing us?” Walker asked, his voice dropping an octave, then a door in the hallway opened and Alexei poked his head out of his bedroom, disheveled and confused from the commotion that was happening, tying his robe around his beefy upper body. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and right when he saw you there was an immediate look of concern that appeared on his face.

“Dorogaya,” He called gently, his brows pinching “You walk like dead woman.” You clenched your jaw hard enough at his words that it made your teeth ache.

“Let someone help, yes?” He added, his voice softer now, as if his words might land easier that way, “You don’t get glory for dying on your feet.” You felt your fingers curl slightly against the wall, but you didn’t trust your voice enough to respond–not with the heat gathering behind your eyes, not with the pain that was spiking again through your spine.

”She’s not listening to anyone,” Ava muttered behind you, voice tight. You didn’t hear the rest of what they said.

The voices behind you melted into background noise–blurred and echoing like they were underwater. You just kept moving. One foot in front of the other. Focused on the hall ahead, on the door you shared with Bob at the end of it. Your hand skimmed the wall, dragging along the paint like it was the only thing anchoring you upright.

The blood trail you left behind was uneven, smeared where your boot dragged slightly on the right side. You didn’t even feel the cuts anymore–not sharply, anyway. Just a dull throb beneath the surface of everything, like your whole body had been submerged in concrete and it was slowly starting to harden around you.

When you finally reached the door, you shouldered it open, and stumbled into the washroom. The light was too bright. The silence–too still.

You stood there for a second, just swaying feeling a wave of dizziness come over you. Then you slammed the door shut, and locked it, enclosing yourself in the small space you and Bob inhabited together.

Then it was just you.

You, and the sound of your breath–shallow, rattling, uneven, and crackling–shaking in your chest like it was a broken metronome. Now that you were alone you could also hear the light above you buzzing faintly, even though there was still a bit of bickering happening outside the door.

You moved stiffly to the switch for the fan and turned it on, letting the low hum kick in above your head. It vibrated in the walls, just enough to mute the sound of your breathing. Then you shuffled over to the shower, reaching in to turn on the hot water in one swift movement, hissing when your shoulder screamed out in pain. The pipes groaned slightly before water burst from the head, pounding into the tile like a rainstorm. Hot. Loud. And endless. Steam immediately began to fill the space, and that’s exactly what you needed–warmth, something to ease the pain that was about to come in full force.

All you wanted right now was solitude. You wanted to lick your wounds like an animal crawling into the shadows–quiet and wild and unwilling to be witnessed. You needed to hurt where no one could see it. Needed to unravel in private, where the grief could live without apology, and the shame could breathe.

You turned back toward the center of the washroom, your vision still swimming, limbs trembling slightly from the effort it had taken just to reach this far. The steam was already clouding the mirror, mercifully dulling the image of yourself–like even your reflection was sparing you the full truth of what you’d become.

You didn’t want to see it. Not clearly. Not yet.

Your fingers fumbled with the front of your vest, the fabric stiff and heavy with blood. It took two tries to get the buckle unclipped–your fingers were sticky and slippery, or maybe they were just numb–and when the strap finally gave, the release jolted your injured shoulder hard enough that your breath hitched through clenched teeth.

You pressed your lips together, hard, swallowing the sound before it could escape.

The velcro at your chest peeled back with a slow, wet rip, and the vest shifted. The weight of it–soaked through, dense and clinging–pulled down at your frame like it wanted to take you with it to the floor.

You reached up to shrug it off, and a bolt of pain exploded across your ribs. Your body locked up immediately, breath freezing in your lungs. For a moment, your knees threatened to buckle completely.

You caught yourself on the sink, gasping.

Your palm left a smear of blood against the porcelain.

Tears burned behind your eyes–not from sadness. From sheer, helpless agony.

Still, you didn’t cry. Not yet.

You stayed hunched over the sink, chest heaving, shoulders trembling with the effort it took just to stay upright. The pain was beginning to spike higher with each passing second–as if your body, now freed from the armor, had decided it was safe to let you feel everything all at once.

Your eyes flicked to the mirror again, just briefly. Your reflection was almost gone now, consumed by steam. Just a shape. Just a shadow of what was left of you.

You reached out blindly for the medicine cabinet.

The metal clinked as you opened it, and your fingers searched through the shelves with shaky, clumsy movements until they found the bottle. White cap. Red label. Tylenol.

It was something and it was all you had.

You unscrewed the lid with fingers that barely cooperated, spilling two pills into your hand. You didn’t have the strength to care about how many milligrams it was or if you’d already taken some earlier–which for the record, you didn’t. All you knew was that the pain had to come down–just a little–before you could finish what needed to be done.

You popped the pills into your mouth and chewed.

Bitter.

Chalky.

The taste coated your tongue like poison. It hit the back of your throat like ash.

You reached down, turned the faucet on with your uninjured hand, and leaned in to catch a handful of lukewarm water. You brought it to your mouth quickly, sloshed it back, swallowed hard.

The pills scraped down your throat like gravel.

You stayed there for a moment, hunched over the sink, your hands braced on either side. The water kept running. The fan kept humming. The shower roared behind you, thick steam curling around your legs, climbing your spine.

You wanted to rest. Just for a second, but you knew you couldn’t.

Not while you were still covered in blood. Not while your pants were still clinging to your thigh like a bandage made of fabric and failure.

You let the water run. You didn’t have the energy to turn it off.

Your fingers drifted down toward your utility belt next. You unclipped it slowly, fumbling with the strap at your hip until it loosened and slid free. The belt thudded heavily to the floor, landing beside the vest. It sounded final. Like a chapter closing.

Then came your pants.

You didn’t want to look.

You already knew what was underneath–your thigh had been burning since the moment you’d hit the floor in that alley. Your hip had felt wet and wrong the second the rebar tore your side open.

Still, you slid your thumbs into the waistband and began to shimmy them down—inch by inch. Pain flared instantly.

The cut across your thigh had stuck to the inside lining. As the fabric peeled away, it reopened with a slick, wet sound and a wave of heat that flooded your vision with white.

You gasped again, one hand grabbing the counter to stay upright. Your breath broke mid-exhale, and the sound you made was something just shy of a sob.

Blood rolled down the side of your thigh in a thin, fresh ribbon.

You stood there half-undressed and trembling, your legs streaked with red, your body steaming in the mirror’s haze, and your throat thick with everything you were still trying to hold back.

————————

Outside in the hallway, the team hovered like ghosts–uncertain whether to press in or give space, tense with the kind of helpless energy that made people argue just to feel useful.

Walker had his ear against the wall, arms crossed, one brow furrowed as he strained to hear through the sound of the water. “I think I heard her,” he muttered. “She made a sound…Not good.”

“I told you she should’ve gone straight to medical,” Ava said under her breath, pacing a slow, tight line across the hall. “We should just go in there.”

“No,” Yelena cut in, her voice quieter but far more final. “She locked the door. Let her have a minute.”

“You saw her,” Walker snapped. “She doesn’t have a minute, are we gonna break down the door if she passes out?!”

”No, I’ll just phase through and unlock the door you idiot.” Ava shot back, and before Walker could rebuttal, Bob’s door creaked open, causing everyone to turn their heads to look at him.

He stood in the frame like he hadn’t even realized they were all there. He was barefoot, dressed in a baggy dark grey scrub set, similar to the ones they found him in when they met him in the O.X.E Vault–when he had admitted he found them comfortable you had gone out and bought him a few pairs. His light brown hair was tousled, and extremely flat on one side like he had just peeled himself off his mattress. He looked like he had just rubbed out a decade of sleep from his eyes as he stretched.

”…W-What’s going on?” He asked, his voice slow and sleep-warm, like it hadn’t yet left the fog of dreams. He blink slowly, shoulders hunching forward slightly under the baggy scrub top. Walker turned to him first, running a hand down his face, exasperation cooling into something just a little more worried.

”Y/N is in the washroom,” Bob’s brows drew together in confusion, almost as if he was urging him to go on, “She came back from a mission looking like absolute hell–like barely walking and bleeding everywhere. She locked the door and hasn’t said anything to us since.” Yelena crossed her arms.

“She won’t let any of us in either…” Bucky said, as everyone began to exchange glances at one another, “But how about you give it a try?” Bob’s arms hung stiff at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling against the fabric of his scrub top, like his body was trying to move before his mind could catch up.

“…M-Me?” He asked, voice quiet–half-hoarse with sleep, half-tight with something else he hadn’t figured out how to name. His eyes flicked toward the washroom door, then back to the group, unsure. “W-Why me?”

Yelena was the one who answered. Calm. Certain. No hesitation.

“Because you’re her friend. And she trusts you.”

Bob’s shoulders twitched at the word–friend–like it didn’t feel big enough to carry the weight of what you were to him. It didn’t feel small either. Just…Not right. Not complete. Not everything.

“She listens to you…She likes being around you and she trusts you…” Bob looked down, jaw shifting slightly. His hands came up, one running across the back of his neck, the other tugging anxiously at the loose sleeve of his shirt. He could feel the familiar burn start to gather low in his chest–the one that always came with too many emotions pressing up at once, begging for escape.

He wasn’t good with being needed. He wasn’t used to being the person someone called for when everything fell apart.

But you’d never made him feel like a burden.

Not once.

Even when he couldn’t meet your eyes. Even when his hands shook too hard to pour water. Even when he curled up on the floor and told you he wasn’t sure if he was real. You stayed. You held his face in your hands and called him Bob in a voice that made it sound like that name had never belonged to anyone else. You were his calm…And now he needed to try and return the favour.

He swallowed hard.

“Okay,” He whispered,“I’ll try…Just…B-Back away for a second okay, or g-go down the hall.” The team scattered almost immediately, as Bob took one shaky breath and padded forward, every step louder in his ears than it should’ve been. He cleared his throat and knocked gently on the door.

”Hey…Y/N…I-It’s me,” He said, barely louder than the sound of the fan humming on the other side of the barrier between them. He pressed his hand flat to the wood, almost like he would be able to feel you through it, “I–I know you probably don’t want to s-see anyone right now…I get it, I–I do…But…” He faltered for a moment, glancing down the hall seeing the rest of the team watching him.

”B-But can I come in? Please?” There was a pause. A long one, but he didn’t move, he waited until there was a sign to either go, or come in.

And then–the lock turned.

His heart thudded, heavy and thick against his ribs, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

He pushed the door open slowly, the rush of steam hitting him in a wave. It curled around his ankles, ghosted against his chest, and painted the room in a blur of heat and wet air. The mirror was almost completely fogged, and the fan overhead did nothing to stop the fog from swallowing the space whole.

And then he saw you.

You were standing by the sink, half-turned, wearing only your sports bra and underwear. Blood was smeared down your leg in stark red streaks, tracing the lines of torn muscle and raw, reopened skin. Your shoulder was mottled purple and yellow, your arm wrapped around your ribs protectively like the pressure might keep something from falling apart.

Your face turned toward him when he entered. Slowly.

And even though you weren’t crying, not exactly, your eyes were glassy–rimmed with something bitter and deep, something that looked a hell of a lot like defeat.

“J-Jesus,” Bob whispered, the breath barely making it past his throat.

His stomach dropped. His hands clenched uselessly at his sides, eyes scanning every part of you like he didn’t know where to look first.

Your cheek had a shallow cut beneath the eye, already beginning to swell. Your lip was split. There was dirt caked under your nails, your hair was stuck to your neck with sweat and blood, and your expression–when your eyes finally locked on his–was exhausted in a way he’d never seen on you before.

You looked like you had fought through the end of the world and barely made it out breathing.

“Y/N…” He breathed, and for a second he couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk. Couldn’t function. His throat tightened so sharply it almost made him cough. You shook your head slowly–once, twice–like each motion cost you something.

Bob flinched.

Not because you scared him, but because you looked like you were unraveling and still trying to hold it all in place. Because even just shaking your head seemed to hurt. Because you’d finally let someone in, and he didn’t know if he could be the person you needed, but God, he wanted to be.

He shut the door behind him gently, a soft click that sealed the two of you into that steam-filled quiet, then turned the lock. The air was thick, and his scrubs were already starting to cling to his chest, but he didn’t care.

His eyes were still moving over you–your thigh, your ribs, your face–and something in his jaw worked like he was trying not to cry for you.

“I–” He started, then stopped, trying again a second later “I know you don’t wanna hear it, but…M–Maybe we should go to medical, just for a minute. Y-You’re bleeding pretty bad and I–”

”No, Bob.” Your voice was sharp. Not cruel, but tired. Bone-deep tired. Your eyes were hollowed by it. “I don’t want to go. Don’t ask me again.”Bob’s lips parted. He froze like you’d slapped him with the words.

His hands came up instantly–palms out, defensive, the way someone does when they know they’ve stepped over the line. “Okay. Okay. I–I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–I just…”

His voice cracked, soft and breathless, and his lashes fluttered quickly like something was stinging behind his eyes. “I–I just didn’t know what else to say. I just–I wanna help.”

You didn’t answer right away. You turned back toward the mirror, wincing slightly, your weight shifting between your feet like even standing was a negotiation.

Bob took a step forward. Then another.

“C-Can we at least get you cleaned up?” He asked, voice gentler now. “Just… Just so we can see the damage a little better? I–I promise I won’t touch anything unless you say it’s okay…And I–I won’t bring up medical again…”

You blinked at your own reflection. Or rather, at the smeared suggestion of it–nothing but a shadow behind fog and grief and wet heat. Your throat bobbed, your lips parted, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the roar of the water pounding the tile behind you.

Then, slowly–like each movement had to be dug out of you one inch at a time–you nodded.

Just once.

Bob exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the door opened. “Okay,” He murmured, so quietly it barely reached you. “Okay.”

He moved carefully, like you were a wild animal that might spook. His hands stayed visible, slow and shaking just slightly. His voice was raw and steady all at once. You watched him in the mirror as he stepped around you to reach the shower, his eyes flicking back to your face every few seconds like he was checking to make sure he wasn’t doing something wrong.

He pulled his scrub top over his head. His chest was lean and pale, the faint trace of old scars visible across his ribs. He didn’t look at you while he did it–he wasn’t doing this to be seen, only to be with you. To match your vulnerability. To show you he wasn’t going to ask you to do something he wouldn’t do beside you.

Then the pants went next, dropped quickly to the tile with a soft thund. He stepped into the shower in only his boxers, reaching up to adjust the temperature with a small frown, his brow furrowing as steam curled around him. Then, gently–so gently–it was his voice again.

“C’mon. I’ve got you.”

You turned, just barely, and let him take your hand. His fingers laced through yours so softly it nearly broke you. You stepped forward, and he guided you into the stream like you were made of glass and grief and things that couldn’t be named without breaking apart.

The moment your skin hit the water, the heat scalded into every nerve ending that had been screaming silently for hours.

You cried out.

Your knees gave out without warning, your body folding in on itself with a sudden, sharp gasp of pain.

“Woah–woah, hey, hey–I’ve got you–” Bob’s voice cracked mid-sentence as he caught you, his arms sliding around your waist and shoulder just in time to keep you from hitting the floor.

You collapsed against him with the weight of everything. Your cheek pressed to the curve of his collarbone, your ribcage shaking with shallow, broken breaths as the water soaked your skin, turning the blood on your body to long, diluted streaks that ran in ribbons down your legs, and floated around his.

Bob eased you down slowly. The tile kissed your knees, too cold beneath all the heat, but his arms stayed around you–tight, protective, and stable. He let himself sit with you fully, legs folding beneath his weight as he cradled you in his lap, one hand braced gently at your lower back, the other spread over your ribs, careful not to press too hard.

His chest rose and fell against your shoulder, each breath a little too quick, a little too uneven. You could feel his heart hammering, not with fear, but with something else–some horrible, aching emotion that had nowhere to go but into the way he held you.

You tilted your head up slightly–just enough to look at him.

And the look on his face made your breath catch in your throat.

Bob wasn’t crying. But his eyes were wet, the rims pink, his brows drawn in tight with something that looked like devastation barely leashed. His jaw was clenched, not out of anger, but because he looked like if he let it go, it would all fall out–every emotion, every worry, every broken piece of what this had done to him.

”Don’t cry Bob…I’m fine.” Bob leaned in closer at your words, his brows tightening even more–not with disbelief, but with something gentler. Something so heavy with care it made your chest ache worse than your ribs.

His forehead came to rest against yours, water beading and dripping between your skin, breath warm and unsteady against your lips. His voice was just a murmur, barely there beneath the drum of the shower.

“Please d-don’t lie to me…” He whispered, closing his eyes. “I c-can’t…I can’t see you like this and not do something, I–”

His voice broke completely then. And it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic or violent. It was quiet devastation—the kind that crumbled inwards, the kind that shook hands and pressed foreheads and curled arms around broken bodies in the dark.

And then something in the air shifted.

It was subtle at first–so small you didn’t register it until it started to crawl up your spine.

A hum.

Not from the fan.

Not from the pipes.

Not from the water.

From him.

From the center of Bob’s chest, where it pressed faintly to yours. A vibration–gentle, low, like the world taking a breath. It was warm. Not hot like the water. Soft, like standing in sunlight after a long, cold night.

Bob didn’t seem to notice.

His arms stayed around you, trembling slightly but strong, his breath hitching once more as he whispered, “I–I would take it if I could. I’d take all of it, Y/N. I swear I would…” You blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then the numbness hit.

It started in your cheeks, right under where Bob’s forehead rested against yours. A strange, tingling sensation, like static running under your skin—like the prickle of limbs falling asleep, but deeper. Warmer. It began to spread across your jaw, down your neck, over the pulsing ache of your ribs. You stiffened slightly in his arms.

“B-Bob…” Your voice came out thin. Cautious. “Something’s… wrong. I—I think I’m—”

You pulled your head back.

Just an inch. Just enough to look at him.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes–his eyes–weren’t the soft blue they usually were. They weren’t even shimmering yellow like when the Sentry burned through him, lit up and alive and untouchable. No, this was something else entirely.

They were light.

Not glowing with light–made of it.

Warm and impossible, like the moment just before sunrise. Liquid gold, honeyed and bright, but threaded with something deeper–something eternal. Like looking into a star too close. Like watching the sky open.

Bob didn’t even seem to realize it. He was staring at you like you had changed. Like something was wrong with you.

His brows furrowed suddenly, breath catching. “What the hell…”

You froze.

“What?” you asked, voice sharp and shaky all at once. “Bob—what is it? What’s happening?”

His eyes searched your face, wide and stunned and almost afraid to believe what he was seeing.

“Your face…” he whispered, “Y/N… it’s–”

He reached up–slowly–and touched your cheek.

His fingertips brushed the skin just below your eye, where the cut had been. Where the swelling had bloomed purple and raw. There was nothing there now. Not even the tenderness. Just heat from the shower. Just clean, unbroken skin.

“It’s healed.”

You blinked again.

And now that he said it–you felt it.

The pounding in your ribs was gone.

The throb in your thigh, the searing line from your bicep to your elbow, the burn from the rebar in your side—it was all gone.

Your body felt heavy, yes, but no longer from pain. Just from the realization.

You looked down at your arms, your legs, your skin, now mostly clean under the steady pour of water–and new. Whole. No dried blood. No open wounds.

You looked back at him.

“Holy fuck…You healed me…Is the…Is the Sentry back or something?” He shook his head in confusion.

”I–I don’t know…I didn’t e-even know he could do t-that to other people…”

[moon-fics]

Run Hot

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: The heating in the tower has broken in the middle of winter. This leaves everyone trying to find warmth any way possible.

A/n: I can't write angst anymore. I love comfort fics with Bob. He doesn't deserve pain.

This had to be a punishment or some sort of payback from Valentina. There's no way a fully operational and multimillion-dollar tower suddenly lost heating in the middle of winter. It's freezing, and the number of windows that cover half the building isn't helping.

You walk into the main room, where a fireplace is displayed on one of the screens. Almost no one is there due to how cold it is. The only people around are Alexei and Bob, who are sitting on opposite sides of the room.

Alexei is using alcohol to fight the cold. He's sitting on one of the couches with a bottle of vodka next to him. You don't try to disturb him as he watches his phone screen and laughs to himself.

That leaves you with Bob, who is reading a book near one of the windows. He's created some sort of nook in the corner to relax. There's a large bean bag that he hoards along with blankets and a pile of books. Ever since he settled into the tower, he's been reading wellness books.

"Anything interesting?" You ask while crouching next to him. You don't encroach on his space. "I haven't read a wellness book in years." You admit.

He looks up from his book with a subtle smile. He doesn't close it, but he leaves his thumb in the middle of the crease. You don't understand how he can sit this close to the window and not be shivering. He actually looks rather warm.

"It's mostly on how to create positively," He explains with a shrug. You won't ask further because that sounds like someone only he'd be interested in. "Hey, where did everyone go?" He asks while glancing around. You're astounded by how oblivious and unaware he is.

"It's like 5 degrees in here. Everyone is in their rooms under the covers," You say with amusement. "Did you not notice?"

"No, not really. I mean, I'm pretty comfortable with the temperature. It's actually nice." He scratches his neck. You can't stop yourself from glaring at him and feeling a bit jealous. Of course, the guy with god-like powers doesn't get cold either. "I usually run hot, so not having to prevent myself from sweating is pleasant."

"I hate you." You grumble while moving to sit on the floor. Your legs are aching from crouching, and you don't want to end the conversation here. "I hope the heat turns back on and you sweat through all your clothes." You tease.

"You can just sit closer to me," He suggests while patting the bean bag. There's enough room for both of you, so you don't hesitate to climb on. The moment you do, you can feel his warmth. He's practically radiating it.

It's not enough to keep you from shivering, but it's better than nothing. You glance down at his book and read a short passage. He's too far into it for you to understand what is being told, but you continue to read anyway.

"I could read it to you," He places the book on his knee for you to get a better look. You honestly doubt you'd be able to absorb the words he'd be saying. "If not, you could pick a book from my pile and read with me." His offer is sweet. He wants to include you in his activity and space. The only other person he's offered that to is Yelena, and she usually doesn't take up on reading.

"I don't mind just looking out the window," You say. You glance out the window to see the snow falling over the city. From this high up, you can see the rooftops that are blanketed in snow. The people below are leaving trails on the sidewalk.

After a few minutes, you can sense yourself growing tired. Even as you force yourself to follow snowflakes as they fall, you can sense it. You can't stop your head from lulling a few times, nearly hitting Bob's shoulder.

After the fifth time, he shuts his book and places it down on the floor. "You can use me as a pillow. I'm not going to... You know." He gestures to his head, and it makes you smile. Out of everyone on the team, you fear Bob the least. "I've got it under control for the most part." He says in a quieter voice.

"Yeah, but you're busy reading. I don't want to disturb that." You say. You rub your face to stay awake. The feeling of your cold hand against your cheeks gives you a tiny boost of energy.

"Just use me as a pillow!" He says a bit louder. Bob is never one to shy away from physical touch. If it's gentle, he'll happily accept it. So, you let out a groan and do something you'll probably regret later. You swing your legs over his and position yourself against his chest.

There's a moment of silence where you debate standing up and rushing to your room. Before you can suck up your dignity his arms wrap around you. His body is like a furnace that prevents you from running.

You go to look up at him, but he quickly places his head on yours. You force your eyes to roll up as high as they can. You can barely see his face, but there's no mistaking the redness of his cheeks. You also notice his hand reaching for his book again. He opens it but fidgets with the page instead of reading it.

"All good?" You ask. He clears his throat and nods his head as best he can without hitting yours.

"A- all good," He confirms. He can't hide the rasp in his voice or how his words escape him. It's like seeing him in the vault all over again, meek and nervous. "Just, uhm, just trying to read." He lifts his book slightly to show proof.

With his confirmation, you shut your eyes. Except you don't sleep. You're listening to his heartbeat and how fast it is when his hand begins playing with a strand of your hair. It's light, and he avoids pulling on it.

"Bob?" You whisper. He lets out a hum in response as his eyes scan the page. "Do you want a better strand?" You ask in a joking tone. His fingers let go of your hair, and you're disappointed. You enjoyed the feeling of his hand twirling the small strand.

"N-no, sorry. I didn't realize..." He mumbles. "I'll leave it alone."

"You don't have to. I wasn't complaining." You assure him. You take his free hand and lift it back to your hair. You're about to let go when his grip tightens around yours. His rough palms slide against yours, and when you don't pull away, he lowers them.

"Then is, uhm, this ok?" He asks with hope in his voice. Although you're feeding off his warmth, you can now feel your body producing its own. Your face burns, and you're so glad he can't see it right now.

"Perfectly fine." You say while trying to hide any signs of being flustered.

You stay like that for a while, and eventually you do fall asleep. Unbeknownst to you, so does he. This gives Ava and Walker a great opportunity to snap a photo for later. Just to save in their 'We Knew It' album.

[endofthelinegang]

corner pieces

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob reynolds x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  based on the prompt “I swear it was an accident.”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob acts like a real person, Crippling pining, sensory indulgence, suggestive warmth, puzzle trauma

The room smells like bergamot and old books. It’s a warm scent, not overbearing—just enough to blend into the low hum of static between the two of you. The kind of scent that clings to sweaters and pillows. Lived-in. Safe. A comfort that doesn’t pester those who seek it. The single lamp in the corner casts a buttery glow across the floorboards, catching dust motes midair like stars hung in syrup. Outside the window, the city breathes in long neon signs, white and red streaks sliding across the wall through the half-open blinds. It feels like a scene out of a dream you forgot to wake up from.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the carpet in the middle of Bob’s room. The floor beneath you is warm from hours spent shifting in place. The puzzle box sits open between you both, its contents already claiming the entire space like spilled thoughts—disorganized, half-assembled, begging for attention. The picture on the box is a lakeside cabin in autumn. Orange trees. A little dock. Water is like glass. A peace neither of you have ever really known, but like to pretend exists in some corner of the world. 

You’re wearing his shirt.

It hadn’t been planned that way. It was just… there. Folded at the bottom of your drawer from the last time you borrowed it and forgot to return it. Or maybe you’d chosen not to return it. Maybe you like the way it feels—how soft the cotton is from wear, how it still holds the memory of him. It’s too big on you, dipping off one shoulder, swallowing your arms whole. But that’s half the point. It feels like being wrapped in something safe. 

And maybe he notices.

Maybe that’s why he’s been stealing glances at you all night—some subtle, some not. You catch the way his eyes linger, heavy and hesitant, every time your shoulder shifts and more of your skin is revealed. Or the way your squint at the puzzle pieces trying to figure out where any of them might fit because trying to build water was not a good time. 

He’s cross-legged, too—one knee bent up, the other stretched out lazily in front of him. His hoodie shrugged off his shoulders, sleeves pooled around his elbows. The t-shirt beneath is worn and soft-looking, hanging loose over the thick lines of his frame. His hair is slightly mussed, the result of both puzzle frustration and your fingers ghosting through it earlier when he realized this was going to be an entire night and made drinks for both of you. 

And now, he’s frowning at a puzzle piece. Specifically, a crooked little piece in his hand that looks like a misshapen bean. He had kept turning it in a circle between his fingers trying to understand how something shaped so strangely would go anywhere on this perfectly square shaped board.

“I’m telling you,” he says, eyebrows furrowed like he still was not entirely sure but had made up his mind just a little bit more than before,  “this is the corner piece.” 

You look at what he is showing you, the two of you had gone back and forth on issues similar to this all evening long. At one point you had been sitting side by side almost in each other's lap but then it got serious and you decided to tackle the issue as a two against one. The edges curve slightly, unmistakably. There’s even a puff of cloud on one end. You raise an unimpressed brow. “That piece is a cloud.”

He blinks at you, then looks down at it again like it betrayed him, he did not even think to look at the colors or he supposed the lack thereof.  “It has… a kind of corner energy.”

You snort looking back down at the piles of pieces you had sorted out. “You mean it doesn’t fit anywhere and you’ve given up.”

A beat. A stare at you. Then, grudgingly: “I’m a man of conviction.”

You reach out, the sleeve of his shirt falling farther down your arm as you gently pluck the offending piece from his hand. The tips of your fingers brush his in the process—warm, roughened by training, slow to pull back—and the contact sends a flicker up your arm like static electricity, subtle and impossible to ignore.

You study the piece like it’s under a microscope. “This does not have corner energy. This has lost-in-the-middle-of-the-sky energy.”

You drop it back in the box with a quiet plastic tap, and when you look back up, he’s already watching you. Head tilted. Eyes soft but unreadable. The kind of gaze that feels like it knows things. The kind that strips you bare without asking permission. His stare lingers too long on your mouth. He swallows once, slow.

“You always wear my stuff when you come in here?” he asks, voice dipped lower now—hoarse from a day of not talking much, maybe even rougher from whatever this moment is turning into. One of the reasons this had been taking so long was because this is what he had been really doing. Staring you down piece by piece. Your limbs, your face, your hair, your neckline, your accessories, and now your clothes. 

You glance down at yourself like you forgot what you were wearing only to see your favorite shirt in your drawer attached around your body.. “Only when I forget how cold it is in this place.”

You try to make it sound casual. But your voice wavers at the end. And he hears it. His eyes track the way your hand tugs the sleeve over your fingers again, a small, nervous movement. The silence stretches a little too long, and neither of you looks back at the puzzle. You try to pivot—reaching for another piece, something neutral, something to focus on—but your fingers find him again as you go for the same blue and white pile.

This time, neither of you moves right away. The contact is fleeting. Barely a second. But it lands with a weight that feels like gravity leaning closer. He shifts then, almost imperceptibly. His leg stretches out and nudges into yours—just barely—but it stays there. Pressed. Solid. The fabric of his joggers brushing the soft cotton of your pajama shorts. The warmth of his skin bleeding through.

You glance down, try to hide the way your breath catches. He then decides that this is not all that comfy and rather takes back to the position you had been in earlier, but this time he was the one initiating it. He was now sitting right beside you, his entire side touching yours. If you were to turn to your left your face would touch his. 

“You’re crowding me,” you say quietly, not looking at him but you nudge him jokingly with your arm as you continue to pretend to work on the puzzle.

His voice is a rumble against your ear. “I’m spatially efficient.”

You risk a glance. His lips are curved in a faint smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes because his eyes are too busy staring at you like he’s memorizing the way you sit, the way you breathe. You reach again—for something to break the tension—but your foot clips the edge of the puzzle board. And then everything topples.

The half-assembled top section buckles like a failed rooftop, scattering sky across the floor in a quiet chaos. Pieces slide under the bed, some bounce against the dresser, and one singular blue-and-white fragment drops directly into Bob’s untouched mug of cocoa.

You gasp, hands frozen midair. “Shit—”

Bob stares in stunned silence.

Then—he laughs.

It bursts out of him all at once, unfiltered and honest, chest shaking with it. The kind of laugh that makes his eyes crinkle, that shakes the hair from his forehead. The kind you never get to hear. Not really. Not like this. He puts his head on your shoulder as he does so.

You press your hand to your mouth, laughing helplessly along with him. “I murdered the sky.”

He wipes at his eyes, still chuckling. “You drowned it with the marshmallows.”

Your laughter fades into soft giggles as you both begin scooping pieces back toward the board, his hand brushing yours again and again—this time not pulling away. But as you reach too far, your knee slips, throwing off your balance. Your hand skids across the floor and you tip forward. And Bob catches you letting several pieces in his hand fall back to the floor.

One strong hand loops instinctively around your waist, the other steadying your wrist. You land half against his chest, your laugh dying out instantly as you realize the closeness of it all. His breath is warm against your temple. His heart is pounding. You can feel it, real and loud, against your side. And then… nothing. Stillness. His hand doesn’t move, just holds. Gentle. Like you’re something precious.

You wrestle in his grip a bit to face him, to look up at him, and the world slows. His pupils are wide. His jaw tense. His gaze drops to your lips and lingers, breath hitching like he’s waiting for permission. Waiting for a signal.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper, the words slipping out like a secret. You had swore you were going to bed after puzzle time was done but you did not specify whose bed. Usually when the two of you did an activity you would leave and go to your room and stay up all night thinking about how much fun you had. You would get out your phone and type texts into your notes that you would never send him. But tonight you didn’t want that. 

His brow softens—just a little. His thumb drags slowly, deliberately, across the back of your hand.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs.

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s steady. Soft. Certain. It’s not a line. It’s a promise. He brings your hand to his lips, brushing your knuckles with a kiss so light it barely registers—except it does, and it sinks deep, curling behind your ribs like warmth in winter.

Your breath catches. “I don’t think the puzzle will ever forgive me,” you say, too quietly. You do not break eye contact but you are thinking about the piece that is probably disgusting and falling apart in his drink. 

Bob’s smile grows, crooked and slow, like sunlight easing through blinds. “You still owe me a new sky,” he says.

And you stay there in the quiet—one heartbeat away from spending the night.