Can you write the kids finding Steve and Reader’s old love letters and maybe include the kids friends parents who went to high-school with Steve and reader telling them stories about how everyone in Hawkins saw how in love and happy they were and cute little moments between the two for the Harrington family. Maybe the kids could be talking about it together and Steve and reader walk in on them and they go quite so they ask what there doing and they share what they were discussing
Summary: Your children beg you to tell them the story of how you fell in love with Steve, and he reminds you that you’re worth every bit of affection he gives you.
WC: 4.2k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, Steve being down bad for his wife, brief mentions of family hurt, reader feeling the weight of not being treated right by others, toddler tantrum/parent feeling overwhelmed, mostly fluff!
Harrington Household Masterlist
if you haven’t read steve & reader’s original story and are interested here it is!
this one takes place after the last HH fic posted!
Peach’s Note: hii anon!! i fear my brain trailed off the tracks. i honed in on them being in love and telling their babes the story instead. hoping you still enjoy lovie! 🩷
side note - the first part is inspired by a tiktok where this dad was telling the kid not to yell at his wife, and i immediately thought of steve 🥰
let’s also all thank this anon for suggesting honey as steve and readers song bc hello??? genius!!! 🍯
The bedtime routine in the Harrington Household was a whole lot less smooth when Steve wasn’t there to help brush teeth, braid hair, or tuck the littles in.
And it never failed to make your youngest throw an absolute fit over it.
“I want Daddy,” she cries, big droplets of tears rolling down her cheeks.
You’ve been trying to get her settled down for nearly an hour now, but she was not having it - fighting you with every fiber in that tiny body of hers.
You take a deep breath, sitting on the floor next to her, “Baby, he’s at work. Remember?”
“No!” She screams at you, kicking her feet dramatically against the floor of her room.
She was officially on the verge of being in the trenches of her ‘threenager’ stage, and her mood swings were all over the place. One minute she was clinging to you desperately - refusing to let you go, and the next she was wailing her lungs out because she didn’t want you to say goodnight to her, she wanted Steve.
The problem was that Steve was currently coaching a late night baseball game at the middle school.
They were rare, but you absolutely dreaded them. It meant you were on the bed time shift by yourself - in a house full of kids who were grumpy over not getting to see their dad the whole day. And in your girl’s brain, she just couldn’t understand why it wasn’t physically possible to see Steve right now.
“Babe,” you say softly, “I know you miss Daddy, but he’s gonna be back so soon, and he’ll come give you a big hug. I promise.”
The cries that are escaping her quiet a little at your assurance, but she still hiccups out, “Want him now.”
“I know you do,” you coo, trying to validate her feelings while she’s calming down - scooching yourself across the carpet to tentatively brush her hair back.
She lets you, and you somehow coax her to cuddle up to you - sniffles escaping her while your hand runs up and down her back soothingly.
You’re unsure of how much time has passed with her resting in your arms, but a quick glance at the clock makes you wince - realizing it’s way past her bed time.
“It’s time to go to sleep, sweet girl,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her cheek, but unfortunately, she hasn’t forgotten her original mission of seeing Steve.
She worms herself out of your arms and starts yelling again, “No, want Daddy!”
“You and me both,” you grumble under your breath, giving up and leaning against her dresser.
You pull your knees up to your chest, trying to settle your own frustrations with her - willing yourself not to snap because that won’t make the situation any better.
She continues to shriek in protest, sufficiently working herself up to the point where she’s struggling to catch her breath, and you feel your own throat tighten at her refusal of you. You know better than to take it personally, know that kids say things they don’t mean when they’re upset, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear that your child doesn’t want you.
“Are you yelling at my wife?” Steve asks sternly, blessedly appearing in the doorway to her room.
He had come home during the tantrum - could hear his girl’s wails from downstairs, drowning the house in an aggravated cacophony of noise. When he heard her calling for him, he hustled up the stairs - heart twisting at seeing you curled in on yourself, feeling defeated from the useless effort of trying to get her to listen to you.
When she sees Steve, her attitude immediately shifts - picking herself up and running towards him. He hauls her up into his arms, cradling the back of her head while she collects herself in the comfort of his hold.
“You don’t scream at my wife,” he tells her firmly, ducking his head to meet her gaze.
She looks away guiltily, eyes flicking over to you before trying to burrow herself in his chest - not liking the reprimand.
“Look at me,” Steve instructs, gently prompting her head up.
She makes a soft noise of recognition at the command, peering up at him from under her eyelashes that are still wet with her tears.
He raises his eyebrows at his girl before continuing, “Don’t scream at her.”
Her lower lip wobbles at being scolded, but she nods her head, “I missed you.”
“Missed you too, babe. It’s okay to miss me. It’s okay to feel sad, but you can’t yell at Mommy like that,” he says calmly, tone of assertiveness mixed in.
Her little fists curl tightly onto his jacket, “Makes Mommy sad too?”
“Yeah, it makes her sad when you do that,” Steve replies, casting a glance your way.
You’d been watching the scene unfold - tears from being overwhelmed streaking down to your chin, and when your girl notices, she squirms in Steve’s arms - trying to get down again. He lets her, and she waddles her way over to you, arms wrapping around your neck in apology.
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she whimpers, hiding her face in the crevice of your neck.
You stand up with her still grasping onto you, “Thank you for apologizing, baby.”
Steve comes over to you, arm curling around your lower back to tug you to him, “Hey, honey.”
“Thank god you’re here,” you mumble, leaning into his touch.
He tenderly wipes your tears before tipping his head down to greet you with a kiss - completely forgetting the baseball hat that rests on his head and the rim of it knocks into your cheek.
The action startles your girl, and she lifts her head from you to look at him in confusion. You chuckle at the slight blush that blooms over Steve’s face from being so eager to press his lips to your own that he forgot to slip the hat off.
“Are you laughing at me?” He teases, lifting the cap - raking a hand through his hair to try to tame the wild locks that have been suffocating underneath it.
You grin, raising your own hand to card through the sweaty tendrils that curl at the base of his neck, “You’re so cute.”
“Daddy’s cute,” your girl repeats, a smile finally taking over her features.
Steve pouts at that, hand shooting out to tickle her side and she squeals in laughter - trying to crawl away from him despite the fact that she’s still hanging off of you. When he lets up, she stares at him lovingly - dissolving into giggles again when he holds his hat over her eyes, moving to kiss you properly this time.
His lips are soft against yours, working in slow presses to express his gratitude for you.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, honey,” he murmurs quietly, thumb stroking over your jaw.
You hum in content, “It’s okay baby, your job is important.”
His leans down, nose skimming over the column of your throat, “You needing me is more important.”
Steve litters kisses back up your neck before placing a final kiss to the corner of your mouth - pulling away when your girl knocks the hat out of his hands. She beams at him when he makes a face of mock offense, and it’s then that your ten year old boy pads into the room, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“Is she done?” He groans tiredly, stomping over to your girl's bed and plopping down on it.
“My bed,” she says, pointing possessively at it.
He yawns in response, “Yeah, well I couldn’t sleep in my bed with you being so loud.”
“Agreed,” his twin sister appears at the door.
“You hear that, baby? You were keeping your siblings up too,” Steve says playfully, pressing a sweet kiss to her hairline.
She scrambles out of your arms, attention now fully on her sister who picks her up easily. Your middle girl carries her over to the rocking chair that resides in the corner of the room- settling herself on it and propping your youngest up in her lap. They’ve formed quite the little bond, and it makes a pleasant ache settle under your ribs.
“Read book,” your toddler demands, and her sister immediately pulls one off the shelf that sits next to the chair to read to her. The sound of her voice carrying throughout the room makes her twin brother pop up on his elbows to listen along.
With your hands free, you slip them around Steve’s waist - melting into him, finally feeling like you can rest for the first time all day. He leans his head against yours, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders.
“Long day, honey?” He questions, keeping his voice hushed - not wanting to interrupt the storytime happening.
“It’s always long without you,” you admit, nestling your head under his chin.
The two of you fall silent as you watch your babes reading together - your middle girl trying to teach her sister some of the words, and your boy interjecting to get her to repeat after him when she says a word incorrectly.
It’s blissfully peaceful for a moment, before another sharp, shrill voice echoes throughout your home.
“Mommy!” It’s your youngest boy, calling from down the hallway.
You take a deep breath, pulling back from Steve to go assess the situation, but he stops you.
“I’ll get him,” Steve asserts, caressing your shoulders fondly.
You shake your head in protest, “No, Steve. You’ve been working all day. Go take care of yourself.”
He cups your face, tilting your head to look at him, “Be honest with me. Was it a hard day?”
You swallow harshly, thinking about how your youngest had spent most of the day acting out, and it’s the cue Steve needs to make his decision.
“No answer is an answer, baby. I’ll take care of it," he captures your lips in a brief kiss before turning to go take care of his boy.
You sigh heavily, tension releasing - in disbelief over how he finds new ways each day to prove to you that he’s the best husband you could ever ask for.
When you look back at your children, you freeze, because they’re already staring back at you.
“What?” You ask suspiciously.
“You love Dad,” your boy says teasingly.
You huff out a breath of laughter, “You love Dad too.”
You move to settle on the bed next to him, and he promptly rests his head in your lap - eyes closing lethargically.
“Yeah, but you’re in love with Daddy,” his twin emphasizes, placing the book back where it belongs.
“That’s how marriage is supposed to work, hun,” you tell her, hand absentmindedly running through your boy's hair.
“Could you,” she trails off, suddenly growing too shy to ask.
You smile encouragingly at her, “You can ask me anything, baby.”
Her confidence grows at that, “Could you tell us the story of how you and Dad fell in love?”
“Gross,” your boy complains, frowning at her.
“It’s not gross,” she snaps back.
“What’s not gross?” Your eldest boy shuffles into the room with a blanket wrapped around him.
A vivid memory of him flashes to the forefront of your mind; him standing in front of you when he was younger - begging for your attention because he was sick and wanted you to take care of him, and a bittersweet feeling of wistfulness settles over you at the sight.
“Don’t you have to wake up early tomorrow, hun?” You ask him, referring to the fact that he’s on the student council - knowing he has a meeting before school starts.
“Um, yeah, but it’s not my fault I’m awake,” he makes a point of looking at your toddler, “Was gonna offer to help, but then I heard Dad come home.”
He takes a seat on the floor by the dresser - assuming the position you were in earlier, and your youngest excitedly maneuvers herself off her sister, clambering over to her oldest brother and settling against his legs.
“Rude,” your girl quips.
“How come I’m the only one she didn’t come to?” Your middle boy complains.
“Maybe because you’re hogging her bed and think that Mom and Dad being in love is gross,” his sister deadpans.
“Just wait until you’re older, dude. You won’t think love is gross then,” your oldest chimes in - heated flush rising to his cheeks once he realizes what he’s let slip.
Your daughter gasps, “Oh my gosh, you’re in love!”
“No, I’m not!” He panics, vehemently denying the accusation, but he doesn’t sound all that convincing.
“Are you sure?” You ask tentatively, not wanting to pressure him too much, but eager to hear his answer.
“Dunno. I’m not sure if I even know what it feels like,” he shrugs, looking down to pick at his nails.
“That’s okay, hun. You’re only seventeen. You don’t need to feel pressured to know if it feels like love yet,” you tell him gingerly.
“Are we talking about how obvious it is that he’s in love with his girlfriend?” Everyone’s attention swings to your eldest girl, who stumbles into the room after tripping over a toy. Her hair is disheveled, and it’s clear that she’s just woken up.
“It’s not obvious,” he argues back.
“Uh huh, sure. Whatever you say,” she replies sarcastically - squeezing her way into the chair next to her little sister.
“Don’t taunt your brother,” you chide her.
“I think it’s obvious too,” your middle girl mumbles to her sister, and they laugh boisterously together.
Your oldest narrows his eyes at them, “Yeah, real funny.”
They continue to lob remarks back and forth like a tennis match, your youngest’s head is swiveling as she tries to keep up with the jeering. You feel a tap on your arm and look down to see your boy observing you worriedly.
“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask him cautiously.
“I don’t actually think you loving Dad is gross,” he admits, keeping his tone quiet so none of his siblings can hear him.
You give him a small smile, “Don’t worry hun, I wasn’t upset by that.”
He sits up, hand grabbing onto your arm, “Can I tell you something?”
You nod, “Always.”
He gets close to your ear, and you bend to hear him better, “I don’t know if any of my friends' parents are in love.”
“What makes you think that?” You ask curiously.
“None of them act like you and Dad,” he states, like it’s a fact that can’t be refuted.
“You’re father’s not shy about the things he loves. How lucky for us, right?” You murmur, and the conversation is interrupted by the man himself.
“Think I’ve got a new record for the quickest shower of my life,” Steve says, walking in with your four year old gripping onto his back.
He’s changed into sweatpants and a worn Hawkins Middle School Staff t-shirt that he wears to sleep in. His damp hair is pushed off his forehead, making it look slicked back, and your breath hitches when he lifts your boy up - hem of his shirt rising, exposing the sliver of skin that makes your head spin with desire.
God, you still thought he was the prettiest man you’ve ever seen.
Steve laughs at the sight of your children packed into the small room, “I was gone what? Ten minutes? And they’ve multiplied somehow.”
He sets his son down, who hops swiftly onto the bed with you - snuggling into your free side, “Daddy told me I had to wait for him to get ready for bed to see you. He took forever.”
Steve scoffs, “Again, that shower was maybe five minutes.”
You bite your lip in amusement, and Steve crams himself onto the minuscule bed - picking your youngest boy up and tossing him lightly to the other end of it, making him burst into a giddy fit of giggles.
“Needed you to move, I missed my wife,” Steve says jokingly, cuddling up to you instead - relaxing into your hold when you slip an arm around him.
“I want Mommy,” your boy replies, crawling back over to the two of you.
“So do I, buddy,” Steve grabs onto him, battling him for the spot next to you - peals of laughter leaving his lips as his dad fake wrestles with him. Your boy tires after a moment and lets himself stretch out on Steve’s legs.
In the silence that follows, your middle girl adjusts herself - swinging her own legs over her sisters, “So, can you?”
Steve notices her looking at you and him, “Can we what?”
“Tell us how you fell in love,” she repeats her previous question.
“It’s late,” you reply.
“And yet, we’re all awake,” Steve smiles at you, thumb coming up to swipe affectionately along your cheekbone.
“C’mon, Mom. We wanna know,” your oldest straightens up, adjusting your youngest in his arms. Her eyelids are drooping, though you can tell she’s still trying to ward off sleep.
You cave when you see the pleading eyes from the rest of your children, “I knew from the moment I met him that I wanted him to be mine.”
“Mom was obsessed with me,” Steve teases.
“Like you weren’t just as obsessed,” your eldest girl accuses.
“He wasn’t,” you say, and at the dramatic gasp from your girls, you add, “at first. He was going through a break up when I moved here.”
This is news to your kids, and they all start talking over one another with questions. When the most obvious question is asked - with who - you make eye contact with Steve, silently communicating on whether or not to disclose his relationship with Nancy Wheeler.
Steve hates lying to them, but doesn’t particularly feel like going down that specific rabbit hole at the moment, “It doesn’t matter who it was because Mom’s the love of my life.”
Your eldest girl rolls her eyes at the cop out, “Fine, but then how did things change between the two of you?”
“We had the same friend group,” you reply hesitantly. It’s not the full truth, because your children don’t know anything related to the hell you and Steve lived through during your teenage years - still haven’t decided if they ever would know the whole story.
“Like Uncle Dustin and Auntie Robin?” Your four year old inquires.
“Mhm,” Steve hums, “And I started to develop the biggest crush on Mom. I mean, how could I not? Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s got the best heart, doesn’t she?”
He grabs your hand, bringing your palm to his lips sweetly as your kids titter delightedly in agreement.
“But I was too nervous to tell her because her brother didn’t like me very much,” Steve mumbles against your hand, holding onto it firmly.
“Why not?” Your ten year old boy furrows his brows, finding it hard to believe that anyone wouldn’t like his father.
Steve squeezes your hand, giving you the courage to take over.
“Billy,” you take a deep breath, “Billy wasn't a good person. I loved him at one point, but things changed between us.”
“That’s why it’s really important to us that you all take care of each other,” Steve confesses.
It’s silent for a beat, before your oldest smiles and says what the rest of his siblings are all thinking, “We will.”
“What happened after Uncle Billy was gone?” Your middle girl questions meekly, not wanting to upset you.
“I knew she was hurting, and I wanted to help take some of that pain away,” Steve looks at you in adoration.
“He asked me out to Mel’s Diner, and we both knew it was a date but didn’t have the confidence to name it that yet,” you add on.
Steve delicately strokes his fingers along the back of your hand, “Then we grew closer, and one day we went to the local roller rink.”
“That’s when you told him you loved him, right?” Your oldest asks you softly.
“Yeah,” you close your eyes briefly at the memory, “He knocked me off my skates while trying to kiss me, and I knew I was a goner.”
The question that’s asked next - but how did you know it was love - makes you pause, reflecting on the harsh upbringing you had. The way no one had ever cared enough to give you a term of endearment and truly mean it before Steve.
Your mother had called you baby, but she left you to fend for yourself against your father. Neil would sneer sweetheart at you when he was drunk. Tommy Hagan would call you princess in the hallways of Hawkins High with a look of lust on his face. When you worked at the Hideaway, sleazy men would call you sugar to order another beer.
But Steve?
Steve had looked at you in awe when he called you beautiful, and there was never any underlying tone or suggestiveness behind it. It was just raw, unfiltered honestly, simply calling you that because he couldn’t fathom not telling you so.
“Because Dad was the only one who ever called me honey like it meant something to him,” you press a swift kiss to Steve’s cheek.
“That’s because it does mean something, honey,” he emphasizes.
“I don’t understand,” your eldest girl wonders.
“Well, he didn’t actually start calling me honey until we were officially together. I just mean that when he called me anything other than my name, I knew he wasn’t looking down on me or being sarcastic about it. He didn’t say it to intimidate me, or to mock me, but because he wanted me,” you admit, growing a bit shy under the lingering stare your husband is giving you.
Steve swallows thickly, eyes flitting over your features before landing on your lips - and you can feel it, feel the way his love pours out of him for you.
“I’m starting to feel like we’re interrupting something,” your oldest jokes, voice lowering when he realizes your toddler has drifted off into a deep slumber - right along with your youngest boy who’s passed out in Steve’s lap.
You feel a rush of heat course through you, because Steve was looking at you a bit too intimately in front of your children.
“I think we need to leave before they start making out,” your eldest girl chirps, which leads to a combination of grumbling and snickering at the thought.
That snaps Steve out of his stupor, “Hey, cut me some slack here. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, of course I wanna make out with her.”
“Ugh, Dad,” she gripes.
“Aren’t we supposed to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you?” Your oldest tags on.
“You are, but only because you’re a product of my love for her,” Steve grins cheekily.
“Oh god. You two make me sick sometimes. I’m going to bed,” your eldest girl slings her sister's feet off of her in order to stand up.
The motion sets a chain reaction of movement from your children - a flurry of goodnight hugs and teasing about how disgustingly in love their parents are. As you bid them goodbye for the evening, you feel an overwhelming swell of emotion stir within the crevices of your chest, because while Steve was being facetious, it was true. They were a product of your love, each inheriting something from you and from Steve; and you would never tire of admiring how perfect each of them turned out to be.
“You never told me that,” Steve murmurs, head resting against your stomach - arm tightly locked around your sternum as you finally unwind in your own bed.
“Hmm?” You hum drowsily.
He lifts his head to look at you, “What you told the kids, how you feel about me calling you honey.”
“It’s a little embarrassing,” you utter meekly.
His face pinches in concern, “You’re embarrassed that you like me calling you honey?”
“No, of course not. It’s about the fact that no one’s ever been genuine about calling me any sort of pet name before you were mine,” you confide, feeling increasingly ashamed of the fact that you were never worth anyone’s time.
“Oh, honey,” he breathes, rolling over onto his back - dragging you with him so you’re settled on top of him.
“I’m sorry. That sounded pathetic,” you mutter sheepishly.
“Absolutely not,” Steve replies steadily, “you wanting to be shown affection is not pathetic.”
You hide your face in the juncture of his shoulder, index finger tracing lazily along the freckles and moles that line his collarbone.
“It’s not?” You ask timidly.
“I think it’s criminal that you weren’t treated the way you deserved to be,” his tone is laced with fire - anger bubbling up for the people who made you feel less than.
You release a shaky breath, “So, it’s not me?”
“Not in the slightest, gorgeous,” he reassures, hands moving to grasp at your thighs - hiking you closer to him.
The jostled action forces you upwards, and he nudges his nose against yours, “Screw anyone who ever acted like you were an afterthought.”
You incline your head a little, brushing your mouth by his, “You’re the only person who’s ever really seen me, Steve.”
“Biggest honor of my life, honey,” he promises, slotting his lips with yours.
You thaw into his embrace, relishing the benevolence he has for you as he silently reminds you to trust him - to trust that your heart’s always going to be safe when it’s trapped within the confines of his.
Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x reader
Word count: 2.9k
CW: Maybe one swear
Based on this request:
"Hi! I really love your writing and I was wondering if you could please do a fic with rooster where the reader about to go on a super high end mission that’s very dangerous and she’s like really scared but she’s bend bottling up her emotions and feelings about it until like the night before the mission she just breaks down in front of Bradley in their shared home and just tells him she super scared and doesn’t want to die and he comforts her and stuff? You obviously don’t have to if you don’t want to!! Thank youuu!!"
In the weeks leading up to what could only be called the most important mission of your career, you’d been doing your best to hide your nerves from your partner. It had been no easy feat, since Bradley Bradshaw was the most attentive man to ever walk the earth. Most of the time, he knew what you were feeling and why before you knew yourself, and since this was one of the reasons you loved him so much, it made no sense for you to hide things from him.
You justified it to yourself by saying you were doing it to protect him. If he didn’t know how stressed and nervous you really were about this mission, then he wouldn’t feel stressed and nervous either. He would be able to let you go with the promise of dinner at your favourite restaurant when you returned home, and hopefully, he wouldn’t spend the following month worrying about you.
You thought you’d been doing a pretty good job so far.
But now, on the night before the mission, you found yourself stuck in the shower waiting for the sobs wracking your body to abate so you could finish washing your hair and get back to Bradley. He had a whole afternoon planned: farewell drinks with the Daggers at The Hard Deck, followed by dinner served picnic-style on the private beach by your home. You were supposed to have been ready half an hour ago, and you knew the longer you spent crying, the harder it was going to be to stop. You had to hurry the hell up and—
‘You okay in there, sweetheart?’ Bradley called from the doorway.
You swallowed another sob before it could hit you. ‘Y-yeah!’ You sputtered. ‘Sorry! I’ll be five minutes.’
‘Okay…’
Bradley didn’t sound convinced, but he closed the door anyway.
About ten minutes later, you were washed and halfway dressed.
Bradley was sprawled out on your bed, watching you pick an outfit with a bemused smile on his face.
‘You don’t have to wear anything fancy,’ he told you. ‘It’s only The Hard Deck.’
You frowned at your wardrobe. ‘I know, but I’m gonna be stuck in flight suits for the next month, so I wanna make the most of it.’
The bed creaked as Bradley got up, and not a second later, his arms slid around your waist and pulled you against his chest. He pressed kisses along your bare shoulders and up the side of your neck.
‘What about that pretty yellow dress you wore on our first date,’ he suggested, voice low and sultry. ‘You always look amazing in it.’
You smiled. ‘I thought you said only you’re allowed to see me in it.’
‘Maybe I was being dramatic,’ he purred.
You laughed. ‘Okay, yellow dress it is. Now shoo,’ you patted his arm, and he pulled away from you. ‘We’re already late.’
‘We could just cancel,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘I’ll tell them I want you all to myself on your last night Stateside.’
Your stomach dropped at the mention of your mission. ‘No, we should go. Who knows when I’ll see them again,’ you mumbled.
As you swiped the dress in question off its hanger, you caught Bradley stiffen in your peripheral.
‘What was that?’ He asked.
You balled up the soft yellow fabric in your fist, willing yourself not to cry. ‘I said we should go.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m not gonna see them again for a while,’ you replied stiffly.
‘It’s only a month, baby,’ he reassured you, taking the dress from your hands and laying it on the bed. ‘It’s gonna go by so fast.’
Oh no. This was exactly what you didn’t want—Bradley making a fuss, reassuring you, telling you everything was going to be okay. It only made you want to cry even more.
‘I know,’ you said quickly, grabbing the dress again. ‘I’m gonna get changed and do my hair. Be ready to leave in ten.’
And with that, you disappeared into the bathroom, leaving a very concerned Bradley to wonder what the hell just happened.
Later, in The Hard Deck, Bradley didn’t leave your side once. If any of the Daggers noticed that you were on edge, they didn’t mention it.
Everyone in your squad had been on their fair share of lengthy, high-profile missions without the security blanket that was the rest of the group to comfort them. It wasn’t as if this was your first rodeo; you just felt worse about it than usual. Maybe it was because you and Bradley had built such a beautiful life together, and you had more to lose if it went wrong.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Phoenix said, sliding into the seat beside you.
Bradley squeezed your thigh reassuringly, and you threw on a convincing smile. ‘Just thinking about how much I’m going to miss happy hour,’ you joked.
‘Valid,’ Phoenix laughed. ‘How are you feeling about the mission?’
Terrified, sick to my stomach, ready to disappear into hiding and get dishonourably discharged were all answers that ran through your head.
But you said: ‘I feel great about it. It’s a great career stepping stone.’
Phoenix nodded, but she looked unconvinced. ‘What about you, Bradshaw? You gonna be alright fending for yourself for a month?’
The thought of him doing all your shared rituals by himself made you want to fling yourself into the ocean.
‘I’m not totally helpless, Nat,’ he drawled.
‘That’s yet to be proven,’ she quipped.
You got up and left the table under the guise of getting another round, and ran into Maverick at the bar. He was nursing a cold beer, watching his fiancée work the bar—pretty much his default state these days.
‘Hey, Captain,’ you greeted, already exhausted by all the fake smiles but unable to stop. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Pretty good,’ he replied, gesturing to Penny. ‘Just waiting for this one to get off work. How are you, Lieutenant? You’ve got an early start in the morning, so I’d rethink those shots I know Hangman’s making you order.’
You chuckled. ‘No shots. At least not for me. I don’t need my head getting any more messed up than it already is.’
The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you facepalmed internally.
‘What’s up? You getting cold feet about this mission?’ Maverick asked, concern etched into his face.
‘Would it matter if I was?’ You asked. ‘It’s not like I can pull out.’
‘No,’ he relented. ‘But if you wanna go over anything, I’m happy to sit and talk with you as long as you need.’
You knew the mission inside and out. Bradley said you’d been reciting parts of it in your sleep over the past couple of weeks. Talking about the mission parameters was probably the last thing you needed.
‘I’m okay, but thanks, Mav,’ you smiled.
Maverick glanced at Bradley, who was watching your whole interaction knowingly. ‘If you aren’t gonna talk to me, maybe you should talk to Rooster. It’s normal to be anxious, and talking it out really does help. If you bottle everything up, it’s gonna overflow at the most inconvenient time—better it happens in a controlled environment than in the air tomorrow.’
You released a shaky breath, appalled at yourself for not thinking of it that way. What if you had a breakdown mid-flight and got yourself and your unit killed?
‘You know what,’ you sighed. ‘You’re right. Thank you.’
‘Any time,’ he said. ‘Good luck, Y/CS. You’re the best pilot for this mission—don’t let yourself forget it.’
For the rest of the evening, you tried your best to be present in the moment. You laughed at all of Fanboy’s bad jokes, listened to Bob’s clever advice, played pool with Hangman and Coyote, let Payback thrash you at darts one last time, and let Phoenix buy you one cocktail.
After that, it was time to head home. You still had to get through dinner with Bradley and make it to bed at a healthy time.
Bradley didn’t speak the whole drive home, which would have been fine, except he didn’t sing along to the shitty 80s pop songs that played on the radio, either. When you arrived home, he went straight to the kitchen and started filling the cool bag with food and drink for your picnic.
It wasn’t until you started the short walk to the private beach in front of your house that he spoke.
‘I spoke to Mav,’ Bradley said, switching the picnic bag to his other hand so he could hold yours. ‘He thinks you’re torn up about the mission.’
Your stomach flip-flopped. ‘Why would he think that?’
‘It’s his job to know how his pilots are feeling,’ Bradley explained. ‘Plus, he’s been flying for a long, long time.’
‘I’m fine,’ you insisted, swallowing thickly. ‘As I said to Mav, it’s not my first rodeo.’
Bradley stopped. He set the bag down on the ground and turned to face you, taking both your hands in his.
‘You don’t need to put on a front for me, sweetheart. It’s normal to be scared. Hell, I’m terrified, and it’s not even me going on the mission.’
Your bottom lip started to wobble, and you knew it was only a matter of time before the facade you’d spent weeks building crumbled around you.
‘I don’t want to go,’ you mumbled. Bradley pulled you close to his chest, and the tears started to flow. ‘It just doesn’t feel like all the other times,’ you said. ‘What if something goes wrong? What if I don’t make it back to you this time? Or what if I make it back and I’m not the same person I was when I left?’
Bradley stroked your hair softly. ‘You’re one of the greatest pilots I’ve ever known,’ he told you earnestly. ‘If anyone can make it through this mission, it’s you. If they didn’t think you have what it takes, they wouldn’t be sending you.’
‘And if it changes me?’ You sniffled.
‘Then I will love that version of you just as much as I love this one. What’s the worst that could happen? You come back even stronger and hotter than when you left?’
You laughed, pulling back so you could see Bradley’s face. ‘You always know just what to say.’
Bradley beamed. ‘What can I say? I’m good at loving you, because you make it so goddamn easy.’
Your whole body softened as you threw your arms around your boyfriend, breathing him in. Suddenly, you felt like a massive idiot.
‘I never should’ve hid my feelings,’ you murmured against his neck.
He wrapped his arms around your waist, somehow pulling you even closer to him. ‘I could’ve made you feel better about this weeks ago if you’d just talked to me, baby.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head. ‘Just let me support you the way you always support me, okay?’
You nodded, and he swiped your tears away with the pad of his thumb.
‘Do you really think you’re going to be able to fend for yourself?’
Bradley tipped his head back and laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound you’d heard all day. ‘What is it with all the women in my life having no faith in me? I know how to make instant noodles!’
‘Bradley!’ You exclaimed, cheeks aching from grinning. ‘This is exactly why I don’t wanna go!’
He smirked, sweeping you off your feet and throwing you over his shoulder. He didn’t put you down when you screeched, just held tighter as he ran down the short path to the sand.
When your feet touched the warm sand, and you looked up at his flushed cheeks and his toothy grin, you were reminded of everything good in your life—everything you would fight like hell to come home to.
‘Bradley—’
‘Instant noodles aren’t that bad,’ he said, cutting you off. ‘And I was only kidding.’
You reached up and brushed a stray curl off his forehead. ‘No, I was just going to say how much I love you. Also, you forgot the picnic.’
Bradley froze, looked down at the sand, and then realised that he had indeed left the food in the dunes.
‘Fuck!’ He yelled. ‘I’ll be back!’
He turned on his heel and ran, but stopped halfway up the path, as though he’d forgotten something important.
He turned around, cupped his hands over his mouth and—loud enough for the whole of San Diego to hear—he yelled: ‘I LOVE YOU TOO!’
husband!steve who has the most beautiful wife, sitting beside the inground pool they saved up for, a floppy, brimmed hat drooping off her head as she applies suntan lotion while we watches, jaw dropped.
husband!steve who is such a good father, but never mentions when he’s up with a kid early in the morning, causing you to walk out into the living room, wanting some action with your boobs spilling out of your tank top, only to walk in on steve playing on the floor with your toddler. you gasp in complete embarrassment as he chuckles, both of you thanking god a thousand times over that your little one wasn’t facing your direction. when nap time comes around, however…
husband!steve who has magical fingers, especially when it comes to massaging you. he can easily navigate his fingertips to the tension and knots of your back and neck, pressing and rubbing them until your shoulders drop and you sigh a relaxed breath. he knows the perfect pressure, too — not too hard, but riding the line.
husband!steve who saves the last of everything for you. the last piece of cake? yours. the last two piece of bread? oh, those are for your sandwich. the last tomato? avacado? banana? apple? bag of chips? pop tart? all yours.
husband!steve who insists on doing everything together. showering, grocery shopping, dishes, gardening, those types of things. when you moved into your first house together, he insisted on cleaning the house together, painting the walls, replacing the shutters, staining the cabinets, all of it, together. why? because he loves you. he wants to be with you always, wants to hear every laugh and see every smile and know that you’re happy.
summary: As maid of honor and best man, you're stuck with your ex-boyfriend to solve wedding crises together. Although, the biggest mess might just be you two.
a/n: we've got another fic filled with bickering with steve since you guys loved the previous one! hope u enjoy, feedback is very apreciated. (dividers by @cursed-carmine)
words: 5.8k - masterlist
August 12th - two days before the wedding.
Max was pacing in front of the mirror, hair messy from all the times she moved it from side to side, something she does when she's frustrated.
“They’re red, Lucas!” she says for the third time, like if she repeated it enough times, Lucas would start freaking out the way she is. I asked for white flowers. White is the whole theme. What am I supposed to do with red flowers? This isn’t a fucking Valentine’s wedding!”
Lucas was dialing the bakery again, phone pressed tight to his ear. “They’re still not answering.”
“Of course they’re not answering!” Max snaps, turning on him. “Why would anything go right today? Why would anything be easy?”
“And what did your aunt say? She just decided to not come? Two days before the wedding?” he asks.
“She said something came up. She wouldn't even tell me what it was. I think she just didn't want to see my mom because they're still mad at each other! Everything just sucks! My family is so messed up, we can't even have a wedding!” she started crying again.
“Hey, hey-” he softened immediately, reaching for her.
“The seating chart is ruined now. I spent hours on that, I finally got everyone where they wouldn’t fight and now there’s empty spaces and... god, the florist, the cake, the seating-”
“Max-”
“I can’t do this,” she says, voice breaking. “I just can't do this anymore."
"Okay, Max, leave it to me." you finally step in. “You’re getting married in less than forty-eight hours. You can't fall apart now.”
“I’m already falling apart.” Max mutters weakly.
“So let me handle it." you repeat.
“Yeah." Steve adds, pushing off the wall he was leaning against. “That’s literally why we’re here, remember? Best man, maid of honor. Isn't it our job to solve problems?”
You were, in fact, the maid of honor of Max's wedding. You were so excited when she had asked you, so happy and proud. But it all came crashing down when she told you who the best man was going to be. Of all people, Lucas had asked your ex-boyfriend.
The reasons they gave you made sense. Throughout their relationship, you and Steve were always the ones to offer advice on how to fix a fight and how to forgive each other over dumb things, as mad as they could be at each other. They say that if it weren’t for your help, they probably wouldn't be together today.
Funny how that worked perfectly for them, but it didn't have the same effect on your relationship...
As the saying goes 'do as I say, not as I do.'
Steve and you broke up a year ago already, after 5 years of dating. It got to a point where there were more fights than sex, and more insults than compliments. So you decided to walk out, and not come back.
You don't look at him when he talks.
“We’ll fix the flowers, track down the cake, and redo the seating chart.” you tell Max.
“Sorry, we?” Steve checks, surprised. "As in... together?"
“Yes. We.” you finally look at him.
Lucas looked between you, already hopeful. “You sure you guys can handle it?”
“Of course." you say, saving the doubts all for yourself, trying to look confident.
“Sure, piece of cake.” Steve reassures him.
Max steps forward towards you. “If you fix this, I swear I’ll owe you forever.”
“Just relax, I'll handle everything." you say.
“Debatable.” Steve mutters under his breath, you ignore him.
“Go,” you tell her gently. “Take five minutes. Cry, breathe. We’ll start figuring this out.”
Lucas nods, guiding Max toward the bathroom. “Okay. Okay. Yeah. Five minutes, honey.”
The door shut behind them.
"What did you get us into?" Steve complains.
"We don't have time for your pessimism."
“My pessimism?” Steve asks incredulously. “You just volunteered us to fix four separate crises in under two days like we’re some kind of magicians."
“We have to be!” you shot back, scribbling something down. “Or did you think your role was just standing there and looking pretty?”
"It was all I was worried about up until ten minutes ago." he mutters.
“Focus.”
“I’m focused,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m focused on the fact that you just decided everything without asking me.”
“What exactly would you have said?” you look at him.
“That this is insane?”
“And then what?”
“And then-” he hesitates for a second, thinking of another alternative, then says, “-we come up with a plan, all four of us together!”
"I already have a plan! We'll keep calling the bakery until they answer; threaten the florist so he can do his job right; call the aunt and convince her to come." you list with your fingers.
“Wow... revolutionary.” he says sarcastically. You roll your eyes and start moving. “Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you."
“I’m not walking away, I’m working.”
“No, you’re doing the thing you always do-”
"Do not start with that." you turn to him.
“You shut down and pretend the conversation’s over just because you’re done with it.”
“I am done with this conversation, yes.”
“And that’s supposed to make it better? Just ignoring everything?”
“It makes it faster.” you respond, heading to the hallway.
“Oh, great, yeah, because that worked so well for us last time.” he walks right behind you.
“We are not doing this right now.”
“Are we ever going to do it? Because apparently walking away is your favorite solution.”
“Stop following me.”
“Stop running away.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are!”
You spun around. "I am trying to fix our friend's wedding while you're busy picking a fight over something that happened a year ago."
"Because we never talked about it!” he fires back. “You just decide you’re done and that’s it!”
“At least I don’t drag things out until they get ugly.” you snap.
His laugh is sharp. “Oh, you mean like right now?”
You exhale, long, trying to control yourself. “Pass me the phone, Steve.”
He stares back at you. Hurt under his anger. “Unbelievable.” he mutters, but he grabs the phone anyway.
You start dialing the phone number of Max's aunt. Steve leans back against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with skepticism and amusement, more than enough to get under your skin.
“Hello? Hi! Mrs. Montgomery? Hi, this is Max’s maid of honor.” you tell her your name. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute about Sunday. Max is really upset you won’t be here, and I thought maybe we could-”
You pause. Steve sees your expression shifting just a little.
“No, I understand things come up, of course, but I just think that-”
You pause again, your shoulders slump down, signing this is not going well.
“Well, yes, but it’s not just any day, it’s her wedding, and-” you stop talking. lips pressing together.
“Okay,” you sigh. “I see. No, I understand. Thank you for letting me know.” you lower the phone slowly.
“Well?” Steve pushes off the wall, already knowing the answer.
“She’s not coming.”
“Shocking.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean, really, who could’ve predicted that not everyone bends to your will?” he goes on, “Must be a new experience for you.”
“What side are you on?” you turn to him.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be helping me solve this,” you snap, stepping closer. “Not standing there waiting for me to fail.”
“I’m not waiting for you to fail. I just think it’s funny you walked into that call so sure you had it handled.”
“I did-”
“No, you didn’t. You had a plan and it didn’t work.”
“At least I had a plan!” you fire back.
“Oh, yeah, great plan. ‘Hi, I’m the maid of honor, change your entire life decision because I said so.’” he mocks your voice.
“That’s not what I said-”
“That’s basically what you said.”
You turn away from him before you say something worse. “This is a waste of time.”
“Yeah, walk away again, that’ll fix it.” he mutters.
“Not everything is about us, Steve.” you turn back. “Max is crying and we need to fix it.”
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fine.”
“Fine.” you settle.
The seating chart was way worse. Little white cards were scattered across the table.
“We need to fill the empty seat and rebalance the tables so no one ends up isolated.” you start thinking out loud.
“What if we move Dustin and Mike to table three? That frees up space here.” Steve leans over the table.
“No.” you simply say.
“No?”
“That separates them from our group. And they will end up too far away from us.” You explain.
“They’ll survive being at a different table for dinner.”
“It’s their best friend's wedding.”
“And they’ll still be at his wedding.” Steve shrugs.
“No, Max was very particular about keeping certain groups together.” you shake your head. “Okay,” he says slowly, “but Max also didn’t plan for her aunt to bail last minute, so we kind of have to adapt.”
You ignore that, putting Dustin and Mike at your table like they were before.
“You’re overthinking it.” he says, reaching for a card. “If I move to table three, that leaves the spot open for-”
“What? No.” you say.
“Why not?”
“That doesn’t work.” you say.
Why? Because table three had three single girls who had already been asking about Steve to Max. Because Steve in a suit, sitting at a table full of available women was a thought that made you want to puke.
“Our table’s already settled. We keep you here.” you give him that excuse.
“Why do I feel like I just got assigned a seat in kindergarten?” he repeats, amused.
“Maybe because you are acting like a child.”
“Alright, boss, then what’s your brilliant plan?” he laughs.
“We move Gareth and Jeff to table three, fill the gap there, and keep our group intact.”
“And you keep me there with you.” he insists.
“What?” you snap when you see that face.
“Nothing, just interesting.” he says, but there was a hint of sarcasm.
“Can you focus?”
“Oh, I am, I’m focused on how every option somehow ends with me glued to this exact spot.”
“It’s what Max wanted!”
“Is it?” he tilts his head. “Or is it because you really don’t want me sitting over there?”
“Oh, trust me, you can move to whichever table you want. I’ll survive.” you say, already a little mad.
“Even with the single girls at that table?” he leans just a little.
You scoff. “Please. Stop flattering yourself.”
“There she is.” he smirks wider.
“What?!”
“That tone. I know that tone, you hate that.”
“I just don’t think the best man should be sitting with random guests all night.”
“And now it’s about my duties? Not about me talking to other girls?”
“You can talk to whoever you want. I couldn’t care less.”
“Mmhmm.” he still grins.
“I don’t.” you insist.
“Sure.”
“Why are you obsessed with sitting there anyway?!”
“I’m not, I just think it’s funny that you’re so determined to stop me.”
“I stop you because they’re bad arrangements. They don’t work!”
“You’re jealous.” he states.
“You are so full of yourself.” you roll your eyes. “I’m literally trying to fix a seating chart.”
“And making sure I don’t end up near any available women.”
“You are exhausting.”
“And you’re obvious.”
“I’m not jealous. Table three just doesn’t work.” you say, stubbornly.
“Yeah, okay.” he says with a soft smile still.
“Are we done with this?” you change the subject.
“Yeah, finished.”
The night continued with even more chaos. The rehearsal for the wedding was that night, and no one was cooperating.
“Okay, can we please just run the entrance once without anyone complaining?” Max clapped once to gather attention.
“I am complaining.” Mike says immediately. “There’s no need to do this, this is stupid.”
Max, standing at the front with her clipboard, looked like she was one inconvenience away from crying again.
“Mike, you just have to walk in a straight line. That’s it. You can do that, right?” you step in, and he just rolls his eyes.
“Stop it!” Eddie yells at Dustin while he’s teasing him. “Max, I’m sorry, I’m not tying my hair for this.”
Dustin starts laughing hysterically like he just poked him enough times to make him insecure about it.
“Eddie.” you warn him.
“I’m serious, I’m not doing it.” he crosses his arms.
“It’s a formal wedding.” Max looks at him like she could just kill him.
“And I look good like this, why would I ruin it?”
“Because it’s not about you!” Max steps closer to Eddie. “Please. Just tie it back for the ceremony.”
“I don’t want to risk it.” Eddie explains.
“Risk what?”
“I’m not gonna get any if I look like a dweeb.” he says, dead serious.
“He’s got a point.” Steve agrees.
“Don’t encourage him.” you look at Steve.
“You are unbelievable.” Max comments.
“Eddie,” Lucas steps in, rubbing his temples, “just tie your hair.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Fine, we’ll revisit the hair later. Focus on this now.” you cut him off.
“Everyone, positions.” Lucas exhales. “Partners, please-”
“Actually, can we change partners?” Nancy stands, crossing her arms. Jonathan next to her looked equally done.
“Seriously? Now?” Jonathan protests.
“Yes, now,” Nancy answers. “I’m not doing this with you pretending everything’s fine.”
“We’re not pretending anything, we’re just—”
“Walking down the aisle together like a happy couple?” she cuts in. “No, thanks.”
“Nancy, please-” Max rolls her eyes.
“No, it’s fine. We’ll just switch.” she says quickly. “I’ll walk with Steve instead."
“No.” It comes out instantly from you. Steve walking in with his other ex-girlfriend? His first love? No.
Nancy frowns. “Why not?”
“Because that’s not how it was planned.”
“It’s a small change—”
“It’s not necessary.”
Steve, a few feet away, goes very still.
“I mean,” Gareth’s voice cuts in. “If she's free, she could walk in with me.” he signals you, but you didn’t even have a chance to react.
“No.” This time it was Steve, just as sharp as yours. “Not happening.”
You feel the tension spike. “Okay,” you cut in quickly. “No one is improvising partners. Nancy, you don’t have to pretend anything. You walk with Jonathan, you don’t hold hands, you don’t look at each other if you don’t want to. You just walk. It’s ten seconds.”
Nancy doesn’t respond, but Jonathan says they can do that,
“Eddie, you can keep your hair down for the reception, but if Max decides she wants it tied for the ceremony, you’ll do it.”
“Fine, maybe.” he settles.
“That’s progress.” Steve insists. “Okay. From the top.”
People start moving into place. Crisis contained… for now.
Max starts giving instructions on how she wants the pace and the music. You glance to your side, Steve is already there. “Go.” she gestures.
You start walking, and for two seconds, it was going well.
Until Steve notices you’re drifting, just slightly. And before you take notice of this, his hand is at your waist firmly, pulling you back into him.
“What are you doing?” you complain under your breath, still walking.
“You’re speeding ahead.” he mutters.
“Don’t…” you have to contain your voice and keep it low, “manhanlde me.”
“I’m not, I’m guiding you.”
“I’m walking perfectly fine, you’re just looking for an excuse to touch me.”
“Oh, please.” He lets out a laugh.
You scoff, trying to pull slightly out of his hold, but his grip tightens.
“You were jealous of Nancy.” he whispers.
“You were jealous of Gareth.” you shot back.
He just smirks and you reach the end of the aisle.
“Good, that was good.” Max calls from the front.
By the time the rehearsal wrapped, your friends weren’t fighting anymore. You’re stacking papers for the tasks you still have for tomorrow.
“Hey.” Gareth smiles at you. “You did good, kept everyone from killing each other.”
“Barely.” you reply.
He laughs. “Listen, a bunch of us are grabbing dinner now. You should come.”
“Oh, really?” you hesitate, thinking about it. Until someone calls your name from behind. Steve was walking towards you.
“I need you.” he says.
“We were just-” Gareth starts but Steve ignores him.
“It’s about the seating chart again, there’s another problem.”
“What problem?” you frown.
“Lucas’ cousin just called, he wants to bring a plus one now, at the last minute. We have to fix it before Max sees it and loses it again.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, now.”
“That can’t wait an hour?” Gareth steps in.
“No.” Steve finally looks at him.
“It really can’t.” you add. “Maybe another day.”
“Okay,” you go back to the seating chart. “If we have a plus one now, we’d have to move someone from table four. But I don’t know where-”
“Or,” Steve says. “I can call him back and tell him he can’t bring a plus one at the last minute.”
You freeze, slowly turn around. “You didn’t do that before?”
“What?”
“If that was an option, why didn’t you just do that instead of dragging me here?”
“Well, I- I wasn’t the one who talked to him really, it was- uh-”
“Oh my god, you’re lying. You made it up so I wouldn’t go to dinner with Gareth.”
“It’s not-”
“You made that whole speech earlier about how I was jealous of the girls at the table, and how I wouldn't let you sit anywhere near them-”
“Because you were-”
“And you just lied to keep me from going out with someone?”
“Because you were about to leave with him!” he shot back.
“So?! Why do you care?!”
“Don’t act like you don’t get it.”
“I don't get it, Steve!”
“He’s been flirting with you all day.” he says frustrated. “I couldn’t just stand there and watch it happen.”
“But it’s wrong when I do it, isn’t it?” you point out.
“I never said that-”
“You did! You’re jealous, you’re controlling…” you mock his voice.
“Well, at least I’m not pretending I’m not.” he adds.
“It doesn’t matter,” you stop him. “We’re not together anymore.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“This is ridiculous, we have actual problems to fix.”
August 13th - One day before the wedding.
The next day you get up ready to finish your work. You and Steve meet at the venue, which smelled like roses… red roses.
Tables were already in place for tomorrow, arrangements being placed one by one. The white theme Max and Lucas had picked up was bleeding out a deep crimson color. It was aggressive.
Two men were arranging a centrepiece for the tables when you approach them.
“Excuse me, hi. Could you tell me who’s in charge?”
“Florist’s over there” One of them points.
“Thank you.” You walk straight past them, Steve trailing a step behind, hands in his pockets, watching.
The florist was checking something off on a clipboard. You stop in front of him.
“Hi, I need to talk to you.”
He doesn’t even look up at you. “Yes?”
“The order for this wedding was white flowers.” you say.
“No, it’s not. Everything is being set up according to order.”
“Check the order again.” you challenge him.
He looks up at you, doesn’t even check his papers. “Order says red.”
“I’ve seen the contract. It was white roses, white lilies. This entire wedding is built around that color palette.” you fight.
“Are you the bride?” he asks.
“No, I’m the maid of honor.”
“Well, miss, you’re clearly mistaken-”
“No, you need to fix this now!” you finally lose it.
“It’s the day before the wedding,” he says in a condescending tone. “There’s nothing to fix.”
“There is, you sent the wrong order.” you reply.
“You need to check again.”
“I did.”
“Then check once more! Or you won’t get paid.”
He just smiles. “Right. Okay” He nods slowly. Treats you like you’re bluffing, like you’re just another stressed bridesmaid throwing around empty threats.
“I’m serious.” you try again.
“Mmhmm.” he gives you a little hum, dismissing you.
Behind you, Steve pushes off the pillar, stands beside you, in front of the man. Taller, broader. And the florist noticed.
Steve doesn’t even look at you, his gaze is on this man. “You heard her,” his voice is low. “You don’t fix this, you don’t get paid.”
Same exact words, but this time, the florist straightens.
“Well, like I said, the order-”
“Check it again.” Steve cuts in, firm.
“Fine.” he sighs. He flips through the pages of his clipboard, then pauses. “This is for Mayfield?”
“Yes.” you respond.
He clears his throat. “It… looks like there was a mix-up with another order.”
“Looks like it.” you repeat.
“We’ll, uh- we’ll correct it immediately. We can have the white arrangements here within a few hours. We’ll start replacing everything as soon as they arrive. ” he moves off, already calling his team.
Another problem solved.
For a moment, neither of you speak. You can feel his eyes on you. He waits for you to talk first, but you stay quiet.
“He’s an asshole.” he breaks the silence.
“It’s fine.” you roll your eyes.
“No, I said your exact same words but he only listened to me.”
“Then thanks for saving the day…” you finish this conversation and start walking again. “Let’s keep going, we have to keep trying with the cake.”
“I’ve been calling them all morning.” Steve frowns slightly.
“I know.” you say, already grabbing the phone and dialing.
“Oh, so I’m doing it wrong now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I just said I’ll try.”
“Yeah, ‘cause clearly I’m incapable of making a phone call.”
“Steve, not everything I do is about you.” you exhale, pressing the phone to your ear.
“No, but everything you do is better, right?”
You close your eyes, getting annoyed at him, waiting as the line rang. But nothing. You hang up.
“Wow, great job.” he crosses his arms.
“We’ll have to go there, to the bakery.”
“Now?”
“Yes. We don’t have time to wait around for a call that might never come.”
“Fine, let’s go.”
The bakery looks a little old. The sign is faded, with chipped paint, the windows needed a repaint.
An old woman stood behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, yes. We’re here about a wedding cake. It’s for tomorrow, it’s under Mayfield.” you step forward.
“Oh yes, beautiful design. We’re finishing it today.” she nods.
“Okay, great. Because we’ve been trying to call, the bride was worried.” Steve explains.
“Oh, our phone broke a few days ago, we’re waiting for someone to fix it. But don’t worry, the cake will be delivered tomorrow morning, everything is on schedule.”
“Okay, thank you.” you smile.
“Of course, dear.”
“Well,” Steve says. “That was easy.”
“For once.” you nod. Then you turn toward the elevator to head back down. The doors slid shut once you entered it.
“Would that mean we fixed everything already?” Steve asks, pressing the button.
“If everything goes according to plan from now on, then yes. Miracles really do-”
The elevator jolts, then stops, the lights flicker, nothing else moves.
“Oh, no.”
Steve presses buttons again, all of them, but nothing.
“Don’t tell me we’re stuck.” you cover your face with your hands.
He keeps hitting the emergency button. “...Great.”
“This is just great.” you sit on the floor.
“It’s an old building, someone will notice.” Steve joins you on the floor.
“When? In an hour? Two? What if no one comes up here for the rest of the day?”
“They will.”
“What if we miss the rehearsal dinner? The wedding-?”
“You’re being dramatic.” he stops you. “You’re jumping straight to the worst possible scenario like you always do.”
“I’m thinking ahead.”
“You’re overthinking. We’re trapped in an elevator, not in a burning building.”
“You don’t get it.” you shake your head.
“No, I do.” he says sharper now. “You always do this. You get into panic mode so easily, it’s exhausting. It’s one of the worst things about you, you make everything bigger than it is, you stress so much about things that haven’t even happened yet, and then-” he stops, too late.
You don’t say anything, just look down. And something about your expression, about the hurt in your face, made him realize he went too far.
“Hey…” he says in a softer tone. No response. “I’m sorry, I took it too far. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s fine.” you whisper, still not looking at him. “Can we just not… do this right now?”
He nods, and time stretches as you sit in silence. You stay like you were, back against the wall, eyes fixed on the floor as the minutes passed.
He whispers your name. “I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s true.”
“That you’re exhausting?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” you shrug.
“No, no. That’s not true.” he repeats. “I just said it because I was frustrated, not because it’s true.”
“Steve-”
“Let me finish. I hate when you get like that, when you start thinking ten steps ahead and you get stuck in your own head. Not because it makes you exhausting, but because it hurts you.”
You stay looking at him, but you stay silent.
“I’ve seen it. You get so worked up over things that haven’t even happened yet, and you carry them like they're already real. And I hate that. Not you, just that you get tangled in that.”
“It’s fine, Steve-”
“No, no. You’re amazing, look how fixed everything just to keep Max from stressing. You think ahead, and you care so much. I’ve always liked that about you." he continues.
“That’s the first sweet thing you’ve said to me since we got here.” you notice.
“Yeah, I guess it is. I’m sorry, for all of it.”
“I’m not exactly innocent here.” you shake your head.
“Still.”
“No, I kinda started it.” you insist. “It just hurt. Seeing you again. I thought I would be fine, but I wasn't.”
“I get that. I got way more hurt than I expected, and I decided it’s be a great idea to be an asshole back.” he admits.
“It’s a great strategy.” you chuckle.
“I know, really mature.” he laughs too.
“I’m sorry too.”
“So, we’re good now?” he asks.
“Yeah, we’re good.” you smile.
“Still stuck in an elevator.” he groans.
The rehearsal dinner is therefore different. There are no more fights, no more snapping, and no need to win every conversation.
Twenty minutes later, someone found you. They helped to open the doors with tools and finally, you could get out.
You stand by your table, getting a drink. Across the room, Steve is talking to Dustin, laughing. The suit he’s wearing makes it impossible for you to take your eyes off him, his hair looks perfect like it always does.
You can’t shake the thought of wondering when did this happen. Him across the room from you, his hands in his pockets instead of on your waist.
What if you never broke up? What if you took better care of you two?
You’d be by his side, his touch on you at all times, maybe a hand on your waist, or holding yours. He’d pull you in from time to time to give you a kiss. You’d be complimenting each other and blushing every five minutes.
But instead, you’re left fantasizing about it.
August 14th - The day of the wedding.
And little did you know, Steve was doing the same thing from his side of the room.
“Tell me I don’t look like a dork.” Eddie stands in front of you after you help him to pull his hair back neatly.
“You look just fine.” you say.
“You could look worse.” Steve comments.
“Thanks, man.” he says sarcastically.
“Stop it,” you smack Steve in the arm. “You look good, it actually works.”
“And you can take it out the second we leave the church.” Steve adds.
“Fine.”
Across the room, Nancy and Jonathan are still fighting.
“It would make more sense, we could switch partners and walk at ease.” Nancy insists, and before you can open your mouth to complain, Steve beats you to it.
“No. It’s not happening. Just respect the couples.”
“We’ll just do what we planned.” Jonathan comments.
“Great.” you say.
You stand in your positions. The music started.
“Ready?” Steve asks you with a smile.
“Yeah.” you nod.
You step into place, and then start walking. Steve’s hand rests at your waist again, and you let him, you even lean into it.
“You look stunning.” he murmurs under his breath. You keep looking forward, but a small smile tugs at your lips.
“You look really handsome. Way too handsome, it’s annoying.” you whisper back.
He huffs a quiet laugh.
You reach the end of the aisle in silence, but with his hand even tighter on your waist. Then you step apart.
When the preacher starts talking after Max walks in, Steve has a hard time focusing. He tries to keep his eyes on Lucas, on Max, but you’re right there.
Then, the reception is louder. You barely had time to look around that Eddie already grabs you.
“You said I could take it down after the ceremony.”
“Alright, come here.”
“Careful- ow-” he complains.
“Stop moving.” you tell him. “Okay, now you look good.”
“Yeah okay,” he runs his hands through his hair. “This is better.”
Steve was standing in front of you, laughing at the way you were practically attacking Eddie.
“Alright, Harrington. Let’s go.” he turns to Steve.
“Where?”
“Bridesmaid table.” Eddie says like it’s obvious.
“Go have fun.” you say, swallowing the jealousy.
“...I'll go later.” Steve says.
“What? Why?” Eddie frowns. “That’s literally the point of being here.”
“I’m good for now.”
“Fine, suit yourself.” He runs straight to Gareth. “Come on, man. Bridesmaid table.”
“Actually,” Gareth looks at you. “I was hoping to steal you for a dance first.”
“Oh… that’s nice, but-” it takes you by surprise.
“Come on, one dance.”
Steve doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him beside you.
“You should go with Eddie. He’s been waiting all day for this.” you say.
“That’s true, I have.” Eddie nods immediately.
“Alright, later then?” he asks.
“Maybe.” you answer.
“Dance with me?” Steve asks, extends his hand.
“Don’t ditch me, come on.” Eddie grabs him and walks.
There a moment of quietness between Steve and you where you look around the room.
You laugh softly. “Really?”
“Yeah, come on.” he smiles and you take his hand.
U2 is playing, “With or Without you”. The partners are dancing slowly on the dance floor.
One of Steve’s hands finds your waist, the other takes yours slowly. You rest your head on his shoulder, your fingers are loosely intertwined. You just move, simply.
“You know what’s a little rude?” he talks.
“What is?” you look up at him.
“You’re the most beautiful girl in this wedding, the others don’t stand a chance.”
“Don’t say that.” you let out a soft laugh.
“I’m serious.”
“You shouldn’t be.” you smile. “Max looks perfect.”
“She does,” he agrees. “But to me, you're better.”
You smile at him. “You always look good. But tonight is a bit much.”
“Oh, yeah?” he laughs.
You hum. “It’s almost unfair.”
“I’ll try to tone it down next time.” he jokes.
You laugh. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you a little closer, you rest your head on his chest again.
Steve’s chest felt like it might actually give out.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Can we… go outside for a minute? Need to talk to you.”
“Okay.” you nod.
Once outside, the night was cooler and quieter, the noise from the party stayed behind doors. You wrap your arms around yourself, Steve stops pacing and gives you his suit jacket.
He runs a hand through his hair. “...I don't really know how to start this.”
“It’s okay, however you can.”
“I’ve been trying to find the words all day, and everytime I think I’ve got it, it just sounds stupid in my head.”
“It won’t.” you say quietly.
“This weekend’s been a mess.” he starts. “Like, us. The way we’ve been acting, the fights… it fucked me up more than I expected. I thought I was over it, or over you enough to handle this. But I’m not, I’m not over you.”
You stay quiet, deciding to let him talk first. Also because your breath is caught from everything he’s confessing.
“And all day today, during the ceremony, at dinner last night, and- fuck, even in the elevator- all I could think about was everything I should’ve done differently. I keep going every fight, every moment where I could’ve said something else, or stayed, tried harder, not let you walk away.”
His eyes start tearing up. “I just let it happen, I let us fall apart like it was inevitable or something. And now I’m here, all I can think is that I should have never let you go. I don’t think I’ll ever forget about you.”
Your vision is already blurred too. You blink fast, trying to stop it, but it was too late.
“Great, now you’re gonna ruin my makeup.” you wipe the tears quickly.
He lets out a small laugh. “Sorry.”
“I spent so long on this.” you add, trying to sound annoyed.
“Let me help-”
“No, it’s fine, I just… I miss you too.” you give up on trying to hold it together. “I didn’t even realize how much until I saw you again and- and- suddenly I had to watch you walk in here, looking like that-” a laugh escapes you.
“And I just kept thinking, ‘great, now I have to sit here and watch him flirt with every beautiful girl and act like I’m completely fine with it.’ And I was jealous and annoyed. I wasn’t ready to let you go like that.”
You look up at him. “Steve, the worst thing I did to us was not give us a chance. I just decided it was too much and I left. And now all I can think about is how you deserved another chance.”
Steve steps closer. “...Is it too late? To give me that second chance, right now.”
You shake your head. “No.”
That was all he needed to close the distance immediately. His hand came to your face, thumb brushing away the tears, and he kissed you.
You melt on him just as fast, your hands grip his shoulders and pull him closer. The music and noise from inside fades completely. Your hands move up to tug on his hair as he hugs your waist tighter.
When you pull away, you barely move too far from each other. His thumb brushes under your eye again. “Careful, your makeup.”
“You already ruined it.” you joke.
“You still look really good.”
“You’re biased.”
“Completely.” he smiles.
You stay outside just making out and talking for what feels like hours. And when you finally walk back inside, it’s like the last year never passed.
(Steve Harrington x Dustin's older sister, fem!reader)
Summary: When you get hurt during a secret Crawl into the Upside Down meant to stop Vecna, everything falls apart as your friends rush to get you out alive—and Steve, terrified of losing you, is forced to confront just how deeply it affects him.
word count: 6,597 (oops...)
Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, hospital scene, bad injury, mentions of blood, panic, mild violence, fluff ending though. The details are not accurate to season 5 because lowkey kinda forgot what happened.
A/N: This is for whoever requested it, thanks for the idea and I'm so sorry it took me forever I've just been in a writing slump. Also, if you are the person who sent me a request in my inbox about the marriage and you're reading this, I will be doing that 100% so stay tuned.
*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*
The rules of the Crawls are simple.
Stay focused. Stay quiet. And more importantly, above everything else, don’t die.
Of course, nothing about your life in Hawkins has ever been simple, not for a long time. You can thank your genius little brother for that, the one who first dragged you into this mess with demogorgons and Vecna and every nightmare that followed since.
Even now, a few years later, you’re still here—still stuck in it like it never learned how to let you go. And yet… you wouldn’t undo it because somewhere in the chaos, it led you to Steve. It carved out space for friendships you never would’ve had, for people who became something like family when everything else fell apart. It gave you something worth holding onto, even when everything around you was falling apart.
Right now, things still suck. That part hasn’t changed but you are all so close to the finish line. Closer than you’ve ever been. Vecna, the source of all of it, the thing that’s been lurking behind every wrong turn and every broken piece of Hawkins, is finally within reach.
And these crawls? It’s the answer to how you will figure out the rest. Step by step. Dark tunnel by dark tunnel. You’ll do whatever it takes to end him for good.
By now, everyone in Hawkins knows the military owns the town.
Curfews. Checkpoints. Armed patrols rolling through neighborhoods at all hours. Helicopters overhead so often nobody even looks up anymore. Entire streets blocked off behind fences and floodlights while government officials lie through their teeth on the news about “environmental contamination.”
Which means every Crawl has to happen in secret. They have to be quick. Quiet. Precise. That’s what Hopper calls it, like if he keeps repeating the words, the fear will stop leaking in around the edges.
“Controlled,” is how he phrases it.
Like anything about this has ever been controlled. You almost want to laugh when he says it because your hands don’t feel controlled. Your thoughts don’t feel controlled. And that quiet, irrational fear sitting under your ribs—the one that whispers you could die down there—definitely isn’t controlled.
But then you think about why you’re still doing it. Your little brother, who got dragged into this mess long before he understood what it meant, to think he was just a little boy when it all started… and Steve, who somehow ended up in the middle of all of it like he was always meant to be there. The others too, all tangled up in something none of you ever asked for, none of you ever deserved. Sometimes you didn’t understand why the responsibility of saving the world had fallen on you and your friends. You weren’t a hero by any means. So was it selfish to wish this burden belonged to someone else instead?
When your mind dwells on it too much something in you hardens. It doesn’t matter what you feel. It doesn’t matter how fear sits in your chest like a weight. It doesn’t matter if you want to play hero or not, you have to. Because god forbid if something happens—It has to be you. Not them. Never them. You.
You can’t let anything happen to them. You won’t. That part of you isn’t negotiable anymore. It is an instinct, sharper than fear, louder than reason. If something goes wrong down there, it should be you taking the hit, not them. That’s just how it is, you’ve made that up in your mind a long time ago.
So you nod when Hopper talks about “controlled.” You follow the plan. You step into the Crawls anyway, even when everything in you is screaming not to. Hawkins is already too close to breaking, and they’re already too important to lose.
- -
Rain pours hard enough to blur the windshield as the van idles beside the abandoned access road outside Hawkins. The woods beyond the barricades are black and endless, lit only by the occasional sweep of military floodlights in the distance.
Inside the van, nobody talks before the Crawl. Maybe they did at the beginning—back when everything still felt uncertain in a different way, when the first few missions were more fear than experience and silence wasn’t something anyone had learned to rely on yet. But after too many close calls, too many mistakes that almost cost everything, staying quiet started to feel like the safest option, like saying less might somehow mean risking less.
Still, it doesn’t make anything easier. Not when things are getting more serious, more real, and every time you get closer to Vecna it only gets more dangerous, like the Upside Down is learning you just as much as you’re trying to survive it.
The fear stopped being loud weeks ago. Now it sits there, quiet and heavy. It’s left exhaustion that settles deep into everyone’s bones.
“You remember the route?” Hopper asks from the driver’s seat for what feels like the third time, his grip tight on the wheel even though he’s trying to sound steady. He’s the adult, the one supposed to have this under control—but even he can feel it now, the weight of what they’re about to do settling in the van like a second body.
“Jesus, Hopper,” Steve mutters beside you, checking the shells in the shotgun across his lap. “We’ve done this one before.” Steve sounds rather angry in his tone, because that was his nerves talking, too. He’s not actually angry—he’s scared. For whatever reason, emotions tend to get the better of us in situations that put us on edge. Some people lash out in anger, while others fall into sadness. It’s just human nature.
Suddenly, everyone goes quiet again, no one arguing after that. The weight of Hopper’s words cloud your mind like toxic gas you can’t escape. Rain taps steadily against the roof of the van, soft and endless, like it doesn’t care what’s waiting for you out there.
In the dim dashboard light you catch a glimpse of your younger brother. Dustin somehow looks younger and older at the same time. You can’t help but think about how he’s too young for all of this, for the shaking hands and the radio packs he’s forcing himself to focus on. And all you can think about is how you still see him as that little kid with the missing teeth and the big, pearly, gummy smile that used to show up like nothing in the world could touch him, like everything was still simple enough to figure out, and all those innocent times when his only worry was about D&D and nerdy comics.
You nudge his shoulder gently, careful, like you’re trying not to break whatever’s holding him together, and ask, “You okay?”
Dustin Henderson snorts. “Fantastic. Love risking my life in nightmare hell dimensions.”
“That's enough Dustin,” Steve says automatically as if Dustin’s sarcasm triggers him.
You’d noticed that Steve and Dustin had been on edge with each other lately. The two people you cared about most in the world were too busy fighting to see how much it was tearing you apart. Under any other circumstances, you would’ve fought harder to make them stop, but with the possible end of the world hanging over all of you, nothing felt that simple anymore and it felt hopeless, exhausting even to waste your energy on something so stupid.
Dustin stares at him.
Steve pauses.
“…Never mind.”
The truth is, nobody’s doing okay anymore. You know you’re not. Not after three months of Crawls. Three months of sneaking beneath military blockades and slipping into the Upside Down looking for Vecna while Hawkins rots from the inside out.
And Steve—
Steve’s gotten worse too.
Not in an obvious way. He still joked around sometimes, still tried to keep everyone moving like he could talk the fear out of the room. You knew he thought that was his job too—keeping everyone else together, keeping them happy. God, how you wished you could make him understand that he was allowed to fall apart sometimes too.
But even now, he still threw himself between danger and the rest of you without a second thought, like protecting everyone was just another burden he’d silently decided to carry alone.
But it’s also in the way he watches you now. Every Crawl, every hallway, every breathless pause where something could go wrong. He’s always looking at you.
And the worst part is… you know why. Steve knows you. Knows you’d do anything to save your little brother. Knows you’d do the same for him, too, even if you don’t always say it out loud. He’s the same way, has been for a long time now—throwing himself into danger like it’s just part of the job.
But that doesn’t make it okay. It doesn’t make it less terrifying. Because understanding it doesn’t stop the fear from sitting heavy in his chest every time you step into the dark. He’s not just worried anymore.
He’s scared shitless of losing you.
And you could see it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was already grieving you before anything had even happened. Like some part of him was trying to memorize every expression, every laugh, every little thing about you in case it was the last time he ever got to see it.
He couldn’t survive losing you. Not now. Not when the two of you were finally so close to having something beyond all of this horror, a future, a life, something normal. He wouldn’t admit it but Steve had never really been afraid of dying for himself. He was afraid of living in a world that no longer had you in it.
Robin even pulled you aside once after a mission and said, “I’m serious, he looks like he’s five seconds from a nervous breakdown every time you get hurt.”
At the time, it had only been a twisted ankle.
But tonight feels different. You can tell the second Hopper kills the engine.
The air changes.
You know how people in murder mysteries always say they felt it coming? Like it was some sort of gut feeling that chose not to trust anyways. Yeah, well, you felt something too. You just didn’t know what it was yet.
“Alright,” Hopper says quietly. “We move fast. Military patrol passes in eleven minutes. We miss that window, we’re screwed.”
Screwed was putting it lightly. If any of you missed this mark, you’d be dead but no one admits that to themselves.
Everyone grabs their gear.
Steve catches your wrist before you can climb out. “Stay close to me tonight.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I always do.”
“No.” His voice drops lower. More serious. “I mean it.”
There’s something in his face that makes your stomach twist. It's fear. Real fear.
Before you can respond, Hopper opens the van doors. “Move.”
The woods are freezing, cold crawling straight into your bones. Rain soaks through your jacket almost instantly as the group cuts through the trees toward the restricted zone. Somewhere in the distance, a generator hums beneath the crackle of military radios.
Floodlights sweep across the forest every few seconds, cutting through the trees in sharp, blinding arcs. Everyone ducks automatically. By now, the routine is muscle memory. And when you think about that too much, it hits in a way you don’t really let yourself sit with since it shouldn’t be like this. None of you should be here at all. Maybe in another life you’re just normal kids, worried about normal things, not carrying the weight of saving a world that keeps almost ending.
Hopper leads.
Nancy checks the rear.
Robin keeps track of timing.
Steve stays near you. Always near you.
“Same plan,” Nancy whispers. “In and out. We check the western sector for movement and regroup in forty minutes.”
Everyone nods. Then they descend—and you’re just left watching for a second longer than you should, hoping it won’t be the last time you see any of them come back up. Maybe it was wrong to think so negatively all the time, but who could really blame you? You’d all seen things no one was ever supposed to see, lived through horrors that went far beyond normal. After everything that had happened, “okay” didn’t even feel like a real thing anymore.
Crossing into the Upside Down never gets easier, no matter how many times you do it. The cold hits first, sharp and immediate, like the air itself is rejecting you. Then the smell follows. Rot. Blood. Wet decay that clings to everything the moment you breathe it in. If the “walls” could talk, you didn’t think you’d want to hear what they had to say.
And underneath it all, something worse—you can feel it before you even name it. The air doesn’t feel alive here. It feels wrong. Dead in a way that doesn’t stop moving.
You land hard beside Steve at the bottom of the tunnel and immediately hear the distant echoing groans somewhere deep underground. The Upside Down version of Hawkins stretches endlessly ahead in darkness and ash.
Steve instinctively reaches for your hand for half a second before catching himself. Still, his fingers brush yours. “You good?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
He studies your face like he’s checking whether you’re lying. Obviously he can see that a part of you isn’t fine but… who is right now? So he reluctantly nods.
The group moves carefully through the ruined underground corridors beneath Hawkins High, flashlights dimmed low while spores drift through the air like snow.
No monsters.
No attacks.
No sign of Vecna.
Just silence.
That should’ve been fine. But nothing ever really was. Not when that evil son of a bitch Vecna always seemed to have another trick up his sleeve.
Robin notices first. “Do you guys hear that?”
Everyone stops.
Nothing happens.
“That’s the problem,” she whispers.
Steve immediately lifts the shotgun.
The walls twitch, a sick ripple runs through the vines coating the ceiling. Then Nancy sees it first. Her whole expression changes. “Move. Now.”
But it’s too late.
The tunnel behind you seals with a wet, snapping snap of flesh and root and something alive deciding you don’t get to leave. Vines burst across the walls like they’ve been waiting for permission.
Dustin stumbles back. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!”
The lights overhead pop one after another, glass bursting into sparks before the tunnel is swallowed in darkness. Then the screaming starts. It’s a demogorgon. And it’s close. It’s coming straight for you all.
It doesn’t just echo through the tunnel—it fills it. That wet, guttural screech tearing straight through the air as something massive drops from the ceiling in a sudden, violent impact.
“RUN!” Hopper roars.
Everything snaps into motion at once. Gunfire flashes through the dark in sharp bursts. Nancy fires blindly, hitting nothing fast enough. Robin swings her crowbar hard, metal striking something solid—but it barely slows it. The demogorgon moves wrong-fast, snapping forward and missing you by inches, claws raking sparks off the wall beside you.
Steve grabs your arm and yanks you forward. “GO!”
You run.
And it follows. Not rushing. Hunting. Deliberate. It drives all of you deeper into the tunnels instead of toward the exit.
And that’s when it clicks to you. Vecna knows. He’s not just waiting. He set this.
“This is a trap!” Dustin shouts, voice cracking as he runs, barely keeping up as the darkness closes in behind you. The realization hits too late. A demogorgon drops from the ceiling.
“DUSTIN!” you scream.
It lands directly in front of him with a yell so loud the tunnel shakes. Dustin barely gets his hands up before it slams into him, throwing him sideways into the wall hard enough to make the sound echo.
His flashlight skids across the ground, spinning uselessly through the dark. The demogorgon turns immediately. Straight toward him. Focused and ready to kill.
You don’t think for even a second you just act. You move quickly in front of him. “HEY!” while shouting you throw yourself between them just as it lunges.
Pain explodes through your side. Its claws rip across you so violently it feels like being torn open with burning metal. Your breath vanishes instantly. A scream rips out of you before you can stop it. You hit the ground hard.
Somewhere behind you, Steve goes completely silent as he is currently processing what the fuck just happened.
Then—
“No. NO!”
The terror in his voice is instant. Raw. Unrecognizable. The shotgun blast detonates through the tunnel. The demogorgon jerks back with a screech, but it doesn’t go down. It barely even slows. It twists toward Steve for half a second before its attention snaps right back to you.
Like it chose you. Like that was always the plan.
“Get her up!” Nancy shouts.
You try. You really do but the second you push against the ground, agony tears through your ribs so sharply your arms collapse underneath you. The demogorgon lunges again.
Steve gets there first.
He throws himself between you and the creature with the nail bat raised, slamming it across the monster’s face with a roar that sounds more desperate than angry. “GET AWAY FROM HER!”
The creature shrieks.
Steve hits it again. And again.
He’s furious now. Reckless. Swinging hard enough to stagger himself.
“Steve!” Robin screams.
The demogorgon catches the bat mid-swing. Everyone freezes. For one horrible second, neither of them move. Then the creature hurls Steve across the tunnel. He crashes into the wall and drops hard.
“STEVE!” Your voice breaks on his name.
The demogorgon turns back toward you slowly. Its flowered face opens wider, revealing rows of teeth slick with blood. You try to move but the pain immediately tears through your side so violently you nearly black out.
The creature steps closer.
Steve gets between you and it instantly, torn nail bat raised with shaking hands. “Come on,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Come on, you want somebody? Take me.”
The demogorgon pauses. The vines twitch violently beneath its feet, and then, suddenly, the creature backs away. Not defeated. Not afraid. Called off.
At first, the retreat barely makes sense. Demogorgons don’t stop. They don’t hesitate. And then the realization crashes over the group all at once. Vecna never intended to kill anyone here. He wanted panic. Distraction. Chaos. A reminder, carved deep into your all your mind, of exactly how much power he still had and how easily he could unleash it whenever he wanted.
It was a warning not to mess with him anymore—or whatever it is that he’s planning.
And judging by the blood soaking through your clothes, he got exactly what he wanted.
“Shit—shit, she’s bleeding bad,” Dustin says, voice thin with panic.
Steve drops to his knees beside you so fast he nearly slips. His hands hover over your body helplessly, terrified to touch you and terrified not to.
Your breathing comes out uneven and sharp. Everything hurts.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” Steve’s voice is trembling now. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
You try.
His face is pale underneath the grime and blood splattered across his cheek. His eyes look wrecked already.
Nancy kneels beside him immediately, ripping open the medical bag.
“We need pressure on it now.”
Steve presses his hand over your side carefully. The second he does, you cry out. His entire face crumples. “I know. I know, I’m sorry.” He sounds close to panicking himself. “I’m sorry.”
The vines around the tunnel pulse faintly again. Like Vecna’s still watching. Still listening. Steve notices too. And something angry flashes across his face. “Get us out of here,” he says sharply without looking away from you. “Right now,”
“We need to move.”
“She can’t walk,” Dustin says instantly.
“Then I’ll carry her!” Without hesitation, Steve slides one arm beneath your back carefully. The second he lifts you, you cry out. He looks devastated.
“I know,” he whispers frantically. “I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
Sweetheart. In another circumstance it would make your heart melt but you were currently on the verge of what felt like, and probably was, death.
The retreat is a nightmare. Everything hurts. Steve carries you through the tunnels while Hopper and Nancy clear the path ahead. Robin keeps checking behind them for movement while Dustin stays glued to Steve’s side, panic written all over his face.
“You can’t fall asleep,” Steve says for maybe the hundredth time.
“I’m tired,” you mumble against his shoulder.
“Hey, no— no, look at me. You can’t fall asleep yet.” His voice shakes. He’s pleading with you more than commanding, desperation bleeding through every word. “You stay awake. Okay? Stay awake for me, please.”
Blood keeps soaking through his jacket. You can feel it.
So can he.
And the more blood there is, the more frightened he becomes. By the time they reach the outside world again, Steve is breathing hard and it’s not from exhaustion but from panic. Real panic.
He nearly stumbles climbing back through the tunnel into Hawkins.
The rain hits all of you instantly. Cold and sharp.
Robin yanks open the van doors while Hopper starts the engine.
“Go go GO!”
Steve climbs into the backseat with you still in his arms. Dustin scrambles in beside him.
The second the van starts moving, Steve pulls you against his chest and presses both hands harder against your wound.
The drive to Hawkins Memorial feels endless. Rain pounds against the windshield while military sirens echo somewhere nearby.
Nancy keeps looking back from the passenger seat.
“Steve,” you mumble, desperate for relief from something you can’t quite name—the pain, the fear, the awful feeling that everything is slipping away from you all at once.
He doesn’t answer.
“Steve.” you plead again, you’re not sure how much longer you can stay awake.
His eyes are locked on you. Terrified. “You stay with me,” he whispers again. “Please.”
Dustin suddenly starts crying quietly beside him. Which somehow makes it worse.
“I should’ve seen it,” he chokes out. “I should’ve known it was a trap.”
“This isn’t your fault,” you whisper weakly. The last thing you wanted was to ever make your baby brother feel at fault. This was nobody's fault besides that evil son of bitch.
“Yes it is!”
“No,” Steve says sharply.
Dustin looks up.
Steve’s face is streaked with blood and rain and tears. “This is not on you. You hear me?” His voice breaks harder. “None of this is on you.”
Then he looks back at you and completely falls apart again, because your eyes are slipping closed.
“No no no—hey.” He cups your face carefully. “Stay awake, you have to. We’re almost there.”
You try.
You really try.
But everything’s fading.
“I’m begging you. Just stay awake for a little longer, baby.” Steve whispers.
That word nearly destroys you, but somehow you force yourself to stay awake a little longer. One look at everyone’s faces tells you everything you need to know—this isn’t good. The fear in their eyes is impossible to miss and now you’re not sure you’re ready to die yet.
The hospital is in chaos. The military presence in Hawkins means every emergency room is overloaded already. Soldiers crowd the entrance. Backup lights flicker overhead. Nurses rush through the halls carrying supplies while distant shouting echoes from somewhere deeper inside the building.
The second Steve carries you through the doors, people start moving.
“Severe abdominal laceration—”
“She’s losing too much blood—”
“We need a room NOW.”
Hands pull you away from him.
Steve physically resists. “Wait—”
“Sir, let them work.”
“I’m coming with her.”
“You can’t.”
“She hates hospitals—”
“Steve.” Robin grabs his arm before he can actually fight somebody.
He looks wrecked. Completely wrecked. Your blood covers half his clothes, smeared across his hands and soaked into his jacket, and now that the doctors pulled you away from him, he looks utterly lost. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself if he can’t follow.
Dustin stands frozen nearby, looking completely numb. His sister had just thrown herself in front of a demogorgon to save him. That could’ve been him being rushed away by the doctors right now, bloodied and barely conscious, but instead it was you. That realization seems to hit him harder now that his brain is preoccupied. He can’t even bring himself to move, just stares after you with wide, terrified eyes like if he looks away for even a moment, something even worse will happen.
And for the first time since any of this started, Steve looks genuinely helpless. There’s nothing left for him to fight, nothing he can fix, nothing he can throw himself in front of anymore.
He can’t lose you. Not like this. Not after everything. And yet all he can do is stand there and watch as they take you farther away, like that possibility is happening anyway.
- -
Hours pass.
Nobody leaves—how could they? Not when their friend, girlfriend, sister is currently fighting for her life right here. Everyone stays rooted in place, because moving would somehow make it worse, stepping away would mean accepting something none of them are ready to accept.
Hopper eventually forces everyone into chairs while doctors move in and out of surgery doors down the hall.
Steve doesn’t sit. Not once. He paces endlessly through the waiting room, hands tangled in his hair. Every few minutes he asks for updates. Every few minutes he gets nothing.
Dustin eventually breaks around three in the morning. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Steve immediately crouches in front of him. “Hey.”
Dustin wipes angrily at his face. “What if she dies?”
Steve stops breathing for a second.
Just a second.
But it’s enough.
Enough for it to hit him all at once—because he hasn’t let himself say it out loud, hasn’t even let himself think it properly. Not you. Not after everything. Not after you just got dragged away from him with blood on his hands and your name still stuck in his throat.
Dustin notices first. His expression shifts like he already regrets saying it.
So does Robin. Her eyes flick to Steve immediately, like she’s bracing for whatever comes next.
“She’s not gonna die,” Steve says finally.
Too fast.
Too desperate.
Dustin starts crying again anyway.
Steve pulls him into a hug immediately because it’s all he knows how to do right now.
It hits Robin suddenly then, watching the two of them sitting there together in the middle of the hospital at four in the morning.
This is Steve’s family.
Not just friends.
Family.
And losing you would destroy him.
The doctor finally appears just before sunrise.
Everyone stands instantly.
Steve’s face has gone completely pale.
“How is she?”
The doctor pulls off his mask with a tired sigh but he reveals probably the best news of Steve’s life.
“She made it.”
Silence follows. Nobody moves at first, like the words don’t fully register, like if they stay still enough they can keep reality from changing again.
Then Dustin breaks first, the relief hitting him so hard he starts crying. His worst fear— losing his sister—is pushed back a little farther into the distance. Not today. Fate doesn’t get to take you today. Vecna doesn’t win this time.
Robin lets out a sharp, disbelieving swear, half laugh, half shock, like she can’t decide whether to collapse or yell at someone for letting it get that far.
Steve doesn’t say anything. He just closes his eyes. And for a second, it looks like his whole body finally gives out on holding itself together.
“You can see her soon,” the doctor continues. “She’s stable, but recovery’s going to take time.”
Stable. Alive.
That’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. Steve has to lean against the wall suddenly.
Robin grabs his shoulder before he falls.
“You okay?”
“No,” he laughs shakily.
Then quieter:
“But she is.”
—
When Steve finally enters your hospital room, the sun is barely beginning to rise outside. Pale orange light spills through the blinds in thin stripes across the floor. It’s only been a few hours since the demogorgon attack, but to him it feels like days. Days since he last saw your face without blood on it. Days since he knew for sure you were still alive.
For a moment, he just stands there in the doorway staring at you.
You look exhausted. Pale. There are bandages wrapped tightly around your abdomen, machines humming quietly beside you, bruises scattered across your skin. But your chest is rising and falling steadily.
You’re alive.
Steve lets out a breath that sounds almost painful.
“Hey,” you whisper weakly.
That nearly destroys him again.
He crosses the room immediately, grabbing your hand so fast it’s almost desperate. His fingers are cold, trembling slightly against yours.
“I thought I lost you,” he admits, voice cracking completely on the words.
And suddenly you understand.
Not just fear.
Not just panic.
Weeks of it. Months.
Every Crawl. Every fight. Every time the two of you stepped into the Upside Down together, Steve had been waiting for the moment something finally went wrong. Waiting for the second he wouldn’t be fast enough to protect you.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur softly.
He laughs once under his breath, completely wrecked. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Your thumb brushes weakly against his hand. “Steve…”
“No, because I need you to understand something,” he says quickly, eyes glassy. “When they took you away from me, I genuinely thought that was it. I thought the last thing I was ever gonna hear from you was you apologizing to me while you were bleeding out.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “I’m still here.”
Steve bows his head for a second like he physically can’t handle hearing that. He presses your hand against his forehead, breathing shakily.
“You scared the absolute hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He looks at you immediately. “Seriously, don’t ever apologize for that.”
The room falls quiet for a moment except for the steady beeping of the monitor beside you. Steve keeps staring at you like if he looks away too long, you’ll disappear again.
Then the door opens quietly behind him.
Dustin steps in looking exhausted beyond belief, hair a mess, eyes red and swollen from crying. Robin follows right behind him carrying terrible vending machine coffee.
The second Dustin sees you awake, his whole face crumples.
“You idiot,” he says tearfully. “Do you have any idea how traumatic you are?”
You laugh softly despite the pain. “Hi, Dusty.”
He points at you angrily while already crying harder. “No, absolutely not. You do not get to ‘Hi, Dusty’ me after that.”
Robin snorts loudly from the doorway. “Thank God. One more hour with sad Steve and I was gonna lose my mind.”
Steve rolls his eyes without looking away from you. “Robin.”
“No, seriously,” she continues, setting the coffees down. “This man stared at a wall for like forty minutes. At one point I thought he died too.”
“I was thinking, Robin.”
“You were having a breakdown.”
Dustin carefully hugs you a second later anyway, trying not to hurt you. The second he does, you feel him shaking.
“That could’ve been me,” he says quietly against your shoulder.
Your expression softens immediately. “But it wasn’t.”
“You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat."
“Don’t say that.” His voice cracks instantly. “Please don’t say that.”
Steve looks away for a second, jaw tightening hard enough you can see it. Because he knows you mean it. That’s the problem. You would do it again if it meant protecting the people you loved.
Robin gently nudges Dustin after a minute. “C’mon, Henderson. She needs rest before you emotionally flood the entire hospital.”
Dustin wipes angrily at his face. “I hate everyone here.”
“You love us.”
“Unfortunately.”
Eventually, the room settles. Robin and Dustin fall asleep in uncomfortable chairs after hours of refusing to leave. Steve stays beside your bed the entire time. Even when exhaustion is visibly dragging at him, he refuses to let go of your hand.
At some point after dawn, you wake again to find the room quieter. The sky outside has turned soft gold with early morning light. Dustin is snoring against Robin’s shoulder across the room.
Steve is still beside you.
His head rests near your hand on the mattress, eyes closed for the first time in hours, fingers still loosely wrapped around yours even in sleep. Like some part of him is afraid you’ll vanish the second he lets go.
You gently brush your fingers through his hair.
Steve stirs immediately, blinking awake in confusion before his eyes find yours. The panic there disappears almost instantly.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.”
For the first time since all of this started, you see something different settle across his face. Not fear. Not panic. Relief. Real relief. And when he smiles at you this time, small and exhausted and unbelievably emotional, it feels like maybe—despite everything—you all survived this one.
Steve leans his forehead to rest against yours for a moment longer than he probably realizes. Like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, reality will snap back and take you away again.
“You’re really here,” he says quietly, like he still needs confirmation.
“I’m really here,” you answer, just as soft.
His breath shakes a little. “Okay. Good. Because I swear, if I had to go through that again—”
He stops himself, jaw tightening, like he can’t even finish the thought.
Your thumb brushes his hand again. “Hey. It’s over. I’m okay.”
Steve huffs a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re literally stitched back together and calling that ‘okay.’”
“You can’t classify anything as just ‘okay’ right now, but I'm alive and that counts.”
That earns a real laugh out of him this time, small, but real, and it breaks something tight in his expression. Just a little.
Across the room, Dustin stirs in his chair and groans. “If you two are gonna do emotional trauma bonding, can you do it quieter? Some of us are trying to recover from almost losing a sibling.”
Robin, still half-asleep, immediately throws a pillow in his direction without looking. “Go back to sleep, Henderson.”
“It hit my face.”
“Good.”
Steve doesn’t even look over. He’s still watching you like he’s afraid blinking will cost him something. Then his voice drops again, softer. “When they took you away… I couldn’t think. I just—” He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “I kept replaying it. Like if I had moved faster, if I had grabbed you sooner, if I—”
“Steve.” You interrupt gently.
He stops.
You tighten your grip on his hand. “You didn’t fail me.”
His eyes flicker, like he wants to argue, like that thought has been sitting in him too long to just disappear.
But you don’t let him spiral.
“I did what I had to do,” you continue. “And I’m here because it worked. Because you all were there. Because we didn’t give up.”
Steve looks down for a second, breathing unsteady. “Still felt like I lost you.”
“I know.”
That quiet answer lands heavier than anything else. The room stays still for a moment after that, the kind of silence that isn’t empty—just full.
Eventually, you shift a little in bed, wincing at the ache in your side. Steve notices immediately, sitting up straighter.
“Do you need anything? Water? I can get a doctor. Or—wait—should I get a doctor?”
“I’m okay,” you reassure him quickly. “Just sore.”
“You’re allowed to be not okay,” he says immediately. “Like, medically speaking, I think you’re supposed to be not okay right now.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
That makes you smile a little, tired but real. Steve notices it like it’s something he’s been waiting to see.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“That.” He squeezes your hand. “Your face doing that thing where you’re actually you again.”
You roll your eyes faintly. “My face has always been me.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean… before. Before I thought I lost you.”
The weight of that hangs for a second.
Then you shift your hand slightly, turning it so you can hold his properly, fingers interlacing more firmly.
“Steve,” you say carefully.
He looks up instantly.
You hesitate, because you can feel how much this matters to him. How much everything hinges on the next few words.
So you choose them slowly.
“I need you to listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“No more blaming yourself,” you say. “For any of it. For what I did. For what happened. For any of this.”
His jaw tightens again. “That’s not how it works.”
“It is when I’m telling you it is.” That gets a small, almost stunned pause out of him. You continue anyway, quieter but firmer. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not blaming you. And I’m not going anywhere because of what you didn’t do fast enough.”
Steve swallows hard. “You don’t get it. I— I keep thinking if I lost you—”
“But you didn’t.”
Silence again.
Then Dustin, still half-asleep, mutters from his chair, “Can you two stop saying ‘lost you’ every five seconds? We get it, you almost died.”
Robin, without opening her eyes: “He’s right.”
Steve exhales something between a laugh and a sigh. “Okay, yeah. Sorry.”
But his grip on your hand doesn’t loosen. Not even a little.
The morning light shifts slightly in the room, brighter now, softer. The hospital sounds outside begin to pick up—distant footsteps, quiet voices, the normal rhythm of a world that feels way too ordinary after everything you’ve been through.
Steve glances toward the window, then back at you.
“You scared me,” he says again, but this time it’s not as broken. More honest. Grounded.
“I know.”
“And I meant it,” he adds. “You don’t do that again.”
You raise an eyebrow slightly. “That sounds like an order.”
“It is.”
A beat. Then you sigh lightly. “Fine.”
Steve blinks. “Wait. Really?”
“I said fine,” you repeat. “No more reckless hero moments. I would risk my life again like that.”
He looks suspicious immediately. “You’re saying that way too easily.”
“Because I mean it.”
He studies you like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.
Then you squeeze his hand again, softer this time. “I don’t want to scare you like that again either.”
That finally gets him. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing just slightly out of him for the first time since you woke up. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because I don’t think I can handle it twice.”
“I’m not planning on it, trust me.” you whisper.
Across the room, Dustin has fully given up and is now asleep again, slumped awkwardly in his chair. Robin is half-leaning against him, also out cold.
Steve notices and huffs a quiet laugh.
“They’re unbelievable.”
“You love them.”
“I do,” he admits. Then looks back at you. “But I was really focused on you for a while there.”
Your smile softens again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice drops. “Kind of still am.”
And for a moment, neither of you say anything else.
Because it’s not needed.
He just stays there, holding your hand like he’s decided that as long as he can feel you there, he can start believing in tomorrow again.
Summary: Steve doesn't just like your touch. No, he needs it. So one day when you suddenly stop with your affectionate love, Steve panics.
word count: 1,621
Warnings: none just needy Steve.
A/N: sorry I haven't posted in a while, I've been busy with stuff but hopefully I can find the time to write something longer this week! Also if you have any requests feel free to send me any! This is not really proof read, sorry :/
*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*
Steve doesn’t notice at first how much he has grown immune to your touch. Or maybe he does—but he doesn’t call it anything.
That’s just how you are. The way that your hand always seems to find his arm when you’re sitting beside him. The way your shoulders naturally lean into his without hesitation every time like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Or the way that you always seem to tuck yourself into his space instead of asking for it is all just so natural to him and it's just who you are.
Steve’s never been with someone so touchy as you, not like this, not in any serious relationship. At first, he thinks you're just affectionate, maybe even a little clingy. Not in a bad way—he doesn’t mind it, actually he kind of likes it.
Okay, he really loves it. But he doesn’t realize how much he has grown to need your touch until you seem to stop.
—
It’s small when it happens.
You’re both sitting on the couch at his house, a movie playing that neither of you are paying attention to. Usually, by now, your legs would be thrown over his lap or your head resting against his shoulder. Your fingers would be tracing absentminded patterns along his arm or playing with the hem of his sleeve.
But today, for whatever reason… you’re not.
You’re sitting on the other end of the couch, deeply engrossed in the movie. You're seated not far but just not close to Steve, not the way he likes it. And Steve feels it immediately. It’s like something’s missing. Like the room is colder, even though nothing’s changed.
He shifts a little, glancing over at you. “You okay?” he asks, trying to sound casual but internally he is freaking out. A million different thoughts running through his head at once. Is she mad at me? Oh my god I must be a terrible boyfriend.
You nod, eyes still on the TV. “Yeah. Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. You’re just… quiet.”
“I’m always quiet during movies, because unlike you I actually like to pay attention to them.” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as your eyes still linger on the screen in front of you both.
That is not what Steve meant but he’s not one to push you on it. Maybe he’s just overreacting, is what he tells himself. Maybe everything is fine and you're just not in the mood for cuddling today. It’s fine…
Still, a few minutes pass, and the feeling doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets worse. His skin feels restless, like it’s waiting for something that isn’t coming. Before he can think too hard about it, he scoots closer. Not all the way. Just enough that your knees brush.
You glance at him this time, curious to why your boyfriend is annoying you this time. “…Hi?” you murmur.
“Hi,” he says back, softer, his eyes pleading for your affection as if you can read his mind with just his eyes. There’s a small pause between you both. Then, like you’ve just remembered something, your hand drifts over and settles on his arm.
And–
Oh.
Steve didn’t realize how bad it was until that moment, how much he actually missed your touch until you finally gave into his craving. The second your fingers touch him, something in his chest loosens so fast it almost hurts. He’s so down bad for you it’s almost embarrassing. His shoulders drop, tension melting out of him like he’s been holding it all day without knowing. He exhales quietly.
You notice, of course you do. Your brows knit just slightly, amused at the power your hands seemed to hold in that moment. “Were you… waiting for that or something?” you chuckle curiously.
He huffs out a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “What? No.”
You raise an eyebrow, not convinced in the slightest, it seemed more like Steve was just trying to convince himself that he didn’t just go weak at the feeling of your hand.
Steve looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“A little?” you echo, amused. You don’t mean to make fun of him, you just didn’t realize how much he loved your affection until now.
He hesitates. Then, quieter, “I didn’t think I was. But when you weren’t… I don’t know. It felt weird…not having you touch me when we're supposed to be cuddling.”
Your expression softens immediately. “Steve…”
“I know it’s dumb,” he rushes, shaking his head. “I just—forget it, it’s not a big deal.”
“It’s not dumb,” you say gently, your intention was never to make Steve feel nervous or ashamed. Your hand tightens around his arm, thumb brushing lightly over his sleeve. “You like being touched.”
He lets out a breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh. “Yeah, well. Don’t make it sound like I’m—”
“Touch-starved?” you offer, a little more teasing but not unkind.
He groans, dropping his head back against the couch. “Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” you smile softly again.
Steve doesn’t answer right away. Because… yeah. It kind of is.
He swallows, voice quieter now. “I guess I just… didn’t realize how much I liked it. With you.”
That makes something in your chest ache. You shift closer this time, closing the distance completely until your side is pressed against his. Your hand slides from his arm to his shoulder, then up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair.
Steve freezes for half a second. Then he melts. Like actually fully melts in your arms. His head tips toward you instinctively, like he’s chasing the touch without even thinking about it. His eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, and a soft, almost content sound escapes him before he can stop it.
You still. “…Did you just—”
“No,” he says immediately, eyes snapping open. “Don’t.”
You grin. “You did.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did, Steve.”
He covers his face with his hand, groaning. “Okay, fine. Maybe I did. Can you not make a big deal out of it?”
“I’m not,” you say, though you’re definitely smiling. Your fingers keep moving through his hair, slower now, more deliberate.
He doesn’t even try to hide how much he leans into it this time. It’s kind of ridiculous, honestly. Steve Harrington—cool, confident, popular Steve—basically folding into you like a cat being pet for the first time.
But there’s something else there too. Something softer between you both. Something that feels a little more vulnerable than he probably realizes.
“Hey,” you murmur, quieter now.
He hums in response.
“Come here.” You don’t really give him time to question it. You tug gently at his shoulder, guiding him down until his head is resting in your lap. He goes without resistance.
Not even a second of hesitation. Like he’s been waiting for permission.
“Oh,” he breathes, the word barely there.
Your fingers slide back into his hair immediately, nails lightly scratching against his scalp, and Steve actually shivers.
“Is this okay?” you ask, softer now.
He nods, eyes already half-lidded. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s definitely okay.” That’s all he can manage.
You smile to yourself, settling more comfortably against the couch as you continue to play with his hair. One hand drifts down to his shoulder, tracing slow, absent patterns over the fabric of his shirt. Steve’s hand finds your knee without thinking. He doesn’t grip it—just rests there, like he needs to make sure you’re still there. Like he needs to feel you, too.
The movie keeps playing in the background, completely forgotten. Minutes pass. Maybe longer, who knows.
Steve’s breathing evens out, slow and steady. His eyes close fully at some point, his face soft in a way you don’t see often. All the usual tension he carries—the need to be “on,” to be something for everyone else—it’s just… gone.
Replaced with something quiet. Safe.
You keep your movements gentle, careful not to startle him. Your fingers trace the same soothing paths over and over—his hair, his shoulder, his arm.
He shifts slightly, turning his face more into your stomach, like he’s trying to get closer without waking up completely.
Your heart squeezes. “Steve,” you whisper, just to check.
He hums again, barely conscious. “…Don’t stop,” he mumbles.
You blink, caught off guard by how small his voice sounds. “I won’t,” you promise softly.
And you don’t.
Then after a while, when he wakes up, it’s slow.
Not the usual groggy, confused kind of waking—but something softer. Like he’s surfacing from somewhere warm. His first awareness is your hand still in his hair. The second is the steady rise and fall of your breathing. The third is how… comfortable he feels.
He doesn’t move right away. Just lays there, blinking slowly, letting himself exist in it for a second longer.
“…Hey,” he finally murmurs.
You look down at him, smiling softly. “Hey. You fell asleep.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I—” He pauses, glancing up at you. “You didn’t have to stay like this.”
“I wanted to.”
Simple as that. Steve studies your face for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “…Can I stay?” he asks, almost hesitant.
Your smile softens even more. “Yeah,” you say. “You can stay as long as you want.”
And the way his shoulders relax at that—It tells you everything you need to know.
So you keep your hand in his hair. He keeps his head in your lap. And neither of you rush to move. Not when this feels this good. Not when he finally has something he didn’t even realize he was missing.
hiding out from the humidity in his bedroom, painting your nails with light pink nail polish, getting grass stains on anything and everything white, kisses that tastes like your candy floss chapstick, sleeping in his old faded nyc t-shirt, laughing as he tries to tie cherry stems, the sound your creaking garden gate makes when he sneaks in every night, the smell of salt air, hand burning steering wheels that make steve curse every time he gets in his car, drinking mrs harrington's sparkling wine, soft kisses pressed to the back of your neck, stealing the strawberries of off his ice cream, his messy/sweaty run though hair, your jasmine perfume making his lightheaded
sitting out by the harrington's swimming pool at night with your legs dangling in the water, the feeling of dew drop covered grass brushing against your ankles, watching him press a cool can of diet coke to his face, walking under the shade of apple blossoms, sleeping without bedsheets, leaving sea shells in his pockets, the sunburn that appears across the bridge of his nose every year like clock work, him bringing you lemon tea in the mornings, your blue denim shorts, the cold feeling of his bathroom tiles, calling him up during a thunderstorm just so you feel a little less alone, visiting your friends summer houses, the sweaty kisses and the sudden rush to get each others clothes off when you're alone
the scent of freshly cut grass and orange juice, white lilies growing up everywhere, dog-earing the pages of the book that it's taking you forever to read because he keeps distracting you, the scent of chlorine on his skin, the indented scar under his jaw from when he fell of his bike when he was a kid darkening under the sun, messing around with garden hoses like little kids, constantly reapplying sunscreen to your shoulders, eating tangerines on the front porch, teasing him about still driving the same car he did in high school knowing damn well you'd be heartbroken if he ever got rid of it, watching pink sunsets in the parking lot
Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.
Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader
Length: 7.7k
Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh
Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.
The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.
In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.
You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.
And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.
There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.
The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.
Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.
The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.
But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.
The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.
There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.
Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.
But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.
“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.
You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.
There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.
When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.
Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.
So you wait.
And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.
And wait.
You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.
Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.
You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.
So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.
Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.
With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.
“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.
It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.
There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.
He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.
Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.
You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”
“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”
You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.
“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.
He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”
The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.
There’s a decision to make.
You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.
Or you could stick around and see what happens next.
You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”
“It would,” he states, sincerely.
Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in.
His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”
“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.
There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.
Unbelievable.
He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”
“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”
The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.
“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”
You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.
He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”
An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”
“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.
You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.
To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.
The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.
There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.
“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.
He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”
It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.
When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.
You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.
“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”
The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.
He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”
Oh.
A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.
You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”
“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”
You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”
Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.
For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.
How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.
You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”
Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”
You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.
“Trust me, you have plenty.”
And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.
Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.
He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”
You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”
“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”
“I’ll allow it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.
You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.
The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.
“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”
Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.
You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”
He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”
“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.
Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”
Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.
You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.
The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.
“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”
You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”
“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.
You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.
When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.
“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.
“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”
Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.
You take a sweet sip. “So.”
“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.
“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.
“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own. “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”
Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.
You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.
His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.
Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.
You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.
Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”
“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.
“That’s my big move.”
You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.
“Am I going to get to see it?”
His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”
A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.
Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.
“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”
The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.
Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.
“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”
You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.
When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”
Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.
“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”
“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”
Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”
You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”
You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.
“Bradshaw!”
Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.
You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”
“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”
You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”
Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.
“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”
He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”
You try not to preen at the compliment.
“The relentless type, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”
You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.
“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.
“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.
You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”
The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”
The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.
You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”
He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”
You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.
Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.
The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”
He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”
“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.
Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”
He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.
“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.
He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.
You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.
The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.
The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.
Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”
You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.
He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.
“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.
And then they’re off.
It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.
Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.
Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.
The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.
When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.
True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.
Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”
The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.
“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.
You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.
“Double hit,” you declare.
“Dammit,” Jake curses.
You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.
“You sure?” you ask.
“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.
You take it from him with a sly grin.
Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.
You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.
“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”
And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.
“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.
He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.
You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.
You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.
It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.
“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.
“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.
And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”
“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.
Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.
On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.
“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.
You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.
Surprisingly, he banks it. But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.
Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.
But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.
“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Just put me out of my misery already.”
You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”
He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”
And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.
“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.
You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”
Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.
“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.
“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”
Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.
“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.
“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”
“One of them,” you grin.
You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.
You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.
The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.
“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.
“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.
You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.
A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.
It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.
He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.
You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.
A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.
You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.
When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.
𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰
𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓
𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭
𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚
𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥
𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫
There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.
But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.
And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.
Not now that you’ve met him.
Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!
And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!
could u request perhaps a steve x reader fic (hurt comfort) where reader and steve get into an argument prior to a crawl and hes being a little stubborn and avoiding reader but finds out from walkie or another person that shes badly hurt and won’t wake up?
happy ending please 🙏🙏 i know this doesnt fit the timeline of your henderson! reader but i don’t mind it being a standalone one shot :)
Just to keep you satisfied
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-0424
a/n: Suggestions are open for anything, not just Henderson!reader! The fact that my only two ST fics happen to feature that is purely a coincidence, so no worries!
Classification and content warnings: Angst and fluff | Avoidant attachment tendencies, injury, emotional distress related to relationships
Word count: 3,3k
Divider by me ;)
You lived in absolutes, in extremities sharpened by probabilities where every outcome measured against loss, grief and love.
Love most of all.
You had never been optimistic about it. The second something became important enough to lose, your mind immediately began preparing for the damage, so when you and Steve happened, when whatever existed between you stopped being casual and started surviving things that should have destroyed it, your thoughts turned vicious toward yourself.
You questioned every moment of it, every stretch of peace, explaining it away with the town, with trauma and proximity, with the fact that Hawkins had a way of welding people together under pressure until they could not tell the difference between dependence and devotion.
You told yourself it was because you had never seen love done right. Every example you had ever known seemed to rot eventually, becoming bitter, painful or cruel once it settled long enough to harden into permanence. From where you stood, love ruined people, it hollowed them out and left them recognizable only in pieces. You had built your entire life around avoiding that fate, around never needing anyone enough for them to destroy you if they left.
Hyper independence had become religion to you and Steve fought against that without even trying.
The longer your relationship lasted, the more unbearable that realization became since it survived everything thrown at it. Near death, bloodshed, monsters, fear and nights where either of you could have disappeared into the dark and never come back. It stayed standing anyway, stubborn, warm and terrifyingly steady but as long as it stayed exactly what it was, you could breathe through it. As long as nobody touched it, labeled it or pushed it toward something bigger, you could pretend you were still in control but the second the water shifted beneath the boat, the second the future became something tangible instead of implied, bile climbed your throat because the Upside Down had been constant too.
You had spent the entire afternoon preparing for the crawl. Weapons spread across tables, maps pinned down under impatient hands, everyone talking over each other inside the Squawk while tension sat thick in the room like smoke. This time you were going with Hopper. Nobody argued with the choice because every crawl into the Upside Down made the odds worse, every mission sharpening that ugly, unavoidable thought sitting in the back of everybody’s mind.
What if this was the one somebody did not come back from?
By the time the sun began sinking low enough to stain the fields gold and copper, you and Steve slipped outside together, escaping the suffocating planning and worried glances for a little while. The air smelled like dirt and drying grass, warm from the heat of the day but cooling quickly as evening settled over Hawkins.
You watched Steve walk a few steps ahead of you through the field before jogging lightly to catch up. “You think this is it?” you asked.
He glanced over at you, slowing his pace. “That you find Vecna tonight?”
You nodded once.
“The sooner we do,” he said carefully, “the sooner everything goes back to normal.” A grin tugged faintly at his mouth then, teasing something softer into his voice. “We’ll go back to our boring lives…You might actually have to get serious about getting a job.”
You let out a quiet laugh through your nose. “Don’t even know what I’d do with all that safety and time.” Your eyes drifted across the endless stretch of fields around you, the sunset catching along the horizon in bruised shades of orange and pink. “I barely remember what Hawkins was like before all this. Might actually get really boring.”
“We don’t have to stay here,” he said.
There was something careful hidden underneath the words, something almost restrained.
You looked at him sideways. “So what? We escape in one of those shitty getaway cars with the cans dragging behind it and a ‘just married’ sign taped to the back?”
Your tone stayed light, joking but Steve’s expression changed in a way that made your stomach immediately tighten.
He looked at you too long and then he sighed, so quiet you almost missed it but there was relief in it somehow, relief at finally standing near the thing he had clearly been carrying around for a long time.
The look on his face hit you like cold water. He looked hopeful…hopelessly in love.
Your body reacted before your thoughts did. You took a step back instinctively as Steve shook his head gently, almost like he thought moving too fast would scare you off.
“No,” you breathed, pulse beginning to pound hard enough to make your chest ache. Your stomach dropped violently as his stare remained unchanged. “N-no,” you repeated, softer this time, shaking your head.
“You can’t deny something that’s already yours.”
The words landed hard, making your throat tighten. You backed away again while he moved forward slowly, carefully, like approaching something wounded.
You pointed toward the ground between you both as if he had physically contaminated the space with it, with futures, promises and permanence, with things that never lasted for anybody around you no matter how badly they wanted them to.
“You picked a fucked up moment, Steven.”
“We need to make sense of this before you go down there,” he insisted, voice roughening around the edges. God, he was practically begging now. “We’ve had three good years,” he said as he stepped closer again, eyes fixed on yours as if he could hold you there through sheer will alone. “And it’s time we call it what it is.”
You kept shaking your head before you even realized you were doing it, the word ‘no’ falling from your mouth over and over while your feet kept carrying you backward through the field.
“I love you and I have for a long time and you need to hear it.” His voice trembled through the confession even while every word stayed painfully clear, intention unwavering despite the fear cracking underneath it. “I’ve tried to show you and you wouldn’t let me, which is fine, but before you go, before whatever happens down there is out of our hands, I need you to give me an answer because I just can’t…” He stopped for a second, swallowing hard enough for you to see it in his throat. “I can’t keep going like this.”
“Steve, please don’t,” you begged quietly.
But he kept going anyway, because this had clearly been clawing at him for too long to stop now.
“I learned what you couldn’t take and I stopped doing it.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours desperately, trying to hold you still long enough to finally understand him. “And I’m happy I did. It’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I...” He broke off suddenly, his expression twisting as his eyes glossed over. “You know, I figured you’d love me.”
The words hit you harder than anything else had.
You kept shaking your head softly, almost unconsciously, hoping he would see the panic written all over your face and stop before either of you said something irreversible.
Instead his voice got louder, never yelling but definitely fuller now, wounded and spilling out too fast to pull back. He looked away from you for the first time, gaze drifting across the field as if he could not bear watching your reaction anymore. It was obvious he was making this part up as he went along, fumbling through raw honesty without a plan, just like the two of you had stumbled through the relationship itself.
“And I realize maybe I messed up somewhere,” he said roughly. “Maybe I fucked the timing completely. Maybe I’m not this changed man everybody keeps saying I am...”
“No,” you cut in, stepping toward him to make him finally look back at you. “Yes, you are.”
Your voice cracked with urgency because none of this changed the fact that he deserved it. He deserved someone capable of holding what he offered without trembling underneath the weight of it.
“You’ve grown into an amazing man,” you said, forcing the words through the tightness in your throat. “Too good for me, and I’m grateful for all of these years and I’m so proud of you.” Emotion climbed too fast into your chest, choking the next sentence apart as soon as it left your mouth. “But I just...” You inhaled shakily. “This isn’t something I know how to keep. I don’t know why.” You shook your head harder, frustrated tears beginning to blur your vision.
“You can’t?” he echoed quietly, brows pulling together.
“No,” you breathed. Then you blinked quickly and kept talking before he could interrupt again, before you lost the nerve to keep hurting him.
“You should be with someone who can actually handle normal life when this is over. Someone who doesn’t flinch every time they’re shown affection and actually knows what to do with it.” Your voice shook despite how hard you tried to steady it. “I’m awkward, and I don’t even understand why we didn’t go wrong already when I’ve been proven over and over again that I ruin things. And I won’t drag you with me past this.” You motioned vaguely around you, toward Hawkins, toward the disaster your lives had become and the rot underneath everything.
“I love you, Y/n,” Steve said in the middle of your spiraling but hearing it again only made your panic sharpen.
“And we’d constantly fight over stupid shit like how I drive your car,” you continued breathlessly, motioning toward the distant shape of it sitting near the road. “We can’t help it even now.” You laughed once, hollow and humorless before your face crumpled again. “You’d end up hating how skeptical I am about everything, and I’d spend every day questioning what you could possibly see in me, and we’d become miserable, Steve. We’d wish we left it trapped here, down there with the demogorgons and all the rest of it, and everything would turn catastrophic.”
The silence afterward stretched painfully long. Only then did you realize Steve was no longer looking at you.
His eyes had dropped toward the ground, jaw tight like he was blaming the dirt beneath his feet, blaming the existence of the Upside Down itself for carving this fear into you so deeply that even love sounded like catastrophe.
“Anything else?” he asked finally. His voice was so quiet you barely heard him.
You bit the inside of your cheek until it hurt before shaking your head. “No. No, nothing else.”
“Alright.” He nodded once, firm and restrained, then turned back toward the Squawk.
The movement made your stomach plunge so violently it almost hurt. You reached for him instinctively. “Except that...”
Steve stopped and turned back toward you again, giving you a small nod to continue.
You froze for a second.
“Steve,” you started weakly, “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how to hold what you tried to give me. This...” You gestured helplessly between you both. “This is safer. Messing it up fatally won’t ruin me this way.”
“I think you’re wrong about that, Y/n,” he replied immediately, voice firm again despite how wrecked he looked.
“I don’t...”
“I think you will find a way,” he interrupted softly. “You’ll find somebody worth risking your heart for, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way.” His expression tightened painfully as he forced out the rest. “And you will.” He paused. “And I’ll watch.”
You stood there and watched Steve walk away from you while your own feet stayed rooted to the ground. Every instinct in your body screamed to stop him but wanting that and knowing how were two entirely different things and somewhere in the middle of your fear and selfishness you realized you had run out of words to justify yourself with. The reasoning that had always protected you suddenly sounded thin and desperate in your own head.
Still, you let him go.
You kept your eyes lowered when you walked back inside the Squawk, forcing yourself into focus as everybody geared up around you. You concentrated on the plan, on weapons, on timing and routes. You promised Hopper you were fine, focused and ready to go, which were the same lies that had carried you straight toward your own ruin.
You were reckless during the crawl, in small terrible ways that added up fast.
You made decisions that sent adrenaline crashing through your body every few minutes just so you could feel something other than the hollow ache Steve had left behind. It all blurred together quickly after that, dark tunnels of vines, spores and rotting air while demogorgons chased close enough behind you to hear their shrieks echoing against the trees.
You had done this a thousand times before and that was probably the problem.
Your weapon slipped from your grasp while you were running and instead of leaving it behind, instead of following Hopper toward safety like you were supposed to, you slowed down.
You turned back and tried to outsmart it, tried to buy Hopper more time to get ahead…and failed.
The hit came hard and fast, the force of it throwing you violently backward into the trunk of a tree. Pain exploded through your skull the second your head cracked against the bark. Through blurred, tear-filled vision you barely managed to see Hopper firing wildly, injuring the creature enough to force it retreating into the dark.
After that, consciousness came and went in fragments. You felt hands dragging you, voices yelling your name, blood running warm down the side of your face and the suffocating smell of the Upside Down clinging to your lungs.
When you finally forced your eyes open again, you were inside a house you did not recognize, laid out in some dim ruined room overtaken by thick crawling vines spreading across the walls and ceiling.
Hopper’s voice echoed loudly through the haze wrapped around your head as consciousness slowly dragged itself back into place. Your vision swam in and out of focus while you blinked at the ceiling above you, vines twisting across it like veins and watched him pace hurriedly through the room with a walkie talkie clutched tightly in his hand.
He had called in the accident the second you were dragged back to safety.
Steve, reckless in the exact way Steve always was when it came to you, had not hesitated for even a second after hearing Hopper’s voice break over the radio. He had driven straight through the newly opened gate with Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin, tracking a wounded demogorgon deeper into the Upside Down in hopes it would lead them to you. The more Hopper explained what happened, the harder Steve pressed down on the gas pedal, panic swallowing every other thought in his head until even your rejection disappeared beneath the need to reach you.
Now all of them were somewhere out there searching blindly while communication crackled in and out around the interference poisoning the air.
“Steve?” you called weakly, your voice scraping painfully against your throat as you tried pushing yourself upright. The second you moved, agony split through your skull.
Hopper immediately dropped the walkie onto the nearby table and rushed toward you.
“Hey, kiddo, hey.” His hands carefully steadied your shoulders before you could sit fully upright. “Lay back down. You hit your head pretty bad.”
Your fingers instinctively rose toward the throbbing ache near your temple. When you pulled your hand back down, blood stained your fingertips dark.
“It stopped bleeding,” Hopper assured quickly when your breathing shifted unevenly. “But you need to stay down. Help’s coming.”
He guided you gently back against the mattress and this time you let him. Your entire body felt weak and heavy, exhaustion pressing into your bones while pain pulsed behind your eyes.
“I messed up,” you rasped.
Hopper shook his head immediately, even though both of you knew you had. You had broken formation, abandoned the plan and nearly gotten yourself killed. Still, his expression softened instead of hardening.
“We don’t gotta talk about it right now.”
“With Steve,” you corrected shakily, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I was too quick turning him down.”
Hopper blinked slowly before exhaling through his nose and lowering himself into the chair beside the bed.
Truthfully, he had guessed as much the second you and Steve walked back into the Squawk earlier that evening. The both of you had looked devastated in entirely different ways and Hopper knew heartbreak well enough to recognize it immediately. He understood now why Steve had seemed ready to tear the world apart before driving into the Upside Down after hearing your name over the radio. Hopper had spent years watching the two of you orbit each other helplessly, stuck in that miserable gray area between fear and devotion, too close to walk away but too terrified to call it what it was.
“Do you love him?” Hopper asked quietly.
You blinked toward the ceiling for a second before answering.
“If he asked me again,” you whispered, swallowing around the knot tightening painfully in your throat, “I think I’d say ‘yes’.” Your eyes finally moved toward Hopper’s. “Do you think he’ll ask me again?”
“But do you love him?” he repeated, firmer this time.
The question settled heavily in your chest. You gave a small nod against the pillow despite the way it made your head pulse violently. Tears slipped freely down your face now, warm against your skin.
“I just don’t want him seeing parts of me he can’t fix,” you admitted brokenly.
Hopper’s expression changed, something deeply understanding moving through his eyes.
Before he could answer, noise erupted from downstairs followed by multiple footsteps and raised voices. Then Steve’s voice cut through everything else as he called your name with enough panic behind it to make your entire body tense.
Hopper watched you react, watched the way your expression changed before you could stop it.
“Upstairs!” Hopper shouted back before slowly standing from the chair. His eyes stayed on you as Steve’s footsteps thundered through the house. “Steve’s a big boy…let him decide that for himself,” Hopper said softly.
Steve appeared in the doorway. His chest heaved violently from exertion, hair damp with sweat and sticking messily to his forehead while his wide frantic eyes landed on you almost painfully fast. Relief and terror crashed across his face so openly it made your chest ache.
He crossed the room. “Oh, my sweet girl,” he breathed.
Steve dropped beside the bed, one hand carefully cradling the side of your head while the other moved shakily over your arms and shoulders like he needed physical proof you were still there. His eyes scanned every visible injury at once, muttering frantically under his breath about getting you out, getting you to a hospital and figuring something out.
“What if you don’t like what you see?” you interrupted weakly, your trembling voice finally pulling his attention fully back to your face.
Steve’s eyes lifted to yours instantly and somehow, in that moment, it felt like he already understood every single thing you meant, like he had seen all the ugly parts already and stayed anyway.
His hand slid slowly to your cheek, thumb brushing carefully over your trembling lower lip while his breathing gradually steadied, his heartbeat finding an entirely different rhythm now that he knew you were alive.
“How deep am I allowed to look?” he asked quietly.
A sob broke from your chest. “As deep as it goes.”
Something in Steve’s expression softened completely before he leaned down carefully and kissed you, deep and warm and maybe a little desperate in a way that felt like breathing after nearly drowning, oxygen finally forcing its way back into your lungs to keep you alive through the pain, the fear and through every doubt that had ever convinced you love would ruin you before it could save you.
a/n: If you enjoyed this, consider saving the archive. More stories are coming, and requests are always welcome! Likes, reblogs and comments help others find my work and mean more to me than you know. Thank you so much for reading 💛
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,
“Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage,
“‘M fine.”
“Can I open the door?”
“...Yeah.”
It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.”
“Who taught you to be so sweet?”
“You did.”
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.”
“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.”
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.”
“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.”
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.
“Thanks for all of your help, Li.”
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.”
“You never like my boyfriends.”
“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.”
When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.”
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—
“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.”
“Go to class and learn.”
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.
You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—
No. No.
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.
--
“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!”
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:
“One more time?”
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.
“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?”
It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.
“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin.
“Oh—You want a sip?”
“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.”
“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.”
“Jeez, what time do you start work?”
“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.”
“Explains how big the coffee is.”
“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?”
“Uh—No. Thanks.”
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.
“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Heard a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
“Like what?”
“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.”
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—
“Maybe I was curious about you, too.”
John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.
And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.
But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you.
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.
It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning.
--
“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”
“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.”
“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.”
“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.”
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.”
“...Okay, this is one step below that.”
“Just one?”
The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.”
“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.”
“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.”
“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?”
“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”
“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.”
“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.”
“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.”
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.
“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?”
“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—”
“John!”
--
By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.
It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.
You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now?
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.
“What’s up, Lilah?”
“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.”
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.
“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.”
“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.”
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.
“Whaddaya want, bean?”
“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?”
“Willingly? It would be a first.”
“Are you pregnant?”
The thought nearly triggers another heave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—”
“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—”
“And it’s been a while.”
“...If you’re sure.”
“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.”
“Blegh, okay, we get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.”
“Lilah, for godssake—”
“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.”
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.
“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.”
“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.”
“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.
“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.”
“Lilah—!”
“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.
It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours.
--
“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.”
“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.”
“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.”
“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.”
“What about your parents?”
You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.”
“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—”
“Okay.”
“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”
“Okay!”
“Nice scenery, though.”
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.
“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.
“...John?”
Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?”
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”
“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?”
--
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?”
You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.”
You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.
It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts.
--
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!”
You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?”
“How long have you been on the floor?”
“Did that boy drive you?”
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.”
“Lilah, shut up—”
“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”
“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps.
“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?”
“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!”
--
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General.
Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.
--
“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?”
You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Trying to make plans, actually.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.”
“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.”
“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.
“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—”
“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.”
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding—”
“Not everything is a joke, John.”
--
There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.
“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side.
“We’ve got rebound tenderness.”
“What’s that mean?” You hiss.
“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—”
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.
“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.
“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages,
“I was—She’s my—”
“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—”
And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—
“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.”
“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper.
“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.
“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.”
“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.
“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
“John.”
“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?”
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.
“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.”
“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.”
“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.”
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.
“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.
“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.”
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.
“I’m scared,” You whisper.
“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.”
--
“I like him.”
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).
You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“The punchline.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.”
Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.”
“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.”
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?”
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.
“Just what I said.”
“They were all nice guys.”
“No, they were all assholes.”
You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.”
“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.”
“They were all accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.”
“Right, right.”
“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.”
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.
“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.”
“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.”
“That is not what I mean—”
“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.”
“That was one guy!”
“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.”
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:
“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.
“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.”
“Anytime, generalissimo.”
--
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive?
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—
“Are you snooping through my messages?”
Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little.
“No. Trying to see what time it is.”
“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.
“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”
“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.
“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.
“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—”
“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:
“Did you bring my work laptop?”
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.
“I—No.”
“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”
You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.”
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.”
“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.”
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?”
“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.
“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.”
“You want me to go get her?”
“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.
“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again.
“Mm…You want me to go?”
“No.”
“Then I’m right where I should be.”
And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.
“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?”
“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.”
“Did they do the surgery?”
“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.”
“Oh.”
“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?”
--
It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--
You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick.
You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.
Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out.
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did.
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief.
--
You know those things are bad for you.
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.
“I thought you were gonna die, you know?”
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there:
“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”
“I know.”
“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.”
“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.”
You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in.
“I love you, bean.”
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.
“I love you, too, generalissimo.”
--
“Saw Lilah on the way in.”
“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
“Everything okay?”
“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.”
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.
“How’s the pain been?”
“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.”
“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.”
“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.”
John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.”
“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.”
“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?”
“Not really.”
“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.”
“Okay.”
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens.
“No fever, chills?”
“Nn-nn.”
“Appetite’s back?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?”
“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.”
“Your cramps are that bad?”
“They can be.”
“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.”
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours.
“...What’d your parents say?”
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.”
“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.”
“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.”
“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.”
“I like a plan, remember?”
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?”
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”
“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.”
You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?”
“Famously.”
John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.”
“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?”
“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.”
“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?”
“Oh, all of them.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.”
John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.
“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled.
“There’s that word again.”
“Hmm?”
“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.”
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.”
“When are we gonna talk about it?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—”
“I see—”
“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“Do I get a hint?”
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.
“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.”
You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.”
pairing: bradley “rooster” bradshaw x fem!reader
summary: you’ve always been the anywhere-but-here girl, so nobody expects you to move back home to north island. what you’re not ready for is your childhood friend bradley, who slips back into your life so easily it makes you wonder why you ever left.
tags: mitchell/maverick’s daughter!reader, opposites attract, free spirit x straight-laced, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining
warning(s): avoidant attachment style (ish?), reader tucks hair behind ear, wears a bikini, drinks alcohol, and is four years younger than bradley, suggestive content
word count: 11.9k
note: did i write this instead of doing my mountain of grad school readings? why yes i did. anyway, this has been such a long time coming and i’m so excited to get my first rooster fic out!! also there are no mentions of your mother/you being maverick’s biological child for inclusivity xx
masterlist
You reached the coast just before sunset, the kind of golden hour that made everything look idyllic. The air blowing through the open window tasted faintly of salt and home.
You turned up the radio, letting the familiar guitar riff of a Fleetwood Mac song cut clean through the noise. You were prone to drowning things out with music; it was a great way to avoid your own thoughts.
The car wasn’t new. You couldn’t afford new. But she had personality—a red 1970s convertible you’d found through a guy in Venice who insisted she “ran like a dream,” which was only true if that dream involved the occasional stutter uphill. You named her Cherry because subtlety was overrated.
Your whole life fit neatly inside Cherry: two suitcases in the trunk, a stack of half-filled notebooks on the passenger seat, and a battered guitar case in the back seat.
You’d spent the last few years chasing inspiration across cities like it was a full-time job with no benefits. You’d written songs in shared kitchens, poems on bar napkins, and once had an Oscar-worthy breakdown in a Portland laundromat when someone stole your clothes and left you with nothing but the denim shorts and old Top Gun sweatshirt you were wearing.
Life experience, you called it. Character development, if you were feeling generous. But after your last roommate tried to start a kombucha brewery in the bathtub, you decided it was time to come home.
Once you passed San Diego, the road curved inland toward the base. You slowed down, mostly because you always did here. The air had that sharp metallic tang of jet fuel that never quite left your memory.
You didn’t mean to look up. But then you did, and that was your first mistake.
Four jets cut across the sky in formation, sunlight bouncing off their wings. The sound reached you a few seconds later, deep and thunderous, vibrating straight through your chest. Your breath caught before your brain could even register why.
It always made you think of Bradley.
You wondered if one of those pilots was him. Seeing those jets reminded you that he’d stayed while you’d run.
You forced your eyes back to the road, heart doing that inconvenient nostalgia thing you pretended not to notice. You told yourself you were older now, grounded, emotionally evolved.
By the time you pulled into The Hard Deck’s parking lot, the sky was washed in peach and gold. The sign out front was still a little crooked, still sun-faded, and the gravel crunched under your tyres exactly the same way it had last summer. You turned off the engine and let the quiet sink in.
Your reflection in the rear-view mirror looked tired, but you could pass it off as intentional—messy eyeliner, bitten lips, wind-swept hair.
You got out and stretched, legs stiff from the drive, and reached into the back seat for your patchwork shoulder bag. The strap was a little frayed where it rubbed against your shoulder, but you liked it that way. It was the one thing you took with you to every city you’d called home.
Inside, the bar hummed with life in that low, comforting way you’d missed. The clink of glasses, laughter, the faint buzz of a jukebox humming in the corner. You could have closed your eyes and known exactly where you were.
The Hard Deck hadn’t changed since you’d visited your dad last summer. The same scuffed floorboards. The same pool tables that leaned slightly to the left. The same smell of salt and spilt beer baked into the walls.
Penny’s touch was everywhere. The neon sign over the bar gleamed a little brighter. The old jukebox, once half-broken and temperamental, now glowed in the corner like it had been restored within an inch of its life.
Eight years ago, it had been different. Louder, rougher around the edges. A full-on Navy haunt when Bradley was just another new aviator at Top Gun, eager to show you his favourite spots.
Bradley had taken you straight to the piano.
You could still see him there, sleeves rolled, hair too long, grin wide enough to make you forget how to speak. The room had been packed, people shouting, drinks sloshing, but he’d been completely lost in the song. You’d tried to keep up, but your hands knew guitar strings, not piano keys.
Bradley had only laughed, covered your hand with his, and pressed your fingers into the right chord. His touch had been light, sure, and entirely unfair.
“See?” he’d said, still grinning. “You’re getting it.”
You hadn’t been. You’d been too busy trying to remember how lungs worked.
Now, the jukebox played something jaunty, and you blinked as the memory desolved. The Hard Deck had changed since your first visit, and so had you.
“Well, look who it is!”
You turned toward the voice, already smiling. “Penny!”
Penny Benjamin was making her way around the bar, sun-kissed and grinning, all warmth and disbelief. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and salt air.
“Pete wasn’t kidding,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “He told me you were moving back for real this time. I didn’t believe him. He’s been saying that for, what, two summers now?”
You laughed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure I believed me either. But I think I’m ready to stay in one place for a while. Maybe even put down some roots.”
Penny’s smile softened. “Music to my ears. And if you need something to do while those roots take hold, I could always use another pair of hands behind the bar.”
You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Only if you’re not too good for us locals now,” she teased. “Pete says you’ve been living the free spirited artistic dream. But I remember those drinks you made at the barbecue last summer. You’ve got some serious skills.”
You grinned, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “I could start once I’ve unpacked, assuming you’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” Penny ducked behind the counter, filled a glass with Coke, and added a wedge of lime. The ice clinked as she slid it toward you. “On the house. For my favourite Mitchell.”
You picked up the glass, hiding your smile behind the rim. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that.”
“Oh, please,” she said, smirking. “He already knows.”
You took a sip and let the comfort of being home settle in your chest. For the first time in years, you weren’t just passing through.
You were people-watching, entertained by the group of pilots playing darts and arguing about whose landing had been cleaner that day, when someone slid onto the stool beside you.
He was broad, blond, and cocky. The kind of man who probably practised his smirk on reflective surfaces. The service khakis gave him away instantly; neat, pressed, and impossible to mistake for anything but Navy. You knew more about pins than the average tourist, and the ones over his pocket told you everything you needed to know.
This man wasn’t just Navy. He was an aviator. Judging by the overconfident lean and movie-star grin, you’d bet good money this was the infamous Hangman you’d heard about from your dad.
“Well, hello there,” he drawled, flashing a grin that you could tell had a high success rate. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You visiting?”
You tilted your head, giving him your best imitation of a curious outsider. “Something like that.”
Hangman leaned closer, elbows on the bar, radiating charm. “Let me guess. You’re a tourist. Beach trip, maybe? Or did you come to watch the planes?”
You widened your eyes just enough to sell it. “Planes? You mean the Navy ones?”
Penny briefly caught your eye from behind the counter, her mouth twitching like she was desperately holding in a laugh.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Hangman said, grinning wider. “The Navy ones. You ever been on base before?”
You shook your head, sipping through your straw with deliberate innocence. “No, can’t say I have. But I’ve always heard the pilots around here are impressive.”
He straightened a little, grin turning self-satisfied. “That’s one word for us. I could show you around sometime, give you the full experience.”
You leaned in, mirroring his posture, voice just soft enough to make him listen closer. “The full experience?”
“Strictly professional,” Hangman said, not even pretending to mean it. “Though, fair warning—once you’ve flown with a pilot, nothing else really compares.”
You blinked up at him innocently, hiding your grin behind your straw. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” Hangman rested a hand casually against the back of your stool, confidence oozing from every pore. You were about to give in a little and see how far he’d go when a familiar voice cut in.
“Hangman, step away from my daughter.”
You’d never seen a man pale so fast. Hangman froze, his grin disintegrating as he turned toward the source. “Sir?”
You spun on your stool, already smiling. “Dad!” You jumped up to hug your dad, laughing against his shoulder while Hangman looked like he was praying for a time machine.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Maverick looked entirely too pleased with himself when you parted. Calm, casual, just enough smugness in his voice to let you know he’d seen the whole thing. “You two know each other?”
“Not officially,” Hangman said tightly, posture stiffening like he’d just remembered how to stand at attention. “I was just, uh, welcoming her to town.”
“Sure you were,” Penny said, sliding Maverick a beer down the counter without missing a beat. “Very hospitable of you, Hangman.”
You grinned, unable to resist chiming in. “Such a gentleman. It’s generous of you to offer to show me around my hometown, but I think I’ll manage just fine.”
A loud laugh burst from the pool table. Payback, naturally. “Hangman, you hitting on the boss’s daughter?”
The reaction was instant. Phoenix nearly dropped her cue, doubled over with laughter until Bob caught her arm to keep her from tipping forward. Coyote choked on his beer.
Fanboy muttered something that sounded like “Oh, dead man walking.”
Hangman went very still. “I don’t know that I would call it ‘hitting on’ her,” he said faintly, but the damage was done.
You turned toward the group, the picture of composure despite the glee bubbling under your ribs. “Nice to meet you all,” you said sweetly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Bet you have,” Phoenix said, still giggling. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone wipe the smug off Bagman’s face, but damn, I owe you a drink.”
Bob smiled shyly from where he stood beside her. “It’s nice to meet you,” he offered.
“Same here,” you said warmly. “You must be Bob. Dad’s mentioned you. All of you, actually,” you added, motioning to the group. “I’m really excited to finally meet you.”
“Damn, Hangman,” Coyote said, laughing as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. “At least you went down swinging.”
“Yeah, straight into the ground,” Payback said, grinning. “Classic Bagman.”
Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “You all done, or should I start digging my own grave?”
“Don’t worry,” Maverick cut in, clearly enjoying himself. He clapped Hangman on the back with mock sympathy. “You’ll have plenty of chances to rebuild that ego in training tomorrow.”
That sent another round of laughter through the group, and you couldn’t help it. You reached up to hug your dad again, squeezing him tightly. “I miss you.”
No matter how far you’d run from his career, his shadow, or the kind of roots that terrified you, you always came back to this. Your dad had been the one steady presence in every stage of your life, the compass that never stopped pointing you home.
“Missed you too, kid,” Maverick said quietly, squeezing back before leaning away with a proud smile.
When you turned again, the rest of the squad had gathered around, curiosity replacing their laughter. Phoenix leaned her hip against the bar, Coyote nursing a beer beside her.
“So,” Phoenix said, studying you with a spark of amusement, “you’re Maverick’s daughter. Explains the confidence.”
You smiled. “Confidence or trouble?”
“Both,” Coyote said immediately, and everyone laughed again.
Phoenix tipped her bottle toward you, still smiling. “So what brings you back? Visiting, or…?”
“Actually,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m moving back home. Figured it was time. I’m crashing with Dad until I find my own place.”
“That’s brave,” Payback said. “Living with your old man again? You must really love him.”
Maverick just smirked. “She’s always had excellent taste.”
That drew another round of laughter and groans, and you rolled your eyes affectionately. “He’s already trying to recruit me as his new copilot.”
“Don’t tempt him,” Phoenix said, grinning. “You’d probably be better than half the guys in this room.”
You laughed, then nodded toward her. “I’ve been dying to meet you! How’s life in an elite squadron treating you?”
Phoenix lit up, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Aside from putting up with these idiots, it’s been great.” She broke off mid-sentence, gaze darting past you. “Bradshaw!” Phoenix waved him over with unfiltered enthusiasm. “About time.”
Your pulse stumbled.
Bradley paused in the doorway, tall and sun-browned, the golden bulbs casting a warm glow across his shoulders. The bar’s hum seemed to fade, or maybe it only did for you.
Phoenix glanced between you, her grin softening into curiosity. “You two must know each other, right?”
You tried to keep your tone light, though your smile wavered at the corners. “Yeah. We know each other.”
When you finally turned to face Bradley, his eyes were already on you—warm, surprised, a little disbelieving. Eight years apart, and it still hit like free fall.
You’d kept in touch for a while, after things between him and Maverick had soured. But life stretched the distance until texts faded to yearly birthday wishes, and visits stopped altogether. Maverick had moved off North Island, Bradley had been deployed more often than not, and you’d convinced yourself that growing apart was just the natural order of things.
Now, standing here, it didn’t feel so natural at all.
Bradley’s mouth curved, soft with disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you said softly.
The corner of his jaw ticked, just the smallest flicker of something you couldn’t read.
Phoenix glanced between you again, realising she’d just stumbled into something layered. “Okay,” she stretched the word out, raising her hands.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bradley smiled, small and genuine and a little dazed, and closed the distance.
“Come here,” he said, and you were already stepping forward.
Bradley pulled you in without hesitation, his hand warm and solid against your back. The scent hit first: soap, sun, and that clean cotton smell that always clung to him. His shirt was rough with salt and sweat, the kind of texture that reminded you he lived half his life on tarmacs and flight decks.
His breath was close in your ear, even and steady, until you realised yours wasn’t.
“I didn’t believe Maverick when he said you were moving back,” Bradley murmured.
You smiled against his chest, trying not to inhale like someone deprived of oxygen. “Surprise again.”
When you stepped back, the air felt thinner. His hands lingered a beat too long, brushing your arms before he dropped them like he’d only just remembered how intimate it was. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away, and you pretended not to notice.
You both pretended a lot of things.
“Still playing?” Bradley asked, his voice a little rougher than before.
“Guitar? Yeah. You still ignoring my playlists?”
He laughed, and the sound made your heart tighten. “Only the ones labeled ‘for when you’re feeling emotionally constipated.’”
You tilted your head. “So, all of them.”
That earned you a real grin. You hated how quickly it short-circuited your brain. He looked good—too good.
“You look…” Bradley trailed off, as if the word was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go. “Different.”
You raised a brow. “Good different, or ‘emotional crisis’ different?”
“Definitely good.” His voice dipped lower, softer. “You were always beautiful, but you’re glowing now.”
And there it was again: the pull. The quiet, magnetic thing that never really went away, no matter how much time or distance tried. You found yourself leaning closer without thinking, caught between instinct and caution, until your hand brushed his where it rested on the bar.
The contact was brief but enough to send a quick jolt through your body before you both instinctively pulled back, hiding behind awkward smiles.
“So,” you said lightly, thumb swiping at the condensation on your glass. “How’ve you been, Rooster?”
He smirked, eyes glinting. “It’s so weird to hear you say my call sign.”
You gasped theatrically. “Rude!”
“You can call me whatever you want,” Bradley said, quieter now. “But you’re the only one who still calls me by my name.” Something flickered behind his eyes, unguarded and dangerous. “I guess I missed the sound of it in your voice.”
Before either of you could say something you couldn’t take back, a voice cut through the moment.
“Hey, nerds!” Fanboy was waving from across the room, grinning like a man who had just spotted a plot twist. “Come join us! We know you’re childhood friends, but we want a chance to get to know Maverick’s daughter.”
You smiled, eyebrows arched at your so-called childhood friend. “What do you say, Bradley?”
Hearing you say his name brought another wide grin to his face. “I wouldn’t want to deprive your adoring fans,” he teased.
When Bradley gestured toward the booth, you followed. His hand brushed the small of your back as you passed; light enough to seem accidental, but enough to make your heart trip over itself.
When your dad invited you to a beach day with Penny and the squadron, you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence. An afternoon of dog-fight football, popsicles, and sand in your sunglasses felt like the kind of chaos you used to live for in childhood summers with Maverick and Iceman.
The afternoon sun brushed the waves with golden glitter. When Maverick called everyone over, you knew exactly what he was about to do. After the usual warm-up theatrics and fake groaning, teams were picked, and everyone persuaded your dad to join in.
Phoenix hooked your arm, already grinning. “Come on, you’ve got to see this circus up close. Hangman’s in peak insufferable form.”
You laughed, brushing sand from your shorts, and followed her. Bradley was already leaning back, shoulders flexed under the sun, tossing the ball to himself with that effortless control that made your stomach flip.
He looked like he belonged in a recruitment ad for hot, emotionally unavailable Navy pilots.
Bradley caught your eye, winked, and sent the ball your way like a dare you weren’t ready for. You jumped, barely keeping it from hitting your chest, and stumbled back laughing.
“Careful,” he called, jogging closer. “Wouldn’t want you spraining anything important.”
“Does my pride count?” you shot back.
“Absolutely,” Bradley said, grinning, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his hands. Lately, they had developed a suspicious habit of finding you. “I’m very thorough.”
Phoenix snorted, but gave no other commentary on his double entendre. You decided to ignore the very specific flutter that word sent through your chest. Thorough. Great. Fantastic. You were doomed.
You joined the team opposite Maverick and gave him the universal two-finger I’m watching you warning. The squadron hollered happily, and you could hear Fritz and Omaha exchanging bets on which Mitchell would be victorious.
Phoenix filled you in on the unspoken rules: always dive like it’s life or death, and never—under any circumstances—let Hangman get a free pass. It was easy enough to remember, especially with the Texan cackling at you from the other side of the beach.
The game started officially, Penny refereeing from the sidelines with exaggerated seriousness. You fell into a rhythm quickly, laughing harder than you had in years. Sand flew everywhere, the sun warmed your shoulders, and Bradley kept finding reasons to brush past you as you ran. He always seemed to be exactly close enough for your brain to short-circuit.
Every accidental touch made your heart skip.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Hangman called, standing close enough that you could smell his sunscreen. “You think you can take me down?”
“Cute,” you said flatly, flicking sand in his direction. “I may not be in the Navy, but don’t forget who raised me. I don’t do anything halfway, and I don’t lose.”
He raised both hands in mock surrender. “You’re scary. I’ll admire you from a safe distance.”
Phoenix groaned. “Emphasis on ‘distance,’ Bagman. She’s busy kicking your ass, not dodging your pickup lines.”
“Well said,” you declared, grinning and offering Phoenix a high-five.
“It’s nice to have you around,” she said earnestly. “Everyone’s already decided you’re one of us. Rooster’s obviously obsessed with you, but that goes without saying.”
Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who was laughing at something Bob had done. You told yourself you weren’t constantly glancing his way and dragged your eyes back to the game. You weret, of course, but denial was your favourite coping mechanism.
Hours passed in a blur, and you managed to avoid breaking anything. Hangman teased relentlessly, but with Phoenix and Bob around to back you up, you felt like you belonged. Bradley stayed close, subtly protective, saving you from catastrophic falls.
Eventually, Penny called out, “Snack and water break. You’ve earned it!”
Everyone collapsed onto towels in the setting sun. Bob handed you a towel, and Hangman leaned back, sunglasses low, pretending to evaluate your performance.
“Thanks,” you said dryly, wiping sweat off your forehead. “Your compliment is noted.”
You headed toward the coolers, only to realise the tie on your bikini top had loosened in the chaos. You made your way over to Bradley, your arm contorted behind you to keep the strings from coming undone.
He was sitting on a towel near the coolers, arms resting on his knees, watching Yale and Harvard fight over the last rocket-shaped popsicle.
“Bradley?”
He looked up, eyebrows lifting like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah?”
You shuffled a fraction, smiling unsurely. “The tie on my bikini came undone, and I can’t quite reach it. Could you fix it for me?”
Bradley’s eyes went wide. You caught the faint hitch of a breath before he tried to mask it. You sat in front of him with your back turned, showing him how you held the strings together.
He froze for a beat. Then another. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching, too aware of the bare expanse of your back. Bradley shifted forward carefully.
You felt him before he touched you. His hands hovered near the strings, uncertain, cautious, as if he could break something with a wrong move. Your shoulders tensed when his fingertips brushed the skin of your back.
“Okay,” Bradley murmured. His voice was quiet, not commanding or joking. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing. Not fear, exactly; more like anticipation.
He looped the strings slowly, once, twice, adjusting. Gentle. So slow it felt like he was measuring time against your pulse. You were hyper-aware of the way his fingers pressed, the careful tilt of his wrists, how his arms flexed slightly with the tiniest tension.
You tried to keep your breathing quiet, but his shallow inhales gave him away. It felt like Bradley was holding everything back, keeping his distance in every movement, even while he was behind you.
His thumbs brushed the dimples at your lower back and a shiver zipped up your spine.
“There,” Bradley said quietly. His knuckles grazed your back again, lingering just long enough for heat to bloom where he touched you.
You felt every shift of his weight, every slow exhale that brushed your neck. The rest of the squad and your dad were chatting nearby, but you weren’t thinking about them. You were thinking about Bradley’s hands; how careful they were, how he couldn’t quite seem to stop touching you.
You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, his pupils dark, wide, and attentive. He was mesmerised by the shape of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, and the way you were biting your bottom lip subconsciously.
You wanted to say something clever. Something that wouldn’t make your knees fold. What came out was a whisper-soft, “Thanks,” which was neither clever nor steady.
Bradley didn’t move. He let his hands hover, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines into your skin. For a long moment, all you felt was the light drag of his fingertips.
You let yourself shift, just enough to meet him, just enough to let your bodies acknowledge what neither of you was saying. Not with words. Words would make this interaction real, and you weren’t ready to face that reality yet.
Bradley started to say something, but Phoenix’s voice cut through the air. “Who wants chips?”
You cleared your throat and stood, brushing sand off your legs. “Me,” you said, pretending your voice didn’t wobble.
You had been in town for a month, long enough to get sand permanently stuck in your shoes and afford a deposit on a nearby apartment. You had Penny’s generous customers to thank for that one; they tipped better than any bartending job you had in bigger cities.
The new apartment wasn’t much, just one bedroom, a minuscule kitchen, and the world’s most dramatic plumbing—but it was yours. And you loved it, even if the previous tenant had painted the bedroom a colour best described as the dark blue of an existential crisis.
You wanted sage green; something calm that didn’t make you feel like you were sleeping inside a sad thought.
The squad had all promised to help paint, because apparently manual labour was their version of team bonding. You’d stocked the fridge with drinks and ordered enough pizza to feed your notoriously hungry friends. Then the texts started. Bob had “a thing.” Phoenix’s “errand” mysteriously lasted four hours. Hangman sent a single thumbs-down emoji, which you assumed meant “no chance in hell.”
So when you opened the door and found only Bradley standing there, you weren’t surprised. He stood holding up a six-pack like a peace offering. His shirt was faded and soft-looking, hanging loose over his jeans in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a second.
He raised the beers. “Looks like it’s just us.”
You pretended to find that funny instead of vaguely panic-inducing. “Lucky you.”
Bradley’s eyes flicked past you into the apartment. “You sure about that? That’s a lot of wall.”
You stepped aside to let him in. “Well, your cowardly pilot friends backed out at the last minute. I’m filing a formal complaint with their superior officer in the morning.”
“Getting Mav involved,” Bradley said, brushing past you. “Bold choice.”
“Desperate times,” you muttered.
You’d already tried to scrub the old navy-blue paint off the walls, but the result looked like an avant-garde crime scene.
Bradley took it all in with an amused glance. “You started without supervision.”
“I’m an independent woman,” you said, reaching for a can of paint with exaggerated confidence. “I don’t need supervision.”
“You’re holding the can upside down.”
You looked down. “…That feels like an opinion.”
Bradley laughed under his breath, low and warm, and picked up a roller. “Come on, Picasso. Let’s paint ourselves a masterpiece.”
He crouched and opened the can for you, forearms flexing as he stirred the sage green paint and poured it into the paint tray. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.
The first few minutes were quiet except for the squeak of rollers and the hum of classic rock playing from your Bluetooth speaker. The playlist was mostly your doing: Tom Petty, Springsteen, and a few guilty pleasure tracks you hoped Bradley wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.
Bradley painted like a man on a mission: slow and careful strokes, all precision. You, on the other hand, were a little more abstract. Less plan, more chaos with flair.
That had always been the difference between you. Bradley had his life plotted like a flight path, every box ticked and corner squared. You were impulsive, chasing whatever caught your interest in that moment. That probably explained why he was in the Navy, and you were affectionately known as the “anywhere but here” girl.
“Yours looks better,” you admitted eventually.
Bradley didn’t look over. “Years of repainting Navy housing.”
“Of course,” you said. “All those government-issued beige walls really sharpened your technique.”
He chuckled, rolling another line of paint. “Yes, I’m very well-rounded. Wait till you see me fold laundry.”
You pretended to swoon, voice all old-Hollywood and dramatic. “Oh, Rooster, your talent is simply too much for a girl to bear! Do you also do your own taxes?”
Bradley rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Keep your pants on, Grace Kelly.”
You fought a grin and lost. “Actually, I was going for Katharine Hepburn, but thank you!”
It was ridiculous how easy it was, how quickly you fell back into this rhythm; the back-and-forth, the teasing. The kind of ease that made you forget how long it had been since you’d really laughed like this.
You both reached for the paint tray. Bradley’s fingers brushed yours, touch, but it set off a spark in your stomach. Neither of you pulled away. You blamed the beer, the heat—anything but what it actually was.
“You missed a spot,” you said, because your brain was desperate to fill every silence.
Bradley leaned in to look, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “No, I didn’t,” he said, squinting at the wall.
“You did. There.” You pointed, mostly to distract yourself.
Bradley sighed, mock suffering in his voice. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”
“And yet you love that about me.”
That stopped him for just a second too long. Bradley looked at you, smiled, and nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something like that.”
You tried for casual, reaching for your beer. “You’re getting sentimental, Bradshaw. Careful.”
He wiped a streak of paint off his arm with a rag, the muscles in his forearm becoming taut. “Don’t tell Hangman. He’ll make it weird.”
“He already makes everything weird. What’s one more?”
Bradley laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to settle somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t tell if the room was warmer now or if it was just you. Probably just you.
The next song that came on made you pause. It was your favourite Otis Redding song, a soulful track that made everything feel too close, too soft around the edges.
Bradley stilled, putting the roller down to admire his painting progress. “I love this song,” he said, smiling faintly. “You really went for the classics.”
He hummed a few notes under his breath, low and rough around the edges. Then he sang along to the chorus, and you stilled like your body had turned to stone. Bradley’s voice fit the song perfectly; unpolished but warm, a little like arriving at home after a long trip.
“Still showing off, I see,” you teased to hide how your heart was doing double backflips.
Bradley shrugged, eyes still on the wall. “Occupational hazard.”
“Yeah, right. I think you just like reminding people you’ve got range.”
He laughed, the sound soft and deep. “Well, I did say I was well-rounded. I’m just living up to expectations.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, even though your voice came out thinner than you meant. Bradley’s singing was doing something to your insides that you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging.
Bradley must’ve noticed your silence because, without warning, he started singing along louder, like he couldn’t help it. His voice filled the room, easy and lazy and heartbreakingly good.
You rolled your eyes fondly, grinning. “Okay, rockstar, you’re ruining my productivity.”
Bradley dipped his roller, smirking. “You weren’t very productive to begin with.”
“Excuse me,” you said, gesturing to your wall. “I did this one all by myself!”
“Uh-huh,” Bradley said, mimicking your tone. “Meanwhile, I did the other three.”
By the time the playlist ended, the walls were painted a soft sage green. The room looked lighter, like it could finally breathe. Bradley stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting the walls. A smear of green paint streaked his jaw, and somehow that made him even more endearing.
“Not bad,” Bradley declared. “Could almost pass for professional work.”
You pretended to inspect your section. “Yeah, I feel bad. I’m too broke to pay you.”
“I’ll settle for the pizza that’s definitely cold by now.”
You huffed a laugh. “Big spender.”
He shrugged, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. “It’s the company I’m here for, anyway.”
You blinked at that and were suddenly too aware of how close he was; of how his shoulder brushed yours as he turned to look at the wall again. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—warm, clean, maddeningly familiar.
Just like that, the room fell away, and you were transported back eight years.
After showing you all his favourite Navy spots on North Island, Bradley had driven you home in the same Bronco he’d driven in high school. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station that kept losing signal, and every few minutes, he’d reached out to fix the dial.
At the time, you hadn’t seen him in eight years.
Bradley had cut you out alongside Maverick when you were both teenagers, and it wasn’t until your twentieth birthday that you finally reached out. By then, he’d been twenty-four, two years into his Navy career, and hoping you’d call.
There’d been a lot of phone calls, the occasional letter, the postcards you’d sent him from wherever you happened to be that month. But none of it had felt quite real until you were sitting beside him again, the windows rolled down, the salt air blowing through the cab.
Bradley looked older, of course. Broader through the shoulders, quieter in his movements. The loud boy who used to tease you about your terrible driving had been replaced by someone who carried himself differently—steady, restrained.
You’d tried to hide how much that unsettled you.
“Still got the same car,” you’d said, nodding at the dashboard.
Bradley smiled, eyes still on the road. “She’s reliable. Thought about upgrading, but I couldn’t do it.”
“Too sentimental?”
“Too broke,” he’d corrected, grinning.
You’d laughed, and the sound surprised you. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed the way Bradley looked at you like he was storing the moment away for later.
He’d finally achieved his dream and been sent to train at Top Gun, and when he told you, you hadn’t hesitated to drive down from Santa Barbara to see him. You’d told yourself you were only catching up, but the truth was impossible to ignore now.
“How’s Mav?” Bradley had asked after a while, voice careful.
You’d inhaled sharply.
You and Bradley had reconnected a few years ago, but you’d never once talked about your dad. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the distance was because Bradley had devoted his life to following in his father’s footsteps, and you’d devoted yours to getting as far away from your father’s career as possible.
The truth was messier. Maverick had set Bradley back four years, pulled his papers to the Academy, and they hadn’t spoken since.
You’d shrugged. “Still flying. Still impossible to live with.”
Bradley had nodded. “Guess some things don’t change.”
“Guess not,” you’d said. “I’m just lucky Dad was too sentimental to sell the house, so I don’t have to pay for an overpriced hotel whenever I’m home.”
The silence that had followed hadn’t been uncomfortable. It had been the kind of silence you only had with someone who already knew most of your stories.
When Bradley had pulled up in front of your childhood house, the porch light flickered on automatically. You’d forgotten how small it had looked, how the paint had peeled from the railing where you used to sit and talk with Maverick for hours on end.
Bradley’d cut the engine and turned to you.
“Thanks for the ride,” you’d said, because it had felt like the safe thing to say.
He’d nodded. “Anytime.”
You’d unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t move. Bradley hadn’t either.
“So,” you’d said, “Top Gun.”
Bradley had smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess I finally made it.”
“You always were the overachiever,” you’d teased.
“One of us had to be,” he’d teased you right back.
You’d rolled your eyes. “Hey, I got into college! I just decided not to go.”
Bradley had chuckled, and for a second, you’d seen the boy who used to sit on that same porch with you every summer. He and Carole used to make their way down from Virginia every year when you were growing up, and the two of you were always thick as thieves.
The memory had tugged at something in your chest. You’d cleared your throat. “You look good, Bradley.”
“Thanks,” Bradley had said quietly. “You too.”
You’d meant to leave it at that, but the way he’d said it had made your pulse jump.
He’d leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel. “You ever think about those summers? The ones before—everything?”
“All the time,” you’d said before you could stop yourself.
Bradley had nodded once, eyes flicking down, then back to yours. “I missed you,” he’d said simply.
The words had hit like a wave. You’d imagined Bradley saying them for years, but now that he had, you hadn’t known where to put the feeling.
“You didn’t have to disappear, you know,” you’d said. “When Dad pulled your papers, he didn’t mean for you to disappear from our lives.”
Bradley had exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. “I know. But I couldn’t call you. Not then. I was so angry; at him, at myself, at the universe. I didn’t want you caught in the middle.”
“You didn’t even give me a choice.”
His jaw had tightened. “You were still in high school. I was eighteen and angry at the world. You had your own life to figure out. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
You’d laughed softly, without humour. “You always think you’re doing the right thing.”
Bradley had looked at you then, and for a second, you’d seen every year that had passed between you. He might have looked the same, only broader and tanner, but Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t the naive eighteen-year-old he’d been ten years ago.
“Let me walk you to the door,” Bradley had said, because no matter how much time had passed, Carole had raised him to be a gentleman.
He’d got out of the truck and come around to your side, opening the door for you. It had been such an old-fashioned gesture that it made you laugh, but the sound broke halfway out of your throat. You’d stepped out and headed for the porch together.
The boards had creaked softly beneath you, and Bradley had come to a stop as you’d fished your keys out of your bag.
“Well,” you’d said, “this is where you say goodnight and make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.”
Bradley had smiled that familiar half-smile you’d heard through the phone every few days. “Something like that.”
He’d taken a step closer. The space between you had seemed to shrink without either of you deciding it should. For a second, neither of you had spoken.
When Bradley had reached out, his hand hesitated in midair before finding your face. His thumb had brushed along your cheekbone, the touch feather-light, almost reverent.
Bradley’s voice had dropped, rough at the edges. “For what it’s worth, you are the most amazing person I know.”
You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. You’d only tilted your chin up, and he’d leaned in at the same time. No hesitation now.
The kiss had been slow, too careful, like you’d both been afraid to break whatever fragile thing had survived all those years apart. Bradley’s hands had found your waist—tentative at first, then sure—and you’d sunk into the warmth of him.
When you’d finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.
Bradley had looked a little dazed. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
“Two years?” you’d said.
That had been when you’d noticed a shift in your phone calls. You’d been travelling the world, Bradley’d been trying to prove he deserved to be sent to Top Gun, and things didn’t feel so platonic anymore.
He’d grinned, soft and knowing. “Two years.”
You’d smiled back. “Go before I talk you into staying.”
“I’ll bring you coffee and pastries tomorrow morning,” Bradley had promised, still grinning.
Then he’d walked down the path to his truck. You’d watched him go, his figure lit briefly by the headlights as he started the engine. He’d waved once through the open window before pulling away.
The sound of the engine had faded, leaving the street quiet again.
And for a second, you saw another version of him in the same spot—a year later, walking away from the same porch, but with his jaw set and his eyes red from crying.
You’d watched him go then, too. But that time, he didn’t look back.
You blinked, and it was gone. Just Bradley again; older now, standing in your newly sage green room. He was still the person who’d known you when you thought you had the whole world figured out.
“Hey,” he said quietly, tilting his head. “You okay?”
You nodded too fast, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
Bradley smiled a little. “Dangerous habit.”
“Tell me about it.”
You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall like it held the answers to things neither of you was brave enough to ask.
You had never been the type to throw a housewarming party, but a ladies’ night felt doable. Low-stakes controlled chaos. You unpacked the last of your boxes that morning and figured it called for celebration.
So you texted Phoenix and Halo. By eight o’clock, there were two bottles of wine open, pizza boxes on the counter, and a shuffling indie playlist in the background.
Halo sat cross-legged on your rug, her hair in a messy bun and her phone halfway across the room because she kept getting work calls. Phoenix had claimed the end of your couch and was already halfway through her second glass of rosé, shoes kicked off, legs tucked under her.
Your little apartment smelled faintly of pizza and garlic bread. You’d lit a candle on the coffee table for ambience, but now the wax had melted into a crooked puddle.
“So,” Phoenix said, pointing her wine glass at you, “how’s it feel being back? You’ve been here what, five months?”
“Six,” you said. “And surprisingly not miserable.”
“‘Surprisingly’?” Halo echoed, grinning.
You leaned back into the cushions. You could feel the wine in your cheeks, warm and loose, making honesty come too easily. “I’ve always wanted to get out of North Island. Like, the second I was old enough to dream about leaving, I was halfway gone in my head.”
Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“Not bad,” you said quickly. “Just… limiting. My dad’s great, he really is. But his great love has always been the sky, you know? Flying, teaching, all of it. And that comes with a certain lifestyle. Constant motion, waiting on calls, never really belonging to yourself. I spent my whole life watching him break the rules and still have to bend to someone else’s orders, and I swore I’d never do that.”
Halo poured herself another glass and nodded slowly. She shifted closer, her knee brushing your leg. “So you ran.”
You smiled. “Constantly. I was the ‘anywhere but here’ girl. New cities, short leases, jobs I didn’t care about. I convinced myself that if I kept moving, I’d eventually land somewhere that felt right.”
“And now?” Phoenix asked.
You hesitated, swirling your wine like it might spill if you said too much. “Now I don’t want to run. For the first time ever. Which is… weird.”
Halo tilted her head. “Weird how?”
You thought about it for a moment. “It’s kind of a relief, honestly. I like my job, I like my apartment, I even like that I can walk to the beach in under ten minutes. But it’s also a little scary. If I’m not running, what am I doing?”
Phoenix gave you a look that said she’d already guessed the answer. “Maybe you’re staying for a reason.”
You caught her smirk and groaned. “Oh, don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Phoenix said, all mock innocence. “Certain people seem to be one of the reasons you want to stick around.”
“‘Certain people’ who go by chicken-related callsigns?” Halo added, and Phoenix snorted.
You groaned. “Not this again.”
Phoenix grinned into her glass. “Come on, it’s so obvious! You and Rooster have been orbiting each other since you arrived. Everyone sees it.”
“Everyone?” you asked.
“Everyone,” Halo confirmed. “He looks at you like he’s trying not to. Which, honestly, makes it so much more obvious.”
You laughed softly, though something in your chest tightened. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, your stomach fluttering with nerves. “You’re both reading too much into it. We’re friends.”
Phoenix leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and sure, her eyes steady on yours. “Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t fix your shower head without being asked, or volunteer to pick up IKEA furniture over an hour away. I think the two of you are more than friends.”
You smiled, a little sadly. “Not so much. We, uh, used to date, though.”
For a second, both women blinked at you like you’d spoken in a foreign language. Then Phoenix choked on her wine, coughing into her hand as Halo’s eyes went huge. Her hand shot out, gripping Phoenix’s arm like she needed something to hold onto.
“I’m sorry, what?” Phoenix said once she recovered.
Halo’s jaw dropped. “You dated Rooster?” Her voice came out an octave higher than usual, and she squeezed Phoenix’s forearm for emphasis.
“Back when he first got sent to Top Gun,” you said. “I moved into my childhood house for a year, got a job waitressing in the next town over, and… yeah. We dated. I must’ve been twenty-four, Bradley twenty-eight.”
Phoenix straightened on the couch, her glass halfway to her lips and forgotten. “Hold on. That year? I was at Top Gun with him. He never said a word.”
You shrugged. “We weren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”
Halo let out a scandalised gasp. She twisted toward Phoenix, and the two of them started hitting each other’s arms out of excitement.
“Oh my god,” Halo exclaimed. “That’s why he used to skip out on bar nights?! We thought he was just being old and boring.”
Phoenix let out a snort, shaking her head. “You’re telling me I sat across from that man every day for months and he never once mentioned he had a girlfriend?”
You nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “He’d drive out to see me after training. We’d grab dinner or sit on the porch and talk for hours. Sometimes he’d stay the night if he didn’t have early drills. We decided not to tell anyone.”
Halo blinked, her expression softening as the air shifted. Her hand fell from Phoenix’s arm. “Why not?”
Your throat was tight, the words catching halfway up. Phoenix’s gaze softened when she noticed. Her hand settled over yours. You took a sip of wine before answering.
“My dad was still a taboo subject back then,” you confessed. “And I’m not a local celebrity, but being Maverick’s daughter means I’m a familiar face on North Island. We knew word would get back to him if people found out—or at the very least back to Uncle Ice. Besides, Bradley was in the middle of Top Gun, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. It was supposed to make things simpler.”
Phoenix snorted. “Sounds simple,” she said sarcastically. Halo gave her a nudge, a silent reminder to be gentle.
You smiled. “Yeah, we really nailed that part.”
The humour in your voice faded a little. “It was a good year, though. He was the perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, steady, stupidly chivalrous. He’d make me coffee in the morning and kiss my hand before he left for work. He’d tell me about flying without realising his whole face changed when he talked about it. I really loved him. But…”
You sighed. “But he was always going to belong to the sky. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be someone waiting for the next deployment or living by his schedule. I wanted to travel, to work, to not feel like I was stuck in my childhood house lying to my dad about who I was dating. We were in completely different places. So I left.”
Phoenix watched you for a moment; her usual sharpness softened. “Did he know you were going to?”
You nodded. “We both did. We just didn’t say it out loud. One day he dropped me off after dinner, and that was it. He hugged me one last time, and we pretended we weren’t both crying. He walked down the path, got in his truck, and drove away. I was in Nevada by sunrise.”
For a long second, none of you spoke. The music hummed quietly from the speaker, a slow song.
Halo reached out, her hand resting briefly on your knee. “Hey,” she said quietly. “That sounds brutal.”
You shrugged, though your throat felt tight. “It was a long time ago. Now we’re friends again. Or something close to it. We painted my apartment—thank you for abandoning me, by the way. I know a set-up when I see one,” you added, giving them a meaningful look. Phoenix and Halo didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “We still hang out in group settings, and we never told my dad what happened between us. It’s easier than I thought it would be.”
“Except you still look at him like you used to,” Halo said, tilting her head and grinning.
You gave her a small, helpless smile. Your chest ached, a soft pull just beneath your ribs. “Yeah, maybe. But we’ve both changed. Things are different now.”
Phoenix set her glass down on your coffee table. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s still completely in love with you.”
You laughed softly. “You think everyone’s in love with everyone.”
“Maybe,” Phoenix said, grinning. “But I’m right about this one.”
The conversation drifted after that, back to work gossip and whether Halo should see her ex while she was in town.
You could still feel the warmth of their closeness long after the laughter faded. But the subject of your history with Bradley lingered long after they’d gone home, and the apartment was quiet.
You stood by the sink, washing wine glasses. You’d spent years convincing yourself that staying meant settling. But now, standing there in your own little kitchen with three empty glasses and an ache in your chest, you weren’t so sure.
Your dad’s house still smelled the same. You’d expected it to feel different now that it wasn’t yours, but it didn’t. Just more lived in. There were photos on the mantel that hadn’t been there before, a new coffee mug beside the old ones, a few of Penny’s things scattered across the counter.
You heard them before you saw them, their voices mixing with the sound of the stove fan. Maverick was chopping tomatoes, Penny stirring something on the hob, both laughing at a story you couldn’t quite catch.
You leaned against the doorway for a second and watched them. Your dad looked lighter than he used to, and so did Penny. A quiet warmth crept in and you were happy the two of them finally figured things out.
When they noticed you, you were smothered with hugs and affection until you pulled away, laughing. Penny finished up the pasta, Maverick opened a bottle of wine, and conversation flowed the way it always did when the two of them were together. You didn’t have to fill any silences or think too hard.
Then there was a knock at the door.
“Can you grab that?” Maverick asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
You went to open it and stopped short when you saw Bradley on the porch.
“Hey,” he said, his voice even.
“Hey,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. You smiled, because that’s what you’d always done around Bradley. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
Bradley shrugged, eyes flicking past you toward the kitchen. “Mav invited me. Guess he forgot to mention it.”
“Right.” You stepped back to let him in, trying to ignore the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sea air. “Come on, they’re in the kitchen.”
He nodded, but his smile never reached his eyes. There was a tightness to him that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. You told yourself it was nothing, but your pulse didn’t slow as you followed him inside.
Dinner didn’t go badly. If anything, it went almost too well. The four of you talked and laughed, the kind of easy rhythm you could fall into without thinking. You and Bradley had done this dance before; pretending you were just old friends, nothing more, nothing less.
He sat across from you, relaxed enough to look natural. He passed you the parmesan, smiled when Penny teased Maverick, and joined in when your dad told stories from the hangar. You found yourself smiling back, and for a while, it felt like old times.
After dinner, you and Bradley both tried to stand, but Penny waved you down.
“Absolutely not. You’re guests,” she said, already stacking plates. Maverick backed her up, grinning at your protests.
So you and Bradley ended up outside on the porch, on the same old bench that had been there since you were a kid. The wood creaked under your weight.
You sat with your hands clasped loosely in your lap. Bradley leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, silent in a way that wasn’t quite comfortable.
“So,” he said eventually, his tone careful. “You told Phoenix.”
You turned your head toward him. “Told her what?”
Bradley gave you a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. “About us.”
You blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yeah, it came up.”
He let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “You didn’t think to give me a heads-up before dropping that little piece of history into squad gossip?”
You frowned, sitting up. “It wasn’t gossip. It was just a conversation.”
“About something between you and me,” Bradley said, voice low but edged. His arms crossed over his chest like he needed somewhere to put the frustration.
You shifted slightly, mirroring the gesture without meaning to. “Bradley, it’s been eight years. It’s not like I was giving them details or spilling your secrets. We were talking; we’re friends.”
Bradley turned toward you fully now, eyes catching the light from the kitchen window. “You think I want everyone looking at me like some guy who couldn’t hold on to Maverick’s daughter?”
You stared at him, caught off guard. “That’s what this is about? What other people think?”
His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek jumping. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me sound shallow just because I care how it looks.” Bradley’s tone was clipped, defensive.
You exhaled, trying to keep your voice even. “I didn’t tell Phoenix and Halo to hurt you.”
“I know you didn’t,” he said. His voice cracked a little on the words. “But it still did.”
That stopped you for a second. “Why?” you asked quietly.
Bradley looked at you for a long moment before answering, his fingers tapping once against his knee. “Because you didn’t just leave town back then. You left me too.”
You felt your throat tighten. “You were never really here, Bradley.”
His mouth pressed into a line. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You turned toward him, heat rising in your voice. “You were always chasing the next posting, the next mission, the next step. I couldn’t even get you to slow down long enough to talk about what you wanted for dinner without it turning into logistics.”
Bradley pushed a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. “I was trying to build something—to have a plan. That’s what people do when they care.”
You let out a short, sharp laugh. “You cared more about the plan than me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t know what you wanted.”
“I was twenty-four,” you said, your voice rising. “I was still figuring it out.”
“And you decided you couldn’t do that with me around!”
“That’s not true!” You were on your feet now, before you realised it, pacing a few steps toward the railing. “I loved you, but I couldn’t keep being the girl waiting for you to come home.”
Bradley stood too, his voice rougher now. “You could’ve told me that.”
“I did,” you shot back. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”
Bradley let out a sharp exhale and turned away, hands on his hips. “You think it was easy for me? I had no one, alright? My mom was gone, Mav and I weren’t talking, and you—” He broke off, jaw tight. “You were supposed to be the one person who didn’t walk away.”
You stared at him, your chest tightened. “You’re kidding.”
He frowned. “What?”
“You think it was easy for me?” you said, your voice shaking. “Lying to my dad? Pretending I didn’t still talk to you, didn’t still—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t put it all on me.”
“I’m not putting it on you, I’m telling you how it was!” Bradley’s voice cracked with something raw. “You had a home here. You had Maverick—wherever he was deployed that year. You had people who actually gave a damn. I had empty apartments and transfer papers.”
“Yeah, I ‘had Maverick,’” you echoed. “Some relationship we had that year, what with me lying to him every day.”
Bradley’s mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw flexed. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell him.”
“He’s my dad,” you said, voice rising. “The only parent I’ve ever had. Deciding to lie to his face every time he asked if I’d heard from you wasn’t something I did lightly. But we agreed to keep it quiet, remember? You didn’t want anyone to know.”
“I was protecting you,” he said quickly, taking a step closer.
You gave a short, incredulous laugh. “No, you were protecting yourself. Protecting your perfect image, your golden-boy career, your chance to prove you weren’t just Goose’s son dating Maverick’s daughter.”
Bradley’s eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” you said, your voice shaking. “But it’s true.”
He groaned, frustration sparking again. “You think you were the only one carrying something? You had your dad—someone who was always in your corner. I had to do it all on my own.”
Your throat burned. “You had me!”
“Until I didn’t,” Bradley shot back. “Until you decided you couldn’t handle it anymore and ran.”
That one hit deep. Your arms crossed instinctively, a weak sort of shield. “You make it sound like I didn’t even try.”
Bradley’s voice rose. “You didn’t stay.”
You inhaled sharply, feeling your eyes sting. “And you didn’t even notice I was falling apart!”
He froze, chest rising and falling fast.
“I couldn’t breathe, Bradley,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Do you know what that felt like?”
His expression softened for half a second, but then his shoulders straightened, defensive. “You were always the ‘anywhere but here’ girl,” Bradley said. “I should’ve seen it coming. You’ve been running your whole life.”
You took a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep your eyes clear. “And you’ve been chasing ghosts,” you said, voice low. “Your father, your career, whatever version of yourself you think you owe him. I wasn’t going to stick around and become everything I was scared of growing up—living life according to someone else’s orders.”
The words hung between you, heavy and hot. Neither of you moved for a long moment.
Bradley finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “That you ran. That’s not fair.”
You didn’t answer at first, watching the way his hand flexed at his side, like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“I was the one running,” Bradley said finally, quieter now. “From everything. Every mission, every deployment, every new posting—whatever kept me busy enough not to think.” He gave a small, tired laugh. “I thought if I just kept working, I’d never end up like my dad.” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “But I was scared all the time. Terrified, actually. Of chaos, of losing control, of you seeing me come apart.”
You turned toward him, your voice softening. “Bradley…”
“I didn’t want you to go through what my mom did,” he went on, voice rough. “The waiting, the worrying. I thought keeping it quiet would protect you. But maybe I was just protecting myself. Because if something happened to me, and you were still—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t live with that.”
You stood still for a moment, feeling the wind shift, the scent of salt in the air. “I knew all that,” you said quietly. “I knew why you did it. Why you pulled away.”
Bradley looked at you then, searching your face.
You gave a small, sad smile. “You weren’t the only one who was scared. I felt stuck. Living in my childhood home again, pretending I wasn’t lying to my dad every day… it was like being sixteen all over again, except worse, because I actually had something to lose.”
You shook your head, the motion small. “Growing up with Maverick taught me to rely on myself, to move fast, to never get too comfortable anywhere. So when things started getting real with you, I panicked. I didn’t know how to sit still.”
Bradley’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “You thought if you kept moving, you wouldn’t need anyone.”
“Yeah,” you said, voice low. “And then you ruined that theory completely.”
That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. “You think I meant to?”
You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing between you. “Pretty sure you didn’t. You just existed, and that was enough.”
Bradley ran both hands over his face, dragging them down to his jaw. “You know, I thought I’d made peace with it,” he said. “I told myself I was over it. Then you moved home, and suddenly it all came flooding back like it never ended.”
You let out a slow breath, your heartbeat still loud in your ears. “Tell me about it.”
Bradley huffed a quiet laugh, then went still again. “You really didn’t mean to tell Phoenix?”
You shook your head. “No. I wasn’t thinking. It just came up, and I trusted her not to tell anyone. I guess I didn’t think she’d bring it up to you.”
“She told me we were being dramatic,” Bradley admitted, chuckling.
“She’s not wrong,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
That earned you a smile back—tired, but real. The tension between you eased, but it didn’t fade completely. Bradley looked at you again, softer this time. “You look different.”
“So do you,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching. “In a good way.”
His brow lifted just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you.
You took a slow breath. “You know, I’m proud of you.”
Bradley blinked, caught off guard. “Of me?”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “You worked so hard for everything, and you did it without a safety net. Without anyone really holding you up. You built the life you wanted from nothing, and that’s—” you exhaled softly, searching for the right word, “that’s brave. Doing it scared, doing it alone, is a hell of a lot braver than doing it with the kind of confidence someone like my dad has.”
His expression flickered, somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.
“I know your parents are proud of you,” you went on. “You did all the things you used to talk about when we’d sneak onto the tarmac and you’d point at the sky like it already belonged to you.” You smiled faintly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “You made me want to find somewhere that actually felt like home. And the only place that’s ever even come close was North Island, that year I was here with you.”
Bradley stared at you, silent for a long time. Then he leaned back slightly, shaking his head as if trying to get a handle on whatever was building in his chest. “You always did know exactly what to say.”
“That’s not true,” you argued softly.
He smiled at that, small and rueful. “You know what I always admired about you? How easily you fit in anywhere. You could move halfway across the country, not know a single person, and by the end of the week you’d have a new routine anda new friend group. I used to think that was your version of magic.”
You laughed under your breath. “It was survival.”
“Maybe,” Bradley said, eyes lingering on you. “But it’s also something I wish I had. I still have all your postcards. Philly, Austin, Chicago. I keep them in the top drawer of my desk, like little reminders that there’s more to the world than checklists and orders.” He hesitated, his thumb rubbing along the edge of his jaw. “You never settled for anything less than what felt right for you. And I think that’s what I learned from that year: if I could be just a little more like you, I’d be a much happier man.”
You smiled, small but real. “You do look happier. I’m glad I got to be a tiny part of that.”
Bradley looked at you for a long beat, eyes softening in the golden porch light. “For what it’s worth, you’re still the most amazing person I know,” he said quietly. “You were always so beautiful. You still are, more than ever.”
You smiled sadly, your shoulders lowering. “You’re the most amazing person I know too, Bradley.”
He laughed under his breath, then after a beat, said, “I missed you.”
You froze, every nerve in your body alert. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” His voice was low now, quiet in a way that felt dangerous.
“Because it’s not fair,” you said, breath unsteady. “You can’t just say that now.”
Bradley shifted closer, eyes flicking to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “You think I planned this?”
“I think you always have a plan,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
He smiled, small and tired, running a hand along his thigh. “Maybe this time I don’t. Maybe I’ve learned that not everything has to be perfect. That life with the people you love isn’t about checklists and timelines.”
You blinked at him. “You really mean that?”
“I do,” Bradley said, voice softening. “Being with you showed me I could let go a little. So, I’m taking the chance to tell you I still love you.”
The space between you shrank. You could see the faint crease between Bradley’s brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he should.
“Bradley,” you said quietly.
He reached up anyway and brushed his thumb along your cheek. You tilted your head slightly, closing the tiny gap, your pulse pounding in your ears. His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tilting your face closer, and you inhaled sharply.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this,” Bradley murmured before connecting your lips.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. The kiss started slow, tentative, but the second your lips moved, Bradley’s restraint shattered.
His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the rest of the world—the ocean breeze, the light streaming in from the kitchen window, the creak of the porch—faded out.
He groaned low in your mouth, and it made your knees weak. Teeth caught briefly on your lower lip, and you parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, tilting his head so your mouths fit perfectly together. Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, was electric.
You could feel the tension of the last eight years unravelling between you with every press, every gasp, every tiny, desperate shift closer.
Bradley’s hands moved to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips with a hunger that mirrored your own. You pressed against him, leaning into his warmth, letting yourself melt into the familiarity of him. It was reckless and indulgent and everything you’d wanted for ten years without ever saying it out loud.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bradley whispered between kisses.
You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and kissed him again, harder this time. “I’ve been waiting—”
“For far too long,” he interrupted, nipping your jaw, then pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, gorgeous. But we’re here now.”
Bradley’s mouth moved over yours again, teasing then demanding, hands everywhere you wanted them. Your fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close, shocked at how easy it felt to lose yourself in him again.
His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He whispered your name against your skin, and it made something inside you shatter and mend all at once.
“You’ve been mine all along,” Bradley murmured, voice urgent. “Even when we weren’t together, I still loved you. You were all I thought about, every single day, for ten years.”
“I love you,” you breathed, cutting him off with another deep, desperate kiss. “I always loved you.”
When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your foreheads together, both of you laughing breathlessly. Bradley’s hands stayed on your waist, yours on his chest.
“I’ve missed you,” he admitted, voice ragged.
“I’ve missed you too,” you breathed back, and it was impossible to say whose smile was brighter.
Inside, Penny froze mid-step, dish towel in hand, staring out the window.
“Are they—” she started, eyes wide as she watched you and Bradley tangled together on the porch. “Are they kissing?”
Beside her, Maverick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin slowly spreading across his face.
“Did you—?”
“Of course I knew,” he said smugly. “Ice and I had a long-running bet about when they’d get back together.”
Penny tore her gaze away from the window to stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
Maverick shook his head, smile softening, voice low and fond. “Can’t believe he got the exact month right.”
- the morning after a terrible argument, you come down with the worst fever of your life. unfortunately for your dignity, Steve Harrington still loves you enough to play nurse through all of it.
- cw: sicky reader, fight, hurt/comfort, stevie being a sweetie pie >⩊<
no reader description (aka pic is just aesthetic purposes ^^) also inspired over a jeno fic i read a couple yrs ago and thought abt recently... if you know which one pls let me know so i can tag them :p
Steve thinks you and him are cosmically doomed to have the worst timing imaginable.
Exhibit A: the last twenty-four hours.
Yesterday you’d both had the same day off for once, which almost never happened anymore between Steve picking up extra Family Video shifts and you drowning in work all week. You ran errands together, made fun of the kids after they got too worked up from pointless arguments, argued in the grocery aisles over whether to get the E.T or Indiana Jones themed cereal.
It was normal. Easy.
Then somewhere between takeout containers and exhaustion and too many things left unsaid lately, it stopped being easy.
Steve couldn’t even fully remember how the fight started now. Something small. Something stupid. You accusing him of never talking about what he was feeling anymore. Steve snapping back that every conversation lately somehow turned into him doing something wrong.
Then it escalated.
Like it always did when both of you were too tired to communicate properly and too emotional to stop talking.
“You don’t even want to be here half the time,” you’d snapped at him.
Steve looked like you’d slapped him.
“That’s not fair.”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” you shot back. “You barely look at me anymore.”
Steve ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not what’s happening.”
“Bullshit.”
The second the word left your mouth, you regretted it.
Steve’s expression hardened instantly—not angry exactly, just hurt.
“Seriously?”
But by then both of you were angry enough to keep going anyway.
It ended with Steve grabbing his jacket and slamming your apartment door hard enough to shake the walls while you cried in your kitchen.
Which would’ve already been bad enough.
Except you woke up this morning feeling like actual death.
By noon, your fever had climbed high enough that your teeth hurt. Your throat burned so badly it felt shredded every time you swallowed, and your chest ached from coughing so hard you could barely breathe afterward.
You held out until almost two in the afternoon before finally calling Steve.
Steve showed up thirteen minutes later with medicine, electrolyte drinks, soup ingredients, cough drops, two thermometers because “the other one looked unreliable,” and the kind of worried expression he tried hard to hide whenever he was scared.
He’d barely spoken to you since arriving.
Not mean or cruel.
Just… distant.
Like he was forcing himself to stay calm.
And honestly? You deserved it.
Right now, Steve sat at the foot of your bed with one leg bouncing anxiously while Back to the Future played on your TV. Every few minutes he glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were still conscious.
You had spent most of the day curled beneath blankets while he took care of you in silence.
He made soup.
Made you take medicine.
Refilled your water constantly.
Pressed cold washcloths to your forehead.
Cleaned your kitchen while you slept.
He even argued with Robin over the phone because she wanted to come over and “diagnose you dramatically,” and Steve insisted you needed rest.
But he still hadn’t really looked at you.
Not fully.
Not the way he usually did.
And every second of that distance sat heavy in your chest.
You pushed yourself upright slowly, immediately dizzy enough that the room tilted sideways.
Steve muted the TV instantly.
“Whoa, hey.” He stood fast. “What do you need?”
His voice softened automatically around concern despite everything.
Guilt clawed at your stomach.
“Just going to the bathroom” you muttered back.
Steve frowned immediately. “You need help walking?”
The fact that he was still asking things like that after last night almost made you cry on the spot.
You shook your head weakly.
Big mistake.
Your vision swam. Steve noticed instantly, moving closer without touching you yet.
“Easy,” he said quietly.
“I’m okay.”
“You almost fell over.”
“I’m dramatic.”
“No. You’re delirious with that fever you got.”
A weak huff escaped you that turned into coughing almost immediately. Steve’s expression tightened hard at the sound.
Gosh. You hated this.
Hated feeling helpless.
Hated knowing you’d hurt him.
Hated that he was still here anyway.
You shuffled toward the bathroom slowly while Steve watched like he was debating following you in case you collapsed.
Once the door shut behind you, the thin thread holding you together finally snapped.
You sank to the floor beside the sink with trembling hands covering your face.
Everything hurt.
Your body.
Your chest.
Your head.
Your heart.
The apartment felt too quiet without Steve talking to you properly. Every careful movement from him all day somehow hurt worse than if he’d just yelled.
You’d spent the entire morning thinking he was going to leave. That eventually he’d decide last night was too much.
That he’d grab the few things he kept at your apartment—his extra clothes, the Polaroids tucked beside your mirror, the stupid toothbrush he insisted on matching to yours—and walk out.
The thought alone made you nauseous.
A sob tore painfully out of your throat.
Then another.
Your coughing immediately got worse after that, sharp enough to make tears stream harder down your face.
You pressed your forehead against your knees miserably.
You were so tired.
Three soft knocks interrupted your spiraling.
“Sweetheart?”
The nickname nearly broke you.
“Can I come in?”
You couldn’t answer properly through your throat, so you tapped weakly against the floor instead.
A second later, the door opened carefully.
Steve stepped inside quietly before shutting it behind him.
The second he saw you on the floor, his entire face changed.
All the distance from earlier cracked instantly.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Fresh tears burned your eyes immediately.
Steve crouched in front of you carefully, close enough to touch but still giving you room.
“What happened?”
You laughed once weakly through your crying.
“What do you mean what happened?”
Steve’s eyebrows pulled together.
“You were okay five minutes ago.”
“No I wasn’t.”
Your voice came out smaller than intended.
Steve went still.
You wiped at your face angrily. “I feel awful and you’re mad at me and I know I deserve it but I just—” Your throat closed painfully around another cough. “I can’t do this today.”
The second the words left your mouth, Steve’s expression fell completely.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
You looked away immediately, ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” you croaked. “About yesterday. I know I was being horrible and dramatic and—”
“Hey.” Steve’s voice turned firm instantly. “Look at me.”
You didn’t want to.
He waited anyway.
Eventually, you forced yourself to lift your head.
Steve looked devastated.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Devastated.
“You seriously thought I was punishing you?”
Your stomach twisted.
“I mean…” you whispered.
“Baby, no.”
The tenderness in his voice hurt worse somehow.
Steve exhaled hard through his nose before sitting fully on the floor in front of you.
“I was trying to give you space.”
“In my own apartment?”
A tiny smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. “You know what I mean.”
You stared down at your hands.
“I didn’t know if you still wanted me around.”
Steve looked genuinely alarmed.
“What?”
“You left.”
His face softened instantly.
“Oh.”
The memory of last night clearly hit him all over again.
Steve dragged a hand down his face tiredly before scooting closer.
“I left because I was angry, and i didn't want to say something that i'd regret..” he admitted quietly. “Not because I wanted to leave you.”
Your eyes burned again.
“I said awful things.”
“So did I.”
“You didn’t mean them.”
“Neither did you.”
That shattered the last of your composure entirely. Another sob escaping before you could stop it.
“C’mere,” Steve murmured immediately.
He reached for you gently this time, hands warm against your arms as he pulled you across the tiny bathroom space until you were practically folded into his chest.
You went willingly. Like your body had spent all day waiting for this exact moment.
Steve wrapped both arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head while you cried against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean any of it.”
“I know that too, baby. I know,” he whispered softly.
You clutched weakly at the back of his shirt.
Steve rested his cheek against your hair.
“I’m sorry too,” he murmured after a moment. “I shouldn’t have walked out like that.”
“You were mad.”
“Still.” His arms tightened slightly. “I hate leaving you upset.”
Your chest ached.
Gosh. You loved him so much. Even when things got messy. Even when neither of you handled things perfectly. Even now, feverish and exhausted and crying on the bathroom floor.
Steve pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”
You tried to answer.
Ended up coughing instead.
Steve sighed softly. “Okay, that’s enough talking for you.”
Despite everything, you smiled weakly.
“There it is,” he said immediately, relief flickering across his face. “Was wondering where that went.”
“Feel disgusting.”
“You look disgusting too.”
You stared at him in betrayal.
Steve grinned for the first time all day.
“Aw, there you are.”
You managed a watery laugh before another cough interrupted it.
“Okay,” Steve decided, pushing himself to his feet while still holding onto you carefully. “Bed. Now.”
“I can walk.”
“You almost passed out standing up twenty minutes ago.”
“Now you're being dramatic.”
“You almost walked into the wall.”
“…oh.”
“Yeah.”
He guided you slowly back toward the bedroom with one arm around your waist.
The apartment felt warmer now somehow. Like the tension finally dissolved.
Steve got you back under the blankets before disappearing briefly into the kitchen. You heard cabinets opening, water running, the microwave beeping.
When he returned, he carried fresh water, medicine, and one of your hoodies.
You blinked at it.
“Why do I need that?”
“Because you’re freezing and keep stealing my body heat.”
“You say that like you mind.”
Steve snorted quietly.
He helped you sit up long enough to take medicine, making sure you actually swallowed it before handing over the water bottle.
“Good?” he asked.
You nodded tiredly.
Steve adjusted the blankets around you again with ridiculous care before climbing into bed beside you.
The second he settled in, you moved toward him automatically.
Steve opened his arms immediately.
“Yeah,” he murmured softly as you curled into his chest. “There she is.”
You buried your face against his neck weakly.
He smelled like laundry detergent and the peppermint gum he always chewed when stressed.
One of his hands slid slowly through your hair while the other rubbed absent circles against your back.
“You scared me today,” he admitted quietly after a while.
You frowned sleepily against him. “Sorry.”
“You called and the first thing you said was ‘I think I’m dying’. I could practically hear your frown.”
“In my defense,” you mumbled, “I really did think I was in that moment.”
Steve pressed a kiss against your forehead after letting out a light laugh. “I almost ran a red light getting here.”
Guilt surfaced again immediately.
Steve must’ve felt you tense because he nudged your head gently.
“Hey,” he whispered. “None of that.”
“But—”
“No.” His hand moved to your cheek. “We had one bad night. That doesn’t erase everything else.”
Your throat tightened painfully for entirely different reasons this time.
Steve looked down at you carefully.
“I love you,” he said simply. “Even when we fight. Even when you’re stubborn. Even when you accuse me of emotionally cheating on you with Robin because I bought her mozzarella sticks.”
Your eyes widened weakly. “She was flirting with you.”
“She called me ugly twice during that conversation.”
“Ehh. She’s complicated. Playing hard to get.”
Steve laughed softly under his breath. The sound wrapped around you warm as a blanket. Your eyelids growing heavier by the second.
“Sleep,” Steve whispered, fingers tracing gently along your spine.
“You’ll stay?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Steve immediately pulled you closer.
“Try getting rid of me.”
Something in your chest finally loosened completely. You pressed one weak kiss against his collarbone. Steve’s hand stilled briefly in your hair. Then he tilted your chin up carefully and kissed you properly.
Slow.
Warm.
Apologetic in all the ways words sometimes couldn’t quite reach.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“Get some rest, sweetheart.”
For the first time since waking up sick, you actually thought maybe things would be okay again. And tucked safely against Steve’s heartbeat while he held you through the fever and exhaustion and leftover hurt, sleep finally came easily.
like, reblogs, and comments are much appreciated <3
summary: when a crawl mission goes wrong, Steve and you have to find an escape. but the only way out is through the rift under lovers lake. and of the many problems you're facing, there's one that looms darker than the rest. you can't swim.
warnings: angst, descriptions of drowning, impending doom, no happy ending.
notes: I need to vent some of my personal angst and so I have unfortunately given life to this short little thing. I pumped this out in a few hours, so sorry if it's not the best. also sorry for the heart breaking I'm about to do.
Drowning is nothing like the movies make it out to be. When you think of it as a way of dying, you picture thrashing. Convulsing, like someone trying to crawl out of their own skin. Eyes bulging, mouth agape, trying to find oxygen.
But this.
This was different.
It was still. So still, you felt like you were frozen in time. A cold so deep and piercing, it burned. An icy fire tingling up and down your body, seizing every muscle, every movement, every memory-
It was all consuming. Everlasting.
Dark.
So dark.
It was hard to tell where the depths of Lover’s Lake began and where your darkening vision took over.
You imagine how you look right now, deep below the watery surface’s of Hawkin’s popular makeout spot. Former make out spot. Before the rumors about it being Eddie Munson’s sacrificial grounds began and the government took over.
You’re sure you look a mess, hair floating like stalks on a windy day, face pale and lined with exhaustion. The cut on your cheek from running through the upside down is surely bleeding still, likely leaving a plume of red to stain your skin.
You imagine you’re sinking. It’s highly likely, considering all the layers you were wearing. The brown leather combat boots Murray had smuggled in for you a few months ago, heavy and worn. The thick puffer vest, torn at the pocket; jeans and a sweater you’d borrowed from Steve.
He’d insisted really, handing you the soft gray thing before you could argue.
“It’ll keep you warm. You look better in my clothes anyway.”
It wasn’t warm now. It was freezing in fact, soaked all the way through, clinging to your skin. Weighing you down, down, down…
Despite your brain screaming at you to stop, to hold your breath, to keep fighting towards the surface, you breathe.
A deep gulp of lake water- fresh air- lungs burning as you try to find relief. You kick your legs upward, trying to push yourself towards the surface.
But you've lost all direction. Lost any sense of up or down, of life or death. Were you still breathing? Still thinking? Was this just the short space between one life and the next?
Was every breath leading you further down a path you weren't ready for?
It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
You had plans. Big ones. A whole future mapped out with Steve. One you both had spent hours talking about in between crawl missions and shifts at the radio station. Hopes for a better future, one where you didn’t have to hold your breath every time you passed the MAC-Z, or where your little town wasn't fenced in.
“We’re gonna get out of here someday.”
“Oh yeah?” You smile. Steve nods, dipping his spoon into the tub of icecream you were sharing. Your legs were tangled together on the concrete floor of the station’s basement, your shoulders resting together. “And where are we going to go, Harrington?”
“Somewhere far from here. Where we don’t have to worry about any of this mess. Somewhere we can get a house together.”
“A house?” He nods.
“A big one. Two stories, with a little white picket fence I’ll fix up, and a roof that creaks when it rains. A kitchen that’s a little too small but a living room big enough for company. Oh- and a backyard, spacious and green.” You laugh, stealing his spoon and scooping some ice cream for yourself.
“You want a fixer upper?”
“Of course. We can fix it up on the weekends. Make it our own.” Steve smiles down at you, thumb rubbing a circle into your shoulder as he holds you. “And maybe, some day down the line, we’ll have a few kids running around the house.” You raise an eyebrow.
“How many is a few?” He smiles guiltily.
“Six?” You laugh again, smile bright.
“Alright, slow down Harrington. I’ve seen you with six kids and every time it just spells trouble.” He huffs, nose pressing into your temple as he kisses your cheek.
“So we compromise. Maybe start with three till I can convince you we need a few more.” You think for a moment, Steve giving you those big brown eyes you couldn’t resist.
“Alright Harrington, three to start. But I’m not giving you any kids till you marry me.” He chuckles, looking away.
“Yeah, well. I’m working on that…”
You can’t remember what else he had said. You’re trying but the burning sensation in your chest is becoming all consuming.
You will your arms to move. Your feet to kick.
But nothing happens. It’s all dead weight, pulling you further away from the surface.
Away from your future. Further into your memories.
“Gosh, it’s cold.” you shiver, leaning further into Steve’s side. The sheets of the bed were doing little to shelter you from the winter settling around his house. Steve tugs you closer, hand rubbing up and down your arm.
“I got you baby. Just use me as a heater.”
“Heaters don’t talk.”
“Hey,” he pinches your side. You let out a tiny yelp, Steve laughing as he tucks you into his chest. “I make a great heater. Stop complaining.”
“I’m not complaining.” You sigh, settling into him, head resting on his chest. “You make a nice pillow too.” Steve hums, fingers tracing shapes up and down your side. He’s quiet for a minute before speaking again.
“Do you think we’ll ever find him?”
He didn’t have to explain who ‘him’ was. You knew. You always knew. It was all anyone talked about. You sigh.
“I hope we do. We have to.”
“Yeah. But sometimes… I don’t know. Sometimes…” Steve trails off, searching for the right words. You shift to look up at him, his face soft in the dim shadows of the room.
“What, Steve?” He takes a breath, rubbing a hand down his face.
“Sometimes I wonder if we’re all killing ourselves for nothing. If Vecna really is gone and we’re just digging through the upside down for a ghost.” You hum, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. Steve sighs, closing his eyes at the feeling.
“I wish that were true. But until we find a body-”
“We torched him. We burned him to the ground. I- Vecna has to be dead.” You grimace, wishing you could agree with Steve’s sentiment.
“Steve… I can’t in good faith say he’s dead until we see Vecna’s body. Until I know that he won’t come after El or Will or any one of the kids ever again.” Steve sighs, looking at you through his lashes. You press a kiss to his shoulder, snuggling closer. “We’re being careful. Every mission is carefully planned out. We’re not killing ourselves.”
“But-”
“Steve. For once I’d like to go to bed without dreaming about vines and Mike’s grating voice on the walkie. Can we talk about Robin’s terrible taste in jokes or you getting a haircut please?” Steve groans playfully, arm wrapped around you tight.
“Oh no, come on. That’s a nightmare in itself. My hair’s my best feature!”
“But you’d look so good,” you tease. “Come on-”
“Noo,” Steve laughs-
Your chest burns and you feel your body jerk. You were trying to find air. To find relief.
But everything was just so heavy. And you were so tired. Tired from fighting against the current. Tired from running through the upside down.
Everything had gone so wrong.
It’s funny really.
To remember how careful you’d both been, how alert and ready. Only for it to have never mattered in the end.
The mission was simple. A lap around the woods in the upside down, rendezvous with Hopper and Nancy back at the van and get home safe before bedtime. Steve had, of course, chosen you as his partner. He always did.
And it had been fine. The two of you walking through the Upside down side by side, being observant as always. Careful as alway. Eyes wandering occasionally to each other, a silent question.
You okay?
Soft smiles shared, elbows brushing each other. Maybe you hadn’t been careful enough. Maybe you’d let your guard down a little. Too used to the safety being around Steve provided. Too reliant on the fact nothing bad had happened before.
Until it did.
The single demodog Steve spotted first, his hand reaching out with lighting speed to yank your vest. You’d stopped, almost falling backwards into him. Eyes wide, fear beginning to course through you.
“Don’t make any noise.” Steve whispered, watching the demo carefully as it sniffed the mulchy ground. “Just back up slowly.”
You had nodded, taking a careful step backward, eyes darting between the ground and the dog. Steve backed up with you, one hand on your back, the other gripped around his bat.
Slowly.
Too slow.
The demodog had lifted its head, turning just as Steve’s boot came down on a rotten branch he hadn’t seen. The loud crunch echoing through the woods.
And then running.
Your heart racing, pounding in your chest. Your throat constricts, keeping in the scream you wanted to let out. The scream which would just lead you quicker to an ugly demise.
Steve ran as fast as he could beside you, his head in a state of limbo, half turned between you and the demodog scrabbling through the forest towards you.
“Run! Keep running okay?”
“Steve!”
“KEEP RUNNING!”
You gripped his hand as he’d pulled you down the hill, the demo running into a tree, buying you some time. Steve led you out of the woods, to the edge of the lake-
The dry lake of the upside down. Nothing but creeping vines and the stench of rotten fish.
The lake which held the closest exit. An emergency call Steve had to make to save the both of you.
“You have to run. Go to the rift and swim out of here!”
“Steve- you know I can’t swim. I can barely hold my breath for long-”
“You have to try. I’ll be right behind you. I’ll get you out of there.”
“I can’t-”
“Yes, you can. You have to”
His dark eyes were wild. They were scared. His hand gripped your arm like a lifeline. Like he was willing you to trust him.
You trusted him. You always had.
The growling of the demo had grown closer. Steve pressed a kiss to your temple, pushing you towards the glowing rift. You had run, glancing back to see Steve shifting into position, his bat at the ready as the demodog charged.
You ran to the edge of the rift, the tear in reality pulsing a red- orange. You glanced back once more, watching Steve as he swung, the bat tearing open the demo’s side as it lunged.
Steve turns once yelling at you to dive. To get out.
And then you were diving head first into the rift, taking a deep breath before the water hit you like a cold wave.
The darkness was blinding, the pressure building too fast, leaving you disoriented.
And Steve.
Steve still hadn’t come.
You want to close your eyes and sleep. Slip away into the soft dream that was calling you. Away from the darkness. Away from the cold. The pain. The confusion.
But you had to hold on. Steve was coming.
He had to be. He always came for you.
“I’ll be right beside you. Not gonna let anything happen to you.” Steve tightened the strap of his pack, giving you a soft look. You roll your eyes, gently pushing his shoulder.
“You’re such a romantic Steve.”
“What can I say? I’m always going to be here.”
You want to go home. To wash the stink of the upside down away and slip into bed next to Steve. Watch as he puts on those ugly sweatpants you hate but he loves, turn on one of those terrible tapes you both liked to rent.
You wanted to go back to the Hawkins you remembered. The quiet streets and farm backroads, the town which once was lively and beautiful in a haunting way. The diner Steve liked to go for their flapjacks, the kind he drowned in syrup just so you could kiss the extra clean. The library where Steve had kissed you senseless in the study rooms, the two of you sneaking around like you were still kids.
You want the arcade where you’d tag along on his nights out with Dustin and the other kids. Watching as he argued about everyday things, Steve’s smile brighter than the sun when he was able to make Lucas laugh.
Nights spent playing board games in the Wheeler’s basement, not plotting the next crawl. Summer afternoons spent in the pool, teasing and kissing as the water lapped against your bare bodies, not sinking at the bottom of the lake. Waiting for Steve to rescue you.
Steve…
He’s the only thing you see besides the darkness. His face vivid against the back of your closing eyelids.
“Hey. Sleepyhead.”
You mumble, rolling over on the station’s couch. You vaguely register Steve laughing, his hand warm against the back of your neck as he tries to shake you awake again.
“Baby, you’ve got to wake up. It’s time.”
“For what?” You grumble.
“Time to go home.”
“Home?”
“Yeah. Time to go home.” You blink, a soft smile on your face. Steve smiles down at you softly, thumb brushing against your hairline as he looks at you with all the love in the world.
“Okay. Okay, I’m ready.”
"You got everything?" He asks as he helps you stand.
"Just you. And that's all I need, really."
Steve…
Steve breaks through the surface of Lover’s Lake with a sobbing gasp. It’s dark outside, the stars dim, the moon hiding behind the clouds. Like even the sky knew what they were about to witness was not something they wanted to see.
“Come on baby,” Steve gasps as he grips your limp body. You were pale, lips blue, lashes still against your cheek. “Come on!”
He says it more for himself. As a reminder he had to push. He had to get you to land. To safety. Steve had promised he’d come after you. He promised he’d get you out of the lake.
You'd already been under for too long. Steve had been too long in making sure the demo wouldn't follow, too slow in running towards the rift. The demo had pounced, leaving a terrible, bloody wound in his side.
But when he had dove in after you, heart racing, his side aching from a hit he’d taken, his heart had dropped.
The change in pressure had been disorienting. The water freezing, the cold washing over him like a shot to the heart. It was challenging for him, a well trained swimmer.
It was a catastrophe for you. You who couldn’t swim.
Steve had never swam so fast in his life before.
The lake laps against his face, and he shakes his hair out of his face, grunting as he pushes through the water. You bob behind him, head limp against your shoulder in a painfully still position.
“I’m here baby-” Steve pants as he finally reaches the shallow end of the lake, guiding your body towards the pebbly shore. He pulls you by the vest, the sound of your body dragging sickening. His hands are clammy as he checks your pulse, your skin frozen against his.
Steve’s heart practically stops when he realizes he can’t find your pulse.
“No, no. Hey, come on.” Steve peels off his wet sweater, tee shirt clinging to his skin. “Come on honey!”
He begins chest compressions, hands working hard against your chest. Steve wishes he could look away. Wishes he could wake up from this nightmare; roll over and spoon you, tucking you into him in the way he always found comforting.
Steve yells your name out into the night air of the lake, his lips covering yours as he breathes air into your lungs. You had to wake up.
You had to.
“Steve. Have you seen my- is that an ABBA tape?”
“Uh… yes.” Steve laughs nervously, hiding it quickly. “You weren’t supposed to see this yet.”
“Why not?” You beam, coming beside Steve as he rifles through a box of things Murray had just delivered. “This is my favorite song on the album.”
Steve sighs, giving you a look.
“It’s for a surprise. And you asking questions is going to ruin it.”
“Oh,” you nod, smiling. “Wouldn’t want that.”
“No, we wouldn’t nosy.”
“I’m not nosy.”
“You are if you’re still here trying to see what else I got from Santa Claus.”
“Well, I’m trying to see if my boyfriend got me those boots I wanted.”
“Of course I did. What kind of a boyfriend do you think I am?”
Of course Steve had. He never got anything for himself. Besides those stupid peanut butter boppers you hated but still shared with him because he insisted.
Of course he had gotten you that tape, because hearing you sing along in the car was one of the things that brightened his day. That made the nightmares a little less scary.
The one thing he had gotten for himself had still been for you. The little silver ring hidden inside the tape.
The one he was going to propose to you with.
The one which glinted uselessly on the shore now, falling out of the pocket of his sweater as he had tossed it aside.
“Honey, come on! I need you to wake up. Please wake up. I can’t- you can’t leave me. Not now. After everything-”
Steve presses his lips against yours again, trying to will the air into your lungs. Trying to pound the life into your heart as he presses down on your ribcage.
But it’s no use.
You’re still at his touch. Lashes unmoving, lips still blue. Silent.
Not even a breath left to whisper an I love you.
Had Steve told you he loved you? Did you even know just how much he cared about you, how much he needed you here.
After everyone you'd lost, everything you both had been through. You couldn't just leave. Not like this. Your face wasn't supposed to become another ghost to haunt his dreams.
You were always in his dreams. The future he’d been planning, the thing that he held onto in the twisted routine of Hawkins, was just you. You were his future.
Steve was serious about everything. The house. The kids. The backyard.
But it was all slipping away, like the tide erasing footprints in the sand. Slipping away as he held your cold body, his throat raw and aching as he sobbed into your hair.
“Why are you crying?”
Steve looks up, palm wiping his wet lashes quickly. You frown in the doorway of the bathroom, pajamas loose around your frame.
“I’m not crying.”
“What- and you always let a few tears go in the middle of the night?” You cross your arms.
“It’s nothing,” Steve mumbles, looking away. You shake your head, padding closer, your arms wrapping around his middle.
“Steve… I trust you with everything. I have since day one. And I want you to know you can trust me too.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you crying.” Steve swallows thickly.
“I… had a bad dream. It’s silly really.”
You hum, cheek resting against Steve’s back. Your fingers rest on his stomach, the presence of your hands already easing the tension of the nightmare.
“I’m sure it’s not.” Steve sighs.
“I dreamt you left me. One moment you were there and then, bam. You were gone.”
“That sounds awful. I just left you?”
“In the blink of an eye. And I couldn’t do anything to get you back.” You slip your arms out from around Steve, hand reaching up to cup his cheek.
“Honey, I’m right here. You don’t have to be afraid.”
“But-”
“Steve. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. I’ve wormed my way into your heart,” you tap his chest.
“And I’m going to love you till the day I die, Steve Harrington.”
“You promise?”
“Of course I do.”
Steve just holds onto you.
Willing you to take one more breath. To hear one last "I love you."
angst angst angst! reader gets injured pretty bad in the upside down on a crawl maybe, blacks out or something dramatic, boyfriend!steve is beside himself with worry. hes pictured their whole lives together, he cant lose her, he cant, he cant. eventually they get to safety, happy ending? thanks love!
જ⁀➴ crawl gone wrong
steve harrington x reader
holy shit i hate this so much 😭😭😭 but idk how much longer i can hold back on you guys 💔 hopefully i get back into writing ASAPPPP
steve felt his heart stop when he saw you go limp in his arms.
the crawl wasn’t supposed to end this way—with you bleeding out in his arms. you were supposed to go in and out unscathed like the dozens of times before.
a demogorgon wasn’t supposed to jump out of nowhere and practically shred your abdomen.
steve wasn’t supposed to see any blood bubbling out of your body. he wasn’t supposed to hear your breathing come to a stop. he wasn’t supposed to feel your heartbeat wither.
none of this was supposed to happen.
you two were supposed to flee hawkins the second the lockdown was over. you two were supposed to travel the world and have kids. you were supposed to settle down in a small town near the countryside and have a huge farm. acres and acres of land.
steve could imagine a life without the farm and the kids, but a life without you? that’s no life worth living.
he pressed his index and middle finger to your neck, right above your pulse. weak, but present.
he let out a relieved breath. “come on, sweetheart. can’t leave me yet.”
he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your torso before picking you back up.
he cut the crawl short and made his way back to the right side up. his every step carried a heavy weight. your life was in his hands, and if he lost it simply because he wasn’t fast enough—
“no.” he shook his head. “stay with me, baby, we’re almost there.”
he pressed his fingers to your pulse once more and it was… stronger? he wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him or if there was some sort of miracle, but he really was not complaining. in fact, it only drove him more determined to get back the squawk.
you were not to die in the upside down.
the second he stepped foot into the familiar building and his found family gaped at the damage that had been done to you, his lip trembled and he stood frozen in place.
he became hyperaware of your blood leaking through his jacket, leaving red splotches across the blue denim. he became hyperaware of the dullness that overtook your skin, and the color fading from your lips.
hopper—sprained ankle and all—took three long strides and took you out of steve’s arms.
steve still remained frozen in place, his hands and shirt drenched in your blood. his hands were still outstretched. he looked down and saw how red they were and his stomach turned.
robin placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the bathroom. she turned on the sink and pumped soap into his hands.
he turned to look at her, eyes wide and teary. “if she dies—”
she cut him off. “don’t say that.”
“i’m not gonna be able to do it.” he shook his head. “i can’t do this without her. robin, she’s everything—”
“i know. i know that. hop’s got her.” her throat bobbed. “she’s gonna be fine.”
“if i was paying more attention—”
“you can’t do this to yourself, steve.” she said firmly, tugging off the hoodie she was wearing.
she placed her hands on the hem of his shirt. “up.”
she didn’t make any comments or scrunch her face up in disgust at his chest hair—she wasn’t even thinking about that this time around. she tossed the bloodied shirt in the trash and tugged her hoodie over his head.
good thing she was wearing one of her oversized hoodies.
“listen to me.” she grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at her. “you’re gonna go out there and sit next to her. you’re gonna be there when she wakes up, okay? you’re gonna be the first face she sees.”
he nodded wordlessly, eyes still oh so wide.
“and i’m gonna be next to you the entire time.” she added. “come on.”
he found you laying on the couch while hopper tended to your wounds.
his throat bobbed. robin gave him a slight push and his feet took him to stand in front of you.
“sit, don’t hover.” hopper gruffed.
steve immediately brought himself to the floor, hand holding yours.
his eyes were flooded with a mix of worry and tears. he sniffled and hopper sent him a brief glance. “she’ll be fine, kid.”
“really?” he wiped his eye with the back of his hand.
hopper glanced and steve and his own throat bobbed. this wasn’t the former jock he got noise complaints about at least once a week—no, this was a much more vulnerable version. a version of him he last saw when steve was only a kid and frequently called the police station in fear of a break in when his parents were away.
hoppers eyes softened for half a second. “yeah.”
you didn’t wake up after hopper bandaged you up, nor soon after that.
it seemed as though a permanent frown has made its way onto steve’s face. all he could do was give your hand a squeeze every now and then and exhale shakily.
whenever anyone tries to check in on him he simply wouldn’t respond—or, he wouldn’t even hear them to begin with.
he was only snapped out of his trance when eleven placed her hand on his shoulder.
his head snapped to the right, and, upon seeing her, his face softened.
she gave him a soft smile. “hi.”
he turned back to face you, his thumb going over your knuckles in the way you like. “hey.”
“she will be okay.” el said firmly.
“i—how do you know that?” he sighed. “i thought she was a goner, el, you didn’t see her down there—”
“i did.” she cut him off. “i saw it.”
“you-you did?” steve blinked.
eleven nodded and steve’s eyes welled up again for the millionth time. “you saw how bad it was. i mean, her heart gave out on me, el.” he ran a frustrated hand through his face. “fucks sake, i can’t stop feeling how weak her heartbeat was i can’t-i don’t know what i’d do if it happened again, and i mean she lost a lot of blood—”
“i will bring her heartbeat back again.” eleven reassured. “i can’t see her die too.”
steve’s eyes widened and his lips slightly parted. “you did that?”
steve, with his hands and jeans stained with your blood, with his face covered in all sorts of upside down grime, pulled eleven in for the tightest hug she’s ever received. “thank you.”
“i love her too, steve.” she murmured against his ear. only then did he hear the wobble in her voice, and he immediately felt so foolish for not checking up on her sooner. she viewed you as the older sister she never had and seeing you almost die for something she practically brought to life—
“she’s going to wake up soon, i feel it.”
you did not wake up soon. hopper took el back home before you could wake up.
steve fell asleep sitting on the floor, hand holding yours, and his head on your thigh.
when you stirred, he awoke. he brushed your hair back until your eyes peeled open. you let out a pained gasp and his hand dropped to cup your face.
when you spoke, your voice was scratchy and weak. “steve?”
“hey,” he smiled softly. “damn thing got you good, huh?”
“i’m-i’m okay?” you questioned.
he nodded. “hop patched you up.”
“steve, i thought…” you trailed off, shaking your head.
he wiped away a tear you hadn’t known had fell with the pad of his thumb. “doesn’t matter what we thought. you’re here now.”
he watched as a frown made its way onto your face. he couldn’t help but smile. he knew what kind of frown that was. it was your angry frown. the one you got before you cursed someone’s bloodline. “i’m not going down to that shithole again, steve, i swear.”
“no you won’t.” even though it was said through a chuckle, you knew he was being dead serious. “can’t do this bullshit without you.”
you gave him a weak grin. “what—the crawls? i’m sure hop isn’t a bad—”
“life.” he corrected.
“lucky for you i’m not going anywhere.”
and suddenly, the farm with the six kids came back into view. he saw the aching backs and the cracky knees and the gray hairs. he saw it all, and he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers ever again.
“It is absolutely imperative that I replace it,” Eloise hissed as she steered you around the modiste’s. “If Daphne discovers it missing, I shall never hear the end of it from mama.”
“What were you doing with Daphne’s quill, anyway?”
“That is immaterial.” Eloise glanced nervously over your shoulder before meeting your gaze again. “Please, it is urgent. Daphne is planning on writing letters to send ahead of the Christmas festivities. I’ll give you all of my pocket money until I pay you back.”
You huffed softly, looking around, considering.
“I should be able to convince my ladies maid to stop by the open-air market on the way home.”
Eloise grinned, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet as she repeated her thanks.
“Alright!” You chuckled. “Remind me what the quill looked like.”
--
“Will this take long?”
“Of course not.”
“Miss,” Hattie winced, hurrying along behind you. “If we’re late home again, Mrs. Mulligan will have my head.”
“If need be, I will deal with the housekeeper, and with mama,” You insisted. “I need a quill.”
“You have plenty at home—”
“I need a very specific quill!”
You looked around the market, brow furrowing a touch as your gaze swept the stalls. It was a few moments before you caught sight of exactly what you needed: a white quill with a tawny stripe through it. Just your luck, it seemed to be the last one available. You darted forward, reaching for it—and stilled as your gloved hand landed atop someone else’s. Your gaze drifted from the quill to the hand of the other person holding it, then up to the man reaching for it. Your heart leapt into your throat as he blinked down at you in surprise. You heard Hattie clear her throat pointedly behind you, and you hurriedly drew your hand out from under his.
“I’m terribly sorry,” The man apologized.
“It’s quite alright,” You laughed a little before holding your hand out. He glanced down at it, brow furrowing before he took hold of it, dipping his head and brushing a kiss to your gloved knuckles. You huffed out a nervous laugh before you look down at his other hand.
“I was holding my hand out for the quill,” You nodded toward it. The man’s face flashed with embarrassed panic before he drew his hand back.
“Right. Ah…” He lifted it into his field of vision, frowning at it. “I…In any other situation, I would happily oblige, but I am afraid I need this.”
“Couldn’t you take another quill?”
“Couldn’t you?”
“I’m afraid not. I need that exact quill.”
“Well then, we seem to be at an impasse.” The man frowned, lips pursing.
“We could…Flip a coin?” You suggested.
“That sounds reasonable.” The man nodded, tucking his hand into his pocket. You snuck a sneaky glance at him as he rummaged around. He was quite handsome—his hair was meticulously styled, and his eyes were dark, and warm. His lips looked quite sweet as well—You forced yourself to refocus as he drew a coin from his pocket.
He drew one out of his pocket, “Heads or tails?”
“Tails.”
He nodded before flipping the coin. He caught it, resting it atop the back of his hand and looking down. You fought the urge to loose an unladylike curse. Heads. You offered the man a smile.
“To the victor, the spoils.”
“I am sorry,” He offered—and he did look it, though there’s still a small, pleasing smile on his lips.
“It’s quite alright."
"You're certain I couldn't buy you a different quill for your trouble?"
"No, though that is a kind offer. I’m sure I can find another one elsewhere. Good day.”
“And to you.”
You turned, nodding Hattie along with you. “Come, Hattie.”
“He kissed your hand,” Hattie hissed.
“Make haste—don’t look back!” You insisted, gripping Hattie’s arm and turning her to face forward as she glanced back. “We’ve one more stop to make before we can go home.”
--
“Eloise!”
“Oh, thank goddess!” She hurried toward you, and your stomach churned nervously at her giddiness.
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t able to get the quill.”
“No, it’s alright! My brother was able to find the perfect one. I was going to write you, using it, obviously—but he’s hiding it among Daphne’s thing now. Apparently she has been on the warpath and looking for it all morning.”
“Oh!” You smiled, relieved. “I’m very glad to hear that he found a suitable replacement.”
“My dark deed is done!” You heard called down the stairs, along with the thundering of feet. Your brows rose at the sight of the man. He slowed at the sight of you.
“I am sorry, miss," He frowned deeply, "But I won the coin toss fair and square. We agreed.”
“I am not here because of the coin toss,” You scoffed, shaking your head.
“What coin toss?” Eloise frowned before turning to you, “And how on Earth do you know one another?”
“I…" You fumbled with the answer. "We met when I was trying to find the quill.”
“And the coin toss?”
“There was only one quill,” The man explained. That warm, kind smile was back, making your chest flutter.
“And you took it from her? What would mother say?” Eloise asked smugly, folding her arms across her chest.
“Mother would want to know why you needed a quill identical to Daphne’s in the first place.”
Eloise closed her mouth, lips pursing before muttering, “...Right. If you’ll excuse me, I’m late meeting Penn.”
You smiled, watching Eloise dart out of the front hall.
“I ought to be on my way myself," You took a step back. "I’m sure my mother will worry if I’m gone too long.”
“May I walk you home?”
“That could be a scandal. We haven’t been properly introduced.”
“Allow me.” He took hold of your hand again, raising it to his lips. “Benedict Bridgerton. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Bridgerton,” You chuckled softly. He proffered his arm, and you take hold of it hesitantly.
“Will you tell me how Eloise talked you into attempting such a scheme?" He asked, guiding you toward the door, "Or how you know my sister at all?”
one of the older kids (boy ot girl), one of their friends hits on reader? or maybe a dad from daycare or something!
wanna see if Steve would agree and then get angry that the friend/man is flirting with his wife
write it however you like! and how you think Steve (and kids maybe) would react!
Summary: Steve knows you’re gorgeous, but it doesn’t stop him from being all pouty when other men (and one bold teenager) who aren’t him flirt with you.
WC: 4.7k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, jealous & possessive Steve (in a healthy way), men/ teenager flirting with reader (which reader pointedly ignores), protective husband trope, kids teasing Steve for being down bad for reader.
Harrington Household Masterlist
currently writing this series based on requests, so if you have any ideas - please feel free to send them my way 🫶🏻
Main Masterlist If Interested
Peach’s Note: hiii anon!! what a fun request!! i included that, but also added in some other flirting scenarios. also kind of added part of this request. hope you enjoy lovie 🩷
tysm to everyone showing love on my works - it means the world. requests are open! feel free to send anything Steve or Gator Tillman related and I can certainly try my best 🫡
need a man like steve to call me gorgeous ⤵️
“Damn, you’re looking fine, Mrs. Harrington,” a voice calls out from the living room as you make your way down the stairs.
Your eyes widen at the words; left hand pausing mid air while attempting to put your last earring in since your toddler is being firmly held up with your right hand - propping her up on your hip.
You’re completely caught off guard from what the teenager sitting on the couch next to your oldest son just said to you.
There’s a collective intake of breath around the lower level of the house - all eyes flashing to Steve for his reaction, who’s frozen by the front door - looking like he’s absolutely ready to strangle the kid.
Your eldest boy looks horrified at his friend’s comment while your oldest girl who’s sitting at the kitchen island working on homework looks disgusted. Your ten year old twins who are lounging on the living room floor pause the board game they’re playing - sensing the sudden tension in the room.
Your four year old boy who was trailing the stairs behind you slams into your legs- not expecting you to have stopped. It causes you to stumble as you’re still two steps above the floor.
You panic instantly, worried about face planting with your youngest babe in your hands - but Steve’s there in a heartbeat, hands slithering around your waist to steady you. The movement forces you into his chest, lone earring clattering to the floor and your boy falls to his butt behind you.
“You alright, baby?” Steve murmurs gently by the shell of your ear, and you nod slightly - pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss of thanks.
Your boy that’s fallen on the stairs starts crying at the impact, and Steve carefully lets go of you to scoop him up into his arms.
“Why are you crying buddy? You’re the one who nearly steamrolled into Mommy,” Steve teases lightly, thumbs already brushing away his boy’s tears.
“That scared you, huh?” You ask him tenderly, rubbing at his back - knowing he’s physically fine, just startled.
He sniffles and nods, hiding his face in his daddy’s neck.
Your middle girl pushes herself off the floor, comes over and grabs the earring you dropped, “Do you want me to put this in for you?”
“That would be great, babe, thanks,” you smile at her, and she climbs the stairs to stand behind you - securing the piece of jewelry in place.
She steps back before grinning, “You look beautiful, Mommy.”
“She always does, doesn’t she?” Steve agrees, pressing a kiss to your jaw.
Your girl nods before hugging you from behind, “Do you have to go tonight?”
You pat her hands that are linked around your middle, “We shouldn’t be out too late, sweetheart.”
You and Steve were headed to Hawkins High for a banquet that the graduating class of ‘85 was hosting. You’d honestly rather stay in and spend time with your babes, but with Steve being a teacher at the middle school, it was expected that he be in attendance.
Steve looks particularly handsome in his dress pants that hug his legs perfectly, paired with a white long sleeve button up and black tie wrapped loosely around the neckline. If you were alone, you wouldn’t have let him leave the house without getting a taste of the skin that’s exposed at his neck.
You’re practically drooling over him, and the reality of the moment comes crashing back when your oldest boy’s friend stands up from the couch, hands tucked into his pockets and compliments your appearance again.
“I mean really, that dress is killer on you,” he smirks, and Steve’s mouth drops open at the audacity.
You put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, trying to ground him - reminding him not to make any rash decisions.
Steve clears his throat, “I’m sorry, what did you just say about my wife?”
You bite your lip in amusement, because he’s defending your honor against a hormonal teenager that can’t get his emotions in check.
At Steve’s voice, the kid looks a bit meek, but not lacking total confidence when he says, “Like you look great, Mrs. H, stunning even.”
Steve turns to you with a baffled expression before whispering, “Is he serious right now?”
You huff out a disbelieving laugh, “Steve, he’s a child.”
“Bullsh-,” he cuts himself off, remembering the two littles in both of your arms, “He’s seventeen. He’s old enough to know what he’s saying, baby,” he grumbles quietly.
His eyes flick over to the boy - standing there awkwardly now, since it’s obvious that you’re purposefully avoiding his praises, “Ought to teach him a lesson about how to treat women since his parents clearly haven’t done it.”
But Steve doesn’t need to do that, because your oldest boy is already on it, “Dude, are you, are you flirting with my mom?”
“No! No, definitely not,” but the way he’s spluttering the words proves otherwise.
“You totally were,” your girl calls out from the kitchen.
Your twins start giggling at the absurdity of it, and Steve watches proudly as his son reams into his friend.
“That’s my mom, man. Have some respect,” he chides angrily, folding his arms across his chest.
The boy’s mouth flounders, embarrassed now at being called out, “Uh, sorry Mrs. H, Mr. H. I’m just, yeah, I’m gonna go.”
He scrabbles for the exit, leaving the rest of you stunned at the ridiculousness of what just happened.
“Great choice in friends,” Steve quips, raising his eyebrows at your boy.
Your boy defends himself, “How was I supposed to know he was going to say that? You do look really pretty, by the way, Mom.”
You smile, “Thanks, hun.”
“Seriously though, don’t think I want you inviting him back over here,” Steve mumbles, and you laugh lightly before pressing a kiss to his cheek.
With your free hand, you reach up to brush back some of the strands of hair fighting to fall into his eyes, “No need to be all pouty about it, baby.”
“I’m not being pouty, I just don’t need a bunch of teenage boys thinking it’s okay to hit on you,” he says with a frown still on his face.
You smile fondly at him, swiping your thumb over the creases that his drawn in eyebrows are making.
“Whatever you say, babe,” you tease, before walking into the kitchen.
Steve falls quiet as his eyes wander the expanse of your legs as you move, appreciating the view of the tight dress hugging your curves.
“Dad,” your oldest scolds when he realizes what Steve’s doing.
“What?” Steve snaps out of it, recognizing that he’s been caught, “Don’t give me that look. I’m allowed to check out my wife.”
You hand your toddler off to your oldest girl, who puts up a brief fight at you letting her go. You watch your girl bounce and console her younger sister easily - effectively distracting her.
“Are you sure you and your brother got this? The babysitter said she was free tonight,” you ask again, wanting to double check.
The plan was never to purposefully have children with such large age gaps.
Steve’s plan was to always have six if you’d let him, but yours was to take it one at a time before deciding if you wanted more since you had once been unsure about children. When you had your oldest though, you immediately knew you wanted another when you took one look at him - at seeing this perfect little being that you and your husband had created together.
Then your eldest girl came next, and you were pretty sure two was enough - but life happens, and years later your twins came along with the rest of the littles; and soon six Harrington children were filling up the space in your home and the crevices in your heart.
People often joked that the age gap meant free babysitting services - which never failed to make you frustrated for your oldest two, because that was definitely not their responsibility.
You were grateful however, that you had children who loved their siblings deeply. It meant that sometimes your teenagers wanted to take care of the younger babes for you without you having to ask.
“We’ve got it, Mom,” your oldest boy confirms, who’s now holding your youngest boy after taking him from Steve.
Steve catches the emotion clouding your eyes at seeing them together and curls you into his chest - giving you a tight squeeze of affection.
“See, baby? Told you they’d be fine,” Steve hugs you closely, before steering you towards the door - trying to get you out before you change your mind about leaving them. You hug the twins goodbye, pressing a kiss to each of their heads.
“Call us if you need-,” you start, but are interrupted by your oldest girl.
“Anything, we know. Now go, before she starts throwing a hissy fit about you two leaving,” she jokes, stroking softly at her sister's hair.
You finish saying goodbye to all of your kids, and Steve starts tugging your hand to pull you into the night air.
“Really, if you need anything, call,” Steve echoes your previous words.
Once you’re settled in Steve’s truck, you watch as your babes wave to you through the front window, and you lean over the middle console to place a hand lovingly on Steve’s knee.
“God, how did we get so lucky, Steve?” You wonder out loud.
“You mean how did I get so lucky? Shit baby, have you looked in the mirror today?” He says playfully, grabbing your hand that rests on his knee to bring it to his lips.
“Steve,” you smile warmly, feeling the familiar flush of heat creep up your neck.
“Kinda just wanna rip that dress off you and skip this damn thing,” he kisses the palm of your hand, before littering kisses up the span of your arm.
“That would be a lot more fun,” you hum out, savoring the feeling of his lips on your skin.
Steve turns to face you, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, honey.”
He drops his head into the crook of your neck, gently nipping at the skin there and you whimper at the touch.
“Probably shouldn’t be on the verge of making out when our kids are still watching,” you tease, eyes cutting to the window to see the oldest two trying to shield the eyes of your youngest ones.
You cup Steve’s chin, tilting his head so he can look at the sight, which makes laughter spill from those pretty pink lips of his.
“You’re right, we should probably go park down the street first before making out,” he smiles coyly at you.
You push lightly in jest at him, “Just start the car, babe.”
Steve places one last kiss at the sweet spot below your ear before backing out the driveway, “Yes, ma’am.”
The banquet was in full swing, and you and Steve were currently taking a break from the buzz of constant socializing when you make eye contact with Tommy Hagan from across the gym.
“Oh, god,” you mumble under your breath.
Neither of you had seen him since senior year, as Steve had cut off contact with the guy completely, but heard that he left Hawkins and dropped Carol Perkins along the way.
Tommy immediately grins wickedly, before stalking closer to you and Steve.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Steve inquires, arm tightening around your waist.
Your hand that’s hooked around his bicep grips a little tighter, “Incoming.”
Steve follows your gaze and groans in annoyance - doesn’t want to have to deal with the onslaught of surface level questions Tommy will have.
“Harrington! Good to see you, man. What’s it been, like twenty years since graduation? And Hargrove, looking good as always,” Tommy sends a wink your way.
You smile tightly, pressing yourself closer to your husband - uncomfortable with the way Tommy’s eyes drag up and down your figure.
“Hey, Tommy. Yeah, it’s been a while,” Steve forces a small smile, hand that’s on your hip holding you a bit more protectively.
“Didn’t realize the two of you were together,” Tommy notices the way Steve’s arm tucks you towards him.
You hum in acknowledgment, before flashing your left hand at him, allowing him to see the rock next to the wedding band that rests on your ring finger.
“Oh shit, so you’re like together, together,” Tommy’s eyes widened.
The phrase makes you want to laugh, because not only have you been married for seventeen years, but you’ve got six children at home to show for the life you’ve built together.
“Mhmm,” you nod politely, and Steve can’t help but place a possessive kiss to your temple at seeing the way Tommy’s eyes linger on you.
They catch up briefly - jobs, sports, reminiscing about high school. The topic of kids doesn’t come up, which isn’t surprising because Tommy has been droning on and on about his bachelor lifestyle in Indianapolis.
There’s a sudden commotion as a few of Steve’s previous students run up to him; in high school now themselves and are at the event to get volunteer hours with their clubs.
“Uh, sorry to interrupt Coach Steve, but Ms. Kelley asked us to move some tables and we could use help,” one of the boys asks.
It’s clear Steve’s fighting an internal battle, doesn’t want to say no to the kids but also doesn’t want to leave you alone.
“You good, honey?” Steve checks with you.
Tommy answers for you, “She’ll be fine, man. I’ll keep her company.”
Which is exactly what Steve doesn’t want. He ignores the comment, staring intently at you.
“Go help, babe. I’ll be okay,” you assure him, lifting your hand to cup his jaw - thumb brushing delicately against his cheek.
His eyes close briefly at the touch, still hesitating - not sure what to do.
“Come on, don’t leave them hanging, Stevie,” Tommy throws the nickname in as a jab - knew that Steve hated it in high school; which he still does, unless you’re the one saying it.
Steve’s decidedly ticked off with Tommy and makes a point to shut him up by kissing you. He leans forward to slot his lips with yours, pulling you to him by clasping his hands behind your lower back.
You instantly wrap your arms around his neck, enjoying the feel of him pressing his mouth eagerly to yours which makes your head fizzy - bubbles of want pooling in your stomach.
“I’ll be right back, baby,” he breathes out, nose nudging yours, kisses you one last time before going to help the high schoolers.
Tommy stands there a little awkwardly, and you hoped maybe he’d scram after that public display of affection, but he seems to be like a roach you can’t squash.
You watch Steve hopelessly from across the room, desperate for him to come back to you quickly - tired of making small talk with Tommy.
“You and Harrington are pretty serious then?” Tommy wonders.
“Yep,” you reply, tone clipped.
“But I mean, you know he was never the settle down type of guy, right?” Tommy goads, referring to the “King Steve” era.
You huff a breath of irritation - hating that people still put Steve in a box when they know nothing about him anymore, “He was never like that, Tommy. He just needed the right person to love him.”
Tommy barks a laugh, “And that’s you?”
You narrow your eyes into slits at him, blood starting to boil at his flippancy, “Why don’t you ask my six children?”
He chokes on his drink, inhaling it wrong at the shock of that information, “And you’re sure they’re all his?”
“Oh my god, you’re still a pig you know that?” You lash out, turning to storm away, but he follows you.
“Come on, didn’t mean it like that, princess,” he calls out, and you freeze at the name he once taunted you with.
You whip around and seethe, “Do not, ever, call me that again.”
Tommy raises his hands up, “Woah, just trying to make conversation. No need to be so defensive.”
You glare at him, arms crossed, breathing angrily.
“I’m sorry, really. I guess I’m just a little envious," he shrugs.
“Envious?” You ask in disbelief.
“I mean, yeah. Being honest with you, I totally had a thing for you in high school. I just never acted on it because of you know, Billy,” he trails off before continuing, “And seeing you here with my old best friend of all people, guess it just shocked the hell out of me.”
He actually kind of looks bummed out, which makes you feel just a tiny bit guilty - but then he instantly ruins it when he takes advantage of your quietness.
Tommy steps forward, “Don’t you ever think about it?”
“Think about what?” You inquire, confusion lacing your tone.
“Me and you?” He asks smugly, obviously out of touch with reality.
“No, I don’t. I’m happily married,” you refute.
“Sure, but like don’t you ever get bored?” He tries to get you to crack.
You grit your teeth, “Steve loves me, and I love him. What are you not getting about that?”
Tommy steps into your personal bubble, hand sliding down your arm, grabbing onto your wrist, “You know, if I had the balls to ask you out back then, things would’ve been different.”
Your jaw drops at his gall, “They would not be, now let go of me.”
“Admit it, Hargrove. I could’ve made you just as happy,” he replies cockily, and you just about slap him in the face for that when you thankfully feel Steve’s arm snake around your shoulder.
“It’s Harrington, now get your hands off my wife,” Steve roughly bites out, thoroughly done with Tommy’s gross behavior after watching him stalk you from across the gym.
Tommy drops your arm swiftly, “Just making sure she was okay, man.”
“No, you were trying to make a move on a married woman, real classy,” Steve snorts in aggravation.
Steve doesn’t give Tommy the opportunity to reply, simply guides you away - heading straight for the exit sign.
“Wait, Steve, don’t you have to be here?” You ask, trying to get him to stop.
“Don’t care. Not letting you stay anywhere near that pathetic creep any longer,” Steve breathes out sharply through his nose.
He shoves the doors open, hightailing it out of the school, and you’re struggling to keep up in your high heels.
“Babe, slow down, please,” you plead, clutching onto his arm.
Steve notices you’re straggling behind, and he makes the split decision to haul you up in his arms.
He crouches slightly, swiftly brings his left arm up and under your thighs, while his right arm secures itself around your back.
Your arms scramble for purchase around his neck at the sudden movement, “What’s going on in that head of yours, handsome?”
“Shouldn’t have left you alone,” he fumes.
You understand then that he’s blaming himself, “Steve, it’s not your fault.”
“He put his hands on you,” Steve grates out, holding you closer to him.
Your legs sway in the air as he furiously makes his way through the parking lot to get to the car. You hate seeing him upset, but can’t lie that it doesn’t turn you on with how territorial of you he’s being.
One of your hands moves to card through the back of his hair, “You don’t need to be jealous, baby.”
“Oh, I’m jealous all right. But I’m more pissed off that he thought it was okay to touch you, and livid with myself for leaving you with him,” his breathing is erratic from how upset he is.
“Then make it up to me, we don’t have to be home for another hour,” you remind him, tucking your head into the junction of his collarbone.
That’s how you found yourself curled up next to him in a booth at Mel’s Diner, the place you used to frequent when you were still just dating.
You were sharing your favorite - breakfast food for dinner, chatting about Steve’s summer baseball league he was coaching. Your legs are pulled up sideways on the leather seat, and Steve has a hand hooked under the back of your knees.
You were letting him vent to you - loved that you had the privilege of being his safe space to do so, when you’re interrupted by one of the fathers of the children that your son goes to Pre-K with.
He’s a single dad, and you can’t deny that he would boldly flirt with you when your paths crossed - which you were always honest with Steve about.
“Hey! It’s so good to see you outside of day care pickup,” he says enthusiastically, seemingly to purposefully ignore Steve.
Steve swallows harshly, picking up on the fact that this must be the guy who’s trying to weasel his way in between your marriage.
“Um, yeah. Good to see you too. This is my husband, Steve,” you introduce him, and the guy visibly deflates at that, even though he already knew you were married.
“Right, you’re the husband,” he trails off, avoiding eye contact.
Steve rolls his eyes, “Of seventeen years.”
You softly hit him with your elbow, because you don’t want things to be weird when you see the man at your son's school.
“Anyways, you look beautiful, by the way,” the guy tries, even though Steve’s right there.
“Oh, thanks,” you reply cordially, trying not to be rude but also are a little irked that he’s blatantly making a move in front of your man.
Steve clears his throat and makes it obvious he wants him to leave, “We’re kinda in the middle of something.”
“Sorry, my bad. Nice to meet you, man. See you later, beautiful,” he bids you goodbye arrogantly.
Steve’s got a sulky look on his face as he watches the guy leave.
Your lips pull in an amused smile, “What’s wrong, Stevie?”
He groans at the teasing, turns back to you and drops his head into the crook of your neck.
“Baby, you realize that was the third time,” he whines.
You giggle lightly at the feel of his lips on your skin, “Third time for what?”
“The third time you’ve been hit on in one day by someone that wasn’t me,” he grumbles.
“And none of them mattered, because they weren’t you,” you remind him, gently playing with the wedding band on his hand.
Steve sighs in frustration, “Did you see the nerve of that guy though? It’s like I wasn’t even sitting here.”
“Steve,” you say calmly, “I don’t even remember his name, honey.”
He pulls his head up, “Really?”
Your hand comes up to fiddle with his tie, and you yank him closer to you, “Only got eyes for you, baby.”
Steve’s eyes drop from your eyes to your lips, tongue flicking out to wet them, desperate to get you out of the public view to be able to ravish you.
You have the same idea - glancing down at the watch on your wrist before asking, “We still have twenty minutes. Wanna go makeout in your truck?”
“God, yes,” Steve breathes out excitedly, throwing down a wad of cash and nearly trips over his own feet as he books it out the diner with you on his heels.
When you get back home, you find your children spread out on the living room floor, back to playing the board game.
Your toddler is sleeping though - curled up in the lap of her ten year old brother, while his twin has her head resting against your oldest girl's stretched out legs. Your oldest is staring intently at the game - determining his next move, and your four year old is the only one with enough energy to get up and throw himself at you.
You swing him up easily, kissing his cheek, “Hey, buddy. Missed you.”
He mutters out a reply, and as you and Steve move into the room, your children clock Steve’s attitude right away.
“Dad, why do you look grumpy?” your ten year old boy asks him quietly, not wanting to wake up his sister.
Steve looks offended at the comment, “I do not look grumpy.”
“You do,” your oldest chimes in, before scratching his head - still deciding what to do about the game.
“Well apparently, Mom’s got more than just teenage admirers,” Steve says, looking over at his oldest son.
“I swear I didn’t know he had a crush on Mom,” your boy groans.
“Dad, I feel like you should’ve already known that. Mom’s gorgeous,” your eldest girl says it like a well known fact, fingers working on braiding her sisters hair.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” you smile, a little shy at all the compliments you’ve been receiving from your children today.
“I know Mom’s gorgeous, believe me,” Steve smiles, then mumbles something about that being the reason there’s six of them.
“Ugh, Dad, that’s revolting,” your eldest girl complains.
“Why’s Daddy revolting?” Your middle girl asks curiously, blinking sleepily from her spot.
Your oldest boy laughs, “He’s not revolting, he’s just in love with Mom.”
Your children continue to poke fun at their father when you join them on the floor, and you can tell Steve’s mood lifts at the lighthearted atmosphere.
You’re resting against Steve’s bare chest later that night in bed, fingers trailing through the coarse hair there when he finally asks you what’s been bugging him all evening.
“You sure you don’t get bored?” Steve asks you with a trace of worry behind his eyes.
Your lips part in shock, “You heard that?”
“Tommy’s voice carries, unfortunately,” Steve gripes.
You’re about to respond, when your door slowly creaks open, and it’s your youngest babe - clattering in with your high heels on her tiny feet that you’d kicked off in the hallway earlier.
You giggle affectionately at watching her stumble in - hands planting on the floor to catch herself from falling.
“What are you doing out of bed, sweet girl?” You ask her.
You had to get her a floor bed since she was actively climbing out of her crib once she learned how to, which meant she frequently found her way to your room in the evening.
“Mommy, shoes,” she pushes herself back up, smiling cheekily at you.
“Wow baby, you look beautiful in Mommy’s shoes,” you coo at her, sliding off the bed to pick her up - the high heels stay hooked on her toes, dangling from the edges.
She points to them, “Daddy, shoes.”
Steve gets up to join the two of you, “Gorgeous baby, just like your Mama.”
She starts babbling, trying so hard to form full sentences and your heart squeezes at the sight of Steve nodding along, gazing adoringly at her.
You slip your free arm around his naked back, traveling your arm up and down the warm skin in assurance, “Could never be bored with the life we have, Steve.”
Steve leans his forehead against yours, “Thank god, gorgeous.”
There’s a gentle knock that interrupts you, turning to see your oldest, who looks a little guilty.
“Hey, Dad?” He says.
“Yeah, bud?” Steve replies.
Your boy shifts his feet, “I just wanted to apologize for before. I don’t wanna be friends with anyone who’s going to be disrespectful towards you and Mom’s relationship, so he won’t be coming over again.”
You smile sweetly at your boy, knowing he’s got a heart that’s just like his dad’s.
Pride washes over Steve’s face, “That means a lot to me. Thanks, bud.”
“Even though it’s a little crazy that you were jealous over a literal teenager,” he ribs his dad, and it makes you cover your mouth in amusement at the witty remark.
Steve scoffs in jest, “Great, I’m being targeted in my own home.”
“Only because we love you,” you hug him with your toddler squished in the middle, and Steve rests his head against your own.
Your oldest bids the two of you goodnight, and you let yourself melt into Steve’s arms - thankful for a love that still warrants petty jealousy and soft declarations of assurances that you’ll forever be each other’s.
Taglist: I’ve gotten some requests to get a tag list going for this series, so if you’re interested lmk in the comments section or message me!
