isa

She/her 19 Gojo enthusiast

[headkiss]

on his willpower

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when visiting your friend robin in hawkins turns into an indefinite stay, you decide to entertain yourself by getting under steve’s skin. it turns out different than you expect. maybe better.

word count: 13k

content: fluff, slight angst, no major st5 spoilers (just settings used), upside down is implied but not explicitly mentioned, prob some inaccurate wsqk descriptions, r is a little delusional, a couple of small time jumps, mentions of blood (nosebleed), and a kiss!!

a/n: hiii guys!! it’s been too long since i’ve written a long steve fic and i had so much fun with this one!! i just had to write steve a little bitchy (but in a yearning way) after ppl accused him of being annoying in s5. that’s my princess!!! thank you to my angel @bruisedboys for looking over bits of this one for me! i hope u all love it <3

(¬`‸´¬)

What was meant to be a quick visit to Hawkins turned into an indefinite stay.

While quarantine wasn’t exactly how you saw your spring break trip going, but it isn’t all bad. Despite it being a small town, you’ve managed to find ways to entertain yourself. One of those being getting on Steve’s nerves, finding your way under his skin.

You’d never actually met him before, only ever heard of him through Robin’s letters and phone calls. First, it was complaining, annoyance at how he waltzed through Hawkins High like nothing affected him. Then a ‘hey, you’re not going to believe this’ and stories about the pair working at Scoops together, a tally board that amused Robin at Steve’s expense.

And, maybe most surprising of all, them becoming partners in crime. Robin’s tone towards Steve turned more familiar, still teasing but far warmer.

You and Robin became friends in middle school, the kind of friendship that started with a simple introduction and grew into giggling under covers at sleepovers and knowing that someone saying ‘don’t tell anyone’ didn’t apply when it came to your best friend.

Your parents decided to move before high school, but you’ve stayed in touch with Robin ever since. A few visits scattered throughout the years, far more conversations on two sides of a phone line, cords twisted around your fingers.

A trip (back) to Hawkins for you had been a long time coming, and though it obviously didn’t end up going according to plan, you’re grateful for it, in an odd way.

Your first couple of years in college weren’t going as well as you’d hoped. No friend group to mess around with, no courses to especially inspire you. It was exactly what you’d wanted and not at all like you’d imagined.

A break from it all is probably good for you, minus the whole devastating disaster thing.

Your school was not willing to let you resume studies when you got back, despite your very valid and sort of unavoidable reason, so you’d basically lost a whole semester of classes that you didn’t even enjoy in the first place.

It’s like you’re in some kind of snow globe—minus the snow—with nothing much to do but sit and let the world shake you, let the glitter tumble through the air and fall to the ground at your feet.

Some people would probably be going stir crazy in your shoes. Eager to get back to their life. You’re grateful for this in between to figure out what to do next. What you really want.

Plus, it’s been nice to be back in Hawkins. It’s the only place that’s ever truly felt like home, even after moving away. Even better to be welcomed into the fold. Introduced to Robin’s friends and get pulled in by the group’s tide like a shell on the beach.

And then, of course, there’s Steve Harrington.

Steve, who you’ve heard so much about. Who you feel like you know already despite never really meeting him. When Robin had told you they’d become close, like, almost inseparable close, you’d been surprised but pleased. It was like you went on their whole friendship arc along with Robin.

She spoke so highly of him, about how different he was now, how he was kind of a massive dork and not nearly as cool as he pretended to be (to her, this was a positive), and naturally, you’d been looking forward to meeting him.

Even more so after she sent over a polaroid of the two of them, Steve reluctantly posing, an annoyed look on his face that’s broken up by a hidden smile, Robin grinning wide, both in their Family Video vests.

He was handsome. It was impossible to deny.

Unfortunately for you, Steve has decided, for some reason, that he is not your biggest fan.

Your first official meeting was at Family Video, actually. Pre-quarantine. Robin had asked you to stop by during her shift so you could pick out a movie to watch together later, and you’d happily obliged.

The bell above the door chimed happily with your entrance, and Steve was the one who greeted you.

“Hey,” he called from behind the counter.

You walked up, and found that the picture didn’t even fully do him justice. His t-shirt sleeves tight around his upper-arms as he leaned on the counter, hair flopping over his forehead all intentionally messy, like its had fingers run through it.

He straightened when you approached. Smiled politely, even. Big brown eyes trailing over you and focusing on your face.

And something passed between you then. The air heavier, the room and the muffled radio drifting into the background. He looked at you like you were something rare.

“Hi,” you spoke. And maybe you shouldn’t have. “Is Robin here?”

Because that’s when the moment cracked, fizzled out. That’s when Steve dropped his elbows back onto the counter, like he couldn’t hold himself up any longer.

“Sorry!” you heard Robin’s voice ring out, coming closer until she was beside you. “Sorry! I was in the back, didn’t hear you come in.”

“Wait,” Steve said. “Who are you?”

“Um,” you started.

“Steve!” Robin chided. She reminded him of your name, and he mouthed it after she said it, confused. “My friend from middle school who’s staying with me for the week? It’s why you’re covering my shift tomorrow, dingus. I told you like ten times.”

“By that she means twice,” you joked, trying to extend some sort of ‘we both tease Robin’ olive branch.

He seemed to remember himself during the brief conversation, his face hardening, building a wall around himself brick by brick. His eyes were no longer intrigued, his gaze no longer weighted. No, he was something akin to irritated.

“Oh, don’t be jealous, Steve,” Robin said, clearly noting the shift in his demeanor, too. “I do in fact have friends that aren’t you.”

Steve rolled his eyes at her, and you opened your mouth to say something else, but you weren’t sure what words would suffice. Robin linked her arm through yours and guided you away before you could say anything else, anyways.

“Did I do something?” you whispered.

“Ignore him,” Robin urged you. “He’s fussy sometimes, but I swear he’s not an asshole. Anymore.”

Okay. You believe her.

At first, you’re bothered, looking over your shoulder at him like maybe you could figure out what you did wrong just by looking at him.

But then, later, when you’re in the guest room of Robin’s house laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, you remember that look. The first few seconds before you mentioned Robin, before she walked over.

Those moments where he seemed more honest, more open and warm and kind. And then he armed himself, dropped the mask of his helmet and became different.

If Robin says he’s a good friend, a good guy, then he must be. And everyone has their off days, you can understand that. Even relate. So you write it off as a one time thing, thinking next time he’ll apologize for being short with you and introduce himself properly and remember your name.

You’d only gotten that last bit right.

When he saw you next, it wasn’t an apology or a reintroduction. Rather, he’d said your name like it bugged him just to form the sound.

After the massive earthquake, you joined Robin to volunteer. You were directed to the station Steve was already manning, and Robin to the sandwiches.

When you walked up to the table, you took the time to observe him before he noticed you. Towel slung over his shoulder, his eyes heavy, like he’d been tired or seen too much. He smiled at people walking by, helped them find what they needed with a gentleness you admired.

You wanted to forget last time, give it a clean slate, so you walked up with a small but genuine smile and said a small ‘Hey, Steve.’

He looked up from his folding, pressed his hands onto the table and assessed you. Steve wasn’t mean to you, not necessarily, but he was a bit cold. Unwelcoming. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m actually from here and I just.. thought I could help. Looks like I’ll be sticking around anyways,” you shrugged, making your way around the table to join him on the other side. “Unless you wanted to fold all of these boxes on your own?”

And maybe you let your loose sweater slip off your shoulder to expose your lace bra strap. And maybe you noticed the way his eyes flicked over to your newly exposed skin before quickly flicking back to your face, like he just couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t need my permission,” he muttered. Then, “You picked an excellent time for a trip, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you deadpanned. “I like to plan all my travels around disastrous events.”

“Ha,” he responded, unamused.

You’d folded boxes of donations in silence for the remainder of the day.

Normally, if someone didn’t like you, you’d spiral about it a little bit. Wondering what you did wrong, how you could fix it. But it’s different with Steve.

It’s thrilling, actually, to get under his skin. To rile him up by simply being around. You know he’s got to have a reason for it, because the longer you spend in Hawkins, the longer you spend around him, you’re slowly starting to see the way he interacts with everyone else.

How much he cares about Dustin, how worried he is about Max, the way he drives Lucas to visit her every time he asks.

Steve’s not a mean guy, but he’s snappy with you. And you like to bring it out of him. Maybe he needs an outlet for his frustration, or maybe it’s just something about you, but you can’t bring yourself to be upset over it.

No, you’re determined.

You’ll make Steve Harrington crack one of these days. One way or another, you’ll tear his walls down, unarm him. You won’t let him scare you off.

-

It’s been a couple of months now. Spring giving way to the heat of summer, that stretch at the end of May into the beginning of June that warms up quickly.

And yes, you’re still in Hawkins. You’re sort of becoming a local again, you think.

With the weather warming up, you’re all finally able to take advantage of the Harrington’s pool. Sunlight bouncing off the ripples in the water tinted blue from the pool’s tile. It’s just the older bunch today, Lucas and Mike and the others doing their own thing that you’d probably rather stay curious about.

Robin had extended the invitation to you to come to Steve’s, because he’d never invite you himself.

Even after months spent around him, in his orbit, he’s still keeping you at arm’s length. Holding you back with a firm hand on your collarbone and a practiced scowl on his face. You won’t give up, though.

There’s something beneath that front he puts on around you, a reason that curtain is drawn, and you intend to find it. To tear the curtains open and let the sunlight pour in.

So, naturally you’d agreed when Robin asked if you wanted to join. Yes, it would be nice to go for a swim, to sit out in the sun and just drift for a while. But it’d be even nicer to get a rise out of Steve again. To see him roll his eyes at your jokes or sigh at your arrival or drag a big hand over his face at your prodding.

Luckily for you, you’re an overpacker and thought to bring a bathing suit with you. Even luckier, it’s one of your nicer ones. A two piece that sits high on your hips, thin straps sitting on your shoulders.

You show up to the Harrington’s in it and a pair of denim shorts, sunglasses pushed up on your head like a headband, worn tote bag hanging from your shoulder.

Steve opens the backyard gate when Robin knocks on it and follows up with a shout a solid three seconds later.

“Still here, are you?” Steve asks when he sees you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, let me just break a military-ordered quarantine to get out of your hair, princess.”

“Aw, guys,” Robin whines. “It’s too early for this. We haven’t even walked through the gate yet.”

You raise your eyebrows at Steve, because you’re not the one with the problem here. Though you suppose you do egg it on. Just a little.

“Don’t worry Robs,” you say. “Somewhere deep down, Steve likes me. He just has a funny way of showing it.”

And with that you walk through the gate, forcing Steve to move aside for you. He and Robin linger a few paces behind.

Just as you’ve been welcomed into the fold, yours and Steve’s bickering has become a usual occurrence.

“I thought we talked about your attitude, dingus,” she whispers harshly.

“I do not have an attitude.”

“Right, and I don’t have a problem with rambling. Any other lies you’d like to spew?”

“Whatever,” is his retort. Admittedly, not a great one.

By the time Steve and Robin are done with their hushed conversation, you’ve already dropped your stuff by one of the lounge chairs on the pavement, waving hello to Nancy and Jonathan where they sit with their legs dipped in the pool before turning back around and reaching for the button on your shorts.

You glance up as you do, and find that Steve’s already looking at you. Huh.

Looking him in the eyes, you purposefully slip your shorts off slowly, making a show of pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them. He looks away quickly once your shorts reach your ankles like he’d been caught, his cheeks reddened. Maybe from the sun, or maybe not.

Tucking your shorts into your tote bag, you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a pleased smile.

It’s these kinds of things that keep your faith in Steve alive. The secret glances, the way his eyes find you before his mind can tell him otherwise. And his eyes are so honest then, so expressive and deep with words he refuses to say.

But you’ll get them out of him. You’re willing to play the long game here.

For now, you grab a worn paperback lent to you by Nancy out of your bag and settle onto the lounge chair on your stomach. Elbows holding you up, sunglasses slipped down over your eyes, knees bent so your feet hover in the air.

The sun beats down on your back, but you welcome it. It isn’t that harsh, aggressive burn that comes in the height of summer, but the gentle whispers of warmer days ahead.

You barely get a chapter in before a shadow falls over the yellowed pages of your book, and you can tell just by the silhouette that it’s him.

“Hey, you’re cramping my style, Harrington,” you call.

“Didn’t know the sunlight belonged to you, princess,” he responds, arms crossed, firing the nickname from earlier back at you.

Only, it doesn’t sting one bit. You imagine him saying it in a softer way, sweeter. Then you remember you’re meant to be a nuisance and wave your hand at him, urging him to scoot out of the way.

He simply rolls his eyes and steps aside.

Too easy, you think. At least, until you hear the slap of his feet against concrete as he runs towards the pool, doing a stupid cannon ball as close to you as possible, effectively splashing both you and the pages of your current read.

You glance over your shoulder at the pool as Steve comes up for air, shaking out his hair like a wet dog.

“Thanks for that,” you say, and he wipes the water from his eyes to watch you speak. “I was starting to get too hot anyways.”

He splashes you again with his hands.

“Real mature,” Robin says to him from the corner of her mouth.

You give him a pointed, sarcastic smile before turning back to your book. And that smile turns into something more real, your fingertips tracing the water droplets on the pages as if he placed each one himself.

“Asshole,” you mutter to yourself with a shake of your head, though it comes out somewhat affectionate.

One of those drops of pool water landed directly on the word cares, and you tap it once more before shutting your book and resting your head on your arms.

That’s just it, you think. Steve must care in some capacity about you. He wouldn’t be so easily frustrated, so easily revved up if he didn’t.

You wind up falling asleep like that, the sounds of water sloshing and your friends laughing fading into the background as you drift off. Your neck is sore by the time you wake up, though judging from where the sun still shines high in the sky it couldn’t have been that long.

Robin has moved to the chair next to yours, Jonathan and Nancy sharing a floaty in the pool. And Steve is no longer in sight.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Robin says when she sees your head lift.

You rotate onto your back and stretch your arms above your head. “Mm. How long did I sleep?”

“I dunno. Twenty minutes, maybe.”

“Where’d Harrington go?”

She gestures loosely towards the house. “And there goes my peace,” a pause, then, more serious; “I really wish you two would get along.”

“We’ll get there,” you say, reaching over to pat her hand. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“I think that makes me more worried, actually.” And when you swing your legs over and push yourself to stand, she adds, “Where are you going?”

“Just gonna grab a drink. I’m not gonna like, jump him, or anything.”

“Please don’t, he’s only ever won one fight.”

How many fights does one have to get into for only one win to really be notable, you want to ask, but you refrain. You take your sunglasses off completely and leave them on the chair and make your way inside.

The cool air or the AC hits you as you step inside, a welcome break from the heat that seems to be rising with the afternoon.

You’ve been in Steve’s house before, but never on your own like this. You walk to the kitchen slowly, taking in the decor around the house, the notable lack of family photos, or even ones of just Steve. It feels lived-in, yes, but it lacks the warmth of a family home. You frown at the framed landscape on the wall and move along.

You’re alone in the kitchen too, at first. Wooden cabinets giving the room a warmer tint, white backsplash with the occasional fruit tile, silver appliances. It’s simple, classic, and so clean that it doesn’t look like anybody’s cooked in it in a while.

The fridge isn’t too bad, though, a variety of sodas and a few beers, milk and orange juice and a vegetable drawer. You grab a can of Sprite and crack it open, the pop of the tab echoing in the empty room.

You close the fridge and lean your lower back against the counter. It’s cold against your sun-soaked skin.

“Oh, sure, make yourself at home,” is how Steve announces his presence, shoulder leaned against the doorframe.

He’s always doing that, you’ve noticed. Leaning on something, resting his weight somewhere as if it’s exhausting to keep himself upright, to keep himself steady.

“Aw, thank you. Very hospitable of you, Harrington.”

He scoffs at you. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re an excellent host.” You hold up your can in mock cheers.

And then it happens again, that split second where Steve’s eyes speak for him. They trace your figure, and you suddenly feel exposed in nothing but your swimsuit. Not in an uncomfortable way, necessarily. Just.. heated by his stare, by the warm brown of his eyes and how they seem almost pained.

Besides, you do your own looking, too. Steve’s still shirtless, still damp from being in the pool earlier. His shoulders pink from the sun. Your eyes follow the path of a drop of water that drips from his hair onto his chest, through the thatch of hair there and down over his stomach, disappearing into the band of his swim shorts.

You both suck in a breath at the same time, your eyes flicking upward to find his. Neither of you says anything about it, but there’s an awareness there, like the ACs been shut off, the room growing thicker.

“That was my last one,” he says, nodding to the can in your hand. Though it lacks the usual irritation he employs when speaking to you. It’s slight, like he’s trying to find it again.

The armor’s back.

“We could always share, Stevie,” you poke, holding the drink out for him.

He scoffs and spins on his heel to leave the room. You grin behind the can and take another sip.

-

The heat feels more cruel in August. A lingering, sweltering thing that has ripples coming off pavement. The humidity makes the air feel harder to walk through, a wall of resistance greeting you each time you step outside.

Today is one of the hottest days yet. So much so that even the shade doesn’t help very much.

In the time since Family Video’s… closure, Robin has found her new calling as a radio host, Steve working the sound effects and making sure things run smoothly, because God forbid they’re ever employed in separate workplaces again.

You’d helped them set things up at WSQK when they’d first taken this whole thing on. Unpacking boxes, figuring out a way to tame the mess of wires in the booth, getting some actual furniture in the place.

This time, you’re mostly just there to hang around, to watch them in action. To see Robin make use of her endless source of words to say and to watch Steve, a pencil tucked behind his ear, juggle the sound effect tapes and his can of soda. Still, he manages to look relaxed while doing it, hip leaned on the desk, t-shirt a little wrinkled. A little sweaty, even.

It’s an old building, with a severe lack of AC that is especially obvious on a day like today. Not a single cloud in the sky, the sun beaming relentlessly.

A fan whirs inside the booth, placed as far from the mic as possible. Another spins where you sit, aimed directly at you.

After a solid twenty minutes you get a little fidgety just sitting there. Assuredly, it has almost nothing to do with Robin’s hosting skills—who you’ve heard rehearsing through the walls at night—and almost everything to do with you.

You feel like you need to make yourself useful, especially after everything Robin’s done for you. Letting you be her roommate free of charge (“Your currency is putting up with Steve for me”), being completely willing to let you just join her friend group. To tag along to a life that isn’t naturally yours.

Tracing a finger along the surface of the table next to you and frowning when it comes away dusty, you decide to help them out by cleaning up a bit.

You find the supplies easily. You’re pretty sure you’re the one who unpacked them, and that they haven’t been touched since. There’s a duster, all-purpose cleaner, some paper towel, the basics. You grab it and shut the cupboard quietly and decide to start with the area outside the booth.

It’s easy enough to get into a rhythm, especially with music filling the speakers. If Steve weren’t currently occupied, you’re certain he’d give you shit for the way you bounce on your feet as you clean. You can almost hear him in your head. Wiping surfaces really puts a pep in your step? Seriously?

The booth is, obviously, currently (and for you, sort of always) off limits, so when you finish up with the little seating area, you move along to the living quarters. The two bedrooms are still a work-in-progress, some boxes still unopened, mattresses with no sheets, so you leave them alone and head into the kitchen.

It isn’t fully equipped, either, but a little more so than the bedrooms. It’s warmer here than where the fans had been going, and you lift your hair off the back of your damp neck and fan yourself for a second.

You check the fridge, but it’s pretty barren. At the very least, you shut your eyes and let the cold wash over you for a few seconds.

The heat seems to creep up on you here, beads of sweat building on your forehead, your mind going a little fuzzy in it. You finish wiping up the countertops and decide to go in search of another fan that probably won’t help much. It’ll only blow around the hot air, but a breeze is better than the thick stillness.

Just as you reach for the door to the basement, a voice stops you. His voice, of course.

“You can’t go down there,” Steve says, sneaking up on you, making you jump the slightest bit.

You turn to face him and find him with his arms crossed. Unsurprising. His t-shirt sticks to his chest a little, pushes against his arms, rides up to expose the band of his jeans.

“Didn’t know I needed authorization to go down a flight of stairs, security guard Harrington.” You wipe the back of your hand over your forehead. “I just wanted to grab another fan. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s boiling in here.”

“We don’t have another one. Two not enough for you?”

“No,” you huff, but you give up and walk away, muttering a “dunno how you’re even wearing pants right now” as you pass him.

He follows that with a stupid call of “Perv.”

You pause, not wanting him to get the last word. He sighs audibly and walks back into the booth, and just before the door clicks shut behind him, you add an immature “Weirdo.”

It’s silly, but the annoyed furrow in his brow you spot through the glass tells you it worked.

Unsuccessful in your search for a fan, you go back to the kitchen to finish cleaning in there. Climbing up onto the counters to dust the tops of the cabinets, even busying yourself by wiping down empty drawers and shelves in cabinets.

You’re onto the one beneath the sink when you get a little dizzy, your hands reaching up to grip the edge of the countertop to keep yourself from tipping over. It passes quickly enough, but it leaves you feeling a little funny. Disoriented, sluggish.

When you push yourself up to stand, it worsens, little spots dotting your vision like you moved too fast, your head aching. You lift your hair from your neck again, squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help much, but it forces the dizziness to subside enough for you to walk out of the kitchen, through the main room, and out the front door.

Yes, it won’t be any colder outside, but maybe the fresh air will help a little. It’s stuffier inside, heat being pushed around by the fans, a thickness with nowhere to go.

The sting of the harsh sunlight on your eyes makes your head pound, but you breathe in deep a few times, still hoping whatever you’re feeling will pass like a leaf carried by the wind.

Only, it doesn’t. If anything, it just keeps building. Your heartbeat thumping in your ears, nausea creeping up on you, the spots dancing in your eyesight again.

You have to catch yourself on the station’s wall just to stay upright. Closing your eyes and taking heaving breaths.

You’re so caught up in it you don’t even hear the door opening and closing. Don’t hear the footsteps approaching until there’s a shadow in front of you and a question that comes out more genuine than you’d expect.

“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asks. The wording is a little harsh, because that’s how he’s used to speaking to you, but his tone is quieter, honest.

“Not used to Indiana summers anymore, I guess,” you reply, head tilting back against the wall with a little thump. It makes you wince.

And Steve, well, he surprises you. He doesn’t tell you it’s ’cause you don’t belong, or that you should’ve just stayed home. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist and says “C’mere.”

“I’m fine. I just need a minute,” you say, embarrassed.

Still, you let his hand dig into your skin, let him hold you up and guide you over to where his car is parked. He doesn’t even let go of you when he digs in his pocket for the keys.

It’s probably the closest you’ve ever been to him, and despite the circumstances, you let his touch seep into you. Let his smell surround you, amber and something a little sweet. A hint of hairspray and the saltiness of sweat.

Steve opens the car door and guides you into the driver's seat with the arm still around your waist, the other hand placed delicately on the top of your head so you don’t hit it. He leans over you to start the car, holding himself up on the centre console and fidgeting with some buttons and knobs to turn the AC up.

You resist the urge to lean into him and sink into the seat, your head tipped back against the headrest.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, pulling away and shutting the door gently. You watch him jog off through the window, feeling warm in a completely different way.

True to his word, he’s back in a couple of minutes, a water bottle in one hand and some paper towel in the other. He opens the BMW door and then takes the cap off the water bottle before handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it from him, a spark zipping up your arm. You take a few sips, and when you’re done Steve takes it and screws the cap back on.

He sets the bottle onto the roof of the car. “Here,” he says, a hand slipping to the back of your neck to get you to lean forward. You oblige, and Steve lifts your hair out of the way and places the damp paper towel there to help cool you down.

“How’s that?” he checks, a hand going in front of one of the car’s air vents to make sure they’re working. “Too cold?”

“‘S good,” you say.

And you do feel better, the pounding in your head shifting to a dull ache, your eyes focusing as they should. You feel fuzzy in a new way, looking at him. Taking in the way he makes sure the vents are aimed at you, how he hands you the water bottle again and coaxes you to take a few more sips.

It feels like you’re dreaming now.

Steve is nearly silent as he does it, like it’s completely natural for him to take care of you like this. To drop whatever he’d been outside for and let his concern bleed through the look on his face, the softness of his gaze.

It’s probably the longest he’s ever gone without snapping at you, the longest you’ve gone without taunting him in some way. The gloves have come off, and it’s just you and him. The real versions.

He sees your eyes flutter and lets the words slip before he can catch them, gentle and doting. “Hey, you feeling okay? Talk to me, honey.”

Honey. It’s earnest. Not sarcastic, but soft. What would have been a jab another time dulled to a poke, not a stab.

Steve freezes a little after he says it, worried you’ll call him out on it. Say something about how different he’s being and why he is the way he is with you.

But you do something worse. You look at him like you can see right through him, through every layer he’s covered himself in, nod, and say a delicate, “Thank you, Steve.”

He doesn’t understand why you don’t hate him by now. Can’t fathom how you never get angry at him for the things he says or the way he pushes you away. He almost wishes you would, because it would make it all so much easier.

Steve knows it’s the wrong way to go about it, has heard it from Robin a hundred times now, but his demeanour with you is his own twisted way of protecting you.

If he doesn’t let you get close to him, you’re at a greater distance from the mess he’s entangled in. If he keeps you at arm’s length, you won’t ask questions, won’t get yourself into trouble willingly.

If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have to push you away to protect you. To protect himself. But it’s far too late for that.

At first, the annoyance was real. Frustration at how clueless you were to everything, at how Robin brought you around without concern. Irritated at the prospect of having another person to look out for when he could barely manage everyone already.

But somehow, you’ve wormed your way into his life without struggle. Lingering in the corners of his mind when you’re not around, his eyes drawn to you whenever you walk into a room like a string ties him to you.

He indulges, just for a moment, and traces a knuckle across your cheek before straightening.

It’d be so easy to tell you everything, to let it spill from him in a rush and tug you close afterwards. To let the truth seep from him and move forward. But Steve, who is meant to be brave, is so afraid.

The last thing he wants is for you to get hurt because of him. So he pulls away.

“Don’t sweat too much on my seats,” he tells you before shutting the door and walking away. He’s glad he isn’t facing you, so you can’t see how hard this is for him.

You watch him leave, the hum of the air conditioning filling the space that all of a sudden feels so empty.

-

Just as it always does, August gives way to September. The heat of summer lingers during the day, the first chills of fall creeping in at night.

Not quite cold enough to wear a jacket, not warm enough to be in a tank top. This evening, you’ve opted for a mini skirt, tights, and a sweater. Steve’s in his usual jeans and a crew neck.

Steve, who you’re currently, miraculously, alone with in the WSQK van.

You’d been helping out at the station again when something went wrong with the broadcast, and after diagnosing the issue that you know nothing about, Robin sent you and Steve out to pick up some supplies to fix it.

“It’s a two-person job,” she’d urged. “And I have to stay here and be Rockin’ Robin.”

“I don’t need help,” Steve had insisted, offended at the thought of being incapable on his own.

“Actually, you do,” Robin stated. “Last time I sent you to get something you got it wrong because you can’t read labels.”

“I can read-” he cut himself off. Robin’s just as stubborn as him, and he’s not in the mood to go back and forth. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”

Steve walked out, keys spinning around his finger, without a word directed at you. That is, until he’d noticed you weren’t following him and tilted his head at you. “Well? Are you coming, or what?”

“Oh,” you’d been surprised he gave in so quickly, actually. “Right. Sir, yes sir,” you saluted like an idiot.

And now you’re here, sitting in the passenger seat of the van, Steve beside you, his hands gripping the wheel a little too tight, the radio barely audible over the sound of the wheels turning, the wind around the vehicle.

It’s nearly dark out, that shade of blue just after the sun has fallen behind the horizon, streetlights flicking on and casting a warm glow on everything.

He hasn’t said a word to you besides a muttered ‘buckle up’ since you got into the car, and you’re starting to get antsy in it. You think you’d prefer his pointed comments, his barbed words, over the silence that feels louder than it should.

It isn’t awkward, not quite, but it’s strained in a way. Like there’s some unspoken battle going on and whoever says the first word loses.

Tired of pulling at the loose thread on your skirt and saying nothing, you reach forward to mess with the radio. Turning up the volume so you can hear it properly, flipping through channels and pausing each time to hear what’s playing. You glance at Steve’s reactions, too.

You’re successful when a song sounds through the speakers and he actually winces. You turn it up a bit more to drive it home.

He’s getting predictable, you think. The twitch of his eyes or the arch of his brows.

Except, he does surprise you, sometimes. He did. That day in August, when you got overheated and he caught you effortlessly. When he doted on you and called you honey all sticky sweet like the word itself. When he was the barest you’ve seen him yet.

Steve, almost completely unguarded. Almost.

Today, though, his fences are mended. Built up once more. Which is why you’re not surprised in the slightest when he side-eyes you, huffs a dramatic breath, and mumbles “I hate this song.”

“Oh do you?” You look over at him, knees tilted towards his side of the van. “I couldn’t tell from the exaggerated sighing.”

He gives you this bitchy little twitch of his lips and flips it to another station. You hate how good he looks doing it.

You give him a sweet smile and switch it back.

And just to really get him, you start to sing along. Poorly. Completely off-key and a little shouty and absolutely uncaring.

Steve drags a hand over his face, but you aren’t deterred. You keep singing, grabbing the walkie from the dashboard and using it as a faux microphone. You don’t push any buttons, because that’d probably give him an aneurism.

“My ears,” he whines. “This is so-”

You cut him off by singing even louder. Totally annoying, but you can tell he’s battling a smile behind his hand, little crinkles at the corner of his mouth. It makes you grin stupid and genuine.

Then there are headlights shining through the windshield, bright enough to make you squint. You quiet and twist your head to get a look at the car, eyes widening a bit when you notice it’s one of the military vehicles.

Sure, their presence is known, expected, even, but it’s an odd time of day to see one driving around.

By the way Steve’s grip on the wheel has gone from tight to white-knuckle, he seems to think so too.

The vehicle’s red brake lights shine next, slowing to a stop just after passing by the van, and Steve slows, too. Not as abruptly, but to a crawl, keeping the military truck in his rear view. It pulls over. Steve does too.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“What?” you ask, brows furrowed in confusion. “The U.S. army after you, or something?”

And Steve, who would usually give you some stupid retort about how you’re more likely to be on their radar—Tourists are liabilities, he’d say morosely—says absolutely nothing. Stares in the rear view mirror with concerned focus on his face. Eyes a little wide, the rest of his face composed.

“Steve?” you prod again.

“Stop it,” he says, eyes still glued to the mirror. “Just act.. normal.”

You don’t know what it is that forces you into gear. Whether it’s the look on Steve’s face or the tension in his shoulders, if it’s the beating of your heart that feels like a warning, or maybe the sound of a car door slamming and the cool blue beam of a flashlight turning on. But something has your instincts kicking in, and you unbuckle your seatbelt before climbing into the back of the van.

Steve, even with how he acts around you, looks away when he notices the way your skirt rides up. A gentleman even when perpetually irritated.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks once you’re settled in the back. He turns around to look at you over his shoulder, at how you’ve kicked your shoes off.

You get on your knees and lean forward, unbuckling Steve’s seatbelt for him and grabbing a fistful of his sweater to get him to follow you into the back of the van.

“Giving him a reason to leave us alone.”

Steve, stunned, lets himself be pulled along by your grip, climbing out of his seat and into the back to join you. He kneels, too, your knees slotted together like puzzle pieces, his bumping your thigh.

You’re still holding his shirt even though he’s right in front of you, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest underneath it, can smell his cologne and feel his breath fan across your cheek.

“Uh-” he starts, but fumbles. Never finds the words to say.

In his defence, you don’t really give him a chance to. The flashlight shines through the back window, heavy footsteps on pavement drawing nearer.

You do the only thing you can think of that’ll make the problem go away. You pull Steve in by his collar and kiss him.

Steve is, understandably, completely frozen at first. You bring your other hand to the back of his neck to try and get him to understand. His hesitation doesn’t last long after you sink your fingers into his hair, scraping his scalp a little.

No, he dives in. Hands shooting to find your waist and squeeze slightly before moving again, like they can’t settle in one place. A wide palm is splayed across the small of your back, the other lowering to your hip to urge you to scoot forward.

His mouth moves against yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s heated, a little frenzied, like he’s just been set loose. The hand on your hip shifts again, running up your arm, over your collarbone, knuckles tracing the side of your neck until he plants it on your cheek, using it to tilt your head where he wants you.

Yes, your goal had been to get him to kiss you convincingly enough that the man outside would just see a pair of young people making out and walk away, Steve goes beyond.

He kisses you like you’re the one that needs convincing of something. His lips firm, bruising, his grip unwavering.

The kind of kiss that tomorrow, even a week from now, you’ll feel warm just remembering.

Steve knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is a terrible idea. That falling into you this way will cause irreparable damage for him. That pushing you away will become ten times more difficult, little shards of glass embedded into his heart with each shove.

But God. He just can’t stop himself.

Not with how soft you feel against him, how well you fit, how you let him guide you and make the tiniest involuntary noise when he nips at your bottom lip. How you pulled him in, nerves in your eyes, but determination, too.

How you stepped in to help him without asking any questions.

He doesn’t deserve to have you this way, and yet he can’t imagine a world in which he’d pull away first.

Which is why you’re full on making out in the back of the van, the windows probably starting to fog, the radio, the chirp of the blinker, all fading into the background and all that’s left is the sounds of your breathing, the panting when you break away from each other just for a second before dipping forward again.

You don’t hear the man curse and walk away, you don’t notice the absence of the flashlight’s harsh glow. You don’t even notice he’s gone until you hear the door slam again, the tires rolling off, headlights fading into the distance until they’re gone completely, swallowed by nighttime.

It’s only then, when you’re certain the vehicle’s gone, that you pull away from Steve with a lewd smack.

Your eyes flutter open just in time to see the way he chases your kiss when you go.

And then his eyes are open, too, searching your face frantically, blinking like he’s not certain this whole thing has actually just happened. His hands slip away until they’re resting on his knees. Though, with the way you’re sitting, legs slotted together, you can feel his pinky brushing the inside of your thigh, tracing the seam of your tights.

You follow his lead now, dropping your hands away and sort of hugging yourself.

“Sorry,” you say. Quiet. “I probably should’ve asked before I… you know.”

Steve looks at you. Really looks at you. At how your arms are crossed over your stomach, your shoulders dropped. It’s like you’re trying to fold in on yourself, to make yourself smaller. To make his target more difficult to hit.

His hands twitch on his knees. His pinky still runs its tiny course against your leg.

“No, it was, um, smart,” he says. His voice comes out rough, not totally himself. “Good plan.”

You look at Steve, too. And you can see whatever inner struggle he’s having written on his face. His stupid, beautiful brown eyes looking a little lost, a little further away.

You understand him. Somehow, you know what he needs. When to push, when to back off.

“Steve Harrington giving me a compliment?” you say, attempting to bring things back on track. To diffuse his racing thoughts with something he’s used to. “Are you sick or something?”

You straighten and press the back of your hand to his forehead for emphasis.

Like a rehearsed routine, he scoffs lightly, smacks your hand away gently. Even then, it lacks its usual conviction.

-

As expected, the kiss is on your mind. Often.

This whole thing with Steve started out lighthearted. Flirting, teasing, poking, prodding. But over the course of your months spent back in Hawkins, it’s become more than that. Something in you seeks to be around him, even if it means shouldering the weight of his distance.

It’s become clearer the longer you spend with him that it isn’t how he really feels, but how he thinks he should feel. How he thinks he should act around you.

Your goal is much the same. Get under his skin, but even more than that, you just want to know the truth. The why.

You actually like him, and you haven’t even had the privilege of knowing the Steve that’s tucked away beneath the layers of protection. There are glimpses, light breaking the shadows, but a cloud always comes back to cover up the cracks.

After that night in the van, after that kiss, you’re more determined than ever. Because there’s no faking that. The want and desire, a match lit by the press of your mouths, by the touch of his hands.

So, yeah, you’re thinking about kissing Steve a lot. Sometimes, you’ll press your fingertips to your lips when the memory pushes itself forward, like you’re trying to remember exactly how it felt, that it wasn’t a dream.

Even now, sitting across from him in a booth at the diner, you’re thinking about it.

About how easy it would be to bridge the gap again, to see how he’d react if you weren’t doing it as a cover, if it was out in the open, no security blanket of pretending for the sake of your safe getaway.

You’re not hiding your distraction well enough, if the little kick and accusing glance Robin gives you from her seat beside you is anything to go by.

You shake your head at her, not sure if you’re denying whatever she’s thinking or just putting it off for now. Either way, it works, and she goes back to whatever debate she’d been having with Nancy, Jonathan chiming in every now and then and getting mostly overlooked save for a sweet pat on the knee from his girlfriend.

You watch them interact with a small smile, this group of people that have become your people. The way they’re able to joke with each other and know it’s out of love and warmth.

You look away when Nancy concedes and Robin, too proud, celebrates her win with her arms raised and a chant of ‘victory!’

Steve’s eyes are already fixed on you from across the table when you turn your head. And like that day at the pool those months ago, and other days since, he doesn’t hold your gaze, he looks away as if caught. Red-handed and the tips of his ears going pink.

The group’s silence is a hint for you to follow their lead and look over the menu, even though you all get the same thing every time. So you drop your gaze too, letting the toe of your shoe tap against Steve’s shin lightly.

Could be an accident, could be something else. I see you, it might say.

His leg shifts, but you’re not sure if it’s in response or just a reflex.

You look down at your menu and scan the options that you’ve practically memorized by now. There are only so many places to eat in Hawkins, after all, especially when groceries aren’t as easy to come by.

You’re reading the handhelds section when a splotch falls onto the page and interrupts your reading. It’s a small dot, and you look up to find the source when you feel the pressure in your nose. Another drop falls when you look back down and realize the source is you.

“Shit,” you mumble, reaching for some napkins.

Everyone looks at you at once, various levels of question and concern written on their faces as you hold a crumpled napkin to your nostril.

Steve’s the first to speak, and it’s a tone reminiscent of that day at the station when he sat you in the BMW and took care of you like it was easy, natural. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out awkward with the way your hand is held in your face. “Just a nosebleed.”

Only, that doesn’t seem to reassure him. Or anyone. They’re all still staring at you.

“I’ll just, uh, go clean up,” you say, scooching out of the booth and walking in hurried steps to the bathroom.

Steve watches you go. Well, they all do, but the look on his face is a little different. It’s not only worried, it’s etched with fear.

“I’m gonna check on her,” he announces. It hasn’t even been two minutes, but he doesn’t care. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t think it’ll slow until he can see you alive and talking.

For once, Robin doesn’t give him any crap as he walks off.

Uncaring and far too concerned, Steve shoulders the women’s bathroom door open after knocking twice. He doesn’t give you time to respond.

You’re standing at the sink, a fresh piece of paper towel held to your nose as you look in the mirror, assessing the damage. Luckily, no blood spilled onto your shirt. You flinch when the knocks come, when Steve comes tearing in like a heavy breeze, door blown open and shutting heavily behind him.

“Steve!” you pivot to face him, hip leaned against the counter, the arm that isn’t occupied with holding pressure crossed over your chest. “You know this is the girl’s bathroom, right?”

He ignores you. Doesn’t respond and instead searches your face with frantic, gorgeous eyes. “Have you been getting headaches lately? Nightmares?”

“Um, thanks for the therapy session, but-“

“Please.”

Steve Harrington, pleading with you. Safe to say it shuts your sarcasm off, makes your stomach twist with the way he shoves an anxious hand through his hair.

“No, Steve. I’m fine,” you tell him. It’s sincere. A promise, almost. “It’s probably just dry in here, or something. It’s like you’ve never seen a nosebleed before.”

“I’m not playing around.”

“Me either,” you say, but get frustrated with how your words come out a little nasally with your nose blocked. You pause, twisting to look in the mirror again and pulling the paper towel away to check if the bleeding has stopped. Luckily, it has.

You turn to Steve again, making sure to catch his eye, to hold it and speak as honestly as you can. “I’m okay. No headaches, no nightmares. Just a regular, boring nosebleed, alright?”

He holds your eye for a second afterwards, as if searching for any sign that you’re being dishonest. When he doesn’t find one, he nods, messing with his hair again and looking down at the floor. Breathing a couple of deep breaths.

You can’t look away from him.

You’re trying to find where his distress is coming from, as if you might see the answer written on him somewhere. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve so afraid, and it’s completely unmooring.

He cares about you, that much has become clearer now, but there’s something holding him back. Something other than himself. Something that genuinely frightens him.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” you ask. Gentle, trying not to spook him into hiding again.

“I-” he starts, but stops himself just as quickly. He shakes his head, reroutes. Steve walks over and pulls another piece of paper towel from the dispenser and wets it in the sink.

“Here,” he says, squeezing out the excess water and coming to stand right in front of you, the toes of your shoes touching.

Steve tilts your head up for him, his hand splayed on the side of your neck, his thumb tucked under your chin. He uses the damp paper towel to wipe the dried blood from your nose.

“You don’t have to-”

“Please, honey” he says again. “Just let me.”

You do.

It’s impossible to say no to him this way, with his voice low and quiet and rough, his touch so delicate. The reappearance of the word honey. It nearly undoes you. Your eyes flick over his face as he cleans you up, his tongue poked out the slightest bit in concentration.

You’re afraid to speak, afraid to shatter whatever’s happening here. Afraid to revert whatever’s made Steve drop his weapons at the door and reveal himself. Here, in the silent bathroom, it’s your own little bubble.

The rest of the world muffled, shining pink and blue in the light and tinting the moment that way, too.

When Steve is satisfied with his work, he tosses the paper towel into the garbage without moving away. His hand is still cradling your jaw lightly, like he’s afraid to hurt you. The other, now free, wipes away the leftover moisture on your upper lip with his thumb.

Steve drops it after that, as if burned. You catch his wrist before he can let the other hand fall away the same. He doesn’t meet your eye until you squeeze, your thumb feeling the rush of his pulse.

“Hey.”

He seems embarrassed all of a sudden. His cheeks getting warmer, some kind of self-appointed guilty grimace on his face. “Mm?”

“Thank you.”

You say it in that way that feels exposing to him. Thank you, but there are other meanings sheltered beneath the two words.

I understand. I can tell you’re hiding something.

I know exactly who you are, Steve Harrington. You don’t have to tell me.

You drop his wrist then, having said what you needed to. And Steve turns on his heel and leaves after whispering a small ‘yeah. ‘course.’

His shield is held in front of him again, though it no longer feels like a tough sheet of metal, but a mere piece of paper, easily poked through with the right tool.

Easily poked through if you’re the one on the other side.

-

There’s a slight shift to things since the nosebleed.

Or maybe this is only when you notice it, the tiny bits and pieces slowly building up over time until they’re big enough for you to see. A house settling on the ever-shifting earth, cracks in the porch steps, a door becoming harder to shut.

Steve hasn’t rolled his eyes at you, hasn’t so much as sighed, in at least a week. It’s probably the longest he’s gone without doing so since you’ve met, and you know it means something.

That the rock face that is Steve Harrington’s guard has slowly been eroded away by your efforts. Changed by the constant tide. His carefully pointed words dulled into a teasing that makes you feel like you’re in on the joke rather than the butt of it.

If you weren’t so zeroed in on him, if you didn’t know him well enough to be able to see his eyes soften or hear the change in his tone, you probably wouldn’t have paid any mind to any of it.

But you do focus on him. You do know him. Whether he wants to let you or not.

It gives you this dangerous little seed of hope. It's taken root in your chest, petals unfurling with every glance he steals that you pretend not to notice.

Hope that your mission, completely driven by your feelings for him now, might be succeeding. That you could make Steve crack. That you’ve chiseled away at that stony exterior to get a glimpse of the heart on the inside. Caring and kind, endlessly loyal.

Hope that things could truly be different. Better. That you could, at the very least, become friends.

Though the word friends doesn’t feel quite right. A square peg pushed into a round opening. It just doesn’t fit.

Not after everything that’s happened these last few weeks. Taking care of you in the sun and with your nosebleed, the genuine concern, the tenderness that leaked through. Especially not after the way he kissed you in the van.

You think about it now, walking up to the doors of the WSQK building, the van parked outside, ground crunching beneath your feet.

You weren’t planning on coming by today. You were fully planning on lounging around at Robin’s for the day. Watching whatever movies she has lying around, napping on the couch. You’d gotten about five minutes into movie number one when you saw Robin’s lucky coin left on the coffee table.

She’d told you about it once when she asked if you had any change and you had pointed it out. Told you that she keeps it in her pocket for every broadcast, that it would be ‘an abomination’ to get rid of it now.

You can tell it’s the coin because she’d placed a dollop of nail polish on it to differentiate it from the others. Won’t that mess with its luckiness, you’d asked her. Um, that’s totally not how it works, Robin had responded, like it was a ridiculous question.

So anyway, when you spotted it left behind on the table and knew she was doing a broadcast later today, you wanted to bring it to her.

Turns out her lucky token is kind of shit when it’s in your pocket instead.

You open the doors to the Squawk, expecting to find Robin and Steve bantering in the main area. To hear them, at least. Or to see Dustin fixing something with the satellite or whatever it is.

Instead, you’re met with silence.

You know people are here though. Steve’s BMW is outside, too. The doors unlocked, the lights on. There’s even a half-empty pot of coffee in the kitchen. A couple of dirty dishes in the sink.

However, your search of the main floor comes up empty. Briefly, you wonder if they’re pulling some kind of stupid prank on you. If they saw you walking up the drive and decided to hide and jump out and say ‘gotcha!’ when you jump.

Then your eyes land on the doors leading to the basement. The strip of light slipping through the cracks of the door.

You can’t go down there, you remember Steve saying. All stern and irritated. But things aren’t how they were in August. You shake your head and walk towards the doors.

Tugging a heavy one open with a click, you breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of voices travelling up the stairs.

“There you guys are!” you call, heading down. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Robin you forgot your-”

You freeze at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone is down here. Like, everyone. And they’ve all gone silent, staring at you with varying expressions of surprise and nerves, like they’re worried you overheard or saw something you shouldn’t have.

“-lucky coin,” you finish weakly.

“Oh!” Robin walks over to you and takes the coin from your palm, sliding it into her pocket. “Well, thanks for bringing it. We were just, uh..”

She’s doing that frantic rambling thing, saying a bunch of words that don’t actually mean anything strung together. You look around and find that pretty much everyone else is acting strange.

Jonathan’s shoulders are tensed high, Nancy worrying the inside of her cheek. Lucas and Mike share a look that says something like ‘what do we do?’ and ‘I don’t know.’

And Steve. Steve can’t even look at you.

“What’s going on?” you ask. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re fine!” Robin tells you, but the squeak in her voice isn’t very convincing. “Why don’t you head upstairs, and we’ll be right behind you.”

“I know when you’re not being honest, Robin,” you say.

It’s one thing when it’s the others hiding something. Lucas or Mike or whoever. You could live with them not telling you something. Hell, you’ve been coping with Steve’s secretiveness this whole time and you still haven’t given up, but it’s different with Robin.

She’s your best friend, and she doesn’t trust you enough to let you in on this.

“It’s nothing,” she tries again.

“Robin. Come on, it’s me.”

“I, um.”

Robin doesn’t get the chance to find the words, because Steve finally looks up from the floor and steps forward.

“You should go,” he says. His voice is cold. Detached, almost.

You’re taken aback by it. Not the words, necessarily, but the way he says them. This is the Steve from before. Not the one you know now.

“What?” you say, weak.

“Leave,” he practically spits.

“No. No, just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t,” Steve adds. Every word is a sharp little paper cut swiped against your vulnerable skin. “You aren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. You don’t belong.”

“But-”

You can feel your resolve cracking with every syllable. Your heart beating an uncomfortable rhythm in your chest, your stomach sinking.

Then, he really does you in.

“You never should have come to Hawkins.”

It’s something aimed to not only cut, but stab. Words picking at an old wound.

Because there’s an underlying message in there. That you were never supposed to be in his life, that he didn’t want you in it. It’s as cruel as saying he wishes he’d never met you.

You look around at everyone else in the room, face heating, embarrassed. Nobody says anything. They don’t defend you, they don’t tell you to stay, that Steve didn’t mean it.

You nod, chin wobbling, and turn around, rushing up the stairs. Robin tries to grab your wrist, but you shake her off, the door slamming harshly behind you as you go.

The tears don’t fall until you’re outside, the wind speeding them along and making them tumble in fat drops down your cheeks, streaking your face.

You don’t belong, when you thought you’d been making progress. That maybe Steve actually liked you. You never should have come to Hawkins.

No, maybe you shouldn’t have, you think, wiping at your cheeks and your nose with the cuff of your sweater. Your hands are harsh, much harsher than Steve’s were in the bathroom at the dinner.

You kick a pebble. Even now, when he’s hurt you, he’s on your mind.

Back in the basement at the Squawk, the group’s eyes have turned onto Steve instead of you. Robin’s are the most accusing of all, though they all feel heavy against him. It makes his skin itch, uncomfortable.

“What?” he bites, before going upstairs himself.

And the thing is, Steve thought he was done nipping at you like that. He wanted to be done. With all of it. The name calling and annoyed looks, the sighing and the comments.

He wanted to move forward. He’d been trying to figure out how to apologize to you, actually. What the right words would be, if they would be enough.

Because he fucking cares about you. So much it scares him.

He doesn’t even know every piece of you, and he cares this much. It terrifies him to think about how big his feelings could get if he let you in. How badly it would hurt him if you got hurt, if it was because of him.

Steve knows what he did today was wrong. It wasn’t even what he wanted to do, but he was trying to get you as far away from the danger as possible and it manifested itself in the way he was used to.

He’s not an aggressive person. He isn’t who he used to be in high school. He doesn’t know why he bites.

And that look on your face just before you left, the wobble of your lip and the way your eyes welled but you wouldn’t let a tear fall, the defeat, your shoulders deflated. Well, that look will haunt him for a long time.

But if there had to be a monster in your life, at least it’s him and not something much, much worse. At least you’re still alive and breathing.

Steve can bear the weight of your hurt, can let it crush him and break him down to dust, as long as you’re alright in the end.

-

You cry the whole way back to Robin’s.

It’s the sadness, at first. The hurt and the sting of everything that had happened. Everyone’s silence, Steve’s words and how he sounded like a different person when he said them.

After that, it’s frustration. At yourself for thinking things had changed, for letting yourself cry over it now. And at Steve, for being so confusing. Because when the emotions subside, you look at things more broadly.

Sometimes, he can be so sweet. His eyes go soft and honest and expressive, and then he pulls it away. He puts up a wall that he just refuses to let you tear down or climb. You really thought you’d found a way, that you’d met in the middle of it.

You did your share of trying, of finding your footing between stones, and Steve held out a hand and tugged you the rest of the way over.

And then today happened.

But now, with your tears dried and your head less clouded, more than anything, you’re fed up. Tired of throwing fake punches and watching them land. Of taking hits yourself. So you come up with another plan.

You’re going to get answers out of Steve, and this time, you won’t back off until you get them.

First, you wait. You turn on the radio and listen to the Squawk, trying not to relive this afternoon every time you hear Robin’s voice or catch a sound effect and know that Steve is behind it. You listen until the broadcast ends sometime in the evening. Then you wait some more, calculating the time it would take Steve to get home from the station.

Once you’re pretty sure he’d be back at his house, you slip your shoes on and head out the door again.

The skies have darkened since earlier today, the sunset hidden behind gray clouds, but you don’t care. Don’t pause to grab an umbrella or a jacket, you just keep walking.

Eventually, rain starts to fall, but you let it seep into your clothes and over your skin.

You’re soaked by the time you get to the Harrington household, pressing the doorbell nonstop until you see Steve through the glass and hear the lock turn.

“What are you doing here?” he says, not nearly as harsh as his tone had been earlier today.

Steve is shocked to see you, but he’s glad, too. He was afraid that how he’d acted today was enough to push you away for good. It’s what he thought the right thing to do was, and it felt like the complete opposite.

He looks you over. The same clothes from before, now drenched, your shoes squeaking a little as you bounce on your feet. Your wet hair clings to your cheeks. You look beautiful, you always do.

Your shivering has him springing into action. “Jesus, you must be freezing. Come in.”

Steve tugs you inside with a hand loosely wrapped around your wrist. He drops it to shut the door behind you, then leaves. You slip off your shoes in his absence, wrap your arms around yourself.

He comes back with a towel and a blanket, first draping the towel over your shoulders, then following it up with the blanket. He rubs your arms to help warm you up.

And this is exactly what you’d been talking about. The contrast between the Steve from earlier and the one standing in front of you now is clear. Now, his instincts have kicked in. And those instincts have him taking care of you once more.

He pushes your hair off your face and behind your ear so tenderly. It’s what makes you finally speak.

“Did I do something?” you ask.

Steve drops his hand, but he doesn’t back up. “What?”

“Was there something I did to make you not like me?”

“I- I don’t not like you,” he stutters out.

“Then how come you act the way you do? Like today?” You don’t even give him the chance to respond, to lie weakly to your face. “I really thought we were getting somewhere. I even thought-”

That you cared, you almost say.

You shake the thought off and continue. “I just want to know why, okay? Then I’ll go.”

“You didn’t do anything,” he says. He sounds torn, pained. “You didn’t.”

“So tell me the truth,” you try. It’s strained too. The drops of water spilling from your clothes and your hair might as well be your blood with the way you feel. Like you’re bleeding out in front of him and waiting to see if he’ll wrap the wound or slice you further. “Stop being so afraid, Steve.”

“That’s not fair. You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t. So make me understand.”

Steve runs an agitated hand through his already messy hair. Like he’s been doing it all day. His chest is heaving, and a part of you wants to reach out and place a hand over his heart, to see if he’s as affected as you are.

His head turns to the side, you pry it back to you with a murmured, “Steve.”

“I was just trying to protect you.”

A breath is punched from you. Maybe because you’re finally getting what you wanted, that your suspicions have been confirmed. Or maybe because, even though you’d been right, it doesn’t feel good.

“You had to be.. to be mean to do that? Really?” You almost laugh at how it sounds. What could possibly be so bad that made him think he needed to in the first place? “I’m not defenceless, Steve. I’m not dumb or weak.”

“I was trying to keep you safe!” he huffs, as if you hadn’t heard him the first time. “I’m still trying to.”

“Well, stop. It’s not for you to decide what I can or can’t handle, Steve.”

“I know-”

“So what is it? What’s this big bad secret I can’t possibly be strong enough to keep?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then tell me what you mean. Please, Steve, for once, just tell me.”

He’s practically panting now, and he knows you won’t stop until he gives you something, and maybe he’s tired of hiding, too. Both hands come up to fist his hair, drag down his face.

He’s fighting a battle that’s living in his own head, not with you.

“Steve,” you say his name again, and it undoes him.

“Because I care about you, okay?” the words seem to spill out of him like they’ve been trying to escape for a long time now, rushed and loud.

But then something changes, Steve’s wild eyes scan your face, like he’s waiting for you to shut him down, to run. When you hold his eye, scrunch your brows in a gentle question, it’s like he’s been set free completely.

“I like you,” he says, quieter now but no less intense, wholly honest and devastatingly relieved, a weight finally dropped to the ground and off his back. “I like how you never mind your own business and how you reread the same books over and over. I like that you sometimes mouth the words Robin says because you know her so well. I like how much you fit in with everyone, how Dustin asks you for advice and Lucas talks to you about Max.”

Your eyes well for a whole other reason. All this time.

“I like how you speak with this little accent ‘cause you moved away, and I like that you came back.” He huffs a small laugh to himself. “I like you so much it scares the shit out of me, because this town, us, we’re not normal. It’s not- it’s not safe.”

“Wha-”

“And I thought that by pushing you away, by keeping you at a distance, you’d be far from the danger, too. That as long as you were safe, I could handle being the villain in your book, or whatever.” Steve looks down at his feet. “I realize now how stupid that sounds. I’ve been called an idiot plenty of times before, so, yeah.”

Your eyes are soft on him, and you look at him the way you always do. Like you know who he really is.

“I like you too, Steve,” you say finally, and it feels freeing. An ember relit in your chest. “You could have just talked to me, you know.”

“I should have,” he settles on. It’s his version of a white flag waving. I’ve dropped my weapons, he’s saying. It’s a battle finally over. Troops called back, the sun rising anew. “I’m sorry, honey.”

You’re still cold from the water trapped in your clothes, but the room feels far warmer.

“I’m sorry, too,” you tell him. “I was kind of riling you up on purpose, so..”

“I fucking knew it,” Steve whispers, shaking his head, but he lets himself smile when he does. The fondness not only in his eyes but in the shape of his mouth this time.

He steps closer, your toes almost touching, and pries your hands away from where they grip the edge of the blanket tight. He holds them between his own, larger and far warmer. Steve hisses through his teeth when he feels how icy your fingers are, dipping his head down to blow some warm air on them, tightening his grip.

There are still things left unsaid, questions unanswered, but the touch is grounding. Reassuring. It’s a promise that they will be said soon, that he isn’t going anywhere.

“It worked, didn’t it?” you joke gently.

“Yeah, it worked.”

You’re not sure who moves first after that, all you know is that you’re shrugging off both the blanket and the towel to free your arms, Steve dropping your hands in favor of framing your face, thumbs running sweet lines across your cheeks.

Yours wrap around his back, drag him closer, one hand fisted in the material of his shirt, the other on the back of his neck. He shivers, from the coolness of your touch, yes, but from the honesty of it, too.

The familiarity.

His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then he’s kissing you, lips bruising against yours, but not as heated as that time in the van.

It’s a slow dance, him taking your bottom lip between his, you meeting him in the middle, your stomach swirling.

The best part isn’t the way he licks at your lip in between kisses, though it makes your heart flutter, or the sweet caress of his thumbs on your cheekbones, but the way that he pulls away.

Because the kiss is broken by his smile. Unabashed at last.

You can’t help but mirror it, cold long forgotten when he leans in and drops his forehead against yours, like he can’t bear to not have you close anymore.

“So,” you start, voice soft in the space between your faces. “Will you let me come?”

“Uh, a little forward, honey-”

You swat his stomach. “Mind out of the gutter, Harrington. Am I a part of this now?”

Steve pulls back just to make sure you can really see him, hands still warm on your cheeks as he says, “Yeah, you’re with me.”

(¬`‸´¬)

thank u so so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog and letting me know!! reblogs are the best way to support writers like me and it would mean a bunch!! love u!!

[headkiss]

finding the right words

pairing: clark kent x fem!receptionist!reader

summary: clark kent is already late to work as is, so what’s the harm of a little longer spent with you? (you and clark spend mornings at the office doing the crossword together)

word count: 5.1k

content: fluff!!!, mutual pining aka a couple of idiots, flirting, probably some daily planet related inaccuracies (i’m still learning), she/her pronouns for r, first kiss!

a/n: hiii angels!!! this is my first official clark fic!! i had so much fun writing it and (even tho im sooo nervous to share) i hope you love it!! corenswet!clark truly changes a woman hehe

✐ᝰ.ᐟ

You’d involved Clark into your morning routine at the Daily Planet by accident. Mostly.

There’s only so much to do as a receptionist, especially at the very beginning of the day. Mainly, it’s saying hello to everyone that walks in, connecting calls to the right extensions, lots and lots of clicking things on your computer. Scheduling meetings for Perry, looking through 3D house tours when you’re bored. The usual.

So, naturally, you’d started ‘testing’ the paper’s crossword puzzles as you sipped your coffee to pass the time.

You did them by yourself at first. And you’re not too proud to admit that you sometimes used your computer to look up the answers you didn’t know. Clark banned this once he got involved, but hey, at least you learned something.

And then, one morning, Clark was there at the perfect time. Walking in late as always, looking flustered but no less handsome.

You’d been stuck on this crossword since you’d started it. It was Friday, and the Daily Planet’s puzzles grew more difficult each day of the week.

When Clark came in a good 25 minutes late, instead of leaving it at your usual exchange of “hello” and “how are you,” you stopped him.

“Hey, Clark?”

He’d already been a few steps away, heading toward his desk, but he stopped when you spoke. Turned around with bright eyes. If he was a dog, his ears would have been perked, you think.

“Yeah?”

He was back in front of your desk before you could speak, glasses slipping down his nose slightly where he looked at you seated in your rolling chair.

“Whirlybird, nine letters. Have anything?”

Clark glanced down at the crossword sitting on your desk, a little smile flashing over his face. “Did you try ‘eggbeater’?”

You looked back to your paper, pencil held in preparation, and of course — of course — it worked.

“Oh, you’re good, Kent.”

He smiled, crooked and somehow proud and bashful at once.

At first, you really were stuck on that prompt and were prepared to ask whoever walked in next, but you were glad it was Clark.

Because, like a lot of people in the office, you have a bit of a crush on him. You’d never spoken enough for it to be anything more, but you have two working eyes and you’ve witnessed him be sweet to literally everyone.

He’s gorgeous, obviously. Curls framing his face, glasses sitting on his nose, a sharp jaw, dimples that are on his face more often than not because he seems to be smiling constantly. His shirt tight over his shoulders and biceps, his pants a little short at the ankles because he’s so damn tall.

You could keep going on, but even more than his appearance, he is undeniably kind.

An intern drops a tray of coffees, Clark is there with paper towels. Someone needs a last minute edit of their article, Clark is the first to offer. Hell, one time, the newsroom was such a mess, he stayed behind to help the janitor clean up. You could go on about things like that, too.

So yeah, you like him. It’s almost impossible not to.

That day, you needed help, but you also saw an opportunity, and you knew (still know, even now) that Clark just couldn’t say no to lending a helping hand. You banked on it even, because just as he was about to turn away, you stopped him again.

“You know, I could use a partner on this one. Friday crosswords always get me.” You tapped your pencil against your cheek. “If you have time, I mean.”

He didn’t. He shouldn’t have time, but he’s Clark so he agreed.

Unbeknownst to you, Clark had been trying to get himself to say more than five words to you every morning. He thinks you’re beautiful and sweet and fun, and even though a lot of people underestimate you, he has a feeling things would be about ten times more chaotic at the Daily Planet if it weren’t for you.

He set his briefcase down and leaned against your desk. He didn’t leave until the crossword was finished, effectively making him fall even further behind on work.

Since then, he’s been doing the crossword with you almost every single morning. You can count on one hand the times he’s missed it.

It started slowly. You would ask him prompts every couple of days when he came in, luring him into joining you until you didn’t even have to ask anymore, he’d just take his place by your desk and lean over to see the puzzle for himself.

Simply reading the prompts together and filling it out turned into learning how smart he is, how quick. It turned into sharing little stories about your crappy apartment or his Ma and Pa back home between questions. It turned into something like friendship.

And, occasionally, it turned into flirting via prompts. You tested the waters that way, toed a line. You ask Clark questions like ‘ways in which to show affection, ex: physical touch‘ just to hear him say the words love language.

Once, he’d stayed behind at the office so late that he got his hands on the next morning’s crossword and he took the liberty of leaving it on your desk with his guesses marked in pencil next to the prompts. He knows you like to be the one to write in the boxes.

He wasn’t at work the next day, but when you walked in, that crossword sat on your desk with a neon yellow sticky note on top from Clark, signed with a stupid smiley face.

You still have the note.

Today, Clark leans on your desk the same as always, two hands splayed on the wood to hold him up, his head bent at an awkward angle to read the puzzle.

“Why don’t you just pull up a chair?” you ask. “Won’t your neck get sore like that?”

“I have to be prepared to run in case Perry sees. An extra chair next to you is pretty incriminating.”

“But Perry loves me.”

“Yes, and he tolerates me.”

“Aww, Clark. I don’t think it’s possible to only tolerate you, you’re too charming.”

“I don’t think charming is the right word here.”

“Well, I do.”

Clark shakes his head and tries to pretend to be normal about that. He’s probably failing, because his face feels warm already and he can’t stop looking at your eyes and how they shine whenever you tease him like that.

Charming. Sure.

A minute later you almost laugh to yourself at one of the prompts. Too perfect not to voice it.

“Flirt,” you say.

His eyes whip up from the page and to your face. “I- what?”

“Flirt, five letters,” you point at the paper. “Get your head in the game, Kent.”

“Oh!” He scratches at the back of his neck, pushes his glasses up, then, with a tinge of pink to his cheeks says: “Vixen, tempt. Tease.”

Now you’re the one feeling warm. Yes, it’s your own doing (you’d wanted to hear him recite the words) but you don’t think you’ll ever unhear that. The way his voice went quieter, lower.

The way his arms are perched right in your eyeline, sleeves rolled up, hands tensing against your desk.

Vixen, tempt. Tease.

The words play in your mind every time you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Every time Clark pushes his sleeve up further or laughs or smiles at you or solves a tougher clue like it’s obvious.

Vixen, when you bite the end of the pencil while you think, Clark’s eyes tracking the movement. Tempt, when he stays with you far too long that morning; Perry’s in a meeting, and it’s almost lunch when you finish the crossword and Clark tears himself away.

Tease, when you watch him walk to his desk. When you catch him turning around to look at you one more time.

-

You’re half asleep when Clark comes in a few days later, elbow resting on the smooth surface of your desk, chin perched in your hand. You’ve been staring at this month’s calendar for fifteen minutes now, your blinking growing heavier and heavier.

You jolt when a coffee is placed in front of you, right next to the paper open to the crossword you’ve yet to start. Clark is on the other end of that coffee, smiling kindly and maybe a little teasingly.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Only-” you stifle a yawn, checking the time on your monitor “-seventeen minutes late today. Is that a new record?”

“I greet you with coffee and you’re on my case already. Wow.”

He goes to take the cup back, you smack his hand away, and he winces and clutches it to his chest like it hurts. You know it doesn’t. You’d never actually smack Clark, and you’re too tired to muster up the energy, anyway.

“No take-backs, Kent. I need this.”

“I can tell,” he says, not malicious or judgemental, just honest, genuinely concerned, “you okay?”

You take a sip of your coffee, “Fine, yeah. Couldn’t really sleep last night. Superman vs. alien was happening down the block.”

“Don’t tell Lois, she’ll want every detail out of you.”

“Too late. She knows where I live, so..” you shrug, “I don’t mind. Finally I’ll get my own name in the paper.”

Clark had no idea you’d been close to the action last night, and he’s glad that you’re okay. If anything, it’s probably best he didn’t know at the time. Superman can’t do his job properly if he’s worrying about you mid-battle.

“I’m surprised you weren’t there after to get an interview,” you say.

“No, I was in bed. Sleeping. Obviously.”

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“I don’t interview him every time something happens. Just when he’s.. willing.” He clears his throat when you squint at him. “Read me a clue.”

You want to say something else, something about how his subject change was not subtle, but then he’s dipping down and leaning into his elbows rather than his hands.

Suddenly he’s closer, and you can smell his cologne and see the dimension in his eyes. Yeah, impossible to say no to him.

You look away from his face and onto the page. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you as you skim the words, and you fight a laugh when you get to the one you decide to read aloud.

“Oh! Speaking of… Superman’s weakness, ten letters.”

“Kryptonite.”

Clark realizes his mistake as soon as he speaks. It isn’t that he’s wrong (obviously) it’s that he nearly cut you off with the speed of his reply. And, according to the pleased smirk on your face, you noticed.

He straightens, because you’re reading him a little too closely, and because (if he wasn’t.. who he is) his back would be hurting from leaning the way he had been.

“Maybe I should time you on this next one,” you tease. “Power often used by Superman, six letters.”

“It’s flight,” he answers easily. When you give him another look, he adds: “These are commonly known facts!”

“Maybe by you, mister Superman expert.”

You’re teasing him, clearly. Because yeah these are facts that most people know, especially if they work at the Daily Planet where someone is talking about him pretty much all the time.

The property damage vs. lives saved debate. Once, it was: are the trunks really necessary?

“Yeah, well I do- uh, interview him a lot. So I know the guy.”

Clark tends to defend Superman, you’ve noticed. Most of the office has. He writes about him favorably in his pieces, after all.

You agree with him, but it’s fun to rile him up, to hear him get a little defensive, his voice higher, a hand running through his hair and leaving a curl sticking up.

“I thought it was just when he was willing.”

“He is often willing.”

“Yes, I know. It’s often on the front page.”

Clark is biting back a smile, you can tell because of his dimples. Always giving him away. You laugh as he grabs the paper from your desk, pushing up his glasses and holding it up as if he’s reading straight from the page.

He isn’t, because he says, “Oh, look, you’re in this one! Daily Planet receptionist who thinks she’s hilarious.”

You gasp, feigning offense. “What happened to Clark Kent the sweetheart?”

And Clark knows you’re just joking around, but you calling him sweetheart in any form is enough to have his cheeks warm, the tips of his ears going pink.

“Still here,” he says, setting the paper back down in front of you. He leans down slightly to do it. You poke his dimple.

“Yeah, he is.”

Then you’re back to the crossword.

Both of you should be doing actual work. You answer the phone when it rings, but still. Clark surely has writing or editing to do, and while you don’t have a specific to-do list, something always comes up.

But it’s so easy to get lost in this, to pretend like maybe you’re at your kitchen island in the morning instead of at your desk in an office full of people. To imagine a room bathed in the warmth of sunrise rather than the harsh overhead lighting of the office. One that smells like breakfast and home and not stale coffee and printer sheets.

The world slows. It’s just you and Clark and paper and a pencil.

Twenty minutes and a completed crossword later, Clark heads over to his desk. He loves his job, and he likes being around Lois and Jimmy and everyone, he only wishes that your desk wasn’t so far away.

The mornings are all he gets with you, and by the time he finishes work, you’re already gone. If he was better at this sort of thing, he’d have asked you on a date that first day, but he isn’t, and he didn’t.

Clark’s chair creaks when he sits, his briefcase set onto his desk. He doesn’t even have time to turn his computer on before Lois and Jimmy are on him.

“Kent’s here!” Jimmy cheers. “How’s your girlfriend doing today?”

“She’s not my-” Clark looks between Lois (who takes a sip of coffee and gives him a pointed look over her mug) and Jimmy and quickly realizes he’s not winning that battle.

-

It’s a wonder that you and Clark have yet to get in any actual trouble for hanging out on company time. Save the teasing from your coworkers and Perry’s shouted admonishments, of course.

Clark is only twenty minutes late today. He walks in with his usual flustered trying-not-to-look-flustered look and his hands full. Briefcase in one hand, but this time, it isn’t a coffee in the other.

It’s a small bouquet of flowers.

“Who are you trying to butter up with those?” you ask him, nodding to the blooms clutched gently in his fist.

“I’m not,” he tells you. Not lightly, either. It’s not unkind — Clark never is — but it’s firm. “They’re for you, actually.”

You instantly feel sort of like a jerk. “I’m sorry, Clark, I didn’t-”

“You don’t need to be sorry. Just take them. Please.”

You do just that, his fingers brushing yours when he hands them over. There’s a half-drank glass of water on your desk. You plop the bouquet into it.

“They’re lovely. Thank you,” you trace the edge of a petal. “What for?”

“Does there have to be an occasion?”

He looks nervous, which isn’t unusual for Clark, but it’s sweet all the same.

Despite your feelings, you’d never really bought into the idea that there would be anything more with Clark. You believed that you would flirt with him forever and that would be enough.

But right now, with his smile both bright and unsure, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could have been wrong about that. That maybe one day he’ll see you outside of your office clothes and out from behind your desk. That you could hold his hand and he could lead you through crowded sidewalks.

And maybe, if you’re lucky, you really could be doing crosswords in his kitchen in your underwear and one of his shirts.

Clark Kent the sweetheart. You smile to yourself.

“No,” you almost whisper. “No occasion necessary.”

Clark’s smile is instant and gorgeous. Like you’ve just told him the best news ever, like he’s won something.

He’d been nervous coming in, but when he walked past the vendor on the sidewalk and saw the flowers he thought of you and bought them without really thinking about it. Clark’s palm was sweating against the stems. It’s worth it, though, for the reaction he got, for this moment that feels like a declaration.

The first bouquet of many, he hopes.

Then your phone is ringing and the bubble pops, the noises of the office come back into focus where they’d been muffled before. Printers and keyboards and chair wheels and mice. You pick up the phone, say a quick hello, and transfer the call to the right person.

“That one was for Perry,” you say after hanging up. “He sounded mad. Let’s get this crossword done before he comes out asking me why I give him calls he doesn’t wanna sit through.”

(Always joking, you know that. But to a lot of people Perry’s jokes just sound like Perry being serious.)

So you start the crossword, an easier one today. Clark answers obscure, niche questions with ease and you’re reminded of how nerdy (and adorable) he is. He reads you the easy ones and makes you feel like a genius for getting them right.

With only four words left to go, Perry comes out of his office. You take one look at his face and know the call didn’t go well, and that you probably shouldn’t take your chances with getting caught today.

You’d be fine, probably. But Clark would get a lecture about already being late enough as is, surely.

“Clark, hide,” you mutter.

“What?”

“Frustrated Perry incoming. Hide.”

Instead of running out the door or something, Clark literally vaults himself over your desk and stuffs himself underneath it, thankful for the panel in the front that hides your legs, and Clark, from view.

The fabric of his shirt brushes against your bare leg, and you’re suddenly reminded that you’re wearing a skirt today. You breathe in sharply and cross your legs, your foot knocking against Clark’s bent knee. You tuck the pencil behind your ear and start clicking around on your computer, making yourself look busy.

Beneath your desk, Clark is trying not to burst. He can smell the lotion you use on your legs and can feel your ankle through his clothes whenever you shift. There’s a tiny scar on your knee he wants to ask you about.

He resists the urge to trace it, to run a fingertip down the length of your calf.

What has he done?

You look up when Perry approaches, smiling innocently. “Hey, boss.”

“I thought I told you not to give me any angry business men on the phone until I’ve had lunch.”

He shakes a finger at you. You try not to laugh.

“I can’t control their tempers, Perry.”

“Maybe you should talk to ‘em longer. Calm ‘em down before you send them to me.”

“You can’t fool me, I know you like to argue. You’re secretly grateful for that call. Got your blood pumping.”

Perry rolls his eyes at you. It’s fond, you think.

He rolls up his sleeve and checks his watch. “Did Kent come in yet?”

You shake your head, “Haven’t seen him, sorry.”

“Damn kid’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”

“Too bad you kinda need him for all those Superman exclusives, huh?”

Clark pinches your ankle beneath the table, you kick him gently in return.

Later, you’ll think of that small touch, the gentleness and playfulness of it, and you’ll replay it over and over. You’ll feel that same warmth spread up your leg, blooming from where he’d touched you. You’ll place your fingers exactly where his had been and squeeze.

Right now, you’re a little busy trying to get Perry away.

Your boss grumbles something at your comment. Louder, he says, “Well when you see him tell him I want to talk to him.”

“Will do, boss.”

You salute, Perry makes a sour face then walks off.

Once he’s safely out of view, you push your chair back and duck down so you can see Clark. He’s completely squished under your desk, crouching on his knees, his neck bent awkwardly.

You stifle a laugh at the sight. “The coast is clear.”

He nods and shuffles out from under the desk, you move your chair back more to give him some room. Of course, Clark manages to bump his head on his way up, rustling every single thing on your desk.

“Clark!” You cover your mouth, but still, a giggle bursts out of you. “Real discreet.”

“I’m sorry that my head trauma might draw some attention,” he mumbles.

“Aww, let me see,” you reach for him, and he’s still kneeling so you don’t have to reach very far. You run your fingers over his hairline, right where he’d bumped his head, pushing his hair away and tracing the spot. “No bump, no scratch.”

You’re a little surprised. If he’d hit his head with enough force to move things, you’d expect there to be some physical evidence of it besides the bit of water that escaped your glass-turned-vase.

Later, much like you’ll think about his hand on your ankle, Clark will think of yours in his hair.

“Maybe just to my ego,” he says, standing up fully. As if he even has a big one. Clark dusts off his knees, pushes his glasses up. “Gosh, that was close.”

“You know, you could have just run around the desk instead of jumping over the thing.”

“Yes, I probably could have,” he nods, hands on his hips as if he’s assessing the situation. “I also probably would have tripped and fallen if I tried. These floors are quite slippery.”

“Quite,” you nod.

Today, Clark finishes the crossword on the same side of the desk as you. You even let him write the last word, watching his tongue poke out in focus.

You spend much of the rest of the day looking at the flowers he brought you, pinching a stem between your fingers to make sure this morning was real.

-

Clark has yet to show up today. If it was twenty minutes, an hour, maybe even two, you wouldn’t have questioned it. That’s normal for him. However, it’s been three.

Sure, he’s been away before. Sick or had a day off like anyone else. You hadn’t been close enough to him to worry then. Now, after spending nearly every single morning with him, it’s strange for him not to be around. You feel his absence like a cloud looming over your desk.

The paper is open to the crossword page, your pencil sitting over it. You haven’t touched it yet. It feels wrong to do one without Clark.

The TV further in the office is turned up, Superman flying around and saving people and breaking things fills the room. Many reporters are gathered in front of the screen, Lois in front of the bunch.

You, on the other hand, are looking up Clark’s listed phone number in the system.

You’re glad that pretty much everyone else has something to distract them as you pick up your office phone and dial his number. It rings and rings and rings until you’re greeted with his voicemail. You’re not exactly surprised he didn’t pick up, but you’d hoped he would.

Still, the sound of his voice and the way he trips over his words once or twice makes you smile softly, twisting the phone cord around your finger. You hesitate when the beep sounds, momentarily worried that you’re doing a little too much, that you shouldn’t have called at all, but you care and you want him to know that.

“Hi, Clark,” you start. “It’s me, I mean, you know that, obviously. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, so let me know. I’ll be here, crossword at the ready. Um. Bye.”

You hang up and drop your face into your hands. A big part of your job is quite literally making phone calls, and that was probably the most awkward voicemail you’ve ever left in your life.

A tiny groan escapes you before you straighten. Clark Kent has you completely twisted up. You miss him and you saw him yesterday.

A small group of Daily Planet reporters and staff seem to be leaving to head towards the action, Jimmy and Lois included. You stop them right before they head out the door.

“Do you guys know where Clark is?” you ask, trying to sound unbothered, just curious. Judging by the look they share, you fail.

“No idea,” Jimmy says, “but it’s Clark. He always shows up eventually.”

“Right,” you nod.

“Don’t worry,” Lois adds. “He’ll turn up looking like a puppy and all will be right in the world.”

You smile at them and watch them go. The office is a little quieter once they do, that steady buzz still present, just smaller. You turn back to your computer and answer emails until Jimmy and Lois come back, rushing towards their desks to work on the latest Superman news, surely.

Still no sign of Clark.

Actually, he doesn’t show up until most of the office has left, until you’re standing up and packing your bag. Half of the lights are off, the space significantly quieter than usual. And just as you’re slinging your bag onto your shoulder, Clark Kent bursts through the door, skittering to a stop in front of your desk.

His hair is a windswept mess, his glasses are hanging on the tip of his nose; he pushes them up just as you think it. He’s not wearing a tie or a jacket, just a dress shirt that you think might be buttoned wrong. It isn’t even tucked in.

“Kent, you’re late,” you grumble in your best Perry impression. It’s terrible but Clark still laughs.

“I’m sorry, I was-” his hand waves around loosely. “I couldn’t get here until now.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Clark. I’m not actually your boss.”

“I’m not sorry I missed work,” he says. He takes a few steps closer, until his shoes touch the front of your desk and it’s the only thing in between you. “I’m sorry that I missed this morning.”

“Oh.”

You’ve imagined a moment like this so many times. Thought about what you might say to him, how you’d tell him that you cherish those mornings and want to have evenings and afternoons and everything that feels just like them. Better, even. Now, you don’t have the words. Can’t find them.

Just your purse slipping down your shoulder and onto your desk with a dull thump. Just your eyes focused on Clark’s, so kind and open and hopeful.

“I was never a morning person when I was younger, my Ma would tell you the same, but you make it easier to wake up. You’ve converted me. Mornings are my favorite time of day now.”

Clark is practically panting, his palms sticky and his eyes searching your face.

When he got home from Superman duties, and he’d seen a missed call from the office, he hesitated at first. Didn’t want to deal with work just then, but something in him urged him to listen to the voicemail. He’s eternally glad he did.

Because he heard you, all sweet and concerned. You being the one stumbling, for once. You caring about him enough to call.

He knew then and there that he had to do something. That he couldn’t let this thing between you go unspoken anymore. He’s tired of not saying what he means, even if it scares him.

“Clark, I.. I really like mornings, too.” And you. Even more so, I like you.

He smiles, huffs softly like he can’t believe this is happening. You can’t, either.

Clark hands you a small box you hadn’t even noticed he’d been carrying. You open it and find a cupcake, some icing smudged on the lid and the sides from his rushing. Your favorite flavor, and you don’t even remember ever telling him what it was.

At your distraction, Clark twists the crossword on your desk towards himself and picks up the pencil. He pauses briefly at finding it completely empty still. The smallest thing, the absence of action, really, but it warms him. It says enough.

He writes in a few of the boxes, then spins it back to face you.

You set the cupcake box aside gently and lean down to see what he’s written. The words are jumbled and they certainly don’t match up with the clues. “Clark, these are wrong-”

“Just read what it says. Trust me.”

So you do, the words coming together to form a phrase that makes your stomach flip. Will you go on a date with me?

You climb onto the desk and sit on the edge in front of him. It isn’t the most graceful thing, but you suddenly feel the urge to be much closer to him, and Clark watches you move like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s standing between your legs, his hands coming down to rest atop the desk beside your thighs. Framing each other in. Two pieces clicking into place.

“So, will you?”

“Three letters, affirmative agreement.” You straighten his collar for him. “Need me to solve that one for you?”

“Mm, just to be sure.” His thumbs skim the side seams of your pants.

“Yes, Clark. Of course.”

He smiles again, and you can’t help but mirror it with your own. His nose brushes yours, his hands shifting to hold your hips.

There’s nobody left inside but the two of you, but even if there were people around, you don’t think you’d care. All you see is Clark, all you feel.

The tip of his nose slides against yours again, like a question. “You gonna kiss me or what, Kent?”

“Before the first date?” he asks.

“I think we’re long past that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and then his lips are on yours.

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, his fingers dig gently into your thighs. It’s soft and delicate but it’s also hungry, in a way. In how he tugs you closer, how he pulls back briefly to smile before diving in again.

If you’ve noticed any oddities surrounding him and Superman lately, they’re forgotten at the moment. You aren’t too concerned, anyway. That’s a puzzle for another day.

For now, it’s you and him and nothing else. It’s seven letters, no flaws, best possible outcome.

It’s perfect.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ

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