stressed bisexual ✨

area woman not a morning, afternoon or night person 30, clueless, sometimes makes stuff with a shit ton of typos this is sideblog! likes and follows come from @fadingponycookiedream

[consistentlyamess]

Family Dinner ⎮Masterlist 🍜🛌

🍜 Sundays are for family dinner 🛌 Hoping you're gonna take me home 📞 You left me on the line last night

🌌 Breathe easier

[mcybank]

Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington ( 3 )

part one part two part three ᵎᵎ

pairing — steve harrington x fem!reader

summary — four years ago, steve harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. you’d chose to leave hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where steve harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.

content warnings — 20.4k words. minors dni!!!! sexual content/semi-explicit ( grinding, heavy making out ), established relationship, hurt/comfort heavy, emotional hurt, veryyy unresolved past, exes to lovers, second chance, past heartbreak, insecurity and self doubt, miscommunication, trust issues, anxiety, crying, being emotionally vulnerable, domesticity, tense parental dynamics (towards steve)

author’s note — thank you so so much for waiting so long for this update!!! i’m so excited to share this part even though i’m a little unsure about it. thank god i wanna write a part 4 though as if this isn’t already a 50k word monster; these two genuinely won’t let me go and i’ve decided to stop fighting it

It was strange to hold Steve so tight after years, it almost hurt. Your left arm had gone numb sometime in the night, pinned between your body and his, and when you tried to flex your fingers, they responded with that pins-and-needles static that made you wince. You let them rest there; you didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over the two of you in sleep. 

You hadn’t slept like this in four years—pinned and with someone else’s breathing setting the tempo for your own—and your body had clearly decided to make up the deficit all in one night. Steve was a furnace at your back, he always had been. You’d forgotten that the way you’d forgotten a dozen other facts about loving him; he ran hot, he slept like he was braced for the bed to be taken from him, he made a low sound in his throat when you so much as shifted, as though he was some sleeping animal accounting you were still there.

A pipe somewhere ticked as something warmed or cooled. The fridge cycled on, shuddered as it held a note. A car went by below and laid a slow bar of light across the wall, left to right, and then it took away again.

Steve’s hand was open on your sternum, fingers loose as the whole broad weight of them just placed there, rising and falling with you. At some point in the night, it had migrated up from your waist and settled over your breastbone, and you understood that it had gone to your heart. He’d done that as a teenager, too, in his parents’ rec room with a movie neither of you watched; you’d teased him for it because, at that age, you teased the boy for the tender thing instead of letting him just have it. You wished, slightly uncomfortably, that you’d just let him have it. 

Steve breathed in differently, nearer to awake. His face was in your hair and you felt the breath go in long and catch slightly at the top like his body was still finding the parts of itself the crying had moved around. The weight of yesterday came back then, the simple physical fact of everything that had been said redistributing itself across your chest. 

You couldn’t move your fingers.

It would have been the smallest thing to flex them and get the blood back, to end the bright fizzing ache of them. But that would have meant moving your arm, and moving your arm meant the chance—small, ridiculous, you knew it was ridiculous—that the whole arrangement would come apart, that he’d surface and the light would be wrong and it would turn out you’d assembled all of this out of want the way you used to assemble a future out of apartment listings. So you kept still and let your hand keep hurting, and you readily chose the ache; you tried to not think about how your first thing in the first morning was already to hold something uncomfortable very carefully and not say a single word about it. 

Steve’s hand moved, fingers drawing in a fraction against your sternum and going loose again. You felt his breath change behind it, going longer, then held, then a rough exhale that you knew meant he’d decided to awake.

For a moment after the exhale, you felt the stillness arrive in him, as though he was taking inventory of his surroundings. You knew what he was taking into account, you could feel him counting; the math that came with waking up alone for years, and it had not yet been told the equation had changed. 

His arm closed, far from gentle, and it contracted as he drew you back into him hard all at once. His hand splayed wide and certain over your ribs as his face pressed down into the nape of your neck like the limit of two bodies was a technicality he could negotiate. His breathing had come apart, going fast and shallow against your skin, and you lay there and let him hold you too tight and breathe wrong against your hair. 

His nose dragged up the back of your neck like he was after the actual scent of you. Then his mouth found the top knob of your spine and stayed there, open, not quite a kiss, more a man pressing his lips to a thing to make certain it was warm.

“Don’t,” he said into your skin. His voice was wrecked, gravel-low. “Not yet. Don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good.” His hands slid off your ribs and down, flat, splaying over your stomach to haul your hips flush into his, and you felt exactly how not asleep the rest of him was. You felt it through the thin nothing of what you’d slept in, and he let you feel it—pressed against you slow, unhurried, and almost lazy, as though the point of it was the closeness and the rest was just truth that came attached. “Stay right here. Just—God.” His mouth moved to the side of your throat. “Stay right here so I can—” 

You felt yourself let out a small chuckle. “So you can what?”

“So I can be normal about this.” He was smiling against your neck; you could feel the crooked shape of it. “Working on it. Gimme a second. I’m gonna be so normal about you.”

But his hand had started moving again, going up slowly, the broad heat of his palm dragging from your stomach to your ribs and stopping just under the curve of your breast, his thumb resting there. His hips shifted again, a slow press, and the sound that came out of him when you rocked back into it—just slightly, only to see—was low and ruined and so, completely involuntary. 

“That’s not—you can’t do that.” He laughed, breathless, mouth still at your throat. “That’s not fair. I just woke up, I haven’t even—” He bit down, almost gently, on the spot below your ear, and you felt your own breath catch and him catching it. “There she is.”

“You’re insane.” 

“I’m in love,” he corrected, like it explained the hands and the hips and the mouth. The maddening thing was that out of his mouth, this hoarse and this early, it sort of did. “You want me to be cool about it?” His thumb finally moved, one slow stroke, and your spine arched into it before you could decide. “Not happening. You’re gonna have to let me be a little crazy about you for like—a month. Minimum.”

Despite the gnawing ache somewhere at the bottom of your chest, you felt your chest seize his words. A part too of you, too large to be considered normal either, tucked away his words to the girl who longed to hear them. 

“We have to get out of bed at some point,” you said, the words coming out too quiet for your liking. 

Steve stilled for a moment, lips pursing against your neck. Then, he let out a low hum, as though he was contemplating. He stayed silent for a while, resting his mouth against the side of your throat, and you could feel him thinking, not thinking, and being there, taking the weight of it all the second time. 

“In a minute,” he said. “We’ve earned a minute.”

His arm remained exactly where it was, the dead weight of it across you not loosening even by a degree, and you understood he meant it less as a plan than as a refusal. The world could have the rest of the day, it could not yet have this. 

“Thank you,” he said, quieter.

It came out so quietly you hardly heard it, the words pressed flat against your skin, and they sat there being strange. They felt far too small for whatever freight he’d loaded onto them; these words were a thing held for doors, a borrowed pencil, cookies. They weren’t meant for this, and he seemed to know it, for he let the words be insufficient and let you feel him knowing it. 

“For—” He stopped. You waited for the rest and the rest never arrived; you felt the sentence simply run out of the road somewhere against the back of your neck, and he didn’t go chasing after it. Steve had never been able to say enormous things head-on. He said them sideways, in pieces, or three years later. “I keep thinking I got away with something,” he said instead, which was sideways, the closest he could get. “Like someone’s going to come here and tell me you’re not for me.”

“Steve.”

“I know.” His mouth found the top of your shoulder and pressed there, apologetic. “I know it’s dumb.” His thumb started up again over your ribs, that unconscious arc, back-and-forth across the same inch of you.

You turned over. Your numb arm came along like luggage, flopping uselessly between you, and your knee cracked into his, and your elbow caught him somewhere soft enough that he let out a low oof. Then, he huffed a laugh against your forehead, and his hand found your hip to guide the last of the turn. 

You were facing him, and he found your face like the whole clumsy tangle of limbs had only ever been in service of getting your eyes back in front of his. 

He looked like himself in a way that hurt a little. The morning had stripped him down to it; his hair had gone soft and undone, falling forward his forehead in pieces, longer than he’d worn it as a boy, dark where it curled his temple from sleep. His face had filled out the lanky sharpness of seventeen; there was a sharper line to his jaw now, a day of stubble coming in uneven along it. His eyes were swollen at the rim still, lashes stuck into wet points, and there was that total unguarded, slightly stupid attention present in them. A pillow crease raw pink and deep down one cheek. 

“Hi,” he said. 

“I missed you, Steve,” you said, the words tumbling out of your lips before you could give it a micro-second of thought. 

It hit him somewhere you could see. His brows drew in first, a small pull at the center. Then his throat worked, one slow swallow, the shift of it under his jaw a few inches from yours. His eyes had gone bright too fast, the swollen rims of them catching, and he blinked once, hard, like he could send it back down by force and was annoyed he couldn’t. The hand on your hip flexed—closed, opened, closed—gripping on nothing, at the warmth of you through the cotton.

“You—” He didn’t finish the sentence, choosing to kiss you instead. It was four years with the brakes off, his hand coming up hard into your hair, his mouth on yours like the kiss was an answer he couldn’t get out another way. He made a low sound that caught in his throat, and his other arm dragged you in by the small of your back until there was no inch of you he wasn't touching.

“Say it again,” he said against your mouth. “C’mon. Say it again.”

“I missed—”

He kissed the rest out of you, greedy and a little desperate about it, his teeth catching your bottom lip. You felt him smile when your breath went. 

“Been so long,” he muttered, complaining, dragging his lips along your jaw, down, to the spot under your ear. “Missed you so much it was stupid. It was actually—” Another kiss, lower. “—embarrasing. Ask anyone.”

You laughed and it came out shaky. He lifted his head at the sound of it, wanting to see it.

His eyes were wet, and he didn’t bother hiding it, too undone to bother. They moved over your face, and his thumb came up and pressed to the corner of your mouth, holding the edge of your smile. 

“There,” he said, quiet now, the heat in his voice going soft underneath it. “That. Do that again and keep doing it forever.”

You got off at four because Mrs. Mayer’s root canal had been cancelled and Dr. Feldman had looked at the empty two-thirty and three-fifteen slot and told you, with too much generosity, to just go. So now there was a whole unspent hour in your hands, and the light was going long and yellow and a little nostalgic, laying itself flat across the outfield grass like it had been poured there. You came up the path on the third-base side and the chain-link was warm under your fingers where you trailed them along it, sun-warmed, humming faintly when you pressed. You stopped before you got to the dugout, wanting to not be noticed for just a little longer.

On the mound Steve had a kid by the shoulders, squaring him up to do something, and he was crouched to do it. He was down to the boy’s height, the backwards cap and the whistle and the dirt already worked into one knee of his pants. He was saying something that made the kid nod hard twice. The rest of them were scattered infield in the loose orbit; someone’s glove was on the grass. 

That was something that still got you. Younger, Steve had never once in his life folded himself down to someone’s level—his entire being had been built on people looking up—and here he was, one knee on the dirt, down to a child’s height, patient in a way the boy you’d once known wouldn’t have recognized in himself. It was a thing he learned somewhere you weren’t, and you hated, a little, that you hadn’t been there to see him learn it.

It was Carter who found you first. He was out near second, doing something with his glove that had stopped being baseball a while ago—turning it over and inspecting the webbing—and he looked up for no reason and saw you at the fence. His whole face opened, and he didn’t wave so much as throw his arm up, the whole thing, fingers spread, the gesture too big for the small distance.

“Auntie!” he hollered, in case the wave had failed to cover it, and a couple other kids to look at the spectacle of an aunt, found you unremarkable, then looked back. 

You lifted a hand, smiled, mouthed a greeting. 

Steve turned then, doing an automatic head-count that had likely been woven into his primal instincts as someone who had to take good care of children. His gaze swept and caught on you and stopped. You watched it happen from sixty feet away; his face, mid-instruction, running a scan, it hitting you, and the whole thing went still for a beat, reticulating. His hand was still on the kid’s shoulder, he’d forgotten it was there. The kid looked up at him, waiting for whatever sentence had been happening, and Steve seemed to have forgotten there had been one. 

He came back to himself pretty quick, said something quick to the boy, gave the shoulder a pat that was half-apology, and straightened up. His whole face changed, it did it every time and you were beginning to suspect you’d never get used to it. You couldn’t possibly get used to it, not when it brightened, helpless, top-to-bottom, the neutral falling off it. It had only been five days, but he looked at you like it had been considerably longer and also like no time had passed, as though you were both the most expected and least believable thing to have existed in Hawkins. 

“Alright—” His voice carried, pitched for the field, as he clapped once. “Two laps and grab your stuff. Two, Daniels, I can count. Carter—” because Carter had already abandoned all pretense of practice and was making for the fence, glove flapping. “—two laps means you, too, bud. Your aunt’s not going anywhere.”

“She might!” 

“Trust me, she’s not,” Steve said easily to Carter, but his eyes had come back to you when he said it. 

Carter, robbed of his argument, groaned the groan of the deeply wronged and peeled off toward the outfield to serve his two laps, glove still on. You watched him go. You watched, too, the small mutiny of the rest of them.

Steve crossed the infield to you, trying to look like he wasn’t hurrying and failing at the trying. He was still half-turned toward the field as he came, lobbing instructions over his shoulder, his voice running on its own track while the rest of him aimed itself at the fence.

He reached the other side of the chain-link and stopped. For a second, you just had the two of you and the diamond pattern of the wire between, and he looked at you through it, and grinned.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

“You’re early.” He said, sounding like an accusation he was over the moon to be making. “It’s not—you don’t get him for another half hour.”

“Mrs. Mayers cancelled her root canal.”

“God bless, Mrs. Mayers, then.” He hooked his fingers through the links, up near yours, the backs of them warm against the backs of yours. There was something almost shy in it, the fence still between you, a boy at a school dance unsure of the rules. “She’s getting a Christmas card.”

You let out a small chuckle. “You don’t even know her.”

“Don’t need to.” His fingers shifted against yours through the wire. “Did me a favor.” His mouth pulled. “She gave me a whole extra hour with you, I’m just grateful.”

Then, he added, “Come here.”

“I am here.”

“No, you’re—” He gave the fence a small affronted shake, the whole panel of it rattling. “You’re there. I can’t work like this.” 

“You’re supposed to be working anyway. There are children.”

“The children are fine. They’re running laps, it’s the one part of practice that runs itself.” He’d already let go of the wire, though, already started moving down the length of the fence toward the gap where the gate was. He didn’t wait to see if you were following, just trusting it, and you found you were following. The both of you walked your opposite sides of the chain-link toward the one place it would let you be on the same side. “Come around. C’mon. Humor me.”

He reached the gate first and held it, one hand flat on the swing of it, grinning almost ridiculously. 

“You’re holding it like a car door,” you said, faintly amused. 

He shrugged. “Get in the car, baby.”

You shook your head, chuckling. “You’re gross.”

You still went through the gate, and the second the fence wasn’t a thing between you two anymore, his arms came around you. He hooked you to his side as his arm settled across your shoulders and turned the two of you to face the field. You understood, in the first few seconds of it, that he was going to keep the arm there and you were going to watch the back half of the children’s practice pinned to the coach’s side.

“There.” The whole long line of him eased against you. “Better. Now it’s a good practice.”

You slightly nudged his side, shaking your head. “I don’t know why these kids even like you.” 

“They worship me,” he said with a serene confidence like he had never once been worried about it, “because I’m an incredible coach and a positive role model.” Then his eyes cut to you, checking, the certainty thinning at the edges the second the audience narrowed to just you. “You’re not gonna confirm that for me, huh.”

“No.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, expecting nothing better. “That’s fair.”

“Carter thinks you’re the one who decides who goes to the major leagues. You’re just a liar.” 

Steve traced its slow arc against your arm where his hand hung off your shoulder. Then, he tipped his chin to rest it on top of yours. “They like me ‘cause I tell them they’re good and mean it. Kid that age, all they need is for someone to tell them they’re good and mean it.”

You let that one sit. There was something underneath it that made you ache to think about, something about a boy who’d grown up in a big cold house with a piano player at Christmas and parents who were always elsewhere, something about Steve knowing the going rate of a grown-up meaning it.

Out on the field, the laps had come apart entirely. Daniels was lying flat in the outfield grass, arms flung wide. Two guys had given up on baseball for a conversation that required their whole bodies to conduct. And Carter had run two laps and was jogging the long way back toward the diamond. You watched the exact moment his course bent and the moment his eyes found the sideline. 

Steve felt it too. A small huff went through his chest. “Here he comes.”

Carter slowed and stopped ten feet out, glove dangling from one hand. He looked at the two of you with an open, laboring face, eyes going to Steve’s arm and your shoulder under it. Then Steve’s face and back to the arm.

“Why are you doing that?” Carter asked.

You felt Steve hold down a chuckle beside you. “Doing what, bud?”

“That.” The whole hand came up to point. “Your arm.”

“Free country,” Steve said. “I can put my arm wherever I want.”

“It’s on my aunt.”

“Oh, I know exactly whose aunt it’s on,” Steve said, voice teasing. 

Carter made a sound of betrayed outrage in his throat. “I’m telling mom.”

“Please do tell her,” Steve said without missing a beat. 

Carter narrowed his eyes at the two of you, holding the suspicion a moment longer. Then, the matter apparently not yielding any more information, he moved on to the part that concerned him. “So, is he—” His gaze swung up to you. “Is Coach Steve gonna be around you?”

You knew Carter meant nothing by it, it was more a logistics question asked by a kid who thought in terms of stuff, of the time you spent with him, of dinners, and the shape of a regular week. He was already half-distracted, picking at the dirt crusted in his glove while he waited on the answer.

You felt yourself hesitate. It was nothing—half a beat, a beat, the space where you should have said yes easily and didn’t. Because the question had reached somewhere Carter hadn’t aimed for it to reach; Carter didn’t know about the ring or the car or the year you’d come home wrong. He’d lived inside the after of his whole conscious life, and now he was standing in the gold light hoping, you could see him hoping, and you understood all at once that this was a part of it all, too. That at twenty-two, being with Steve existed beyond the bubble that the two of you lived in. In many ways, it was the way you had expected you’d live when you were a teenager.

The beat passed, and you opened your mouth to give Carter the easy answer, but you knew Steve had already felt it.

Of course he had, he felt everything about you. The arm around your shoulder stayed there, but some warmth went thin in him, the brightness dimming by a notch you couldn’t possibly miss. He went quiet, a little careful, and you knew exactly what your half-second sounded like in his head. 

“Yeah,” you said to Carter, and you made it land right, made your voice do the warm easy thing. “I don’t think we’re getting rid of him.” 

Carter accepted this with a warm shrug, likely not realizing the gravity of having Steve around in the manner the two of you were heading toward. He was already gone, jogging off, glove flapping, the whole exchange behind him.

You stood there in the quiet he left, hating, a little, how quickly you'd reached for the patch. 

Steve was still beside you, quiet, and once Carter was far enough off, he turned his head. His voice came out quiet and just for you, hesitant in a way he never allowed himself to be. “Hey.” His thumb moved on your arm. “I’m in. You know that, right? Like—” He stopped, then starting again, fumbling toward it. “I know me saying it—it doesn’t prove it. I just need you to know it. That’s all. However slow, I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt the corners of your lips twitch as your body relaxed just slightly. He just set the warmth down in front of you, all of it, asking for nothing back. You felt your chest do a helpless grateful thing as you nodded jerkily.

“I know,” you said and turned to face him, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “How about we start with a date?”

“A date,” Steve repeated, and you watched the grin start at the corner of his mouth and lose the fight fast, spreading until it had the whole of his face.

“Yeah. A date,” you confirmed. “Where you—”

“Where I pick you up.” He was already nodding, already somewhere ahead of you with it. “Yeah. Yeah, okay—” and then his hand came up to your jaw and tipped your face up to kiss you, quick and certain, grinning. It was quick enough that none of the kids caught the peck.

“I think I’d like a Steve Harrington date once again,” you said.

“You’re gonna get the best one I’ve got,” Steve said. His thumb moved once along your jaw before his hand dropped. “I’ll figure it out. Something good.” 

“I don’t think anything can top the time you drove me to the water tower for my birthday.”

Steve’s grin shifted, and something even more fond entered his expression. “You loved the water tower.”

You had; he’d picked you up at seven with a cooler in the back seat and no information at all, deflecting every question the whole drive. He’d taken one hand off the wheel at the last stretch of the road to cover your eyes so you wouldn’t catch the turn. He'd climbed up first and reached back for you, and there'd been a string of those cheap battery lights he'd looped along the rail, and the cooler had a bottle of something stolen from his parents' garage and a cake from the grocery store. Sixteen, and the whole of Hawkins laid out small and lit-up underneath you, and Steve watching your face the entire time instead of the view, because your face had been the thing he'd built it for. 

He watched your face carefully, and whatever it was doing made him pull you in closer. “This is gonna be even better.” When you raised your brows, he immediately said, “And don’t bother fishing. I know you. I won’t tell—”

“Coach Steve!” The voice came from third base. Marcus, a gangly boy with his glove planted on his hip, wearing a posture of pure withering judgement you didn’t even think was possible for an eleven-year-old. The rest of the kids had drifted into the loose disorder of an unsupervised practice, and Marcus had clearly appointed himself shop steward of the situation.

“You’re supposed to be coaching us,” he announced to the field, to the parking lot, to Indianapolis. “You’ve been standing there the whole time.”

Steve’s head turned. “I’m coaching right now.”

Marcus turned to you, raising his brow in question. Despite yourself, you felt yourself shrinking underneath the kid’s judgement, causing you to pull Steve off of you by the elbow, a mortified shove. “Go coach. Steve. The children are angry.”

“They’re always angry.” But he was already losing the argument and he knew it, for Marcus’s stare had the weight of a much older and much more disappointed man. Steve sighed longly for being dragged bodily back to his job. “Fine. Okay, Marcus. You happy? One day you’re gonna like someone and remember this.”

“I will not,” Marcus said immediately with an iron certainty that clearly meant he had never given the idea much thought.

“You will. It happens to everybody,” Steve said, pushing off the fence, conceding the field. His hand caught yours on the way, the last bit of contact, holding on a beat past when the rest of him had left. “Infield. Let’s go.”

He started for the diamond, and he didn’t let go of your hand, so you got towed a full step and a half before you planted. 

“Oooookay.” You dug your feet into the ground, causing Steve to turn. “I’m not co-coaching with you.”

Steve looked back at you, then down at the hand he was still holding, then at you again, as though this had genuinely not occurred to him as a problem. “Fine. Just stay here then.”

You realized that this was the first and last time you’d come to watch baseball practice.

The apartment was three-quarters yours already, and that was why most of the gaps in it showed so much. You’d had a week of evenings alone in it before today, trying to convince yourself that you did, in fact, live there despite the lack of furniture. So the rug was down, the good one, the one with the rust-colored border that you'd hauled up three flights by yourself in two trips and a half. The paper lantern you'd hung over the main room glowed even now, mid-afternoon, because the bulb was warm and you'd wanted it warm. There were plants on the kitchen sill in a row, leaning their whole green selves toward the brick-shadowed light, and a record crate by the wall, and a lamp with one of your mother's old scarves draped over the shade, throwing the light amber where it pooled on the floorboards.

The couch wasn’t here yet; it was down in Eddie’s van, and so the main room had a sofa-shaped emptiness in the middle of it the rug was pretending it wasn't there. Your books were in towers along the baseboard, waiting for a shelf that was also in the van. The bed was a frame in four leaning pieces against the bedroom wall. It was a room with a soul and no skeleton, and you’d found that you didn’t mind the order it came in. After four years of the reverse—of furnished rooms that stayed somebody else's no matter how long you slept in them—you were willing to wait on a couch.

You heard a long graceless scrape and thud working its way up the stairwell, punctuated by Eddie’s voice, then Steve’s, lower, the two of them negotiating.

“Pivot—pivot, Harrington. That’s a wall. You’re putting it through a wall—”

“It’s not going through a wall—”

“Yes, it—”

You held the door, smiling as Eddie met your eyes. The couch came through at an angle that defied a few things about geometry, Steve walking backward with the brunt of it and Eddie steering the rear. And then it was in, and then it was down, finally filling the gap. It looked, immediately and completely, like it had always meant to live here.

Eddie straightened up and put both hands at the small of his back like a man twice his age. “That,” he said, “is the worst one. From here it’s all small stuff.” He turned a slow circle, taking the place in. You watched him register it, watched the appraisal land somewhere genuine. “Huh. It’s good in here. You did all this in a week?”

“Yup. Most of it.”

Steve hadn’t said anything yet. He’d done a slow read of the apartment the same way Eddie had done, except Eddie’s circle had ended on liking it, and Steve’s didn’t seem to have landed anywhere at all. His eyes went over the lantern, the rug, the four leaning pieces of the bed frame against the far wall. The single mug by the sink. His hands had gone into his pockets somewhere in the looking.

“It does look really nice,” Steve said finally, and you could hear he meant it. Only, it just came out a half-degree under the pitch the afternoon had been running at. 

Then he crossed the room to you, and the thin thing in him from a second ago he seemed to leave behind somewhere on the way. His hands found your waist, turning you a little so your back fit against his front, and his chin came down on the top of your head. 

“You decorated so much better than me. I’m sort of jealous,” Steve said.

“Mm. Because you didn’t decorate,” you said. You reached up and pressed your palm flat over the back of his hand where it sat at your waist, and felt him go quiet and pleased above you, and across the room Eddie made a noise of discovery.

“Okay,” Eddie said. “What is this?”

You looked over. Eddie had surfaced from the box marked MISC, holding something up between two fingers, the way you'd hold up something found under a fridge, and it took you a second to place it from across the room.

The first shoes, soft pink leather gone gray and stiff with age, the elastic all but perished, scuffed nearly through at the toe. They were child-sized, which meant absurdly small that didn’t seem like they could ever have been on a real foot. Madame Petrova’s from when you were seven; you’d carried them through the dorm, through places that were even less than temporary, through Devon’s house, through every set of rooms that hadn't been yours, and you had never once been able to explain to anyone, including yourself, why a box always had to have them in it.

“Those are mine,” you said, which answered nothing.

“Obviously. I figured they weren’t Harrington’s.” Eddie turned them over, examined the worn-through toe, the size of them. “These are—Harrington, did you know your girlfriend keeps haunted baby shoes—”

He said it without weight, ‘girlfriend’ just the nearest word his sentence had reached for, already turning the shoes over to find the angle that would explain them. He wasn't waiting on anyone. He didn't notice he'd done anything at all.

But you turned to look at Steve, and he looked at you. You both caught the stalled expression on the other’s face that meant the word had landed somewhere it hadn’t before.

It was true, and that was the almost-funny part, the part sitting between you two, light and a little absurd. It was completely true that neither of you had once said it. Three months in—his razor on your sink and your tea in his cupboard, his arm slung around you in a parking lot in front of the entire Hawkins parent body, a thing so large and obvious it had its own weight—and somewhere in the middle of all of it, the two of you had simply never gone back and picked the small ordinary word up off the floor. You'd skipped it. You'd been busy with the enormous version and forgotten the plain one existed.

“Huh,” Steve said. He was looking at you with his eyebrows slightly up, fighting a smile and losing, like he’d been handed a piece of excellent news on accident. You felt your own face doing something embarrassingly similar.

“Don’t,” you said, trying to bite down the smile that threatened to capture your face.

“I’m not doing anything.”

You gestured at his face, at the pleased expression on it. “We have a bookshelf to work on. You can do this later.”

“I’ll remember that,” he agreed, not remotely chastened. “I’m gonna say it at the worst possible time. At the grocery store. And I’ll say it loudly.” And let you go—but slow, his hands trailing off your waist like they were trying to decide against it. 

“I’ll break up with you.”

“Can’t. You’d have to call me your boyfriend first. There’s an order to these things.” He looked insufferably pleased with the loophole. You crossed the room to take the shoes back from Eddie before he could find a worse thing to say about them.

“My shoes are not haunted,” you said, affronted. They weighed almost nothing and you set them on the windowsill instead of back in the box, where the late light came through and showed how thin the layer had gone at the toe. 

Eddie watched you do it with mild interest, raising a brow. “Did they make you spin around on sandpaper—” He stopped when you pointed him with a glare, albeit with no heat behind it. He crouched and started working the bookshelf free of its cardboard. 

“Thank you,” you said, “for the help.” 

Eddie turned his neck to face you, lips curving up into a smile. “Well, I couldn’t have let Harrington do it all. He would’ve broken his back and we both would have had to take care of him.”

Steve huffed out a laugh at the words as he finished the work of pulling the panels of the bookshelf out. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d want you at my bedside, Eddie.”

Eddie patted Steve on the back. “You’d want me there,” he said, and that seemed to settle it for him.

The two of them got down to the shelf. The wrong screws obviously came first, then the right ones, Eddie holding it square while Steve drove the brackets, you reading the instruction sheet aloud to a room that had unanimously decided the instruction sheet was beneath it. The light moved across the floorboards while you worked. Somewhere below, the building did its evening sounds, a door, a faucet, somebody's television. 

You watched them more than you read, after a while. They had a shorthand; Eddie said half a sentence and Steve already made a move to meet it, a joke that was clearly the worn-down nub of an older joke, the easy conversation between two people who’d done a hundred dumb tasks together and would do a hundred more together. It was a hollow feeling, in your chest, of standing at the edge of someone’s life and seeing, laid out plain, how much of it had gone on being rich and full and populated in all the years you weren't in it. Steve had become somebody’s person, several somebodies’, a fixture in their lives with their own regulars. You'd felt it once before, in a bar, watching Robin and Vickie fit together like they'd been cut from one piece. You filed it under nothing. You went back to the instruction sheet.

“What time is it?” Eddie said from the floor, hardly looking up from the bracket. “I told Jonathan I’d call him before it got stupid-late. He’s trying to lock down the Philly weekend and won’t let it go.”

“Like five,” Steve said.

“Okay, I’ve got time.” Eddie sat back on his heels and looked over the half-built shelf. “He wants the fourteenth confirmed. You still good for that?”

“Yeah. Tell him I’m in.” Steve fit the last bracket and pressed it flat to check if it held. Then, he looked up to where you stood, figuring out the right place for the lamp. “That’s—yeah. If that’s okay with you.”

You met his eyes. “If what’s okay?”

“Me going. The fourteenth,” he said, like it was obvious. “I don’t have to. If you’ve got stuff that weekend, or you just—want to do nothing. With me.”

“Steve.” You almost laughed. “Go to Philly.”

Steve shrugged, looking slightly offended. “I’m just saying it’s an option. Me, here, doing nothing with you.”

“It’s an extremely sad option. You have to go.”

Later that night, the lamp was the only thing either of you had thought to turn on, and neither of you was going to do anything about it. It would have meant moving, and moving, just then, was unthinkable. So, the bedroom had narrowed to the reach of one light, a scarf knotted over the shade, throwing it low and amber, and everything past the edge of it gone soft and dark and able to wait.

You were already undressed, wound into the warm dark shape the two of you made of a bed, and Steve was over you, braced on one forearm, and there was nothing hurried in him at all. You’d learned that about him in the last three months, that for all the want he carried around like something overfilled, when he finally had you like this, he went slow, almost unbearably so, as though the approach was its own country and he had no intention of passing through it quickly.

His hand was proof of it. It had been moving a while now, unhurried, deliberate, mapping you because he already knew exactly where your breath caught and how. He drew it out of you on purpose. You felt him feel it when your spine gave, when the sound you’d held in came out loose, and you felt the answering move through him. He let out a low, rough exhale against your jaw, his own hips pressing down into the space against your thigh, seeking. 

You could read the tightening of his shoulders, the catch in his breath, and you knew the exact register of the sound that meant he was holding himself back from more. You turned your head and put your mouth to his throat, shifting your body down so you could neatly roll your hips against his, just to feel him lose a little bit of the grip. He did. A groan went through his chest as his forehead dropped against yours. 

Then, he met your movement, grinding down with explicit, almost hungry intent. You felt the hard line of him press flush against you. He braced his weight on one arm so he could use the other to keep you pinned, and rocked against you with a rhythm that was deliberate and maddeningly slow.

It dragged a sound out of you, and Steve’s mouth curved where it rested against your temple, pleased, the small smug flicker that lived in him even now. He did it again, the same slow grind, and watched your face for what it would do. He'd built whole evenings around your face. He braced harder on the pinning arm, fingers spreading wide and certain over your hip, and the crooked bed frame gave its small complaint beneath the both of you and went ignored.

“Steve—” His name came apart in the middle.

“I know.” His voice had turned to gravel, wrecked and warm against your side. “Not going anywhere.”

And maybe it was that, those words, said into the curve of your jaw with his whole body so achingly familiar over yours. Or maybe it was the lamp, the late hour, and three months of this, of being wanted so completely and thoroughly. But the word came up in you and would not be talked backed down. It had been sitting in you since the early evening, since Eddie had said it, and now, here, with nothing left between you and no one to be anything for, it simply wanted out.

“Hey,” you said. It came out unsteady, even the single word. “Steve.”

“Mm—” His mouth was at the corner of yours, hips not stopping. “Yeah. What—what is it, baby?”

And then the giggle got loose before you could stop it—embarrassed and completely out of your control, the question right behind it and tangled up in it—and you felt your face get warm with the absurdity of what you were about to do. 

Steve went still enough to lift his head. His hips slowed but not quite stopped, the rhythm going lazy now, almost absent. The rest of him propped up to look down at you with an expression of pure, undone, mock-wounded suspicion.

“What.” His brow had pulled together. His voice was still rough, but there was a thread of genuine affront laced through it now, for he had been giving this his entire and undivided gravity and had just, apparently, been laughed at for it. “What’s funny? Why are you—” He pressed down against your hips once, trying to make a point about the work he was in the midst of. “I’m right here being—what is so funny?”

“Nothing.” You were still laughing. You couldn’t help it. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid—”

“Now I must know.” He huffed, indignant. His forehead dropped to yours. “You’re laughing at me. Just tell me. C’mon. Tell me what’s funny.”

And so you did, because he'd cornered you into it, because his face was right there waiting and the giggle wouldn't quit and there was nowhere left to put it but into the words.

“Would you like to be my boyfriend, Steve?”

For a second, all of Steve simply stopped. Every part of him went still all at once, the offended expression wiped clean off his face like it had never been there. He lifted his head to fully look down at you, the amber light catching the whole undone wreck of him; pupils blown dark, hair a ruin from your fingers, mouth still parted on a sentence he’d abandoned. And what surfaced underneath that was so soft, so plainly struck, that you felt your own laugh die somewhere in your throat at the sight of it. 

“You—” he said, and the word broke off. Whatever had been in his chest pushed out of him instead as a sound—low, wrecked, and something close to a delighted laugh—and his nose dragged along the side of your forehead. “Yeah.”

It came before anything else, just the bare word breathed out against your mouth. The answer escaped him the way the truest things always managed to escape Steve, too fast and ahead of his pride. His hand had come up off your hip to cradle the back of your skull, fingers spreading into your hair, and he was already moving again, the paused rhythm of him resuming low and certain, like the question had only ever been a thing he'd stopped to let through.

“Yeah, I’d like to be your boyfriend,” he said the words into the corner of your mouth, into your cheek, as though he had to imprint them into several places of you to make sure it landed. “Course I am. C’mere.”

You were already there. He kissed you anyway, deep and a little clumsy with how much was in it, and you felt him smiling against it, helpless, unable to hold the shape of a kiss for the grin breaking through it.

He pulled back just an inch, and the betrayal had arrived.

“You weren’t supposed to do that, though.” He tried to seem wounded, but there was no chance for it to pass through with the smile on his lips. “I had a plan. I was gonna ask you. Properly.” He huffed, indignant, pressed his hips down harder against you, as if that was a punishment at all. “And you just said it—”

“You took too long.” 

His eyes widened slightly. “Since when did you become so bossy?”

“Since we forgot to put a label on it,” you said immediately.

He laughed then, stopping his movement. “I don’t know how. I’ve got a drawer here.” Then, he tipped his chin down to meet your eyes again. “Girlfriend, huh?”

“That good with you?” you asked, raising your brow.

“Fuck—yeah. Obviously,” he said, all the breath behind it, like the word had cost him something just to get past the want sitting in his chest.

He shifted his weight off the braced arm so he could give you both of his hands, one sliding up your ribs and the other coming to your jaw, tilting your face up to exactly where he wanted it. 

“My girlfriend,” he said against your mouth, just to feel the word there. He kissed you on it—once, slow—and then again, deeper, and you felt the shift in him. His hand left your jaw and moved down, splaying flat and certain over the lowest point of your stomach, thumb dragging low, and the sound you made got caught somewhere and he swallowed it, pleased. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

Carter had decided, sometime in the last month, that Steve belonged to him. 

It came out in small, administrative ways an eleven-year-old laid claim to a person. It was Carter who’d answered the door, hauling it open before you’d got your hand off the screen, and Carter who performed introductions the house didn’t need—that’s Coach Steve, he’s here, he came—as though Steve were a rare bird he’d sighted. It was Carter who directed him by the sleeve, now, through the den and past the roaring oven fan and the TV, narrating the tour of the house Steve had stood in a hundred times before. 

That’s the chair Grandpa won’t let anyone sit in. That’s where the cat throws up. That’s my drawing, the horse, I did the horse. 

Steve received each fact with the grave full attention of a man being shown state secrets, ducking his head to look where Carter pointed, asking a follow-up question about the horse that made Carter light up like a struck match.

You stood in the doorway with your coat half-off and watched it. You felt the scene land in you sideways, the way the truest things tended to. Carter was easy with Steve, uncomplicatedly so; there was no reserve in it, no second track running underneath, none of the carefulness the rest of the house would be performing all evening. It took you a moment to place why it made you so uneasy, and the answer sat in your chest like a swallowed rock. Carter had never met the other Steve, the one who existed in this house before, the one with the shadow on him. To Carter, there had only ever been this one—Coach Steve who’d spent months teaching him baseball and was now in his grandparents’ home—a man with no before attached, no wreckage trailing him to the foyer. Carter got to have the simple version.

Your mother came out of the kitchen with her hands still in a dish towel and a smile she’d been wearing on and off since you’d asked if you could bring Steve. It was a real smile, and that was the thing you’d been turning over for two days; that it was real, and that it was also being held, the way you'd hold a glass you'd already dropped once.

“Steve,” she said his name, and you heard the missing ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart’ that you had once grown so used to her calling him. The names came out easily, without her ever thinking about it. Tonight, it was just Steve, chosen, and that was both a kindness and its own verdict all at once. “Look at you.”

“Hi. Yeah. Hi.” Steve shifted the wine bottle to his other hand and then held it out to her, a beat too quickly. “This is—for you. For dinner. Thank you for having me,” he said to a house he’d once been allowed to walk into without knocking, and you heard the carefulness in it. 

Your mother let Steve catch his breath anyway, giving him a generous laugh, and took the wine. She looked at the label for a moment longer than needed. “That’s too nice,” she said. “You didn’t have to bring something this nice.”

“I wanted to.” 

“Well.” Your mother turned the bottle so the label faced away, the way she did with anything that threatened to be a fuss. “It’ll be wasted on us. Your father can drink it like its juice.” But she set it on the counter with a small care that said she’d noticed it, and would remember it.

“Where do you want me?” Steve asked, straightening up even further. “I can chop, carry—I’m good at carrying.”

“You’re a guest,” your mother said.

“I can be a guest who helps.”

“Sit down, Steve,” she said, the old warmth creeping into her tone just slightly, and you saw him take the half-inch gratefully, eyes brightening.

He hovered at the edge of the kitchen, and you were about to rescue him from his own posture when your father came in from the den. 

Your father came in slow, he never rushed toward anything with feeling in it; he arrived at those the way weather arrived, from a way off, with time to see it coming. He had the newspaper still in one hand, folded, a man holding his place in his own evening. He looked at Steve. Steve straightened, and put his hand out.

“Mr—”

“Steve.” Your father took the hand, giving it one firm shake, and then he held it just a half-beat past where it should’ve ended. He held it long enough that you watched Steve decide to stand inside it and be looked at rather than pull free. “Been a while.”

“Yes, sir. It has.”

You saw your father swallow and let the hand go. “Carter talks very highly of you.”

“He’s starting at second, actually,” Steve said before he could stop himself, the pride in it unguarded, and then—hearing the eagerness, hearing how much he wanted your father to like the answer—he reeled it back a notch. “He’s earned it. He works hard. He’s good.”

He looked at Steve a moment more, and you stood there with your coat finally all the way off and could not, for the life of you, read him, and you had known this man your entire life. “We’ll see how the season goes.”

It was far from unkind, and it was a door left ajar, with a man told plainly that he'd be the one to prove which way it swung. Your father went to fold himself into the chair nobody sat in, snapped the newspaper back to the page he wanted, and the foyer let out a breath.

You found Steve’s hand down low, fingers flexing slightly. He looked at you, and the easy face—the one that came so naturally for Carter—had vanished. What sat in its stead was much younger and barer. His jaw was set a little too hard, working at nothing; his eyes had gone bright and over-busy, doing too much reading of the room, checking doorways; he was breathing like he had to force himself to do so. His hand found yours, but his fingers had gone stiff, almost too cold. 

“Hey,” you whispered to him. “You’re doing great.”

You caught a forlorn smile gracing his lips for a moment. He turned his hand to thread his fingers through yours completely and hold on a degree too tight. “I’m okay. I want to be here.”

You knew he meant it completely. You knew he was cold-handed and over-careful and glad. He was glad to be paying it, because Steve had just spent four years in the wrong side of this house, and a guarded welcome was still a welcome, and the loud warm overlit kitchen with the chicken in it was the precise thing he had been working, all this time, to be allowed back into.

He turned to look at you then, as if he could sense your worry for him. “I love you,” he said, “and stop looking so worried. Your face is doing a thing.” 

“It’s not.”

“It’s a little doing it.” He squeezed your hand once, and let the easy face come back partway, enough to get the both of you moving toward the noise.

Devon was already at the table, and she, mercifully, did anything but guarded. She did the opposite by appointing herself as the evening’s friction (much to the begging you’d done without telling Steve you’d done it), and she spent the first twenty minutes aiming dry, glancing things at Steve the way you'd lob a tennis at someone to see if they'd catch it. ‘They let you near impressionable youth; how’s that going for the impressionable youth. Are they impressed?’ It was close enough to be standing next to kindness, Devon poking Steve like a brother she was deciding whether to keep, and Steve, who had grown up an only child in a house with too much quiet in it, caught every ball she threw and looked grateful for the bruise.

By the time the chicken came around the table he'd loosened a notch. By the time your father was carving seconds nobody had asked for, the dinner had found a real rhythm.

“And Coach Steve—” Carter was saying.

“Honey, I think you can stop calling him Coach at the table,” Devon said, interrupting him. You were sure it was because she’d heard the word coach thrown around one too many times here, and was probably hearing it every waking hour at home.

Carter looked startled for a moment. “What should I call him, then?”

Devon shrugged. “Steve might be nice.”

“Ste—” Carter made a face like that sounded all wrong. “Coach Steve—” he finished, the compromise failing to reach, “is going to—somewhere. He told us he’s gonna miss a practice.”

“One practice,” Steve said. “I already told you. I’ll be back before the game.”

That appeared to satisfy Carter who returned to his potatoes.

“Where’s the practice you’re missing for?” your mother asked conversationally, keeping the table's small wheels turning. “Somewhere good?”

“Philadelphia.” Steve had a roll halfway to his plate. “Just a weekend thing. Some friends out that way.”

“That’s a haul.”

“It’s not so bad once you’re past Columbus, honestly,” he said it, a fact worn smooth from handling, and you registered that distantly.

It was Devon who turned the conversation to Steve, buttering a roll with most of her attention. “Who’s in Philly?”

“Some people from high school,” Steve said. “We planned to do it couple times a year. Tried to do every month but—” He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “It’s easy, though. It runs itself at this point if everyone’s available.”

You caught her turning to glance at you before she said, “Sounds nice.”

And it was, that was all that was. There was a shape in these sentences if you’d held them up by light. Every month, a thing he wanted to be monthly. Something several-years-deep with its own regulars and its own drive. Devon asked questions for you, and you let the answers pass over you and reached, instead, for the thing you’d been carrying into this dinner all night, the actual reason your hands had been restless since the chicken.

“I’ve got another thing,” you said. “To say, while everyone’s—” You gestured at the table, the fullness of it. “While everyone’s here.”

The wheels of the table slowed, and you caught Carter looking just a tad betrayed his story was getting delayed even further.

“I mean, it’s not a big announcement.” You were already hedging it, already shrinking it on the way out of your mouth, because that was what you did with the things you wanted most; you brought them out small so the room couldn't drop them. “It’s just. I’ve been—for a few months now—putting money aside. And looking at this space by the food market? It’s by the hardware store and it’s been empty forever.” You turned your water glass a quarter-turn on the cloth.

Devon raised her brow. “You signed something, didn’t you?”

“Not yet,” you said through gritted teeth. “But I’m planning on it. I want to open a studio. A dance studio. Mine. I’ve already, well, talked to some of the parents from rec classes, and I think there’s eleven girls who’d follow me. Their moms said as much, at least. And that’s—that’s almost enough, right? That’s almost a school.”

For a second, the table absorbed the words. Then, your mother’s hand came up to her mouth, and your father set his fork down. Your father, who set his fork down for almost nothing. Your mother was around the table before you'd finished bracing for it, her arms coming over your shoulders from behind, and she didn't say anything for a moment, just held on, and you understood that she was somewhere past words, somewhere back four years ago in a daughter who couldn't fill out a job application, measuring the distance between that girl and this one. Your father was asking the practical questions because were the only language he had for ‘I am proud of you’ and you'd learned to hear them in translation a long time ago. Carter wanted to know if there'd be boys. Devon wanted to know everything else.

When you finally let your eyes land on Steve to gauge his reaction, he was looking at you, jaw set like he wanted to say something that he’d say later, his eyes gone bright and over-fast. He reached his hand out underneath the table and lightly squeezed your leg.

“God help Hawkins,” Devon said, sitting back. “Both of you. Her with the dance kids and him with the baseball kids.” She gestured between the two of you with her wine. “Your kids are going to be insufferably well-adjusted.”

The word sat in the middle of the table, dropped there light and without weight. Devon was reaching for the beans like she hadn’t said anything at all, less of all something with that much weight. You did not look at Steve. Steve did not look at you. You both, very carefully, looked at your plates because you had just been handed a future across a dinner table and were each pretending the other hadn't heard it. Under the cloth, his knee came to rest against yours and stayed.

The studio emptied out in a loud ragged wave, and then all at once. The last of the intermediate girls collected, and then just you and the long mirror and the silence a room filled with movement left behind it. You were doing all the closing things you’d worn into a groove by now: chairs, the schedule for tomorrow, the lights in the back room that you had to leave a minute to warm up. Your hamstrings had a complaint lodged since the third class. There was chalk, somehow, on your wrist.

You knew Steve was back before the bell rang, because you knew the cough of his car settling into a space on the street too small for it, and you’d known it for a few months now. This was the fourth time he’d driven back from Philadelphia and come straight to wherever you were, the weekend coming off of him like weather. 

The bell went, and the cold came in with him. The door swung shut and sealed the latter back out, and then Steve, filling the frame of it, a duffel over his shoulder and his hair windblown because he probably drove the last stretch home with the window cracked. He took the studio in a half-second flat, a quick sweep to find you. And then the duffel was sliding off his shoulder, already hitting the bench by the mirror without a single degree of his attention.

“There you are,” he said, movement never slowing as he came toward you. “C’mere. I’ve been in a car for hours, come on—”

He had you then, with no negotiation. His arms came around you and folded you in against the cold front of him, one hand splaying wide between your shoulderblades, the other pushing up into your hair. He made a sound low in his chest, half sigh and half something more wrecked than that.

“You’re freezing,” you said into his jacket.

“I know. Don’t care. Drove with the windows down.” His voice was muffled into the top of your head, his mouth already there, pressing. “You can warm me up or something.” He pulled back far just far enough to find your face, and then let the sentence die, because looking at you seemed to take the sentence out of his hands. His thumb came up to your cheekbone. His eyes went over you like he wanted to read the two days off your face. “Hi.”

“Hey—”

He kissed you, quick first. Then, not quick at all, his cold hands warming by degrees against you, one of them curving around the side of your neck to put his hand over your pulse, and you felt him smile, the kiss going crooked with the grin he couldn’t keep out of it. Making up for the deficit, you assumed. And when he finally let you go enough to speak, he rested his forehead against yours as his thumb moved against your jaw.

“Two days,” he said, complaining. “Two days is stupid. Whose idea was that?”

“I’m pretty sure it was yours.”

His nose dragged along yours. “Thought about you the whole car ride.”

You let out a small laugh, unable to keep the fondness out of it. “That’s very romantic, Steve.”

“It was, actually.” He kissed your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth—small ones now, scattered—and only then, with his face still close and his hands still on you, did he lift his head and look past you, around the studio: the chairs half-stacked, the back room dim and warming, a child’s drawing tacked crooked behind a desk. “You’re not done yet. It’s late.”

“Nearly. Give me five minutes.”

“Mm.” He sounded almost disgruntled. His eyes did a slow second circuit of the room, and something moved through his face—light, almost nothing, a small thoughtful quiet—and his hand settled more certainly at your hip. “You hardly ever go home on time.”

You sighed slightly, the breath coming out shaky. “It’s a new studio. I think that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“You think?”

“It’s my first new studio.” You let the five minutes go. The chairs could wait; the schedules could wait; the back room could continue warming itself. You stayed inside the circle of him instead, your hands flat against the cold front of his jacket, and waited him out. He took the staying as the invitation it was and walked you backward two unhurried steps until your spine met the cool of the long mirror. His hands slid from your waist to brace either side of you against the glass, caging you in there without any hurry about it at all. “Steve, there’s chalk all over the mirror—”

His mouth had found the side of your throat, the cold of him gone warm now where the two of you pressed together, and you felt him talk against your skin more than heard it. “Don’t get to not see you for two days and talk about a mirror.”

“You went on your own—”

“I know. Bad planning. It won’t happen again.” He dragged his nose up the line of your neck, slow, and you felt the studio's quiet close around the both of you and his hand came off the glass to tip your chin up, his thumb at your jaw, and he kissed you properly. 

“Come over,” you said. “You’ve been gone two days. I’m not letting you be sad in your own apartment tonight.”

“I gotta go to mine, though,” he said into your hair, reluctant, the words practically dragged out of him. “Just for a second. I haven’t got anything at yours right now—I think. I drove straight here. I don’t even have a shirt for tomorrow.” He plucked at the collar of it, the one that had done four hours in a car. “I’ll have to swing by mine, grab a bag I packed, and then I’ll meet you at yours. It’ll be like forty minutes.”

You made a disgruntled sound.

“Tops.” His mouth found your jaw. “Maybe thirty if I speed. Which I will, for you.” Then, he huffed a laugh against your skin. “It’s a stupid amount of driving to do in one day.” 

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes slightly careful now. “This would all be easier,” he said, “if I just lived with you.”

He hadn’t planned to bring it up here, or now even. You could see that his words had surprised him a little, the way that had walked out of him on the tail of a sentence about his shirt. But it was, for what it was worth, out, and he chose to not dress it up. He just held still inside it, his hands gone careful at your waist, watching your face like he’d just flipped a coin and was waiting to see which side it landed on.

“I think—”

He pushed a hand back through his hair. “I keep meaning to do these things right and I keep just—” He breathed, and it came out cleaner. “But I’m basically there all the time. I drive to my place maybe four times a week to pick up stuff, and I drive to yours and that’s—what I think of as home. I don’t know.”

He’d set the whole wish down in the open at last; months of it and a drawer and half a marriage's worth of his things migrated quietly into your kitchen, all of it finally said.

You felt the want lift in you to meet it. The seventeen-year-old who’d agonized over a future she’d been so sure of, she was still there, and she wanted this, wanted the shared address and the one coffee maker and the door that didn't shut between you, wanted it with her whole chest.

And underneath it, in the same breath, the other thing turned over. The small, flat, cold thing that had signed a lease alone and aged six weeks doing it. The part of you that had wanted—needed—one set of rooms in the world that were yours because you decided they would be, after four years of spaces that stayed someone else’s no matter how long you stayed in them. The apartment was the first thing you had chosen. And some part of you, the part you kept the lights off in, did not want to give back the only door you'd ever gotten to stand on both sides of.

Both of them at once, in the same body. Two true things could sit in you.

You sighed. “You’ve been driving for hours.”

You heard your voice reach for a warm register, the soothing one, because it was easier and that was a thing you knew how to do. 

“That’s not a no,” he said quietly, going hopeful as he watched you. 

“It’s not a no.” You went up and kissed him, soft, and he took it gratefully, probably because this hadn’t ruined anything. “You’ve got road-brain. We can talk about it when you’ve slept and got a real reason to be sure.”

“I am already—”

“We’ll talk when you’ve slept, Steve.”

He looked at you a moment longer, and then he let it go. You watched him fold it back up, the way he folded up the things you weren't ready for, and pulled you in against his chest instead, his chin coming down on the top of your head, the cold of his jacket and the warm of him underneath. “Okay,” he said into your hair. “Thirty minutes. Don’t start the good part of the night without me.”

You got home with your shoes already half-off, one of them surrendered somewhere between the cab and Steve’s door because the night had that loose-jointed quality the good ones got. There was a cake somewhere near you still, THREE MONTHS piped on in a blue that had stained both your tongues. Steve had eaten the corner piece with the most frosting and had been unrepentant about it. He’d done the whole thing at the studio. He’d strung cheap battery lights along the barre when he thought you weren’t looking, the same kind from the water tower a hundred years ago, and you'd pretended not to recognize them so he could have the reveal, and he'd known you were pretending, and neither of you had said so.

Now his apartment was dim and warm around the two of you. You were on the couch with your feet in his lap and his hand around your ankle, thumb moving in absent circles. You were watching him tell you something about Eddie that he kept laughing too early in, ruining his own story, starting it over. The lamp was the only one on. Your jacket had missed the hook. The night felt like it required nothing more, where the day has been gotten safely through and the two of you are just spending what's left of it down to the wick.

“You aren’t even listening,” Steve said, delighted, because you’d been watching his mouth instead of listening to the story.

“I’m listening,” you said, making a vague motion with your hands as if to wave him off. “Eddie. The thing with the thing.”

“The thing.” He huffed, and his hand tightened once around your ankle, fond, and he tipped his head back against the couch to look at you down the length of it, and the lamp did something gold to the side of his face

“Tell me again,” you said. “I’ll listen this time.”

“It’s gone now. You killed it,” he said mournfully, and you laughed, and he grinned at having got the laugh. 

He pressed his thumb into the arch of your foot, and you made a sound you didn't mean to make, and he looked unbearably pleased with himself about it.

“Don’t do that.” You nudged him in the stomach with your other foot, lightly, just to feel him catch it, which he did, folding his hand over it like he was collecting the set. “You’re being annoying.”

“It’s called being affectionate.”

“They can look the same. With you.” But you'd already given yourself away, the smile doing the thing it did, and he'd already seen it, and there wasn't much point in either of you pretending you meant the complaint. 

He went quiet after a moment, though. His thumb kept its slow work at your ankle. He was looking at you in a way you could feel without checking. “It was a good one tonight.”

You felt your lips twitch up. “I had a lot of fun.”

Something moved through his face, fond and a little undone by itself. “Thank you. For letting me have it.”

You laughed, almost in disbelief. “Thank you for making me celebrate three months of opening the studio. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did,” he said simply. “It’s a long time. Had to put frosting on it.”

“Somebody had to eat the frosting off of it.”

He tipped his head back against the couch again, looking at you down the length of himself, and for a second he didn't say anything else, just looked, and you let him, because you'd gotten better at being looked at. 

Then, he shifted reluctantly. “Okay, I’m gross. I’ve been running around all day trying to get everything together.” He moved your feet off his lap and onto the cushion, careful about it. “Five minutes. Stay right here.”

“Yeah, I was planning on going back home,” you said drily.

“You would never.”

You threw a cushion at him. It missed by a wide, unbothered margin and he didn't pretend to dodge it. He grinned, and then the bathroom door, and the pipes shuddering as the water came on, and his voice picking up underneath the rush of it, tuneless and muffled and happy, a song that wasn't quite a song.

You stayed where he'd left you. You kept his spot warm, because of course you did. You lay there with your eyes on the ceiling, smiling at nothing. 

The phone rang then. You almost let it go. It was late, and the couch was warm and some lazy part of you was sure it would stop on its own. It didn’t. It ran again, loud in the small apartment over the muffled rush of the shower, and so you got up and crossed Steve’s apartment in your bare feet and lifted the receiver with not one thought in your head.

“Steve Harrington.” A woman, already mid-stride, skipping clean past every formality a hello was built to carry. “I cannot believe you. Jonathan has left you two messages—two—and you can’t manage to pick up the phone? He’s going to drive out there himself—”

The shower ran on behind the wall and you listened to the voice you’d never heard before talk to him—talk at him, easy, exasperated, with a sort of buildup that can only be born out of practice. She’d earned the right to do so, you thought. You waited for her to finish the sentence so you could correct her, feeling no alarm doing it. You want, later, to be able to find the alarm somewhere in that moment and you never can; there wasn't any. There was just you, full of cake, holding a phone.

“Sorry,” you said when she finally drew a breath, voice coming out almost breathless. “Steve’s actually in the shower right now. Want me to pass him a message?”

It went quiet for half a second. “Oh—” Her voice came back scrambling pleasantly, embarrassed at itself. “God, sorry. I just assumed it would be Steve—you must be—” She said your name then, punctuating it with a small chuckle aimed inward. “Sorry. Let me start over. I’m Nancy, a friend of Steve’s.”

Two soft syllables, a stranger being polite on the telephone, and for a whole second it was nothing at all. And then it landed somewhere with a history attached and you felt the floor of the kitchen do a small, slow thing under your bare feet.

You had known the name for years, the way you knew a scar you no longer looked at directly; Nancy, who Steve had seen while he was still holding your hand, Nancy from the part of the story you had folded up and put somewhere high and not taken down. You had never had a voice to go with it. Now you did and it was a nice voice. It was warm and a little flustered and it was being kind to you, and that was somehow the worst available version of it.

“Hi,” you said. You were faintly, distantly impressed by how even it came out. 

“Hi,” Nancy said and you could hear her smiling, hear her relax, because she had no idea. “It’s so nice to finally talk to you. God, this is so silly, we’ve never actually—Steve talks about you a ton, though, I feel like I already—” She caught herself, laughed again, light. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. Could you just tell him two things? Jonathan, obviously. Jonathan’s been waiting for a call back; he thought Steve was just ignoring him but I think you guys were probably busy. And tell him that we landed on the weekend, finally, so he doesn’t need to keep holding all of them. It took us long enough—”

She kept talking and you let her. Her voice went on being warm in your ear, small ordinary words with no weight holding onto a single one of them. She was only reciting logistics, and you stood in the middle of them, and felt each one go past you and not stop, and understood—slowly—that you were being told something. The thing you were being told was being handed to you plainly, kindly, and with no idea it was being handed over to you at all. And that you had not known any of it, the size of it; the long ordinary four-year shape of a thing that everyone, apparently, had simply always known about except you.

“—Anyways, I’ll let you go. Sorry about the interruption,” she said, and you caught onto the tail-end of it.

“It’s no interruption,” you said, and it came out warm. Your hands knew how to do this even when the rest of you had gone somewhere cold and far. You'd had years of practice being gracious over things that were costing you something. “I’ll tell him. Jonathan. The weekend. I’ve got it.”

“Thank you, genuinely.” Nancy's smile was still right there in her voice, easy. “It’s really nice to finally talk to you. Okay. I’m letting you go, I mean it this time. Tell Steve I said hi.”

“Will do.”

“Night.”

“Goodnight,” you said, and you waited for the click. It came, and then there was the long flat tone of a line with no one on it, and you stood with the receiver against your ear a few seconds longer than there was any reason to, listening to the nothing, because putting it down meant the next thing and you did not yet know what the next thing was.

You set the receiver back into the cradle the way you'd set down something you didn't trust your hands around, and then you didn't move, because moving was a decision and the part of you that made decisions had stopped reporting in.

You found your hand come up over your mouth and press there. You tried, honestly, to work out the size of what had happened—tried to hold it up and measure it—and you found you couldn’t get a grip on its edges. Was it large? It had to be large; your body had decided it was large. But when you reached for the why of it, the Nancy of it—his ex, every month, all of them—some flat honest part of you turned the answer over and set it back down, unconvinced. That wasn’t it, you knew it. You’d have known if you cared like that. 

If it wasn’t that, then why was the floor gone?

You were still standing there with your hand over your mouth, when the water shut off.

You didn’t have time to arrange your face. You had perhaps a minute and you weren’t able to think of  a single thing to do with it. You couldn't decide what your face should be, couldn't locate the version of yourself that would walk back to the couch and keep his spot warm. There wasn't one. You just stood where the phone had left you.

The bathroom door opened with its gust of steam. “—okay, I changed my mind. I’m starving again,” Steve said, coming out rubbing the towel over his head, damp, warm-looking. “Do we have anything in the fridge?”

He saw you then, and you watched his face do the involuntary brightening it always did when he found you. You watched it get halfway up and then stop, because the rest of his face had caught up and read yours and could not make it agree with the night he thought he was in. He took the towel off his head.

“Hey,” he said, careful. The good mood had drained out of his voice in real time, draining with a practiced patience. “Hey—what. What is it?”

“Nothing,” you said, and then heard how it sounded, then tried again. You laughed, or at least your mouth reached for the shape of one and a little air came out of you, and you both heard the failed attempt at one. “Um, you’re supposed to call Jonathan back,” you said too quickly, like you were in a hurry. “And they—the weekend, they picked the weekend. I forgot the exact date, so you should probably ask.” 

You felt your brows draw together as you spoke, mouth moving on autopilot. 

Steve had gone still by the bathroom door. The towel hung from one hand. He was looking at you like he was reading you—and he was good at it, he had always been good at it, years apart had not cost him the knack—and you watched him not be able to make the read come out clean.

“Ohhhh-kay,” he said gently, addressing you like you were a spooked thing. “Okay, hey.”

He started crossing the kitchen to you. He did it in the same way he always did when you were upset, unhurried, without asking for permission because that had never once been a thing he’d needed for this. His hands came over your waist, warm still from the shower, settling there with bone-deep certainty. The gesture worn so smooth between you that it had stopped being a gesture and become a place you lived.

You stepped back without deciding to. There had been no moment you chose, your body simply took a slow half-step out of the circle of this arms and left his hands holding the shape of where you’d been. You felt the surprise of it move through you the same moment it moved through him. You hadn’t known you were going to. You didn’t, even now, know why. You only knew that his hands had come up to you like they had a thousand uncounted times, and that this time something in you needed the inch of air, had reached for it the way you reach for a breath, and had taken it before you could be consulted.

Steve’s hands stayed in the air for a second too long where your waist had been. Then he reluctantly took them down, back to his side.

He looked at the small new distance between the two of you—eight inches of his own kitchen, nothing, a width you’d closed a thousand times—and not understand it, and be frightened by not understanding it. You’d stepped out of his hands. You, who leaned in. You, who’d lain awake for hours in his arms rather than move an inch off him. He stood there with his palms empty and his hair dripping a slow line down the side of his neck and looked at you like the floor had gone out from under him now too, like he'd been handed a thing in a language he'd never been taught.

He shook his head slowly then, lips pursing as he looked at the distance, then your face. “I’m worried,” he said. 

“I know,” you said, voice coming out gently. It was just that the level, flattened thing your voice had gone to had a softness on the surface of it, the way deep water looks calm, and you heard yourself be kind to him and could not have stopped it if you'd wanted to.

“I just need a second.” You wrapped an arm across yourself, your hand closing around your own opposite elbow, holding on to something. “I need to—trying to work something out. I need you to let me work it out before—” You stopped, took a deep breath in that felt like your chest constricting on itself. “Just give me a second.”

And the worst part, the part that you felt land on him and felt land on yourself in the same breath, was watching him obey it. Steve—who crossed rooms toward you, who had never once in the entire span of you needed to be told to keep his distance—plant himself by the with the towel still strangling slowly in his grip, and stay.

He stayed because you'd asked. It was visibly costing him, every cell of him angled toward you and held back by nothing but your sentence, and you understood that you had taken the one tool he had and set it down out of his reach, and he had let you, because he could tell—even without knowing why, even with the floor gone under him too—that reaching for you right now would be the wrong thing.

His eyes went down to your arms—at the way they were wrapped tight across your front, your hands fisted on its opposite elbow like you were holding something inside your ribs that wanted out—and you watched his jaw work once around nothing. 

“Baby, I’m really worried,” he said, the last word breaking in his voice, coming out uneven. “I really am. Whatever this is, can you just—I’m right here.” His voice had gone careful, every word picked up gently and set down again where he hoped you could reach it. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just—going to stand here. Tell me, please. Whatever it is.”

His hands had come up again without him meaning to. He noticed this time. They froze halfway and he made a small frustrated sound at his own arms, at himself, and lowered them slowly back to his sides like he was setting down a thing that wouldn't stop trying to be useful.

“I’m scared,” you said, between a shaky breath, because that was the only thing that you could muster up then. You needed to get the words out because, despite it all, you couldn’t take seeing Steve like this. “I don’t wanna say the wrong thing, or do something and have it be the thing that—I don’t want to break it. I don’t want to be the one who—”

“I don’t know what I’m scared of.” Your hand tightened on your elbow. “I’m scared and I don’t know if I’m being—” The word ‘crazy’ almost got out. You bit it back. You would not give yourself that word, not even tonight, not even to him. “I don’t wanna get it wrong. I wanna get it right, and I’m scared I can’t.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice coming out soft. “Whatever you say, you can’t get it wrong. There isn’t a wrong. It’s me.” He took a breath. “It’s me.”

That had always been true. It had been true always. It’s me, coming from Steve, had been the safest sentence in your life. And he’d meant it, and you felt the held shape of you start to give. 

Your body decided to move before you could, the way it had when you stepped back from him. One step, and then the next, and then the rest of it, slow, the way you walk toward a thing you can't be sure of and can't make yourself not walk toward. Steve watched you cross. He didn't move his hands. He didn't say anything. He stood very, very still by the bathroom door and let you come.

You stopped just short of him, close enough you could feel the warmth coming off his bare shoulder and the shower-damp of him not yet dried. You couldn’t unwrap your arms from around yourself just yet, so you leaned forward, slightly, until your forehead came to rest against the side of his throat where you used to sit and stayed there.

You felt his breath catch under your forehead, the small unsteady intake of it, and you understood he was going to refrain himself from putting his arms around you and he was killing himself to do so. 

You stayed there a long moment, feeling the pulse at the side of his neck creating an unsteady tap against your skin.

“I just realized now,” you said into his throat, into the warmth of him. “That Nancy goes to Philly with you. She—well, Eddie didn’t say, you didn’t say, Vickie didn’t, no one—I just. I picked up the phone and she was—she’s very nice, Steve, and I just—”

The sentence didn’t finish. You just pressed your forehead harder against his and felt him swallow. 

His hand came up slowly to tilt your face up off his throat with two fingers under your chin, so, so gentle the way he used to do when there was something he needed you to see in his eyes. He looked at you and his eyes were wet, a small crease formed between his brows as he tucked his lower lip between his teeth in what looked like contemplation. 

“Baby,” he started, voice coming out soft. “No, that’s not it. Nancy’s a friend. She has—Robin’s there, everyone’s there, the whole—it’s a group of us. It’s always been a group of us.” He shook his head, thumb moving once at your jaw, certain, soothing. “There’s nothing there. Nothing. I would never, ever do that to you. You know that.”

His whole face was lit with how much he meant it, his eyes searching yours, his thumb steady on your jaw, a man putting his hand into a wound and being absolutely certain he was helping.

You felt something go quiet inside you in a way that was anything but relief. It was worse than that. It was the kind of quiet that arrives when a thing you have been turning over and over without being able to read it finally turns the right way up.

You felt your head start to shake, small, slow, almost not moving. His thumb stilled at your jaw.

“I don’t—” you started, head shaking still. “I do, well, know that,” you said dumbly. “No—God, Steve,” you said, through a breath, in disbelief. “Why is that—why is that what you—”

Steve opened his mouth, brows furrowing further. “I—what did you think then?” It came out faster than he’d meant for it to, and you watched him reel back his words. “I mean—when you said her name, I just thought you—”

You forced yourself to keep your eyes on him. “Why didn’t you just tell me she was there?”

His mouth opened, then closed. “You never asked.”

“I couldn’t have asked, Steve,” you said, voice level. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Okay, but—” He exhaled, the breath unsteady. He was trying to find a way in and there wasn't one. “I told you about Philly. I told you about—”

“I didn’t know there was anything to know.”

His face caved in slowly, and he paused his words for a moment. His thumb stayed on your chin. His eyes had gone glassy again and he was looking at you and you watched, with a clarity that had nothing pleased in it, how lost he looked, unable to figure out how to talk to you, and trying to, and getting it wrong, and trying again, and getting it wrong, and not understanding why.

“You just—” Your voice rose slightly, realization settling. “Assumed I thought you were—what? Cheating?”

Something went out of him by inches; his teeth caught his lower lip, it usually did when he was working up to something, except there was nothing to work up to here. You watched him realize that, watched the bracing collapse into the plain stunned understanding underneath.

“That’s what you thought,” you said, shaking your head slightly.

“I—” His voice broke a little. “Baby, I didn’t want you to—I didn’t want you to feel like this. I didn’t. I didn’t want you to react like—I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

You felt something in your body give at his words. “Listen to yourself.”

“What?” His voice rose then, out of confusion or disbelief that he was, for once, not able to get through.

You stepped away from him then. “Why would you think that would’ve made me feel bad?”

“Because—obviously—there’s—you know, history there,” he said, words spilling out quick. “And that night—before we started again you—” He stopped his words, like the memory of it all was too much to say. 

“I’ve been standing here.” Your voice cracked then. “I’m not hurt, Steve. I’m not—insecure—”

“I never said you were,” he said immediately.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, voice quieter. “You didn’t say anything because you think I am. Because of—what? Because I couldn’t stop remembering everything one night? That’s what made you decide I couldn’t hear that she’s a part of your life?”

He took in a long breath. “You know that’s not true.”

“I don’t know that. Fuck, Steve.” Your voice cracked at the end, on his name, and you watched him step closer. 

“I just never wanted to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I love you. I didn’t want to see you hurt.”

You closed your eyes, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. “And I love you,” you said. “But I really, really don’t like how you see me.”

“That’s—” His brows drew together, the wet earnestness on his face cut with something almost wounded. “That’s not how I—” He couldn’t get a sentence out. He shook his head, half-laughing under his breath, small and ruined and without any humor. “You don’t even know. God, you don’t even know how I—”

The sentence trailed off and he held himself back from finding the rest of it. He stood there with his hand half-lifted between you, and you understood, watching him, that he had hit the bottom of whatever he was reaching for. He couldn’t find the next word; You could feel him trying for it and not finding it, the way you'd been not finding things all night.

“I should go home.”

“What?” His head came up, the frozenness going all out of him and being replaced by a feature more panicked. “No. No, baby—no. Don’t do that. You don’t have to.”

You felt your own grip slip as he talked. “Steve.” His name trailed off uneasily.

“It’s late. Stay, come on. We don’t do this.” His hand came up again, the hand that had been half-raised in the air, and reached for you, and you took a step back from it, and his face did something unbearable. “We’re so, so far in. We don’t go to bed like this, we don’t do this.”

“Please, Steve.”

“What do you need?” The words came out fast, scared. “Whatever you need, whatever it is, tell me. I’ll sleep on the couch. I won’t sleep. You stay here—” His voice broke on it. “Just don’t go. Let’s not let it be this.”

You closed your eyes. The please in his mouth was its own knife, because you had been hearing him say it in beds and on couches and in the warm dark for nine months, and tonight it was at his front door, asking you for the one thing you couldn't give him.

“I need you to let me go home,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m not—I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving your apartment. That’s not the same thing.” 

“They feel like the same.”

“I know they do, but they aren’t.”

You could see his chest moving with it, the small unsteady rhythm of a man trying not to come apart in front of you, and you had to look away from it for a second, at the cake, at the towel still on the bathroom floor, at anything else.

“We’re not in the same place right now,” you said, and your voice was almost gentle, because you didn't have the energy for it to be anything else. “We keep talking and we keep—Steve, we keep saying things and they keep meaning different things. I can’t—we can’t fix that by staying. I’ll just say more things, and you’ll hear them wrong. You’ll say more things, and I’ll hear them wrong. And—and one of us is going to say something we can’t take back, and I—I don’t want that. I’m trying not to do that, I’m trying really hard.”

You watched him hear it, not all of it—you didn’t think he had room in him to hear all of it—but enough. He’d heard enough that the reaching hand finally came down. He stood there and looked at you, and you saw, for the first time all night, that he was exhausted; he’d been holding himself up through the whole conversation on terror alone, and that had finally burned through.

You put your hand on his cheek. He made a sound. Small, breathed-out, for he had been waiting an hour and a half to be touched by you, and the touch was goodbye. His eyes closed. His head turned into your palm. The wet of his cheek caught on the heel of your hand.

You let him have it for a moment.

Then you stepped up onto the balls of your feet—the way you used to have to, since you'd been seventeen—and pressed your mouth to his cheek, just once, the spot below the bone where you'd kissed him a thousand uncounted times. He smelled like his shower, the warm of him. He smelled the apartment and the cake and the night that had been your night four hours ago.

You held the kiss for longer than you meant to. Then you came down off your toes and your hand came down off his face, and his eyes were still closed, and you watched him keep them that way, because opening them meant looking at you leaving, and he was buying himself one more second of not having to.

“Can you—” His voice was small. “Can you call me when you get there? Just so I—”

“I will.”

“Just so I’ll know.”

“I’ll call.”

You turned to pick up your jacket from where it had missed the hook hours ago. You found your bag. You found, in the entry, the one shoe you'd lost coming in; it was under the small console table, and you had to crouch to get it. You put it on standing up, one hand braced against the wall.

You kept yourself from looking back at him before you opened the door. You couldn’t, was the thing. If you looked back you wouldn't go, so you didn't look. You opened the door, and the hallway lights were a different color than the apartment lights, cold and fluorescent after the lamp, and you stepped into them, and you pulled the door shut behind you, and you stood for a second in his hallway with your hand still on the knob from the outside.

Thursday came, indifferent to what happened on Tuesday in Steve’s apartment. The drive to the field was the same one you took every Tuesday and Thursday. You sat in the car for a minute after you turned it off because the practice was running a little long, and you watched, through the chain-link, Steve in the middle of the diamond with one hand on his hip and the other moving in the gesture he did when he was explaining a thing for the third time. The kids were standing in a loose half-circle around him. One of them was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Carter was at the back, with his hat askew, doing nothing in particular.

You got out of the car and walked across the gravel to the fence, putting your hands on the chain-link as you waited. 

Steve saw you, his body registering your presence before he could even decide to turn to look at you. He finished the sentence he was on with the kids—you watched his mouth move; watched the bouncing kid stop bouncing; watched Carter's hat get pushed back into a more reasonable place by the kid next to him—and then he clapped his hands once, and the half-circle broke up.

He crossed to you with a slower gait than usual, a little hesitant. “Hi.”

It had only been a day in-between now and the night in his apartment, and the only exchange you’d had with Steve was over the phone; the first, to let him know you’d made it back home safely, and the second being yesterday. 

The second one had been yesterday, him checking in on you. The way he always had been—calling you at the end of the day for nothing except to put his voice in your ear before you slept, if you weren’t sleeping next to him. Except there had been a reason, and it was sitting in the phone between both of you, and he called anyway, because to not call would have been making a statement you didn’t think he could make, one that you weren’t sure you could take, either. He’d asked how you were doing, and you heard how careful he was being with the ordinary words, like the line might break under any weight at all. 

You’d said you were okay and he’d said okay; then you both sat in in the silence you’d never had, not since he’d become a part of your life once again. You'd both spent the last however-many months building something with no room in it for that quiet, and here it was anyway, breathing on the line, sounding exactly like the thing you'd promised each other was over. He'd tried. You’d heard him try—the small intake of breath, the one you knew better than your own—and then nothing, the sentence abandoned somewhere it hurt to leave it. You both said goodbyes that were too quick, then. You'd hung up and sat with the phone in your lap for a long time, and missed him so much it didn't make sense, given that you'd just been talking to him.

“Hi.”

He came around the gate and you met him halfway. His hands found your waist and you put yours on his shoulders. He leaned down and kissed you, his mouth landing where it always did on your mouth briefly, the one you’d calibrated for a fenceful of eleven-year-olds. His mouth was cold from being outside. 

Half a second later, his forehead tipped down to yours, his cold nose brushing the side of yours, breathing you in once like he was topping off something that had run low. His hand had slid from your waist to the small of your back somewhere in it and pressed, just barely, just enough to tell you exactly how much of this he was holding still on the leash for the sake of you; his thumb dragged one slow line up your spine before stopping itself. You felt the whole weight of him decide, with visible effort, to behave.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, chaste, a consolation prize to himself. Then he made himself do the small adjustment that ended it, and you made yourself help him do it, the two of you stepping back out of the moment by mutual mechanical agreement. 

“Hey, you,” you said, and your voice just didn’t sound right.

“Hey,” he murmured. His thumb did a small swipe at the bone of your hip where his hand had been. “Did good today. Did you see the last drill?”

“Missed it. I was on the road.”

“Carter ate Mason’s lunch. He took the entire—anyway. There’s a whole thing Devon’s gonna find out.”

You laughed lightly. “You’re supposed to make sure he has room for dinner.”

His face flickered slightly. “I’m not getting involved. I’m a coach, not a peacekeeper.”

It was the closest thing to them you'd had in two days, and you watched him hear it land and not push past it, watched him stand there in his coaching jacket with the wind catching the ends of his hair and the late-afternoon light doing something gold to one side of his face, and you understood, with the kind of clarity that arrives in unsupervised moments, that you were not going to be able to keep doing two more days of almost-right. You couldn't. He couldn't. Standing in the parking lot performing okay-ness to each other was going to break something neither of you wanted broken.

Carter showed up at your elbow before you'd worked out how to ask.

“Ice cream today?”

“No,” you said through a chuckle. “I just heard you ate Mason’s entire lunch.”

Carter turned to look at Steve with what looked like betrayal. 

“Sorry. Had to tell her.” Steve nodded, grave. “You can’t go around eating other people’s food.”

“You’re not supposed to be on his side.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side, bud.”

You let them go. You waited until Carter had finished cataloguing the day and Steve had finished pretending to take them seriously, and Carter had gotten distracted by a stray ball at the edge of the lot and ran after it. Steve turned back to you and his hands went into his jacket pockets and the off came back into the air immediately, the way it had been getting into and out of the air the entire time you’d been here.

You'd been working it out in your head for an hour. You said it before you could re-litigate the saying of it.

“Hey, do you—do you maybe wanna come with me to drop Carter off?”

Something shifted across his face. “Yeah. Yeah. I—”

“You don’t—I just thought. If, after I drop him at Devon’s, we could—” You couldn't quite finish it, and you watched him not need you to.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and rubbed once at the back of his neck. “Let me grab my bag. Two seconds. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

He looked at you a second longer than the moment required. The corner of his mouth tried for something and didn't quite get there. He turned and crossed back toward the dugout, and you stood there at the fence in the late afternoon with your hands in your jacket pockets and watched him go.

“Shotgun,” Carter said the second he registered Steve coming back toward the car with his duffel slung over one shoulder, still truly believing saying the word was a legal claim that overrode everything else. He was already moving for the passenger door.

“No,” Steve said flatly, slightly amused, without breaking stride.

“Why?”

“Because that’s my seat, kid.”

It came out matter-of-fact, the way Steve said things that weren't actually up for discussion, and he didn't even slow down. He was already at the passenger door before Carter had finished processing the sentence. He pulled it open with the easy proprietary motion, like he had no intention of pretending otherwise in front of an eleven-year-old.

“You can’t just—”

“Watch me.”

He ducked into the seat with his bag still on his shoulder. Carter, in the small horror of having his entire announced shotgun-call overridden by the largest available adult, stood there with his mouth half-open.

“You can’t be mean to me. You’re my coach.”

“Not right now. I’m off the clock.” Steve was settling in, knee against the glove compartment, one hand reaching back to push the seat the inch he always had to push it because the last person in it had been considerably shorter. He had not so much as glanced at Carter through the open door. “Back seat. Let’s go. Time’s wasting.”

Carter made a sound of pure adolescent grievance—somewhere between a groan and a ‘seriously?’—and stomped around to the back door with his backpack dragging on the gravel.

You got in the driver's side buckled your seatbelt and adjusted the rearview that didn't need adjusting and Steve, in the seat beside you, took up the exact amount of space he always took up, his knee canted toward the console, his arm along the door rest, his attention undivided.

“You’re mean today,” you said to Steve.

You glanced at him. The smugness was still there, lower now, settled in, the version of it that lived in him on Sunday mornings when he watched you stretch in his bed and pretended he was looking at the window. He didn't look away when you caught him. He never did, anymore. There had been a few months early in when he would have, when getting caught had been a thing he had to bear, but somewhere he had stopped pretending he didn't watch you.

Carter, in the back seat, mumbled, “She doesn’t even want you there.”

Devon raised a hand at you from the porch, and you raised yours back. The screen door closed behind Carter and the porch light, which had been on since before you got there, finally registered as the only light on a slate-blue afternoon. You stayed in the driveway. You let the car run a second longer, then reached and turned the key, and the engine quieted, and the car began the small ticking-cooling sounds it made when you'd been driving with the windows up.

Steve was angled toward the passenger window still, hand on his thigh. 

You leaned back against the headrest and let your eyes close for a second. The off—the one between you and Steve—came back into the car fully, for there was no Carter to push it back out. The car held it, you held it, he, beside you, was holding it too. You kept your eyes closed; you wanted, briefly, the world to wait.

The world did wait for about fifteen seconds. Then Steve said, quietly, to himself, “Fuck.”

You opened your eyes and he was looking through the windshield at Devon’s porch with his jaw set. His hand had come up off his thigh and was pressed flat against his own forehead, the heel of it dug in over one eyebrow.

“Sorry.” The word came out fast and low. “Sorry. Sorry. I have to say something. I can’t sit here—baby, I can’t do another minute of—” He gestured at the air of the car, at the ‘this,’ the two days, and his voice came apart somewhere in the middle of the gesture. “I really, really can’t.”

He took his hand off his forehead and turned in the seat, his entire body, knee knocking the console, and looked at you. His eyes were wet, they likely had been for a while, and you just hadn’t looked because you were too afraid to find it. 

You turned your head against the headrest. The driveway had gone very quiet given that your car wasn’t making its usual white noise. Your pulse was going unevenly under your jaw; it had been doing since Tuesday, a thing you weren’t able to talk your body down from. “Me too,” you said. “I can’t either.”

He made a small sound and his head dropped, his eyes going to his own knee. “Me too’s got a lot of—that could mean a lot of things.” His jaw worked, and he let out a chuckle devoid of any humor. “Just tell me you’re not—” He breathed in shakily. “Because I keep thinking you’ve finally—” He shook his head, like he could maybe get rid of the sentence and the thought entirely. “I don’t wanna say it. If I say it, it’s like—I’m not going to say it.”

“No,” you said too quickly, your hand coming off your collarbone toward him before you'd decided to move it. “No. God, Steve. Not that.”

“Yeah?” His voice came out rough.

“Steve, I haven’t slept.” Your hand had come up off the wheel without your noticing, was pressed flat against your own collarbone. “And I miss you. So much that it doesn’t feel real. And—” You took in a breath. “I have to say some things. Can I—can I just talk? For a minute? I don't think I have it all right. I just—I have to—I have to try.”

He nodded once and reached to lay his hand flat on the console between you, palm up.

You looked at the steering wheel. “I just, I can’t be with someone who thinks I’m going to break.” You forced yourself to keep your eyes forward. You heard him take in a quick, sharp breath, the words sending him into fight-or-flight immediately. “I’m not—I’m not breakable. I’ve been hurt before. I got hurt really badly, by you, actually—” you huffed, and he flinched. “I lived. And I’ll be hurt again. And I—I keep finding out you think I am. Breakable. Insecure.” The word came out with more bite than you’d intended, and that was maybe the small part of you that wanted to fight against the label.

“Baby, I don’t—”

“I know. I know you don’t think you do—”

“I don’t think you are—”

“On Tuesday, you didn’t tell me about Nancy because you thought I’d—”

His jaw worked. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Okay, yeah—I hear that,” He dragged a hand down his face. “But I don’t think you’re breakable, or fragile, or insecure—whatever it is you think I think of you.”

You fiddled with your hands in your lap.

“I have never thought that. Not once. I think—you’re the toughest person I’ve ever known.”

You let out a small chuckle then—it sounded almost meanly sarcastic—as you shook your head. 

“I’m serious.” His hand on the console opened wider, like he was offering the words on a flat surface. 

“I hurt you. Once. And I never—I didn’t ever fix that. I just left and you left and it stayed broke. And now every time I think something might hurt you, I—I want to move it out of your way before you can—” His voice became looser. “I always want to take care of you.” He shook his head, slow, almost disbelieving at himself.

“But it wasn’t that, though. I felt sick when I realized that when you left. It’s never about what you can’t take, it’s about me. I can’t—I don’t want to be the one who does that to you again. So I just, don’t let it near you. Even if it is nothing.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum, hard, the way he did when something hurt there and he wanted it to stop. “I messed up by leaving stuff out rather than risk being the guy who hurt you again. That’s so—it’s been such a shitty thing I’ve been doing to you.”

He turned to look at you then. “I’m sorry. For making you feel that way, for hiding everything. I will—will, if you let me—try harder.”

You watched his hand on the console for a long moment. “I just, I don’t know. I just want to be part of your life,” you said into the console. “I’m scared you’re going to have things I don’t know about and people I don’t know and weekends I’m not in—and one day I’m going to wake up, and your life will just be different. And I’m scared, I think, of being on the outside of you again. That’s—I think that’s what this is.” 

“I can’t—” He pressed the heel of his palm to his chest. “You let me back in. That’s the, I broke the whole thing, and you still let me try again. And I keep—” His words shook slightly. “I'm so scared of losing it again I hide stuff from you. Which is the thing that loses it. I know. I know that.”

“Steve.”

And a part of you knew you were talking in circles yet again, that maybe this conversation was a whole front to hide how truly terrified you were.

He shook his head, forcing his eyes away from you. “You being outside; that’s backwards. The four years was the outside. That was me. I don’t—” He stopped, then started, words slowing down. “Now, there’s no part of any of it I want with you not in it. None of it is—it’s just stuff I’m doing until you’re there, too.”

He looked at his own hand on the console. “I think about stuff, with you.” He moved his jaw. “I have been, since I was sixteen. I never stopped, not even when I was being an idiot.” He took a rough breath. “So you’re not gonna wake up outside of me. You’d have to leave. And I’m just gonna be here.” He turned to look at you. “However long you will have me.”

You took in a breath that felt too sharp. “You can’t promise that.” 

“No.” It came out fast, like he'd been waiting for you to catch it, almost relieved you had. “No, you’re right. I can’t. I can’t promise you’ll never feel it. I'm not gonna stand here and lie to you, I did enough of that already.” He tilted his head like he was looking for the right words. “But I can work, I’ll work at it so you never have to feel like that. That's the thing I can actually promise. Not that it won't happen. That I'll never stop trying to make sure it doesn't.” 

He looked at his hand again. “And you gotta tell me when I’m doing it. Because clearly—” He let out a short laugh. “Clearly I’m not good at seeing it myself. I thought I was protecting you and I was just—so you gotta say it.” He swallowed. “I’ll believe you over me. Everytime.”

You stayed silent for a moment, letting the words soak you up. It was with a sharp, almost comforting feeling you realized that—even if you do end up in this situation a million times over—you would be in, all in. But you stayed quiet a moment longer than that, longer than was comfortable, because the old reflex to fix Steve’s face, smooth the ruin off it, was there. Watching Steve hurt was always the thing you couldn’t sit in, but you forced yourself to sit in it now. 

And he let you, waited with his hand open on the console, breathing wrong and letting you take the time. He was doing, already, the exact thing he’d promised ten seconds ago, before the promise had even cooled. 

So you did put your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours like he’d been waiting his whole life for the permission to. He made a sound that was in the middle of being broken and relieved; he brought your knuckles up to his mouth and held him there, lips breathing against them. 

“Okay,” he said into your hand. 

“Yeah,” you said, the word coming out in a breath.

The engine had gone cold under the hood. The porch light was the only thing left of the afternoon, and neither of you moved toward leaving.

“Tell me what you did,” he said eventually, lowering your hand so he was still holding it. “The two days. All of it. What did you do?” 

You laughed shortly. “It was a day and a half. We talked on the phone.”

“That doesn’t count.” He made a face. “That was awful. What’d you actually do? Hour by hour. Go.”

“Nothing happened. It was the most normal day and a half of my life.” 

“Good. Perfect. Tell me the normal.” He shifted lower in the seat, getting comfortable, settling in for it, your hand kept hostage in his hold. “I missed it.”

“Mm. Went on a date in the morning, looked for a new—”

“You can mess with me,” he said, quieter than the joke deserved with his brows raised. “I don’t even care. I’d still be grateful you’re talking to me right now.”

You blinked at him. “You’re supposed to play along.”

“I know. I can’t. You’re being mean and it’s making me like you more.”

“Oh my god, I hate you so much.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “And what’d you do after your date?”

[consistentlyamess]

when i tell you i’m obsessed, i need you to understand i’m OB-SESSDUH. this series is so good. my chest physically squeezed up and hurt at certain points. the starting over the softness and the hard parts of it all, it’s all so fucking great!!!! @mcybank please never stop breaking hearts.

i think this is my favourite

“You both, very carefully, looked at your plates because you had just been handed a future across a dinner table and were each pretending the other hadn't heard it. Under the cloth, his knee came to rest against yours and stayed.”

[andvys]

The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter twenty two

⭐︎ If anyone could’ve saved me, it would’ve been you

Warnings: 18+, mdni, mentions of sex, making out, mentions of depression, allusions to suicide (in the past)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: You and Steve spend your first morning after, and he is nothing but gentle while you ache for more of your boyfriend... and maybe you'll get exactly what you want because he wants you just as much.

Word count: 8.4k

Authors note: I am so sorry for taking so long to update this chapter, it was originally meant to be a longer one and I promise the next one will be longer. I hope you will feel satisfied with this for now. Most of it was written by @hellfire--cult so give my girl all the love

Series masterlist ⭐︎ Previous Chapter

☀︎

Warmth, a feeling of safety and happiness envelopes you fully when you wake up this morning. Your chest feels so light. A foreign feeling courses through your body and an ache between your legs that you haven’t noticed yet. You are too busy admiring your sleeping boyfriend. 

You feel his bare skin against your own, for the first time. His hand is on your lower back, keeping you against him tightly. He is breathing softly, his face is relaxed and content. There is a mark on his neck that you have left on him. You can’t help but lift your hand and touch his face, tracing his features, pushing his hair out of his face. He is so beautiful, and he is all yours. 

Your heart flutters when you think about last night. 

It finally happened. 

His moans echo in your ears, his hold on you and his touches making your skin burn and your stomach yearn for more. It felt so good, so right to be underneath him, to feel him inside of you. It not only felt good, it also felt right, and you are happy that you waited because there is nobody else you would have wanted to do it with. 

And you can’t wait to do it again and again… and again. 

A smile tugs at Steve’s lips when he wakes up to your featherlike touch on his face. He can feel your eyes on him, your staring. His heart swells in his chest, pounding heavily when the events of last night wash over him and he remembers the feeling of your body under him, being on top of you, being inside of you, feeling your touches, your kisses, seeing the look in your eyes, and feeling blessed to hear you calling out his name in pleasure. He can’t begin to put his feelings into words, he is unable to. But getting to feel you like this made him feel like he won and his heart exploded. This wasn’t just sex. No, it was far more than that, and it’s something he never even felt before. 

“Creep.”

Your hand freezes on his cheek, and it makes him smile even bigger. 

Your cheeks start burning, and you instantly remove your hand and bury your face in his chest, making him chuckle. He rubs your back, looking down at you fondly. 

“Hey, none of that anymore,” he smiles as he cups your cheek and makes you look at him. “Look at me, Sunshine.”

You look at him through your lashes, giving him a shy smile that makes his heart flutter in his chest. He caresses your cheek and tucks your hair behind your ear. 

“Good morning, baby.” His voice was rough, yet you could hear the smile on it. You felt every fiber of you burning, either from nerves, happiness, excitement, you didn’t know anymore. All you knew though, was that it was good. All was good.

“Good morning…” Your voice was small, and you felt his arm tug you even closer to him. The sun was shining brightly through the curtains, and the room was colder than the night before. The fire was out, leaving ashes behind, and the blankets over your naked bodies was not really enough, but you didn’t care.

His lips found yours in a soft kiss, saying hello, and you took a sharp intake of breath as you kissed back. You felt different. You felt… like a woman. You felt older, and you wondered if that would show at all. He pulled away way too quickly for your liking, making you frown and pout. He chuckled, shaking his head.

“We can’t stay in here all day, as much as I want to.” He said, still looking down at you with care, fondness, and he was just too happy. He didn’t want to leave this. This bubble you two were in, as if the apocalypse wasn’t just outside these walls, as if this house was yours. He didn’t want to, but he knew you two had to.

“I don’t wanna go…” You whined, and he pinched your side, making you squeal. 

“We’re going to freeze to death, and Nancy and Eddie are going to leave our corpses behind.” He joked, and you looked up at him wide eyed, shaking your head.

“Or worse… They don’t let us freeze to death, and they come in here, and see us naked.” 

“You need to set your priorities straight, Sunshine.” He laughed, his chest shaking with it, making your head bounce, and you followed just the same. Blissful ignorance, at least for a while. The laughter stopped for a second, and his eyes returned to your face. “You okay?”

“Mmm? I am, why wouldn’t I be?” He raised an eyebrow your way, a cheeky smile on his lips.

“Really? Not even sore?” Heat came back up to your ears, and you shook your head at him. “Mmm… okay, let’s say I believe you.”

He groaned a bit as he stretched with you in his arms, his right arm getting out of the blanket to stretch all the way up, and you caught sight of the veins on it. That arm that held you last night, the groan he let out, almost the same as when he came undone. His chest expanding as he took a deep breath in.

Oh, no.

You licked your lips, nerves filling your belly as you glanced at the two foil packs that were next to Steve’s side of the mattress. He was unaware of where your eyes were, unaware of how heat started pooling between your legs again. 

You got the courage of kissing him first, of giving the first step on that small area, but how were you supposed to give the sign of wanting to… do that? How did it go? Do you ask? Is that how it worked in relationships? You didn’t know, and the thought was making you a little nervous. Because you wanted to. Again. Right now. 

Because Steve’s hair was messy, the light was shining on his side profile just right, his freckles were calling out for your lips, and the groan he let out made your entire body remember the pleasure from last night. You knew he felt good, but you wondered if you could make him feel… even better.

His eyes went towards the window, dreading the fact that he had to clean everything up, get dressed, and just leave this place. He wished he could stay at least another night, alone with you, cook for you once more, and just make you feel special. The way he felt for you. He wanted you to feel it, and he hoped he did so, even if a bit, last night.

He then felt the side of his face being caressed and then you made him look back at you. He smiled, about to ask what you needed, but you cut him off by pressing your lips against his. He didn’t complain, he kissed back, softly, his mind a haze of happiness that he couldn’t shake no matter what.

You on the other hand, you were being driven by hormones, emotions, the need to feel him once more. Your thumb rubbed on his skin as you moved your lips against his, slowly deepening it, getting lost, just as your fingers did through his hair. You could hear him take a sharp breath through his nose as he kissed you, and you could feel your body temperature rising, slowly.

He got lost in your kisses, in his senses, and now that he got to have you, his body reacted all by itself without any restraint. Your heads moved, just a bit, as he moved to lie completely on his side, the kiss never breaking. Your left leg moved slowly, draping it over his under the blanket, pulling him closer. 

His arms wrapped around you, pulling your naked chest right against him, and you breathed out a moan into his mouth as you felt your nipples brush against his chest hair. His tongue immediately sought yours, and his right hand went down towards your ass, pulling you closer and into his hips as he groped it, digging his digits into your skin. 

You could feel him start to harden against your belly, which was in complete knots as you moved your hips slowly, rubbing up into him. You were gone. You wanted it again. You wanted him again. You wanted to try new things. You wanted to learn how to make him feel good, learn what he likes, and what he doesn’t. It was uncharted territory where you had so much to explore.

His hand went to the back of your thigh as he got harder, and his shaft started giving some friction to your clit, making you moan into his mouth and him into yours. Your eagerness was just making him lose his mind, now knowing you wanted him this way, that you desired him, that you were showing how you wanted him.

But fuck, he knew it was too early..

“Sunshine–” He pulled away just a bit, mumbling your name after you went in for another kiss, “we can’t, Eddie and Nancy–”

“Can wait for a few more minutes…” You whispered, and Steve was going to die right then and there. Much more when you started kissing his neck, right over his scar, and his head was thrown back, his dick twitching against you. 

“You’re really making it hard to say no to you…” He whispered, and you nibbled on his neck, taking note in your mind of how he groaned, how he reacted to it.  

“Then don’t…” You bit your bottom lip, moving your kisses towards his jaw, slowly, tempting. “Can we… again? Please?” 

Oh, he was fucked. He was so fucked. He was fully hard now and all he wanted was to comply, to say yes to you, to be inside of you again and hear you, and feel you, and look at you– 

“Baby– You are sore too–” But you were pecking his lips, so insistently, rubbing your hips as if you weren’t, and maybe he was wrong. He didn’t want you to be uncomfortable, but shit, you were making it impossible for him to refuse you.

“I am not–” You said, not really thinking, and he hummed against your lips. His hand left your thigh, going towards your center, making you gasp in his mouth the moment he grazed your clit, only for a whine of discomfort to vibrate in your throat the moment the tip of his fingers ran through your entrance. He pulled away, wincing, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that’s a lie…” You whined again, shaking your head. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him flush against you, and his fingers burned as your juices started wetting them when he palmed you.

“But I can bear it… It’ll be for a while at first, I still have to get used to it…” You were going to be the fucking death of him. He closed his eyes with a groan, and his lips found yours instantly. You smiled into the kiss, having won, as his fingers went back to start circling around your clit. 

Your stomach turned with anticipation, and he would have to be careful again, fully trusting your judgement. The moment he sees discomfort, he’ll stop. He can’t deny you at this point, and there are two unused condoms right next to him, and now he had nothing that would stop him from losing his mind over–

A loud honk could be heard, and the two of you pulled away, startled.

“What the fuck?” You whispered, looking over to the door. Steve cursed under his breath, his eyes following, lifting himself up with his elbow. Then, knocking.

“Sorry to interrupt your morning endeavors, but we need to keep moving! Can’t fuck all day in there!” Eddie’s voice echoed through, then his steps moving away, and you weren’t even embarrassed anymore. You were pissed. 

“I’m going to kick his fucking ass, as well as Nancy’s. All I wanted was a few more fucking minutes. Is that too much to ask for?” Steve’s eyes were wide at your outburst, the two of you sitting up on the mattress. You were glaring at the door, and he couldn’t help the laugh that came out of his lips. This was a whole new you, huh? He really made a monster. Before you would blush at every passing comment Eddie made that could hold a double meaning. Now you wanted to punch Eddie for not letting you have another moment with him. 

Your eyes snapped towards him, seeing him laughing and shaking his head. You frowned, confused, tilting your head.

“What?” 

“Nothing, nothing… But… I’ll kick his ass too, I’ll join you on that.” 

“And Nancy’s. For honking.” He smiled, moving to kiss your cheek. 

“And Nancy’s. Come on, we gotta get dressed and clean up…” You whined, but you knew you had to keep going. You had to make your libido go down, make this little fantasy finally burst, and keep moving towards real life. 

He cursed as he looked down at the blanket covering his bottom part. He felt a little shy for you to see him completely hard, and it seemed like you were the same. You were clenching the blanket over your chest, and the intense light coming from the windows was not going to let the two of you hide at all. 

But you were a couple. And he had seen more than just this from you already. 

His hands gripped the blankets and threw them away from the two of you. You squealed loudly, the cold air hitting your skin, creating goosebumps all over. You rushed on your feet, screaming as you rushed to get your dress. 

“What the fuck, Steve!”

Your shriek and the flustered look on your face makes your boyfriend chuckle. His amused yet hungry eyes follow your every movement. He bites his lip as he watches the jiggle of your ass. 

He pushes himself up, still laughing as he reaches for his boxers, holding back a wince when he tucks himself into his underwear. 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, baby.” He teases you, winking at you when you glance at him over your shoulder before you put your dress on. 

“Yeah but still!” You whine in embarrassment, still having to get used to all this. 

Steve grabs his jeans and puts them on next, not bothering with the belt. Throwing on his shirt, he runs his fingers through his hair and gets up, making his way over to you. A fond smile plays on his lips, watching as you adjust your dress, pulling it down your hips. 

He comes up from behind you, fingers reaching for the straps that he untied the night before. He ties the bows. His smile only widening when he sees the way your lip twitches at his action, eyes softening as you turn your head to look up at him. 

“Thank you.” You whisper sweetly, blinking up at him in a way that has his heart fluttering. 

“You’re welcome, baby.” He whispers back, giving your shoulder a kiss when he’s done. He pulls your hair back and kisses your neck next, trailing his lips to the back of your ear as his arms move around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. He inhales as he buries his nose in your neck, and his heart flutters even more. He smells your body wash, your lotion, you, but he also smells something else on you. His scent. You smell like him. Something about that drives him crazy. 

He can hear the shaky breath that falls from your lips, the kind that tells him how shy you are feeling at this moment. 

“No need to be so shy when you just wanted to have sex with me again,” he murmurs into your skin, making your stomach flutter and your skin burn. 

You place your hand over his as it rests on your stomach. You lean back into him, pressing your lips together as you take a deep breath. 

“Or wasn't it you that just begged?” He teases yet again, kissing your neck once more.

“Steve…” You whine, blushing. You can feel him against you. He is still hard, it makes you blush even more, but it also makes you feel… powerful. You can tease him right back. You push your ass against him, pulling out a loud groan from him and earning a possessive squeeze to your hips. 

“Sunshine.” He warns you. 

“Yes?” You tilt your head back to look at him, batting your eyelashes. 

“Don’t.”

You open your mouth to speak but he cuts you off. 

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” 

“Too bad I can’t help you with that, right?” You pout at him, slowly pulling away from his embrace, but you don’t even get a step ahead before he turns you back around and pulls you back in. He cups your cheeks and leans down, whispering 

“Already driving me insane, and we just got started. You’re a little freak, aren’t you?” He mumbles into your lips. 

The innocent look in your eyes, in combination with that smile on your lips, tells him everything he needs to know. 

Steve shakes his head, though his heart flutters so strongly. 

“I should have known.” He chuckles softly, smacking your ass. 

A yelp falls from your lips just in time as the door bursts open and Eddie’s footsteps echo in the hallway. 

“Are we decent?” He calls out to both of you, not stepping into the living room just yet. 

Steve rolls his eyes, “yeah, we’re decent.” 

You clear your throat, glancing back at your boyfriend with a flustered look on your face, something that makes him grin down at you. He keeps his arms wrapped around your waist and he pulls you further against him. 

“Goddamn, you know what it smells like in here, Nance?” You hear Eddie mumble, to which Nancy chuckles, though telling him to shut up – as if that ever stopped him. “Smells like really good p–”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, Munson.” Steve threatens him. 

Nancy laughs in the hallway. 

“Oh my god.” You whisper under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

The metalhead waltzes in with that smug look on his face. He greets you with a wiggle of his brows, looking between you and Steve. 

“Good morning, lovebirds.” He chuckles, eyes flashing with mischief. His eyes soften a bit when he sees how flustered you are. “See, I’d hug you, but I don’t know what’s been on that dress.”

“Stop! We took it off!” You blush, which only makes Eddie’s grin wider. Steve chuckles behind you as Nancy smiles at you, leaning against the wall next to Eddie.

“See, that’s where we’re different,” Eddie raises his eyebrow, looking over your shoulder at Steve. “I would’ve kept it on.”

Steve groaned, rolling his eyes at his friend, a smirk appearing on his lips as well.

“Now, with the view I had? That would have been an idiotic decision to make.” Your entire body lit up, ripping yourself from your boyfriend as he chuckled while Eddie whistled and high fived him. You were pouting as Nancy came over to finally link her arm with yours.

“Men.” She simply said, looking down at the used condom on the bed, and then, the stained towel Steve used to clean you up. She took the opportunity Eddie was helping Steve pick things up, and she leaned over to you, whispering, “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah…” You nodded, stuttering through your embarrassment. It was great it finally happened, but it still made you a bit conscious that Eddie and Nancy didn’t have to imagine too hard on what was going on inside this room. 

“He took care of you?” You knew she was being overprotective, but that was Nancy’s nature. You smiled, nodding again.

“Very. A lot. Two times.” You wiggled your eyebrows at her, and she scoffed, rolling her eyes. 

“That’s actually great to know.” She looked around the room and frowned when she realized there was no coat for you. “Oh god, you need to go to the RV and put something on. It’s actually very cold. I’m glad the fireplace left some embers through the night.” 

Eddie heard Nancy talk, and he nodded as he threw stuff in the trash bag he had in his hand. Steve sheepishly grabbed the towel and sheets, putting them in the laundry bag Eddie brought in. 

“Yeah, we need to get going. It’s snowing, and you guys need to start driving so we can catch up on time.” You all nodded, and honestly, you weren’t all that focused on the cold until Nancy mentioned it just now. 

Fuck, it was freezing, and there was still some warmth in this room.

“Okay, I just… really need to shower first…?” You looked at Nancy, wincing. She sighed, giving you a nod. She knew you might feel a little dirty from last night, and from the looks of it, you might need the shower to wash off blood and other things. 

“Alright, shower while we all pack up. We can easily recharge the water after you’re done.” Nancy smiled, and you nodded with a sigh of relief, and your eyes clashed with your boyfriend’s. 

Steve had been looking at you all this time, and he couldn’t really believe you were his. There was this glow all around you that just made his knees buckle slightly. He walked over to you, leaning down to give you a soft peck on the lips. 

“Leave some water for me. I also need to shower.” He mumbled, and Eddie whistled behind him, making the two of you look at the metalhead.

“Save water, shower together– ouch!” His words were interrupted by a smack over the head from Nancy, who had a glare in her eyes.

“If we put them together in that shower, it will take longer for us to leave. So no.” You pouted a bit, because Eddie's idea wasn’t so bad. Steve rolled his eyes, looking back at you. He poked the tip of your nose. 

“It’s fine, Honey. We’ll get our shower soon.” Steve mumbles, glaring at Nancy before he leans down to kiss your forehead. His hand squeezes your waist, “go on, get yourself warmed up while I clean up here.” 

You look down, blushing. 

Nancy and Eddie’s eyes meet, smug looks crossing their faces, seeing your flustered reaction. They are gonna have so much teasing you. 

“Okay.” You whisper and give your boyfriend a quick peck to his lips before you hurry out of the room. 

Steve’s eyes follow you until you disappear into the hallway. Silence echoes in the room for a few seconds. He looks at Eddie first, then at Nancy. Smirks big on their faces. The metalhead wiggles his eyebrows at him. 

Steve rolls his eyes at him, and like yo,u he can’t even help but blush. He huffs and runs his fingers through his hair. 

Nancy knows not to tease him, but she will definitely tease you. She starts walking out of the living room, following you out into the RV. “You two have fun cleaning up.” She grins after giving Steve a pat on his shoulder. Winking at Eddie on her way out. 

To Steve’s surprise, Eddie doesn’t say anything, not even as they both start cleaning up. Putting away the mattress he carried down yesterday, cleaning up the dirty dishes in the kitchen. 

Eddie finds the polaroid pictures you both have taken last night, and he picks them up. He wants to tease him so bad, asking if he’s gonna use the Polaroid camera in the bedroom, but instead, Eddie’s heart twists in his chest when he looks at one of you on Steve’s lap, him looking at you with happiness in his eyes – happiness Steve thought he would never have again. After Robin, a part of him had died, a huge part. Then you came along, and you picked up all the broken pieces and put them back together. As much as he tried to push you away at first, he couldn’t. Not you. Eddie watched him find parts of himself he didn’t know existed, he watched him fall in love like never before, and then he pushed you away and not only broke parts of himself again but also parts of you. His fears did that. 

That night in Wyoming, when Steve opened up to him about his real feelings for you, he thought he had lost you. And when he pulled out that polaroid picture of you from his pocket, Eddie saw the pain in his eyes, the same one he saw when he lost Robin. 

Eddie’s heart ached for his best friend then. 

But now he feels relief, happiness. 

Steve has a new polaroid to keep in his pocket. 

One where he and his feelings aren’t hidden behind the camera. 

Eddie glances at Steve, who is humming, his lips curled into a smile. Everything changed about the way he moves, the tension in his shoulders is gone, and the look in his eyes has changed. He moves lightly. He looks content, he looks happy. 

Eddie feels the tightness in his throat and the burning in his eyes. A year ago, he felt the need to check up on Steve every night and every morning, needing to make sure that he was still alive in there. He was a dead man walking. 

Now he is alive again, he is living again, and all because of you. 

Eddie swallows the lump in his throat. He puts the Polaroids down. He clears his throat, puts back that teasing smile of his, and turns back to Steve. There’s no space for sad emotions. Not today. 

“So…” 

Steve glances at him, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yes?”

“Does she actually suck like a hoover or?” Eddie smirks before a laugh tumbles from his lips when Steve hits him with a kitchen towel. 

“Can it, Munson. We gotta go.” 

Eddie’s smirk only widens in response when he sees the blush on Steve’s cheeks. 

Steve shakes his head with a huff. He hasn’t thought about it. Not yet. He doesn’t even know if you want to do it, and yet Eddie’s stupid comment lingers, and he now has to think about you on your knees before him, looking up at him with those pretty eyes. 

Eddie chuckles quietly when he notices the look on his face. 

“I told you… shut up.” Steve grumbles. 

-

After Nancy handed you some clean and warmer clothes, you excused yourself to the bathroom. You step out of your boots and take off your sundress. The ache between your thighs lingers, and you are sure that it will for days; you don’t mind it at all. You take a look in the mirror, noticing the marks and hickeys instantly, not only on your neck but also on your chest. You trace them with your fingers where his lips had been. Your heart flutters at the memory, and your cheeks heat up again. 

For the first time in a while, you don’t mind looking at the reflection of yourself in the mirror. The things Steve said to you, the way he kissed and touched you, made you feel beautiful. You feel stupid the way you are smiling now, but you can’t help it. It feels like a nice dream. He feels like a dream. 

You don’t know how much time passes as you stand there and look at yourself but when goosebumps cover your skin, and you realize just how cold you are, you finally start the water and step inside, sighing at the feeling of the hot water cascading down your skin. For a moment, you just stand there with your eyes closed, enjoying the warmth… and the memory of the night before. 

When you reach for the shampoo, you realize that it’s a new one. Nancy must’ve put it there. Your breath hitches in your throat; it’s the same one your mom uses. You stare at it for a moment. You are so close to home. So close to seeing your family again. You have waited for this moment for so long, and now it’s almost in reach. 

As you start to wash your hair, your mind wanders. You don’t even notice the tension in your shoulders as you go over all the questions in your head. 

You wonder how your family will react to seeing you after so long, after seeing how much you have changed. So many things have happened in these past few months. So many good things like Steve, Eddie, and Nancy. But also bad things, bad things that have shaped you into who you are today. 

Have they changed at all? 

Would they even want to go to California? That is a question you have been scared of because what if they don’t want to leave home? What if they want to stay? What will happen then? Would you want to stay? Not without Steve. No. Never without Steve again. Thinking about home makes you think about him. 

And what happens when–

“You okay in there?” Nancy asks, knocking on the door and pulling you out of your thoughts, for good. 

“Yeah! I’ll be out in a moment.” You say as you start rinsing the shampoo from your hair. 

“Take your time. I just wanted to check on you. I’ll make some coffee!” You hear her disappearing footsteps. 

You finish showering and lather your skin in lotion before you start getting dressed. You put on a pair of light-washed denim jeans and the knitted sweater Nancy had picked out for you. You brush your wet hair and take one last look in the mirror before you step out. You are greeted by the smell of coffee. 

Nancy is standing by the counter, stirring her coffee. She rolls her eyes at the boys’ bickering outside the RV. 

“What are they fighting about?” You ask with an amused smile on your face. 

“Eddie wants to take some stuff from the house, Steve says no.” Nancy chuckles as she hands you a cup of coffee. 

“Sounds like Eddie,” you chuckle and thank her as you take the mug from her hands. You bring it up to your lips and take a sip. 

Nancy crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the counter, looking you up and down with a smile. A teasing one. 

“Nancy…” You murmur, blushing. 

“What? You’re not gonna share any details?” She wiggles her eyebrows at you. 

“I’m a lady.” You smirk as you take another sip of your coffee. Appreciating the way she put the perfect amount of sugar into it. 

“A lady?” Nancy giggles, shaking her head. “After all the conversations we had about sex–”

“Shush!” “Hey you wanted to know every detail when I had sex with…” She pauses, furrowing her brows. “What was his name again… Tommy?” 

You laugh in surprise, eyes widening, “you don’t remember his name!?”

She raises her hands up in surrender. 

“Are you saying it wasn’t great?” You ask, putting down the mug.

Nancy shrugs at your question, biting her lip. “I’m not saying anything.”

“How can you not remember his name? I— if Steve was my one-night stand, I would think about him for the rest of my life! Not that I know much about hookups and all that but judging by the things I’ve heard from other women before the world went to shit, no guy ever goes down on you and gives you two orgasms before he actually fucks you! And it’s not only that, he is also big! I thought they were faking those big ones in porn movies, turns out they actually exist.” Your own eyes widen, and you start blushing when you realize just what the hell spilled from your lips. You didn’t mean to share details from the night before, nor did you ever plan to tell anyone the fact that you had watched porn before. Curiosity made you do it. 

Nancy’s blue eyes widen, and her lips part in surprise. 

You hide your face behind your hands, shaking your head at yourself. You’re glad Steve didn’t hear all that. 

“Holy shit, Sunshine.” She giggles, covering her mouth as she processes just what you have said to her. “So… it was everything you had imagined, huh?”

You peek at her through the gaps in your fingers, blushing even deeper at the smug smile on her face. 

“I’m taking that as a yes.” Nancy chuckles, patting your shoulder. “Also porn—“ she instantly stops herself when the door opens, and the bickering men walk in. 

“We can’t take the damn drum set, dude. We barely have space for us in here.” Your boyfriend grumbles, shaking his head at Eddie. 

“Come on–”

“Drum set?” Nancy furrows her eyebrows, “where the hell did you find a drum set?” 

“Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms.” Eddie shrugs. 

“Take my brother’s when we get to Nevada.” You turn around and instantly grow even more flustered when your eyes lock with Steve’s. He doesn’t hesitate approaching you, smiling when he notices you blushing. He doesn’t think anything of it, knowing that Nancy must have teased you. He wraps his arm around you and kisses your temple. 

“You smell good.” Steve murmurs into your ear, making your stomach flip. He rubs your arm and looks at you with a smile. 

You smile in response, leaning your head on his shoulder. 

“Oh this is sickening…” Eddie mumbles as he looks between you. “In a good way. Wait– you have never told me your brother plays drums! What’s up with that? How come I only find out now?” He puts his hand on his hips. The look of disappointment on his face makes you chuckle. 

“Because I knew you wouldn’t stop pestering me about it–”

“Damn right!” Eddie throws his hands up. “I’m disappointed, Sunshine.” 

“Leave my girlfriend alone.” Steve pulls you closer, glaring at Eddie.

“He’s not even good at it, Eddie.” You giggle at Eddie’s dramatic reaction. 

“Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that.” Eddie shakes his head at you.

“What, you want him to join your band now?” 

Eddie shrugs again, smirking, “why the hell not?” 

“As long as your house will be on the other side of the community, I don’t care but I have had enough sleepless nights because of him and his drums!” 

Steve chuckles, squeezing your arm. 

“Don’t worry, honey. Our house will be far from Eddie’s. No noise complaints.” 

Your heart skips a beat, warmth envelopes you, and not just from his touch. Our house. You love the sound of it. You raise your head to look up at him, only to find him looking at you already. His eyes flicker from your eyes to your lips, and you can’t help but sink your teeth into your lower lip, gazing up at him. 

Heat pools in your belly when you see how much his eyes darken, his grip on your arm tightening. You can practically feel his own desire; it’s just as strong as yours, if not stronger. 

Your breath hitches in your throat, and you almost forget that you aren’t alone in here. God. How will you survive sharing this RV with your friends when your boyfriend looks at you like he is ready to devour you? 

“Yeah… I don’t think the noise complaints will come from me…” Eddie murmurs as he looks between you two. You couldn’t help the heat coming to your cheeks, which honestly seemed like it was there to stay forever. 

You looked at your boyfriend, who had a cheeky smile on his face despite the blush, not dismissing Eddie at all. Nancy was yawning, patting Steve’s shoulder, catching his attention.

“If you do not mind, Eddie and I need to hit the sack. He already marked in the map the road we should take, but as always, wake us up if you guys need anything.” She said with a smile, winking at you. They had started sleeping on the same bed since Steve and you got together. Eddie didn’t want to hear the flirting as he slept on the couch, and Nancy told him once and for all that he could sleep next to her.

Steve nodded, letting go of your shoulders to move towards the driver’s seat, getting himself comfortable. You offered to help Eddie open the garage and gates so Steve could move out. But when Nancy sat next to Steve, and not you, he seemed confused.

“Where’s Sunshine?”

“Helping Eddie open the gates.” Steve’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and Nancy noticed with a squint in her eyes. “She is with Eddie…”

“Huh? Yeah, I know. You said that.” But she noticed the slight worry in his voice, the clearing of his throat, the Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked at the side view mirror, watching you laugh with Eddie as you both opened the garage. He looked around you, making sure that no one or anything was close. 

But fuck, he couldn’t see beyond that. He couldn’t see the rest. He couldn’t see if you had a gun on your belt or if Eddie had one. Even if it’s just a few seconds, one always has to have a defensive weapon. Always.

He bounced his leg, cursing when you two took longer than it should to open everything up. He moved the stick to reverse and slowly pulled the RV out. It was a sunny day, still cold, but not as much as when they started their road. Once he got the RV on the street, he saw you wave with a smile, Eddie rolling his eyes as he went to close things up again. He sighed in relief when he saw Eddie had a gun to his belt. 

Nancy was staring at him, uneasiness building in her belly. Even if Steve was happy now, she feared you would not be alone at all. It was a good thing, but sometimes personal space was important, and she feared that Steve was not going to give that to you anytime soon. Maybe she was exaggerating, and she shouldn’t meddle in your relationship like that. 

You and Eddie stepped back in the RV, closing the door behind you both. Nancy got up from the seat, walking towards you, patting your shoulder.

“Keep moving. If you see a gas station, we can bypass it. We recollected a lot of gasoline from generators inside the house, and we could get battery charged from a car nearby the house. We also have a lot of snacks and canned foods.” You groaned a bit, shaking your head.

“Please, tell me it’s not corn.” Nancy winced, saying goodnight before heading to the bedroom. Eddie chuckled, guiding you to sit next to Steve, pulling the map out of the glove box. He always instructed both of you on where to continue the road, even if he marked it out.

“There is, though, a lake to the right, and it should be near nighttime when you reach it. If you can spot it, we can stop, but if it’s covered because of trees, maybe we should stop a little further.” Steve and you nodded at that, and your boyfriend put the car in drive.

“Okay, Eds. You can go to bed. I know Nance, and you might have kept watch yesterday night.” You mentioned, and he sighed, giving a so-so motion. 

“We kept dozing off a little bit from how quiet it was, but yeah.” Steve looked at the map for a secon,d concentrated, and then started driving east. Eddie coughed a bit, smirking. “Also, I don’t think I need to say this, but you are not allowed in any point, to do a stop for a quickie.”

“Munson!” Steve gasped, his eyes wide as he looked at Eddie over his shoulder, defenseless because he was driving and he couldn’t punch him. You, on the other hand, threw a punch towards Eddie’s stomach, not hard, but enough to make him bend a little and groan. 

“Jesus– Okay, you got it.” He said with a mumble, retreating towards the bedroom at the back, and all you heard was Nancy already snoring. You would think the snoring would come from Eddie, but– No.

You looked out into the road, leaving the residency behind, the houses starting to dissipate slowly, leaving them behind. You could see clear skies forward, at least for now, and that made you relax a little bit in the seat. 

Yet, you couldn’t help your eyes drifting to Steve’s side profile. You always found him attractive when he drove, but now, your imagination was running wild, free, with no restraints. Knowing now how it feels, how it makes you squirm… You kept thinking… Looking… 

You moving to rub his thigh, getting him hot and bothered for him to notice you. Before, you were shy to even think of doing that. Shy to even try to kiss him, and now all you want is for him to look at you with desire, with want, with need. You wanted to feel him, and you wanted him to touch you, to look at you, to kiss you. 

You craved his attention, and it was bad. It was terribly bad. Before, you wanted him to be clingy, sweet, and charming, but now, you want him to go crazy on you. You want him to lose that soft side of his. You want him to make you scream his name, make you burn from inside out, and that would trigger you running your nails on his back. You want him to dirty talk to you, to tell you he feels good, just like yesterday. 

Primal. You felt primal.

“Got something in my face, Sunshine?” He chuckled, looking your way for a second before looking back at the road. You flushed all over, knowing you got caught, looking down at the map. 

“Uh, no… Just… Is– Is it normal?” He frowned at your question, his eyes moving to your face, before going back.

“What is?”

“Feeling like this? After…” Your voice was small, shy, nothing alike your brain. 

“Feeling like what?”

“Like I… constantly need you.” He felt himself wanting to smash his face against the steering wheel. He gulped heavily, his grip tightening. To his despair, you kept talking, “It’s as if something triggered inside of me… if that makes sense.”

His grip on the wheel softened a little bit, realizing now what you meant. You never experienced this. You never experienced carnal lust, or feeling aroused and wanting someone to know, wanting someone to do something about it. It worsened your case, because he was there to do something about it, and he would gladly comply. 

It was the same for him. Right now, just thinking about you being next to him was riling him up. If you were to put your hand on his thigh, he would for sure get a hard-on. If you kissed him, if you hugged him, everything messed him up. Tasting you and having you was a blessing and a curse at the same time. He should of waited to get to the community. He should of thought of this through.

But he really wanted you. Wants you.

“I understand… It is normal. It’s the first time you experienced it, and it’s normal to want to… know more. Feel more.” Your heart burst out of your chest at his words, already feeling your body heating up. You cleared your throat, and you have been horny before, but never like this. You didn’t know how you would be able to be next to him for hours, days, without needing to have him.

“And… do you… feel that with me? I mean… It’s not your first time, so maybe you just don’t have… that.” You softly murmur, and he blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what you just said.

“Wait, you think I don’t want you?”

“No! No, I mean– I might be experiencing it like tenfold because it was my first time, and it was good– I– You know what, never mind, I’m just babbling,” You let out an exasperated sigh, completely embarrassed with yourself. 

Alright, Steve realized something now. He couldn’t be soft with you any longer. He shouldn’t have to think about walking on eggshells. He could flirt with you, talk to you, be naughty with you, and you would understand. You would want him. He didn’t know if he would make you shy, or not, but he knew that if he wasn’t honest, even with the naughty stuff, you wouldn’t understand.

“Sunshine.” His eyes were on the road, and you looked his way again, shyly. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” 

Your mouth almost dropped at the confession. You didn’t know if he was saying it because he was saying it, or because he really did want to. But you were also shocked by how straightforward he was, and it just made you… Want him so much. It made your heart flutter, but more than anything… your core was aching, and not because it was sore. No. 

“I… Really?” You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to reply to that kind of comment, never having experienced it.

“Just thinking that I could have fucked you this morning again, makes me want to kill the two people we have in the back.” His cheeks were flushed, but he dared to take a look at you, and fuck– You looked wrecked. You looked like you wanted to jump on him. And honestly, he didn’t know if it was good or bad.

You licked your lips, trying to gather the strength you had two hours ago, deliberating the options at hand. Your legs were clenching together, and when your eyes drifted south, you could see the tent happening in his pants. Oh, fuck. He wanted you, badly. You felt aroused at the thought, but also extremely happy. 

“You want to fuck me now, Stevie?” And oh fuck, oh fuck, Steve was not prepared for you to flirt back. Not that way. He was not prepared for you to lose the shyness, to lose your tongue the way you just did. The grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he cursed under his breath, the roles suddenly reversing. 

“I wish I could, but I can’t.” You hummed, looking forward at the road. It was silent for a few minutes, both of you just not looking at each other, but the heat inside the RV was growing, the tension just trying to snap. 

“I mean…”

“Sunshine, no… We could get attacked–” You stomped your foot on the floor, a little irritated now. “Don’t be angry.”

“You don’t get to rile me up, and then not give me what I want.” His eyes widened at how bratty you sounded, which only worsened his state. He cursed as he felt himself twitch in his pants, and fuck, they were tight. He clenched his jaw, seeing how you crossed your arms over your chest, and he shook his head, looking back at the road.

“I didn’t rile you up, I just wanted you to know that if I could, I definitely would.” It didn’t help. His words didn’t help your state. You knew you should think rationally, and not let your emotions go wild, but Steve was handsome. He was hot. And he knows how to make you feel good. 

An idea popped into your head, a move you saw in a movie once. Would he be mad? Would he be mad that you were making moves on him in this manner? A kiss is one thing, but this would be way different. You had to try… No. You shouldn’t. Eddie told you not to stop at any point. He gave his instructions.

But then why did Steve look wrecked too? 

The skies were clear… The sun was out… They were in a road between trees… You bit your lip, finally deciding to go for it. He was too far away for your arm to reach and touch his thigh. But not your feet. You took your boots off, and he frowned for a second, but shrugged it off as you wanting to get comfortable. 

You then moved to lean back against the corner of the passenger’s door and the seat. You propped your feet up, putting them on his lap, making him jump a little startled, looking your way.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfy.” You put the map over your face, and Steve just wanted to die. He could handle it. He could handle you just using him to stretch your legs; that was fine. 

What was not fine was that you started to move your feet towards the bulge of his pants. 

“Sunshine…” He growled out, his eyebrows starting to meet in the middle with a frown, filled with anger, as well as desperation.

“Hmm?” You pretended you didn’t know what you were doing, passing the sole of your feet against his hard on, which was only getting bigger, and you could only bite your bottom lip behind the map. He groaned, trying to focus on the road, shaking his head.

“You need to stop that, don’t play dumb.” 

“Stop what, Stevie? I’m just resting.” You said your feet never stopped, and then you felt the RV starting to slow down, moving to the side of the road, making you put the map down, to see Steve glaring your way, before it came to a full stop. 

He ripped your feet away from him, putting music on before he got up from the driver’s seat, startling you, stepping towards the back, pulling the slider away, just an inch, making sure Eddie and Nancy were sound asleep. He then moved back towards the front, ripping the map away from your hands. 

“Get out, now.” 

You bit your bottom lip, slowly getting up from your seat, brushing past him, before opening the door of the RV, stepping out. Steve grabbed a gun from the counter and then moved to open the cabinet where they put all their medicine and hygiene supplies. He got a foil out, sticking it in his back pocket as he growled, moving to the door, and stepping out. 

You were standing there, innocently, rocking from side to side. 

“Steve.”

“Go behind the tree, now.” 

You followed instructions dutifully, delighted, and Steve hoped no one appeared or they had a surprise attack. Was it worth it? Probably not. It shouldn’t be. But it felt like it was, at least for you two.

Probably not worth it for Eddie and Nancy.

But they didn’t need to know.

☀︎

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @pretentious-blonde @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry @sherrylyn0628 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @micheledawn1975 @keepingitlokiii @littleromanoff2005 @sunshine-mrk @xxladymjxx @bananasplits-world @myharrington @btskzfav@hawkeyeharrington

[consistentlyamess]

holyshitholyshjt OHMYGOD THEY’RE BACK!!!! 😭😭😭🥹🥹 oh my babieesssss @andvys you wonderful, wonderful little angel

oh the flirting, the softness, the yeeeeearrniiinngg

[consistentlyamess]

Breathe easier

[over 8K]

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: Maybe it is too much for him. Maybe he was never supposed to start any of this.

warnings: 18+ , MDNI, mentions of trauma, ANGST, miscommunications, swearing, crying, hurt/comfort, smut, p in v sex, crying during sex (not in a kinky way), non-sexual nudity, panic attack, abandonment issues (that just comes with steve harrington tho), mentions of Steve’s parents, mentions of childhood suckiness, mentions of Nancy, therapy, mentions of death, post season 5, but idk anything so this is just my version, lmk if i missed anything!!

A/N: this takes place in the Family dinner universe, i reccomend reading it before this, but it can be read as a stand-alone as well!! i'm so sorry for the long wait, i was having a hard time lately (which probably will show in this chapter lol) and writing didn't come easy. but i hope you'll like this!!! thank you for reading!! <3

It was bound to happen, he knew that. But he always prayed it wasn’t like this. Not with him heaving on your bathroom floor, with you on the other side. He knew you were gonna wake up sooner or later. If not because of the whimpers coming out of him, then because you can’t find him next to you. 

You became attuned to his movements these past months and normally he adored that. He loved that you reached for him instinctively even in your sleep, he loved that you always roused and woke up mere minutes after him, because you felt his missing heat from your side, he loved all that, but right now, he really wished you were more oblivious, didn’t care so much. It was supposed to be a good night. It was supposed to be an easy, cozy, sweet night. Not a date night per se, but something like it. He still felt the need to impress you, to show you how serious he was. Even though it was in the toothbrush he bought you (he said it was a “guest toothbrush he had lying around”, but you already knew that the tip of his ears went pink and he looked at the ground before looking at you when he was lying or hiding something), it was in the way he emptied one of the nightstands for you, it was in the way he suddenly had a drawer he didn’t really use, “just in case you needed it”. 

He let his guard down, he thought. He thought it was easy, that he just had to have a steady hand, that it could come easy like that. And now here was his punishment. Everything that he worked so hard for, just crumbling down in one night. He doesn’t even know what set it off this time. Maybe it wasn’t just the one thing. 

Maybe it started with Robin going M.I.A. for a week. It was finals week, it was the fact she met this girl Beth, the first person she really liked since they broke up with Vickie when they moved for college. It would’ve been too hard, she said. But even then he knew it was more about getting a clean break. A real fresh start, no matter how much it felt like her heart was breaking. He knew all this. But it did sting a little. And then he felt guilty because, hey, your friend is happy, you also have your new relationship that is going really well, what the hell is your problem? It was what his therapist labeled The Old Man voice. Not in the old soul way, but in the his dad’s voice way. The one that told him See? You don’t know how to take care of anything nice. That’s why everything and everyone will always leave you.

“Did he ever really say that?” His therapist asked once. State mandated at first, voluntary now.

“Maybe. I don’t really know. Maybe not with these exact words. But… almost everything he ever said after I turned fifteen meant this, you know? Does that make sense?” It did. 

They worked long and hard to make sure he had tools to stop or mute it, maybe just make something else louder at the very least. Lately that something else tended to be you. The way you rasped out his name in the morning, the giggles you let out when his breath tickled that sensitive spot at your waist, telling him how much you miss him over the phone. 

Maybe that’s where it started. This back and forth, overnight bags and goodbyes that just started weighing on his mind a little too much. You got into petty fights and stupid arguments, came back together almost immediately after, but it wore the both of you down. If he wanted to be honest, it was exhausting to miss you this much. But then he thought he hadn't even said I love you, not really. Not with these words. Neither have you. And although you both had gotten better at talking to each other, he felt like there were still times when you held back. When you weren’t completely honest. He also knew that you could tell when he was anxious. 

The last time you were together he noticed you reached for him more often. Stopped his fingers from fidgeting, held his upper arm in the grocery store, breathed a kiss onto his wrist. And it was right there, just on the tip of his tongue. But it didn’t come out. 

He was sure. He was also about 98% sure you’d say it back. And still, he remained silent. 

“Did you want to say it?” His therapist asked in that day’s session. 

“I think I've wanted to say it since the night she drove two hours in the pouring rain because she missed me.” 

“What made that night special?” 

“Did you not hear the part about the pouring rain?” 

“I did. But I still would like to know what happened that night.”

He took a deep breath.

“Well, it was a very long week. They all feel long lately, especially when I’m waiting to see her. I screwed up a job, I had to start building a whole dinner table all over. I wanted to call her but I knew she had a shift at the bar that night, so I didn’t bother. I took a shower and I was planning on drinking a beer and pitying myself on the couch but when I came out of the bathroom, a car was pulling up outside. And I just knew it, even before I looked out the window. I just knew it was her. And I don’t mean it in the way that, like, I hoped it was her and then I saw and I was happy. I mean I knew. She was almost completely soaked through just from walking up to the door and I remember I almost started crying. I was so happy to see her” 

He paused for a minute because he didn’t really know if he was supposed to say out loud what happened next. How you laughed into each other’s mouths, something breathless and soft and full of longing. How he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. How he said thank you by dropping to his knees right then and there. How you didn’t even make it to the couch and he was inside you. No, he’s definitely not supposed to say those things. He cleared his throat and continued, even though he could feel that his face probably betrayed him, turning to a light shade of pink. It’s the tips of your ears, he recalled your voice once again, those are the dead giveaway. 

“So, um, later that night, she rummaged through my kitchen and somehow was able to come up with a proper meal from about three ingredients that were knocking about. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in my kitchen at that point, her car is so shitty, I don’t feel good about her driving it for too long, so I usually go to her place, but she moved around like she belonged there. Like she was always there. We- I mean she was after a shower, her hair was wet, she used my shampoo and smelled like it, she was wearing my t-shirt, and I just thought fuck, I’m so in love with her it’s embarrassing.” He never said it out loud. He didn’t even tell Robin or Dustin. 

“Is it?”

“What?”

“You just said it’s embarrassing. Why is loving her embarrassing?”

“Wh- I- I don’t know why I said that.”

“I know, that’s why I’m asking.”

I hate this woman he thinks. And he only thinks this when she’s really fucking onto something.

“Do you think that thinking it’s embarrassing to love her has something to do with the fact you find it so hard to say it to her?” 

There it is. His throat closes up at the thought, he barely chokes out the next words.

“I think… I think she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And there’s this part of me that wants to shout it from the rooftop. But then there’s this other part. And that part is watching and laughing and making fun of the first part.”

“Why is it laughing?”

He thinks for a long minute.

“Because he thinks that it’s naive, weak and… embarrassing.”

“Does that part have a voice?”

He knows now what she’s getting at. Maybe it’s the same. Maybe it’s also The Old Man voice.

But it’s a little more complicated than that.

“I don’t think so, I’m not sure.”

"We've talked about your father before and that, in and of itself, would be enough. But your friends in high school-” 

“They weren’t my friends.” 

“Right. I’m sorry. The kids you hung out in high school thought being genuine and vulnerable wasn’t cool, when you showed any sign of that, they made fun you and abandoned you-”

“Yeah, well, good fucking riddance.” He’s a little too defensive and he can’t catch it in time.

“Sure, but they still left. That must have stung. And then you talked about the first girl you really loved, she told you your relationship was crappy-”

“Bullshit.”

“Pardon?” 

“Bullshit. She said it was bullshit. 

“That must have really stung.”

“It did.” 

“See what I’m getting at here, Steve?”

He did. And the weight of it made his heart ache. 

“We often think of our brain like something that works in these mysterious and complicated ways and in a sense it does. But in other sense it’s incredibly simplistic and borderline primitive. The way we learn patterns is for example. Our dads think we’re not enough, we’re rejected and abandoned and then it feels like a pattern and it seems like the only common denominator is us. But if we try hard enough and do the work we can rewire these connections. For example, have you told your friend, Robin, that you loved her?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“She’s your best friend, she seems to be a very important connection in your life, I would assume you love her.” 

“I do, I love her very much!” He sounded offended and he didn’t really know why.

“Steve, I’m not calling you out. I’m trying to make a point.” 

“Isn’t that the same thing?” 

“Steve, this is the first time we’re able to talk about fears, blocks and hopes regarding romantic relationships. That alone is huge progress, and I’m not trying to take that away. What I’m trying to draw attention to is that  you don’t really have the same inhibitions when it comes to platonic love.” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I got so defensive.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay to get frustrated with me sometimes. These are not easy topics.” 

“I just- With my friends it's different. People say they’d die for each other and we actually almost did. Some of us did. We’re bonded for life, it’s just what it is. And it was almost accidental. We got swept up in this against our will. But with her it’s this whole other thing. She chose me and she keeps choosing me. And sometimes I’m just happy she does, you know? And then other times it messes with my head. Like I’m cheating, like I’m somehow tricking her. Which I’m not, I would never lie to her but still there’s that feeling.” 

She only hummed and nodded. He liked that about her. She could always tell when he needed time to collect his thoughts. 

“I’m so scared she’ll figure out that I’m not worth it and then I’m just this big chump who thought they can have nice things. And I know, I know this is exactly what we’ve talked about, that I have to change this pattern of thinking, it’s just, it’s hard sometimes.” 

“That’s okay. It’s not a problem if it’s hard.You have come a long way, Steve.” 

“You’ve already said that.” 

“It bears repeating. The sheer fact that you’re this open, that you’re willing to fight, willing to try. That’s not nothing. Far from it, actually.” 

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Not everybody leaves. But they can only show you if you stay too.” 

And in her office, sitting in that arm chair, halfway between comfortable and uncomfortable, it’s a little easier to believe her. But then he leaves and it’s just him and his thoughts in the world and they make him feel small again. 

And maybe that’s where it started, the moment he heard the distance, the disappointment and even the tears in your voice when he had to tell you he’s so fucking sorry, but he’ll only be able to make it to yours on Satruday, meaning you’ll barely have a day together.

“I’m so sorry baby, I busted my ass all week so we can finish this piping job in time but it’s just not coming together and I’m losing my fucking mind I miss you so much, but-” 

“Steve, it’s okay, I understand.” You did, he knew you did. But it didn’t change the fact that he felt guilty. It only made it worse that he really wanted to hang up by saying those three words that just wouldn’t come out. It was a short call and he had it playing in his head on repeat the next day.

I’m failing at this and I can’t even tell her that I love her. 

He almost didn’t go. He felt like throwing the towel in. Calling it. Telling you that he’s really sorry but this is just not working. That it’s too much, too hard. He was wound tight, gripping the wheel while driving over to Hop and Joyce’s place. Joyce baked too much pie and told him to come pick some of it for the two of you. He knew she baked it on purpose.

“Hi, sweetheart!” She greeted him with a smile, like always. Hair flying in every direction, some grays mixing in now. “Hop’s still at the station, but he should be back soon. Come in, come in!” 

Entering the house never really became less, well, weird. It wasn’t the house where the boys grew up but there was still this tiny little part of him that expected Jonathan to saunter out of one of the rooms. He never did of course, he laid enough bouquets of flowers on his grave to know that wasn’t happening. And still. His throat closed up a little and all that tension just started buzzing inside him. 

“How are you Steve? The Bishop house coming along okay?” 

“I uhm, yeah, it’s going alright. The piping was delayed, I was supposed to leave last night.” 

“Oh, you must be in a hurry then, I’ll get your pie and let you go, just a second!” 

“Uhm, I was actually wondering if I could make a call real quick.” 

“Sure, sure, I’ll get everything ready while you do that.” 

“Thank you.” 

He was going to call you but his fingers wouldn’t type the numbers. Instead he punched in Robin’s number, almost on instinct. 

Hello! You reached the *thump* Fuck! You reached Robin Buckley but I’m either out or the corner of this fukcing table finally got me and I’m slowly bleeding out through my little toe. Leave a message or call 911. Bye! 

“Fuck.” He thought he murmured, thumping his forehead on the wall. 

“Everything okay, sweetheart?“ He exhaled loudly.

“Sorry, Joyce, I just, it’s been a long week and I really could’ve used a friend.” 

“Well, I mean, you have one here.” She said softly. He could almost feel her hand hovering over his shoulder. “Two, in a little while if you need more of a grumpy man touch on whatever the problem is.” 

He huffed a little laugh and some of that tension just left his shoulders. Right, he had more than one person. 

“I just, I feel like I’m messing this all up.” 

“Messing it up, how?” 

“She’s, god, she’s incredible. And I’m just so worried that these visits are starting to be not enough, because, well, they’re not enough for me. I miss her all the time, saying goodbye is harder and harder and I- I wanna tell her so many things and I just can’t seem to find a way and it’s all just-” 

“A bit much?” 

“A bit much, yeah. And I wanna give her everything but I just don’t seem to know how. In the beginning, when she showed up in my life, it was just this breath of fresh air. You know that feeling when, like, it’s already kinda cold outside and you’re sitting on the couch or something like that, and the sun comes out for a couple minutes and suddenly it’s just so nice and warm when it hits your face?” 

He glanced at Joyce for a moment and yeah, he really shouldn’t have done that. She was looking at him with so much softness, so much patience and understanding that now he felt bad for complaining. 

“Yeah, well, that’s what it felt like. That’s what she felt like. She still does. But I promised she’d come first, and I’m failing. And it's just getting so complicated.” 

“Is it just the distance?” She knew it wasn’t. 

“It’s the distance, it’s that I still have this nagging feeling that I might be putting her in danger, it’s that she knows I’m keeping things from her, she’s had to wake up to my screaming one too many times and she’s far too smart for her own good. And it’s that I don’t even know how to tell her that I love her without being terrified I’m ruining everything.” It all came out in one breath. He couldn’t be bothered with trying to keep it in anymore. A defeated sigh escaped him as he hung his head low. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Joyce was the one to reach on instinct this time. “Come here.” She hugged him, tight. It was motherly, it was saying I’m here and you stay here as long as you want. Steve didn’t know how Joyce did it but her hugs always felt like this. Like she was giving space and a shoulder to lean on, literally and metaphorically, but she never made it feel like it was a burden. The few times his mother hugged him or tried being warm it always ended up feeling like a favour, like something she did so reluctantly. Like saying well, fine, but you should be able to do this alone. Never like this. Never like it was the most natural thing in the world. Never like why did you wait so long to come to me? By the time he emerges from the older woman’s shoulder it feels like he’s already a little bit lighter. Not calm exactly but a little lighter. 

“Listen to me! I know that everything I could say in this moment, you know already. It’s just a bad week, you’re worth the trouble, all that, we all know it, and in these times it just doesn’t matter. So, I’m not gonna tell you that. What I will tell you is this, you’ve been through too much to give up on something that makes you this happy. Because we can all see how you light up when you so much, as think about her. There’s this glint in your eyes, and I just immediately know. I know that pushing through seems like the hardest thing sometimes but that’s what you do when you love someone, you keep going, you keep showing up. That’s what we all do, right?” 

Well, now he really feels guilty. That’s exactly what she did. She lost a son, almost two, and lived thinking Hopper was dead. And she was still just here. She picked up the phone, she made pies, she organized the barbecues and held their hands when they needed it. Never said a word about everyone moving away, moving on in their own ways. Even if she worried sick about Will. She knew this was his first and maybe only chance to have a normal life. As normal as it could possibly get. So she swallowed her fears and he was there when she tried to hide her teary eyes the day they all helped Will pack and move for college. She gets breakfast with Nancy every month. She’s there. 

“I know it means precious little now but this is a bad week. It’s not all bad. And if there’s one cliché I can still shoot, it would be this: when you look back, it’s always going to be the things you didn’t do. Never the trying. Even if it feels a little uncomfortable, a little embarrassing sometimes.” 

He also didn’t know how she did that. Just seeing right through him like that. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Joyce.” 

“Anytime, sweetheart. Now, let’s go get that pie and get you on your way.” 

By the time he was sitting in the car he was determined that he’ll tell you how he feels. He won’t make a big deal out of it. He was thinking, maybe that’s what he was missing. A grand gesture, a full day, maybe even a weekend, all planned out, just so he can tell you in the end. But talking to Joyce he figured that’s all just fanfare, show, something reminiscent of his all ways, style over substance. You just have to say it. 

Big words and big plans when he knew exactly well that had he not thrown his bag in the car when leaving in the morning, if he would’ve had to go home for it, he probably never would’ve gone. As pathetic and sad as that might sound. 

You’ll have dinner, you’ll watch a movie, you’ll cuddle on the couch, that’s more than enough time and opportunity to say it. 

When he pulls into your driveway, he almost immediately can sense that something is not right. Instead of the warm light usually spilling out your window, there are only the cold, flashing lights of the TV from the living room. His stomach drops and he doesn’t even necessarily know why. But he has a bad feeling about it. He gets the bag, the pie and walks up to the door. The faint knocking remains unanswered for a couple of minutes. Now panic starts rising in his throat. 

“Honey? You in there?” He tries, still no answer. 

“Baby, can you just answer me? If you don’t want me here anymore, I’ll go but please, just let me know, you’re okay. Please!” When you still don’t answer, he gets desperate. 

“Okay, I’m gonna come in, okay? I’m sorry, you can yell at me later if you want, I just-” He’s already gearing up to kick your door down but when he tries the door knob, he realizes the door is open. His heart starts racing, they took you, he made a mistake and now they took you is one his first thoughts, half expects a table turned over, your books thrown on the ground, glass shards all over. But when he looked around, his heart squeezed up. Oh, fuck. The kitchen was dark, only illuminated somewhat by the TV lights, he could make out bowls on the counter, vegetables half-peeled, knife left out. You started on dinner and then abandoned it halfway through. He found you curled into yourself on the couch, asleep, phone off the receiver, surrounded by tissues, even in sleep he can see the red rims of your eyes. You’ve been crying. 

Fuck.

He puts the pie down, toes his shoes off before crouching down next to you. He doesn’t wanna startle you, so he starts with gentle, slow strokes on your forehead, getting the locks stuck there out of your face. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here, can you hear me?” 

You start stirring a little, so he continues, coos a little louder, your name, that he’s here, that he really wants to talk to you, that he’s sorry. That’s the main one. He’s just so fucking sorry. Your eyes flutter open and you wake with a tiny whimper that makes his heart ache. 

“Steve?” 

“Hi, baby.”

“Is this a dream?” 

“No, I’m here, I’m so sorry I’m late, I just-” 

He doesn’t get to finish because you launch yourself into him. 

“Your’re really here. I thought you weren’t coming.” It’s a broken little thing, the way it comes out of you, and it really does him in. You sniffle and he wants to bang his head against the wall. You thought he wasn’t coming. You thought he was abandoning you. Just like he thought that this was the part where you leave, where he’s not worth it anymore. I’m such a fucking idiot.

“I’d never do that.” Blatant lie but also a promise. Never again. Not to you, not like this. “I’m here baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

He keeps holding you, running his palm up and down your back, until your sniffles calm and your breathing gets back to normal, until your grasp on him becomes a little softer. Like you’re not afraid anymore that he’ll disappear if you let go of him. 

“Have you eaten, pretty girl?”

“I wanted to cook dinner but I got so sad and tired that I couldn’t finish it.”

“Well, you’re in luck then. Joyce sent some of her famous pie over. She said she made too much but I think she was lying.” 

“That woman is a saint.” You say with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“She really is. But we could order something as well. I think it’s not too late. I could also run to the diner, bet Frannie’ll cook something up.” He’s next to you on the couch, you’re curled around him now, face hidden in the crook of his neck. 

“I think I’m okay with the pie for now.” You look up at him and he thinks he does wanna fight for this, live for this. He would die for a lot of people, a lot of things even, but that look, god that look makes him want to claw his way out of any dark cave and parallel dimension. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, let’s just eat and go to bed. I’m really tired and I missed you.” 

“Okay, whatever my girl wants.” He says brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek. You close your eyes and he can practically feel your skin hum under his touch. He curses himself mentally for ever doubting. This, right here, is everything he needs. 

The conversation is quiet, clipped sentences about your weeks, about funny things you saw in the library, about the absolute migraine the whole piping job has been for him. It’s thighs pressed together, it’s warmth, it’s comfort, it’s understanding. It’s love, he thinks. 

“Hey, baby.” He starts about halfway through the shitty made for tv zombie film you guys ended up on. You just hum in reply and he realizes instantly that you’re already half asleep. Not tonight then. 

He ends up carrying you to the bedroom and although he knows you’ll berate him in the morning for not waking you up to brush your teeth, he decides your sleep is more important than your dental hygiene. Just this once. 

He climbs in next to you, wrapping an arm around you like it’s second nature and you melt against him like you belong there. You really do, he thinks. The thought really warms him but also ignites that little, anxious feeling tucked under his ribs all night. All week, if he had to be honest. It starts getting bigger, crawling out from its hiding space, burning something under his skin now. Then suddenly your bed feels too narrow and tight, the blanket is too warm, and his heart just won’t stop beating against his chest and he feels like he’s about to tear his own hair out.

That’s how he ended up on your bathroom floor. Guilt, unsaid words, fear and want flooding his mind, clinging to the walls of his blood vessels, clogging his arteries. He wants to keep you so bad and he’s starting to think that's exactly what’s gonna make him lose you in the end. And that’s when the knocking on the door almost knocks him over as well. 

“Steve?” Your voice is groggy and it’s like sirens call, making him want to drag himself to you even from under the panicked fog clouding his brain and making his limbs feel like they're made of lead. “You in there? Are you okay?” 

He wants to tell you he’s okay, even though he’s not. He wants to calm you down, reassure you, but nothing comes out other than ragged breaths and a pitiful little sound from the back of his throat. Something between a whine and whimper. 

“Steve, baby, you’re scaring me. Can I come in? Or just say something and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Please…” He knows you can’t hear him and he’s not even sure what he’s asking for. 

“Okay, this is ridiculous, I’m coming in.” 

You open the door and he feels defeated. He never wanted you to see him like this. To have to deal with this. 

“Oh, my god, Steve, are you okay?” You’re kneeling in front of him in seconds, assessing the damage, trying to process the situation.

“Are you having a panic attack?” He can manage a nod, just barely. “Can you look at me, please?” You hold his face in your hands and he can’t decide which one of you is more likely to break. “Whatever made you feel like you can’t breathe, we can solve it, okay? I’m here, we can do this, I promise. Can you take a deep breath for me?” He tries, he does, and it almost works. “Good job, baby, there you go. Let’s do that again!” And it goes like that. He breathes, you hold him, you put your hand on his chest, grounding him until his heart starts to slow. It even makes it possible for him to recognize the irony in you trying to get him to calm down after he had to do the exact same thing just about five hours ago with you. 

“There you go. Take five more breaths for me, can you do that?”  

He does. He’ll do anything for you. 

“You’re doing really great bubba, keep it up.” Bubba, he thinks, that might be my favourite one. 

“Great job, baby. You feeling a little better?” 

“Yeah, a little.” The words come out silent, a little broken, a little breathy but they come out. 

“There he is.” You look at him, eyes brimming with a couple unshed tears. “Hey, baby.” 

“Hey.” Even a faint smile graces his lips now. “I’m so so-” 

“No. You stop that, right now. Don’t even start. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.” 

His senses start working again and he suddenly feels the weight of everything all at once. The cold of the tiles under his feet, in contrast you warm palms on his cheeks, his sore legs, the ache in his eyes from the fluorescent light of the bathroom. 

He rests his forehead on yours for a second. He’s absolutely beat and exhausted. 

“Come on, baby, I wanna get you some water, and aspirin and some ice but I need you to get back to bed before that. Can we do that?” 

He nods, not trusting his voice anymore. You lay him down, leave to get the water and the ice and he’s worn out, he just closes his eyes. By the time you get back, he’s a little delirious from it all. You’re the one to hold him after that. His head lays on you chest, his arms holding you like a vice, thigh thrown over yours. Sleep takes him easily now.

That’s all he needed, he thinks a little bitterly the next morning. To completely break down and  wear himself out. You’re not next to him but he doesn’t panic now, hearing the noises from the tiny apartment, from just beyond the bedroom door. A Duran Duran record, something sizzling, something clanging, your humming. He still doesn’t feel like himself entirely but he’s getting there. The ache is set deep in his muscles, maybe in his bones even but he will be damned if he doesn’t get to you. Getting out of bed is not easy but seeing you in your usual home get up (a large shirt, now his, more often than not, your hair in a bun and cozy socks) makes up for everything.

“Something smells good.” You turn to him and he thinks his legs are too weak for this. 

“Hey, baby.” You abandon whatever is cooking on the stove and pad through the kitchen to wrap your arms around him. 

“Hi, sweet girl.” He wastes no time to reciprocate the affection and circle his arms around your waist. He buries his nose deep in your hair and inhales like his longue in bottomless. He leaves a barely there kiss on your neck, then another one in the same place, and another one, and then he gets really hungry. He kisses upwards, along your jaw, then your face, your nose, your eyes, forehead, everywhere, until you’re giggling under him.

“I was gonna ask if you’re feeling better but I can see that you are now.” 

“Yeah, I’m doing better, baby. I’m doing a lot better.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” You’re the one to kiss him now. On the lips. A soft but forceful thing, filled with longing. When you separate he starts talking.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I told you, you don’t have to be sorry for having a panic attack.” 

“It's not about that. Well, not just about that. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it on Friday. I promised you I was gonna do better and I keep failing you.”

“Steve-” 

“No, just, just let me finish please. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, I’m sorry I was late. And I’m sorry I’m not better at talking. I know you’re not stupid and the silence and the nightmares and the scars and dead friends make you think. And I don’t wanna act like you’re seeing ghosts or like I’m hiding something but I’m scared. I’m so scared of losing you, of saying the wrong thing and putting you in danger and, I just… I’m trying. And I wanna keep trying, with you, for you, for us. If you’ll let me.”

“God, my stupid boy, of course I’ll let you.” And then you’re kissing him and it’s not gentle anymore. Most of the time you’re both soft and careful about it, wanting to pour all the care into every move, every kiss. But this is something different. It’s all teeth and you almost don’t remember turning the stove off before pushing him towards the couch. It reminds him of that first night, his pulse jumping, his grip on your waist tightening. By the time you're lowering yourself onto his lap, he’s so hard it hurts a little. 

“Help me out here a bit, pretty boy.” You’re panting while trying to get his boxers off of him. 

“Slow down, sweetheart, let me get you ready first.” 

“No time for that, I need you, like five minutes ago, or five days, but who’s counting, right?” 

“No, baby, please, I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

“Please, Steve, I just, I wanna feel you, please, I need you.” You’re begging. You're sitting in his lap, your eyes are watering and you’re begging, and he can’t bring himself to say no to you. He never can, but holy shit, this is just something else entirely. 

You free him and you have half a mind to pull your panties to the side. You spit in your palm a little, giving him two strokes, using it as a lubricant. He wants to say something, tell you that you don’t have to do this, to slow down, try to get you to extend foreplay a little but he can’t get a word out before you’re sinking down on him and he feels like he might melt if he’s not careful. Or float away. Or just die. That might be it. You’re clinging to him, jaw falling open, thighs shaking, eyes falling open, brows creasing together. He can barely keep his eyes open but he wills himself because he’s never seen anything more beautiful. It’s filthy, it’s almost aggressive and it’s beautiful. One hand comes up to hold your face, the other squeezing a bruise into your ass, he holds you so tight. When you take all of him, you settle there for a bit. Head falling forward a little, shoulders sagging, breathing heavily. He gives you a moment before asking

“Y- You okay, baby?” It’s a stutter, it’s a little pathetic. You can only nod once.

“I- I’m good, I j- just, I need a moment, I- I’m sorry.” 

“Take your time angel, I’m here.” So stay like that for a couple minutes. He’s whispering silent praises into your ear, you shiver sometimes, you shake, you cling to him before you start moving. It’s small at first, tentative, more grinding than anything else. You whimper, he groans, you moan into his mouth and he’s so close to losing control it makes him dizzy. He watches you like you put a spell on him, he thinks maybe you did. A sweat breaks on your forehead and when he cradles the back of your head and you lean into his touch, he thinks yeah, floating away, that’s the one.

“Is that good, sweetheart?” 

“Mhm.” You open your eyes and he can see that you’re just as gone as he is. Eyes hooded and dazed, mouth hanging open, still moving your hips like you're in a trans.

He brushes his thumb along your lower lip, back and forth, pulling it down which makes your head lull back. With that movement his hand slips lower, gently over your throat. When that happens, a moan tears from you, almost animalistic and it makes his cocks kick up inside of you. 

“Oh, my god. My girl missed me this much?” 

You just nod, head falling forward again. He draws you in as a reply, holding you to him, feeling fully how your limbs went loose. 

“Come here, baby, let me do work, yeah? Least I can do for my best girl.” He holds you like you’re gonna break and talks to you like you’re sacred. 

My sweet girl. 

I’ll never make you wait like that ever again. 

You’re so beautiful. 

Always so good for me. 

Can’t believe you're this wet and warm and all mine.

The tenderness of it all reaches a lot deeper than your G-spot or even your cervix. It goes straight for your heart and you can’t help but tear up. 

He feels the tears before he hears the sniffles and he pours everything into the next few movements. He starts thrusting up into you with a fervor, he slips a hand between your bodies and finds your clit with the practiced ease of someone who’s memorized every single inch of your body and he kisses your neck, grazing it with his teeth a gently like he’s trying to etch a promise into your skin. 

“I got you baby, just let go. It’s just me.” He can feel you squeeze him, your hand tightening in his shirt. 

“There you go baby, cum for me, you’re safe, you did so good for me.” Your orgasm creeps up on you and it takes over your whole body in a way you never felt before. You seize up, almost every muscle, head to toe, tears spilling freely, eyes clenched shut, mouth falling open with a silent scream after your throat went a little raw from the little uh-uh-uh’s he punched out of you. The way you cling to him breaks him as well. He doesn’t even have time to stutter, he just goes still as he spills into you and he’s pretty sure he can feel his soul leave his body for a second. He’s sure you’ll both have bruises later but he can’t get himself to let go of you. Neither do you but then his heart breaks completely when you start sobbing. He hasn’t even pulled out from you and it makes him feel so raw and vulnerable. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” That’s all he says. Then he just holds you. Just like he did, then just like you did to him last night. It’s all the unsaid words and distance and missing and ache just coming out all in one go. By the time you relax a little, he’s all soft. He never stops caressing you. Your arms, the back of your neck, your thighs, pressing kisses into every part of you he can get to, without moving you or himself too much. 

He slips out of you, making you both hiss, guides you to the bathroom and draws a bath real quick. You haven’t eaten but he’ll take care of that after this. 

He holds you in there as well, back to his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” He asks after a long stretch of silence.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” You squeeze his hand that rests on your stomach. “Sorry for getting so emotional.” 

“Hey, if I’m not allowed to apologize for having a panic attack, then you’re not allowed to apologize for crying either.” 

“Crying during sex.” 

“After sex.” 

“It was both and you know that.” 

“So? Still not allowed to apologize.” You chuckle and it makes him feel like a winner. 

“I really thought I was gonna lose you.” You mumbled. So much for feeling like a winner. 

“What?” 

“I just- I thought I was gonna lose you. I thought it was getting too hard and I mean, it’s hard for me too but I just- I don’t know, I don’t wanna give up. And I was scared that you would.” 

The words echo in the bathroom, the silence only broken by the drops of water falling from your skin back into the bathtub, all shattering on the tiles around you. It allows the words to really reach him, really find way into his chest, into hidden parts.

“Can you look at me for a second, please?” He takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger and makes you twist your neck. It’s a little awkward but he needs you to see him when he says this next part.

“I’m not giving up. I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you feel like I was going to. I’m sorry for thinking I would. But I’m not giving up. I’m all in. And not just because I’m pretty sure I had an out of body experience on that couch earlier.” You chuckle and a blush creeps onto your face. 

“Stop it.” 

“Not a chance, sweet girl.” He kisses you then and it feels so much more than any kiss before. You turn around, settle against him and something about the warm water and tired bodies makes it feel like you melt into eachother and he thinks that if you two are struck by lightining, right this second, he would die a happy man. Maybe he’ll have to talk to his therapist about why these dramatic images his mind conjures up. But for now he’s only for you. Here.

Later, when you guys continue cooking, it’s finally a little lighter in the kitchen. It’s giggles and teasing and light reassuring touches.

“That sounds like a nightmare.” You conclude after he told you what problems he discovered in an apartment he was about to start renovation in.

“Yeah, and I felt so sorry for the guy, he was so hopeful it was going to be an easy job and his mom can move in quickly, now she has to stay in her rental for at least one more month.” 

“Oof, that sounds rough. But at least it won’t bankrupt them. A Hawkins rental is a steal compared to the city." You say with a scoff and almost immediately notice you said too much. 

“You-” 

“Oh, fuck.” You look up at him and he’s blinking like a fish in a plastic bag with that adorable lost puppy look on his face. “Shit. Steve, I’m so sorry, I was gonna talk to you about this first, I just-” 

“You looked at Hawkins rental prices?” 

“I-” You exhaled low and slow. “Yes.” The admission was so silent, he almost missed it but then you turned to him and he could tell, you were bracing yourself for what comes next. “Yes, I looked at apartments in Hawkins. I wasn’t going to take anything without talking to you first. I would never do that. I just, I only have a year left from college and after that I would be a lot more mobile and we could do something more permanent but, yeah, I’m just, I’m getting tired of this, of missing each other, of only hearing you through the phone and saying goodbye and just, I don’t know. I didn’t wanna scare you away and I didn’t know how to bring this up and, god, I’m so fucking stupid. I’m sorry!” By the time you stop talking he’s gone completely silent. He blinks in disbelief. He really is an idiot, isn’t he? Being so scared to say three words when he has this. You weren’t thinking about leaving. You’re thinking about Hawkins rental prices and a year from now and us. His mind short circuits and he moves without knowing what his next step is gonna be. He’s still staring at you as he gets up then he laughs and shakes his head as he starts walking.

“Hey, Steve, wait, where are you going?!” He doesn’t answer, just picks up the phone and dials a number. It’s silent as you follow him so you wait. 

“Hey, Joyce, sorry, is this a bad time? Yeah, no, everything’s fine, I just, um.” He clears his throat dramatically. “I’m just not feeling super well, sore throat and whatnot. Yeah, I know, it’s really bad.” But he’s looking directly at you and grinning like an idiot, mischief evident in his eyes, and while you’re still confused, you can’t help the grin of your own that finds its way to your lips. “Yeah, so, can you or Hop please tell Mrs. Bishop that we’ll have to postpone the work with, I wanna say a week?” He looks at you with a questioning look and you nod your head so quickly, you almost get whiplash. “Yeah, a week, at the very least. Yeah, thanks Joyce.” He looks so soft, it makes your heart ache. “Yeah, no, I’ll leave this number but I won’t be home till next week either. Oh, my god, okay, I’m hanging up now.” He says a little pink, a little flustered. “Okay. Yeah, I think so. Okay, I’ll see guys. Thanks again, bye!” 

You giggle a little teary after he hangs up.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked, I just-” he cuts himself off as he makes his way to you. He takes your face in his palms and makes you look up at him, causing the tears to spill from your eyes but catches them with his thumbs immediately. “I love you.” It comes out so suddenly, it makes you falter.

“What?” You ask a little shocked. 

“I’m sorry, this is really not how I wanted to do this. I wanted to plan a romantic weekend, take you out at least, I wanted there to be champagne and chocolate covered strawberries but you’re looking for apartments in Hawkins and I just don’t care anymore. I love you. I love you so much, it scares the ever living shit out of me. I thought I was never going to feel this way again and every single minute I get to spend with you feels like borrowed time, like I’m cheating. But I don’t wanna give up on this. On you, on us. And I don’t wanna be scared anymore. I love you.” 

It’s terrifying and relieving at the same time. It’s out there, he said it. Let the chips fall where they may. 

“Took you long enough.” 

“Are you kidding me? I confess and that’s your answer?” But both of your eyes are sparkling. With tears and tenderness and so much more.

“I love you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Well, I was looking for apartments in Hawkins because of my other boyfriend but I guess you’ll do too.”

“Menace.” 

“You love it.” 

“I do. I really, really do.” 

“Good, cause if you thought I blew your mind on the couch earlier, then buckle up pretty boy.” 

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

[nerasfics]

This is long AND SO SO GOOD the angst broke me because aw our baby but reader and steve in this is so so good and everything's written so beautifully. Gosh I love this.

[consistentlyamess]

OMG 😭😭😭😭😭 you're so sweet, i kinda can't belive people are still finding these fics 🥹 but i'm so glad you did @nerasfics and even more glad you enjoyed it!!!!! love you for loving this!!! 😍

[consistentlyamess]

STRANGER THINGS 5 SPOILERS

i didn't necessarily wanna write this but these thoughts keep rettling around in my brain and i don't know what to do with them, so here goes nothing. this is a long-ass rant btw, so

ok, first, technical stuff:

i got so tired of these cuts and transations. i think this kind of thing only works if you use sparingly, not everything has to be this sound/visiual association

they brought in this handheld camera effect, it hit me in the scene where nance is washing the blood off of her hands - the urgency and anxiety of that scene is perfectly underlined with the fast cuts, it really didn't need both

the last battle scene is something out of The Last of Us i feel like, and i just, ugh, it's so jarring, why are we doing this??

the cgi looks ASSS in so many places

i loved the gore (i'm specifically thinking Karen) and some of the action was really good tho

the vecna problem:

here's the thing: i love the vecna story, it's mysterious, it's weird, fine, but even in s4 it didn't feel like a natural part of the stranger things lore and that's because the duffers painted themselves into a corner. this was supposed to be a limited series which is so fuckig glaringly obvious now. it makes me think of the horcruxes form harry potter and r*wling claiming she's planned this from the beginning. no you fucking didn't joanne, you don't have to lie to me. it's the same with the duffers. the kind of villain the mindflayer and the demogorgons were in the beginning, only work on the short term. this kind of kept in the dark, mysterious, shadow monster doesn't work when you're going for 5 seasons. you need a villain with a backstory, a motivation. which they did and very predictably it's not great. and btw i don't even blame them in a way because (aside from the money) i think it must be EXTREMELY hard to turn down this kind of freedom and space and time to tell stories, any stories. i get that. it's just sad to see. but vecna doesn't work for me. he gouging a soldiers eyes out FROM THE BACK with his tantactles and then just flicks Joyce away???? why???? there's no other reason than having a plot armour. he is so all-pwerful and then Max just outruns him??? because he's afraid of the rocks??? and fine, it's some magic memory rock but ffs they're so inconsistent about his powers, it bugs the shit out of me.

will has powers now?? he can control the the demogorgons. does that mean that he can control Vecna??? cause like hivemind???

on the characters:

i mentioned it so i'll kick this off with the plot-armour thing. i can't fucking believe they're still doing this.. why not just kill ted ffs??? he doesn't matter to anybody!! it gives some additional revenge fuel to the wheelers, the audience is sure as fuck not attached to him, WHY NOT JUST KILL HIM??? same with karen. the only reason to keep her alive is so that she can spell the Henry out dramatically but i feel like that also could've been done in a much more engaging way. drop some hints, make Mike and Nancy work together and figure it out, detective shit, like in the beginning of the show. but no, it's this. and so we're 4 episodes in and we already had 3 fakeout deaths, Ted's not dead, Karen's awake, she'll be fine, Hop didn't blow himself up. great. once again, fucking nothing is at stake.

WHY HOLLY??? there's that scene with her and Mike that i guess it’s supposed to be emotional, but i don't feel jack shit, 'cause holly is just as much of a random kid to me as Derek. i don't know her!! she's important to Mike and Nancy but as an audience member, that's just not enough for me to care.

the kids i like, i like Dustin's mad at the whole world thing, Lucas continues to be great, so does Max. as a person, noah schnapp is bleh, but as an actor, he still pulls this off, however exhausting this schtick is. Mike and El though.. the characters are one thing but it's all tainted for me bacause it's just so painfully clear that Finn and Millie are fucking over this. no chemistry between, they're doing the bare minimum for that paycheck and that's it. and more importantly

WHY THE FUCK IS NOBODY WORRIED ABOUT DUSTIN???? he's missing for hours and noone goes out to look for him?? or ask El to look for him if noone can leave??? what if the military got to him? what if something happened (which it did by the fucking way)?? how are we just letting it go that even his mom didn't hear about him??? is SHE not worried??? CLAUDIA is not blowing a gasket that they don't know where her son is?????? it bugged me more than anything porbably

jonathan hasn't had an affect on the plot since like s3 so i don't really know what to say. the duffers completely forgot about him and did him dirty.

Murray is so fucking annoying it made me wanna jump out the fucking window. you're a 50 year old man!!!!! why the fuck are you so invested in the love life of 20 year olds exactly????? what is this shit trying to push jonathan to propose???? is this a borderline revenge fantasy on jocks in general???

why would Jonathan want to propose???

also did Robin really say, with an EXASPERATED sigh that her girlfriend talks too much??????????? what the fuck is happening in the studio on this day????

i like the blowout between John and Steve in he van, i like that Steve's also right about Johnathan being focused on him instead of Nance but then he denies he's making the moves on Nancy and we're back to everything bothering me. why does he deny it???

and while we're at it, i'm so tired of this love triangle as well. can we move the fuck on??? Nancy doesn't care, i'm not sure she wants to be with anybody, so why would i care????

Hop is back on his bullshit, so is Joyce, i don't really have a lot to say about them. any and every character development they have is thrown out the fucking window almost every single season

the Steve and Dustin problem:

guys, i don't even know what to say... i know a lot of people already pointed out that everyone is a little mean this season and that it's because of the tension and the anxieties and okay, i get that and it could work but only if you show that despite it all they still care about eachother. show me the underlying love, the softness. cause the Steve Harrington i know would have been falling over his own feet getting out the car when he saw Dustin, beat up, stumbling out the woods. and he can still chew him out, he can tell him that he needs to stop walking around with a death wish, but it has to come from a place of care. the show was always about coming together in and despite the adversity. this just ain't it chief.

and yes, he's always been sassy but he was never mean, he's a straight up asshole and we're back to s1 jerk Steve mode and i don't like any of that. he gets so worried about Max in s4 in the cemetary, he goes after her and now he doesn't even bat an eye when Dustin is fucking bleeding?? he literally hits him in the car when he's not ansewring and i wanted to punch a wall. he only half-jokingly threatened Dustin in s4 with punching his teeth back out and he apologizes immediately and now his hitting him????? for not answering fast enough???????? what the ever loving fuck are we doing, guys?????

i thought they were going to kill Jonathan because they completely forgot to give him any character decelopment and the cheapest, fastest way to sort of do so is killing him but now i'm starting to think that they made Steve mean, so they can have an emotional scene where he apologizes and sacrifices himself or something. and i was always a proponent for Steve dying eventually, i think it would make sense narratively but now.. idek about that cause they way they're writing him so far, even that doesn't feel right.

sorry, i needed to get this out of my system. i don't like this season AT ALL. and i was prepared for that but god. the pacing is off, we're basically halfway through the season and they've been promising to go straight into action but whole thing is basically exposion so far. i'm very sad and disappointed. anyway, i guess they can fix this somehow. but i'm not super hopeful tbh.

ANYWAY, thank you if you got through this.::"ddd

[consistentlyamess]

Breathe easier

[over 8K]

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: Maybe it is too much for him. Maybe he was never supposed to start any of this.

warnings: 18+ , MDNI, mentions of trauma, ANGST, miscommunications, swearing, crying, hurt/comfort, smut, p in v sex, crying during sex (not in a kinky way), non-sexual nudity, panic attack, abandonment issues (that just comes with steve harrington tho), mentions of Steve’s parents, mentions of childhood suckiness, mentions of Nancy, therapy, mentions of death, post season 5, but idk anything so this is just my version, lmk if i missed anything!!

A/N: this takes place in the Family dinner universe, i reccomend reading it before this, but it can be read as a stand-alone as well!! i'm so sorry for the long wait, i was having a hard time lately (which probably will show in this chapter lol) and writing didn't come easy. but i hope you'll like this!!! thank you for reading!! <3

It was bound to happen, he knew that. But he always prayed it wasn’t like this. Not with him heaving on your bathroom floor, with you on the other side. He knew you were gonna wake up sooner or later. If not because of the whimpers coming out of him, then because you can’t find him next to you. 

You became attuned to his movements these past months and normally he adored that. He loved that you reached for him instinctively even in your sleep, he loved that you always roused and woke up mere minutes after him, because you felt his missing heat from your side, he loved all that, but right now, he really wished you were more oblivious, didn’t care so much. It was supposed to be a good night. It was supposed to be an easy, cozy, sweet night. Not a date night per se, but something like it. He still felt the need to impress you, to show you how serious he was. Even though it was in the toothbrush he bought you (he said it was a “guest toothbrush he had lying around”, but you already knew that the tip of his ears went pink and he looked at the ground before looking at you when he was lying or hiding something), it was in the way he emptied one of the nightstands for you, it was in the way he suddenly had a drawer he didn’t really use, “just in case you needed it”. 

He let his guard down, he thought. He thought it was easy, that he just had to have a steady hand, that it could come easy like that. And now here was his punishment. Everything that he worked so hard for, just crumbling down in one night. He doesn’t even know what set it off this time. Maybe it wasn’t just the one thing. 

Maybe it started with Robin going M.I.A. for a week. It was finals week, it was the fact she met this girl Beth, the first person she really liked since they broke up with Vickie when they moved for college. It would’ve been too hard, she said. But even then he knew it was more about getting a clean break. A real fresh start, no matter how much it felt like her heart was breaking. He knew all this. But it did sting a little. And then he felt guilty because, hey, your friend is happy, you also have your new relationship that is going really well, what the hell is your problem? It was what his therapist labeled The Old Man voice. Not in the old soul way, but in the his dad’s voice way. The one that told him See? You don’t know how to take care of anything nice. That’s why everything and everyone will always leave you.

“Did he ever really say that?” His therapist asked once. State mandated at first, voluntary now.

“Maybe. I don’t really know. Maybe not with these exact words. But… almost everything he ever said after I turned fifteen meant this, you know? Does that make sense?” It did. 

They worked long and hard to make sure he had tools to stop or mute it, maybe just make something else louder at the very least. Lately that something else tended to be you. The way you rasped out his name in the morning, the giggles you let out when his breath tickled that sensitive spot at your waist, telling him how much you miss him over the phone. 

Maybe that’s where it started. This back and forth, overnight bags and goodbyes that just started weighing on his mind a little too much. You got into petty fights and stupid arguments, came back together almost immediately after, but it wore the both of you down. If he wanted to be honest, it was exhausting to miss you this much. But then he thought he hadn't even said I love you, not really. Not with these words. Neither have you. And although you both had gotten better at talking to each other, he felt like there were still times when you held back. When you weren’t completely honest. He also knew that you could tell when he was anxious. 

The last time you were together he noticed you reached for him more often. Stopped his fingers from fidgeting, held his upper arm in the grocery store, breathed a kiss onto his wrist. And it was right there, just on the tip of his tongue. But it didn’t come out. 

He was sure. He was also about 98% sure you’d say it back. And still, he remained silent. 

“Did you want to say it?” His therapist asked in that day’s session. 

“I think I've wanted to say it since the night she drove two hours in the pouring rain because she missed me.” 

“What made that night special?” 

“Did you not hear the part about the pouring rain?” 

“I did. But I still would like to know what happened that night.”

He took a deep breath.

“Well, it was a very long week. They all feel long lately, especially when I’m waiting to see her. I screwed up a job, I had to start building a whole dinner table all over. I wanted to call her but I knew she had a shift at the bar that night, so I didn’t bother. I took a shower and I was planning on drinking a beer and pitying myself on the couch but when I came out of the bathroom, a car was pulling up outside. And I just knew it, even before I looked out the window. I just knew it was her. And I don’t mean it in the way that, like, I hoped it was her and then I saw and I was happy. I mean I knew. She was almost completely soaked through just from walking up to the door and I remember I almost started crying. I was so happy to see her” 

He paused for a minute because he didn’t really know if he was supposed to say out loud what happened next. How you laughed into each other’s mouths, something breathless and soft and full of longing. How he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. How he said thank you by dropping to his knees right then and there. How you didn’t even make it to the couch and he was inside you. No, he’s definitely not supposed to say those things. He cleared his throat and continued, even though he could feel that his face probably betrayed him, turning to a light shade of pink. It’s the tips of your ears, he recalled your voice once again, those are the dead giveaway. 

“So, um, later that night, she rummaged through my kitchen and somehow was able to come up with a proper meal from about three ingredients that were knocking about. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in my kitchen at that point, her car is so shitty, I don’t feel good about her driving it for too long, so I usually go to her place, but she moved around like she belonged there. Like she was always there. We- I mean she was after a shower, her hair was wet, she used my shampoo and smelled like it, she was wearing my t-shirt, and I just thought fuck, I’m so in love with her it’s embarrassing.” He never said it out loud. He didn’t even tell Robin or Dustin. 

“Is it?”

“What?”

“You just said it’s embarrassing. Why is loving her embarrassing?”

“Wh- I- I don’t know why I said that.”

“I know, that’s why I’m asking.”

I hate this woman he thinks. And he only thinks this when she’s really fucking onto something.

“Do you think that thinking it’s embarrassing to love her has something to do with the fact you find it so hard to say it to her?” 

There it is. His throat closes up at the thought, he barely chokes out the next words.

“I think… I think she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And there’s this part of me that wants to shout it from the rooftop. But then there’s this other part. And that part is watching and laughing and making fun of the first part.”

“Why is it laughing?”

He thinks for a long minute.

“Because he thinks that it’s naive, weak and… embarrassing.”

“Does that part have a voice?”

He knows now what she’s getting at. Maybe it’s the same. Maybe it’s also The Old Man voice.

But it’s a little more complicated than that.

“I don’t think so, I’m not sure.”

"We've talked about your father before and that, in and of itself, would be enough. But your friends in high school-” 

“They weren’t my friends.” 

“Right. I’m sorry. The kids you hung out in high school thought being genuine and vulnerable wasn’t cool, when you showed any sign of that, they made fun you and abandoned you-”

“Yeah, well, good fucking riddance.” He’s a little too defensive and he can’t catch it in time.

“Sure, but they still left. That must have stung. And then you talked about the first girl you really loved, she told you your relationship was crappy-”

“Bullshit.”

“Pardon?” 

“Bullshit. She said it was bullshit. 

“That must have really stung.”

“It did.” 

“See what I’m getting at here, Steve?”

He did. And the weight of it made his heart ache. 

“We often think of our brain like something that works in these mysterious and complicated ways and in a sense it does. But in other sense it’s incredibly simplistic and borderline primitive. The way we learn patterns is for example. Our dads think we’re not enough, we’re rejected and abandoned and then it feels like a pattern and it seems like the only common denominator is us. But if we try hard enough and do the work we can rewire these connections. For example, have you told your friend, Robin, that you loved her?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“She’s your best friend, she seems to be a very important connection in your life, I would assume you love her.” 

“I do, I love her very much!” He sounded offended and he didn’t really know why.

“Steve, I’m not calling you out. I’m trying to make a point.” 

“Isn’t that the same thing?” 

“Steve, this is the first time we’re able to talk about fears, blocks and hopes regarding romantic relationships. That alone is huge progress, and I’m not trying to take that away. What I’m trying to draw attention to is that  you don’t really have the same inhibitions when it comes to platonic love.” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I got so defensive.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay to get frustrated with me sometimes. These are not easy topics.” 

“I just- With my friends it's different. People say they’d die for each other and we actually almost did. Some of us did. We’re bonded for life, it’s just what it is. And it was almost accidental. We got swept up in this against our will. But with her it’s this whole other thing. She chose me and she keeps choosing me. And sometimes I’m just happy she does, you know? And then other times it messes with my head. Like I’m cheating, like I’m somehow tricking her. Which I’m not, I would never lie to her but still there’s that feeling.” 

She only hummed and nodded. He liked that about her. She could always tell when he needed time to collect his thoughts. 

“I’m so scared she’ll figure out that I’m not worth it and then I’m just this big chump who thought they can have nice things. And I know, I know this is exactly what we’ve talked about, that I have to change this pattern of thinking, it’s just, it’s hard sometimes.” 

“That’s okay. It’s not a problem if it’s hard.You have come a long way, Steve.” 

“You’ve already said that.” 

“It bears repeating. The sheer fact that you’re this open, that you’re willing to fight, willing to try. That’s not nothing. Far from it, actually.” 

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Not everybody leaves. But they can only show you if you stay too.” 

And in her office, sitting in that arm chair, halfway between comfortable and uncomfortable, it’s a little easier to believe her. But then he leaves and it’s just him and his thoughts in the world and they make him feel small again. 

And maybe that’s where it started, the moment he heard the distance, the disappointment and even the tears in your voice when he had to tell you he’s so fucking sorry, but he’ll only be able to make it to yours on Satruday, meaning you’ll barely have a day together.

“I’m so sorry baby, I busted my ass all week so we can finish this piping job in time but it’s just not coming together and I’m losing my fucking mind I miss you so much, but-” 

“Steve, it’s okay, I understand.” You did, he knew you did. But it didn’t change the fact that he felt guilty. It only made it worse that he really wanted to hang up by saying those three words that just wouldn’t come out. It was a short call and he had it playing in his head on repeat the next day.

I’m failing at this and I can’t even tell her that I love her. 

He almost didn’t go. He felt like throwing the towel in. Calling it. Telling you that he’s really sorry but this is just not working. That it’s too much, too hard. He was wound tight, gripping the wheel while driving over to Hop and Joyce’s place. Joyce baked too much pie and told him to come pick some of it for the two of you. He knew she baked it on purpose.

“Hi, sweetheart!” She greeted him with a smile, like always. Hair flying in every direction, some grays mixing in now. “Hop’s still at the station, but he should be back soon. Come in, come in!” 

Entering the house never really became less, well, weird. It wasn’t the house where the boys grew up but there was still this tiny little part of him that expected Jonathan to saunter out of one of the rooms. He never did of course, he laid enough bouquets of flowers on his grave to know that wasn’t happening. And still. His throat closed up a little and all that tension just started buzzing inside him. 

“How are you Steve? The Bishop house coming along okay?” 

“I uhm, yeah, it’s going alright. The piping was delayed, I was supposed to leave last night.” 

“Oh, you must be in a hurry then, I’ll get your pie and let you go, just a second!” 

“Uhm, I was actually wondering if I could make a call real quick.” 

“Sure, sure, I’ll get everything ready while you do that.” 

“Thank you.” 

He was going to call you but his fingers wouldn’t type the numbers. Instead he punched in Robin’s number, almost on instinct. 

Hello! You reached the *thump* Fuck! You reached Robin Buckley but I’m either out or the corner of this fukcing table finally got me and I’m slowly bleeding out through my little toe. Leave a message or call 911. Bye! 

“Fuck.” He thought he murmured, thumping his forehead on the wall. 

“Everything okay, sweetheart?“ He exhaled loudly.

“Sorry, Joyce, I just, it’s been a long week and I really could’ve used a friend.” 

“Well, I mean, you have one here.” She said softly. He could almost feel her hand hovering over his shoulder. “Two, in a little while if you need more of a grumpy man touch on whatever the problem is.” 

He huffed a little laugh and some of that tension just left his shoulders. Right, he had more than one person. 

“I just, I feel like I’m messing this all up.” 

“Messing it up, how?” 

“She’s, god, she’s incredible. And I’m just so worried that these visits are starting to be not enough, because, well, they’re not enough for me. I miss her all the time, saying goodbye is harder and harder and I- I wanna tell her so many things and I just can’t seem to find a way and it’s all just-” 

“A bit much?” 

“A bit much, yeah. And I wanna give her everything but I just don’t seem to know how. In the beginning, when she showed up in my life, it was just this breath of fresh air. You know that feeling when, like, it’s already kinda cold outside and you’re sitting on the couch or something like that, and the sun comes out for a couple minutes and suddenly it’s just so nice and warm when it hits your face?” 

He glanced at Joyce for a moment and yeah, he really shouldn’t have done that. She was looking at him with so much softness, so much patience and understanding that now he felt bad for complaining. 

“Yeah, well, that’s what it felt like. That’s what she felt like. She still does. But I promised she’d come first, and I’m failing. And it's just getting so complicated.” 

“Is it just the distance?” She knew it wasn’t. 

“It’s the distance, it’s that I still have this nagging feeling that I might be putting her in danger, it’s that she knows I’m keeping things from her, she’s had to wake up to my screaming one too many times and she’s far too smart for her own good. And it’s that I don’t even know how to tell her that I love her without being terrified I’m ruining everything.” It all came out in one breath. He couldn’t be bothered with trying to keep it in anymore. A defeated sigh escaped him as he hung his head low. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Joyce was the one to reach on instinct this time. “Come here.” She hugged him, tight. It was motherly, it was saying I’m here and you stay here as long as you want. Steve didn’t know how Joyce did it but her hugs always felt like this. Like she was giving space and a shoulder to lean on, literally and metaphorically, but she never made it feel like it was a burden. The few times his mother hugged him or tried being warm it always ended up feeling like a favour, like something she did so reluctantly. Like saying well, fine, but you should be able to do this alone. Never like this. Never like it was the most natural thing in the world. Never like why did you wait so long to come to me? By the time he emerges from the older woman’s shoulder it feels like he’s already a little bit lighter. Not calm exactly but a little lighter. 

“Listen to me! I know that everything I could say in this moment, you know already. It’s just a bad week, you’re worth the trouble, all that, we all know it, and in these times it just doesn’t matter. So, I’m not gonna tell you that. What I will tell you is this, you’ve been through too much to give up on something that makes you this happy. Because we can all see how you light up when you so much, as think about her. There’s this glint in your eyes, and I just immediately know. I know that pushing through seems like the hardest thing sometimes but that’s what you do when you love someone, you keep going, you keep showing up. That’s what we all do, right?” 

Well, now he really feels guilty. That’s exactly what she did. She lost a son, almost two, and lived thinking Hopper was dead. And she was still just here. She picked up the phone, she made pies, she organized the barbecues and held their hands when they needed it. Never said a word about everyone moving away, moving on in their own ways. Even if she worried sick about Will. She knew this was his first and maybe only chance to have a normal life. As normal as it could possibly get. So she swallowed her fears and he was there when she tried to hide her teary eyes the day they all helped Will pack and move for college. She gets breakfast with Nancy every month. She’s there. 

“I know it means precious little now but this is a bad week. It’s not all bad. And if there’s one cliché I can still shoot, it would be this: when you look back, it’s always going to be the things you didn’t do. Never the trying. Even if it feels a little uncomfortable, a little embarrassing sometimes.” 

He also didn’t know how she did that. Just seeing right through him like that. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Joyce.” 

“Anytime, sweetheart. Now, let’s go get that pie and get you on your way.” 

By the time he was sitting in the car he was determined that he’ll tell you how he feels. He won’t make a big deal out of it. He was thinking, maybe that’s what he was missing. A grand gesture, a full day, maybe even a weekend, all planned out, just so he can tell you in the end. But talking to Joyce he figured that’s all just fanfare, show, something reminiscent of his all ways, style over substance. You just have to say it. 

Big words and big plans when he knew exactly well that had he not thrown his bag in the car when leaving in the morning, if he would’ve had to go home for it, he probably never would’ve gone. As pathetic and sad as that might sound. 

You’ll have dinner, you’ll watch a movie, you’ll cuddle on the couch, that’s more than enough time and opportunity to say it. 

When he pulls into your driveway, he almost immediately can sense that something is not right. Instead of the warm light usually spilling out your window, there are only the cold, flashing lights of the TV from the living room. His stomach drops and he doesn’t even necessarily know why. But he has a bad feeling about it. He gets the bag, the pie and walks up to the door. The faint knocking remains unanswered for a couple of minutes. Now panic starts rising in his throat. 

“Honey? You in there?” He tries, still no answer. 

“Baby, can you just answer me? If you don’t want me here anymore, I’ll go but please, just let me know, you’re okay. Please!” When you still don’t answer, he gets desperate. 

“Okay, I’m gonna come in, okay? I’m sorry, you can yell at me later if you want, I just-” He’s already gearing up to kick your door down but when he tries the door knob, he realizes the door is open. His heart starts racing, they took you, he made a mistake and now they took you is one his first thoughts, half expects a table turned over, your books thrown on the ground, glass shards all over. But when he looked around, his heart squeezed up. Oh, fuck. The kitchen was dark, only illuminated somewhat by the TV lights, he could make out bowls on the counter, vegetables half-peeled, knife left out. You started on dinner and then abandoned it halfway through. He found you curled into yourself on the couch, asleep, phone off the receiver, surrounded by tissues, even in sleep he can see the red rims of your eyes. You’ve been crying. 

Fuck.

He puts the pie down, toes his shoes off before crouching down next to you. He doesn’t wanna startle you, so he starts with gentle, slow strokes on your forehead, getting the locks stuck there out of your face. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here, can you hear me?” 

You start stirring a little, so he continues, coos a little louder, your name, that he’s here, that he really wants to talk to you, that he’s sorry. That’s the main one. He’s just so fucking sorry. Your eyes flutter open and you wake with a tiny whimper that makes his heart ache. 

“Steve?” 

“Hi, baby.”

“Is this a dream?” 

“No, I’m here, I’m so sorry I’m late, I just-” 

He doesn’t get to finish because you launch yourself into him. 

“Your’re really here. I thought you weren’t coming.” It’s a broken little thing, the way it comes out of you, and it really does him in. You sniffle and he wants to bang his head against the wall. You thought he wasn’t coming. You thought he was abandoning you. Just like he thought that this was the part where you leave, where he’s not worth it anymore. I’m such a fucking idiot.

“I’d never do that.” Blatant lie but also a promise. Never again. Not to you, not like this. “I’m here baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

He keeps holding you, running his palm up and down your back, until your sniffles calm and your breathing gets back to normal, until your grasp on him becomes a little softer. Like you’re not afraid anymore that he’ll disappear if you let go of him. 

“Have you eaten, pretty girl?”

“I wanted to cook dinner but I got so sad and tired that I couldn’t finish it.”

“Well, you’re in luck then. Joyce sent some of her famous pie over. She said she made too much but I think she was lying.” 

“That woman is a saint.” You say with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“She really is. But we could order something as well. I think it’s not too late. I could also run to the diner, bet Frannie’ll cook something up.” He’s next to you on the couch, you’re curled around him now, face hidden in the crook of his neck. 

“I think I’m okay with the pie for now.” You look up at him and he thinks he does wanna fight for this, live for this. He would die for a lot of people, a lot of things even, but that look, god that look makes him want to claw his way out of any dark cave and parallel dimension. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, let’s just eat and go to bed. I’m really tired and I missed you.” 

“Okay, whatever my girl wants.” He says brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek. You close your eyes and he can practically feel your skin hum under his touch. He curses himself mentally for ever doubting. This, right here, is everything he needs. 

The conversation is quiet, clipped sentences about your weeks, about funny things you saw in the library, about the absolute migraine the whole piping job has been for him. It’s thighs pressed together, it’s warmth, it’s comfort, it’s understanding. It’s love, he thinks. 

“Hey, baby.” He starts about halfway through the shitty made for tv zombie film you guys ended up on. You just hum in reply and he realizes instantly that you’re already half asleep. Not tonight then. 

He ends up carrying you to the bedroom and although he knows you’ll berate him in the morning for not waking you up to brush your teeth, he decides your sleep is more important than your dental hygiene. Just this once. 

He climbs in next to you, wrapping an arm around you like it’s second nature and you melt against him like you belong there. You really do, he thinks. The thought really warms him but also ignites that little, anxious feeling tucked under his ribs all night. All week, if he had to be honest. It starts getting bigger, crawling out from its hiding space, burning something under his skin now. Then suddenly your bed feels too narrow and tight, the blanket is too warm, and his heart just won’t stop beating against his chest and he feels like he’s about to tear his own hair out.

That’s how he ended up on your bathroom floor. Guilt, unsaid words, fear and want flooding his mind, clinging to the walls of his blood vessels, clogging his arteries. He wants to keep you so bad and he’s starting to think that's exactly what’s gonna make him lose you in the end. And that’s when the knocking on the door almost knocks him over as well. 

“Steve?” Your voice is groggy and it’s like sirens call, making him want to drag himself to you even from under the panicked fog clouding his brain and making his limbs feel like they're made of lead. “You in there? Are you okay?” 

He wants to tell you he’s okay, even though he’s not. He wants to calm you down, reassure you, but nothing comes out other than ragged breaths and a pitiful little sound from the back of his throat. Something between a whine and whimper. 

“Steve, baby, you’re scaring me. Can I come in? Or just say something and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Please…” He knows you can’t hear him and he’s not even sure what he’s asking for. 

“Okay, this is ridiculous, I’m coming in.” 

You open the door and he feels defeated. He never wanted you to see him like this. To have to deal with this. 

“Oh, my god, Steve, are you okay?” You’re kneeling in front of him in seconds, assessing the damage, trying to process the situation.

“Are you having a panic attack?” He can manage a nod, just barely. “Can you look at me, please?” You hold his face in your hands and he can’t decide which one of you is more likely to break. “Whatever made you feel like you can’t breathe, we can solve it, okay? I’m here, we can do this, I promise. Can you take a deep breath for me?” He tries, he does, and it almost works. “Good job, baby, there you go. Let’s do that again!” And it goes like that. He breathes, you hold him, you put your hand on his chest, grounding him until his heart starts to slow. It even makes it possible for him to recognize the irony in you trying to get him to calm down after he had to do the exact same thing just about five hours ago with you. 

“There you go. Take five more breaths for me, can you do that?”  

He does. He’ll do anything for you. 

“You’re doing really great bubba, keep it up.” Bubba, he thinks, that might be my favourite one. 

“Great job, baby. You feeling a little better?” 

“Yeah, a little.” The words come out silent, a little broken, a little breathy but they come out. 

“There he is.” You look at him, eyes brimming with a couple unshed tears. “Hey, baby.” 

“Hey.” Even a faint smile graces his lips now. “I’m so so-” 

“No. You stop that, right now. Don’t even start. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.” 

His senses start working again and he suddenly feels the weight of everything all at once. The cold of the tiles under his feet, in contrast you warm palms on his cheeks, his sore legs, the ache in his eyes from the fluorescent light of the bathroom. 

He rests his forehead on yours for a second. He’s absolutely beat and exhausted. 

“Come on, baby, I wanna get you some water, and aspirin and some ice but I need you to get back to bed before that. Can we do that?” 

He nods, not trusting his voice anymore. You lay him down, leave to get the water and the ice and he’s worn out, he just closes his eyes. By the time you get back, he’s a little delirious from it all. You’re the one to hold him after that. His head lays on you chest, his arms holding you like a vice, thigh thrown over yours. Sleep takes him easily now.

That’s all he needed, he thinks a little bitterly the next morning. To completely break down and  wear himself out. You’re not next to him but he doesn’t panic now, hearing the noises from the tiny apartment, from just beyond the bedroom door. A Duran Duran record, something sizzling, something clanging, your humming. He still doesn’t feel like himself entirely but he’s getting there. The ache is set deep in his muscles, maybe in his bones even but he will be damned if he doesn’t get to you. Getting out of bed is not easy but seeing you in your usual home get up (a large shirt, now his, more often than not, your hair in a bun and cozy socks) makes up for everything.

“Something smells good.” You turn to him and he thinks his legs are too weak for this. 

“Hey, baby.” You abandon whatever is cooking on the stove and pad through the kitchen to wrap your arms around him. 

“Hi, sweet girl.” He wastes no time to reciprocate the affection and circle his arms around your waist. He buries his nose deep in your hair and inhales like his longue in bottomless. He leaves a barely there kiss on your neck, then another one in the same place, and another one, and then he gets really hungry. He kisses upwards, along your jaw, then your face, your nose, your eyes, forehead, everywhere, until you’re giggling under him.

“I was gonna ask if you’re feeling better but I can see that you are now.” 

“Yeah, I’m doing better, baby. I’m doing a lot better.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” You’re the one to kiss him now. On the lips. A soft but forceful thing, filled with longing. When you separate he starts talking.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I told you, you don’t have to be sorry for having a panic attack.” 

“It's not about that. Well, not just about that. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it on Friday. I promised you I was gonna do better and I keep failing you.”

“Steve-” 

“No, just, just let me finish please. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, I’m sorry I was late. And I’m sorry I’m not better at talking. I know you’re not stupid and the silence and the nightmares and the scars and dead friends make you think. And I don’t wanna act like you’re seeing ghosts or like I’m hiding something but I’m scared. I’m so scared of losing you, of saying the wrong thing and putting you in danger and, I just… I’m trying. And I wanna keep trying, with you, for you, for us. If you’ll let me.”

“God, my stupid boy, of course I’ll let you.” And then you’re kissing him and it’s not gentle anymore. Most of the time you’re both soft and careful about it, wanting to pour all the care into every move, every kiss. But this is something different. It’s all teeth and you almost don’t remember turning the stove off before pushing him towards the couch. It reminds him of that first night, his pulse jumping, his grip on your waist tightening. By the time you're lowering yourself onto his lap, he’s so hard it hurts a little. 

“Help me out here a bit, pretty boy.” You’re panting while trying to get his boxers off of him. 

“Slow down, sweetheart, let me get you ready first.” 

“No time for that, I need you, like five minutes ago, or five days, but who’s counting, right?” 

“No, baby, please, I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

“Please, Steve, I just, I wanna feel you, please, I need you.” You’re begging. You're sitting in his lap, your eyes are watering and you’re begging, and he can’t bring himself to say no to you. He never can, but holy shit, this is just something else entirely. 

You free him and you have half a mind to pull your panties to the side. You spit in your palm a little, giving him two strokes, using it as a lubricant. He wants to say something, tell you that you don’t have to do this, to slow down, try to get you to extend foreplay a little but he can’t get a word out before you’re sinking down on him and he feels like he might melt if he’s not careful. Or float away. Or just die. That might be it. You’re clinging to him, jaw falling open, thighs shaking, eyes falling open, brows creasing together. He can barely keep his eyes open but he wills himself because he’s never seen anything more beautiful. It’s filthy, it’s almost aggressive and it’s beautiful. One hand comes up to hold your face, the other squeezing a bruise into your ass, he holds you so tight. When you take all of him, you settle there for a bit. Head falling forward a little, shoulders sagging, breathing heavily. He gives you a moment before asking

“Y- You okay, baby?” It’s a stutter, it’s a little pathetic. You can only nod once.

“I- I’m good, I j- just, I need a moment, I- I’m sorry.” 

“Take your time angel, I’m here.” So stay like that for a couple minutes. He’s whispering silent praises into your ear, you shiver sometimes, you shake, you cling to him before you start moving. It’s small at first, tentative, more grinding than anything else. You whimper, he groans, you moan into his mouth and he’s so close to losing control it makes him dizzy. He watches you like you put a spell on him, he thinks maybe you did. A sweat breaks on your forehead and when he cradles the back of your head and you lean into his touch, he thinks yeah, floating away, that’s the one.

“Is that good, sweetheart?” 

“Mhm.” You open your eyes and he can see that you’re just as gone as he is. Eyes hooded and dazed, mouth hanging open, still moving your hips like you're in a trans.

He brushes his thumb along your lower lip, back and forth, pulling it down which makes your head lull back. With that movement his hand slips lower, gently over your throat. When that happens, a moan tears from you, almost animalistic and it makes his cocks kick up inside of you. 

“Oh, my god. My girl missed me this much?” 

You just nod, head falling forward again. He draws you in as a reply, holding you to him, feeling fully how your limbs went loose. 

“Come here, baby, let me do work, yeah? Least I can do for my best girl.” He holds you like you’re gonna break and talks to you like you’re sacred. 

My sweet girl. 

I’ll never make you wait like that ever again. 

You’re so beautiful. 

Always so good for me. 

Can’t believe you're this wet and warm and all mine.

The tenderness of it all reaches a lot deeper than your G-spot or even your cervix. It goes straight for your heart and you can’t help but tear up. 

He feels the tears before he hears the sniffles and he pours everything into the next few movements. He starts thrusting up into you with a fervor, he slips a hand between your bodies and finds your clit with the practiced ease of someone who’s memorized every single inch of your body and he kisses your neck, grazing it with his teeth a gently like he’s trying to etch a promise into your skin. 

“I got you baby, just let go. It’s just me.” He can feel you squeeze him, your hand tightening in his shirt. 

“There you go baby, cum for me, you’re safe, you did so good for me.” Your orgasm creeps up on you and it takes over your whole body in a way you never felt before. You seize up, almost every muscle, head to toe, tears spilling freely, eyes clenched shut, mouth falling open with a silent scream after your throat went a little raw from the little uh-uh-uh’s he punched out of you. The way you cling to him breaks him as well. He doesn’t even have time to stutter, he just goes still as he spills into you and he’s pretty sure he can feel his soul leave his body for a second. He’s sure you’ll both have bruises later but he can’t get himself to let go of you. Neither do you but then his heart breaks completely when you start sobbing. He hasn’t even pulled out from you and it makes him feel so raw and vulnerable. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” That’s all he says. Then he just holds you. Just like he did, then just like you did to him last night. It’s all the unsaid words and distance and missing and ache just coming out all in one go. By the time you relax a little, he’s all soft. He never stops caressing you. Your arms, the back of your neck, your thighs, pressing kisses into every part of you he can get to, without moving you or himself too much. 

He slips out of you, making you both hiss, guides you to the bathroom and draws a bath real quick. You haven’t eaten but he’ll take care of that after this. 

He holds you in there as well, back to his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” He asks after a long stretch of silence.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” You squeeze his hand that rests on your stomach. “Sorry for getting so emotional.” 

“Hey, if I’m not allowed to apologize for having a panic attack, then you’re not allowed to apologize for crying either.” 

“Crying during sex.” 

“After sex.” 

“It was both and you know that.” 

“So? Still not allowed to apologize.” You chuckle and it makes him feel like a winner. 

“I really thought I was gonna lose you.” You mumbled. So much for feeling like a winner. 

“What?” 

“I just- I thought I was gonna lose you. I thought it was getting too hard and I mean, it’s hard for me too but I just- I don’t know, I don’t wanna give up. And I was scared that you would.” 

The words echo in the bathroom, the silence only broken by the drops of water falling from your skin back into the bathtub, all shattering on the tiles around you. It allows the words to really reach him, really find way into his chest, into hidden parts.

“Can you look at me for a second, please?” He takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger and makes you twist your neck. It’s a little awkward but he needs you to see him when he says this next part.

“I’m not giving up. I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you feel like I was going to. I’m sorry for thinking I would. But I’m not giving up. I’m all in. And not just because I’m pretty sure I had an out of body experience on that couch earlier.” You chuckle and a blush creeps onto your face. 

“Stop it.” 

“Not a chance, sweet girl.” He kisses you then and it feels so much more than any kiss before. You turn around, settle against him and something about the warm water and tired bodies makes it feel like you melt into eachother and he thinks that if you two are struck by lightining, right this second, he would die a happy man. Maybe he’ll have to talk to his therapist about why these dramatic images his mind conjures up. But for now he’s only for you. Here.

Later, when you guys continue cooking, it’s finally a little lighter in the kitchen. It’s giggles and teasing and light reassuring touches.

“That sounds like a nightmare.” You conclude after he told you what problems he discovered in an apartment he was about to start renovation in.

“Yeah, and I felt so sorry for the guy, he was so hopeful it was going to be an easy job and his mom can move in quickly, now she has to stay in her rental for at least one more month.” 

“Oof, that sounds rough. But at least it won’t bankrupt them. A Hawkins rental is a steal compared to the city." You say with a scoff and almost immediately notice you said too much. 

“You-” 

“Oh, fuck.” You look up at him and he’s blinking like a fish in a plastic bag with that adorable lost puppy look on his face. “Shit. Steve, I’m so sorry, I was gonna talk to you about this first, I just-” 

“You looked at Hawkins rental prices?” 

“I-” You exhaled low and slow. “Yes.” The admission was so silent, he almost missed it but then you turned to him and he could tell, you were bracing yourself for what comes next. “Yes, I looked at apartments in Hawkins. I wasn’t going to take anything without talking to you first. I would never do that. I just, I only have a year left from college and after that I would be a lot more mobile and we could do something more permanent but, yeah, I’m just, I’m getting tired of this, of missing each other, of only hearing you through the phone and saying goodbye and just, I don’t know. I didn’t wanna scare you away and I didn’t know how to bring this up and, god, I’m so fucking stupid. I’m sorry!” By the time you stop talking he’s gone completely silent. He blinks in disbelief. He really is an idiot, isn’t he? Being so scared to say three words when he has this. You weren’t thinking about leaving. You’re thinking about Hawkins rental prices and a year from now and us. His mind short circuits and he moves without knowing what his next step is gonna be. He’s still staring at you as he gets up then he laughs and shakes his head as he starts walking.

“Hey, Steve, wait, where are you going?!” He doesn’t answer, just picks up the phone and dials a number. It’s silent as you follow him so you wait. 

“Hey, Joyce, sorry, is this a bad time? Yeah, no, everything’s fine, I just, um.” He clears his throat dramatically. “I’m just not feeling super well, sore throat and whatnot. Yeah, I know, it’s really bad.” But he’s looking directly at you and grinning like an idiot, mischief evident in his eyes, and while you’re still confused, you can’t help the grin of your own that finds its way to your lips. “Yeah, so, can you or Hop please tell Mrs. Bishop that we’ll have to postpone the work with, I wanna say a week?” He looks at you with a questioning look and you nod your head so quickly, you almost get whiplash. “Yeah, a week, at the very least. Yeah, thanks Joyce.” He looks so soft, it makes your heart ache. “Yeah, no, I’ll leave this number but I won’t be home till next week either. Oh, my god, okay, I’m hanging up now.” He says a little pink, a little flustered. “Okay. Yeah, I think so. Okay, I’ll see guys. Thanks again, bye!” 

You giggle a little teary after he hangs up.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked, I just-” he cuts himself off as he makes his way to you. He takes your face in his palms and makes you look up at him, causing the tears to spill from your eyes but catches them with his thumbs immediately. “I love you.” It comes out so suddenly, it makes you falter.

“What?” You ask a little shocked. 

“I’m sorry, this is really not how I wanted to do this. I wanted to plan a romantic weekend, take you out at least, I wanted there to be champagne and chocolate covered strawberries but you’re looking for apartments in Hawkins and I just don’t care anymore. I love you. I love you so much, it scares the ever living shit out of me. I thought I was never going to feel this way again and every single minute I get to spend with you feels like borrowed time, like I’m cheating. But I don’t wanna give up on this. On you, on us. And I don’t wanna be scared anymore. I love you.” 

It’s terrifying and relieving at the same time. It’s out there, he said it. Let the chips fall where they may. 

“Took you long enough.” 

“Are you kidding me? I confess and that’s your answer?” But both of your eyes are sparkling. With tears and tenderness and so much more.

“I love you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Well, I was looking for apartments in Hawkins because of my other boyfriend but I guess you’ll do too.”

“Menace.” 

“You love it.” 

“I do. I really, really do.” 

“Good, cause if you thought I blew your mind on the couch earlier, then buckle up pretty boy.” 

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

[slutforpumpkins]

stevie my love 😭 this was so sad and sweet and ugh

[consistentlyamess]

@slutforpumpkins thank you so much lovely!!! 🥹 i'm sorry it was a little sad, i'm also a little sad and it leaked in there i guess. but thank you for reading anyway!! ❤️

[consistentlyamess]

Breathe easier

[over 8K]

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: Maybe it is too much for him. Maybe he was never supposed to start any of this.

warnings: 18+ , MDNI, mentions of trauma, ANGST, miscommunications, swearing, crying, hurt/comfort, smut, p in v sex, crying during sex (not in a kinky way), non-sexual nudity, panic attack, abandonment issues (that just comes with steve harrington tho), mentions of Steve’s parents, mentions of childhood suckiness, mentions of Nancy, therapy, mentions of death, post season 5, but idk anything so this is just my version, lmk if i missed anything!!

A/N: this takes place in the Family dinner universe, i reccomend reading it before this, but it can be read as a stand-alone as well!! i'm so sorry for the long wait, i was having a hard time lately (which probably will show in this chapter lol) and writing didn't come easy. but i hope you'll like this!!! thank you for reading!! <3

It was bound to happen, he knew that. But he always prayed it wasn’t like this. Not with him heaving on your bathroom floor, with you on the other side. He knew you were gonna wake up sooner or later. If not because of the whimpers coming out of him, then because you can’t find him next to you. 

You became attuned to his movements these past months and normally he adored that. He loved that you reached for him instinctively even in your sleep, he loved that you always roused and woke up mere minutes after him, because you felt his missing heat from your side, he loved all that, but right now, he really wished you were more oblivious, didn’t care so much. It was supposed to be a good night. It was supposed to be an easy, cozy, sweet night. Not a date night per se, but something like it. He still felt the need to impress you, to show you how serious he was. Even though it was in the toothbrush he bought you (he said it was a “guest toothbrush he had lying around”, but you already knew that the tip of his ears went pink and he looked at the ground before looking at you when he was lying or hiding something), it was in the way he emptied one of the nightstands for you, it was in the way he suddenly had a drawer he didn’t really use, “just in case you needed it”. 

He let his guard down, he thought. He thought it was easy, that he just had to have a steady hand, that it could come easy like that. And now here was his punishment. Everything that he worked so hard for, just crumbling down in one night. He doesn’t even know what set it off this time. Maybe it wasn’t just the one thing. 

Maybe it started with Robin going M.I.A. for a week. It was finals week, it was the fact she met this girl Beth, the first person she really liked since they broke up with Vickie when they moved for college. It would’ve been too hard, she said. But even then he knew it was more about getting a clean break. A real fresh start, no matter how much it felt like her heart was breaking. He knew all this. But it did sting a little. And then he felt guilty because, hey, your friend is happy, you also have your new relationship that is going really well, what the hell is your problem? It was what his therapist labeled The Old Man voice. Not in the old soul way, but in the his dad’s voice way. The one that told him See? You don’t know how to take care of anything nice. That’s why everything and everyone will always leave you.

“Did he ever really say that?” His therapist asked once. State mandated at first, voluntary now.

“Maybe. I don’t really know. Maybe not with these exact words. But… almost everything he ever said after I turned fifteen meant this, you know? Does that make sense?” It did. 

They worked long and hard to make sure he had tools to stop or mute it, maybe just make something else louder at the very least. Lately that something else tended to be you. The way you rasped out his name in the morning, the giggles you let out when his breath tickled that sensitive spot at your waist, telling him how much you miss him over the phone. 

Maybe that’s where it started. This back and forth, overnight bags and goodbyes that just started weighing on his mind a little too much. You got into petty fights and stupid arguments, came back together almost immediately after, but it wore the both of you down. If he wanted to be honest, it was exhausting to miss you this much. But then he thought he hadn't even said I love you, not really. Not with these words. Neither have you. And although you both had gotten better at talking to each other, he felt like there were still times when you held back. When you weren’t completely honest. He also knew that you could tell when he was anxious. 

The last time you were together he noticed you reached for him more often. Stopped his fingers from fidgeting, held his upper arm in the grocery store, breathed a kiss onto his wrist. And it was right there, just on the tip of his tongue. But it didn’t come out. 

He was sure. He was also about 98% sure you’d say it back. And still, he remained silent. 

“Did you want to say it?” His therapist asked in that day’s session. 

“I think I've wanted to say it since the night she drove two hours in the pouring rain because she missed me.” 

“What made that night special?” 

“Did you not hear the part about the pouring rain?” 

“I did. But I still would like to know what happened that night.”

He took a deep breath.

“Well, it was a very long week. They all feel long lately, especially when I’m waiting to see her. I screwed up a job, I had to start building a whole dinner table all over. I wanted to call her but I knew she had a shift at the bar that night, so I didn’t bother. I took a shower and I was planning on drinking a beer and pitying myself on the couch but when I came out of the bathroom, a car was pulling up outside. And I just knew it, even before I looked out the window. I just knew it was her. And I don’t mean it in the way that, like, I hoped it was her and then I saw and I was happy. I mean I knew. She was almost completely soaked through just from walking up to the door and I remember I almost started crying. I was so happy to see her” 

He paused for a minute because he didn’t really know if he was supposed to say out loud what happened next. How you laughed into each other’s mouths, something breathless and soft and full of longing. How he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. How he said thank you by dropping to his knees right then and there. How you didn’t even make it to the couch and he was inside you. No, he’s definitely not supposed to say those things. He cleared his throat and continued, even though he could feel that his face probably betrayed him, turning to a light shade of pink. It’s the tips of your ears, he recalled your voice once again, those are the dead giveaway. 

“So, um, later that night, she rummaged through my kitchen and somehow was able to come up with a proper meal from about three ingredients that were knocking about. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in my kitchen at that point, her car is so shitty, I don’t feel good about her driving it for too long, so I usually go to her place, but she moved around like she belonged there. Like she was always there. We- I mean she was after a shower, her hair was wet, she used my shampoo and smelled like it, she was wearing my t-shirt, and I just thought fuck, I’m so in love with her it’s embarrassing.” He never said it out loud. He didn’t even tell Robin or Dustin. 

“Is it?”

“What?”

“You just said it’s embarrassing. Why is loving her embarrassing?”

“Wh- I- I don’t know why I said that.”

“I know, that’s why I’m asking.”

I hate this woman he thinks. And he only thinks this when she’s really fucking onto something.

“Do you think that thinking it’s embarrassing to love her has something to do with the fact you find it so hard to say it to her?” 

There it is. His throat closes up at the thought, he barely chokes out the next words.

“I think… I think she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And there’s this part of me that wants to shout it from the rooftop. But then there’s this other part. And that part is watching and laughing and making fun of the first part.”

“Why is it laughing?”

He thinks for a long minute.

“Because he thinks that it’s naive, weak and… embarrassing.”

“Does that part have a voice?”

He knows now what she’s getting at. Maybe it’s the same. Maybe it’s also The Old Man voice.

But it’s a little more complicated than that.

“I don’t think so, I’m not sure.”

"We've talked about your father before and that, in and of itself, would be enough. But your friends in high school-” 

“They weren’t my friends.” 

“Right. I’m sorry. The kids you hung out in high school thought being genuine and vulnerable wasn’t cool, when you showed any sign of that, they made fun you and abandoned you-”

“Yeah, well, good fucking riddance.” He’s a little too defensive and he can’t catch it in time.

“Sure, but they still left. That must have stung. And then you talked about the first girl you really loved, she told you your relationship was crappy-”

“Bullshit.”

“Pardon?” 

“Bullshit. She said it was bullshit. 

“That must have really stung.”

“It did.” 

“See what I’m getting at here, Steve?”

He did. And the weight of it made his heart ache. 

“We often think of our brain like something that works in these mysterious and complicated ways and in a sense it does. But in other sense it’s incredibly simplistic and borderline primitive. The way we learn patterns is for example. Our dads think we’re not enough, we’re rejected and abandoned and then it feels like a pattern and it seems like the only common denominator is us. But if we try hard enough and do the work we can rewire these connections. For example, have you told your friend, Robin, that you loved her?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“She’s your best friend, she seems to be a very important connection in your life, I would assume you love her.” 

“I do, I love her very much!” He sounded offended and he didn’t really know why.

“Steve, I’m not calling you out. I’m trying to make a point.” 

“Isn’t that the same thing?” 

“Steve, this is the first time we’re able to talk about fears, blocks and hopes regarding romantic relationships. That alone is huge progress, and I’m not trying to take that away. What I’m trying to draw attention to is that  you don’t really have the same inhibitions when it comes to platonic love.” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I got so defensive.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay to get frustrated with me sometimes. These are not easy topics.” 

“I just- With my friends it's different. People say they’d die for each other and we actually almost did. Some of us did. We’re bonded for life, it’s just what it is. And it was almost accidental. We got swept up in this against our will. But with her it’s this whole other thing. She chose me and she keeps choosing me. And sometimes I’m just happy she does, you know? And then other times it messes with my head. Like I’m cheating, like I’m somehow tricking her. Which I’m not, I would never lie to her but still there’s that feeling.” 

She only hummed and nodded. He liked that about her. She could always tell when he needed time to collect his thoughts. 

“I’m so scared she’ll figure out that I’m not worth it and then I’m just this big chump who thought they can have nice things. And I know, I know this is exactly what we’ve talked about, that I have to change this pattern of thinking, it’s just, it’s hard sometimes.” 

“That’s okay. It’s not a problem if it’s hard.You have come a long way, Steve.” 

“You’ve already said that.” 

“It bears repeating. The sheer fact that you’re this open, that you’re willing to fight, willing to try. That’s not nothing. Far from it, actually.” 

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Not everybody leaves. But they can only show you if you stay too.” 

And in her office, sitting in that arm chair, halfway between comfortable and uncomfortable, it’s a little easier to believe her. But then he leaves and it’s just him and his thoughts in the world and they make him feel small again. 

And maybe that’s where it started, the moment he heard the distance, the disappointment and even the tears in your voice when he had to tell you he’s so fucking sorry, but he’ll only be able to make it to yours on Satruday, meaning you’ll barely have a day together.

“I’m so sorry baby, I busted my ass all week so we can finish this piping job in time but it’s just not coming together and I’m losing my fucking mind I miss you so much, but-” 

“Steve, it’s okay, I understand.” You did, he knew you did. But it didn’t change the fact that he felt guilty. It only made it worse that he really wanted to hang up by saying those three words that just wouldn’t come out. It was a short call and he had it playing in his head on repeat the next day.

I’m failing at this and I can’t even tell her that I love her. 

He almost didn’t go. He felt like throwing the towel in. Calling it. Telling you that he’s really sorry but this is just not working. That it’s too much, too hard. He was wound tight, gripping the wheel while driving over to Hop and Joyce’s place. Joyce baked too much pie and told him to come pick some of it for the two of you. He knew she baked it on purpose.

“Hi, sweetheart!” She greeted him with a smile, like always. Hair flying in every direction, some grays mixing in now. “Hop’s still at the station, but he should be back soon. Come in, come in!” 

Entering the house never really became less, well, weird. It wasn’t the house where the boys grew up but there was still this tiny little part of him that expected Jonathan to saunter out of one of the rooms. He never did of course, he laid enough bouquets of flowers on his grave to know that wasn’t happening. And still. His throat closed up a little and all that tension just started buzzing inside him. 

“How are you Steve? The Bishop house coming along okay?” 

“I uhm, yeah, it’s going alright. The piping was delayed, I was supposed to leave last night.” 

“Oh, you must be in a hurry then, I’ll get your pie and let you go, just a second!” 

“Uhm, I was actually wondering if I could make a call real quick.” 

“Sure, sure, I’ll get everything ready while you do that.” 

“Thank you.” 

He was going to call you but his fingers wouldn’t type the numbers. Instead he punched in Robin’s number, almost on instinct. 

Hello! You reached the *thump* Fuck! You reached Robin Buckley but I’m either out or the corner of this fukcing table finally got me and I’m slowly bleeding out through my little toe. Leave a message or call 911. Bye! 

“Fuck.” He thought he murmured, thumping his forehead on the wall. 

“Everything okay, sweetheart?“ He exhaled loudly.

“Sorry, Joyce, I just, it’s been a long week and I really could’ve used a friend.” 

“Well, I mean, you have one here.” She said softly. He could almost feel her hand hovering over his shoulder. “Two, in a little while if you need more of a grumpy man touch on whatever the problem is.” 

He huffed a little laugh and some of that tension just left his shoulders. Right, he had more than one person. 

“I just, I feel like I’m messing this all up.” 

“Messing it up, how?” 

“She’s, god, she’s incredible. And I’m just so worried that these visits are starting to be not enough, because, well, they’re not enough for me. I miss her all the time, saying goodbye is harder and harder and I- I wanna tell her so many things and I just can’t seem to find a way and it’s all just-” 

“A bit much?” 

“A bit much, yeah. And I wanna give her everything but I just don’t seem to know how. In the beginning, when she showed up in my life, it was just this breath of fresh air. You know that feeling when, like, it’s already kinda cold outside and you’re sitting on the couch or something like that, and the sun comes out for a couple minutes and suddenly it’s just so nice and warm when it hits your face?” 

He glanced at Joyce for a moment and yeah, he really shouldn’t have done that. She was looking at him with so much softness, so much patience and understanding that now he felt bad for complaining. 

“Yeah, well, that’s what it felt like. That’s what she felt like. She still does. But I promised she’d come first, and I’m failing. And it's just getting so complicated.” 

“Is it just the distance?” She knew it wasn’t. 

“It’s the distance, it’s that I still have this nagging feeling that I might be putting her in danger, it’s that she knows I’m keeping things from her, she’s had to wake up to my screaming one too many times and she’s far too smart for her own good. And it’s that I don’t even know how to tell her that I love her without being terrified I’m ruining everything.” It all came out in one breath. He couldn’t be bothered with trying to keep it in anymore. A defeated sigh escaped him as he hung his head low. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Joyce was the one to reach on instinct this time. “Come here.” She hugged him, tight. It was motherly, it was saying I’m here and you stay here as long as you want. Steve didn’t know how Joyce did it but her hugs always felt like this. Like she was giving space and a shoulder to lean on, literally and metaphorically, but she never made it feel like it was a burden. The few times his mother hugged him or tried being warm it always ended up feeling like a favour, like something she did so reluctantly. Like saying well, fine, but you should be able to do this alone. Never like this. Never like it was the most natural thing in the world. Never like why did you wait so long to come to me? By the time he emerges from the older woman’s shoulder it feels like he’s already a little bit lighter. Not calm exactly but a little lighter. 

“Listen to me! I know that everything I could say in this moment, you know already. It’s just a bad week, you’re worth the trouble, all that, we all know it, and in these times it just doesn’t matter. So, I’m not gonna tell you that. What I will tell you is this, you’ve been through too much to give up on something that makes you this happy. Because we can all see how you light up when you so much, as think about her. There’s this glint in your eyes, and I just immediately know. I know that pushing through seems like the hardest thing sometimes but that’s what you do when you love someone, you keep going, you keep showing up. That’s what we all do, right?” 

Well, now he really feels guilty. That’s exactly what she did. She lost a son, almost two, and lived thinking Hopper was dead. And she was still just here. She picked up the phone, she made pies, she organized the barbecues and held their hands when they needed it. Never said a word about everyone moving away, moving on in their own ways. Even if she worried sick about Will. She knew this was his first and maybe only chance to have a normal life. As normal as it could possibly get. So she swallowed her fears and he was there when she tried to hide her teary eyes the day they all helped Will pack and move for college. She gets breakfast with Nancy every month. She’s there. 

“I know it means precious little now but this is a bad week. It’s not all bad. And if there’s one cliché I can still shoot, it would be this: when you look back, it’s always going to be the things you didn’t do. Never the trying. Even if it feels a little uncomfortable, a little embarrassing sometimes.” 

He also didn’t know how she did that. Just seeing right through him like that. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Joyce.” 

“Anytime, sweetheart. Now, let’s go get that pie and get you on your way.” 

By the time he was sitting in the car he was determined that he’ll tell you how he feels. He won’t make a big deal out of it. He was thinking, maybe that’s what he was missing. A grand gesture, a full day, maybe even a weekend, all planned out, just so he can tell you in the end. But talking to Joyce he figured that’s all just fanfare, show, something reminiscent of his all ways, style over substance. You just have to say it. 

Big words and big plans when he knew exactly well that had he not thrown his bag in the car when leaving in the morning, if he would’ve had to go home for it, he probably never would’ve gone. As pathetic and sad as that might sound. 

You’ll have dinner, you’ll watch a movie, you’ll cuddle on the couch, that’s more than enough time and opportunity to say it. 

When he pulls into your driveway, he almost immediately can sense that something is not right. Instead of the warm light usually spilling out your window, there are only the cold, flashing lights of the TV from the living room. His stomach drops and he doesn’t even necessarily know why. But he has a bad feeling about it. He gets the bag, the pie and walks up to the door. The faint knocking remains unanswered for a couple of minutes. Now panic starts rising in his throat. 

“Honey? You in there?” He tries, still no answer. 

“Baby, can you just answer me? If you don’t want me here anymore, I’ll go but please, just let me know, you’re okay. Please!” When you still don’t answer, he gets desperate. 

“Okay, I’m gonna come in, okay? I’m sorry, you can yell at me later if you want, I just-” He’s already gearing up to kick your door down but when he tries the door knob, he realizes the door is open. His heart starts racing, they took you, he made a mistake and now they took you is one his first thoughts, half expects a table turned over, your books thrown on the ground, glass shards all over. But when he looked around, his heart squeezed up. Oh, fuck. The kitchen was dark, only illuminated somewhat by the TV lights, he could make out bowls on the counter, vegetables half-peeled, knife left out. You started on dinner and then abandoned it halfway through. He found you curled into yourself on the couch, asleep, phone off the receiver, surrounded by tissues, even in sleep he can see the red rims of your eyes. You’ve been crying. 

Fuck.

He puts the pie down, toes his shoes off before crouching down next to you. He doesn’t wanna startle you, so he starts with gentle, slow strokes on your forehead, getting the locks stuck there out of your face. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here, can you hear me?” 

You start stirring a little, so he continues, coos a little louder, your name, that he’s here, that he really wants to talk to you, that he’s sorry. That’s the main one. He’s just so fucking sorry. Your eyes flutter open and you wake with a tiny whimper that makes his heart ache. 

“Steve?” 

“Hi, baby.”

“Is this a dream?” 

“No, I’m here, I’m so sorry I’m late, I just-” 

He doesn’t get to finish because you launch yourself into him. 

“Your’re really here. I thought you weren’t coming.” It’s a broken little thing, the way it comes out of you, and it really does him in. You sniffle and he wants to bang his head against the wall. You thought he wasn’t coming. You thought he was abandoning you. Just like he thought that this was the part where you leave, where he’s not worth it anymore. I’m such a fucking idiot.

“I’d never do that.” Blatant lie but also a promise. Never again. Not to you, not like this. “I’m here baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

He keeps holding you, running his palm up and down your back, until your sniffles calm and your breathing gets back to normal, until your grasp on him becomes a little softer. Like you’re not afraid anymore that he’ll disappear if you let go of him. 

“Have you eaten, pretty girl?”

“I wanted to cook dinner but I got so sad and tired that I couldn’t finish it.”

“Well, you’re in luck then. Joyce sent some of her famous pie over. She said she made too much but I think she was lying.” 

“That woman is a saint.” You say with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“She really is. But we could order something as well. I think it’s not too late. I could also run to the diner, bet Frannie’ll cook something up.” He’s next to you on the couch, you’re curled around him now, face hidden in the crook of his neck. 

“I think I’m okay with the pie for now.” You look up at him and he thinks he does wanna fight for this, live for this. He would die for a lot of people, a lot of things even, but that look, god that look makes him want to claw his way out of any dark cave and parallel dimension. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, let’s just eat and go to bed. I’m really tired and I missed you.” 

“Okay, whatever my girl wants.” He says brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek. You close your eyes and he can practically feel your skin hum under his touch. He curses himself mentally for ever doubting. This, right here, is everything he needs. 

The conversation is quiet, clipped sentences about your weeks, about funny things you saw in the library, about the absolute migraine the whole piping job has been for him. It’s thighs pressed together, it’s warmth, it’s comfort, it’s understanding. It’s love, he thinks. 

“Hey, baby.” He starts about halfway through the shitty made for tv zombie film you guys ended up on. You just hum in reply and he realizes instantly that you’re already half asleep. Not tonight then. 

He ends up carrying you to the bedroom and although he knows you’ll berate him in the morning for not waking you up to brush your teeth, he decides your sleep is more important than your dental hygiene. Just this once. 

He climbs in next to you, wrapping an arm around you like it’s second nature and you melt against him like you belong there. You really do, he thinks. The thought really warms him but also ignites that little, anxious feeling tucked under his ribs all night. All week, if he had to be honest. It starts getting bigger, crawling out from its hiding space, burning something under his skin now. Then suddenly your bed feels too narrow and tight, the blanket is too warm, and his heart just won’t stop beating against his chest and he feels like he’s about to tear his own hair out.

That’s how he ended up on your bathroom floor. Guilt, unsaid words, fear and want flooding his mind, clinging to the walls of his blood vessels, clogging his arteries. He wants to keep you so bad and he’s starting to think that's exactly what’s gonna make him lose you in the end. And that’s when the knocking on the door almost knocks him over as well. 

“Steve?” Your voice is groggy and it’s like sirens call, making him want to drag himself to you even from under the panicked fog clouding his brain and making his limbs feel like they're made of lead. “You in there? Are you okay?” 

He wants to tell you he’s okay, even though he’s not. He wants to calm you down, reassure you, but nothing comes out other than ragged breaths and a pitiful little sound from the back of his throat. Something between a whine and whimper. 

“Steve, baby, you’re scaring me. Can I come in? Or just say something and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Please…” He knows you can’t hear him and he’s not even sure what he’s asking for. 

“Okay, this is ridiculous, I’m coming in.” 

You open the door and he feels defeated. He never wanted you to see him like this. To have to deal with this. 

“Oh, my god, Steve, are you okay?” You’re kneeling in front of him in seconds, assessing the damage, trying to process the situation.

“Are you having a panic attack?” He can manage a nod, just barely. “Can you look at me, please?” You hold his face in your hands and he can’t decide which one of you is more likely to break. “Whatever made you feel like you can’t breathe, we can solve it, okay? I’m here, we can do this, I promise. Can you take a deep breath for me?” He tries, he does, and it almost works. “Good job, baby, there you go. Let’s do that again!” And it goes like that. He breathes, you hold him, you put your hand on his chest, grounding him until his heart starts to slow. It even makes it possible for him to recognize the irony in you trying to get him to calm down after he had to do the exact same thing just about five hours ago with you. 

“There you go. Take five more breaths for me, can you do that?”  

He does. He’ll do anything for you. 

“You’re doing really great bubba, keep it up.” Bubba, he thinks, that might be my favourite one. 

“Great job, baby. You feeling a little better?” 

“Yeah, a little.” The words come out silent, a little broken, a little breathy but they come out. 

“There he is.” You look at him, eyes brimming with a couple unshed tears. “Hey, baby.” 

“Hey.” Even a faint smile graces his lips now. “I’m so so-” 

“No. You stop that, right now. Don’t even start. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.” 

His senses start working again and he suddenly feels the weight of everything all at once. The cold of the tiles under his feet, in contrast you warm palms on his cheeks, his sore legs, the ache in his eyes from the fluorescent light of the bathroom. 

He rests his forehead on yours for a second. He’s absolutely beat and exhausted. 

“Come on, baby, I wanna get you some water, and aspirin and some ice but I need you to get back to bed before that. Can we do that?” 

He nods, not trusting his voice anymore. You lay him down, leave to get the water and the ice and he’s worn out, he just closes his eyes. By the time you get back, he’s a little delirious from it all. You’re the one to hold him after that. His head lays on you chest, his arms holding you like a vice, thigh thrown over yours. Sleep takes him easily now.

That’s all he needed, he thinks a little bitterly the next morning. To completely break down and  wear himself out. You’re not next to him but he doesn’t panic now, hearing the noises from the tiny apartment, from just beyond the bedroom door. A Duran Duran record, something sizzling, something clanging, your humming. He still doesn’t feel like himself entirely but he’s getting there. The ache is set deep in his muscles, maybe in his bones even but he will be damned if he doesn’t get to you. Getting out of bed is not easy but seeing you in your usual home get up (a large shirt, now his, more often than not, your hair in a bun and cozy socks) makes up for everything.

“Something smells good.” You turn to him and he thinks his legs are too weak for this. 

“Hey, baby.” You abandon whatever is cooking on the stove and pad through the kitchen to wrap your arms around him. 

“Hi, sweet girl.” He wastes no time to reciprocate the affection and circle his arms around your waist. He buries his nose deep in your hair and inhales like his longue in bottomless. He leaves a barely there kiss on your neck, then another one in the same place, and another one, and then he gets really hungry. He kisses upwards, along your jaw, then your face, your nose, your eyes, forehead, everywhere, until you’re giggling under him.

“I was gonna ask if you’re feeling better but I can see that you are now.” 

“Yeah, I’m doing better, baby. I’m doing a lot better.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” You’re the one to kiss him now. On the lips. A soft but forceful thing, filled with longing. When you separate he starts talking.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I told you, you don’t have to be sorry for having a panic attack.” 

“It's not about that. Well, not just about that. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it on Friday. I promised you I was gonna do better and I keep failing you.”

“Steve-” 

“No, just, just let me finish please. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, I’m sorry I was late. And I’m sorry I’m not better at talking. I know you’re not stupid and the silence and the nightmares and the scars and dead friends make you think. And I don’t wanna act like you’re seeing ghosts or like I’m hiding something but I’m scared. I’m so scared of losing you, of saying the wrong thing and putting you in danger and, I just… I’m trying. And I wanna keep trying, with you, for you, for us. If you’ll let me.”

“God, my stupid boy, of course I’ll let you.” And then you’re kissing him and it’s not gentle anymore. Most of the time you’re both soft and careful about it, wanting to pour all the care into every move, every kiss. But this is something different. It’s all teeth and you almost don’t remember turning the stove off before pushing him towards the couch. It reminds him of that first night, his pulse jumping, his grip on your waist tightening. By the time you're lowering yourself onto his lap, he’s so hard it hurts a little. 

“Help me out here a bit, pretty boy.” You’re panting while trying to get his boxers off of him. 

“Slow down, sweetheart, let me get you ready first.” 

“No time for that, I need you, like five minutes ago, or five days, but who’s counting, right?” 

“No, baby, please, I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

“Please, Steve, I just, I wanna feel you, please, I need you.” You’re begging. You're sitting in his lap, your eyes are watering and you’re begging, and he can’t bring himself to say no to you. He never can, but holy shit, this is just something else entirely. 

You free him and you have half a mind to pull your panties to the side. You spit in your palm a little, giving him two strokes, using it as a lubricant. He wants to say something, tell you that you don’t have to do this, to slow down, try to get you to extend foreplay a little but he can’t get a word out before you’re sinking down on him and he feels like he might melt if he’s not careful. Or float away. Or just die. That might be it. You’re clinging to him, jaw falling open, thighs shaking, eyes falling open, brows creasing together. He can barely keep his eyes open but he wills himself because he’s never seen anything more beautiful. It’s filthy, it’s almost aggressive and it’s beautiful. One hand comes up to hold your face, the other squeezing a bruise into your ass, he holds you so tight. When you take all of him, you settle there for a bit. Head falling forward a little, shoulders sagging, breathing heavily. He gives you a moment before asking

“Y- You okay, baby?” It’s a stutter, it’s a little pathetic. You can only nod once.

“I- I’m good, I j- just, I need a moment, I- I’m sorry.” 

“Take your time angel, I’m here.” So stay like that for a couple minutes. He’s whispering silent praises into your ear, you shiver sometimes, you shake, you cling to him before you start moving. It’s small at first, tentative, more grinding than anything else. You whimper, he groans, you moan into his mouth and he’s so close to losing control it makes him dizzy. He watches you like you put a spell on him, he thinks maybe you did. A sweat breaks on your forehead and when he cradles the back of your head and you lean into his touch, he thinks yeah, floating away, that’s the one.

“Is that good, sweetheart?” 

“Mhm.” You open your eyes and he can see that you’re just as gone as he is. Eyes hooded and dazed, mouth hanging open, still moving your hips like you're in a trans.

He brushes his thumb along your lower lip, back and forth, pulling it down which makes your head lull back. With that movement his hand slips lower, gently over your throat. When that happens, a moan tears from you, almost animalistic and it makes his cocks kick up inside of you. 

“Oh, my god. My girl missed me this much?” 

You just nod, head falling forward again. He draws you in as a reply, holding you to him, feeling fully how your limbs went loose. 

“Come here, baby, let me do work, yeah? Least I can do for my best girl.” He holds you like you’re gonna break and talks to you like you’re sacred. 

My sweet girl. 

I’ll never make you wait like that ever again. 

You’re so beautiful. 

Always so good for me. 

Can’t believe you're this wet and warm and all mine.

The tenderness of it all reaches a lot deeper than your G-spot or even your cervix. It goes straight for your heart and you can’t help but tear up. 

He feels the tears before he hears the sniffles and he pours everything into the next few movements. He starts thrusting up into you with a fervor, he slips a hand between your bodies and finds your clit with the practiced ease of someone who’s memorized every single inch of your body and he kisses your neck, grazing it with his teeth a gently like he’s trying to etch a promise into your skin. 

“I got you baby, just let go. It’s just me.” He can feel you squeeze him, your hand tightening in his shirt. 

“There you go baby, cum for me, you’re safe, you did so good for me.” Your orgasm creeps up on you and it takes over your whole body in a way you never felt before. You seize up, almost every muscle, head to toe, tears spilling freely, eyes clenched shut, mouth falling open with a silent scream after your throat went a little raw from the little uh-uh-uh’s he punched out of you. The way you cling to him breaks him as well. He doesn’t even have time to stutter, he just goes still as he spills into you and he’s pretty sure he can feel his soul leave his body for a second. He’s sure you’ll both have bruises later but he can’t get himself to let go of you. Neither do you but then his heart breaks completely when you start sobbing. He hasn’t even pulled out from you and it makes him feel so raw and vulnerable. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” That’s all he says. Then he just holds you. Just like he did, then just like you did to him last night. It’s all the unsaid words and distance and missing and ache just coming out all in one go. By the time you relax a little, he’s all soft. He never stops caressing you. Your arms, the back of your neck, your thighs, pressing kisses into every part of you he can get to, without moving you or himself too much. 

He slips out of you, making you both hiss, guides you to the bathroom and draws a bath real quick. You haven’t eaten but he’ll take care of that after this. 

He holds you in there as well, back to his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” He asks after a long stretch of silence.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” You squeeze his hand that rests on your stomach. “Sorry for getting so emotional.” 

“Hey, if I’m not allowed to apologize for having a panic attack, then you’re not allowed to apologize for crying either.” 

“Crying during sex.” 

“After sex.” 

“It was both and you know that.” 

“So? Still not allowed to apologize.” You chuckle and it makes him feel like a winner. 

“I really thought I was gonna lose you.” You mumbled. So much for feeling like a winner. 

“What?” 

“I just- I thought I was gonna lose you. I thought it was getting too hard and I mean, it’s hard for me too but I just- I don’t know, I don’t wanna give up. And I was scared that you would.” 

The words echo in the bathroom, the silence only broken by the drops of water falling from your skin back into the bathtub, all shattering on the tiles around you. It allows the words to really reach him, really find way into his chest, into hidden parts.

“Can you look at me for a second, please?” He takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger and makes you twist your neck. It’s a little awkward but he needs you to see him when he says this next part.

“I’m not giving up. I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you feel like I was going to. I’m sorry for thinking I would. But I’m not giving up. I’m all in. And not just because I’m pretty sure I had an out of body experience on that couch earlier.” You chuckle and a blush creeps onto your face. 

“Stop it.” 

“Not a chance, sweet girl.” He kisses you then and it feels so much more than any kiss before. You turn around, settle against him and something about the warm water and tired bodies makes it feel like you melt into eachother and he thinks that if you two are struck by lightining, right this second, he would die a happy man. Maybe he’ll have to talk to his therapist about why these dramatic images his mind conjures up. But for now he’s only for you. Here.

Later, when you guys continue cooking, it’s finally a little lighter in the kitchen. It’s giggles and teasing and light reassuring touches.

“That sounds like a nightmare.” You conclude after he told you what problems he discovered in an apartment he was about to start renovation in.

“Yeah, and I felt so sorry for the guy, he was so hopeful it was going to be an easy job and his mom can move in quickly, now she has to stay in her rental for at least one more month.” 

“Oof, that sounds rough. But at least it won’t bankrupt them. A Hawkins rental is a steal compared to the city." You say with a scoff and almost immediately notice you said too much. 

“You-” 

“Oh, fuck.” You look up at him and he’s blinking like a fish in a plastic bag with that adorable lost puppy look on his face. “Shit. Steve, I’m so sorry, I was gonna talk to you about this first, I just-” 

“You looked at Hawkins rental prices?” 

“I-” You exhaled low and slow. “Yes.” The admission was so silent, he almost missed it but then you turned to him and he could tell, you were bracing yourself for what comes next. “Yes, I looked at apartments in Hawkins. I wasn’t going to take anything without talking to you first. I would never do that. I just, I only have a year left from college and after that I would be a lot more mobile and we could do something more permanent but, yeah, I’m just, I’m getting tired of this, of missing each other, of only hearing you through the phone and saying goodbye and just, I don’t know. I didn’t wanna scare you away and I didn’t know how to bring this up and, god, I’m so fucking stupid. I’m sorry!” By the time you stop talking he’s gone completely silent. He blinks in disbelief. He really is an idiot, isn’t he? Being so scared to say three words when he has this. You weren’t thinking about leaving. You’re thinking about Hawkins rental prices and a year from now and us. His mind short circuits and he moves without knowing what his next step is gonna be. He’s still staring at you as he gets up then he laughs and shakes his head as he starts walking.

“Hey, Steve, wait, where are you going?!” He doesn’t answer, just picks up the phone and dials a number. It’s silent as you follow him so you wait. 

“Hey, Joyce, sorry, is this a bad time? Yeah, no, everything’s fine, I just, um.” He clears his throat dramatically. “I’m just not feeling super well, sore throat and whatnot. Yeah, I know, it’s really bad.” But he’s looking directly at you and grinning like an idiot, mischief evident in his eyes, and while you’re still confused, you can’t help the grin of your own that finds its way to your lips. “Yeah, so, can you or Hop please tell Mrs. Bishop that we’ll have to postpone the work with, I wanna say a week?” He looks at you with a questioning look and you nod your head so quickly, you almost get whiplash. “Yeah, a week, at the very least. Yeah, thanks Joyce.” He looks so soft, it makes your heart ache. “Yeah, no, I’ll leave this number but I won’t be home till next week either. Oh, my god, okay, I’m hanging up now.” He says a little pink, a little flustered. “Okay. Yeah, I think so. Okay, I’ll see guys. Thanks again, bye!” 

You giggle a little teary after he hangs up.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked, I just-” he cuts himself off as he makes his way to you. He takes your face in his palms and makes you look up at him, causing the tears to spill from your eyes but catches them with his thumbs immediately. “I love you.” It comes out so suddenly, it makes you falter.

“What?” You ask a little shocked. 

“I’m sorry, this is really not how I wanted to do this. I wanted to plan a romantic weekend, take you out at least, I wanted there to be champagne and chocolate covered strawberries but you’re looking for apartments in Hawkins and I just don’t care anymore. I love you. I love you so much, it scares the ever living shit out of me. I thought I was never going to feel this way again and every single minute I get to spend with you feels like borrowed time, like I’m cheating. But I don’t wanna give up on this. On you, on us. And I don’t wanna be scared anymore. I love you.” 

It’s terrifying and relieving at the same time. It’s out there, he said it. Let the chips fall where they may. 

“Took you long enough.” 

“Are you kidding me? I confess and that’s your answer?” But both of your eyes are sparkling. With tears and tenderness and so much more.

“I love you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Well, I was looking for apartments in Hawkins because of my other boyfriend but I guess you’ll do too.”

“Menace.” 

“You love it.” 

“I do. I really, really do.” 

“Good, cause if you thought I blew your mind on the couch earlier, then buckle up pretty boy.” 

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

[consistentlyamess]

Breathe easier

[over 8K]

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: Maybe it is too much for him. Maybe he was never supposed to start any of this.

warnings: 18+ , MDNI, mentions of trauma, ANGST, miscommunications, swearing, crying, hurt/comfort, smut, p in v sex, crying during sex (not in a kinky way), non-sexual nudity, panic attack, abandonment issues (that just comes with steve harrington tho), mentions of Steve’s parents, mentions of childhood suckiness, mentions of Nancy, therapy, mentions of death, post season 5, but idk anything so this is just my version, lmk if i missed anything!!

A/N: this takes place in the Family dinner universe, i reccomend reading it before this, but it can be read as a stand-alone as well!! i'm so sorry for the long wait, i was having a hard time lately (which probably will show in this chapter lol) and writing didn't come easy. but i hope you'll like this!!! thank you for reading!! <3

It was bound to happen, he knew that. But he always prayed it wasn’t like this. Not with him heaving on your bathroom floor, with you on the other side. He knew you were gonna wake up sooner or later. If not because of the whimpers coming out of him, then because you can’t find him next to you. 

You became attuned to his movements these past months and normally he adored that. He loved that you reached for him instinctively even in your sleep, he loved that you always roused and woke up mere minutes after him, because you felt his missing heat from your side, he loved all that, but right now, he really wished you were more oblivious, didn’t care so much. It was supposed to be a good night. It was supposed to be an easy, cozy, sweet night. Not a date night per se, but something like it. He still felt the need to impress you, to show you how serious he was. Even though it was in the toothbrush he bought you (he said it was a “guest toothbrush he had lying around”, but you already knew that the tip of his ears went pink and he looked at the ground before looking at you when he was lying or hiding something), it was in the way he emptied one of the nightstands for you, it was in the way he suddenly had a drawer he didn’t really use, “just in case you needed it”. 

He let his guard down, he thought. He thought it was easy, that he just had to have a steady hand, that it could come easy like that. And now here was his punishment. Everything that he worked so hard for, just crumbling down in one night. He doesn’t even know what set it off this time. Maybe it wasn’t just the one thing. 

Maybe it started with Robin going M.I.A. for a week. It was finals week, it was the fact she met this girl Beth, the first person she really liked since they broke up with Vickie when they moved for college. It would’ve been too hard, she said. But even then he knew it was more about getting a clean break. A real fresh start, no matter how much it felt like her heart was breaking. He knew all this. But it did sting a little. And then he felt guilty because, hey, your friend is happy, you also have your new relationship that is going really well, what the hell is your problem? It was what his therapist labeled The Old Man voice. Not in the old soul way, but in the his dad’s voice way. The one that told him See? You don’t know how to take care of anything nice. That’s why everything and everyone will always leave you.

“Did he ever really say that?” His therapist asked once. State mandated at first, voluntary now.

“Maybe. I don’t really know. Maybe not with these exact words. But… almost everything he ever said after I turned fifteen meant this, you know? Does that make sense?” It did. 

They worked long and hard to make sure he had tools to stop or mute it, maybe just make something else louder at the very least. Lately that something else tended to be you. The way you rasped out his name in the morning, the giggles you let out when his breath tickled that sensitive spot at your waist, telling him how much you miss him over the phone. 

Maybe that’s where it started. This back and forth, overnight bags and goodbyes that just started weighing on his mind a little too much. You got into petty fights and stupid arguments, came back together almost immediately after, but it wore the both of you down. If he wanted to be honest, it was exhausting to miss you this much. But then he thought he hadn't even said I love you, not really. Not with these words. Neither have you. And although you both had gotten better at talking to each other, he felt like there were still times when you held back. When you weren’t completely honest. He also knew that you could tell when he was anxious. 

The last time you were together he noticed you reached for him more often. Stopped his fingers from fidgeting, held his upper arm in the grocery store, breathed a kiss onto his wrist. And it was right there, just on the tip of his tongue. But it didn’t come out. 

He was sure. He was also about 98% sure you’d say it back. And still, he remained silent. 

“Did you want to say it?” His therapist asked in that day’s session. 

“I think I've wanted to say it since the night she drove two hours in the pouring rain because she missed me.” 

“What made that night special?” 

“Did you not hear the part about the pouring rain?” 

“I did. But I still would like to know what happened that night.”

He took a deep breath.

“Well, it was a very long week. They all feel long lately, especially when I’m waiting to see her. I screwed up a job, I had to start building a whole dinner table all over. I wanted to call her but I knew she had a shift at the bar that night, so I didn’t bother. I took a shower and I was planning on drinking a beer and pitying myself on the couch but when I came out of the bathroom, a car was pulling up outside. And I just knew it, even before I looked out the window. I just knew it was her. And I don’t mean it in the way that, like, I hoped it was her and then I saw and I was happy. I mean I knew. She was almost completely soaked through just from walking up to the door and I remember I almost started crying. I was so happy to see her” 

He paused for a minute because he didn’t really know if he was supposed to say out loud what happened next. How you laughed into each other’s mouths, something breathless and soft and full of longing. How he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. How he said thank you by dropping to his knees right then and there. How you didn’t even make it to the couch and he was inside you. No, he’s definitely not supposed to say those things. He cleared his throat and continued, even though he could feel that his face probably betrayed him, turning to a light shade of pink. It’s the tips of your ears, he recalled your voice once again, those are the dead giveaway. 

“So, um, later that night, she rummaged through my kitchen and somehow was able to come up with a proper meal from about three ingredients that were knocking about. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in my kitchen at that point, her car is so shitty, I don’t feel good about her driving it for too long, so I usually go to her place, but she moved around like she belonged there. Like she was always there. We- I mean she was after a shower, her hair was wet, she used my shampoo and smelled like it, she was wearing my t-shirt, and I just thought fuck, I’m so in love with her it’s embarrassing.” He never said it out loud. He didn’t even tell Robin or Dustin. 

“Is it?”

“What?”

“You just said it’s embarrassing. Why is loving her embarrassing?”

“Wh- I- I don’t know why I said that.”

“I know, that’s why I’m asking.”

I hate this woman he thinks. And he only thinks this when she’s really fucking onto something.

“Do you think that thinking it’s embarrassing to love her has something to do with the fact you find it so hard to say it to her?” 

There it is. His throat closes up at the thought, he barely chokes out the next words.

“I think… I think she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And there’s this part of me that wants to shout it from the rooftop. But then there’s this other part. And that part is watching and laughing and making fun of the first part.”

“Why is it laughing?”

He thinks for a long minute.

“Because he thinks that it’s naive, weak and… embarrassing.”

“Does that part have a voice?”

He knows now what she’s getting at. Maybe it’s the same. Maybe it’s also The Old Man voice.

But it’s a little more complicated than that.

“I don’t think so, I’m not sure.”

"We've talked about your father before and that, in and of itself, would be enough. But your friends in high school-” 

“They weren’t my friends.” 

“Right. I’m sorry. The kids you hung out in high school thought being genuine and vulnerable wasn’t cool, when you showed any sign of that, they made fun you and abandoned you-”

“Yeah, well, good fucking riddance.” He’s a little too defensive and he can’t catch it in time.

“Sure, but they still left. That must have stung. And then you talked about the first girl you really loved, she told you your relationship was crappy-”

“Bullshit.”

“Pardon?” 

“Bullshit. She said it was bullshit. 

“That must have really stung.”

“It did.” 

“See what I’m getting at here, Steve?”

He did. And the weight of it made his heart ache. 

“We often think of our brain like something that works in these mysterious and complicated ways and in a sense it does. But in other sense it’s incredibly simplistic and borderline primitive. The way we learn patterns is for example. Our dads think we’re not enough, we’re rejected and abandoned and then it feels like a pattern and it seems like the only common denominator is us. But if we try hard enough and do the work we can rewire these connections. For example, have you told your friend, Robin, that you loved her?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“She’s your best friend, she seems to be a very important connection in your life, I would assume you love her.” 

“I do, I love her very much!” He sounded offended and he didn’t really know why.

“Steve, I’m not calling you out. I’m trying to make a point.” 

“Isn’t that the same thing?” 

“Steve, this is the first time we’re able to talk about fears, blocks and hopes regarding romantic relationships. That alone is huge progress, and I’m not trying to take that away. What I’m trying to draw attention to is that  you don’t really have the same inhibitions when it comes to platonic love.” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I got so defensive.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay to get frustrated with me sometimes. These are not easy topics.” 

“I just- With my friends it's different. People say they’d die for each other and we actually almost did. Some of us did. We’re bonded for life, it’s just what it is. And it was almost accidental. We got swept up in this against our will. But with her it’s this whole other thing. She chose me and she keeps choosing me. And sometimes I’m just happy she does, you know? And then other times it messes with my head. Like I’m cheating, like I’m somehow tricking her. Which I’m not, I would never lie to her but still there’s that feeling.” 

She only hummed and nodded. He liked that about her. She could always tell when he needed time to collect his thoughts. 

“I’m so scared she’ll figure out that I’m not worth it and then I’m just this big chump who thought they can have nice things. And I know, I know this is exactly what we’ve talked about, that I have to change this pattern of thinking, it’s just, it’s hard sometimes.” 

“That’s okay. It’s not a problem if it’s hard.You have come a long way, Steve.” 

“You’ve already said that.” 

“It bears repeating. The sheer fact that you’re this open, that you’re willing to fight, willing to try. That’s not nothing. Far from it, actually.” 

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Not everybody leaves. But they can only show you if you stay too.” 

And in her office, sitting in that arm chair, halfway between comfortable and uncomfortable, it’s a little easier to believe her. But then he leaves and it’s just him and his thoughts in the world and they make him feel small again. 

And maybe that’s where it started, the moment he heard the distance, the disappointment and even the tears in your voice when he had to tell you he’s so fucking sorry, but he’ll only be able to make it to yours on Satruday, meaning you’ll barely have a day together.

“I’m so sorry baby, I busted my ass all week so we can finish this piping job in time but it’s just not coming together and I’m losing my fucking mind I miss you so much, but-” 

“Steve, it’s okay, I understand.” You did, he knew you did. But it didn’t change the fact that he felt guilty. It only made it worse that he really wanted to hang up by saying those three words that just wouldn’t come out. It was a short call and he had it playing in his head on repeat the next day.

I’m failing at this and I can’t even tell her that I love her. 

He almost didn’t go. He felt like throwing the towel in. Calling it. Telling you that he’s really sorry but this is just not working. That it’s too much, too hard. He was wound tight, gripping the wheel while driving over to Hop and Joyce’s place. Joyce baked too much pie and told him to come pick some of it for the two of you. He knew she baked it on purpose.

“Hi, sweetheart!” She greeted him with a smile, like always. Hair flying in every direction, some grays mixing in now. “Hop’s still at the station, but he should be back soon. Come in, come in!” 

Entering the house never really became less, well, weird. It wasn’t the house where the boys grew up but there was still this tiny little part of him that expected Jonathan to saunter out of one of the rooms. He never did of course, he laid enough bouquets of flowers on his grave to know that wasn’t happening. And still. His throat closed up a little and all that tension just started buzzing inside him. 

“How are you Steve? The Bishop house coming along okay?” 

“I uhm, yeah, it’s going alright. The piping was delayed, I was supposed to leave last night.” 

“Oh, you must be in a hurry then, I’ll get your pie and let you go, just a second!” 

“Uhm, I was actually wondering if I could make a call real quick.” 

“Sure, sure, I’ll get everything ready while you do that.” 

“Thank you.” 

He was going to call you but his fingers wouldn’t type the numbers. Instead he punched in Robin’s number, almost on instinct. 

Hello! You reached the *thump* Fuck! You reached Robin Buckley but I’m either out or the corner of this fukcing table finally got me and I’m slowly bleeding out through my little toe. Leave a message or call 911. Bye! 

“Fuck.” He thought he murmured, thumping his forehead on the wall. 

“Everything okay, sweetheart?“ He exhaled loudly.

“Sorry, Joyce, I just, it’s been a long week and I really could’ve used a friend.” 

“Well, I mean, you have one here.” She said softly. He could almost feel her hand hovering over his shoulder. “Two, in a little while if you need more of a grumpy man touch on whatever the problem is.” 

He huffed a little laugh and some of that tension just left his shoulders. Right, he had more than one person. 

“I just, I feel like I’m messing this all up.” 

“Messing it up, how?” 

“She’s, god, she’s incredible. And I’m just so worried that these visits are starting to be not enough, because, well, they’re not enough for me. I miss her all the time, saying goodbye is harder and harder and I- I wanna tell her so many things and I just can’t seem to find a way and it’s all just-” 

“A bit much?” 

“A bit much, yeah. And I wanna give her everything but I just don’t seem to know how. In the beginning, when she showed up in my life, it was just this breath of fresh air. You know that feeling when, like, it’s already kinda cold outside and you’re sitting on the couch or something like that, and the sun comes out for a couple minutes and suddenly it’s just so nice and warm when it hits your face?” 

He glanced at Joyce for a moment and yeah, he really shouldn’t have done that. She was looking at him with so much softness, so much patience and understanding that now he felt bad for complaining. 

“Yeah, well, that’s what it felt like. That’s what she felt like. She still does. But I promised she’d come first, and I’m failing. And it's just getting so complicated.” 

“Is it just the distance?” She knew it wasn’t. 

“It’s the distance, it’s that I still have this nagging feeling that I might be putting her in danger, it’s that she knows I’m keeping things from her, she’s had to wake up to my screaming one too many times and she’s far too smart for her own good. And it’s that I don’t even know how to tell her that I love her without being terrified I’m ruining everything.” It all came out in one breath. He couldn’t be bothered with trying to keep it in anymore. A defeated sigh escaped him as he hung his head low. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Joyce was the one to reach on instinct this time. “Come here.” She hugged him, tight. It was motherly, it was saying I’m here and you stay here as long as you want. Steve didn’t know how Joyce did it but her hugs always felt like this. Like she was giving space and a shoulder to lean on, literally and metaphorically, but she never made it feel like it was a burden. The few times his mother hugged him or tried being warm it always ended up feeling like a favour, like something she did so reluctantly. Like saying well, fine, but you should be able to do this alone. Never like this. Never like it was the most natural thing in the world. Never like why did you wait so long to come to me? By the time he emerges from the older woman’s shoulder it feels like he’s already a little bit lighter. Not calm exactly but a little lighter. 

“Listen to me! I know that everything I could say in this moment, you know already. It’s just a bad week, you’re worth the trouble, all that, we all know it, and in these times it just doesn’t matter. So, I’m not gonna tell you that. What I will tell you is this, you’ve been through too much to give up on something that makes you this happy. Because we can all see how you light up when you so much, as think about her. There’s this glint in your eyes, and I just immediately know. I know that pushing through seems like the hardest thing sometimes but that’s what you do when you love someone, you keep going, you keep showing up. That’s what we all do, right?” 

Well, now he really feels guilty. That’s exactly what she did. She lost a son, almost two, and lived thinking Hopper was dead. And she was still just here. She picked up the phone, she made pies, she organized the barbecues and held their hands when they needed it. Never said a word about everyone moving away, moving on in their own ways. Even if she worried sick about Will. She knew this was his first and maybe only chance to have a normal life. As normal as it could possibly get. So she swallowed her fears and he was there when she tried to hide her teary eyes the day they all helped Will pack and move for college. She gets breakfast with Nancy every month. She’s there. 

“I know it means precious little now but this is a bad week. It’s not all bad. And if there’s one cliché I can still shoot, it would be this: when you look back, it’s always going to be the things you didn’t do. Never the trying. Even if it feels a little uncomfortable, a little embarrassing sometimes.” 

He also didn’t know how she did that. Just seeing right through him like that. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Joyce.” 

“Anytime, sweetheart. Now, let’s go get that pie and get you on your way.” 

By the time he was sitting in the car he was determined that he’ll tell you how he feels. He won’t make a big deal out of it. He was thinking, maybe that’s what he was missing. A grand gesture, a full day, maybe even a weekend, all planned out, just so he can tell you in the end. But talking to Joyce he figured that’s all just fanfare, show, something reminiscent of his all ways, style over substance. You just have to say it. 

Big words and big plans when he knew exactly well that had he not thrown his bag in the car when leaving in the morning, if he would’ve had to go home for it, he probably never would’ve gone. As pathetic and sad as that might sound. 

You’ll have dinner, you’ll watch a movie, you’ll cuddle on the couch, that’s more than enough time and opportunity to say it. 

When he pulls into your driveway, he almost immediately can sense that something is not right. Instead of the warm light usually spilling out your window, there are only the cold, flashing lights of the TV from the living room. His stomach drops and he doesn’t even necessarily know why. But he has a bad feeling about it. He gets the bag, the pie and walks up to the door. The faint knocking remains unanswered for a couple of minutes. Now panic starts rising in his throat. 

“Honey? You in there?” He tries, still no answer. 

“Baby, can you just answer me? If you don’t want me here anymore, I’ll go but please, just let me know, you’re okay. Please!” When you still don’t answer, he gets desperate. 

“Okay, I’m gonna come in, okay? I’m sorry, you can yell at me later if you want, I just-” He’s already gearing up to kick your door down but when he tries the door knob, he realizes the door is open. His heart starts racing, they took you, he made a mistake and now they took you is one his first thoughts, half expects a table turned over, your books thrown on the ground, glass shards all over. But when he looked around, his heart squeezed up. Oh, fuck. The kitchen was dark, only illuminated somewhat by the TV lights, he could make out bowls on the counter, vegetables half-peeled, knife left out. You started on dinner and then abandoned it halfway through. He found you curled into yourself on the couch, asleep, phone off the receiver, surrounded by tissues, even in sleep he can see the red rims of your eyes. You’ve been crying. 

Fuck.

He puts the pie down, toes his shoes off before crouching down next to you. He doesn’t wanna startle you, so he starts with gentle, slow strokes on your forehead, getting the locks stuck there out of your face. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here, can you hear me?” 

You start stirring a little, so he continues, coos a little louder, your name, that he’s here, that he really wants to talk to you, that he’s sorry. That’s the main one. He’s just so fucking sorry. Your eyes flutter open and you wake with a tiny whimper that makes his heart ache. 

“Steve?” 

“Hi, baby.”

“Is this a dream?” 

“No, I’m here, I’m so sorry I’m late, I just-” 

He doesn’t get to finish because you launch yourself into him. 

“Your’re really here. I thought you weren’t coming.” It’s a broken little thing, the way it comes out of you, and it really does him in. You sniffle and he wants to bang his head against the wall. You thought he wasn’t coming. You thought he was abandoning you. Just like he thought that this was the part where you leave, where he’s not worth it anymore. I’m such a fucking idiot.

“I’d never do that.” Blatant lie but also a promise. Never again. Not to you, not like this. “I’m here baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

He keeps holding you, running his palm up and down your back, until your sniffles calm and your breathing gets back to normal, until your grasp on him becomes a little softer. Like you’re not afraid anymore that he’ll disappear if you let go of him. 

“Have you eaten, pretty girl?”

“I wanted to cook dinner but I got so sad and tired that I couldn’t finish it.”

“Well, you’re in luck then. Joyce sent some of her famous pie over. She said she made too much but I think she was lying.” 

“That woman is a saint.” You say with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“She really is. But we could order something as well. I think it’s not too late. I could also run to the diner, bet Frannie’ll cook something up.” He’s next to you on the couch, you’re curled around him now, face hidden in the crook of his neck. 

“I think I’m okay with the pie for now.” You look up at him and he thinks he does wanna fight for this, live for this. He would die for a lot of people, a lot of things even, but that look, god that look makes him want to claw his way out of any dark cave and parallel dimension. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, let’s just eat and go to bed. I’m really tired and I missed you.” 

“Okay, whatever my girl wants.” He says brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek. You close your eyes and he can practically feel your skin hum under his touch. He curses himself mentally for ever doubting. This, right here, is everything he needs. 

The conversation is quiet, clipped sentences about your weeks, about funny things you saw in the library, about the absolute migraine the whole piping job has been for him. It’s thighs pressed together, it’s warmth, it’s comfort, it’s understanding. It’s love, he thinks. 

“Hey, baby.” He starts about halfway through the shitty made for tv zombie film you guys ended up on. You just hum in reply and he realizes instantly that you’re already half asleep. Not tonight then. 

He ends up carrying you to the bedroom and although he knows you’ll berate him in the morning for not waking you up to brush your teeth, he decides your sleep is more important than your dental hygiene. Just this once. 

He climbs in next to you, wrapping an arm around you like it’s second nature and you melt against him like you belong there. You really do, he thinks. The thought really warms him but also ignites that little, anxious feeling tucked under his ribs all night. All week, if he had to be honest. It starts getting bigger, crawling out from its hiding space, burning something under his skin now. Then suddenly your bed feels too narrow and tight, the blanket is too warm, and his heart just won’t stop beating against his chest and he feels like he’s about to tear his own hair out.

That’s how he ended up on your bathroom floor. Guilt, unsaid words, fear and want flooding his mind, clinging to the walls of his blood vessels, clogging his arteries. He wants to keep you so bad and he’s starting to think that's exactly what’s gonna make him lose you in the end. And that’s when the knocking on the door almost knocks him over as well. 

“Steve?” Your voice is groggy and it’s like sirens call, making him want to drag himself to you even from under the panicked fog clouding his brain and making his limbs feel like they're made of lead. “You in there? Are you okay?” 

He wants to tell you he’s okay, even though he’s not. He wants to calm you down, reassure you, but nothing comes out other than ragged breaths and a pitiful little sound from the back of his throat. Something between a whine and whimper. 

“Steve, baby, you’re scaring me. Can I come in? Or just say something and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Please…” He knows you can’t hear him and he’s not even sure what he’s asking for. 

“Okay, this is ridiculous, I’m coming in.” 

You open the door and he feels defeated. He never wanted you to see him like this. To have to deal with this. 

“Oh, my god, Steve, are you okay?” You’re kneeling in front of him in seconds, assessing the damage, trying to process the situation.

“Are you having a panic attack?” He can manage a nod, just barely. “Can you look at me, please?” You hold his face in your hands and he can’t decide which one of you is more likely to break. “Whatever made you feel like you can’t breathe, we can solve it, okay? I’m here, we can do this, I promise. Can you take a deep breath for me?” He tries, he does, and it almost works. “Good job, baby, there you go. Let’s do that again!” And it goes like that. He breathes, you hold him, you put your hand on his chest, grounding him until his heart starts to slow. It even makes it possible for him to recognize the irony in you trying to get him to calm down after he had to do the exact same thing just about five hours ago with you. 

“There you go. Take five more breaths for me, can you do that?”  

He does. He’ll do anything for you. 

“You’re doing really great bubba, keep it up.” Bubba, he thinks, that might be my favourite one. 

“Great job, baby. You feeling a little better?” 

“Yeah, a little.” The words come out silent, a little broken, a little breathy but they come out. 

“There he is.” You look at him, eyes brimming with a couple unshed tears. “Hey, baby.” 

“Hey.” Even a faint smile graces his lips now. “I’m so so-” 

“No. You stop that, right now. Don’t even start. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.” 

His senses start working again and he suddenly feels the weight of everything all at once. The cold of the tiles under his feet, in contrast you warm palms on his cheeks, his sore legs, the ache in his eyes from the fluorescent light of the bathroom. 

He rests his forehead on yours for a second. He’s absolutely beat and exhausted. 

“Come on, baby, I wanna get you some water, and aspirin and some ice but I need you to get back to bed before that. Can we do that?” 

He nods, not trusting his voice anymore. You lay him down, leave to get the water and the ice and he’s worn out, he just closes his eyes. By the time you get back, he’s a little delirious from it all. You’re the one to hold him after that. His head lays on you chest, his arms holding you like a vice, thigh thrown over yours. Sleep takes him easily now.

That’s all he needed, he thinks a little bitterly the next morning. To completely break down and  wear himself out. You’re not next to him but he doesn’t panic now, hearing the noises from the tiny apartment, from just beyond the bedroom door. A Duran Duran record, something sizzling, something clanging, your humming. He still doesn’t feel like himself entirely but he’s getting there. The ache is set deep in his muscles, maybe in his bones even but he will be damned if he doesn’t get to you. Getting out of bed is not easy but seeing you in your usual home get up (a large shirt, now his, more often than not, your hair in a bun and cozy socks) makes up for everything.

“Something smells good.” You turn to him and he thinks his legs are too weak for this. 

“Hey, baby.” You abandon whatever is cooking on the stove and pad through the kitchen to wrap your arms around him. 

“Hi, sweet girl.” He wastes no time to reciprocate the affection and circle his arms around your waist. He buries his nose deep in your hair and inhales like his longue in bottomless. He leaves a barely there kiss on your neck, then another one in the same place, and another one, and then he gets really hungry. He kisses upwards, along your jaw, then your face, your nose, your eyes, forehead, everywhere, until you’re giggling under him.

“I was gonna ask if you’re feeling better but I can see that you are now.” 

“Yeah, I’m doing better, baby. I’m doing a lot better.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” You’re the one to kiss him now. On the lips. A soft but forceful thing, filled with longing. When you separate he starts talking.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I told you, you don’t have to be sorry for having a panic attack.” 

“It's not about that. Well, not just about that. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it on Friday. I promised you I was gonna do better and I keep failing you.”

“Steve-” 

“No, just, just let me finish please. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, I’m sorry I was late. And I’m sorry I’m not better at talking. I know you’re not stupid and the silence and the nightmares and the scars and dead friends make you think. And I don’t wanna act like you’re seeing ghosts or like I’m hiding something but I’m scared. I’m so scared of losing you, of saying the wrong thing and putting you in danger and, I just… I’m trying. And I wanna keep trying, with you, for you, for us. If you’ll let me.”

“God, my stupid boy, of course I’ll let you.” And then you’re kissing him and it’s not gentle anymore. Most of the time you’re both soft and careful about it, wanting to pour all the care into every move, every kiss. But this is something different. It’s all teeth and you almost don’t remember turning the stove off before pushing him towards the couch. It reminds him of that first night, his pulse jumping, his grip on your waist tightening. By the time you're lowering yourself onto his lap, he’s so hard it hurts a little. 

“Help me out here a bit, pretty boy.” You’re panting while trying to get his boxers off of him. 

“Slow down, sweetheart, let me get you ready first.” 

“No time for that, I need you, like five minutes ago, or five days, but who’s counting, right?” 

“No, baby, please, I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

“Please, Steve, I just, I wanna feel you, please, I need you.” You’re begging. You're sitting in his lap, your eyes are watering and you’re begging, and he can’t bring himself to say no to you. He never can, but holy shit, this is just something else entirely. 

You free him and you have half a mind to pull your panties to the side. You spit in your palm a little, giving him two strokes, using it as a lubricant. He wants to say something, tell you that you don’t have to do this, to slow down, try to get you to extend foreplay a little but he can’t get a word out before you’re sinking down on him and he feels like he might melt if he’s not careful. Or float away. Or just die. That might be it. You’re clinging to him, jaw falling open, thighs shaking, eyes falling open, brows creasing together. He can barely keep his eyes open but he wills himself because he’s never seen anything more beautiful. It’s filthy, it’s almost aggressive and it’s beautiful. One hand comes up to hold your face, the other squeezing a bruise into your ass, he holds you so tight. When you take all of him, you settle there for a bit. Head falling forward a little, shoulders sagging, breathing heavily. He gives you a moment before asking

“Y- You okay, baby?” It’s a stutter, it’s a little pathetic. You can only nod once.

“I- I’m good, I j- just, I need a moment, I- I’m sorry.” 

“Take your time angel, I’m here.” So stay like that for a couple minutes. He’s whispering silent praises into your ear, you shiver sometimes, you shake, you cling to him before you start moving. It’s small at first, tentative, more grinding than anything else. You whimper, he groans, you moan into his mouth and he’s so close to losing control it makes him dizzy. He watches you like you put a spell on him, he thinks maybe you did. A sweat breaks on your forehead and when he cradles the back of your head and you lean into his touch, he thinks yeah, floating away, that’s the one.

“Is that good, sweetheart?” 

“Mhm.” You open your eyes and he can see that you’re just as gone as he is. Eyes hooded and dazed, mouth hanging open, still moving your hips like you're in a trans.

He brushes his thumb along your lower lip, back and forth, pulling it down which makes your head lull back. With that movement his hand slips lower, gently over your throat. When that happens, a moan tears from you, almost animalistic and it makes his cocks kick up inside of you. 

“Oh, my god. My girl missed me this much?” 

You just nod, head falling forward again. He draws you in as a reply, holding you to him, feeling fully how your limbs went loose. 

“Come here, baby, let me do work, yeah? Least I can do for my best girl.” He holds you like you’re gonna break and talks to you like you’re sacred. 

My sweet girl. 

I’ll never make you wait like that ever again. 

You’re so beautiful. 

Always so good for me. 

Can’t believe you're this wet and warm and all mine.

The tenderness of it all reaches a lot deeper than your G-spot or even your cervix. It goes straight for your heart and you can’t help but tear up. 

He feels the tears before he hears the sniffles and he pours everything into the next few movements. He starts thrusting up into you with a fervor, he slips a hand between your bodies and finds your clit with the practiced ease of someone who’s memorized every single inch of your body and he kisses your neck, grazing it with his teeth a gently like he’s trying to etch a promise into your skin. 

“I got you baby, just let go. It’s just me.” He can feel you squeeze him, your hand tightening in his shirt. 

“There you go baby, cum for me, you’re safe, you did so good for me.” Your orgasm creeps up on you and it takes over your whole body in a way you never felt before. You seize up, almost every muscle, head to toe, tears spilling freely, eyes clenched shut, mouth falling open with a silent scream after your throat went a little raw from the little uh-uh-uh’s he punched out of you. The way you cling to him breaks him as well. He doesn’t even have time to stutter, he just goes still as he spills into you and he’s pretty sure he can feel his soul leave his body for a second. He’s sure you’ll both have bruises later but he can’t get himself to let go of you. Neither do you but then his heart breaks completely when you start sobbing. He hasn’t even pulled out from you and it makes him feel so raw and vulnerable. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” That’s all he says. Then he just holds you. Just like he did, then just like you did to him last night. It’s all the unsaid words and distance and missing and ache just coming out all in one go. By the time you relax a little, he’s all soft. He never stops caressing you. Your arms, the back of your neck, your thighs, pressing kisses into every part of you he can get to, without moving you or himself too much. 

He slips out of you, making you both hiss, guides you to the bathroom and draws a bath real quick. You haven’t eaten but he’ll take care of that after this. 

He holds you in there as well, back to his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” He asks after a long stretch of silence.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” You squeeze his hand that rests on your stomach. “Sorry for getting so emotional.” 

“Hey, if I’m not allowed to apologize for having a panic attack, then you’re not allowed to apologize for crying either.” 

“Crying during sex.” 

“After sex.” 

“It was both and you know that.” 

“So? Still not allowed to apologize.” You chuckle and it makes him feel like a winner. 

“I really thought I was gonna lose you.” You mumbled. So much for feeling like a winner. 

“What?” 

“I just- I thought I was gonna lose you. I thought it was getting too hard and I mean, it’s hard for me too but I just- I don’t know, I don’t wanna give up. And I was scared that you would.” 

The words echo in the bathroom, the silence only broken by the drops of water falling from your skin back into the bathtub, all shattering on the tiles around you. It allows the words to really reach him, really find way into his chest, into hidden parts.

“Can you look at me for a second, please?” He takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger and makes you twist your neck. It’s a little awkward but he needs you to see him when he says this next part.

“I’m not giving up. I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you feel like I was going to. I’m sorry for thinking I would. But I’m not giving up. I’m all in. And not just because I’m pretty sure I had an out of body experience on that couch earlier.” You chuckle and a blush creeps onto your face. 

“Stop it.” 

“Not a chance, sweet girl.” He kisses you then and it feels so much more than any kiss before. You turn around, settle against him and something about the warm water and tired bodies makes it feel like you melt into eachother and he thinks that if you two are struck by lightining, right this second, he would die a happy man. Maybe he’ll have to talk to his therapist about why these dramatic images his mind conjures up. But for now he’s only for you. Here.

Later, when you guys continue cooking, it’s finally a little lighter in the kitchen. It’s giggles and teasing and light reassuring touches.

“That sounds like a nightmare.” You conclude after he told you what problems he discovered in an apartment he was about to start renovation in.

“Yeah, and I felt so sorry for the guy, he was so hopeful it was going to be an easy job and his mom can move in quickly, now she has to stay in her rental for at least one more month.” 

“Oof, that sounds rough. But at least it won’t bankrupt them. A Hawkins rental is a steal compared to the city." You say with a scoff and almost immediately notice you said too much. 

“You-” 

“Oh, fuck.” You look up at him and he’s blinking like a fish in a plastic bag with that adorable lost puppy look on his face. “Shit. Steve, I’m so sorry, I was gonna talk to you about this first, I just-” 

“You looked at Hawkins rental prices?” 

“I-” You exhaled low and slow. “Yes.” The admission was so silent, he almost missed it but then you turned to him and he could tell, you were bracing yourself for what comes next. “Yes, I looked at apartments in Hawkins. I wasn’t going to take anything without talking to you first. I would never do that. I just, I only have a year left from college and after that I would be a lot more mobile and we could do something more permanent but, yeah, I’m just, I’m getting tired of this, of missing each other, of only hearing you through the phone and saying goodbye and just, I don’t know. I didn’t wanna scare you away and I didn’t know how to bring this up and, god, I’m so fucking stupid. I’m sorry!” By the time you stop talking he’s gone completely silent. He blinks in disbelief. He really is an idiot, isn’t he? Being so scared to say three words when he has this. You weren’t thinking about leaving. You’re thinking about Hawkins rental prices and a year from now and us. His mind short circuits and he moves without knowing what his next step is gonna be. He’s still staring at you as he gets up then he laughs and shakes his head as he starts walking.

“Hey, Steve, wait, where are you going?!” He doesn’t answer, just picks up the phone and dials a number. It’s silent as you follow him so you wait. 

“Hey, Joyce, sorry, is this a bad time? Yeah, no, everything’s fine, I just, um.” He clears his throat dramatically. “I’m just not feeling super well, sore throat and whatnot. Yeah, I know, it’s really bad.” But he’s looking directly at you and grinning like an idiot, mischief evident in his eyes, and while you’re still confused, you can’t help the grin of your own that finds its way to your lips. “Yeah, so, can you or Hop please tell Mrs. Bishop that we’ll have to postpone the work with, I wanna say a week?” He looks at you with a questioning look and you nod your head so quickly, you almost get whiplash. “Yeah, a week, at the very least. Yeah, thanks Joyce.” He looks so soft, it makes your heart ache. “Yeah, no, I’ll leave this number but I won’t be home till next week either. Oh, my god, okay, I’m hanging up now.” He says a little pink, a little flustered. “Okay. Yeah, I think so. Okay, I’ll see guys. Thanks again, bye!” 

You giggle a little teary after he hangs up.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked, I just-” he cuts himself off as he makes his way to you. He takes your face in his palms and makes you look up at him, causing the tears to spill from your eyes but catches them with his thumbs immediately. “I love you.” It comes out so suddenly, it makes you falter.

“What?” You ask a little shocked. 

“I’m sorry, this is really not how I wanted to do this. I wanted to plan a romantic weekend, take you out at least, I wanted there to be champagne and chocolate covered strawberries but you’re looking for apartments in Hawkins and I just don’t care anymore. I love you. I love you so much, it scares the ever living shit out of me. I thought I was never going to feel this way again and every single minute I get to spend with you feels like borrowed time, like I’m cheating. But I don’t wanna give up on this. On you, on us. And I don’t wanna be scared anymore. I love you.” 

It’s terrifying and relieving at the same time. It’s out there, he said it. Let the chips fall where they may. 

“Took you long enough.” 

“Are you kidding me? I confess and that’s your answer?” But both of your eyes are sparkling. With tears and tenderness and so much more.

“I love you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Well, I was looking for apartments in Hawkins because of my other boyfriend but I guess you’ll do too.”

“Menace.” 

“You love it.” 

“I do. I really, really do.” 

“Good, cause if you thought I blew your mind on the couch earlier, then buckle up pretty boy.” 

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

[consistentlyamess]

she’s a big one! tweaked and edited, coming tonight!! thank you for your patience and for anyone/everyone reading!! <3

[consistentlyamess]

welp. if you thought we're going back to sweet fluffy goodness instead of aches and angst, well, me fucking too. but it is that too. sort of. also not that. but my mood and general vibe is really showing here, and it hasn't been super fun lately. ANYWAAAAAYYYYY. it's coming next week. i hope. hope with me!

[levanswrites]

y'all have spoken... coming this wknd!

update: read it here!

[consistentlyamess]

what the ever-loving-fuck???? omg i was in a goddamn puddle the whole time reading this. my god this is so fucking beautiful i wanna cry but like in a horny way????? unbelievable. @levanswrites this is your world, we're just living in it. <3

[izzy444angel]

this is me all day

[consistentlyamess]

You left me on the line last night

[almost 6K]

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: You get it, you do, but your head is spinning and you can't stand the silence. So you make a mess.

warnings: 18+ , MDNI, mentions of trauma, angst, miscommunications, alcohol consumption, swearing, crying, hurt/comfort (kind of?), lmk if i missed anything!!

A/N: this takes place in the Family dinner universe, i reccomend reading it before this, but it can be read as a stand-alone as well!! i can't say absolutely nobody asked for this anymore because you guys were so sweet and kind about the last one! i love them too much and i wanna write these little blubrs from this world. btw!! heavily influenced by the likes of @pretentious-blonde , @andvys and so many other people writing soft! steve. i still haven't found a nickname i like for reader. also! look, it's the fist chapter title from a song by the man himself. can you believe?!

‘What if something happened to her?’

‘I’m sure she’s fine Steve, she’s an adult, she can take care of herself. Plus, you said it yourself, you heard someone shouting something at you in the background. That means, she wasn’t alone. She’ll be fine.’ 

Steve heard the words but they weren’t catching onto anything in his brain. As they say, they went in one ear and out the other. His hands tightened around the wheel and he exhaled loudly as his brain went haywire from the speed at which his thoughts were running around. 

He should’ve called you, should’ve insisted he’d come over. He should’ve answered the phone, should’ve assured you that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, that he hasn’t cut an onion in any other way than you showed him since, that he already was stocking up on that strawberry-vanilla jam that you loved for your breakfast oatmeal, that he was having trouble falling asleep again, without your permanently cold feet pressing to his. But he didn’t. He wanted to. But he also wanted to pace himself, not to scare you away, then he was just too tired and now he might have fucked it all up. His brian was running a million miles. 

But then, he knew it was a little too good to be true. He knew that while you were the best thing that happened to him in long-long years, you can’t just take away his pain, anxieties, his nightmares. He knew it also wasn’t fair, putting all that on you, even unsaid. But could anyone really blame him for hoping? For hoping that letting himself have this one, just one really good thing, breaking a pattern - not the cycle, he wasn’t delusional, but a pattern, for sure - the other not so good things might look a little brighter. And they kind of did. And now he doesn’t even know if you ever want to see him again at all. He was trying to tell himself that you didn’t mean it, well, not all of it, that he could still fix it. He just had to find you first. 

What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t have known is that it all started with a stupid question last night. 

The stupid question went like this: 

‘So, how are things going with Casanova?’

Liv was never one for subtlety. Since she’s seen Steve drop you off at the bar one night, she never misses an opportunity to tease you a little bit, to make you blush with her questions. But this was the first time, your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes when you started talking. 

‘You know, we’re good.’

‘Uh-oh’ Nina chimed and you immediately felt like you had to explain. 

‘No, no, no, everything’s fine, it’s just… I don’t know, we’ve been so busy these past weeks, we keep missing each other. We were supposed to spend the last weekend together but Will, one of his friends, had this weird dizzy spell and migraine and he had to run to the hospital with him, ‘cause his mom was out of town. I offered to go anyway but he said it’s a fragile situation. Then I had to do inventory at the library, I was just drained by the end of the day, then an old lady in town had a broken water pipe he had to fix, then as you guys know Dylan broke up with Jess, which took nobody but him by surprise but I had to take care of him and we just couldn’t make it work.’ 

‘But he still calls, right?’ 

‘He does, I’m just tired of only hearing him through the phone that’s all.’ 

‘Have you guys had the talk yet?’ 

‘What talk?’

‘Girl, don’t play with me, the boyfriend-girlfriend talk?’ 

The boyfriend-girlfriend talk? Jesus, Nina, what are we, 14?’ 

‘Hey, fuck you! You’re never too old for clarity, bitch!’ Liv and you both snorted at that but Nina was right and you knew that.

It was the first time in about three months that you were anxious. You sort of clocked from the first moment that you probably had to be the one with the steady hand here. The one who acts like they know what they’re doing, even if you don’t. The one who radiated calm energy. You felt like if you showed just how scared you were, he might get scared too and run away. Liv once joked that you sounded like you were trying to get a rescue dog to trust you. You laughed it off but it wasn’t completely off-base, if you were being honest. You didn’t necessarily want to be so careful but you felt like you had to be. It was a delicate little dance, what you two were doing and you didn’t want to take a wrong step and ruin it all.   

‘You’re right, Nina, okay? I know you’re right.’ 

‘Look, I know it’s scary, I know it’s been a while for you, to open up like this, to let him in, to allow yourself to feel enthusiastic like this, it’s all a little new, I know it feels like you’re learning to walk again and you’re taking baby steps and from what I can tell, he’s kinda the same. Which makes everything just a little bit harder. But you can’t keep running away from this question just because you’re scared of not liking his answer.’ 

‘It’s only been, what, three months?’ You ask like you haven’t been counting. ‘Isn’t it too early though? Maybe he doesn’t know yet. Maybe he hasn’t even thought about it.’ 

‘Babe, have you thought about it?’ 

You’re reluctant but after a beat you say:

‘Yes.’ 

‘And do you know?’ 

‘Yes, but-’ 

‘No buts! You’ve thought about it, you want this dude, if you have to water yourself or your needs down, to be digestible for him then maybe he’s just not the one!’ 

You knew it was more complicated than that, you knew people worked in much more mysterious and inconsistent ways but it was so easy to just get angry. You were overworked and exhausted, you were missing Steve, you felt like you’ve been stretching yourself way too thin lately and instead of going home, alone, and drinking a tea in your cold, dark apartment, maybe letting yourself cry your little heart out and get a good night’s sleep, you decided that Nina was absolutely right and you started throwing back tequila shots like there was no tomorrow. 

And although you blacked out around 2 AM, it was a sore realisation that there indeed was a tomorrow. The first thing you felt was the heavy eyelids. You could barely open them up and even when you did, it hurt. Your lashes stuck together, shoulders and body stiff from probably not moving a goddamn inch all through the night. Synuses clogged, you try to take a breath through your mouth which also hurts. Your throat scratchy from the cigarettes smoked, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth from the dehydration. You groan as you bring your hands up to your face, squeezing your head together, hoping you might be able to stop the dull thudding you could feel was coming on. With a fucking vengance. Your groan, roll over and try to hide from the pressure, from the light, from the world, but it’s no use. After groaning and moaning for a while, you finally decide that it won’t get better if you just keep lying there. 

When you finally manage to open your eyes and are able to take your surroundings in properly, you notice with horror that you’re not in your bedroom. After a couple of minutes of sheer terror, thinking you just went and fucked it all up, suddenly you strat noticing familiar details. A shirt you’ve surely seen before, a pair of heels you think might belong to you although you’ve never worn them, a picture in a frame that you’re in. So is Nina and Liv. So the night turned into a sleepover. Thank god. You crawl out of bed, almost feeling like the alcohol is still evaporating from your system through your skin. You make it to the kitchen and it almost feels like a fucking miracle. 

‘Hey, gi-’ Nina can’t finish her sentence because the moment the smell of coffee and something cooking on the stove hits your nose, you can feel the bile rising in your throat and you know that you have about 26 seconds to get above a toilet before throwing up the contents of your stomach on the floor. It hurts in every way possible. Besides the very literal sour taste, you also taste the regret, the shame, the exhaustion and your sadness you tried so hard to push down with all the tequila shots. You hated yourself when you got like this. Avoidant and defiant of your vulnerability and sadness, precisely because it almost always resulted in this. All of it bursting out of you, granted, not always so literally. That’s when you start crying too. Pathetic you think to yourself. You don’t really hear the door knob click, you only notice Nina when she crouches down beside you, running soothing circles on your back with her palm, setting a glass of water next to you. 

‘It’s okay, babe, I’m here, you’re okay.’ She keeps holding you and you keep crying for a good ten minutes before the sobs start calming a little. You keep clinging to Nina as she makes you drink the whole glass of water. 

‘Come on, there’s a couch, a throw blanket and some grade A hangover cure calling your name.’ 

You give her a wet chuckle and nod softly. 

‘Okay, so!’ Nina claps her hands together when you make it to the couch, and it makes you flinch. ‘Shit, sorry! No clapping from now on! So, I have coffee, I made a loaded omelet for when your stomach calms down a little, I have coke in the fridge and I’ve already put some ibuprofen on the coffee table there. Anything else I’m missing?’ 

‘No, thank you! This is already plenty.’ You say while considering submitting Nina for sainthood and reaching for the ibuprofen. ‘How’s Liv? She still asleep?’ 

‘Uhm, I don’t know, she hasn’t called yet.’ 

‘Wait, is she not staying here?’

‘No, babe, she went home. You don’t remember?’ 

‘God, no, I think I blacked out around the third round of shots.’

‘Oh, shit.’ There was something in Nina’s voice that made your stomach twist again, not with being sick this time. Or maybe, you didn’t know, yet. 

‘Oh, no, what did I do?’ 

‘No, no, it’s fine! It’ll be fine, you just might have to make a phone call, that’s all.’ 

‘Phone call’ seems to spark something in your mind. You called Steve last night. 

‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no’ you groan while curling into yourself on the couch. 

‘Okay, how much do you remember?’ 

‘I literally just remembered that I called him.’ 

‘Okay, do you remember what happened after?’ 

You groan, well, more like whine or squeal. 

‘Do you want me to tell you or do you wanna stay in denial for a little longer?’ 

‘No, rip off the bandaid please! I need to know if I just ruined everything.’ 

Nina snorted.

‘You called him from the bar. Knew his number by heart, even after all that alcohol, which was kind of impressive, if I’m being honest. He didn’t answer, it went to voicemail and you decided to leave one. You told him he’s probably out and that you are too, that you could be out together, that you missed him, it was really very sweet’ she took a breath and you braced yourself. Until: 

‘Then you started saying some of the stuff we talked about. That you deserve to know what’s going on with you two, went on a little bit a tangent about communication-’ 

‘Fuck me, the irony of that coming from the girl making a drunk phone call from the bar, at 3 in the morning…’ 

‘Yeah, that part was a little rough’ Nina can’t help but chuckle. ‘You told him, you really liked him but that now you didn’t really know where you stood and that you deserved better.’ 

‘What?! No, no, no, fuck, no! Oh, my god, I really did fuck up.’ You started scrambling for the phone. It rang and all you could do was bounce your knees as you waited, begged for someone to answer. Pick up, pick up, pick up, please, just pick up so I can apologize. You muttered in front of yourself like a prayer. 

Unfortunately it didn’t work. The line went dead, again sending you to voicemail. The next hour went by like that. You paced up and down the living room, almost completely forgetting about the killer hangover. You called, it went to voicemail, you paced, you tried again. Nina, bless her heart, just there, supporting you through the whole thing. There was no point in trying to tell you that it really wasn’t that bad. That this happens to everyone. That you didn’t make a deadly mistake. When you’re hungover and can’t remember what exactly happened the night before and you have a little bit of anxiety, there’s no way you can calm down with just reason.  

‘Okay, I can’t do this, I’m gonna go find him.’ Even then, Nina just nods. 

‘You want me to go with you?’ 

‘No. Thank you, but I think I have to do this alone.’ 

‘I can just stay in the car while you talk to him. I would be a lot calmer if you weren’t alone right now.’ 

‘Yeah. Yeah, okay, thank you Nina. I’m sorry for being such a mess, I’m just-’

‘Bun, you don’t have to explain yourself. We weren’t exactly helpful at that moment but we just want what’s best for you.’ 

‘My god, I love you so much. Okay, I’ll take a quick shower and we can go.’

‘Go, I’ll be here.’ 

Taking a shower does it’s magic that you’re used to. You hum to yourself a little, it clears your head, it soothes your nerves a little, it makes things seem like you can handle them again. You can do this, you’ll explain yourself and you’ll apologize, profusely, and maybe he’ll hear you out. The good thing about a blackout and a punishing hangover including vomiting your guts out is that you have no more use for dignity. You will beg him if needed. 

You never told this to anyone but the morning after your first night together you promised yourself that if he calls you after, you will give this an honest to god try. You won’t run away this time. It’s been years since you let someone in for real but during the last few futile attempts at trying to find a partner, someone to share life with, some warmth and, well, love, you’ve discovered that you tend to avoid nice people and anything that has the potential of being real, exactly because of that. Because if it’s real, there’s a real chance of getting hurt too, of getting your heart broken, coming, again, one step closer to a point where you can’t just fix it and put it back together anymore. And the closer you got to him the more you thought that he might be it. The one you never recover from because he seemed a little too good to be true. Like something you didn’t deserve. And part of you knew that he’s probably feeling something similar and part of you knew you should probably talk about it but it just never came out. And so nursed the thought, made sure it never left you and when the silence and the distance grew, you filled it with anxiety and those thoughts of not being enough, being a burden, being, once again, just a little bit too much, just a little bit more than what he can handle right now. And instead of being patient or just talking to him, you came out swinging and tried to make sure that you were the one doing the leaving. Old habits and all that shit. And now you felt like not only did you probably hurt or at the very least confuse him, you also let yourself down. Again. And that this whole thing will go up in flames, before you can figure out if it even could work or not. Again. 

Over the running water and the running thoughts you didn’t hear the doorbell ringing. You didn’t hear Nina shouting that it’s probably Liv, who she couldn’t call yet because you were mostly occupying the phone. You didn’t hear her pad through the living room and open the door. And you certainly didn’t hear his voice. 

‘Hey, sorry for just showing up here, I hope I’m not bothering you, I’m looking for Nina.’ 

‘This is she. How can I help you?’ Nina had a clumsily disguised, almost smug look on her face already, because she knew exactly what she can help this cute, messy haired stranger with.

‘Hey, sorry, again, they gave me your address and name in the bar a couple streets down.’ 

‘Goddamn snitches.’ Nina jokes. Easy for her, knowing full well that you’re taking a shower right behind her. Steve on the other hand, doesn’t really have a sense of humor about it. Not yet. His lips do… well, something. Best way to describe it might be a twitch. It’s not a smile, not by a long shot, but it’s also not a frown, he doesn’t want to be rude either to the one person who might have some information about you. 

‘My name is Steve Harrington, I’m your friend’s boyfriend, at least I hope I still am. I haven’t heard from her since last night, she’s not answering her phone, she’s not at home and I’m starting to freak out a little, and I just really need to find and talk to her. Not in a creepy way just-’ 

‘Do you wanna come in for a second?’ 

‘What?’ he looks 

‘You look a little shaken, like someone who needs a glass of water. I’d offer you a drink but you’re driving, so-‘

‘I- Uhm, thank you but I really do need to find her and I-‘

‘Oh, my god, dude, she’s in the shower, just come in. She’ll be out in a minute, I’m sure.’ 

‘Wh- Wait, so… she’s here?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

‘And she’s okay?’

‘Yeah. I mean she’s hungover as shit, she threw up a while ago but she’ll live.’ 

‘Oh, thank fuck.’ He exhales with a loud, long sigh, running both his hands through his hair and down his face and Nina thinks he might start crying with relief and she mentally adds a little plus mark to her tally. 

‘I, uhm, I’m, I’m with my friend, so I’ll wait in the car with her, can you just please tell her that I’m here? I don’t know if she wants to talk to me at all-’ 

‘Is it Nancy?’ 

‘What?’ 

‘You said your friend, then you said ‘she’. Is it Nancy?’ 

‘No. God, no, it’s Robin.’ 

‘Good. Then tell her to come in too.’ 

‘Okay, okay, thank you’ he has wet, puppy dog eyes. She guesses now that his hair looks so wild because he’s been running his hands through his hair all day, worrying about you. 

When he comes back with an awkward, lanky Robin in tow, she has trouble keeping herself from smiling. She starts walking towards the kitchen but she looks back over her shoulder for a second when she notices he doesn’t even sit down, just paces up and down the living room, just like you, with the only exception that he has his hands on his hips, like a worried father. 

‘Hey, Steve!’ His head whips in her direction faster than she’s ever seen. ‘She wants to talk to you, she just decided to go find you before going to shower.’ 

He can’t really form a sentence, the relief that comes from the reassurance, from one of your best friends no less, is so immense, it chokes him a little. 

You want to talk to him. No, scratch that, you were on your way to him. Even hungover, even after being sent to voicemail. So maybe he wasn’t doomed afterall. 

After a few minutes, a glass of water and some awkward chit-chat about the weather and their drive there, they all heard the shower stop and from that point Steve could only hold his breath, staring in the direction of the bathroom. Nina left for the kitchen with some made-up excuse of having to check something on the stove and Robin followed her with a made-up excuse of her own about wanting to help out. 

It only took a couple of minutes until he heard the door click and some shuffling. He straightened up and tried to swallow his nerves. It was not easy. Especially when he heard your voice. 

‘Okay, I’m sorry for taking so long, but we can go now. He didn’t pick up, so I don’t think he-’ you immediately stop in your tracks when you see him in the living room. 

Those swallowed nerves don’t stay swallowed for long. He hasn’t even seen you and his heart already started thundering, brain melting down, because you were talking about him. You were just as desperate to find him as he was to find you. And on top of all that you show up, wearing an oversized hoodie, a pair of shorts, your hair was wet, your face a little puffy from crying and the lack of sleep, and you looked fucking adorable. He wanted to scoop you up, hold you immediately but he didn’t know where you stood, he didn’t want to rush you. Nina only said, you wanted to talk to him. She didn’t say what about. 

‘Steve’ you whispered his name, a little wet, breathy, a bit unsure, thinking that he might just be a figment of your imagination.  

‘Hey, sweetheart’ he answered, also barely above whisper.

‘Wha- I mean, how? What are you doing here? How did you get here?’ 

‘I’ve been looking for you. I tried calling a-and I went to your place as well but you didn’t answer and you weren’t home and I started to lose my shit a little bit. Ask Robin, she’ll tell you.’ He finished the sentence gesturing towards the kitchen. ‘So I started asking around and-’

‘Oh, my god, Robin’s here?’ you ask with a squeak and bury your face in your hands, trying to hide from embarrassment. 

‘Hey, hey, it’s okay’ he says while he crosses the living room to get to you. Screw being patient and cautious.

‘No, it’s not, I’m so stupid.’ You say this with a shaky voice and his heart breaks a little to hear you cry like this.

‘What? You’re not stupid at all! At all, baby! You were right.’ By the time he says this he’s standing in front of you, reaching out with gentle hands to peel yours away from your face. Actually seeing the tears makes everything worse. ‘Oh, sweetheart, come here’ and then he’s finally hugging you. You cling to him like it’s already reflex, like you’ve done it a thousand times before and he feels a little bad about how good it feels. Because it’s not the thousandth time. This is the first time he’s seen you cry. The first time he’s seen you broken down and tired and not your best self. Whatever that even means. And it feels so good. He hasn’t always been a person who can provide comfort and safety to other people in these moments. Not for a lack of trying, just for a lack of knowledge and example. He didn’t have that warmth in childhood and by the time he got it, he already felt like he didn't deserve it. By the time he did get it felt like he’s cheating some kind of system somewhere. It’s been a long road to get here, where he can hold you with steady arms in this moment and he makes a mental note to get a pack of red vines for Robin and Skittles for Dustin for the next movie night. But right now he can only focus on you. One hand around your waist, the other holding the back of your neck, so you stay steady while the little sobs come out and shake you. He keeps shushing, telling you it’s okay, that he’s there, that he’s not going anywhere, that he’s so glad you’re okay. And then you murmur something into his chest. It comes out muffled and he doesn’t quite get it. 

‘I’m sorry, baby, can you say that again?’ It’s whispered into your hair and the softness becomes overwhelming, so you hide into his chest even deeper, if that’s possible, trying to make yourself smaller. 

‘Hey, sweetheart, can you look at me for a moment?’ You shake your head a little. ‘Please, baby! I really wanna see you and I really wanna hear what you’re saying.’ 

You lift your head slowly, eyes squeezed shut, trying to steady your breath. 

‘I’m so sorry.’ It still comes out almost inaudible but now he sees your mouth he can figure it out. And when he gets it, it almost knocks him over. You think this is your fault. He made you feel like this. He was not having any of that. 

‘Baby, can you look at me for a second? Please!’ He was pleading with you. Even in this state you could hear the shake in his voice. You looked up at him and he felt his heart crack open even more than it already was. There were so many things behind the tears. He could see the sorrow, the fear, the hope still lingering there, the longing, the regret, the fatigue. He could see it, because he knew what he looked like when he looked in the mirror on his worse days. 

‘The only thing, and I mean the only thing you should be sorry for is not showing up at my door and kicking my ass for making you feel this way. I’m the one who should be sorry for the rest.’ Your eyes went wide and you opened your mouth to say something.

‘No, please, just listen to me okay?’ He held your face with both hands now, thumbs on the apples of your cheeks, soothing presence there. ’I should’ve told you that not a goddamn hour goes by when something doesn’t remind me of you. I mean I saw a highlighter and even that made me think of you.’ You chuckle a little bit at that and the tension in both of your chests start to ease a little bit. ‘Of course I’m serious about this, about you, You scare the everliving shit out of me but in a good way, you know?’ You do know. ‘I think you’re fucking incredible and I was so afraid of fucking things up that I just didn’t do anything but I should’ve. I did get busy, and it did get a little bit hard, but those are not excuses to make you feel like this. I don’t want them to be, okay? I want to make an effort, a lot of it if needed. I know it’s not easy and god knows I’m a fucking mess too but I wanna find a way to make this work. Desperately. Just don’t disappear on me next time, please, because I spent this day almost pulling my hair out, thinking that something happened to you or that you just never wanted to see me again. I like you so much it’s stupid and I was starting to believe that I will never feel like this again in my life, like ever. You’re the best thing that happened to me in a long time and I wanna show you.’ 

The sincerity in his voice, the way his gaze never faltered from yours made you cry again. You didn’t say anything, just lunged forward and captured his lips in a kiss that you hoped conveyed how thankful you were. When you pulled back you were a little breathless. 

‘I like you so much it makes me feel like I’m going insane sometimes, if that wasn’t obvious before, just so you know.’ You tell him, voice still a little wet but more stable now. ‘But I do want to apologize though. I could’ve talked to you but I got scared and I felt like you were pulling away and my anxiety got to me and I acted like a stupid teenager and you didn’t deserve to be so worried about me. I fully blame Liv and the tequila though. It makes me go a little crazy. Well, more crazy’ 

‘I’m not pulling away and I like you crazy. As long as it’s for me.’ 

‘Of course it’s for you, you idiot.’

You both laugh and keep just holding each other in the middle of the living room for a few minutes before he speaks.

‘How about this? We agree to have at least one date night a week. No matter what’s going on, no matter what it is, movie night, staying on the couch and watching a show or going all out, just one night when it’s just us.’ 

‘I do like the sound of that.’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

A few more moments of silence pass by you. 

‘Thank you, by the way.’ 

‘For what, sweetheart?’ 

‘Just for showing up.’ He holds your gaze and waits for you to speak. ‘I just, I’m always so scared of being too much and I kind of do this thing where I’m so afraid of being told that I’m just too much to bear at the moment that I dial it all up and push people away before they can tell me to fuck off.’ 

‘Sweetheart, you’ll have to try a lot harder than a drunk phone call to push me away. You’re not too much.’ Is being everything too much? he thinks briefly before he continues. ‘And trust me, I can be a real fucking handful sometimes.’ 

‘Well, I’m looking forward to that handful very much.’ 

‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’ 

‘Maybe.’ 

‘Oh, you definitely do, don’t you?’ 

And you giggle and it's the last blow to his poor heart. It’s still and once again, again and again the most beautiful sound he’s heard in a long fucking time and he almost kicks himself for letting all this time pass by without making you laugh like this. But he doesn’t. He just lets it flow through him and counts his lucky stars that this is how it can go now. Calm and sweet and just understanding, coming out of the other of a storm, together. He’s sure it won’t always be this easy, he’s sure there’ll be bigger and worse fuck-ups than this but he also doesn’t really care right then, because this is what is in front of him right now. A teary-eyed girl who likes him so much that she was afraid of losing him. A teary-eyed girl he would do a whole lot more for than one date night a week. He squeezes your hand, then lifts them to place small, soft kisses on your knuckles. 

‘You wanna come stay with me tonight? Or I can stay here too, if that’s better.’ 

‘What about Robin?’ 

‘She’s a big girl, she can sleep in the back of the pick-up.’

‘Steven!’ 

‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding. We took her car, she can drive back, it’s okay.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ 

‘As a heart attack.’ 

‘I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.’ 

‘Alright smarty pants. Have you had anything to eat yet?’ 

You shake your head a little. ‘I was too hungover and then I was too nervous.’ 

‘Alright, let’s get something to eat then, huh? Heard there’s a pretty good diner in this town.’ 

‘What about the girls?’ 

‘They can come too. My treat.’ 

‘You’re the best, you know that?’

‘I try.’ 

Before you walk into the kitchen, you hear scrambling, muffled curses and you both shake your heads. Your suspicions are confirmed when you enter to find Nina peeling nothing and Robin just straight up staring into the sink. 

‘You can stop pretending like you’re not eavesdropping now.’ You chime. 

There are a few (very futile attempts) at denial and trying to come up with some excuse but you all know it’s pretty useless. 

‘Are you guys okay?’ Nina asks finally. 

‘Yeah, we’re okay.’ You say with a reassuring smile, shared with Steve while you keep holding hands. 

‘Sooooo, can I start teasing your boyfriend now or what?’ 

Your breath hitches at the word a little, Robin snorts and Steve goes a little stiff beside you.

‘I- We haven’t- I-’ you start stuttering and the playful, almost challenging smile disappears from Nina’s face.

‘You haven’t asked her, dude? Really?’ 

‘It’s just-’ 

‘You waltz into my house, looking for my best friend, introduce yourself as her boyfriend and then you don’t even ask her?! Jesus take the wheel, where the fuck do they raise you guys?’ She’s standing there with her arms crossed now and you really wouldn’t mind if the ground just opened up below you right about now. But then something hits you. 

‘You introduced yourself as my boyfriend?’ 

Steve’s cheeks are pink and he does that nervous habit that you find adorable and scratches the back of his neck. 

‘I mean, yeah. I just, I didn’t really know what else to say, seemed like the most obvious choice.’ He takes a beat and you hold your breath. ‘But, uhm, yeah, if I weren’t clear enough back there, I would really like to be your boyfriend. If you want that too that is, because I don’t wanna put pressure on you or-’ 

‘Shut up, you idiot’ and then you’re kissing him again, because yes, he might be an idiot and you might be crazy and you might be messes in your own rights but he’s your idiot now and you’re his crazy and the world seems to make a little more sense again. 

[consistentlyamess]

Hoping you're gonna take me home

[almost 6K]

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: The second time Steve wakes up in your bed and he stopped counting how many times you've made him feel something he thought he couldn't anymore.

warnings:18+ , MDNI, tiny bit smutty, mentions of trauma, mentions of death, mentions of weight loss, mentions of scars, swearing, talk of stancy, talk of king!steve, lmk if i missed anything!!

A/N: this is connected to Sundays are for Family dinner, i reccomend reading it before this, but it can be read as a stand-alone as well!! absolutely nobody asked for this! i love them too much and i wanna write these little blubrs from this world. btw!! heavily influenced by the likes of @pretentious-blonde , @andvys and so many other people writing soft! steve. i’ve been trying to figure out a nickname for reader for like 2 weeks. this is the best i could come up with, whatever that says about me.

‘So, how long are you staying?’ Robin asks over the phone. 

‘Three, or more like two and a half days, I think.’ He’s fidgeting with the phone chord. He’s a little nervous, he doesn’t want Robin to be mad. He wasn’t there when she was moving, he couldn’t be. He was so tired, so sad, so hopeless at the time and he still feels guilty for it. Now it’s his second visit there and he’s already splitting his time. 

‘And how much of that are you spending with her?’ He can practically see her smirk. Suggestive, a little provocative, all teasing and shit-eating. Something reserved for best friends only. Right, he thinks, she loves you and wants you to be happy. No one is mad at you. 

‘Well, she finishes her shift in the library at six, so I told Hop that I can only check on the garden swing next week. Nobody’s really using it anymore, it’s more for Joyce. So, I was thinking of picking her up, take her for dinner or something. Proper date kinda stuff, you know.’ 

‘And you’re spending the night, right?’ 

‘I mean, well… you know, I don’t wanna assume anything but maybe… If things go well.’ 

‘Oh, by the sound of it, they will. She’s not your usual scaredy-cat-wants-to-be-chased kinda type, if I’m deducing correctly.’ 

‘Oh, they teachin’ ya’ real big words at that university of yours, Buckley. Careful, don’t hurt your head!’ 

But she was right. You certainly were not the scaredy-cat kind. You weren’t shy when you kissed him goodbye so deeply, he almost changed his mind and stayed. You weren’t shy when he called you the next night after work and you told him you wished he was there in bed with you, and you weren’t shy when you asked him if he was planning on visiting Robin again anytime soon. And he was, kind of, but he wanted something tangible to know this whole thing wasn’t just his depraved mind’s wishful thinking. So, after you hung up, he started planning for real. He couldn’t settle on anything and he decided on doing something he didn’t think he’d ever do again: he’ll improvise. He decided on the broad strokes, picking a day, picking you up, a dinner sounds nice but nothing else. He kinda wants to figure it out with you. You don’t seem like the fancy restaurant type, which might be part of the reason why he likes you so much, but maybe you have a favourite diner, he could also do like a drive-in, sit out somewhere on the hood of his car type of thing. All cheesy, he realizes, but he doesn’t really mind, all he wants is to spend some time with you. Which might just be the cheesiest of them all. 

‘Hey, can I ask you something?’ Robin asks a little abruptly. 

‘Dangerous, but sure, shoot.’ 

‘Do you think this could be something?’ 

And that was the question, wasn’t it? He probably would’ve felt a little silly if it wasn’t for the fact that you seemed so sure. Your voice so unwavering, so warm over the phone. 

‘I don’t know, Robs. It’s still early days, you know, I barely know anything about her, she barely knows anything about me.’ He takes a deep breath, a beat. ‘But, yeah, I really like her, I think.’ Another beat. He promised himself, he’ll try to be more honest, open. ‘She makes me feel things, which is a little terrifying, but also, I don’t know, she makes me feel like I want to live again, and that’s something, right?’

‘Yeah - shit, man - yeah, that’s definitely something.’ Her voice was a little wet but he didn’t have it in him to say anything about it. What he just admitted was big enough for now. 

‘Okay, so you take her out, spend the night-’ 

‘Maybe spend the night.’ 

She snorts. 

‘Yeah, sure, maybe spend the night. That means you won’t wanna leave on Saturday either, right?’ 

‘I mean, this is a first date, second if we’re being generous. I wanna be a gentleman and I doubt it’ll last two days, don’t worry!’ 

‘God, you’re clearly not a lesbian.’ 

He wasn’t and he also was wrong. 

Picking you up on Friday already makes him think that this’ll be harder than he thought it would be. You’re wearing a sundress and a cardigan with a pair of worn and torn sneakers but that wasn’t even the part that made his heart skip a beat. Your hair was let down, only held back by a pair of sunglasses that you’re slowly sliding over your nose, which he hasn't seen like this since it was spread on your pillow that one night. It was that fraglie balance between trying, but not too hard that he was also going for. You were saying the same thing: I thought about this a lot, but I’m still a little unsure if I want you to know that. You smile as soon as you spot him and it makes him feel like he wasn’t the only one looking forward to this evening. I’ll be the one standing next to blue pick-up - he told you and for a second you thought he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. He was wearing a pair of light wash jeans, a button down, a members only jacket, a pair of black RayBans sitting on the top of his nose. You could still see the way his clothes hung a little loose on him but as his face caught the setting sun, it made his cheeks look a little fuller than last time, his hair turning a little golden. He looked like he just stepped out of a romance movie and it made you a little weak in the knees, ‘cause how the fuck is this guy waiting for me? His smile mirrored yours and you were somewhat glad that you’re too far away for him to see the probably very apparent blush that crept up on your face. 

When you make it to him, toe to toe, you brush your hand to his. 

‘You weren’t lying about the pick-up.’ 

‘Did you think I was?’ He’s grinning now, towering over you a little, wanting that last bit of space between you two gone. 

‘Didn’t really have you down as the pick-up type.’ Now he can feel your breath on his skin and it sends his senses into total overdrive.

‘Oh, yeah? What type did you have me down as, then?’ He brushes your hair from your face and he can’t help but feel a swell of confidence in his chest that catches him off-guard. 

‘More flashy, something that catches the eye, a little dramatic, little cinematic.’ As you finish the sentence, your lips are brushing his and he can’t stop himself anymore. He cups the back of your head and kisses you. It’s all you’ve been waiting for in the past two weeks. It's sweet and warm but there’s a little heat in too, a little desperation in the way his hand tightens around in your hair. When you part, a little breathless, you find him already looking at you. 

‘Hi’ he says, barely above whisper, causing goosebumps to run down your arms. 

‘Hello, to you too’ 

‘You ready to leave?’ 

‘Oh, yeah, I’ve been ready to leave since this morning.’ You’ve been ready to leave for about three days but he doesn’t have to know that.

‘Let’s get going then.’ 

He opens the car door for you and as you’re entering the car, you’re met with a little grocery bag on the seat. 

‘Oh, yeah. Figured you’d had a long day and I picked some snacks for you. I remembered a couple of them from your counter, others are more wildcards. Don’t get too full though, I’d like to take you out.’ 

The way you look back at him makes it worth the extra trip, the rude cashier, the long queue, everything. Your eyes twinkle and goddamn he’s really starting to lose his conviction to be a gentleman.

‘What does it say about me that this really just makes me want to take you home?’ 

‘That you’re easy to please?’ 

‘You’re not wrong.’ You say, wink at him from above your sunglasses and it does not help anything. 

He’s already driving when you’re telling him about your day. About what you researched, about your favourite old lady that comes in almost everyday when you’re there, the sandwich you made in the morning and then promptly forgot to take with you. He tells you about the garden swing of his friend’s parents, something about not being used anymore, something sad lingering there but you don’t pry and he’s grateful, even though he can’t look at you, because he knows the look he’ll be faced with and he doesn’t want it. The knowing, the being seen. 

‘Hey, can you get my glasses from the glove compartment, please? It’s getting dark and I should have them on by now.’ 

‘Sure.’ You have to rummage a little bit but you find it finally. It’s a small, thinframed thing, simple and efficient, lacking any fashion or style consideration. He puts it on and it makes something shift in you. 

‘Yeah, well, that’s gonna be a problem.’ 

He furrows his eyebrows, he tries to say something but it doesn’t really come out. 

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You, in those glasses. There’s no way I won’t wanna jump your bones every time you put that on. You in this, a boxer and a hoodie on my couch? It’s so over for me, dude.’ 

He can’t really decide whether it’s the forwardness of what you suggest that shocks him or the domesticity of the image but he grows flustered nonetheless and he can’t do anything else but laugh.

‘Jesus, lady, take me out to dinner first, at least, God.’

‘That’s exactly the plan, no?’

‘Are you hungry?’ 

‘Starving.’ 

‘Dinner it is then. Although, I’m the one taking you, so don’t count your chickens just yet.’

‘I’ll just have to use my womanly vices then.’

‘Oh, I’m very much looking forward to that!’

‘Where are we going?’ 

‘Well, I thought we could figure that out together. My guess is that you’re not exactly the fancy restaurant type.’

‘You’re correct but I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.’ 

‘Absolutely, it is! Fancy restaurants are cold, stuffy and pretentious. You’re the exact opposite of that. You’re warm and real.’

Now you’re the one to be shocked. Your head whips with wide eyes and you don’t know what to do for a couple of moments. You don’t even notice at first that he’s slowing down for a stoplight. 

‘God, you’re so cheesy, H.’ You roll your eyes playfully but there’s a smile growing in the corners of your mouth and as you turn back to look back on the road, you place a hand on his on the gear shift and give it a little squeeze. Just to make sure that he knows you’re being playful and actually you find him really sweet. 

‘If we’re looking for warm and real, there’s a diner, a true mom and pop operation, by Frannie and her husband Louie. They make wonderful pies, the best burgers and mediocre coffee and they love me, so we have a shot at some discount if you treat me right.’

‘Sounds great, let’s do that! Although I’m a little offended that you think treating you right is not my default setting.’ 

‘Is it?’ 

‘Oh, yeah! Opening the door, sliding the chair out for you, wiping ketchup from the corner of your mouth, footing the bill, the whole nine yards.’

‘Wow, you don’t mess around. Something stuck from your years of being a high-school heartthrob?’ 

‘Nah, my years of being a high-school heartthrob didn’t contain a lot of being a gentleman. I was a bit of an asshole. A lot of an asshole sometimes. I thought being popular was the most important thing in the world. I had great hair, I knew what girls wanted to hear and I let that get to my head.’ 

‘You promised you’d call and then you didn’t, lost interest immediately after having sex, that kind of stuff?’

‘Yeah, yeah, that kind of stuff.’ It felt weird to be this exposed about his flaws, about the mistakes he’s made. But it also felt like relief. It felt like opening a window in a dusty room, being finally able to take a deep breath. 

‘I was a dick, there’s no two ways about it.’ He paused and you listened and your hand was still on his and your thumb was running up and down his knuckles, keeping him grounded all the way through.

‘And then I fell in love and I went and fucked that up too but at least it was enough of a hit on the head to try something different.’ 

‘Did it work?’ 

‘I’ll let you know at the end of the night.’ 

You pursed your lips, trying to suppress the huge grin that was fighting its way onto your face. 

‘Damn. You’re good, H.’ 

‘I got some of it left, it turns out.’ 

After making it to the diner you immediately spot Frannie and she gives you a knowing look which is enough to make you blush a little. Because yes, true to his word, he opened the door for you, let you walk in first, placed a gentle, guiding palm on the small of your back, the flimsy material of your summer dress doing precious little to shield you from its warmth. You told them about him, in a hushed tone, in uncertain terms ‘cause while you wanted to seem confident in front of him, you weren’t nearly as bold when talking about it with others. Almost like you didn’t want to jinx it. Like he was still a little bit too good to be true. 

And that feeling continued when he took a seat next to you in the booth, instead of across from you. Close, familiar, like it was already routine. 

‘How are you doing sweetheart? Karl wasn’t so hard on you the last time, was he?’ 

‘Hey, Frannie! He was a little bit, well, Karl, but it wasn’t too bad.’ 

‘Oh, that boy we’ll be the death of me, I swear to god! You send him our way and we’ll tell him to back off.’ 

‘Is Karl bothering you? Why do I not know about this?’ 

Before you could open your mouth, Frannie jumped in.

‘Ever since he took over at the bar from his old man, he’s been walking around like he owns the place-’

‘Well, technically he does.’ You chimed in. 

‘Huh, you make me laugh! All of it was built by his father, he just sat in the hand and now he thinks he can berate you because you were late one time?! Ridiculous!’

‘He’s berating you?’ Steve asked, now turning to you.

‘He was being a little bit of a dick this week but nothing I can’t handle.’ You tell him, sending a look Frannie’s way at the end. 

‘My god, look at me, not letting you kids take a breath! I’ll leave the menus for you and I’ll be back.’ She winked at you and you could basically feel the giddiness radiating off of her. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me Karl was bothering you?’ He asked. It was tender and sweet and full of worry and you really felt you were gonna melt under his gaze.

‘I just… I don’t know.’ 

‘Hey, I’m not mad’ He said, drawing circles on your knee with his thumb. ‘I’m just asking. I wanna know these things.’

‘I- I was late, because I overslept. And I didn’t wanna tell you exactly because of the guilty look in your eyes that you have right now.’

He laughed and shook his head a little bit. 

‘I’m sorry you were late, that’s all. I’m not sorry for those late phone calls though. Highlights of my days. So, next time Karl is bothering I’ll happily talk to him. Tell him I’ve diagnosed with a severe case of ‘can’t go to sleep without talking to you’ syndrome.’ You weren’t sure if it was a joke or genuinely his protective side showing. Probably a little bit of  both. But it did make you laugh, a small bashful one that made his heart sore.

‘All right Casanova, let’s look at the menu, shall we?’ You suggested, leaning your face on his shoulder. He started to learn the rhythm of you. That you liked him being cheesy but you wouldn’t be caught dead showing that sincerely. So you did this, made a snarky comment, then made a little move, a touch, a squeeze, a smile, something to soften the blow and tell him, he was doing great. And he loved it. Needed it, if he was really honest. 

You talked him through the whole menu, you agreed to share, so he could try more stuff. You talked about the scar on your right elbow you got from a biking accident when you were a kid, he told you how he started crawling backwards, you made fun of him for being a rich kid and going on ski trips with his parents and he listened quietly when you told him that you never really had a good Christmas because her parents were always fighting. He whispered a breathy ‘sorry’ and pressed a gentle kiss to your wrist and it was extremely hard to not climb into his lap right then and there. 

You can feel Frannie and Louie burning holes into the back of your heads and you’re 98% sure that when they saw that chaste little kiss, you heard Frannie squeal. It made you bashful and wanting to hide but also made you want to squeal with her too. You weren’t used to this and some part of you was still bracing for something terrible to come out, for the skeletons starting to fall out of the closet. 

‘I’ll go pay the check, run to the bathroom real quick and then we can go for a walk maybe? Or drive around some more? Maybe you can show me around a little?’ 

‘Sounds great.’ You said, all dopey smiles and soft eyes. He pressed a small kiss on your forehead and he was gone then. Freannie immediately came over under the pretense of gathering you guys’ empty plates. She’s gushing, she’s over the moon and it takes every ounce of discipline in you to not let yourself get too carried away by her enthusiasm. You keep glancing at Steve and Louie who seem to be in a conversation of their own. You don’t hear him asking Louie if he’s doing okay, you don’t hear the older man chuckle and tell him, so far so good, that haven’t seen you like this, maybe ever, but that if he doesn’t take care of you, he can expect a town full of angry people looking up his address in the phone book because you’re loved here. It makes his heart melt. He never thought it was a facade, he could tell from the first moment that the shield part is the chipped black nail polish, not the kindness and genuine warmness that radiates from your pores. That’s real. That’s the anchor at the center of everything. 

He’s a little more bold when you’re back in the car after that. You rummage for his glasses in the glove compartment without him having to ask and it makes his chest tighten. You tell him there’s a pretty cool little peer you could go up to, maybe grab a couple beers on the way. He insists on not driving drunk, you call him a buzzkill but then you suggest still getting the beers and then drinking the beers on the roof of your building. 

‘Is that even allowed?’ 

‘I mean, it’s not not allowed. I’ve never been caught.’ 

‘Oh, you have a rebellious streak?’ 

‘It’s just a roof, H! It’ll be fun, you can see the stars and a little bit of the city.’

‘Sounds romantic.’ 

‘Maybe it is.’ 

‘Drinking a beer, romantic roof-star-watching, are you trying to get into my pants, sweetheart?’ 

‘You told me to take you out to dinner first. I’ve done that. Now it’s time for the womanly vices.’

You leave him speechless and he seems to like even that. And that’s when the boldness came in, because he places a hand on your knee when he doesn’t have to hold the gearshift, thumb drawing small circles and you can’t help but smile at it, reaching over to hold the back of his neck in return, playing with the ends of the chocolate locks there. It starts off innocent, it starts off soft and reassuring and just looking for something to tether you both in the car. But it doesn’t take long to shift into something else. Something more, something hungry, something yearning-like. 

He lets his gentleness melt away a little bit, at least in his own head. He’s not forcing himself anymore to steer his thoughts away from what kind of underwear you’re wearing. The last time you didn’t see him coming, so it was comfy, a little stretched out, a little worn, all you. He’s not complaining, he would never, it was the first time he saw you like that and just the thought makes his breath hitch a little. It was the hottest thing ever, the way you moved with confidence, he couldn’t care less about what your underwear looked like. But now he was wondering if that subtle effort that was apparent in the way your hair fell, in the faint blush you were sporting on your cheeks, in the dress, if that would show in the underwear. Maybe something matching, maybe some lace, maybe a little revealing. And you tried but failed to make it a secret that you were squirming in your seat, almost unnoticeably squeezing your thighs together. Almost. ‘Cause he noticed. Of course he noticed. And he almost burst at the seams. 

It goes without saying, really, that the beers don’t make it past the tiny little hall where they lay forgotten next to the shoes you both toed off in a haste. 

It’s all teeth and tongue and desperation and promises being pressed into skin at every inch possible. 

‘Are you okay?’ He breathes as he pushes you up against a wall. You can’t talk anymore, just nod your head quickly, huff out something that sounds like yeah. He reaches down with one hand, pulling your thigh up to his waist, holding it there as he kisses you deeply, his other palm holding him steady next to your head. 

‘God’ he murmurs. ‘Thank you for the date.’ He’s breathing heavily, he’s huffing out the words as his kisses start trailing down your jaw and the column of your throat. 

‘Mhm’ You murmur back and immediately take the lead, pushing him back, making the both of you stumble a little bit. 

‘Woah, easy tiger!’ He says, chuckling. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ It’s meant as a throwaway line, a little joke to make you slow down. But for you it’s not. And it’s not for him either. It’s a promise, albeit a lighthearted one. It makes that warm something that bloomed in your chest earlier in the car come back with full force. And it does a lot of things, slowing you down is not one of them. It makes you want to kiss him breathless. Everytime he tries to halt your movements, and to his credit he does try, you push back and then your teeth graze his earlobe, he almost growls and the last of his restraint is gone and you couldn’t be happier. He’s pushing you down into the mattress as he kisses his way down your torso. He almost doesn’t pay attention that you did choose something lacy and black and just for him, even if there’s no chance for matching because you’ve foregone wearing a bra. He had this plan to slide the straps of your dress slowly off your shoulders, unwrapping you like a Chrtistmas present, but it goes out the window. He’s pushing the fabric upwards instead, until you take it home and pull it over your head. You’re laid bare and there’s a part of him that feels the same way he feels when he’s looking at a beautiful dessert. Like he doesn’t even wanna touch or taste it anymore because it’s just too goddamn pretty and he feels like he’ll just ruin it. You already tore his shirt off of him earlier, so the playing field a bit more levelled but still not completely even and he’s fine with that for the moment. He wants to show you how much he missed you even if it’s crazy after just two weeks and one night together. 

‘God, you’re so fucking beautiful.’ 

Your brain is fuzzy and you almost can’t even comprehend what’s happening anymore. It’s all too soft, the kisses, the praise murmured into your skin. You have half a mind when you finally come to your senses a little and flip him onto his back. Now it’s your turn to stare, to worship. It’s usually not your style but then again, they usually don’t deserve it. But not Steve. This beautiful boy who somehow found his way into your bar and then snuck into the most hidden little nooks and crannies of your heart and soul. You were eating up every little shiver he couldn’t control when you touched him, every moan that escaped his mouth when you found a sensitive spot. Because you wanted to show him too. You wanted to show him that you never thought you could have something like this. Something this gentle, something this sure. You could feel every single little inch of him tense up when you took him into your mouth. Your name fell from his lips, his fingers tangled into your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life. As much as you wanted to taste him all the way, you wanted to see him fall apart under you, inside of you a little bit more. A lotta bit more. His eyes were hazy, eyelids hooded, not being able to open fully anymore. Your mouths fell apart, forming little ‘o’s at the same time when you sank down on him and he thought he might meet his maker tonight if you keep doing things like this to him. 

‘You’re fucking unreal, you know that?’ The question tumbled out of you, breathy and sweat slicked. 

‘Jesus, you’re one to talk.’ It made you both laugh. That you both thought the other was just something out of this world. And when he finally fell apart for you, you were sure you saw the shadows of angel in his messy hair, his pinched eyebrows and that goddamn pink tint on his cheeks. After chasing your own high, with the help of his expert fingers on your clit, you collapsed onto him, both breathing heavily, panting that soon turned into teary, wet laughs. He kept pressing small kisses into every piece of bare skin he could find. He held you tight until it was absolutely necessary to go to the bathroom. You sat on the sink as you both brushed your teeth, he made use of the extra toothbrush you bought him the week before and it was all so quiet and safe in a way that felt both foreign and incredibly familiar at the same time. 

You fell asleep in his arms, while he was stroking your hair and he followed you not long after, not waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, which almost made him cry in the morning. 

He wakes when you shift and pull closer to him, swinging a leg over his hips, nuzzling closer into his neck. He wants to make you breakfast, make your coffee but he doesn’t have the heart to climb out from under you. You look so peaceful, breathing heavily, naturally gravitating towards him. He starts stroking your back, running a gentle, light finger up and down your spine. He turns a little, so he can press his lips to the crown of your head, bury his nose in your hair a little bit. His thoughts, his senses, everything’s filled with you. Pictures from the night before keep flashing behind his eyelids. The way you grabbed his glasses without a question, the way played with his hair on the drive back, the way you still checked in, the way you kissed his scars. It all felt so overwhelming. Usually when he got like that, he instantly felt uncomfortable. He wanted to go back into his shell, alarms starting to go off in his head that it was all too much, that he had to hide, run, even. 

But not now, not with you. The morning sun somehow snuck through the closed curtains and it’s cascading on your face a little. He wants to brush it away a little bit so it doesn’t disturb you. It was a feeling he couldn’t place just yet but then he realised that what was happening is that you made him feel young again. Not because he actually felt younger, just by making him feel like he could have a future. You made him think about it all again. All the things he hasn’t let himself imagine in a long time. He thought about this becoming a habit. He thought about you waking up in his arms every morning, he thought about rushing against the clock when inevitably you both slept over. He thought about shared showers, to save time and water of course and it made him smile if he thought about reminding you not to leave your lunch at home when you leave for work. He thought about going to the farmers market together on the weekends, he thought about how much Robin’ll love you and how you two will gang up on him every chance you get. Life, plans, looking forward to things. It made his heart race but in a good way, it made him anxious and excited and he couldn’t really remember when was the last time he felt so many things all at once.

‘Isn’t it a little too early to be thinking this hard, H? I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, baby.’ You grumbled in a husky morning voice, snuggling even closer to him if that was possible at that point. 

‘Good morning to you too, sweetheart.’ He said, smirking. 

‘What’s got you all up in arms this early, hm?’ 

‘Not up in arms. Just thinking. Nice thinking, not obsessive or conspiring.’ 

‘Hmm. Care to share with the class?’ 

‘Too early.’ He didn’t just mean the morning. 

‘After coffee maybe?’ 

‘Maybe.’ Definitely not, but you don’t have to know that. He turns his head to find you already looking up at him, morning light sparkling in your irises in a way that makes you look like a fairy. 

‘Hi’ he whispers. 

‘Hey’ And you both seem to agree that morning breath is not a thing as he leans in and you cradle his jaw in your hand. It grows heated again really quickly and before you know it, he’s on top of you, making sure you start the morning off on the right foot. It’s not slow and sensual this time. It’s quick and clingy and messy and fun and you thought you wanna explore how many ways you two can possibly do this. 

Making breakfast is spent almost the same way. It’s tangled limbs, it’s dancing around each other in the tiny kitchen, it’s stolen kisses and touches. 

‘Oh, by the way, you said I could show you around the city maybe. So I thought maybe after breakfast we could get into my shitty little car this time, go for a drive?’ 

He sighs and he really doesn’t wanna say what he’s about to say.

‘You have to get back to your wife, don’t you?’ 

‘Not my wife, just Robin. But yeah, I promised her I wouldn’t get lost for the entire weekend here, which seemed a lot easier when I promised it.’ Your legs were thrown over his lap while you sat on the couch and drank your respective coffees. ‘And it’s already 1 PM-’ 

‘Hey, I get it pretty boy. Bros before hoes, it’s like the number one rule.’ He let out a snort. 

‘I do hate sharing you a little bit though.’ You said, caressing his cheeks. Peeking out from over your coffee mug, flashing him a teasing smile. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?! He briefly thought about driving you to Robin’s, just standing in her doorway, pointing at you and he was sure she would understand. Instead he said

‘I tell you what. Next time, you come to my place. We can spend the whole weekend together.’ 

‘What’ll the kids say?’ 

‘They’re not really kids anymore. And they can’t say jack shit. I have been hoarding them, like feral cats and organizing family dinners and picnics and whatnot. They can get by without me for one weekend.’ 

‘I gotta say, this firm dad side of you is kinda doing it for me a little bit.’

‘Oh, does it?’ He asks and he’s already putting his mug down on the coffee table and moving to lay you against the couch. It’s clumsy, it’s saying I really don’t want you to go and I’m so fucking sorry I have to leave at the same time. 

By the time he was pulling his trainers on the sun was almost setting, early autumn days getting progressively shorter. You’re standing there, leaning against the wall, with damp hair from the very long shower you two took after the shenanigans on the couch, in just an oversized hoodie and he feels weak. He has to keep imagining Robin’s disappointed voice over the phone to keep himself from picking you up, burying you in a heap of sheets and locking the door. The whole apartment is drenched in the lights of dawn, orange, soft, some pink and lilac mixing in there. He’s seen the mismatched furniture, obviously second hand, little fixed up, surely by you, before but it’s even more endearing now. Because now he knows some things. He knows you don’t like to buy new stuff. You like things that have a story, a past, things that are lived in and he’s already thinking about fixing up your dresser for you. Maybe surprise you if he can. He knows that you love pastels but what you’re really partial to is loud colours, personality, something you can’t walk past without a second glance. The somewhat faded emerald green couch, the orange coffee table, the pink commode in the hallway, the thick, heavily patterned carpet and the blue ottoman all sound like they’re part of different interiors but in reality they aren’t. They all make your home yours. 

When he kisses you goodbye, there’s no pretense anymore. There's talk of next time, you're telling him to drive safe, to call often and let you know immediately when he knows which weekend we’ll work for him.

‘Oh, the next one, babe.’ He takes a beat when you don’t answer. Maybe it is too much. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it so quickly. Maybe- 

It all dissipates when a big grin spreads across your face. 

‘See you next Friday then.’ You say like it’s easy, like it’s obvious. His heart does little somersaults as he walks towards his car, looking back at you every two steps because you’re standing there, watching him leave and he’ll need to commit that picture to memory as much as he can to keep him going for another week without you. 

God, he already couldn’t wait for Friday.

[consistentlyamess]

I can't promise speed but if you have anything you'd like to see in the Family Dinner or the Wild Sweetness universe, don't hold back!! send your requests and thoughts my way anytime, any form!!! <3 🤗

[consistentlyamess]

Genuinely such a fan of the Steve x reader Sunday dinner series!! You are such an amazing writer, I can’t wait to see more of them🥹🥹

OMG this is my first anon 😭😭😭😭😭😭 and it's so nice, thank you sweetheart!!

i love writing these babies so much and these comments help A LOT in staying motivated and inspired, so truly, thank you!! and thank you for reading!! ❤️❤️

[consistentlyamess]

Hoping you're gonna take me home

[almost 6K]

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: The second time Steve wakes up in your bed and he stopped counting how many times you've made him feel something he thought he couldn't anymore.

warnings:18+ , MDNI, tiny bit smutty, mentions of trauma, mentions of death, mentions of weight loss, mentions of scars, swearing, talk of stancy, talk of king!steve, lmk if i missed anything!!

A/N: this is connected to Sundays are for Family dinner, i reccomend reading it before this, but it can be read as a stand-alone as well!! absolutely nobody asked for this! i love them too much and i wanna write these little blubrs from this world. btw!! heavily influenced by the likes of @pretentious-blonde , @andvys and so many other people writing soft! steve. i’ve been trying to figure out a nickname for reader for like 2 weeks. this is the best i could come up with, whatever that says about me.

‘So, how long are you staying?’ Robin asks over the phone. 

‘Three, or more like two and a half days, I think.’ He’s fidgeting with the phone chord. He’s a little nervous, he doesn’t want Robin to be mad. He wasn’t there when she was moving, he couldn’t be. He was so tired, so sad, so hopeless at the time and he still feels guilty for it. Now it’s his second visit there and he’s already splitting his time. 

‘And how much of that are you spending with her?’ He can practically see her smirk. Suggestive, a little provocative, all teasing and shit-eating. Something reserved for best friends only. Right, he thinks, she loves you and wants you to be happy. No one is mad at you. 

‘Well, she finishes her shift in the library at six, so I told Hop that I can only check on the garden swing next week. Nobody’s really using it anymore, it’s more for Joyce. So, I was thinking of picking her up, take her for dinner or something. Proper date kinda stuff, you know.’ 

‘And you’re spending the night, right?’ 

‘I mean, well… you know, I don’t wanna assume anything but maybe… If things go well.’ 

‘Oh, by the sound of it, they will. She’s not your usual scaredy-cat-wants-to-be-chased kinda type, if I’m deducing correctly.’ 

‘Oh, they teachin’ ya’ real big words at that university of yours, Buckley. Careful, don’t hurt your head!’ 

But she was right. You certainly were not the scaredy-cat kind. You weren’t shy when you kissed him goodbye so deeply, he almost changed his mind and stayed. You weren’t shy when he called you the next night after work and you told him you wished he was there in bed with you, and you weren’t shy when you asked him if he was planning on visiting Robin again anytime soon. And he was, kind of, but he wanted something tangible to know this whole thing wasn’t just his depraved mind’s wishful thinking. So, after you hung up, he started planning for real. He couldn’t settle on anything and he decided on doing something he didn’t think he’d ever do again: he’ll improvise. He decided on the broad strokes, picking a day, picking you up, a dinner sounds nice but nothing else. He kinda wants to figure it out with you. You don’t seem like the fancy restaurant type, which might be part of the reason why he likes you so much, but maybe you have a favourite diner, he could also do like a drive-in, sit out somewhere on the hood of his car type of thing. All cheesy, he realizes, but he doesn’t really mind, all he wants is to spend some time with you. Which might just be the cheesiest of them all. 

‘Hey, can I ask you something?’ Robin asks a little abruptly. 

‘Dangerous, but sure, shoot.’ 

‘Do you think this could be something?’ 

And that was the question, wasn’t it? He probably would’ve felt a little silly if it wasn’t for the fact that you seemed so sure. Your voice so unwavering, so warm over the phone. 

‘I don’t know, Robs. It’s still early days, you know, I barely know anything about her, she barely knows anything about me.’ He takes a deep breath, a beat. ‘But, yeah, I really like her, I think.’ Another beat. He promised himself, he’ll try to be more honest, open. ‘She makes me feel things, which is a little terrifying, but also, I don’t know, she makes me feel like I want to live again, and that’s something, right?’

‘Yeah - shit, man - yeah, that’s definitely something.’ Her voice was a little wet but he didn’t have it in him to say anything about it. What he just admitted was big enough for now. 

‘Okay, so you take her out, spend the night-’ 

‘Maybe spend the night.’ 

She snorts. 

‘Yeah, sure, maybe spend the night. That means you won’t wanna leave on Saturday either, right?’ 

‘I mean, this is a first date, second if we’re being generous. I wanna be a gentleman and I doubt it’ll last two days, don’t worry!’ 

‘God, you’re clearly not a lesbian.’ 

He wasn’t and he also was wrong. 

Picking you up on Friday already makes him think that this’ll be harder than he thought it would be. You’re wearing a sundress and a cardigan with a pair of worn and torn sneakers but that wasn’t even the part that made his heart skip a beat. Your hair was let down, only held back by a pair of sunglasses that you’re slowly sliding over your nose, which he hasn't seen like this since it was spread on your pillow that one night. It was that fraglie balance between trying, but not too hard that he was also going for. You were saying the same thing: I thought about this a lot, but I’m still a little unsure if I want you to know that. You smile as soon as you spot him and it makes him feel like he wasn’t the only one looking forward to this evening. I’ll be the one standing next to blue pick-up - he told you and for a second you thought he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. He was wearing a pair of light wash jeans, a button down, a members only jacket, a pair of black RayBans sitting on the top of his nose. You could still see the way his clothes hung a little loose on him but as his face caught the setting sun, it made his cheeks look a little fuller than last time, his hair turning a little golden. He looked like he just stepped out of a romance movie and it made you a little weak in the knees, ‘cause how the fuck is this guy waiting for me? His smile mirrored yours and you were somewhat glad that you’re too far away for him to see the probably very apparent blush that crept up on your face. 

When you make it to him, toe to toe, you brush your hand to his. 

‘You weren’t lying about the pick-up.’ 

‘Did you think I was?’ He’s grinning now, towering over you a little, wanting that last bit of space between you two gone. 

‘Didn’t really have you down as the pick-up type.’ Now he can feel your breath on his skin and it sends his senses into total overdrive.

‘Oh, yeah? What type did you have me down as, then?’ He brushes your hair from your face and he can’t help but feel a swell of confidence in his chest that catches him off-guard. 

‘More flashy, something that catches the eye, a little dramatic, little cinematic.’ As you finish the sentence, your lips are brushing his and he can’t stop himself anymore. He cups the back of your head and kisses you. It’s all you’ve been waiting for in the past two weeks. It's sweet and warm but there’s a little heat in too, a little desperation in the way his hand tightens around in your hair. When you part, a little breathless, you find him already looking at you. 

‘Hi’ he says, barely above whisper, causing goosebumps to run down your arms. 

‘Hello, to you too’ 

‘You ready to leave?’ 

‘Oh, yeah, I’ve been ready to leave since this morning.’ You’ve been ready to leave for about three days but he doesn’t have to know that.

‘Let’s get going then.’ 

He opens the car door for you and as you’re entering the car, you’re met with a little grocery bag on the seat. 

‘Oh, yeah. Figured you’d had a long day and I picked some snacks for you. I remembered a couple of them from your counter, others are more wildcards. Don’t get too full though, I’d like to take you out.’ 

The way you look back at him makes it worth the extra trip, the rude cashier, the long queue, everything. Your eyes twinkle and goddamn he’s really starting to lose his conviction to be a gentleman.

‘What does it say about me that this really just makes me want to take you home?’ 

‘That you’re easy to please?’ 

‘You’re not wrong.’ You say, wink at him from above your sunglasses and it does not help anything. 

He’s already driving when you’re telling him about your day. About what you researched, about your favourite old lady that comes in almost everyday when you’re there, the sandwich you made in the morning and then promptly forgot to take with you. He tells you about the garden swing of his friend’s parents, something about not being used anymore, something sad lingering there but you don’t pry and he’s grateful, even though he can’t look at you, because he knows the look he’ll be faced with and he doesn’t want it. The knowing, the being seen. 

‘Hey, can you get my glasses from the glove compartment, please? It’s getting dark and I should have them on by now.’ 

‘Sure.’ You have to rummage a little bit but you find it finally. It’s a small, thinframed thing, simple and efficient, lacking any fashion or style consideration. He puts it on and it makes something shift in you. 

‘Yeah, well, that’s gonna be a problem.’ 

He furrows his eyebrows, he tries to say something but it doesn’t really come out. 

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You, in those glasses. There’s no way I won’t wanna jump your bones every time you put that on. You in this, a boxer and a hoodie on my couch? It’s so over for me, dude.’ 

He can’t really decide whether it’s the forwardness of what you suggest that shocks him or the domesticity of the image but he grows flustered nonetheless and he can’t do anything else but laugh.

‘Jesus, lady, take me out to dinner first, at least, God.’

‘That’s exactly the plan, no?’

‘Are you hungry?’ 

‘Starving.’ 

‘Dinner it is then. Although, I’m the one taking you, so don’t count your chickens just yet.’

‘I’ll just have to use my womanly vices then.’

‘Oh, I’m very much looking forward to that!’

‘Where are we going?’ 

‘Well, I thought we could figure that out together. My guess is that you’re not exactly the fancy restaurant type.’

‘You’re correct but I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.’ 

‘Absolutely, it is! Fancy restaurants are cold, stuffy and pretentious. You’re the exact opposite of that. You’re warm and real.’

Now you’re the one to be shocked. Your head whips with wide eyes and you don’t know what to do for a couple of moments. You don’t even notice at first that he’s slowing down for a stoplight. 

‘God, you’re so cheesy, H.’ You roll your eyes playfully but there’s a smile growing in the corners of your mouth and as you turn back to look back on the road, you place a hand on his on the gear shift and give it a little squeeze. Just to make sure that he knows you’re being playful and actually you find him really sweet. 

‘If we’re looking for warm and real, there’s a diner, a true mom and pop operation, by Frannie and her husband Louie. They make wonderful pies, the best burgers and mediocre coffee and they love me, so we have a shot at some discount if you treat me right.’

‘Sounds great, let’s do that! Although I’m a little offended that you think treating you right is not my default setting.’ 

‘Is it?’ 

‘Oh, yeah! Opening the door, sliding the chair out for you, wiping ketchup from the corner of your mouth, footing the bill, the whole nine yards.’

‘Wow, you don’t mess around. Something stuck from your years of being a high-school heartthrob?’ 

‘Nah, my years of being a high-school heartthrob didn’t contain a lot of being a gentleman. I was a bit of an asshole. A lot of an asshole sometimes. I thought being popular was the most important thing in the world. I had great hair, I knew what girls wanted to hear and I let that get to my head.’ 

‘You promised you’d call and then you didn’t, lost interest immediately after having sex, that kind of stuff?’

‘Yeah, yeah, that kind of stuff.’ It felt weird to be this exposed about his flaws, about the mistakes he’s made. But it also felt like relief. It felt like opening a window in a dusty room, being finally able to take a deep breath. 

‘I was a dick, there’s no two ways about it.’ He paused and you listened and your hand was still on his and your thumb was running up and down his knuckles, keeping him grounded all the way through.

‘And then I fell in love and I went and fucked that up too but at least it was enough of a hit on the head to try something different.’ 

‘Did it work?’ 

‘I’ll let you know at the end of the night.’ 

You pursed your lips, trying to suppress the huge grin that was fighting its way onto your face. 

‘Damn. You’re good, H.’ 

‘I got some of it left, it turns out.’ 

After making it to the diner you immediately spot Frannie and she gives you a knowing look which is enough to make you blush a little. Because yes, true to his word, he opened the door for you, let you walk in first, placed a gentle, guiding palm on the small of your back, the flimsy material of your summer dress doing precious little to shield you from its warmth. You told them about him, in a hushed tone, in uncertain terms ‘cause while you wanted to seem confident in front of him, you weren’t nearly as bold when talking about it with others. Almost like you didn’t want to jinx it. Like he was still a little bit too good to be true. 

And that feeling continued when he took a seat next to you in the booth, instead of across from you. Close, familiar, like it was already routine. 

‘How are you doing sweetheart? Karl wasn’t so hard on you the last time, was he?’ 

‘Hey, Frannie! He was a little bit, well, Karl, but it wasn’t too bad.’ 

‘Oh, that boy we’ll be the death of me, I swear to god! You send him our way and we’ll tell him to back off.’ 

‘Is Karl bothering you? Why do I not know about this?’ 

Before you could open your mouth, Frannie jumped in.

‘Ever since he took over at the bar from his old man, he’s been walking around like he owns the place-’

‘Well, technically he does.’ You chimed in. 

‘Huh, you make me laugh! All of it was built by his father, he just sat in the hand and now he thinks he can berate you because you were late one time?! Ridiculous!’

‘He’s berating you?’ Steve asked, now turning to you.

‘He was being a little bit of a dick this week but nothing I can’t handle.’ You tell him, sending a look Frannie’s way at the end. 

‘My god, look at me, not letting you kids take a breath! I’ll leave the menus for you and I’ll be back.’ She winked at you and you could basically feel the giddiness radiating off of her. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me Karl was bothering you?’ He asked. It was tender and sweet and full of worry and you really felt you were gonna melt under his gaze.

‘I just… I don’t know.’ 

‘Hey, I’m not mad’ He said, drawing circles on your knee with his thumb. ‘I’m just asking. I wanna know these things.’

‘I- I was late, because I overslept. And I didn’t wanna tell you exactly because of the guilty look in your eyes that you have right now.’

He laughed and shook his head a little bit. 

‘I’m sorry you were late, that’s all. I’m not sorry for those late phone calls though. Highlights of my days. So, next time Karl is bothering I’ll happily talk to him. Tell him I’ve diagnosed with a severe case of ‘can’t go to sleep without talking to you’ syndrome.’ You weren’t sure if it was a joke or genuinely his protective side showing. Probably a little bit of  both. But it did make you laugh, a small bashful one that made his heart sore.

‘All right Casanova, let’s look at the menu, shall we?’ You suggested, leaning your face on his shoulder. He started to learn the rhythm of you. That you liked him being cheesy but you wouldn’t be caught dead showing that sincerely. So you did this, made a snarky comment, then made a little move, a touch, a squeeze, a smile, something to soften the blow and tell him, he was doing great. And he loved it. Needed it, if he was really honest. 

You talked him through the whole menu, you agreed to share, so he could try more stuff. You talked about the scar on your right elbow you got from a biking accident when you were a kid, he told you how he started crawling backwards, you made fun of him for being a rich kid and going on ski trips with his parents and he listened quietly when you told him that you never really had a good Christmas because her parents were always fighting. He whispered a breathy ‘sorry’ and pressed a gentle kiss to your wrist and it was extremely hard to not climb into his lap right then and there. 

You can feel Frannie and Louie burning holes into the back of your heads and you’re 98% sure that when they saw that chaste little kiss, you heard Frannie squeal. It made you bashful and wanting to hide but also made you want to squeal with her too. You weren’t used to this and some part of you was still bracing for something terrible to come out, for the skeletons starting to fall out of the closet. 

‘I’ll go pay the check, run to the bathroom real quick and then we can go for a walk maybe? Or drive around some more? Maybe you can show me around a little?’ 

‘Sounds great.’ You said, all dopey smiles and soft eyes. He pressed a small kiss on your forehead and he was gone then. Freannie immediately came over under the pretense of gathering you guys’ empty plates. She’s gushing, she’s over the moon and it takes every ounce of discipline in you to not let yourself get too carried away by her enthusiasm. You keep glancing at Steve and Louie who seem to be in a conversation of their own. You don’t hear him asking Louie if he’s doing okay, you don’t hear the older man chuckle and tell him, so far so good, that haven’t seen you like this, maybe ever, but that if he doesn’t take care of you, he can expect a town full of angry people looking up his address in the phone book because you’re loved here. It makes his heart melt. He never thought it was a facade, he could tell from the first moment that the shield part is the chipped black nail polish, not the kindness and genuine warmness that radiates from your pores. That’s real. That’s the anchor at the center of everything. 

He’s a little more bold when you’re back in the car after that. You rummage for his glasses in the glove compartment without him having to ask and it makes his chest tighten. You tell him there’s a pretty cool little peer you could go up to, maybe grab a couple beers on the way. He insists on not driving drunk, you call him a buzzkill but then you suggest still getting the beers and then drinking the beers on the roof of your building. 

‘Is that even allowed?’ 

‘I mean, it’s not not allowed. I’ve never been caught.’ 

‘Oh, you have a rebellious streak?’ 

‘It’s just a roof, H! It’ll be fun, you can see the stars and a little bit of the city.’

‘Sounds romantic.’ 

‘Maybe it is.’ 

‘Drinking a beer, romantic roof-star-watching, are you trying to get into my pants, sweetheart?’ 

‘You told me to take you out to dinner first. I’ve done that. Now it’s time for the womanly vices.’

You leave him speechless and he seems to like even that. And that’s when the boldness came in, because he places a hand on your knee when he doesn’t have to hold the gearshift, thumb drawing small circles and you can’t help but smile at it, reaching over to hold the back of his neck in return, playing with the ends of the chocolate locks there. It starts off innocent, it starts off soft and reassuring and just looking for something to tether you both in the car. But it doesn’t take long to shift into something else. Something more, something hungry, something yearning-like. 

He lets his gentleness melt away a little bit, at least in his own head. He’s not forcing himself anymore to steer his thoughts away from what kind of underwear you’re wearing. The last time you didn’t see him coming, so it was comfy, a little stretched out, a little worn, all you. He’s not complaining, he would never, it was the first time he saw you like that and just the thought makes his breath hitch a little. It was the hottest thing ever, the way you moved with confidence, he couldn’t care less about what your underwear looked like. But now he was wondering if that subtle effort that was apparent in the way your hair fell, in the faint blush you were sporting on your cheeks, in the dress, if that would show in the underwear. Maybe something matching, maybe some lace, maybe a little revealing. And you tried but failed to make it a secret that you were squirming in your seat, almost unnoticeably squeezing your thighs together. Almost. ‘Cause he noticed. Of course he noticed. And he almost burst at the seams. 

It goes without saying, really, that the beers don’t make it past the tiny little hall where they lay forgotten next to the shoes you both toed off in a haste. 

It’s all teeth and tongue and desperation and promises being pressed into skin at every inch possible. 

‘Are you okay?’ He breathes as he pushes you up against a wall. You can’t talk anymore, just nod your head quickly, huff out something that sounds like yeah. He reaches down with one hand, pulling your thigh up to his waist, holding it there as he kisses you deeply, his other palm holding him steady next to your head. 

‘God’ he murmurs. ‘Thank you for the date.’ He’s breathing heavily, he’s huffing out the words as his kisses start trailing down your jaw and the column of your throat. 

‘Mhm’ You murmur back and immediately take the lead, pushing him back, making the both of you stumble a little bit. 

‘Woah, easy tiger!’ He says, chuckling. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ It’s meant as a throwaway line, a little joke to make you slow down. But for you it’s not. And it’s not for him either. It’s a promise, albeit a lighthearted one. It makes that warm something that bloomed in your chest earlier in the car come back with full force. And it does a lot of things, slowing you down is not one of them. It makes you want to kiss him breathless. Everytime he tries to halt your movements, and to his credit he does try, you push back and then your teeth graze his earlobe, he almost growls and the last of his restraint is gone and you couldn’t be happier. He’s pushing you down into the mattress as he kisses his way down your torso. He almost doesn’t pay attention that you did choose something lacy and black and just for him, even if there’s no chance for matching because you’ve foregone wearing a bra. He had this plan to slide the straps of your dress slowly off your shoulders, unwrapping you like a Chrtistmas present, but it goes out the window. He’s pushing the fabric upwards instead, until you take it home and pull it over your head. You’re laid bare and there’s a part of him that feels the same way he feels when he’s looking at a beautiful dessert. Like he doesn’t even wanna touch or taste it anymore because it’s just too goddamn pretty and he feels like he’ll just ruin it. You already tore his shirt off of him earlier, so the playing field a bit more levelled but still not completely even and he’s fine with that for the moment. He wants to show you how much he missed you even if it’s crazy after just two weeks and one night together. 

‘God, you’re so fucking beautiful.’ 

Your brain is fuzzy and you almost can’t even comprehend what’s happening anymore. It’s all too soft, the kisses, the praise murmured into your skin. You have half a mind when you finally come to your senses a little and flip him onto his back. Now it’s your turn to stare, to worship. It’s usually not your style but then again, they usually don’t deserve it. But not Steve. This beautiful boy who somehow found his way into your bar and then snuck into the most hidden little nooks and crannies of your heart and soul. You were eating up every little shiver he couldn’t control when you touched him, every moan that escaped his mouth when you found a sensitive spot. Because you wanted to show him too. You wanted to show him that you never thought you could have something like this. Something this gentle, something this sure. You could feel every single little inch of him tense up when you took him into your mouth. Your name fell from his lips, his fingers tangled into your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life. As much as you wanted to taste him all the way, you wanted to see him fall apart under you, inside of you a little bit more. A lotta bit more. His eyes were hazy, eyelids hooded, not being able to open fully anymore. Your mouths fell apart, forming little ‘o’s at the same time when you sank down on him and he thought he might meet his maker tonight if you keep doing things like this to him. 

‘You’re fucking unreal, you know that?’ The question tumbled out of you, breathy and sweat slicked. 

‘Jesus, you’re one to talk.’ It made you both laugh. That you both thought the other was just something out of this world. And when he finally fell apart for you, you were sure you saw the shadows of angel in his messy hair, his pinched eyebrows and that goddamn pink tint on his cheeks. After chasing your own high, with the help of his expert fingers on your clit, you collapsed onto him, both breathing heavily, panting that soon turned into teary, wet laughs. He kept pressing small kisses into every piece of bare skin he could find. He held you tight until it was absolutely necessary to go to the bathroom. You sat on the sink as you both brushed your teeth, he made use of the extra toothbrush you bought him the week before and it was all so quiet and safe in a way that felt both foreign and incredibly familiar at the same time. 

You fell asleep in his arms, while he was stroking your hair and he followed you not long after, not waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, which almost made him cry in the morning. 

He wakes when you shift and pull closer to him, swinging a leg over his hips, nuzzling closer into his neck. He wants to make you breakfast, make your coffee but he doesn’t have the heart to climb out from under you. You look so peaceful, breathing heavily, naturally gravitating towards him. He starts stroking your back, running a gentle, light finger up and down your spine. He turns a little, so he can press his lips to the crown of your head, bury his nose in your hair a little bit. His thoughts, his senses, everything’s filled with you. Pictures from the night before keep flashing behind his eyelids. The way you grabbed his glasses without a question, the way played with his hair on the drive back, the way you still checked in, the way you kissed his scars. It all felt so overwhelming. Usually when he got like that, he instantly felt uncomfortable. He wanted to go back into his shell, alarms starting to go off in his head that it was all too much, that he had to hide, run, even. 

But not now, not with you. The morning sun somehow snuck through the closed curtains and it’s cascading on your face a little. He wants to brush it away a little bit so it doesn’t disturb you. It was a feeling he couldn’t place just yet but then he realised that what was happening is that you made him feel young again. Not because he actually felt younger, just by making him feel like he could have a future. You made him think about it all again. All the things he hasn’t let himself imagine in a long time. He thought about this becoming a habit. He thought about you waking up in his arms every morning, he thought about rushing against the clock when inevitably you both slept over. He thought about shared showers, to save time and water of course and it made him smile if he thought about reminding you not to leave your lunch at home when you leave for work. He thought about going to the farmers market together on the weekends, he thought about how much Robin’ll love you and how you two will gang up on him every chance you get. Life, plans, looking forward to things. It made his heart race but in a good way, it made him anxious and excited and he couldn’t really remember when was the last time he felt so many things all at once.

‘Isn’t it a little too early to be thinking this hard, H? I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, baby.’ You grumbled in a husky morning voice, snuggling even closer to him if that was possible at that point. 

‘Good morning to you too, sweetheart.’ He said, smirking. 

‘What’s got you all up in arms this early, hm?’ 

‘Not up in arms. Just thinking. Nice thinking, not obsessive or conspiring.’ 

‘Hmm. Care to share with the class?’ 

‘Too early.’ He didn’t just mean the morning. 

‘After coffee maybe?’ 

‘Maybe.’ Definitely not, but you don’t have to know that. He turns his head to find you already looking up at him, morning light sparkling in your irises in a way that makes you look like a fairy. 

‘Hi’ he whispers. 

‘Hey’ And you both seem to agree that morning breath is not a thing as he leans in and you cradle his jaw in your hand. It grows heated again really quickly and before you know it, he’s on top of you, making sure you start the morning off on the right foot. It’s not slow and sensual this time. It’s quick and clingy and messy and fun and you thought you wanna explore how many ways you two can possibly do this. 

Making breakfast is spent almost the same way. It’s tangled limbs, it’s dancing around each other in the tiny kitchen, it’s stolen kisses and touches. 

‘Oh, by the way, you said I could show you around the city maybe. So I thought maybe after breakfast we could get into my shitty little car this time, go for a drive?’ 

He sighs and he really doesn’t wanna say what he’s about to say.

‘You have to get back to your wife, don’t you?’ 

‘Not my wife, just Robin. But yeah, I promised her I wouldn’t get lost for the entire weekend here, which seemed a lot easier when I promised it.’ Your legs were thrown over his lap while you sat on the couch and drank your respective coffees. ‘And it’s already 1 PM-’ 

‘Hey, I get it pretty boy. Bros before hoes, it’s like the number one rule.’ He let out a snort. 

‘I do hate sharing you a little bit though.’ You said, caressing his cheeks. Peeking out from over your coffee mug, flashing him a teasing smile. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?! He briefly thought about driving you to Robin’s, just standing in her doorway, pointing at you and he was sure she would understand. Instead he said

‘I tell you what. Next time, you come to my place. We can spend the whole weekend together.’ 

‘What’ll the kids say?’ 

‘They’re not really kids anymore. And they can’t say jack shit. I have been hoarding them, like feral cats and organizing family dinners and picnics and whatnot. They can get by without me for one weekend.’ 

‘I gotta say, this firm dad side of you is kinda doing it for me a little bit.’

‘Oh, does it?’ He asks and he’s already putting his mug down on the coffee table and moving to lay you against the couch. It’s clumsy, it’s saying I really don’t want you to go and I’m so fucking sorry I have to leave at the same time. 

By the time he was pulling his trainers on the sun was almost setting, early autumn days getting progressively shorter. You’re standing there, leaning against the wall, with damp hair from the very long shower you two took after the shenanigans on the couch, in just an oversized hoodie and he feels weak. He has to keep imagining Robin’s disappointed voice over the phone to keep himself from picking you up, burying you in a heap of sheets and locking the door. The whole apartment is drenched in the lights of dawn, orange, soft, some pink and lilac mixing in there. He’s seen the mismatched furniture, obviously second hand, little fixed up, surely by you, before but it’s even more endearing now. Because now he knows some things. He knows you don’t like to buy new stuff. You like things that have a story, a past, things that are lived in and he’s already thinking about fixing up your dresser for you. Maybe surprise you if he can. He knows that you love pastels but what you’re really partial to is loud colours, personality, something you can’t walk past without a second glance. The somewhat faded emerald green couch, the orange coffee table, the pink commode in the hallway, the thick, heavily patterned carpet and the blue ottoman all sound like they’re part of different interiors but in reality they aren’t. They all make your home yours. 

When he kisses you goodbye, there’s no pretense anymore. There's talk of next time, you're telling him to drive safe, to call often and let you know immediately when he knows which weekend we’ll work for him.

‘Oh, the next one, babe.’ He takes a beat when you don’t answer. Maybe it is too much. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it so quickly. Maybe- 

It all dissipates when a big grin spreads across your face. 

‘See you next Friday then.’ You say like it’s easy, like it’s obvious. His heart does little somersaults as he walks towards his car, looking back at you every two steps because you’re standing there, watching him leave and he’ll need to commit that picture to memory as much as he can to keep him going for another week without you. 

God, he already couldn’t wait for Friday.