summary; logan doesn't fight, not until someone brings your name up which might actually be the best thing for both of you
notes; john logan x fem!reader, reader is sooo mad at him but not reallyyyyy, fuck u adam! no use of y/n! 3.9k words! angsty and fluffy and cute ugh requests for john logan are alwayyyys open! (ps this might be rlly bad im very rusty but im working through requests rn) (not proof read oops)
based off of @incrediblylegendaryvenom request!
John Logan would never admit it but he was a lover, not a fighter. He tried his very hardest to mediate any disagreements in the hockey house, hating the tension that would loom over the boys like a thunder cloud approaching on a summer’s day. He never let frustration boil into anger. He spoke up for himself, he communicated his feelings, and he made a conscious effort to keep calm. He wasn’t an angry guy, and he refused to ever let you see him as such.
You could only describe him as anything but angry; he was as warm as the sun around you. You had known him since your first year at Briar, and it felt as though something had clicked into place the day he came into your life. You knew him inside and out, through the ups and downs of his hockey career, through the hard days that followed his family. Despite being there for each other through the highs and lows, your everyday with John Logan was your favourite version the boy.
Your version of John was quieter than what everyone else knew. Maybe he had some hot headed moments, you were sure he had probably lost his temper once or twice in a locker room, but never around you. You watched him on the ice, anger spilling out into the game, but he never let it leave the rink. You knew John for the love that brewed inside his heart, for the thoughtfulness that came to him like second nature.
He was a travel mug full of hot cocoa by the side of the rink; he was a blanket draped over your shoulders when your eyes had fallen shut beside him on the coach; he was the early morning sun, shining through your thin curtains, waking you up as he tried to silently leave your bedroom for an early practice; he was the line between friendship and something more, pushing it further every time he saw you, but never daring to cross it. He was all things soft and careful, quiet but confident in how well he knew you.
He was a hand on your waist, soft to the touch, as he guided you through the hockey house house. Sure, you knew your way around as thought it was your own home, but he liked to keep an eye on you, that wasn’t a crime. You weren’t exactly in any position to complain, relaxing into the feeling of his calloused fingertips dancing along the bare skin of your waist.
“What you drinking?” John’s lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice loud enough for you to hear over the blaring music and incessant chatter.
“Tequila?” You titled your head up with a smile dancing across your face, knowing what he had to say before he even opened his mouth to speak.
“You gotta find another drink,” The words left his lips despite his arm reaching across the kitchen counter to grab one of the various bottles of tequila for you, mixing it with whatever else he could find in a red solo cup for you. “A beer or somethin’, tequila can’t be your casual drink.”
Over the years, he had been there for you through every drunken night and bad decision, holding your hair back in the bathroom across from his bedroom. With the smell of tequila strong on your lips and a haze swimming through your eyes, he would tuck you into his bed with painkillers already there on his bedside table for the next morning.
“Says who?” You grabbed a second up, pouring the same tequila mixture for him. “It’s fun.”
“It’s messy.” He laughed as he took the cup from your hands, fingers brushing over yours as he simply accepted tequila being his drink of choice for the night.
“Maybe for you.” You let the tequila burn the back of your throat, savouring the taste before spinning on your heel, headed in the direction of Hannah as you caught sight of the back of her head.
Logan stayed put in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop as a revolving door of his friends passed through the room, a shot in their hands soon making their way to his. Garrett stayed to chat, the pair sinking a beer or two as they discussed strategies for the next team they were going to play, what flowers Garrett should pick up for Hannah, and if Logan was ever going to open his mouth to tell you how he really felt.
“It’s risky, man,” Logan kissed his teeth before throwing back another shot of tequila, passed to him by a smiling Dean as he overheard the conversation between the boys. “I don’t wanna throw away everything we’ve got.”
“You’re not throwing it away, Logan,” Garrett shook his head, unable to understand Logan’s thought process. “She’s a risk that’s worth taking.”
Logan ignored his friend, having had this same conversation at least once a week for the last few months, and instead let his eyes find you in the living room; your eyes looking over the shoulder of the man you were talking to, only to meet John’s across the room. You waved your fingers in his direction before turning your attention back to the man you were talking to but it was enough to have his heart fluttering more than usual, whether that be the tequila or simply the affect you had on him, he couldn’t be sure.
“Have another drink and go talk to someone else, quit starin’ at her unless you’re gonna talk to her about this.” Dean intercepted the boy’s conversation once again, a red solo cup in his hand that he soon pushed into Logan’s grip.
And so he did. Logan didn’t think twice and he choked back some sort of vodka mixture, ignoring the way the room started to spin with every step he took. He doesn’t think too much as he ends up sucked into a conversation with Beau and Allie, nodding along mindlessly as he pretends to listen to what plays the theatre department will be producing in the next semester. He tries to listen, he really does, but his limbs feel weighted and his eyelids are beginning to drop.
If you were nearby, you would drag him to bed, knowing he’d gone past his limit once the tiredness became unshakable.
Through squinted eyes, he found you leaning back against the kitchen counter, still laughing along with the guy you had spent the whole night with. Selfishly, John wondered how rude it would be to interrupt you, to saunter over and beg you to follow him to bed, craving the warmth that flooded him when you fell asleep beside him. However, he wasn’t a selfish person, so he refrained from bombarding you as such. Instead, he wandered over, paying careful attention to every step he took as his boots dragged along the floorboards, wary not to trip.
“Johnny, hi!” Your face lit up as he appeared beside you, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you close to him - maybe he was a little selfish, wanting to keep you close. “I can’t believe you’re empty handed.” You slipped out from under his touch, missing the frown that dared to play at his lips as he already missed the feeling of your body next to his.”
“Hey man, I’m Adam,” The man who had spent his whole night orbiting around you offered his hand out to Logan, ready to shake with a disarming smile plastered across his face. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?”
“Y-yeah, yeah, you’re-” Logan started to speak, eyebrows scrunched together as he struggled to truly comprehend what he was hearing. He knew you were pretty, he’d known that from the very first day you two had met, but he kept that to himself. He kept quiet about how pretty he found the ends of your hair, the flutter of your eyelashes, and the corners of your mouth when you tried to fight a life.
He would be lying if he said his stomach didn’t drop at hearing someone else thought of you in the same way.
“So, you tapped that yet?” Adam cut Logan off, that same grin covering his face, daring Logan to bring up the drinks from the night as his stomach turned. “You’re a fucking idiot if you haven’t, I don’t think I could control myself around her-”
“‘The fuck did you just say to me?” Logan stood up from leaning against the kitchen counter, his attention suddenly focused on Adam only inches in front of him, instead of watching the way you pottered around the kitchen with his drink in hand, getting sucked into conversations.
“Hey, it’s not like that, just saying you’re wasting her time,” Adam laughed as Logan took a step closer to him. “You really think she’s gonna want someone like you? When a guy like me can just come in here and distract her like that?”
“Someone like me?” Logan chose to ignore Adam’s vicious words, refusing to think about what he meant.
“You know what I mean, what’ve you got to offer her? A fucking garage you might inherit one day? You really think that’s what she wants?” Adam’s words were laced with venom, letting it be known he knew more about Logan’s life than Logan could ever know about the man opposite him.
“Let this go, man,” Logan was impossibly close to Adam, almost close enough to feel the way his chest rose and sank. His hands were clenched by his sides, his sight still blurry unless he tried hard to focus them. “Just get outta here and we can let this go.”
“I know girls like her- they want the handbags and the vacations, and the art galleries,” Adam put his hand on Logan’s shoulder, his grip sinking into Logan’s skin. “My dad’s got a couple’a art galleries, sure she’d love to have a look, y’know? Your dad’s a fucking drunk with a garage, Logan, so just-”
Before Adam could even finish his sentence, Logan sprung forward, his hands grabbing the boy in front of him’s collar. Pushed back against the kitchen cabinets, Adam let out a laugh, distracted as Logan’s fist collided with his jaw.
Logan wasn’t an angry guy, he knew he wasn’t, but he could only see red with Adam underneath him; replaying every cruel word he’d said about you. He couldn’t hear the yelling that erupted around him, almost ready to take a step back from Adam once he saw the blood pool at his lip. He stood up for a moment, his eyes trying to catch yours, but his moment of distraction led to Adam firing a hit back at him.
Maybe Logan deserved it, the endless hits that Adam seemed to throw his way, simply as karma for the anger he had unleashed only mere moments ago. Perhaps, it was karma for letting you see him so angry, something you had never even come close to seeing in him. He accepted the punches thrown at his face, feeling bile crawl up his throat as his many drinks threaten to spill over, but it never lasted long before he could finally come up for air.
Once he came around to the scene that had unfolded in the kitchen, Logan quickly noticed the lack of music that had previously been blaring through the home. He noticed how sparse the rooms looked now, as people had quickly realised it was the end of the night. More than anything, he noticed the frightened look on your face, stood on the other side of the kitchen island with your arms crossed over your body as you stared back at him.
The bile in the back of his throat had been an empty threat up until that point, until seeing your face as hollow as it was. He could only imagine what you had witnessed. Despite the yells that seemed to have erupted in the kitchen or the questions being flung at him, he made a beeline for the bathroom as his stomach turned with every second that passed.
He was stupid to think you wouldn’t follow after him, locking the door behind him only to be met with your knocking.
“John, just open the door,” You sighed as your knocking was met without a reply. “Someone’s gotta be the one to hold your hair back.” Your voice was light and teasing, and just enough to have John unlock the door for you.
He was quiet as he opened the bathroom door, a sheepish look across his face as you took in the sight of him; the burst lip, blood dripping down his chin, and a bruise forming across his cheek that you knew would bloom purple in the morning. Despite the battered look he was sporting, he still grinned when your eyes met his.
“Oh my-” The words died in your throat as you took him in, immediately stepping into his space to hold his face in your hands, desperate for a closer look at him.
“Hey, it’s fine,” John shook his head, trying to ease the worry that he could feel buzzing off of your skin. “You should see the other guy.” He let out a laugh despite himself; nothing about this was funny but he would be damned if he let you stew in any sort of worry about him.
“I don’t think this is funny,” You dropped your hands from his face to his shoulders, sitting him down on the edge of the bathtub. “You can’t just go around beating guys up.”
He stayed quiet after this, letting you manhandle him. He watched as you rummaged around his bathroom cabinets for any sort of first aid kit you could find, listening as you murmured about how stupid he was and how stupid the fight was and how stupid all of the guys were for not having a first aid kit in the hockey house.
He stayed quiet as you wiped a warm cloth across his face, cleaning any blood that had dried to his face before holding it against his face. You were trying to apply pressure to the cut across his lip, hoping to stop the bleeding sooner rather than later, but all Logan could focus on was the feeling of your fingertips on his skin, the tips of your nails almost digging into his face but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
“I could save up, y’know, like after college,” Logan dared to break the silence that suffocated the bathroom for he knew that your quietness told him exactly how you were feeling, and he couldn’t bear to think about how annoyed you were with him. “I’ll get a good hockey deal-”
“John, what-” Your eyes flicked up from the cloth pressed against his lips, to his eyes, and quickly back down once he met your stare with eyes full of sorrow. You weren’t sure what he meant but he didn’t let you ask any questions before interrupting you.
“I’ll get you the handbags, and we’ll go to Paris, and you can drag me to any art galleries you want.” Adam’s conversation had embedded into his mind, provoking thoughts that Logan had spent years suppressing.
“You’re drunk,” You sighed and turned away from him, looking through the first aid kit for any sort of bandage or plaster. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not drunk, and you do know what I’m talking about,” John sat pliant to your touch, letting you angle his face upwards to secure the plaster to the edge of his lip. “You’re gonna want someone with a penthouse and- and fucking generational wealth, and a fucking trip to Europe every year. I’m not gonna be the person to hold you back from that.” He let out a deep breath after he spoke, almost frightened you would see through his words to understand what he was truly confessing. You were always brighter than him, he was sure you would.
“I don’t get where this is coming from,” You stepped back from him again, leaning against the sink with your arms crossed over your body. “Sure, everyone wants to vacation in Europe but you’re not holding me back from that.”
“You should be with someone like Adam,” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, though Logan couldn’t be sure if that was the vomit or the blood from the night. “Not Adam, he’s a dick, but he’s from a good family with a job lined up in his fucking dad’s company. You deserve that, but I can’t give you that.”
“I’ve never asked you to give me anything, John,” You looked at him properly, perched on the lip of the bathtub, with bruises blooming across his face; he couldn’t have looked further from your John, and he wasn’t acting like the boy you knew. “I’ve never cared about fucking handbags, and maybe I’ll go to Paris one day, but I don’t need Adam to do that- is that what this was about? Some dick measuring contest?”
“What? No, no, I swear! He’s awful, and I couldn’t let him talk about you for any longer, not when he’s in my house.” Logan carefully left out the part where Adam berated him, dancing around it instead.
“So what?” You dragged your hands down your face, the tiredness from the night creeping into your bones as the alcohol had long vanished. “You kicked the shit out of a guy ‘cause he said I want a fucking designer handbag? John, do you even know me? I don’t want any of that.”
“I know you don’t, fuck, I know you,” Logan’s voice was exasperated, matching the tiredness that he knew you were facing. “But Adam doesn’t, and he doesn’t know me.”
You were quiet, letting his words play over and over in your mind, allowing you to realise what he truly meant.
“What did Adam say to you?” You wanted to ask what Adam had asked about John, knowing he had said something cruel enough to have your friend spiralling in front of you.
“What? He didn’t say anything-” He deflected, quickly and almost too practiced, but you saw threw it as he tried to build up his walls in front of you, refusing to let you see him vulnerable.
“I’m not stupid, just tell me what he said.” You moved to sit beside him on the edge of the bathtub, knees pressed against his.
“He was just being a dick about my dad and the garage,” Logan shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, trying to minimise how he truly felt. “And you, y’know, saying you could never want someone like me, I’ve got nothing to offer to you- and he’s right so I can’t-”
“He’s wrong.” Your voice was quieter now, less annoyed with him and more upset for him instead.
“What?” He wasn’t sure if he had misheard you, or misunderstood what you were trying to say, the short question falling from his lips almost too quickly - begging for you to clarify what you meant.
“I could want someone like you,” You took a deep breath, almost in disbelief that this situation was the one to bring out how you truly felt. “I already do, I think you’ve just been too busy to notice.”
“You do?” It was as though the air had been knocked out of his lungs, Logan’s hands almost scrambling to find yours for purchase; for something to bring him back down to earth.
“Yeah,” You huffed out a laugh, not sure if it was too early to be embarrassed by your confession but you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. “You’re too in your head to notice.”
“Hey, I’m not-”
“You are.”
“I wish I’d known,” Logan took your fingers in his hand, lacing them with his own. “We could’ve avoided this whole night, I would’ve told you I was in love with you somewhere else - somewhere that’s not my bathroom with my blood all over the floor.”
“Yeah?” You felt his fingers tighten around yours, the calloused tips a gentle reminder that he was the same boy you had known for years, despite the night that had unfolded before you.
“Yeah, have been for a while,” He hummed, thinking his words over carefully. “And I’ve almost told you, like, a million times- and Garrett’s almost told you too, just to try and put me outta my misery.”
“Garrett knows?” Your eyes lit up, almost unable to believe what you were hearing; how Logan felt, and that he felt strongly enough to tell his best friend.
“Oh, yeah, everyone knows.” Logan spoke as thought it was obvious, as though the two of you hadn’t danced around this for years now.
“Why haven’t you said anything ‘till now?” It was a selfish question, you knew that for you hadn’t confessed until the same moment as John, yet it was a question you couldn’t help but ask.
“‘Cause you deserve someone better, someone like Adam and his fucking perfect life,” He laughed but you knew nothing was funny, not really. “I don’t wanna suck you into whatever mess I’ve got going on.”
“I don’t care about mess or baggage, Johnny, I care about you.” It felt as though a weight had been lifted off of your shoulders, almost feeling free now you had confessed how you truly felt.
“Yeah?” A smile played at his lips, daring to break free, whilst his hand lifted beside your head as he tucked some stray pieces of hair behind your ears before letting his hand rest against your jaw, cradling your face in a way he had only craved before.
“Yeah.” You look at John, unabashedly for once; allowing yourself to relish in how handsome he looked so close to you. You tried to etch the photo into your memories, hoping you would never forget the bloodied boy sat hardly an inch beside you.
The tenderness of the moment left you quiet, simply letting yourself look at John as you leaned into his touch.
“Please stay tonight?” John’s voice was almost a whisper, for he felt the warmth between the two of you and he would never dream of breaking it.
“I thought that was a given.” You laughed at the absurdity of his question, knowing you would’ve stayed over anyway.
Logan took your moment of distraction into his own hands, pressing his lips to yours in a quick kiss before backing away just enough to see the smile that broke across your face. Your smile was all he needed to kiss you again, hand still cradling your jaw, as he leans in again - both of you almost too eager and forgetting the plaster the covered the bottom of his lip and chin.
You dropped your head into the crook of his neck, unable to control that laughter that fell from your lips as the plaster was less than ideal. You dared to look up at him; his dark brown eyes rid of the sorrow that filled them earlier and a smile so happy it was almost lopsided.
You leaned forward to press dotted kisses across his face: his nose, up his cheekbones, his cupids bow, and the very edge of his lips that it could almost be considered teasing. But that was more than enough for both of you, knowing you had every day coming to fill with kisses; clumsy, romantic, giggly, and passionate.
Hii 💜 I just wanted to let you know—I realized I had made a more or less identical request to another author; the only differences were that it was for Dean Di Laurentis and featured Allie instead of Grace. So, if you want to cancel, I totally understand—I don't want to undervalue your work 💜🤧
hey! i liked ur request a lot but ill make a few wee tweaks so it’s not the same as another author’s work!
summary: a craving for cookie dough icecream puts you face-to-face with the boy who ruined you for everyone else. (3.4k)
pairing: john logan x reader.
content: second chance romance?, angst, emotional neglect, mutual pining, right person wrong time, mention of parental addiction, emotional distress.
there are three things you learn when you love someone from the age of fifteen: first, that forever is a terrifyingly heavy word for kids who still need permission to borrow the car.
second, that you can't scrub the ghost of someone out of your life no matter how hard you scrub.
and third, that the boy who once let your now ten-year-old sister glue glitter stars to his forehead can grow up to look at you like you’re the worst thing that happened to him.
it’s the cinnamon and clean laundry that brings him back. on the quiet nights, before the heavy silence of the present takes over, you can still trace the timeline of you and john logan.
two kids who didn't know a single thing about the world, but decided, instantly, that they knew everything about each other.
by the time you both walked across the stage at eighteen to grab your high school diplomas, you weren’t just a couple—you were a package deal.
logan was woven so deeply into the fabric of your family that his presence felt as permanent as the oak tree in the front yard.
“logan! look what i made!"
the memory is so sharp it almost stings. your little sister soleil had been five then—a tiny, chaotic blur of mismatched socks and sticky fingers.
anyone else would have patted her on the head and gone back to their phone, but logan had dropped straight to his knees on your mom’s kitchen floor, completely ignoring the grass stains on his jeans.
he had taken the lopsided paper crown she held out and placed it solemnly on his dark hair.
"for me, princess sol? i’m honored," he had said, his signature smirk softening into something so incredibly gentle it made your chest ache. he had spent the next hour letting a five-year-old boss him around the backyard, playing "royal knight" without a single complaint. he had loved your family. he had loved you.
"are you thinking about him?"
the quiet voice snaps you back. you blink, the golden memory evaporating, replaced by the cool, dim light of the kitchen.
you turn to find soleil standing in the doorway. she’s ten now—taller but she still has those same observant eyes.
"nope just... thinking," you say, offering a tight smile as you lean against the counter.
soleil walks over, hopping onto the barstool logan used to claim as his own. she traces a small scratch on the wooden counter. "do you think logan still plays hockey?" she asks quietly. "he promised he would teach me how to ice skate when i got bigger. he hasn't called in a long time."
the words twist like a knife. because how do you explain to a ten-year-old that sometimes, the boy who wore paper crowns in your backyard grows up, leaves for college, and becomes someone you only know through headlines and hearsay?
"yeah, sol," you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. "he still plays."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
it was 1:57 am. at this hour, the world was supposed to be asleep.
instead you were standing in aisle fourteen, frozen in place, staring at the glass doors of the ice cream section.
the cold air leaked through the rubber seals, dusting your bare shins with a chill that made you shiver.
you looked down at yourself, suddenly, painfully aware of exactly how you looked: a pair of wrinkled pajama shorts featuring a faded print of patrick star, a fleece sweatshirt, and a pair of cheap flip-flops that made a loud, pathetic slap against the linoleum with every step you took.
your fingers hovered over a carton of cookie dough ice cream—the exact same brand, the exact same flavor, that had once been the cure-all for every bad day you had ever had.
you had been back in this town for exactly three weeks of summer break, operating like a ghost.
you stayed inside during the day, took long scenic routes to avoid the familiar blocks, and only went out when you knew the streets would be empty.
you had managed to avoid him for two whole years. two years of passing through the same suburban grid without once crossing paths.
until tonight.
squeak.
the sharp sound of rubber soles on polished linoleum broke the quiet.
it wasn't the slow, heavy drag of a tired employee pushing a stocking cart.
it was a firm, rhythmic stride. a stride you could recognize with your eyes closed, even after twenty-four months of silence.
"i knew one day, i would find you here."
the voice didn't just startle you; it felt like a physical blow to the chest. it was deeper than you remembered, carrying the low, scratchy gravel of someone who spent his winters yelling over the roar of stadium crowds at briar university.
but the cadence—the soft, trailing way he ended his sentences—was exactly the same.
your breath hitching, your lungs freezing over. you slowly turned around, your hand still pressed flat against the cold glass of the freezer door, your flip-flops squeaking slightly.
standing at the end of the aisle, leaning with an agonizingly casual grace against a shopping cart, was john logan.
he was massive.
the boy who used to fit perfectly against your side in your parents' basement had completely filled out.
the grueling, relentless training schedule of briar's varsity hockey team had carved him into something formidable—his shoulders were impossibly broad beneath a dark charcoal hoodie, his jawline littered with stubble sharp enough to look dangerous.
his dark hair was slightly damp and messy, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look like he had just stepped out of a locker room.
but it was his eyes that anchored you to the spot.
they were a deep, intense brown—the color of warm whiskey, of dark espresso, of things that were thick and warm and rich and incredibly hard to forget. right now, those brown eyes were narrowed, tracking the rapid rise and fall of your chest with a quiet, guarded intensity.
"logan," you whispered. the name felt heavy, like a stone rolling off your tongue.
"hey," he said. his voice was soft, but there was a distinct, cool distance to it. his lips didn't curve into the easy grin you were once so used to. instead, his mouth remained a straight, hard line. "still craving cookie dough at ungodly hours?"
the silence that followed was suffocating. the air between you was dense with two years of unread texts, a blocked phone number, and a driveway screaming match that had ended with you driving away in tears.
you looked at him, and against your will, the faces of every single guy you had met on the west coast flashed behind your eyelids.
there was the polite pre-med guy from your sophomore year who bought you expensive dinners and spoke in a tone so perfectly measured it made you feel completely hollow.
there was the golden-boy surfer who tried to teach you how to ride the waves, whose laugh was loud and easy, but whose eyes never actually saw you when you spoke.
there were others—half-hearted dates, empty conversations over cheap drinks, guys who tried to touch your waist or hold your hand in crowded bars.
but none of them were john logan.
none of them possessed that fierce, protective intensity.
not a single one of them knew how to make you laugh until your ribs ached, or how to silence your worst anxieties with a single, heavy look.
he was the gold standard.
you had spent twenty-four months trying to find his ghost in other men, only to realize that nobody could ever measure up to the boy who had broken your heart.
he had ruined you for anyone else, and the sheer unfairness of it tasted like poison on your tongue.
what you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly know from the quiet, agonizing distance you had kept—was that you had done the exact same thing to him.
at briar, logan was a star.
he was a handsome, charming varsity athlete, and the girls on campus made it ridiculously easy.
but to the absolute dismay and relentless teasing of his teammates, especially dean, logan had practically lived like a monk for the last two years.
he didn't bring girls back to the house.
he didn't do the mindless, easy hookups that the rest of the team treated like breathing.
every time a girl tried to flirt with him at a party, every time someone leaned in to kiss him in a dark corner of a crowded bar, he found himself pulling back.
he was holding out for you.
as stupid and as unrealistic as it sounded to him, he couldn't shake you.
and it made him furious.
he was angry at you for blocking him, angry at you for leaving, but most of all, he was deeply annoyed because you had ruined him for anyone else.
he couldn't find a single girl who was just like you, and he hated how much power you still held over his heart without even trying.
logan took a slow, deliberate step forward, the wheels of his cart squeaking in protest. his brown eyes scanned your face, noting the way you winced, the way your fingers tightened on your sweatshirt.
seeing him step closer was like falling backward through a rip in time.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
"logan, stop it! put me down, people are looking!"
your laughter echoed through the empty bakery section of this very store, bright and breathless. it was 12:14 am on a tuesday, three weeks before graduation.
logan had dragged you out of bed because you had a craving, and he never, ever said no to you.
"let them look," logan grinned, his chest vibrating against yours as he lifted you easily by the waist, spinning you around. he didn't care about the bored cashier or the fact that you both had ap exams in twelve hours.
he set you down slowly, his large hands sliding under your jacket to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him.
his face dipped into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss right below your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
when he pulled back, his eyes were crinkled at the corners, filled with a terrifyingly pure, unshakeable affection.
"you're stuck with me forever, you know that, right?" he murmured, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your hip. "west coast, east coast, i don't care. i'll fly out every single weekend. we're going to make this work. i'm not letting you go."
you had kind of believed him then. you had pressed your forehead against his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin, believing that the two of you were invincible.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
"you're staring," logan's rough voice broke the memory, shattering it into a thousand sharp, jagged pieces.
you blinked, cold reality rushing back in.
he was standing barely three feet away from you now.
the warmth from the flashback evaporated, replaced by the bitter, icy draft of the freezer aisle.
you pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your hands, shifting your weight in your flip-flops, wishing desperately that the cold floor would just open up and swallow you.
"i didn't think you would be in town," you managed to say, your voice tighter this time. you clutched the tub of cookie dough icecream to your chest, a pathetic, freezing shield. "you usually stay at briar for summer training."
"i came back for a couple of weeks to see some family," he said, his voice flat, his posture guarded. he crossed his arms over his broad chest, creating a physical barrier between you. "but i see you're still running on the same schedule. some habits die hard, i guess."
there was no shouting, no explosive anger, but the wall he had built was high and thick.
he wasn't the boy who used to tease you mercilessly; he was a man who had been deeply hurt, and he was keeping his guard up.
"logan, we were going to different sides of the country," you whispered, the old defense mechanism kicking in, though it felt incredibly weak now. "we would have grown to hate each other. i did what i thought was best."
"i never cared about where you were going," logan corrected quietly, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a heavy, simmering sadness. "i was proud of you. i wanted you to go to that school. what broke me was that you didn't even want to try. you just decided we were over before we even packed our bags. you decided for the both of us, blocked my number, and left. you made me feel like those years we spent together weren't even worth a shot the second things got a little complicated."
"that's not true," you said, a tear threatening to spill over your eyelashes. "it broke my heart, logan. and i... i still care. i heard about your mom."
the words hung in the cold, sterile air between you. the mention of his mother's battle with alcohol—a shadow that had hovered over his entire household and left him and his younger sibling, jules, carrying weight they were far too young to bear—made the silence turn razor-sharp.
you remembered the late-night phone calls where he would whisper to you from the hallway, exhausted and terrified, while you tried to comfort him from three miles away. you weren’t sure how to do it over three thousand miles away.
logan froze. his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.
"what about her?" he asked, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet.
"i heard she's in rehab again," you murmured, taking a small, tentative step forward. your chest ached for him, the instinct to comfort him still so deeply ingrained in your bones. "i'm so sorry, logan. i know how hard it is on you. and on jules. i really—"
"don't," he quickly cut you off.
for a split second, the hard line of his jaw softens. his dark eyes flicker down, then rise to search yours with a sudden, aching vulnerability. his mouth opens, a name hovering on the very tip of his tongue. he wants to ask if soleil still makes her infamous paper crowns.
he wants to ask if she misses him. if you missed him.
but the moment passes as quickly as it came. the shutter slams down behind his eyes, the heavy wall of his anger sliding back into place. he isn't going to give you the satisfaction of knowing how much of your world he still yearns for.
a short, humorless scoff escaped his lips—a sound so hollow and bitter it made you flinch. he shook his head, looking down at the linoleum floor before raising his brown eyes back to yours, entirely guarded.
"don't act like you care now," he said, the words dripping with a quiet, devastating resentment. "if you actually cared, you wouldn't have kept me blocked. you would have reached out a long time ago when everything was falling apart. everyone else did. but you? you were too busy pretending we never happened."
he didn't know.
he had no idea that his private instagram account had been a brick wall you stared at on your loneliest nights, desperate for a glimpse of his face.
he didn't know that you had spent the last two years quietly keeping up with his life through the back door—how you had found his teammate and friend, dean di laurentis, on social media because his profile was public, zooming in on the background of his photos just to make sure logan was okay.
but you were so incredibly tired of the silence.
you were tired of the walls, tired of the assumption that you had just walked away unscathed while he bled out.
you weren't going to let this be another night where you both walked away harboring a quiet, misunderstood resentment.
you weren't going to let him believe a lie just to protect your pride.
"i blocked you because if i didn't, i would have begged you to come to california," you said, your voice cracking, but the words came out fast, desperate, and completely unfiltered. "i blocked you because every time my phone buzzed, i hoped it was you, and it was killing me. i didn't pretend we never happened, logan. i spent the last two years completely miserable."
logan flinched, his posture stiffening as he stared at you. his mouth parted slightly, the scoff dying on his lips.
"what?" he whispered.
"i didn't reach out because i thought you hated me," you pleaded, tears finally spilling over, hot against your cold cheeks.
"i thought i had ruined everything," you said, your voice cracking as you finally forced yourself to meet his eyes. "and i was terrified of hearing you tell me that you had moved on."
you took a sharp, shallow breath, looking down at your hands as if the memory alone had weight. "i sat in my dorm room and cried for hours when i heard about your mom. because i knew how much you and jules were hurting, and i hated myself for not being able to call you." you let out a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "but i didn't think i had the right to anymore. i didn't do this because it was easy."
logan didn't move, but the tension between you pulled taut, almost vibrating.
"and if you want to know the absolute worst part?" you took a step closer, the raw honesty of it stripping away whatever pride you had left. "i've tried to date. i've gone out with guys who were perfectly nice, guys who did everything right. and i couldn't stand any of them. because none of them were you."
you stopped just inches from him, your chest heaving. "you set the bar so high that i can't even look at anyone else without wishing they had your eyes, or your laugh, or the way you used to hold my hand." reaching out, your fingers hovered near his jacket before you pulled them back, curling them into a tight fist. "you ruined me, logan. so don't you dare stand there and tell me i didn't care."
the silence that followed was entirely different now. it wasn't heavy with awkwardness anymore; it was electric, thick with a truth that had been buried for two long years.
then, a loud, agonizingly slow squeal of wheels broke the high-stakes emotional gravity.
a tired-looking teenage employee pushing a towering, uncoordinated stack of blue plastic crates stopped dead at the end of the aisle.
he looked at your tear-stained face, looked at logan's defensive frame, and then looked down at the carton of cookie dough ice cream.
he blinked slowly, let out a soul-weary, minimum-wage sigh, and silently began pulling his cart backward, retreating into the canned goods section like a crab disappearing into the sand.
you let out a wet, breathless sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, hastily wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "great. we're the 2 am grocery store circus."
logan's jaw worked, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. for a fraction of a second, the tiniest, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile tugged at the very corner of his mouth, softening the hard edge of his face.
"well," his voice was quiet, the rough edge still there but momentarily lighter. "to be fair, you are having a life-altering breakdown in neon pink flip-flops and patrick star pajama shorts."
"they're comfortable," you mumbled, looking down at your toes, a faint blush warming your cheeks despite the cold.
he laughed softly but as quickly as the lighthearted beat came, it evaporated, swallowed by the cold, heavy reality of the last two years.
the silence returned, sober and demanding. logan took a slow, heavy step toward you, the distance between you evaporating until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
he raised his hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered just inches from your wet cheek, hesitating.
his hand lingered in the air, his knuckles barely brushing your cheekbone as he looked at you, utterly torn.
"i don't know what to do with that," he whispered, his voice raw and completely stripped of its armor. his forehead lowered, almost touching yours, his breath shaky as those dark brown eyes locked onto yours. "i just don't know how to just forget what you did."
summary: in which a drunk y/n arrives home after a night out and logan is forced to endure the torture of helping her take off her jewellery and dress while she looks far too pretty, far too affectionate, and far too tempting for his own sanity - only for him to prove, once again, that he’ll always put taking care of her before anything else.
pairing: john logan x fem!reader
note: my first fic request!! oh how i love sweet john logan. i hope you enjoy <3
ꪆৎ
you were standing in front of the bathroom mirror when logan found you.
well-
“standing” was generous.
you were leaning heavily against the marble counter in your tiny satin dress, one bare shoulder pressed lazily against the mirror while you squinted furiously at your own reflection with the sort of concentration only drunk people seemed to possess.
your fingers fumbled uselessly with the tiny clasp of your necklace for what was probably the sixth time in the last minute.
“stupid fucking-”
your tongue poked slightly against the inside of your cheek as you tried again, brows pinching together in frustration before the delicate chain slipped straight through your fingers once more.
you groaned dramatically.
the sound made logan bite back a laugh from the bathroom doorway.
he’d been halfway through pulling off his hoodie when he noticed the bedroom light still on beneath the cracked bathroom door, and now he was completely frozen there instead, broad shoulder leaning against the frame while he took you in properly for the first time tonight.
and christ.
the sight of you nearly knocked the air straight from his lungs.
your makeup was slightly smudged beneath your eyes from hours of dancing and laughing, lips glossy and swollen from sugary cocktails, cheeks warm and flushed from the cold night air outside.
your hair was messy too.
not ruined.
just soft around the edges now, like you’d spent the entire night running your hands through it absentmindedly.
and the dress-
fuck.
the tiny satin dress hung off your body in a way that felt genuinely unfair.
the thin straps slipped low against your shoulders every few seconds, exposing warm skin logan knew too well, while the silky material clung to every curve of your body like it had been specifically designed to test his self-control.
especially paired with the sleepy frustration written all over your face.
“need help there, baby?” he asked finally, voice rougher than intended.
you looked over immediately at the sound of him.
and the second your eyes landed on him, your entire expression softened.
“logan.”
just his name.
but the way you said it, warm, relieved, slightly drunk, made something tighten painfully in his chest.
you turned back toward the mirror with a dramatic sigh, lifting the necklace helplessly.
“it won’t come off,” you informed him accusingly. “i think it’s broken.”
logan huffed out a quiet laugh before pushing himself away from the doorway and walking toward you slowly.
“yeah?” he murmured. “gimme a second.”
the second he stepped behind you, his hands settled instinctively against your hips.
firm.
warm.
steadying.
and you immediately relaxed back against him like it was muscle memory.
that alone almost ruined him, because it happened so naturally.
like your body knew his before your brain even caught up.
logan lowered his head slightly, eyes focusing on the tiny clasp resting at the back of your neck while your hands came to rest lazily over his forearms.
he could smell your perfume this close.
sweet and expensive and familiar enough now that it clung permanently to the hoodies tossed around his room. his fingers brushed lightly against the warm skin at the nape of your neck while he carefully worked at the chain.
you shivered instantly.
logan’s eyes flickered upward toward yours through the mirror.
“cold?”
you shook your head softly. “your hands are just cold.”
“sorry, baby.”
“don’t be.”
your voice came out quieter this time.
sleepier.
softer.
logan swallowed hard. there was something dangerously intimate about moments like this. not the big dramatic ones, not parties or kisses or sex.
this.
standing half-drunk in his bathroom at two in the morning while he carefully untangled your jewellery for you.
it was domestic, comfortable.
a moment that was just yours.
finally, the clasp loosened beneath his fingers.
“got it.”
you let out a tiny victorious hum as logan carefully slid the necklace away from your skin before placing it gently beside the sink.
“there.”
you smiled at him through the mirror immediately.
god, that smile.
sleepy and warm and entirely for him.
“thank you.”
logan’s mouth twitched upward without him meaning it to.
“you got any more jewellery that’s personally attacking you tonight?”
you held your wrist up toward him sadly.
“bracelet.”
he barked out a quiet laugh under his breath before reaching for your hand. his fingers engulfed your wrist completely as he turned it carefully beneath the bathroom light, eyes narrowing in concentration at the tiny clasp.
his large hockey-player hands looked almost ridiculous against something so delicate.
but he was still careful.
you watched him openly now through half-lidded eyes while he concentrated, tongue dragging briefly across his lower lip the way it always did when he focused too hard on something.
your stomach tightened immediately.
because john logan genuinely didn’t understand the effect he had on you half the time. he didn’t realise that small things like this destroyed you more than anything else ever could.
the way his brows furrowed slightly, the warmth of his hands, the quiet patience in every movement of his. the fact that he treated you gently even when you were being objectively annoying.
“you’re staring,” he murmured without looking up.
your lips curved lazily.
“can you blame me?”
his mouth twitched again. “you’re drunk.”
“mhm.”
“and trouble.”
you grinned sleepily.
“you love me.”
logan finally slipped the bracelet free before setting it carefully beside the necklace, both hands settling automatically against your waist afterward like he physically couldn’t help himself.
then his eyes lifted fully to yours in the mirror and the entire mood shifted.
because the second he really looked at you, at your flushed cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes, glossy lips, something in his expression darkened.
the straps of your dress had slipped lower along your shoulders while you leaned against him, the thin satin clinging softly to your skin, and logan’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly against your waist as his gaze dragged slowly over you. you noticed immediately and your expression softened into something teasing.
“hi.”
“don’t,” he warned quietly.
“don’t what?”
“look at me like that.”
you turned slowly in his arms then until you were facing him fully, fingertips sliding lightly up the front of his t-shirt. the thin cotton stretched warm and soft beneath your hands.
“like what?”
logan exhaled slowly through his nose.
because fuck.
you had absolutely no idea what you looked like right now.
or maybe you did.
your fingers curled lightly against his chest before drifting lower, smoothing absentmindedly over the hard planes of his stomach beneath the fabric. logan’s hands tightened instinctively at your waist.
“y/n,” he said carefully, almost in warning.
“mhm?”
“stop playin’ games with me.”
you smiled innocently.
“i’m not playing games.”
“bullshit.”
a soft laugh escaped you and the sound alone nearly did him in.
logan’s eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before dragging themselves upward again like it physically pained him to do it.
then your fingers found the hem of his shirt once more and logan nearly lost his fucking mind.
“okay,” he muttered immediately, catching your wrist gently before you could keep going.
“absolutely not.”
you tried not to smile.
“what?”
“you know what.”
instead of answering, you stepped closer until your bodies pressed together fully. logan’s jaw clenched instantly.
because suddenly he could feel all of you.
the satin shifting softly against his sweatpants, the warmth of your thighs brushing his, the curve of your waist beneath his palms, especially when the neckline of the dress dipped lower from the movement.
and especially when he caught the first glimpse of black lace beneath the satin.
fuck.
his eyes flickered downward for half a second before immediately dragging back up to your face.
you caught it.
of course you did.
your smile softened then, less teasing this time, more wanting.
“logan,” you whispered quietly.
and that nearly killed him more than anything else had tonight, because suddenly you weren’t just messing with him anymore.
you were looking at him like you wanted him.
really wanted him.
and god, he wanted you too.
so fucking badly.
his hand slid carefully upward along your spine before stopping at the zipper resting against the small of your back.
“can i?” he asked softly.
you nodded immediately.
logan’s fingers curled lightly around the zipper before slowly dragging it downward. the sound filled the quiet bathroom. the dress loosened inch by inch beneath his hands.
and logan’s breathing visibly slowed.
because beneath the satin was soft black lace stretched against warm skin and enough exposed shoulder to completely derail every coherent thought left in his brain.
the straps slipped lower down your arms as the dress loosened, exposing more skin with every passing second. you leaned forward slightly until your forehead rested against the centre of his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
logan shut his eyes briefly.
“jesus christ.”
you laughed quietly against him, the sound warm and muffled.
“that bad?”
“baby,” he muttered, voice rough now. “you gotta stop asking questions you already know the answer to.”
your fingers slipped beneath the fabric of his shirt slightly then, nails brushing warm skin along his stomach.
logan physically inhaled sharply, every muscle in his body tensing immediately. then he caught your hand gently before you could keep going.
not roughly.
just steady.
careful.
grounding.
his forehead dropped against yours while his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist.
y/n,” he said quietly. “you know i want you.”
your teasing faltered slightly at the sincerity in his voice.
logan’s hand stayed warm against your waist, fingers flexing faintly like he was physically restraining himself from pulling you even closer.
“but you’ve been drinking” he murmured softly.
“i know.”
“and i know you’re okay,” he continued quietly, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek.
“but you've had enough that i'm not gonna take advantage of it.”
his forehead rested lightly against yours as he exhaled shakily.
“trust me,” he muttered softly, almost sounding frustrated with himself.
“this is killing me.”
despite everything, a small smile pulled at your lips.
“yeah?”
his eyes flickered down toward your mouth for a split second before forcing themselves back up again.
“yeah” he said hoarsely.
“you have absolutely no idea.”
your chest tightened painfully at the sincerity in his voice.
because even now, even with his breathing uneven. even with his hands gripping your waist hard enough to betray exactly how badly he wanted you, logan was still making sure you felt safe first.
still making sure you were okay.
still putting you before himself.
you looked up at him quietly for a long second before your expression softened completely. a warm and achingly fond look settled across your features.
“you’re really good to me.”
logan’s entire face gentled instantly at that. his thumb brushed lightly beneath your jaw before he leaned down enough for his forehead to rest properly against yours.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend loves you with his whole heart. and sometimes, you’re not sure what to do with something that big.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, established relationship, touch/love-starved reader, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, brief smut, implied past trauma/abuse but nothing explicitly mentioned, heart-aching fluff, character analysis
𝐚/𝐧: flipping my favorite trope onto reader. this one's for all my peeps who have a tough time with physical touch and emotional intimacy
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
Your boyfriend loves easily.
Affection stitched directly into the lining of him, inseparable from the rest of his body.
Touch, to Steve, is instinct before intention.
Automatic and unthinking, his hands find you the way roots find water.
Waiting in line at the fall fair, he hooks two fingers through your belt loop and sways you gently side to side while the Ferris wheel spins overhead in smeared red and gold light.
The air smells like fried dough and cinnamon sugar, cold autumn wind carrying bursts of laughter through the crowds. Steve stands behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder, warm chest pressed loosely to your back while he argues passionately about kettle corn versus popcorn.
Once in a while, he'll slide his thumb beneath the cuff of your sleeve mid-sentence, stroking the pulse point at your wrist, completely unaware that your heart is beating itself raw under his fingertips.
It’s impossible to explain it.
How overwhelming it feels to be loved by someone so thoroughly.
Because Steve never hesitates.
Never acts like affection is something shameful.
Love pours out of him, as naturally as body heat.
If your hands are cold, he interrupts himself halfway through a story just to catch your fingers and tuck them into his jacket pockets alongside his own, rubbing warmth back into your knuckles while continuing his sentence without missing a beat.
If you yawn during movie night, his arm is around your shoulders before the sound can finish leaving your mouth. “C’mere, sleepy girl,” he murmurs automatically, pulling you sideways against his chest.
If your shoelaces come untied in the middle of the sidewalk, he drops immediately to one knee with a distracted, “hang on, baby.”
Rainwater hisses along the curb while he reties the bow tighter this time, fingers quick and practiced, one hand steadying lightly against your ankle. His knuckles brush your skin through your sock and you have to stand there, holding your breath until your lungs ache with it, staring down at the concentration pulling his brows together.
Wondering what it must be like to love someone with your whole heart and not feel like it’s going to break you open.
He’s warm everywhere, your Steve. Warm hands, warm mouth. Warm stomach pressed against your back beneath blankets. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cedar cologne rubbed into the collar of his jackets. Sometimes vanilla chapstick, sometimes mint gum. Always Steve.
And the kisses are constant too.
Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.
The corner of your mouth while waiting for the microwave to beep. Your forehead when he passes behind you in the kitchen. Your shoulder while you lean over the sink brushing your teeth side by side. The back of your neck when he reaches around you for orange juice in the fridge, mumbling a sleepy, “morning, honey,” against your skin before kissing beneath your hairline.
Sometimes he just looks at you for a second. Expression softening imperceptibly, like some private thought crossed his mind, and then he leans over and kisses your cheek with this quiet little hum in his throat.
Like loving you tastes good.
And god, the neck kissing.
It’s terrible.
And right now, in the middle of a museum gallery so quiet you can hear shoes squeak against polished floors, he’s doing it again.
You’re trying to read the plaque beneath some enormous renaissance painting—something about divinity and grief, oil on canvas—but Steve is behind you, arms folded around your waist while he scans the museum brochure one-handed.
One of his hands has slipped beneath your cardigan, warm palm spread low across your stomach.
“Okay, so,” he murmurs near your ear, voice low enough that the sound vibrates through you, “there’s the Greek sculpture thing upstairs, or... there’s apparently a room with these like, tiny dollhouses?”
You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrifying.”
“Right?” His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Like what if one of them’s haunted?”
Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.
One lazy, distracted kiss.
His lips are soft, slightly chapped from the cold outside. Warm breath spills across your skin afterward, making your pulse jump beneath his mouth. He lingers there, nose nudging lightly against your neck while he keeps mumbling off different sections of the museum.
You feel the shape of his smile against your skin when he finds another ridiculous exhibit.
“Apparently there’s a room that’s just chairs.”
“That can’t be true.”
“No, I swear to god.”
Then his mouth drifts lower.
Open-mouthed kisses this time.
Slow enough that warmth blooms beneath every press of his lips. You feel the faint scrape of his teeth catch your skin playfully before he smooths over it with another softer kiss, his thumb stroking across your stomach.
Your entire body tightens around the feeling.
The worst part is knowing that he isn’t trying to fluster you.
Steve isn’t performing intimacy.
He just never second-guesses affection.
Unlike you.
For you, every touch feels catastrophic.
The second Steve touches you, awareness crashes through your body all at once—your pulse, your breathing, the weight of his hand, whether your hair smells okay, whether your stomach feels too soft beneath his palm, whether someone across the gallery can see this.
Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.
“....and Robin said there’s some painting of a guy eating his own son which honestly seems kinda—”
He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.
“Babe?”
You blink hard, staring at the plaque without reading a single word.
Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.
“Hey,” his hand slides higher, rubbing gently over your ribs. “You okay?”
“Hm? Mhm.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Another lie.
Your skin still burns where he kissed you.
And underneath all the panic is something worse.
Fear and hunger, knotted so tightly you can’t separate them anymore.
Wanting him closer, wanting him to keep touching you forever. Wanting to crawl inside every warm, gentle thing he gives you and stay there.
Not knowing what you’d do if he ever stopped.
Because as terrifying as it is to be loved this softly, you think losing it might actually destroy you.
“You wanna sit down for a sec?” Steve asks quietly. “I think I still have that granola bar in my bag if you’re hungry.”
You almost laugh, because of course that’s where his mind goes.
Care.
Always care.
“No, I’m okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “We can keep going. The uh, Greek sculpture thing sounds good.”
He watches you for a beat longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing against your hipbone through your jeans.
“Okay,” he says finally.
His hand slides up your arm, gently fixing the cardigan slipping off your shoulder. His fingers brush your neck in the process, absentmindedly smoothing your hair back into place too.
And then, because he’s Steve—because affection lives inside him so naturally he doesn’t know how to love except with his whole body—
He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.
Warmth immediately fills the spaces between your knuckles, his callused fingers curling around yours with steady, secure pressure.
He keeps holding your hand the entire walk toward the staircase, thumb stroking across your skin while he talks about haunted dollhouses and ugly marble babies and whether you think ancient Greek people had chest hair.
And isn’t it terrifying, how quickly your body has learned what safety feels like in someone else’s hands?
...
It isn’t just the touching.
You almost wish it was.
Because that would be easier to understand.
A touch can be explained away:
Steve’s just naturally affectionate. Steve likes physical contact.
But it’s not just that.
It’s the way he loves you without condition. Without making you earn it first.
A few weeks into dating, he showed up at your apartment carrying a bouquet so enormous it nearly blocked his entire face.
When you opened the door, all you could see were flowers.
Soft cream roses crowded against pale pink delphiniums, petals curling delicately at the edges like silk ribbon. Deep burgundy dahlias bloomed low in the arrangement, velvety and dark as spilled wine, white baby’s breath drifting between everything like tiny bursts of snowfall.
And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.
Blue hydrangeas.
Dusty-blue petals clustered together like storm clouds at dusk, edges fading lavender where the light caught them.
You had pointed them out exactly once while passing a florist downtown.
Three seconds, maybe.
You remembered slowing briefly in front of the shop window because they looked beautiful beneath the warm yellow display lights. Rain had just started misting softly against the sidewalk and Steve had been halfway through ranting about some middle schooler trying to rent an R-rated horror movie with a fake ID. You’d smiled at his story before murmuring, almost absentmindedly, “Those are so pretty.”
That was it.
You hadn’t even thought he heard you.
But Steve Harrington has a habit of holding onto the tiniest details about you like they're something precious.
“Baby, I swear to god,” Steve was saying now as he stepped inside your apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot, “I had the craziest day today. This guy at work tried to return a tape completely melted.”
The bouquet landed in your arms before he shrugged off his jacket.
“Melted,” he repeated, horrified, running a hand through his hair. “Like, fully warped. Looked like somebody cooked that thing in a microwave.”
You stared down at the flowers.
The bouquet was heavy enough that you had to support it with both arms. Thick stems pressed cool and damp against your palms beneath layers of cream florist paper, the wrapping folded slightly unevenly around the flowers and tied together with rough twine that looked suspiciously hand-done.
Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.
The flowers smelled dizzyingly alive: sweet rose perfume softened by rainwater and the cool, earthy scent of freshly cut stems.
“…um, Steve?”
“—and Keith asked me if I did that,” he huffed, toeing off his shoes. “I mean, can you believe that shit? What does he think I do at work all day, destroy tapes for fun?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
You blinked at him slowly.
“What’s…” Your throat tightened strangely around the words. “What’s this for?”
He looked down at the bouquet like he’d genuinely forgotten he walked in carrying it.
“Uh…” His brows lifted slightly. “Flowers?”
He laughed softly after saying it, confused.
But you didn’t laugh.
Because your brain was already doing what it always did: rummaging frantically for conditions. For expectations and hidden meanings tucked beneath kindness.
Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.
Was it an anniversary?
Oh god.
Had you forgotten something?
Your stomach dropped, dates scrambling uselessly through your head too fast to follow. One month? Six weeks? Was there something couples were supposed to celebrate this early? Had Steve done something thoughtful and now you were standing there empty-handed like the worst girlfriend alive?
The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.
“Did I…” You cleared your throat quietly. “Did I forget something?”
Steve’s forehead wrinkled.
“Huh?”
“The flowers.”
“What about ‘em?”
Your voice came out impossibly small. “Why’d you get these?”
“Uh, ‘cause I…” He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose, head tilting. “’Cause I wanted to?”
His confusion only made your chest tighten more.
“Is it our anniversary or something?”
His frown deepened. “What? No.”
“Then… why?”
Steve stared at you for a second, slightly open-mouthed now, the soft amusement on his face fading into gentle concern.
“Baby, they’re just flowers.”
You stared back helplessly.
“But why?” you asked again, quieter this time.
“Well, I…” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “I saw them. And I thought about you.”
The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.
You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.
The hydrangeas were even prettier up close, petals shifting between pale blue and soft lavender depending on how the light hit them. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath caught between larger blooms like stars scattered through clouds.
A single sunflower tucked near the back, drooping sideways because Steve probably had the bouquet strapped into the passenger's seat on the drive over.
Your throat burned.
“That’s it?” you asked quietly.
Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.
His socked feet whispered against the floor as he stepped closer, one hand rising to cup your cheek.
Big enough to hold the entire side of your face, his palm enveloped you in warmth. Your lashes fluttered at the feeling of his thumb sweeping beneath your eye, brushing over the apple of your cheek, soothing something there without even knowing what hurt.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s it. I saw ’em and thought you’d like them.” His mouth tugged into a small smile. “You stared at those flowers for like, ten minutes.”
You huffed weakly. “It was not ten minutes.”
Steve’s smile widened, encouraged by the sound of your laugh.
“There was this whole wrapping station thing too,” he added, gesturing proudly toward the bouquet still overflowing from your arms. The cream paper rustled softly as he touched it, uneven folds bunching around the stems where the twine had already started slipping loose on one side. “The lady kept trying to help me but I told her I could handle it.”
He tipped his head, inspecting his own work. “Pretty good, right?”
You looked down again.
The wrapping really was crooked. One corner folded inward strangely while another flared too wide, baby’s breath poking free through gaps in the paper.
It couldn’t have been more beautiful.
Steve’s grin turned sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I think she stopped helping 'cause I was stressing her out.”
A quiet bubble of laughter escaped you, and the second it did, you noticed the way his face changed. Grin softening, eyes gone warm at the realization that he’d made you smile.
That was the other unbearable thing about him.
How carefully he watches for your joy, waiting for the next chance to do it again.
He really had done all this just because he wanted to.
No special occasions—he just saw something beautiful and immediately thought of you.
You blinked quickly, staring down at the velvety rose petals before he could notice the dangerous sting gathering behind your eyes.
Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.
Not enough to act on them later.
Certainly not enough to drive across town carrying an absurdly oversized bouquet because of one passing comment you barely remembered making yourself.
But Steve noticed everything.
The tea you always reach for when you’re sick. The songs you hum in the car without realizing. Which side of the bed you like to sleep on. Which sweatshirt you wear when you’re sad. The way you peel pepperoni slices off pizza before eating.
The flowers you paused to admire for three seconds on a rainy sidewalk weeks ago.
Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.
“Thank you,” you managed quietly.
Steve smiled, stepping closer until the bouquet crushed lightly between your bodies, cellophane crinkling in the quiet of the apartment.
“Yeah. Anytime, baby,” he hummed, bending down to press his smile into the curve of your mouth, as natural as breathing.
...
You don’t know why you get like this.
Why your body reacts like it’s bracing for impact when all he’s doing is being gentle. Why his affection makes your chest ache the way it does.
Why your first instinct is always to freeze.
Body going stiff whenever Steve wraps himself around your back in grocery store checkout lines, chin hooked over your shoulder while he complains about magazine prices and rubs his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt.
Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear mid-conversation and keeps talking without even realizing he did it. Sometimes he reaches for your hand in his sleep, eyes still closed, finding you beneath the blankets when his body notices your absence before he does.
And you wonder why, in all those sweet, wonderful moments—when he kisses your forehead while waiting for the microwave to beep, when he pulls you against his chest during movies, when he drops to his knees on dirty pavement because he doesn't want you to trip over your laces, when he holds your face in both hands like it’s something precious—you feel this horrible urge to apologize afterward.
Sorry I’m difficult.
Sorry you picked me.
Sorry you don’t realize yet there are easier people to love.
Love had always arrived transactional before him.
Conditional.
Dependent on being easy enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, useful enough.
But Steve loves you without condition.
And being seen that intimately by someone so good—someone as warm and earnest and sincere as Steve Harrington—feels unbearable sometimes.
Maybe that’s why nights like this overwhelm you so badly.
A fancy dinner downtown stretches long past sunset, candlelight flickering gold across Steve’s face while he steals bites from your plate despite insisting twenty minutes ago he was “seriously so stuffed.”
Wine leaves his cheeks faintly pink by the time you leave the restaurant. His tie hangs loose, crooked around his throat, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Summer heat still clings to the sidewalks even this late at night, thick with blooming jasmine spilling from flower boxes outside storefronts. Somewhere farther downtown, music drifts through open bar doors, muffled bass and laughter carried through the warm air.
Steve's hand never leaves your lower back, fingers flexing gently against you whenever the crowd thickens, pulling you instinctively closer to his chest.
By the time you drift into the park, your heels are dangling from one hand and your body feels pleasantly heavy from the wine.
The grass is cool beneath your bare feet. Damp earth presses between your toes as you wander deeper along the meadow paths, fireflies blinking through the dark around you like floating embers.
Steve is halfway through retelling some ridiculous story his students had told him earlier that day, pausing every other sentence because he keeps getting distracted trying to kiss you.
Grass stains smear across the knees of his expensive slacks when he finally pulls you down beside him into the field.
“Steve,” you protest weakly, glancing at his pants.
“What?” he asks innocently, tightening his hands around your waist.
“Those are gonna stain.”
“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, grin lazy. “Worth it.”
You lose track of time there.
Talking between kisses, lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass while Steve points out constellations he names wrong on purpose just to make you argue with him. His fingers comb slowly through your hair while your head rests against his shoulder, skin sticking together in the humid night air.
And by the time he gets you home, you’re half-floating.
Steve crowds you against the apartment door before the lock has even clicked shut.
Both hands on your waist, lips sealing over yours. The force of it nudges you softly into the door, his body fitting against yours as he grunts low into your mouth like he’s been holding himself back all night.
Sweet burgundy wine still lingers on his tongue when his lips part against yours.
He’s warm everywhere.
Warm hands sliding beneath your dress, warm mouth against your throat. Warm breath ghosting over newly exposed skin every time he pauses to look at you.
And he does pause, constantly.
Heavy-lidded hazel eyes drag across your face, your throat, the curve of your body beneath his hands, lips gone slack from that third glass of Merlot though his smile tells you he’s drunk on more than just the wine.
His palms skim along the back of your thighs while he kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his stubble pulling a shaky breath in the shape of his name.
He smiles against your skin, feeling your fingers clutch tighter at his shoulders.
“C’mere,” he murmurs softly.
The bedroom lights stay low when he walks you backward toward the bed.
Blue comforter wrinkling beneath you when he eases you onto your back, following you down, kissing over every inch of exposed skin while your heartbeat stutters harder with each press of his mouth.
Broad palms smooth upward beneath your dress while his lips trail lower, the slow descent of it dizzying; his mouth dragging across your collarbone, the center of your chest, down your stomach, your ribs, each kiss separated by warm breaths and playful nips that make your muscles jump.
And when he kneels at the foot of the bed—nudging your legs apart carefully, lovingly, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin inside your thighs as he settles himself in between—he lets out this quiet little sigh.
Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.
“Pretty girl,” he murmurs against you, pressing the words directly into your skin. “You’re so beautiful.”
His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear while he glances up at you through heavy lashes, tongue darting briefly to wet his lower lip.
You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.
“Steve,” you whisper. “Wait.”
His hands still immediately where they rest on your hips. “What’s wrong?”
You swallow hard. “Nothing, I just...”
Your head spins pleasantly and horribly all at once from the wine and the heat and the sweet boy kneeling between your thighs looking at you like you hung the moon.
“I should shower first.”
His brows pull together. “Why?”
“Because,” you laugh weakly. “I’m sweaty.”
Steve smiles at that, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s heard all day.
He leans in even closer, nose brushing over your clothed mound before he presses a slow kiss there.
“Baby,” he murmurs against you, “I don’t care.”
“Steve...”
“I mean it.”
His hands glide upward along your waist, warm and heavy as velvet, fingertips grazing your ribs on the way up.
“I like you like this,” he says softly.
Then he takes in a breath.
A deep, deliberate pull through his nose, the warm drag of air against the damp fabric making your thighs twitch around him.
“You smell good,” he murmurs, kissing you there again. “Like summer.”
Your face burns, but Steve only smiles wider, already halfway gone.
“Just stay,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you. We can take a bath after, promise.”
He turns his head to the side, nose nudging affectionately along your inner thigh before he closes his lips around the sensitive skin there. The suction is soft at first, teasing warmth into you before the pressure deepens just enough to sting pleasantly.
A new love bite starts to bloom, petal-soft and tender, like a flower kissed awake by rain. His mouth traces over it, soothing the flush of it back into softer color with gentle, unhurried pecks.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss over the bruise-tinted skin. “My perfect girl.”
To be loved this intensely feels like it could swallow you whole.
Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.
You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until your breath catches sharply in your chest, a raw, jagged gasp tearing from your lungs.
Steve’s head snaps up instantly.
You jerk your face away in horror, both hands flying to cover your eyes before he can see.
God.
Oh god.
Not now.
Why now?
“Baby, are you—”
His voice cuts off the second your breath stutters again, louder this time.
The mattress jolts beneath you as he pushes upright, fast enough that the bed frame gives a small protesting creak.
“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”
You can feel him at your side immediately, his quick, uneven breaths brushing against your hands where they're pressed tight to your face.
“Baby, what happened?”
His fingers curl around your wrists, firm but impossibly gentle.
Always gentle.
“Did I hurt you? Did I do something?”
“N-no,” you choke out immediately.
“Then what?” His voice starts to break slightly, turning sharp with worry. “What is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”
You shake your head helplessly, unable to form the words, unable to explain.
The lamp clicks on beside you. Warm amber light spills across everything at once: rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, Steve kneeling beside you, shirt open at the collar, belt buckle undone and tie hanging loose around his neck.
The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.
Slightly uneven in their vase, waterline crooked, the hydrangeas beginning to open wider in the warmth of your apartment.
Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.
Perfect.
A night he’d planned so carefully—reservations at the candlelit Italian place downtown, your favorite wine already waiting at your table, flowers arranged before you’d even walked through the door—
And now you’re crying halfway through sex because your brain can’t handle something as simple as being loved.
You turn your face away again instinctively, shoulders curling inward, but the tears don’t stop. They come harder, messy and humiliating, gasps of air ripping through your chest no matter how hard you try to swallow them down.
You feel Steve’s hand slide up your spine.
Slow, slow passes between your shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide, okay? You don’t have to hide from me.”
“I’m sorry,” you choke out, wiping at your face uselessly. “I-I don’t know w-why I’m—I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry—”
“No, hey, don’t apologize, baby. Don’t say sorry.”
You resist him weakly when he tries to gather you in his arms.
You can’t look at him.
Can’t stand the thought of seeing the concern on his face after ruining this.
“I just—” You let out a shaky breath, voice cracking completely. “Fuck, I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Steve stills at that.
Then slowly, carefully, he takes your wrists fully in both hands.
You let him this time. Arms trembling the entire way down as he lowers your hands into his lap. You still refuse to meet his eyes, staring instead at the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His crisp white shirt is wrinkled, open at the collar, a faint pink bite mark just above his collarbone where you kissed him during the taxi ride home.
His gaze presses into you, heavy and intent, trying to read what you can’t say.
“I need you to look at me,” he says quietly.
“I can’t.”
“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “You can.”
Another tear slips down your cheek. He catches it without hesitation, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.
“Please,” he whispers, softer now. “Look at me.”
You finally do.
Steve’s hair is a mess, chestnut strands falling across his forehead where your fingers had been tangled moments ago.
His eyes—warm honey and green and amber all blurred together beneath the low light—are pained, tight with worry and unbearably expressive.
“There's nothing wrong with you,” he says, unshakably certain. “Nothing.”
His lips are swollen from kissing you, parted slightly with how hard he’s breathing.
It’s so painfully clear, how panicked he is.
Steve’s face never hides anything
It doesn’t know how to.
When he’s happy, it shows in the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
When he’s worried, it gathers in his brows, in the tight set of his mouth.
And when he loves, it radiates from him so naturally it feels endless. Like sunlight.
You wonder what that must feel like.
To love someone without fear.
To offer tenderness without expectation, without the quiet dread that grows the more there is to lose.
He reaches up slowly, clearing tear-sticky strands away from your temples, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Still trying to read what hurts, the furrow in his brows asking without words.
You want to tell him.
For him, you’d try.
But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.
How do you explain that being loved by him feels unbearable sometimes?
That every touch lands somewhere deep inside you that still expects pain?
That he gives and gives and gives, asking for nothing in return, and yet some terrified part of you waits for the bill to come due?
How do you explain that it makes you feel broken, not knowing how to take something he gives so easily?
You part your lips, throat dry and aching.
Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.
Patient.
Always so fucking patient with you.
“I just...” Your voice shakes. You stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, because it’s easier than being seen.
“...I just really love you.”
It rushes out so quickly.
And in a horrifyingly beautiful moment of clarity, you realize it’s the first time you’ve ever said it to anyone.
Ever.
Steve goes still. His brows soften, eyes drooping at the corners. His lips part soundlessly for a second.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You feel his hands twitch against yours, squeezing your fingers unconsciously.
“I love you too,” he says, immediate and certain. “I... I love you so much it’s kind of insane.”
He watches you for a moment, thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles.
“Is that... is that why you're crying? 'Cause you love me a lot?”
A small, startled laugh breaks through your tears; it sounds so simple when he says it like that.
It isn’t simple.
But maybe it also is.
So you nod, watching him visibly come back to himself, drawing out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping heavily like he’d been bracing too, just in a different way.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. C’mere.”
This time you don’t hesitate.
You fold into him, feeling his arm wrap securely around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
And what you always used to brace against—tonight, you sink into willingly.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair.
You let your eyes slip shut, burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingers crinkling his shirt as you hold on tight.
“I love you,” you whisper again, the words pressed softly against his skin.
Thank you, you mean.
Thank you for being gentle with me.
Thank you for waiting.
Thank you for loving me like it’s easy.
Your ex-boyfriend Gator begs for your forgiveness.
pairing: gator tillman x reader
words: 2.3k
contains: angst, ex boyfriend!gator, gator tillman on his knees, gator tillman being terrible at feelings but trying anyway, slight toxic relationship, no use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: day 3 of the 2k followers special! my first gator fic! oh, i have been excited for this one. especially as the request comes from my girl @sorryharrington! the reader is a nurse since i just really love the idea of gator being with a nurse (plus i have been really obsessed with the pitt recently). i don't write a lot for Gator (but i do want to write more) so please let me know what you guys think!
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
It had been thirty six days since you broke up with Gator Tillman. Thirty six days since you had finally had enough of his bullshit, called him an asshole and walked out on him.
It had also been thirty six days since Gator realised how much he loved you.
He knew he was a colossal prick for only realising that after you had broken up with him but Gator Tillman had a lot of prickish tendencies.
He tried his best to get you back. He showed up to your apartment the very next day but you never answered the door. He called you, texted you but you never replied. You didn’t block him either which he took as a good sign. He even started sending you flowers which Gator had once told you were ‘bullshit’ but were now showing up at your door almost daily. He showed up to the hospital you worked at and glared at your male colleagues until you told him to piss off. He went out to bars he knew you would be at and threatened to beat the shit out of any man who looked your way.
He knew he was being even more of an asshole now. That he was making it difficult for you to move on. But of course, the very last thing Gator wanted was for you to move on.
And Gator had tried. He had told himself he could be okay without you. He had tried convincing himself that he didn’t need you. That going out with a girl like Heidi would make him forget all about you.
The only problem was Heidi wasn’t you.
Heidi didn’t call him out for his bullshit. Heidi didn’t make him laugh like you did. Heidi didn’t roll his eyes when he had kept his cap on during dinner. Heidi was clearly just trying to get into his pants and Gator almost let her. In fact, he went home with her. But the moment her lips touched his, Gator felt dirty. Like he was doing something incredibly, incredibly wrong.
He ended up running out of Heidi’s apartment. She hadn’t even cussed him out for it. You wouldn’t have done that—you would have probably yelled at him and called him an asshole.It had been thirty six days since you had broken up and Gator had had enough.
“Are you fucking kidding me—” you mutter to yourself as you drag yourself out of bed. You grab a nearby sweatshirt and pull it over your head before stomping out of your bedroom.
Someone—undoubtedly Gator—was banging at your door, apparently not giving a fuck that you had neighbours or that you had to be up in four hours for a shift at the hospital.
“Could you fucking stop that?” You snap at Gator through your apartment door, teeth gritted as you grab your keys. “Or I swear to god Gator, I’ll leave you out there all fucking night—”
“—please don’t.”
The sound of his voice makes you pause. Despite the fact he was banging at your door, he didn’t sound angry. He sounded desperate. Sad even.
You falter. Your keys clatter to the floor but you don’t rush to pick them up.
“Please, baby—just open the door. Please. I just wanna talk.”
You should say no. You should tell him you had work in a few hours. You should tell him to fuck off. That you broke up with him for a reason, that he was a selfish asshole and he should leave you alone.
But you don’t do that.
Instead you open your front door.
You barely recognise the man standing in front of you. You knew it was Gator because you’d know that gorgeous face anywhere. But it was the defeated, almost broken look on his face that you didn’t recognise. And it was that look that made you step aside to let him into your apartment.
He doesn’t say thank you as he steps inside. He just nods and steps into your space as though he never left.
“It’s one in the morning, Gator,” you say as he sinks down onto your couch, legs spread and large hands resting on his thighs.
“I know,” he mutters, kicking his boots off. “My truck has a clock.”
You take a deep breath in through your nose as you fight the urge to yell at him for his attitude and for taking off his boots like he was expecting to stay. You were starting to remember why you had broken up with him in the first place.
“You wanted to talk,” you begin after a moment. “So talk and make it quick. I gotta be up in like four hours for a twelve hour shift.”
Gator looks up at you properly then, his big hazel eyes looking up at you in a way he never had when you were together.
“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he murmurs, pointing at the camouflage sweatshirt you had grabbed before leaving your room.
You look down at the sweatshirt and swallow. Because he was right. It was his.
“Don’t overthink it,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest and trying your best to keep a straight face. You don’t tell Gator that you had been wearing that damn sweatshirt for almost thirty six days. That you had only washed it once and cried when it no longer smelt like him. You definitely don’t tell him that. Instead, you tense your jaw and look back at your ex boyfriend and try to remind yourself of all the reasons you had broken up with him. You remind yourself that he only started buying you flowers after you had broken up. That he hadn’t wanted to meet your family despite your attempts to have him do so. That he had left you hanging when you had finally said ‘I love you’.
“But still. You’re wearing it,” Gator says. “That means something.”
“It means nothing. It’s just a sweatshirt—”
“—but it’s my sweatshirt. It means something.”
You wanted to throw something at him. Maybe one of his boots. He was such a smug asshole and you just wanted to smack him for it. But you don’t.
“Could you just go?” You ask him, rubbing your temples before gesturing towards your front door. “You clearly just came to piss me off and you’ve done just that so go—”
“—I can’t just go.”
“Why the fuck not—”
“—because I’m fuckin’ goin’ crazy without you!” Gator snaps, his voice cracking the last word. It’s enough to make you look at him. “I’m—shit—I sent you flowers for fuck sake, d’you know fuckin’ desperate I have to be to send you flowers like some fuckin’ sap?”
“The flowers mean don’t shit to me if that’s your attitude about it, Gator,” you retort. “You’re just trying love bomb me and—”
“—I’m not, I’m just—”
“—just what? Just trying to remind me that you never—”
You cut yourself off, your eyes betraying you as they start to well up. You have to look away.
Gator says your name but you don’t look at him. You’re too busy trying to fight the tears that were threatening to fall.
“Are you crying—”
“—could you just fuck off?” You snap, finally looking back at him. Your breath hitches in your throat when you see that he is no longer sitting on your couch but instead, standing right in front of you. “Seriously Gator, could you—”
“—No,” Gator says firmly with a shake of his head as he takes a step closer. “M’not going to fuck off. Not because I want to piss you off anymore than I already have but be—because—I love you.”
The silence that followed was one of the loudest you had ever heard. You blink, wondering if you had misheard Gator until—
“I love you,” Gator repeats, his voice still unsteady but the look he gave you was unwavering. Certain.
You let out a shaky breath before you lift a hand to wipe your eyes, shaking your head.
“No you don’t, Gator. You love stringing me along and you love that I challenge you but you don’t love me—”
“—yes, I do—”
“—no, you don’t—”
“—yes, I do,” Gator practically snarls as he steps right into your space. “I—I fucking love you. I really do. I love you so much that I—I would do anythin’ just to make you smile. I feel like the biggest fuckin’ sap for admittin’ it but I would. And I’ve tried movin’ on but everytime I try I just keep fuckin’ wishing’ it was you on the other side of the table. And I—m’sorry. I’m really fuckin’ sorry for not sayin’ it back t’ya and treatin’ you like I did. For never spoilin’ you like I should’ve. For not going to meet your parents but I—I figured they wouldn’t like you being with an asshole like me and I—I really wanted them to like me—”
“—and you didn’t think to just tell me that?”
Gator rubs a hand over his face in frustration before taking off his cap so he could run a hand through his hair too. You notice how it wasn’t gelled. You once told him you preferred his hair without gel, apparently he had listened.
“No, I didn’t,” Gator admits quietly.
“Gator, I don’t know if I—”
“Please,” Gator croaks out desperately, reaching for one of your hands and squeezing it. “Please don’t—don’t give up on me. On us. I can do better, baby. I know I can.”
You falter just slightly when he calls you baby. It makes you feel warm, makes your insides feel as though they were made of goo.
But still, you say nothing.
And Gator doesn’t know what else to do.
“Please,” he repeats, his voice desperate once again and you watch in complete shock as Gator Tillman, still holding tightly on your hands, drops down onto his knees in front of you. “Please baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good t’ya.”
“Gator—”
“—I mean it, baby,” he continues, pressing his lips to your knuckles as he remains on his knees. “I’ll tell you every fucking day that I love you. I’ll meet your parents. Grandparents. Whoever the fuck else you want me to meet. I’ll get you flowers. I’ll make you coffee every mornin’ before your shift. Maybe even breakfast in bed. Whatever you want just don’t—please don’t give up on me.”
You were speechless. Genuinely speechless. Because Gator Tillman was not the type of man to beg for anything. He could probably count the amount of times he had said ‘please’ on one hand but the fact he was on his knees begging you for forgiveness? Well—it made you think twice about kicking him out of your apartment. You were still undecided on throwing a boot at him.
You look down at Gator, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment before you give his hands a gentle tug, silently telling him to stand up. He obeys because of course he does. Because he loves you. Because he really would do anything for you.
Gator stands—looking back at you and waiting for you to talk. His hands are still holding yours. Still hoping, praying that you’ll trust him.
“Breakfast in bed,” you ask him quietly with a faint smile. “Really? You're gonna wake up at five in the morning just to scramble some eggs?”
The corner of Gator’s mouth twitches, his hazel eyes sparkling just a little as he looks back at you. “I also make omelettes."
You try not to laugh but it somehow escapes you.
Gator’s eyes soften, he gives your hands another squeeze before he lets go in favour of cupping your cheek with one hand, the other resting gently at the side of your neck.
“I meant every word, baby. I love you and I—”
Whatever he was about to say, whatever speech he had rehearsed, you don’t get to hear. Because your lips were on his before he could finish his sentence. Gator takes a second, maybe two, before he responds and when he does, he lets out a low groan before kissing you back.
Gator kisses you like he was starving, like you were an oasis in the desert, like even the thought of pulling away from you might cause him physical pain.
The hand cupping your face was soft but firm, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss. Your hands tangle their way through his ungelled hair as the hand that had been brushing over the side of your neck trails down to curl an arm around your waist, tugging you closer. His mouth was so eager that it made you feel a little lightheaded, your body humming with need for the man in front of you.
And had it not been nearing half one in the morning, you may have given in. May have fallen into bed (or even the couch, you weren’t picky) with him. But the thought of being up in a few hours was the thing that finally pulled you away from him.
Gator whines at the loss and the sound sends heat rushes through you like molten lava but you shake your head, pulling yourself out of it. Not tonight.
“I’ll be expecting my omelette and coffee bright and early,” you tell Gator with a soft smile as you gently comb a hand through his hair.
Gator hums, leaning in to press his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a brief moment before nodding. “I’m gonna make you the best damn omelette baby, I promise you.”
It wasn’t perfect and you had more to talk about, a lot more to work out but for now? An omelette, coffee and Gator Tillman loving you? It was more than enough.
moon dividers and support dividers by @saradika-graphics
Summary: The ache of loving someone who feels just out of emotional reach
Written to: Don’t forget you love me - Calum Hood
Warnings: angst!!
(I haven’t proof read any of this! Sorry for any mistakes/repetition I changed the plot like 12 times!)
Calum hadn't planned to be home this early. He was going to stay with the crew abroad for a bit longer. It was a break in tour for the festive season. But Calum just wanted home.
Home meant quiet, and warmth, and his bed.
Home also meant you.
The front door clicked shut behind him as he stepped inside, exhaling like he'd been holding his breath for weeks. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, landing exactly where it fell from his shoulder; he didn't care enough to move it yet. The first thing that greeted him was the smell, sweet cinnamon and something faintly woody. You'd been burning those holiday candles again. He remembered you telling him about them over a blurry FaceTime a few nights ago, the screen freezing every other second as you held the phone up to a half-decorated Christmas tree with a proud grin.
For five years you'd decorated the tree together on December 1st without fail. This year, he'd been across the ocean, you didn't want to miss the scheduled date, but you didn't decorate the whole tree.
He appreciated the effort more than his face had expressed.
Still, you'd waited for him to finish it, you could still half together, even if it wasn’t on the 1st.
"I don't want you to miss the whole thing," you'd said. He'd tried to ignore the twinge of guilt he felt then, the same one he felt now.
The living room was dark except for the gentle glow of the string lights around the fireplace, twinkling faintly like they were welcoming him back. Their soft amber hue guided him toward the kitchen, casting long, warm shadows across the walls.
Everything felt familiar, his guitar still leaned against the cabinet where he'd left it, your slippers abandoned by the couch, a blanket half-folded like you'd meant to finish and never did.
He moved quietly, suddenly afraid of disturbing the stillness of the house. He didn't know if you were awake. He didn't know if he'd even have any words ready if you were.
Upstairs, the muffled thump of his bag hitting the floor had stirred you from a light, restless sleep. At first, panic shot through you, sharp, quick, automatic. The kind that always came when the house made noises it shouldn't. You slid out of bed quickly, the cold air meeting your bare legs.
Calum's worn out t shirt hung off your frame, the hem brushing your thighs.
You paused at the top of the stairs, breath held, listening.
A low hum drifting up from the kitchen. A melody she knew by heart. Familiar. His.
Relief washed over her in a warm, dizzying wave.
You padded quietly down the stairs, each soft step bringing you closer to the melodic sound in the kitchen.
Calum stood at the kitchen counter, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers wrapped around a mug he wasn't drinking from. Steam curled up between his hands, fading almost as quickly as his expression.
Y/N lingered in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe watching him for a moment, taking all of him in. He looked exhausted, not just the kind that tour schedules caused, but a deeper tiredness that lived behind the eyes.
As always, your chest tightened with a familiar ache you never said out loud. The worry that you might be part of the reason he looked so worn down. That maybe the distance wasn't just from travel or time zones, but from something growing quietly between you both.
He stared into his mug like he could find peace at the bottom of it, unaware that you'd come down.
Unaware that he looked like a man who had finally reached the place he'd been craving, only to realize he didn't quite know how to settle into it.
You watched him for a moment longer, breath caught behind your ribs, before you finally let a soft sound escape, just enough that he would know you were there.
He spun on his heel so fast it made the hem of his hoodie sway. His eyes swept over you, your messy hair, Calum's oversized shirt hanging off your frame, the way your eyes were slightly puffy from a short sleep. His gaze moved slowly, almost disbelieving, lingering like he wasn't sure you were really standing there.
You spoke first, because he looked stunned, like the sight of you knocked the air out of him.
"You're back," you murmured, giving him a soft, sleepy smile.
He didn't answer, not with words. Instead he closed the distance in three quiet steps, placing the mug on the counter and pulled you into him, arms locking firmly around your waist. His grip was desperate, grounding, like he hadn't touched anything familiar in months. He buried his face in your hair, kissing the top of your head, then your cheek, then the warm skin at the curve of your neck. Each kiss lingered a little too long, as if making sure you didn't disappear.
When he finally eased back, stepping just slightly away, his breath trembled faintly.
"Sorry," he whispered, voice rough. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was trying not to disturb your peace."
"You haven't disturbed my peace, Cal," you say quietly. "You're home. I'm happy you're home."
But Calum's eyes dipped, shadowed by something heavier.
"Feels like I've been disturbing your peace just by existing lately."
Your breath caught, sharp and guilty, as if he'd reached inside and tugged at the exact fear you'd been avoiding. "That's not true," you whisper.
He lifted his gaze, dark eyes warm but closed-off at the edges, like he was trying to protect both of you at once.
"I know," he murmured. "I'm not trying to start anything."
He'd created space between you without even realizing it, and you stepped right back into it, refusing to let the distance settle.
"Then what are you trying to do?"
Calum let out a quiet, pained laugh, one without any real humour.
"I don't know. I just,"
He stopped himself, the sentence hovering unfinished. He hesitated, he always hesitated now.
"It feels like we keep brushing against the same bruise."
The words landed between you with a weight that made the room feel smaller.
You traced a slow line along the edge of the counter, grounding yourself. "I'm scared to admit it's there."
Calum looked down, his jaw flexing, breath uneven.
"I don't want to lose you."
"You're not losing me."
But your voice betrayed you, cracking just slightly, revealing the quiet fear you barely let yourself name.
Calum heard it. He always heard the things you tried to hide.
He stepped toward you again, close enough that you felt his warmth, but still not touching, like he didn't trust himself to.
"Then tell me," he said softly, almost pleading. "Tell me we're okay."
Your chest tightened painfully. You wanted to say yes more than anything. You wanted to give him that comfort, that certainty. But the words got stuck in your throat, snagged on the truth.
"We could be," you whispered.
The silence that followed wasn't empty, it was full of everything neither of you had dared to say.
*
The next morning, sunlight barely crept through the curtains when you woke to the weight of an arm draped firmly around your waist. You blinked, disoriented for a moment before the warmth behind you registered, the familiar, comforting heaviness of Calum’s body curled around yours.
You hadn’t heard him come to bed last night. You’d left him downstairs after the two of you had danced around your problems, circling them carefully like they were something fragile, something that might shatter if touched too directly. You hadn’t expected him to still be here.
But he was.
His chest was pressed against your back, his breathing slow and even, soft snores brushing the shell of your ear. His legs tangled with yours, feet cold against your calves. His arm held you with a kind of instinctive protectiveness, the kind he didn’t even know he had before you.
You exhaled, letting yourself savor the feeling.
It was easier to sleep next to him.
It always had been.
His presence made your mind quieter, like something inside you finally unclenched.
Still, you slipped out of his hold carefully, inching him back just enough so you could slide away without waking him. Even then, he made a sleepy sound of protest, fingers flexing as if searching for you in his half-dreaming state.
You brushed your hand along his arm for a moment, soothing him.
Then you dragged yourself out of the room, down the stairs, into the cool air that nipped at your skin and raised goosebumps along your arms.
As you passed the hallway, you noticed something unusual.
Calum’s studio door, normally closed, often locked, was cracked open.
He never left it open.
Not accidentally.
Not even when he was rushing.
Curiosity tugged at you, subtle but strong.
You paused, fingers grazing the doorframe, listening for any sign he was awake. When there was none, you slipped inside.
The room smelled like him, warm cologne. Soft morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the floor, the desk, the scattered sheets of music.
It felt intimate in a way that made your chest tighten.
This was his sacred space. His sanctuary.
His mind laid out in notebooks and chord charts and scribbled ideas.
You wanted to feel closer to him, closer than you had in weeks.
You wanted to bridge the distance. And that wanting pulled you deeper into the room.
On his desk, his songwriting diary lay closed, a pen wedged between pages like he’d stopped mid-thought. You hesitated only a second before you gently opened it to where the pen rested.
Ink sprawled in hurried loops and jagged lines.
You skimmed the words, your eyes catching on one bold phrase scrawled across the top in darker, sharper handwriting:
“Don’t forget you love me.”
The breath left your chest.
Below it were rough pieces of lyrics, fragments of thoughts, unfinished ideas about holding on, drifting apart, wanting to ask for reassurance but being afraid of the answer. They were raw, unfiltered. The kind of honesty he rarely spoke out loud.
Your heart pulled painfully in your chest.
He’d written this alone, somewhere between airports and hotel rooms.
He’d written this about you.
About the two of you.
About the fear sitting between you like a third presence.
Before you could read more, you heard the thudding of footsteps upstairs, quick, uneven, like Calum had woken and realized you weren’t beside him.
“Y/N?”
His voice was rough, sleep-soft, echoing down the stairs.
You snapped the notebook shut, placing it exactly how you’d found it just as he called your name again, closer this time.
“In here!” you called back, trying to keep your voice steady.
A moment later he appeared in the doorway, hair a messy halo, shirt rumpled, eyes still warm with sleep. The second he saw you in his studio, his brows lifted in surprise.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked, not harsh, just genuinely caught off guard.
“The door was open,” you said, glancing around the room. “And it’s peaceful in here. Very… you.”
A hum dipped from his chest, half amusement, half suspicion. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely.
“Mmm,” he murmured, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So you were snooping.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop your own smile. “Not snooping. Not exactly. Just, looking.”
His gaze softened at that.
Not at the words, but at the truth beneath them.
You were looking for pieces of him. For understanding. For closeness. For anything that made the two of you feel less like you were drifting.
And he knew it.
Calum’s eyes flicked from the journal to your face, his gaze landing on you with a kind of naked honesty he couldn’t pull back fast enough. Something shifted, subtle but unmistakable. The soft part of him, the raw part, the part he usually kept tucked behind music and humour and avoidance, it surfaced.
“You read it?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t accusing.
It was small. Quiet. Almost afraid.
Guilt washed through you immediately. Your shoulders dipped, your breath catching as you nodded once. “I… yeah. I’m sorry.”
He frowned, but not with anger. More like confusion. Concern.
“You don’t need to apologise,” he said gently, stepping further into the room. His bare feet made almost no sound on the hardwood floor. “It’s okay. Really.”
But your mind replayed the inked words in looping echoes.
Don’t forget you love me.
People didn’t write that unless they were afraid of the answer. Unless they felt something slipping through their fingers.
“So…” you began, trying to keep your voice steady, even though your pulse hammered under your skin. “What’s it about?”
The question landed between you like a heavy stone sinking through water, slow, inevitable, rippling everything in its path.
Calum froze.
Not dramatically, not noticeably to anyone else. But you knew him too well.
His fingers stiffened. His shoulders held too tight. His breaths shortened, just slightly, like his lungs didn’t want to commit fully to the air.
He looked like someone caught mid-thought, mid-fear.
“You know, just about,” His hand made a vague gesture between the two of you, as if the shape of your relationship could be summed up by the air. “Us. Well, you. And us. You know.”
But you shook your head. You weren’t letting him sidestep this. Not today.
Not after the lyric fragments, the late-night anxiety, the way he’d clutched you in his sleep.
“No, Cal,” you said, stepping toward him slowly, deliberately, until you were close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body. “I don’t know. You have to tell me.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darting briefly to the journal, then back to you. His fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for you but didn’t trust themselves not to shake.
Calum could spill his heart onto paper. He could carve entire worlds out of chords and melodies. He could confess things to a microphone he’d never dare say to someone’s face.
But real words, spoken out loud, unfiltered, those were harder.
You softened your voice, the edges dropping to a whisper.
“If you can write it down, if you can sing it, why can’t you say it to me?”
His breath hitched. A small, involuntary sound. You’d pressed directly into the bruise.
He looked up at you, really looked at you.
In that gaze, you saw everything he tried so hard to hide; The longing. The fear. The exhaustion. The love he wasn’t convinced he deserved.
And the terror that you were slipping through the spaces he didn’t know how to close.
His chest rose in a shaky inhale. His lips parted like he wanted to speak and couldn’t.
His shoulders lifted like he was preparing for impact, your reaction, your rejection, your honesty.
The distance between you wasn’t invisible anymore. It had shape and weight and breath. It stood there like a third person in the room, cornered, unable to be ignored.
Calum looked like he had finally run out of places to hide from it. From you. From himself.
When he finally spoke, the words came broken, halting.
“It’s… I just,” He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustrated at himself. “I don’t know how to say things without making them sound worse. Or too much. Or like I’m the problem again.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them slowly, meeting yours head-on.
“And I don’t want you to forget you love me,” he whispered, voice cracking right through the middle. “I don’t want to give you a reason to.”
His jaw flexed. He hesitated. Calum had probably rehearsed a dozen times in his head and should’ve swallowed it down once more.
“I think you’re, you’re only staying because you’re used to this,” he said quietly, eyes avoiding yours. “Because it’s comfortable.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs “What?”
He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself, frustrated at everything. “I’m just saying, maybe you’re here because you’re used to this. Used to me. Used to how our life works.”
You stared at him, breath frozen in your lungs.
The room went still.
Your breath stopped mid-inhale, a cold shock spreading through your chest.
You stared at him like he’d just spoken in a language you didn’t understand.
“Comfort?” you repeated, disbelief turning sharp at the edges. “You think I stay because it’s comfortable?”
Calum’s jaw tightened. “I just meant, maybe you’re here because it’s what you know. We’ve been together so long, and I don’t know if you’re here because you want this or because it’s easier than starting over.”
A laugh left you, dry, stunned, almost pained.
“You think this is easy?” you said, voice rising. “Calum, I put up with so much. I deal with rumors about you every time you’re not home. I sleep alone while you’re in a different timezone for weeks. I deal with the fact that half the world has an opinion about me just because I love you.”
“I don’t stay because it’s comfortable,” you said firmly. “I stay because it’s you. Because I want you. Not your fame, not the life, not the routine, you.”
Your eyes burned, but you kept going. “And trust me, nothing about this is comfortable?”
“I didn’t mean,”
“No, Calum, you did,” you cut in, voice rising. “You said it because you believe it.”
Calum’s shoulders curled inward, like the words hit him somewhere tender.
He exhaled, a low, defeated sound. “I just meant maybe you’re here because it’s easier than leaving.”
A harsh, humorless laugh left you.
“Easier? Being with you is worth it, but it’s sure as hell not easy. I stay because I love you.”
Calum’s expression crumpled, but the tension in his jaw didn’t ease.
“Then why does it feel like everything I do pushes you away?” he fired back.
Your eyes widened. “Because you are pushing me away! You barely talk to me anymore. When you come home, it’s like you’re somewhere else entirely.”
“And the worst part, It’s working. It’s breaking us. I feel it every day.”
Calum finally looked up, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t want to break us.”
“Then why are you doing everything that makes it feel like you are?” Your voice cracked. “We fought to get here. We worked so hard for this. Why would you throw that away?”
“I’m not!” he snapped back, louder than he meant to. His own frustration flared, but fear lived underneath it. “I’m not throwing anything away.”
“But you are,” you whispered. “And the worst part is, you don’t even see it.”
Calum shook his head, desperate. “I’m not throwing anything away.”
“Are you sure?” you demanded, voice trembling. “Because every time we’re together, you act like I’m wasting your time.”
He looked stunned, wounded, even.
“Y/n. I am never wasting my time with you.”
“Then stop making me feel like you want better than this,” you cried, fingers curling into fists. “Because you say everything’s fine, but you look at me like you’re waiting for something else. Something more.”
Calum stepped backward, hands on his hips, exhaling like the confession hit him dead center.
“I don’t want better than this,” he said, chest heaving. “I want better within us. I want us without, all of this.”
“Then stop avoiding me!” you shouted.
He froze.
“Stop avoiding talking about how you feel. About what you want. About what scares you. Just stop.”
Calum let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You can’t put all the blame on me. I’m not the only one avoiding shit.”
Your mouth opened, but no words came out at first.
He pressed on.
“You shut down whenever you’re hurt. You disappear into yourself. You wait for me to read your mind and then get mad when I get it wrong.”
“That’s not fair,” you whispered.
“It’s true,” he shot back. “We’re both messed up. We both avoid instead of talking. We both let the silence do the damage.”
You looked at him, really looked, and felt your heart split down the center.
“I want you to need me, Calum,” you said, voice breaking as the truth spilled out. “But I don’t feel needed anymore.”
Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.
Calum’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.
His hands shook at his sides. His eyes were wet.
But the words you needed never came, that was worse than him yelling. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
“Say something,” you whispered. “Please.”
He didn’t. He just stood there, chest rising and falling too quickly, eyes full of things he wouldn’t say. The hurt settled into certainty.
The argument didn’t solve anything. It just showed the depth of everything neither of you could outrun.
Your throat tightened.
“Right,” you said finally, voice small and exhausted. “Okay.”
You turned toward the hallway, wiping at your cheeks.
“That’s fine,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “If you won’t talk to me, then I’m going to leave.”
You walked down the hallway on unsteady legs, the argument still buzzing under your skin like electricity. Your vision blurred as you entered the bedroom, but you refused to stop.
You moved through the bedroom with shaky hands, grabbing the nearest tote bag and shoving clothes inside without looking. Every movement felt unreal, like you were watching yourself from above, packing the life you built with him into a bag that was far too small.
You didn’t want to pack. God, you hated that you were packing. But something inside you felt like it would break if you stayed in this silence with him any longer.
Your throat tightened as you tried to breathe through it.
Five years together.
Five years of carving yourselves into each other. Five years of trying, of learning, of surviving every distance but this one.
You shoved in the first few clothes you could grab, sweatshirts, jeans, underwear, nothing folded, nothing organized. Calum stood in the doorway, shoulders hunched, arms hanging uselessly by his sides. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold. Just vacant. Bewildered. Defeated.
“Where are you going?” His voice cracked on the words. They were soft, careful, like he was afraid of pushing you further away.
Your hands halted over the zipper.
“I’ll stay with a friend,” you said. It came out steadier than you felt.
Calum nodded once. Slow. Mechanical.
Like he was accepting a sentence he thought he deserved.
And your heart cracked in a way that felt physical by the way he didn’t move to stop you.
You swiped at your cheeks impatiently. You hated crying. You hated that he was seeing you like this. You hated it more that he wasn’t stopping you.
When you brushed past him to get to the hallway, you felt him flinch, so subtle you almost missed it. His breath hitched, a quiet, broken sound he tried to swallow.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to get more things, I’ll probably stay at hers a while.”
You didn’t mean that. Not the second sentence. You said it because you wanted it to shake him, wake him, something.
But he didn’t react, not the way you hoped. No sudden protest. No reaching for you.
Just heartbreak settling into his features, settling so deeply it looked carved there.
The house felt freezing as you walked through it, every step echoing like you were walking out of something sacred. The decorations you’d put up. The lights you’d chosen together. The cinnamon scent still drifting from the kitchen.
You reached the entryway, fingers fumbling with your coat.
From behind you, you heard his footsteps, slow, reluctant, like each one cost him something. When you turned, he was standing a few feet away, barefoot on the hardwood, face pale, jaw trembling.
Tears streamed down his cheeks in total silence.
They weren’t dramatic. They weren’t loud.
They were the quiet kind, the kind a person can’t hold back even when they’re trying to keep everything inside. He just looked at you like you were the last thing tethering him to the ground, and the rope was fraying in his hands.
Your chest tightened painfully. This wasn’t how you imagined the end of your night. This wasn’t how you imagined him. This wasn’t how you’d planned to spend the holidays together. You thought you could fix this, together.
Something in your chest cracked. You swallowed around it.
“Cal…” you whispered.
Calum straightened slightly, breath catching.
Like he thought, maybe, this was the moment you’d change your mind.
You tightened your grip on the bag, though your hands were shaking violently.
“This isn’t what I want,” you said, your voice barely holding. “I need you to know that. I never wanted to walk away from you.”
He made a strangled sound, half inhale, half sob, but still didn’t speak.
Your lip quivered as you stepped closer.
“I wanted you to talk to me. I wanted you to meet me halfway. I wanted you to need me the way I need you.”
You met his eyes. And it broke you.
“I wish you’d ask me to stay,” you whispered. Your chin trembled. “But I know you won’t.”
Something inside him shattered, you saw it, aflicker of pain so raw it almost made you stop breathing.
But he still didn’t speak.
And that silence was the loudest thing you’d ever heard.
And for you I keep my legs apart and forget about my Tainted Heart
tags: smut, uh illupdate this later
word count: 3,829 words
pairing: calum hood/reader
a/n: did not proofread, currently writing this with a fever
WARNING! RPF CONTENT DONT LIKE DONT READ
The vibrations in Ashton's house were so strong that you could swear you could feel them inside your chest. You leaned against the kitchen archway, a drink hanging loosely from your hand, people watching.
You knew that Calum would be here. The thought was almost laughable; he hadn't left Ashton's side in 15 years. Why would he now? Especially not on his birthday
Ashton had texted you earlier a frantic string of anxious emojis begging you, “pls come, it's my bday and im stuck in the middle of u two drama queens, but I miss you.” You replied with a simple “wouldn't miss it”, and you actually meant it, even after all that had happened the last few months
you had broken up with Calum three months ago, a simple fight, that escalated quickly, got out of hand, you both had your own baggage, that had to be fixed, but you both knew that even before you started dating, but you ignored it, it just kept building unitl it blew up, if youre being honest, you saw it coming.
You hadnt seen him since then, when he slammed your front door that night. His name would light up your phone on the nightstand, over and over. But you were dealing with your own problems, and you didn’t have the energy to fix what was already falling apart. Looking back, you know you were a dick. You let the calls ring out until eventually they stopped.
Getting tired of standing by the kitchen, you pushed off the wall and made your way into the crowd. You'd noticed earlier that Calum wasn't there yet, which was surprising for him, he was usually the first to show up for Ashton. You wondered if he thought about you.
You found Ashton, he grinned when he saw you, and pulled you into a sweaty hug that smelled like beer and whatever expensive cologne he’d thrown on earlier.
You ended up in a loose circle with some friends or his, none that you actually knew, all of you half-yelling over the music just to hold a conversation. It wasn’t graceful, they laughed at jokes that probably weren’t that funny, atleast by you could tell. Someone handed you a shot, strong, and you took it, wincing as it went down.
At some point, you realized you were drunk already, dancing a little on your own, and you stopped checking the door, not actually meaning to.
And then he finally walked in. You didn't notice him at first, but you felt the goosebumps in your skin before your brain actually processed it. There he was, Calum. He looked the same, you thought, of course he did, only a couple months had passed, you noticed his eyes scanned the room, looking for the birthday boy, but, by chance, they landed on you.
You saw the shift in his gaze, it softened, taking you in, it lingered, you probably had outdone yourself today, you definitely put on effort, the skimpy little black dress you were wearing, for him only, and suddenly a wave of embarrassment and realizationwashed over you, it almost sobered you out.
He gave you a small nod from across the room, and you lifted your drink slightly in acknoweledgment, you wernt sure of what to do, and your heart was trying to punch its way out of your damn chest.
Ashton got to him first, pulling him into a loud, back-slapping hug. You watched them dap each other up like your entire history wasn’t standing ten feet away, pretending to be fine. But then again, Ashton always seemed to exist on another planet entirely.
Calum laughed at something Ashton said, but his eyes kept drifting back to you, over Ashton’s shoulder, then he finally decided on something and started walking in your direction.
You quickly smoothed down the front of your dress and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
“Hey,” you answered back, matching his quiet tone.
There was a silence, the kind of silence that felt heavy with everything you weren’t saying.
He wanted to talk. You could see it in the restless way he shifted his weight, in the way he’d hesitate to take a step closer, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
You took matters into your own hands.
“You’re late,” you said, your voice sounding strangely calm. “Ashton’s designated best friend. Shameful.”
He took a slow sip of his beer before answering, his voice low. “Couldn’t decide if I was coming. Sat in my car for twenty minutes down the block like a creep.”
“What decided you?”
He finally turned his head to look at you. In the fragmented light from the party, his eyes were unreadable. “Ashton said you were definitely coming. Said you’d promised.” A pause. “I guess I wanted to see if you kept your promises to other people.”
The words landed like a physical blow, sharp and deserved. You winced, looking down at your hands. “That’s fair.”
The awkwardness was still there, but it had changed shape again. It was now charged with the friction of direct contact, of words actually being spoken.
“This is so fucked,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, shaking his head again. “I had a whole… thing planned. ‘Hey, how are you, you look good, cool, see you around.’ But now that you’re here…” He trailed off, his gaze sweeping over you, from your face down to your dress, and back to your face. There was no anger in his look. It was pure, undiluted conflict. “Now that you’re here, all I can think about is that night. And all the times I called you after.”
“Calum, I—”
“Don’t,” he cut you off, his voice tight. “Don’t apologize here. Not in the middle of this.” He gestured vaguely behind him. “I can’t… I can’t do the polite thing. I thought I could, but I can’t.” He pushed off the doorframe, standing to his full height, his body angled toward you, blocking out some of the noise. The intensity in his eyes was quite frightening. “Is there somewhere we can go? To actually talk? Somewhere that isn’t… here?”
The request hung in the air. It was a threshold. Going with him meant diving headfirst into the mess you’d both avoided for months. Staying meant another hour of this agonizing trouble.
You thought of the fight, of the things you’d both said that were true and cruel. You thought of the baggage you’d brought in, the baggage he’d carried, and how you’d just started hurling it at each other instead of setting it down.
You nodded, once. “Ashton’s office,” you suggested
He didn’t smile. Just nodded back. “Okay.”
He led the way, cutting through the crowd with a quiet determination that had people immediately moving aside. You followed, the satin of your dress whispering against your thighs, your heart hammering frantically against your ribs. This was it. The conversation. The one you’d been avoiding all along finally near the corner.
He found the door, tried the handle. He pushed it open, holding it for you. You stepped into the dark, quiet room. He followed, closing the door behind him.
The silence was absolute. The thick walls muted the party to a faint, distant. A streetlamp outside cast a pale glow across the carpet, illuminating the floating particles of dust. The room smelled like Ashton’s citrus-scented cleaner.
For a moment, you both just stood there in the semi-darkness, two silhouettes frozen in the aftermath of decision.
Calum broke the stillness first. He set his beer bottle down on thecluttered desk with a definitive clink. Then he turned to face you, his arms crossing over his chest, a defensive posture that did nothing to hide the obvious vulnerability on his face.
“Okay,” he said, his voice quiet. “We’re here. Now talk. Or I will. Because I have… a lot to say.”
You tried, you really tried to organize your thoughts, get something out, quickly, find an excuse, all because the truth seemed too tame.
He interrumpted your string of thought, “You broke up with me,” he started, his voice low. It was charged with suppressed energy. “We were a mess. That fight… it was meant to happen eventually. I get it. But you don’t get to just disappear.” He uncrossed his arms, his hands flexing with tension at his sides.
“Ninety-four calls. Ninety-four. You think I didn’t get the message after ten? After twenty? I got it. Loud and fucking clear. But I kept calling and texting because I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That maybe, you’d pick up and just… breathe into the phone so I knew this wasn't over.”
Guilt coiled in your stomach. You silenced as a necessary distance. Hearing it from his side, it sounded like straight-up cruelty. “I was dealing with things,” you said, but the defense sounded weak even to your own ears.
“We all are.” The words burst out of him, frustrated. He took a step forward, invading the space between you. The smell of him—cigarettes, beer, and that unique scent—washed over you, a sensory memory that made your knees feel weak. “That’s the whole point! You don’t get to use your baggage as a free pass to ghost someone who was in the trenches with you. I saw you at your worst. You saw me at mine. That meant something. Or was I wrong?”
“You weren’t wrong,” you whispered, the confession pulled from somewhere deep and fucking damaged.
“Then what was it?” he demanded, his eyes searching your face, desperate for an answer. “Was it me? Was it something I said that night? Just… give me the sentence. Give me the thing that made you decide I wasn’t worth a two-second ‘I’m alive, fuck off’ text.”
It was the hurt in his voice, more than the anger, that undid you.
“It was everything you said,” you admitted, your own voice gaining strength. “You were right, Calum! We are broken. We were trying to use each other as a goddamn bandaid, and it wasn’t working. Every call that lit up my screen felt like a demand. A demand for me to be okay, or to make you okay, and I had nothing left. I was empty. I saw your name and I just… shut down. It was easier than trying to explain.”
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The streetlight glow caught the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes, and the sight was like a punch to your throat. You’d never seen Calum this destroyed. Not even during the worst of it.
“Easier for who?” he asked, barely audible.
The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in. All the noise, the music, the party, the world, it ceased to exist. There was only this charged space between you, crackling with three months of unresolved static.
“I’m sorry,” you said, the words finally breaking free. They weren’t enough. They were pathetic little things. But they were true. “I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up. I’m sorry I let you wonder. It wasn’t about you not being worth it. It was about me being lost.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. He just looked at you, his expression shifting from anger to a profound sadness.
Then, he did something completely unexpected. He let out a short, humorless laugh and rubbed his hand over his face.
“God, we’re a pair” he muttered. “Two drowning people trying to throw each other a life preserver made of lead.”
A faint, shaky smile touched your lips. “Pretty much.”
Another step. He was close enough now that you could see the individual flecks of darker brown in his irises, could count the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose that only appeared in summer. The defensive energy was shifting away, being replaced by something else, something that was heavier.
“I missed you,” he said, the simple admission landing with more weight than all the angry words that he'd said before. “It’s a stupid, cliche thing to say, but it’s just true. I missed your stupid commentary on the movies we watch. I missed the way you steal all the blankets. I missed the sound of your keys in the door.” His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “I missed this. Just… standing near you. Even when it’s the worst that could happen to me.”
Your breath hitched. The memory of his touch, his kiss, the way his body fit against yours—it all came rushing back not as a memory, but as a need, a physical ache that echoed.
“I missed you too,” you breathed. “Even when I was ignoring you.”
He reached out then, slowly, as if giving you every chance to pull away. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. The touch was electric, that traveled straight down your spine. His fingertips lingered on the sensitive skin just below your ear, his thumb stroking slowly along your jawline.
“This is a terrible idea,” he murmured, his eyes locked on where his skin met yours. “We haven’t fixed anything. We’re still the same broken people.”
“I know,” you whispered, leaning infinitesimally into his touch.
“We should go back out there. Be adults. Make a plan to get coffee and talk about our feelings.”
“We should.”
His other hand came up, mirroring the first, so he was cradling your face. His warmth settled into you, melting. His thumbs traced the arches of your cheekbones.
“I don’t want to go back out there,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a husk rasp. The sound vibrated through his hands and into your bones.
“Me either.”
The confession settled there, the final thread of pretending. The talking was over. The months of silence, the hurt, and the guilt—it was all just fuel now, feeding a different, more urgent fire.
He closed the last inch of space.
His kiss wasn’t like any you’d shared before. It wasn’t like the sweet kisses of your early days, or the passionate ones of your better times. This felt different. It was desperate and hungry, with an apology fused.
His lips moved over yours, and you met him with equal emotion, your hands flying up to grip the front of his black t-shirt, fisting the soft cotton, pulling him closer, like you were afraid he would dissapear
He made a low sound against your mouth, half relief, half something that had been held in too long—and it made your chest tighten. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of beer and a deeper, familiar flavor that was him. His hand settled at your waist like it'd always belonged there. Finally being in the same place again.
One of his hands slid from your face, down the column of your neck, over the bare skin of your shoulder exposed by the dress’s strap. His fingers traced the line of your collarbone, then dipped lower, skimming over the satin covering the swell of your breast. You arched into the touch, a soft, needy sound escaping you.
He broke the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours as you both breathed heavily. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide in the dim light.
But you were conflicted. “Tell me to stop,” you breathed, your voice wrecked. “Tell me this is a mistake and we should walk out that door right now.”
He didn’t tell you to stop. You shifted your hands from his shirt to the hem of it, sliding your palms underneath, feeling the hot, smooth skin of his stomach, the firm muscles tensing under your touch. You pushed upwards.
He understood, and in one swift motion, he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it aside. The light painted his torso in planes of light and shadow, the familiar dip of his collarbones, his tattoos, and the dusting of dark hair trailing downward.
You’d missed this. God, you’d missed him.
He shivered. Then his mouth was on yours again, hotter, more insistent. His hands went to your hips, gripping the slippery satin, bunching it in his fists as he walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of the wooden desk.
“Up,” he mandated.
You lifted yourself onto the desk. He stepped between your thighs, pushing them apart, and the intimate contact with your core made you gasp. He leaned into you, his bare chest pressing against the thin cloth of your dress. You could feel the frantic hammering of his heart against your own.
His mouth left yours to trail down your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spots of your throat. You tipped your head back, a moan slipping out. “Calum…”
He made another one of those approving sounds. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing the dress higher and higher until it was gathered all around your waist. The cool air of the office made contact with your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat that his gaze made you feel when he looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with desire.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he said, the words raw. “It actually hurts to look at you.”
His fingers hooked into the sides of your underwear.
He pulled the delicate fabric down your legs and dropped it to the floor. Then his hands were back on your skin, his thumbs stroking your sensitive inner flesh. You watched his hands on you in awe.
When his fingers finally found your core, you were already wet and embarrassingly so. The first brush of his fingertips drew a sharp gasp from you. He groaned, a visceral sound.
“Jesus,” he breathed, his fingers sliding through your slick, circling, exploring with a focus that made your toes curl against the wooden desk. “All this… for me? After everything?”
You couldn’t speak. You could only nod, your head falling back as he found your clit, applying a torturous pressure.
Your back arched off the desk, a broken cry “Oh god… right there, please…”
He worked you with skill, he so knew what you liked, winding you tighter and tighter. His other arm braced beside your head, his body caging you in. You clutched at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, anchoring yourself as the sensations were too much.
“I need to be inside you,” he gritted out, his own control clearly hanging by a thread.
“I can’t wait. I don’t have a condom. I didn’t plan… fuck, I didn’t plan any of this.”
It was reckless, and it was stupid, all of this, but you didn’t care about any of it. You cared about the man in front of you, and all the months of emptiness and missing.
“It’s okay,” you panted, meeting his gaze. “I’m on the pill. It’s… it’s just us.”
The trust implicit in those words seemed to undo him completely. He fumbled with the button of his jeans, then the zipper, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free himself. He was hard, fully erect, the tip glistening. He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head nudging against your folds.
He looked into your eyes, his own filled with emotion, lust, regret, hope, and fear. “This doesn’t fix anything,” he whispered, a final, shaky anchor to reality.
“I know,” you whispered back.
Then he pushed inside.
It was a slow stretch, a fullness that felt too familiar. You were tight, and he was filling you, and the feeling of that after so long apart, stole the very breath from your lungs. He stilled, buried deep, body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Oh, fuck, you feel… I forgot. I forgot how perfect you feel. How you fit me.”
He began to move.
It wasn’t gentle. He moved with a hard, desperate rhythm that had everything to do with three months of feeling alone and pissed off and missing you so much it hurt. He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back into you, the force of it shoving you up the desk.
The room was quiet except for the sounds you were making. The wet slap of skin, the creak of the old wooden desk, both of you were panting like you'd been running. Little choked noises kept escaping your throat, and you couldn't stop them.
You wrapped your legs around his hips, your ankles hooked at his lower back, pulling him in deeper every time. You matched him, pushing your hips up to meet his thrusts, the friction building a tight, hot pressure low in your stomach. Your hands slid over his sweaty back, grabbing at his shoulders.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice strained.
You blinked your eyes open. They were blurry. His face was right there, strained, his lips parted, curls sticking to his forehead. He held your stare as he pushed into you again, harder, hitting a spot that made your vision flash white.
"It's you," he panted, the words coming out with each drive of his hips. "Always you. No one else. Couldn't be anyone else."
That did it. Hearing him say it like that, all raw, while he was buried deep inside you, it made the pressure snap. Your climax tore through you, it was overwhelming. Your body clenched around him as you arched off the desk.
Feeling you come apart, hearing that sound, broke whatever was left of his control. He drove into you one final time and let go. You felt his whole body shudder and then go limp as he collapsed on top of you, heavy.
For a long minute, there was just the sound of your breathing, ragged and slowing down. The party was still a noise somewhere far away. The desk was digging into your back. Papers were on the floor. Nothing was fixed.
But he was still inside you. His weight was pinning you down. His face was buried in your neck, his breath hot and damp on your skin. His arms were wrapped around you so tight it was almost hard to breathe.
Eventually, he softened and slipped out. He didn't move away. He just sort of gathered you against him, helping you sit up on the edge of the desk. He stayed right there between your legs, his arms around your waist, your foreheads touching.
Neither of you said anything. What was there to say? You'd either said it or fucked it out of your systems.
He finally leaned back just enough to look at, you were both sweaty and sticky and a complete mess.
A slow, dazed smile touched his lips, the first real one you’d seen all night. It was tired, but it was real.
summary; you needed someone to split your rent with, and robin was a friendly face, so why is steve harrington in your life all of a sudden?
notes; steve harrington x fem!reader, reader is robin’s roommate, tommy hagan is a bitch even in his old age slighttt enemies to lovers but it fizzles out vvvv quickly - no use of Y/N! multi part series - 2.6k words - requests are always open; masterlist
It seemed letting Steve Harrington into your home once had turned into an open invitation - or maybe, your paths were simply crossing more often now. The apartment you called home was no longer just yours, rather the same four walls and creaky front door belonged to Robin too. Steve didn’t have an open invitation into your apartment, but a direct one, straight from your roommate.
You had no excuse for being so surprised to seeing Steve sat on your sofa - comfortably beside Robin, with a popcorn bowl beside them which left too many pieces spilled out onto the floor for your liking - when you came barrelling through the door, Tommy Hagan following closely behind. He was never shy to touch, eager to have his hands racing across your body whenever he had the chance, and you had never denied him of that for you revelled in the touch, in the feeling.
However, catching the quick flash of a disgusted grimace on Steve’s face was more than enough to have you pulling away from Tommy as you entered the apartment. Just as quick as you caught Steve’s eyes had he caught yours, swiftly reminding himself to plant a smile on his face; fearful of overstepping.
Your lack of touch, rather your lack of reciprocation, grounded Tommy: bringing him back down to earth, no longer swept up in the soft of your skin, and instead bringing his attention to your living room.
“Harrington?” Tommy couldn’t quite believe the sight in front of him, hardly expecting such a close old friend of his to be sat on your sofa.
“Tommy, hey.” Steve sat up straighter as Tommy moved closer to him, running his hands down the material of his joggers a few ferocious times.
“It’s good to see you, man,” He offered his hand out to Steve, ready to shake, and entirely unbeknownst to his old friend’s hesitancy to accept the hand shake, never mind the tremble in his hands. “You finally got yourself a girl, too, huh? I mean, I’m pretty sure she was one of those band geeks but good for you. Breaking outta social norms and whatever.”
“Shut up, Tommy.” You shoved at his shoulder, scowling at the boy’s comment. You watched as a frown covered Robin’s face whilst Steve remained almost stoic, upright and unwavering against anything Tommy had to say.
“Whatever you say, princess.” He threw his hands up in faux innocence for you knew he wasn’t feeling apologetic in the slightest. Instead of apologising to Steve or Robin, he turned on his heel and sauntered throughout your apartment, as thought it was his second home, and headed for your bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a harsh click - leaving you still stood in the living room.
“Sorry for him,” You rounded the back of the sofa, throwing your arms around Robin, holding her shoulders as she faced away. You rested your chin on her shoulder, your body leaning over the sofa now. “I’ll let him be an asshole to me, but he’s got no right to talk about you like that- I’ll speak to him.”
“’S okay,” She rested her hands over yours, squeezing ever so lightly to let you know she was being honest. “It’s not your fault he’s a prick.”
“I know but I brought him in here.” You shrugged regretfully, wishing you had never suggested going back to your apartment with him. He’d never posed an issue being there before, usually muttering a short ‘hi’ to Robin before slipping into your bedroom, but one look at Steve was enough to have Tommy regressing back to his old high school ways.
Robin waved you off, assuring you that there was no apology necessary for there was no reason she would ever care for what Tommy Hagan had to say about her; especially considering they had been out of high school for years. She ushered you into your bedroom, reassuring you that there was nothing to worry about.
“He’s fucking insufferable.” Steve scrubbed his hands down his face in exhaustion, almost in disbelief at the interaction that had just unfolded in front of him for he thought he had left high school far behind him.
“Yeah, but she likes him,” Robin landed back on the sofa, legs curled beneath her as she looked at Steve: at the frown that now covered his face, the crease between his eyes, and his hands that wrung around each other in his lap. “I think he’s nice to her, y’know.”
“I don’t think Tommy’s capable of being nice, Rob.” Steve turned his attention back to the movie that had been playing in the background, previously unnoticed once Tommy had stormed in.
The pair sat quietly, the silence floated between them with an unusual weight to it; it wasn’t awkward, rather charged; like something left unsaid. Steve’s mind was whirring with thoughts, leaving him almost unable to focus on the film - he had watched Tommy with Carol, with every other woman that had stepped foot into his life. And although, Steve didn’t know you, he knew you didn’t deserve to be with someone who was filled with such malice.
“You can’t just play nice for once! Be polite!” Your voice cut through the low hum of the television in the living room, sharp and piercing, as Robin and Steve both pretended as though they couldn’t hear you, as though your yelling hadn’t completely drowned out the sound of the film.
“C’mon, it’s just Harrington, he doesn’t care!” Tommy’s voice followed, causing Steve to turn his head in the direction of your bedroom now his name had been mentioned.
“I don’t care if it’s Steve or if it’s Rob, you can’t just be an asshole! You’re in my apartment, and they’re my friends- you’ve got no right to speak to them like that!” Steve whipped his head back around to face Robin, eyebrows pinched together in confusion at your words. “It’s humiliating for me!”
“Didn’t know you two were friendly.” Robin nudged Steve’s leg with her foot, her voice hardly a whisper to ensure you wouldn’t hear her speak, even from your bedroom.
“We’re not?” Steve shrugged his shoulders, his words coming out as more of a question than a statement. He had only spoken to you a handful of times: he made a conscious effort to stay out of your way since the first time you had met for he was sure you weren’t his biggest fan.
“Me and Harrington go way back, he can take a fucking joke, babe.” Steve’s eyes grew with the shock as he heard Tommy speak. The two hadn’t spoken since their early years of high school: they were two incredibly different people now and then as Steve tried to change his ways, change what he was known for, whereas Tommy was simply stuck in his ways, comfortable with how he had always been. A friendship between them hadn’t worked for a long time, nor had it existed for a long time since an explosive argument had fizzled out any remains of a friendship.
“You don’t know that, Tommy! You haven’t spoken to him since, what, junior year?” You weren’t sure why you were so quick to jump to Steve’s defence for you weren’t even too sure on your opinion of him, but you weren’t going to let Tommy walk all over him just so he could boost his own ego. “You don’t know who he is anymore!”
“Yeah, I do- he’s a freak now, he’s got no friends, and he’s fucking that geek out there!” Tommy raised his voice again, eliciting a wince out of you for you knew that his voice would travel into the living room, almost as though he wanted Robin and Steve to hear him.
“Get the fuck out of here.” You wasted no time in pulling your bedroom door open, anger rising like bile in the back of your throat as a result of the boy stood in front of you.
“Aw, c’mon, babe- don’t be like this.” Tommy took a step closer to you, hands held out to take your waist whilst you took a step away from him, arms crossed over your body.
“What are you doing? Get out of here.” You scowled and swatted his hands away from you, waiting on him finally accepting defeat.
“Yeah, whatever,” Tommy grabbed his jacket that lay on your bed, slinging it over his shoulder as he made his way out of your bedroom. “Better get used to being on your own, babe, you’re gonna struggle to find anyone who’ll put up with you.”
“I don’t know who you think you’re speaking to, Hagan, but it sure as hell isn’t her.” Steve rose from his spot on the sofa, closing in on Tommy as lingered by the front door. His eyes caught yours, the slight glint in your eyes from the tears that he was sure were welling up.
“Pack it in, what you gonna do? Fight me? ‘Cause we both know how that’ll go.” Tommy looked Steve up and down, seeing someone entirely different from the boy he knew at seventeen; he was broader now, shoulders filled out and biceps bigger than they used to be; one look at who Steve had turned into left Tommy less confident in his ability to win a fight against him, despite his cocky words.
“I’m not gonna fight you, I’m asking you to leave,” Steve jabbed his finger into Tommy’s chest, almost too rough as the boy stumbled back a step, but his words were calm, and his expression gave away nothing as to how he was feeling. “You don’t get to come into their home and make both girls feel shitty- go do that somewhere else, find someone else.”
Tommy opened mouth for a second, before shutting it again and letting out a sigh before turning on his heel out of your apartment - making a point of slamming the door behind him.
Although the movie was still playing faintly in the background, you could hardly hear it for your ears were still ringing slightly as a result of the yelling, with no help from the harsh slam of your front door. You looked at Steve, his back turned to you as he watched Tommy drive away from the window in your living room, glad that he had an open invitation into your apartment.
“I’m sorry you guys had to hear that,” You interrupt that quiet that had swallowed the living room, everyone almost scared to break the stillness that had blanketed the living room. “I didn’t bring him over thinking he was gonna- he’s not usually like that, I swear.”
“What’re you apologising to us for? He should be the one apologising.” Robin tutted as she moved to stand beside you, swallowing you in a hug.
“I won’t call him back, I won’t- we’re done, I promise.” You pulled out of Robin’s hug with a wobbly voice and teary eyes, holding her arms so she could feel the intent of your words.
“Thank god,” Robin let out a relieved sigh. “You deserve better than that dickhead.”
Steve turned back around, now sure that Tommy was long gone. A small part of him had wanted his old friend to prove him wrong, to show him that he had changed, but Steve had always known that Tommy was frozen in who he had always been.
“I’ll make tea.” Steve excused himself, almost feeling out of place with his voice clipped and words short as he headed for the kitchen.
You fell into easy conversation with Robin, curled up on the sofa beside her, in place of the popcorn bowl. You let her ramble on about Back to the Future; something about herself and Steve watching it whilst they were stoned; whatever she wanted to speak about, you were glad to hear anything that distracted your mind from replaying the words Tommy had yelled at you.
“Tea,” Steve appeared in front of you and Robin, two steaming mugs in his hands as they offered them both to you. He slid into the spot beside you and the arm of the sofa, thigh pressed against yours due to the small size of your sofa. “It’s meant to be calming, I think.”
“Thanks, Steve,” You held the mug in your hands, allowing the warmth to ground you. “For everything, I mean, you didn’t have to do that with Tommy- I know you aren’t friends anymore, so it means a lot.”
“No, well, I wasn’t gonna let him speak to you like that,” Steve quickly shook his head, eyes fixed on the television in front of him instead of letting his eyes drift to you sat comfortably beside him. “Friends or not.”
“Well, thank you, anyway.” You nudged your knee into his, causing him to turn his head ever so slightly to face you.
All three of you stayed on that sofa, squashed beside each other, to watch the remaining few minutes of the film and the credits that followed. Despite his unsure nature, Steve’s idea to serve tea had been a great help in calming everyone down. You kept the mug in your hands long after the drink had been finished, fidgeting with the chips of paint along the handle. As the credits played, Robin busied herself with squaring up the living room whilst you and Steve stayed put.
“Y’know what he said isn’t true, right?” Steve spoke up, finally giving you his attention; noticing the pink cats that littered your socks, hidden beneath your sweatpants, as you sat with your legs curled beneath you. “That you’ll never find someone who’ll wanna put up with you? He’s just projecting ‘cause he’s never gonna find someone.”
“He could be right,” You appreciated the sentiment behind Steve’s words but you struggled to see the truth behind them. “I haven’t had much luck with guys before him.”
“Tommy Hagan is not gonna be the pinnacle of your love life, trust me.” Steve laughed, rolling his eyes at your words.
“I dunno, Steve, I might have to accept my single life- could even get a couple of cats, that’d seal the deal.” You weren’t sure where this side of Steve had come from, considering the last you knew of him he was a closer personality to Tommy, but you weren’t in any position to complain about it.
“Oh, I’m sure Rob would appreciate that.” He stood as he spoke, grabbing Robin’s mug from the coffee table and taking your mug in his hands, letting his fingertips brush yours as he did.
“You’re going?” Robin emerged from the kitchen, wordlessly taking the mugs from Steve’s hands as she watched him slip his feet into his shoes.
“Yeah, the kids have got a training before school tomorrow,” He shrugged his jacket on, hands patting down his pockets until he heard the sound of his keys jingle. “Can’t sleep in and miss it, this job’s more serious than Family Video- they’d actually fire me.”
You watch Steve as he spoke, putting the pieces together in your mind as you remembered Robin mentioning he coached the little league once or twice, and all of sudden you couldn’t imagine why you had ever wrongfully looked at Steve; you couldn’t imagine him as the same boy you’d known from high school, for he couldn’t be any further from that image.
“Give me a call if Hagan ever comes back, I’ll be here as quick as I can.” His words held weight, meaning, for he knew he’d drop everything if either you or Robin called him.
“I think we’re good here,” You held his eyes, catching the warm look across his face as he looked down at you. “You’ll be the first person I call if I need it, though.”
in which, the last person on earth you expected to call you at midnight does.
contents: steve x reader; no gendered terms used for reader; post s5 fic (contains some spoilers!); confessions; past trauma and chronic pain mentions; mention of prescription medications; angst with a hopeful ending!!
word count: 2k
suggested listening: back to the old house by the smiths
It’s cozy in your apartment. You’re teetering on the edge of sleep, the orange glow from your lamp and candles illuminating the pages of the book you read. Your body sinks heavily into your bed, lids hooded. Outside, the city is still loud. You try to tune it out with the radio turned, volume low.
You finally give up after nodding off once. You sigh and yawn as you rise, bones cracking, your back aching. The pain has gotten worse and worse since ‘86. You place your book down and blow out a candle while heading to the kitchen for water. You’re still taking the same medicine as you did when you moved here - an antidepressant, sleep medication, and an anti-anxiety pill. You take them together with water from the tap, along with ibuprofen to ease the ache.
You’re padding off to bed with another yawn when the phone rings. The shrill tone scares you, and you whip around to look at it, hanging innocently on the wall. Then your eyes move to the clock — 12:09 a.m.
You pause for a moment, twitching when that same shrill tone calls out again.
If it’s important, they’ll leave a message, you think, but you still linger to see if whoever it is actually does.
Your voice comes through the speaker. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message and I’ll give you a call back.
A beep.
A sigh heard across the room.
Your breath hitches. You know it’s him before he even starts talking.
“Hi,” Steve’s voice says.
Your legs shake and you slowly walk to your couch, sitting down and listening.
“I know it’s late for you. I’m sorry.” Another sigh. “I’m sorry. I just — do you remember that soup you used to make? The one with the potatoes and the onions?”
He laughs, soft and low.
“Wanted it so bad tonight. And I just picked up what I remembered you buying when you made it. But I think I left something out. Maybe garlic? It was fine, not as good as yours.”
There’s another long pause. You hear him sniffle, then laugh again.
“It took me two hours. You used to make it so fast. I tried to do some of the tricks you taught me to dice, but I didn’t…”
He clears his throat.
“I didn’t remember. I remember what you looked like, and what you were wearing — that light blue button-up I got you at Macy’s — and you were dicing chives. But I don’t remember how you did it.”
The back of your throat aches. It hasn’t ached in a while. Your eyes burn with hot tears and your molars crack under the pressure of your jaw, though you don’t notice the pain just yet.
“Anyway. I guess I j— I miss you. And I think about you.”
His voice shakes.
“And I hope you’re okay.”
The silence is only filled by the sounds of both of your hushed breaths. A tear falls down your cheek and your teeth bite into your bottom lip.
“You’re probably out doing something fun with fun people. You don’t have to call back. And for the record, I’m sober. Alright. Well, I’ll —“
You panic. You pick up the phone.
“Hi?” you breathe.
There’s another long pause before Steve softly says your name.
“Hi,” you say again. You haven’t heard him say your name in so long. Not in real life, at least.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey — I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”
“No. I was getting ready to.”
“Oh…. What time is it there?”
You can’t help but to laugh. “Same time as you, plus an hour.”
“Right. Sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”
You bite your tongue. You want to keep the conversation going, but you don’t know how.
“Who gave you my number?”
His voice is small when he says, “Robin.”
You definitely should have known.
“Of course,” you say softly.
“I shouldn’t have called you.”
Your hands shake. You take a deep breath. “It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
Another long pause. You’re breathing in tandem.
“How’s Hawkins?”
It’s the sorest subject you could bring up. You left, he stayed. You begged him to come with you; he begged you to settle down with him. It was a fight you had both ceded to two years ago.
You can’t imagine a worse place on earth than your hometown. The word feels foreign as you say it.
He swallows. “I, uh — I don’t know.”
Your stomach drops.
“You left?” you whisper.
He swallows again. “Yeah.”
You’re supposed to be over Steve. You thought you were. You’re even in a committed relationship now, though you’ve been contemplating ending it. And you never thought Steve was in that equation, why you always left the people you thought you loved.
But it all goes back to Steve, whether you know it or not. Nothing has ever compared to him.
You don’t want him to control your feelings anymore. You’ve swallowed him down with your bitter sadness. But knowing he’s left Hawkins after you begged and pleaded with him to come with you was a blow lower than any you’ve ever taken. You’re immediately angry, waiting to strike at him, to make him feel just as low as you.
“You were right,” he says. “Everything you said about compartmentalizing and — and wanting to play hero — you knew it before I did. And you were right. I should have listened.”
Steve didn’t want to leave. He wanted to settle down in his hometown, have a few kids, be a working father with a stay at home partner. Two vacations a year, an RV in the driveway, nothing but domestic bliss that, for some reason, he didn’t think he could find anywhere else.
“You’re not letting yourself heal,” you’d argued with him. “You’re only staying here because you think you can fix it all if it happens again.”
His response was always, “It won’t happen again. It’s over. We saw it.”
You pleaded with him to at least admit that he was scared. That what’s happened to him has affected him. He simply wouldn’t budge. You left, he stayed, and that seemed to be the end of it.
He says your name softly, like it’s a holy word that he’s not allowed to say.
“I’m so sorry.”
You chew on your lip again. The sharp taste of metal on your tongue makes you feel sick. You never want to taste blood ever again.
“I’m happy for you,” you eventually say, and only because it’s the right thing to do. You don’t mean it, though you wish you did. “Where are you now?”
“Over in — over in Forest Hills. So not that far away. But it’s enough.”
You hum. The short distance move makes you feel better, as dumb as that is.
“Are you still in New York?”
“Yeah.” You laugh a little. “Rent here’s a lot more than it is in Forest Hills, let me tell you.”
He laughs, too. It comes out in a burst, like he’s been holding it in for a long time.
“God, I’m sure. Have you seen Byers?”
“We get dinner sometimes. He’s making another movie now.”
“Another cannibal one?”
“He’s going after global warming this time, actually. He just told me and I can’t even remember what the metaphor is.”
“Will you be in it?”
You laugh again, your body relaxing. The anti-anxiety is kicking in, and things almost feel normal. Almost.
“I’m not an actress, Steve.”
You hear him choke on a gasp.
“Oh, wow,” he says breathlessly.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Just — haven’t heard you say my name in a long time.”
Your throat aches again. Tears pool in your eyes, making your vision blurry.
His interruption is your savior. “What about little Byers?”
“Fine. He’s doing good. He’ll crash on my couch if he gets too drunk sometimes. He knows Jonathan will be pissed.”
“Little Byers getting drunk? Never thought I’d hear that.”
“Yeah,” you laugh. “We’re all grown up now, Steve.”
The dead air that follows is maddening.
“I guess we are,” he eventually answers.
Another long silence. Steve breaks it again.
“I missed hearing your voice.”
You close your eyes, evening your breaths. “Steve —“
“Christ, I missed that.” His voice is thick with sadness that he rarely let show when you knew him. “I missed you saying my name so much.”
Your mouth drops just a little. You’re overwhelmed, not sure what to do or say, your bedtime medication cocktail ramping up in intensity. But you’re just like Steve. You missed his voice. You missed him.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m here, Steve.”
His breath shudders.
“What — um — what do you do now? For work?”
He chuckles. “You’re not going to believe what I was doing before I moved.”
“Do I get one guess?”
“One guess.”
“Hmmm. Retirement home receptionist.”
“You just said my worst nightmare out loud.”
You laugh. He laughs.
“Way worse, though,” he says. “Baseball coach.”
“What? That’s a great —“
“And! And, Sex Ed teacher.”
You’re so shocked that you have to process it for a moment. But then you laugh, loud.
“You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. I guess that’s what they make coaches do.”
You laugh again. Tears spring to your eyes from the emotional release. And you just can’t stop.
Steve’s laughing, too. A sound you missed desperately, one you hardly heard when he was yours and you were his. Always so serious.
“That is genuinely the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”
He groans. “I know.”
“I guess you do have a great resume for a job like that.”
“Shut up,” he mumbles. You can hear the smile in his voice. “It was awful. You wouldn’t believe how many of these kids stayed after class and flirted with me.”
“Oh, ew.”
“It was horrible!"
“Now you know how Ms. Michaels felt when you’d linger at her desk after math class.”
“She was hot!”
You laugh, incredulous. Then you yawn, loud, your eyes closing on their own.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I should let you go —“
“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “Just took my sleeping pills before you called.”
He’s quiet now. “You take them, too?”
“Yeah. I somehow got my psych to prescribe me the same ones Owens did. Very lucky.”
“Do you take them every night?”
“Almost always.”
“Me, too,” he says softly. “It’s been so hard to sleep since….”
“I know,” you whisper.
“No. You don’t know.” He laughs, but it sounds pained. “You have no idea. I haven’t slept well since you left.”
Your brain goes blank.
“And when I sleep, you’re there, but it’s not good dreams. It’s — I just keep seeing you —“ he sighs, loud and long. His voice shakes as he continues. “I see you in there. I see you broken and… and then sometimes all I dream about is the last conversation we had. You walking out the door. And I wake up, and I’m so empty. It’s all so empty.”
Your heart pounds.
You’ve spent years doing the same thing you accused Steve of — compartmentalizing. But not your trauma, not the Upside Down. Just Steve. And suddenly, it’s all opened up, forcing you to face it again.
“I swear I can still smell you sometimes,” you whisper, voice slurring a bit with sleep. “I’ve washed my sheets a million times and they still smell like you. That stupid Guy Laroche cologne that you used to drown yourself in. All the guys wear it here and every time I smell it… I want to — to puke. It’s like it only makes sense on my sheets.”
He whimpers. There’s another long silence, both of you contemplating as you struggle to keep your eyes open.
“I know you’re tired,” he says softly. “But I just need you to know that the biggest mistake I’ve ever made was staying here and letting you go.”
You can tell now that he’s crying.
“I miss you like crazy. I think about you all the time. I try so hard not to. I see people, I go out, but you’re always in the back of my mind. I see someone who looks like you and I… I just go stiff. And I know that’s my own fault. I know. I swear I know. I just wish I knew it when I was younger, you know? How the world moves and I need to move with it.”
Your bottom lip trembles, more hot tears tracking down your cheeks and tickling your neck.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again.
You’re not sure what else to say.
“It was really nice hearing your voice —“
“Steve.”
There’s a slight whine. “Yeah?”
You chew on your thumbnail.
“Want to stay on the phone while we sleep?”
His breath hitches. “Yeah. Yeah. Shit — yeah.”
You hear him shuffling. You smile, body weak, sinking into the couch and resting the phone beside your ear as best as you can. It’s uncomfortable, certainly not as nice as your bed. You owe Will Byers an apology for making him sleep out here when he’s drunk.
You know you’ll sleep well, though. Better than you have in a long time.
“I’ve got about thirty seconds left,” you slur.
“Go ahead,” he says, his voice thick. “I’ll be right here, okay? Won’t go til you wake up.”
You hum happily, smiling gently. “We have a lot to talk about in the morning.”
“Yeah. We do.”
For a moment, you just listen to him breathing. The evidence that he’s alive and safe. That he’s here with you now.
pairing: coach!steve harrington x teacher!reader
warnings: your extremely professional relationship with coach steve may be under investigation by one (1) very observant six-year-old.
summary: pure fluff, slightly suggestive, steve is just absolutely smitten, secret relationship, children being adorable, mention of marriage, post-s5 (2.3k)
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
Little Eli Parker is zooming down the hallway on a Very, Very Important mission.
Six years old, sandy curls bouncing wildly with every step, he's panting hard through the wide gap between his two front teeth. One of the Velcro straps on his sneaker has come undone, flapping wildly as he skids to a stop just outside your classroom door.
5B
He doesn’t come all the way in. Just peeks around the frame, fingers gripping the edge as he rocks back and forth on his heels.
You pause mid-sentence, lowering the book you’ve been reading aloud. A few students crane their necks to look.
Eli’s bright blue mesh pinnie hangs crooked over his T-shirt, smudged with chalk dust and tiny white handprints—making it very clear which class he’s just sprinted away from. His cheeks are flushed, chest heaving like he’d forgotten the ‘no running in the halls’ rule until the very last second.
“Hey, Eli,” you call out gently. “You okay, honey?”
He sucks in a much-needed breath, eyes wide. “Um… miss you haveta come with me. Coach Steve says you need to!”
You tilt your head. “Coach Steve?”
He nods solemnly. “He said it’s a ‘mer-gency.’”
A ripple of whispers spreads through your fifth-grade classroom.
You blink, already pushing your chair back. “Did he say what kind of emergency?”
Eli shakes his head, serious as anything. “No. He just said we need to hurry.”
Your stomach gives a small, uneasy flip.
Eli isn’t the type to exaggerate. He’s sweet, careful. Reminds everyone when it’s time to line up after recess and always volunteers to erase the board without being asked. He's the sort of kid teachers trust without thinking twice.
If he’s the messenger, it’s because of something important.
“Alright, everyone,” you call to the class. “Keep reading quietly. I’ll be right back.”
A chorus of shuffling follows as you reach for your cardigan.
“Hurry, hurry,” Eli bounces on his heels, voice small but insistent.
Before you can answer, he reaches for your hand. His grip is tiny, warm, a little sticky—surprisingly strong. You find yourself getting dragged by his bouncy, determined steps, weaving past rows of lockers, dodging a cluster of kids heading to recess. He zigzags through the main hallway, past the water fountain, the art room, taking the shortcut through the library until you arrive at the wide, double doors leading into the gym.
The moment you push them open, chaos erupts.
Bright rubber dodgeballs zing through the air. Sneakers squeak across the glossy, lacquered floor. Laughter and triumphant shrieks ricochet off the walls, punctuated by the occasional, “Yes! Got you!” from victorious first graders.
Coach Steve's leaned casually against the far wall, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose around his neck. He’s sipping from a blue ceramic mug that reads World’s Best Teacher in chipped white lettering.
Only five months into the job, yet he’s already something of a legend here at Hawkins Elementary. The younger kids adore him—dodgeball days and ridiculous warm-up games where he pretends to be a shark, stalking the gym with dramatic dun-dun noises until they’re all shrieking with laughter. Older kids trust him in quieter ways, lingering after sex ed to ask questions they’re not brave enough to bring home.
Despite the nerves you remember from his first day, Steve has settled into teaching like it’s been waiting for him all along.
Right now, though, he’s fully in coach mode. Brow furrowed, stance wide, eyes tracking the game like it’s a championship match instead of a bunch of kids still learning how to throw straight.
“Out of bounds! That one doesn’t count.”
“Woah—no head shots, Jacob! C’mon, we talked about that.”
“You okay, Alex? I got you. Here, try it like this. Yeah, there ya go bud!”
Eli, who had been clutching your hand the entire walk across school, suddenly lets go and races toward his favorite teacher.
“Coach Steve! I did it! I got her!”
Steve looks up. Sees you.
And the grin that breaks across his face is so immediate, so fond, it'd be enough to give you both away if anyone was paying the tiniest bit of attention.
“Hey!” he laughs, stepping forward. “Nice work, buddy. Thanks for the help.”
You watch, eyes narrowed in confusion as he ruffles Eli’s curls and slaps a high five against his tiny palm.
Eli puffs up with pride and pivots to sprint back to the game.
“Whoa—hang on, pal.”
Steve drops to his knees, setting the clipboard aside as he reaches for the loose strap on Eli’s shoe. He fastens it with careful, practiced fingers, giving it a quick tug to make sure it’ll hold.
Your stomach melts a little at the sight of him crouched like that: focused, patient, so gentle with this kid who’s staring at him like he hung the moon.
“There we go, champ,” he grins, giving Eli's sneaker a little pat. “Good as new. Now go have fun, alright? Your team missed you.”
Eli nods hard, then rockets back into the game without another word.
Steve straightens and finally turns to you, eyes warm, smile soft—and just a touch guilty.
“Mr. Harrington,” you say, crossing your arms carefully, “what exactly is the emergency you pulled me out of class for?”
His mouth quirks sheepishly, hands slipping into his pockets.
“Well, I just…” He steps closer, dropping his voice. “Haven’t seen you all morning. I missed you.”
You blink.
“You—” A breathy laugh slips out before you can stop it. “You sent poor Eli to fetch me because you missed me?”
He nods like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Yeah. He's my fastest kid.”
“No, that's not the...” you trail off, turning your head, failing completely to hide your smile.
Steve steps closer, angling the clipboard between you so that, to anyone looking in, it would look like you’re addressing some very concerning issues with the class roster.
Well, except for the part where his eyes are glued to your face.
There’s this soft intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch, just by holding it. You find yourself staring back, unable to look away, appreciating the faint creases around his temples, how they deepen with his smile, the plush curve of his bottom lip and the rounded apples of his cheeks as they get pushed upward.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, voice all deep and honey-warm. “Just needed to look at you for a second.”
You shake your head, cheeks warming despite yourself.
There’s a reason you’ve been keeping this thing with Steve a secret.
You both realized, pretty early on, that acting normal in a building full of nosy children and nosier adults was a losing battle. You had to learn to bend with it, catching tiny, fleeting moments in the spaces between, holding onto each one as tightly as you can.
It wasn’t perfect. Mrs. Kline, the school secretary, has definitely noticed the two of you laughing a little too freely by the copier. One of your students will occasionally squint at you during silent reading time, wondering why a tiny scrap of paper left on your table at lunch leaves you grinning for the rest of the day.
Still, you make it work.
A shared coffee in the teachers’ lounge before the morning bell. Standing side-by-side near the parking lot fence as the buses roll in. A granola bar tucked under your desk with a note folded impossibly small.
you look beautiful today ◡̈
He repeats the message to you now, even as you roll your eyes and try to look away.
“Seriously, I mean it," he murmurs, tracing your face with his eyes—the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek—before lingering, unmistakably, on your mouth. “Want to kiss you so bad right now.”
You snort, nudging the sleeve of his sweatshirt with a finger. It’s soft, heather-gray, the Hawkins Elementary mascot faint and cracked across the chest.
“That’s deeply unprofessional of you, Mr. Harrington.”
He groans under his breath, brow creasing as he tips his head back. “God, I love it when you say it like that. Say it one more time?”
“Jesus—Steve!” you hiss, half-laughing, eyes darting toward the gym floor like the kids might suddenly develop super-hearing over the screech of sneakers and flying dodgeballs.
Instead of stepping back, he leans in closer, lips parted in that familiar half-pout, eyes full of mock agony. “Can’t help it, honey. You’re fucking killing me over here.”
“Language,” you warn him, simply out of pure habit.
He smirks, lips twitching.
From the far end of the gym, a group of kids cheer triumphantly, “Yes! Coach Steve! We won!”
You both jump back like you’ve been caught doing something much worse than grinning at each other like idiots.
“Uh—great! Great job, gang!” Steve calls, clapping his hands. “Let's get all the balls in the cart and then grab some water, yeah? Five-minute break.”
Then he leans back in, brows raised. “See? Total professional. I’m telling you.”
You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
You’re still smiling when he pivots, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one’s paying attention. Satisfied, he turns back to you, brows drawn into a hopeful, pleading slant.
"C'mon," he murmurs, lifting the clipboard up like a partition. "I’ll get another game going. The kids won’t even notice. Just you... me...” He gestures between you, then toward the double doors leading outside. “Five minutes?”
You press your lips together, schooling your expression back into something stern. “Steve Harrington. I am not fucking you behind the school gym.”
"Language!" He gasps, mimicking your tone. “And jeez, who said anything about that? I was just gonna, you know, have a very professional conversation with you… about teaching.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, c’mon, bab—"
“Coach Steve?”
Both of your heads snap down at the same time.
Eli stands there, chin tipped up, hands clasped neatly behind his back like he’s been waiting for his turn to speak. He’s rocking gently on his heels, eyes bright with curiosity as he looks between the two of you.
“Heyyy, buddy!” Steve laughs nervously, voice jumping up an octave. “What’s up? You okay?”
Eli nods.
Then, completely matter-of-fact, he asks:
“Coach Steve, when you marry her, can I come?”
Steve chokes on absolutely nothing.
“When—what?”
“When you get married,” Eli repeats patiently, like Steve’s just being a little slow today. “I wanna come.”
Steve squats down so fast he almost drops the clipboard.
“Eli,” he says carefully, “why do you think we’re getting married?”
Eli shrugs, unfazed. “’Cause you’re prac-tis married.”
“Practice… practice married?”
“Yeah. Like my Auntie Jen and her friend Mark at Thanksgiving.”
Steve blinks. “Okay, and what's... why do you think we’re practice married?”
Eli doesn’t hesitate. He points toward the front of the gym, in the general direction of your classroom. “’Cause you always wait for her outside her door.”
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it.
“And you bring her coffee. But you don’t bring us coffee.”
“Well,” Steve murmurs faintly, “that’s ‘cause you’re six.”
Eli shrugs again. “And you talk to her really soft. Like this,” he cups his hand around his mouth to demonstrate, whispering loudly. “Also, you always save her a chair at ass-em-blee.”
Steve rubs a hand down his face, glancing up at you before looking back at Eli. “That’s, uh… very observant of you, buddy.”
Eli isn’t done.
“And you make funny faces at her in the hallway. Oh! And you fixed her pencil sharpener. And, and, there was one time you looked at her, and you didn’t look away for one... two... three...” He glances down at his fingers and starts counting under his breath. “five... six... seven... eigh—”
“Okay!” Steve laughs loudly, holding up his hands. “Okay, buddy, I get it. That’s... that’s a long time.”
Eli nods, clearly pleased with himself. “Auntie Jen and Mark, they used to go everywhere together. And Mark fixed all the stuff around her house. Then later they got married for real.”
He looks between the two of you, satisfied.
“So. I think you’re practice married.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and crouch beside Steve. “Well... I think that’s a pretty solid theory, Eli.”
“Mm-hm, thanks,” he nods confidently. Then he spins back to Steve. “So, when you do the real one, can I come? I’m really good at sitting still. And my mom says when people get married they always eat cake. I love cake.” He spreads his arms wide. “Auntie Jen’s was this big!”
Steve presses his lips together, letting out a short, incredulous snort. “You know what, pal? Sure. Whe—if we get married, you’re more than welcome to come. And we’ll get the biggest cake we can find, okay?”
Eli beams. “Okay!”
He starts to run back to the group, then skids to a stop and turns around.
“Hey, Coach Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“You should ask her nicely,” Eli says, serious as anything. “With flowers. Mark did that.”
And then he’s gone.
Steve stays crouched, staring after him, jaw slack.
“…Did a six-year-old just give me relationship advice?”
“Mm, seems like it.”
He stands slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes still following Eli as he rejoins the others.
“You think he spotted it before we did?” he asks quietly. “Back when... you know, we were still trying to figure out what we were doing?”
You smile. “Probably way before then.”
Steve's still distracted when you put your hand on his shoulder, quickly checking to see that no one’s watching before pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.
He blinks, stunned. “Wha—no, wait, shit—”
He reaches for you a full second too late; you’re already headed for the door.
“Language. Have a good rest of your class, Mr. Harrington.”
Steve watches you go, hand frozen at his cheek.
Across the gym, Eli spots you and waves enthusiastically, completely unaware of just how accurate his little theory was.
The proof?
A small velvet box, tucked away in Steve’s bedside drawer, waiting patiently for the right moment.
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
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