summery: the one where you bump into the future dad of your future kids while recording a video for them.
pairing: Andrew Garfield x fem!reader
posted on: April 16th, 2026 | MasterList 💐
notes & thoughts: hey guys it’s been a while since I posted something and even this idea is a bit rushed bc my life is so messy rn, I can’t even explain and I wasn’t really using my creativity at all. Hope this one is worth reading and I promise next one will be amazing! I got a great idea and I’m excited for uuu to read. I am revolving back to spidey obsessed era so here I am bringing you short fic on one of my favorite actors of all time (idk why he’s so underrated, he deserves sm recognition for his work).
And oh! Does anyone how to create a c.ai bot for Peter Parker without it being taken down? Bc mine has been taken down thrice! It’s frustrating af.
The camera shakes before it settles, catching more sky than it should.
“Okay—wait, hold on,” you mumble, adjusting it with both hands. Your face slides into frame, slightly off-center, eyes squinting as you try to get the angle right. A strand of hair sticks to your lip and you laugh, brushing it away.
“Hi.” You pause, like you’re deciding whether to say the next part out loud.
“Hey… future kiddos.”
It comes out light, playful—like you’re not fully committing to the sentiment, but still letting yourself have the moment.
Behind you, New York City moves like it always does—fast, loud, alive. A taxi honks somewhere behind you, someone brushes past your shoulder, a distant siren cuts through the noise. And yet, somehow, you look completely at ease in the middle of it.
“Okay, so—I had this idea,” you say, lowering your voice slightly. “It’s kinda stupid… but also cute? I think?” You shrug.
“I’m gonna record some of my adventures. Just little bits. So someday I can show you that I had a great time. That I actually did things.”
You turn the camera outward briefly—capturing the street, the rush, the sunlight bouncing off buildings.
“And maybe,” you add, softer now, “we can come back here together someday.” You turn it back to yourself, smiling.
“Sounds like a good plan, right?”
The video cuts.
🗽
Golden hour settles into the city like a quiet promise.
The light is warmer now, softer—painting everything in gold. You’re walking without much direction, phone in hand, occasionally recording pieces of the day. Your steps are unhurried, your expression open, like you’re taking everything in without trying too hard.
“Okay, I think this might be my favorite part of the day,” you say into the camera, walking backwards slightly. “Everything just looks—”
You turn—
—and collide straight into someone.
“Oh—!”
The phone slips from your hand. There’s a flash of movement, your startled laugh, and then the frame tilts upward—sky, buildings, blur—
—and then him.
“Whoa—hey, you okay?”
He crouches into view, catching your phone before it hits properly. His hand steadies it instinctively, careful, before he looks up at you.
You’re already laughing, brushing your hands against your jeans. “Yeah—yeah, I’m so sorry. That was completely my fault.”
“That makes two of us,” he says, a small, easy smile forming.
There’s something about the way he says it—like he means it, like he’s not trying to make you feel better, just stating something simple and true. He hands your phone back. Your fingers brush his.
“Thanks,” you say, still smiling, tucking your hair behind your ear. The moment lingers. Not awkward. Just… quiet in the middle of noise.
His gaze flicks to your phone. “You filming something?” You glance down, then back up, grin returning. “Yeah. Just… random stuff.”
“Like a documentary?” he asks lightly.
You laugh. “God, no. That would require actual effort. I’m too lazy for that.”
He huffs out a soft laugh at that, shoulders relaxing just slightly.
“Fair enough.”
A beat passes.
He nods toward your phone. “You sure it’s okay?” You follow his gaze. The red light blinks. Your eyes widen. “Oh my god.”
He leans slightly, amused. “Still going?”
“Yeah,” you laugh, covering your face for a second before dropping your hands. “Great. So now there’s just a whole clip of me crashing into you.”
“Could be worse,” he says. “At least I caught it.”
“That’s true,” you grin. “Very heroic of you.”
“I try.”
You tilt your head, studying him now. There’s something calm about him. Something that doesn’t match the chaos of the street. He shifts his weight, then extends his hand.
“I’m Andrew.”
You take it easily, giving him your name. “Nice bumping into you.” You say sarcastically, making him heartily laugh.
“Nice bumping into you too.”
Your hand lingers a second longer than necessary. “So,” he says, glancing around, “first time here?”
“Is it that obvious?” you ask.
“A little,” he admits. “You’ve got that… everything matters look.”
You smile. “Well, it does matter.” He nods, like he understands that more than he says.
A pause.
Then—
“I could show you around,” he says, almost casually. “If you want.”
You blink, surprised—but not hesitant.
“Like a tour guide?” you tease.
“Something like that.”
You pretend to think about it, then nod.
“Okay. Yeah. Why not.” His smile deepens—just slightly.
“Alright.”
And just like that— your day changes direction.
🗽
It starts without a plan.
That’s the first thing you notice.
There’s no map in his hands, no “we have to be here by this time” urgency. Just walking. Just being there. And somehow, that makes the city feel less overwhelming—like it’s not something you have to conquer, just something you get to experience. He walks beside you, matching your pace without thinking about it. Not too close, not distant either. Easy.
“So,” he says after a moment, glancing sideways at you, “what have you seen so far?” You hum, thinking, stepping over a crack in the pavement. “A lot of walking. A lot of almost getting run over. And a lot of pretending I know where I’m going.”
He smiles. “That’s pretty accurate.”
“I feel like that counts as exploring.”
“It does,” he nods. “That’s the best kind.”
You glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You get lost often?”
“Only when I’m trying not to be found.” You let out a soft laugh. “That sounded way cooler in your head, didn’t it?” He shrugs lightly. “I stand by it.” You bump your shoulder into his. “Of course you do.”
And just like that, it feels lighter. Like you’ve slipped into something comfortable without noticing.
🗽
You wouldn’t have found it on your own.
It’s tucked between two buildings, easy to miss unless you know exactly where to look. The door creaks slightly when he pushes it open, holding it for you as you step inside.
The shift is immediate.
The noise of the city dulls into something distant, like it’s happening far away instead of right outside. The air smells like coffee and something sweet—warm, grounding.
“This place doesn’t look like much,” he says, stepping in behind you, “but the coffee’s good.”
“I trust your judgment,” you reply without thinking. You don’t miss the way his eyes flick to you for just a second after that.
You order something you’re not entirely sure how to pronounce. He doesn’t correct you—just hides a smile behind his cup when you butcher it slightly.
“Don’t laugh,” you warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You take your drinks and settle near the window. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You watch people pass outside—fast, purposeful, like they all have somewhere important to be.
Then—
“So,” he says, leaning back slightly, “what made you come here?”
You trace the edge of your cup with your finger. “I don’t know. I just… wanted to. It felt like something I should do at least once.”
“Just once?”
“Okay, maybe more than once,” you admit with a small smile. “But this is the first.” He nods, like that makes sense to him.
“You travel a lot?” he asks.
“Not as much as I want to,” you say honestly. “But I’m trying to change that.” He watches you for a second—not in a heavy way. Just… taking you in.
“That’s good,” he says quietly.
You tilt your head. “Why?”
“Because most people don’t.”
You hum, thinking about that. For a while, you just talk. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy.
The weird things you’ve seen since arriving. A guy dressed as a statue who scared you half to death. The way you got lost trying to find your hotel. The overpriced coffee you accidentally bought earlier. He listens—really listens. Not just waiting for his turn to speak. And it makes you relax in a way you didn’t expect. At some point, your phone ends up on the table, still recording small pieces—your voices overlapping, your laughter filling the quiet space.
“You’re really easy to talk to,” you say suddenly, not overthinking it. He looks up, slightly caught off guard.
“You too.”
And it doesn’t feel like a compliment.
It feels like a fact.
🗽
When you step into Central Park, it feels like stepping into a different world. The shift is almost immediate. The noise fades. The air feels softer. Trees stretch high above you, leaves catching the last light of the day and breaking it into soft, flickering patterns on the ground.
You exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
“Okay,” you say, turning slowly, taking everything in. “This is insane.” He watches you instead of the park.
“You like it?”
You laugh softly. “I love it.”
There’s something about the way you say it—so certain, so genuine—that makes him smile. You walk without rushing. You point things out like you’re seeing them for the first time—because you are.
“That dog is literally living a better life than me,” you say, watching a golden retriever sprint across the grass.
“That dog has no responsibilities,” he replies.
“Exactly. I want that.”
You walk further in, eventually settling on a patch of grass.
You drop down without hesitation, stretching your legs out in front of you, leaning back on your hands. He sits beside you, slower, more deliberate. For a moment, you just exist. You tilt your face toward the sky, eyes half-closed.
“This doesn’t feel real,” you admit quietly. There’s no performance in your voice now. No joking tone.
Just honesty.
He glances at you, then at the skyline peeking through the trees. “It is,” he says. You turn your head slightly, looking at him.
“Yeah,” you murmur, a soft smile forming. “I guess it is.” Your shoulders brush this time. Neither of you moves away.
You end up staying longer than planned. Talking about nothing. Sharing stories that don’t feel like oversharing, even though they probably are. At one point, you laugh so hard you fall back onto the grass, and he laughs with you—really laughs, the kind that makes his shoulders shake.
And it feels… Easy.
Like you didn’t just meet a couple of hours ago.
🗽
By the time you leave the park, the sky has started to deepen into evening. The city lights flicker on one by one, like something quietly coming to life. He takes you somewhere higher. A rooftop. An overlook. Somewhere you wouldn’t have found alone.
When you step up to the edge, your breath catches. The city stretches endlessly below—streets glowing in long lines, cars moving like streams of light, buildings lit from within.
“Okay,” you breathe, stepping closer to the railing. “This might actually be my favorite part.” He leans beside you, close but not touching.
“You said that earlier.”
“I know,” you say, smiling. “I change my mind a lot.”
“That’s totally you. Totally allowed.”
You lift your phone again, recording—but slower this time. More intentional. The camera catches the skyline, the lights, a quiet moment between movements. Then you turn it slightly toward yourself.
“Today was really good,” you say softly. Not performative. Not exaggerated.
Just… true. Behind you, he’s there. Watching you.
“Like, unexpectedly good.” Your eyes flick to him for a second. There’s something in that look—something that lingers a little longer than it should. You lower the phone slightly.
“Definitely keeping this one.”
A small silence settles between you. Not empty. Just… full. After a moment, you let out a soft breath and lean lightly against the railing.
“Thanks for being my tour guide,” you say, glancing at him.
Your tone is half honest, half teasing.
“Five stars. Would recommend.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Very professional. Didn’t even get me lost once.”
“Give it time.”
“Are you suggesting we’d be meeting again, Mr. Garfield?” You playfully asked tilting your head looking at him.
“Only if you want, Ms. YLN” And for a second, neither of you says anything. But it doesn’t feel like something missing.
It feels like something beginning.
🗽
The room is dim.
Soft lamplight spills across the living room, wrapping everything in warmth. The kind that comes from time, from familiarity, from a space that’s been lived in.
The television glows gently, playing the old video.
It’s slightly grainy now. The colors a little softer than they used to be.
But the feeling?
Still there.
Still alive.
“Mommy!”
“That’s mommy!”
“And that’s daddy!”
Small voices fill the room—excited, overlapping, pointing at the screen like they’re discovering something new, even though they’ve probably watched it a dozen times already. You sit curled into the couch, little Savannah tucked against your side, her head resting against your shoulder. Your hand moves absentmindedly through their hair, fingers gentle, automatic.
Your eyes stay on the screen.
On her.
On the version of you that didn’t know. Didn’t know that one wrong turn, one careless step, one dropped phone would change everything.
Beside you, your husband, Andrew leans back into the couch, relaxed in a way that only comes from years of belonging somewhere. One arm rests along the back of the couch, just behind you. His fingers brush lightly against your shoulder every now and then—absent, familiar, grounding.
On the screen, the moment plays.
You—laughing, breathless.
Him—leaning into frame, catching your phone.
The beginning.
“That’s when you bumped into daddy,” your three-year-old daughter, Abigail says, pointing excitedly.
“And you dropped your phone!”
“And daddy caught it!”
You smile softly, eyes still on the screen.
“Yeah,” you murmur. He hums beside you. “Yeah.”
There’s a quiet pause.
The video continues—fragments of the day, laughter, the city, the way you both looked at each other without realizing what it meant yet.
“That’s how you met?” Savannah asks, softer now. He shifts slightly beside you, glancing at the his daughters, then at the screen again. A small smile forms.
“Yeah,” he says.
A beat.
“That’s how I met your mom.”
Your fingers find his without looking. They always do.
You lace them together, squeezing gently. He squeezes back. On the screen, your younger self smiles into the camera, the city glowing behind you, unaware of everything that’s coming.
And in the quiet of the present—
with your kids pressed close, with his hand in yours, with the life you once joked about now real and breathing around you—
you realize something simple.
That moment— wasn’t just a memory. It was the beginning of everything.
Summary: Can you and Steve really start over after everything that happened?
Warnings: angst, established relationship, married couple, arguments, marriage issues, pregnancy, infertility issues, maternity, motherhood, emotional distress, smut, dirty talk, nsfw, unprotected p in v
English isn't my first language, so be understandable and gentle, thanks!
Word count: +20k
Author's note: So, here we go... we’ve finally reached the end of this story! 🥺 I honestly can't believe it's over, and I'm definitely feeling a little sad about it because I'm going to miss this couple so much! That being said, maybe I'll write some extra chapters about them in the future. I feel like there are still a few stories left to tell — like their first official date, for example! But for now, that's a wrap on this story. I really want to thank you all for all the love and amazing feedback. It seriously warms my heart knowing that you've loved this story just as much as I loved writing it. I truly hope you will be satisfied with the epilogue I wrote. Let me know what you think with a comment, your feedbacks are really important for me. And if you want to support me even more, reblog it. I'd really appreciate it. Now enjoy it and thanks for reading!
Masterlist
A week later, Steve was finally discharged from the hospital and you went home with him.
But “home” didn’t look exactly like it used to. Not yet.
Steve moved slowly through the house on crutches, his steps careful and uneven. The bandage at his temple remained a constant reminder of how close you had come to losing him.
Sometimes he reached instinctively for the wall or the back of a chair to steady himself, stubbornly trying to do more than he probably should. And every time, you found yourself hovering nearby, close enough to catch him if he slipped but careful not to make him feel like you didn't trust him.
But even though he hated being stuck in the house and feeling useless, he enjoyed having you around, all for himself.
After spending weeks apart, having you back in the house felt like breathing properly again. He seemed to find reassurance in your presence. He loved waking up and finding you beside him. Or hearing you move around the kitchen in the morning. He simply loved the comfort of knowing you were there.
The conversation about children stayed untouched. Not avoided, not denied — just… gently set aside, left somewhere between you, waiting. And while you tried to make peace with it — with your body, with what it meant — Steve stayed close and patient, without pushing or rushing you.
It wasn’t always easy, though.
Because the thought never truly left you, feeling it in small, unexpected moments. A woman passing by with a hand resting on her stomach. A baby crying softly somewhere nearby. A stroller rolling past. Each one was like a quiet reminder of something you couldn’t quite look at directly.
School wasn't any easier. You spent your days surrounded by children—laughing, arguing, running through hallway — and sometimes it hit you so suddenly you had to pause, just for a second, and take a breath before moving on.
But the worst moment was when someone you knew announced they were pregnant. Because before happiness could come, before excitement or congratulations, you felt a sharp drop in your stomach. A flash of jealousy so quick and ugly that it made you feel ashamed. For a split second, thoughts crossed your mind that you immediately wished you could take back. That they didn’t deserve it. That it should’ve been you instead. Then guilt followed just as quickly. You swallowed it all down, forcing a smile onto your lips. You congratulated them, asked questions you didn’t really want the answers to and nodded in all the right places as you listened to nursery plans, baby names and ultrasound stories.
And you got good at that.
But when you got home, where no one was watching, everything came out, quiet at first, then all at once. You cried in the shower where your tears mixed with the water, or laying on the bed with your face buried against the pillow.
But never in front of Steve.
He was still recovering from the accident and you didn’t want him to suffer even more and to make everything worse.
Again.
Sometimes, you caught him watching a father with his child after baseball practice or a family crossing the street together. His gaze lingered just a second too long, his expression almost nostalgic, making your chest tighten. Every time he noticed you looking at him, he smiled or squeezed your hand. Like he knew what you were thinking. Like he wanted to reassure you without saying it out loud. Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn’t, the thought still finding its way in.
Maybe one day he’ll realize it wasn’t enough.
That you weren’t.
And he’ll want more.
He’ll leave.
It crept in at the worst times. At the end of the day, when everything was finally quiet and there was nothing left to distract you. During Steve’s baseball practices. At night, when sleep wouldn’t come. Even when you were in his arms. In those moments, you stayed still, your face tucked into his chest, breathing him in like that alone could keep everything else at bay. Until the thought began to haunt you, waking you up in the morning.
Every day, before you even opened your eyes, your arm would move across the bed, reaching for his side — checking. Making sure he was still there. That the space beside you wasn’t empty. Or too cold. That he hadn’t gotten up and left. Not just the room. Not just the house.
But you.
Most mornings, your hand found him without effort. Sometimes he was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. Other times, he was already awake, looking at you with that soft, familiar smile that made something in your chest ease and forget all your worries. Some days, instead, you didn’t even have to reach for him. You woke up already tucked against him, his arm loosely wrapped around you, like even in his sleep he hadn’t let you drift too far.
Those mornings were easier.
But not all of them were.
Sometimes, when you brushed the sheets slowly, carefully, hoping to find him without having to look, there was nothing. His side of the bed was already cold. You gave it a second. Then another. Your fingers pressed a little more firmly into the mattress, like maybe you had just missed him. Like maybe he was still there and you just hadn’t reached far enough.
But he wasn’t.
You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer, your breath catching as you delayed the reality you already felt settling in. Then you slapped your eyes and saw the sheets already smoothed out, as if no one had slept there.
That was when the panic set in.
You’d sit up too quickly, your breath already unsteady, your thoughts racing ahead of you. And then you’d get out of bed, almost without thinking, your feet carrying you straight to the closet.
It had become a habit before you even realized it.
You’d pull the doors open and scan the space, your eyes moving over his things — his jackets, his shirts — checking, counting as you made sure they were still there. That he hadn’t taken them. But sometimes even that wasn't enough to reassure you. You’d turn and head for the stairs, taking them too fast, your hand brushing the wall to steady yourself as you went down two steps at a time, your chest tight, your pulse loud in your ears. Until you found him sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread open in front of him, a mug of coffee growing cold beside his elbow. Other times, he was stretched out on the couch, half paying attention to whatever was playing on television. His eyes would lift automatically and that familiar smile would appear. Easy. Familiar. Reassuring. Like everything was fine. And you would smile back, pretend you had just come down for something else.
You never told him anything but Steve noticed. Of course he did. He was good at noticing things about you. He just… didn’t say anything.
Until one Sunday morning, when you were standing in front of the closet again, your fingers still wrapped around the edge of the door as you let out a slow, quiet breath. Your eyes slipped closed for a second, your shoulders dropping just slightly as the tension eased out of you.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was close enough to make you flinch. Your eyes flew open. You turned quickly, your heart jumping into your throat, and found him standing in the doorway, staring at you. He must have just come up the stairs. His expression wasn’t accusing or angry. Just… confused, careful. In his hands there was a tray with breakfast.
Shame rushed through you, sudden and sharp. For a second, neither of you moved. You swallowed, your hand still resting against the closet door as if you hadn’t quite decided whether to close it or not.
“I—” you started, then stopped. Your voice caught, the excuse you were about to give dissolving before it could even take shape. You shook your head slightly, a breath leaving you that sounded thinner than you intended. “Nothing. I was just—”
Steve didn’t move. His eyes flicked past you, briefly, to the open closet. Then back to you.
“Checking if I’d left?”
The words cut in cleanly. Your breath caught. For a brief second, you thought — hoped — he might be joking. But there was nothing playful in his expression as his eyes held yours, steady, serious.
“Wha—what?” you stammered, even though the denial sounded weak the moment it left your lips.
Steve let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped forward carefully, crossing the room with slow, uneven steps before setting the tray down on your vanity fair in front of the bed. The porcelain clinked softly against the wood. The sound felt louder than it should have. Then he turned back to you. He hesitated for a fraction of a second — like he was deciding how far to push it.
“You really think I haven’t noticed?” he said, his tone flat, controlled in a way that made it sharper. “The way you reach for my side of the bed every morning before you even open your eyes. The way you practically run downstairs when I’m not there.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Or how relieved you look every time I walk back through the door after work?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your mind scrambled for something — anything — to say, but there was nothing you could say. Because he was right. And the truth — the real reason behind it — felt too ugly, too fragile to put into words.
“I—” you tried again, your voice faltering, but it died there, unfinished.
Steve didn’t wait this time. “You still think I’m going to leave,” he said.
It wasn’t a question but a statement. The certainty in his voice made your chest tighten.
You didn't answer him but your silence did it.
He turned away from you, nodding, in disbelief, his back facing you as his hands settled on his hips. For a moment, he just stood there, looking up toward the ceiling like he was trying to steady himself, like he was holding something in.
You dropped your gaze. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Quieter. But if anything, it felt tired.
“I’ve told you — more than once,” he said slowly, “that I’m staying. That I’m not going anywhere.” A small pause. “I’ve never given you a reason to think I would. Even when I could have. Even when I was at my worst.”
You instantly knew he was talking about Kirsten. About that night. When he could have left and gone to her house. When he could have chosen something simpler. But he still didn’t.
“I didn't even think about it,” he added, almost under his breath.
You believed him.
And that made things even worse.
You swallowed hard.
“And still…” He stopped, exhaling through his nose before turning back to you. His eyes found yours again, something unsettled flickering behind them now. “Still it’s like you don’t believe me. Like you don’t trust me,” he went on, quieter now, but no less direct.
You flinched slightly at that, your fingers curling in on themselves.
“When…” He hesitated, just for a second, like he was debating whether to let it out or keep it in.
You could already feel that it was no good. That it would hurt you.
“When you’re the one who left.”
The words hung between you. Heavy. Painful.
Steve looked away for a moment, shaking his head faintly before letting out a breath that sounded more like frustration than anything else.
“I’m the one who should be checking that closet,” he said, his voice tightening despite himself. “Making sure your things are still there. Making sure you didn’t just—” He stopped, jaw clenching, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere in his throat. Then, more quietly, but still honestly. “I’m the one who should be wondering if you’re going to leave again. Not you.”
He was right. You knew that. But that didn't mean his words hurt any less. Your hands tightened together until your knuckles ached. You bit down on your lip, hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling.
His gaze dropped for a moment, then lifted back to you. “Do you really think I don’t have those thoughts too?” he went on, his voice less controlled, sharper now, stretched thin. “That I don’t wonder if I’m going to come home one day and you just… won’t be here anymore?”
The words hit you straight in the chest like a punch, knocking the air out of you.
“Or walk in and find you halfway down the stairs with your bags again?” he added. “Just like that day.”
You stayed silent.
Steve took a few steps toward you, his shoulders tense. “I’m scared every damn day,” he said, louder now, the frustration breaking through. “All the time.”
Your chest tightened as the words sank in.
“Do you know what I think about when I kiss you goodbye in the morning?” he continued, his voice rough, unsteady in a way that made it worse. “When I leave for work?” A short, humorless breath escaped him. “That it might be the last time.”
Your eyes filled with tears, burning you.
“The last time I get to hold you. The last time I get to kiss you.” He continued, swallowing hard. “And every single time, I just hope… it’s not.”
Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
He turned away again, dragging a hand over his face before lifting both arms briefly, resting them behind his head. He stayed like that for a second, staring ahead, jaw tight.
“But I still choose to trust you,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I choose it. Every single day.” His arms dropped back to his sides as he turned to face you again. “I choose to believe that when I come home, you’ll still be here.”
You couldn’t breathe properly. Your throat was dry, sore.
He looked at you like he wanted to say more — like the words were there, right on the edge — but then something in his expression shifted. He stopped himself. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, his jaw tightening.
The silence stretched.
You pressed your lips together, unable to speak. Because he was right. About all of it.
Even after everything he had said, some stubborn part of your mind kept waiting for the moment he would finally decide he had had enough. Even when… when you had been the one to leave. The one who had packed a bag and walked out, breaking something between you that you were still trying to fix.
What was wrong with you?
The thought came sharp and merciless.Your throat tightened painfully. For a second, you almost felt angry at yourself, enough to want to shake yourself out of it.
Steve cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence.
“I need you to trust me too,” he said, more quietly now. Exhausted.
“Steve, I do trust you, it’s not—”
Your voice was so weak that you almost didn’t recognize it.
“Well, it doesn’t feel like it,” he cut in, not raising his voice, but not letting you finish either. He hesitated, like he wanted to keep going — like there was more sitting behind those words — but then he exhaled slowly and shook his head.
“Forget it. I just… went out to get breakfast,” he added, his tone changing, flattening, like he was forcing the conversation somewhere safer. “I got you those pastries you like. Thought I’d bring you them in bed. I just wanted to… surprise you.” A small pause. “That’s all.”
Your eyes closed for a second, the guilt settling heavier in your chest. When you opened them again, your gaze dropped to the tray on the table. You looked at it better this time — the coffee, still steaming faintly, the pastries neatly arranged like he had taken care choosing them, orange juice, eggs and bacon. There were all the things you loved to eat.
Steve followed your gaze. “You should drink the coffee before it gets cold,” he said. His tone cold, detached that it surprised you.
He turned before you could say anything else, moving toward the door with quick steps, without looking back at you.
For a second, you didn’t understand what was happening. Your body froze, your mind lagging behind as the sound of his steps carried down the stairs.
Then it hit you.
He was leaving.
Your throat tightened as you forced yourself to move, your legs finally responding as you rushed out of the room and down the stairs after him, still in your nightgown, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your chest.
“Steve!” You called his name with everything you had, your voice echoing through the house.
But he didn’t answer. He didn’t slow down either. He just kept going, one hand gripping the railing, as he moved fast, like he needed to get out before he changed his mind.
Panic surged through you.
“Steve, wait—!”
By the time you reached the bottom, he was already in front of the door.
“Wait — please, wait!” Your voice broke as you closed the last bit of distance and grabbed his arm, your fingers tightening around it, forcing him to stop. “Where — where are you going?”
He stilled under your touch, turning around to face you. His eyes were shining. “I need… some air,” he said, his voice low, steady in a way that felt final. “I’m going for a walk.”
You shook your head immediately, your grip tightening, your breath uneven. “No — please, stay. Let’s just — let’s talk, okay? Please.” Your voice trembled, the words stumbling over each other as the tears spilled freely now, warm against your skin. You didn’t even try to hide them.
Steve closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose like he was holding something in. “I already tried,” he said after a second, quieter now. “More than once. But you don't seem to hear me.”
You shook your head again, desperate. “I know. I know, I’m sorry, I just—”
“I don’t know what else to say,” he cut in, not harsh, but firm. Tired. Exasperated. “I don’t know… what else to do to make you believe me.” His jaw tightened and for a moment he looked away. “I’m tired,” he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “And… angry.” He swallowed hard and you saw his throat move. “That’s why I’m leaving. I don’t want to say something I might regret later.”
Or do something he might regret, you thought.
Your chest constricted painfully.
“Please, don’t go,” you whispered, shaking your head, your fingers curling tighter around his arm like you could keep him there if you just held on enough. “Please, don’t leave me.”
For a moment, his expression softened. He hated seeing you like that.
“I’m coming back, okay?” he said, softer now, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. Like he needed to stop it before it spiraled. “I’m… I’m not leaving. I just —” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I just need a minute… to clear my head. Be alone for a bit.”
Your grip loosened, but only slightly.
“I’ll be back,” he repeated, more gently this time. “And we’ll… talk later. Promise.”
Talk about what? You wondered.
Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to your forehead. It lingered just long enough to hurt. Then he pulled away. Carefully, he slipped his arm from your grasp. The loss of contact felt immediate. Cold.
You stood there as he opened the door and stepped outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Silence flooded immediately the space he left behind. Loud. Unbearable.
You didn’t move. You stayed there, right where he had left you, your hands hanging useless at your sides, your vision blurred with tears you didn’t even try to stop anymore. Your heart pounded unevenly as your gaze fixed on the closed door, like you expected it to open again any second. While upstairs, the coffee he had made for you was already growing cold.
His voice replayed in your mind, louder with every passing second.
I’ll be back.
You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your chest aching.
Would he?
-
You were lying on the couch in the living room, curled on your side, facing the TV, even though it was off.
You hadn’t moved from there since Steve left.
The clock was ticking but you didn’t know how much time had passed. Long enough for the sobs to stop and the tears on your cheeks to dry, leaving your skin tight, your body still, your mind heavy and hollow. Your breathing had evened out. The storm had burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but a quiet that felt too big for the room.
Silence settled around you. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then, suddenly you heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Your body reacted before your mind did. You pushed yourself up from the couch, your heart jumping as you turned toward the door just as it opened.
Steve stepped inside. His gaze lifted as he crossed the threshold, and it found yours immediately.
You stayed where you were. Even though every instinct in your body told you to run to him — to close the distance, to hold onto him, to make sure he was really there — you didn’t.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a few steps forward.
“You’re here,” he said, his gaze fixed on yours.
You knew he didn’t mean just now. That you hadn’t left. That he hadn’t come back to an empty house.
You nodded, your throat tight. “And you are back.”
Something in his expression shifted — subtle, but there. He nodded once in return, like he was acknowledging something unspoken between you.
He knew exactly what you meant too.
He moved around the couch, with still his jacket on and sat down, leaving only a small space between you. For a moment, he just sat there. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dragging a hand over his face before pressing his palms briefly against his eyes, like he was trying to steady himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About before. I shouldn’t have… reacted like that.”
You hesitated for a second before sitting down beside him, careful and let out a slow breath.
“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “You — you were right.”
Steve turned his head to look at you.
You swallowed, your hands tightening together in your lap before you forced yourself to keep going. “I am… I am still scared. That you might leave one day.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look away. “And I know I shouldn’t be. That it doesn’t make sense. You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you. Not once.”
A small pause.
“I’m the one who did that,” you added, quieter now. “I’m the one who left. I’m the one who… broke your trust.”
The admission sat between you, raw and unguarded. It hurt you to remind what you had done. But you needed to.
“And I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softer now. “For that. For everything.”
Steve didn’t interrupt and kept listening to you.
“But it’s not true that I don’t trust you,” you went on, shaking your head slightly, like you needed him to understand that part most of all. “It’s… me.”
That was harder to say.
Your gaze dropped for a second before lifting again.
“I don’t trust myself,” you admitted, the words catching slightly on the way out. “Because I don’t feel like I’m enough. Like I’m… lacking something. Like I’m not…” You exhaled shakily. “Not what you deserve.”
Your fingers twisted together again before you stilled them, forcing yourself to continue.
“And I know—” you added quickly, almost defensively, “I know you don’t see it that way. I know that’s not how you think. But I do. And it’s not something I can just switch off, Steve. It doesn’t work like that.”
Your voice softened, losing some of its tension.
“I need time,” you said. “To come to terms with it. With the fact that… it’s not my fault.” You swallowed. “And that it doesn’t make me less. Or… harder to love. I just… need time,” you repeated more quietly.
Then, after a small pause, you reached out, slowly, carefully, and rested your hand on his knee. Steve's gaze immediately dropped to where your hand rested. His eyes lingered there for a second before lifting back to yours.
“But I’m not going anywhere,” you said, meeting his eyes. There was no hesitation now, only quiet certainty. “I’m here. And I’m staying.”
Your fingers pressed slightly against his knee, grounding yourself in the moment.
“I almost lost you,” you went on, your voice softening further. “Twice.” Your throat tightened. “And the second time… I almost didn’t get you back at all. I don’t want that again,” you whispered, your eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
You held his gaze as Steve reached for your hand where it rested on his knee, lacing his fingers through yours and giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m not going anywhere either, okay?” His gaze held yours, steady, intent. “I’ve seen what it’s like… living without you. And I didn’t like it. Not even a little.” A faint, humorless breath left him. “Worst week of my life, actually. And I’m not planning on going through that again.”
Your chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear.
“So yeah,” he went on, softer now, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles, “some mornings you might wake up and not find me in bed. Or downstairs. And some afternoons or nights, I might come home late.” A small pause. “But wherever I am, I’ll be thinking about you. And I’ll always come back.” His voice dipped slightly, more vulnerable now. “As long as you still want me to.”
You didn’t hesitate. “I will,” you said, your voice steady despite everything you were feeling. “And I’ll be here too. Waiting for you.” A small breath. “As long as you want me to be.”
Something softened in his expression. Then he smiled and lifted his free hand to your face, cupping your cheek gently before leaning in.
The kiss started soft. Careful. Like everything else between you had been these past weeks.
But as the seconds passed, some of the distance you had both been carrying seemed to melt away. You shifted closer without even thinking about it, your body moving toward his like it had been waiting for this. Your hands came up to his face as you kissed him back, deeper this time, more certain. The hesitation that had lingered between you began to slip, piece by piece.
You moved onto his lap, straddling him, your lips never quite leaving his. His hands found your waist, holding you there, tightly, like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.
The kiss grew hungrier, faster. His hands moved along your sides, firm, warm, sliding up your back, pulling you closer. Yours slipped into his hair, fingers curling, holding on as if that alone could keep him there. You felt him exhale against your lips, his forehead brushing yours for the briefest second before his mouth found yours again, more urgent this time.
He trailed slowly down your jaw, your neck, until it reached your shoulder. The strap of your nightgown had already slipped down your arm, giving him space, and he took it without hesitation. His lips pressed warm against your skin, lingering, then moving again — slower this time. Each touch sent a quiet shiver through you, your breath catching as he traced a path along your collarbone. You tipped your head back instinctively, giving him more room, your hands settling on his shoulders to steady yourself. For a moment, you just felt the warmth of his mouth, the roughness of his hands against your skin. And the solid presence of him beneath you.
He was already hard.
Your hips shifted almost unconsciously against him, drawn closer, and the contact made his breath hitch for a brief second. His hands tightened at your waist in response, grounding, firm, like he needed to keep you right where you were.
You threaded your fingers into his hair, gripping lightly, guiding him back to your lips. There was nothing hesitant left in the way you kissed him now. It wasn’t careful anymore — it was need, release, everything spilling over at once after being held back for too long.
You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms as your hands moved over him, impatient. He let out a quiet breath against your mouth, helping you shrug it off the rest of the way without breaking the kiss for long.
Your nightgown had ridden up completely, forgotten, as you shifted in his lap, the fabric bunched at your waist. But you barely noticed it, too focused on him — on the way his touch felt after everything. After weeks without intimacy — without sex. The last time had been during that famous weekend that was supposed to be the last. Fortunately, it hadn’t been in the end. How could you have thought you could live without him? Without his touch? Thinking back now, it seemed almost impossible.
His hands slid lower along your thigh, slipping beneath the fabric of your nightgown, hesitating only for a fraction of a second — as if giving you time to pull away, to stop him.
You didn’t.
If anything, you leaned into him more, your hands tightening his face even more, your lips parting against his in a silent answer.
You weren’t pulling away anymore.
His hand started moving over you again, sliding under the hem, caressing the bare skin of your ass, gently, slowly, as if he wanted to savor the moment. Like he was relearning you — like he needed to feel every inch just to remind himself that you were real, that you hadn’t slipped away again.
You pressed closer instinctively, grinding down on his bulge in search of something more, something deeper. It wasn’t enough — none of it felt like enough after everything you had been through. The distance, the fear, the almost losing him.
You needed to feel him. Really feel him.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding on just as tightly, like you were afraid that if you let go, he might disappear.
“Steve… please,” you whispered against his lips as his hand moved closer to where you needed him most. But every time, when he was almost there, he pushed it away, teasing you.
He smirked, amused. “What’s it, babe?” He murmured, voice low. “Tell me what you need.”
You let out a soft, frustrated breath, your forehead resting briefly against his.
“Please,” you begged, desperate, unable to form a complete sentence.
Steve’s grin widened even further. He hesitated a few seconds, his hand tightening on your thigh, the other one on your hip, holding you in place as he watched you for a moment longer than necessary. Then finally, he gave in. His hand began to slide down along your core, feeling the wet spot that had already formed on your panties.
His touch was slow, deliberate, rubbing gentle circles over your clothed clit as heat pooled low in your belly. Your hands found his shoulders again, gripping for balance as you moved against him, hips rolling, chasing his touch. Steve increased the pressure and you moaned into his mouth as you kept grinding your soaked panties.
The other strap of your nightgown slipped from your shoulder, revealing your breasts. Steve groaned. As he kept caressing your core, he ran his other hand up your stomach and squeezed your tits, gently first, then hard. You moaned again, letting your head fall back.
But it still wasn’t enough. You wanted more.
“Steve… I need you… Please,” you begged him, almost crying.
“Yeah, babe? Where do you need me? I’m right here.”
His hand pressed down on you harder, while your fingers curled into his shirt even more, resting your forehead on his shoulder, panting. For a moment, you hesitated, swallowing slowly.
“Inside me.” Your voice lower than a whisper. “I need you inside me, Steve. Please.”
Steve stopped moving, taking his hands off of you. You whined at the loss of contact, missing him already. But before you could say anything, he pulled your nightgown over your head in a single motion and threw it somewhere behind you, leaving you half-naked.
His gaze dropped straight to your bare breasts, his eyes widening, hungry. He swallowed hard.
“God…” he breathed, almost to himself.
After few seconds, you found yourself lying on the couch, on your back with Steve on top of you. He hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging them quickly down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, eager to be free of them.
Steve stood up, pushing his shirt up, revealing the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. Then he took them off and his boxers in one smooth motion, letting them drop to the floor. His length slapped against him.
Both naked, he settled between your thighs, bringing you closer as you raised yourself on your elbows to see him better. His gaze traveled over your body spread open on the couch, lingering on your centre, shiny and swollen already.
“Fucking beautiful,” he said, looking back at you, a little smile on his lips. “And it’s all mine.”
Even though you were married and he had already seen you like that several times, you couldn't help but blush at his words.
He lay down on top of you and kissed you passionately, supporting himself on one arm, as he dragged his other hand through your slick folds, spreading yourself open. His fingers drew slow circles around your clit before dipping inside. Your body responded instantly, arching into him, hips rolling against his fingers. The wet sounds filled the room, mixed with your shaky breaths.
“You’re so wet, babe, and I barely did anything,” he murmured under his breath, holding his glistening fingers up to your lips.
You took them into your mouth and sucked, tasting yourself on them as Steve never took his eyes off you.
“So needy and desperate, aren’t you? And you really think you could live without me?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, a broken moan ripped from your throat as he rubbed his hand all over your entrance, spreading the wetness. Your hips moved towards him, looking for more. Then he grabbed himself and stroked it a few times, lubing himself up with your arousal. Your eyes fixed on him the entire time, biting your lip at the sight of his thick member. Even after so many years together you still hadn't gotten used to its size, capable of leaving you breathless and sore every time.
Steve moved closer to you, guiding his length through your folds, the tip nudging against your clit, teasing you. You threw your head back, a sigh escaped your lips.
Without warning, he drove into you with one, quick thrust, seating himself fully inside you. You gasped at the intrusion, arching your back as he stretched you open with a deep groan.
He started moving immediately, without giving you time to get used to it. You were so wet that he slid perfectly inside you all the way, meeting no resistance. The wet slaps of skin and your desperate moans filled the living room as he kept pounding into you at a brutal pace. Your hands ran down his hairy chest, his arms and then over his back, scratching him, digging your nails into him as he went deeper with each stroke.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in tighter to you. His hand reached your clit, rubbing it as he kept fucking you harder. He thrusted in and out, relentlessly, quickly. His eyes stayed locked downward, fascinated by the sight of himself sliding in and out of you, dragging a creamy ring back and forth along his length.
“How — How can you think I can leave? That I can do without all this? Without you?" he asked after a while, his lips pressed to your ear.
There was no malice or bitterness in his voice, just honesty. You didn't respond, you couldn't. Partly out of shame, partly because Steve's movements prevented you from thinking or speaking clearly. Only half-formed words, moans escaped your mouth.
"Steve, I…"
"Yes, babe? Are you coming? I can feel you squeezing my cock. Come on, cum for me."
And you came, clenching around his cock and crying out his name. Steve followed you right away, coming inside you with a low, guttural groan as his release painted your walls. He gently collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.
-
About ten minutes later, you were lying on the couch, wearing only his shirt, curled slightly on your side with your head resting on Steve’s chest. Your fingers were still loosely intertwined with his, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He lay beside you in nothing but his boxers, one arm draped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm.
Everything felt… lighter now. Not just because of what had just happened between you, but because of everything that had come before it — your argument, the honesty, the way you had finally let yourselves say things out loud instead of carrying them alone.
It hadn’t fixed everything. You knew that. There were still cracks — fears that wouldn’t disappear overnight. Things you —especially you — would have to work through, slowly, patiently. But for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel impossible. It felt like something you could face together.
Steve shifted slightly beneath you, his fingers tightening around yours for a moment before he lifted your hand, turning it gently so your wedding band caught the light of the lamp.
“Give me your ring,” he said after a beat.
You barely noticed at first, still half lost in the quiet haze of the moment. Then you blinked, the words taking a second to fully register. You pushed yourself up slightly, one hand pressing against his chest as you looked down at him, your brows knitting together. “What?”
“Your ring,” he repeated, his voice calm but his gaze intense. “Give it to me, please.”
Confusion flickered across your face as you sat up properly, turning to face him.
“My ring? Why?” There was a trace of unease in your voice now, subtle but there. You instinctively curled your fingers slightly, as if protecting it without even realizing. You didn’t like taking it off. Not even when you had temporarily left Steve you had taken it off.
Steve pushed himself up into a seated position, resting against the couch armrest as he looked at you.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
You knew, instantly, that he wasn’t just talking about the ring. He was asking something bigger.
Did you trust me to stay?
Did you trust me not to leave?
Your throat tightened slightly, but you nodded without hesitation, swallowing. Your fingers hesitated for only a second more before you slipped the ring off and placed it in his hand.
It felt strange the moment it left your finger. Lighter. Wrong, almost.
Steve watched you for a second, then reached up and removed his own. For a brief moment, he held both rings in his palm, staring down at them — silent, thoughtful.
You shifted closer, kneeling on the couch in front of him now, your eyes fixed on his face, trying to understand what was happening but without success.
“What are you doing?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly and placed both rings on the couch between you.
Side by side.
You followed the movement with your eyes, your confusion deepening, your brow furrowing as you looked back up at him.
“Give me your hand,” Steve said softly.
You looked up at him, your confusion still written all over your face.
“Steve… will you tell me what you’re doing? I don’t—”
“We’re renewing our vows.”
You blinked, your eyes widening as you stared at him, even more lost than before.
“What?”
“Didn’t we say this was a new beginning?” he went on, his voice steady, certain. “For you, for me… for us.”
You nodded slowly, still trying to catch up.
“Then we need new promises,” he said. “Ones that actually fit us. Our way.”
Before you could say anything else, he reached for your hands again, holding them gently but firmly between his.
“Trust me,” he added, quieter this time.
There it was again.
That question beneath the words.
You swallowed and nodded. “I do.”
Steve took a slow breath, his thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles as he gathered his thoughts. For a second, he looked almost nervous — but he didn’t look away.
“Do you take me to be yours again,” he began, his voice low but clear, “knowing that we don’t have everything figured out… that things might change, that life might not go the way we planned…”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“To have and to hold anyway,” he continued, “to stay instead of running, to try, even when it’s hard… to not walk away when things get complicated…”
Your eyes burned, but you didn’t blink.
“To love me for as long as we both want this… for as long as we keep choosing each other?”
Silence settled between you the moment he finished.
For a second, you couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. Then you nodded — once, twice, again — your grip tightening around his hands.
“I do,” you said, your voice trembling but certain. “I do.”
Tears blurred your vision as you held onto him.
“Okay,” he murmured, a faint, relieved smile tugging at his lips. “Your turn.”
You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, your heart still racing as you repeated his words — slowly at first, then with more certainty, your voice finding its strength as you went. When you finished, Steve didn’t hesitate.
“I do,” he said immediately, like it was the easiest thing he had ever done. There was no doubt or uncertainty in his voice.
He reached for your ring, holding it carefully between his fingers before looking back up at you.
“Repeat after me,” he said softly.
You nodded.
“With this ring, I choose you.”
“With this ring, I choose you,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I promise to love you, to be honest with you and to let you in, always.”
You repeated each word, your gaze never leaving his.
“I promise I won’t shut you out when I’m scared… to trust you, to stay… and to build whatever life we can — together.”
Your throat tightened, but you kept going, holding onto every word like it mattered more than anything.
“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”
When you finished, his expression softened completely. Slowly—almost reverently— he slid the ring back onto your finger. The weight of it felt different now. Not heavier.
Stronger.
Your eyes dropped briefly to his ring, still resting between you on the couch. You picked it up carefully, turning it between your fingers before looking back at him.
“Your turn now,” you said softly, almost timidly.
He nodded.
“With this ring, I choose you,” you began.
He repeated it without hesitation.
“I promise to love you, to trust you, and to stay when things get hard — not because I have to, but because I want to.”
His voice was firm, certain.
“I promise to stay even when it would be easier to walk away… and to build whatever life we can— together.”
Your chest tightened.
“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”
When he finished repeating, you took his hand and slid the ring back onto his finger, your touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your fingers intertwined.
When you looked up again, he was already staring at you. Smiling. There was something lighter in his expression now. Softer. Hopeful. You smiled back, your eyes still shining.
“And now what?” you asked quietly.
A small, familiar spark returned to his gaze.
“Well,” he murmured, his voice dipping just slightly as his hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing softly along your cheeks, “now I get to kiss my wife.”
A flash of playfulness softened his features — something boyish and bright, as if he’d been counting down the seconds to this very moment. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, fueled by a quiet, steady confidence. Like he wasn’t asking — just finally claiming what had always been his.
And then he kissed you.
The force of it, the sudden pull of his hands, sent you tipping backward onto the couch, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as he followed you down without breaking the kiss, his body settling over yours.
You barely had time to react before your hands found him again — his shoulders, his hair — pulling him closer as if there was still distance left to close.
At first, the kiss was slow, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of care that felt almost reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again. Then it deepened, growing stronger, more urgent, the quiet tenderness giving way to something warmer, fuller, alive with everything you had both held back for too long.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, his grip on you firm but steady, keeping you anchored beneath him as if letting go wasn’t even an option anymore.
It wasn’t just a kiss.
But a promise.
A new beginning.
The first step into something new.
Together.
-
A week later, you started therapy.
It wasn’t an instant fix. Nothing about it was. But slowly — almost without noticing at first —something began to shift.
The mornings were the first to change.
You still reached for him sometimes when you woke up, your hand instinctively searching for the warmth of his side of the bed. But you no longer did it with that same sharp edge of panic or fear. You didn’t brace yourself before opening your eyes. You didn’t lie there, afraid of what you might — or might not — find.
And some mornings… you didn’t even have the chance to.
You woke up already wrapped in his arms, his body warm against yours, his hand resting at your waist like it had been there all night. Other times, you felt him pull you closer in his sleep, like even unconsciously he was making sure you were still there — still his, still within reach.
Those mornings were easier. Quieter. Because they didn’t leave space for doubt to creep in.
And when he wasn’t there, you didn’t rush. You didn’t run to the closet anymore to check if his clothes were still hanging where they belonged. You didn’t scan the house with your heart in your throat, waiting to confirm your worst fear. Instead, you breathed — once, twice. You reminded yourself — quietly, firmly — of everything he had told you. Of everything you had promised each other.
You chose to trust him.
And, slowly, you started trying to trust yourself too. To believe that you were enough. Not just because he said it, or because he loved you. But because you were.
-
Two months later, you came back from a weekend away with Robin and Nancy.
The moment you stepped into the house, you barely had time to set your bag down before Steve reached you, taking the suitcase from your hand and leaning in to kiss you softly.
“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.
“I was gone only for two days,” you replied, smiling anyway.
“I know,” he said. “Two very long days.”
And then you noticed the expression on his face. He looked suspiciously satisfied, like he was waiting for you to figure something out.
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?” you asked, suspicious now. “What did you do?”
He feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. No trust at all?”
You gave him another look.
“Okay, maybe I did something,” he admitted, a grin slipping through.
“Please tell me you didn’t burn the kitchen down while I was gone.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “Firstly, rude. And secondly, it’s a good thing. A surprise. Promise.”
Then he extended his hand toward you.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to see it.”
You hesitated for only a second before taking it, letting him guide you inside and up the stairs.
He left your suitcase by the bedroom door without a second thought and kept going.
And that was when you realized where you were going.
Your steps slowed. Your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.
The further down the hallway you walked, the heavier your chest felt until you stopped, right in front of the door you almost never opened anymore.
Your throat went dry.
You hadn't stepped inside in months. Most days, you barely even looked at it when you passed. Sometimes you wished it wasn’t there at all. That the door could just… disappear.
“Steve… what are we doing?”
He turned back to you immediately, and whatever excitement had been on his face softened the second he saw yours. He stepped closer, taking both your hands this time, holding them gently but firmly.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Trust me. Okay?”
The words settled between you. Familiar now. Your eyes flickered to the door for a brief second, your chest tightening — then back to him. You swallowed hard and nodded.
“Okay.”
He smiled, just a little, then squeezed your hands.
“I need you to close your eyes,” he said. “And don’t open them. No matter what.”
A small flicker of hesitation crossed your face again. But this time, you didn’t let it take over.
“I’m trusting you,” you murmured.
“I know,” he said softly before closing your eyes.
You felt him let go of one of your hands, the other still firmly wrapped around his as he guided you forward. Then you heard the sound of the door opening. Your heartbeat picked up.
“Okay,” he said. “Come on. Just follow my voice.”
You did. Slowly. Carefully.
“Stop,” he said gently after a moment.
You stopped instantly, abruptly.
“Okay… you can open them.”
You inhaled deeply and opened your eyes.
At first, all you saw was him — standing in front of you, watching you carefully, almost nervously. Then your gaze shifted and everything else came into focus. You turned slowly, taking it in piece by piece.
Everything was different. But it wasn't what you had once imagined either.
The boxes were gone. The walls had been repainted in soft, warm colors that made the room feel brighter than you remembered.
There was no crib by the window. No changing table. No carefully planned corners for a life that hadn’t come. Instead, there were large canvases leaned against the far wall, waiting to be used. Shelves lined with paints, brushes, pencils and jars of color.
Your breath caught. Your hand rose instinctively to your mouth as your eyes began to sting.
It wasn’t a reminder of what you had lost anymore. Of what you couldn’t have. Steve had transformed it into something full of possibilities that didn’t hurt to look at. That didn’t whisper what if every time you passed by.
Behind you, Steve shifted slightly. When you didn’t speak right away, uncertainty crept in.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe I should’ve talked to you first,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I just… I thought it was a shame to leave it like that and not using it. And you always said you wished you had a space to paint, so I thought—”
He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure.
“I mean, you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” he added, softer now. “We can —”
You turned to him before he could finish the sentence and closed the distance in two quick steps, kissing him.
He froze for a second, clearly caught off guard — then melted into it, his hands coming up to steady you as he kissed you back. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breath uneven.
“It’s perfect,” you whispered. “I love it. And I love you.”
Your arms slipped around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
He held you just as tightly.
And over the following weeks, that room became yours.
You spent hours in there — painting, sitting, letting your thoughts settle into something quieter. Sometimes, you didn’t even realize how long you’d been there until the light changed. Steve would linger in the doorway now and then, leaning against the frame, watching you with that same soft expression—like he was witnessing something slowly come back to life.
Eventually, you even convinced him to sit for you. He complained about it at first. A lot. But he stayed.
And little by little, that room changed. From something that once held only absence, pain, sadness… to something filled with color.
And hope.
-
A few weeks later, Steve showed up with a camper that looked like it had lived several lives before you ever laid eyes on it. It was old, dented in places, the paint faded and uneven — but there was a spark in Steve’s eyes when he stood in front of it, one hand resting on the hood like he’d just found treasure.
“I know what you’re thinking but it has potential,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “It probably has tetanus.”
He grinned.
With Eddie’s help — and a lot more time, effort, and swearing than either of them would ever admit— they brought it back to life. By the time summer arrived and school let out, it was no longer falling apart.
With no schedules to follow and nowhere you had to be, you left. The road stretched out in front of you, endless and open. It felt… freeing.
You drove for hours with the windows down, music playing too loud, your hands resting somewhere on each other — your arm, your thigh, wherever you could reach — just to feel each other.
You made your way through the Rockies first, the air thinner, cooler, the silence deeper than anything you were used to. You hiked trails that left your legs aching and your lungs burning, but every time you stopped, every time you looked around, it felt worth it.
At night, you slept outside more often than not. Sometimes in the camper, sometimes in a tent, sometimes just wrapped in blankets under a sky so full of stars it didn’t feel real. There were moments when you lay side by side, not speaking, just looking up. And your thoughts didn’t spiral anymore.
At the Grand Canyon, you stood at the edge in silence, your shoulder pressed against his. His hand found yours without looking, fingers threading through yours like it was second nature.
“Hard to believe something like this just… exists,” you murmured.
Steve glanced at you instead of the view. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”
After that, you went to Yellowstone. Beautiful and unpredictable at the same time. One moment you were admiring the scenery, the next you were lost, soaked by unexpected rain, or arguing over a map you both insisted you knew how to read properly.
And then there was California.
Everything seemed to slow down there. The air was warmer, the days felt longer. The ocean stretched out endlessly in front of you, the sound of it constant.
Steve decided he was going to learn how to surf. In reality, he spent most of his time falling off the board while you sat on the beach laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
You played volleyball on the beach with strangers, drank overly sweet cocktails decorated with ridiculous little umbrellas, and watched the sun melt into the ocean more evenings than you could count.
During the day, Steve refused to wear sunscreen, even though you had told him he’d regret it.
And he did.
“This is your fault,” he muttered later, lying on his stomach, his skin flushed red while you tried not to laugh as you applied aloe.
“My fault?” you echoed, incredulous.
“You should’ve insisted harder.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, your fingers gentler than your tone. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But you love me.”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to as you both knew the answer.
Sometimes, you acted like kids — splashing each other in the water, chasing each other along the shore, collapsing into the sand, breathless and laughing.
Other times, things slowed down. Quieted.
You’d sit close together, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting against him, listening to the waves without feeling the need to fill the silence.
One night, long after the beach had emptied, you slipped into the ocean together, only in your underwear.
The cold hit you instantly, sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. You gasped, instinctively reaching for him. His hands found you beneath the surface, firm on your hips, pulling you into him until there was no space left between your bodies. The water moved around you, waves brushing against your skin. You laughed quietly when one hit you harder than expected, your hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, pressing your chest against his, your breath mixing.
You started kissing — your lips touching, hesitant for half a second — and then it deepened instantly.
Hungry.
Your fingers slid into his hair, grabbing, pulling him closer as his hold on you tightened, one hand pressing firmly at your lower back, anchoring you against him while the ocean swayed around you. There was no teasing or slow build. Just want. Desire. Raw and immediate.
“I need you,” he muttered against your mouth.
“Then stop talking,” you shot back softly, breathless, your eyes fixed on his. “And show me how much you need me.”
That was all it took.
The kiss turned rougher, deeper. His hand shifted, gripping your hip harder, pulling a quiet sound from you that you couldn’t hold back. The ocean rocked around you, but neither of you paid attention anymore.
By the time you made it back to shore, you were both breathing harder than you should have been, your skin still wet, cooling in the night air. The moment your feet hit the sand, his mouth was on yours again, stronger this time, more urgent, more demanding. Your hands moved just as quickly, sliding over him, holding, pulling, needing to feel him.
You stumbled back together, barely coordinated, until the sand gave way beneath you and you fell, a soft breath leaving your lips as your back hit the ground. Steve followed immediately, catching himself just enough to not hurt you.
Sand clung to your skin, your legs wrapped around him without thinking, pressing into him like you couldn’t get close enough, like your body refused the idea of space between you.
His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your neck, slower now — but not softer. Each touch leaving something behind, something you could feel spreading under your skin.
“You feel that?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough.
“Yes—”
Your head tipped back, breath catching, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you tighter, like he wasn’t planning to let you slip away again.
“Don’t — don’t stop,” you breathed against his mouth.
A quiet exhale left him, almost like a laugh, but darker.
“Never,” he replied, almost immediately.
When you finally came together, it felt inevitable. Natural. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm before you even found it. Every movement met, answered, matched. Your breath broke into uneven patterns, your fingers tightening, needing something solid as the rest of the world blurred into nothing but the sound of the ocean and the feeling of him.
His name left your lips without thought, barely more than a breath, your body reacting to every shift, every movement that pulled you further into him.
Afterward, you didn’t move. You stayed wrapped around each other, your skin still warm, your breathing slowly evening out as the night settled back around you. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer instinctively, like distance wasn’t something either of you could tolerate. Your fingers traced slow, absent lines over his chest, your cheek pressed there, listening to his heartbeat.
The waves kept coming and going, soft, constant.
And for once, there was nothing chasing you.
No doubt.
No fear.
No voice in the back of your mind asking what if.
-
When you came back from your trip and the new school year began, things felt different between you and Steve. Not all at once. Not in a way that erased everything that had happened. But the tension, the constant weight of fear and doubt — it had softened.
You still talked about children sometimes. About the future. About what you both wanted. But the summer spent together had reminded you of something important: you were happy. With Steve. With the life you had built together, even if it was only the two of you for now. But it was enough for now. So you decided to wait and to give yourselves time.
No deadlines.
No pressure.
No quiet panic about what should come next.
Just the two of you.
Or rather, the three of you.
Because shortly after you got a dog.
A golden retriever puppy, barely a few months old, all oversized paws and endless energy that you named King.
King made his loyalties very clear from the start. He followed you everywhere like your shadow. If you moved, he moved. If you stopped, he sat at your feet. At night, it became a problem. Every time you and Steve went to bed, King would jump up before either of you could stop him and curl up right on Steve’s side.
“You’ve got competition,” you teased one night, already half under the covers as Steve stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the dog sprawled comfortably across his pillow.
Steve scoffed. “Yeah, I can see.”
King didn’t move. If anything, he stretched and it took a solid minute of negotiating — firm voice, light pushing, and eventually bribery — before Steve managed to reclaim his spot. Even then, King would lie at the foot of the bed, eyes on you.
Steve pretended to be annoyed at him, almost jealous. Sometimes he even sounded like it. But you caught the way he looked at the dog when he thought you weren’t paying attention — soft, amused, completely gone. He loved him as much as you did.
Every evening, he took him out for walks, no matter how tired he was. You’d watch from the window sometimes as they crossed the yard — Steve throwing the ball, King sprinting after it like his life depended on it, ears flying, tail wagging wildly.
-
Not long after classes started, a position opened in the art department. A few days later, the principal called you into his office and offered it to you. Your first instinct was to say no.
The thought of being so close to children every day made something in your chest tighten again. Old fears, quieter now, but not completely gone, stirred under the surface.
What if it would hurt?
What if it was too much?
What if you couldn’t handle it after all?
But then you thought about the studio that Steve had set up for you. About the way your hands had found their way back to color, to creation. About the way you had slowly, carefully started building something new out of what you thought you had lost.
So when the principal asked for your answer a few days later, you said yes.
Steve was… impossibly proud.
The surprise party he organized was chaotic, loud, full of people you loved — and entirely overwhelming in the best way.
Your first day in the classroom felt different than you expected.
Not heavy.
Not painful.
Just… new.
There were moments of uncertainty, of course. Small pauses where you caught yourself observing, adjusting, learning where to stand, how to speak.
At one point, while you were leaning over a desk helping a child mix colors, you felt something shift in the room — a subtle change in attention. You looked up. Steve was standing by the door. He hadn’t said anything. Just… watching. A small smile already on his face.
One of the kids noticed him first. Then another. And suddenly the entire class had turned, voices rising all at once.
“Who is that?”
“Coach Harrington!”
“Is that your husband?”
“Are you gonna kiss him?”
Your face flushed instantly.
“Okay — alright — back to —” you tried, but it was too late.
“Ki-ss! Ki-ss! Ki-ss!”
You shot Steve a look — half warning, half embarrassed.
He only grinned and walked over, slow, deliberate, like he was enjoying this far too much. When he reached you, he leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your cheek.
The class erupted.
You covered your face for a second, laughing despite yourself.
“Sorry,” he murmured near your ear, low enough that only you could hear. “Couldn’t help it.” Then, after a beat, softer. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
Your cheeks warmed even more, and you nudged him lightly, trying to regain some composure.
By the time the day ended and the last child had left, the classroom fell quiet. You stood there for a moment, taking it in—the scattered drawings, the faint smell of paint, the soft echo of a day that hadn’t hurt the way you feared it would.
If anything, it had felt… right.
A light knock pulled you from your thoughts.
You followed the sound.
Steve was leaning again against the doorframe, watching you with that same soft expression.
“So?” he asked.
You hesitated only a second.
“It was good,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow.
You smiled a little, shaking your head. “Okay… it was better than good.”
Something in his face eased. He stepped closer, his hand settling lightly at your waist.
“I knew it,” he said quietly.
You let out a small breath, glancing around the room one last time before looking back at him.
“I’m happy. Really happy,” you admitted.
It came out softer than you expected.
Steve’s thumb brushed gently against your side. “And I’m proud of you.”
You held his gaze for a second, then a small, knowing smile curved your lips. “Then maybe we should go home,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough, “so you can show me how proud you are.”
Something shifted in his expression immediately — subtle, but unmistakable.
“Don’t say more,” he murmured, a hint of a grin breaking through.
“Come on,” you said, reaching for your bag.
He took it from you without a word, his other hand finding yours and you walked out together, turning off the lights behind you.
-
One evening, you were already home, waiting for Steve to be back. Dinner was ready, the table perfectly set. The kitchen still carried the warmth of what you had just cooked, and King lingered nearby, pacing in small, hopeful circles, his eyes fixed on the counter in case something might fall.
You glanced at the clock one more time.
Steve was late.
You furrowed your brow. Practice should have ended a while ago and he was rarely off schedule without a reason.
You dried your hands on a dish towel, trying not to let your thoughts drift too far ahead of you. But just as a flicker of concern began to settle in your chest, the sound of the front door opening cut through the silence.
Relief left your lips in a quiet breath before you could stop it. King reacted instantly, tail wagging as he rushed out of the kitchen, nails clicking against the floor as he ran to greet Steve.
“Hey, what happened? The kids wouldn’t let you go?” you called out, stepping out of the kitchen after the dog, still distracted as you wiped your hands.
“Hey,” Steve said.
Something in his tone — slight, uncertain — made you lift your gaze. At first, you didn’t notice anything different. Then your eyes caught it.
A small hand, barely visible, peeking out from behind his leg, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his pants.
You slowed mid-step. Your mouth parted slightly, the words you had been about to say fading before they could form. Your gaze stayed fixed there, on that small hand, and on the hint of a face just barely visible behind him as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. But you couldn’t quite see who it was.
You looked back up at Steve. “Oh,” you said, managing a small smile despite the confusion already building, “I see we have a guest.”
Steve lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly, a nervous habit you knew too well. He smiled back—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was hesitation there. Almost… caution.
He glanced down behind him. Then, after a brief pause, he shifted slightly to the side.
And the child finally came into view.
You blinked. “Charlie?” you said, surprise softening your voice.
He stood half-hidden still, shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes flicked up briefly before dropping again like he wasn’t sure if he should be there at all.
You knew him. He was one of your students. And one of Steve’s athletes too. Quiet. Gentle. Polite. The kind of child who never demanded attention, who was always the last to leave, as if he had no hurry, or worse, nowhere to go.
“Good evening, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, his voice small, careful. His eyes lowered to his worn shoes, toes turned slightly inward.
King, meanwhile, had already approached him, tail wagging enthusiastically as he sniffed at him. Charlie flinched slightly at first but didn’t pull away. He just stood there, still, letting the dog investigate him like he didn’t quite know how to act.
You softened immediately at the sight.
“Hey,” you said gently, your voice shifting without you even thinking about it as you took a few little steps closer. “It’s okay, you don’t need to be afraid. He’s friendly. And… curious.”
Charlie gave a small nod, barely lifting his gaze.
You knew enough about his situation. In a town like Hawkins, people talked and everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. Over the years, you had heard various things about him. No father. A mother who was rarely home. And when she was, she often seemed lost in problems of her own and Charlie ended up spending many evenings alone.
Your attention flicked back to Steve again as he stepped closer to you. A thousand questions sat just behind your lips but you didn’t ask them. Not yet.
Steve cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he began, his voice low. “I should’ve called, but—”
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough to brush his lips near your ear.
“His mom didn’t show up,” he murmured quietly so that only you could hear. “We couldn’t reach her. And I couldn’t leave him there.”
He pulled back, his hand finding yours, fingers wrapping around it as he searched your face. Your eyes flicked briefly to Charlie, then back to Steve. You nodded, a small smile forming as you squeezed his hand lightly, reassuring him that it was all okay. You stepped away from Steve and moved toward Charlie, lowering yourself to his height so you wouldn’t tower over him.
“Hey,” you said softly. “You actually got here at the perfect time.”
He shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back, weight moving from one foot to the other.
“I hope you’re hungry because dinner’s ready,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “And I made way too much food. Honestly, it’s a problem at this point.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Think you could help us with that?”
Charlie nodded after a moment, still not quite meeting your eyes. You nodded back, as if sealing an agreement.
“Perfect,” you said gently. Then, glancing over your shoulder at Steve, “why don’t we go wash our hands while Steve… gets everything ready?”
Your eyes lingered on him just a second longer, enough for him to understand that what you were really giving him was time. He gave a small nod in return before going back to look at Charlie. You reached out carefully, giving him the chance to step back if he wanted to but he didn’t. Your fingers closed gently around his hand—small, a little cold—and you guided him toward the bathroom. Behind you, you heard Steve move, the faint sound of the phone being picked up echoing through the quiet house. As you walked, you could feel the slight tension in Charlie’s grip, the way he stayed close but cautious, like he wasn’t used to this kind of care.
When you stepped back into the kitchen, your eyes found Steve’s immediately. He shook his head, just slightly. Something in your chest dropped, but you didn’t let it show. You forced a small, easy smile for Charlie.
“Here we are,” you said lightly. “Go ahead, Charlie, sit here.”
You gestured to the chair between you and Steve. He moved toward it slowly, almost carefully, like he was afraid of getting something wrong. Steve took the seat across from you, while King had already settled at your side, tail brushing against your leg, eyes fixed on the table with quiet anticipation. He knew you well enough to expect something, even if he’d already eaten.
You looked at Charlie, searching for the right thing to say. Make yourself at home sat on the tip of your tongue — but it didn’t feel right. Not when you didn’t know what home meant for him.
“Take whatever you like, please” you said instead, softer.
He still didn’t move. His mouth was slightly open, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. You followed it.
Dinner wasn’t anything special — just spaghetti with meatballs, fresh salad and warm garlic bread. The portions were the same you cooked every night for you and Steve, the kind that usually left leftovers for the next day. It was normal for you.
But not for him.
His eyes moved slowly from one dish to the next, taking everything in. There was something in his expression — something caught between hesitation and wonder. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real or that it was actually meant for him.
Your chest tightened and a thought slipped in before you could stop it.
When was the last time he ate like this?
Not just ate — but sat down at a table, with other people and warm food in front of him that he didn’t have to earn, or rush, or hide. Maybe he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he was just waiting to understand what was allowed. Waiting for someone to tell him it was okay.
You swallowed hard but didn’t ask questions. Instead, you reached forward and began serving him yourself, adding a bit of everything onto his plate. More than you normally would. More than he probably expected.
“There you go,” you said gently once you were done. “There’s more if you want, okay?”
He nodded faintly, his hands still resting in his lap for a moment longer.
You and Steve served yourselves next, exchanging a brief look across the table before your attention returned to Charlie.
He hadn’t touched the food yet.
Only when you both took your first bites did he finally move. At first, it was tentative. Slow. Careful. He picked at the food like he was testing it, like he wasn’t entirely sure it was really his to eat. Like he expected someone to stop him. But after a few bites, hunger took over and his movements changed — faster now, less careful. He ate quickly, almost urgently, like his body couldn’t afford to wait. A bit of sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth.
You had stopped mid-motion without realizing it, your fork suspended halfway to your mouth as you watched him. Something shifted inside you. It wasn’t discomfort. Or pity. It was something else — warm, but heavier than you expected. Something that settled low in your chest and stayed there, tightening your throat just slightly. You didn’t have a name for it but it made it harder to look away.
You loved your students. All of them. But this felt different. Seeing Charlie like that, so small in that chair, so quiet and guarded one moment and then suddenly… unfiltered. Unaware. There was something vulnerable about it. But also something incredibly real. And it stirred something in you that you didn’t quite recognize. Something close to affection — but deeper, instinctive, almost unfamiliar in its intensity.
You smiled, softly. Charlie caught it out of the corner of his eye and he slowed down almost immediately. The shift was instant — shoulders tightening again, movements becoming smaller, more controlled, like he had just remembered himself or as if he thought he had done something wrong. Your smile faded just enough. You looked down quickly, pretending to focus on your own plate, giving him privacy again.
Dinner moved forward like that. Quiet, mostly. You and Steve tried to make conversation — small questions, light comments, easy conversation — but you didn’t push. When Charlie answered, it was brief. Polite. Careful.
So you let the silence settle instead.
And strangely… it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It felt gentle.
Safe.
The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from anyone. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery, King’s tail occasionally brushing against the floor, and Charlie’s breathing slowly evening out as he ate.
And as you sat there, across from Steve, watching this small, fragile moment take shape at your table, you felt something shift inside you again.
Not sharp.
Not painful.
Just… something opening.
Something that felt, quietly, like the beginning of something you hadn’t planned — but somehow already cared about.
At some point, King started circling the table again, nails clicking softly against the floor as he moved from one chair to the next, hopeful and impatient in the way he always was. Then, without warning, he stopped beside Charlie and rested his chin on the boy’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Charlie froze instantly. His shoulders stiffened, his hand hovering mid-air, his whole body going still.
“It’s okay,” Steve said gently, his tone easy, reassuring. “You don’t have to be scared. It just means that he likes you.”
He reached over, picking up a small piece of leftover meat from his plate and holding it out toward him.
“Here,” he added. “You can give him this if you want. He’ll be your best friend for life after that.”
Charlie hesitated. He looked at Steve first, uncertain — then at you. You gave him a small nod, soft, encouraging. He took the piece of meat slowly, carefully, like even that small gesture required permission. Then he lowered his hand toward King, a little unsure.
King didn’t hesitate. He took it immediately, tail still wagging, clearly thrilled by the interaction and the food. Charlie watched him, something shifting in his expression. Then, almost cautiously, he lifted his other hand and rested it on the top of King’s head. He started petting him, slowly at first, light, almost testing. King leaned into it, happily, before licking his hand in response.
And just like that a small smile appeared on Charlie’s face. Barely there at first, like he didn’t quite know how to hold it. Then a quiet, surprised sound slipped out of him — something between a breath and a laugh.
You realized then that it was the first genuine smile you'd seen since Steve had brought him home.
A real smile.
The sight of it sent a rush of warmth through you so sudden it almost caught you off guard. You looked up, meeting Steve’s gaze across the table.
His expression had softened in exactly the same way.
Neither of you said anything. There was no need. Your smiles said more than a thousand words.
-
Darkness had settled outside the windows. The last traces of daylight had disappeared long ago, replaced by the quiet hum of crickets and the occasional headlights passing on the distant road. The clock in the kitchen kept ticking steadily forward, each passing minute making the silence feel heavier.
Steve had tried calling again. And again. But it had become clear no one was coming.
Hopper had been informed, and after a brief conversation, the three of you had come to the same conclusion. It was late, Charlie was safe where he was, and dragging him somewhere unfamiliar in the middle of the night would only make an already difficult situation worse.
Hopper promised he would start looking into things first thing in the morning. He'd check hospitals, talk to people, ask questions and figure out what had happened. But until then, the best place for Charlie was here. At your house.
You and Steve got the guest room ready together, moving quickly, instinctively falling into rhythm without needing to say anything. Clean sheets, an extra blanket, a small glass of water placed on the nightstand.
You found something for him to sleep in as well. One of the spare pajamas that had been left behind over the years after countless sleepovers. Dustin, Mike, Lucas and the others always seemed to forget something whenever they stayed over. The pajama shirt hung almost to Charlie's thighs and the sleeves fell past his wrists. It was obviously far too big for him, but it was clean, warm, and smelled faintly of laundry detergent.
When it was finally time to put him to bed, something shifted again — a different kind of uncertainty. You were suddenly aware of how unfamiliar this felt — not the presence of a child, not really. You and Steve were surrounded by them every day at school and you had even years of babysitting behind you.
But this was different.
This was your home.
And right now there was a child who was almost a stranger to you. Not one of your little friends, like Dustin, or a friend's kid you found yourself looking after for a night. Sure, he was your student, but you still knew little about him. He was a responsibility that didn’t have a clear boundary. You didn’t know what his routine looked like. Or if he had one at all. You didn’t know if someone usually tucked him in. If he was used to silence, or noise, or being left alone entirely. You didn't know what you could or couldn't do.
He wasn’t your son, after all.
And you weren’t his mother.
The thought made you hesitate. But not for long. Because he needed you, whether you were his mother or not.
You stepped closer to him. He had already slipped under the covers, lying stiffly on his back, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself there either. You reached down and gently pulled the blanket up a little higher, tucking it around him. Your movements were careful, slow. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time.
“I… uh,” you started, your voice quieter now. “Me and Steve — we’re just down the hall. First door on the left.” You offered a small smile. “If you need anything… anything at all, you can come get us. Or call.”
He just nodded.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, searching his expression, hoping he understood — not just the words, but what you meant.
That he wasn’t alone.
“Goodnight, Charlie,” you said gently. “Sweet dreams.”
Still no answer.
You smiled anyway, then turned toward the door. You had just opened it, one foot already out in the hallway, when his voice stopped you.
“Goodnight… Mrs. Harrington.”
You turned back, your eyes met his again. For a second, something caught in your chest. You smiled again at him. Part of you wanted to tell him to use your name. To make it easier, less formal. But you didn’t. It was too soon.
“Goodnight,” you simply said.
Then you stepped out and closed the door gently behind you, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you almost immediately. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping without you even realizing how tense they had been. It felt strange. Like you had just passed some kind of test you didn’t know you were taking.
-
By the time you reached your bedroom, the exhaustion of the evening had finally started catching up to you. You pushed the door open quietly.
Steve was standing beside the bed, halfway through changing out of his clothes. His shirt was already gone, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips while he tugged a clean T-shirt over his head. The moment he saw you, he stopped immediately.
“How is he?” he asked right away, concern already written all over his face. “Did he fall asleep?”
You shook your head as you closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the handle for just a moment before you let it go.
“Not yet,” you said. “But he was fine... and I think he was tired too. After all, it was a busy evening... for all of us. I'm sure he'll fall asleep soon.”
Steve nodded slowly, eyes dropping for a second as he processed that, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. Then his gaze lifted back to yours.
“And you?” he asked more carefully this time, his voice low.
There it was.
The real question.
Are you okay after all of this?
You leaned back lightly against the dresser, crossing your arms loosely over yourself as you thought about it.
“Honestly?” you said after a moment. “Better than I expected.”
“Are you sure?” He said, carefully.
You let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t quite make it.
“I’m not gonna lie. It was… intense,” you admitted. “And a little overwhelming at first.” You paused for a moment before continuing. “When I saw him standing behind you, I think my brain completely stopped working for a second.”
That earned the faintest smile from Steve, though it disappeared quickly again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call first to warn you, but I didn’t really have the time or… a choice,” he said immediately.
You shook your head gently.
“Steve,” you said softly, “you weren’t going to leave him there all alone.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that.
You could still picture it clearly — Charlie patiently waiting at the baseball field long after everyone else had gone home, like he was already used to it. To being forgotten. The thought made something ache inside your chest all over again.
“You did the right thing. I would’ve done the same,” you told him.
“Yeah?” he asked softly.
You nodded.
“Of course.”
Steve looked at you for a long moment after that, something conflicted moving behind his eyes.
“When I showed up with him,” he admitted quietly, “I was scared you’d look at me and think I’d lost my mind.”
You frowned immediately.
“Steve—”
“No, I —” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling softly. “I was really scared… I didn’t know if this would… bring everything back up again.” His voice lowered on the last part.
Even now he hated talking about the pain you both had gone through. But you promised each other you'd be honest and tell each other everything, even when it wasn’t easy. You didn't want to repeat the same mistakes.
Your expression softened instantly. “You thought I was gonna fall apart again.”
He didn’t talk but his silence was answer enough. You pushed yourself away from the dresser and walked toward him slowly.
“I… I was scared, at first,” you admitted.
Steve’s face tightened slightly.
“But not because of Charlie,” you clarified quickly. “More because… I didn’t know how I was supposed to act. What he needed. Or what the right thing was.”
You stopped in front of him.
“But…” your voice softened, “I’m glad you brought him here.”
Steve’s eyes searched yours carefully, like he still wasn’t fully allowing himself to believe that.
“And he can stay as long as he needs to,” you said firmly. “Honestly, I’m more angry that nobody seems to even be looking for him.”
Something dark flickered briefly across Steve’s face at that.
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “Me too.”
Silence settled between you for a moment. Then Steve looked at you again, softer this time.
“You were really good tonight,” he said suddenly.
You blinked.
“With him,” he added. His mouth lifted faintly at one corner. “The second you realized what was happening, you just… took over.” He shook his head a little, almost like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “You made him feel safe in, like, five minutes.”
Warmth spread slowly through your chest.
“So did you,” you replied quietly.
Steve huffed softly. “I mostly panicked internally.”
You laughed under your breath. “No,” you said, stepping closer. “You brought him home. You made sure he wasn’t alone tonight.”
Your eyes softened as you looked at him. “You’re a really good man, Steve Harrington.”
His gaze dropped briefly, almost shy despite all these years.
“And… You’d be an amazing father,” you added, gentler now.
Steve smiled automatically at that—but it faltered almost immediately after. You noticed it instantly. Like the words had caught somewhere inside him. Your head tilted slightly, knowing exactly what had happened.
“You can say it, you know,” you murmured.
His eyes lifted back to yours. For a second, he looked almost hesitant. Then finally, “You’d be an amazing mother too.”
A small smile pulled at your lips as you stepped even closer until your bodies nearly touched.
“Thanks,” you said quietly. “I’ll try to be.”
Your hand slid gently against his chest.
“One day. When we’re ready.”
Steve’s expression softened completely.
Relief.
Love.
Hope.
All at once.
His hands found your waist slowly, carefully, like he still wanted to make sure this was real.
“That sounds nice,” he admitted quietly.
You smiled.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You looked at each other for another moment before Steve finally pulled you fully against him. You melted into his arms immediately, your cheek pressing against his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. His hand slid slowly up and down your back while the other rested protectively at the base of your spine. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear.
After a moment, you tilted your head back just enough to look at him again. “I love you,” you whispered.
Steve smiled. “I love you too.”
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
-
The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen. You blinked slowly against the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in muted shades of blue. For a moment, you stayed still beneath the covers. The house sat wrapped in that quiet kind of silence that only existed in the earliest hours — before alarms, before life began moving again. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach. One arm had somehow ended up stretched across your waist sometime during the night, heavy and warm over the blanket, his face half-buried into the pillow. His hair stuck up messily in every direction, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the world.
You watched him for a few seconds, then your thoughts drifted to Charlie. You carefully slipped out from under Steve’s arm, moving slowly so you wouldn’t wake him. He stirred anyway, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before instinctively reaching toward the warm spot you had left. You smiled to yourself. Then quietly, you pulled something on and stepped into the hallway. Your feet slowed when you reached the guest room. Carefully, you opened the door just enough to peek inside.
Charlie was still asleep, curled under the blankets, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath the pillow, hair messy from sleep.
Relief moved through you instantly.
At some point during the night, he must have kicked the blankets halfway off himself and King had somehow managed to sneak in too, curled at the foot of the bed like some oversized guard dog, completely passed out.
You almost laughed.
Traitor.
You had checked on him more than once during the night. Each time half expecting him to be awake, scared, crying, confused. But every time, you had found him still sleeping.
Charlie’s face looked different asleep. Softer. Younger. Relaxed in a way you didn’t think you had ever seen him at school. He was just a little boy sleeping. Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly. You wondered when he had last slept somewhere without worrying. If he ever had.
You stepped inside just long enough to pull the blanket back over him. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake. King cracked one eye open, lifted his head lazily.
“You’re supposed to sleep in our room,” you whispered.
His tail thumped once against the mattress before he ignored you entirely. You shook your head, smiling faintly, and quietly slipped back out.
Downstairs, the house still smelled faintly of last night’s dinner. You started the coffee machine first. Then breakfast. You decided to make pancakes, hoping Charlie liked them. Without realizing it, you found yourself making more than usual.
By the time you were whisking batter, you heard some familiar footsteps behind you and after a moment, strong arms wrapped around your waist, making you smile immediately.
“Good morning to you too,” you said softly.
Steve leaned down, still half asleep, pressing his face against your shoulder, kissing it lazily.
“It’s Saturday and it’s early,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Come back to bed.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Don’t tempt me, Steve.”
A soft hum vibrated against your skin.
“You know I can’t help myself,” he murmured near your ear. “Especially when I know I can convince you.”
His hands settled against your hips, warm and familiar.
“Steve…”
“Mhm?”
“I’d like to remind you we’re not alone in the house.”
He kissed your shoulder again. “I checked,” he murmured. “He’s still sleeping.”
The admission caught you off guard for a second.
Of course he had checked too.
The thought alone made your chest tighten in the softest way.
You tilted your head back for only a moment, giving him space without even meaning to as his lips brushed your skin again. Then you caught yourself. Turning in his arms, you rested your hands against his chest to stop him.
“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t wake up any second,” you said gently. “And I’d rather avoid traumatizing him any more than life already has.”
Steve let out a quiet sigh — not annoyed. Amused.
His forehead dropped lightly against yours.
“Ok, you’re right. I’ll behave,” he said. “For now,” he added before kissing you. Soft. Slow.
When he pulled back, he exhaled quietly.
“I’m gonna call Hopper,” he said after a moment. “See if there’s any news.”
The mood shifted a little, reality settling back in.
You still nodded. Even though, deep down, you already feared the answer.
While Steve reached for the phone, you turned back toward the counter and started cooking. You needed something to do with your hands, something to stop your mind from spiraling.
You poured the first circle of batter into the pan, watching it spread slowly across the surface as the soft hiss filled the kitchen.
After a few seconds, Hopper answered. You could hear his voice through the receiver — agitated, fast — but none of the actual words reached you. You focused on the pancakes, the smell slowly filling the kitchen.
A small stack of pancakes had already begun to form on the plate beside the stove by the time you glanced over again. Steve’s expression had slowly changed as he listened to Hopper. His eyes met yours, your stomach tightening. You could tell before he even hung up.
“Still nothing?” you asked quietly, swallowing hard.
Steve shook his head. “Hopper checked their caravan,” he said carefully. “Nobody was there. And no one has seen her apparently.”
He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “He said… Charlie can keep staying here, for now. If… we want, of course.”
You looked down at the batter absentmindedly as something twisted painfully in your chest. Not because you minded. God, you didn’t. But because no child should ever be left wondering why no one came. Then there was a part of you — the quiet, selfish one — that felt strangely relieved.
Your eyes slowly lifted to Steve’s.
“Yeah,” you agreed immediately. “Of course he can stay. As long as he needs it.”
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
Steve watched you for a second, like maybe he was still afraid of your answer. Like some part of him worried this would be too much.
“Steve,” you said gently. “I told you. I’m okay, really. And he needs us now. That’s all that matters.”
Something softened in his face. “You’re kinda amazing, you know that?”
You rolled your eyes lightly. “You brought home a child, Harrington. You are.”
“Yeah, and you just took over, making it feel normal.”
“I just made him dinner.”
“You made him feel safe. Welcome.”
You looked at him, your mouth slightly open. But before you could answer, soft footsteps interrupted you.
You both turned.
Charlie stood awkwardly near the kitchen entrance, hair sticking up everywhere. King stood proudly beside him like he had personally escorted him downstairs. Charlie hesitated when he noticed you both looking.
“Morning,” Steve said immediately, casual — gentle enough not to scare him off. “Did you sleep well, buddy?”
Charlie shifted his weight slightly. Then, he nodded, quickly.
“Good,” he said, softer than usual. “You hungry?”
Charlie looked up at you and after a moment, he nodded again.
Your heart nearly cracked open. “Well,” you said, turning back toward the stove, “perfect timing. You pointed toward the bowl on the counter. “Pancakes. They’re almost ready. And before Steve eats all of them, I suggest you sit down.”
Steve looked offended. “What? I didn’t…”
“You ate six last time.”
“Seven,” he corrected proudly. “It's not my fault if your pancakes are the best,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
And for the second time, you saw it. Small. Quick. Gone almost immediately. But there.
Another smile.
And somehow, standing there in your kitchen, with King circling his legs and Steve already pretending to argue over pancake rights, something shifted. You couldn’t explain it yet. Didn’t have words for it. But for the first time in a long while…
The house felt fuller.
Complete.
-
Since school was closed for the weekend, you had the day off and could do whatever you wanted. So after breakfast, Steve disappeared for a moment before returning with two baseball gloves and a ball in hand. He leaned casually against the kitchen counter, looking at Charlie.
“So,” he said, shrugging lightly, like the idea had just come to him, “since you’re here…”
Charlie looked up from where he sat beside King.
“Thought maybe we could get a little practice in.” Steve tossed one ball lightly into the air before catching it again. “Consider it private coaching.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “But don’t tell the others, alright? Can’t have the team thinking I play favorites.”
Charlie hesitated, shoulders tightening slightly.
“You really don’t have to if you don’t feel like it,” you added gently, not wanting him to feel pressured.
Steve nodded immediately. “No pressure,” he said easily. “We can just throw the ball around for a bit. King will probably join and ruin everything anyway.”
As if on cue, King lifted his head and after a second, Charlie nodded.
Steve pointed at him with mock seriousness.
“That’s my guy.”
-
Outside, you settled onto the porch with your sketchbook, intending to draw. At least, that had been the plan. Instead, your pencil barely touched the page as you found yourself watching Steve and Charlie.
Steve crouched down to Charlie’s height, explaining something while the boy listened carefully, shoulders tense. At first, he nodded and answered only when Steve asked him something directly. But little by little, the nervousness began to fade.
And soon, he was laughing quietly when Steve intentionally exaggerated a missed catch, dramatically falling backward into the grass.
“You did that on purpose,” Charlie said before quickly going quiet again, almost surprised by his own voice.
Steve placed a hand over his chest. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Another laugh escaped Charlie, his smile widened despite himself.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Charlie looked… lighter. Like for a few hours, he had forgotten to be scared. And watching him — safe, laughing, free in a way you suspected he rarely got to be — stirred something unfamiliar and quiet inside your chest. And frightening in how natural it felt.
You didn’t quite know what to call it. Not yet. Affection, maybe. Or something dangerously close to love. And that scared you more than you wanted to admit. Because you knew what love could do and how quickly it could turn into grief. How suddenly happiness could become fear and loss. And letting yourself care this much felt dangerous.
But then Charlie laughed again — breathless this time, chasing after King while Steve pretended to complain dramatically about being ignored by his own player — and something inside you softened anyway.
So, just for now, you let yourself enjoy the moment. The sound of laughter drifting through the yard. The warmth of the sun on your skin. Steve’s voice somewhere in the background.
-
By evening, the kitchen smelled like flour, tomato sauce, and melted cheese.
You had decided on homemade pizza.
At first, Charlie hovered near the kitchen doorway again, uncertain, hands half-hidden inside the sleeves of Dustin’s oversized sweatshirt. King sat loyally beside him, tail sweeping lazily against the floor every few seconds like he had already decided Charlie belonged there.
“Come here,” you said gently, patting the stool beside you. “I need help decorating.”
Charlie hesitated, glancing briefly toward Steve like he needed confirmation he wouldn’t be in the way.
“You heard the boss,” Steve said, washing his hands at the sink. “No backing out now.”
Slowly, Charlie climbed onto the stool beside you. You handed him a small handful of shredded mozzarella while you spread tomato sauce over the dough.
“Okay,” you said softly. “You can put the cheese on.”
He watched your hands first, careful and observant, before pinching a small amount between his fingers and sprinkling it over the pizza with extreme concentration. At first he moved slowly, like he was afraid of doing something wrong. Then he paused.
“Like this?” he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
You opened your mouth to answer, but Steve leaned over the counter first.
“That is way too much cheese,” he said with exaggerated seriousness.
Charlie froze immediately and you shot Steve a look.
“Ignore him,” you said, nudging Charlie lightly with your shoulder. “There’s no such thing as too much cheese.”
Steve looked personally offended.
“There absolutely is.”
“There isn’t.”
“There is. You just refuse to acknowledge basic pizza science.”
You rolled your eyes.
Beside you, Charlie let out the smallest laugh.
As the evening went on, Charlie relaxed little by little. He started helping more without asking. Passing ingredients. Carefully arranging pepperoni in uneven little circles. Sneaking extra cheese onto one side of the pizza when he thought Steve wasn’t looking.
King, meanwhile, had become completely and utterly attached to Charlie. The dog barely left his side. Every time Charlie moved, King followed. Every time Charlie sat down, King somehow ended up pressed against his leg like they had known each other forever. At one point, while you were reaching for plates, you noticed Charlie glance around carefully before lowering his hand beneath the counter. The second the piece of cheese slipped onto the floor, the dog appeared like magic and eat it. Charlie looked oddly proud of himself. Across the kitchen, Steve caught your eye just in time to see Charlie carefully slipping another tiny piece of pepperoni. Steve let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms.
“Great,” he said, crossing his arms. “Now he likes you more than me too.”
Charlie startled slightly, cheeks reddening.
“I— sorry,” he mumbled immediately, hand pulling back like he’d done something wrong.
Steve’s expression softened at once. “Kid, I’m kidding,” he said gently.
Charlie glanced up uncertainly. “He switched teams years ago,” Steve continued, nodding toward the dog. “The second she started sneaking him food under the table, I lost all authority in this house.”
“Excuse me?” you said, pretending to sound offended as you slid the pizza onto a cutting board. “You spoil him just as much.”
Charlie looked between the two of you quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, his hand dropped to scratch behind King’s ears. King immediately melted into the floor with complete devotion.
Charlie also started speaking more. Small things at first. How he liked baseball more than math. How he hated peas. How King reminded him of a dog he’d once wanted but never got. Nothing really big or life-changing but every sentence felt important to you. Like trust being handed over in pieces.
“You know,” Steve said eventually, leaning back in his chair after another bite of pizza, “I think this might actually be the best pizza we’ve ever made.”
You looked up from your plate and glanced first at Charlie, then at Steve. You smiled softly. He wasn’t talking about the food.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think so too.” Then, after a beat, your eyes dropped back to Charlie. “I had an amazing helper.”
Steve pointed to himself immediately.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding once like it was obvious.
You looked at him flatly. “I wasn’t talking about you.”
Steve placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow,” he said, feigning heartbreak. “That’s actually cruel.”
You laughed quietly when the doorbell suddenly rang. The noise cut through the room so suddenly that all three of you looked up.
“Were we expecting someone?” Steve asked.
You slowly shook your head but but deep down, somehow, you already knew. You couldn’t explain how or why. Instinct, maybe. The feeling settled heavily in your stomach before either of you even moved.
Steve stood first. And you followed almost immediately, wiping your hands absentmindedly on a kitchen towel while Charlie remained seated at the table, one hand resting unconsciously against King’s fur.
When Steve opened the door, Hopper stood there. And beside him, there was a woman.
Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. There was fading makeup smudged beneath tired eyes and a bruise near her temple, yellowing at the edges. Her clothes smelled faintly of cigarettes and hospital disinfectant. She looked exhausted more than anything else. Worn down by life in a way that made it difficult to tell how old she actually was.
You didn't need an introduction to know who she was.
Charlie’s mother.
Your chest tightened instantly.
The woman swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously past you into the house, searching.
Hopper exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“She got into a car accident yesterday,” he explained quietly, glancing between you and Steve. “Minor injuries but she ended up at the county hospital unconscious most of the night. She didn’t have any documents with her, so they didn’t know who she was.”
“Charlie,” she breathed out.
You turned.
Charlie stood a few feet behind you but he didn’t move. Not immediately. Then, slowly, carefully, he stepped forward. The woman’s eyes were fixed entirely on him. She crouched immediately despite the obvious stiffness in her body, one hand bracing against her knee. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached up.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said quickly, voice cracking as she looked at him. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything.”
Her eyes filled immediately.
And the worst part was that she sounded genuine. Not cruel. Just… incapable. Like someone who loved her child but kept failing him anyway.
The guilt hit you before you could stop it. Because part of you had already judged her and decided what kind of mother she must be. Someone selfish. Someone reckless enough not to notice their child was gone. But now, standing there, seeing the bruising near her temple, the exhaustion written all over her face, she just looked overwhelmed. And broken.
She looked up at you and Steve then, eyes red-rimmed. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For taking care of him.”
“You don’t have to thank us,” Steve said gently. “He’s okay.”
“A little scared,” you admitted quietly. “But… he’s okay.”
The woman nodded like hearing that physically hurt.
Hopper stepped aside eventually, giving them space and quietly pulled Steve aside.
“I already talked to her,” he muttered low enough that Charlie couldn’t hear. “One more screw-up and I’m stepping in. I mean it. And I’ll be checking on her. Frequently.”
Steve simply nodded.
Eventually, Charlie disappeared upstairs to grab his things. When he came back down, King immediately stood, tail wagging, following him toward the door. Charlie wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, while he started licking his face without hesitation.
“You know,” you said softly, crouching beside him, “you can come visit him whenever you want.”
Charlie looked up. “For real?”
“For real,” Steve said. “Pretty sure you’re his favorite now.”
King barked once like he agreed. A tiny smile pulled at Charlie’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
You smiled despite the ache building in your throat. You reached up before thinking, smoothing his messy hair back for a second.
“You’re always welcome here, Charlie”, you said, the words slipping out naturally.
They were already halfway to Hopper's truck when Charlie suddenly turned around. You smile and lifted your hand immediately.
“Bye, Charlie. See you on Monday,” you said, your voice trembling.
He hesitated for a second before raising his own hand in return. Small. Shy. Your arms crossed instinctively over yourself. King moved forward as if ready to follow him but Steve caught his collar gently. “Easy, buddy.”
The dog whined softly.
After closing the door behind you, Steve’s hand found yours silently. Slowly. His fingers threaded through yours and squeezed. Tight. Like he was comforting you. Like maybe he was holding onto something too.
The house felt unbearably quiet.
That night, lying in bed, you broke. You cried silently at first. Trying not to. Trying to be reasonable. After all, you would still see him at school. And Steve would see him at baseball practice. Nothing had changed. And nothing would. Not really.
Except it had.
Because somehow, impossibly, one day had been enough to make the thought of not hearing his quiet voice in the kitchen hurt more than it should.
Behind you, Steve said nothing. He wrapped himself around you, one arm around your waist, the other pulling you closer until your back pressed firmly against his chest, holding you tightly and letting you cry.
After a long while, something warm touched your shoulder. At first, you thought it was your own tears. But then Steve buried his face more firmly against the back of your neck.
And you realized.
He was crying too. Silently. Or at least, he was trying to. The fabric of your nightgown was damp against your shoulder. You turned slowly in his arms. His eyes were red.
“Oh, Steve…”
His laugh came out shaky. “I know,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s stupid.”
“No,” you said immediately. “It isn’t,” you said, cupping his face, your forehead resting against his.
And somewhere in the quiet dark, holding each other like that, you both understood.
Seeing Charlie again at school would never be the same.
-
The next morning, you woke up early as usual but stayed where you were, tucked beneath the blankets while the soft gray light of early morning stretched across the bedroom. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, facing your side of the bed, hair sticking up in every direction, lips slightly parted as the faintest snore escaped him every few breaths.
You smiled despite yourself. Years ago, you probably would have found it annoying. Now, somehow, it had become comforting. Familiar. You turned onto your side, resting your head more comfortably against the pillow as you watched him sleep.
The night before replayed quietly in your mind.
Charlie leaving.
The silence afterward.
And the ache.
You and Steve had barely spoken once the house had gone quiet again. There hadn't really been words for it. Only a strange sense of loss neither of you had expected.
And it made no logical sense.
Because Charlie had only been with you for a day.
One day.
And yet it had been enough to love him as something more than just a student. His absence had settled over the house like something physical.
Eventually exhaustion had taken pity on both of you. But sleep hadn’t come easily. You had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking.
About Charlie.
About Steve.
About the future.
And somewhere between all those thoughts, something inside you had finally settled into place. Something that terrified and gave you hope at the same time. Because you had spent so long convinced that door had closed forever and that maybe some broken part of you would never recover enough to want it again.
But Charlie had changed something.
Beside you, Steve stirred. His nose scrunched slightly before he rolled onto his back, stretching with a groan and blinking against the morning light. Then he noticed you watching him, a sleepy smile pulled at his mouth immediately.
“Well,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”
You laughed softly. “Good morning.”
“Morning, early bird.” He rubbed at his face before glancing toward the clock. “How long have you been awake?”
You hesitated. “A while.”
He studied you for a second and then something in his expression shifted, his smile fading just slightly. Like memory had finally caught up with him. He pushed himself up against the headboard, running a hand through his hair.
“How are you?” he asked carefully. “After… yesterday, I mean.”
You sighed and looked down at the blanket for a moment, considering the answer.
“Sad,” you admitted quietly. “I miss him.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “And… I’m worried.” You exhaled slowly. “I just really hope he’s okay, you know?”
Steve nodded immediately. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.” He looked down for a second. “I know we’ll see him tomorrow. At school. Practice and all that.” He hesitated. “But it doesn’t really feel —”
“The same,” you finished the sentence, your eyes meeting his. “Yeah, it doesn’t.”
For a few seconds neither of you said anything else. You looked at him and suddenly, the words you had been carrying all night felt too important to keep inside anymore.
“You know, yesterday…” you started quietly.
Steve immediately looked up.
You cleared your throat and continued. “Yesterday felt like —” You paused, choosing your words carefully.
His brow furrowed slightly. You looked down at your hands, swallowing.
“It felt like we were a family.”
The words settled softly between you. Steve stayed quiet, letting you continue.
“And I liked it. A lot,” you admitted, a small smile touching your lips. “And it… it made me realize something.”
Steve sat up a little straighter now, more careful. “What… what do you mean?”
You hesitated for a second, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket and then, you finally looked him in the eyes. “I think I’m ready.”
His forehead creased. “Ready for what?”
Your heartbeat quickened. But strangely, you weren’t scared anymore.
“To be a mom,” you said softly.
The room fell completely silent. Steve blinked once, then twice, like he genuinely hadn’t expected those words.
You looked down briefly before continuing. “For a long time, I thought that part of my life was over.” You swallowed. “But taking care of Charlie yesterday felt... so natural. And good.”
A faint smile touched your lips as you remembered the previous day.
“I liked making him breakfast. Checking on him.” You let out a small breath. “Seeing him play baseball in the backyard with you.”
Your eyes found Steve's again.
“And… I want that.”
Steve still hadn’t spoken. You could practically see him trying to process your words.
“I want a family,” you finally admitted. “With you.”
Steve swallowed hard. The shine in his eyes made your chest ache. Slowly, his hand reached across the blankets until his fingers found yours.
“You sure?” he asked gently. “Because we don’t have to rush anything. We can wait if—”
You nodded immediately, squeezing his hand. “I’ve never been more sure.”
You took a deep breath.
“Maybe we can’t be what Charlie needs,” you said quietly. “But there are so many kids out there like him.” Your voice softened. “Kids who just… need someone. And we could be that for one of them. Give them a better life, you know.”
Your fingers tightened around Steve’s. You hesitated for a moment, then finally said it.
“I’d… I’d like to adopt, Steve.”
For a second, he just stared at you, completely still.
Your stomach twisted.
“Say something, please,” you whispered, suddenly nervous. “What… what do you think?”
He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss against your knuckles.
“I think,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “every time I convince myself there’s no possible way I could love you more…” His thumb brushed gently over your hand. “You somehow give me another reason.”
Your eyes stung instantly, your breath caught. “Steve…”
“No, seriously.” He shook his head slightly. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”
He leaned forward without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.
“And you’re going to be an incredible mom,” he whispered against your hair.
A watery laugh escaped you. You lifted your head just enough to look at him, smiling. “And you’re going to be the best dad.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His forehead rested gently against yours as his hand came up to cup your cheek.
“Let's do it. Let’s adopt.”
Tears threatened to spill. “Really?”
Steve let out a quiet laugh.
“Really.”
Steve kissed you, slowly, carefully. Like the moment deserved to be held onto for as long as possible.
-
Two years later
The afternoon sun spilled across the porch, warm against your bare legs as you sat in the wooden chair Steve had built for you the previous summer. A sketchbook rested on your lap, your pencil moving lazily across the page.
You weren't drawing anything in particular, just pieces of the moment unfolding in front of you.
The yard.
The dog.
And the baseball game currently unfolding across the grass.
King barked excitedly as he tore after the ball that had no intention of being caught by a dog. He missed it entirely, skidded through the lawn, and immediately tried again as though nothing had never happened. A boy sprinted after it, nearly tripping over his own feet before recovering at the last second.
You smiled to yourself.
"That one didn't count!" he shouted.
"It absolutely did," Steve called back.
The boy groaned dramatically while Steve looked entirely too pleased with himself. You laughed softly and shook your head.
Some things never changed.
The competitive streak Steve brought to absolutely everything was apparently hereditary. Or contagious. You still hadn't decided which.
Steve tossed the ball into the air before catching it again.
"Ready?"
The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“No. You’re cheating."
“I’m winning,” he said, throwing the ball anyway.
The boy managed to hit it this time, the crack of the bat echoing across the yard. His face lit up immediately.
It still amazed you sometimes.
The first time he had stepped into your house, every word had seemed dragged out of him. He had spoken cautiously, as though every sentence needed permission before leaving his mouth. Now he laughed loudly and argued confidently.
Steve grinned. “There you go! Nice job, buddy."
The kid turned toward the porch. "Mum! Did you see that?”
Mum
The word still caught you off guard sometimes. Not because it felt wrong, it was quite the opposite actually. It felt so natural now that it was hard to remember a time when it hadn't.
Your eyes met his.
Your son.
“I did," you called back. “That was a good hit, well done!”
The boy looked pleased with himself.
Your chest warmed.
You never would have imagined this.
You and steve hadn’t been parents yet.
And Charlie had still been someone else's child.
But then everything had changed.
Charlie had lost his mother only a few months after you and Steve had finally decided to adopt. The grief that followed and the months afterward hadn't been easy. There had been lawyers, court hearings, social workers and many questions. But eventually, after months of waiting, the judge had signed the papers and Charlie had finally come home. This time not as a guest.
But as your son.
And now you were finally a family. Not the one you had imagined years ago but the one that had been waiting for you instead.
A sudden movement pulled you from your thoughts. Your hand settled automatically over the curve of your stomach as you looked down, a smile spreading across your face.
Even now, months after finding out, part of you still couldn't quite believe it. After everything that had happened, after making peace with the possibility that it might never happen, life had found a way to surprise you again.
You felt another kick. This one stronger as if she was demanding attention.
You laughed under your breath. "Well, hello to you too."
A moment later you heard the familiar creak of the porch boards and Steve appeared beside your chair.
"You okay?"
You nodded and reached for his hand, placing it gently against the curve of your stomach. Right on cue, your daughter kicked again.
Steve’s face softened immediately. "There you are, princess,” he murmured, as though he were greeting someone already familiar.
You watched him for a moment. The man who had once brought home a scared little boy because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone. The man who had become a father long before either of you realized it.
Out in the yard, Charlie was already growing impatient.
“Dad!”
The word made Steve glance up instantly. “Yeah?”
“Are we playing again or are you tired already?”
Steve looked back at you, looking deeply offended. “Did you hear that? No respect around here."
You laughed. "Go save your reputation, coach."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading back toward the grass where Charlie was impatiently waiting for him, bat resting on one shoulder and King circling excitedly around both of them. The afternoon sunlight wrapped around the three of them as they disappeared into another argument about baseball. You rested a hand over your stomach and watched.
Your husband.
Your son.
The life and the family you were building together.
Years ago, you had thought some dreams were gone forever. That you would never be a mother. Now, surrounded by the people you loved most, you realized that sometimes life gave you a different ending than the one you had initially imagined.
And sometimes, somehow, it turned out even better.
your house had been taken over by ballet. tiny pink shoes by the front door, tiny tutus hanging over dining room chairs, tiny spins being performed in the middle of the kitchen while you were trying to cook dinner.
for the past month, your five year old daughter, had made it everyone’s problem that she had a dance recital coming up.
especially jaafar’s.
“daddy, watch this!”
it didn’t matter what he was doing, on the couch? interrupted. answering a text interrupted. trying to eat? interrupted.
she would appear out of nowhere and immediately begin twirling.
and every single time, jaafar reacted like she was performing on a world tour.
“wow.”
“did you see that spin?”
“princess, do it again.”
“you’ve gotta teach me how to do that.”
she would beam every single time.
you swore that little girl loved her father more than oxygen, and jaafar wasn’t much better. he was completely obsessed with her.
“she gets that from me, by the way.” you looked up from folding laundry.
“what?”
“her talent.”
you laughed.
“jaafar, she tripped over a pillow twenty minutes ago.”
“it’s that artists struggle.” he shrugged.
“oh my god.”
he grinned.
“i’m just saying.”
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
the morning of the recital arrived faster than expected, you woke up before your alarm from pure nerves. it wasn’t because you were performing, it was because your daughter was. but somehow that felt more stressful.
you walked into the kitchen to find jaafar already making pancakes.
well. attempting to.
“why are they shaped like that?”
he looked down.
“they’re hearts.”
you stared at the pancakes, then stared at him.
“those are blobs.”
“baby, look at them. they’re hearts.”
before you could argue, little footsteps came racing down the hallway.
“today’s recital day!”
your daughter practically launched herself into the kitchen. jaafar immediately scooped her up.
“good morning, superstar.”
she giggled.
“i’m not a superstar yet.”
“you are to me.”
you physically had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. they were ridiculous together.
for most of the day, she was bouncing off the walls.
she danced while brushing her teeth, danced while eating lunch, danced while getting dressed. you thought she might actually be fine.
that was until you arrived at the theater and everything changed. the second she saw the crowd, the bright lights, and dozens of other little girls in matching costumes…
she froze.
her tiny hand tightened around yours.
“mama?” you immediately knelt down.
“what’s wrong baby?”
all the excitement seemed to disappear from her face.
“there’s a lot of people.” your heart sank.
you exchanged a glance with jaafar. the nerves had finally hit.
on another note, backstage was complete chaos.
parents running around, teachers giving directions, little kids practicing routines, and in the middle of it all of she sat.
silent. which was concerning because she was never silent.
you sat beside her.
“baby?”
she stared at her ballet slippers.
“what if i mess up?”
your heart broke a little from hearing her say that.
“you don’t have to worry about that.”
“but what if i forget?”
before you could answer, another voice joined in. “then you forget.”
she looked up.
jaafar had crouched down in front of her.
his expression held a soft gaze. the same look he always got whenever she needed him.
“everybody forgets things sometimes.”
“even you?”
“especially me.”
that earned a tiny smile.
“remember when i lost my car keys for three days?”
she nodded.
“exactly.”
she giggled.
jaafar reached over and gently took her hand.
“you know what i’m excited for?”
“what?”
“seeing you have fun.”
“not if i dance good?” he shook his head.
“nope.”
“why?”
“because i already know you’re amazing.”
you watched her little face soften. watched some of the tension leave her shoulders. jaafar smiled.
“whether you remember every step or not, me and mommy are gonna be cheering louder than everybody.”
“really?”
“really.”
she thought about that for a second. then climbed into his lap. just like she had done since she was a baby.
“can you stay until i go on stage?” his arms wrapped around her instantly.
“i’m not going anywhere.”
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
twenty minutes later, it was finally time. the girls lined up backstage. teachers gave final instructions. parents were ushered back into the audience. you squeezed her shoulders.
“you’ve got this.”
she nodded.
then she immediately looked at jaafar.
“daddy?”
“yeah?”
“don’t forget to watch me.”
he looked personally offended.
“princess .”
she giggled.
“i’m serious.”
“baby, i have had my phone ready for an hour.” you laughed, which was true. he’d been prepared like he was about to start a instagram live.
“okay.”
then she hugged him, one last time and disappeared backstage.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
the moment the music started, your stomach twisted. you weren’t sure who was more nervous. you or jaafar. he was gripping his phone so tightly you thought it might crack.
“relax.”
“i am relaxed.”
you looked over. he absolutely was not.
“jaafar.”
“what?”
“you’re shaking.”
“i’m excited. you laughed.
the curtain opened, and there she was. standing in her little pink costume beneath the bright stage lights, for a second she looked terrified. then her eyes found the audience, found you.
found jaafar.
there suddenly was a she smiled, a real smile. the kind that lit up her whole face.
“there she is,” jaafar whispered.
the dance began, was it perfect absolutely not. one little girl turned the wrong way, another forgot part of the routine. your daughter nearly missed a step halfway through. but none of that mattered. because she was having fun, and every time she glanced toward the audience, she saw her parents smiling. when the performance ended, the crowd erupted into applause. somehow jaafar was the loudest person in the building.
“that’s my girl!”
you buried your face in your hands.
“jaafar.”
“what?”
people around you were laughing. you couldn’t even be embarrassed. because the look on his face made it impossible.
he looked proud, so unbelievably proud.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
the second the show ended, she came sprinting toward you. still in her costume.
she had this glow on her face that made you melt, “daddy!”
jaafar barely had time to react before she crashed into him. he caught her effortlessly.
“you were amazing.”
“i did it!”
“you did.”
“did you see me?”
he laughed.
“baby, i recorded the entire thing.”
“really?”
“twice.”
you blinked.
“twice?”
“don’t worry about it.”
you shook your head. your daughter wrapped her arms around his neck.
“were you proud of me?” the question was so small and innocent, and yet jaafar didn’t even hesitate.
“always.”
the smile that spread across her face could have powered the entire city. as you watched the two of them hugging in the middle of the crowded theater, you had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time your daughter had her father wrapped completely around her little finger.
hiii i wanted to request a joe as a dad x reader fic where he’s super protective of their daughter. i was thinking something like she just started kindergarten and she mentioned how some boys were bullying her and he gets super upset and decided to handle it himself. lol this is kinda vague but i love ur writing and u can interpret in whatever way <3
"Daddy's brave girl"
⭒˚.⋆ Joe Keery x reader ⋆⭒˚.⋆
english is not my language please be kind and sorry if i wrote wrong :) requests are open if you want!
Summary: Joe supports his 5-year-old daughter after she faces bullying at kindergarten
Warnings: family fluff, mild playground, light bullying, protective dad
The alarm clock buzzed softly at 6:15 AM, but Joe was already awake, his arm draped protectively over your waist as he pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder.
Mornings in your house had become a beautiful routine since Lily started kindergarten two weeks ago.
The little girl with Joe’s warm brown eyes and your bright smile had brought a new kind of light and a fierce new level of protectiveness into Joe’s life, he had always been the steady one, the man who checked the locks twice at night and made sure car seats were installed perfectly, but now that their daughter was stepping into the wider world, that instinct had deepened into something profound.
You stirred, turning to face him with a sleepy smile.
“Morning daddy bear.”
He chuckled quietly, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face “Morning, beautiful. Ready for another day?”
“Always,” you whispered, leaning in for a soft kiss.
Down the hall, Lily’s room was already alive with quiet energy.
At five years old, she was a whirlwind of curiosity and kindness, but the transition to kindergarten had introduced small challenges that tugged at both your hearts.
Joe slipped out of bed first, padding to her room in his sweatpants and t-shirt and he found her sitting up in bed, clutching Mr. Roar, her stuffed dinosaur.
“Hey, superstar,” Joe said, his voice warm like melted honey, he sat on the edge of her bed and pulled her into a big hug, inhaling the scent of her strawberry shampoo. “Did you sleep okay? Any dreams about flying to the moon like we talked about?”
Lily nodded against his chest, her pigtails messy from sleep.
“Yeah, Daddy but in my dream, some mean clouds tried to block the slide on the moon.”
Joe’s jaw tightened just a fraction, but he kept his tone light and reassuring.
“Well, those clouds don’t stand a chance against you, daddy would chase them away.”
He tickled her sides gently until she dissolved into giggles, the sound filling the room and chasing away any lingering worries.
Breakfast was a family affair, you flipped heart-shaped pancakes at the stove while Joe helped Lily choose her outfit; a purple dress with silver stars that sparkled under the kitchen lights, paired with her favorite light-up sneakers, then he packed her lunchbox with meticulous care: a turkey sandwich cut into four triangles, apple slices arranged like a smiley face, carrot sticks, a yogurt pouch, and a handwritten note tucked inside, it says: ‘You are brave, kind, and the best daughter in the whole universe. I love you more than everything - Daddy’ and two chocolate chip cookies made it in too, because Joe could never say no to her hopeful eyes.
“Extra cookies for my brave girl,” he said, winking as he zipped the box.
Lily beamed up at him. “Thanks, Daddy! You’re the best.”
The drive to school was filled with songs, Lily sang along to her favorite princess anthem from the backseat, her voice high and sweet, while Joe harmonized in his deep baritone, making silly faces in the rearview mirror to keep her laughing while driving, you were next to him, his hand resting on your thigh, feeling the quiet strength in him.
As he pulled into the drop-off line, Joe’s expression grew more serious, he parked briefly and walked Lily to the classroom door, holding her hand the entire way.
“Remember,” he said, crouching down to her level so they were eye to eye, “if anyone says you can’t play somewhere or if they push you, you tell Mrs. Harper and then you tell me and Mom tonight. No one gets to make my Lily feel small. Okay?”
She nodded solemnly and threw her arms around his neck.
“Okay, Daddy, love you more than anything.”
“anything and always, baby.”
He kissed her forehead, lingering a second longer than usual, watching until she disappeared into the colorful classroom with her backpack bouncing.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur for you and Joe, he had taken the day off work to handle some projects from home, but his mind kept drifting back to Lily.
You caught him staring out the window at one point, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“She’ll be fine,” you reassured him, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “You’re raising such a strong girl.”
“I know,” he murmured, turning to pull you close. “But the thought of anyone hurting her… it hits differently now. When she was born, I held her for the first time and promised myself I’d always keep her safe and kindergarten feels like the first big test of that promise.”
You remembered that day vividly, Lily’s birth had been long and intense, but Joe had been your rock, holding your hand, whispering encouragement, and crying tears of joy when the doctor placed their tiny daughter in his arms. “She’s perfect,” he had whispered then, voice cracking “Our little miracle.”
Now, five years later, that protectiveness had only grown.
That afternoon, when you picked Lily up, her usual bounce was missing, she climbed into her car seat quietly, clutching Mr. Roar a little tighter.
“How was your day, sweetie?” you asked gently.
“It was okay,” she said, but later, at home, after Joe had greeted her with a spinning hug and set her up with crayons at the kitchen table, the story came out.
“Daddy,” Lily started, her voice small as she colored a rainbow. “The boys at recess… they said the big slide is only for boys and they told me girls are too slow and pushy. When I tried to go anyway, one of them pushed me down the ladder… I scraped my elbow.” She held up her arm, showing a small red mark.
Joe froze, his hand stilling on the cookie dough he was mixing for an after-school treat, his eyes darkened with that fierce protective fire you knew so well, but he kept his movements gentle as he knelt beside her chair
“They pushed you? Sweetheart, does it still hurt?”
“A little,” she admitted. “I told Mrs. Harper, but she said sometimes kids play rough and to find another game. The boys laughed when I walked away.”
Joe’s breath came out slow and controlled, but you could see the muscle in his jaw working. He pulled Lily into his lap right there at the table, wrapping his strong arms around her like a shield
“Listen to me, Lily, you did the right thing by telling the teacher, and telling us, no one, no one, has the right to push you or tell you where you can play. You’re smart, you’re fast, and you belong on that slide just as much as anyone. Daddy’s going to make sure this stops.”
You joined them, rubbing Lily’s back. “We’re so proud of you for being brave.”
Dinner that night was spaghetti with Joe’s secret veggie sauce, but the mood was subdued until Joe turned on music and danced with Lily in the living room, twirling her until her giggles returned.
After bath time, complete with extra bubbles and silly songs, you and Joe tucked her in together, he read two extra stories: one about a brave princess who climbed the tallest tower despite doubters, and another where a daddy bear protected his cub from stormy weather. Lily fell asleep with her head on his arm, Mr. Roar tucked under hers.
In your bedroom later, Joe paced quietly, running a hand through his hair
“I can’t let this go, Y/N. She’s five, she should be excited about school, not worrying about bullies. Tomorrow, I’m going in, I’ll talk to the teacher, the principal calmly, but they need to hear it from me.”
You nodded, pulling him down to sit on the bed beside you. “I’ll come too, we’re a team.”
He leaned in, kissing you deeply, his hands cradling your face with the same tenderness he showed Lily.
“I love how much you care, it makes me fall for you all over again.”
The next morning was filled with extra sweetness to bolster Lily’s spirits, Joe woke her with a breakfast tray in bed: pancakes with whipped cream smiles, fresh strawberries, and a small bouquet of backyard flowers.
“For my slide queen,” he said, kissing her cheek, then he helped her pick the sparkliest outfit yet, a pink dress with added star clips in her hair and packed her lunch with triple the notes: one for bravery, one for fun, and one promising ice cream after school.
At school, Joe didn’t just drop off, he marched straight to the office with Lily’s hand in his, requesting a meeting.
The secretary ushered you all in quickly, and Mrs. Harper arrived looking a bit flustered, followed by the principal.
Joe sat tall but composed, Lily on his lap for comfort.
“Thank you for meeting us, Lily has been pushed twice now on the playground. The boys are excluding her from the big slide because she’s a girl, and when she stands up for herself, they get physical. The response so far has been to tell her to play elsewhere. That’s not okay with us.”
His voice stayed even, respectful, but carried undeniable weight. “We want all kids to have fun, but Lily deserves to feel safe. We expect closer supervision during recess, clear conversations with those boys and their parents about respect and boundaries, and follow-up to make sure it doesn’t continue. She’s our world and we’re trusting this school to protect her like we do at home.”
The principal nodded seriously.
“We take this very seriously. We’ll address it immediately.”
Joe waited in the hallway afterward like a sentinel, arms crossed, eyes watchful while the boys were pulled in with their parents. He even spoke briefly with the other parents, sharing, “I just want all our kids to learn kindness early. No hard feelings, but this can’t happen again.”
By pickup time, the change was noticeable, Lily ran out beaming, her pigtails flying.
“Daddy! The boys said sorry and even let me go first on the slide four times! Mrs. Harper watched the whole time and gave me a thumbs up!”
Joe swept her up high, spinning her gently under the afternoon sun as her laughter filled the air. “That’s my girl! You’re unstoppable, Lily, daddy and mommy are so, so proud.” He settled her on his hip, peppering her face with kisses until she squealed.
The celebration started immediately, back home, Joe turned the backyard into a magical picnic spot with blankets, fairy lights, even though it was daytime, and homemade pizzas where Lily chose all the toppings.
You three lay on the grass afterward, cloud-watching, Lily pointed out shapes: “That one’s a daddy bear protecting his family!”
Joe’s eyes softened with emotion. “Exactly right, baby.”
As evening fell, family snuggle time became official.
In your big bed, Lily sandwiched between you, Joe told an epic story about the Bear Family’s adventures, protecting their cub from silly clouds, climbing every mountain, and always sticking together. His voice was gentle, full of love, and Lily drifted off with a peaceful smile.
Alone later, Joe pulled you close on the porch swing under the stars. “Seeing her happy today… it means everything,” he murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. “I’d go to that school every single day if I had to, No one messes with my girls.”
“You’re the sweetest, strongest man,” you replied, kissing him slowly.
The kiss deepened, full of warmth and promise, reminding you why you fell in love with this protective, devoted father.
The following week unfolded with more tender moments, mornings featuring kitchen dance parties to upbeat songs, Joe lifting Lily onto his feet to twirl her, evenings included “bravery journals”, colorful drawings where Lily depicted herself as a superhero, with Daddy as her sidekick.
Flashbacks filled your quiet moments; you remembered Lily’s first steps, Joe cheering her on with arms outstretched, ready to catch her, her first words “Dada!”which made Joe tear up. These memories reinforced his dedication.
Life continued sweetly, Joe’s protectiveness showed in big and small ways and through it all, the love deepened. Joe’s protectiveness wasn’t overbearing, it was rooted in unwavering devotion. He wanted Lily to grow fearless, knowing her dad would always have her back.
One evening, as the three of you baked cookies together, flour dusting everyone’s noses, Lily looked up at Joe.
“Daddy, you’re my forever hero.”
Joe’s eyes glistened as he hugged her tight. “And you’re mine, sweetheart, always.”
You watched them, heart full, knowing this protective, loving family was exactly where you belonged.
no pressure to write it but you’ve been dating michael for a while and are still uncertain about having kids but one day u see him being super sweet and nurturing to a little one maybe it’s in neverland or something and u start to change ur mind a bit. if this makes any sense feel free to change it up as u please <33
𑣲┆BUNNY EARS ˚.⋆ֹ
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader
wc: 1.5k
warnings: extreme fluff and tooth-rotting sweetness, michael being the most gentle person ever, very light emotional moment, reader’s fears about the future(?)
a/n: i couldn’t help it i had to write this one. thank u anon for the request!!
You were not supposed to fall more in love with him today.
It was just a quiet afternoon at Neverland Ranch—one of those unpublicized charity visits Michael arranged so lovingly for the children. You’d come along like you always did on his slower days, curled up with a book near the rose garden that you weren’t really reading. You were simply happy to exist in his orbit, soaking in the peace of the place he’d built like a dream.
That was all this was supposed to be.
But Michael had been completely wrapped up in the children within minutes. You watched with the softest ache in your chest as they gravitated to him, drawn by that special warmth he carried so naturally. He raced with them across the grass, let himself lose spectacularly at games with rules you couldn’t even follow from afar, and sat cross-legged in the flowers while two little boys explained their toy trucks to him with all the seriousness in the world. He nodded along, hand under his chin, as if they were telling him the secrets of the universe.
You gave up pretending to read somewhere in the first hour and just watched him tenderly with your heart full, eyes misty.
Things grew softer as the afternoon stretched into golden hour. The laughter quieted into sleepy giggles, children drifting toward picnic blankets with sleepy eyes and tired movements.
That’s when you noticed her.
Little Cora sat alone on the wide stone steps of the garden path, not sad, just peacefully on the edge of everything. Seven or eight years old, with the sweetest twists in her hair and sunny yellow beads that clicked softly when she moved. She was staring down at her sneakers with the most tragic little pout.
Both laces had come completely undone.
She glanced at them. Looked away. Glanced back again, as if they might magically fix themselves if she wished hard enough.
You got up and started walking towards her but before you could reach, Michael appeared from around the fountain and jogged to her immediately. He changed direction without a second thought, his steps light and easy as he approached.
Cora looked up when his shadow fell gently over her. She studied him with big, serious eyes—the way only certain small children do when they’re quietly deciding if you’re safe.
Michael lowered himself smoothly to her level, crouching at first, then settling fully onto the warm stone step beside her so he wouldn’t tower over her.
“Hey, Cora,” he said, voice like warm honey.
“Hi, applehead,” she whispered back.
He glanced down at her shoes with the softest smile. “Looks like those laces are giving you a little trouble today.”
She nodded solemnly. “They keep coming undone. Every time.”
“Every time?” he echoed, eyes wide with gentle understanding. “That’s no good at all.”
She held one foot out toward him, trusting and shy all at once.
Michael took her little sneaker in both hands with such care, like it was made of the most delicate glass. His long fingers moved slowly, untying the messy knots with infinite patience.
Cora watched his hands carefully. She looked around at the gardens, the fountain, the sprawling grounds. Then back at him, squinting slightly. “This house is very big for one person.”
“It is,” he agreed. “I rattle around in it a little.”
She seemed to find this funny—didn’t quite smile, but something shifted in her face. She watched his hands on her laces.
“Do you get lonely?”
Michael paused for a moment, then lifted his head and looked straight toward you with the softest, most loving expression. He pointed gently in your direction.
“Sometimes,” he admitted tenderly. “But that special lady over there keeps me company too. She makes everything feel less big and a lot more like home.”
Your heart did a full, fluttery flip. Cora followed his gaze and spotted you standing a little ways away. You waved at her and she waved back.
She looked back at him. “Is she your wife?”
Michael’s cheeks went the softest shade of pink, but his smile only grew sweeter. He shook his head gently. “Not yet, sweetheart. But she’s my girlfriend, and I’m the luckiest man in the world to have her.”
Cora considered this very seriously. Then, in that completely unfiltered way only little kids can manage: “Do you have kids?”
Michael let out a soft, melodic chuckle—full of warmth and zero embarrassment. He tied the first bow with extra care so she could watch every gentle movement.
“Not yet,” he answered honestly, voice like velvet. “But I hope someday. I think I’d like to be a daddy who ties lots of bunny ears and reads bedtime stories.”
Cora’s eyes lit up. “You’d be a good daddy.”
The way he looked at her then like she’d handed him the moon, made tears prick at your eyes. “Thank you, angel. That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me.”
He guided her through the second bow even slower, barely touching her fingers, just enough to help. When her small, slightly crooked bow appeared, Cora stared at it in pure wonder.
“I did it!” she breathed.
“You did it all by yourself,” Michael said, pride glowing in his voice. He double-knotted both with the lightest tugs. “There we go. These bunny ears are staying put, I promise.”
Cora tested them herself, then leaned forward and patted his hand so softly. “You’re really nice, applehead.”
He looked like his heart might burst. “And you’re really special, Cora. Thank you for letting me help.”
She wandered off soon after to show her perfect bows to the other kids, pausing every few steps to admire her shoes with a proud little smile.
Michael stood and came straight to you on the low garden wall. He wrapped his arms around you in the gentlest hug, pulling you into his chest and pressing the softest kiss to your temple. Afternoon sunlight wrapped around you both like a warm blanket.
You stayed quiet for a moment, breathing him in—that comforting mix of fresh air and his cologne.
Then you whispered, “She really likes the bunny ears.”
“Had to double-knot them so they don’t trouble her again.”
“I’ve been thinking about it more than I’ve told you.” You admitted and that caught him off guard.
He waited patiently, thumb tracing the softest circles on your back.
“Watching you today,” you said. “You just—you sat down on the ground, Michael. She held her foot out and you just sat right down and you were so—” your voice went a little soft and you cleared your throat. “You were so gentle with her. The way you talked to her. The way you kept saying that’s okay every time she dropped the lace. You never made her feel—” you shook your head.
“Made her feel what?”
“Like it was taking too long. Like she was too much. Like you had somewhere else to be.” You finally looked at him. “And I thought… I want that. I want that for my kid someday. I want them to have that.”
Michael held your gaze for a long moment.
“That terrifies me a little,” you added. “To want it that clearly.”
He pulled back just enough to cup your cheek, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. His dark eyes shimmered with so much love.
“I want it too, baby,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “But only when you’re ready. We have all the time in the world, and I’ll be right here.”
You didn’t say anything. Just laced your fingers through his and held on.
“We also gotta be prepared for jelly hands in our hair, chocolate-smudged hugs, and questions about why the moon follows us home.”
You laughed through the tears prickling at your eyes and melted completely into him, arms wrapped tight around his waist as the warm breeze drifted through the roses and distant children’s laughter floated on the air.
Somewhere near the fountain, Cora was sitting with another little girl, showing her something—her hands moving, demonstrating. The other girl watching closely.
SUMMARY: based on this request. Paul Mccartney casts his actress friend as Michael’s love interest in the Say Say Say music video, knowing they both secretly have crushes on each other. What starts as teasing quickly turns into nonstop flirting. @ariitashi <3
CONTENT: michael jackson x actress!reader. lots of flirting. paul mccartney being a menace. fluffy chaos. confident michael.
.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭
By October 1983, Paul McCartney had developed two favorite hobbies:
1. making music.
2. psychologically tormenting Michael Jackson for sport. In a friendly way, though.
The Say Say Say short film had already turned into complete chaos before filming even officially started.
Bob Giraldi wanted something cinematic.
Not just a music video.
A film.
So suddenly there were horse-drawn wagons, fake saloons, vaudeville routines, medicine-show scams, clown makeup, bar fights, tuxedos, fire gags, and enough costume changes to make the wardrobe department consider unionizing.
The entire set looked like somebody let theater kids run the Wild West.
And in the middle of all of it Michael Jackson was suffering.
Because Paul knew about the crush. Of course he did.
Michael had accidentally revealed it months earlier after making the catastrophic mistake of watching one of Y/N L/N’s films in the studio. And Paul happened to walk in during an emotional scene.
Michael sat cross-legged on the floor completely invested, chin propped against one hand, staring up at the television like the movie personally held his soul hostage.
Paul leaned against the doorway quietly watching for a second. Then:
“Oh, mate… you’ve got it absolutely catastrophic.”
Michael nearly launched off the couch.
“I—wha—what do you mean?”
“Michael,” Paul said gently, “you paused the film when she smiled.”
“That’s film appreciation.”
“You sighed.”
Michael looked deeply offended.
“I did not sigh.”
“You looked like a Victorian man seeing a woman’s ankle for the first time.”
Michael threw a pillow at him immediately, his cheeks turning violently red.
Unfortunately after that, Paul noticed everything.
Every time Y/N appeared in a magazine.
Every time Michael casually brought her up for absolutely no reason.
One time during dinner Michael randomly blurted: “She has kind eyes.”
Nobody had even been talking about Y/N.
Jermaine nearly inhaled water laughing.
Paul, however, became significantly worse.
Because unlike normal people, Paul McCartney weaponized information recreationally.
So when Bob Giraldi mentioned needing another actress for the Say Say Say storyline, Paul smiled slowly like a man about to commit a felony.
“Oh,” he said casually. “I know someone.”
Which led directly to Michael sitting on the edge of the stage days later in full costume while Paul wandered over holding a cup of tea and the expression of satan himself.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Michael asked, immediately getting suspicious at Paul looking delighted.
“I called my dear friend, Y/N.”
Michael froze, brown eyes widening a bit.
“…Why.”
“She said yes.”
Silence.
“No.”
“She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“Absolutely not.” Michael stood up, his legs feeling jiggly. “PAUL.”
Bob Giraldi looked up instantly interested.
Paul continued like this was the funniest thing ever. “Oh, and she’s playing your love interest.”
Michael dragged both hands down his face.
“If I’m fast enough I think I can flee the country.”
Paul nodded thoughtfully. “Probably.”
The worst part? Y/N actually owed Paul a favor. A massive one.
A few months earlier she’d gotten stranded halfway through Europe after her passport vanished during a press tour.
Absolute disaster.
The embassy was useless.
Her manager was panicking.
And somehow Paul McCartney himself had called connections and fixed the entire situation within minutes.
“I owe you my firstborn child.” Y/N had cried dramatically down the phone.
Paul immediately replied: “Perfect. I’ll collect eventually.”
Apparently this was him collecting.
And unfortunately for Michael, Paul and Y/N were genuinely good friends.
They’d met backstage at an awards show earlier that year and bonded instantly because both of them were deeply unserious people pretending to function professionally.
Y/N once convinced Paul to sneak out of a Hollywood party through the kitchen because she ‘couldn’t mentally survive another producer explaining cocaine like he invented it.’ Paul laughed so hard he nearly fell down the staircase.
After that they became inseparable.
Linda adored her too. Mostly because Y/N treated fame like an elaborate joke.
One afternoon Linda found her sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter eating cereal straight from the box while wearing sunglasses indoors.
“Bad day?” Linda asked.
Y/N looked emotionally exhausted.
“A man with a ponytail tried explaining jazz to me for forty minutes. Again.” Linda nodded sympathetically. “If that happens one more time I’m banging my head against the wall.”
“Horrific.”
So naturally, the second Y/N agreed to the video, Paul planned specifically to make Michael’s life worse.
“By the way,” Paul added innocently. “she’s obsessed with you too.”
Michael froze on the spot. Again.
“…What.”
“Oh yes,” Paul continued casually. “Terribly embarrassing.”
Michael tried acting calm for maybe four seconds.
Then immediately: “I need you to tell me what she said exactly”
Paul burst out laughing.
Now, standing on the dusty California set waiting for her arrival, Michael looked one inconvenience away from cardiac arrest.
He adjusted his suspenders.
Then his curls.
Then his sleeves.
Then the suspenders again.
La Toya, his sister, watched this happen with visible delight. “You know she’s just a person.”
Michael looked horrified.
“That’s not helpful at all.”
Then finally a car pulled onto set. And suddenly nothing else mattered.
Because there she was.
Stepping out into the sunlight wearing a vintage cream-colored dress, dark sunglasses, and hair pinned away from her face.
Michael forgot how breathing worked.
Which was unfortunate timing because Paul noticed immediately.
“Oh, this is gonna be brilliant.” He exclaimed clapping his hands excitedly.
Y/N spotted Paul first.
“Paul!”
She hurried toward him immediately, hugging him tight while Paul laughed.
“You made it!”
“Barely,” she replied dramatically. “I got stuck behind a chicken truck.”
“…Chickens?”
“There was an alarming amount of chickens.”
Then Paul casually turned her toward Michael.
“And here’s your prince.”
Y/N froze.
Because oh. Oh no.
Pictures genuinely didn’t work.
Nobody prepared her for Michael Jackson in real life.
The red shirt.
The suspenders.
The curls falling over his forehead.
That stupidly beautiful face.
And worst of all?
The eyes.
Warm and shy and devastating. All at once.
Michael noticed the exact second she lost composure.
And immediately—immediately—his confidence returned.
Tiny menace.
“Hi,” he said softly.
Y/N stared at him for a second too long.
Then accidentally blurted:
“Oh my God, you look like a real-life Disney prince.”
Complete silence. Brutal, tense silence.
Paul howled instantly.
La Toya cracked up, trying to keep her composure but failing miserably at it.
Michael blinked once.
Then slowly—very slowly—that smug little smile appeared.
“Oh?” he asked softly.
Y/N covered her mouth immediately. “I can’t believe I said that out loud.”
Michael tilted his head pretending to think.
“No, no,” he nodded seriously. “Keep talking.”
Paul was wheezing now. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Y/N pointed accusingly at him. “This is your fault.”
“That’s true,” Paul agreed proudly.
Meanwhile Michael looked delighted.
Because suddenly she was the nervous one now.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
He stepped closer slightly.
“Which prince?”
Y/N stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Michael shrugged innocently.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, you absolutely do.”
Paul pointed dramatically between them.
“Oh they’re flirting already.”
“We are not flirting,” Michael replied immediately. Then glanced slowly toward Y/N. “…Right?” The sass in his voice nearly killed her on the spot.
Because Michael had this thing where he acted shy until he realized somebody liked him back. Then suddenly he became playful. Teasing. Dangerously charming.
Like a cat discovering it could knock things off shelves purely for entertainment.
“What, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, the hell?” Y/N blurted out, her palms feeling very sweaty and cheeks already tinted red.
Filming became impossible afterward. Absolutely impossible.
Because now Michael kept messing with her constantly.
Every scene turned into psychological warfare.
During wardrobe fittings Y/N walked onto set and found Michael leaning against the saloon doorway beneath warm stage lights looking genuinely unfair.
Without missing a beat he asked:
“Do I still look like a prince today?”
Y/N nearly walked directly into a lighting rig.
Paul screamed laughing somewhere behind the cameras.
Later during choreography rehearsal Bob Giraldi tried explaining blocking while Michael kept glancing toward Y/N every six seconds.
Finally Bob snapped. “Michael.”
“What?”
“You missed the entire count.”
Michael pointed immediately toward Y/N.
“She distracted me.”
Y/N gasped dramatically.
“ME?”
“You’re staring.”
“I am NOT.”
“You absolutely are.”
Paul looked between them thoughtfully.
“This feels like supervising teenagers.”
Then came the saloon performance scenes.
Which only made everything worse because Michael looked ridiculous in that outfit.
Red sleeves rolled up slightly.
Suspenders hanging loose.
Hair framing his annoyingly beautiful face perfectly.
Smiling constantly while dancing beside Paul.
At one point Y/N sat beside the monitors watching playback while Michael performed.
And unfortunately Michael caught her staring again.
Not casual staring either. Full dreamy expression.
Michael smirked immediately.
Then proceeded to miss his cue because now he got distracted watching her watch him.
Bob Giraldi lowered his clipboard slowly.
“You two are very exhausting.”
Then came the actual filming together.
Which somehow made everything infinitely worse.
Because now Michael had to flirt with her on camera. And unfortunately for him, Y/N turned out to be devastatingly good at acting.
The saloon set buzzed with controlled chaos around them.
Extras in costumes filled tables pretending to drink.
Stage lights burned warm against the wooden walls.
Paul sat at the piano laughing with Bob Giraldi while makeup artists sprinted around trying to keep up with costume changes.
Meanwhile Michael stood near the bar pretending he was completely normal about any of this. He was not.
Because Y/N had changed costumes.
And somehow she looked even prettier now.
Vintage dress hugging her figure perfectly.
Soft curls pinned back loosely.
Lipstick slightly smudged from touch-ups.
And worst of all? She looked extra-confident now.
Bob clapped his hands loudly.
“Alright! We’re doing the saloon performance sequence. Michael, Paul—stick close to Y/N during the chorus. Make it playful. Flirty.”
Paul immediately pointed his thumb at Michael. “Oh, he won’t have trouble with that.”
Michael just glared at him.
Y/N laughed softly into her drink prop and Michael’s entire nervous system betrayed him instantly.
“On your marks, people!”
The music started blasting through the set.
Say, say, say what you want
And suddenly the room transformed.
Michael and Paul slipped effortlessly into performance mode, dancing through the saloon while extras clapped around them.
But every single time Michael passed Y/N she looked directly at him.
Not casually either. Like she was in on a secret.
Like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
Which became a massive problem during the second chorus. Bob wanted Y/N interacting more naturally with Michael during the performance.
“Touch him a little!” Bob yelled from behind the camera. “Tease him!”
Paul burst out into laughter. “Oh, this is just cruel.”
The music kept going.
Take, take, take what you need
But don't leave me with no direction
Y/N swayed toward Michael perfectly in rhythm, smiling sweetly while adjusting the front of his suspenders playfully.
Tiny gesture.
Barely anything.
Except Michael visibly malfunctioned. He missed half the next movement entirely.
Paul noticed that and started singing harder to avoid laughing directly into the microphone.
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek trying not to smile too much.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Because Michael Jackson—the coolest man alive apparently—was getting shy.
Actually shy.
Then came the next setup: Bob wanted Michael pulling Y/N into the dancing crowd while singing.
Simple enough.
Except the first second cameras rolled, Y/N slipped fully into character.
And oh. Oh no.
Michael wasn’t prepared for all of that.
Because suddenly she wasn’t giggling awkwardly anymore. Now she looked warm. Confident. Playful. Movie-star charming.
She grabbed his hand smoothly as the chorus echoed around them.
All alone, I sit home by the phone
Waiting for you, baby
And Michael completely forgot there were cameras around.
Because Y/N kept smiling at him like that. Like he was genuinely the prettiest thing she’d ever seen. And that unfortunately made him blush. Hard.
Paul clocked it instantly. “Our boy is gone!,” he yelled over the music.
Michael shot him an offended look while still dancing. “I am NOT.”
“You’re blushing at the camera, though!”
Y/N burst out laughing at that, which only made Michael blushes get worse. Because now she looked delighted by how flustered he was.
“Closer! Closer together!” Bob yelled.
Y/N obeyed immediately, one hand sliding lightly up Michael’s chest as part of the choreography while she spun beneath his arm.
Michael felt his soul leaving his body. Gone. Nothing behind the eyes.
The man looked too stunned to speak.
Y/N noticed and the menace returned.
She leaned closer during the next chorus, smiling innocently at him.
“You okay there, prince charming?”
Michael nearly missed the beat entirely. He gulped and nodded lightly.
Paul grabbed onto a nearby table wheezing. “I haven’t been this entertained in so long!” He told no one in particular. “Oh, Linda is going to love this!”
Michael tried recovering. ‘Tried’ being the keyword.
Because then Y/N tilted her head slightly, still dancing with him beneath the saloon lights, and said:
“You know what? I’m done pretending.”
Michael blinked. “…Pretending what?”
Y/N pointed at him dramatically while still moving perfectly to the music.
“You are an actual Disney prince.” She stated.
Paul went completely silent from where he stood.
Michael just stared at her.
Y/N kept going confidently despite the fact her stomach was doing back flips.
“You have the hair, the eyes, the dramatic little outfits—”
“My outfits are not dramatic.”
“Oh please! You look like woodland creatures help you get dressed.”
Michael fully broke.
Actually broke.
He bent laughing helplessly mid-performance, one hand grabbing her waist to steady himself while the other covered his face.
Not cool laughter either. Real laughter. The kind that made his shoulders shake and tummy hurt.
The cameras kept rolling because Bob Giraldi was screaming: “KEEP FILMING KEEP FILMING—”
Y/N pointed at him triumphantly. “See?”
Michael shook his head trying unsuccessfully to recover.
“You are unbelievable.”
“Oh, and you love it.” She teased him. “A little bird told me you kept replaying the scenes in my latest movie where I smiled!”
Michael looked back at her then.
Still laughing.
Still pink-cheeked.
Still holding her waist loosely from the dance.
And very quietly—
“I did, actually.”
That shut her up immediately.
Paul watched the entire thing unfold with the expression of a man witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion.
Then slowly started backing away. “Nope,” he muttered. “I’m leaving before one of you starts writing poetry.”
“This is actually your fault!” Y/N yelled after him.
“Correct!” Paul shouted proudly while retreating toward the monitors.
By the time he reached Linda, she looked up curiously from her chair.
“Well?” she asked. “Are they lovers yet?”
Paul glanced back toward the dance floor where Michael and Y/N were still standing way too close together smiling like complete idiots while the music replayed around them.
“ in which you (y/n) realize that your new boyfriend otw!michael will do literally anything for you, even without you asking. ”
ִ ᝰ word count: 1.9k
.ᐟ warnings & disclaimers: michael is a simp & a trick, manipulative and disapproving j*e, michael is terrified of him, y/n is a protective gf, y/n teaches him how to say no.
✐ a/n: just saw michael (2026) again and felt maternal toward otw era!michael…
─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─
michael was sitting on the edge of the couch, writing down lyrics that suddenly spawned into his mind. he scratched his head, thinking of the chorus as he quietly beatboxed to himself. his hair was styled into a neat, kinky afro with a flawless sheen. he was wearing a cream button-down shirt tucked into his dark wash levis that clung to his lean frame, and stark white socks that grooved beneath the table.
you walked into the living room carrying a bowl of freshly washed grapes. from a distance, anyone would look at you and assume you were just his sweet little girlfriend. you had a soft smile, soft curls, a graceful stride, and an aura that suggested you wouldn’t dare swat a fly. but michael knew better. behind that sweet exterior lived a fiercely independent, outspoken woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind or challenge him. in a world full of yes-men, he was enthralled by your assertive nature.
you sat down next to him, popping a grape into your mouth. michael instantly turned toward you, his sculpted dimples appearing as his face broke into that gorgeous, boyish smile. those huge, round eyes—looking exactly like two perfect boba pearls—blinked at you with an adoring warmth.
"hey, y/n," he murmured, putting his pencil down immediately, his voice extra soft when he was feeling particularly shy. "can i have one?"
you held the bowl out, watching him select a grape with his long, slender fingers. as you watched him, a thought that had been lingering in your mind for the past week began to take shape. lately, you had noticed a pattern in your new relationship. michael did whatever you told him, and his aversion to confrontation was so deeply ingrained that it manifested as total, unquestioning compliance whenever you spoke to him with even a shred of authority. he didn’t even like making tough business decisions and would rather make them through someone else.
it had started three days ago during a silly debate about a trivia question. he had been so confident in his incorrect answer, laughing and teasing you.
jokingly, you had rolled your eyes and said, "alright, michael, if you're wrong, you owe me three thousand dollars."
he had grinned, mindlessly smoothing his hair back, and then looked completely stunned when you proved him wrong. you had laughed it off and forgotten about it within five minutes. but the next morning, when you woke up, there was a neatly written personal check for exactly $3,000 lying on his nightstand, signed in his elegant, looping cursive. when you confronted him about it, completely baffled, he had just blinked those big eyes and said, "but you won the bet, y/n. i have to give it to you."
your car struggled to start up last month, and then two days later, it was mysteriously fixed. if you were crazy, you would’ve thought it was replaced with a new car. you later found out through jackie that michael got your car fixed after overhearing you complain about it to latoya.
then, yesterday, he had been pacing around the room, nervously rambling about a stressful phone call with his management.
without thinking, your feisty streak took over and you snapped, "ugh, shut up and sit down. you're making me dizzy."
instead of arguing back at you, michael had stopped dead in his tracks. his talking slowed to a halt, and he sat down on the nearest chair like a well-trained puppy.
sitting next to him now, looking at the man who was currently conquering the entire planet, a profound wave of protectiveness washed over you. michael was a multimillionaire and a global phenomenon, but behind closed doors, he was completely defenseless.
if i were a bad girlfriend, you thought to yourself, a chill running down your spine, i could completely drain him. i could ask for a house, a car, a million dollars, and he would just write the check and smile. he would just earn it right back anyway, treating his vast fortune like a never-ending supply of candy to spoil his loved ones. but you knew better. you had a moral compass, and you loved him for him, not his bank account.
but michael didn't know better—even at twenty two. he was entirely at your mercy.
"what are you thinkin’, minnie?" michael asked, breaking your train of thought. he started calling you by that adorable nickname when marlon referred to michael as the mickey to your minnie one day when your hair was styled in two puffs. he leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. "i wanna know.”
you turned your head to look at him, letting out a soft sigh. "mike, do you realize that you literally do anything i tell you to do?"
he blinked, looking genuinely confused. "what d’ya mean? i just want to make you happy."
"no, it's more than that," you said, your voice firming up as your outspoken nature took the driver's seat. "michael, you're a grown man. you can't just let people order you around. what if i was using you?"
michael let out a soft chuckle through his nose, and reached out to gently play with a strand of your hair. "but you're not using me. you're my girl. i know your heart."
"that's not the point!" you said, slapping his hand away playfully but keeping your expression serious.
"the point is that you don't know how to say no to me. you just capitulate to whatever I say.”
michael’s smile faltered slightly, his gaze dropping to his lap. his fingers aimlessly traced the seam of his jeans.
"i just wanna keep you happy…" he muttered fiddling with his fingers. you barely caught what he said, but you heard him faintly which softened your expression.
he swallowed hard, refusing your eye contact. even though you two were fresh into your relationship, you were well aware of the dynamic within the jackson clan. joseph jackson was always in his son's ear, a hovering, aggressive presence trying to dictate how michael should handle his money and his women.
"joseph was talking to me again this morning," michael admitted quietly, his voice dropping so low you had to lean in to hear him. "he told me i was being foolish. he said... well, he used some harsh words. he thinks everyone is out to take what i have."
“you see son, gettin’ all the broads ain’t the problem—no that ain’t the problem...” joe started unintentionally cornering michael in front of the kitchen fridge with a wicked grin plastered across his face.
michael internally cringed at the way he often described women—as if they were nothing.
“but you givin’ them yo’ money is. i done told you the jacksons don’t pay or beg for pussy. i know you doing both, boy!” he declared, his serpent eyes narrowing into michael’s. his voice boomed as michael shivered at his usage of vulgar words and close proximity.
he took a step closer with his mouth slightly ajar—a natural habit of his— as michael instinctively took a small, quick step back, and was now pressed against the fridge. he loathed being cornered.
he reached out to playfully hit michael’s shoulder causing the color to drain from the timid man’s face as he froze and tensed up immediately. as his infamous hand collided with michael’s shoulder, joe chuckled before scoffing at the way he reacted to his touch.
“for a minute, i thought you went sweet on me. you wouldn’t never talk about no girls like your brothers did.” he continued speaking lower this time. michael’s face hardened realizing what his father meant.
he chuckled before taking a step back and dusting off nonexistent lint on michael’s shirt. his neck was pushed forward and his shoulders slumped, indicating his old age, yet he still spoke to michael like how he did in his forties.
“keep that new girl of yours in check. she don’t want you for real no way.”
a fiery spark of anger ignited in your chest. you hated the way his father spoke to him, treating michael’s innate generosity like a weakness to be exploited or a sin to be ashamed of.
"well, your father can mind his own business," you said sharply, your voice cutting through the room with defensive heat. "first of all, i didn't ask for that money, and second of all, you are a twenty-two year old man who earns his own living. you can do whatever you want with your money."
michael looked up at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and profound admiration. he loved when you got riled up, especially when that energy was directed at protecting him. it was a feeling he had never experienced before—someone standing in front of him like a shield.
"you look so sweet, but you're like a little tiger." he murmured, a tiny, tentative dimple appearing on his cheek.
"i'm serious, michael," you said keeping your eyes locked onto his.
"your father is wrong about everything, but he's right about one thing: people will try to take advantage of you. you're too giving."
you reached out, cupping his jawline with your soft hand. his skin was warm, and he instinctively leaned his face into your palm, closing his eyes for a brief second.
"i need you to promise me something," you whispered.
he opened his eyes, looking at you with complete devotion. "anything, y/n. you know i will."
"don't say 'anything'!" you scolded gently, shaking your head.
"that's exactly what i'm talking about! if i ever tell you to do something that makes you uncomfortable, you will look me in the eye and tell me 'no.' can you do that?"
michael stared at you, the depth of your request settling into his mind. he was used to women asking him for jewelry, for clothes, for cars, for access to his fame. he was used to his father demanding his financial backing. but here you were, using your influence over him to demand that he build a wall against you.
"i... i'll try," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.
"no, not try. promise me, michael.”
he swallowed, his chest rising and falling slowly. he looked at you, realizing how incredibly lucky he was to have found you.
"i promise, y/n. i'll tell you no if it's too much."
"good," you smiled, leaning forward to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips. his mouth was soft and welcoming, tasting faintly of the grapes you had been sharing.
when you pulled back, the emotional tension lifted, and the usual starry glint returned to his eyes. he let out a joyful chuckle, his large hands reaching out to wrap around yours. you giggled as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his soft afro tickling your skin.
"you're a wild thang," he teased, his voice muffled against your skin as he planted a string of butterfly kisses along your jawline. "my mother would say you wear the pants."
"somebody has to wear them around here," you shot back, looping your arms around his neck, leaning into the comfort of his embrace.
"since you wanna give away the world and stuff." you nudged his forearm playfully.
"i don't want to give away the world," michael murmured, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression turning incredibly sweet, his dimples cutting deep into his caramel cheeks.
"i just want t’give it to you. because you're the only one who doesn't want it, truly.”
you looked at him, your heart pumping with unwavering love and devotion. you knew the journey ahead of him was going to be long and complicated as his fame reached heights no human had ever seen before. but as long as you were by his side, you would be his voice and his protector.
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