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Requests are: open! Feel free to send in anything you think of :)
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If you want to be shipped character of your choice from my list, just ask on my page (the evil eye button), giving me a brief description of your appearance, hobbies, hopes/dreams, beliefs, etc. I like to do personalized headcanons with you specifically x whoever, as I know all you sweet people deserve to be recognized individually ❤
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Hihiiii! I love your headcanons they’re so cute :3
If you are still taking requests I’d love to see some sleepy/cuddling headcanons with reader x Steve Raglan/William Afton!
They can absolutely be general if you want, but if more specific ones are easier, they could be for a female reader who is his wife :D
Heyo!! I'm so happy that you like my writing, and thanks so much for sending in this req <3 this has to be one of the cutest reqs I've ever gotten tbh! feel free to send in more and help my writer's block lol
also yes, I can do a female reader for this one :D I'm also a girl so I think that'll make it easier lmao
Steve Raglan/William Afton x Wife!Reader - Sleepy Mornings
(gif from pinterest)
~🐇~
Steve doesn't let go in the mornings. Clingy isn't the word he prefers, but what other word is there to describe the way this man's arms stay locked firmly around your waist, his chest pressed firmly against your back? Possessive, maybe. But mostly clingy.
He will not let you go until the last possible moment. He doesn't care about your job, your friends, your family, or anything really.
The morning light woke you first. It always did - the bedroom window was on your side of the bed, and in your sleep, you tended to roll towards the light. As you regained consciousness, you felt Steve's arms around your waist, his arms like two steel bars locking you against him.
You smile at the contact. It was like even in his sleep, he couldn't keep his hands off you.
Blinking once, twice more, you glance at your alarm clock and see it's time to start getting ready.
"Steve?" Your voice cuts through the morning haze, soft as the sheets around you.
He grumbles from behind you, and you can feel his chest move against your back with the vocalisation. When you try to squirm in his arms, to get even a bit of leverage so you can move, you find you can't go more than an inch. His grip on you tightens, further trapping you against him.
"C'mon, let me go. You know I gotta get to work," you insist, squirming again.
All Steve does is scoff. "You can stay a few more minutes," he retorts, voice sure, commanding, still half-asleep.
"I can't," you insist, "I gotta go."
This time, he doesn't respond. His grip stays tight, anchoring you to him.
"Five more minutes," he says.
He doesn't let you go until 20 minutes later.
Aside from the clinginess and despite the fact that Steve is absurdly strong, he's an amazing cuddler. He loves it when you rest your head on his chest or bicep, or when you have your arms around him.
To him, you feel like a warm, weighted blanket.
In turn, he enjoys sprawling himself over you. His arm is often draped over your waist, his head resting on your chest, his legs tangled with yours.
He especially loves it when you're curled against him, your back against his chest.
From there, Steve likes to trail kisses up your shoulder and up the side of your neck, which often leads to you giggling from the ticklish sensation of his beard against your skin.
Also, in this position, since you guys are orientated the same way, Steve often likes to hold your left hand in his. Slowly, almost out of habit, his calloused thumb will brush over your wedding band.
He'll never admit it, but just feeling the weight of that metal against your skin makes him feel satisfied. He likes knowing that it's there, that others will see it and know you're taken.
Steve sleeps in just his boxers. He's pretty confident in his dad bod, and God knows you love it too.
Although Steve is a pretty serious guy, he's the type to wear fun boxers. Some of his favourites are his pair with rabbits, his pair with polka dots, and his pair with mac and cheese.
Steve loves it when you sleep in any kind of slip dress, especially if it's got lots of bows and frills (and bonus if it's purple). He will buy you more just to see you in them every night.
And let me tell you, Steve's morning voice? Ugh. Perfection. It's deeper than it normally is, all rough and gravelly, like stones on velvet.
And when he says "G'morning, hun," in that voice.. you're done for.
summary: when steve gets hurt in the upside down, the party doesn't know who to call — thankfully, he remembers someone he always had a crush on in high school with larger than life aspirations to become a nurse.
pairing: nursing student!reader x season four steve
content/warnings: mentions of wound care and cuts, scars, bruising, etc, all of steve's injuries are in reference to when he gets attacked by demobats in s4, eddie is alive bc i fucking said so, no nancy slander on my watch, i know absolutely nothing about medical care so i probably got some stuff wrong, slight references to steve's trauma (shitty parents, his king steve era, feeling unloved), major hurt comfort, happy ending!!
word count: 4k
The day Nancy Wheeler calls your apartment to tell you about demogorgons and the Upside Down, you think she's playing a cruel, uncharacteristic prank on you.
You're not sure why she'd do that — you graduated high school a year and a half ago and were currently gearing up to return to Hawkins for Spring Break, because where else would you want to spend it? At first, your initial response is to sputter, and then laugh uncomfortably into the receiver of your plastic phone.
You're not even sure how she got your landline number; you live in a shitty off-campus loft and Nancy would probably only know to reach you via your parents' house, where they — and you, up until graduation — have lived their entire lives.
When you ask her that, she pauses, then avoids the question. This clearly isn't the goody two-shoes Nancy Wheeler you remember from high school.
What you do remember, however, is that she got into some hot water when she started dating Steve "The Hair" Harrington — god, what a douche he was — but last you heard, they'd broken up over some stupid misogynistic shit he pulled and she'd moved onto Jonathan Byers. You thought it was an odd pairing, but it wasn't much of your business.
"Anyway, you're in school for nursing, right?" Nancy steers the conversation effortlessly away from your questioning, and you swallow, bumping your hip against the ugly floral wallpaper that decorates the kitchen walls.
Again, you have no clue how she remembers that. You and Nancy were a year apart in school, and you were friends when you were younger, but you'd drifted apart in middle school.
"You there?" she asks.
You clear your throat. "Yeah, I'm a sophomore. Why does any of this matter, Nancy? You're not answering any of my questions, and honestly, you sound like you're on drugs or like you're having some kind of psychotic break—"
Suddenly, you're cut off by some shuffling on the other end, and you think you hear some yelling — a mix of older teenagers and prepubescent ones, then painful groaning. Your eyebrows furrow in concern.
"Nancy? Nancy, are you alright?"
"This isn't Nancy," a male voice croons on the other end. Your eyes widen. "Hi sweetheart, my name's Eddie. You might remember me, I've been a senior for like, four years. Anyway, good ol' Wheeler isn't on drugs and she isn't having a psychotic break, that I can promise. What she's telling you sounds totally bonkers, I know, because I was you a few weeks ago, but she's telling the truth. I promise."
The image in your brain only gets foggier. Was Eddie Munson on the other line? In what weird, fucked up world is Nancy Wheeler hanging out with Eddie Munson?
"So, all that aside, the reason why we're calling is because we need someone trustworthy with medical skills. Is that you? It kinda has to be, because you already know all the nitty gritty details, and we'll have to kill you if you say no."
You fumble. "Um. I- I don't know. I'm only a sophomore."
"Do you know how to take care of wounds?"
"It, um, depends on how bad they are."
"Let's say they're... moderately bad. From an animal. Hypothetically supernatural. Of the bat kind."
"What?"
"How about stitches?" Eddie continues, "Because, listen, I'm no doc, but I'm pre-tty sure Harrington could use a few."
"Harrington?" you echo, "Wait, this is about Steve Harrington?"
In the background, you hear a child's loud voice: "You said you wouldn't tell her!"
"Eddie," you say slowly, "Are there... kids there?"
"Listen, don't worry about that," he says, and it's far too nonchalant for your worrisome nature to take, "Are you able to help or not?"
You glance at your packed dufflebag on the bed. The one that was ready to spend the week at your parents' house before Nancy Wheeler called 30 minutes ago.
"Yeah," you say, grabbing your keys from the hook next to the front door. "Give me a second to grab a pen and paper, I just need the address."
Up until today, you've never been to the Harrington's house before.
In high school, you were never invited to Steve's infamous parties, but you always heard about them at school on Monday — about someone doing keg stands, about some couple, together or not, having sex, about someone jumping in the pool naked... teenage debauchery you were never part of, yet, for some reason, you yearned to experience.
The house is dark from the outside, and somehow, it feels even colder on the inside. A girl with short hair answers the door — someone you faintly recognize — and she immediately seems more down to earth, but more high-strung than Nancy.
"Hey," she greets in a tone that feels kind and familiar, and a part of you wishes you had that effect on people, "Steve's laying down in the living room. Nancy and Eddie took the kids home."
You nod as you follow her through the expansive house, all marble and tacky and wealth expressed in ways that feel frigid.
"I'm Robin, by the way," she says, "Nance said you were someone we could trust?"
You shrug. "To be honest, I'm not sure why. We were friends growing up but we grew apart... I don't even know how she got my number."
Robin waves her off, "That was all Eddie and Dustin. Don't be surprised if they hack your stuff one day."
You can't tell if she's joking or not.
In the living room, Steve Harrington — who you think you may have spoken to once when you were both juniors, and that's it — is laying shirtless on the couch, his eyes lazily half-closed while The Golden Girls play on TV. You want to snort at that, but you're more concerned about the red, bloody lashings and cuts that cover his side and throat. You swallow at the sight.
"I know Nancy kind of gave you a rundown about the whole monster thing but it's probably a little more gnarly in person," Robin says softly. She kneels down by Steve's head and presses a hand to his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey dingus, we brought someone to help clean you up since we're all no help."
"What did you guys do for him?" you ask, willing your nerves to fade. There's something different about working on someone you knew in high school — the attractive jock all-star everyone had a crush on, that is — instead of some random person you're practicing on.
"Um, Nance made him a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. And we're not sure if he's concussed or anything, but we've been keeping him awake... gave him water and something to eat and some ibuprofen for the pain. That's it, really... we didn't know what else, and we couldn't bring him to the hospital. He looks like he got mauled by a bear."
"Yeah," you agree humorlessly, opening your first aid kit on the floor. You pull your pen light out and bite your lip. "Do you think we can get him to sit up?"
"Sure, if you help me."
You nod, each of you taking one of Steve's arms.
"Hey Steve, we're gonna help you up a little, alright?" you say gently, tactfully pulling him up into a seating position against the couch cushions. You're surprised that he goes easily, his head flopping back as he groans. "Can you hold your head up for me? I remember you had really bitchin' hair in high school. Do you still have it?"
"'f course I do," Steve mutters, his hazel eyes languidly glazing over you. You flick your pen light on to look at his pupils. "Hey, 'member you."
"Hm?" you ask, distracted by the task at hand. He's clearly exhausted and might have been injected by some... supernatural venom, but he's not concussed, which is a win in your book. You decide to move on to cleaning the cuts on his face.
"I said I 'member you," he repeats, hissing when the alcohol cloth makes contact with the bloodied slices on his skin. "We went to school together."
"We did," you murmur, smiling softly. "We were in the same class."
"Uh-huh. Class of '85, baby!" Steve attempts to pump his fist in the air but quickly retracts in, a zip of pain ripping through his shoulder. This time, you do snort with laugher. "You're pretty when you laugh."
"Looks like you haven't changed a bit, Harrington," you say as you finish tending to the wounds on his face. "Let's take care of this thing on your neck, huh? What happened here?"
Steve shrugs nonchalantly. "Demobat tried to strangle me."
"Right," you mutter, assessing the damage. "Looks like you might have some scarring. You'll need to keep an eye on this and make sure it doesn't get infected. Do you trust anyone enough to stay here and do that?"
You look to where you thought Robin was sitting behind you, but it seems as if she's long gone.
"Don' really wanna bother anyone with it," he replies. "I can do it. 'm a big boy."
You furrow your eyebrows. "Steve, you're in seriously rough shape. Someone should be taking care of you."
He pouts. You hate to admit that it's adorable.
"Don' like asking for help."
You sigh. "It doesn't look like you need stitches or anything crazy, but let me stay the night to keep an eye on you, alright? I don't think you should be alone right now."
Steve, wide-eyed and boyish, looks to you like you just hung the moon for him.
He doesn't fight you as you continue to clean and check his wounds.
Steve sleeps for the next day.
You don't bother trying to move him to his bedroom. He's clearly comfortable, snoring away on the couch, and it sounds like he hasn't gotten enough sleep in the past month. So, you let him.
In the meantime, you don't do much. Robin left her phone number behind, so you call her periodically with updates, not that there are many. You don't know where Steve's parents are, but you remember them being quite sparse in high school, so you're unsurprised that the pattern's unbroken almost two years later.
You live out of your duffelbag and call your own parents to let them know that you got caught up with something at school and you'll hopefully be home in a few days. In the meantime, you occupy yourself with reading books that you brought along from your apartment, and when that gets boring, you watch TV and wait for Steve to wake up.
Eventually, that evening, he does.
You brace yourself. You're not sure what for — in the few hours you've spent watching doctors and nurses treat patients, you've seen some people wake up distraught, some angry, others confused and upset, but Steve does... none of those things.
His eyes blink at you blearily, craning his neck and stretching it against the arm of the couch. He lets out a low groan, one that makes your stomach flip, and you swallow, taking slow steps towards him with your first aid kit in hand.
"Hey," you greet delicately, "How are you feeling?"
Steve looks at you as you scan over the angry red marks on his throat. He has on a shirt on, but you'll need to peel back the fabric to assess the wounds on his stomach, too.
"Shitty," he croaks, his eyes widening some at the crack in his voice, "Went through puberty again, too, I guess."
You smile bemusedly before lowering to your knees and sitting back on your ankles. At eye level, Steve looks far less exhausted than he did 24 hours ago.
"You look better," you say, eyeing the cuts on his cheek. "You should eat something and drink some water. Shower, maybe."
"You saying I smell?"
"Well, if you and all your friends really aren't fucking around about all this demoshit, I would assume they can't smell great."
Steve attempts to shrug. "I've smelled worse. Like Dustin Henderson after demolishing multiple roast beef sandwiches."
You wrinkle your nose, popping open your kit to begin the process of cleaning his cuts and replacing the bandaids.
"Is there a reason why you all hang out with freshmen? Or is Nancy's brother just, like, really attached to her?"
Steve winces when the cold alcohol cloth touches his skin. You murmur out a halfhearted apology.
"'s a long story," he mutters. "I kinda... accidentally got myself involved in this and... now I'm here."
"And now you're here," you echo softly. "Barely walking with a random nurse-in-training tending to your supernatural bat wounds."
"Psshhhh," Steve turns his neck to face you, cocking his eyebrows. "'Random'? I told Nance to call you."
You pause, a mess of used, bloodied alcohol swabs on the ground beside you.
"How on earth did you know I was a nursing student?" you ask, reaching for the stack of bandaids. "We barely talked in high school. I don't even think we signed each other's yearbooks at graduation."
"Um, yes, we did," Steve says pointedly. You arch an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Go upstairs to my room. Hawkins Class of '85, the yearbook is on my shelf."
"I'll pass for now," you smirk.
"Anyway," he huffs dramatically. "We were lab partners spring semester junior year. You were always really good at science and I vividly remember asking you why you liked that stuff so much — you're the only reason why I even passed anatomy, and you said you wanted to be a nurse."
"You remember that?"
He shrugs. Like it's insignificant. Like you're surprised anyone can even recall your name instead of just passing over your face like a mushy blob.
"I just thought it was cool," Steve continues. "No one I knew at the time had any idea what they wanted to do, and you were so set already. Even when I was a senior, I had no clue. I was just gonna hang around Hawkins and work for my dad and... I just thought, maybe I could be like you, y'know?"
Your face warms, so you busy yourself with tidying the mess you've made on the ground. It feels silly to be so awestruck by Steve Harrington and yet... how couldn't you be?
"That's really nice, Steve. Thank you." you say softly. His face melts, matching the sweet smile on your face, and he almost looks relieved.
"Thank you for coming here," he mumbles. "I know it's not, like... your typical situation."
"I'm happy to help," you reach out hesitantly and place your hand against his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Let me make you something to eat, alright?"
You don't anticipate staying another night at Steve's, but it just... happens.
You make dinner for the two of you while the local news plays lowly in the living room, the TV flashing against Steve's tired face. Together, you eat grilled cheese sandwiches in silence. You hand him a glass of water between bites and then offer him a Gatorade.
After dinner, you run a shower for him in the ensuite bathroom of his bedroom. You lay towels out for him and slowly help him up the stairs, just like he's any other patient, and not the boy who could make any girl, teenager, or woman in Hawkins fall to their knees just with a flick of his eyes. You tell him to shout if he needs you, but you secretly hope he doesn't. You're not sure if you could spare yourself the embarrassment of helped a naked, wet, injured Steve Harrington.
While he showers, you make his bed and prep your supplies so you can tend to his cuts and wounds when he gets out. It's a repetitive but necessary process to prevent any infections, and Steve's lucky he didn't need stitches or anything worse. You're fumbling with your collection of travel-sized bottles of topical antibiotics when Steve emerges from the steamy bathroom in a pair of gym shorts and an old Hawkins High School shirt.
You look up, your polite greeting suddenly lost in your throat at the sight of his wet hair and tired eyes. There's something devastating and boy-like about his appearance, and your heart twists in your chest. You try to shove it down.
"That was exhausting," Steve mumbles, his posture slightly slumped. He eyes his bed, then where you sit on the carpeted floor. "Oh— did you— are you leaving?"
"I hadn't really thought about it," you admit. "I just thought it might be more comfortable for you to sleep in your own bed instead of the couch. And I have to redo all your bandages and stuff."
Steve nods. "Where do you want me, doc?"
"On the bed is fine."
By this point, you and Steve have familiarized yourself with this process, and with each gentle clean and touch, his wounds get a little bit better. You assume he'll be able to do this for himself at some point in the near future, but there's a part of you — the caretaker, nurse part of you, you assume — that really likes doing it for him.
He lifts his shirt, twisting slightly to showcase the bruising and sores on his side.
"Can you stay another night?"
For a moment, you pause. Glance up at him, but his eyes are focused on the Hawkins basketball team pendent tacked up on the wall. You continue adhering the band-aid to his skin.
"I can do that," you say softly. "You're healing up well, though. I can teach Robin or Nancy, or whoever you want, to do this, if you'd like."
Steve doesn't immediately reply. Not when you gently pull down the material of his worn sleep shirt and help him back into a sitting position, and not when he runs a hand through his damp hair.
"Will you grab the yearbook off the shelf?"
Your eyes follow to where he's pointing and you nod, standing from your spot on the bed. You retrieve it and hand it to him, watching as he flips to the back pages. It doesn't take him long to find the masses of autographs — not to mention, a couple of lipstick marks and more than a few phone numbers.
"Looks like you had quite a few admirers." you joke.
"Yeah, and none of them cared once high school wasn't real anymore," he snorts humorlessly. It's a second more before he points to your messy handwriting, shoving the yearbook into your lap. Sure enough, your signature is there, followed by a short message. "Read it and weep, doc."
You roll your eyes. "So? Everyone signs each other's yearbooks at the end of the year. It's a whole nostalgia thing."
"Read it."
"To Steve," you read aloud, "It's been great going to school with you all these years. Excited to see where you land. Wishing you the best of luck."
You look up at him expectedly. He shoots you a look.
"Keep going."
Below your handwriting is someone's unfamiliar penmanship. It takes you a few seconds to decipher it, but when you do, your stomach flips.
Coolest girl in Hawkins. Super smart. Wants to be a nurse. If she ever comes back to this loser town, it's a sign I have to ask her out.
"Who wrote that?"
Steve puffs out a breathy laugh. "Who do you think?"
"You thought that about me?"
"Of course." he says it like it's the easiest answer in the world. "I still do."
You can't help it when a loud laugh bubbles up out of you. Steve grins, wide and toothy, and you think it's the cutest thing you've ever seen in the world.
"I think you're delusional, Harrington. Maybe you are concussed."
"You said I wasn't, and you've been a damn good nurse so far."
You laugh again, shaking your head at the boy before you. You feel unbelievably giddy, like you just found out your middle school crush likes you back.
And maybe, really, that's exactly what it is — even if you're hesitant to admit it to yourself.
With a swallow, Steve gently shuts the hard covered yearbook before pushing it to the side, as if closing it will put some kind of finality to the ridiculousness of everything that was Hawkins High.
You remember Steve having a rough go of it his senior year. You don't know the details, but you heard rumors. No college acceptances, Nancy Wheeler drunkenly breaking up with him at a Halloween party that fall. It had been a long freefall for King Steve — one that had twisted up your insides at the time, even if the extent of your interactions were longing glances in the hallways.
"Stay," Steve suddenly says, and this time, his ask is breathier, quieter than it was 20 minutes ago.
You look at him. Allow your eyes to wash over the golden boy sitting in front of you, who's no longer such a golden boy at all, but bruised and beaten down and cut up by supernatural forces that you still don't quite understand. He's been swallowed up and spit out by Hawkins and young adulthood and Scoops Ahoy and Nancy Wheeler and Tommy Hagan and Mr. and Mrs. Harrington and even his latest venture at Family Video, where he works with Robin but regularly gets yelled at by teens trying to rent R-rated movies.
(He swears it's not that bad, but his eyes all but twitched at the mention of his boss, who apparently has a dictator-like approach to running the store.)
"I already told you I'll stay." you reply softly, hand pressing into the soft mattress. Your fingers make an indentation in the foam, and Steve's mouth parts. Carefully, he reaches out, his larger palm covering yours. Your breath hitches in your throat and you feel like the biggest loser alive, your gaze remaining low on your now-joined fingers.
"No... I mean, stay here. In my bed. If you're comfortable." Steve amends. He almost sounds nervous, and it finally makes you look up. When you do, his eyes are wide, and you realize you're right.
You nod. "Do you want the TV on?"
He thinks for a moment. The past few nights, you've been sleeping to the sounds of the local news and late night re-runs of sitcoms. You don't ask why and Steve's grateful for it.
"No, 's fine," he decides, trying to shift into a more comfortable position against the pillows.
"Don't strain yourself," you scold. "I'll help you move if you need it."
Steve snorts lowly as you round the bed, clicking the lamp off. His bedroom, now bathed in the inky blue of 1 1 pm, feels less intimidating this way.
You climb in on the other side, pulling his comforter over your body.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks as you move onto your side.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"Shush."
You smile. Steve doesn't miss it.
He wishes he could face you, but he can't with the wounds on his side. Instead, he lays on his back, his arm splayed out between you two, his hand palm face up. It's quiet for the first few minutes as you both listen to each other's breathing.
Steve's not sure if you're sleeping when he says it.
"Can I ask you something?"
You open your eyes. "Hm?"
"Sorry. Did I wake you up?"
"No," you answer honestly. "I was drifting a little, but I'm awake. What'd you wanna ask?"
He pauses. Promises himself he won't lose his nerve.
"When I'm a little better... Maybe before you head back to school, or maybe in the summer when you come back, like after the semester's over... can I take you on that date?"
Steve stretches his neck to look at you. Even with his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he can't quite make out your facial expression, with the way you're biting your lip and smiling at him. He can't figure out if you're looking at him with pity or if you're excited, but either way, he can't recall the last time he was this nervous to ask someone out.
And then, he feels your hand slide into his, and it's like all of his worries never even existed at all.
"I would really, really love that, Steve." you murmur, intertwining your fingers with his.
You both grin at each other in the dark like fools.
Summary: Your parents are getting a divorce and when your mother decides to move in with her best friend Mrs. Harrington… things start to change between you and her son Steve.
Warnings: reader being shy. having a crush. forced proximity. kissing. Steve being so soft for you. no use of y/n.
_______________
The first time you step into the Harrington house, it doesn’t feel real.
Your mom is already laughing—actually laughing—with Mrs. Harrington like the last few days never happened. Like heartbreak can be packed into boxes and left behind with the rest of your old life.
You linger by the doorway, fingers curled into the strap of your bag.
Then—
“Hey.”
You look up. And there he is. Steve Harrington.
He looks exactly like he does at school—effortless, confident, like the world just… works for him. But there’s something softer in his expression now. Less performative. More real.
“I—uh—hi,” you manage. Smooth.
He nods once, like he’s trying not to make it a big deal. “Didn’t know you were… coming to stay,” he says.
“Yeah. It’s, um… kind of sudden. You know with the ...”
“The Divorce. Yeah my mom told me,” he answers, quieter now.
There’s a pause. Not awkward—just… new.
“Well,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck, “if you need anything, just—y’know. I’m around.”
You nod quickly. “Okay.”
And just like that, he gives you a small smile and steps back. But as he turns away ... You swear you see him glance back.
The first few days pass like you’re watching someone else’s life. Mrs. Harrington insists you make yourself at home. Your mom starts to look lighter. Less… breakable.
And Steve?
Steve is everywhere.
Not in a loud way. Not overwhelming. Just… there.
Leaning against the kitchen counter when you sneak in for water at night. Tossing you a casual “hey” when you cross paths in the hallway. Letting you sit on the couch when his friends are over and absorbing the effortlessness of their connection, never drawing attention to you—but never ignoring you either.
It’s confusing. Because at school, he’s Steve Harrington. And you’re not one of the popular girls. Your more like a shadow, trying to avoid any sort of light or attention.
But here? Here, the lines blur.
One night, you can’t sleep. The house is quiet, your thoughts too loud. So you slip outside. The water glows faintly under the pool lights, soft and inviting.
“You always sneak out this late?”
You jump.
Steve’s sitting on one of the lounge chairs, hair damp, a towel slung over his shoulders.
“I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You hesitate. “Me neither.”
He gives you a boyish grin. Which was only a bit distracting. “You can come closer, you know,” he says. “I don’t bite.”
You roll your eyes—but you walk over anyway.
After that, it becomes a thing.
Late nights by the pool. Quiet conversations that start small—favorite movies, stupid school gossip—and somehow drift into deeper waters without either of you noticing.
Steve listens. Like, really listens. And you talk more than you usually do. More than you thought you could.
Then come the movie nights.
It’s always “just a group thing” at first—his friends sprawled across the living room, popcorn everywhere, someone arguing about which tape to pick.
But somehow you always end up next to him. Not touching. Not obvious. Just close enough that your arm brushes his when one of you moves. Close enough that your heart forgets how to act normal.
And then the parties.
“Come on,” Steve says one evening, leaning against your doorframe. “You can’t spend the whole summer hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You are absolutely hiding," he says with his arms crossed in front of his chest.
You hesitate. “I don’t know anyone.”
“You know me.”
Your heart stumbles. “That’s… different.”
He softens, just a little. “I’ll stay with you,” he says. “Promise.”
And he does. The party is loud, bright, overwhelming. But Steve never strays far.
A hand at your back guiding you through the crowd. A quiet “you okay?” when it gets too much. A grin when you finally laugh at something instead of just watching.
“You’re doing great,” he says.
You shake your head, smiling. “I’m standing in a corner.”
“Yeah, but you’re doing it confidently.”
You laugh—really laugh—and Steve looks at you like that was the goal all along.
Somewhere along the way—It changes. The glances last longer. The space between you feels smaller.
You start noticing things. The way he looks for you when he walks into a room. The way his voice softens when he says your name. The way he always, always keeps his promises.
And Steve? Steve notices everything about you.
So one night when he’s halfway down the hall, on his way to grab a glass of water—definitely not because he was thinking about stopping by your door to say goodnight—he sees it.
A sliver of night air slipping through your room. Curtains shifting. And something in his chest tightens.
Steve frowns, stepping closer. The room is dim, empty. But the window was still open.
And then he remembers. He used to climb out there all the time as a kid. When things got too loud inside. When silence felt worse than shouting.
When he needed somewhere to exist without being in the way.
And before he can overthink it ... He climbs.
The night air is cooler on the roof. Quieter. The world feels farther away up here. Steve pulls himself up carefully, steadying his footing—
And then he sees you. Sitting near the edge. Knees pulled in. Shoulders shaking. And suddenly, everything in him stills.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Because he knows this moment. Knows how fragile it is. Knows what it feels like to be found when you’re trying not to be.
“…Hey.”
Your head snaps up. You wipe your face too quickly, like that might erase it. “Oh—hi. I didn’t—I thought everyone was asleep.”
Steve shrugs lightly, stepping a little closer but not too close. “Yeah, I was just… uh. Water mission.”
You nod, eyes dropping again. “Right.”
There’s a pause. The kind that stretches.
Steve shifts his weight. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asks gently.
“I’m fine.” It comes out automatic. Too fast.
Steve almost smiles. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I used to say that too.”
You glance at him. Just for a second. But it’s enough. “I just…” your voice cracks, and you press your lips together like you can hold it in.
You can’t. “I don’t get how he could do that,” you whisper. “To her. To us.”
Steve’s chest tightens but he doesn’t interrupt you.
“I keep thinking maybe if I’d noticed something—if I’d said something—” your breath stutters. “Maybe it wouldn’t have happened like this.”
“Hey,” Steve says softly.
You shake your head, tears spilling again. “Everything was fine. And now it’s just… gone.”
Steve exhales slowly, stepping closer now—careful, like approaching something fragile but important. “I get it,” he says.
You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “No, you don’t—”
“I do.”
That stops you. You look up at him properly this time. And there’s nothing joking in his face now. Nothing easy. Just honesty.
“My dad?” he says quietly. “He doesn't even bother pretending anymore. He's never around at the same time as my mom. Barely around at all.”
You blink, surprised.
“I used to think it was my fault,” he admits. “Like if I was… better, or different, or less of a screw-up, maybe he'd actually want to stay.”
Your chest aches. “Steve…”
“But it’s not on you,” he continues, voice steady but softer now. “What your dad did? That’s on him. Not you. Not your mom.”
You swallow hard. “It just… hurts,” you whisper.
“I know, sweetheart.” And he does. You can hear it. That’s what breaks you.
The tears come harder this time. Not quiet. Not controlled. Just real. And for a second, you try to turn away—to hide it, like always.
But then Steve sits down next to you. Close enough. Careful. “You don’t have to do that,” he says gently.
“Do what?”
“Pretend it’s not a big deal. And to hide."
Your shoulders shake. “I don’t want to be a problem.”
Steve frowns immediately. “You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, firmer now. “You’re not a problem. You’re just… hurting.”
The words hit something deep. Something you’ve been holding tight for too long.
“I don’t know how to make it stop,” you admit, voice breaking.
Steve’s expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache even more.
“You don’t have to make it stop,” he says quietly. “You just… don’t have to go through it alone.
He hesitates for half a second. Then opens his arms. Not pushing.Just… offering.
And something in you—Something tired and scared and aching gives in.
You lean into him. Slow at first. Then all at once. Your face presses into his chest, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only steady thing left.
And Steve freezes for a heartbeat. His arms come around you carefully. Then tighter. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on properly.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “I’ve got you.”
Your tears soak into his shirt. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t move. Just stays.
And his heart is pounding. So loud he’s sure you can hear it. Because you’re here. This close. Trusting him with something real, something messy. Something that matters.
Steve swallows, resting his cheek lightly against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly. “Okay?”
You nod against him. Just a little. But it’s enough.
Something changed between you that night. You couldn't describe it, but you felt it with absolute certainty in your heart. And so did he.
“You ever think about… before?” you ask softly, sitting at the edge of the pool, feet in the water.
“Before what?”
“Before all this. Like—if things had been different… would we have talked?”
Steve huffs a quiet laugh, sitting beside you. “I wanted to.”
You blink. “What?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little sheepish now. “You think I didn’t notice you? You were—” he stops, searching for the word. “Different.”
Your heart races. “Different how?”
“Better,” he says simply.
You don’t know what to do with that.
“I just figured you wouldn’t want anything to do with me,” he adds.
You stare at him. “I’ve had a crush on you since, like… forever.”
There’s a beat.
Then Steve laughs—soft, disbelieving. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
He shakes his head, smiling like he just found out something unbelievable. “Wow,” he murmurs. “We’re both kind of idiots, huh?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
The laughter fades. But the closeness stays. His hand shifts—just slightly—until his fingers brush yours. You don’t pull away.
"I've been thinking about this ... you ... I've been thinking about you a lot. From the moment you moved in, I wanted to be close to you every chance I possibly get."
You smile at him, soft and a little nervous. "It's been the same for me, Steve. As a matter of fact ..." You swallowed, trying to keep you racing heart inside your chest. Be brave. Just once. "I never stopped having a crush on you."
Your cheeks flare up and Steve smiled. Adorable, he thought.
“God, you're too good to be true” he starts, then stops. And then—
He kisses you.
Soft at first. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.
You don’t.
Your hand comes up to his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt as you lean in just a little more. And suddenly it’s not careful anymore—it’s warm, and real, and everything.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling like you don’t know what to do with it.
“You’re—” Steve starts, then laughs. “Wow.”
You giggle—actually giggle—and cover your face. “Oh my god.”
“No, don’t hide,” he says quickly, gently pulling your hands away. “I like this.”
“Like what?”
He caresses your jaw with soft fingertips and dips your chin up just as gently. "Being with you."
You grin despite yourself. He leans in again—just a quick kiss this time, like he can’t help it.
“Okay, yeah,” he says. “Definitely worth the wait.”
You nudge him, laughing. “Shut up.”
“Never.”
Later, when you’re both lying back on the cool concrete, staring up at the stars his hand finds yours. Easy and natural.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you came here.”
You turn your head to look at him. “Me too.”
And for the first time since everything changed. It doesn’t feel like something was taken from you. It feels like something found you instead.
_______________
Thank you so so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated 💙
sorry if this request is coming in so sudden - at the time when i first requested abt him, i was js curious if u wrote or knew abt the character and didn't have have any scenario or request in mind for him at the time lolll
BUT NOW I DOOOOO!
could u do one where the reader js have random bursts of affection? the reader still gives their fair share of affection but on certain days it's more amplified. maybe the reader first eases their affection thru small pranks: like asking the norman the famous question on if he wants a kiss but meant the chocolate (but still ending up kissing norman after gets flustered lol.) To eventually js openly acting out their affection (can u tell i crave fluff </3)
lowk not sure if this all fits or can connect to each other butttt honestly ill be glad for any norman bates content :D
take ur time and thank you a thousand times for answering my requests <333
THIS IS SO FREAKING CUTE-
and I can definitely see norman getting so flustered over the attention
cutie <333
IM SO SORRY THAT I DIDN'T GET TO THIS SOONER 💔and I'm sorry that it's not very long :(
tw: none! just fluff <3
Norman Bates x Randomly Affectionate reader
Norman sat in the lobby of the Bates Motel, early Tuesday morning, impatiently playing with a set of keys while he waits for you to emerge from your room. The metal key clinks in a slow rhythm against the wooden counter as he spins it around, and Norman couldn't help but feel like the time is ticking even slower.
With a sigh, he glances up at the clock, mounted on the wall next to a taxidermied duck. 7:58 A.M., the clock read. You were always up by eight. Norman knew that for a fact. He knew everything about you - some things you didn't even know about yourself. Norman always told himself that it wasn't creepy that he watched you; he was just being a good boyfriend, right?
Norman was a frequent user of the hole in the wall ever since you practically moved into the room next door. Always, he told himself he was just checking on your well-being.
Like clockwork, the door to the office opened at 8:15, and you entered. To Norman, you looked as radiant as ever; hair wet from your shower, your outfit casual but cute. His face lit up instantly, and to Norman, time started to turn again.
"Good morning!" He greets, and stands up from behind the counter. Wringing his hands together, he asks, "Can I get you something, love? Coffee, tea, a sandwich?"
You shook your head and a gave a polite, "No, thank you," before walking around the counter to join him.
"You're not hungry?" He asks.
You shake your head no. "What about you? Are you hungry?" You ask in return.
Norman smiles and gives a little nod.
"D'you want a kiss?" You ask bluntly, smiling back.
Norman's face shifts to one of pure surprise. His cheeks flush that shade of red you always loved, his eyes widening almost comically.
"A- A kiss?" He stumbles out, flustered as ever. But then his smile comes back, and he nods. "Y-Yeah, I mean, if you're offering, I'd love one."
A small chuckle leaves you at his eagerness. Gosh, he was always so cute when he got embarrassed.
You step closer, and the blush on Norman's cheeks deepens. He tenses like he's mentally preparing for it, gulping excitedly - until he sees you reach into your pocket. His eyebrows furrow in confusion.
From your back pocket, you draw a Hershey's kiss, the silver foil wrapper glinting in the overhead light of the motel office. You hand the small chocolate to Norman, and he simply blinks.
You chuckle at him. His confused expression was downright adorable - eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, nose slightly scrunched. He mumbled a small 'thanks' before moving to open the chocolate, clearly disappointed.
"Aw, Norman, I'm joking," you insist, plucking the chocolate from his hand and placing it aside on the counter. "C'mere."
Tilting your head back and cupping his cheeks, you meet his lips in a real kiss this time, your mouth moving softly against his. You could feel him relax into it instantly, and he chuckles against your lips, now clearly relieved.
When you pull back, he chases your lips for a brief moment, and you smile. "Better?"
He nodded, the flush on his face back again. "Definitely."
You place another peck on his lips before pulling back. "Sorry. I didn't mean to tease."
Norman simply shook his head. "If that's the outcome of it, then I'm perfectly fine."
~❤~
That was only the start of it. Ever since you teased him with the Hershey's kiss, your affection slowly became more frequent - a little peck on the cheek here and there, then random hugs between his duties around the motel, then cuddling whenever you could.
On the days that your affection was amplified, Norman always felt like he had died and gone to heaven. Always on those days, you two would be cuddling by lunch, your fingers intertwined as you sat in the lobby's back room, his head on your shoulder. He was absolutely whipped for the way you would run your fingers through your hair while he leaned against you; absolutely whipped for the sweet way you spoke to him.
"Hey, Norm?" You would start, voice soft and slow. He loved that nickname, and you knew it.
"Yes, darling?" He'd return, tilting his head to meet your eyes, his own dark ones shining with contentment.
"How much longer until you have to get back to work?" You ask. Your fingers continued to slowly work through his soft, dark hair, and you felt him shiver against you.
He takes a second to reply, caught between the wonderful feeling of your nails on his scalp and actually thinking. "..Maybe I don't have to go back to work at all," he concludes, and you smile.
"Great," you muse, turning to kiss his forehead. "Then let's stay this way all day."
In turn, Norman felt more comfortable showing you affection, and although it took him some time to gain the confidence, he would soon follow right along with you. His touches were shy, gentle, and he always asked permission; he was the vision of a gentle guy.
"Darling?" He'd start, always approaching with his hands wringing together in front of him - his sign of nervousness, though also eagerness.
By this point, you knew that tone; that nervous undertone that meant he wanted to touch you but needed approval. It wasn't that you didn't like his touch and didn't welcome it, but Norman was so afraid of losing you even to a simple mistake like making the assumption that he always asked. He didn't want to scare you off, even if he did way creepier things behind your back.
However, all of Norman's doubts disappear when you give him that smile. That knowing, trusting smile that seems to say 'what are you waiting for?'
So Norman embraces you. He holds you close but not too tight, just enough to let you know that he wasn't going anywhere, that you weren't going anywhere. He relaxes into your body, tension falling from his shoulders like rain off a steel roof, leaving him happy and relaxed.
You sigh into his shoulder, arms looping around his waist to give him a gentle squeeze. Resting your cheek on his shoulder, you breathe in his scent - something warm and floral that you've come to associate with being home.
"You don't need to ask for hugs, Norm," you insist.
"I feel like I have to ask for something as good as this," he replies into your hair.
With the amount of affection you give him, he could never get enough of your touch, of how soft and sweet you were with him. He hadn't felt this loved in a long time, and he felt incredibly lucky to be yours.
Hey, can I request Bubba Sawyer (or Leatherface) x reader who HATE her own family. I thought it would be cool, while Bubba's family is everything to him and he is faithful to them, and reader has big problems with his family, constant quarrels and reader generally hates them 🙏) hope you will notice 💋 and sorry for my bad English
Hey!! Thanks so much for the request. I like this idea a lot, because I also have some issues with my family as well. Hope you enjoy :3
(Also, I'M SO SORRY THIS HAD TAKEN ME SO LOOONG!! My motivation to write disappeared for a while, but I'm back!)
(Also, again, no worries about your English. Languages are hard, haha <3)
TW: some implied creepy uncle stuff, toxic family members, slight body image issues for reader
Bubba Sawyer x Reader who Hates Their Family
.~🪒~.
There weren't many things in the world that could put you in a bad mood instantly. There was one sure-fire way to tick you off, though, and that was your family.
You sat on your shared bed with Bubba in his family's make-shift house, the room dark, just the way you both liked it. The room smelled musky and old, and although you tried multiple times to use candles to mask the smell, that musk never went away.
That scented candle reminded you of how you tried to deal with your family. You had thought that by barely being around your family and by moving away from them, they'd leave you be. It never worked.
A text had just come through from your mom, an invitation to a birthday party for your uncle. The invitation message for your uncle's party illuminated your face as you stared down at your phone screen, though that light didn't manage to reach your spirit. The words instead filled you with a sense of dread and trepidation, your lips forming a firm frown as you read the invitation over again, debating whether or not this was a good idea.
You didn't want to go. You knew how this would end. You were tired of always being in the middle of your family's constant bickering. It would just be another night of your family screaming and shouting, of guilt trips and toxicity.
But in the end, you decided to go. 'Maybe, just maybe, this time will be different,' you hoped. And, after all, he was still your uncle, right?
So with Bubba's permission, you went.
The night started off fine, and though you knew that was probably a bad sign, you stayed optimistic that it would stay that way.
A variety of snacks were laid out on a table, with a range from cheese and crackers to fruits and cream cheese dipping. A rodeo played on your uncle's television, depicting almost violent scenes of over-dressed cowboys trying and failing to mount bulls. Your relatives were scattered about the living room and sitting room, where they were talking rather calmly with each other.
Not wanting to socialize, you walk into the kitchen, where five members of your family were hustling and bustling around, cooking dinner for the party. You decide that this is a decent crowd to be around.
Wanting to be helpful, you approach your aunt on your dad's side with a smile.
"Hey, auntie. Can I do anything for you?" You ask.
Your aunt gave you a smile in return, though it was obviously a little strained. "Sure," she agrees, briefly pausing her work at the stove to motion towards the container of vegetables further down the counter.
"Can you chop those up for the stew?" She asked, to which you nod.
From a nearby drawer, you pull out a knife, the sight of it reminding you of Bubba. Just the thought of him was enough to heighten your hope to make this a good night.
You found a chopping board and got to work, starting with a carrot from the container. You let yourself get lost in the almost therupetic motion of cutting the carrot, of hearing the knife collide with the cutting board.
As you stood next to your aunt, quietly chopping away at the veggies, she looked over at you and pursed her lips, her eyes tracing you up and down. She paused, tilting her head, before letting out a little sigh.
"Honey, you've gained weight," she said out of the blue, breaking the silence. Her tone was almost sickly sweet - you knew that as her not-so-subtle way of covering up her disdain. "Are you doing okay?"
Your heart sank. 'Here we go,' you think to yourself.
Your motions slow, and you stop in the middle of cutting a slice. Pulling your hand away to rest on the counter, the knife stays lodged in the carrot.
"Yeah, I'm fine," you reply, chuckling awkwardly, trying to play it off.
Your mom chimed in from the other side of the kitchen, where she was mixing a ceaser salad, tossing a mix of lettuce, bacon bits, crutons and ceaser dressing together in a colourful plastic bowl.
"I'm honestly not too surprised." She clicked her tongue, acting as if she knew everything about you, like she didn't only see you around three times a year. "You have a terrible diet."
Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter. 'If only she knew,' you thought.
Comments like those, from your own mom, had greatly affected your self-confidence over the years. She would throw them casually about without a worry in the world, without even thinking about how it would affect you.
She was the reason you doubted yourself so often.
"You have to lay off the junk food, sweetie. You're going to need weight loss surgery soon if you keep this up," she joked with a laugh, acting as if her comment was absolutely harmless.
You clenched your jaw, refraining from saying anything rude in return. The knife stuck in that carrot was looking awful tempting right now.
To your mom's comment, your distant semi-drunk uncle spoke up from the other side of the kitchen. He was picking away at the meat that he was supposed to be carving, his dirty, crooked fingernails digging into the meat to take out litltle chunks, bit by bit.
He gave you a creepy smirk, bringing his hand up to his mouth to lick off some grease from the meat. He took his time, using his tongue to get at a piece of pepper under his nail, his eyes locked on yours the entire time. You couldn't help but shudder in disgust at the sight.
"You look good to me," he cooed, his dark eyes tracing you up and down.
Offended and now sick to your stomach, you quickly finish up with the vegetables and make your way out of the kitchen.
The upstairs bathroom was your safe place until dinner started. It was only a brief moment of sweet solitude, though. Even with the pep-talk you gave yourself in the mirror, you knew that things were only going to go downhill from here.
Dinner was loud, to put it simply. You seemed to be the only one at the table who wasn't fighting to speak over everyone else. Everyone was on the verge of yelling, but no one made an effort to quiet down. It was overwhelming.
Your heart was pounding, the mere amount of noise that your family was creating enough to make you feel almost lightheaded. Your brain focused in on every sound all at once - the uncomfortable squeak of a knife rubbing against a plate, the sound of someone smacking their food in their mouth, the steady rhythm of your mom's nails tapping on the wooden table.
Your mom's earlier comment had you looking blankly down at your food, which didn't seem so appetizing any more. You used your fork to push your food around your plate, giving the illusion that you had taken a few bites. How you wished you could create an illusion to make your family disappear as well.
Eventually, dinner did come to a close, though you were convinced that half an hour had to be the one of the worst half an hour spans of your life. It might have even been worse than the brief period of time when you thought that Bubba's family was going to eat you - before Bubba saved you and locked you up in his room for safekeeping.
You shot down any offers for dessert - you knew it wouldn't help your stomach right now. Besides, without dessert, you could leave faster.
Bubba didn't understand your irritation at first.
When you came to him after the visit, a frown drawn on your lips, your eyebrows furrowed together, he was immediately concerned.
His surprisingly gentle arms slowly snaked around you as you met him in the kitchen, pulling you against his pudgy chest. His clothes reeked of blood - but you didn't mind. You had grown used to it at this point.
"That was a terrible idea," you say.
He grumbled out a confused sound from behind his fleshy mask. His dark eyes from behind his mask prompted you to speak, his head tilting as if to ask, 'what's wrong?'. He chewed his lip, his crooked teeth shining dully in the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the kitchen window.
A sigh fell from your lips, your own arms coming up to wrap around him, holding him close for comfort, as if he were your big teddy bear. You rested your head against his chest, rubbing your cheek against the stained fabric of his apron. A lump rose up in your throat, tears threatening to rise to your eyes, but you blinked them away.
"I hate my family," you said bluntly into his chest, your voice thick with emotion, with pent-up anger and frustration.
Bubba goes silent. He looks down into your eyes, his own narrowing with confusion.
Bubba's family was his whole life, besides you, though he considered you part of the family now. He had no one else - his family were the ones who raised him, cared for him, formed him into the person he was today. Without them, he'd be nowhere. Despite his flawed morals, he was loyal.
He started to mumble in confusion, as if asking you 'Why? How could you hate the people who gave you life?'. Bubba didn't like the thought of there being no you in the world.
But when he sees the tears springing into your eyes, he slows down, his mumbling halting so he can hear you out on the matter.
Gulping down the thick feeling in your throat, you spoke softly, your arms tightening around him for support.
"I just wish they would stop fighting all the time," you express, your voice quiet, resting your cheek on his chest. A tear that slipped from your eye rolled down your cheek and met his shirt, leaving a small circle of wetness there.
"I can't have one normal conversation with them without feeling like the whole world is going to end," you continue, your voice now higher with tears. "They're so loud, so obnoxious - so dramatic. All the tiny, insignificant things are such a big deal to them. There's no love in my family.." You pause. "Only shame and regret."
Bubba's expression softened, one of his big hands coming up to rub your back in a slow up and down motion. He was still getting used to giving comfort, but he had found he liked being gentle with you. He was so used to being rough, so used to using physical force to get what he wants. It was never that way with you.
You sniffled, swallowing the lump in your throat. You stood there for a second, just savouring the comforting feeling of Bubba's warm body against yours. The anger and disdain slowly faded as you thought about how lucky you were to be with Bubba, to have his family. Sure, they were odd, but the world was fucked up anyways. What's that when you have the man you love?
"I'm so glad I found you, Bubba," you murmur suddenly, lifting your head to look up at him. Your eyes meet his through the holes of his mask, where a woman's blue eyeshadow and mascara remained. "I'm so glad I'm part of your family now."
Bubba's chest puffs up a little - like he's proud to be your home. Behind his mask, his chapped lips lift into something akin to a smile. His eyes shine with warmth as he nods, his curly hair bouncing slightly with the movement.
Through your tears, you give a gentle huff of a laugh.
He leans down and rests his forehead against yours.
