“What do you need, tell me. Tell me so that I can do it, tell me.” Some love stories start with once upon a time. Yours didn’t.
SUMMARY: Steve Harrington wasn't built to fall in love and let it stick. And neither was Jim Hopper's oldest daughter.
You're beautiful damage control in combat boots. He's a pretty boy bandaid with good hair and the stupidest heart on earth. You were meant to fight side by side, as alliances, as friends. Not fall apart in each other's mouths.
But coping with trauma is funny like that.
One minute you're patching up Steve Harrington's beaten up face on the floor of your safe house, the hideaway cabin. the next, he's pressing you up against the wall like it's the only way to keep breathing. You let him into the part of your bedroom that still feels like it’s on fire, while he lets you in on the part of him that never stopped bleeding. And it's never stopped since you stitched his wounds back together, only to remind him of the wounds that’s been left abandoned… until you licked them.
Your friends don't know. The kids can't know. And it's impressive, really, how long you two have managed to keep this up. Given how many nights end with his gasps down your throat, sharp as a prayer, as you bite into his shoulder so that El doesn't wake up in her bedroom. That's the unspoken rule: no getting caught. The two of you've got more of those things, these so-called rules that continue going unsaid.
It's adorable you think you're following them.
Because the truth is, somewhere in the midst of monster madness and blood and blackout sex, between all of the silence and all the secrets, you and Steve become something else entirely. Even though you sleep like strangers around the kids and your friends, but whisper like lovers behind closed doors.
You know Steve kisses when he's angry. He knows you cry when you're still pretending that you're fine.
But the dangerous part is, this was supposed to be one night after survival. A coping mechanism. A way of asking the other what they need, and giving it to them before going back to normal the next day.
Steve waits for you to walk away from him, just like Nancy did. Little does he know, you're waiting for him to give you up when it becomes too much. Because as soon as it's real, you know it's over. It always is... isn't it? 🖤
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This has been sitting in my drafts for way too long and finally came into fruition. But it also became a very long, unorthodox one-shot (because it's a four-part, “one-shot... “with a finale… and an epilogue… smh I can't behave or follow rules).
If you like reading heavy plot-driven smut and suspense that revolves around two strangers forced into friendship and alliance becoming the most tragically complex, hopelessly codependent fwb's, specifically centered around Steve Harrington and Jim Hopper's daughter, then you're in the right place. Throw in dry, morbid humor, tag-teaming as babysitters, jealousy, trauma, and an unhealthy coping mechanism that only feels strangely right, you've got this story from the darkest corners of my brain. I didn't expect to fall so devastatingly in love with these two, but I did. This pairing is weirdly a new source of comfort for me, and I kinda put them through the ringer but like... there's a lot of self-indulgent comfort to balance the pathological, ghastly gore that I put everyone through before they make it to the other side.
Xx misha
p.s. it's over 200k+ words oopstwenty-one chapters & an epilogue
[4] parts -> the finale [2-parts] -> the epilogue
“What’s there to talk about? We freak out, we cope, we move on.”
Steve did what he does best: deflect.
Nancy fell out of love with him after he asked to keep her. So if he doesn’t ask you, then you won’t go fuck off and fall in love with someone else.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
1984 📕
PART 1
♡ Shotgun Rides to What Will Never End
♡ Tell Me What You Need
♡ It’s Fine How It Is, Isn’t It?
1985 📗
PART 2
♡ The Cruel Comforts of Summer: Movie Nights
♡ The Cruel Comforts of Summer: Ohio…?
♡ The Cruel Comforts of Summer: Girl Dad Mode
♡ The Cruel Comforts of Summer: Movie Nights
1985 📗
PART 3
♡ The Cruel Comforts of Summer: The End of Beginning
Did I binge this while sitting at my desk at work? I’m not saying I didn’t. This had me in a chokehold. And I may never recover. Steve Harrington the man you are.
personal reblogs/reviews like this make me melt && smile && look back on past work with so much love && inspire/motivate me to keep writing && make me wanna hug each + every one of you through my phone/laptop/desktop
please know that i’m honored to be on your screen at your work desk (allegedly of course, allegedly) 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤
Steve Harrington x fem!reader
[18.7k] prompt: "Can I kiss you?" Childhood friends to lovers, growing up together, that damn garden gate, a slow burn like summer.
1979. Fever dream high in the quiet of the night.
When you were twelve years old, you moved to Hawkins, Indiana: population twelve thousand.
It had cedar lined streets, an old town hall, an outdoor pool behind a chain link fence, one supermarket and a boy next door called Steve Harrington.
You saw him from your bedroom window, his across from yours, the house your parents bought only a stone's throw away from his. He waved at you through the glass, smile wide, hair messy and wild. He had a scrape on his cheek from falling off his bike, a poster above his bed for a band you’d never heard of.
The next morning, he knocked on your front door and asked you if you wanted to go to the arcade with him. You rode on the back of his bike, hands clutching his shoulders, eyes bright and wide and Steve shared a slushie with you, tongues raspberry blue, cheeks sticky and sun kissed.
He taught you how to play pac man, hands already so much bigger than yours when he slid them over your own, joystick between your fingers, laughter bubbling in your chest when you won.
Steve came back the next morning, and the next, the days bleeding into one long summer in a new town that was all wheat fields and quarries, dust roads and white picket fences.
Then a year later, a week after your thirteenth birthday, you came home from your grandparents in the new dress your parents bought you, a pretty, sunflower yellow thing that fell to your knees and fluttered when you spun.
You ran straight to the Harrington’s house, one hand knocking impatiently on the door, the other holding the box of sugar cookies you had insisted on saving and taking home to Steve.
You weren’t sure when it had happened, not really. But at some point over the course of twelve months, Steve Harrington had become your best friend. It happened the way summer did, a slow roll into warmth and blue skies, the familiarity of seeing him every day, the same way the sun slipped through the cracks in your bedroom window shutters.
He was bike rides, fresh banana muffins from the bakery on Main Street, water balloon fights when you were supposed to be in bed, running in the back yard as your parents shared wine and barbecue dinners. He got taller, his hair got wilder and you both got closer.
Steve opened the door, smile wide, eyes bright, just for you. He took a cookie and your hand, leading you to his bedroom as his parents yelled out their greetings from the kitchen and you tumbled into his room, chest bursting with how happy you were ‘cause the entire car ride home, you had been so excited to see Steve.
Steve had too many pillows on his too big bed, a guitar in the corner, a basketball shirt in a frame above his desk. There were books lining shelves, a stereo on his dresser and towers of cassette tapes. His room always smelled like fresh air and boy, something minty, the summer sneaking in from his always open window, the chlorine from the pool below.
He’d turned to you then, eyes wide and cheeks blushing, taking in your bare shins with their new bruises, one from falling in your skates, the other from tripping outside the library. Steve was yet to turn fourteen but he decided then that yellow was his favourite colour, buttercup bright, that deep rich shade that was painted on your dress.
“You look like a princess,” he said earnestly, voice soft with embarrassment ‘cause Kyle from school said it wasn’t cool to be best friends with a girl.
Steve had told him to shut up, brows knitted together, cheeks blushing and he’d spent that rest of recess so confused, ‘cause the boy thought you were the coolest person he knew.
You flushed at his words, nose scrunched and you picked at the hem of your dress, dipping into a clumsy curtsy, the way all the Disney princess did on the tapes your mom let you watch.
“Thanks,” you beamed, all teeth and sore cheeks ‘cause Steve always made you smile real hard.
You felt nervous then, wondering where you and your yellow sundress fit into Steve’s room, but the moment broke, that unfamiliar jitter in your stomach disappeared Steve tugged you down onto his navy blue carpet, NES console beeping as it came to life and he handed you the extra controller, smile bright.
The day turned to night too quickly, the way it always did when you were with Steve, and soon enough the Harrington’s phone was ringing and Steve’s mom was yelling up the stairs, telling you it was time to go home for dinner.
Steve walked you out like he always did, shoulders touching as you both hurried down the stairs, eyes tired from the TV screen, fingers sticky from sugar cookies. The sun was just starting to set, the world outside was hazy and peach coloured, lavender clouds low in the sky and everything smelled like cut grass and your mom’s lemon trees.
Steve walked you to where his lawn met yours, the streets tired and empty ‘cause the summer heat was still lingering, making the air heavy and sweet. You watched as the boy chewed his lip, uncharacteristically nervous, backs of hands brushing as you walked across the grass, damp blades brushing your bare ankles and you wondered why your best friend's cheeks were so pink.
“Paul Matthews kissed Gemma Kennedy under the bleachers,” he suddenly blurted out, and you frowned, lips twisting.
“He did?” You asked, unsure of why this news was being shared. You didn’t like Paul Matthews, he was annoying and never gave anyone else a shot of the swings at recess. “What’d he say?”
Steve shrugged, all boyish and innocent. “He said it was kinda gross.”
“Gross,” you repeated, features scrunched. “Why’d Gemma wanna kiss him anyways? Paul smells like gym socks.”
Steve snorted, a shoulder bumping into yours. You could smell your dad’s pasta from the open kitchen window, the pop of a bottle being opened, soft music from one of your mom’s favourite bands.
“Do I smell like gym socks?” The boy asked, suddenly self conscious and you poked at his ribs, head shaking.
“No,” you told him earnestly, voice all quiet and sweet ‘cause it was like you were both the only two in Hawkins at that moment. “You smell nice. Like cookies and bubblegum.”
He grinned, too pleased with your assessment and before you hopped over the flowerbed that split your home with Steve’s, he caught your hand, palm a little clammy.
He murmured your name, voice shy and it made your tummy tumble in a way that you still didn’t understand, not properly, not yet.
You turned, eyes wide ‘cause you were both reaching an age where boys and girls didn’t really hold hands playing in the street anymore, and if they did, it meant something else. It made kids whisper in the playground, pass notes in the classroom and suddenly watching the older students kiss each other at their lockers didn’t seem as icky.
“Have you kissed anyone?” Steve asked you, voice laced with curiosity.
You flushed, heart raging, pulse picking up ‘cause you hadn’t and suddenly it felt like the most embarrassing thing in the world. But Steve still had his hand over yours and he squeezed your fingers a little tighter, and something about it felt so reassuring, like he’d keep every secret you gifted him.
“No.” A pause, a worry, a flutter of nerves. “Have you?”
Were you supposed to? Was a boy meant to like you now? Has Steve kissed a girl? Have you missed something monumental?
“No.”
Oh. A beat of silence that seemed to stretch an age.
“Can I kiss you?”
Oh.
“You wanna kiss me?” You asked, lashes blinking slow, mouth parted. You could taste the sugar cookies you’d shared with Steve still melting on your tongue. “Me?”
Steve stumbled over his words, cheeks flushed rose and he licked at his lips, unsure of what to say ‘cause Jesus Christ he was thirteen years old and had no idea what he was doing. But he remembered something that Paul had said to him, legs kicking as they sat on the swings together, sun beating down on their backs.
“Wish I had kissed Kimmy Cheng instead,” the boy had said, somewhat thoughtful, brows scrunched. “I really like Kimmy, maybe that would’ve made it better.”
It had made Steve think then, chewing at his cheek ‘cause the only girl he really liked was you, his best friend. You didn’t make him nervous, and when the movies you watched with him got too scary, you held his hand, face behind a pillow and he didn’t hate that. Not at all.
“I mean, I guess?” Steve mumbled and god, he didn’t understand why his stomach was flipping over, that same feeling he got when he decided he was gonna climb that old oak tree over by Fifth, the one that was too high, that had thick branches that swallowed the world below your feet. “Would be easier if our first kiss was with each other. Might be less embarrassin’, y’know?”
That made sense, you thought, ‘cause you really didn’t want another boy telling everyone your kisses were gross and Steve wouldn’t make fun of you if you were bad at it, would he?
“Okay.” You said decisively, and you took a deep breath, wondering why your heart was beating so fast, the same way it did when Steve went too fast on his bike, your fingers digging crescent moons into his shoulders, eyes tearing up at the whipping find, hair covering your face and his. “Now?”
“Now?” He repeated eyes wide and then he swore, quiet, ‘cause he wasn’t supposed to and his hand readjusted his grip on yours, palms clammy and fingers linking.
You hadn’t held hands like that before. It felt different, a little funny, closer.
But before you could comment on it, the boy was leading you between the two houses, the air warm and trapped between bricks and he opened his garden gate, feet clumsy as you both half ran down the skinny strip of yard at the side of his home.
It was overgrown there, the little hidden patch of long grass and wildflowers that grew underneath Steve’s bedroom window and it smelled like honeysuckle and lavender. You could hear the trickle of the pool, your mom’s music and the setting sun cut through the slats in the fences in stripes, lighting you both up with gold and bronze.
It smelled like summer, you decided, the perfect July day and when Steve spun to face you, you let out a noise of surprise. You were happy to notice that he seemed nervous too, teeth pulling at his bottom lip, hand tugging through his already wild hair.
But you were both hidden there, in the edges of the garden, stolen away from the rest of the town and out of sight of your parents. It felt like the biggest secret of all, one to lock away in the depths of your journal and this felt so much more than giving away the last cookie, more than backseat bike rides and a handmade friendship bracelet, more than sleepovers on Steve’s living room floor, heads touching when you fell asleep.
“What do we do?” you asked, nothing more than a soft whisper.
Steve shrugged, heart rattling against his ribcage and he licked his bottom lip and stumbled a little closer. The toes of his trainers touched your sandals and he was already a little taller than you but he blinked, gaze settling on you from underneath thick, dark lashes and you gulped.
“I don’t really know,” Steve murmured, hands flexing by his sides ‘cause he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hold yours, or place them on your sides, your shoulders.
He shoved them in his pockets instead, hiding the way they shook a little with nerves and he gasped when you moved closer still, knees bumping clumsy against his own and he could count the freckles on your nose, and he wondered if they matched the ones on his skin, a present from long summer days outside.
“Will I just-?” Steve’s voice cracked and he flushed but you didn’t mention it, you didn’t laugh, you never did. “Should I?”
You weren’t sure what possessed you, maybe all the sugar you’d consumed, maybe it was the heat of sun on your shoulders, maybe it was the way your tummy was rolling with nerves and worry but you grasped at Steve’s shoulders, pushing yourself up onto your toes and pressed your lips to the boy’s without any sort of announcement.
Another gasp, warm skin, nails digging into arms, two pairs of eyes wide, noses bumping.
It lasted a few seconds, maybe less. But your lips were tingling when you pulled away, cheeks a new kind of hot and Steve looked a little shellshocked. You both rocked on your heels into the grass, too tall lavender brushing against your shins and then the boy smiled, a burst of sunshine in the shadows, and he looked delighted.
You were sure your ears were burning, the tips feeling hot and when you looked at Steves, you found his were pink too. You beamed, a nervous giggle, a laugh that got caught in your chest and when you heard your mom’s voice call from the back door - so close to where you were both still standing - you jumped, two kids trying not to be caught doing something they shouldn't.
The garden gate squeaked when you ran back through it, the hinges calling after you and you smelled like a bouquet of flowers as you ran across both lawns, feet tripping over your front porch as you ran inside.
Something pretty bloomed in between the spaces of your bones that day, when Steve Harrington decided that you were both going to be each other's first kiss. It stayed there, for so much longer than you thought it would. You’d always remember it as brown sugar and vanilla, lavender and honeysuckle, feeling brave, honey coloured eyes and complete and utter innocence.
1981. Devils roll their dice, angels roll their eyes, what doesn’t kill me makes me want you more.
You didn’t even want to go to the party, you didn’t even like Karen Vincent and you were damn sure she didn’t like you. You knew you were only invited because of Steve, a slip of pink paper passed to you after Karen and her friend Shauna slid between you and the boy at his locker, hands on his chest, on his arm.
You’d wrinkled your nose at it all, fingertips gripping the invite like a ticking time bomb but the girls had learnt the hard way that Steve wouldn’t show if you weren’t welcomed too.
It’s how you found yourself crammed into the Vincent’s basement with too many other fifteen year olds, the music making the walls vibrate, the punch bowl spiked with something that shouldn’t have been mixed with fruit juice and god, it was too warm.
It was just past ten o’clock and your parents wanted you home for eleven, which meant that, by default, that was Steve’s curfew too. You’d both been allowed to walk home on the condition that you stuck together and kept to the main roads, the summer months making the nights light enough that you could see both the sun and the moon in the sky, the clouds a hazy orange as they sunk into the horizon.
You’d spoke to a few kids you shared some classes with, avoided the snack table and its fizzing punch bowl, the concoction no longer the same colour it was when Karen’s mom poured it. And then there was a pop of a bottle cork, splashes of spilled liquid on the already sticky floors, some cheers and a circle was made.
Fuck.
“Seven minutes in heaven!” Yelled a boy you didn’t really know, some kid from the same basketball team as Steve, “let’s go losers!”
There was a symphony of wolf whistles and giggles as kids piled into the middle of the room, coffee tables and armchairs pushed out of the way in favour of a seat on the floor, knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder with their classmates, eyes wide and searching for their next possible date to the arcade.
“Harrington!” the same boy called out, “get in here!”
Steve appeared beside you, hand brushing gently on your elbow and you frowned without meaning to, wondering why it’d taken him so long to return from the bathroom. But then you saw Karen by his other side, lips glossy and smacking blue bubblegum, eyes sharp on you as she grinned.
“Are you playing Steve?” she asked, lashes blinking, voice coy.
You grimaced, already taking a step back from the ever growing circle. Someone was placing the now empty bottle in the middle and you eyed the closet door across the room like an old nemesis. Your stomach was twirling, and it wasn’t from all the pizza rolls but the smell of chocolate pretzels and red vines wasn’t helping.
But Steve’s hand curled around your arm, still gentle, but he could read you like a book. He tsked, his smile playful but eyes gentle, as if he could feel the nerves radiate off of you. Maybe he could, maybe he could hear the way your heart rattled inside your chest, louder than the music, deeper than the bass.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he admonished, crowding into you a little so he could find your ear with his mouth. He was so much taller than you now, the top of your head barely reaching his chin and you scowled, knowing what was coming. “Where you goin’ princess?”
“Home,” you told him stubbornly and you suddenly hated the way your denim skirt was sticking to your thighs, too constricting, too warm.
You heard him sigh, making a noise that only a best friend could, the sound of someone being done with your shit but loving you nonetheless. You moved backwards, hips bumping into the table that was piled high with empty red cups and the boy followed, a puppy at your feet, the same way it had been for three years now.
“Aw c’mon,” Steve groaned, “if you go home, I gotta leave too and you promised me you’d stay until curfew.”
You huffed, arms crossed protectively over your chest, ‘cause you hated the way people were starting to stare. They always did with you and Steve, especially when he touched you like, so casually, so gently.
“I can leave on my own, Steve, I’m a big girl.”
No you weren’t. You were fifteen and still scared of the dark after Steve made you watch Day Of The Dead when both of your parents were out late at the new Italian restaurant just outside of town.
But then, a poke to your arm, your cheek, the end of your nose. You swatted at him, hiding your smile between a press of your lips.
“You know my mom would kill me if I let you walk home alone,” he grumbled but it was soft, still gentle. “Fuck, your mom would kill me after.”
“You can’t be killed twice, stupid,” you said but it lacked heat, an excuse to say something other than agreeing to a game you didn’t wanna play.
He still knew you too well, scoffing at your evasion, hand curling warm around your wrist and pulling you back to the party, back to him, bodies bumping in a too close proximity that became more tense with every year that you got older.
It was becoming harder to ignore that your best friend was pretty. You were sure he’d wrinkle his nose at your choice of adjective but Steve grew up and missed the awkward stage, shoulders broad at the same time he grew a foot, wild hair becoming only a little tamer, more product in it and eyes still warm and brown, a new dimple in his cheek you loved to press your finger into.
You’d heard the other girls in your year call him hot, a total babe, whispered through giggles in the locker room. But your best friend still looked at you all soft, the same way he did before he gave you his first kiss and he took yours, pressed against the honeysuckle in his backyard. He teased gently, took your hand when the streets got too dark and you were both late for curfew, pressed a foot over yours under the dinner table when your mom started talking about test results and extra curriculars.
Steve was still your best friend. But he was really, really pretty.
“There he is! Harrington!” Another boy - Jake someone, from your English class - had forced his way through the crowd to clap a hand on each of your shoulders, pushing you both into the circle. “And you brought your princess, how ‘bout that, huh?”
You flushed, with both annoyance and embarrassment, ‘cause one day when you were all still twelve, Steve spotted you across the park, hands twisting around a basketball as he took in another new dress you wore and called you a princess again. It just so happened that his friends had heard it too.
His nickname for you never left, but neither did your classmate's memory of the incident.
And then Steve’s hand was ripped from your arm, bodies separating you both and he was manhandled to the one side of the circle, you to the other, shoulders squished between a boy and a girl you vaguely recognised from gym class, maybe biology too. It was warmer on the floor, heat and teenage hormones gathering sticky between too close bodies, the smell of cheap aftershave and someone’s mom’s perfume mixing with Kool-Aid and sprite.
“Okay so! You guys know the rules!” Karen was standing from her spot in the circle, suspiciously opposite to Steve, eyes wide and hands animated as she gestured to the closet door on the other side of the room. “Spin the bottle and whoever it lands on is all yours for a whole seven minutes.”
The group giggled, excitement rippling through the circle, bodies shuffling, overflowing cups spilling.
You panicked, scanning the line of faces until you found Steve’s, his eyes already on yours, knowing and soft. He was mouthing something to you, silent underneath the music and chatter.
“It’s okay.”
But then Jake was shoving a hand to Steve’s shoulder, urging him into the middle of the circle with a raucous cheer that only teenage boys could make, the rest of the basketball team joining in and Steve bowed his head, lips twisting into an almost smile that he couldn’t really hide.
You watched as every girl perked up like a meerkat, backs straight, hair twisted around fingers, elbows digging into competitors that tried to make their space in the circle more known.
Your stomach rolled again and it only got worse when Steve spun the bottle and the glass flashed green in the centre, bodies bowing forward to see where it would land.
It sounded like you were underwater, excited voices and yells sounding far away, dulled with the thump of the music. The bottle had spun and spun and spun, landing on you with such precise finality that Karen audibly groaned.
You looked up, Steve’s eyes wide on yours, lips parted and cheeks pink. Before either of you could speak, before you could shake your head or grab your jacket from the sofa and run up the basement stairs, your hand was grabbed by Jake, lips stretched wide and voice booming.
“King Steve and the princess!” He cheered and his excitement was echoed by your classmates, hollers and whoops following you as the boy grabbed Steve with his other hand and the three of you were tripping over stretched legs and forgotten bottles, heading for that fucking closet door.
“Wait!” You said, voice sharp and god, you could hear the panic there.
You couldn’t kiss Steve. You didn’t want to kiss Steve. You shouldn’t kiss Steve.
But Jake ignored you and the music was turned up a little louder again as the rest of the party lounged on their spaces on the floor, heads turned and tilted to watch you both with interest, and your arms only found Steve’s chest when the door was yanked open and a few sets of strange hands shoved you both in.
The door closed, a gust of air, a click, the muffled sounds of the party locked away behind wood. It was dark, musty and your foot hit a shoe rack, your back against a bundle of winter coats that had been retired for the summer.
“M’sorry,” Steve whispered and you knew he was referring to making you stay. You could’ve been half way home by now, trainers scuffing the edges of the sidewalk, fresh air kissing your cheeks. “Didn’t think it would land on you.”
You grunted an unladylike response as your eyes adjusted to the low light, a sliver of warm white coming in from the cracks on the door hinges, letting you see the way the boy was looking at you guiltily.
“Whatever,” you grumbled ‘cause you really didn’t want to kiss your best friend but you hated the way Steve sounded disappointed at the idea.
You weren’t sure how long you could keep lying to yourself, but you were certain you had another few years in you.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he said, voice still soft, as if anyone outside of the closet could possibly hear the music and yelling. “S’not like we have to kiss.”
You snorted, chest sore in a way that felt like rejection and you hated how it stung. You looked at Steve, his eyes still on you as he shoved a hand into his jeans pocket, another raking through his hair in a way you knew all too well. He was nervous, agitated.
“Sorry I’m not Karen Vincent,” you snarked and god, you hated the way you sounded jealous, you hated the way the words burned your tongue but Steve didn’t pick up on it. There was nothing to pick up. “Promise this wasn’t some sort of elaborate cockblocking plan.”
It was Steve’s turn to laugh, a huff of air that hit your cheek ‘cause he was so close and he was all cheap beer, gummy worms and hair gel.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the boy mumbled but there was a teasing to his voice, a not so serious lilt.
You pressed your fist into his arm anyway, a hardly there punch that packed no heat and he poked his finger into your side in retaliation. You swatted at him, glaring ‘cause he knew you were ticklish and all the movement sent an empty shoe box hurtling down from a shelf above you both.
“I do not cockblock you,” you pouted, almost offended.
“Not on purpose.” Steve snorted, “Took me all of freshman year to get everyone to believe you weren’t my girlfriend.”
You scrunched your nose at the memory of it, boy’s catcalling you from afar, whispers when you and Steve walked to school together every morning, the unappreciative glares from the girls who wanted him instead.
“Whatever,” you mumbled again. “How long left?”
“It’s only been like, a minute, jeez, that bad being stuck with me princess?” Steve’s voice was teasing and his hand snuck out to grab at your waist again, touch familiar, but his fingers were tickling, poking gently at the spaces between your ribs and you wriggled against him, knees bumping off of skis and old bikes.
“Yes,” you lied and the boy knew, ‘cause you could see the way the light through the crack lit up the curve of his grin.
“Besides, we’ve kissed before,” Steve suddenly said, cautious and soft. His hand was still on you, cupping your elbow to hold you near and it slid down to grasp your wrist. He shrugged, eyes on the floor. “Remember?”
You warmed at the memory, wondering why on earth Steve had to bring it up now when you had both never mentioned it since.
“Of course I do,” you huffed, hating the way you sounded bothered. “It wasn’t that long ago. And it hardly even counted.”
Steve scowled, his hurt puppy expression painted across his features. Big, brown eyes set you in place with a stare. “It did so count,” he grumbled, “you were my first kiss.”
“And you were mine,” you fired back, as if this was suddenly an argument that you had to win. Steve always let you win.
“Have you kissed anyone else?” His voice was full of curiosity, void of any embarrassment, not like the way you felt when he asked you such questions.
It made you flush, eyes wide and lips parting, as if you weren’t supposed to say, as if you weren’t supposed to let him know. Steve had told you about his kiss with Lucy Greeves, behind the bike shed, a few months back.
He’d told you it was wet and she tasted like the chocolate milk she’d had at lunch. You remembered how he’d thrown himself into your pile of teddies and pillows at the foot of your bed, expression thoughtful as he told you he didn’t really like chocolate milk all that much.
Then there was Samantha Duncan the year before, a game of truth or dare at the skatepark when the sun started to set and your curfews got a little later. You didn’t watch when Steve leaned into the middle of the circle, friends giggling as he pressed his lips quick to the other girls.
“Just Miles Campbell,” you muttered, gaze lowered and set on the floor because you could feel the mischief bristle off of the boy as you spoke.
“Miles Campbell?!” He crowed, voice boisterous and no longer quiet. “He’s a giant, what did you do, climb a step ladder- ow!”
You pushed at Steve’s shoulder, face aflame. “Shut up! If you have to know, Harrington, we were sitting down.” You sounded haughty, but you didn’t care, ‘cause the boy was still laughing.
Steve settled down, a dopey smile just on his lips and despite his teasing, his eyes were fond. Your sides bumped as he shifted, too close and not enough space in the small closet and you were so, so aware that your gaze was level with the bottom half of his face.
His lips looked really soft.
“Was he a good kisser?”
“Why d’you wanna know?”
He shrugged.
“Thinking about asking him out?” You smirked. “Don’t think you're his type, Stevie.”
“Shut up.”
There was a knock on the door, a sudden sharp sound that had you both jumping apart and you weren’t even sure when you had wandered that close.
“Five minutes left, lovebirds!” Jake, voice muffled by the door and the music, called out, sounding way too pleased.
Steve stared at the door, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and you knew he was thinking about something. He only hesitated a little before he knocked a foot into yours, catching your gaze and he spoke as if he wanted to get the words out fast, before he could stop himself.
“Was he, though?” Steve asked again, voice quieter this time, almost unsure. He looked nervous, “Miles?”
You stared at him, maybe for a beat too long ‘cause the tips of his ears were turning red and he coughed, a little awkward. You made the same strangled noise, shoulders shrugging.
“I mean, sure,” you whispered, “I guess? He was… it was fine.”
You weren’t overly sure if the darkness was playing tricks on you or not, but you could’ve sworn you saw the boy smile.
“He tried to stick his tongue in my mouth,” you continued, face warm from embarrassment, ‘cause you suddenly felt like you were sharing too much, even with Steve. “It felt weird, like a dead fish. I didn’t really know what to do.”
“You’ve never made out with someone?” Steve asked and god, you were almost positive he was the only person who could’ve asked you that question without sounding like he was making fun of you. His voice was soft, all fond affection for you that he’d collected over the years and he moved closer, toes touching yours like he knew exactly how to handle you. “Kissed someone like that before?”
“That was the first time,” you squirmed under his gaze, feeling much younger than you were. Were you supposed to have that much experience in making out with someone at fifteen? Did Steve? “I don’t really know if I did it right.”
“Oh,” he breathed and he didn’t sound like he was judging you at all. There was another slow silence, warm and not at all uncomfortable because it was still Steve, and it wrapped around you both like a question. “I could show you. If you wanted.”
The music bled underneath the gap in the door, vibrated against your skin and the drums made your heart drop and stop, thundering to the beat quickly after. You were sure it was the music. You were positive it was the music.
But then Steve mistook your silence for hesitation, a silent ‘no’ and he was already opening his mouth to cover his tracks, to take back the statement, to tell you he was stupid, that he was only kidding.
“I didn’t mean-, we don’t have to… shit, I-”
Four minutes left.
“Okay.”
You could hear the rush of your blood in your ears, skin warm, cheeks hot, tongue sneaking out to peek between your lips and you wondered if he’d still be able to taste the lipgloss you put on before you left the house.
“What?”
“Show me.”
He took a step towards you and you watched as the boy tried to keep cool but his ever expressive face gave him away, brown eyes all wide, jaw a little slack and his hand found your waist, a sliver of skin between your shirt and skirt, a place he’d not really touched before.
“Is this alright?” His voice cracked, and he blushed but you didn’t laugh. You never laughed, but you did nod. “Just do what I do, ‘kay? Can I kiss you?”
Was it really that simple, you wondered? But you didn’t get a lot of time to think it over, because as soon as you nodded, Steve was crowding into you more, pressing you into the coats and you still had to press up on your toes to let his mouth meet yours.
It was so different from last time and it was almost the same.
Steve Harrington still tasted like sugar and vanilla, hidden under cheap beer and you gasped when his lips touched yours, the same way you did when you were thirteen. But your hands grasped at his neck, steadying yourself, and he clutched at your waist to help, as if you had both gotten a little older and suddenly knew where to touch.
His mouth was soft over yours, a little hesitant at first, but then coaxing. Your lips slid over his once, twice, three times and then you felt the soft lick of his tongue at the seam of your lips and you remembered the way he’d told you to copy him.
So you did.
Your tongue touched his and your breath hitched with how nice it felt and the kiss moved soft and slow. You grabbed Steve a little harder, body swaying into his in the dark ‘cause your stomach was swooping and your heart was hammering and it felt like you were on the front seat of a rollercoaster, hanging off the edge.
Maybe Steve felt the same way, despite having more experience, because he gripped you the same way, fingernails leaving little half moon marks on your hips.
It felt strange, it felt good, it felt warm and it made everything tingle, breath stuck in your throat and a sigh leaving your chest and you felt like you should’ve been embarrassed. But you weren’t, because it was Steve.
But then voices outside were counting down from ten and they got louder and louder, hands hammering on the door and you both ripped apart before the door swung open, harsh strip lights and the smell of artificial strawberry and natty light swimming back into the closet with you.
The walk home wasn’t as awkward as it should’ve been considering you and your best friend had had your tongues in each other's mouths. Maybe it’s ‘cause you were still too young, maybe it was because you didn’t realise it yet, but there wasn’t much about yours and Steve’s friendship that would ever be awkward.
So you followed the yellow lines on the edge of the road home, footsteps a little behind Steve’s and every now and then, the boy would look back over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. It smelled like nighttime and summer and everything you associated with the boy, damp grass and leftover smoke from someone's barbecue, chlorine from the pools and you could hear sprinklers in backyards, hissing in the still warm air.
You were a little late, just over curfew and the television was making your living room glow, the flicker of light coming out from the window. So Steve took your hand and led you through the back garden gate, pool lights leading you both to your patio doors, the rest of the house dark and you could smell lavender and honeysuckle from Steve’s yard.
He helped you find the key to the door, the spare hidden in a plant pot filled with pebbles and moss, one lone rose sprouting from the dirt. Both of your hands fumbled together as your fingers touched, all sudden pink cheeks and lowered gazes and Steve whispered a ‘good night, princess,’ before sneaking back down the lane, hopping over the lower part of the fence and into his own yard.
By the time you had tiptoed upstairs, past your dad who was dozing in the living room arm chair, Steve was in his room, bedroom window across from yours and the lights were still on as he lounged on his bed, shirt off and a baseball clutched in his fist.
He was throwing it from his hand, watching it fall up and down in the air before catching it again, one arm thrown underneath his head and you couldn’t help but gaze at the muscles there, all new and never really seen before.
You swallowed, suddenly too warm, the heat from the day trapped in your bedroom and sticking to your skin but you didn’t want to open the window, you didn’t want to alert the boy to your staring. You and Steve had spent nights, weeks, months and years hanging out from the sills, talking over the trailing ivy and flowers and growing below.
But this felt like something you shouldn't have been doing, especially since you could still taste him on your lips, feel where his hands had burned against your sides, so you pulled your curtains and trapped all these brand new thoughts inside your room with you.
You took them to bed, slipped between the sheets with them and everything smelled like brown sugar and honey, gummy bears and Steve Harrington.
1984. Killing me slow, out the window, I’ll always be waiting for you to be waiting below.
“Princess, c’mon, every time.”
Steve’s voice was exasperated, laced with something softer and it made swinging your leg over your bedroom window sill a little easier.
You peered down at him, long grass brushing his shins ‘cause no one but you two used that little path that took you out of the back garden gate. He was gazing back up, setting sun brushing his face with gold and caramel, peachy pink clouds in the sky and Steve held his arms out, beckoning.
“You’ll catch me?” You murmured, still unsure, despite this being a well practised escape.
“Don’t I always?” the boy scoffed, almost offended, but the small edge below your window didn’t offer a lot of footing and you swore the drainpipe was becoming more loose than it used to be.
“Harrington, I swear,” the threat was empty and it fell idle on your lips when you pushed yourself over the edge, hands gripping at the window frame and feet finding their footing.
“Don’t second name me,” Steve grumbled and you sensed him moving closer, buttercups and daisy crushed under his sneakers as he kept his arms outstretched towards you. “You good?”
You mumbled some noise of confirmation, knees bent and ready to drop. You hated this part, and weirdly, it got harder as you got older, limbs stretched, body heavier, no longer small and quick to scramble up tree branches and out of windows.
“Steve?” You couldn’t really see behind you, the soft summer breeze picking at your hair and blocking your view of the ground below but you lowered yourself as much as you could, fingers too warm and slipping against the window frame.
“Yeah, I’ve got you.”
So you let go, the short drop softened by the boy’s hand catching at your waist and pulling you against him, your back to his front and he held you there, ankles swishing in the damp grass.
Steve was all hard muscle and cologne, arms stronger than they had ever been, tanned from the summer and wrapped tight around you, hands pressed into the skin underneath your breasts. He let you go when you found your feet, white chucks soaked by the evening dew and you blew out a breath and set the boy with a stare.
“We have front doors, you know,” you watched him grin at you, wide and bright and so familiar. “Why do we have to do this?”
“S’more fun,” the boy answered and he landed a firm smack to your ass when you bent over, fingers tugging at your laces. “Nice shorts princess.”
“Fuck you,” you squeaked, cheeks warm and you reached out to do the same, plan connecting with the denim of his jeans and Steve laughed before groaning a little dirty and exaggerated. “You’re such a dick.”
He spun you both, feet leading you backwards towards the garden gate, clumsy between the flowers and he grinned, wolfishly.
“You know I love it when you talk dirty.”
“Steve,” you tried to sound huffy, as if you weren’t impressed by his jokes but you sounded flustered instead and you hated how the boy knew it.
But he never said anything, never commented on the flush across your chest or the way your tongue snuck out to wet at your lips, he never poked fun. He just always watched with knowing eyes and a soft smile you could never discern, and kept on teasing you.
“Y’know it’s better if my dad doesn’t see me leave,” he finally answered, fingers bullying the lock, almost rusted shut from years of only being used by both of you. “I get asked too many questions and I give answers he doesn’t like and suddenly I’m back in my room filling out fuckin’ college applications for the eighteenth day in a row.“
A pang of sympathy hit your chest and before you could tell your friend that you understood, you sympathised, he was placing a warm hand on the space between your shorts and your shirt, guiding you out the gate.
“Doesn’t mean I have to do the same,” you grumbled good naturedly, “I could meet you out front like a normal person.”
“Fuck off, we both know you love jumping into my arms as much as I love catching you.”
You couldn’t remember when you started flirting with your best friend, or when he started flirting with you. You couldn’t pick a place or time when it began, or who did it first. But you were both eighteen and more appreciative of all the strong lines and muscles, the soft curves and different ways you looked at each other.
It would be a comment, a sly remark, a hand touching too close to areas yet to be discovered, a wink, a hug that went on for a beat too long.
Nothing had happened, not really, not since the closet at Karen Vincent’s party, but everyone at school called you Steve Harrington’s girl and the boys you hooked up with in the backs of cars always pulled away mid kiss to ask if you were definitely single.
It was all fun and teasing, familiar touches with a familiar boy, sprawled together in the same bed you’d shared with him since you were twelve years old. Except now there wasn’t as much space between you both, limbs longer, bodies taller, leftover alcohol soaking into your heads in the mornings that you woke up wrapped around each other.
You would pretend you didn’t feel how hard he was, morning wood pressed into the small of your back, the curve of your ass and Steve wouldn’t comment when your shirt had rucked itself up your ribs in the middle of the night, too much showing to be decent.
It was enough to keep you both on your toes, the close friendship teetering over the question of what if? Could we? Should we? Will we?
Steve didn’t hide the way he looked at you, affection always strong in his brown eyes, hands soft and face fond when he picked a wildflower off the garden wall, tucking it behind your ear but there was always a linger over your bare legs, the way the hem of your shorts cut high on your thighs, the way they pinched in at your waist and made your shirt ride up your ribs.
The roller rink was busy as expected, ten o’clock on a Saturday night and filled with teenagers looking for something and someone to do. The kids of the day had long left and the lights were dimmer, the whole hall darker with flashes of red and aquamarine, bubble gum pink and candied lilac that flashed across the floor and faces.
The disco ball twisted in the middle and it sent rainbows and reflections across the walls, painted Steve’s face in technicolour and you gave his cheek a little pat as you took off, wheels spinning you backwards, music thumping in your chest.
He smiled at you, knowing, brows raised as he took a seat on the tables that lined the roller rink, crowded by the friends you’d found from school, flasks pulled from pockets, clear liquid dumped into red and blue slurpees.
“Where you goin’ princess?”
You did a little spin, already warm from the sticky air, summer leaking in and slipping between the people skating and dancing, bodies too close. Your foot found the rink, hands leaning on the barrier wall as you sent Steve a wink, your cherry glossed lips widening in a smile that was borderline salacious.
“To find someone to play with.”
The boys surrounding Steve whooped and hollered, cat calls ringing out underneath the music and you could hear the comments directed to Steve, playful intones about how his girl was nothin’ but trouble, and wasn’t he gonna get a pretty thing like you locked down?
But Steve just shook his head at you, playful and exasperated, while he leant back on the bench, waving away his friends remarks with quiet whatever’s and it’s not like that.
He had nothing to say when you dropped yourself into his lap half an hour later, body warm from skating, face flushed and eyes a little too wide and bright.
He ignored the whistles from his friends, the knowing glances, the nudges to ribs. ‘Cause you were wrapping your hands around his neck, fingers playing with his hair and your lips were at his ear.
“There’s some creep followin’ me around,” you whispered, body tense and Steve’s hands, where they’d dropped to on instinct when you sat on him, tightened on the space above your knee.
“Who?” Steve asked immediately, voice low and it rumbled through you, you could feel it in his chest and his eyes were scanning the crowds, brows pinched together.
You didn’t look, didn’t turn away from where you’d pressed your nose to his temple, breathing in his cologne, his shampoo, something minty and like the forest. You caught Candance Peterson’s eye from over Steve’s head and you ignored the way she smirked at you.
“By the lockers,” you murmured and your breath hitched just a little when Steve wrapped one arm around you, holding you closer to the other hand sliding it’s way between your bare legs, fingers curled around your thigh possessively. “Red shirt, bad hair.”
Steve snickered ‘cause he found him, a guy with an overgrown mullet and beady eyes, hanging by the lockers and benches. He was staring at you, watching the way you draped yourself over your best friend and Steve raised a hand, wiggling his fingers to show that he’d seen him.
“He didn’t try anythin’, did he?”
You shook your head, tip of your nose brushing against Steve’s cheek ‘cause you refused to move any further away and you knew the boy didn’t mind. His hand was back on your leg, thumb stoking circles on the inside of your thigh and it took everything you had not to squirm in his lap.
“Nah, just asked too many questions, told me he was wondering why a ‘pretty little girl’ like me wasn’t with her boyfriend,” you scrunched your face as you spoke, lips twisted. “Told him that my boyfriend was right over here.”
It wasn’t the first time you or Steve had used each other to slip away from some unwanted attention. Steve was just tall enough, just broad enough to warrant a second glance, too drunk boys weighing up their options when you snuck under your best friend's arm, wondering if they could take him.
They usually gave up, watching with a sneer as your pressed your body into Steve’s, his hands taking advantage of your little role play game and he’d let his palm take a slow wander over the curve of your ass, a tight squeeze, a light tap and you’d dig your fingers into the spaces between his ribs for it, his laugh huffing guilty onto your neck.
You found that you could be just as intimidating, Steve seeking you out at parties when girls from out of town got a little too much, a little too eager and kept trying to touch the hair that he spent too much fucking time styling. The boy would sneak up behind you, arms around your waist as he pulled you back against him and used you as the cutest human shield he’d ever seen.
The sight of you in Steve’s arms usually stopped his admirers in their tracks, his lips pressed to the top of your head, smile hidden in your hair as you set them with a look that Steve said could make grown men cry. .
“Oh you did, did you?” Steve drawled, “did you tell him I was the prettiest one out of the bunch?”
You snorted, a sound that always made Steve grin and you loved the way his arms tightened around you. Your position on his knees gave you an inch or two of height on him, a little taller, just for a change. You pulled back enough so you could gaze down at him, lashes lowered and face overly thoughtful.
“I don’t know, Stevie,” you pondered, all faux heavy sighs, teasing and fluttering lashes. “Danny’s starting to look real cute since joining the team-”
“You shut your damn mouth,” Steve interrupted, voice huffy but he was still smiling despite himself. He took a second to watch the way a refraction of light from the disco ball travelled over your cheek, lighting up the new summer freckles there before it dipped into your Cupid’s bow. He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “We both know you think I’m the hottest guy he- oh, shit. Your friend is coming over.”
“What?” You barked out and your voice sounded strangled. You turned to see that Steve was right, the guy in the red shirt was making his way through the gathering crowds, weaving through the busy tables towards you both, his gaze set on you and another question posed on his lips. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
Steve was already shifting underneath you, arms hooking under the backs of your knees and you knew he was ready to deposit you on the chair next to him, eyes searching for a fight.
“Can I kiss you?” You asked instead.
“Shit, what?” The boy’s response was garbled, words tumbling over each other as he stopped his movements and looked at you wide eyed. “Princess-”
You sighed, impatient, a hand clutching at Steve’s chin, tilting his face up to you so you could catch his gaze, the question asked again with just your eyes. A silent exchange, a secret language only you two knew. You watched his tongue swipe over his bottom lip, eyes heavy, dropping to your mouth and you waited, a second, maybe two and then fuck, he nodded, barely perceptible.
You crushed your lips to his, swallowed the moan that Steve immediately gifted you, fingers pushing into his jaw and sighing at the way his hand on your back dropped to the waistband of your shorts, fingertips desperately seeking the warmth of your bare skin.
It was different to the kisses you had shared before, ‘cause fuck, now you both knew what you were doing and you had almost as much experience under your belt as Steve had. You knew boys liked it when you got a little bossy, hands on their jaw and thumb on their bottom lip, telling them to part their lips for you. You knew they liked it when you sighed all sweet and pretty, hips squirming in their hands, fingers pulling at their hair. They told you that you tasted like cherries, something sweet and tart and like dirty secrets.
Steve seemed to like it too, ‘cause his tongue was sweeping past your lips, kissing you dirtier than he should’ve for such a public setting and you could hear your friends rippling in excitement around you.
You pushed your thumb to the corner of Steve’s mouth and he obeyed like you thought he would, parting his lips between yours and groaning into you. It was all teeth and tongue, hot hands on bare skin, hair between fingers, threading and pulling and you wondered how you could still taste vanilla, hidden in his lips underneath blue raspberry slush.
You liked the way he held you to him, a little too tight, a little more possessive than he’d ever been with you before. Because growing up with Steve Harrington was all protective hands, glares sent to boys who deemed not good enough, rides home from work and gentle hands taking that one drink too many from you at parties that went on too late.
This was different, this was personal, this was a touch that screamed mine mine mine and it kinda hated the way you knew you’d think about it later, back flat in your bed, sheets kicked to your ankles and your hand pushed down the front of your shorts.
Maybe Steve would do the same you thought, maybe he already had, you wondered. And images of Steve with his hand flat to the shower tiles flashed through your head, body wet, hair soaked, lips parted and his other palm fisting himself to the thought of you.
It was suddenly too much and you needed air more than you needed Steve. Your lips left his and the sounds of the rink came rushing back, like you’d pushed your head out from underwater. There was suddenly music, the score of wheels on wood, the siren of a pinball machine, ice clattering into cups from behind the bar.
Someone amongst the group let out one, long whistle and people tittered and god, it should’ve made you blush.
It should’ve.
It didn’t.
You simply stood from Steve’s lap, his hands still on your waist and guiding you to your feet until you could push your hair back from your warm cheeks, feeling only slightly scandalised when your friends all started but you kept your eyes on the boy.
You licked the taste of him from your lips, raspberry and sugar and something that you were now beginning to learn was just Steve. His cheeks were tinted pink, lips glossy from yours and his brown eyes were considerably darker, his finger trailing away from yours in a way that made you think he didn’t wanna let go.
But you cleared your throat the same time he did, only a little wobbly on the eight wheels that held you up and he grinned when you coughed out a laugh.
“That worked,” you told him, watching as the guy with the bad hair swung the door open, leaving without looking back.
“Huh,” Steve murmured, “how ‘bout that.”
—————
He didn’t say anything when the lights started turning back on, when the disco ball stopped spinning and people handed back their skates. Steve just found you on the benches, pressed shoulder to shoulder with your friends and he caught your eye from the door, another secret conversation that started with a quirk of a brow and ended with a tilt of a chin.
You said your goodbyes and followed the boy out the building, watching as Steve placed his hand behind his back, encouraging you to catch up and grab it. You held hands across the empty parking lot, fingers twisting and playing together until you hit the main road and it was normal, it was familiar, it was Steve.
He decided he was staying with you that night, mumbling an excuse about not facing his dad in the morning, how your bed was comfier and your mom made the best waffles but you didn’t need any convincing.
So you snuck into your house, unnecessarily quiet ‘cause your dad was still up watching TV and your mom was in the kitchen with a glass of wine and a book and they barely looked at the boy who was following you up to your bedroom, nothing more than a “night, kids,” called out into the hallway.
You lay side by side with the boy, half dressed and with too much bare skin on show, Steve’s shirt on the floor, your shorts almost indecent around your thighs.
It was the first time you thought that something else might happen, legs brushing against legs and hips bumping together as you tried to get comfortable, the burn of the others lips still on your own.
But nothing did and you were starting to wonder if anything ever would.
1985. And it’s new, the shape of your body.
It didn’t matter that it had been a Wednesday, it was the first day in weeks that you and Steve had managed to get the day off together and you were both planning on making the most of it.
It’s why the boy woke you up early, a rucksack already in his hand as he walked through your patio door, left open for that very reason, the rest of the house empty as your parents went to work.
You’d been surprised at how softly he’d woken you up, fingers prodding gently at the cheek that wasn’t smushed against your pillow, eyes hidden with sleep mussed hair and one leg bare and kicked out from beneath the sheets. He grinned when you grumbled and he took your sleep warmed spot when you finally dragged yourself out of bed and into a shower.
Steve barely looked away when you reappeared in just a towel, almost too short to be decent and when you turned to your dresser to pull out a swimsuit and clothes, his eyes dipped to the backs of your legs, thighs on show, tanned from the August sun, a small freckle there he’d never seen before.
“You said you were gonna set an alarm, princess,” Steve teased, head pushed back into your favourite pillow and if he realised it smelled like your shampoo and peach scented body wash, he didn’t say. “Clock’s ticking.”
“Jesus, give me peace, Harrington,” you grumbled, voice still thick with sleep and the summer air was slipping through your open window and it made you move slower than you wanted to. “Turn around.”
Steve did as he was told, face crushed into your sheets and a grin on his lips ‘cause he heard the soft thump of your towel hitting the floor, the shuffle of clothes sliding across your skin. He knew you were winding him up, taking that little game you both blamed to a new level, another limit, because there was no fucking way a girl that looked the way you did, didn’t know what she was doing.
Steve heard the snap of a bikini strap, the rasp of denim shorts over long legs and when you told him he could look once more, he turned around in time to see a flash of cherry red, a swimsuit that hid little, covered by the way you pulled a white shirt over your head.
You pushed a pair of Ray Bans onto your nose, a little too big and stolen from Steve a few summers before. You grinned, knowing, and held out a hand.
“C’mon pretty boy, let’s go.”
Steve took the car, drove it to the outskirts of town with the windows cracked, the summer air blowing in sticky and sweet. You had your feet on the dash, a new bracelet around your ankle, woven with blue and orange thread, a matching one around Steve’s wrist that he tried to protest at but his words were weak and his smile was bright.
He let you pick the song, cassettes spilling out of the glove compartment as you tried to find the perfect mix for a day like this. There wasn’t a cloud above Hawkins and when you drove past the Burick’s farm, the sunflowers were in full bloom, making the world that flashed past your window bright yellow and the strawberry paddocks made everything smell sweet.
The roads were quiet and the air still, and you couldn’t see another soul as Steve parked up on the roadside, a dirt corner off of the road leading out of town. You both walked into the wheat fields, long grass towering to your waists as you headed for the tree line. The crops brushed your bare legs, scratched softly against your skin and you could feel Steve behind you the whole time, eyes on you, anticipation growing, warming you like the sun.
When he ran, you did too, feet a little clumsy and neither of you could see where you were stepping but the peels of laughter made it worth it, the rush of the summer air on your face made it better. You chased after the boy, bag slamming on his back, eyes glancing back at you, looking like the twelve year old with the wild hair you once knew.
Steve didn’t stop running until he hit the patch of trees, legs slowing as the branches became thicker and you slammed into his back with a soft ‘oof,’ cheeks sore from grinning and neither of you thought much of it when the boy took your hand and led you through the thickets.
The trees cleared just before the cliff dropped off, the quarry vast and a pretty green-blue underneath you. The spot was secluded, familiar to you both and a well guarded secret that was kept over the years. You came every summer, secret visits that were just for you and Steve.
You’d been waiting for a day like this for what felt like months. The height of summer, blue skies, the distant buzz of cicadas and your best friend, all to yourself.
Something told you that Steve felt the same, ‘cause when you chanced a sideways look at him, he was already gazing back, soft smile on his face.c eyes all fond and it made the day seem even warmer.
It didn’t take long for you both to be stripped to your swimsuits, Steve’s eyes blatantly staring as you slipped the denim shorts down your hips and pulled them down your legs. He didn’t say anything when you stretched yourself out on the blanket beside him, pebbles and grass underneath, the sun beating down from above.
You liked the way he didn’t shy from you, not like the other boys, like he knew he was yours and you were his, like there wasn’t anyone else to worry about. So neither of you flinched when you pressed yourself to his side, warm bare skin on more warm bare skin, shoulder to shoulder and your feet just reaching where his shins were.
You tapped a toe to them, snuck a peek at the boy beside you, grinning when you saw him smile despite his closed eyes. His lashes fluttered from behind his sunglasses, waiting for the inevitable.
“Hey, Stevie?”
Something in his tummy clenched at the old nickname, usually said with mirth and drag of sarcasm, but your lips were at the shell of his ear and you sounded so soft.
“Princess.” His voice didn’t hitch at the end like a question, it stayed low, a little hoarse, like a warning.
‘Cause you were propped onto a elbow now, body leaning into him, your hardly concealed chest pressed into his bicep and he could feel the tickle of your hair on his arm, against his cheek and you were still so close that he could feel the way you smirked against his ear.
You pushed the button on your nose to his temple, a head butt that was more affectionate than anything else and you moved suddenly, leaning over him to grab the rucksack.
When Steve opened his eyes he saw red, that almost orange colour that reminded him of summers and pool days, the freckle below your collarbone that not many people got to see.
He couldn’t not look at your chest, pushed out towards his face as you stretched an arm, grasping for the strap of the bag, making a little grunting noise as you reached for it.
Red and tiny straps, sun warmed skin that was a little darker than last month, the summer making you glow. A stretch of stomach, taught as you leaned, close enough to his own that he could feel the warmth radiate from you. Long legs pushed up onto your knees, holding you over him like a treat, like a taunt.
But then you were pushing yourself backwards to sit, gleeful with the bag in your hands and you were already unzipping it , hand delving into its contents as you muttered to him.
“Perv.”
It was soft and fond, no heat, no accusation but it still made the boy flush ‘cause that meant you caught him looking but Christ, you were both nineteen and full of hormones - what else was new?
“Don’t flatter yourself too much, princess,” he coughed out, trying to sound cooler than he felt. His eyes stayed hooded behind his glasses, wishing the tint of them made him harder for you to read but you knew him better than yourself. Steve knew that too. “You’ll go up a cup size one day.”
His words hurt no more than your comment had, all light, no sharpness but you smacked at his shoulder all the same, making him grin wide at you. Steve wondered if you knew he thought of you as nothing short of perfect, he wondered if he’d ever get a chance to tell you.
But you’d found what you’d been looking for, a little plastic bag filled with a few buds and some papers, a new grinder ‘cause Steve had lost the last one at a party. You wiggled it at him, Eddie’s special weed making the air grow a little more heady, a little more sweet.
“Wanna get high with me, Harrington?“
And god, wasn’t that a question?
Steve knew you, knew you inside out and back to front, better than anyone else did. He knew how you got after a few hits, a little needy, all touchy and full of affection. The boy had been to enough parties with you to know. You’d find him, a few hours in, coming out of seemingly nowhere, face flushed and eyes glassy.
It didn’t matter who he was talking to, who he was with, what he was doing, you’d me on him in seconds, a ball of heat that smelled like his favourite perfume and the inside of Eddie Munson’s trailer, arms around his neck and face pressed to his chest.
You’d drop yourself into his lap, press messy kisses to his cheeks and giggle all soft when he tried to question you on your whereabouts, if you felt okay, if you’d drank enough water.
By now, it wasn’t really a surprise to know the entire town still thought you were dating. But he stopped refuting it as much, almost preferring the way that boys kept their distance from you when he was around. He didn’t mind the way you curled into him, lips glossy and sticky and whispering into his ear.
He liked the way you hummed happy and whispered a ‘yes’ when you’d had enough - and Steve could always tell - and he told you it was time to go home. It didn’t matter who’s house he took you to, his or yours, both were home.
So god, wasn’t that a question?
“I’m driving princess,” Steve murmured instead of everything he wanted to say.
‘Will you hold onto me, if I do? Will you crawl into my lap and look at me in that way that you do? Will you put your hands in my hair and tell me I smell good? Will you touch me like I’m yours? Will you touch me like you’re mine?’
But he didn’t.
“Not until later, Steve, we’ve got all day,” you told him, all smiles and bright eyes.
And you were right ‘cause the morning was still early, the afternoon barely beginning and there were snacks in the bag, water for when it got too hot, a walkman and some mixtapes for when the day got too quiet.
Steve just smiled and you shook the baggie at him still, a pour on your lips that he could never really learn how to say no to.
“Roll for me anyway?” You asked because you hated it and you weren't very good, and maybe there was something about the way Steve’s nimble fingers made quick work of it, maybe it was the way you liked to watch the tip of his tongue slide slick along the edges of the papers.
Maybe.
So Steve because he couldn’t say fucking no to you and that’s how you found yourself back on the blanket, legs stretched out under the heat of the sun, smoke in the air and everything a little more hazy than it was before.
It could’ve been the weed that made you do it, maybe you could’ve even blamed it on the sun, messing with your head and your heart but Steve would never have believed your excuses, ‘cause when you suddenly sat up and swung a leg over his lap, he didn’t look surprised at all.
His hands fell to your thighs instinctively, more than ready to press his palms onto your bare thighs, the high cut of that damn bikini showing more skin than was necessary and Steve swallowed hard from where he lay under you, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“Princess.”
There it was again, that tone, the low way he said your name, rough like a warning, soft like he was asking for something.
It almost sounded like please, you realised.
You placed the joint between your lips instead of answering, the end of it burning amber and you inhaled softly, hating the way the smoke burned your lungs but loving the way it made you feel. But that could’ve been Steve’s hands on your hips, holding you steady as you tilted your head back, neck exposed, blowing smoke to the sky that was still cloudless.
When you gazed back down at your best friend, his jaw was slack, eyes glassy behind his Ray Bans and you smiled, way too shyly for the stunt you’d just pulled. You took the glasses off his face, wanting to see him, all of him and you held the joint between you, brows raised.
“Want a hit?”
The boy nodded.
He expected you to hold the roll up to his lips, let him take a drag from between your fingers as you sat happily on his lap.
Steve didn’t expect you to take another draw from it, smoke held between your lips, eyes hooded as you leaned down and into him. Your hands found purchase on the blanket on either side of his head but you were still chest to chest. You didn’t talk, couldn’t talk, didn’t need to talk. You just nudged your nose on Steve’s and he tilted his chin towards you, hands tight on your sides like he was holding on for dear life - and oh my god, he felt like he was - before he parted his lips for you and you let go.
Smoke blew gently from your lips to his, top lips just grazing, the movement accidental but neither of you apologised, neither complained. And when Steve held the hit there, in his chest, seconds ticked by like a countdown to something dangerous, to something explosive and on his wrecked sounding exhale, he pushed both of you up, a little frantic as your hips settled into the dip of his more.
“Can I kiss you?”
You asked it softly, like you were telling a secret, like you didn’t wanna admit it, like you were scared Steve was gonna say no, but the boy didn’t answer you at all, not with words anyway.
His mouth was on yours before you could finish talking and you both groaned at the contact. Blindly, you stubbed out the roach on the ground beside you, ashes rubbing into gravel and sand before your hands found purchase on Steve’s face.
It was a kiss you hadn’t shared before, a kiss that was messier than the others, a kiss that lacked the control the others had.
It was a kiss that usually led to something more, hands wandering in someone’s back seat, mouths on necks, voices whispering dirty things in the last row of the cinema.
It was something you hadn’t felt with your best friend before.
It was hot and dirty and fast, his hands on your neck, your jaw, fingers splayed into your hair and his thumb tugging greedy at the corner of your bottom lip, desperate for you to open for him, so he could lick into you.
It didn’t help that you were both lacking so much clothing, too much bare skin pressed against each other, chest to chest and your legs wrapped around his waist.
It was too easy to roll your hips, to whine into Steve’s mouth at the way he let out the dirtiest, prettiest noise for you. It made you want to do it again, it made you wanna thread your fingers into his hair and tug.
“Steve.”
He thinks that’s what broke him, the way you said his name like that, soft and whimpered, like you fucking wanted him, like you needed him. The boy was sure he’d never been that hard in his life, your ass pressed into his lap, his hands wandering over the slope of your lower back, sliding over your bikini pants, fingers toying with the tiny sides of them.
Steve thought about all the things he wished he was brave enough to say to you. ‘Are you mine? Do you know I’m yours? Do you know I always have been?’
But he couldn’t, couldn’t find the courage, couldn’t find the willpower
to drag his lips from yours, not unless it was to press his mouth to your neck instead, to suck and bite a little bruise there that said what he couldn’t with words.
Mine.
You don’t know how it ended, you barely remembered how it had started but as the night leaked in and made the quarry glitter, Steve was smoothing a hand over your hair, messy from his tugging, as you pulled your shorts back on.
He’d packed up the bag, shrugged his T-shirt back over his chest, lips as kiss bitten as yours, skin warm from the sun and you. It felt like there was so much to be said, it felt like nothing at all. A natural occurrence, an almost yearly event, something cosmic, something magic, like a meteor strike, like a new planet being discovered.
You got to kiss your best friend and Steve got to kiss his and it simply felt like you were both one step closer to where you were both going to end up. You were so sure it was with him, but maybe that was just the whispers of your moms, voices hardly quiet as they gushed by the Harrington’s pool summers ago, talking about how their kids were something special together, how sometimes soulmates did exist.
So it didn’t feel awkward when Steve swiped a stand of hair from your cheek, took your hand in his and pressed one more kiss to the top of it before letting go, stepping back for another summer, until one of you - or both of you - were finally ready to say what needed to be said.
It wasn’t going to happen that day, but it felt closer than ever.
And when he drove you both home, Steve didn’t tut at you for putting your feet on the dash, in fact, he smiled all soft the whole drive back into Hawkins, past the same wheat fields, the water tower, the sunflowers and fruit fields that made the night smell sweet.
It was dark when you both snuck in through the back garden gate, Steve’s patio light still on and there was smoke coming from the little fire pit by the pool, gentle chatter and laughter from where both of your parents sat with glasses of wine. Leftover dinner dishes and empty plates sat on the wooden table and neither couple were surprised to see you both.
You didn’t know that your parents watched the way Steve stood tall behind you, always in reach, an open hand just hovering by your side as if he was always ready to catch you. You didn’t know that his mom would smile at you, watching the way you watched her son, cheeks sore with a grin she’d never tire of seeing.
Even Steve’s dad would shake his head, fond, making everyone titter and the pair of you blush as he asked accusingly, “and what have you two been up to all day?”
You wondered if they could see the way you flushed in the dark, if they saw the swell to Steve’s bottom lip from the way you’d been greedy with it, if they noticed the pretty lilac bruise that should’ve hopefully been hidden by your shirt.
But it was okay. ‘Cause you felt Steve warm and solid at your back, his chest pressed against you and the leftover taste of him and smoke on your lips. The air smelled like honeysuckle and chlorine, fresh lavender and basil from a dinner you’d missed and the back garden gate was still swinging on its hinges.
1986. And I scream, “For whatever it’s worth, I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”
Steve fucking hated Chris Maxwell. He’d disliked the guy in high school, always running his mouth and exaggerating his lacrosse wins, the girls he got with, the drugs he managed to score. He had the same car as Steve, the same BMW in a shitty puke green colour and he drove it like an idiot.
He hated him even more when you started dating him.
You’d dated guys before, shit, Steve had had his fair share of girls over the years too. Nothing ever serious, nothing that meant all that much ‘cause the girls he brought to parties and basement hang outs took one look at you and tried to make him choose.
Steve always chose you.
You’d dated less, Steve had always noticed, shying away from unfamiliar attention, choosing to kiss and run after the party was over, no numbers exchanged, no dates to be had. You’d always scrunched your nose at him and evaded the question when Steve asked, murmuring something about how it wasn’t worth the hassle.
It’s why Steve had been so surprised when you were dropped off one day by Maxwell, in his snot green car with his stupid smarmy smirk. Once became twice, twice became three times and before you both knew it, you were lounging at the bottom of Steve’s bed one day as he sat at his desk and you were shrugging.
“Uh, yeah, I guess? Maybe he is my boyfriend?”
Steve remembered coughing out a laugh, because, how could you not know?
But you were being picked up and dropped off by the boy on numerous occasions and Steve quickly grew tired of watching him try and eat your face in his front seat. But only two months had passed before things seemingly grew tired and sour, your face twisting in a veil of annoyance when you heard his car horn blast from the street.
He never got out of the car to knock on your door, Steve had noted, never walking you up the path at night to see you safely inside. Steve was sure the last straw came on the day he was already in your living room, hands clutching the casserole dish that his mom had sent him to borrow. You’d rolled up, the stupid vomit coloured car catching the curb as it squealed to a stop, music blasting from the inside and your dad mirrored Steve’s expression as the two men stood at the window.
Noses scrunched, lips downturned, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t like that little punk,” your dad had grumbled.
“Same,” Steve had answered and the two of them were oblivious to the way your mother grinned behind their backs.
But Steve had watched you storm out, car door slamming as Chris leaned over to the open window, yelling something about coming back and let’s talk about this honey!
You’d ignored him and Steve had walked home feeling a little lighter than he had in weeks.
He still didn’t expect Chris to come sneaking into his back yard one evening, when the town was quietening down, when the fireflies came out and the sun made the sky streaky with pink and peach and lilac.
Steve had been propped against the wall of his house, just beside the back garden gate, hidden in that little lane that no one seemed to use. The space that smelled like honeysuckle and lavender, the place that grew a little wild and reminded him of you. There was more ivy on the wall that year, growing more untamed than it ever had and it made Steve smile to see that it was crawling up the side of your house too, almost to your bedroom window.
A cigarette hung from his lips, a bad habit he hadn’t picked up since he was seventeen and easily persuaded but work was shit, his dad was nagging at him about reapplying for colleges and he hated that he’d hardly seen you in a week.
And the reason why was creeping through the gate, shoulders hunched and eyes alert. Chris had stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Steve, a scowl on his face as he snarled at him accusingly.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Steve rolled his eyes, cigarette still wet between his lips and it moved as he replied, his words an annoyed mumble.
“This is my fuckin’ garden, dickwad. You went through the wrong gate.”
It took the boy a moment to realise his mistake and instead of apologising, or admitting to it, he turned and continued to glare at Steve.
“S’your goddamn fault I’m sneaking around anyway, Harrington,” Chris hissed, his eyes already seeking out your bedroom window across from them.
It was ever so slightly cracked, curtains shut and blowing in the breeze but Steve knew you kept it open so you could smell the honeysuckle you loved so much, so that you could hear Steve if he opened his window across from you, to whisper into the night.
It had been a long time since you shared secrets and stories across the garden gates, but old habits die hard and Steve kept his open for the very same reason.
“My fault?” Steve snorted, an offended and somewhat dramatic hand pressed to his chest. He kicked off of the wall, cigarette throwing smoke into the air and he exhaled, smirking when some of it blew into Chris’ face. “And what the fuck did I do, Maxwell?”
“Everything’s always about you!” The other boy burst out, without much preamble, “whole fuckin’ relationship revolved around you, you’re all she talked about and then she tell has the nerve to tell me that she’s breaking up with me.”
Steve looked at Chris with raised brows, cigarette held lightly between a finger and his thumb, the top of it still burning in the dim light.
“Is that so?” Steve took a drag, tried to keep his heartbeat steady, tried not to smile. “Had nothin’ to do with the way you spoke to her like shit and was always demanding stuff, no?”
The boy levelled Steve with a stare, nostrils flared and hands shoved in his pockets. “Of course she tells you fucking everything.”
“Of course she tells me fucking everything,” Steve repeated, emphasis on every word as he glowered at your ex, brows furrowed and fist clenched by his side. “And what’s it to you if she does-”
“What the fuck is going on?”
The two boys looked up, one grinning, the other desperate at the sight of you, hanging out your open window.
Steve held up a hand in a way, features perfectly amicable as he beamed.
“What are you doing here, Chris? There’s a reason I’ve not taken your calls,” you sounded bored, tired and the boy had barely begun to answer before you’d already moved onto Steve.
“Honey, please, I’m begging you can we just ta-”
“Steve, are you smoking? Again? Really?” You tutted, elbow on the window frame as you looked down at him with a soft pout.
“My bad, princess,” but the boy was grinning, not looking very sorry at all ‘cause Chris was silently fuming beside him. “Stressful times, y’know?”
He took another long drag, blew the smoke out above the other boy's head and continued smiling that bright grin. Steve looked up at you again, head tilted as he gestured to your ex and squinted against the sun that was starting to set behind your roof.
“Want me to take out the trash for you?”
His words earned him a shove, a bark of laughter leaving his lips as he barely stumbled against the other boy's hands. But before Steve could retaliate, you were calling down in a voice Steve knew you reserved for telling him off when he got too drunk, when he pushed your buttons a little too much.
“Hey! Chris! Jesus, quit it!” You were leaning out of the window more, sleep shirt hanging off of one shoulder and a pucker between your brows. “Just go, okay? We’ve already spoken about this, I’m not interested.”
“See, this is what I was fuckin’ talking about,” Chris hissed, low enough so only Steve could hear and Steve didn’t know how to reply.
Quiet wrapped around all three of you, the distant trickle of the pool, the muted buzz of Steve’s television from his living room and eventually, a strangled curse from your ex boyfriend's lips as he shouldered past Steve and swung the garden gate open, the wood hitting the brick.
Steve tried not to grin as he looked back up at you, tongue pressed to the side of his cheek and his brown eyes glittering. The sunset made you both rosy, a sunbeam stretching across the side of your house, lighting up the bricks and you.
“He seems touchy.”
“Shut up, Harrington,” you knew Steve heard the smile in your voice, the affection in the roll of your eyes. “You coming up?”
And then you disappeared, ducking back into your room and sliding the window closed with a click.
Steve didn’t realise your parents were out until he walked over the empty driveway, the sun lowering itself into the line of trees across the street, the sky turning lavender, the moon making an appearance. He didn’t knock, just walked in through your front door, shoes toed off by the porch before he jogged up the stairs.
Your door was already open and he found you lazing on your bed, sheets ruffled and the lights off, just the leftover sun trickling in through the open curtains and the crystals you hung at the windows sent rainbows scattering across your walls.
Some of them fell across your bare thighs where you lay, stomach down, legs in the air in a pair of shorts that were hardly seen from underneath the huge shirt that you wore. Another streak of colour landed on your face, fluttering as the crystal spun on their chains, dancing in the last of the light.
Steve wanted to kiss it, to see if the pretty shades on your cheek made you taste any sweeter than he already knew.
“You didn’t tell me you broke up,” Steve said and there was nothing accusatory in his voice, just genuine curiosity, soft and gentle.
He fell onto the bed beside you, made the mattress dip as he shelled into your pile of pillows at the opposite end from where you lay. He pushed a socked foot into your side, digging in at the spaces between your ribs and making you squirm. Steve caught a smile, spread on your lips just for him and you twisted to bat him away, not surprised when his hands found yours and tugged.
You let him pull you beside him, into the mess of sheets and too many cushions, lying so you were facing him, noses a breadth apart, eyes lowered as you spoke, suddenly nervous.
You shrugged, fingers playing with the edges of a pillow, “just sort of happened, wasn’t a big deal.”
A beat of silence, the boy wondering if that was the truth, if there was something more behind your words, if you were hiding something in the way you refused to meet his gaze. Steve wondered if you could feel his heart pounding against the mattress, if it was echoing loud through your pillow the way he was sure it was his.
It felt like something was building, like something was coming. Something big, something new, something wild. Like a tropical storm, a bolt of lightning across the town, a flash flood, a hurricane, something to announce that summer was over.
That time was up.
“You don’t seem too heartbroken ‘bout it,” Steve hedged, his gaze trained on your hands, the way your fingers picked and played with the cotton between you both. He wanted to take your hand in his, run a thumb across your palm and soothe you.
“Cant get my heart broken by a guy that never had it.”
“He didn’t?”
“Don’t play dumb, Stevie,” you chided gently, teasing, “it doesn’t suit you.”
“Always thought he wasn’t good enough for you,” the boy responded, keeping what he really wanted to say hidden behind his tongue.
“You said that about all the guys I got with.”
A gentle nudge, your hand on his chest, a shuffle closer, breathing the same air, the rainbow on your cheekbone flitting to Steve’s lips as the sun moved down. He watched you chase it with your eyes, gaze soft, looking a little longingly, or maybe he was just hopeful.
“It’s true.”
A soft hum, a pleased noise, a smile that finally reached your eyes and a hand that fell to Steve’s arm, running down the length of it until your fingers found the cuff of his sweater and played with that instead.
It was the closet Steve had been to holding your hand for a while and it felt like the beginning of summer again, back to bike rides to the arcade, sticky fingers tips and slurpees that were almost too big to hold.
“Why’d you break up with him?”
You stopped, fingertips brushing over Steve’s wrist, a pause on his pulse point that told you that maybe he was as nervous as you felt. Your knees bumped his, rough denim on soft skin, the day leaking out of your room as the sun fell behind the treetops and suddenly everything was blue.
Navy tinted shadows, inky skin, indigo lines of barely there light that turned Steve’s skin lilac and you breathed in, held it, let the burn in your chest for a second or two before letting it back out.
Summer was leaking away, slipping behind the moon and the night, and you suddenly felt too tired to lie anymore, to pretend.
“He wasn’t all that happy that I was in love with someone else.”
God, you felt brave.
Bold.
Blue.
Steve didn’t look all that surprised, a flicker of soft realisation over his eyes, no shock, just a gentle breath of ‘it’s time?’
“I can’t say I blame the guy,” Steve murmured, chin ducking to meet yours, foreheads pressed together on the same pillow and his hand found yours, fingers twisted together. “Don’t think I’d be very pleased either.”
“I know,” you told him, gaze trained on the way his lips moved when he spoke. “I didn’t mean to, I don’t even know when it happened.”
“No?”
You shook your head, feeling heavier than you had, like you were pulled into the boy and something magic was keeping you there. You could smell lavender and cedar and smoke and Steve.
“Might’ve been at this party, in someone’s basement. Might’ve been the time I was pushed into a closet and my best friend kissed me.”
“That sounds awful,” Steve mused and the beginnings of a grin were pulling at his lips, “a whole five years, huh?”
“Right? Isn’t that just the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”
He liked the way you said those words, like it was the opposite, your voice all sunshine and warmth and leftover summer. You were blue skies and honeysuckle, wildflowers and long drives, sleepovers on your bedroom carpet and sneaking out through the back gate.
“Y’know, I think I’ve got you beat,” said the boy, all faux seriousness as he brought his hand to your waist, palm wide and warm as he pushed at your shirt, bunching it up over your ribs until he could touch bare skin.
“You do?” You felt a little breathless at his touch, a feeling you’d craved since last summer at the quarry, a feeling you’d missed despite knowing you’d get it again soon, eventually. Now.
“Oh yeah,” Steve scoffed, voice teasing, gaze staring at you from between dark lashes. “I once knocked on this girl’s front door, asked her if she wanted to go to the arcade with me and I didn’t even mind when she hogged all the slurpee. I was a goner.”
“I did not!” You laughed, the sound pressed to Steve’s neck ‘cause he was pulling you into him, beaming bright and more carefree than you’d seen him in a while. “Liar.”
“Fell in love with the first girl I ever kissed,” he whispered, cheek pressed against yours as he whispered into your hair, like a secret he was sure you already knew. “How sad is that?”
You shook your head, hands clutched the material of Steve’s shirt, fists to his chest as if he was going to leave.
“S’not sad at all,” you told him and god your voice was a hush, your lips against the shell of his ear and you felt the breath that he sucked in and held. “Long time to wait though, huh?”
Steve nodded, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip as he pulled back, seeking you out in the dark of your room, noses bumping.
“Feels worth it, don’t you think?”
And god, it did.
It happened the way summer did. Slow and inevitable, like the gradual pick up of warmth through the year, the way you expected the sun in the morning, blue skies through your window, ice cream for lunch.
It happened like it was supposed to, like it was meant to, like you’d waited all that time just to greet it with a warm shyness, a coy, “oh, I’ve been expecting you.”
It rolled in like a present, like a gift, like a reward. Like something that the world wanted you both to have, like the universe knew you were supposed to be together. So you shared first kisses between the wildflowers, let the seeds of something more bloom between your ribs, the spaces between your chests and your hearts. You let it simmer in the warm afternoons, burn a little stronger on cliff tops over quarry’s, picnic blankets rough under bare knees and hands in hair.
“It does,” you breathed, closer to the boy than you had been, noses pressed into cheeks and for the last time, your best friend asked you your favourite question, one that tasted like fresh lemonade and smoke, cherry slurpees and fresh flowers in the air.
“Hey princess?”
You hummed a response, eyes already closed, lashes brushing at the corners, a small smile playing on the curve of your lips.
“Can I kiss you?”
You were on Steve before he could finish asking, hands on his jaw, tugging him into you, the hand that he had on your waist tightening its grip as your lips met.
It felt different than last summer. Slower, deeper, lazier, like you both knew that this wasn’t the last kiss, like you both knew you didn’t have to wait until next year, or the year after.
Like you both knew that this time was it.
You moved in the dark of your room together, Steve pushing you back into the plush of your bed, moving over you to hold himself there, chest just brushing yours as one hand found purchase in your sheets, careful not to crush you.
He caught the leg that you brought up to his side on instinct, desperate to feel more of him, wanting to press into him. Steve’s finger curled under the space behind your knee, hooked there so he could hold your thigh against his hip, so he could move into the space you created for him, body rolling into yours.
He swallowed the gasp you gave him, kissed away the sigh and the blue of the room seemed a little brighter with his lips on yours. You whined against him until the boy caught on, moving back onto his knees only for you to follow, chest pressed against his and only breaking the kiss for him to lift his arms for you. His shirt hit the floor, yours following suit, all bare skin underneath with some new freckles to find, a trail of summer; water fights, sneaking out and greeting the morning together on the hood of Steve’s car.
Steve ducked down to meet you, to let you kiss him a little deeper, a little dirtier, tongue licking at the seam of your lips, groaning when you opened for him, hand spanning the width of your back, hips pressed together with intent.
“I’m fucking desperate for you, y’know that right?” Steve groaned, words sinking into your mouth with every push of his lips against yours and you swore you’d never heard anything prettier. “Always have been, totally gone on you, princess.”
“Steve,” you felt hot with the prick of emotion, tears brimming at your lashes ‘cause it was all too much and not enough, want and longing and need building up, years of looking, of touching and just tasting, searching kisses, useless excuses, never talking about it after.
And then his hands were back on your legs, palms hooked around the backs of your knees and you were falling together, bouncing off of the mattress, pillows falling to the floor and god, you were crashing into each other.
It was mixtapes on birthdays, fresh strawberries after swimming, a hand held in the dark after a scary movie, sitting in the yard after dark when the night was still warm and you don’t know how to tell your best friend that you thought they were perfect.
Your shorts slid off too easily, hips raised from the bed and Steve’s fingers curled into the waistband. He kicked off his jeans with the help of your feet, toes pushed into the denim as he shucked them to the floor.
Suddenly, there was more skin to touch, to taste, to look at, and Steve took note of every curve he hadn’t seen, every little mole and scar, tan lines in places he always tried not to stare at.
But he kissed them instead, lips trailing hot over your chest, kisses pressed to the dip of your clavicle, the patch of sunburn on your shoulder and you felt like you had caught the entire months of summer in your chest.
It all felt a little golden.
But night had crawled in and the shadows were darker, making every touch more intense, every kiss feeling like a confession. Your underwear joined his, piled at the foot of your bed with spilled sheets and pushed pillows and the world fell into silence for you both.
No buzz or insects, no sprinklers in the yard, no screech of brakes from the street, no yelling from a tv.
Everything was hushed as Steve spread his fingers over you, a choked gasp at the way he made you feel, a kiss to soothe. He kissed you through it, fingers feeling thick as he slid one and then two inside of you, curling up and searching, face pulled back from your own so he could watch you fall apart beneath him.
“So fuckin’ pretty, so pretty,” Steve told you and you felt it, you believed him, forehead pressed to his as you gasped out his name, hands wrapped around his biceps as he coaxed you over the edge. “Can you come for me princess? Please?”
You did as he asked, as if you had any say in the matter, crashing and tumbling and falling into him, body tight, eyes clenched shut and lips falling apart in the prettiest moan Steve had ever heard.
“Oh shit, babe, that’s it, ‘atta girl, princess.”
He pulled your hands from his length when you made an eager grasp for him, not cruel, just desperate. Steve shook his head, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly, jaw slack and eyes heavy.
“Babe, if you touch me s’all gonna be over in a second,” he admitted hoarsely and his voice held no shame.
So you covered him in kisses, flipped your positions from where you lay on the bed and pushed the boy into the pillows instead. You caught his lips on yours, messier now that you’d had a taste of what was to come, mouth leaving gloss over his jaw, down his throat and you felt the vibrations over your tongue when Steve moaned.
You moved over him, slick and warm, hips pushing into his as you straddled him, making a mess of his boxers and short circuiting his brain as Steve gripped your thighs, touch almost cruel as he held on for dear life.
You pressed your palms to his chest, dropped yourself down a little so your lips could graze his own, a new kind of kiss, teasing, a whisper that was barely there.
It promised more to come, it kept him waiting and wanting, made Steve groan out at the realisation that he was entirely yours and god, maybe, just maybe, you were his too.
“Fucking hell,” he whispered, and his voice was shot, “princess, please, s’not nice to tease a man like that.”
You grinned, filled with a confidence you only ever gained from being near Steve, bolstered by the way he looked at you - all heavy lidded and slack jade, chest and cheeks flushed underneath you.
“You’ve never complained before,” you murmured back, mouth parted over his, Cupid’s bows touching but never really pressing your lips to his.
It made you both think back to all the looks, the gazes, the stares filled with longing and wanting and yearning. That same question, asked with uncertainty, with a tumble of nerves, a burst of wonder, over the years until you knew what each other would taste like, until you knew how their lips felt between your own.
“Vixen,” Steve mumbled and it should’ve been said like an insult, like a curse but his voice was molten honey, sweet caramel and the start of a summer morning.
“Can I kiss you, Harrington?” The question wasn’t needed, and you were starting to think it never had been, but you loved the way his lips lifted into a soft smile under yours, noses brushing as he nodded, waiting patiently with his hands smoothing over the backs of your thighs.
Steve made a pretty noise at the back of his throat, a gasp and a moan, a wrecked, “please,” falling onto your lips.
You kissed him without any worries, without any thoughts of what does this mean for tomorrow? You kissed him like you were greeting summer, like he was the month of June and blue skies, like you could taste peaches and fresh lemonade on his lips, like he held all your secrets behind his teeth.
He did.
Your harsh pants and soft moans mixed as you moved together, the boy shuffling underneath you as he rid himself of his underwear, boxers kicked to the end of your bed where they’d eventually be lost.
He took himself in his hand, hard and long, his breath shaky as you slid down, gasping into his mouth as you got yourself seated, tightening around him for the first time.
Steve whispered your name, soft, sinful, like a prayer, like a praise.
“I’m not gonna last long,” he grunted, eyes squeezed shut as he clasped your face in his hands, fingers splayed across the line of your jaw, over the apples of your cheeks. “M’sorry, it’s just- you’re too much, princess-”
You cut him off with a kiss - a silent ‘it’s okay’ - hips shifting, rolling over him as you moved, whimpering into his mouth. Steve swallowed your noises, gave you back his own and it wasn’t long before he was rolling you both over.
His hands found the insides of your thighs first, spreading them so he could fit between, length still inside of you, pressing into all the right places. Palms smoothed up your sides, over the ripples of your ribs, calluses catching soft skin and the feel of it all made you sigh, head tilted back.
Your hands found his, fingers intertwined as he pressed them back into the pillow below you, chest brushing up against your own as he moved, your legs curled around his waist and it was bliss, it was bright white behind your eyes, it was glitter in the dark, it was a electricity in your bones.
“Steve,” your voice was a whimper, an almost cry, your hands grappling at his shoulders for purchase as he pushed you into the mattress with thrust after thrust.
It all felt a little wild, gasping into open mouths, lips barely managing to find the other for a kiss, sliding messy over each other as hands pulled hair and fingers squeezed at arms, at thighs, at waists.
“I know,” the boy said, sounding just as wrecked as you did, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his hands under the small of your back, fingers splayed wide so he could lift your hips into his own. “I know, fuck, you close? Please tell me you’re close.”
You answered with a moan, a pitched keen, your fingers tugging the lengths of hair at the nape of the boys neck and he groaned, a deep dirty sound in response and then you were falling apart, a vice around him, eyes clenched shut and teeth biting down on the muscle in his shoulder.
Your name tumbled from his lips, a holy sound and Steve moved a little messier, his hips stuttering before he pulled out, both of you sighing at the loss, before he spilled onto your stomach with the help of your hand.
The air smelled like summer and sex and Steve.
Your pants filled the air, mixing with the boys and the trickle of the pool in the backyard. You lay together, breathless and skin slick, flyaway hairs sticking to your forehead, eyes a little glassy and lips rosy from greedy kisses.
Steve pressed another to you then, and you were almost dizzy with it. He didn’t ask, neither did you. You didn’t have to. Not anymore. So he kissed you a little harder, tempting pretty sounds from your chest that he chased with his mouth, body still pressed against yours in a way you were sure you’d never grow tired of.
No one spoke until you were both cleaned and half dressed, bodies lazy across your sheets, the night still too warm to wear anything more than your underwear, chests bare in the dark and pressed greedily to each other. A slow hand brushed across the small of your back as you lay on your stomach, head on the boy’s chest and your fingers carding through his hair.
Every now and then you’d press a kiss to wherever you could reach: his palm when it smoothed over your cheek, his sternum where you lay, the sharp line of his jaw when you found the energy to tilt your head up.
Steve responded in kind, his lips on your forehead, the top of your crown, the end of your nose.
The silence was filled with the wonder of each touch, both of you bursting at the seams as you pressed your mouths to each other without worrying, without asking.
But then Steve shifted against the pillows, moved until you were over him, chest to chest and your legs in the space between his. You propped your chin on his chest, eyes sleepy as you looked up at him and you hummed in delight when he smoothed hand over your hair, tucking it behind your ear.
“You know I’m in love with you, don’t you?”
Heavy words were said so simply, so easily, and you did. You knew. But it still sucked the breath from you, it still made you ache to hear it out loud.
“Yeah, I do,” you answered, because you did. You knew it from the way Steve looked at you, the way he liked to be near you, to sit a fraction too close. You knew it from the way he shared his slurpees, his car, his bed, his thoughts, his secrets. You felt it in his gaze, his touch, in the way he’d grown with you. “I’m in love with you too.”
“Yeah, princess, I know.”
And it was as easy as that. Simple like summer, inevitable, like the way the month of June rolls in after May. It was expected, like the warmth and the heat, like the sun in the morning and the clear starry skies at night.
It was an eventuality, a slow burn, a want, a need, a necessity.
It was Steve and it was summer and they belonged in their entirety to you.
It's been a long ten months for Frank Langdon. Rehab, endless meetings to prove he's fit for his job, and losing you.
It's his own fault. He knows that. He couldn't handle the pressure of his entire life going to shit, and combusted, destroying your life in the process. If things had gone to plan, the two of you would've been married by now. Instead, you're near strangers, and Frank doesn't know how long he can watch you date a guy that absolutely doesn't deserve you.
Until you turn up on his doorstep, with nowhere else to go after being kicked out by your ex.
And so, Frank Langdon's second chance begins.
warnings: 18+, mdni! this fic will feature medical gore, a little bit of violence, and explicit sex. more detailed warnings on each chapter individually
pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)
summary: eight months after langdon leaves, you run into him by chance, and honestly, he looks like he needs a friend. and with your new, upcoming role at the pitt, you need all of your residents on your side. while you didn't expect taking him under your wing to be easy, you definitely didn't expect to become his friend. and you certainly didn't expect... whatever comes after that.
word count & rating: 30k, M (18+! minors get out or i will verbally beat ur ass)
warnings: still slow-burning, eventual SMUT, you know i love a little porn with plot, protected p in v, oral (f receiving), hints of a handjob, lot of kissing, tons of dirty talk (langdon cannot shut up to save his life), the rivals become friends and then lovers, major sexual tension and slightly awkward flirting, afab!reader, dana stays (!), frank gets divorced (!), mentions of addiction and sobriety, lots of swearing, banter, angst, descriptions of a previous, inappropriate but consensual workplace relationship, brief mentions of another tough, previous relationship the reader had, patient gets into a minor altercation with the reader, likely inaccurate medical talk (i am a woman with google, reddit, and a dream), not beta read please do not roast me for typos i missed
author's note: well, this is part two. for those of you who missed the previous note, this was all supposed to be one fic but it's a 44k word fic and tumblr apparently has a 1,000 paragraph limit (who knew). this was the only logical way for my brain to break this one up, sorry for the weird difference in word count. if anyone wants to read it all in one part, you can find that on my ao3 linked above! hope you enjoy, i love ya all tons! -mags
MARCH 23RD, 2026. (4:30 PM)
You don’t see Frank Langdon for a long while after that. It’s like he was an illusion— something out of a nightmare that had come to life. He was back in your life for a year and then gone in an instant. The whiplash hurts just a little bit.
Despite his absence, the ED returns to normal for the most part. The new residents and med students find their place, each day a bit easier compared to their first. You find yourself drawn to each of them in a specific way, much like your friends and fellow older residents.
Whitaker becomes your shadow. He grows more confident under your supervision, often turning to you for advice when he feels he needs it. He gets closer with Robby, and you watch as your attending takes him more under his wing each day. Robby tells you that he’s glad the kid picked right when it came to looking for a mentor in his senior residents. You have to pretend that doesn’t make you want to hug him in the middle of the ED.
Santos slowly but surely turns into one of your favorite people to work with. It’s something you should have expected, but after that first day, you didn’t know what to do with her. She comes to work the next day with her head a bit tighter on her shoulders, showing you a level of respect that had been missing hours before.
(She tells you months later, when she’s more comfortable with you, that she also had no idea what to do with you after you gently told her off. She was used to being embarrassed in front of everyone when she made an error. You hadn’t done that. She knew she had to get on your good side after that.)
You find yourself calling for her to tag along for more complicated procedures, giving her a bit more leeway than you give the others to do more high-risk things. You know exactly why you do it, and so does Collins. For the sake of your sanity, she doesn’t bring him up— she just gives you a look each time you play favorites.
Javadi stays below your radar for the most part. She continues to stick with McKay when she returns, but she warms to you when she finds out about Langdon’s nickname and why the rest of the doctors call you Risky. She’s competent when she’s not second-guessing herself and continues to surprise you when she pulls solutions for cases seemingly out of nowhere. You’re constantly telling her to speak up more.
Mel is a bit of a different story. She’s incredible at what she does. She’s a second-year resident and doesn’t require as much of your coaching or supervision. But, even though she doesn’t need it, you can’t help but keep an eye on her. It almost feels like an obligation.
In doing so, you grow to love that girl. She’s compassionate, she’s sweet, and she leaves a piece of her heart in each case she takes on. When she tells you she’s trying to get better at compartmentalizing things, you have to refrain from scolding her. She’s a breath of fresh air, and you’re excited to work with her each time you’re paired together.
Things are the same, but they feel completely different. His absence is felt. It’s something you have to keep reminding yourself of. You had always wanted to get rid of him, but now that he had left? You can’t believe you ever wanted him gone.
However, in due time, you get used to it. You stop looking for him when things go to shit, you stop expecting to argue when you clock in, you stop it all. And it’s fine. It’s just fine.
Other things take precedence. Work overtakes your life. You date around a little. You continue to apply for fellowships. You get rejected from a lot of them despite how great they tell you your application is. A lot of them don’t like the fact that you transferred. It doesn’t matter how glowing your letter of recommendation from Robby is.
You’re good at what you do. You know that you are. These programs are telling you so. But some of them want more from you. Those that you favored certainly seem to. You ignore the anxiety that floods your body when Robby recommends that you reach out to Klein to see if he’d write you another letter.
It has you reconsidering your career path. It was something that had always been super cut and dry in your mind. Medical school, residency, fellowship, attending. That was the path, particularly for someone as research-intensive as you were. But maybe it didn’t have to be.
It’s something you think about constantly as you continue to hear back from the programs you’ve applied for. It’s something you’re thinking about as you run your errands on your day off.
It’s something you’re thinking about as you see Langdon for the first time in almost eight months.
You run into him at the grocery store, of all places. And it’s about as awkward as you expect.
He’s over by the produce, inspecting each apple he picks up with the same level of intensity he used to operate with. You’re in your own little world, headphones on and plugged into an episode of a podcast that had just been released that day. As sad as it was to say, these errands, these places you went to, and the little shops you looked around at were your time. It was your space outside of work to block out everything else and to only focus on what you needed. And you didn’t like that time being interrupted or that facade being broken.
Especially not by Langdon of all people.
You're not expecting to see him here, and you’re certainly not expecting to see him as you look up from your handwritten list to reach for a carton of berries that are diagonal from him. When you lock eyes, you feel your stomach drop and then immediately come back up your throat. You swallow what you’re feeling back down, but remain frozen in place.
Why was he here? You’d never seen him here before. You assumed he was still in the city, but you didn’t know he lived in your neighborhood? Or did he not? Was this just a trip over to your neck of the woods for fun? Or…
Your racing mind does nothing to ease your stomach. After your last conversation with him, you don’t know where you stand. After everything that happened over the course of his last shift, you’d be surprised if he even remembered it. The only thing that gives you any sort of comfort is the look on his face and the shade of ghostly white he’d turned the second he’d seen you. At least you were on the same page.
“Hi,” you say, voice curt and slightly panicked.
His comes out the same. “Hey.”
As you completely freak out and you flash your eyes from him to the bag of fruit in his hands, the only thing you can think to say is, “That’s a fuck ton of apples.”
It’s not what he’s expecting in the slightest, and he quite literally has to blink at you to make sure he heard you right. “Uh… Oh. Yeah,” he stammers, looking down at the bag. He seems to find his way as he says, “I’m, uh… hoping if I eat one a day, you’ll stay the hell away from me.”
It’s your turn to blink at him. That comment snaps you back to reality, and the scowl you’re more used to wearing around him finds a home on your lips. “I’m assuming it’ll have the same effect if I start chucking them at you, too.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Only one way to find out.”
The tension between you doesn’t completely dissipate, but it becomes easier to work with. However, you still don’t know what to say or how to go about talking to him. So, you sigh and decide to go with, “What are you doing here?”
He lifts the basket in his hand. “I needed food?”
“No, I mean, you don’t live around here,” you say with an eye roll. “Why are you here?”
Langdon presses his lips together and looks away from you, as if he’s figuring out exactly what to say. The action has you narrowing your eyes. “There’s some cookies Tanner likes that they only sell here,” he seems to decide on. The basket lifts again. “Trying to get dad points.”
“Well, the kid’s got good taste,” you say, nodding in approval as you eye the cookies.
You want to ask more. You know there’s more to whatever’s behind his hesitant expression. You want to ask how he’s doing, what’s going on in his life, and why he’s actually at this grocery store.
But you can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it. At least not here. Perhaps not with you. He’s stiff, uncertain, awkward— you’ve never seen him awkward. You’ve also never seen him outside of a work environment. You’ve been out with coworkers and your cohort back in school or and have hung out in the park after a shift, but that was always with your colleagues. Never outside of that and never on your own.
You don’t know what to say. It’s hard to know what’s off-limits or what he’d actually want to talk to you about.
So, you say, “Well, it’s good to see you,” you try. “You look good. Or, uh, better.”
His brows pull together for a second, then he nods. “Thanks. It’s, uh—” It’s like he doesn’t know how to talk to you like this. He’s shifty, bouncing back and forth on his heels, as if he’ll bolt at any minute. “It’s good to see you, too.”
You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s because you feel bad for him, maybe it’s because you don’t know what to say. Maybe it’s because you know that if you were in his position, you’d want someone to do it to you.
Whatever it is, you find yourself grabbing the small notebook you had written your grocery list in and flipping to a blank page. You can feel his eyes on you as you quickly write something, rip the piece out of the book, and then fold it up. Your hand almost skims the berries below as you hold the paper out to him. “Take this.”
The confusion on his face only grows. “What is that?”
You push it at him. “It’s my number,” you say. “You don’t have it. And it’s clear you don’t want to talk to me in a grocery store, if at all, which I get.” You shrug. “But if you ever want to talk to someone about, I don’t know… work, life, anything. Text me.”
He’s looking at you like you’re handing him a bomb that’s about to go off. “I have some— I have people to talk to.”
“I’m sure you do,” you tell him. “And you don’t have to talk to me. But if you need to… talk to someone with better bedside manner than you, who, I don’t know? Already knows all the worst parts of you? I’m here.”
Langdon stares at the piece of paper, then at you, then back down at the paper. He’s frozen, and the moment that passes between you feels like a month. Just when your arm begins to get tired from being outstretched, he takes the paper from you.
He nods after he does so, slipping it into his pocket. “Uh. T-Thanks,” he stammers. “I… I appreciate that.”
You’re not going to get any better than that. Not right now. So, you nod back at him and grab a container of berries in front of you to put into your cart. “Take care of yourself,” you tell him, then glance down at his basket. “And good luck with the cookies.”
You’re gone before he can say thank you, too taken aback by your conversation to verbalize anything coherent. One short interaction with you and he feels like a tornado just ran through the grocery store, and he’s the only one left standing.
He feels the corner of the piece of paper sticking into his leg slightly, and the weight of your words weighing him down.
He’d never get you. But he was no longer resigned to that idea.
APRIL 2ND, 2026. (2:00 PM)
You meet him for coffee on one of your days off.
He texts you approximately three days after your encounter, apologizing for any awkwardness and letting you know that it was, in fact, good to see you, even if he didn’t act like it. He takes you up on your offer, letting you know his schedule so you can work it around your own.
You’re not sure what to expect when you walk into the shop. You don’t know what he’s going to be like, what he’s going to want to talk about-- what he wants this to be. Does he just want to make amends? Does he want to talk about his rehabilitation journey? Does he want to hear about work? All of the above?
You know you’re overthinking it, but you can’t not. You’re getting coffee with Langdon. You didn’t do things outside of work. You never saw him out of scrubs unless the team was going out. It was just a bit odd, and you couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t.
It’s something he addresses the moment you sit down with him. He’s arrived before you, having grabbed a table in the corner that has two mugs on it. Your brows shoot up in surprise as you realize he’s remembered your coffee order, and you exchange niceties as you sit down.
After a beat of awkward silence, he sighs. “This is fucking weird, isn’t it?”
You shrug and bite back a smile. “Only as weird as we make it.”
He shoots you a look, one you haven’t seen in a while. It almost makes you nostalgic. “So, how do we make it not weird?”
“Well, typically, conversations start with questions,” you say slowly, and you find that he’s already rolling his eyes. “These can be anything from ‘how are you’ to ‘what’s new?’”
He shuts his eyes, though you don’t miss the humor in them when they open. “How are you?” he asks. “What’s new?”
“I’m good,” you reply, and it’s honest. Because you are good. You’re much better than you were the night you left him on the curb. “Everything’s pretty much the same. My residency finishes up in a couple of months, so… I’m just prepping for Boards and then for the transition.” You feel a bit bad talking about the residency he should be finishing up with you, so you quickly move on. “How are you?”
He reaches for his mug, a sigh heaving from his chest as if he were dreading the question. “Oh, you know. Recovery is great. I’m loving every second of it.” His voice drips with sarcasm, and his shoulders sag at the look you give him. After a moment, he quietly says, “I’ll be nine months sober tomorrow.”
Something akin to pride warms your chest. “That’s huge, Langdon,” you say earnestly, and when he tries to shrug it off, you shake your head. “No, I’m serious. That’s a big fucking deal. You should be proud of yourself. I mean that.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. You don’t expect him to. Instead, he decides to ask about something that you hope had escaped his notice. “You said you’re prepping for the transition?”
You glance at him, sighing as you reach for your mug. You know the exact reaction you’re going to get when you say, “I’m attending starting in July. Me and Collins. Boards willing.”
Taking a long sip of your coffee, you can’t help but note that he got your order exactly right. Asshole. Because now, you can’t complain as he starts to laugh. “No fucking way.”
“I’m in charge of you next year,” you mutter. “So, I’d choose my next words very wisely.”
“I’m not—” He shakes his head. “I’m not laughing at you. I just can’t believe it. You were so set on the fellowship. You were making me feel bad about not being prepared for it.”
You sink back into your chair. “My applications came off a little… unfocused? That was the word that was used, I think.” His brow furrows. He’d never call anything you did unfocused. You continue, “I’ve found that I’m really good at a lot of things. I just don’t know what I’m best at. I’m going to do my fellowship when I’ve figured that out. Whenever that is.”
You’re expecting him to make fun of you. To laugh again or do whatever it is that he does to get on your nerves. But he doesn’t. All he says is, “I don’t think that’s a bad choice.”
The look on your face is weary when you ask, “No?”
He shakes his head, grabbing a sugar packet from the container on your table. “Not at all. It’s mature. Don’t do something or settle because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do.”
It’s a strangely sage piece of advice from someone you rarely get it from. It’s also something you think you desperately needed to hear, but you’d never tell him that.
With a small smile, you nod at him in thanks. “How’s Abby? The kids? Did you get ‘dad points’ or whatever for the cookies?”
The grimace that pulls at his lips morphs his whole face, and suddenly, you feel like you’ve made a major misstep. It’s another question he was dreading. “Abby and I… uh—” He fiddles with the sugar packet in his hands. “We’re… separated. In the process of filing for divorce.”
Well, now you feel like the asshole. “Oh, fuck, man,” you say, another heavy sigh leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”
Langdon shrugs, and it’s a pathetic attempt to act like he doesn’t care. You don’t call him out on it. He rips the packet and dumps the contents into his coffee. “It was a long time coming.”
Quiet settles between you, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond to that. Then, like a reflex, you say, “Was it because of the—”
“It wasn’t because of the fucking dog.” It’s as if he anticipated it, and there’s a piece of you that hates that he can predict you so well. The other piece of you is pressing your lips together to refrain from laughing as he shakes his head in annoyance.
But then, he does something he’s never done before. He looks at you— at your face, at the smile you’re poorly concealing, and the glint in your eye that he always noticed but had never admired. And then, he starts to laugh.
It’s not loud or boisterous. It’s a soft chuckle, one that lasts as he continues to shake his head and grins softly as he hears you do it too.
“You can tell me I was right, it’s okay.” Your voice is lilting, and the humor written into your expression makes him shake his head. “There’s a first time for everything. I’m not stoked that it’s over a dog, but I’ll take what I can get.”
A long and heavy sigh leaves him, and he wipes a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he replies. “You were right. He’s cute as hell, but it... it was a bad idea. The kids love him, though.”
“I’m sure they do,” you say, then nod at him. “She made you keep the dog, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That thing’s mine. She passed him off to me right when I got out of rehab.”
You snort. “Good for her. And what a sobriety present.”
“You’re telling me.” He makes a face. “It could be worse, though. Gives me something to focus on other than how fucked up my life’s become.”
Your lips purse, and you push them to the side. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” he asks. “It has. And I’m not saying that to get you to pity me. It fell apart, and it’s my fault.”
“Maybe,” you say lightly. “But you don’t have to torture yourself over it. That’s not going to help anyone involved.” Langdon sends you a half-hearted glare, and you throw your hands up. “I’m serious. You make it everyone’s problem when you’re miserable. You’re fixing yourself. Be kinder to yourself about it.”
He takes another long sip of his coffee. Then, after a minute, he says, “Thanks.” It’s the best you’re going to get from him. You’re just happy he’s finally, actually acknowledging your attempts at encouragement. “How’s The Pitt?”
His attempt to shift the conversation is not subtle, but you go along with it. “It’s less chaotic than when you left it,” you say. “The newbies are pretty much acclimated now. Everyone else is doing well. We miss you.”
His expression is skeptical when he asks, “You miss me?”
“Some days,” you admit with a shrug. His brows rise higher. “It’s boring having no one to argue with. I like Collins and Mohan too much to yell at them.”
A small smile graces his features. “Well, if it makes you feel any better,” he begins, “I miss it too. Arguing and all.”
It does, in fact, make you feel better. But still, you say, “You can’t fight with me next session, though. I own your ass.”
“Oh, no,” he sighs. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna go full-metal despot. I can’t handle that.”
“Only for you. Half-metal despot for everyone else.” You shrug. That glint in your eye has returned. “I’m gonna be your nightmare.”
He sighs ruefully into his mug. “Like you weren’t already.”
“I’ll be nice,” you assure him, resolving the act. “But, yeah. You have to at least pretend like you respect me.”
“I’ve always respected you,” he states, and the immediate honesty in his voice catches you by surprise. “That was never the issue. The issue is that you’re a pain in the ass.”
You hold your fingers up like a phone despite the feeling that’s twisting your stomach. “Hey, Kettle? I’ve got pot on the line telling you to go fuck yourself.”
There’s humor in his expression as he shakes his head. “I’ll keep everyone in line.”
“Be nice about it,” you warn. “I don’t want any of the newbies shitting their pants because you start bullying them in July.”
“I would never,” he scoffs.
“Santos would say differently,” you chide.
He rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. “She was different.”
“She is,” you say. “She’s also different than you left her. She’s probably my favorite resident to work with.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. She’s good, Langdon.” He shakes his head. “If you get over yourself, you might realize it, too.”
He has nothing to say to that. For a minute, you think you’ve made him mad. But then, you realize he’s thinking.
He’s not looking at you when he asks, “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” you say.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” He motioned between the two of you. “You don’t need to be doing any of this. I don’t deserve it. But you are.”
His question stumps you, because honestly? You don’t quite understand it yourself. Given your past, you should be leaving him to rot. You should make his life a living hell the second he returns to the ED. He doesn’t deserve the kindness you’re extending to him.
But you still do it. There might be some part of you that pities him. Maybe it’s because it’s not all his fault. Perhaps, it’s the fact that it hasn’t all been bad.
But you think it’s more of the fact that, regardless of your best efforts to get rid of him, you know Langdon. You spent four years of med school with him and have a year of working together under your belt. You know him.
And despite the nickname he’d given you, you don’t give up on people you know. Especially when you know they might just need you.
“I don’t… really know why either,” you tell him, and your blunt words have him huffing a laugh. “But I think… I think it’s going to be hard for you to come back to work after everything. Even if you’re doing everything right. And I think I’d want someone in my corner if I were in your spot.”
Langdon stares at you in disbelief. “I’m…” He blows a breath through closed lips, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t fucking understand you.”
You shrug. “Join the club.”
“No. I mean it. I don’t get you,” he says. “You realize that I don’t know if I could do the same for you, right? I don’t know if I would be able to be this… nice.”
You eye him. “You’ve never been able to. That was kind of our whole thing.” He’s still looking at you like that. The sigh you release is laborious, and it almost hurts going out. “Not everything’s a contest, Langdon. We don’t always have to compete. There are no winners or losers anymore. We work together now. We’re in the same boat, and that boat doesn’t move unless every single person’s rowing. Stronger in numbers and all that.” You grab your mug, coffee almost lukewarm now. “Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re going to need someone to be nice to you in order for the boat to keep going. If I have to be that person, so be it.”
He scoffs. “I don’t need to be coddled.”
“No, but you’re going to need support,” you respond. “And we both know that I’m a little more forgiving than Robby is.”
That shuts him up almost immediately. He knows you’re right. More than right, actually. He’s barely spoken to him since July. Langdon’s antsy to get back to the floor, but dear God, he does not want to face Robby.
Not after everything he owes him.
He watches you take a long sip of your coffee— the way you gently put it back down onto the table and shift the handle to face yourself. Then, he watches the way you meet his gaze, staring at him as if you’d just said the simplest thing in the world.
Of course, you were going to help him. Of course, you were going to be nice to him. Why wouldn’t you be? Why wouldn’t you help him? Simple questions like that had simple answers to you.
He gives it another second before he looks away. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and he hopes he sounds as genuinely grateful as he feels. “Really.”
“Don’t worry about it,” you say. “I got into this field to help people. It’s kinda what I’m good at.”
Langdon chuckles. “I still don’t get you, though.”
“Well, you can figure me out better when you get back.” You point at him. “But not too well. I don’t want you telling the other residents what my weaknesses are. I can’t take all of you at once if you revolt.”
“The other attendings would help out,” he offers.
“Yeah, but the only ones that I’m confident can fight are Abbot and Ellis. They won’t be there to help.”
“Robby can throw a punch.”
“Sure, but would he?” you argue. “Before he could, he’d get called to like, do a Craniectomy with his eyes closed and tell me I’m on my own.”
As he laughs, you launch into another hypothetical, hands waving enthusiastically as you explain yourself, you find yourself falling into an easy sort of conversation with him. He keeps up with you as usual, but his typically sharp words are replaced with something a bit more loose. Kinder, even. It’s a change that you don’t immediately notice, but when you do, you can’t help but feel a little strange.
What’s even stranger, you realize, is that to anyone else in the shop, you two might look like you were actually friends.
It doesn’t unsettle you as much as you thought it would.
JULY 4TH, 2026. (6:45 AM)
You keep in contact for the next couple of months.
It starts out slow— a text here and there, mostly questions about work, asking when you two were free to meet for coffee next, and talking about how things are going for each of you. A video that you’d like the other would like thrown into the mix. It’s not a lot, but it’s consistent. You know his Type-A brain could use some consistency.
As the two of you got more comfortable with each other, it became even more consistent. You’ll text him a photo of a gnarly or crazy injury in the middle of a shift (a month an a half ago, an eighteen year old girl came in with a pencil through her cheek after the kid she was tutoring threw a tantrum, and a photo went to both the ED group chat and Langdon), he’ll send a picture back of his dog in the park.
It becomes almost like an instinct. Anytime something out of the ordinary goes down, you feel like you have to update him. Your text chain from last Monday looked something like this:
7:34: code security just called on a twenty-five year old guy who escaped his bed and just tried to stab mckay with his rugrats pocket knife. starting the day off strong!
ahmad should have let her handle it. i’d put my money on mckay any day.
10:12: first foreign body of the day. want to guess what it is and where?
who’s the patient?
fifty-seven year old guy
give me kitchen utensil up the ass for $400, alex
ooooh half credit. shaving cream bottle up the ass
holy fuck. how does that even fit up there?
he saying he fell on it?
you know it
okay my turn
15:17: just picked tanner up from day camp. inside day because of the rain-- he told me one of the kids got one of those counting bears stuck up their nose. he might be on his way to you
javadi’s on triage today, will tell her to look out for it
didn’t even know those things still existed
this camp is old school. only tech allowed is movies
no cocomelon?
i told you i’m not raising an ipad baby, risky.
16:56: anti-vax couple is currently trying to convince mel that their zinc supplements and prayers are enough to protect their high-risk kid that has chicken pox
tell mel she has MY prayers.
she’s handling them well
one of these days she’s going to snap and i’m gonna parade her around like rocky
i’ll play the theme music
also are we still on for coffee on thursday?
obviously. it’s your turn to buy
You continue to get coffee with him every couple of weeks. At first, you tell yourself, it’s just to keep him in that aforementioned routine. But, each time you meet up, it becomes that much easier to talk to him, and you can no longer pretend like you don’t enjoy his company.
You learn more about him— about who he really is. It’s more than just his base level likes and dislikes that you’ve picked up on: you learn about where he’s from, his family, and how he grew up. What he likes to do on his days off, how he’s started coaching his Tanner’s U-6 soccer team in his free time. You learn that he’s just a bit too into it, something you make evident by the subtle side-eye you give him when he mentions how they’re not getting a play he wrote up for them.
You also learn just how nervous he is to return to work. He’s slightly more withdrawn in the week leading up to it, and despite how much you reassure him that things will be fine, he doesn’t seem to listen to you.
(Things change, but they don’t. You’ll take what you can get.)
Last night, before you fell asleep, you’d made sure to send him a text, figuring that he’d be on his phone. You knew there was no way he’d be sleeping tonight.
before you come in tomorrow, i just want to tell you
i tried to tell robby that the fact that your first shift back is a fucking full moon fourth of july shift is cruel and unusual
but despite our circumstances i am 100% sure that you’re going to kill it
You watch as the three little dots at the bottom of the screen appear and then disappear. You can picture him typing at his phone and deleting every self-deprecating thing he’s thinking, knowing you’re not going to respond well to it. But, in a surprise turn of events, he chooses to be honest with you.
thanks. i’m freaking the fuck out.
take a breath. you’re going to be fine
easier said than done
i’ve got your back, dude. we all do
please try to sleep a little
i can’t have you being both anxious and exhausted tomorrow i can only deal with one of those things
It took a minute for him to respond, but when he did, it was a short, heard. thank you.
That took you to today, in the PTMC parking lot, where you stood outside of Langdon’s car, waiting for him to notice you.
He’d been switching between listening to something and hyping himself up, unaware of anything around him. There’s something inherently sweet about it, and you almost don’t want to ruin it for him.
But you two need to be clocked in within the next fifteen minutes, and you don’t trust him not to throw his car in reverse and drive away.
So, you beat on the passenger side window.
You think his entire soul leaves his body. He practically jumps out of his seat, hands flying up like he’s reaching for something above. You have to press your lips together to hold in your laughter as he glares at you, rolling his window down.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks, still trying to catch his breath.
“Good morning to you, too,” you say. You lean your elbows on the ledge of the now-open window. “Happy comeback season.”
He huffs, looking away from you. “Couldn’t you see I was like, in the middle of something here?”
You nod in understanding. “In the middle of deciding whether or not you should go in, right?” When he scowls at you, you can’t help but smile. “Can I come in?”
Langdon stares at you for a second before muttering to himself and slapping the unlock button on the driver’s side. You’re greeted by the AC that’s blasting in his car and slump into the seat. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Well, at least you’re awake,” you reply. “The five Red Bulls you’re gonna shotgun today will only carry you so far.”
“Yeah, but I could have gone without the jumpscare. Way too early for that shit,” he says.
You shrug the comment off, glancing around. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in your car before.”
“And after that, you won’t ever be invited back.”
You send him a look. “Good morning, Langdon,” you repeat, and your tone has him shutting his eyes and turning away from you. “How are we doing this morning?”
He doesn’t say anything for a long while, and for a moment, you think he’s giving you the cold shoulder. But then he mutters, “I can’t go in there.”
“Sure you can,” you say.
“No,” he whispers. “I can’t.”
“Completely disregarding the fact that the future of your career relies on you walking through those doors in thirteen minutes,” you start, catching him rolling his eyes out of the corner of yours, “you’re on the schedule and don’t have coverage. People are going to be more mad at you if you leave than if you go in.”
You didn’t think that your attempt at a joke was going to help in any way, but somehow, it has him seriously considering your point. He pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning his elbow on his door’s armrest. “What if it’s awful?” he asks.
You don’t recognize the person beside you. You’ve never seen him like this. This nervous, this scared. He was always the pinnacle of confidence, for better or for worse. He was self-assured, cocky, and completely in control of himself.
This wasn’t that guy. And it freaked you out enough to decide that you weren’t going to stand for it.
“Okay,” you begin, turning your body in the seat to face him, “as you so eloquently and gently said to me when I was freaking out this time last year, ‘get your fucking head on straight. You are not Flight Risk-ing it right now.’”
A surprised laugh escapes him as he rubs a hand down his face. “We’re going there?”
“Oh, yeah. Been waiting to use your horrendous bedside manner on you for a year. It’s time.” You point at him. “We need you in there, and we need you to be on it because no one can do what you do.” You take a moment, and in that moment, he meets your gaze. Involuntarily, you find that you voice gets softer as you say, “I fucking need you, so get the fuck out of your head and let’s go.”
Langdon just stares at you in that way that he does. He’s always staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. It’s as if you’re some impossible equation to some cosmic disturbance. Like everything in his life makes some sort of sense but you.
He could say something sentimental, tell you how he really feels about all of this, and let you know exactly what everything you’ve done for him leading up to this point means to him. He really thinks about it.
But, instead, he chooses the comfortable route and says, “I’m surprised you remembered all of that.”
You scoff. “How could I not? It was the first time I’ve ever been yelled out of a panic attack. Only you could do that.” You mumble that last part, but he still hears it, evident by his soft chuckle. You lean your shoulder into the backrest, lips curling upward. “You with me?”
When he sighs, he practically inhales all of the air in the car. But still, “Yeah. I’m with you.”
“Good,” you say. You grab your go-bag at your feet and go to open the door. “Breathe. I told you. I’ve got your back.”
Before you can make your exit, Langdon grabs your wrist. The action has you staring at him in surprise. “I know I keep saying it,” he begins, “but… thank you. You’re— you’ve been… just--” He slows himself down, and when he’s collected himself, he squeezes your wrist. “Thank you.”
You’re still caught off-guard by the fact that he’s willingly touching you, but find yourself nodding at him with a small smile that you hope is encouraging. “I’ll see you in there,” you tell him.
He follows you inside five minutes later, anxious, antsy, and unsure. But when he catches your eye and you give him that same smile, some of the… everything he’s feeling evaporates.
It’s a small thing that feels like a victory in his book. Maybe everything will be fine.
JULY 4TH, 2026. (11:34 PM)
i can’t move, he texts you that night, when you’re finally tucked in bed, eyes barely staying open. that was so brutal. it might rival the pittfest shift.
i’m still recovering from getting shoulder tackled by that lady in the sexy uncle sam costume, you respond. she should play for the fucking steelers when she gets released from jail.
they could use her. her form was incredible
perlah already has the security cam footage of that btw
i know. she sent it to the group chat already (remind me to add you back to that)
i’m glad my bruised ribs could spark joy
You watch through partially closed eyes as those three dots appear and disappear.
we should go to game this year, he finally says. they’re so bad that it could be fun
pitt outing to the steelers? i’m in
get abbot on a blackstone STAT
There’s another pause in your conversation. Then, it might be hard to get all of our schedules to align.
It’s then that it clicks for you.
frank langdon
are you asking me to hang out outside of work
you say that like we don’t do it already
that’s just coffee. you’re asking me to like HANG OUT and DO SHIT with you
shut up
ooooooo you want to be my friend so bad
i never thought we’d get here
i’m going to bed
You snicker to yourself, fingers flying across your screen as you type out, let’s do an october game or something. get the PTO in early.
A minute passes before your phone vibrates again. i’ll start looking at tickets tomorrow.
You’re about to turn your phone over and go to bed for the night when it buzzes again. i couldn’t have done today without you.
you could have, you respond. but i’m glad i was there. hell day and all.
me too.
i’ll see you tomorrow for day two.
SEPTEMBER 24TH, 2026. (5:00 PM)
The change in your relationship doesn’t go unnoticed.
The second Langdon returned to work, each person on the floor had clocked that something was different between you two. You still argued. You still made fun of each other on an hourly basis, and you still occasionally disagreed about the right way to approach a case. But there was something less malicious about it now.
You’d insult him, but it was accompanied by a soft nudge on the arm. He’d snipe back at you, only to smile to himself when you walked off. More often than not, you’d walk in for a shift with him or head out together. He knew exactly how you liked your coffee and would make it when he had a free moment, handing it off to you while you were moving from case to case.
You weren’t just working together anymore. You weren’t amicable for the sake of the smooth operation of the ED. You were friendly. It looked like you actually liked each other.
Three weeks in, Princess tells the nurses that she saw the two of you actually laughing together in the break room. Something about med school cadaver labs and peanut M&Ms. It doesn’t make any sense to her, but then again, none of this does.
It’s a straight-up Twilight Zone episode for everyone who isn’t you and Langdon. You two don’t really question the change. It’s just something that happened.
After that text on the Fourth, you start hanging out outside of work.
While a lot of your days off don’t always align and your personal life schedules aren’t always in sync, you find yourself with him on the days that do. It’s never anything overly exciting: you tend to run errands together, you’ve gotten lunch-- you’ve even gone to his apartment once.
It’s nice. It’s easy. It’s… what having a friend should be like.
But then, he shows up with a pizza on one of those rare days you both have off.
It starts with a short, What are you doing tonight? text. It’s not uncommon for him to check in now, especially when he knows you’re off work. Even more so when he’s also off. But he’s never texted out of the blue to ask about your plans for the day.
You reply with a simple, nothing. why? All you get is an ominous :) in response.
About an hour later, there’s a sharp, three-beat knock at your door. You shoot up from your couch in confusion, whipping your head in the direction of the sound. Was he—? No. No way. He didn’t know where you lived. Or did he? Had you told him?
You pause the episode of the reality show you’re catching up on and make your way to the door, shaking your head in disbelief. When you look out your peephole, you see him rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, holding a thin box in his hands. Oh, my God. He was here. And he brought a fucking pizza.
After you get over your brief moment of shock, you reach down to open the door. Langdon’s eyes immediately meet yours, and a smile grows on his lips as he sees what you’re wearing. “Cute shorts.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, fighting the urge to pull your oversized sweatshirt down further to hide your PJ shorts that are accented with little stethoscopes. “It’s my Bravo rot day. I wasn’t expecting company.”
His grin gets wider. “I like to surprise you.”
You hum a noise that sounds something like agreement. “Guess those apples aren’t working, huh?” you say, leaning up against your doorframe.
”Well, I got a pizza,” he replies, lifting the box up and shaking it lightly. “How do you like them apples?”
You stare at him blankly, allowing the absolute bomb of a joke he just threw out there to stew in its awfulness for a moment. Langdon’s smile falters, and he shifts awkwardly. “Good Will Hunting?” he says, as if he has to explain the reference for it to land.
“I know what it’s from,” you state. “I just can’t slam the door in your face because I’m frozen by the shock of how bad that was.”
“Oh, c’mon, that was—“
“Nope. I lied, it’s not shock. It’s rigor mortis. You literally killed me and now I—“
“Just take the pizza and shut the fuck up,” he mutters, shoving it out in front of him.
Reflexively, you hold up your hands to accept it and laugh to yourself. You step back and hold the door open to let him into your apartment, and the sigh of relief that leaves his lips is audible. “How the hell did you get my address?” you ask.
“The Pitt directory is incredibly detailed.” He hangs his coat up amongst the many you keep on hooks in your tiny entryway. “My God, you have a lot of jackets.”
“They each have their own purpose,” you reply automatically. Dana’s constant ribbing about you showing up in a new one each shift has trained you to do so. “My home address is in the public directory?”
He at least has the decency to look just a bit sheepish when he turns around. “Not the public one.”
A scandalized gasp escapes you as you put two and two together. “Fucking Lisa.”
“I told her I had to drop something off at yours,” he reasons with a shrug, then motions to the pizza. “I wasn’t lying.”
“And that traitor was just willing to give out my home address to you of all people? What, is she gonna leak my social next?”
Langdon chuckles softly, shaking his head. That familiar smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. “She told me she’d only do it for me. I told you she’s got a thing for me.”
“That thing is aiding and abetting,” you mutter, and you bite back a smile as he snickers again.
That smile stays hidden as you turn to take the pizza to your kitchen island and set it down. Langdon’s already opening it the second you turn away to grab some napkins. He clocks the look on your face as you stare at him and the slice that’s already in his hands.
Your lips start to curl in disgust when he says, “Oh, relax. I only got olives on my side. Your shit’s on the other.” He rolls your eyes and takes a bite as your scowl turns into something more satisfied. “Freak.”
“You’re the freak,” you mutter. You open one of the cabinets next to your stove to grab two plates. “Use a plate, you heathen. Let’s have a society, alright?”
“I’m not taking etiquette lessons from a girl I’ve seen do multiple body shots at Lucky’s,” he says, mouth full. You scrunch up the napkins in your hand into a ball the second you hear ‘body shots’ and chuck it at his head. He catches it effortlessly. “I’m just saying.”
You pull a piece of pizza from your designated side. “That was med school. I’ve basically aged twenty years since then. I’m much more mature now.”
“Right. You only do one now instead of multiple.”
You nod. “Exactly. And then I’m in bed, hungover for twenty-four hours the next day.”
Langdon laughs, then that laugh turns into a sigh. “We used to be out until three in the morning and then wake up at seven for class. What happened to us?”
“We’re old, is what happened.” You take a bite of your slice. “Speaking of old, where are your kids today?”
He rolls his eyes at your comment, but answers despite it. “They’re with Abby visiting her parents. I’ve got them for the three days I have off next week, but it’ll mostly be me and Penny. Tanner has school.”
“And the dog?” you ask.
“At my apartment. I took him to the park this afternoon, and he knocked out the second we got back. Woke up to eat, then fell right back asleep.”
“It’s genuinely insane to see how domestic you’ve become.” The sweet tone of your voice has him scowling at you. “I’m serious. Also, feel free to bring him next time we hang out.”
Despite the casual way he nods and despite the fact that you guys hanging out has now become commonplace, he has to pretend that your use of the words ‘next time’ doesn’t excite him a little. “Thanks. Tanner says I should start bringing him to work.”
You make a sarcastic sound of agreement. “We’ve had rats in the ED. Why not dogs?”
“Exactly,” he says. “Maybe I’ll file with HR for a therapy animal.”
“I still can’t believe Lisa gave you my address,” you mutter. “That has to be like, three different types of illegal.”
“Oh, c’mon. I knew the neighborhood you live in. She was just helping.”
“Yeah, but what if you were like a total fucking weirdo?” Before he can say anything, you continue, “I mean, more than you already are? What if you were stalking me? I know she’s in love with you, but man, you’ve been in HR for forty years. Do your job.”
“She’s been trying to set me up with her daughter since she heard about the divorce,” he tells you. At your confused look, he explains, “Lisa. She’s got a twenty-something-year-old daughter who just left her husband. Thinks we’d be good together.”
Your brows raise. “And you’re not jumping at the chance to do that?”
“Uh, no.” He shakes his head. “I don’t do set-ups. Or blind dates.”
“You make it really easy to forget you’re so conceited sometimes,” you mutter, dodging an olive that he throws your way. Your mouth drops at the sound of it plopping onto your rug. “Pick that up now. If you ruin my runner with your gross fucking olives, I’m gonna get Robby to switch you to nights and I’m telling Ellis to bully the shit out of you.”
He rolls his eyes but does as he’s told, shaking his head. “It’s not about looks,” he tells you as he walks over toward you and crouches down. “I just… I don’t like being surprised. I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
You eye him carefully as he rounds your island to get to your trash can. “Okay? Then join an app?”
Langdon looks physically repulsed by the idea. “Because no one ever lies on the internet.”
“Jesus, man. I don’t know, then you can wander around a farmer’s market with your dog and Tanner and Penny looking lost.”
He eyes you for a moment, then pretends to consider it. “That might not be a bad idea. I’ve never thought about pimping out my kids to pick up women.”
The sarcasm in his tone isn’t missed, and you throw your hands up. “Fine. I tried. You can die a miserable old man. You’re already halfway there anyway.”
“I just don’t know if I’m ready yet,” he admits through a chuckle. He reaches at his plate to grab his half-eaten slice of pizza and takes a bite. With his mouth full, he says, “Getting back out there with someone is just…” He grimaces, swallowing. “That sounds fucking awful.”
“Why?” you ask. “I think it sounds kind of exciting. It’s good to meet new people.”
“I don’t want to meet new people,” Langdon tells you. The way it comes out makes it sound almost like he wasn’t even thinking about the words before he said them. You notice the way his eyes flick to yours for a moment and then immediately flick away. Your heart stutters, and you can’t even explain why. “I mean, I—“ His cheeks tint the slightest shade of pink, and you pretend you don’t see it. He forks a hand through his hair. “The idea of getting to know someone like… that again is just so…”
You know what he’s trying to say. You also know what he’s not saying, too.
You understand him so well, yet you don’t at all. He was so puzzling. He’s someone who always came off to you as relatively straightforward. He was self-assured; cocky, even. He was someone who’d been told one too many times that he was good at what he did, maybe even that he was better than everyone around him, so he’d started to believe it. Maybe a little too much.
He gave his time to those he thought were worth it. He was confident, and he knew who he was. He didn’t care if he was an asshole or who hurt along the way. It didn’t matter what anyone thought about him as long as he knew that he was in the right.
But as you watch Langdon— watch him be shy and unsure and uncomfortable in front of you, you realize that you barely knew who he was outside of your career. Sure, you knew loads about him. You knew about his personal life and his likes and interests. But you didn’t know him. You’d never talked with him like this or had him admitting things like this.
You wanted to hate the fact that it totally endeared him to you. But, for some reason, it didn’t.
That would never stop being weird.
“I get it,” you say. “I didn’t want to meet anyone after I called off my engagement with Jamie. I shut myself off to everyone for like, a year.”
“I remember,” he mutters. “Watching Donovan try to hit on you every other week during labs was painful.”
“Oh, God. That was painful for me, too.” The smirk that slides onto your face is both sarcastic and involuntary. “I saw on LinkedIn that he just started a neurosurgery fellowship. Maybe I should have given him a chance.”
Langdon rolls his eyes. “The world does not need two Doctor Donovans.”
You can’t help but snort. There’s a beat of silence before you admit, “You know I didn’t get into another real, serious relationship until about three months into my residency in Boston?”
His brows rocket to his hairline. “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Nobody really… piqued my interest until then.”
“That’s almost impressive.”
You shrug him off. “I’m exceptionally picky.”
He makes a noise of agreement. “So, who was he?”
“Huh?” you ask, fully hearing him but not at all expecting that question.
“Who was the guy that finally ‘piqued your interest?’” he clarifies.
He’s not expecting the silence he’s met with. You stare down at your plate, biting the inside of your cheek, and Langdon knows he’s asked the wrong question.
“He…” You swallow and tear a piece from the crust that’s left on your plate. “He’s irrelevant,” is what you finally decide on.
You say it because he is. Truthfully, up until this conversation, you hadn’t thought of him in weeks. You know it doesn’t seem like it, and it definitely doesn’t seem like you’re anywhere close to being over it, but you are.
It doesn’t mean it isn’t still hard to talk about.
Langdon stares at you. “Is he?”
You meet his gaze with a heavy sigh that takes a lot out of you. “No. He’s not,” you admit. You keep your voice light. “But every day, he becomes more irrelevant. And every day, I come to some new realization about him and know that what happened was for the better. And that’s all I can ask for.”
Thankfully, Langdon doesn’t have any more questions for you regarding that. Relief washes over you as you realize he’s moving on, but you know he’s not going to forget it. Unfortunately, it’s not like him to forget things.
“New topic,” he says quickly, like he’s trying to get your mind off of whatever you’re thinking about as soon as possible. “Because I need to know. Does that work?” You lift your brows, cueing him to continue. “That stuff you were talking about. That… farmer’s market, kids stuff. Does that actually work?”
A small smile tugs at your lips, and you shrug once more. “Dude, women eat that shit up. At least, y’know. Some of us.”
“Seriously?” he asks.
“Oh, yeah,” you say. “A hot dad asking if we’d recommend the blackberries or the raspberries more?” You shake your head with a faux longing expression. “Hook, line, and sinker.”
The smirk that suddenly glides over Langdon’s lips is something lethal, and it makes your stomach flip. He leans up against the counter. “A hot dad?”
Your eyes roll so hard you think they’ll fall out of your head. “Circumstantially and hypothetically.”
“Of course,” he says, nodding as if he understands. But that look stays on his face. “But I’m curious. Would that be something… that would work on you?” At the surprise that morphs your expression, he shrugs. “Hypothetically.”
You look at him with suspicion. “I don’t know?”
“You don’t know?” he parrots. It’s clear he doesn’t believe you. “You just posed a very specific hypothetical, and you don’t know?”
“Oh, my God, okay. Hypothetically, you loser,” you repeat, hoping everything you’re about to say sounds casual and not as weird as you’re suddenly feeling. “The independent variable would have to be… I don’t know? My type? Looks like he actually cares about the kids he’s pimping out?”
“The independent variable being the guy,” he clarifies.
“Yes, Doctor Langdon. Very astute,” you say. “Validating your ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ award status with each day you live and breathe.”
He leans over your counter, placing his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. His brows furrow in mild interest. “And what exactly is your type?”
You feel heat rise to your cheeks almost instantly. Never, in a million years, did you think you’d be standing in your apartment with Frank Langdon, chatting about your type over a pizza he bought for you. “When did we start talking about me?” you ask. “This was supposed to be about you and how you’re too afraid to go on a date.”
“And now it’s about both of us,” he shoots back. “Because you talk a big game for someone who isn’t dating either.”
“I am,” you say, and the admission obviously catches him by surprise. You almost feel bad about the way his face drops.
Langdon blinks at you. “Seriously?”
“Is it that hard to believe?” you ask with a teasing smile.
“No,” he says, the word rushing out of his mouth. “No. You know that you’re— You’re— y’know. It’s not hard to believe. I just…” He trails off again, but continues to look at you in surprise. “Seriously?”
“I’m serious,” you chuckle, because it’s all you can do. “I mean, it’s not serious, but yeah. We’ve been on like, two dates, and I’ve been texting him a little. I met him online. He’s cute, he’s nice, and he works in Finance—” The face he makes at that has you scowling. “What?”
“Nothing. I just didn’t think you were the Finance-Bro type.” Before you take offense or respond to that, he asks, “So, it’s going well? You like him?”
“It’s going fine,” you say. “He’s nice. Fun to talk to. He thinks that me being a doctor is ‘super dope,’ which is, y’know, an upgrade from the last guy I dated.”
“But you don’t like him,” Langdon presses.
You make a frustrated sound. “I don’t know yet!” you say, exhausted by this sudden interrogation. “Isn’t that the whole point of dating? To figure out if you actually like them?”
“I typically decide if I’m interested in someone before I start dating them, but that’s just me—”
“Well, I’m not you,” you say, while your voice is soft, there’s an edge in it that tells him it’s final. “And I actually like to get to know people. I like to take my time when it comes to this shit, alright?”
“To feel things out?”
His words catch you by surprise, and you’re sure it shows on your face. “Yeah.”
Langdon nods after a moment. “I guess we’ll agree to disagree.”
You snort. “Nothing we aren’t used to.”
He huffs a soft laugh and takes another bite of his slice. You’ve disagreed plenty of times before. More than you probably should have (sometimes the two of you just liked to argue for the sake of it, but that wasn’t a crime). But this one lands differently. Something feels off. There’s this unusual, unfamiliar tension that you can’t shake but want nothing more than to get rid of. You can tell he feels the same.
“When are you seeing him again?” he asks, his previous line of questioning back on course.
You refrain from rolling your eyes. “Next Saturday, when I’m off. We’re getting brunch.”
“Oh, man,” he chuckles. “He likes you.”
“What?” you whine. “We’re getting brunch. We’re not ring shopping.”
“No guy is going to brunch with someone he’s casual about. Drinks are casual. Maybe even dinner. You get brunch with someone you like.”
“Or,” you say, shifting uncomfortably, “you get brunch because you’re dating a doctor and her schedule is horrendous.” Langdon simply shakes his head with a chuckle. “You told me you haven’t been on a date in years. How would you even know that?”
“Because I do,” he states, and it is exactly that— a statement.
(What he wants to say is that the reason he knows is because he can’t imagine anyone not liking you, but with your history, he also knows it may come off as a little hypocritical or unreliable. So, he bites his tongue and keeps it short instead.)
“Well, if you know this so well,” you say, “maybe you should start finding girls you want to take to brunch.”
The sound that comes out of him is something between a sigh and a groan. “I told you, I’m not—”
“I meant when you’re ready,” you cut him off, putting your hands up in surrender. “I don’t think it’d be a bad idea for you to get back out there.”
It’s then that he looks at you. Like, really looks at you, with that intensity you know so well. “You think so?”
“I mean, why not?” you ask. “You’ve been officially divorced for like, three months, right? Separated for longer? You’ve had your mourning period. And you’d be a hot commodity. It’s okay to have some fun if you want it.”
Nothing. He says nothing to that. He just continues to stare at you. And then, when you think you can’t take it anymore, he turns away. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”
The awkward turn this conversation had taken was something that you weren’t anticipating. Why was he so weird about this? If he didn’t want to date, that was fine. This was you attempting to offer him some encouragement. You couldn’t care less if he started seeing people. That was up to him. You were just trying to be a good friend.
Because that’s what you two were, right? You were friends now, or whatever your version of that was. You talked like friends, acted like them, and now you were hanging out outside of work. That was the definition of friends.
You swallow the bite of pizza you’ve been chewing and, because you can’t think of anything else to say to break this sudden tension, you glance at your paused TV and ask, “Want to watch some girls fight about some really awful men?”
Langdon looks up from his plate, hesitancy written across his face. “I’m really not into that stuff.”
You’re barely listening to him as you move to the sofa to grab the remote. “That’s what they all say.”
SEPTEMBER 26TH, 2026. (9:45 PM)
“So,” he says, pointing at the women who are currently on-screen, “just to clarify. She was her friend. And she slept with her boyfriend of nine years.”
“Correct,” you reply.
“And she and the boyfriend lied about it for seven months because they thought they weren’t going to get caught?” He glances over at you, and you nod in confirmation. “And they’re still lying about it, despite the fact that they have cameras on them at all times?”
You motion to the boyfriend who’s now talking. “Look at him. Look at that stupid fucking outfit and his god-awful moustache. Do you think he’s capable of understanding long-term consequences?”
Langdon laughs. “That’s actually kind of insane,” he says. “Are these shows always like this?”
“When they’re good, yeah. I love drama that doesn’t involve me. Sue me.”
“Well, I would have joined the cohort Bachelor night if I’d known they were like this.” He says it as if he’s joking, but you know there’s a part of him that means it.
You snort. “Well, you were always slow to learn what was right.” Before he can refute that, you point at him. “Also, I wouldn’t have let you join. That was for the girls. It was my safe space away from your bullshit.”
“Inclusivity means nothing to you,” he scoffs, chuckling as you reach over to kick his arm with your foot. He nods up toward the TV. “And okay, the two of them were married?”
“Yeah. But they were never, like… on the same page about shit,” you say. “It almost seemed like they weren’t sure about getting married when they did it. It was kind of weird.”
A huff of a laugh escapes his lips. “It’s like that sometimes. Happens more than you’d think.”
“Does it?” you ask. When you don’t get an answer, you shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m dramatic or overly romantic, but I just can’t imagine agreeing to marry someone I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”
You see him nod slowly out of the corner of your eye. After a beat, he responds, “I did.”
That has you looking at him. “What?”
He tries to play it off, similar to how he acted when he was talking about his separation. He doesn’t fake the whole casual thing very well. “Abby and I… we were in a rough spot before she got pregnant. Neither of us did anything or whatever. But we were growing apart. I think we started to realize that while we loved each other, maybe we weren’t completely… compatible.” He meets your confused stare that’s burning a hole in the side of his face. “She wanted kids and wanted to get married earlier than I was ready for. I wanted that later, when I was deeper into the whole residency thing. I didn’t know if I could be a doctor, a husband, and a father, at that age, at the same time.”
You do know. You might know it a little too well.
“That’s a normal thing to want,” you tell him instead. “On both of your ends.”
“I know,” he says. “Then, right before we graduated from med school, she told me she was pregnant. And while it didn’t… y’know, go with my plan, I was still excited about it. We both were.” He sighs, wiping a hand down his face. The action makes you wonder how many people he’s actually talked to about this. “So, we got engaged, we moved in together, just the two of us, and it was great for a while. I had come to terms with the fact that I was going to be that doctor-husband-father trifecta. But then, we started fighting again. And I started thinking about the future, and I had this moment where it was like, ‘the only thing the two of us have in common is this kid. And if that’s all we have, that’s not what I want.’”
You weren’t expecting this level of vulnerability from him. Despite his obvious discomfort, it’s clear he’s wanted to get this off his chest. It’s nice that he trusts you enough with it.
But still, you can’t believe some of the stuff he’s saying. “There obviously had to be some love still there,” you reply, hoping to make him feel at least a little better. “You still married her. You stayed with her.”
“We got married because it felt like the right thing to do.” He says it like it’s a fact. “We stayed together and had another kid because it felt like the right thing to do. And, yeah, I loved her, and I don’t regret it at all, because we raised two incredible fucking kids. We did that together. But I also think… I think she deserves better than the person she got. Who I was during our marriage, I mean.” You watch as his face morphs into something like shame. “She deserved better than to be married to an addict.”
You feel your chest tighten slightly. “Langdon…”
“I mean that,” he says, looking you directly in the eye. You can tell he does. “And, yeah, I love her. I still do. And I like to think that I’ve changed. That I’m better, and I’m still trying to do right by her. But I…” He sighs, and it almost sounds like it’s being forced out of his chest. “I love her as if she’s family. Because she is. I love her because she’s my children’s mother. I don’t think I… I don’t love her the way I…”
“...The way you should love your wife?” you finish, because he doesn’t seem to have the words to.
Langdon throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. “God, I’m such an asshole.” His voice comes out muffled against his hands as he says, “I’ve never said any of that out loud. I must sound fucking awful.”
He doesn’t sound great, you agree, but he sounds honest. He sounds fair. He…
“You sound like a guy who’s divorcing his wife,” you state, unsure of what reaction that’s going to elicit. He just looks at you between his fingers. “You sound like a guy in a relationship where nobody… fucked up beyond repair, or whatever, but you just grew apart. I’m sure you both could point fingers, her more than you—” You shrug when he shoots you a look. “—but growing apart from someone doesn’t make either of you an asshole. You both were trying to do your best and do what you thought was best for your kids.”
He takes a moment to sit with this. You can see him absorb it. Then, “And you sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
A long, heavy sigh escapes your lips. Reflexively, you find yourself glancing down at your left ring finger, and you bring your knees to your chest as you think on this.
“Maybe a little,” you say after a beat. “Jamie and I were not… compatible, as you said.” You shrug, tension growing in your shoulders. “I didn’t realize it until, like, months after I left him, but yeah. Looking back now, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I know we wouldn’t have made it. Even if—” You stop yourself, throat clenching and catching your words. “Even if certain things had been different.”
He wants to ask. You can tell that he does. You pray that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’ll ever be ready to talk about that.
Luckily, Langdon seems to get the hint. But not enough of a hint to refrain from saying, “If it makes you feel any better, I knew you two weren’t going to last.”
A surprised laugh erupts from your mouth. “How the hell is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Because he was a dick,” he replies, a small smile pulling at his lips as he watches you.
“You met him twice,” you argue, eyes narrowing. “We ended things four months into my first year of school.”
“Yeah, and both times I met him, he was a dick.” The insistence in his voice makes you laugh again. “I’m serious. Even back then, I knew you deserved better than that. He was miserable. It didn’t even seem like he liked you.”
Your smile dips at that, and while you hope he doesn’t notice, you know he does. “I’m not sure he did at that point,” you admit, then shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. That’s all in the past. What I’m trying to say is, there were reasons that we grew apart. We both played a part in it. And most of the time, that’s what causes people to end things. I don’t want to say it’s normal, but it’s… in that instance, it is. Normal. People outgrow each other.”
He casts his eyes up at the ceiling with a heavy breath. “I guess they do.”
It’s quiet then. The sound of your favorite reality show characters arguing fills the now-empty space, and for whatever reason, it all compels you to say, “For what it’s worth?” He turns his head to look at you. “I like to think that you’ve changed, too.”
You watch his face as your words hit him— how it changes into something foreign. Something unreadable. It’s as if he’s trying to figure you out, but there’s something more behind it. You want to tell him to join the club.
As you try to decipher it, he swallows, never breaking eye contact. “Yeah?” he asks. “You mean that?”
“I do,” you say. “And I think it’s all for the better.”
Once again, all you can hear is the sound of the girls on TV fighting about who’s in the wrong. However, this time around, there’s a new tension in the air. It’s something unspoken, but it’s something tangible. You wonder if he can feel it too.
As he continues to look at you like that, you think he might just be able to. It makes you chuckle uneasily and scrunch your brow. “What?”
Langdon shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says.
You kick him with your foot again. “That look’s not nothing. What?”
He presses his lips together, hesitating just a moment longer than he probably should. “I’m just… really glad you came back into my life,” he tells you. Your stomach flips, not expecting anything like that to come out of his mouth. But he’s not done. “I can’t believe I wasted so much time not knowing you like this.”
The words hit you like a freight train. They almost have you immobilized. Because you can’t think of anything else to say, you manage to say, “Only took you eight years to realize it.”
He turns back to face the TV, pieces of his hair falling into his eyes. “Well, you said it yourself,” he says quietly. “I’m slow to learn what’s right.”
And, regretfully, as your cheeks blaze and your chest starts to tighten in that way that’s become so common around him, you come to an absolutely horrid realization.
You can no longer pretend that you don’t know what this tension between you two is.
You know exactly what it is.
And fuck, it is awful.
OCTOBER 3RD, 2026. (2:08 PM)
You get a call from Dana halfway through your date, and it’s unbelievably well-timed. So well-timed, in fact, that your Finance Bro date is convinced that it’s a staged excuse to leave.
No matter how many times you try to look apologetic while you’re on the phone or how many times you explain to him that sometimes, on extremely busy days at the hospital, this happens, he genuinely doesn’t believe you. You take that to mean that he’s on the same page as you about how well this date’s going.
It wasn’t that it was bad. It really wasn’t. That spark had just… died out. Whatever bit of interest that you had in him had faded the more that he only spoke to you about… well, anything. About his job that you didn’t care about. About his ever-important life and his family that summered in The Hamptons. About his interests, what he was reading, the golf he played, and the places he’d traveled. Or, maybe it was how he notably neglected to ask questions about you and yours.
The mask had been ripped off, and the shiny newness of it all had dimmed. You’re not completely sure how or why it happened so quickly. You suppose that sometimes it just happened that way.
You arrive at PTMC with the go-bag you keep in your car on your shoulder, filled with a pair of backup scrubs and other miscellaneous items. You’re still in the clothes you’d worn on the date. It wasn’t anything fancy or out of your wheelhouse, but the eyebrows you raise give you pause. The majority of these people had only seen you in scrubs or sweats with zero to no makeup on. The rare occasions that you’d go out together were the only exception. The first time you’d forced Mohan to go out for drinks with you, you’d told her that seeing her out of them was like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs. Maybe this was the same.
Dana lets out a low whistle. “Look at you, all dressed up with nowhere to go,” she says. There’s an air of approval in her voice. “Where are you coming from?”
You heave a heavy sigh as you plop your bag on the counter. “A date,” you reply shortly, and you feel Collins’ gaze immediately on you. You point at the two of them as both of their eyes light up. “Don’t get excited. He sucks.”
“They all do,” Collins says, your fellow attending now looking slightly apologetic. “I’m ready to give up.”
You pump a fist at her. “Right on.”
Dana deflates in front of you. “I’ll pretend like that doesn’t completely bum me out. But, I guess it was good timing. I was feeling bad that I’d called you.”
“No, I’m glad you did. He thought you were bailing me out, actually. Didn’t stop bitching about it until I paid for brunch.” Collins blinks at you in surprise, and Dana’s jaw drops. You sigh once more. “Yeah. So don’t feel bad.”
With the shake of her head, she says, “Where the hell are you finding these guys?”
“Hell,” you say. “Hinge. Pittsburgh. It’s all the same thing.”
“Shit-talking the city is never a good way to start a shift,” you hear a voice say as they approach to hand a chart to Dana. By the time you look at him, Langdon’s already given you a once-over, but something in his expression falters as he meets your eyes.
Dana’s already scolding him before he can say anything. “Risky Business over here was on a date, idiot. I wouldn’t have called her in if I’d known that,” she tells him, motioning to you. “You told me she’d be free tonight.”
You glance away from him to look at Dana in confusion. “What?” you ask, then motion to the doctor beside you. “He told you I was free?”
Langdon goes rigid. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters. “That was today?”
It’s said in such a way that you almost believe that he forgot. That it was so incredibly busy that it had completely slipped his mind, and he’d thrown out your name when it was decided that reinforcements should be called in.
But there’s something in your gut that tells you that that’s not quite the case.
You see Dana and Collins exchange a knowing sort of glance before looking back at Langdon. They seem to be riding the same wave as you.
Instead of saying anything to him, Dana huffs a soft, disbelieving laugh and then turns to you. “I’d scrub up. We need you out here.”
“Heard,” you say slowly. A strange mixture of annoyance and confusion graces your expression, and you shoot a look at Langdon before walking away.
Had he purposely sabotaged your date? Sure, it had been going poorly, but there was no way he could have known that. Even if it had been the perfect third date, he knew you well enough to know that there was no way you wouldn’t come in if asked. He knew. He fucking knew exactly where you’d be and—
God, this was so like him. Here you were, thinking there was some sort of blossoming friendship between you. You were even foolish enough to think that there was a moment (more than one fucking moment, actually!) between you two back at your apartment. That he might actually like you, not just respect you.
But no. There would never be. Even after everything you’d been through over these last couple of months— even after everything you’d done for him. Because at his core, he was an asshole, and that’s what assholes did. He was still trying to ruin every potentially good thing in your life just to play some little mind game for his own entertainment and benefit.
You hear his footsteps trying to catch up with you as you make your way to the on-call rooms. “Hey, hey, slow down,” he says, falling into step with you. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t remember that that was today.”
“Yeah, you did,” you snap. “Because the last time I checked, you don’t forget things. So don’t pull that shit.”
His head rolls in aggravation, but you can’t tell if it’s because he feels caught or if it’s because he feels bad. “I forgot this time. We’re slammed here, and you were on my mind and—”
“I was on your mind?” you repeat in disbelief, go-bag slamming against your side as you whip around to look at him. “What the fuck does that mean? What, were you thinking about me on this date that you and I both know I was on, and you thought, ‘hmm. What perfect timing. Let’s ruin this thing like I’ve ruined everything else in her life.’”
He has the audacity to shake his head. “You know, you missed your calling as a drama major,” he scoffs. “You’d be killing it in a local production of Waiting For Godot.”
Your hands clench into fists at your sides. Your voice is laced with a quiet sort of fury, making sure not to attract any attention as you say, “First of all, there are no women in Waiting For Godot, so that’s another shitty reference, you fucking idiot. My God, man, crack a book every once in a while.” At that, he smiles in disbelief, like he can’t believe that’s what you chose to focus on. “Second of all, I’m not being dramatic. This is what you do! This is what you’ve always done. You see me want something, and then all of a sudden, you decide that I can’t have it.”
“Did you even want this?” he asks. The volume of his voice and rage in it now match yours. “You just told Dana how awful it was. I got you out of there.”
You feel like pulling your hair out. “That’s not the point—”
“Then what is? I don’t get why this is such a big deal.”
“And I don’t get why you care so much about the fact that I’m dating!” Your voice goes up a level, and you shut your eyes to calm yourself down. When you reopen them, Langdon is staring at you intently. “What is it? Why do you care?”
His arms immediately cross over his chest. “I don’t.”
“Clearly,” you begin, motioning a hand in his direction, “you do. I just want to know why.”
“I don’t care if you’re dating,” he barks. The frustration in his voice is palpable. “Why would I? Why would I concern myself with that aspect of your life?”
“I don’t know, Langdon. Why would you?” You know you’re going back and forth in a continuous, torturous cycle, but you’re too upset and angry to care. “Are you pissed off that you’re scared to date and I’m not? What, because we’re suddenly friends, you think you should get to vet everyone before I get with them?”
“Vet everyone— what the hell are you talking about?” He throws a hand in your direction. “Do you actually think I’d want a say in that?”
“You wanted one tonight,” you say with a shrug. “And you got it. It worked. Congratulations. I’m here and not with the guy who wanted to take me home.”
Langdon tilts his head in a way that makes it look like he’s going to grimace, but finds the willpower to refrain from doing so. “And I’m sure that you’re missing that discussion about how Atomic Habits changed him as a person after the most boring three minutes of your life.”
“Oh, my God.” Your eyes narrow, and a small, disbelieving laugh bubbles in your stomach. “You’re actually mad about this. This is crazy. What is your deal?”
“I’m not—” He puts his face in his hands as if he’ll be able to disappear from this conversation if he can’t see you. “I don’t have a deal. I’m not mad—”
“Oh, you are. You’re so fucking pissed right now,” you laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. “I haven’t seen you this pissed since I diagnosed Doctor Clarke’s impossible patient before you.” Your smile only gets wider as he shifts. “Dance, monkey, dance. Let’s see how far we can go.”
He rolls his eyes, turning on his heel to leave the room. “You’re fucking ridiculous. I’m not doing this with you right now. I’m gonna go do our job, okay? Go save some—”
“Is it because he was hot? Is that what made you mad?” You’ve taken on a rather patronizing tone that you know is a little much, but you don’t care enough to stop. “Because he had money? Because he comes from a nice family? Because you don’t think I deserve that?”
That’s what gets him to stop in his tracks and abandon his exit strategy. His brow furrows deeply, and he looks at you in disbelief. “What?”
His reaction has you shrugging again, though you pull your arms closer to your chest. “It’s just like med school. You don’t think I deserve it. You never thought I worked hard enough, so you made sure I never got the things I wanted. You went out of your way to work harder to make that happen and—”
“Is that what you think this is?” he asks incredulously. Langdon’s looking at you like he just made some sort of game-changing discovery. “Is that seriously what you’ve thought since school?”
With a soft scoff, you reply, “You never gave me a reason to think otherwise.”
The intensity of his gaze continues to strike you. You’re not sure how much longer you can take it. But he won’t look away. Not until he shakes his head with a tired, soft chuckle and says, “Oh, Flight Risk. You’ve got it all wrong.”
Your lips part in confusion. What does he mean? You had it all wrong? You’d despised each other for years. Competed for years. Were you— how could you have been wrong? This had been a requited hatred, something that you assumed would stretch generations. Centuries. An old, deep-seated grudge would be seeded and solidified between your family and the Langdons. That’s how it was supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to throw this curveball.
What was he saying? And more importantly, how long had you apparently been wrong?
You uneasily resign yourself from the argument, eyes on him cautiously. “What does that mean?”
Langdon pinches his nose, throwing a hand up in exasperation. “What do you think it means? You’re the smartest person I know. Figure it out.”
You don’t believe him. There’s no way you could be wrong. He constantly ruined things for you. Nothing was ever easy with him. He’d made sure of that, thanks to his constant, exhausting competitive nature and his unwavering will to make you work harder than ever before. There was no other way to interpret that.
But he was saying there was. That you’d read it wrong. How could you have…?
Had he had different intentions? Had he thought that it was different between you? No. You may have been friends now, but back then, he hated you as much as you hated him. He wouldn’t have done half the shit he did to you if he didn’t. Half the shit you did to him had to have made him hate you.
Right?
That rivalry between you two was not one-sided. But maybe it was for different reasons.
Everything between you was a competition, one that made both of you want to beat the other. To think smarter, to work harder-- to be better. And it worked. Perhaps the lengths you’d gone to weren’t necessary, but at the end of the day, it had made you better doctors.
Better.
Was that what it was?
“You’re not mad because you think I don’t deserve him,” you say slowly, like you’re still piecing this together. “You’re mad because you want me to do better.”
A noise that sounds a bit like a laugh escapes him. “Yes. Very astute. Validating that Academic Achievement award each day,” he mutters, repeating the jab you’d sent his way last weekend.
You want to unpack more of his previous statement. But there’s more to this. Something other than your Med School relationship. It’s more pressing than any of that, and it continues to linger in your mind.
Disregarding his joke completely, you say, “But you were mad because I was on a date.” You’re not sure what waters you’re testing here, but they’re uncharted. “Weren’t you?”
You see him swallow. But he says nothing. It’s all you need.
“You told Dana to call me in because you were pissed knowing that I was out with someone,” you continue. It’s like it’s all coming out at once. All of these realizations are coming to fruition, and you physically can’t help yourself from verbalizing them. “What was it? Was it just the thought of me and him that’s got you like this? Was it because you were thinking about what we were doing? If I was having fun with him?”
Your voice is smooth. Lethal. Somehow soft. Langdon squirms before you, rolling his eyes in an attempt to look unaffected and annoyed. The power of it almost satisfies you. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation right now, I—”
“Or,” you say, eyes narrowing as you read his body language and piece everything together. A small, disbelieving smirk tugs at your lips. “Was it because you were thinking about me getting all dressed up for someone who isn’t you, and you couldn’t fucking stand it?”
Langdon’s entire state of being changes right before your eyes. In fact, the temperature in the room shifts the second those words leave your lips. His mouth snaps shut, his brows draw back, and he takes a full step away from you. But his eyes give him away. They always do.
They’re calculating, if not slightly panicked, like he’d just been found out and was looking for an escape route. But there was none. Not when you were looking at him like that, with that stupid fucking smirk on your face that slowly disappeared as you realized he had no retort to that comment.
Did he—? Was he—? Were you—? Had you been right?
He’d told you himself that you were good at noticing things. It was a requirement of your chosen career. You figured that what you said probably had some sort of truth to it, but you weren’t expecting this type of reaction. You weren’t expecting him to completely shut down in front of you, floundering for words that couldn’t seem to reach him.
Fuck. You were right, weren’t you? He was jealous. He didn’t sabotage your date because of your stupid fucking grudge. He was jealous.
You’re not sure which one is worse.
You blink at him, your voice smaller now. “Langdon?”
It’s then that he’s saved by the bell— literally. By some cosmic fucking timing, he’s paged by Mel, who’s asking him to come to Trauma Two for a heart attack, and seconds later you get a call from Dana who’s sending you to North Seven for a broken fibula. You both glance at your phones to hang up, then back up at each other, looking more freaked out than either of you has ever seen each other.
You point at the door without looking away from him. “You should—”
“Yeah,” he agrees, way too quickly to be normal. He breaks his gaze to motion at your go-bag on the cot. “You should—”
“Yeah,” you repeat. “I’ll, uh—” Unsure what to do with your hands, you turn to dig through your bag for your scrubs. “We’ll… uh, talk about this… later.”
Langdon’s already out the door when you hear him say, “Hopefully not.”
“Okay,” you say curtly. “I’m good with that, too.”
The door slams and you have to take a seat on the cot to collect yourself.
There’s barely any time for you to change and scrub your makeup off your face before Dana’s paging you again.
You fly out of the on-call room, mind elsewhere.
OCTOBER 3RD, 2026. (6:58 PM)
You don’t see him again until the end of your shift, and it's not your finest hour.
On your last case of the day, you’d been tasked with casting a simple broken bone-- something that Robby had offered to you as a relaxed, parting gift and a thank you for coming in. It was a drunk, nineteen-year-old boy who’d been day drinking at his frat and had made the brilliant decision to jump off a deck and onto a folding table in the hopes of breaking it cleanly. He’d succeeded in breaking both the table and his wrist.
You should have seen it coming. He wasn’t all there. Not totally in control of his reflexes, unsure of what exactly was going on. The team had been working on getting his blood alcohol levels down, but there was still something off.
In the middle of your typical conversation, talking points, and assessment questions, you’d tweaked his arm the wrong way when trying to get it into a sling. It had been an accident. But it’d hurt him.
And the pain had surprised him so much that he’d pushed you off of him with his free hand, sending you flying back into the monitor so hard that it knocked the wind out of you and sliced your forehead open.
Whitaker, who’d been accompanying you, immediately sprang into action, holding back the boy as he started yelling profanities at you. It had gotten so loud that it’d attracted the attention of the entire ED, specifically Robby and Donnie, who just so happened to be walking by.
The situation had been diffused with ease and grace (as was par for the course with Robby), and by the time he’d turned to you to make sure that you were okay, Langdon was already in the room.
“You alright?” Robby asks after Whitaker had given him a recap of what had happened.
“Yeah,” you say, removing your fingers from your head. The blood that had dripped down them was sticky and wet, and you grimaced at the look of it. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Langdon says, as if it’s a fact. “You need stitches.”
You glare at him, looking at Robby to see if he concurs. He takes a step forward and examines your head with a squint. “I don’t know if it’s a stitches-level cut, but you know what we say here.”
When he removes his hand from your face, you sigh. “We don’t fuck with head shit.”
Robby’s eyes crinkle as his lips stretch into a soft smile. “Not exactly. But you’ve got the spirit,” he says. He turns to Langdon. “Evaluate her and then start an incident report. And then you,” he says, whipping back to point at you, “are going to clock out and take tomorrow off. You sit on your ass and do nothing all day. You hear me?”
Your frown deepens, and your stomach sinks at the idea of Langdon now being responsible for patching you up. But you push all of that down and nod. “I hear you.”
The monotone, desolate sound of your voice makes Robby chuckle. “Alright. Good work today, kid. Be careful with that arm next time.”
It’s when Robby starts to talk to the frat boy that you look over at Langdon. His eyes flash with a slight panic before he takes a breath and nods at you, motioning for you to follow him. You look at Whitaker and Donnie, who have successfully subdued the kid, then shut your eyes. Reluctantly, you do as you’re told.
As Langdon searches for an empty room, you can’t help but mutter, “I’m fine. Robby said I don’t need stitches.”
“And he told me to evaluate you,” he shoots right back, opening the curtain for you for room eight when he realizes it’s free. “I don’t deviate from orders.”
That gets an actual, true laugh from you. The motion of it pulls at the cut, and you wince. “That might be the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”
He pulls the curtain shut as you sit down on the bed, shifting uncomfortably. The tension in the room is thick. It’s palpable and genuinely painful, and you purposely avoid his gaze each time he makes a move.
You don’t know what to say to do. How were you supposed to pick up from where you left off? How could you? There was no casual way to talk about it, and judging by the way you could feel his eyes on you every time you so much as flinched, you figured he was on the verge of bolting too. Some pair you two were.
With gloves now on his hands, Langdon turns to you to examine the cut. You pretend you don’t notice the way he hesitates before he goes to grab your face, his touch just a bit too gentle to be professional. You can feel the warmth of his fingers through the gloves as they cup your chin. You cast your eyes to the ceiling as he tilts your head.
“You alright?” he asks quietly, finally breaking the silence. It almost startles you. You look at him for the first time since entering the room, only to find that he’s staring at your cut.
“Yeah,” you rasp, clearing your throat soon after. “I’m fine. I should have been expecting it.”
Frowning, he asks, “Expecting him to deck you?”
Your scowl matches his now. “He was still drunk. Erratic. He’s a nineteen-year-old frat boy at Pitt. I should have expected the way he was going to react to pain.”’
“That’s not on you,” he mutters, moving to grab an antiseptic wipe.
You sigh, trying your best at a shrug. “It doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t. It happened. We signed up for this shit. Gotta take it in stride and be better next time.”
Langdon looks like he has about a million things to say to that when he turns to face you, but he presses his lips together like that will keep them in. Instead, after a moment, when he’s carefully wiping the cut, he asks, “Do you want me to beat him up?”
A surprised laugh escapes you, and the second your body moves, the antiseptic hits you the wrong way and starts to burn. Your smile stays on your face despite the way you wince. “I’m not allowing you to lose your medical license over Chad from Sig Chi.”
Finally, Langdon’s lips twitch upward. “Why not? I’d win. Break his other arm. Teach him not to touch my attending.”
Something stirs in your chest at that, but you push it deep down in the hopes of forgetting about it. “I think Whitaker’s got that covered,” you say with a chuckle. “He basically jumped on the guy after he did it. Started yelling at him and everything. I didn’t think the sweet boy had it in him.”
“Well,” he says, reaching for the flashlight he kept in his pocket. You squint at the light as he flashes it at you, lifting one of your eyes to make sure everything’s in check. “Remind me to thank him for that.”
When the light turns off, you blink rapidly, attempting to readjust to look at him. This time, it’s harder to push that feeling down. Still, you manage to do so. “I already told him I’d buy him a drink the next time we go out.”
You hadn’t, but you’d meant to. You’re not sure why you’d said that, other than the fact that it was something to say. To put some distance between you two. He wasn’t responsible for thanking him; you were.
God, you hated this. This feeling of not knowing where you two stood. You liked to know every angle of every situation and problem before you made a move. It’s the first thing that Klein had noted about you. He’d said that it was what made you good at your job. You were thoughtful and calculated, but never too in your head to make a decision. You were three steps ahead.
You’d blushed like a fucking schoolgirl and told him that you were just quick on your feet.
But now, here you were, drowning with cement blocks on those feet. You weren’t good at this. The medical world you knew. You could pull off miracles simply by accessing that little Rolodex in your mind, pulling out the right card to make the right move. But this? There were no notes. You weren’t told how to act, how exactly to be good at it. Nothing about this was natural.
And then there was the fear. Out there, you weren’t scared of anything. Sure, you were careful and you were worried, and sometimes the worst of those worries came true. But you were rarely afraid. You couldn’t afford to be.
You couldn’t afford to be now, either. You couldn’t make the wrong move. And in all honesty, you weren’t sure what the right move was. Not after…
“Well, Robby was right. You don’t need stitches,” Langdon suddenly says, snapping you out of your spiral. “And you’re not concussed, which is good. We’re gonna give it a little glue and bandage it up, and you’re gonna have a nasty bruise for a little, but you’ll be fine.”
You had figured all of this (you didn’t think the cut was deep enough for stitches, and you hadn’t felt the slightest bit dizzy), but a wave of relief washes over you anyway. “Good,” you say, moving to stand up. “I can patch myself up from here. Thanks for—”
“Sit down, Hawkeye,” he mutters, putting his hand on your shoulder to gently push you back down. “I’ll do it.”
You let out a sharp sigh. “Langdon, seriously, I’m—”
“Sit down,” he repeats. His voice has turned firm, and you know there’s no use arguing. When you look up at him in surprise, his eyes soften. “Just… please. Let me do this for you.”
You hold his gaze for a moment longer than you probably should. Then, you nod.
He nods back, and he gets to it.
He works in silence, wordlessly gathering all the things he needs to fix you up. It’s a quick process, one that takes under five minutes and one that you absolutely could have done yourself, but you don’t say anything more about it. You just rotate from staring at the ceiling, then at the side of his face, and then to the floor.
A minute in, you ask, “Is this your way of apologizing for sabotaging my date?”
You’re at the point of your rotation where you’re looking at him, and you see his eyes close momentarily. You’re expecting a deflection, a rebuttal, some other contrarian point. But instead he says, “Yeah. Something like that.”
He meets your eyes, reveling in the surprise in them for a moment, before returning his focus to your forehead. You press your lips together. “Okay,” you say lightly. Then, like you’re speaking to a skittish animal, you ask, “Are we gonna talk about that?”
Langdon’s fingers falter as he finishes gluing. He goes quiet on you. You don’t think you’re going to get an answer until, “Depends on where your head’s at.”
You can’t help the grin that spreads across your mouth. “My head’s currently in your hands—”
“You know what I mean,” he chuckles. Your chest warms as you see the subtle shade of pink his cheeks have tinged. “What do you— If that all were—” He clears his throat, like that will make the words come out easier. “How does… that make you feel?”
“What?” you ask. “The fact that you absolutely have a thing for me and your eyes completely glazed over in a jealous rage and you—”
“I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you,” he all but whines. When you give him a look, he relents. “But… yeah. That.”
You take a moment to collect your thoughts. You want to say the right thing. You don’t want to scare him off. But you also want to figure out how it actually makes you feel.
However, before you can do that, you need clarity on something. “You said I had… whatever I thought about med school was all wrong. What does that mean?”
His throat bobs, and it takes a minute for him to swallow the visible lump. Truthfully, he never thought he’d ever be having this conversation with you. He wants to— needs to phrase it the right way. Especially now.
“I… Back then,” he begins, unwrapping a Steri-Strip. “I never hated you.”
You stare at him. “You sure had some way of showing that.”
“I didn’t like you,” he says, watching as you purse your lips at the correction. “But I didn’t ever hate you.”
“Of course,” you agree, sarcasm laced within your words. “Because there’s a huge difference between those.”
“There is,” he says. “I was just— Listen.” He releases a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. “Everyone else in our class was good. They were competent. But I remember looking around during a lab and just knowing that I was better than anyone else there.”
Though it is, unfortunately, the truth, your lips part, trying to figure out where he’s going with this. “And so much more humble, too.”
He ignores you. “And I liked that. That was fine with me because I wanted to be the best. Then, you walked in, and you had this look on your face like you had something to prove. But right after, you sat down next to someone and immediately started talking to them. And I didn’t get that. I wasn’t raised like that. I didn’t understand how you could want to prove something but also want to make friends with the first person you met. There was something about you that told me I should be keeping an eye on you.” The feeling of his fingers on your forehead suddenly starts to feel a little too warm. “So, when you ran out of the room on the first day, I thought I was safe. But then, in the next class, the professor asked this question that nobody knew the answer to. And I remember everyone just staring at her in silence until your hand went up. And you just rattled off this insanely detailed answer that sounded like you were teaching the class instead of her.”
You remember this all too well, too. Heat rises to your face as you think of how insufferable you must have seemed. “Well, you said it yourself. I had something to prove.”
“That’s when I knew I had to worry about you,” he says. “And that, I don’t know. It made me excited. I don’t know if that’s selfish, but it was the first time I felt like I had competition. I wanted to see what you were trying to prove and how good you really were. I wanted to keep that going. So, I just started… intentionally trying to push you. I started calling you Flight Risk to piss you off—”
“Oh, I remember—”
“—and competing with you because I wanted to see what you could do. I know I could have probably been nicer about it, but like I said, I’m not good at that. I wasn’t— I’m not… friendly like you.” He smooths a strip down, and his touch is gentler than before. “But you were good. You were really fucking good and you started scoring higher than I did. On everything. And that snapped me into gear because it made me want to be better. But it seemed like the better I got, the better you wanted to be. And then… it just became fun,” he says, grinning, looking just a bit nostalgic. “Don’t get me wrong, it was hell. I hated that I had done it to myself some days. But it made me better than I thought I could be. And seeing what you could do? I knew you hadn’t had any type of competition before. And after a while, I started to want you to be better, too, because I knew you could be.”
It’s just about what you assumed when he told you that you had everything wrong. In your head, knowing him, it was the only thing that could have made sense. But the whole admission still catches you by surprise.
There was something about being seen by someone. About someone intrinsically knowing things about you that no one else had caught on to as quickly. Because he wasn’t wrong. You had walked into that class with something to prove. It was one of the best Med programs in the country, and you wanted everyone to know that you belonged there. You hadn’t had competition in a while and had gotten bored with it all. You’d never had someone rival you in that way before.
He’d used the word exciting, and in a strange, treacherous way, it had been. It was exciting for you to have someone not just at your level, but someone who forced you to perform to an even higher standard. There was something about someone who demanded that you be better.
While you didn’t agree with all of his tactics, and yes, he probably could have been nicer about it, it felt good to officially know that he had always seen you not just as a threat, but as an academic equal.
“So, yeah. You had it wrong,” he continues, nearly finished working. “I never hated you. I hated that you gave me a run for my money, but never you.” With a deep breath, he then mutters, “And now, I’m admitting that I like you and you still haven’t said anything about how you feel about it, which is awesome.”
You have clarity with him for once. For better or for worse.
You like Langdon, too. It’s something you’ve known for a while but have tried desperately to ignore. After everything you’ve been through, as your relationship has completely flipped on itself— it’s an idea that you’ve resigned to. It’s something that’s been brewing for a long time, and now, it’s finally broken to the surface. It still makes you a bit uneasy, nervous even, but it’s also… exciting. For lack of a better word.
It’s been a desperate search to try to identify the thing you’ve been feeling since you first got coffee with him. Why your heart keeps stuttering when you look at him, why you’re excited to see him day after day, why you look forward to bantering with him, and why it never gets old.
You like him. You do.
It’s a strange feeling— something you haven’t felt since you left Boston. And while that scares you, something about this one tells you that you don’t have to be. No more running. No more fear.
No more Flight Risks.
“I’m okay with that,” you finally say. He stops what he’s doing the second the words leave your lips. “I mean, I don’t agree at all with what you did and think it was shitty of you to—”
“Yeah, I know, I’m an asshole. We’ve known this for years.” He doesn’t seem too focused on the second part of your statement, more occupied with the first. He crouches down to meet you at eye level. “But… that first part. You mean that?”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too hard. “Weirdly enough, I do.” As if that won’t get your point across, you meet his equally excited gaze. “I like you, you asshole. About as much as you like me.”
You get one of those smiles in return— the one that completely transforms and lights up his face. “About as much?” he mutters, returning to finish bandaging you up.
“Yeah,” you say. You’re grinning just as stupidly as he is. “You’re obviously way more into me than I’m into you. I’m not at the level where I’d sabotage a date you went on—”
“My God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?” he groans. He smoothes the last strip down, fingers lingering for a moment longer than they should. It’s a simple thing that makes your heart stutter. “Alright. You’re all set.”
“Thank you, Doctor Langdon. Incredible job.” You stand from the bench, and instinctively, you reach up to feel his handiwork. “So, what now?”
He turns to you, taking his gloves off. “Now, you go home and do exactly what Robby told you to do. Nothing.”
The teasing note in his voice has you glaring at him. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh, you mean for you and me?” he asks, chuckling as your look sharpens. “Now you wait for that glue to dry, and we turn that Steelers game in two weeks into a date.”
You’re marginally surprised by how fast he came up with that, and you find yourself narrowing your eyes. “Was that your plan all along?”
He shrugs, suddenly just a bit shy. “It might have crossed my mind.”
“I was wondering why you hadn’t let me pay you back yet,” you grumble.
“I’ll take a page out of Finance-Bro’s playbook and let you pay for brunch before the game.”
With a scandalized gasp and the beginnings of a protest on your tongue, you shove past him to leave the room, but find that’s grabbed you before you can make your exit. Your heart races at the feeling of his hand on your hip and the way he grips you to turn you to face him. He nearly forgets what he’s going to say when you look up at him.
“I’m serious, though,” he gets out after a second. “I… I do, y’know. I really like you. I want to do this right.”
His sincerity makes your heart swell. You put your hand over his and remove it from your side, choosing instead to interlock your fingers. He glances down at your hands, then back at you. “We will.” Squeezing his hand, you say, “Thanks for patching me up.”
He squeezes your hand in return, and God, he looks fucking giddy about it. “Thanks for giving me a chance.”
You return to the floor moments later, Langdon following close behind, both of you desperately trying to keep the dopey-looking smiles off your faces. You’re not sure if anyone notices, but thankfully, no one says anything.
They seem to be too focused on the injury you’ve acquired.
The shifts are in the process of transitioning, and you lock eyes with Ellis the second you walk up to the nurses’ station. “What the hell happened to you?”
Santos’s head pops out of the hoodie she’s putting on as she realizes you’re back. She whistles when she sees the bandage on your head. “Nice battle scar, Jasper.”
Sighing, you take off your badge and place it on the counter. You wave Dana off as she moves to get a look at you. “I’m fine. Got too close to the frat boy in South Three.”
“Little shit swung at her,” Dana mutters.
“He hit you?” Ellis asks, incredulous.
You hold up a hand. “Pushed me,” you correct. “Don’t worry. Langdon already threatened to beat up the nineteen-year-old, guys. He’s got it covered. Chivalry isn’t dead.”
You hear him scoff, but the warmth in his voice doesn’t miss you when he says, “You're unbelievable.”
“But Whitaker did jump him for me, so we’re all good,” you say, nodding at him as he approaches the station with his go-bag. He flushes when he realizes what you’re talking about. “Held him down and everything. That was impressive, kid.”
He shakes his head with a small smile. “It was nothing.”
“Not nothing. You saved me from the wrath of a boy who’s listened to ‘No Hands’ one too many times,” you say. Then, you address the room. “I’m fine. Thank you all for the concern.” You point at everyone in warning. “Nobody actually beat up the frat boy, please. I’m gonna go sleep this off. I’ll see you all later.”
You head off to your locker with a wave, exhaustion hitting you the second you realize you’re off the clock. You feel Langdon’s eyes on you as you walk away, but don’t turn around. There’s no need for any of your coworkers to suspect that anything’s changed between you two. Not yet.
(They’re well past suspicion. They’ve noticed the change in your relationship since Langdon returned. There’s a secret pool going about when and how something’s going to happen. But it’s cute to see you two try.)
When you’re out of sight, he takes his stethoscope off his neck, wanting nothing more than to follow you out. It’s then that he notices the way that Dana’s looking at him. “What?”
She glances down at the counter, then back up at him. “She left her badge,” she says. “Do you want to run out and give it to her, or do you want me to hold on to it until Monday?”
Langdon reaches for it so fast that Dana thinks he might hurt himself. Still, he’s casual when he says, “I got it.”
He’s already chasing you down when he hears Ellis mutter, “I’m sure you do.”
As the team laughs quietly, he doesn’t turn around and tell the team to ‘fuck off’ like he wants to. Right now, he’s only got one thing on his mind, and it’s something he should have done months ago.
You’re no longer at your locker by the time he gets there. He doesn’t find you until you’re already at your car, just about to get inside.
He calls your name— your real one. Not your last name or your god-awful nickname. The sound of it makes you turn around in confusion.
It happens so quickly that you almost don’t process it. One second, he’s jogging over toward you, the next, he’s in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks and head dipping down to press his lips to yours.
You freeze as you realize what’s happening. He’s kissing you. Frank Langdon is kissing you.
It’s sweet. Chaste, even. His touch is feather-light yet strong, holding tight but allowing you to pull away if this isn’t what you want. There’s no force to it, but still, you find your knees buckling, and you have to hold onto his arms to keep yourself upright.
It’s short. He’s completely stolen your breath from your lungs in mere seconds, and before you can even attempt to respond or deepen it in any way, he’s pulling away. You grip his arms tighter as you meet his gaze, your eyes wide and pupils completely blown out.
The smile that spreads across his lips warms you from the inside out. “You forgot your badge,” he says softly. “And I think I forgot to do that.”
You let go of one of his arms to grab his shirt and pull him down toward you. “Shut up,” you murmur, the words barely making it out before his lips are on yours once more.
You can feel his smile stretch as you take the lead. His hands return to your cheeks, tighter now that he knows you’re on the same page.
This one’s more intense. It’s much less sweet and way more intentional, and you allow your go-bag to fall from your shoulder to hit the ground. He crowds you, pushing you up against the door of your car. When your back hits it, you gasp, which allows him to slip his tongue in your mouth.
You’re sure you two look ridiculous, like you’re two teenagers who are trying to get their last makeout in before curfew, but you don’t care. You don’t know if it took him actually kissing you to actually process and solidify your feelings for him, but Christ, something clicks.
You’re not just interested in pursuing Langdon (Frank— if you’re going to kiss him like this regularly, you should really start calling him Frank). It’s not some sort of schoolgirl crush that you’re testing out by agreeing to go on a couple of dates with him. You like him. Like really, fucking like him.
His hands find their way under your shirt, skimming gently along your back in a way that makes you shiver. He’s so close to you that you practically grind against him, and he rips himself away from you like he can’t take it anymore. But he doesn’t move, forehead still brushing yours.
You stare at him, chest heaving up and down, and lips slightly swollen. “You should have led with that,” you say breathlessly, smiling as he chuckles to himself.
His hands are still on your hips, and his thumbs draw circles into them as he turns back to you with a smirk. “Yeah?” he asks. “My little confession back there didn’t do it for you?”
“I loved hearing it,” you reply, tightening your grip on his shirt. “But that got your point across better.”
Frank shakes his head with a smile, and he’s leaning in to kiss you again. This time, he’s all in.
You’re back up against the door, both of you allowing the other to explore anywhere they’d like. Normally, you’d have a little shame or a little decorum, but the craziness of this situation seems to hit you both at the same time. After years of knowing, hating, competing, working, helping, and then finally liking each other, you might have some lost time to make up for.
You know that someone could walk out and see you. You’d be teased about it to the ends of the earth. But none of that matters.
This matters. He matters.
The second he groans into your mouth, you pull away to start kissing down his jaw. He has to physically stabilize himself by putting his arm on the roof of your car above your head. The other grips your hip harder.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says lowly, and you feel your stomach flutter.
“Who says I can’t finish it?” you ask.
You’re playing with fire and you know it. He grips your face and moves you to look directly into your eyes. “You want to—?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding into his hand. “Do you?”
He looks insulted that you even have to ask. “Of course I do,” he says. “But, I-I had this plan. I wanted to like, impress you and—”
“You impress me every day.” You say it like it’s a fact and he damn near melts into your arms. “And we can still do that if that’s what you want.” You smooth out the wrinkles you’ve put into his shirt. “But, if you want to meet me at my apartment and start that plan tomorrow, I’m also open to that.”
You raise to press a quick, reassuring peck to his lips, but Frank has other ideas. He makes a helpless sound, and he full-on kisses you. The second he feels you smiling into it, he starts making his way down your neck. “You make me— I can’t—”
Once again, it feels like he has to physically remove himself from you. He steps away, leaving you standing there, pupils blown out, lips swollen, and cheeks blazing. Then, he points at you. “Your apartment,” he manages. “I’ll meet you there.”
For good measure, he catches your hand as he drops his, squeezing it once before pressing his lips to the back of it. Your heart swells.
“Drive safe,” you rasp, voice breaking on the last word as you watch him walk away.
You blink, taking a moment to gather yourself. You’re barely processing it as you grab your go back, fighting the smile that’s threatening to break out on your face.
No fucking way that just happened. No way.
OCTOBER 3RD, 2026. (8:23 PM)
Somehow, he manages to beat you back to your apartment.
You’re surprised to find Langdon waiting for you, sitting on a bench outside your building. He’s looking around, knee bouncing up and down in what you hope is anticipation and not anxiety or regret.
It’s not until he locks eyes with you that you start feeling nervous yourself. But it’s a good kind of nervous, something akin to excitement. It’s jittery, even. Like you’ve consumed too much caffeine on an empty stomach.
(Adrenaline rush is the word you’re looking for, but you’re too in your head to realize it until later.)
He stands when he sees you, wiping his hands on his pants, then immediately stuffing them into his pockets. Instinct takes over as things start to go more real, and you say, “What, did you go ninety trying to get here?”
He throws his hands up. “I’ve lived here longer than you. I know how to get around.”
“Mmhmm,” you hum, passing him to unlock your building’s front door. “I hope you abided by all street signs.”
“Only the important ones,” he says, catching the door as you open it, allowing you to enter.
You snort at that, launching into some sort of mindless small talk to get your mind off the fact that both of you know what’s about to happen. It’s something about work, about the frat boy who knocked you over, and about a function that’s happening later on this month. But your mind’s on other things.
Jesus, you feel like you’re in high school. You shouldn’t be this anxious. You can’t remember the last time someone made you act this way— this distracted and antsy. Sure, you’d been excited about… others when you’d first started seeing them, but it was nothing like this. At least, you couldn’t remember it being like this.
You know what you want to do. You’re pretty sure he’s on the same page. But still, that anxious anticipation claws at the back of your mind.
When you make it to your door, you’re talking about something that occurred the last time you had a function with the team. Something about karaoke and the song Dana had forced you to sing with her.
By the time you’ve unlocked it, it’s practically irrelevant. You reach in and turn the lights on before you enter.
“By the way, do you want anything to drink?” you ask, pulling your keys out of the lock. “Water? I might have seltzer in the fridge? I’d offer food, but I haven’t been grocery shopping in like, two weeks and—”
When you turn around to look at him, you’re cut off by him bringing his lips to yours. The second the door closes, he’s cupping the space between your cheek and your neck and moving you gently against the wall— though he kisses you with the same fervor as he had previously.
Or we could do this, you think. This works too.
It’s somehow gentle but intense. His lips are soft, but his hands are rough. Sturdy. While he’s gripping your head, he’s careful not to touch the cut by your hairline. He’s both holding back and refusing to give up. It’s like he has something to prove to you, but you’re not entirely sure what. It’s a jumbled-up mess of contradictions that leaves you confused, but honestly, it’s exactly what you’d expect from him.
His other hand runs up your arm, immediately sending goosebumps up your body. “In case that prick didn’t tell you,” he murmurs against you, “you looked fucking gorgeous when you walked in today.”
Langdon kisses you once more despite the fact that you’re laughing. Your cheeks burn when you pull away from him, resting your forehead against his. “I don’t remember if he did,” you admit. “Wouldn’t have mattered either way.”
You can’t help but mirror the grin that takes over his face. “No?”
“No,” you repeat. You pull back, brushing some of the hair away from his eyes, before your hand falls to his jaw. “I knew he wasn’t going to stick.” Before he can lean in to kiss you again, you put your other hand on his chest to stop him. “Still fucked up of you to sabotage my date, though.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you,” he mutters, dipping down once more to shut you up.
Your lips meet again, and this time, you know exactly what he’s trying to prove. It’s all about keeping that promise. It’s about proving to you that you made the right choice— you’re here with him instead of out with the other guy, and it’s for a perfectly good reason.
It was so like him to compete for something he’d already won.
A nip at your bottom lip has a soft gasp escaping the back of your throat, and you swear his grip tightens on you at the single noise. He’s tense. You don’t know if it’s because he’s unsure or if he’s holding back, but both give you pause. His hands drift lower, fingers running along the hem of your shirt. They skim your stomach, and it has you securing your hold on his neck.
“We don’t have to do this,” you say breathlessly, biting the inside of your cheek as he starts to make his way from your neck. “It’s fast. W-We just-- If this isn’t something you’re ready for, I—”
“No,” he murmurs. “No, I want this. I— Fuck—” The feeling of your hand running against the backside of his head distracts him and he tries to regain focus. “I’m good.”
While he seems certain, you still ask, “Are you sure?”
His response is to simply rise from your neck to your lips, kissing you with enough force that gives you all the confirmation you need. Your back hits the wall, harder this time, and he slips his tongue back inside your mouth. One of his hands travels to the spot where his lips were previously, the other working to take off the jacket you’re wearing. The grip on your neck is grounding, and you help him get rid of your jacket before forking a hand through his hair.
Frank’s nearly heaving when he breaks away, fingers moving to grab your chin. “I’ve wanted this for months,” he states. The hand at your back snags the waistband of your pants, pulling you against him and positioning you so that one of his legs is slotted between yours. He kisses you on the jaw, pulling you forward so that you’re practically grinding onto his leg. “I want you.” Your eyes flutter as he returns to your neck. “I mean it. Never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Your body feels like it’s on fire. Adrenaline has flooded your bloodstream, and you’re hyper-aware of everything. Every sound he’s making, every gasp or whine you’ve released. The feeling of his hands against your skin that’s riddled with goosebumps. The taste of his lips. The wear and tear of the twelve-hour shift he just worked (and the one you joined in the middle of) doesn’t show at all. You’ve never felt more energized, and you’ve never seen him this alive.
You want to tell him that you want him, too. You’re feeling everything you presume that he’s feeling— excited, nervous, the feeling of being this… into someone. It still blows your mind that you can and you do feel this way about him. It’s even crazier that he feels the same.
But you can’t verbalize any of that. Not when the air has been sucked from your lungs and not as you practically dry hump his leg in the middle of your hallway. So, instead, you shift to brush your thigh against the length of him, savoring the way he shivers.
“Well, then, fucking do something about it,” you say, just a bit too mean and a bit too impatient.
He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a snarl against your neck, and the heat of his breath has a chill running down your spine. “Always with the fucking attitude,” he grits.
You fist his shirt so hard you think you might rip it. “You’re the one saying you want me,” you mutter. “You have me. We both know you’re not a gentleman.” You grind against him once more. “So do something.”
It’s like a switch flips. As if he’s been in the shadows waiting, and those were his trigger words. Frank shakes his head in that way he does when he can’t believe you. You grin against his lips when he kisses you again, and even that seems to be too much for him right now. There’s a strange feeling of relief that washes over you when you realize he’s just as overcome by you as you are by him.
“Take off your clothes,” he says, inhaling sharply as he pulls away from you. He’s already dropping his sweatshirt on the floor. “I’m not fucking kidding. Take them off right now.”
Despite the fact that he’d given the order, he’s the one pulling off your shirt. He stretches the collar when it passes your head, making sure not to brush your cut, and discards it on the floor. You help him out of his, already walking backwards toward your bedroom as he attaches himself to you again.
He’s more exploratory now, hands everywhere he was hesitant to search before. It sets you completely alight, breath hitching the second he starts pulling at the waistband of your pants. You’re standing at the foot of your bed before you do it, legs hitting your mattress. You grab his shoulders to stabilize yourself.
When he realizes where you are, he puts an arm around your back, slowly reclining you back to lay you down. It’s a soft landing. He hovers over you with one leg still stationed between yours. He breaks from the kiss, and his mouth trails down your chest, dipping to the fabric of your bra. You arch into him when he presses a searing kiss just above your breasts.
Going further down your stomach, he speaks against your skin when he says, “You drive me fucking crazy.”
You perch one of your legs up, thigh brushing his side. His fingers toy with the top of your pants, and you shift into him. “What else is new?”
Frank glances up at you, meeting your gaze. It’s a silent question that’s asking for your permission. You nod at him immediately, heart whirling as a small smile tugs at his lips. “No,” he says, latching his fingers around your waistband. He pulls the tie, letting the strings fall. “You don’t get it. I can’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. He begins to bring your pants down your legs, sucking in a breath when he looks back up at you. You hear your pants hit the floor. “It’s so… easy with you. I don’t have to think when I’m with you, y’know?” You tilt your head at him, unsure of where he’s going with this. “But then, it’s like— you look at me like that and I can’t think straight. I used to hate you for it.” He wets his lips, staring at you like he can’t process the fact that he’s standing here. He bends down, leaning forward to be at your eye level. “I never know what to do with it. It’s fucking debilitating.”
You suddenly feel completely exposed, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re nearly bare. It’s as if he can see right through you. You shift further up onto your elbows, brushing your hand against the one he has on your hip. “Then don’t think,” you tell him softly. “It’s just me.”
He stares at you for a moment longer, then shakes his head. “Just you. Right,” he says, almost to himself. When your brow creases, the corner of his lips twitch up. “You really have no idea what you do to me, do you?”
He doesn’t give you a chance to respond. Before you can even fathom a way to reply to that, he’s moving, crouching down at the foot of your bed to hook his fingers around the sides of your panties and slide them down. “Just you,” he repeats, almost scoffing. “Like I haven’t thought about this every fucking night since I came back to work.”
You gasp, both at the admission and the sight of him on his knees in front of you. “You have?”
“Don’t act surprised.” Frank rises slightly to kiss the inside of your thigh. “I know you’ve thought about it too.”
You huff despite the way your heart beats out of your chest and ignore his comment. “So, I was right when I said that you’re way more into me than I’m into you,” you tease.
With a disbelieving scoff, he looks up at you. “Hard to believe that when you’re as wet as you are right now,” he mutters. He runs his fingers over your cunt, reveling in the airy sound that escapes your lips. “Jesus. Would have gone down on you the second we walked in if I’d known you were like this.”
The filthy words take you completely by surprise and have your nails digging into your sheets. You don’t have a witty response for that one, especially not as he slips a finger inside of you. “S-shit.”
He works it slowly, testing. Seeing what you like and what you’ll take. He thumbs lightly at your clit, gaze locked on you to see how you fare. You moan at the touch, but immediately want more than the slower pace he’s giving you. As if he can read your mind, he adds a second finger.
You curse, hips bucking into his hand. “Yeah?” he asks. “That what you want?”
“I want—” Your own ragged sounding gasp interrupts your words as he curls his fingers. “Fuck. F-Frank…”
His eyes snap to yours. The sound of his first name falling from your lips has him gripping your hip harder, pinning you down onto the bed as he continues to work. “You keep saying that, and I’ll give you anything you ask for.” Encouraged, he starts to move faster, grinning as you grip his bicep. “Tell me, baby. C’mon. What do you want?”
You’re finding it hard to speak. Your head’s spinning, your throat’s gone dry, and your chest feels heavier each time he pumps his fingers into you. Somehow, you manage, “Your mouth.” You squeeze him tighter. “Frank, p-please.”
His mouth is on you before you can even say the word please. You slap a hand over your mouth to contain the sound of surprise that erupts from you. He zeroes in on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking in a way that has you immediately grinding into his face. Your back arches as his fingers pick back up, and the moan you release comes out muffled against your hand.
Frank registers it after a beat. “No,” he says, and the feeling of his breath on your cunt makes you squirm. “Get your fucking hand off your mouth. I want to hear you. Dear God, let me hear you.”
You’re not thinking clearly enough to do anything other than what you’re told. Your eyes roll back into your head as his lips return to your clit, and you can feel yourself tightening around his fingers. You don’t know how you're close already, but you are.
You feel him chuckle against you, and the vibration of it has you forking a hand through his hair. “So fucking agreeable like this, huh?” he chides. “Not gonna be a pain in my ass if it means I’ll get you off.” He removes his fingers for a moment to slide his tongue deeper down. “Would have done this earlier if I’d known this was all it took.”
You knew he’d be mouthy. The whole bickering and bantering shtick was kind of your thing. You didn’t think that would change if you two ever got to this level. But this… was something else. It was a whole other side of him that you’d never thought you’d see.
It’s exactly what you need from him, and it brings you ever closer to the edge.
When he slides his fingers back in, he adds a third. You let out a desperate noise, head lolling into your mattress. He operates like he does in the ED. He’s calculated. Intense. Precise. Just a bit reckless, throwing a curveball here or there. But he also knows what he’s doing. He’s confident about it, but is still willing to learn exactly what you like to adapt and get the job done.
One of those curveballs comes flying in as he pulls his mouth from your clit, lips wet and glistening against the low, soft light of your room. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this for months,” he repeats his sentiment from earlier, shaking his head. His eyes are blown out. He looks crazed. Starved, even. “Been waiting for you.”
He watches your face scrunch in pleasure as he curls his fingers, the hand on his bicep surging to his opposite wrist. “Shit,” you whisper. “I’m— I’m close.”
“Yeah, I know you are. I know you’re right there. I’ve got you.” But he’s not done. “But, just so you know. I don’t ever want you to give me the ‘it’s just me’ bullshit again,” he mutters, picking up the pace of how he’s pumping into you. He slides his hand from your hip to rub at your clit. “It’s you. That’s the fucking point. And I can’t believe I actually have you.”
You feel that tension in your stomach get even tighter, and the sounds that are coming out of you are downright pathetic. “Frank, I—O-Oh, my—”
“So, you’re gonna come for me,” he begins, slightly out of breath. “And then I’m going to keep trying to convince you that I’m the type of guy who deserves you.”
You’ve just barely processed his words when his mouth returns to your cunt and he continues his work. You try to keep yourself steady for him, but fuck, you can’t help it. You thrash around, bucking your hips into him as if you’re chasing your release.
“Fuck,” you curse, and if he continues doing exactly what he’s doing, you know you’re done for. “I’m gonna—”
“That’s it, c’mon,” he says against you. He knows. He can feel just how tight you are, and he sees the way your jaw drops open. “Come for me.” Your eyes screw shut. “Fucking do it. Give it to me.”
The second he finishes speaking, you’re gone. You do as you’re told and you come.
He had described his feelings for you as debilitating. You’re not sure you understood what he meant until now. You’d described pain as debilitating before. Sadness, too. It always had some sort of negative connotation.
But this? This was all the right kinds of it.
You thrash around on the bed, crying out as it overtakes you. Frank holds you in place, chasing you down as you ride it out. It blazes through you like fire, and you can feel it spread all throughout you. It’s something all-consuming and overwhelming, and it has you saying his name like a prayer. He groans into your core, and you swear you might come again.
But, before you can, Frank pulls away, gently laying you back down onto the bed. He’s careful now, every movement contrasting the things he was doing or saying not even a second ago. His gaze locks on you, your eyes still shut, and your chest heaving. He can’t help the feeling of satisfaction that races through him.
When you open your eyes and see the look on his face, you don’t even think about your next move. You grab him by the neck and guide his lips to yours, kissing him with the same fervor that he gave to you. You can taste yourself on him, and something about it sends a chill down your spine. When he hums into your mouth, you can feel him smiling.
“I’ll take it I did well?” he asks, because of course he does. The question comes out mumbled as he nips at your lip.
“Don’t start acting humble now,” you mutter, finding yourself smiling as he chuckles softly. That chuckle morphs into a groan as you palm him through his pants, and he stops kissing you to hang his head in the space just above your shoulder. “This okay?” you ask gently, watching the way he grits his teeth.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “I just— fuck—” Your fingers travel below his waistband, just barely brushing his cock. For a moment, you think he’s going to latch his teeth onto your collarbone, but he holds himself back. “It’s just b-been a while since I’ve—”
“Been a while for me too,” you assure him, voice lower than a whisper. You can feel how hard he is against your hand, and all you want to do is help him out. “I’ll go slow.”
He lets out an airy laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s the problem.” You stop your movements, looking at him in concern. “If you do what I think you want to do, this’ll be over before we really start it.”
Your brows shoot up, any hesitation in your expression vanishing as it gets replaced by a small smirk. “Really?” you tease. You run your thumb along the head of his cock and he hisses into your neck.
“Don’t,” Frank warns. “I-I’m serious. I’m not gonna last.”
You nod, removing your hand from him and running it up his abdomen to grab his waistband. “Okay,” you say. “So, what do you want?”
He shakes his head, still a bit dazed. “What?”
“You asked me what I wanted. It’s your turn to tell me what you want.”
His response is almost instant. “Inside,” he says, like he’d been thinking about the answer before you’d even asked the question. His cheeks flare red, but he stands strong. “I want to be inside of you.”
The thought of it has your heart racing, and you’re sure that he can hear it. You nod at him, and the second he has permission, he’s moving to take his pants off. As he does so, you remove your bra, having completely forgotten that you had it on. It gets thrown to the floor with the rest of your clothes, and you move back on the mattress, giving him the space he needs to join you.
He acts fast, so fast that you barely get a chance to look at him before he’s kissing you again, pushing you into the pillows that sit on your bed. The feeling of his hand cupping your breast has you grinding against him. A low noise rumbles in his throat, and he uses his other hand to pin you to the bed.
“D-Do you—” he stammers as you move your lips down his neck. “Do you have—”
“Nightstand drawer,” you say, knowing exactly where his mind is.
He uses one hand to lift himself off of you and reaches into the drawer with the other. When he grabs the condom, he rips it open with his teeth, straddling himself over you as he takes it out. “Always so fucking prepared,” he mutters. “Always one step ahead of me.”
You laugh, not even thinking before you say, “Well, I had very different plans when I left the apartment this morning.”
Frank’s eyes snap up to meet yours, and you immediately know you’ve made a mistake. You can’t help the nervous sort of excitement that stirs in your stomach. “With who? That guy?”
Your mouth parts, and you blink at him, desperately trying to come up with something to say. “I—” You shake your head. “I didn’t know how it was going to go.”
He nods slowly, condom now on. When he leans over you, you can feel how hard he is against your stomach. You inhale sharply. “You were going to sleep with him tonight?”
“I mean—” He tilts his head, and everything about it reads as a warning. You cut yourself off as his eyes narrow slightly. “I… I don’t know. If it had gone well. Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he repeats. The glint in his eyes is dangerous, and you grip his wrist that’s sitting beside you. “Maybe.”
Oops. You might be in trouble. Because you feel like playing with fire, you raise a brow. “What if I had?” you ask. “How would that make you feel?”
He scoffs, and before you register what he’s doing, you feel him drag the head of his cock around the opening of your cunt. He leans forward, stabilizing himself on one arm that’s placed next to your head. The contact and the heat of him make you inhale raggedly. Suddenly, his other hand is skimming your forehead.
“The second— and I mean the second this thing is healed,” he begins, running his fingers just below the area of your cut, “I’m going to bend you over the fucking table and show you exactly how that makes me feel.”
You don’t have time for a rebuttal. No time to tell him off, to tease him about being jealous, or even to laugh. Because suddenly, he’s moving that hand down to guide himself into you.
You both gasp, and you fork your fingers through his hair as he bottoms out practically the moment he’s in. He takes it slow— painstakingly so. There’s a bit of a stretch, one that gets more comfortable as you adjust to the length of him. His head falls to your chest, groaning against your skin.
“But for now,” he says shakily, trailing up your body with hot, open-mouthed kisses, “I’m gonna show you the reason you’re here with me and not with him.”
Your grip on his hair tightens the second he starts to move, and he grunts into the side of your neck. You curse, lips brushing his ear, the feeling of… everything sending you into a spiral. How his hips snap into yours. The way he cups a hand around your breast, testing each movement he makes to see exactly how you like to be touched. How he murmurs your name as if it’s something sacred.
You might just understand what he means about not being able to think straight when he’s around you. Because right now, you can’t think about anything other than him.
He whispers an unintelligible word, then groans. “Fuck. You feel incredible,” he says. “Knew you would. Never disappointed by you. Fucking ever.”
“Shit,” you rasp. “I need— ngh.” An involuntary moan breaks through to interrupt your barely audible words. “M-Move faster.”
You’re surprised when he laughs. The sound is rough and breathy and almost cruel. He shakes his head as he continues his pace. “After you say shit like that? Y-You try to bait me and make me jealous, and you think you make the rules?” he asks. His fingers fall from your chest to trace down your side. “That’s not how this works. You’ll take what I give you.”
Your back arches off the mattress, and you find yourself grinding against him to get some sort of new, harder friction. It catches him slightly off guard, and he grabs your hip to stabilize both himself and you. “Frank, p-please,” you damn near whimper. His eyes screw shut and his jaw clenches. “I-I need you. Please. Don’t— shit. Don’t be mean.”
With a deep and guttural groan, he starts to move faster. With the look on his face, you’re not sure if it was a voluntary choice or not, but regardless, he gives you what he wants.
It’s a struggle to keep the self-satisfied smirk off your face, and when Frank opens his eyes to look at you, it’s the first thing he sees. He tells himself he’d stop just to spite you, but he knows he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. You feel too fucking good.
So, instead, he just mutters, “Stop that.”
Your smile grows, and you bite your bottom lip in the hopes of keeping it from forming. “Knew you’d fold.”
“Hard not to when you’re begging like that,” he says, moving to rest his forehead on yours. “Not happening again.”
(You both know it’s a lie the second he says it. But it’s fun to pretend.)
You’re grinning unabashedly when you cup his cheek and lean up to kiss him. This one is messier. It’s just as passionate, if not more, but it’s sloppy, harder to keep up with each other as he continues to pound into you. It’s a steady, quick, gratifying pace, one that already has tension pulling inside your stomach.
“Fuck,” you moan into the kiss, breaking away as he hits just the right spot. It has you heaving in a breath, and that intensity you know so well washes over his expression. “You— I—”
“Oh, shit,” he grins. “That's it, isn't it?”
You nod vigorously, clawing at his shoulder as you fight to ground yourself. “D-Don’t stop,” you plead. “That— You— You feel so good. Please.”
Something about that seems to send Frank over the edge. He hears you loud and clear. Gripping your hips tighter, your head knocks back into your pillow as he seems to move even faster. You wrap your legs around his waist to bring him in closer, and he makes a noise that comes from somewhere low in his throat.
“I’ve got you,” he says. His voice is absolutely wrecked, and you feel yourself clench around him harder. It has him gasping out, “Fuck— I’ll g-get you there, baby. Don’t worry.”
You’re already pretty close to being there, but you need a bit more. Luckily, once again, he’s on the same page as you. He spits on his fingers and reaches down to rub at your clit. The sight alone has you whimpering. “H-holy shit. Frank, I’m— ngh. I’m fucking c-close again.”
“I know,” he grits. “And it’s the hottest f-fucking thing. “
Each movement of his is deliberate. He knows exactly how to act, how to operate, and what will work best. He has the right patterns and tricks, and knows just the right thing to say to make your head spin. You’d teased him relentlessly about his bedside manner, but this? This didn’t apply. Whatsoever.
He told you he’d get you there, and that wasn’t just a promise. It was a fact.
You can tell he’s getting closer to the edge as his face contorts and his words start to get less coherent. “So fucking beautiful,” he tells you, and God, does he mean it. “You’re fucking unreal. I-I can’t believe I get to have you like this.”
It’s the way he speaks that gets you. He’s desperate, that smart mouth of his now slurring out words with his eyes half-lidded. He straight-up grimaces as you get tighter, and you know that it’s going to be the thing that breaks you.
“I’m gonna come,” you manage to get out. It’s not a warning. “I’m gonna— Frank, I—”
“Do it,” he says. “I’m r-right behind you. F-fucking come for me again.”
You come within seconds. If you thought the last one was debilitating, this one completely wrecks you. Your orgasm tears through your body, and it’s something white-hot and blinding. You swear you see stars, especially as Frank continues to fuck you through it. He’s whispering things in your ear that you can’t process— things that you’re not even sure he’s processing. Because as you come to, you realize he’s just as gone as you are.
He didn’t lie. He wasn’t far behind you. He follows suit within seconds, finishing with a groan that racks his entire body. His chest is heaving as he hovers up above you, eyes closed and blissed out. He collapses into you, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
You’re both breathing heavily and sweating, and your room is finally quiet. You don’t know if you can move. All you have in you right now is to lift your hand and run your fingers through his hair.
He hums at the feeling, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your pulse. He sits there for a moment longer, enjoying the feeling of your nails against his head. He allows himself to get his bearings before rolling off of you, making sure to be gentle as he slips out.
Frank all but collapses into the pillow beside you, staring up at the ceiling before turning his head in your direction. You meet his gaze when you feel it on you.
It takes all but three seconds for the two of you to start laughing.
You hide your face with your hands, giggling (giggling! The bastard has you fucking giggling) into them like you’d heard the world’s funniest joke. The sound comes out muffled, but it mixes well with his own.
Grinning, Frank perches himself on his elbow, reaching over to remove your hands from your face. You look at him in that way he was talking about— the one where he can’t think straight. He shakes his head as if it’ll clear it. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
“I’m not shy,” you insist, though the warmth in your cheeks would say otherwise. “I just— I can’t believe we did that.”
He narrows his eyes, asking a question he already knows the answer to: “In a good way or a bad way.”
You take your hands from him to gently whack him on the arm. “You know it’s in a good way,” you mutter.
“I know,” he replies. He focuses on your fingers as you intertwine them, knowing your silence a bit too well. “What are you thinking about?”
You glance up at him, pressing your lips together. “The honest or the cute answer?”
Humor graces his features at your response, but he says, “Honest. Always. I hate cute.”
Rolling your eyes, you laugh, because despite what just occurred, he’s still him. “I’m thinking about how badly I want to shower right now.”
A surprised laugh leaves him. “Seriously?” he asks, faux outrage laced within his voice. “I was that bad that you need to shower?”
You giggle again (goddamn it), turning onto your side. “No, I’m just—” You motion down at yourself. “The half a shift I worked is still on me. And now I’m sweaty. I feel gross.”
“You look pretty good to me,” he says, and when you roll your eyes again, he chuckles, rolling himself over to stand up. “I’ll get it going for you.”
You nearly reach over and kiss him then and there, but refrain from doing so. You fear you might start things up again. “Thank you,” you say. “I’ll meet you in there.”
He turns around before he gets up, excitement flickering in his eyes. “You want me to join?”
“You just told me you were going to bend me over the table the second my head heals,” you tell him blankly, biting back a smile as you watch his face go red. “I think we’re well past being shy about showering.”
“You’re fucking unreal,” he repeats, and the fondness in his voice doesn’t go missed. Something pulls at your stomach as you realize he’d said those words he’d said just minutes ago. You watch him walk into your bathroom, but before you can rally yourself to get up, he leans his head out to look at you. “What was the cute answer?”
Sighing, you smile softly as you look up at the ceiling. “You said last week that you were really glad I came back into your life,” you say. You turn your head to meet his gaze. “I was just going to tell you that I agree.”
His mouth parts, and he stares at you— but this time, there’s no confusing this look. You know exactly what he’s thinking, and while you might not have the right words to express it, it’s reciprocated tenfold.
It takes a moment for Frank to speak, but when he does, he says, “Get in that shower the second it’s warm.” He points at you before turning around to turn your shower on. “I mean it.”
The stupid, giddy grin that spreads across your face is bright and bold. Your hands return to cover your face, and you giggle once more.
(This time, you don’t mind it as much.)
OCTOBER 3RD, 2026. (10:30 PM)
You make it back into your bed after about an hour in the shower together. You’ve never been more grateful that your landlord pays your water bill.
What had started as something incredibly sweet and just a bit domestic, with Frank attempting to wash your hair for you, had somehow ended with him to splitting you open and taking you apart with his fingers, and he’d finally let you repay the favor by taking him in your mouth when you got back into bed.
(“I’m not letting you fucking waterboard yourself just to blow me,” he’d hissed, rolling his eyes as you frowned at him. “Right, I’m the bad guy.”)
You’d gotten into your favorite bulky sweatshirt and thrown him one of your many oversized shirts and a pair of sweatpants from your closet, ignoring his complaints about how they looked like floods on him. The last couple of minutes had been spent watching an episode of the reality TV show you’d shown him that he swore he didn’t like, talking intermittently and kissing during the commercials.
It was something you were still wrapping your mind around doing with him, but it was getting easier to believe with each passing hour.
But as you continued to think about it— about the brevity of the situation and what this meant or could mean for you and him, something nagged at you in the back of your mind. It reared it’s ugly head every time you looked at Frank and wouldn’t fucking leave you alone.
You had to get it off your chest. He had to know.
As one of the commercial breaks begins and you feel him turn to you, you put a hand on his shoulder.
“I need to be honest with you about something.” You blurt it out so fast that it almost scares him. “And you can’t tell anyone, but you… need to know this before… whatever this is continues.”
He blinks at you. “Well, I owe you one for not reporting me to the Board, so if you killed someone, I’ve got you.”
You laugh despite your sudden nerves, flipping onto your back to stare up at the ceiling. “I didn’t, but it’s good to know I can get to lie on the stand if something happens,” you say, picking at a loose string on your sheets.
He nudges you to get you to look at him, and briefly, you do. “What’s up?” he asks gently.
With a deep breath, you glance back up at the ceiling and say, “I mentioned last week that I didn’t get into a real relationship until I moved to Boston. And I didn’t say— I wasn’t super open to talking about it.” You see him nod from your peripheral, waiting for you to continue. “I’m going to tell you who it was, but you can’t judge me.”
“The fact that you think I’d judge you after everything you know about me is mildly insulting,” he says.
You look over at him. “It was Klein. My attending.”
His brows shoot up to his hairline. “Oh. Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit,” you mutter. You take a deep breath. “We started seeing each other three months into my intern year, and I was just… obsessed with him. Which is so fucking embarassing looking back, but… I was.” You fumble with your fingers that are resting on your stomach. “I was just so starstruck by him. He was so good and he was so accomplished and so… nice to me. He told me so many times that he was drawn to me because of the things I could do, and I couldn’t believe that he’d… picked me? And after Jamie, I wanted to feel like someone’s choice.”
Frank reaches over to cover your hand with his, intertwining his fingers with yours. It’s a small, quiet comfort, and there’s a piece of you that appreciates that he doesn’t attempt to console you. He just lets you continue.
“Things happened really fast between us. Like, way too fast. It was a secret, of course. Nobody knew. Nobody ever knew about the shit he did. I mean, I was practically living in his apartment by the end of my first year, and nobody suspected a thing. He had me considering whether it was worth it to renew my lease. And it’s one of those things that, looking back on it, I should have seen what was happening,” you say. “But he had this hold on me. And even if I had wanted to, it wasn’t like I could escape him. He was my attending. We worked together. He was supposed to be my mentor, you know?” You swallow harshly. “But it never felt wrong. Ever. Not until things started falling apart.”
Frank squeezes your hand. “You don’t have to—”
“No. I want you to know this. And there’s a point to this, I promise,” you assure him. He nods into his pillow, eyes never straying from your face. “Out of nowhere, a year in, he just decided he was done with me. He told me that something had happened where he reconnected with his ex-girlfriend or something, and they’d decided they were going to try things out again. And before I knew it, he was throwing transfer applications at me and connecting me with Robby and telling me I had to get out of Boston.” You shut your eyes, steadying yourself. “He told me I was too much of a ‘temptation.’ We couldn’t be in the same hospital because he was afraid of what I’d ‘make him do’ at his big age of forty-five.”
“What a fucking asshole,” Frank scoffs. “Jesus. I had no idea.”
“I didn’t tell anyone— haven’t told anyone. I didn’t want you guys to think I was able to transfer because I was fucking my attending,” you chuckle humorlessly. “But it happened. I fell for his whole… thing. I was way too old and way too smart to fall for it, but I did. And I left because he told me to, and I went to the place he told me to go. I didn’t know it would end up being one of the best things to happen to me, and I hate that I owe him for it, but yeah... It’s something I did that I have to live with.”
“You don’t owe him for anything.”
“I know. I know I could have transferred anywhere I wanted to without him. But, still…” you trail off. You shake your head as if it’ll clear the thoughts that are in it. “I’m telling you all of this because I don’t want… this to turn into that. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t escape me. If things go wrong, I don’t want it to affect either of our careers like it did mine. Especially with all the eyes that are already on you.” He goes to interrupt you, but you turn to him and continue. “I don’t want to be Klein. Despite the fact that we should be at the same rank, we’re not. I’m an attending. You’re a resident. If people find out about us, I don’t want it to reflect poorly on you. I know it’s not the same—”
You’re not expecting him to laugh, but he does. He wipes a hand down his face. “It’s not even close to the same thing.”
“Why are you laughing? This is serious, Frank. This is—”
“Are you going to treat me differently at work?” he asks you. “Play favorites? Lay one on me in the middle of an intubation?”
Your expression goes blank. “No.”
“Are you going to make me fill out a transfer application if you get pissed at me?”
“No,” you sigh, knowing exactly what he’s getting at.
“Are you or have you ever been unprofessional in your life?” When you go to object, he cuts you off. “With anyone but me?”
Scowling, you answer, “No.”
“Then it’s not the same. Because you’re not Klein,” he tells you, looking you directly in the eye so it’ll get through. “You’re not a reckless, manipulative douche who doesn’t care about the careers and futures of the people around them. He was twenty years older than you and took advantage of your talent and your kindness.” He shakes his head. “I can’t imagine you doing anything like that. Not just to me. To anyone.”
There’s a part of you that knows that. All of it. Frank was right— you weren’t reckless or manipulative. You’re not Klein. You’d never want to be, and you’d never allow yourself to be. But even after everything, he still lingers in the back of your mind.
You hate him for it. You hate him for a lot. But you hate him the most for that.
“I know,” you say again. “I just… I think we should take things slow. Make sure we’re not being reckless. I don’t want to rush into anything.”
His eyes haven’t left you since he finished speaking. Something flickers in his expression before he lifts up his arm. “C’mere.”
The action makes your throat immediately tighten, and you sigh before obliging. You nuzzle yourself into his side, cheek against his chest, as his arm drops to wrap around you. His fingers trace mindless patterns on your side, and suddenly, the overwhelming urge to cry overtakes you. You can’t explain it, and you don’t do it, but the tears pricking in your eyes have you biting the inside of your cheek.
He speaks against your hair. “You care too much for your own good, you know that?”
You huff. “It’s one of those weaknesses the newbies can’t know about.”
“No,” he says. “Not a weakness. Never a weakness.” He presses his lips to the top of your head. “It’s who you are. It’s my favorite thing about you.”
You shut your eyes at the words, and Frank feels your hand grip the shirt you gave him. Somehow, it endears you to him even more. Ignoring the burn in your throat, you grumble, “There are so many better things about me.”
His chest rises as he chuckles. He seems to disregard your comment as he asks, “I gotta say,” he begins, “you know that this isn’t taking things slow, right?”
Your cheeks burn, and you smack his stomach lightly. “No fucking shit,” you mutter as he continues to laugh. “I meant… more along the lines of how things progress after this. I want us both to be comfortable with it. I don’t want…”
“...You don’t want to be considering breaking your lease in a few months,” he finishes, and yeah— he’s taken the words right out of your mouth.
You sigh against him. “Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a moment. You know his pauses well enough at this point to know that he’s thinking. He moves his free hand to cover yours again. “Listen. I meant what I said before. About wanting to do things right,” he tells you. He plays with your fingers, and the simple action has your heart beating just a bit faster. “I know that this…was a little out of order, but from here on out, I mean that.”
You shift onto your stomach and place your chin on his chest to look at him. “Are you saying you don’t want to have sex with me anymore?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” he says immediately, a smile pulling at his lips as he feels you chuckle against him. “If I ever say that, take me out back and put me down like Old Yeller.”
“Heard.”
“What I am saying is that…” He trails off, searching for the right phrasing. He finds a moment later. “There’s a rule in recovery,” he begins slowly, “that you’re not supposed to make any big life decisions until you’re a year clean. I did that time and then some. Four more months of it. And even in those four months, so much has changed for me.” He meets your gaze. “But how I’ve felt about you hasn’t. That’s one of the only things that’s stayed consistent for me since we first got coffee.”
You feel your throat tighten. “Frank—”
“I did the time. I did the waiting. I waited to see if there was some sort of clarity I was missing,” he continues. “But I came up empty. Everything about you was clear.”
You don’t know what to say. Luckily, he has the words.
“We’ll take it slow. I’ve waited this long for you and I don’t want to fuck it up. Not this.” He sounds so sure. Insistent. Sincere. Those tears from earlier return, and this time, you don’t try to hide them. “So, yeah. We’re gonna go to that game. I’m gonna open the door for you and I’m going to pay for brunch even though you make way more money than I do, because fuck that guy.” You let out a watery laugh, and the sound of it makes him grin. “We’re gonna do this right, damn it. And if I’m lucky, you’ll kiss me at the end of the night, and you might like me half as much as I like you.”
His fingers readjust their grip on yours, and you squeeze them. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” you say, pressing your lips to his shoulder. “And I think you’ll get more than a kiss.”
Frank’s free hand raises in a fist, and he pumps it in the air. “She likes me! She really, really likes me!”
You groan, rolling your eyes as you go to remove yourself from him. “Oh, God. Not anymore. Ew.”
He grabs you before you can get too far, flipping you onto your back to hover over you. A yelp escapes you, and you try your hardest to keep the smile off your face. “C’mon,” he chides. “You were just talking about how bad you wanted to kiss me.”
“That was before you hit me with another bad reference,” you say. “It’s actually impressive how consistently shitty they are. You’re lucky you’re a good doctor because pop culture is so not your thing.”
It’s clear he’s not listening very intently, as he leans down and presses a searing kiss to your collarbone, making his way up. Against your neck, he murmurs, “I guess you’ll have to keep me around long enough to teach me what’s right.”
A breathless laugh leaves your lips. “T-That’s going to take a while.”
“That’s kind of the idea,” he says.
He pulls away from you, and you find yourself staring up at him. “Yeah?”
Frank pushes his lips together and stares at you, clearly unsure of his next words. “Last week,” he begins slowly, “you said that it’s normal for people to outgrow each other. That it happens.”
You nod, unsure of where he’s going with this. “Yeah. And I stand by it.”
He looks at you for a moment longer, then returns your nod. “Well, I don’t…” He bites the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying to figure out if he should say what’s on his mind. “No matter how this plays out, I… I don’t want to outgrow you. I don’t see myself doing that.”
A shaky breath leaves your lips, and yeah, those tears are definitely coming back. He’s always talking about how he can’t believe you, how he doesn’t get you, how unreal you are— you wonder if he’s ever stopped to consider that you feel the same way about him.
You cannot believe him. You can’t believe the things he’s done and can do, the way he’s bettered himself, and who he’s become to you. You can’t believe that this man, whose picture you once threw darts at as a joke at a bar in med school, is now admitting things to you like this and is making you feel this way.
You can’t believe that the person you had once wished nothing but the worst for was now one of the most important people in your life, and you’d do anything to help him feel that way. And you can’t believe that now, you know he’d do the same.
With a sniffle, you allow him to brush away a tear that falls, his hand lingering on your face to caress your cheek. “Then we’ll grow together,” you whisper, shrugging. “You can’t outgrow someone who’s growing with you.”
You see a lump form in his throat. You don’t realize he’s tearing up too until he lets out a watery laugh and asks, “Simple as that?”
“No,” you say, laughing along with him. “Definitely not simple. But I know you. And you know me.” You grin when you ask, “And when the hell have either of us given up on things just because they’re hard?”
There is no power above that could stop Frank from kissing you after that.
imagine his girlfriend filming him while doing a trend and him so being so clueless.
HE'S JUST KEN !
i.
You told Joe to stand with a cushion in front of the camera and though he had no idea why, he did. Because you told him to.
"What's going on?" he asked, watching as you set up the camera.
You were backstage of a show he was prepping for, hour or so before he was set to take the stage. As he liked to, he relaxed with cups of tea to ease his voice, not a big crew around him, just you. His only person.
Typically you sat together, talked or read or he ran through some song choices he was thinking about and other things he was working on.
Today, you changed it up.
You stood next to him, with a cushion in your own hand.
Joe looked around, confused but with a smile. "What?"
"Just listen."
Joe squinted at the camera, regretting his glasses left on the side.
"Who was interested first?"
Before Joe could even register the question your pillow hit him in the chest with a soft whack.
He stumbled back at the force un-accounted for and looked back to you as you laughed. His jaw was agape even as your knees buckled from your force of laughter. "What the he-"
"Who said I love you first?"
Joe at least had a second to prepare, holing up his pillow before yours hit him again. He heard the question, he got the gist of what was going on and wasn't going to deny it. He remembered the picnic in central park he took you on when he first said I love you.
"Who is more protective?"
Both of your cushions went up and hit into each other, the force stumbling you both.
"You so are!" you argued.
"Yeah but so are you!" he said.
You hit him with the cushion again as he cowered in laughter.
"Who cleans more?"
Joe hit you.
"Who eats the most?"
Joe was ready before the question even ended he. He spun and whacked you in the ass with the pillow, throwing you back onto the sofa. "Oh shit!" he laughed.
The both of you were in fits of laughter. The camera picking up on you lying on the sofa, arm over your stomach with laughter while Joe loomed over you, laughing.
"Who spends the most money?"
Joe ignored the question, laying a hand on your back.
You tried to lift the pillow to hit him but he grabbed your wrist and put it down.
"No I don't!"
"Who is most likely to start an argument?"
Joe straight up dropped the cushion. He held his hands up in surrender, not willing to take the hit or make it. Maybe it was the two years you'd been together but neither of you started arguments. Who wanted to get into arguments?
Your own cushion was clutched to your chest as you were still laughing, trying to get up but Joe not letting it happen.
"Who falls aslee-"
The audio kept going and the last shot the camera got was Joe falling on top of you on the sofa in his dressing room, throwing the cushion at the camera and plunging the tikok into to darkness.
View all comments:
the way he dropped the cushion so fast
he really said we do not argue in this house
may this love attack me
y/n feeding us with joe content
JOE SAID I LOVE YOU FIRST
ii.
When you started posting Joe, you should've expected the fallout. The comments of 'hard launch of the century' or people aghast you were even together even if you hadn't been trying to keep it a secret. You also weren't trying to make it public-public.
But Joe liked it.
He liked boasting. His friends knew that. A hand always on each other when hanging out, if you were going out he liked to give you a hat of his to wear. And if nobody could see that love they could hear it in his songs.
So, you went again. A harmless little prank.
Your phone was in hand, the record button hit as you flopped next to your boyfriend on your sofa in your NYC apartment. On instinct, Joe's arm went around your shoulder.
You started with casual chat.
Then: "Oh my god, I forgot to tell you."
The camera picks up on the immediate interest in his face.
"Tell me, tell me," he said, abandoning his own task on his phone.
"I found Joe Quinn on Raya."
Joe didn't even think. He laughed, pushing back his hair. He leant closer toward you. "Did you? Did you really?"
"Yeah," you said with your own amused grin.
"But wasn't he- I thought he was dating-" Joe began, his head leant in hand as he dug his elbow into the sofa, watching you.
You shook your head, trying to keep back your laughter. You didn't want any other names to be involved in a Tiktok that would be posted online. You'd just picked Joe because he was yours and Joe's friend and you knew he was recently single. "No."
You watched your boyfriend think about it and for a second, you thought you were caught out.
"Did you see the picture released of him as George Harrison?" he asked instead.
You laughed but nodded. "Yes."
Joe was momentarily confused why it was so funny but moved past it. "Wait can I see the photo's he-" the camera picked up on the very moment he realised. "Wait, Raya?"
You pitched forward with a laugh, as Joe laughed too, though more confused.
Joe chuckled. "Why are you on Raya?"
"I'm not."
"You're not?"
You picked your phone up and showed him the Tikok you were filming.
Joe rolled his eyes playfully and tugged you in closer. "Oh my god-"
View all comments:
Joe was so ready for the gossip
Never have I ever wanted to gossip with joe more
The panic and then he realised
Isn't this so distasteful, his ex literally cheated on him
It was a prank
I just know at the end of the day he's so ready to gossip
They're so cute together stfu
iii.
When you saw how much the people liked to see it, or some who hated to see the two of you in love and happy, you didn't want to stop.
Just like your boyfriend with his film camera you were there with your phone, taking pictures or videos of him at any time of day.
The two of you couldn't get enough.
So when your fans got a notification- you'd posted another Tiktok- they were excited to see what it could have been.
They found you, in the lap of Joe's. It was clearly Joe. His arms were around you with drumsticks in hand as he played the drums, tapping around, with you in his lap. Your chest to his.
It got over a million like in twenty-four hours and everyone was obsessed.
View all comments:
Is it in?
I don't know who I want to be more
I feel like I shouldn't be watching
This is what I pay wifi for
GET IT! GET IT!
iv.
Or another harmless little prank here and there. One where you wiped off a kiss he gave you when you were recording a Vogue get ready with me. It was clipped from the Youtube video and did the rounds on Tiktok.
Your 'prank' didn't work however as he only plunged the camera into darkness by blocking the both of you out of view to give you a kiss you couldn't so easily rub off.
Or another where you were cooking and dragged Joe into view, naming him your 'current boyfriend' to which he only shrugged and corrected you with one word.
"Husband, but sure."
Which then sparked a huge marriage rumour. You were not married. (Or at least not yet)
But you tried again, all for your own enjoyment. Where some didn't understand if Joe wanted to be on Tiktok or not, it was clear all he wanted was to be with you. Around you. Involved with you and your life however that presented itself.
You had your phone set up, acting as if you were using it as a mirror while you got yourself ready for the day.
Joe was pottering around behind you, throwing on different hats till he found the one he wanted for the day, getting a bag and his guitar to go to the studio. "Okay baby, I love you, I'll see you later," he said, pressing his lips atop your head so he didn't ruin the makeup you were doing.
He was on his way out the door when you called back.
"See you soon!"
The camera could just see Joe half way out the door, hands till holding it open as he looked back.
"Okay, love you," he said, trying it as casual as he could again.
"Bye!"
Joe waited a second, wondering if maybe there was a delay. "Babe?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I know, i'll see you tonight."
Joe looked back and saw the camera. He stared at it blankly as he understood what you were doing. He flexed his muscles, showing his biceps to the camera before he went back to being 'serious.'
You watched him through the camera as he leant his guitar on the wall and headed over to you. He leant over you and gently and playfully cupped your chin, getting you to look at him.
"Say it," he said through his teeth playfully with a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"I love you," you chuckled.
Joe's face lit up in a grin. "Love you too, I'll see you tonight." He took his time, his lips against yours sweetly before he left for the day.
Nobody could ever doubt the love you had was anything other than true.
Pairing: Prince!Bucky Barnes x Mermaid!Reader
Warning: smut (p in v, fingering), innocence kink, handjob, personal boundaries being disrespected (reader doesn't understand why humans don't share bathtubs?), corruption of a Disney trope?, it's giving disney if they let them fu-
Word Count: 12.3k
Summary: You were never supposed to interact with the shore people, told yourself just keeping their artifacts was enough. But a storm that crashes Bucky into the sea has different ideas, a mermaid who doesn't know the rules ends up too close to a prince who doesn't follow them.
+fran: she's here! my contribution to the bwa fairytale collab is finally public! she's huge! I had so much fun with this, I love writing mermaid!reader. funny story, my dad bought me a stuffed flounder as a gift the day I was born. the rest is, as they say, history. @earthsmightiestbenders I'm sorry I edged you <3
The palace slept, its spires and coral arches glowing faintly with bioluminescent light. You should’ve been asleep too, curled in the safety of your chambers. But your heart thrummed with restlessness, and your tail flicked against the current like it had a will of its own.
So you slipped past the sentries, careful not to stir the sea anemones that lit the halls, and darted into the open water.
The deeper you swam, the darker it became. No lantern-fish guided your way; no conch-shell guards patrolled here. This was the border of your father’s kingdom—the place he forbade you from going.
Which made it all the more irresistible.
You’re not supposed to be here. Not in this part of the reef, not beyond the kelp wall, and certainly not inside the old wrecked cave with the split hull of a ship jutting out from the rock like broken teeth.
You grinned, darting down through the broken planks. Your fingers trailed over strange objects half-buried in the sand: cups of dulled silver, beads of glass, a rusted blade. Treasures. Human treasures.
You gathered what you could into the woven bag slung at your hip. But one thing caught your eye, glinting faintly in a shaft of moonlight that pierced the waves.
A chain. Thin, tangled, half-buried in silt. You dug it free, heart pounding, and found a small plate dangling at the end. The letters etched into it were strange, foreign, but you traced them carefully all the same.
James B. Barnes.
You pressed the tag to your chest, curious at the way the cool metal seemed to echo with a heartbeat not your own.
If you were caught, you’d be dragged back to the palace, scolded, maybe worse. But staring at the artifact in your hands, you knew you’d come back tomorrow. And the next night. And the next.
Because collecting these artifacts made it feel like the world above the waves wasn't so far away.
You darted through narrow tunnels of stone until the sea opened into your hidden grotto, your sanctuary.
Every ledge glittered with stolen wonders: tarnished forks, broken lanterns, colorful shards of glass polished smooth by the tide. Your collection sparkled in the dim blue light filtering from the cracks above.
You tucked the newest find—a thin chain with its curious etched plate—onto the highest shelf, as though that made it more important than all the rest. You whispered the strange words, testing the shape of them on your tongue. They meant nothing, but somehow they felt like more than all the treasures you’d collected before.
Then you hear them. Voices. Laughter. The swish of fast tails. Your sisters.
“Oh no,” you whisper, trying to rearrange a curtain of seaweed to hide your grotto’s entrance, but it’s too late. They burst in like a storm, all limbs and noise and glittering teeth.
“We knew it,” Kate laughs, flipping upside down in the water. “She’s here with her trinkets.”
“Are you talking to statues again?” Yelena says with a giggle, poking at one of the old compasses. “Ooh, what’s this? Another broken time spinner?”
You grab it before she can toss it. “It’s a watch,” you mutter. “It tells time.” They exchange a look and burst into laughter again.
“Tell time for what? How long it takes a human to drown?” Yelena snorts.
You scowl. “They’re not all like that.” You look at the big statue at the center of your grotto, one you dragged through sand and current a few moons ago after a particularly gnarly storm that was partially your fault. It was the last time you pranked your father with sea urchins, that's for sure.
“No,” Kate says, eyes glittering. “Just the ones who hunt us, dump trash into our waters, destroy reefs, and build those big wooden boxes that sink during storms—those humans?”
Your grip tightens around the old watch. “Some of them are different.”
Your sisters circle lazily, light current from their swimming pushing you to float right against the chest of the statue, teasing but not cruel. Not really. This is a game they’ve played your whole life. “Let me guess,” Yelena purrs, “you’re still dreaming about your human prince? The one with the strong arms and the sad eyes and the big—”
“Stop!” you laugh, flicking your tail hard enough to send a little bit of pressure through the water at them. “You’re horrible.”
“He’s not real, you know,” Kate says, but her voice softens. “No human prince is going to come sweeping into the sea to rescue a little coral-brained romantic like you.”
You glance at your collection—at the chipped music box that still plays a wobbly lullaby, the feathered quill encased in glass, the portrait of a man with a beard and stormy eyes who looks a little bit like how you imagine him.
You weren’t supposed to want this. You weren’t supposed to crave the surface. But every artifact told a story, and tonight you wondered — not for the first time — if one of those stories could be yours.
The tide was low. The sky painted in lavender streaks and salted gold, the moon beginning to rise like a silent promise over the distant cliffs. Prince James Buchanan Barnes walked along the shore with his boots in one hand and the salt wind in his hair, kicking sand lightly as he walked.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not this late, not without guards. Not with the weight of the crown looming closer each day. But he came anyway.
Steve trailed behind him, arms crossed over his chest, one of the only people left who could speak to him without ceremony or title. “You ever gonna tell me what you’re looking for out here?” Steve asked. "You've been disappearing into the shore every night for weeks now."
Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the surf like it might reveal something. Like it owed him something. “I don’t know,” he murmured finally. “Peace, maybe.”
Steve’s boots crunched in the wet sand beside him. “You can't find peace in wine, the best food, and the prettiest women begging to be let in your chamber at the palace?”
Bucky huffed a dry laugh, then shook his head. “I feel… like I can breathe out here.” He turned, eyes skimming the waves as they rolled toward the shore. “I feel like I’m always performing in there,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the cliffs that cradled the castle in stone. “Like I have to be someone I’m not. But when I’m out here... I can think.”
“And what are you thinking about?” Steve asked gently.
Bucky hesitated. His jaw tensed, then relaxed. “That maybe I don’t belong anywhere. That maybe I’m not enough — for the court, the kingdom, the war council. For any of it.” Steve didn’t interrupt. Just let him speak.
Bucky exhaled, dragging his fingers through his dark hair. “I feel… alone,” he admitted, softer now. “Even when I’m surrounded by people. Even when I’m in a room full of nobles and soldiers and advisors.” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “Especially then.”
He looked back at the waves. “But when I’m near the water... it’s like something settles in me. Like something out there understands.”
You were alone, nestled behind a jagged cluster of rocks, nothing above the surface besides your shoulders, neck, and face. Wet hair floating behind you, your fingers gripping a bed of mossy stone, your eyes fixed on the shoreline.
And on him.
Your cheek rested on your forearms, now crossed on the stone, hidden enough from shore that you could stay like this and just look at him pacing until he got tired enough to retreat back behind the walls that divided your worlds.
Gods, was he beautiful.
The hem of his pants was pulled up around his calves, his vest was undone, as was the shirt under it, letting his tanned chest be bathed in moonlight. His hair fell on his face every time he looked down, and when he looked up he flickered it back over his broad shoulders.
You were close enough to see the way his lips moved as he talked to the blond one beside him—Steve, you’d learned from surface gossip and one of your better-eavesdropping sisters. Their voices didn’t carry over the waves, not clearly, but you caught fragments. Words like alone, lost, don’t belong.
It was all very mysterious and a little bit sad, which made you sigh like a maiden in a ballad, resting your chin on the barnacled stone with a dreamy smile on your face.
You watched as he paused at the shoreline, staring out at the sea as if you were the one missing piece in his princely little life. Which, obviously, you were.
You held your breath, as though breathing too loudly might give you away.
And then—
“Gods, you’re pathetic.”
You yelp, spinning around in the water so fast that your tail hits the rock. A sharp sting slices through your fin, but you bite it back.
“Yelena!” you hiss, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?!”
She’s floating just behind you, grinning smugly, her arms crossed over her chest and her tail lazily flicking against the current.
“I followed you,” she says, all syrupy sweetness. “You’re not exactly stealthy when you sigh like a lovesick dolphin every five minutes.” She got closer and made you scoot over so she could see what you saw, both of you just peeking around the rocks now to make sure the two humans didn't hear you.
“He’s even sadder up close,” Yelena mutters beside you, following your line of sight. “You sure you want that?” You ignore her. “Why are you watching him again?” she asks, softer this time. “You know it’s dangerous.”
You press your cheek to the cool rock, frowning, watching as Bucky stops to look out at the sea. The wind plays with the hem of his shirt. He looks so tired. So real. You just want to reach out and touch his skin.
You smiled dreamily. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
The sea outside was alive with noise—guards patrolling, schools of fish darting past—but in your grotto, all was still. Here, tucked deep in rock and coral, time belonged to you.
And to him.
The statue loomed from its place of honor, shadowed but magnificent. The marble face was softened by the water, but you could still see him in every line—the set of his jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head.
You circled him slowly, your fingers trailing along the cold stone of his arm. “You should be heavier,” you murmured, half to yourself.
“Ohhh, listen to her! Already talking to him like he’s her betrothed. This is love, I tell you. Star-crossed, storm-born, fate-bound love!” Ava, one of your oldest sisters, gushed from her place where she was brushing her hair, perched on a stone.
Her romantic nature was only second to yours.
Yelena rolled her eyes, “Fate-bound trouble,” she swam closer. “If father knew you’d dragged this into the grotto? If he knew you touched a human—”
You waved her off, "He'll never know." pressing closer to the statue’s chest. The stone was cool, but you imagined the warmth you’d feel beneath your palm on the shore. Slowly, daringly, you let your lips brush against the marble jaw. “He'd be warm,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “So warm.”
“You’d hold me differently, if you were flesh,” you murmured, just to yourself. “You’d burn like I do when I think of you.”
“Oh, little sister, it’s written all over your face. You’re smitten!”
“I am not!” But even as you said it, your mind betrayed you with the memory of Bucky’s voice, the curve of his lips. “I’m not,” you whispered, weaker now.
But then—the water shifted. Darkened. A deep voice rolled through the current, heavy as thunder. “You what?”
Your blood ran cold. Slowly, you turned. Your father hovered just beyond the entrance, his trident gleaming, his eyes alight with fury. The currents around him churned, violent and unyielding.
“Father—” you started, but the words died as his shadow loomed closer.
“A human?” His voice cracked like a whip. “After everything I’ve warned you, everything I’ve forbidden—you dare bring their filth into my waters?”
“No—please—” But he was already surging past you, his trident blazing with power. “Father, please!” you begged, darting in front of him. “These are mine, they’re harmless—”
But he barely heard you. With a sweep of his trident, light burst through the water. Your treasures shattered: glass shards spun into sand, silver dulled into nothing, your shelves crumbling into rubble.
“No!” you cried, clutching at broken pieces as they drifted away. “Please, stop!”
And then—his gaze fell on the statue. Bucky’s likeness stood tall in the dim glow, his marble eyes watching silently as though even now he might protect you.
Your father’s rage deepened. “This… thing,” he thundered, “you dare bring him into our world?” Before you could speak, his trident crashed down. The statue split in two, stone splintering, Bucky’s face shattering into nothing.
You screamed, the sound torn raw from your chest, as the pieces drifted past your hands. When the glow of the trident dimmed, your grotto was ruined. Nothing left but shards, dust, and the hollow ache in your heart.
Your father turned, his expression carved from stone. “This ends tonight. You will never see the shore again.” And with that, he left—leaving you in the ruins of your secret world, cradling a broken piece of marble in your trembling hands.
Your sisters hovered in shock, tails shaking, eyes wide and fearful. You knelt in the rubble, curled around the broken marble fragments like they were the pieces of your own heart.
The storm came on entirely too fast. It didn’t roll in like weather—it ripped. The sky went black like someone had torn out the stars. Thunder cracked through the cliffs like bone snapping. The tide surged upward without warning, swallowing boats where they floated, dragging debris onto shore.
It was the kind of storm sailors feared in stories, the kind that didn’t belong to nature, the kind born from wrath.
Prince James Barnes stood at the prow of his ship, wind whipping through his dark hair. Saltwater sprayed against his face, and the storm bruised the sky black and silver. His crew shouted warnings, scurrying to secure sails, but Bucky only grinned into the chaos, eyes alight with challenge.
“Your Highness!” his first mate cried. “We need to turn back before the storm splits us!”
Bucky shook his head, tightening the leather strap on his arm where the metal gleamed faintly beneath his sleeve. “We hold course. This ship was built for worse than this.” But then thunder cracked, shaking the heavens, and lightning struck the mast with a deafening roar. The wood splintered, flames licking before the rain smothered them.
The ship lurched violently. Crewmen tumbled. And Bucky was thrown hard across the deck, his shoulder slamming against the railing. The sea rose like a hungry mouth. With one last jolt, the ship tilted, and he lost his grip.
Cold water swallowed him whole. For a moment, he kicked furiously, the weight of his boots dragging him deeper. He thrashed, reaching upward—but the surface was too far, the storm too strong.
And then—just before the darkness claimed him—a shadow moved beneath him, swift and strong. Small hands caught his chest, pulling him down instead of up, carrying him somewhere he didn’t understand.
The last thing Bucky saw was a glimmer of a face in the moonlit water, features blurred by the current, a voice humming through the depths like a dream.
Then everything went black.
The storm spat you out onto the sand, waves crashing around your tail as you dragged the heavy man onto the shore. He was heavier than any treasure you’d stolen from the wrecks, his body limp, boots and clothes weighing him down.
Your eyes dragged over him shamelessly—because what was he gonna do, complain? He was unconscious. This was a safe space.
His soaked shirt outlined muscles you didn’t even know humans had. His pants were fitted. And tight. And his boots were huge, which made you stare at other parts of him and question things you didn’t have names for yet.
You slapped your own cheek.
You collapsed beside him, chest heaving, seawater streaming off your hair and skin. He lay there unmoving, his dark hair plastered across his forehead, his lips pale. “Wake up,” you whispered, poking his sternum. “Come on, big guy. Don’t leave me here alone with all these intrusive thoughts.”
And then—a cough. His chest convulsed, seawater spilling from his mouth, followed by a ragged gasp. His eyes fluttered shut again, but he was alive.
Relief coursed through you like a current. You brushed wet strands of hair away from his face, studying him in awe. He was beautiful—sharp jaw, broad shoulders, lashes fanned dark against his skin. So unlike the finned men of your world.
Your heart jumped. You leaned closer, fingers trailing along his cheek, fascinated by the rough stubble there.
“[Y/N]!” a sharp whisper hissed from the shallows. You glanced back to see your sister — waving her arms at you, fins flapping furiously. “What are you doing?! If he wakes—if he sees—you’ll be dragged back in chains! Get in the water, now!”
You ignored her, mesmerized by the rise and fall of the man’s chest, the warmth of his skin beneath your hand.
“Don’t be foolish!” she snapped, his little tail lashing. “He’s dangerous. All of them are. Leave him be before it’s too late!”
But you couldn’t. Not yet. Not when he was here in front of you, the human you’d dreamed of holding in your grotto full of broken artifacts.
“James,” you whispered again, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “I’ll see you again." The man’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting on a hoarse breath. You startled, heart hammering.
“Now!” she hissed. “Into the sea!”
With one last lingering touch, you pushed yourself back into the surf. The tide seized you, dragging you beneath the waves, and by the time Bucky's eyes opened—bleary, searching—there was nothing left but the echo of your voice in the storm.
Sand clung to his clothes, seawater pooling beneath him, every muscle aching from the wreck. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand across his face, his lungs still burning from the salt.
Then—sharp barks split the air.
“Rex?” His voice cracked as his big shepherd bounded across the sand, whining frantically, nosing at his chest. The dog’s tongue was warm and insistent, dragging him further into waking.
And then another voice. Familiar.
“James!”
Steve’s boots pounded across the shore, his cloak whipping in the wind. He dropped to his knees, relief flooding his features as he gripped Bucky’s shoulders. “You’re alive. By God, you’re alive.”
Bucky blinked up at him, dazed, half expecting the vision of her face to still be hovering above him. His lips were dry, but the word slipped out anyway:
“Angel.”
Steve frowned. “What?”
“She saved me,” Bucky rasped, clutching weakly at Steve’s arm. “Dark hair… soft voice… she pulled me from the sea.”
Steve glanced at the wreckage still burning in the distance, then back to his friend with concern. “Bucky, no one was here. You must’ve dreamed it.”
But Bucky only shook his head, stubborn even in exhaustion. His dog whined, pressing against his side as Steve helped him upright.
“No dream,” Bucky muttered, his gaze fixed on the waves. “She was real.”
The palace was tense when you returned.
Not stormy—yet—but the kind of eerie quiet that made the sea itself hold its breath. Guards swam stiffly in the halls. Your sisters refused to make eye contact. Even the anemones lining the walls dimmed their glow like they didn’t want to witness what was about to happen.
You barely made it ten feet into the throne chamber before his voice thundered through the water.
“YOU SAVED A HUMAN?!” You flinched like he’d struck you.
Your father stood at the top of the coral steps, trident in hand, surrounded by currents that spun too fast, too sharp. His eyes blazed like moonlight on a storm tide.
“Did I not forbid this?” he growled, voice rising with each word. “Did I not warn you? Did I not say their kind cannot be trusted, that their world is not ours, that no good has ever come from reaching above the surface?”
You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t done.
“You dragged him onto our shore. You exposed yourself. You endangered your sisters. You’ve disgraced this family—”
“I saved his life,” you said firmly. “That’s all. He was drowning.”
“He is human.”
“He was dying!”
“He is human,” he repeated, voice low and cold. “And that is not your concern.”
Your throat tightened.
He didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t. He never saw the way the surface shimmered at night, the way shipwrecks whispered secrets through the tides, the way human voices sounded like music even when they were just shouting.
He didn’t see him.
The man with the sad eyes and the rough hands and the kind of face that made you ache with wanting to know everything he’d ever lost.
“I couldn’t let him drown,” you said quietly.
“That wasn’t your choice to make.”
“And was it yours?” You defied. "The storm only happened because you were mad at me."
Your father took a threatening step down. “And what if he’d seen you? What if he told someone? Do you have any idea what they would do to us?”
“He didn’t see me.” You muttered.
“But he could have—”
“I don’t care!”
Silence.
Your voice cracked as you pushed forward, heart racing now. “I don’t care if he could’ve seen me, or if it was stupid, or if it broke a rule, or all the rules—because I couldn’t just let him die. And—and—”
You stopped.
There it was.
The feeling that had been building since the moment you saw him talking to himself scribbling on his journal all of those moons ago. Since you saw the way his lashes rested against his cheek like he’d been born for softness, not war.
Your voice dropped to a whisper.
“Because I love him.”
Your sisters gasped in sync from somewhere behind a column. Your father stared at you like you’d just said you wanted to marry a sea cucumber.
“You… love him,” he repeated slowly.
You straightened your spine. “Yes.”
“You love a man you’ve spoken zero words to.”
“I’ve heard his words,” you said defensively. “He talks to the sea. It’s romantic.”
“He was probably drunk!”
“He’s sensitive, too!”
He groaned and turned away, dragging a hand down his face. “You are grounded,” he said flatly.
“Again?!”
“Until you regain sanity. No surfacing. No wreck-diving. If I so much as hear you say the word ‘surface’ again—”
“But, daddy!”
“GROUNDED. Go to your reef.”
“I hate it here.” You flung yourself out of the throne room in a whirl of fins, humiliation, and romantic delusion. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t even touch him like you wanted. But now? You were grounded. You were banned. You were trapped.
That night, you went to the surface one last time. The prince leaned against the railing of a high balcony, the lamplight behind him catching in his dark hair. His dog lay at his feet, tail wagging lazily as if keeping him company through his restless vigil.
You pressed closer to the rocks, daring the waves to carry you nearer. Your chest ached at the sight of him—alive, whole, breathing. So close, and yet impossibly far.
He sighed, his voice drifting faintly down to you. “I know you’re real.” Your heart stopped. “I felt you,” he continued, running a hand over his face before bracing it against the railing. “Your hands… your voice. You saved me. And I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Heat flared in your chest, that dangerous fire you still didn’t understand. You leaned forward, straining to catch every word.
“I sound insane.” he muttered, his lips quirking into a humorless smile. “A prince, talking to the waves like some lovesick boy... I’d trade every jewel in this damned palace just to see you again, though. Just once.”
You wanted to move. Wanted to swim as close to the shore as the water would let you and flail your arms and call out his name. But you didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Above, James leaned heavily against the railing, his voice breaking into the night air. “Angel… wherever you are—come back to me.”
Your throat tightened. All it took was one reckless heartbeat, and you dove back into the dark waters and swam as fast as you could.
The currents grew cold and strange in the unpatrolled depths, but you didn’t care. You curled into a hollow of black stone, tears of frustration in your eyes. So when the water shifted, colder still, you thought you were alone.
Until you heard her voice.
“My, my,” purred the Sea Witch, her silhouette forming in the gloom. She drifted closer, her tendrils of shadow and hair curling like smoke. “Such a pretty little thing, crying over a human. Tell me, child—do you want him?”
You startled, clutching the marble shard tighter. “What do you mean?”
Her lips curved. “Don’t play coy. You saved him, you watched him, you dreamed of his touch. You want legs to walk beside him. Arms to hold him. A mouth to kiss him.”
Your face burned, your throat tight. “I can’t—my father—”
“Your father has destroyed what you love,” she cut in, her voice low and smooth. “But I can give it back. I can give you him.”
Your heart thudded painfully. “How?”
“Trade.” She slithered closer, her eyes gleaming. “Your voice—for legs. You’ll rise from the sea, beautiful and silent. If he loves you before the next moon wanes, you’ll remain with him. If not… the sea will reclaim you.”
Your breath hitched, the fire in your chest sparking at the thought of his arms around you. “My… voice?”
The witch’s grin sharpened. “Such a small thing, for everything you’ve ever wanted.”
You hesitated—then closed your eyes, clutching the shard of marble one last time. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
The witch’s laughter coiled around you, and suddenly, pain split through your chest. A burning, wrenching pull tore the song from your throat. You tried to scream, but nothing came out—only bubbles streaming upward as darkness rushed in.
The last thing you saw was her grin, and the flare of her magic.
You woke to warmth.
Sand beneath your palms, the sun blazed against your damp skin. Your lungs seized, then dragged in sweet, sharp, light air. It was blinding, really, and you weren't entirely sure why your eyes were that much more sensitive.
You tried rolling over and notices part of the weight you usually had on your lower half wasn't there anymore. And when you looked down, a gasp left your lips.
Your tail was gone.
The bi— witch really did it.
In its place were two long, definitely not tanned legs sprawled clumsily in the surf, bare and trembling. Every nerve screamed unfamiliar sensations of rubbing on the sand. You whimpered silently, wiggling your toes and digging them deeper in the coarse grains, dragging yourself further up the sand, while the waves pulling at you like they wanted you back.
But you pressed forward, shaking, helpless, until you collapsed further on the beach. Your throat ached raw, thirsty from all the saltwater you probably ingested on the way up, unconscious.
Above you, gulls wheeled. The castle you looked at longinly for so long loomed on the cliffs, closer than ever.
The sun was lowering, painting the waves in molten gold. You lay tangled in the surf, every breath a battle, your new legs trembling with every futile push against the ground.
Was he there? You thought.
Was he as close as just on the other side of these stone walls?
Was he even going to spare you a second glance? I mean, you could just not be hi—
A sharp bark split the quiet.
You startled just as an enormous sheepdog barreled across the beach, shaggy fur flying, paws thundering over the wet sand. He skidded to a stop in front of you, nose pressing against your shoulder with frantic whines. His tail wagged so hard his whole body shook with it, and before you could even flinch, his warm tongue was dragging against your wrist, slobbering all over you.
You gave the faintest laugh—silent, breathless, but real.
“Rex!”
Your heart lurched at the voice. Deep, strong, achingly familiar, belonging to the one and only James Buchanan Barnes.
And then he was there.
The man you’d pulled from the storm. The one whose name you whispered against stone lips in your grotto. The prince you heard vent more times than you could count, listening to all of his problems and all his heart's desires.
But he didn't know that.
Bucky's boots sank into the wet sand as he sprinted toward you, the orange and yellow from the sunset catching in his dark hair.
He dropped to his knees beside you, his breath a little ragged from running. His blue eyes locked onto yours, wide and stunned, almost like he knew you from somewhere but couldn't quite place you. "Hi,” he breathed. "I'm James. Bucky." He extended his hand to hold yours and bring your knuckles to his lips.
You wanted to tell him—yes, it was me, I saved you—but when your lips parted, nothing came out. Just silence, your throat burning.
She wasn't kidding about the voice part either, huh?
He frowned, brushing damp strands of hair from your face with gentle fingers. “You can’t… talk?”
You shook your head faintly, panic sparking in your chest.
His expression softened, twisting with something you didn’t understand. “You’re, uh,” he whispered, wonder breaking across his face, at the same time he realized you were indeed very, very naked. “God, you’re real.”
If you weren't so mesmerized by finally being able to feel the heat of his skin against yours, even for a second, you'd be self conscious of the way his eyes raked your frame up and down.
Rex barked happily, pressing himself against the side of your leg as if to prove it. His nose nudged your arm until your palm rested on his head again, and your lips curved into a tiny smile despite the ache in your chest.
Bucky's breath hitched. He took off his cloak, leaving him in the flowy linen undershirt. "Here.” His gaze lingered, heavy and searching. “We can, uh— we can get you some clothes.”
You didn’t have the strength to protest when he wrapped it carefully around your trembling body. The weight of it was warm, steadying, and it smelled like him.
And when he slid an arm beneath your knees and lifted you, you clung to him without thinking.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, his voice calm and certain against the rush of the waves. “You’re safe now. I’ll keep you safe.”
And as Rex bounded at your heels, you pressed your face into his chest, your silent little heart screaming all the words you couldn’t speak.
“She’s not a stray, Buck.”
Steve’s voice was patient, if a little amused, as he leaned against the edge of the balcony railing, arms crossed over his chest. The sea stretched out behind him, calm for once, a rare shimmer of peace on the horizon. The setting sun bathed the stone walls of the palace in a honeyed glow.
Bucky didn't look up.
He sat slouched in one of the cushioned chairs in his chamber, elbows on his knees, his damp hair still tousled from the sea breeze. His boots were discarded nearby, as were the clothes he wore that morning, now wet and salty from the sea.
Down the hall, servants whispered about the silent girl sleeping in the prince’s spare chamber—wrapped in one of his cloaks, apparently incapable of speech, and very much acting like this was her first day in the human world, for some odd reason.
“I know she’s not a stray,” Bucky muttered.
“But you brought her in,” Steve said, raising a brow. “From the beach. Not speaking. Naked. Sounds like something out of a bard’s tale.”
“She was hurt,” Bucky's voice was a little more defensive than he intended to, glaring up at him. “Exhausted. She could barely walk.”
“I’m not judging.” Steve’s hands lifted in mock surrender, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just... wondering what makes you so sure she’s not dangerous.”
Bucky scoffed. “Is that seriously your worry?” Bucky looked at the horizon and back at Steve. "She's mute and naked, Steve. If anything, she's the one needing protection from whatever creeps roam this world."
"You mean you?" Steve teased.
Bucky glared at him playfully. "Watch it." He ran a hand over his face, exhaling hard. “I don’t know, alright? I don’t know why I’m doing this. I saw her, and—she looked at me like she knew me.”
Steve tilted his head.
“She was scared, but not... not of me. Like she trusted me, even before I said a word.” He leaned back, head tipping against the chair. “And when I touched her—her hand was ice cold, Steve, like she’d just been dragged out of a wreck—and she smiled. Barely. But it was there.”
Steve’s brow furrowed. “You sure it’s not the head injury talking?”
Bucky gave him a look.
“Alright, alright.” Steve chuckled, stepping closer. “She’s beautiful, she’s mysterious, she washed up at your feet like a gift from the sea—and now you're completely out of your depth.”
“I’m not—” Bucky started, then sighed, rubbing his temples. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
Steve’s grin widened. “Bucky. You’re acting like you’re in love.”
Bucky opened his mouth to protest—and paused.
Because that shouldn’t sting.
But it did.
He swallowed, thinking of your eyes—how they searched his face, drinking him in like it was the first and last time. The way you held onto him, trembling but trusting, completely mute and vulnerable in his arms.
How your smile, even silent and weak, had nearly gutted him. “…I don’t even know her name,” he whispered.
Steve’s smile softened. “Maybe she’ll tell you.”
“She can’t.” Bucky looked up at him. “She hasn’t said a word.”
“Then maybe she’s waiting for the right moment,” Steve replied gently. “Give her time. Let her show you who she is.”
He had no idea you were the one who’d pulled him from the waves. How could he? He remembered his guardian angel of the sea talking him back to life, and it clearly couldn't have been you, could it?
The sun spilled over the sea one last time as start started to glitter in the sky in the late afternoon through the high windows of the palace’s spare chamber, turning the marble floors into pools of sprakling glass.
“You’re really not from around here, huh?”
Natasha stood in the center of the room with a hand on her hip, watching as you held a wooden hairbrush like it was a weapon. Your brow furrowed, your head tilted as you poked yourself in the cheek with the bristles.
“This hurts,” you mouthed silently, holding it out to her in accusation.
“It’s a brush,” she said, taking it gently. “You use it on your hair, not your face.”
You blinked. Then looked at her wild red waves. Then at your own damp, tangled curls. Then winced in realization.
Salt water was much better for your hair when it was constantly wet.
She smirked. “Yeah. You’re gonna hate it.”
Nat turned back to the bed where a neat line of folded dresses had been laid out—soft linens, simple cottons, all things a “guest” of the palace might wear. She didn’t know where Bucky found you, or why you couldn’t speak, but she had enough sense to know you weren’t dangerous.
Just… a little weird. But in a cute way.
“You’ve got a good figure, at least,” she said, holding up a lavender dress with puffed sleeves and soft laces. “Let’s start with this.”
You reached out for it, curious fingers running over the fabric. Your eyes lit up.
“Ooh,” you mouthed soundlessly, pulling the dress to your face and rubbing your cheek on it like a cat.
Nat laughed. “Okay, we’re gonna work on the dignity part later.”
It took a few attempts to get you into the thing. Sleeves? Confusing. Ties? Absolutely baffling.
Eventually, with some teamwork and a bit of dramatic sighing, the dress was on. You spun once, letting the skirt billow around your legs, delighted by how it moved with you. Nat couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re like a puppy,” she said. “A really pretty, weirdly hot puppy.”
You gestured to the vanity next—eyes darting over the unfamiliar items like it was treasure. An eyelash curler piqued your interest, and you picked it up and immediately pretended to use as tongs.
“Nope.” Nat plucked it away before you pinched your own nose off. “That one’s dangerous.”
You pointed to the lipstick next and made a questioning face.
“That one,” Nat grinned, twisting the tube up so the color peeked out, “is magic.”
She dabbed some on your lips, and you blinked, looking in the mirror with awe. Your fingers touched your mouth like you weren’t sure the color was real.
You grinned at her in silent thanks.
“I still don’t know who you are,” Nat said, brushing your hair back and tying it with a ribbon, “but anyone who makes Bucky Barnes act like a stunned teenager probably isn’t all bad.”
She stood, brushing off her hands, and nodded toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s go find him before he starts brooding again.”
You followed her out, the small heels on your feet made it harder to look normal as you tried to figure out how to walk in them properly, arms still swinging at your sides like a deer in a princess costume.
Nat chuckled, holding the door open. “We’ll work on that, too.”
The grand dining hall of the palace was candlelit and echoing, the sky outside now a deep indigo as the warm breeze came through the open windows. At the long, polished table, five plates gleamed beneath silver domes, and five seats were filled—though only one occupant sat stiff as a board, wide-eyed, and very clearly out of her depth.
You.
The dress was soft but chafy against your skin due to unfamiliarity, the laces were too tight, and shoes were squeezing your newly gifted feet, and you felt the ribbon pull at your hair to tightly.
You were perched on the seat to the left of Bucky, who sat at the head of the table, looking as good as the first day you saw him roam the beach talking to the ocean like a tortured poet. Prince James Barnes, heir to the throne, and the reason you had legs, a soul-aching crush, and zero voice.
“You alright?” Bucky murmured, leaning toward you with an amused smile.
You nodded way too hard.
Steve sat across from you, trying very hard not to laugh as he watched you attempt to butter your roll… with the handle of the knife.
“That’s the wrong end, sweetheart,” Nat murmured helpfully from your left, her own plate untouched as she observed you like one might a nervous stray kitten trying out a new toy for the first time.
You blinked. Looked at the knife. Flipped it. Beamed.
Bucky chuckled quietly beside you, then reached out without thinking to lay your cloth napkin on your lap from where it sat by your plate. “Here. You’ll want this.”
Your cheeks burned. You felt like a kid, embarrassed you were quite literally a fish out of water, out of your element playing dress up with someone you didn't even know actually wanted you.
Sam raised a brow, sitting beside Steve. “So,” he said, cutting into his roasted duck, “where exactly did you find this one, Buck?”
Bucky didn’t even look up. “She was on the beach. Injured. I told you.”
“You told me,” Sam agreed. “Didn’t explain.”
“She’s staying in the spare wing until we figure out who she is,” Steve added mildly, chewing thoughtfully. “Still doesn’t speak.”
“Does she understand us?” Sam asked, giving you a skeptical glance.
You straightened up, nodded quickly, and gave a thumbs-up for good measure, delighting yourself on your newly found true love: salted butter.
Nat snorted into her wine. Bucky hid a smile behind his hand. “She understands just fine. She’s been reading and getting accustomed to the palace all day.”
“She’s got spirit.” Steve said kindly, watching you poke your asparagus suspiciously.
Sam nodded in agreement. “You’ve definitely had worse dinner guests.”
You looked up hopefully—maybe someone got it. Sam winked. You liked him immediately.
The conversation drifted—court politics, trade negotiations, upcoming festivals—and you listened quietly, sipping your water and watching everyone speak like it was the most fascinating performance you’d ever seen.
Your soft heels tapped delicately against the marble floor, the lavender dress fluttering around your calves as Bucky led you back toward your chamber, walking beside you with his hands tucked behind his back.
You watched the way his brows pulled together ever so slightly as he glanced down at you. The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual, like something was swirling in him just beneath the surface.
“You held your own back there,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Even with Nat grilling you. That tart in Sam’s wine was pretty funny.”
You looked down, blush spreading up to the apples of your cheeks. You hadn't meant for that to happen, but forks were tricky and the tart crust wasn't nearly as forgiving as some of the foods you'd had.
He laughed, warm and low in his throat. “I mean it. You made an impression.”
Your lips curved up. You liked his laugh. You liked him. Everything about him. His voice, his scent, how broad his shoulders were and the patch of hair that was always visible on his chest, since he seemed to absolutely despise shirts that made him feel claustrophobic.
He paused outside the door to your chambers.
The silence wrapped around the two of you like velvet, soft and heavy and humming with unspoken things.
“I was thinking,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “tomorrow, if you’re up for it… we could go into town.”
Your eyes lit up immediately. Your hands flew up in excited gestures, nodding quickly, stepping closer, barely stopping yourself from grabbing his arm.
He smiled wider at your reaction. “There’s a dressmaker in the market district. You’d love her. She’s a little nuts—swears fabric can talk to her—but I figured you could pick something yourself. Something that feels more like… you.”
You melted.
“But only if you want to,” he added quickly, as if nervous.
You nodded again, so hard your ribbon slipped a little from your hair, strands of hair falling to frame you face.
“And there’s this bakery,” he went on, warming to your enthusiasm, “right on the corner by the fountain. I used to sneak out just to go there when I was a kid. They have these sweet buns—glazed, warm, dripping in cinnamon. They're dream worthy.”
Your smile got wider and his gaze lingered on you then. Quiet, gentle, almost something a little stunned in his expression, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
For a second, the air shifted.
His hand almost lifted. Almost reached out to touch a strand of your hair. His fingers hovered near your jaw. His eyes dropped—lips parting just barely—and you thought he was going to kiss you.
Pretty easy true love's kiss, if anyone asked you.
You tilted your chin up, your breath caught in anticipation. And Bucky, ever the gentleman he is, stepped back.
“I’ll have someone come get you after breakfast,” he said, clearing his throat. “Get some rest.”
Oh.
Your smile faltered just slightly, not enough for him to notice, but enough for you to feel. You gave a small nod. A quiet goodbye.
His smile was soft, kind, and then he turned and walked away down the hall, the hem of his dark jacket sweeping the floor behind him.
You lingered in the doorway, biting your lip, your fingers lightly resting on the edge of the frame, watching until he disappeared around the corner.
The morning sun was already warm by the time the palace carriage reached the edge of the village. Birds chirped overhead, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread, flowers, and the faint tang of sea salt carried on the wind.
You clutched the edge of your seat, practically vibrating with excitement. Your nose was almost pressed to the glass as you watched people bustle about, children dart between stalls, and merchants call out their wares like a symphony of chaos.
“You’d think she’s never been to a market,” Nat muttered with amusement, arms folded, lounging on the opposite seat.
Bucky grinned, resting his elbow on the windowsill as he looked at you.
The moment the carriage door opened, you didn’t walk—you bounded. Nat called after you, “Whoa, slow down, Bambi!” but you were already halfway to the nearest flower cart, eyes wide as saucers.
Bucky jogged after you with an apologetic nod to the driver. “She’s enthusiastic.”
“That’s one word for it,” Nat said, following with an exaggerated sigh.
Colors, scents, voices — it was all too much and not enough. You flitted from one stall to the next, poking, touching, smelling everything like it was treasure. Nat kept grabbing your elbow just in time to keep you from knocking over displays or getting swindled by charming cheese vendors.
Bucky trailed behind you with his arms full of things you’d silently insisted on carrying for you: ribbons, a little wooden trinket shaped like a dolphin, a bread roll you tried to pay for with sea glass before Nat slipped the vendor a coin.
“You can’t just smile at people and expect free things,” she scolded with a grin. You tilted your head and smiled even harder while Bucky bit back a laugh.
You stopped at a stall with dresses next, your fingers grazing the flowing fabrics, all different and new sensations at your fingertips, holding one up to your frame and spinning slightly. It was a soft seafoam green silk with a sparkling tulle layer over it, a color that shimmered faintly in the sun.
Bucky watched you twirl, his heart stuttering. “She looks like she belongs in that.” he murmured, mostly to himself.
Nat raised a brow. “Careful, your highness. You’re staring.” She smirked.
The seamstress came over, asked for your preferences. You blinked at her helplessly, fingers fluttering toward your throat. Nat stepped in, speaking softly to the vendor while you held Bucky’s gaze like you were asking him silently, Do you like this one?
He gave you the faintest nod and that dazzling smile. “It’s perfect.”
Later, you found the bakery.
Oh, the bakery.
Bucky barely had time to say, a word before you were pressed to the window, eyes wide at the rows of golden pastries dusted with sugar and glazed with citrus. The baker inside jumped slightly when he saw your face mashed to the glass, then laughed as Nat pulled you gently back by the shoulders.
“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.” she said, sighing again.
You left with a paper-wrapped bun in each hand and sugar on your lips. Bucky took one look at you and, without thinking, wiped the side of your mouth with his thumb.
Both of you froze when you realized what happened. You in glee, and him in a feeling he couldn't name, but it was something along the lines of scolding himself to stay proper in public with a lady he was not betrothed to.
“Oh,” he murmured, blinking down at you. “S-Sorry. That was—sorry.” But you smiled up at him like he’d just handed you the moon. And he nearly tripped over a crate of apples trying to move on from the moment and walk towards the next vendor.
Nat barked a laugh. “You two are exhausting.”
A few minutes later, you were bent over a display of glass pendants at a vendor’s stall, fingers dancing just above the glittering trinkets, marveling at how each one caught the sunlight, when a tiny tug at your pale pink skirts pulled your attention away.
Startled, you turned and found a little girl staring up at you with wide eyes, a half-eaten pastry clutched in one hand and jam smudged across her chin. She couldn’t have been older than six, her curls bouncing as she tilted her head.
“Hi,” she said, voice bright with curiosity. “You’re really pretty.”
Your lips parted in surprise, and your heart fluttered at the compliment. You dropped into a crouch, tucking your legs awkwardly beneath you, still not entirely used to them, as you offered a shy, silent smile.
The girl stepped closer, eyes roving up and down before stopping on your hair, still soft from Nat’s careful styling that morning, pink ribbons that matched your dress holding your hair out of your face in a half up-half down style, letting it fall behind your back in a cascade that reflected the sunlight.
“Your hair is sooo long,” she whispered reverently. “And shiny. You look like…” Her eyes lit up. “…a mermaid!”
You gasped, nodding quickly, eyes wide. Yes! You wanted to say. Yes, you’re right! You knew! You finally found someone who knew—someone who saw it. Someone who could tell. You gripped her sticky little hand in both of yours, glowing with something like relief and joy.
Behind you, Nat smirked behind her drink.
The girl’s mother called out from another stall, completely unfazed, “Oh, honey, don’t pester the nice lady.”
The girl beamed, not paying any mind to following instructions. “Do you live in the sea?”
You nodded again, quickly, maybe a bit too eagerly, and Nat snorted. “Oh boy.”
You placed a finger over your lips, wide-eyed, and gave a playful shake of your head, the little girl gasped like you’d just given her the great cosmic truth and clasped her hands together. “I knew it,” she whispered, bouncing in place.
She scampered off toward her mother, shouting something about scales and sea foam and how she had proof now. You stood frozen for a moment, your heart beating a little faster, since now fianlly, Bucky had to know the truth, right?
Your smile slowly dimmed as you looked around and realized… no one else was reacting. No shocked stares, no gasps. Just laughter. Teasing. Nat leaning back against a barrel, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in amusement.
No one believed her. No one believed you.
Of course they didn’t.
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, disappointment settling heavy like a stone in your stomach. The magic of the moment drifted away, swept up by the wind like sand through your fingers.
“Hey,” Bucky’s voice came from behind you, soft and calming, in a way you heard him talk a couple of times when he thought it was just him and the tide. He’d returned at some point—quiet enough that you hadn’t even noticed.
You turned, swallowing the lump in your throat, schooling your expression into something resembling calm.
He gave you a small, apologetic smile. “We should probably head back,” he said. “The ball tonight… there’ll be guests from the neightboring cities. My mother’s probably already driving everyone crazy.”
You nodded quickly, lips pressing together.
You fell into step beside him, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to keep from tripping over it. You didn’t look back, not even once, though your mind replayed the moment again and again.
You didn't catch the glances Bucky stole your way as he walked by you, you really didn't pay him much mind when he offered his hand to help you inside the carriage either. Your mind was off to wondering how you were going to tell him you were you without having so much as a voice.
The sun was beginning to dip, its warm light slanting through the tall windows of Bucky’s chamber. In the bathroom, the scent of lavender and cedarwood filled the air, steam curling lazily from the surface of the bath sunk into the marble floor, all sorts of beautiful sea-themed patterns etched onto the surface.
Bucky hissed in pleasure when his limbs hit the hot water, muscles relaxing almost immediately. He had his eyes closed, head tipped back against the edge of the tub, hair slicked back, arms resting along the rim. He looked blissfully unaware, muscles loose for once, the weight of the palace momentarily forgotten.
Which is exactly when you walked in.
Barefoot, quiet, and curious.
You’d been looking for him. After you got back from the markets it was mid morning, Nat had told you someone would help you get ready soon, but you hadn’t seen Bucky since and—well, you missed him.
It was already late afternoon, and you liked being near him. You liked the way he looked at you like you were something rare, something worth watching. Liked the way his hand felt in yours and how it fed those insidious little thoughts of what his touch would feel like elsewhere.
You pushed open the door, peeked inside... and paused.
There he was.
Naked. Wet. Glowing like the marble statue come to life in the soft flickering light, water dancing at his waist while steam curled around him making him look like an angel of your deepest, coral-brained desires.
Your eyes widened slightly.
Bucky, to his credit, didn’t even notice. Not at first. You padded closer, slowly, head tilting, taking in the strange sight of him submerged in water. It was such a human thing. So… inefficient. He just sat there. Soaking. Not even doing anything.
You hummed soundlessly, then began to untie the sash at your waist, the moment your robe dropped to the floor, Bucky stirred.
He cracked an eye open—and immediately sat bolt upright, splashing a bit of water. “What the—? What are you—?”
It was mean, honestly. The way the light hit the hard walls and floors and just bounced off of your body, accentuating the curve of your breasts, your waist, and he had to actually stop his brain from continuing.
You stepped in, carefully lowering yourself into the water opposite him, sighing as the warmth soaked into your sore new muscles. Your legs were still unfamiliar, heavy and awkward when they weren’t being pulled by the tide. This felt… better.
Worse, if you asked Bucky. Since now you were wet, glistening, and naked in front of him. So willing, clueless, and wanting.
You blinked, wide-eyed, confused. Your fingers trailed along the water’s surface. You looked around the space, then at him, like wasn’t this what people did?
“You’re naked,” he hissed. You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then gave a little shrug like, yes, obviously? “I’m in here,” Bucky whispered, panicked, trying to cover himself with the foam.
You hummed, shrugging softly, then began to kneel into the tub with the most determined innocence he had ever seen, trying to get comfortable, somehow ending up leaning towards him.
Bucky cursed under his breath and tried to stand. Bad move. Worst move, actually. Sam would have the time of his life making fun of him for this for the rest of existence when this inevitably ended up making its way to his ears.
Because the moment he stood—half rising, trying to create distance, and grace, and dignity—his dick, which had been desperately not trying to behave, sprang forward through the bubbles like a traitor. Standing fully at attention. Hard and thick, barely inches from your wide-eyed, curious face.
You gasped softly, blinking in surprise, eyes going directly to it.
“Okay—nope,” he muttered, hands bracing on the edge of the tub. “This was a mistake. I need—space. Distance. Jesus—”
You leaned back slightly on your heels, blinking up at him, completely baffled. And good God if the sight wasn't almost enough to feed whatever fantasies he has in mind.
Bucky swore and grabbed the nearest towel, fumbling to wrap it around his hips as he turned away from you so fast he nearly slipped. “Don’t—don’t look,” he said hoarsely. “That’s not—this is not—”
You made a face and a motion with you hands, mouthing does it hurt?
The innocent concern on your face made his cock twitch, he squeezed his eyes shut. “No. I’m not hurt.”
You pointed at the pitching tent in the towel again, as if to say "Why is it like that, then?"
He let out a helpless, breathless laugh, half hysterical. “Because my body is stupid,” he said. “And you’re beautiful. And naked. And sitting in my bath like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”
You stared at him, absorbing the groundbreaking information, then you scooted forward just a little, reaching out like you were going to help. Bucky snapped his head around. “Nope—no—sweetheart, please don’t try to fix it—”
You stopped immediately, hands hovering midair. He exhaled, shoulders sagging, voice softer now. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said gently. “This is just… a human thing. A me thing.”
You settled back, folding your hands in your lap like you’d been scolded but understood — mostly. Because you were watching him with that same soft, fascinated gaze. Like he was a puzzle you wanted to understand. Like you weren’t embarrassed — just interested.
He ran a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna be the death of me. You smiled and splashed him gently with a handful of sudsy water.
He laughed despite himself. “Okay. Out. Both of us. Nat’s gonna murder me.” You didn’t move.
You just looked at him, bright and trusting and completely unaware of how close he was to losing every ounce of self-control. Bucky groaned and offered you his hand. “C’mon, mermaid. Before I do something really stupid.”
He teased it, not even knowing how close to the truth he really was.
The palace’s spare chamber had never looked more like a war zone.
Dresses were strewn across every surface—spilled from trunks, flung over chairs, draped across the bed in waves of silk, satin, and embroidered tulle. Shoes were scattered like casualties on the floor. Ribbons, gloves, and delicate sparkling jewelry were arranged on the vanity like tools of seduction.
And in the middle of it all stood Natasha Romanoff, her sleeves rolled up and her red hair twisted back, hands on her hips as she stared you down like a general surveying the battlefield.
“You,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “are going to look like a goddess tonight.”
You stood barefoot in the middle of the chaos, arms wrapped around yourself, looking equal parts excited and terrified. You couldn’t stop tugging nervously on your lip as your eyes flicked from the dresses to the door, like Bucky might burst in at any moment.
Nat caught the glance and smirked. “Don’t worry. He’s not allowed in here. I made sure of it.” She raised a brow. “Unless you want him to see you half-dressed.”
What followed could only be likened to a whirlpool, pulling you to the depths no matter how hard you tried to swim out of it, inevitably landing you in a sparkling light pink gown, with a matching ribbon on your hair, uncomfortable feet cages humans liked to call shoes, and standing by the punch watching your prince be flirted with by the entire fucking kingdom.
Lady Lillian of Somewhere. The Marchioness of Someland, you didn't care to hear, to be perfectly honest, ears turning pink in anger watching them all fawn over what was yours. Someone with a ridiculous feather in her hair whose name you hadn’t caught but who laughed a little too loudly at everything Bucky said.
Hello? Don't they see you here?
Crystal chandeliers bathed the marble floor in warm golden light, making the specks of color dance like the way people were meant to be dancing at that moment. Musicians played a waltz in the corner.
Noble guests in gowns and polished shoes twirled across the floor like petals in the wind. Laughter chimed like bells, champagne sparkled in cut glass flutes, and servants floated through the crowd with trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres.
He looked handsome tonight. Too handsome. His hair was tied back, his tailored navy suit pressed to perfection, every gold button gleaming. The sword at his hip was ceremonial, but it didn’t stop him from looking like he’d stepped straight out of one of the illustrated romance books Natasha had read aloud to you.
One of the girls reached forward and brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder, and your stomach flipped violently.
Natasha, beside you with a goblet of wine, leaned in. “You know you’re allowed to look angry,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “But if you snap a fan in half, I will laugh.”
Bucky's eyes scanned the room, searching, the crease between his brows only softening when his gaze found yours. Like he could breathe. Like you were a little piece of the ocean breeze that made his lungs so easy to fill in nights where the walls closed in too tight.
He looked at you like he might walk away from all of them if you so much as tilted your head.
You looked down instead, heart hammering in your chest. You couldn’t be angry—couldn’t blame him. You weren’t a duchess. You weren’t even technically human.
And nothing beyond a little coral-brained lovesick idiot who thought she had a chance with a man she's never spoken a word to.
And he didn’t know.
Didn’t know you’d pulled him from the sea.
Didn’t know the ache in your chest was love, sharp and stupid and growing heavier every day.
A few minutes later, you felt his presence at your side, you huffed silently and looked away. Bucky reached for your hand.
“I was going to ask if you’d dance with me,” he said, then leaned a little closer. “But now I think I have to ask if you’ll even look at me.”
You turned slowly, meeting his gaze finally. He smiled softly, that look he only gave you spreading across his face like sunlight. “Hi.” Your shoulders relaxed.
He offered his hand, and in no time, he was waltzing you around, the slowest song of the night for sure. You thought this would be the moment he'd kiss you. Give in to the thoughts you knew he had, and just put you out of your misery.
Until it got interrupted by yet another stupid human girl thinking she could flirt with your prince.
You'd had enough, honestly.
It was stupid of you to think you ever had a chance. Should've listened to your father, to Kate… Hell, even Yelena! You should've never messed around with magic, or humans, or magic to mess around with humans.
As soon as Bucky got pulled away yet another time, you swiftly made your way back to your chambers, eyes welling up. Your feet carried you through the marble halls faster than your thoughts could catch up.
If you were your father, the sea would be roaring by now.
You had imagined it all—the look in his eyes, the breathless way he’d held you close, the near kiss, the way his hand had lingered on yours. You thought he felt it. You knew you did.
But maybe this was what humans did. Pretend. Smile. Flirt with one girl while another waited like a ghost behind a glass wall.
The nightgown Natasha had laid out earlier waited folded on your bed—long and soft, white like seafoam, cinched with the tiniest lace ribbon beneath the bust. It was delicate, dreamy.
You undressed slowly, sighing as the gown whispered over your skin. The cool fabric helped wash away the heat of the ballroom, but not the ache in your chest.
You moved to the vanity, taking out the ribbon and brushing your hair out with slow, thoughtful strokes, finally letting a few tears fall free, when you heard a knock. Probably Natasha bringing you tea and checking in on you, she was thoughtful like that, you learned quickly.
When you opened the door, the breeze moved your gown and hair slightly, revealing a very worried-looking Prince James Barnes. “Can I come in?”
Talking to you like he was the stray, and this wasn't his palace, with his staff, and his guards, and his everything. He waited a second and then asked quietly, "Please?"
He stood there in the soft lamplight of the hall, jacket gone, shirt undone at the collar. His hair was loose now, falling around his jaw, and he looked… unsure. Tense. But God, did he look delicious.
You moved out of the way for him to come in, and his steps were slow, almost as if he was sure he was making a mistake but couldn't afford not to.
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “You left.” You blinked and tilted your head. “I was looking for you,” he said, his eyes scanning your face. “You just… disappeared.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your bare feet padded softly over the rug as you returned to the vanity, brushing again to keep your hands busy, pretending you weren’t trembling with embarrassment.
“You’re mad,” he said softly. You didn’t turn, barely catching his gaze through the vanity mirror. “You have every right to be,” he added, coming to now kneel in front of you, warm hands on your covered thighs.
Bucky’s jaw flexed, like the words hurt coming out. “I wanted to. I still do. But I didn’t want you to think I was just another one of those men tonight. That I only wanted you because you looked beautiful.” He swallowed. “Even though you did. You always do.”
You hated this trade. You wanted to be able to tell him, wanted to be able to just— well, you could.
You looked down at him, hand cradling his jaw, the stubble there tickling your palm. And the way he looked at you, like you'd disappear into seafoam the second he took his eyes from you. You knew you shouldn't, but just couldn't resist.
You bit your lip, barely contemplating the thought, leaned down, brought his face to yours and kissed him softly. Bucky's fingers flexing on your thighs and squeezing, grounding himself.
You kissed him like you were still underwater and he was the surface.
Bucky kissed you like he’d been starving for it, like every part of him had been aching to touch you again since the bath, since the market, since the second he laid eyes on you washed ashore.
His hands slid up your thighs slowly, as if he didn't want to scare you off, until they curved around your hips, thumbs brushing the thin fabric of your nightgown. He rose from his knees, towering above you now, lips still pressing harder against yours like he wasn’t ready to let you go.
Your fingers wrapped around the collar of his shirt as he pulled you close and up with him. He broke the kiss, as if looking for the moonlight reflecting off your eyes to tell him to stop, and when he found no trace of hesitation, once he saw your dazed look too eager to go back for more, he gave into it all.
the second kiss was rougher, more possessive. His tongue explored your mouth like he wanted to plant a flag and claim you as his, strong arms pulling you up to wrap your legs around his waist, hands finfing the plush skin of your ass under the gown.
Bucky walked both of you to bed, laying you down carefully onto the soft sheets, the fabric of the nightgown bunching around your hips the more they chased friction against his body.
You tugged him down again, mouths crashing softly, hungrily. Your fingers tangled in his hair, lips parting to taste the little gasps you’d been dreaming about for nights.
His hips pressed into yours and you felt him—hot, thick, hard between you—and your knees nearly gave out.
You whimpered into his mouth and it was the first sound he'd ever heard come from you. It didn't even register to either of you that it happened, you didn't pay close enough attention when you were distracted by the thick feeling of him between your legs.
Specially since you knew what he was packing.
And when he finally, finally slid his hand between your thighs, when he touched you where you were softest and slickest, Bucky nearly broke.
“You’re so wet,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Is this all for me?” All you could do was whine and nod, begging him for more. You didn't even know what, but you knew his fingers between your folds were a balm to a fever you never wanted to be rid of.
As he inserted one finger, and then two, he felt your gummy walls contract around him. "I never wanted anything like I want you." was muffled and whispered agasint the side of your mouth.
"Bucky, please…" Now, that registered.
Bucky stopped dead in his tracks, "Y-you can talk?" And you looked surprised with yourself, nodding, trying our the words again, less hoarse this time.
Your thoughts were interrupted by his hand, again, curling his fingers in a come-here motion while his thumb rolled your clit in a slow circle that had you squeezing your eyes shut and letting out a whimper.
"I know, baby, just— just feel it." You bit your lip and nodded, hands roaming his shoulders, then his chest, and finally settling on the laces of his pants.
"Need you— please…" You palmed him, begging. He groaned, the sound coming from deep in his chest. He wanted to savor it, he really did, but something about the flashes of you in the bath and your voice now begging for him had him thinking he'd just have to make you overstimulated another time.
"I— fuck," He took his hand from between your legs, getting a disapproving whine out of you, and managed to barely get his pants down enough to free his cock. He stroked himself, the schlick sound making your cheeks pink, and leaned back over you, spreading your legs wider.
He slid the head of his cock up and down your soaked slit, bumping your clit in the process and making both of you hiss, and notched the head in.
Every inch he pushed in was nother kiss, another nibble, another nudge he gave the straps of your nightgown to make it fall away from your shoulder. His mouth lapped at every inch of skin it could until he was buried at the hilt.
"You feel so good, baby— fuck."
You whimpered, the fullness being too much to think of anything but. "So— so full, James, please…"
Bucky slowly started rocking his hips, the tip of him kissing your cervix every time and dragging over that sweet spot that had you grabbing the headboard to prevent from letting the entire palace know what you were up to.
"You're doing so— shit, so fucking good—"
"It was me—" You gulped, your brain coming abck to you for a moment. "I— I saved you, oh!, during the sto-o-rm." Breathy little words left your mouth as you felt a tight coil in your stomach getting worse by the second.
He laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, then kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. Like the world had narrowed down to this moment alone. "I knew you were real, fuck — I knew I wasn't dreaming of an angel."
His thrusts got more erratic, and he felt you clench around him, "Let me feel it, just— just let go." And as his thumb found your clit again, that exactly what you did.
You hid your face in his neck as pleasure crashed over you like angry waves would take a ship under, and he followed close behind, filling you up with hot spurts of cum,
“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You were made for this. For me.”
As he lifted himself just enough to look at you after, he saw the moonlit glow over your face, and paid no mind to the waves that started to crash outside. “I love your voice,” he whispered finally, kissing just below your ear. “But I loved you even before I ever heard it.”
He had found his angel, and you finally got your prince.
“Like you were a little piece of the ocean breeze that made his lungs so easy to fill in nights where the walls closed in too tight.” you ate with this
𝙳𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗'𝚜!𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚄 ᓚᘏᗢ
enemies to lovers | this au doesn't follow any particular Stranger Things plot line or timeline | best read in order listed below | interconnected one-shots that focus on the progression of their relationship
her lore:
☞ troubled home life
☞ moves in with Aunt Claudia & Dustin
☞ very suspicious of perverts
☞ knows her way around a gun
☞ anxious/avoidant attachment style
☞ flighty
☞ ...more to come
THE TOWN FLASHER: Dustin's older cousin moves in with Claudia and Dustin at the beginning of summer. She's worried about how secretive Dustin has been and finds him hanging out with someone much older than him. Assumptions are made, accusations are thrown, chaos ensues. [meet ugly] 🌈🫧
THE BIG FAT CRUSH: Steve doesn't know why he bothered telling Robin, doesn't know what he thought he would get out of doing such a thing. Compassion, perhaps? Maybe some sympathy. Even indifference would have been better than this. Because she won't. stop. laughing. [steve's read to filth] 🌈
FIRST CRAWL JITTERS: You haven’t called him a pervert yet today, and Steve’s just delusional enough to consider that progress. You haven’t said much of anything else either, though, but that’s not the point. In fact, now that he’s had a good look at you, he can’t help thinking that something’s off. You're scared. Steve tries [heavy on the tries] to comfort you. [failed attempts]🌥
WAY TO GO, DINGUS: Movie night had been going well, but in typical Steve fashion though, the winning streak doesn’t just come to an end; it implodes. Spectacularly. Scene of the crime? The Harrington kitchen. Time of death? After the credits have rolled. Cause of death? One dingus and one stubborn girl. [argument]🌪🌈
A MATTER OF MISCOMM: Dustin, in typical Dustin fashion, totally overreacts when the comms fail during a crawl. The Party agrees to meet back up at the station and regroup. Steve, Dustin, and Eddie are the first ones back. You're second, and Steve knows something is wrong. [injured reader]🌥
THE 7-UP CONSPIRACY: You’re being petty, you can admit as much. But Steve showed up and you found yourself feeling like a territorial alley cat with its tail puffed up. You’re not even entirely sure why he’s here, anyway. He said he came to drop something off for Dustin. Well, consider the thing dropped. You try saying as much, but Dustin's had enough of it; this ends today. [forced proximity]🌪🫧
A HOLE IN THE WALL: “What’s going on?” “We’re about to die, that’s what’s going on,” Steve huffs, rising to his feet and forcing you up with him though he keeps you tucked into his side. That’s when you notice the demogorgon forcing its way through the wall. Things get explosive. [action] ⛈🌈
REBOUNDING: A gossip session with a glass of lemonade sends you reeling, wondering if you're the girl Steve really wants to go out with tonight, or if he's still pining after the one that got away. So, you do what you're best at. [miscomm]🌪
THIS DANCE OF OURS: Steve's gone looking for you, whether or not you wish to be found. He's got a bone to pick with you. It devolves into the typical dance the two of you are familiar with, but with a surprising twist. [the confrontation]🌪☀️🫧
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME: Eddie has been allowed to call you every nickname under the sun, but you fight Steve when he calls you 'babe'. He wants to know why, and you tell him. [public displays of flirting] 🌈
EXTRAS:
☞ original request
☞ are they black cat & golden retriever? or something else?
okay, I am still working on drink order fic requests but this has been in the drafts for a bit and i needed to post t because I'm back on my Gator bullshit after getting into more dark romance books. don't judge me. (jk, you're all just as down bad as me <3)
especially then
gator tillman x reader
He’s scarred, blind, and bitter, you’re the nurse paid to keep him alive and the only one stubborn enough to push back when he bites. Between soup disasters, sharp banter, and late-night confessions, the line between duty and desire starts to blur. You're not afraid of finding softness in the spaces where he lets you in.
wc: 15576
[smut smut smut after the initial long long opening because its meeeee and i cant stop with long exposition to save my life]
tw: blindness (post-injury, adjustment struggles), burn scars & facial disfigurement, mentions of past violence/murder, therapy sessions, caretaker/patient dynamic (blurred boundaries), unprotected sex, rough language (gator swears like it’s punctuation), masturbation, jealousy, gator being a stubborn bastard but also needy as hell, yes i cried at writing this and i hope y'all see how much i trully love this sad pathetic bastard of a man, as always no use of y/n
The thud of his palm slamming the counter echoed off the laminate walls. “Don’t need you hoverin’ like I’m goddamn five,” Gator snapped back, voice thick with frustration, edged in that familiar drawl. “Got hands, don’t I? Can still feel where shit goes.”
"You’re gonna burn the whole goddamn place down," you mutter, stepping into the tiny kitchen just in time to see him jabbing at the microwave buttons.
Gator doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even turn toward you. His face stays pointed at the humming box of plastic, one hand braced on the counter, the other hovering over the keypad like it's a landmine he’s got half a mind to trigger.
"I’m not helpless," he says, jaw tight. "Can still work a fuckin’ microwave."
"Then stop trying to cook soup on defrost, genius."
You reach around him and press three buttons in a row, clearing out whatever nonsense he’d punched in. The microwave beeps obediently and starts to whir. Gator exhales through his nose. You hear him shift, the scuffed heel of his boot scraping across the cracked linoleum as he steps back.
"You always this bossy with your patients?"
You grab a dishrag and toss it over your shoulder, not looking at him. "Only the ones who almost set fire to their drapes last week."
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. It sounds like something trying to crawl up a dry throat and dying halfway.
"I didn’t ask for you."
"No. The state did. Big difference."
That gets him quiet. The microwave hums louder than it should. This place makes noise like it’s protesting every breath. The fridge rattles. The AC groans but doesn’t blow. Somewhere in the bathroom, a slow drip ticks like a clock.
You hear Gator shift again, arms folding. "Used to come through County sometimes. Victim reports and shit. Back when you were still in scrubs. Didn’t peg you for the mothering type."
You glance at him. His face is the same as you remember, minus the way it used to carry too much smugness and swagger. His jaw’s still sharp but there’s tension in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it's the slight beard starting to grow in, maybe it's the scars, or maybe it's just the fact that he doesn’t have his eyes anymore. That tends to shift the dynamic.
"I’m not," you say. "But I am paid to keep you alive, which means making sure you don’t blow yourself up for the third time this month."
"Third?" he echoes, lifting his brows. "Thought it was only twice."
"You don't always hear about the ones I catch in time."
The microwave dings and you open it before he can try. The bowl’s too hot, so you use a towel and grab a spoon. You set it on the table where he usually eats, pushing aside the mess of newspapers and empty cans.
He waits until your footsteps pass him before moving. You can hear the way he tests the space with his foot, like he doesn’t trust the floor to stay where it was yesterday. You almost reach out, almost guide him like you would one of the other clients, but you don’t. He’d hate that. He’s already gripping the edge of the counter like he’s daring himself to make it across the six feet of floor without help.
He does. Barely. His chair scrapes back as he sits down.
“Still got it,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t reply. You pull open the window above the sink instead, let in some fresh air that doesn’t smell like reheated TV dinners and humid bitterness.
Gator takes a spoonful and immediately hisses, half-coughs.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tryin’ to skin my tongue off?”
You glance back. “Didn’t think I needed to remind you soup gets hot. My mistake.”
He says nothing, just sits there fuming, going for the second bite like it offended him personally.
You lean your hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about saying thank you?”
His head tilts slightly. “You ever think about mindin’ your own damn business?”
“Every day,” you reply. “But then you do something stupid again.”
There’s a silence. Not a loud one. Not angry, either. Just... there. Sitting heavy between you. You watch him take another bite, slower this time. He looks like he’s chewing memory more than food.
"You were different back then," you say finally.
He swallows. “Back when?”
“Back when you were a deputy. Still had that dumb truck. Used to roll up like a Hot Wheels car.”
You expect another jab. Another smart-ass deflection. But Gator doesn’t smile. His spoon hovers in midair.
"Yeah," he says softly. "I liked driving fast. Or at all."
You nod. “I remember.”
He sets the spoon down. Reaches for the can of soda you left near the edge of the table. He misses it by an inch. Your hand beats his, pushing it gently toward him until his fingers close around the rim.
He doesn't say thank you.
He doesn’t have to.
Because he knows you’ll be there.
Even when he’s acting like a bastard.
Especially then.
The bathroom is just wide enough for your knee to brush the edge of the tub when you sit him down on the closed toilet seat. The counter digs into your hip, and the mirror above the sink is fogged from the old radiator’s steam pipe that runs along the back wall. It always runs too hot in here, even when it’s cold outside.
“You could’ve told me you were growing a beard,” you mutter, soaking the rag in warm water. “Would’ve saved me from bringing the razor.”
“I wasn’t,” he says flatly. “Just forgot.”
You wring out the rag and lean in, pressing it against the curve of his jaw. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull back. The stubble is rougher than usual. Thicker. It smells like his soap, the kind you buy because he doesn’t care enough to notice brands.
“Well,” you say, voice lighter now, “you forget for another week and I’m charging double. I don’t do lumberjack grooming for free.”
Gator smirks faintly, lips barely moving. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to impress anybody.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Still handsome. Stubborn, moody, difficult, but handsome.”
His brows twitch like he’s not sure if you’re joking. You are. Mostly. But it’s true, too. Even with the band of fabric he wears across what’s left of his eyes, even with the scar cutting down his cheekbone, even with that worn flannel pulled loose at the collar. He’s still himself. Still Gator Tillman. Just quieter now. Bruised around the edges.
You grab the razor and lather his face with a little of the cheap shaving cream he keeps under the sink. Your fingers are gentle but quick. He lets you touch him like this, like he’s used to it now. Like it’s normal.
“You ever nick me,” he says, “I swear—”
“You’ll what?” You lift a brow. “Scowl in my general direction?”
He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.
You start on his jaw, slow strokes with the razor, careful to mind the curve near the scar. Your hand steadies against his chin. The blade whispers down skin. He doesn’t flinch.
“You know,” you say after a minute, “this is probably one of the parts of this job I enjoy.”
“You enjoy shaving me?”
“Yeah.” You rinse the blade. “It’s quiet. Focused. And you stop talking.”
“Convenient.”
“And,” you add, “you’ve got a good face. Nice jaw. Would be a crime to let it get buried under all this gristle.”
“You flirt like a truck stop waitress,” he says.
“Damn right I do.”
He’s quiet again. You move to the other side of his face, press your fingers lightly to tilt his chin. His pulse is steady under the skin. You don’t say anything else. The room doesn’t need it.
You finish, wiping away the last of the lather with the cloth. His skin is warm beneath it. Those few familiar moles and freckles are visible again. You reach to rinse your hands and toss the towel in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.
But before you can turn away, his hand reaches out. Finds yours.
He’s slow about it, like he’s not sure he has the right. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back.
You don’t.
His fingers wrap around your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek. Presses it there. Just rests it. Your palm against his newly smooth skin. The tiniest tremble in his jaw.
You don’t move. Don’t breathe for a second.
It isn’t flirty. It isn’t seductive. It’s just... quiet. Needy in a way that aches.
And even though he doesn’t say a word, you know exactly what this is.
You leave your hand there a little longer than you should.
Because he doesn’t get this often. Not anymore.
Because you don’t mind the quiet moments either.
Because it’s the one time he lets you touch him without biting back.
He’s still Gator. Still hard-edged, still impossible. But this? This is the part of him that he never lets anyone else see.
And you’re still here.
Even when he doesn’t ask.
Especially then.
You don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. The knock has a kind of rhythm to it. Measured. Familiar. You open the door and find Nadine standing there with a container in her hands and a smile that means she’s brought something dangerous.
"Oatmeal raisin," she says before you even ask, lifting the Tupperware like a peace offering. "Still his favorite, right?"
You breathe in the smell and nod, already reaching for it. “You spoil him.”
“Somebody has to,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for more invitation.
She’s dressed like always, some kind of floral blouse under a light jacket, gold studs in her ears, her hair pulled back into a bun that’s starting to loosen in the front. She smells like the kind of department store perfume that clings to coat collars and car seats for days.
You close the door behind her and follow her into the kitchen, popping the lid on the cookies before your shoes even leave the mat.
“He’s gonna inhale these,” you mutter, already grabbing a small plate from the cabinet. “And then act like he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”
“He’ll grumble through the whole first one,” Nadine says, “but I guarantee you he’ll have three gone before I get a word in.”
You like her. You always have. She’s one of the few people who knows how to talk to Gator like he’s still human, even when he’s acting like a closed door. She doesn’t tiptoe. Doesn’t baby him. She also doesn’t bullshit, which you appreciate.
She watches you for a moment while you arrange the cookies on the plate, and you know that look. It’s the same one she gives him when she knows he’s full of it.
“You heading out?” she asks gently.
“That was the plan,” you say. “Usually give you two the apartment. It’s kind of your time.”
Nadine steps closer and reaches out, setting one hand lightly on your forearm. Her grip is soft, but there’s something in the way she holds it that makes you pause.
“Stay,” she says. “Just for a bit. Not on the clock. Just cookies and coffee and a little conversation.”
You hesitate. You’ve never stayed during one of her visits. You usually use the window to grab groceries or take a break, let them have this. But her tone isn’t casual, and her eyes are steady on yours.
“I’d like you to sit with us today,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s good for him. And frankly, you could use a break too.”
You don’t argue. Not with her. You nod, slow and small, and she smiles like she’s been waiting for you to agree since she pulled into the driveway.
She walks into the living room ahead of you, calling out as she goes. “It’s me, Gator. Brought cookies.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear him shift on the couch. The leather creaks under him as he turns toward the sound of her voice.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “Thought you got lost.”
“Please,” Nadine snorts. “I’ve been navigating this godforsaken town longer than you’ve been breathing. Don’t sass me.”
You follow them in, quieter. Normally, your footsteps would head toward the door. This time they carry you back across the living room, and the moment you cross into his space, you feel it. He knows you stayed. Of course he does. His head tips, just slightly, in your direction, and even though the cloth he wears keeps you from seeing what’s left of his eyes, you feel his attention land on you all the same.
You sit down on the armrest of the chair across from him, legs tucked close, hands folded in your lap. Nadine takes the couch next to Gator, passing him a cookie and patting his arm when his fingers fumble for the plate.
The three of you sit like that, sharing the space in silence for a few moments while he chews through the first bite and makes a face like it’s too sweet, even though everyone knows it isn’t.
“Still soft,” he says grudgingly, like it’s a complaint.
“You’re welcome,” Nadine replies, taking one for herself. “I’d ask for an actual ‘thank you’, but I know that’s not your style.”
“I don’t say thank you,” he grumbles, “I eat the damn cookie.”
“Good enough,” she says, biting into hers with a grin.
You lean back a little, letting their conversation wash over you. There’s history here. Most of it is dark, but Nadine feels like sunshine even through the dark times. You like that about her.
And even though you’re not saying anything, you feel his awareness of you like gravity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time your fingers drum against your knee, his head turns just a little. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t ask, but you know he’s listening to you the way other people watch with their eyes.
The plate of cookies sits between them. Nadine talks about the new pastor at the Lutheran church and how the coffee’s gotten worse somehow. Gator grunts responses that are half amusement and half disinterest. You stay quiet, sipping from the mug she pressed into your hands without asking.
And you’re not on the clock. You’re not checking your watch or cleaning up the fridge or reminding him to take his meds.
You’re just there.
And he knows it.
Even when he won’t say it.
Especially then.
The door sticks a little when you open it, just like it always does. You push through with your hip and call out a low greeting, already juggling the day’s supplies in your arms. The air smells like toast and the faint trace of whatever cologne he still insists on using, like anyone but you is ever close enough to notice.
He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch, arms folded across his chest like someone tried to tell him how to live. His head lifts slightly when he hears the keys jingle.
“Thought that old lady was comin’ today,” he mutters, not quite facing you yet. “The one who won’t shut up about her grandkids.”
You let the door close behind you with your foot and drop your bag on the counter. “Beverly?”
He grimaces. “Yeah. Beverly. She always brings me sugar-free snacks and tries to get me to do chair yoga. Last week she told me her grandson’s ‘learning percussion’ and made me listen to a recording of him beating on a bucket. Swear to God.”
You laugh into your sleeve. “I’m surprised you didn’t fake a seizure.”
“Came close,” he mutters.
You start unpacking the bottles, setting them in their little row near the sink. One of them rattles too loud and you shake it gently to check how low it is.
“So what, you’re happy to see me instead?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but you catch the way his chin tips slightly toward your voice, just enough to count as a yes.
You smile at his silence. He doesn’t say things like that out loud. He doesn’t have to.
“You know what day it is,” you say, already gathering the gauze and gloves.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Therapy.”
“And before that…”
He groans. “Med check.”
You’re already walking over. “Face check.”
“I hate this part,” he says.
“I know.”
But he lets you do it anyway.
You sit on the ottoman across from him and snap the gloves on. The sound makes him flinch a little. He never says why. You just know it gets in his head. You grab the small flashlight and tilt your chin toward him.
“You ready?”
“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?” It comes out like bait, a hook for you to latch onto, even if he knows you never fully will.
“No, but I’ll say something nice about your hair.”
He snorts. “That’s a lie.”
You lean in. Carefully, you reach up and unfasten the cloth wrap that sits where his eyes used to be. You try to keep your face neutral, like always, but it never stops hitting you. The damage is still raw in places, though the burns have healed over into pink, shiny skin with ragged edges where his brow used to be. The scarring is faded but still angry. You’ve seen worse, but somehow this one gets to you more.
Maybe because it was done on purpose. Maybe because you know who he used to be.
He sits still, like he trusts you more than he lets on. The flashlight flicks over the tissue. You check the edges for inflammation, infection, irritation from the cloth or the heat. You wipe around the scars with a warm cloth, slow and careful.
“You’ve still got good skin,” you say without thinking. “Takes care of itself, even when you don’t.”
He makes a noise low in his throat. “You hittin’ on me again?”
You grin, focused on the last patch of scar near his temple. “Maybe.”
He shifts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice lazy and rough. “I might not have eyes, but my hands still work just fine.”
You freeze for half a second, cloth still against his skin, before answering too quickly.
“Didn’t say they didn’t.”
That comes out more breathless than intended. You both go still, the air between you suddenly different.
You clear your throat, fold up the cloth, and snap the gloves off. Your hands feel too warm now as you settle the wrap back over his face. You move back to the counter, pretending to be busy with the pill organizer.
He shifts again, the couch creaking under him, but doesn’t break the silence.
Finally, you turn. “We should head out soon. Your appointment’s at ten.”
“I know,” he says.
You grab your keys, the bag, and the Tupperware of snacks you packed for him earlier that morning. He doesn’t ask what’s inside, but you know he’ll eat them anyway.
The door clicks shut behind you both, and for a while, neither of you say anything.
But as you help him into the passenger seat of your car, he brushes your hand by accident, and you swear he lingers there just a second longer than necessary.
He won’t say what that means.
You don’t ask.
Especially then.
The chair squeaked under him in a way that always made it sound like it was going to break, like one more hour in this place and the legs would just give out beneath the weight of his bullshit. He shifted anyway, leaned back farther than necessary, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to protect.
He couldn’t see the guy sitting across from him, but he’d built enough of a picture over the last few sessions to feel confident about the assumptions he made. Gator could smell the cologne he used — one of those cheap ones that thought it smelled like wood but really just stung the nose like pine-scented antiseptic.
“Morning, Gator,” the therapist said, voice warm and calm like it always was. Like they hadn’t been through this same dance for six weeks now.
“Sure,” Gator said, not moving. “Let’s call it that.”
The man, Todd was his name, didn’t bite at the sarcasm. He just scribbled something on his clipboard, which Gator had told him on week two was annoying as shit. Clearly, it didn’t stick.
“How was the last week?” He asked. “Anything new come up?”
More scribbling. Gator hated the sound of that pen. He knew the guy did it on purpose, kept the silence going so Gator would fill it, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.
“You getting out of the house at all?” the therapist asked after a beat.
“You mean besides this circus?”
“Yes.”
Gator scratched at the seam of the cloth over his face, just near the temple. “I walk. Sometimes.”
“Where to?”
“Nowhere. Just… ‘round.”
“Alone?”
Gator didn’t answer. Not right away. The truth was, he hated going anywhere with people, but he hated being seen walking alone more. The blind guy stumbling down the sidewalk with a cane and a band over his face wasn’t exactly blending in.
“Mostly,” he muttered.
The therapist nodded, Gator could tell from the subtle shift of his clothes. “We talked before about connection, Gator. About letting people in. You’ve made real progress on your mindset. You’ve unpacked a lot about how you were raised, about your father’s influence, about what was expected of you. You’ve been doing the hard work. But what we haven’t really explored yet is how to form new relationships — ones that aren’t built on power, or fear, or control.”
Gator’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.
The therapist continued, carefully. “Are there people in your life you’d call close? People you care about, or trust?”
There it was. The question they’d been circling for three sessions. Gator let the silence hang for a long moment, just to make a point.
“Not many,” he said finally. “Most people don’t wanna… get too close to the guy who lit the family name on fire.”
“You aren't responsible for your generational trauma.”
“I know that,” Gator snapped, sharper than he meant to. They'd gone over that shit time and time again, but it still slipped out. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his thigh and exhaled. “Nadine still comes by. She brings cookies. Bitches about her book club. It’s fine.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s loud. But yeah. I guess it’s… somethin’.”
“Anyone else?”
Gator hesitated.
“My nurse,” he said after a moment. “Caretaker. Whatever she’s called on the paperwork. The young one. She’s ‘round my age.”
“I'm familiar. What’s that like?”
Gator shifted again, scratched at the side of his neck.
“She’s annoying,” he said flatly. “Talks too much. Makes fun of my microwave technique. Smells like clean laundry and peppermint. Keeps tryin’ to feed me shit I don’t wanna eat. Tells me when I’m being a prick.”
The therapist didn’t speak.
“She’s fine,” Gator added, quieter. “Good at her job. Better than Beverly. Beverly tells me about her grandkid’s little league games like I give a damn.”
“But this one… you let her close.”
“I let her do her job,” Gator snapped, then exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It ain’t like that.”
Todd was silent again, just long enough to make Gator grit his teeth.
“What?” Gator growled.
“You talk about her differently.”
“Jesus,” Gator muttered, throwing his head back against the cushion. “This the part where you ask if I’ve got romantic feelings like we’re in a high school counseling session?”
“No,” he said calmly. “But I am going to ask if you’ve considered the difference between isolation and independence. You’ve been alone for a long time. And it sounds like this person is someone you let in more than most.”
Gator didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled.
After a beat, he smirked.
“Most folks don’t want to fuck up their insurance benefits getting involved with someone who looks like a half-melted action figure,” he muttered.
Todd sighed, more amused than exasperated. “You’re not disfigured, Gator.”
“Says the guy with a functioning face.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Damn right I am.”
“You ever try not doing that?”
Gator leaned back again, his voice dry. “What’s the fun in that?”
And the silence returned.
Like it always did.
Especially then.
You finish lining up his meds on the counter like always, labeled for morning and night, the little clack of each cap clicking into place while he sits in the armchair by the window pretending he’s not paying attention. You’ve already made the bed, opened the window just enough to keep the room from getting stale, laid out his water and snacks on the table like you always do on Fridays in case he gets restless after you’re gone. You’re halfway out the door before he finally says something.
“You smell different.”
You pause, fingers still wrapped around your keys. “What?”
He shifts like he’s not sure if he wants to repeat himself, but then he sits forward and mutters it again, slower this time. “I said you smell different.”
You blink and glance down at your dress, then back toward him. “Okay, creep.”
“I ain’t bein’ creepy,” he says, scowling like he’s already annoyed you made him clarify. “You don’t smell like peppermint.”
“That’s what this is about?” you laugh, stepping back into the room. “You miss the peppermint oil?”
“I don’t miss shit,” he grumbles. “I’m just sayin’. It ain’t what you usually wear.”
You lift an eyebrow. “So what do I smell like?”
He sniffs once, face twisting like he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “Cherry. And somethin’ else.”
“Bergamot.”
There’s a long pause before he snorts. “The hell is that?”
“It’s… I don’t know. It’s just in the perfume.”
He mutters something that sounds like “fancy bullshit” under his breath, but you catch it and smirk. You move closer to grab your jacket from the chair where you left it earlier. That’s when he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm — just for balance, you think, or maybe not — his palm presses against the bare curve of your shoulder.
His hand goes still.
It’s clear the second he notices.
You aren’t wearing your usual scrub top or hoodie. No soft cotton or oversized sleeves. His thumb drags lightly across the edge of your strap, and it’s quiet for just a little too long.
“You wearin’ a dress?” he asks, already knowing the answer. There’s something sharp behind the words, dulled down with effort but still biting around the edges.
You hesitate. “Yeah.”
“Huh.”
You glance at him, at the way his jaw’s set like he’s grinding down something behind his teeth. “I have plans.”
“You goin’ to a funeral or somethin’?”
“No,” you say. “I have a date.”
He leans back a little like the chair just got less comfortable. “Huh,” he says again, but it comes out lower this time. “So that’s what this is.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” you add, pulling your hair back and twisting it into a clip, “but yeah. First date.”
“Who is he?”
You turn halfway toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he lies. “Just curious what kinda guy gets you smellin’ like fruit and soap.”
You don’t respond. The silence stretches until he fills it himself.
“He got two workin’ eyes?”
You blink, slow. “Jesus, Gator.”
“What? That a requirement now?”
“You’re being a dick.”
“I’m just sayin’. I got some questions.”
“He’s a nurse. I met him last month. It’s a drink and maybe a movie. That’s it.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell by the way his foot bounces once against the floor and then stops. His jaw flexes. He folds his arms tighter.
“Must be nice.”
You sigh and head toward the door again. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“I ain’t stoppin’ you from leaving.”
You pause again at the threshold, hand resting on the knob, the weight of the night pressing in against the back of your neck.
Behind you, his voice cuts through — louder now, sharper than before, riding the edge of anger even though it’s dressed up like a joke.
“You better not come back here tomorrow all sex-drunk and forgetting shit.”
You turn slowly, eyes narrowing, pulse climbing in a way you don’t like.
“I’m not gonna be… sex drunk.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
You just stare at him, both of you standing your ground, both of you pretending that nothing got said that wasn’t supposed to.
You open the door and step out into the night.
You don’t slam it.
But you don’t close it softly either.
Especially then.
The voice in the audiobook was too smooth. It irritated him more than anything. Some guy reading a western like he had ever stepped foot on cracked earth or held anything heavier than a coffee cup. Gator let it drone in the background, something about two brothers and a land dispute, but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. His jaw ached from clenching. He had turned the volume down twice already and didn’t know why he kept turning it back up again.
The apartment was too quiet. Not silent — the fan still clicked every now and then from the corner, the fridge kicked on and off in its usual stubborn rhythm — but it felt like the walls were waiting for something. The kind of waiting that pressed in behind the ribs.
He leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet resting near the edge of the table. The blanket you’d folded for him sat untouched, the faint scent of whatever soap you used still clinging to it. Not the peppermint. The cherry and whatever-the-hell it was. Something citrusy and light, like lotion in a bottle too expensive for anyone normal to buy.
Bergamot. That’s what you said.
Gator scoffed quietly to himself and rubbed a hand across his face.
Fucking bergamot.
You were probably at some bar by now. Sitting across from a man who didn’t know you liked your coffee strong or that you hummed under your breath when you organized his pills. Some guy with decent shoes and clean hands, maybe a little cologne rubbed into his neck, probably wore button-ups that actually fit. Some guy who didn’t need a ride to the damn clinic every week or a guide to find the damn light switch.
The thought made him shift, restless. His fingers curled into the edge of the throw pillow beneath his elbow.
He didn’t care. He didn’t.
But the idea of that guy, this nurse or whatever he was, trying to understand you, trying to keep up with you, trying to figure out how you worked… it grated. He doubted that pretty boy had ever had to listen, not really. Bet he thought quiet was just silence and not the weight of it. Bet he thought soft touches were enough to keep a woman like you interested.
Gator knew better. Knew it in the way your voice changed when you were serious. Knew it in how you let him hear your breath catch when his hand landed on your shoulder, skin bare and warm beneath his palm. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t pulled away. He had felt the curve of your neck and the shift of muscle under his thumb. That moment had been short but it had happened. He hadn’t imagined it.
He tried to shake the thought but it followed him as he stood, slowly, body stiff from sitting too long. He took his pills with warm water and stood at the sink longer than necessary, fingers braced against the counter, chin tipped forward like gravity was trying to press him into the floor.
The apartment still smelled like you.
Even now. That scent mix clinging to the air like it was trying to haunt him. He swore he could feel it in the fibers of the carpet. His fingers twitched like they remembered the feeling of your arm. The dress. The way your voice sounded when you said first date like it wasn’t anything worth worrying about.
He turned off the audiobook and left the speaker on the table.
His bedroom was dark, only the hallway light bleeding through the cracked door. He didn’t bother undressing. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded behind his head. He tried not to think about where you were. Who you were with. If this guy would touch you the way he would. If he’d even know how.
You didn’t wear that scent for just anyone. That wasn’t a work perfume. That was a look-at-me kind of perfume.
His hand slid over his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before resting lower.
He hadn’t meant to think about it. But now it was there and it wasn’t leaving.
He thought about how soft your skin had felt under his palm. About the sound of your voice when you laughed at him. How your perfume clung to your collarbones. How your thighs probably looked sitting across from some other man. How your legs crossed. How you leaned in when you were listening.
His palm moved lower, breath hitching with it, the fan above clicking like it was counting the seconds between every drag of his fingers. The room felt warmer than it should have, sweat already gathering beneath his shirt. He didn’t bother peeling it off. Just let his hand slip down over his stomach, rough skin catching on the waistband of his sweats, the movement automatic now, familiar. But tonight it felt like more than a routine. Tonight it felt like punishment.
That scent clung to everything you’d touched.
His hand gripped tighter, breath shallow now, pulled through gritted teeth.
He couldn’t see you anymore, sure, but that didn’t mean he forgot. He remembered how you looked when he’d see you at the hospital if he stopped in for a case. Scrubs, sure, but nothing could hide the way you were built. Not dainty, not delicate. You were soft in the way a man could hold onto, something that filled both hands and then some. You moved like you knew how much space you took up, like you didn’t care who noticed. Your hips always shifted before your voice did. Your arms had weight when you reached past him. Your thighs always brushed against the couch cushion when you sat near.
And your tits — fuck. He hadn’t seen them, of course not, but he remembered the way your shirt used to stretch a little across it when you leaned. The sound of fabric shifting when you adjusted the neckline without thinking. He used to steal glances, back when he still had the option. Now all he had were those stored-away pieces, pulled forward with every breath you left behind.
He hated that he couldn’t see you. Hated that all he had was memory and scent and the way your voice got tight when you were trying not to argue. Hated the way your shoulder felt under his hand earlier, warm and bare and real, just for a second before you pulled away.
His grip stuttered, hips pushing up toward his hand as the pressure built sharp and low in his gut. You, somewhere else, maybe laughing at someone else’s dumb joke. Maybe sitting across from some guy who didn’t even know how you liked your tea, or how to tell the difference between your annoyed silence and your tired one. Probably didn’t know how it felt to have your fingers graze his skin and not look at him like he was broken.
Even without his sight, he knew you never looked at him like that.
The thought hit hard, and he came with a rough sound caught in his throat, more breath than voice, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.
His hand stayed where it was for a minute, chest rising fast beneath it, cooling sweat clinging to his collarbone.
He didn’t say your name.
But his mind did.
Again and again.
The room felt too quiet when it was over. Too empty. The fan kept turning overhead like nothing had happened.
He pulled the blanket up past his stomach and let his arm fall across his eyes, not that it mattered.
All he could smell was you.
And all he could think about was what he’d never get to see.
And what someone else might be seeing now.
He didn’t say it out loud.
Especially then.
You come back around six from doing errands, arms full, the smell of browned meat and tater tots still clinging to your jacket. The casserole dish is wrapped in foil and still hot enough that you have to shift it from hand to hand as you move toward the kitchen. Gator’s already in his chair, angled just slightly away from the television like he’s listening but not watching anything. You’re not sure he even knows what’s on. The remote is resting on the arm of the couch untouched, and the news is just cycling quietly, background noise for a day where you haven’t really talked.
Not that anything’s wrong. Not exactly. You’d come in earlier like usual, checked his meds, done the daily routine. But it had all been mechanical. His tone had been even. Yours too. Everything said had been about what needed to be said, nothing more. You’d caught him listening hard every time you moved though. You knew the silence had weight.
You slide the dish into the oven to keep warm and set the table without asking. He doesn’t offer to help, not that he usually does, but today feels different. Tighter. The quiet clings to the corners of the room. He doesn’t ask about your night. You don’t bring it up.
Dinner is easy, solid, the kind of food that fills without needing much conversation. You set the plate down in front of him, spooned out carefully, hotdish bubbling at the edges, and he mutters a thanks like it caught in his throat.
He eats like he always does, slow but steady, like he’s thinking while chewing, like there’s something behind every bite he doesn’t want to name.
Halfway through, he sets his fork down, not dramatically, but enough that you glance up from your own plate. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, clears his throat, and then says it like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.
“You don’t gotta stay here all the time, you know.”
You pause, chewing slower, then set your own fork down gently beside the plate. “What are you talking about?”
“You got a life out there. Friends. People. Shit to do.” His voice is too casual. Too careful. “I’m not your whole goddamn schedule.”
“I know that.”
His head tilts slightly like he’s trying to catch your expression. “Just sayin’. People might start to talk. Wonder what you’re doing here every night.”
“You think I care what people think?”
“I think you should,” he snaps, too fast, too sharp. He softens it a second later. “I just mean… don’t wanna be the reason you stop showin’ up somewhere else.”
You study him for a moment. His jaw is set. The muscle near his temple keeps twitching. He was fishing for how your date went in the most Gator way possible.
“You’re jealous,” you say plainly.
He scoffs. “Of what?”
You don’t answer. Neither does he.
You clear the dishes in silence, scraping the plates and rinsing them slowly. Behind you, you hear the creak of the chair as he stands. You listen to the shuffle of his steps, slow and searching. You already know he’s heading toward the fridge before you hear the clumsy sound of the door being pulled open and something rattling inside.
“What are you looking for?” you ask over your shoulder.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then, frustrated, “Beer.”
You sigh and dry your hands quickly on the towel, walking over and nudging him slightly out of the way. His fingers are tight around the door handle, jaw clenched, annoyed at himself more than anything else.
“It’s behind the ginger ale,” you say, reaching in and grabbing one from the back. You twist the cap off and press it into his hand.
He mutters a quiet thanks that barely reaches your ears.
“You want one?” he asks, fingers already curling around the bottle like he needs the weight of it.
“I’m working.”
“Pretty sure your shift ends in an hour,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That so?”
He nods. “You can cut out early if you want. Boss says it’s fine.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Just something simmering under the surface you don’t want to touch yet.
He takes a long drink, standing there by the fridge like it took effort to get that far. His head tips toward you again, just slightly. He can’t see the look on your face, but he knows something’s changed. He always does.
You glance at the clock, then back at him.
You grab a beer from the fridge and twist it open without saying anything.
“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask, voice quieter now.
He turns his head toward you like he’s glaring, and even without eyes, you can feel the way it would land if he could actually see you.
You walk past him into the living room without waiting for an answer.
He follows.
You put something on. It doesn’t matter what.
And then, for a little while, the silence between you feels like something else entirely.
Especially then.
The couch dipped a little when you sat back down with the beers, one in each hand, your hip brushing his as you passed him his. He took it without saying anything, fingers brushing yours, the bottle already slick from condensation. The movie was still going, volume turned low enough that he had to listen close, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your voice filled in the gaps.
You’d been narrating parts of it for him. Not the whole thing, just the stupid parts, which was most of it. You’d tell him when one of the girls made a dumb face, or when the monster puppet looked like it came out of a pizza box. He didn’t ask you to, not really, but you did it anyway, casual, soft, like it was for your own entertainment as much as his.
It wasn’t a good movie. He figured that out from the music alone. It had that warbly synth stuff underneath the dialogue, everything sounding like it was filmed in someone’s basement on a camcorder with a dirty lens. But you laughed at it like you’d seen it before, and that did something to him. Made it easier to listen. Made him forget how close your leg was to his.
Your arm had brushed his earlier, and you hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t either. That was two brushes in twenty minutes. He was keeping count now, apparently.
The movie shifted tone around the halfway mark. The music changed. He heard the moaning before anything else. Heard it in that fake, breathy way actresses used to do when they were trying to sound hot and not bored out of their minds. You went quiet, which made it louder.
He lifted his beer, sipped once, then turned his head toward your voice, even though he couldn’t see your face.
“You gonna describe this part too?” he asked, letting the words roll out slow, just a little smug.
You made a sound in your throat like you might actually consider it.
“I mean,” you said, laughing, “I could.”
He turned his face forward again, shoulders relaxed but jaw tight. “Go on then.”
You hesitated, but then, with a breath, you actually did it.
“She’s got her shirt off. Lotta bounce. Hair’s big. Too much lip gloss.”
He grunted, amused. “Classic.”
“Guy’s not even hot. Looks like he borrowed his dad’s chest hair.”
Gator snorted. “You’d think they’d at least cast someone worth lookin’ at.”
“They didn’t cast for that. They cast for screaming volume and tit-to-waist ratio.”
He smirked. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve watched more bad horror than you, probably.”
“You say that like it’s a challenge.”
You didn’t answer right away, but you kept describing.
“She’s on top now. Moaning way too loud. It’s mostly shadow but you can tell the guy’s doing jack shit.”
“Christ,” Gator muttered, lifting his beer again. “Stop.”
You laughed. “You asked.”
He shook his head, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, didn’t expect a play-by-play.”
“You’re lucky I’m keeping it tasteful.”
“Sure.”
You kept talking for a little while after the sex scene faded out, your voice soft and steady as you described the next girl on screen. You didn’t always narrate like this. Just tonight. Just enough. He could tell by the way you spoke that this one wasn’t your favorite. You called her a knockoff Barbie with hair teased too high and makeup caked on like stage paint. You said she moved like a paper cutout and screamed like someone trying too hard to be hot. You described her as tall, fake-tanned, long-legged in a way that didn’t look real.
He didn’t say anything at first, just drank his beer and let your voice fill in the blanks. But you went quiet after a while. You stopped talking somewhere around the time she bent over in slow motion and let her shirt ride up. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, not exactly, but different. Like something was sitting in it, watching both of you.
He turned his head toward you, didn’t need to see you to know what you were thinking. He could hear it in the way your breath caught a little. In the way you shifted your leg but didn’t move away. In the way you didn’t ask anything, but you wanted to. He felt it in the space between your words.
So he said it, casual, low.
“Never been into girls like that.”
You didn’t respond. Not right away. But he could hear you thinking.
“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” he went on, setting the beer on the table, voice steady now. “But it ain’t what really does it for me. Sure did for a while. Had enough bikini posters in my room back at my dad's ranch. Well into my 20s. You would have given me shit for it.”
Still quiet from your side. He could tell you weren’t blinking. Probably staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear it. Wondering why he was saying this.
Hell, he wondered too.
“I like soft,” he said. “I want hips I can grab onto. A body I can fuckin’ hold, not worry I’m gonna snap.”
He heard your breath catch again. Not like before. Not annoyed. Just caught. Like you hadn’t expected him to keep going.
“Wanna feel her chest press up when she’s on top. I wanna know she’s really there. I don’t like dainty. Don’t want someone I can pick up with one arm. I want someone who’ll ride me until the couch breaks.”
He let that one sit.
Then, quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “You know what I mean.”
You hadn’t moved, not really. But everything about your body had shifted. He could feel the tension in the way your knee stayed against his. The way your next breath came through your nose instead of your mouth. The way your beer bottle didn’t clink against the table yet, even though you’d stopped drinking five minutes ago.
He didn’t need eyes for this part.
He could hear it. In the air. In your silence. In your body betraying your mouth.
And it was doing something to him too.
Especially then.
You’re halfway through some garbage midnight rerun on the fuzzy local station. Something about mutant turtles, maybe? You aren’t even sure anymore. You’re just there. Still sitting too close on the couch. Still holding half a beer you forgot you were drinking.
It’s later than you’ve ever stayed. Quiet in that way that starts to feel like it means something. You’re stretched out beside him, feet resting against the coffee table, arm close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And for once, it’s not awkward. Not tense. Just easy.
You don’t even know how it comes up. Something dumb on screen. Some residual tension from his earlier words. Some bad pickup line in a parking lot scene. You snort. He scoffs. And then somehow you’re saying,
“Can I ask you something weird?”
He grunts in a way that means yes.
“Have you…” you hesitate, then push past it. “Have you had sex since you’ve been, y’know. Blind?”
Gator doesn’t turn his head, but you can feel the shift in him. The low flick of a breath from his nose.
“Wouldn’t you know? You’re here all the damn time.”
You let out a short laugh. “I mean, I’m not here when Beverly’s here.”
He lets out a sound between a scoff and a cough. “Yeah, okay. We’ll I’m sure as shit not fuckin’ Beverly.”
You frown. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well what’d you mean then? You think I got a fuckin’ lineup out the door? You think that’s what I’m after now? Walking around with a cane and a fuckin’ scarred up face looking for someone to pity-fuck me? Ain’t exactly in the market.”
You blink, a little stunned by the sharpness of it. But he doesn’t seem mad. Just honest. Tired.
“Wasn’t getting much play before anyway,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Half the time it was just about the badge. And I ain’t him anymore.”9
You don’t say anything to that. But your fingers flex on the bottle, and he hears it. You know he hears it.
He exhales again, like he’s dragging the memory out with him. “Cop buddies tried to take me to Bare Assets after I got out. Thought they were doing me a favor. Got me a dance in a private room. One where it ain't ever just a dance. One of those real feel-good, you-earned-this kind of things.”
He shakes his head, like he can still hear the music. “Was just sad. Couldn’t even get hard. All that perfume and fake giggles and hands on my legs and nothin’. Felt like they were feeding a dog scraps just to watch him beg.”
You blink again. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”
He turns his head slightly. “Not sayin’ I can’t get hard. Just sayin’—”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yeah, well. I can.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
You laugh softly, nervous. “I believe you.”
“It’s just…” He shrugs. “It takes certain things now. More about the other senses than just imagining a good pair of tits. Like I gotta actually pay attention to shit now. Voices, tone, smell. Touch. Not that I get much of that now.”
Silence again. Longer this time. Thicker.
Then—
“Pretty sure I’m halfway there right now.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes wide, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re stunned.
You see him grinning then, it's not as smug as usual. It's almost nervous then.
Especially then.
He could tell the second you stood up that you were rattled. The shift in your weight, the scrape of your knee against the cushion, the way you cleared your throat like it might buy you a second.
“I should go,” you said. Light. Dismissive. Trying to pass it off like it was nothing.
He didn’t move. Just cocked his head. “Thought you weren’t on the clock.”
You let out a sharp little laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat. “I’m not, but I also can’t believe you’re propositioning me right now. Real classy.”
He huffed, slightly offended. “Ain’t proposin’ nothin’.”
You kept talking anyway. “I mean, I know Beverly says this job can be uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn’t realize bedside handjobs were part of the care routine.”
He grinned, just barely, but didn’t rise to it. Not all the way. Because he could hear it in you now. That edge. Not just your usual bite. This one was shakier. Like you were trying to push something away before it stuck.
He waited until your steps circled back toward him. Until he knew you were close. Then he reached out, slow and sure, and caught your wrist in his hand.
“Hey,” he said. Quiet, but firm. “Don't go.”
You froze. He had never asked to directly like this.
He could feel your pulse skip under his fingers.
But then it came, sharp as ever. “What is this, Gator? You think I’m just gonna stick around and what, crawl into your lap ‘cause you’re lonely? You think I need this job that bad?”
His jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist, hands up like he’d touched something too hot.
“That's not what I meant,” he muttered.
“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. “Because that’s what it sounds like. You flirt and tease and say shit and then when I react, suddenly I’m the one who’s reading too much into it?”
He didn’t answer right away. He sat there, back against the couch, mouth tight, fists loose on his knees. He could still feel the shape of your wrist in his palm.
“You're not reading into it too much.” He muttered it like it was forcing its way out of his mouth.
His therapist’s voice surfaced, unwanted, in the back of his head. Telling him to make meaningful connections and shit.
Dammit, Todd.
He rubbed at his jaw, annoyed with himself. “Look. You wanna know what it is?” he said. “It’s that I like you. Alright? Not in some sad broken man way. Not ‘cause you wipe my counters and cook me shit. I like you.”
You didn’t speak. He kept going.
“I think about you when you’re not here. Wonderin’ what smartass thing you’d say about whatever trash’s on the TV. Thinkin’ what you smell like when you’re out on a date with some douche. I listen to you hummin’ while you fold towels and I swear to God it makes me feel like my fuckin’ ribs are cracked open.”
Your breath hitched. Just a little.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for your wrist again, slower this time. Not pulling, just holding.
“And I know it ain’t your job to listen to this shit. I'm a bastard most of the time and I know you got no reason to care. But if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna choke on it.”
You didn’t pull away. Not this time.
So he held on.
And you stood there in front of him, too close to pretend you didn’t hear him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo, soft under all the heat.
His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow.
"I think about you other ways too. At other times. When I shouldn't." He cleared his throat, the words rough, the honesty rougher. "Think about how you'd sound. How it'd feel to have you on top of me. I've thought about it."
Your breathing was louder, unsteady, like it had to push its way through. His thumb slid slowly along your inner wrist. Up and down, tracing a gentle arc over the thin skin.
"You don't look at me like I'm broken. I mean..." he let out a breath of a laugh. "I can't fuckin' see it. But I know you don't."
"You're not. Broken, I mean." You finally say. The words feel like a secret, a quiet confession.
He nods, slow, and turns his head a little, just enough that you can see the shape of his profile against the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen. The edges of his jaw and chin and throat. The shadow of his mouth. His thumb keeps moving. Up and down. Over your wrist, then the side of your hand, and then back.
"You're always callin' me handsome and shit. Which is fuckin' wild, by the way. You must be goddamn delusional. But I get it. I hear the tone in your voice when you say it. I can tell the difference. I know it ain't a joke. So that's somethin'. I still got some parts worth lookin' at."
Your chest is so tight it hurts to breathe.
"Gator."
"I do. By the way." He smirks in a way he hasn't done in a while. "Got other parts worth lookin' at. Ones you haven't seen yet."
You let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it was a little stronger. Your voice is quieter now. Less angry. Less annoyed. Just a little... something else.
"I've seen your dick, Gator. I had to make sure you didn't fall in the shower the first couple weeks."
He knows that and he's a little mortified by being reminded of it in this moment. "Okay, well you haven't seen it hard."
That bit of crass boyish humor and defiance were definitely still in him. Todd couldn't cure everything in therapy.
"You think I'd want to?"
"I know you do."
Silence.
"You ever think about me?" he asks. "Beyond the flirting you do every damn day and then try to say it's for my ego. Do you?"
You swallow hard.
"Do I what?"
"Do you ever think about me like that?"
It's your turn to smirk now. "Do you really want me to answer that, or are you just asking to hear yourself talk?"
"I'm blind. Not deaf. And yeah. I want an answer."
He stands, letting go of your hand. You take a step back.
"You're a good-looking guy, Gator."
"That ain't what I asked."
"You're right."
"So."
"So what?"
He reaches for your hand again, fingers searching for a second before finding the shape of it. "I remember what you look like."
It hits you harder than you realize when he says that. And he notices. You know he does. He doesn't miss a single fucking thing.
"Your skin. Your hair. The curve of your waist. How big your eyes are. I remember it.."
Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is racing. You want to kiss him and run away and hide and scream all at once.
"Your scrub tops when you worked at County? Fuckin' hell. All stretched across your tits. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the shit that did to me. Be in the hospital takin' witness statements while half hard." He let out air through his nose, shaking his head. "Then found out you moved on to outpatient stuff and I didn't see you anymore. Then that fucker burnt my eyes out. Sure there's a fuckton more in between everything, but that ain't important right now. The real torture of it all is you're around me everyday now and I can't even fuckin' see you."
He said the last part like it pissed him off more than he could admit. More than he had the words to.
"You can hear me." You say, whispered.
He lifts his head up more, confused look on his face. "Yeah. I can."
You move his hand to your hip, where you have soft sweatpants on. "You can feel me."
Still in that whisper soft tone. It was undoing him. Was this...?
"And you can definitely smell me.. Won't shut up about my scent half the time."
His thumb brushes your hip. "You're wearing that cherry shit again."
"Then use those, Gator. If this is what you want. Then take it."
You didn't mean for it to come out like a challenge. But it does. And you can tell he likes it. Likes that tone. The one where you're daring him.
He's always liked a woman that would talk back to him, he can admit that now.
He slides his hand across the curve of your waist. Fingers spread out and pressing into your skin. The shirt you're wearing is thin, so he can feel your warmth. He pulls your body closer.
"I don't wanna be a joke to you." He whispers.
"You're not." You reply.
He slides his hand down your ass. "Or a pity fuck."
"It's not."
"Then what am I?"
"You're a guy I care about. Who has been hurt and needs someone who cares enough not to hurt him anymore."
His breath hitches and he grabs your ass more firmly, pulling you to his lap. You're straddling him now. His hands are on either side of your hips, still grabbing.
"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, voice a deep growl.
You're both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours. You reach out, running a hand through his hair.
"Whatever you want me to."
He kisses you. Hard and hot and desperate. His hands are on your back, holding you to him. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair. He groans into your mouth, hips bucking up.
"Fuck, I need you," he pants, pulling away. "You feel so fuckin' good."
"We should go to your bed, this couch is awful."
"Yeah."
You stand up and take his hand, leading him. He follows, and he's glad the house isn't big. He'd hate to get lost now.
You close the door behind him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. You walk toward him, stopping between his legs.
"Lie down." You say.
He does.
You climb onto the bed, straddling him. You grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up and over your head. It lands somewhere across the room.
Gator hears the material hit the floor. He can feel your body hovering over him.
You lean forward, kissing his lips. Then his cheek. Down his jaw. His throat. He can feel your bare tits against him, heavy and warm. He lets out a low moan.
Your hands are on his chest, roaming, reaching for the hem of his black t-shirt.
"You ain't wearing a bra when you're workin'?" He pants out.
"You can't see me. What's it matter?"
He groans. "It matters."
You laugh, pulling his shirt up. "Then let's get this off."
He sits up slightly, arms over his head, and you slide the shirt off. It falls to the floor, joining your own.
The dark chest hair and beauty marks strewn across his toned chest are even more handsome up close. You trail your hands down his torso and he makes the prettiest sound.
"Fuck. You touch me like you fuckin' love it."
"Because I do." You confess, and press a kiss to his shoulder.
He shudders. You can't tell if it's from the touch or your words.
You reach for the button of his jeans.
"Do you want these off too?"
"Fuck yeah. Take 'em off."
His cock strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs once his jeans are off. His hands reach out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. "So no bra..." he says, sitting up a little. "Any panties?"
"You'd have to find that out yourself, wouldn't you?"
He smirks, hands tugging the sweats down, exposing your naked thighs. His hands roam from your waist to the crease at your hips where your tummy meets your thighs, searching for a bit of fabric. He finds none.
"No panties," he whispers. "Fuck."
You kick your sweatpants all the way off, now just completely naked on top of him.
"This is gonna sound fucked up..." you start, a nervous laugh spilling out. "But I'm kind of happy you can't see me right now. I always feel...self conscious? When I'm on top."
He can hear the vulnerability. The softness.
"Why?" he asks.
"I don't know. I mean, I'm not perfect. Always worried the view is going to disappoint."
"Oh, so I'm the blind one and you're the fuckin' deaf one. Got it." He says with a little snort.
You can't help but laugh. "What?"
"I spent the last half hour tellin’ you what I liked."
"Yeah, but.."
"No fuckin' buts." His hands grip the plush softness of your ass. "You think this doesn't turn me on? You think I don't wanna squeeze your hips and thighs and feel those fuckin' tits bounce while you're riding my cock? You think I can't imagine how you look when you're panting and wet? Or how pretty you'll sound moaning my name?"
You're taken aback, but you still manage to clear your throat with a small laugh and tease him. "How do you know I'll moan your name?"
He growls, squeezing you a little harder, and bucks his hips up, grinding against you. You gasp at how good the friction feels.
"I'll make you," he pants. "Trust me, I'll make you."
He's kissing you again, his hands roaming your back. He grips your ass again, hard, pulling you against his cock, just the fabric of his boxer briefs between you.
"Take 'em off," he grunts. "I need you to take these fuckin' things off."
You sit up, moving off him and grabbing the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Lift your hips."
He does and you pull them down, tossing them aside.
"Get on top of me," he commands.
"Bossy." You reply, but you get a good look at his cock as you do and, fuck, he wasn't lying. It's thick and hard, a pretty pink at the tip that matches his plush lips.
You climb back on top of him, settling over his hips.
"Fuck," he groans, feeling your heat. "I wanna touch you."
"You are touching me," you say, breathless.
"Not like that." He replies. "Let me feel you."
You guide his hands to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipples, and he hisses a low curse as he palms your tits.
"These things shouldn’t be fuckin' legal," he groans. "Spillin’ over my hands."
You moan softly. He squeezes them a little harder, teasing your nipples, and you whimper.
"Yeah, that's it. I wanna hear you," he growls, and sits up. "Want these in my mouth."
You lean forward, bringing your tits to his lips, and he groans, laving at them. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, squeezing. He looks so good like this, his mouth on you, sucking, licking, grabbing, moaning.
"Think about these every day," he mumbles, voice muffled by your chest.
"Yeah?" You ask, and he hums, nodding, pulling his head back.
"Always had a thing for 'em. Love a woman with a good pair. Wanna bury my face between 'em."
He kisses you, hot and hungry.
"You're a fuckin' wet dream. God this shit feels like a dream. You know your senses get heightened and shit when you can't fuckin see?"
"I went nursing school, yes." You laugh against his mouth. "But it's more like you develop your other senses more over time like--"
"I'm gonna develop my dick into you, okay? Not the time for anatomy lessons."
"You're cute when you're horny."
He growls. "Shut up."
You grind down on him and he curses, the feeling taking all the bark out of him. "Fuck. Shit. Yeah. I wanna fuck you so bad. God. Need to be inside you."
He can't see your blush, but he can feel the heat coming off you.
"I'm on the pill, but I don't have condoms," you say, hoping that it doesn't ruin the mood.
He groans, leaning his forehead against yours.
"I'm clean, swear on my life. Sure you could get that info anyway. Ain't been with anyone since..." He swallows hard, his next words barely audible. "Since before."
He's scared, you can feel it.
"It's fine," you whisper, hands in his hair. "I trust you."
His cock twitches and he hisses.
"Fuck, I want you."
"Then have me," you say. "I'm here."
He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers brushing your pussy. You're wet, slick against his touch, and he groans again. His thumbs finds your clit, circling slowly.
"God..." you whine out before biting your lip. "No man has an excuse for not finding it now."
"No man is gonna have the fuckin’ chance."
You shudder at his possessive tone, and he feels the shift in your hips.
"That's right. You're mine. Just mine." He grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers harder.
He rubs your clit for a moment longer, until you're squirming and gasping and rocking your hips.
Then he grips his cock, stroking it a couple times, before guiding the tip to your entrance. "C'mere."
You sink down on him slow, letting him stretch you open. You both moan, the sound a harmony, his low and raspy, yours soft and sweet. He feels bigger than you expected, but the pleasure is sharp, not painful.
"Oh, fuck." He curses. "Jesus, fuck."
You start moving, rocking your hips against him, taking him deeper each time. He groans, his hands gripping your ass, holding you as you ride him.
"Tell me how it looks," he breathes, his voice strained. "Tell me what you look like. I wanna know."
"I don't...I can't say that shit… what if I sound stupid?" You pant out.
"You won't. Please."
You can't say no to him when he begs.
"Your cock...it's so thick and pretty and hard, and it's sliding into me, and the way my pussy's wrapped around it, God..."
He groans, thrusting up. “You like it? How it looks when I'm fuckin’ you?”
"I love it. Fuck."
You're moving faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm, the room filled with the sound of your skin slapping against his. He's thrusting up to meet your hips, and you can't stop the sounds that spill out.
"Wanna feel your tits bouncing," he pants.
You move one of his hands from your hip to your breast. He squeezes one and groans, hand resting just under to feel them bounce.
"God, I love the way they move. They're fucking perfect. You're perfect."
He moves his other hand up, feeling your neck, then your jaw.
"Open," he rasps.
You open your mouth, and he slips two fingers past your lips.
"Suck," he orders.
You do, swirling your tongue around them. He hisses.
"Just like that. Jesus. Your mouth's so wet. Like a pussy."
You whimper, and he feels your tongue lap at his fingers. He pulls them out and moves his hand to your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The hand still on your hip digs in harder, moving you faster.
"Ride me harder, baby," he pants.
"Yes," you breathe, and you bounce harder, the angle making him go deeper.
"Oh, fuck." He grits. "Feels so fucking good. Your pussy's so tight. So fucking wet. God, the sounds you're makin'."
His words are particularly special or flowery, but the praise is still doing something to you, making heat pool in your belly. Suddenly you're grateful that he never shuts the fuck up.
"You're close," he pants, and you nod, forgetting he can't see it.
"I am," you reply, voice shaky. "Are you?"
"Yeah, baby. So fuckin' close."
You reach down and rub your clit. Gator feels the movement and lets out a broken moan.
"Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. God, you touching yourself.?"
"Gator," you cry out, and he can feel how much you're shaking.
"That's it," he pants. "You're gonna come on my cock. You're gonna come all over it, and then I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck. That's what you want, isn't it? My cum so deep in your pretty little pussy."
You whimper, his words and the movement of his cock and the way he's moaning and growling and hissing sending you over the edge.
"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and you're coming, crying out and shaking and rocking your hips, his name on your lips.
"Yes," he groans. "Fuck yes, that's it. Fuck. Keep going. God, you're so wet. I can feel it. You're milking my cock. Fuck, I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna—"
"Please," you whine.
"Oh, fuck. You're beggin' me. Fuck. Say it again. Beg me."
"Please," you moan. "Please, come inside me."
He's not sure if it's the words or the way you sound when you say them, or the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock, but he's coming hard, holding you down on him and filling you up. He's cursing, the word fuck spilling from his mouth over and over, and you're crying out again, your body shaking as you come a second time.
The sound he makes when his cock starts pulsing in you, the way he fills you, it's like nothing you've ever heard before. He's not quiet, not even a little. And you've never felt this kind of release, not from any other man. You feel lightheaded, dizzy almost, the room spinning around you.
He's panting, trying to catch his breath, his hands still gripping your hips. You can feel his cock softening inside you, but it's still buried deep.
You're both silent, trying to recover, the air thick with sweat and sex.
"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Fucking hell."
"Yeah," you agree.
There isn't much else that can be said. He’s a sightless man who just fucked someone so thoroughly, it was like he could see every inch of her body.
You reach for the nightstand, finding the glass of water he keeps there. You drink half and offer him the rest, bringing it to his lips. He takes it and gulps down the remainder.
You collapse onto the bed next to him, still naked. His arm is thrown over his face, and he's panting.
"I'm gonna get us cleaned up. Then we'll talk," you say.
The arm that isn't over his face reaches over to stop you as you get up.
"No you're not." He says, his voice hoarse.
"I'm not sleeping like this and neither are you." You say with a lighthearted eyeroll. "I'll be back."
He huffs but he doesn't actually say anything, keeping his hand on you.
"What is your issue?" You ask, confused now.
"I'm supposed to be the one doin' that shit for you!"
He yells it, but there's nothing mean in his voice. Just frustration and something else. Something sad.
"Gator." You whisper, and move the arm from his face.
He doesn’t cry in the usual way. The damage to his tear ducts and lacrimal glands was too severe. You’ve only seen it once before, early on into working with him. His sockets don’t glisten or brim over like other men’s might. The burns left them scarred and hollow, the skin puckered and shiny in places where the grafts took, ragged in others where the heat had eaten too deep.
When emotion breaks through him, it shows as a raw wetness that seeps at the edges. The sound gives him away more than anything — his breath hitching, his voice breaking, the rough sniffling that seems to scrape at the back of his throat.
"Oh."
"Oh," he parrots, even with his voice breaking. "I can't take care of you the way a man should. I can't..." He shakes his head. "Fuck. I really am useless."
You have the words for it because Todd made sure you did. You remember him sitting across from you in that first collateral session, explaining what to watch for if the past shoved its way into the room. The hitch in Gator’s breathing. The lock in his jaw. The way shame can masquerade as anger. You see all of it now, strobing through the dim. And it feels like none of that actually prepared you for this moment.
Useless.
The word lands wrong in your chest because you know where he learned it. You picture the way he told you about his father in clipped notes and hard pauses, a man who measured worth in bruises and obedience, who called softness a weakness and turned love into a job no one could keep.
The word useless lived in that house like mold, got into the walls, into the food, into the boy who learned to clean his plate even when it tasted like rot.
You know why the word hits you like a thrown glass now. You can see him reaching for it the way someone reaches for an old injury, pressing just to make sure it still hurts.
He fills the silence with a breath that shakes. “Guess the old man was right about—”
“Stop.” You lean in, press your mouth to the strip of skin above his wrap, right where his skin is smooth and warm below his hairline. “Do not put his voice in your mouth. Not here.” You keep your lips there a second longer than necessary, then pull back only far enough to whisper. “You are not useless.”
He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound dry and stubborn. “Yeah. Fine. But, as much as I can’t stand Todd and his perfect hair and golf tan and dumb boat shoes… he has a point.”
You blink, caught off guard by the picture. Todd is all sweaters and salt-and-pepper and lace-up boots that look more library than lake. You almost correct him, almost say he has a gray beard and a tweed problem and probably gets sunburned looking at a window, but you swallow the impulse. Let him have the cardboard villain if it makes the medicine go down.
Gator turns his face toward your voice like he can find you by the heat of it. “Point is, he keeps sayin’ I gotta say things out loud or they fester. So.” He swallows. His hand flexes on the sheet. “I was a real piece of shit before. I know that. I acted like a man who deserved more than he gave. I liked bein’ mean. I liked when people backed up. I thought the badge and the name made it fine.” He pauses. “It didn’t.”
You slide your palm up his forearm, slow and steady, the way Todd told you helps when the edge gets sharp. He doesn't pull away. You hate that the muscles under your hand are tight and trembling, like he is bracing for a hit that never comes.
“I ain’t like him,” Gator says, voice roughening. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to scare women. I don’t want to hurt ’em. I did enough hurtin’ walkin’ around blind to my own bullshit before I lost my eyes.” His mouth flattens. “And that lady I killed… in my head I said it was an accident like it made a difference. Maybe it does on paper. But I still did it. I was still on my way to murder someone that night, just ended up bein’ the wrong person.”
Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against his skin. You don’t bring up the facts again. Don’t repeat what the report said, or what the lawyer said. You just let him hold the thread in his own hands.
“Now… I wanna take care of somebody,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not own ‘em. Not control ‘em. Just… take care. Bring their coffee the way they like it. Fix the crooked shelf. Keep a hand at their back on the ice so they don’t fall. Sit through the boring shit ‘cause it matters to them. Hold ‘em when they’re sick. Touch ‘em like I know where they’re sore and where they’re strong.” He lets out a breath, soft and wrecked. “And I can’t even see if they’re rollin’ their eyes at me. I gotta ask where the cups are in my own kitchen. Gotta have someone check my goddamn face for infection. It’s funny, in a mean kinda way. Like the universe waited for me to want the right things just so it could get locked behind fuckin’ glass.”
You lean down and kiss the space above his wrap, then the ridge of his temple, then the curve of his cheek where the graft meets the old skin. “You are doing it,” you say. “You’re taking care. Right now. You’re talking. You’re telling me what you want. That counts, a lot more than you realize.”
He breathes like he doesn’t believe you—but maybe wants to. A small laugh escapes, smaller than his pride, shaped like a bruise. “Feels like one of those twisted jokes,” he murmurs. “Soon as I decide I’m ready to be good at somethin’ that actually matters, I’m short a couple tools.”
Your hand slides from his forearm to his bicep, a firmer grip that says don’t run. Don’t look away—even if looking’s different now. He turns his face toward you again, closer this time, like he’s learning you by sound and warmth.
“Yeah,” you say, soft. “Maybe it is a joke.”
You let the beat stretch, then add, calm and sure, “But the punchline’s not that you failed.”
He swallows. Nods once. Your foreheads almost touch.
And you stay like that, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, your mouth on his temple. Both of you listening to the same breath, until the room remembers how to be small and safe again.
Then you tilt your mouth toward his ear.
“Do you want to take care of me,” you ask, quiet but clear. “Right now? ”
He huffs a laugh, trying to pull the moment back to something he can joke about. “Think I could go another round.”
You snort and tap his bicep, gentle. “Not like that.”
There’s a small pause while he tries to figure out what you mean. You can feel him searching the space for you, head turning a little.
“Do you trust me?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he adds, dry, “You helped me the week I kept gettin’ turned around in the shower and cussin’ at the faucet like it was personal. Pretty sure I gotta trust you by now.”
You laugh, soft and fond, and squeeze his hand. “Come on.”
You help him sit up, then stand, then you guide him with your palm at his at his elbow. The little bathroom off the bedroom is warm from the radiator, mirror fogged at the edges, tile cool under your feet. You set him lightly against the sink, steadying him until his knuckles find the porcelain. He’s still flushed from before, chest rising slow, hair mussed from your fingers. A line of dried sweat glints along his collarbone. His mouth is a little swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, a good kind of used.
You take the wrap from his head, careful with the knot, careful with the edges. He holds still, jaw set. When the cloth comes free, he lets out a breath you can feel on your wrist.
“Isn’t it weird,” he says, voice low, “how I still wanna look away or close ‘em when I can tell you’re lookin’ at me like that?”
“Like what?” you ask, already reaching past him to turn the shower on. The pipes knock once, then settle, steam lifting in a thin veil.
“Like I’m somethin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says, almost a whisper.
You test the water with your fingers, then glance back at him, water pattering louder now. “That’s because you are.”
You step him into the tub with you, guide his hand to the tile so he can place his feet, then tug the curtain closed. Warm water finds both of you in a steady sheet. You lift his hand and set it at your hip, then tip your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. You kiss his jaw next, then the notch of his throat, then the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. You tell him what you love as you go, soft against his skin.
“This throat,” you murmur. “How your voice sits low here when you’re bein’ stubborn.”
You kiss the slope of his shoulder. “These shoulders. Big enough to lean on.”
You kiss along his collarbone. “This. Warm. Strong.”
Your mouth trails over the center of his chest, the dark hair gone flat under the spray. “All of this. The way you feel under my hands.”
He breathes out through his nose, steady, like he is letting the words soak in the way the water does. Your palms smooth down his ribs, over the curve of his waist, around to the small of his back. You kiss the flat of his sternum and feel his fingers flex at your hip.
“What happened to me takin’ care of you,” he asks, a half-laugh caught in it, like he is trying not to ruin whatever you are doing.
You smile against his skin and look up at him. “We’re gettin’ there.”
You find the body wash and the little bath pouf tucked on the caddy. “One of those fluffy things,” you say, half laughing.
He makes a face you can hear. “Hate that damn sponge-ball. Feels like bathin’ with a tutu.”
“You’ll live,” you say, smiling as you squeeze a ribbon of soap onto it. You work it until it foams, then curl his fingers around it and lift his hand. “Here. Help me.”
You guide him to your throat first. The puff glides over your skin, slick and warm under the spray. He follows your touch, slow, careful, the lather sliding down to your collarbones. You tip your chin so he can reach, and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to keep his balance.
Then his hand drifts lower.
He circles the top of your breasts and you hear the soft sound he makes when the pouf sinks against you, soap clinging, bubbles collecting at the curves. He moves under, patient, thorough, the drag of mesh and his knuckles leaving heat in its wake. You let out a quiet sound you did not mean to make.
“There’s more than those,” you whisper, teasing.
“Yeah, well,” he says, a smile in his voice, “there’s a lot of ‘em. Gotta make sure they’re extra clean.”
You laugh, breath catching when he lifts and cups you from beneath with the pouf, then you tap his wrist and steer him on. He runs over your shoulders and down your arms, slow from biceps to wrists like he is memorizing your shape through foam. You turn to give him your back and he follows the line of your spine to the small of it. His hand settles at your hip before sliding lower. He soaps the curve of your ass, careful and firm, then between your legs with a touch that is reverent more than greedy. You guide him, small nudges at his wrist, and he listens without argument, washing your inner thighs, the backs of your knees, down your calves to your ankles.
“Good,” you murmur, flushed and clean and dizzy. You tug him forward so both of you stand right under the water. The spray warms your face and rinses the lather off your skin in shining sheets.
“My turn,” you tell him, taking the pouf and running it up his chest. The suds cling to dark hair and stick to his sternum. You work the lather over his ribs, his sides, the planes of his stomach. He stands still, trusting your hands, only shifting when you press his hips so you can get everywhere. You soap his shoulders and the cords of his neck. He tips his head for you without being asked.
You turn for the shampoo on the shelf. Your back finds his chest, the weight of him a solid line. You pop the cap, squeeze the clear gel into your palm, and work it through your own hair first. Then you lift his hands and lace his fingers with your sudsy ones, pulling them up into your hair so he can feel it slip and catch as he lathers. His thumbs skim your scalp. His mouth finds your shoulder, a soft kiss against wet skin.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the curve there, barely louder than the water.
You swallow, then turn to face him. You pump more shampoo into your hands and reach up, working it through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow circles. He goes quiet the way men do when something good undoes them. You rinse him with your fingers spread, then step closer and tilt your head with his so the spray catches both of you. You close your eyes while the water runs clean, while the last suds slide off your shoulders and down your bodies.
You stay like that for a while, chest to chest, water drumming on your crowns, the bathroom small and warm around you.
His thumb finds your mouth first, tracing the shape of your bottom lip like he is reading a word he loves. He leans in and kisses you, careful and slow, nothing like the hungry mess from before. You can feel how he is touching you just to memorize you. He pulls you closer, chest to chest under the warm hiss of the shower, and you breathe the same steam.
“See,” you whisper against his mouth, “you can be good at taking care of me.”
He grumbles a little, more embarrassed than annoyed.
“And even better,” you add, smiling so he can hear it, “we can take care of each other.
Another soft mutter, as if he's trying to protest but knows you'll see right through it.
“It’s pretty obvious you like me taking care of you,” you tease, and he kisses you soft again, a little longer this time, like he is sealing something.
You turn the water off and help him step out. Everything after is a blur of warm towels and dripping hair and the small bathroom’s heat. You put a clean wrap on his eyes. You hand him a fresh pair of boxers. You grab one of his black T-shirts from the dresser and tug it over your head, then stop halfway and catch his hands.
“Help me,” you say, guiding his palms along the hem, over your ribs, up to the collar so he can feel how it hangs on you. He smooths the cotton down your sides. It catches on your curves and you laugh. “Kinda tight… my ass is half out.”
“Not gettin’ any complaints here.”
He finds your fingers, and even though you could guide him, he turns and leads the way to the bed with the surety of someone who knows every inch of his room by heart. You climb in, the sheets cool, his body warm. You tuck yourself against him.
“Is it okay if I stay?” you ask. You already know, but you want to hear it.
He lets out a quiet laugh and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to share a breath. That is the answer.
“Ain’t really done the stayin’ thing,” he says after a moment. “Used to just do it and go. Don’t know if I kick in my sleep. Might snore. Could talk, too. No idea.”
“It’s okay,” you say. “We’ll find out.”
He exhales and settles, one hand open on your hip like a promise.
After a long minute he says, almost sheepish, “You probably can’t be my caretaker anymore. Pretty sure this is a violation or whatever.”
“Oh, it’s a violation,” you say, laughing into his chest. “A big one. But I can still be here every day. I’ve got other clients. I’ll be fine.”
“So I’m gonna be seein’ a lot more of Beverly,” he groans.
“You’ll live,” you say. “Just don't end up doing this with her, cause then we’re really screwed.”
He snorts. “Yeah, right.” Then he tips his face toward you. “Ain’t doin’ this with anybody but you.”
You feel his words settle between your ribs. He tucks you closer. You let him.
Theres not much after that. A kiss or two. Maybe a quiet conversation. Something about his father or yours. Something about a dream, or the kind of future you would want if the world was different.
The morning will come and the coffee you make him will be too sweet, but he'll drink it anyway.
Beverly will show up, late and with another story about her grandkids.
He'll call Karen, just to talk to the girls, and leave another message that goes unanswered.
There will be a text from Todd. A reminder about his appointment.
But right now, in the warmth of his bed, he isn't alone.
And when he wakes up, you'll still be with him and he'll realize, in the small hours before the sun, that it is enough.
The world will go on spinning. But for a moment, right then, everything will feel right.
Especially then.
WOW SORRY FOR THAT EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER!
If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them so I'm extending it until end of October!
Sweet As Sunday (gator tillman x preacher’s daughter!reader)
summary: gator tillman is exactly the kind of trouble you, the preacher’s daughter, shouldn’t want—but after hearing you sing in the church choir, he can’t stop thinking about you. he needs you.
wc: 19.3k
an/cw: porn with PLOT , maybe not accurate to gator’s character, very southern baptist core, lots of religious talks of shame and sin, slow burn kind of? i guess, phone sex (twice, srry) , masturbation, dom!gator (sorta), power imbalance, car sex, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, corruption kink and size kink (gator has a horse cock). as always black f!reader but no descriptors used. reader is 21. Gator is 30.
you stay behind after the funeral service, lingering in the pews with trembling hands and a mouth that still tastes like the last note you sang. the air is thick and hot, clinging to the back of your neck and the curve of your spine beneath your dress. folks are still buzzing in the vestibule, voices low and familiar. grief that has teeth.
you bend to stack the hymnals, just for something to do with your hands. that’s when you feel it—eyes on you. heavy. patient.
“i ain’t heard a voice like that in a long time.”
you look up fast. he’s leaning against the edge of a pew, hands tucked in his pockets, one boot hooked casually behind the other. no tie, no bible. just a black button down, sherrif’s badge on a chain around his neck, a half unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear, and a look in his eye that doesn’t belong anywhere near a house of god.
“i—thank you,” you say, voice catching in your throat. you smooth your skirt like it matters.
he steps forward, slow, boots creaking on the old wood. “didn’t mean to startle you. just—had to say somethin’. you sing like you mean it.”
you nod, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumps. “it’s my mama’s favorite.”
he smiles, lazy and crooked. “makes sense.”
you blink. “why?”
“ ‘cause you sounded sweet as sunday.”
his eyes drop down your frame, then back up. “sweet like somethin’ you don’t forget.”
your breath stutters.
and then—
“come on.”
the voice cracks through the air behind you, sharp and disapproving. your father’s tone is clipped, the kind that doesn’t tolerate delay. you turn instinctively, spine straightening.
he stands a few pews back, arms folded across his chest, expression tight. his eyes aren’t on you.
they’re on him.
“go help your sister with the bags.”
you nod, fingers curling into your skirt. “yes sir.”
as you pass him in the aisle, you swear you can still feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck. it makes your skin prickle. makes your steps go loose and strange. warm.
out in the gravel lot, the air feels heavier somehow. your father opens the car door without a word, waits until you’re both inside before he finally speaks.
“you stay away from that man,” he says, quiet but firm. “don’t let me catch you talkin’ to him again.”
you swallow. “who is he?”
he doesn’t look at you. just stares straight ahead, jaw clenched like he’s biting down on something sour.
“gator tillman.”
you repeat it under your breath, tasting it.
letting it sit.
“…gator.”
that night, the heat doesn’t break.
it presses down heavy even after sunset, bleeding through the open windows and the thin cotton sheets, sticking to your skin. you twist in the dark, restless, half awake and already sweating. you pray like you always do, whispering the words in your head over and over until they lose their shape. until you start thinking about other things.
the way he looks at you. the sound of his voice, slow and sharp like something that bites.
you dream of the church.
but it isn’t how it was that morning. the pews stretch longer. the light is strange—gold and thick, pouring in like molasses through the stained glass. dust floats in the air, heavy as smoke. you stand alone at the altar, bare feet on cool tile, dress brushing your knees.
and he is there.
at the back.
not walking—sliding. like something that moves without effort. without sound. like a serpent in tall grass. his eyes don’t blink. just fix on you, steady and dark.
you don’t run.
when he reaches you, he doesn’t touch—not at first. just circles slow, boots silent, like he’s tasting the air around you. like he already knows how you’ll sound when you break.
he leans in close, breath warm at your neck.
“you ever dream of sin, sweet girl?”
you wake with a gasp, heart pounding.
the room is still dark, the fan spinning lazy overhead. you are alone. but your skin is flushed. burning.
your thighs have pressed tight together while you slept. the ache is there—low, confusing, wrong. you shift, rubbing them together just a little, breath catching at the friction. it feels—
it feels like something you’re not supposed to know.
and still, in the hush of your room, you whisper it. the name like a secret tucked under your tongue.
“gator.”
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
it had been a few days since the funeral.
long, hot days. quiet ones. the kind that stick to your skin and make your clothes feel too heavy, even when you aren’t doing much. you’ve barely seen anyone besides your family. barely left the house. you’ve tried to keep busy—laundry, dishes, sorting hymnals in the back room at church—but none of it makes that dream go away. the way he looked at you. the way he sounded, warm and dark and crawling up your spine like ivy up a brick wall.
you didn’t mean to go in.
you were just supposed to drop off the tithe envelope and pick up paper towels from the little store next door. but the heat has been choking all day, your head is swimming, and you tell yourself you’ll only sit down for a second. one iced tea. ten minutes, tops.
the diner is nearly empty anyway. the waitress barely looks up when you slide into the booth by the window, ankles crossed, hands folded on the sticky plastic menu. a fly buzzes lazy against the screen door. you can still smell fryer oil and burnt coffee from the morning rush.
and then the bell above the door rings.
you don’t have to look up. you feel him. hear him.
that same low pull in your stomach. that warm, wrong feeling that makes you sit up straighter without knowing why.
“now this’s a lucky coincidence.”
his voice—same as before, smooth and sin slick—tumbles over your shoulders. you turn, and there he is, walking toward your table like he’s been invited. like he belongs there.
you swallow. “i was just—cooling off.”
“mmhmm.” he slides into the booth across from you without asking, arms stretched along the back like he isn’t crowding you on purpose. “sure you were, angel.”
you hate how your cheeks burn when he says it like that. like it means something dirty.
“hot day,” he adds, like it’s small talk. “hotter now.”
you swallow, thighs pressed close together under the table.
your fingers twist in your lap. you glance around, but no one is looking. the waitress is deep in a crossword, and the kitchen is quiet.
he’s smiling at you, but not in a cruel way. it’s soft, almost lazy. familiar, like he already knows all the things you don’t say.
“you always eat here?”
you shake your head. “no, sir.”
he smiles like he likes that. “sir. that’s cute.”
“anyway i figured not, since this’s my first time seein you in here. you ought to come around more, it’s nice seeing you.”
your cheeks burn. you look down again, but he just leans forward a little, elbow brushing the table as he peels the paper off his straw and starts twisting it, slow and neat, between his fingers.
“yeah maybe.” you keep it short, watching the way his fingers twist the paper.
“speaking of seeing you— i can’t remember if i got the chance to tell you how sweet you looked the other day, ” he says. “all that white. all them notes comin’ out your mouth. had me thinkin’ about heaven for the first time in years.”
you blink, lips parted, breath catching.
he reaches across the table and slides something toward you.
a ring—made from the twisted straw wrapper, looped and knotted.
“what’s this?”
“a gift,” he says, deadpan. then smiles. “thought you oughta have it.”
you hesitate, then reach out.
his fingers catch yours.
just barely. just a brush of your knuckle as he slips the paper ring onto your hand, like it means something. like you mean something. your whole body lights up under your dress.
he doesn’t look away.
“you got a name, sweetheart?”
you nod.
“you gonna tell it to me?”
you tell him. quiet, a little breathless.
“mmm,” he hums. “pretty. suits you.”
he leans in on his elbows, voice softer now. curious. “what do you do? ‘sides church things.”
you shrug. “help out. mama. the house. teach sunday school sometimes.”
“you ever leave?”
“fargo?”
he nods.
“only once,” you whisper. “for a choir competition.”
“that right?” he smiles like it’s sweet. “well, i’d’ve given you the blue ribbon just for standin’ there.”
your chest goes tight.
before you can say anything else, the bell above the door jingles.
“hey,” comes a voice—your sister, hair beads clacking together, a bag of groceries in her arm. “daddy said you were takin’ too long. you okay?”
you jump, tucking your hand with the paper ring under the table.
“i’m fine. just… i got tired.”
her eyes flick to gator, who is already standing. he tips his head toward her, polite as ever.
“pleasure seein’ you songbird,” he says to you, not even sparing your sister another glance.
then he’s gone.
your sister doesn’t ask who he is. just tells you to hurry up. but as you slide out of the booth, you keep your hand closed tight around the ring. paper thin. barely anything.
and yet your skin still burns where his fingers touched you.
no one has ever spoken to you like that.
no one has ever looked at you and made you feel like maybe you were made for something else.
something you aren’t supposed to want.
later that night.
you don’t take it off.
the paper ring. you wear it home, tuck it under your sleeve, hide it from your sister’s nosy glances and your mama’s sharp eyes. you tell yourself you’re just keeping it safe.
but now, hours later, curled up in bed with the lights off and the bedroom fan ticking low, it’s still there.
looped around your finger.
your hand rests against your chest, right over your heart. your nightgown clings sticky to your skin. the summer heat never really lets up—not even at midnight—and yet your whole body feels flushed from the inside out.
you turn over. again. and again.
he touched you. nothing more than a brush of fingers. but it hit you all the way through. like a strike of something—heat, lightning, sin.
you swallow and squeeze your thighs together beneath the sheets. they slide sticky against each other. you don’t know what you’re doing, not really. you just… want.
want to remember the way he looked at you. the way he said angel. the way his voice went low when he asked your name.
your hand moves lower, shy and slow. rests over your belly, then dips between your legs, where your cotton underwear is already damp. you rub there—barely—and gasp.
you shouldn’t be doing this. you’ve never done it before. but your hips rock.
far down the road, past the quiet fields and the rusted signs and the long dirt driveway that leads to your house,
he sits in his patrol car in the church parking lot. lights off, engine low.
gator.
one hand on the wheel, the other curled tight around his leaky cock, working slow and mean in the dark.
his head tips back against the seat. mouth parted. breathing deep.
he doesn’t mean to end up there. just starts driving with nowhere in mind, heart too full, brain too noisy. but the church pulls him in like a ghost—those old wooden steps, the iron bell, the cracked white steeple.
and the echo of your voice, all soft and trembling and clear as crystal. a voice like glass and sugar.
he groans, low and broken.
“jesus,” he mutters. “look what you done to me, angel.”
his hand speeds up.
he shouldn’t want you. not like this. not at all. you’re barely grown. raised by the book. sweet in a way he hasn’t touched in years.
but he can’t get the sight of you out of his head—the softness of your lips, the curve of your neck, the way you looked at him like you’ve never been looked at before.
he wants to ruin that look.
wants to make you say his name through tears.
his hips lift from the seat, wrist working faster, breath turning ragged. his hot sticky mess spilling out onto the dark patch of hair across his lower tummy.
and back in your bed, you gasp into the crook of your elbow, legs clenching tight around your own hand, thighs shaking. arousal drips from your sensitive core onto your cotton sheets, the feeling engulfing you is white hot. like carrying one one second longer will make you pass out.
tears brimming your eyes through it all.
the bible study had only just begun when the heavy wooden door creaks open.
there he is.
boots first—dusty, loud on the floorboards—then a familiar silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the setting sun. tall, broad, deputy shirt with the sleeves rolled and collar half unbuttoned like always. gator tillman.
he nods at the youth pastor like he belongs there— like he wasn’t a decade older than everyone in that room, like he hadn’t missed the first half of the scripture reading. then took a seat in the back row, stretching his arm along the pew behind him like he had every right to get comfortable.
you try not to look. try not to think about the way your skin prickled, the heat behind your ears, the way your fingers fidgeted in your lap.
it was wrong. he was wrong. and yet—
you felt steadier with him in the room. not safer. just… steadier.
like your heartbeat made more sense when it had something to race against.
you glanced up once. just once. he was already watching you.
bible study passed in a blur of red letter words, freshly baked cookies, and polite discussion. when it ended, everyone filtered out slowly, lingering in the aisles to talk weather and crops and casseroles.
you stayed behind, like always. straightening a stack of old testaments. collecting pencils. anything to make yourself useful. anything to delay going home.
and when the last voice disappears out the door, you realize he’s still there.
gator.
leaning against a pew like he’d been waiting. like he’d never planned to leave.
“didn’t mean to spook you,” he says, voice velvety smooth. “just… wasn’t ready to go yet.”
you clutch a bible tight to your chest, felt your ribs press into its edges.
“everyone’s gone.”
“i noticed.” his smile twitches. “didn’t figure you’d mind the company.”
he steps forward, slow and easy, eyes never leaving yours.
“was hoping i’d hear you sing tonight” he hums, voice gone quiet. “the one from that funeral is still stuck in my head.”
your face burns hot. you don’t really know how to respond to him.
he moves down the aisle, trailing fingers along the pews like he was walking through a memory, not a house of god.
“you always stay late to clean up?”
“someone has to,” you said.
“you always do what you’re told?”
you hesitate.
and he catches it.
he stops close—too close—where you can smell the leather of his belt and the heat of his skin.
“your daddy know you’re in here all alone?”
you shake your head before you can think better of it.
he tilts his head, studying you.
“how old are you, songbird?”
“twenty-one,” you whisper.
something in his expression shifts—like he’d already known, but wanted to hear it from you. wanted to feel the way the number settled between your teeth.
and suddenly, it struck you. the way he carried himself. the lines carved faint at the edges of his eyes. the calm weight of a man who’d already seen too much. he wasn’t just older than the rest of the group—he was older than you’d let yourself realize. early thirties, maybe.
gator’s eyes light with something darker. “no one ever teach you not to talk to men like me?”
your breath comes short, your throat tight.
he reaches out, thumb brushing slow under your jaw. “no?” he murmures. “guess i’ll just have to be reeaaal gentle with you then.”
you take a step back, and he lets you.
doesn’t follow.
just watches.
you turn to gather your things, fumbling the keys in your hand.
“be careful, songbird,” he said, voice lazy, low. crooked smile on his face, evident in his tone— “places like this don’t keep you safe from men like me.”
you don’t look back.
you don’t have to.
everything he was doing, was working. he’d already carved himself into you.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
you lock the front doors after he goes.
twist the deadbolt with trembling fingers, the heavy thunk echoing through the empty chapel like a warning. or a promise.
your heart’s still racing. cheeks hot. skin tingling where his thumb brushed your jaw. you can’t even bring yourself to sit. just pace the aisle like you’re trying to shake off something that’s already underneath your skin.
you turn toward the altar, toward the little table set off to the side. the prayer basket.
it’s part of your cleanup. empty the slips, pray over the ones that need it most, toss the rest. sometimes folks write in neat cursive. sometimes messy block letters. sometimes they don’t sign their names at all.
you pick up the first folded note absently, just to give your hands something to do.
but it isn’t paper.
it’s rough. thin. crinkled.
a cigarette. half smoked.
you freeze.
tucked inside the folded paper of the wrapper, in black ink that smudges at the curve, is a phone number.
no name. no message.
just the number. and your breath catching in your throat.
you turn it over like it might bite you.
and on the other side, in handwriting you already recognize, it says:
“if you ever feel brave.”
your fingers close around it before you even realize.
you shouldn’t keep it.
you can’t keep it.
but you don’t throw it away either.
you tuck it into the little side pocket of your purse, behind your lip balm and gum and emergency bobby pins. somewhere no one else will find it.
not even your mama.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
it takes you three days to work up the nerve.
you keep the cigarette in the inside pocket of your purse, check on it like it might’ve disappeared. like it was just a trick of your imagination. but it’s always there, smudged number and all.
you don’t let yourself think too hard about how many times you’ve taken it out. just to hold. just to trace the loop of a 6 with your thumb.
on the fourth night, you wait until the house is dark.
mama’s been asleep since the news went off. daddy’s in bed, reading scripture with a pen light and sighing at the state of the world.
you sit on the bathroom floor, legs curled up to your chest, and dig the number out of your bag.
the overhead light hums. your breath’s louder than you mean it to be.
you open your contacts. hesitate.
what do you even save him under?
“gator” feels too familiar. too simple.
you think of your older sister, the way she laughed and said, “folks call him the lizard behind his back—slippery and not to be trusted.”
it made your stomach flip then.
it makes your thumb move now.
🦎
you don’t write a name. just the emoji. like it’s safer that way. like it’s a secret only you get to keep.
you hover over the message box. type, delete, retype.
“hi.”
“i saw you the other day.”
“i found what you left.”
nothing sounds right. nothing sounds cool. or godly. or smart.
you settle on:
> it’s me.
and stare at it for a full thirty seconds.
then your thumb twitches.
sends it.
your stomach drops straight to hell.
you panic, try to turn your phone off like that’ll unsend it somehow. then turn it back on two seconds later.
message delivered.
no reply.
you sit on the floor for a long time after that, phone burning hot in your palm. heart pounding like it might give you away.
he knows now.
he knows.
you curl tighter around your knees.
and wait.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
you’re stepping into the cool hush of the church foyer when your phone buzzes in your skirt pocket. you glance around—no one’s watching—then slip it out beneath the hem of your bulletin.
1 new message.
🦎: angel.
your breath catches. thumb hovers. it’s too early for this. too early and way too late.
you don’t reply. not during announcements, not through the first two hymns. but during the third—something soft and old—you peek down again. and he’s sent another.
🦎: you singin’ again today?
you blush so hard you feel it in your chest. your fingers shake as you type:
> not a solo :[
🦎: that’s too bad. was hoping you’d sing for me again.
your stomach flips. you feel the heat pool behind your knees.
> that song wasn’t for you.
🦎: didn’t say it was. but it got me thinkin about how pretty you sound when you let go a little.
you tuck your phone deep into your bag. you try to forget it during the sermon, try to let your daddy’s voice drown out the rush of blood behind your ears. it almost works.
until communion, when you pull it out again.
🦎: you always this shy, sweetheart?
> no.
🦎: good. wouldn’t want to push you unless you could take it.
you clench your thighs together under your sunday dress. breath catches at the base of your throat. you want to say something back. want to be clever, bold, bad.
but your thumb hovers.
you delete and retype the same half message three times.
and then you put the phone face down on the pew beside you.
like it’s dangerous.
like you’re scared what he’ll do if you say yes.
or worse—what you’ll do if he keeps talking like that.
it’d been days since you’d seen gator in person. passed him once last thursday while out running errands, but didn’t get a chance to say anything to him.
all you’ve had is texts. brief. short. shiver inducing texts.
now, it’s almost 1 a.m.
the house is quiet—dark, settled. you’ve been lying in bed with your phone cradled to your chest, half hoping it might buzz and half hoping it won’t.
then it does.
🦎: still up, pretty girl?
🦎: been thinkin’ about you.
🦎: voice in my head don’t sound half as sweet.
your stomach twists. you reread them three times, thumb hovering over the screen. there’s a beat—your heart thudding like a hymn drum—and then you’re out of bed before you can overthink it. creeping down the hallway in your socks, slipping into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.
you sit down on the floor in front of the tub. the floor cold under your feet. your fingers hover. then—call.
it only rings once.
“angel, ” he says, low and smooth. that voice slinks through the speaker like smoke. you can hear the smile in it. “didn’t think i’d actually get you.”
“i, um—i saw your messages,” you whisper.
“mm. that right?”
silence pools between you. you can hear faint rustling on his end—maybe he’s in a car. maybe a motel room. something about it makes you squeeze your knees together.
“you disappeared,” you murmur, trying to sound playful, but it comes out too soft. “haven’t seen you in a while.”
his breath catches, just for a second.
“you keepin’ track of me now?” he asks. teasing. slow.
“no,” you lie. “just… noticed.”
“mm.” there’s another pause, then a low chuckle. “workin’. trying to keep the bad guys off the streets, sweetheart. ain’t all charm and good looks.”
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. you hate how much you’re smiling.
“so when’re you back?” you ask, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your nightgown.
he hums—pleased. like you just gave him something he’d been aching for.
“thought you weren’t keepin’ track,” he says.
“ ‘m not.”
“you sure?” his voice drops. “soundin’ real interested.”
you don’t say anything. he lets the silence stretch until your chest is tight.
“miss me, angel?”
still, you can’t say it. but you glance down and see your toes curled into the tile and you think maybe that’s answer enough.
he exhales. “shit.”
you hear something shift—maybe the rustle of his hand, maybe the sheets. you don’t know where to look. your eyes are on the floor, but your heart’s in your throat.
“wish i could see you right now,” he says, gentler. “you curled up in that little bed of yours? lights off? what’re you wearin’, pretty thing?”
you swallow. you don’t answer. he doesn’t push. just waits, breathing in your silence.
“you want me to stop talkin’ like that?” he murmurs. “or you want me to keep goin’?”
you shouldn’t say it. you shouldn’t even think it.
but you do.
“…keep going.”
it’s soft. breathless. like a secret.
on the other end of the line, he groans—low, drawn out, filthy.
you don’t know it yet, but he’s already got his hand wrapped around his cock. though the faint spit sound should’ve been a tell— he spreads the warm saliva down his thick rod, starting to tug himself. slow and mean.
“fuck. you don’t even know what that does to me.”
your thighs squeeze tight. your little cotton panties are already damp. the lace edge digs into the crease of your leg and it’s suddenly all you can feel.
“you like my voice, don’t you,” he mutters.
you don’t answer, but he hears it in the way your breath hitches. you can almost hear it now. the tightness in his jaw. the change in breaths. the faint stickiness of his palm as he fucks into his hand slowly.
“mm,” he hums. “yeah, you do. bet you press your pretty legs together whenever i talk to you. wonder if you even realize it.”
you whimper. it escapes before you can stop it.
he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “jesus. yeah, there it is.”
your free hand trembles in your lap. your nightgown’s bunched around your hips. you rub your thighs together and the friction makes your stomach tense. a steady pulse building up in your sex. it begins to ache. bad.
“wish i could see you,” he says again, but it’s heavier this time. “bet you’re soaked—“ his words cut by a sharp sound, the pace of his tugs faltering a bit. “leaking through those little panties.”
your whole body shivers. untouched sex pulsing almost as quickly as your heart is beating.
“that true?” he murmurs, thumbing over the thick vein that runs up the side of his thick length. “gimme a color, sweetheart. what’s wrapped around that sweet little pussy of yours right now?”
you close your eyes. whisper, “blue.. um like baby blue.”
“fuck. fuck. you’re gonna kill me.”
you hear a wet sound, slick and obscene. your hand flies to your mouth like it might stop the noise from reaching you.
he laughs—quiet, fucked out. “wanna hear you, pretty girl. talk to me.”
“i can’t,” you whisper. “they’ll hear me.”
“then be quiet about it. but touch yourself, baby. go on. make it nice for me. you know how right?”
“y-yeah”
your hand slips down. cotton damp against your knuckles. your finger brushes your clit and your hips twitch like you’ve been shocked.
“slow circles,” he says, voice raw. “you like it like that?”
“uh-huh.”
“fuck. what else you like? talk to me.” he grits the words out, callous hand making rough strokes against his thick veiny cock. pre and spit starting to leak over his knuckles.
you can’t see it, but you somehow know exactly what he’s doing.
“i… i don’t know.”
“that’s alright. we’ll figure it out.”
he grunts, breath jagged. “god, wish i could get my mouth on you. kiss and suck on that pretty pussy til you’re crying.”
your mouth drops open. your fingers move faster, three of them pressed flat against the top of your cunt. not quite on your clit, but close enough that you can feel everything. and fuck, it’s so good.
“mm. bet you’re close already, aren’t you? twitchin’ for me. i can hear it.” he was right. could hear the desperate slick sounds of your pussy. so wet and needy for him and he wasn’t even in the same state as you right now. barely even had to try.
you whimper. he hears it. his breathing gets rougher, now rutting up into his tight calloused palm. eyes squeezed tightly, imagining the look on your pretty face. the look you’ll have when you let him stretch you with his cock.
“rub harder, baby. rub like you want it. picture me there, helpin’ you through it.”
“feels—feels so good—” your voice trembles, breath quickening
“yeah it does. let it happen. c’mon, let me hear it.”
your back arches. your thighs lock around your hand. you press your face into your arm and shake through it, the kind of orgasm that leaves your ears ringing.
you don’t say a word. you couldn’t even if you wanted to, far too dazed. but your silence speaks volumes.
“…you there?” he pants, cock starting to twitch, creeping up on his end.
you nod, hand still pressed against your cunt. nervous to remove it, with how sensitive and used it feels now. “uh huh.”
“that was for me, huh?”
“…yeah.”
he groans like it physically hurts him. “fucking hell. you’re gonna ruin me.”
his voice changes after that. thick. needy. breath catching like he’s barely holding on.
it makes you blush once you recognize the shift in him— the sound of his hand moving fast, rough, slick. rhythm stuttering.
“you’re all i can think about,” he mutters, almost to himself. “jesus christ—laying this shitty motel bed, got my cock in my hand thinking about you making a mess of yourself just— shit, just for me. ”
your breath catches, eyes closing just soaking in the sounds from him. they give you chills.
“wanna get my mouth on you so bad,” he growls. “wanna hear you whimper right against my tongue, tell me it’s mine—tell me you want it—”
he grits his teeth. lets out a quiet, broken sound. “fuck—i’m not gonna last if you don’t—baby, say my name.”
you go still.
“please,” he murmurs. “just once. c’mon. gator. need to hear it. need to hear it come outta that sweet little mouth—”
“gator,” you whisper.
he gasps. the noise that tears out of him is filthy. unhinged. he spills with a groan that’s raw and half-strangled, the kind of sound a man makes when he’s been holding it back too long.
the line goes quiet except for his ragged breathing. a rustle of sheets. the soft sound of him trying to catch his breath.
you don’t say anything. neither does he. but you both stay on the line. long past the point you should’ve hung up.
just breathing. like you need to know the other’s still there.
after it all wound down, something shifted with you two. before you became too lost in hum of the line buzzing faintly in your ear. gator’s voice piped up again, softer this time, almost hesitant. but without giving it any more thought, he started speaking. “my dad… he keeps me on a leash,” he’d admitted, a rough edge to his words. “like i’m some dog he can yank around whenever he wants. i hate it.”
you had swallowed, chest tightening, and found yourself confessing too, voice low. “i know the feeling,” you’d murmured. “my dad… he keeps me in line, like i don’t get to make my own choices. like i’m trapped under his thumb.”
there’d been a pause, a quiet weight on the line, and then gator’s voice, softer this time, almost tender. “we’re different,” he said, “but… maybe we get it. maybe that’s why we… connect.”
you’d fell asleep that night thinking about him, about yourself, about how freeing it was to finally have someone who understood. about the hours spent half awake and unloading secrets onto one another. and in the back of your mind, a small spark of fear and thrill had ignited—the kind that whispered this wasn’t going to be simple.
and when the morning light broke in, soft and slivered through your blinds, the first thing you saw was your phone still clutched in your hand.
long after the ragged sounds of breathing faded. long after you felt your cheeks cool and your limbs go soft and warm.
you’d stayed on the phone with him long after you both went quiet.
you fell asleep to his voice, low and lazy in your ear.
telling you he’d be back soon. telling you he missed you. telling you he wished he could hold you while you sleep.
a message lit the screen.
🦎 1 message
“be home in two days. thinkin’ about you already.”
you smiled before you could stop yourself.
before your brain caught up to your body.
before the guilt managed to kick its way in.
you didn’t open the message.
just pressed the phone to your chest like that could shield you from the shape of what’s forming between you.
your daddy’s voice already rang in your head, strong and sharp.
about decency. about discipline.
about keeping your heart clean and your body cleaner.
gator is not clean. not righteous. not the kind of man you introduce in the church lobby and let pray grace over your dinner.
he’s older. mean. a lizard.
he’s got a mouth like sin and hands that haven’t even touched you yet but already make you ache.
he can’t be your boyfriend. this can’t be real. what even is this?
but… he listened to you. he understood you.
he made you feel wanted. he made you feel good.
and he made you cum just from the sound of his voice.
your phone buzzes again. you don’t look. but your fingers twitch like they want to.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
you don’t text him back.
not that first morning when his name lights your phone.
not that night when he sends another.
not even the next day, when it buzzes against your thigh in the dressing room of the mall, your sister hollering through the curtain that she’s found a sale on jeans.
🦎 6 messages
🦎: morning songbird.. dreamt about you • 7:51am
🦎: missing my girl • 11:23am
🦎: got somethin to give u when im back • 12:12pm
🦎: did i push you too hard? • 1:47pm
🦎: cmon talk to me, songbird • 6:01pm
🦎: [image] u like blue right? • 9:33pm
you read every one. but don’t reply.
you tell yourself you’re thinking. praying. that maybe a little space will help you make sense of this.
but still…you don’t delete the texts.
and you don’t stop looking at them.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
across state lines, gator’s slumped in the stiff motel bed, legs spread, eyes fixed on his phone like it’s got answers for him.
no reply.
again.
he tosses the phone onto the nightstand and rubs his jaw, muttering under his breath.
“told her too much,” he says.
“got greedy.”
his reflection stares back at him from the mirror on the opposite wall—dark eyes, gel slick hair, mouth still red from chewing his lip all night. he’s been acting like a man possessed since that call, rewinding your voice in his head over and over like he can conjure you from it.
he stands. paces. talks to himself like he’s still got you listening.
“she’s mine now,” he says, pointing at his own reflection. “said she liked it. said she missed me. i’m a winner.”
he grins. wide. all teeth.
“i’m a winner.”
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
12 hours til gator gets home
you’re at the thrift store in town. your sister’s trying on boots when you see it—a little gold cross necklace hanging on a turnstile by the checkout. dainty, simple. harmless.
you pick it up. turn it over in your palm.
you imagine it against gator’s chest, glinting just above the edge of his collar. softening him. making him look nicer. less like a threat.
more like someone your daddy wouldn’t mind shaking hands with.
“who’s that for?” your sister asks, peering over your shoulder.
“just someone i know,” you say.
you buy it. tuck it deep in your bag.
and pretend it wasn’t for a man who hadn’t stopped texting you since you hung up the phone.
you finally text him back the morning he’s back in town.
not much. just:
> if you’re free later i can meet.
you don’t check for his reply until hours later, but he responded in minutes.
🦎: always free for you.
and then again:
🦎: name the place.
you pick the park near the rec center. the one with the picnic tables tucked under the trees, too shaded and quiet for anyone to really hang around. you tell yourself it’s just a convenient spot. halfway between both your houses. neutral ground.
you tell yourself a lot of things.
he gets there before you.
of course he does.
sits on the tabletop, legs spread wide, heavy boots planted on the bench below. he’s in a grey sheriff shirt again, the one that stretches tight over his shoulders, sunglasses pushed up into his slicked back hair. there’s a little stuffed bunny with blue ears sitting beside him.
you blink at it.
he grins.
“got it at some truck stop out in missouri. made me think of you. soft and kinda wide eyed.”
you’re not sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. it’s stupid. you hug it to your chest anyway.
“you didn’t have to—”
“wanted to.”
his voice cuts you off without sounding sharp. just final.
like he did what he did and he’s not taking it back.
“i like thinkin’ about you on long drives.”
you sit beside him. not close, not touching. your leg brushes his knee by accident and he twitches like it sparked him.
you glance down at the bunny again. then dig around in your bag, pulling out the little box you bought yesterday. you hand it to him quickly, like it’ll burn you if you linger.
“i, uh. got you something too.”
he opens it. pauses.
the thin gold cross on a chain. just the right length to sit over his collarbone.
his thumb brushes it. he blinks, looks at you.
“this supposed to save me?”
you shrug. “i thought it might make you look nicer.”
he laughs, short and low, like it caught him off guard. like he liked that answer more than he should.
“you wanna help me put it on?” he asks.
you nod.
he turns, straightens his posture up so you see the entirety of his neck. that stretch of skin—tan and freckled, scarred near the base of his skull—makes your hands a little clumsy as you fasten the clasp. your fingers graze his nape.
he turns back around slowly. he’s still too close.
you both sit there for a second. silence thick between you.
then, soft:
“can i kiss you?” his voice drops lower. “been wantin’ to. not gonna if you don’t want me to.”
you don’t answer right away. you shift the bunny in your lap. you feel something folding open in your chest, something hot and fragile and wanting.
he sees it.
you nod once.
and then he does.
he kisses like he talks: deliberate, a little greedy. one hand curling behind your neck, pulling you in. when you finally break away, he’s flushed and smiling, the necklace resting at the dip of his collarbone.
but when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes that makes your throat tighten.
“you ever kiss anyone like that before?” he asks.
you shake your head.
“good,” he says.
and then again, under his breath, not really meant for you— “good girl.”
you spend another hour like that. just sitting. talking. touching shoulders. his knee brushing yours.
you don’t want to go home. but you do.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
that night, you lay in bed with the blue eared bunny tucked against your ribs.
you consider naming it— though none of the options seem good enough.
your phone buzzes at 11:13 p.m.
🦎: you sleepin?
you grin before you can help it. type back:
> no </3
then, a second later:
> not yet.
three dots pop up. then disappear.
then a photo comes through.
you stare.
it’s not graphic. not exactly.
just his bare chest—freckled skin and lean muscle, curly tufts of chest hair just under the necklace you gave him. the gold glinting under the glow of his bedroom lamp. he’s clearly holding the phone up with one hand, the angle slightly from above, the other hand resting low on his stomach, just above the waistband of his boxers.
you stare at it too long.
the cross sits right in the center of his chest. ike you put it there on purpose.
your breath hitches.
🦎: look what i’ve been wearing all day.
you type:
> looks good on u :3
he replies almost instantly:
🦎: course it does. you put it on me.
then:
🦎: been thinkin’ about you all day. ’bout that kiss. you being so sweet for me.
you feel like your body’s full of bees.
you stare at the screen so long it starts to dim.
before long another picture comes in. slightly lower this time. the dip of his pelvis visible. more skin.
🦎: you like this?
you do.
your thighs press together without you meaning to.
you’re quiet for too long again. of course he notices.
🦎: baby?
your face heats.
you chew your lip. then type, quick and stupid:
> yeah. i like it.
he sends another message:
🦎: wish i could see you too. really see you.
pause.
🦎: you ever send pictures before?
you freeze.
> no.
🦎: wanna try for me?
you hesitate. then:
> i dunno. i’ve never done it… i don’t wanna look stupid.
🦎: u couldn’t if u tried
> don’t be sweet.
🦎: not bein’ sweet. just honest.
you swallow hard.
he gives you a second to think, then follows up. phone buzzing with his convincingly soft words.
🦎: you don’t gotta show your face. not even a little. just… what you want me to see. just for me.
you think about it for a moment. that desire to make him happy burning deep in your belly. before you give it a second thought, you sit up in bed. take your tank top off, arms wrapping around your chest to cover you. tits pushed together to make them look a bit bigger. your fingers tremble a little as you lift the phone and snap a photo — collarbones down, your arm hugged around one side, nipples stiff in the cool air.
you send it before you can back out.
🦎: jesus fuckin’ christ
comes through a second later.
then:
🦎: i’m gonna lose my mind over you, sweetheart.
you giggle nervously. cheeks hot. heart reacting to each message he sends.
a beat, then another text:
🦎: can i ask for one more?
you already know what he wants.
and you hate how badly you want to give it.
🦎: tell me no and i’ll drop it
you hesitate. but then you reach for the little stuffed bunny , the one he gifted you. you snap another photo—its head tucked between your thighs, panties pulled tight, a hint of the damp patch showing.
the message whooshes off before you can stop it. your whole body feels like fire.
three dots blink again. then vanish. then blink again.
before you can breathe, your screen lights up—
incoming call: 🦎
your stomach flips. you swipe to answer, press the phone to your ear.
you answer with shaky fingers. you don’t say anything.
he groans. “you tryin’ to kill me?”
his voice is wrecked. hoarse and tight, like he hasn’t let go of his dick since the first picture.
“you told me to,” you murmur.
without missing a beat, it’s like something shifts in gator. lost in his own pleasure.
“that little pussy’s mine, isn’t it?” he grits, low and certain.
your stomach swoops. “it’s yours.”
a sharp hiss through his teeth, like he’s gripping himself too tight. “louder.”
your thighs press together, desperate for friction, but you obey, voice trembling. “it’s yours.”
he groans—loud, guttural, unrestrained. in the background you can hear it, the slick rhythm of his hand working his cock.
“good girl,” he pants. “sweetest thing i ever heard. you don’t even know what you’re doing to me—cock so hard you wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
your chest feels too tight. you can’t think, can’t breathe.
“wish i was there,” he goes on, voice cracking, desperate. “wish i had my cock in you right now, stretching you all open. wish i had you under me, taking me so deep you feel it in your tummy. fuck—are you touching yourself for me?”
your throat works, but no sound comes out.
“c’mon, angel,” he urges, voice rough with command. “do it for me. put those pretty fingers where i’d be.”
your breath stutters, heat washing over you as you slide your hand down. the moment your fingers slip into your panties— between your folds, the wet sound fills the silence between you. obscene. sticky. you know he can hear it.
“goddamn,” he groans, the noise punched out of him. “can hear how wet you are. fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?”
your eyes flutter shut as your fingers circle your clit, then sink down, pushing into your tight hole. the stretch makes you whimper, makes your walls clench down around your knuckles as you fuck yourself slow.
“jesus christ,” gator snarls, his voice shaking. “i can hear it—can hear those fingers playing with that sweet little hole. you’re killing me, angel.”
your back arches, sticky arousal dripping down your thighs, every thrust louder than the last, wet and obscene.
“faster,” he orders, voice breaking. “fuck yourself harder. let me hear you open up for me.”
you bite down on a cry but do as he says, fingers driving in and out, messy and desperate. you angle your wrist, pressing the heel of your palm against your clit, and start humping your own hand—rocking your hips down hard, using yourself the way you imagine you’d use him. the lewd smack of your wet cunt against your palm is shameless, filthy, loud enough to make him groan ragged into the receiver.
“fuck, baby, i’m close,” he grits out. “you’re gonna make me cum if you just say my name. need to hear it. need you begging for me. tell me who’s makin’ you feel good.”
your toes curl, body trembling as you rut against your hand, soaking yourself, chasing it. “gator,” you whimper, voice broken. “feels so good—god, i want you so bad. wish it was you, wish it was you inside me, stretching me open, making me feel good.”
he lets out a noise—half growl, half moan—that sounds like he’s tearing himself apart. “fucking hell, angel. you keep begging like that, i’m gonna lose it—gonna cum just thinkin’ about you makin’ a mess all over my big fucking cock.”
your body jerks, thighs squeezing tight around your own wrist, grinding down frantically. you’re whining now, messy and high-pitched, rocking against your slippery hand like you’ll die if you stop.
“gator—please.. need you, need it—, i’m gonna—”
“that’s my girl. my angel. nobody else gets you like this, you hear me? nobody. you’re mine.”
you gasp, choking on the wave building in your body. his rough, filthy voice drives you over the edge, and you’re trembling, cunt clenching around nothing as you come. your own release crashes through you in dizzying waves that leave you clawing at the sheets.
for a moment, all you hear is the ragged sound of him breathing. you can almost picture him—sweat on his chest, fist still wrapped around himself, eyes blown wide.
you don’t answer. you can’t. your throat is tight, your chest aching, your thighs still trembling.
there’s silence on the line for a moment—just the shared sound of two bodies wrecked, trying to come back down. then his voice again, softer this time, like he’s curling into something.
“wish i was holding you,” he admits. “wish you were right here. i’d keep you safe.”
your eyes are heavy, body slack, but your heart lurches at the words. too sweet. too much.
it slips out before you can stop it, quiet and breathless: “are you… are you my boyfriend now?”
there’s a pause. his breath catches.
then a low chuckle, tired and warm, though it doesn’t quite answer. “go to sleep, angel. i’ll stay on the phone.”
your chest aches at the way he sidesteps it. but he keeps talking, voice low and steady, coaxing. “just close those eyes. don’t worry about nothing. i got you.”
and you do. you fall asleep with the phone pressed to your ear, the sound of his breathing the last thing you hear.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
by the time you wake— your body’s still tingling from last night, your mind spinning with the memory of him in every sharp, soft, claiming way. the way he had evaded your question about being your boyfriend, the way he’d told you to sleep, that he’d stay on the line.
and now the morning sun makes everything too real. your phone is silent. no texts. no “morning” messages. nothing. part of you hopes maybe last night was a dream.
you shuffle downstairs, coffee and normalcy in mind. after a few tired good mornings and a kiss to your daddy’s cheek— you take your seat at the breakfast table.
then you see him.
gator. here.
the creak of the screen door makes your fork pause halfway to your mouth. your head turns, slow and disbelieving.
he’s there. standing on the other side of the flimsy mesh door like some shadow you accidentally conjured.
his hair is slicked back with gel, a pair of sunglasses sitting backwards on his ears. sunlight hits the gun holster strapped tight against his thigh, black leather against worn camo. one big hand rests lazy on the doorframe, knuckles grazing the mesh, the other tucked casually into his pocket like he has all the time in the world.
his grin blooms slow, sharp, dangerous. “hey, angel,” he drawls, casual as if he hasn’t just set your stomach twisting into knots.
your body locks up, fork clinking against the plate. heat floods your face, your chest tightening with a cocktail of panic and shame. he’s here.
your sisters are the first to break the silence. perched at the counter with their cereal bowls, they look at you, then at him, then back again—smirks blooming wide like they’ve been waiting for this.
“wow,” one whispers, her tone dripping with glee. “didn’t know you had friends.”
the other snorts into her spoon, stifling a laugh.
your mama moves fast, spatula in hand, stepping into the tense gap between him and the kitchen table. her voice is careful, measured, but you can hear the caution threaded through it. “may I help you?”
your daddy sets his mug down, eyes narrowing. his voice is a low rumble. “Gator Tillman.” His jaw tightens. “I know who you are. Roy’s boy.”
gator shrugs, still grinning. “yeah, that’s me. figured I’d stop by—was on patrol in the neighborhood, thought I’d see how that one’s doing.”
the room tilts. unease settles like a weight in your chest. your daddy’s jaw is rigid. your mama tenses, every instinct wary of the reputation that precedes him. your sisters can’t stop smirking. they sense it too—the dangerous, almost forbidden pull of him, and the fact that he is Roy Tillman’s son.
gator’s eyes never leave yours, that grin a silent claim, his presence rewriting the morning, making it impossible to breathe normally.
your mama hesitates, lips parting, then—because good manners can be armor—she steps aside. “well… don’t stand out there. come in, have a seat.”
the door squeaks open. his boots cross the linoleum with an unhurried confidence, each step a claim. he drags out a chair beside you at the table, the metal legs screeching across the floor, and sinks into it like he belongs.
you want to vanish, to melt into the floor. to pretend you’ve never met him. last night wasn’t supposed to exist outside of your bedroom. and yet… here he is, as if he has a right to invade your morning, invading the space you thought was safe.
gator leans back, one boot swinging lazily. “you look… surprised.” his tone is soft, teasing, and it makes your pulse spike. “you okay?”
you barely nod, words stuck in your throat. how do you explain last night without revealing everything?
your daddy clears his throat, voice low and deliberate. “i don’t like surprises. not from you, and not from him.”
“understandable,” gator replies smoothly, almost reverently. his eyes flick to you, almost daring you to answer.
your mama finally finds her voice. “well… breakfast is just got done— have you eaten, son?” she says, trying to fill the room with normalcy, but her hand trembles slightly around the spatula. every instinct is shouting caution.
your sisters lean toward each other, whispering, muffling giggles. “he’s… intense,” one murmurs. “look at her face.”
your shame twists tighter. every eye in the room is on you, every glance heavy with expectation, curiosity, wariness. you want to disappear, but you also want him—want him to stay, even though your entire body knows it’s reckless.
gator’s gaze flickers between you and your dad, a silent challenge there, daring yet careful. “i’ll just hang out a minute,” he says. “didn’t mean to intrude.” but the way he says it, like he could stay indefinitely if he wanted, makes it clear this isn’t just a casual drop-in.
you swallow, nerves raw, hands shaking slightly. your body betrays you, remembering every bit of him from last night, every memory that your brain insists is forbidden in this kitchen, under the glare of parental authority and sisters’ smug amusement.
and yet… you want him there. desperately, impossibly.
the smell of his cologne lingers, sharp and masculine, cutting through the warm kitchen air.
your pulse stutters when the leather of his holster brushes your bare leg under the table. it’s nothing—just a shift of his thigh, careless—but it jolts you upright, shoulders stiff. you can’t tell if he did it on purpose. then, slow as a secret, his hand drifts under the table, fingertips grazing your knee before resting heavy on your thigh.
you want to move. you can’t.
your daddy notices the way you sit ramrod straight, suspicion already sharpening his eyes. “how do you know my daughter?”
you scramble for an answer, cheeks hot. “he, um—he comes to bible study sometimes.”
gator’s mouth curves, messy and knowing. “she’s real generous, your girl,” he drawls, giving your thigh a squeeze under the table like a warning. with his other hand, he tugs the chain at his throat, gold cross catching the morning light. your necklace. “even gave me this.”
the room tilts. your sisters nearly choke on their juice, whispering furiously into each other’s ears. your daddy’s jaw ticks. your mama’s expression twitches briefly.
“we’re good friends,” gator adds smoothly, like he’s offering a safe explanation. but his eyes flick to you, heavy, daring. “she’s real kind to me.”
the word friends burns, confusing and sharp, especially with his palm burning into your thigh like he owns you.
your mama, tight voiced, slides a mug of coffee in front of him. “here,” she says politely, though her eyes are watchful.
“thank you, ma’am.” gator takes it with one hand, like he knows how to play the role, his smile bright and polite.
your sisters won’t stop giggling until your mama snaps: “go on, take your breakfast in the other room.”
they shuffle off with smug looks, leaving you pinned between your daddy’s suspicion and gator’s casual dominance. he sips his coffee, boots stretched long under the table, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh like it’s nothing, like no one can see.
you feel like you’re going to come apart. every squeeze sends your heartbeat racing higher, every stroke of his thumb a reminder that last night didn’t stay buried where it belonged.
your daddy leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. his voice is low, deliberate. “so i take it, you are a man of faith?”
your throat closes. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
gator doesn’t hesitate. “wasn’t always— but she’s been opening me up to it all.” his tone is reverent, almost soft—like it’s a confession. like it’s something sacred.
your daddy’s stare sharpens. “that so?”
you want the floor to swallow you.
gator takes a sip of coffee, casual as sin, then sets the mug down with a soft clink. “yes sir. something about hearing her sing at that funeral a few weeks back just put a lot into perspective. the good word means a lot, comin’ from her.” his boot nudges yours under the table, deliberate.
there’s a beat of silence that’s almost painful. then:
your daddy leans forward, forearms braced against the table. “listen, son,” he says evenly, “i know your daddy. don’t want no trouble from his boy.”
gator’s hand tightens on your thigh under the table, a warning, a promise. his grin is slow, dangerous. “no trouble, sir. wouldn’t dream of it.” his voice softens, almost earnest. “just thought i’d stop in. was already in the neighborhood, like i said.”
the excuse is flimsy, and everyone knows it. but he says it like gospel truth, and it hangs there in the air, daring anyone to challenge him.
your mama’s lips press tight, attempting to ease the heaviness in the air she pipes. “coffee’s getting cold, nothin’ worse than that.” her eyes flick between you and him, suspicion flickering with something else—worry.
gator leans back, casual, his hand still a brand against your thigh. “yes, ma’am.”
every second at the table feels like a trap, like the whole family is watching you unravel, and the worst part is—he knows it.
the clink of silverware fills the silence for a moment, but your daddy doesn’t let it stretch too long. he clears his throat, fixes his gaze on gator across the table.
“so,” he says, voice even but edged, “how long you been runnin’ patrols round here?”
gator doesn’t miss a beat. he sets down his coffee, leans back in his chair with that careless sprawl. “few months now. shift me around where they need me. figure it keeps things… interesting.”
your daddy hums, slow and deliberate. “interestin’ ain’t always good. neighborhood’s been quiet. don’t see the sense in stirrin’ it up.”
gator’s grin flickers, something sharper beneath it. “wasn’t lookin’ to stir nothin’, sir. just thought i’d check in. say good mornin’.” his hand squeezes your thigh once under the table before pulling away, deliberate, like a secret parting shot.
your mama sets down her fork a little too quickly. “well, it’s kind of you to stop by,” she says, her voice thin, polite in that way that means she’d prefer he didn’t.
your daddy studies him a long moment, then nods once. “kind’s one word for it.”
your appetite’s gone, every bite of food turning to dust in your mouth. when the silence stretches too tight, you blurt, “i’ll walk him out.”
your mama looks relieved, your daddy skeptical. but he doesn’t stop you.
outside, the morning air is cool against your skin, dew from the grass cold against your bare feet. a relief after the heat of the kitchen. gator walks beside you, boots crunching over gravel, that smug, dangerous grin tugging at his mouth. his patrol truck gleams in the driveway, the sheriff’s emblem bright in the sunlight.
“was real nice of your mama to feed me,” he says casually, like he hadn’t just dropped a live wire in the middle of your breakfast table.
you hug your arms tight over your chest, glancing toward the window where you know your daddy’s watching. “you shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.
gator’s laugh is low, warm, curling around you like smoke. “didn’t hear you tell me to leave.”
he stops by the car, one hand resting easy on the roof, the other reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. his thumb lingers, slow and deliberate against your cheek.
you lean forward a touch, heart thudding, so close you can smell the sharp tang of his cologne, the faint bite of coffee on his breath.
“you looked real pretty sittin’ there at that table,” he murmurs, voice honey sweet, meant for you alone. “all mine, even with your daddy right there. had me thinkin’ about last night the whole damn time.”
your cheeks burn, pulse fluttering wild. you want to pull back, to run, to deny the way the words settle deep in your stomach—but you don’t move.
“don’t look so spooked, angel,” he murmurs. “i’ll see you soon.”
the words are sweet as sugar, poisonous as arsenic. you can’t breathe around them.
your pulse stutters, the weight of him heavy in your chest, your daddy’s shadow stretching long in the kitchen window.
and then gator slides into the driver’s seat, boots and holster first, grin flashing through the open window. “be good, now.”
the patrol car rumbles to life, rolling away slow. you’re left bent halfway down, breathless and trembling, shame and want tangled so tight you can’t tell one from the other.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
when you step back into the kitchen, the air feels heavier, thicker. your mama’s already cleared gator’s empty mug, her lips pressed into a thin line. your sisters are still gone—thank god— and daddy’s is standing tall. displeasure smeared across his face. he stands at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, eyes tracking you like a hawk.
you sink into your chair, hands twisting in your lap, stomach still churning with the ghost of gator’s touch.
“what was that?” your daddy asks finally. his voice isn’t raised, but it’s sharp enough to cut.
you swallow hard. “nothin’. he just stopped by.”
“he ain’t the type to just stop by,” he says, jaw tightening. “and he sure as hell ain’t the type I want sittin’ at my kitchen table.”
your chest constricts. “you don’t know him,” you blurt out, the words tumbling before you can catch them. “he’s not—he’s not like his daddy.”
your mama sits down across from you, her eyes soft but worried. “sweetheart, it’s not that simple. his name carries weight. people see him with you, they’re gonna talk. and not kindly.”
heat floods your face. shame, anger, longing—all knotted together. “we’re just friends,” you insist, though the words taste like ash. last night’s breathless moans echo in your head, the way his voice had broken when he claimed you. “he comes to bible study sometimes. he—he’s different with me.”
your daddy’s brow furrows, suspicion written in every line of his face. “friends don’t look at each other like that.”
your heart stutters. “you don’t know him like I do,” you whisper, too quiet, but they both hear it.
silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. your mama reaches across, fingers brushing your hand. “we’re not tryin’ to trap you, baby. we just want you safe. and with him…” her voice falters, breaking off. “with him, I’m not sure you will be.”
you want to argue, to scream, to tell them they’re wrong—but the words stick. because deep down, you’re not sure either.
and still, you feel his voice in your ear, the soft rasp that had left you weak kneed in the driveway. i’ll see you soon.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
after this morning— you’ve spent all day avoiding your parents, skirting the kitchen, ducking out of the living room, staying holed up in your room where the walls feel safer than their eyes. every glance, every sigh from downstairs has you stewing in the confusion of their displeasure. you even prayed on it, hoping for some clarity, some sign that you weren’t completely insane for feeling pulled toward him despite all the warnings.
the sun sinks lower, shadows stretching long across your floor, when your phone buzzes. one word. come.
your pulse spikes, chest tightening. you slip into your shoes, heart hammering against your ribs. you tell gator to park halfway up the street—just far enough so the truck won’t give you away—and then you’re out the door, moving quickly, quietly. the night air wraps around you, cool and electric, as you run toward him, every step fueled by reckless longing and the ache of knowing you shouldn’t.
he’s leaning against the hood of his patrol car, boots scuffed, one hand lazily resting on the roof, hair messy in that careless way that somehow looks deliberate. when he sees you, that grin spreads—half dangerous, half sweet—and your chest tightens, the flutter in your stomach answering before your brain can.
“you made it,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. “good girl.”
“i… i couldn’t not,” you whisper, moving closer, sweating a little from the night heat—and from the way he’s looking at you.
he pushes off the truck bed, standing close enough that the warmth radiates against your arms. “you still mad at me?” he asks, tone cautious.
“no,” you murmur, cheeks warming. “just… surprised. it was a shock, seeing you at breakfast like that. but… it felt good, seeing you in person.”
he grins, that dangerous, teasing grin tugging at his lips. “good,” he says softly. “you looked… perfect sitting there, even with your whole family watching.”
you glance down the empty street, feeling a little flutter in your stomach. “my little sisters… they think you’re cute.”
he chuckles low, warm. “doesn’t surprise me. i’m hard to resist.” his grin softens, and he steps closer, brushing a stray hair from your face. “you weren’t mad though, right?”
“not mad,” you insist, looking up at him. “just… startled. and a little proud, maybe. proud you came.”
he tilts his head, studying you, thumb brushing lightly along your arm. “good. that’s all i wanted—just you. no awkward breakfast table, no questions, just… us, even for a little bit.”
the two of you walk into town together, side by side, shoes scuffing softly against the pavement. he lets you pick the spot, leaning into you casually, fingers brushing against yours every now and then. every touch makes your heart jump.
at the little ice cream shop, he holds the door open for you, flashes a grin at the clerk, then turns to you. “you pick first, angel,” he says, voice soft.
you stare at the array of treats, overwhelmed, but he’s patient, leaning back on the counter, casual, but every glance flicks to you. finally, you pick cookie dough ice cream in a waffle cone—and he chuckles, muttering, “perfect choice.”
he orders something for himself, and you find a little corner outside, sitting on the low curb. he nudges the cone toward you with his elbow, just enough for a playful touch. “here,” he says, smile soft. “don’t eat it all in one bite.”
you giggle, tasting the ice cream, the flavor almost sweeter than the moment itself. he watches you like it’s the only thing that matters, that grin that makes your stomach flip.
there’s a beat of silence before he breaks it.
“you’re quiet,” he says, voice teasing, but gentle. “thinking about somethin’?”
you shrug, “just… how weird it is. being out here with you. like… sneaking around. and… after this morning.”
“after breakfast?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, a soft laugh in his tone.
“yeah,” you admit, biting your lip. “seeing you at the house… it was kind of a lot. but… it felt nice too.”
he grins, and your chest tightens. “good,” he murmurs.
you sit together, eating ice cream in comfortable silence, the night stretching around you. small touches, shared smiles, quiet laughter—the kind of stolen, reckless sweetness that makes your chest ache with longing and delight.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
after some time, it all winds down and you slide into the truck beside him, the coolness of the leather seat hitting your legs.
“thanks for coming to get me— i had fun.” you hum, sinking down into the leather.
he grins, that crooked, dangerous grin. “good. figured i’d make a morning mess of things, might as well end the night sweet.” his eyes flick to yours, the streetlight catching the glint in them.
he shifts in the driver’s seat, one arm draped over the backrest, the other resting near your knee. the engine hums softly, headlights painting long shadows across the cab. you brush your hand along his thigh, careful, letting your fingers linger. he doesn’t flinch. instead, his thumb finds yours, brushing lightly, teasing.
“gator…” you murmur, voice small in the quiet hum of the truck. he hums softly in acknowledgment, leaning just a touch closer. “what do you… what do you think about… us?”
he tilts his head, studying you with that crooked, dangerous grin. “us?” he echoes, voice low, careful, like he’s weighing every word.
“yeah,” you murmur, cheeks warm. “i mean… tonight’s been… nice. i just… wanna know what you think.”
he chuckles, slow and low, that sound that makes your chest flutter. “reckon i like it,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along the back of your hand again. “like… being with you. having you close. don’t need a name, don’t need rules. just you.”
you feel a tiny sting in your chest—wanting more than “just you”—but you tuck it away, forcing a soft smile. “me too,” you whisper.
“my girl,” he murmurs against your hair, kissing the top of your head, voice soft, southern, a little rough. “missed you more than i thought i would.”
you giggle, breath hitching. “i… might’ve missed you a little.”
he smirks, leaning back just enough so he can pull you towards him. strong arming you over his thighs so you can straddle his lap, chest pressed against his, arms still draped around his neck. “little, huh?” he teases, thumb brushing your side, careful, teasing, almost reverent. “might have to remedy that.”
your stomach flutters, and your face warms. the night air in the truck feels charged.
he leans closer, eyes dark and intent. “tell me you want me,” he murmurs, voice low, just enough to make your stomach twist.
you bite your lip, cheeks heating. “i… i do,” you whisper, barely audible, trembling just a little.
his grin quirks, dangerous and soft all at once. “say it like you mean it,” he urges, hand brushing along your side, gentle but insistent.
“gator— i want you,” you murmur, heart hammering, hands reaching for the back of his neck.
he hums, low and satisfied, before tipping his head and pressing his half chapped lips to yours. the kiss starts slow, teasing, as if he’s savoring the moment, but quickly deepens. his hands cup your waist, thumbs brushing along the curve above your hips, steadying you as you shift on his lap.
your fingers dig into his cotton covered shoulders and he groans softly, pressing closer, tongue teasing yours. you gasp into the kiss, knees pressing against his thighs, his chest vibrating with a low hum that makes your stomach flutter.
“shit,” he breathes against your mouth when he pulls back just a fraction, forehead resting against yours. “you’re perfect.”
you shiver against him, the hum of the truck around you fading as the world narrows down to his lips, his hands, the way he makes you feel… wanted, safe, and impossibly alive all at once.
your chest stays pressed against his, the hum of the truck around you. gator’s hand rests on your side, warm and steady, fingers brushing lightly, teasing, asking for permission without words.
“gator…” you murmur, breath hitching, not totally sure where the sentence is leading.
he tilts his head, lips just brushing yours, a slow, deliberate press. “told you i’ll be gentle with you” he murmurs, low and rough. “you just gotta let me.”
you bite your lip, cheeks flaming. “i want you to—” you whisper, soft but sure, and he grins, easing into a deeper, careful kiss. that familiar fiery ache building in the pit of your tummy. similar to that of those few calls.
his other hand slide under your shirt at your waist, thumbs tracing along your sides, careful and teasing. you sigh into the kiss, nervous but eager. his teeth graze your lower lip, a little daring, and you gasp, heart thundering. spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his tongue lazily licking into your mouth.
the taste of ice cream and his vape mixing between the two of you.
“that’s it… that’s my girl,” he hums against your mouth, voice heavy, southern rough, making your knees weak.
your breath hitches when you shift in his lap, thighs tightening around him. the hard line of his cock presses up against you through his jeans and you can feel the twitch of him underneath, the way his hands grip tighter at your waist like he’s holding himself back.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice ragged. “you feel that, angel? that’s what you do to me.”
your face burns, but you can’t stop the way your hips roll forward, dragging across his lap. the thick ridge of him grinds right where you’re aching, pressure against your soaked panties, and you gasp into his mouth. the sound makes him groan, deep and guttural, his chest vibrating against yours.
“gator—” you whisper, breathless, fingers clutching at the hair at the back of his neck.
“shhh,” he soothes, though his tone is tight, rough with restraint. “i got you. just lemme take care of you.”
his hand slides lower, slipping under the hem of your skirt, calloused palm dragging over your thigh. the heat of him is dizzying, and when his fingers finally press against the damp cotton of your panties, you jolt, a broken whimper falling from your lips.
“jesus christ,” he rasps, thumb dragging slow across the soaked fabric. the friction is obscene, your slick squelching under his touch. “you’re dripping already. been sitting here like this for me?”
humiliation and need twist together in your gut. your voice comes out thin, desperate. “…yeah.”
he groans like the confession wrecks him, forehead pressing to yours. “look at me,” he demands, low and steady. you force your eyes open, his gaze burning into you, dark and reverent. “good girl. ain’t nothin’ to be shy about—means you want me bad as i want you.”
his thumb pushes harder, dragging against your swelling clit through the soaked fabric, and you rock down against his hand helplessly. the wet squish of it fills the cab of the truck, shameful and loud, your panties sticking to your folds with every grind.
“that’s it,” he breathes, mouth messy against yours, spit wetting your chin. “hump my hand, angel. wanna hear how sloppy that little pussy gets for me.”
your hips move without thought, rutting against him, your slick soaking through cotton until it’s sticky and translucent under his fingers. you moan into his mouth, wet and whiny, thighs trembling as you grind down harder.
he presses two fingers beneath the edge of your panties, slipping them against your swollen folds, and the squelch of your arousal makes him groan out loud. “fuck me—soaked all the way through. my messy little thing.”
your eyes squeeze shut as his fingers glide through the mess, catching on your entrance. when he pushes in, the stretch of his thick fingers makes your breath break, your walls clamping down tight, sucking him in with an obscene sound.
“ohhh, there it is,” he grits, watching your face. “tight little hole squeezin’ me like it’s hungry for my cock already. fuck, angel—listen to that.”
the lewd sound of your cunt milking his fingers fills the truck, sticky and filthy, your slick dripping down his knuckles as you grind against his hand, chasing it.
“gator,” you whimper, rocking down shamelessly, your panties shoved aside, his palm grinding your clit as his fingers pump inside you. “feels so good—need you so bad. want your cock, want it so bad.”
he snarls, low and ruined, his cock straining hard beneath you. “keep beggin’, baby. beggin’ all sloppy on my fingers like that—fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it.”
his fingers drive into you, knuckles deep, every thrust wet and messy, the slap of his palm against your swollen clit making your whole body quake. your walls clamp down tight, sucking at him greedily, slick pouring out around his hand, soaking his wrist, dripping down onto his jeans.
“fuck, angel,” he groans, his forehead pressing to yours, voice breaking. “you’re squeezin’ me so hard—gonna cum all over my hand, aren’t you? filthy little thing.”
your thighs tremble, your breath coming sharp and broken, your belly twisting up tight. you can feel it—right there, right under the surface, your body begging to break.
but just before the coil snaps, you whine, desperate, pulling up off his hand. his soaked fingers slip free with a lewd squelch, strings of slick clinging as you scramble against his chest.
“gator—” you gasp, voice raw. “need more—need you.”
your hands fumble at his waist, tugging at the thick leather of his belt. your fingers shake, clumsy, slick still coating them, making the buckle slip. you whimper in frustration, rutting helplessly against his thigh as you paw at it. some part of you feeling the need to rush as if you don’t have all the time in the world.
he catches your wrists, stilling you, his chest heaving. amazed by this sudden shorten in you— his eyes are wild in the dim light, pupils blown wide. “slow down, angel. breathe.” his thumb strokes your pulse point, rough but steady. “you want my cock?”
you nod so fast it makes you dizzy. “yes—please, gator, i want it, want you inside me.”
his groan is low and feral, like he’s barely holding himself together. “goddamn,” he mutters, thick fingers working his own belt loose with practiced ease. the clink of the buckle echoes in the truck’s cab, sharp and heavy, making your stomach flip.
he shoves his jeans down enough to free himself, and your breath catches hard.
he’s huge. thick and heavy, veins standing out along the shaft, the head flushed and slick, precum already pearling at the tip. dark hair curls at the base, damp with sweat, his cock slapping up against his stomach when he pulls it free.
your thighs clench instinctively, empty hole quivering around nothing. “oh my god…” you whisper, dazed, your mouth parting at the sight.
he grins, feral and crooked, gripping himself at the base, giving you a slow stroke that makes his whole body shudder. “too much for you, songbird?” he teases, voice hoarse. “gonna stretch you wide open.”
you stare breathless, eyes fixed on him. you whine, needy and trembling, grinding against his thigh. “please—gator, i need it.”
he watches you squirm in his lap for a moment longer, then shakes his head with a low laugh, like he can’t believe you. “nah, can’t have you ridin’ me all crooked in this seat,” he mutters, already shifting you off his thighs.
before you can protest, his big hands grip your waist and guide you down across the bench seat, laying you out flat. the cracked leather is cool under your back, but he shrugs off his jacket and bunches it under your head, careful, like he can’t stand the thought of you being uncomfortable.
“there,” he says, voice rough but steady, gaze raking over you. “look at you. laid out all pretty for me.”
your thighs fall open automatically, skirt hiked up, panties shoved to the side and clinging to your slick folds. his breath hitches at the sight, cock twitching against his stomach.
he crawls over you, bracing a hand by your head, the other still wrapped around the thick base of his cock. “gotta get it wet first,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the heavy length down against your pussy.
the head catches on your swollen clit, smearing precum and slick across your folds. you gasp, whole body arching, nails digging into the seat as he grinds slow, deliberate, the weight of him sliding through the mess between your thighs.
“fuck—” he hisses, jaw tight, cock dragging through your wetness with every roll of his hips. the sound is obscene, slick squelching, your pussy lips parting around the veiny shaft as he ruts against you.
“gator—” you whine, hips jerking up, chasing the friction.
he presses harder, grinding his cockhead against your clit until your eyes roll back, your thighs trembling. “jesus, listen to you,” he groans, eyes half-lidded, sweat beading on his brow. “you hear that?” the wet slap echoes in the cramped cab, filthy and lewd.
you nod frantically, lips parted, a whimper spilling out. “feels so good,” you gasp, voice high and broken. “please—please put it in.”
he just grins, sharp and merciless, rutting against your folds with another slow drag that makes your whole body quake. “not yet, angel. lemme savor you.”
you can’t take it anymore. the steady grind of his cock through your folds has you trembling, your clit aching from the heavy drag of his head. you reach between you, fingers fumbling, desperate to guide him where you need him most.
“please, gator,” you beg, voice broken, shaky. “need you—inside, please—”
his hand closes over yours, steady and firm, and he guides himself down, cockhead nudging a trail of slick at your entrance. the blunt tip nudges, pushing just enough to make you gasp.
“shhh,” he soothes, thumb brushing your cheek, though his own voice is rough, wrecked. “lemme in nice and easy, yeah? nice n’ slow. don’t fight me.”
the pressure makes your eyes flutter shut. you whimper, back arching, your pussy already clenching down before he’s even inside.
“look at that,” he groans, easing forward, the fat head splitting you open. “barely in and you’re squeezin’ me like a fist.”
your mouth falls open. “ohmygod—ohmygod, it’s too—”
“no, baby. you got it. you can take it.” his words are gravelly encouragement, his hand stroking your side, grounding you as he inches deeper. “breathe. let me stretch you.”
the stretch is unreal, every ridge and vein dragging against your walls, your slick coating him as he slowly feeds you more. you babble nonsense against his neck, fingernails biting into his shoulders, overwhelmed by just how big he is.
“fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses, hips stalling to let you adjust. “never had anything this big, huh?”
he knows the answer to that.
you shake your head frantically, tears prickling at your lashes. “s’too much—but feels—oh, god, gator—it feels so good.”
he presses another inch in, groaning at the way your body clenches to pull him deeper. “that’s it. just like that. takin’ me so pretty. don’t stop now, angel—let me all the way in.”
inch by inch, he pushes forward, the thick stretch burning and perfect until your body finally swallows him whole, your pussy quivering around the fat base.
“there we go,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading on his brow. “took every damn inch.”
you’re wrecked beneath him, gasping, trembling, still twitching around his cock like your body doesn’t know how to handle it.
“so full,” you whimper, lips brushing his jaw. “gator—it’s so much, can feel you everywhere.”
he groans at your words, holding himself still inside you, jaw clenched tight. “jesus christ, babygirl… you’re gonna ruin me.”
he pulls back just a little,then rolls his hips forward again—slow, deliberate, the thick drag of his cock pulling a strangled moan out of you.
“fuck, listen to that,” he grits, the wet suck of your pussy obscene in the small cab. “you were made for this cock.”
your thighs twitch, hips jerking up to meet him instinctively. “gator—oh my god—”
he bends down, catching your mouth in a messy kiss, spit-slick and desperate, before trailing lower, lips hot against your jaw, your throat, then down to your chest. he noses your shirt up, hungry, and drags his tongue over one peaked nipple before sucking it into his mouth.
you cry out, arching into him, walls fluttering around his cock at the wet pull of his lips on your skin. “feels—feels so good, oh god, please don’t stop—”
he groans against your breast, teeth catching the sensitive bud before releasing it with a wet pop. “fuck, you taste sweet everywhere, baby. can’t get enough of you.”
then he rocks his hips again, deeper this time, and the careful restraint he held at first snaps. his thrusts start to pick up, steady, harder, making the whole truck creak with the force.
“shit—look at you,” he rasps, eyes darting down to where your pussy’s stretched around him, wetness coating the thick base. “squeezin’ me so tight I can barely move. takin’ it all the way like my perfect little thing.”
your head tips back against the jacket, moans spilling from your throat, tears pricking at your lashes with the overwhelming stretch and fullness. “gator—please—faster,”
his mouth is everywhere—sucking marks into your chest, dragging over your collarbone, biting lightly at your throat as his hips pound into you harder. the sound of his balls slapping your ass mixes with the wet squelch of your pussy, filthy and loud in the small space.
“can’t be gentle with you, baby,” he growls against your skin, breath ragged. “not when you’re fuckin’ milking my cock like this. feels too good—jesus christ.”
you babble beneath him, incoherent pleas spilling out with every deep plunge into the base of your tummy. “oh god, yes, yes—so full, so deep—fuck, gator—i can’t, i can’t—”
he grips your thigh, pushing it up higher so he can rut into you deeper, harder, splitting you open with every stroke.
“you can. you’re mine,” he pants, teeth dragging your earlobe, voice rough and thick with lust. “gonna fuck you till you’re cryin’ on my cock, angel. take every inch and beg me for more.”
your nails rake down his back, blunt and desperate, your whole body trembling under the steady force of his thrusts. the wet slap of him driving into you fills the cab, the truck rocking faintly with every push.
“gator—ohmygod… feels—too much..” your voice cracks on the edge of it, breath hitching as that coil inside you winds impossibly tight.
he presses his forehead to yours, teeth gritted, hips grinding deep before pulling back to slam in again. “don’t you fuckin’ hold it—cum for me, angel. wanna feel you come undone on my cock.”
his thumb slides down between you, rough pad finding your clit, rubbing circles just hard enough to make you see stars. you choke on a cry, back arching off the seat.
“that’s it—let go for me, my girl. my sweet fuckin’ girl.”
it hits all at once, blinding, every nerve sparking as you clamp down around him, pussy spasming in hot, needy pulses. the world narrows to the stretch of him inside you and the white hot snap of pleasure tearing through your body.
you sob into his shoulder, legs trembling, walls fluttering around his cock as if you’ll never let him go. “oh god—gator—gator—”
his thrusts grow sloppy, rough, chasing his own end through the vise of your climax. “fuck, that’s it—jesus, you’re milkin’ me. can’t hold it—”
he buries himself to the hilt, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, hot and thick, flooding you with every twitch of his cock.
his hand grips your jaw, forcing your tear-streaked gaze up to his, eyes burning into yours. “say it,” he growls, voice wrecked. “promise me—your pussy’s mine. all of you’s mine.”
you nod frantically, babbling through the aftershocks. “yours—yours, ’m yours, gator”
he groans at your words, grinding one last time, making sure you take every drop. “that’s right,” he pants, collapsing against you, lips dragging over your cheek, your temple, anywhere he can reach. “my girl. my fuckin’ girl.”
the cab fills with the sound of your ragged breaths, the faint creak of the leather seat, the sticky wet mess between your thighs. you’re trembling beneath him, but he strokes your hair, your side, grounding you even as his cock twitches inside your oversensitive walls.
“ruined me for anyone else,” he murmurs, almost tender now, mouth brushing yours. “and i ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”
the space smells like sex and sweat and him, thick and heady in the warm night air. your body feels wrung out, boneless under his weight, every nerve buzzing with the aftershocks. gator kisses your temple, your damp hair sticking to your forehead.
“easy now,” he murmurs, voice rough but gentling, the way he always shifts with you. he presses one last kiss to your mouth before pulling out slow, careful, both of you hissing at the sticky drag.
he shoves a hand under the seat, rummaging, until he comes up with an old, soft t-shirt. you barely have the strength to lift your head, but he props you back on the seat and crouches over you, folding the fabric.
“just lemme get you cleaned up, angel.”
the first swipe between your thighs makes you jolt, flinching at the burn of oversensitivity. a little whimper spills out, thighs twitching.
“shh, i know,” he soothes, thumbing your hip, slowing down, wiping more carefully this time. “hurts a little when you’re fucked out like this, huh? almost done.”
he cleans himself with a quick pass, tossing the shirt aside, then shrugs out of his jacket. he balls it up, slides it behind your head like a makeshift pillow.
“lay back, babygirl.” his palm strokes your belly as he eases you down across the seat, tugging you against his chest until you’re tucked in the curve of him.
your cheek presses to his sternum, ear catching the steady thud of his heart. he wraps one strong arm around your back, the other hand threading gently through your hair, slow and steady until your eyelids start to droop.
the night hums outside the truck, crickets and cicadas fading under the soft rise and fall of his chest.
“gator…” your voice is drowsy, almost slurred, too tired to keep from spilling the truth. “feels safe here.”
he kisses the crown of your head, squeezing you closer. “good. ‘cause you’re mine now. safe’s all you’ll ever be with me.”
his chest rumbles with the low drawl, vibrating under your cheek, and before long you’re drifting, lulled by his warmth and the steady cradle of his arms, falling asleep wrapped up in gator tillman— the rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, and the gentle weight of his arm keeping you close, until sleep pulls you under, quiet and inevitable, in the truck idling softly at the far end of your driveway.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
the next morning..
sunlight filters weakly through the truck’s windshield, the faint hum of early sunday morning still in the air. your chest rises and falls steadily against gator’s, his arm draped lazily across your shoulders. the night’s warmth lingers, tangled with the faint scent of his cologne and the memory of soft kisses pressed to your hair.
suddenly, a sharp banging on the driver’s side window jerks you awake. you blink up groggily at the familiar, thunderous face of your daddy, frowning and red faced, knuckles pounding against the glass.
“get. out. of. that. truck!” he bellows, voice raw with righteous fury.
your eyes widen, heart flipping. you stir slightly against gator’s chest, whispering a panicked, “oh fuck…”
gator stirs, lifting his head just enough to squint at your dad through the glass, a lazy arrogant grin tugging at his mouth. “mornin’, sir,” he drawls, voice still thick with sleep. “sleepin’ in’s a crime?”
your daddy’s jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. “i don’t care about sleepin’ in! you’re—” he stops, eyes narrowing as they land fully on you, curled up in gator’s lap, half-buried in his chest, hair messy, his deputy jacket crumpled around you.
you tug at gator’s shirt, cheeks flaming, whispering, “i… i didn’t think he’d be up this early…”
gator hums low, thumb brushing gently along your arm, that crooked grin softening just a touch. “relax, angel. he’ll calm down.”
your daddy’s knuckles rattle the glass again, furious but speechless for a beat, just staring. your stomach twists—equal parts embarrassment, panic, and something else you can’t quite name—as gator murmurs in your ear, quiet and teasing, “don’t worry, darlin’. we’ll handle it.”
you push gently against gator’s chest, sitting up straighter. “i… i should go,” you murmur, cheeks flaming, voice small but firm. “don’t follow me.”
he hums low, a little teasing, a little stubborn. “sure, angel… if that’s what you want.” yet, almost immediately, he swings his legs over the side of the truck and follows, boots crunching against the driveway gravel.
your daddy’s voice cuts through the morning air, sharp and commanding. “hey! y’all—almost late! get inside and clean up, now!”
you straighten quickly, fumbling with your jacket, murmuring, “yes, sir…”
gator falls a step behind, hands in his pockets, grin still in place but a flicker of something more intense in his eyes.
“gator,” you say, tone firmer, “i said don’t follow me.”
he stops, tilts his head, that crooked grin teasing. “i’m just making sure my girl gets in safe, that’s all.”
“i can get in safe myself,” you insist, meeting his gaze, trying to keep your voice steady even as your pulse races.
he leans just a touch closer, and for a heartbeat, the air between you feels charged—like it could spark. you press your palms against his chest, feeling the heat through his shirt. “don’t… don’t push it,” you whisper.
he smirks, but the tension is clear. “ain’t pushin’, just… holdin’ on a second longer,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth.
your daddy steps up from the porch, towering over you, facing gator, finger poking hard into his chest. “buzz off, Tillman,” he growls, tone sharp enough to cut through the morning chill. “my daughter’s going inside, and you stay put.”
gator freezes, then slowly leans back a hair, still close enough that you can feel his warmth. his grin softens, just a little, and he mutters, “yes, sir.”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your body still humming with tension. gator lingers a moment longer, gaze on you, then steps back, letting your daddy shepherd you inside.
once you’re through the door, you lean against the frame, heart hammering, feeling the aftermath of the almost clash. gator’s still out there, boots on the porch, grin faint but eyes boring holes through the oak, a silent promise that this isn’t over.
you stand with your back against the stained glass front door, until you hear his engine rumbling low and dangerous. you hear him go, chest tight, stomach fluttering, a mix of longing and relief.
inside, your daddy’s voice booms through the hallway, harsh and edged with righteous anger. “you got somethin’ to tell me, girl? about last night?”
finally heading into your bathroom— you freeze, hands hovering over the sink as you start washing your face, trying to keep your voice calm. “n-no, sir… nothing, i swear. we’re just… friends.”
he strides into the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. “friends don’t sit in a man’s lap like that. friends don’t let themselves get… defiled. it’s shameful. it’s not right. you hear me?”
your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat. “he’s… he’s respectful. i promise. i—i don’t—i mean, it’s nothing like that.” your voice trembles despite your effort, eyes stinging. “we just… talked, that’s all. just talked.”
your daddy steps closer, looming like a mountain, voice lowering but still sharp. “don’t let this slide, little girl. you’re a preacher’s daughter for christ’s sake. you behave like one. can’t be lettin’ some Tillman boy—” he stops, takes a breath, shaking his head, “…you know what i mean. keep your heart and your body sacred.”
you swallow hard, nodding, holding back the tears that threaten to spill. “i… i understand, l. we’re just… friends. really.”
he glares a moment longer, then finally shakes his head, muttering, “don’t make me have to preach to you about this again.”
your hands grip the sink as your chest rises and falls rapidly. you feel the sting of near tears, not from shame alone, but from the ache of missing gator, the pull of last night’s warmth, and the suffocating weight of your father’s words.
after a beat, you take a shaky breath, splash water on your face, and murmur softly to yourself, “we’re just friends… just friends.”
your heart is still racing, and even as you tidy yourself and pull on your Sunday dress, a small part of you aches for the crooked grin and low, southern voice that had made last night impossible to forget.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
you step out of the house, nerves still raw, the morning sun harsh against your eyes. the crisp Sunday air does little to cool the heat in your cheeks. your daddy’s parting words echo in your head: just friends… keep your heart and your body sacred. you repeat it over and over, like a mantra, willing yourself to breathe steady.
the drive to church is quiet, the streets almost empty, the hum of distant traffic the only sound. your mind spins with last night, with gator, with the tension at home—but you tell yourself firmly: just friends. that’s all.
when you push open the heavy doors of the sanctuary, your stomach lurches. he’s there. front row of the pews, boots planted wide, arms crossed, that crooked, dangerous grin still tugging at his lips. he leans back, casual, smug—like he’s been waiting just to see you step in. his eyes catch yours almost immediately, sharp and hungry, and he gives a small nod, just enough to make your pulse spike.
“gator…” you murmur under your breath, trying to keep your voice calm, but your stomach flips. he doesn’t answer, just watches, patient and teasing, like he’s claiming every inch of your attention without touching you.
you move toward the choir loft, adjusting your dress, forcing your shoulders back, chanting silently: just friends… just friends…
he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink fast. just leans back in the pew, boots tapping lightly against the floor, eyes never leaving you. a slow smirk curls his mouth when you meet his gaze, and your chest twists with that familiar mix of thrill and unease.
as the music starts, and the organ hum fills the room, you take your place. every note you sing, every vibration from your chest, feels magnified under his watchful eyes. you can feel him there, waiting, enjoying the show, smug and sure, like he’s the only audience that matters—and like he knows exactly how it affects you.
and you can’t help it. your voice falters slightly on the first line, not from nerves but from the knowledge of him just a few pews away, quiet and predatory, a smoldering reminder of last night.
as gator leans back in the pew, watching you sing, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips. he thinks of those late night calls—the confessions, the shared frustration of being trapped under someone else’s rules—and he knows, just knows, that’s why he can’t stay away. he’s drawn to you because you understand him in ways no one else ever could.
even as the sermon begins to bleed into the background, your heart beats fast with both pride and a little guilty thrill, knowing gator’s there—front row, watching, waiting, making your chest tighten in ways you aren’t supposed to admit, even silently, to yourself.
the song dies down as the congregation bows their heads for the opening prayer, you lower yours, hands clasped tightly, trying to center yourself. the familiar words feel heavier than usual, a rhythm meant to steady you, but your ears pick up the faint scrape of boots on the floor. your chest tightens.
gator doesn’t bow. his head stays up, eyes locked on you, unwavering, the corners of his mouth tugged just so in that crooked grin. the heat of his gaze presses against your skin in a way that makes your stomach twist, a delicious, nervous flutter that leaves you almost lightheaded. your hands curl tighter in your lap, nails pressing into your palms as your voice wavers through the first hymn.
you catch your daddy’s eye from the pulpit, sharp and simmering. he notices you noticing gator, notices gator noticing you, and his jaw tightens. for a fraction of a second, the preacher’s face flickers with frustration, a flash of how dare you, before he smooths it into calm authority and continues, head raised, keeping the congregation none the wiser.
as the sermon begins, he shifts slightly, changing his tone and direction. the words now circle temptation, desire, the battle of heart and flesh. “we are tested every day,” he intones, voice steady but firm, “and it is not always the fire we see that burns the brightest. it is often the quiet glance, the soft word, the presence of someone who pulls at the soul, who tempts our hearts to stray from the path we’ve sworn to walk.”
your chest tightens further, and your lips press together. gator doesn’t flinch. he leans back just enough to look impossibly casual, but every detail of him—the angle of his head, the glint in his eyes—screams you, and only you. a tiny, involuntary shiver runs down your spine.
your daddy’s words, aimed at the congregation, feel pointed, layered. and though he maintains his composure, his usual preacher’s flourish carries a subtle edge, a warning, a boundary clearly meant for you to recognize. you straighten slightly, trying to refocus on the sermon, to sing through the prayers and hymns without letting your pulse betray you.
but even as your voice rises, soft and steady, you can feel gator’s gaze like a weight pressing against you, thrilling and unsettling in equal measure. it’s all consuming, and you bite your lip, holding back a breathy laugh—or maybe a sigh—as the preacher’s voice mixes with the quiet hum of gator watching you, front row, smug and unyielding.
your heart races, your palms sweat, and even the careful control you’ve built through years of church discipline feels like it’s slipping just a little, all under the watchful, dangerous charm of gator tillman.
⸻
the final hymn fades, the congregation rises, murmuring quietly as pews scrape against the floor. you follow the usual rhythm, hands clasped, voice soft, carrying the last notes just long enough to feel complete. the preacher offers a brief benediction, words of peace and blessing, and then the crowd begins to disperse.
you linger, as always, sweeping the hymn book holders, straightening hymnals, wiping down the edges of the pews with a practiced hand. your movements are methodical, almost automatic—years of routine—but tonight they feel hollow, the warmth of gator’s gaze still pressing behind your eyes.
you glance toward the front row, half-expecting him to still be there, but the seat is empty. the smug assurance, the dangerous charm—it’s gone. vanished the moment the congregation’s chatter filled the aisles, leaving you with the soft ache of disappointment tucked deep in your chest.
your hands pause over a hymnal, lingering longer than necessary. the truck, the night, the way he watched you sing… all of it clings to you. a small, frustrated sigh escapes, and you shake your head, trying to focus on the task at hand.
daddy lingers in the church vestibule after the service, fussing with loaner bibles and muttering about straightening chairs. you know it’s not about order. it’s about keeping you here. keeping you close. keeping you away.
the door creaks, warm afternoon air spilling in. you glance up—your stomach drops. gator’s there.
he looks a little too casual, leaning against the doorway. your breath stutters.
“afternoon, sir.” his voice is polite, smooth as honey but thick with grit. he nods toward your daddy. “ figured the two of us could talk.”
your father stiffens. his hand stills on the pew. “i have no words for you”
gator’s eyes flick to yours, quick and soft, before settling back on him. “respectfully, sir… i have some things you oughta hear.”
your heart lurches. your fingers twist into your skirt.
daddy steps forward, broad frame blocking you, voice sharp. “boy, you best just head home. we’ve seen and heard enough from you.”
gator swallows, jaw tight, but his voice stays steady. “ain’t tryna cause no disrespect. i just—” he breathes out hard, runs a hand over his hair. “i love her. i’m not here to hide it.”
the words slam into you. your chest seizes. daddy’s face darkens.
“love,” he repeats, slow, heavy. “that what you call it? draggin’ her into sin? temptin’ her away from god’s will?”
gator shakes his head, takes a half-step closer. not threatening, but sure. “no, sir. what i feel for her— it’s real. i’ll treat her right. better than right. i’ll take care of her.”
daddy scoffs, bitter. “you ain’t got nothin’ to offer her but ruin.”
gator’s eyes flash, but he reins it in, voice low. “maybe you don’t believe me. maybe you never will. but i ain’t lyin’ about this—” his gaze finally locks on yours again, raw and unwavering. “i love her. and i don’t want nobody else.”
your breath shudders out. your daddy looks between you, suspicion flaring. his mouth pulls tight, voice like gravel. “you stay away from my girl. the lord sees the truth, even when men lie with their tongues.”
gator nods, slow, like he’ll take the blow. but his last words stick, sure and stubborn. “not lyin, sir. not about her. never about her.”
the silence after feels like lightning, every nerve in your body screaming with the weight of what just happened.
your chest is tight, like there’s not enough air in the church to breathe. your daddy’s shoulders are squared, his jaw locked, the same way it gets before he scolds the congregation, and gator—gator’s not backing down. not this time.
“you’ll stay away from her,” daddy spits, taking a step forward.
gator’s chin lifts. “can’t do that, sir.”
it’s the sound of your father’s boots scraping on the wooden floor that makes something snap in you. before you can think, before fear can hold you, you’re moving. your feet carry you fast, heart pounding, and you wedge yourself between them.
“stop.” your voice is thin, shaking, but it rings in the empty sanctuary. “both of you—stop.”
daddy’s eyes widen, like you’ve betrayed him just by speaking. gator’s hand hovers near your back, steady but not touching, his presence like a shield behind you.
“baby girl,” your father warns, his voice low, dangerous, “you don’t know what you’re doin’.”
“i do.” your throat burns, tears hot in your eyes, but you don’t move. you stand tall, as tall as you can with your knees trembling. “i know what i want. and i want him.”
your daddy’s face twists, fury and hurt tangled together. “he’s gonna drag you to hell.”
“no,” you choke out, the words tumbling fast now, raw. “he loves me. i feel it. i know it’s real. you can’t tell me it’s not—” your voice breaks, “you can’t keep me caged here forever.”
the air is heavy, buzzing. your father shakes his head, muttering scripture under his breath like it’s armor, like it’ll keep him from hearing you.
you feel it—the weight of him standing tall at your back, his heat, his strength. your daddy looks past you, eyes narrowing, and for a second you think he might swing. your body tenses, braced for it, but you don’t move. you stay right where you are, your chest pressed to gator’s, his presence like a wall at your spine.
“please,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the strain. “just let me choose.”
your daddy’s hand snaps out, rough fingers curling around your arm. it’s not the first time he’s held you too tight, but it still makes your stomach drop. his voice is sharp, final.
“you don’t know what you’re sayin’. i won’t let you shame this family. i won’t let you shame me.”
“stop!” you cry, trying to wrench your arm free, the sting of his grip making your eyes blur.
before you can even stumble back, gator’s hand closes around your waist, steadying you, pulling you just out of reach. his other hand clamps around your father’s wrist, grip like iron.
“don’t,” gator growls, low and dangerous. “you don’t put your hands on her.”
the heat in his voice makes your whole body quake. your father jerks, tries to yank his hand free, but gator doesn’t budge. for a moment, it’s pure tension—two men locked in a battle of wills, your pulse a drum in your throat.
“you think you’re a man?” your father snarls, spit flying. “you’re nothin’. filth. a goddamn lizard. and i’ll be damned if i let filth lay claim to my daughter.”
gator steps forward, dragging you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, his height towering over your daddy. his eyes blaze, jaw flexing.
“she ain’t yours to keep,” he bites out. “she’s her own. and she’s mine if she wants to be.”
your heart lurches at the words—mine if she wants to be—your body pressed so close you can feel every inch of his promise.
“gator—” you whisper, your voice trembling, and finally your daddy’s eyes flick to you.
“i’m not a child anymore, daddy. you can’t scare me into stayin’. you can’t scare me out of lovin’ him.”
your voice cracks, but the words are steady, the first time you’ve ever said them out loud. it feels like a dam breaking, spilling years of silence into the open.
your daddy’s face twists, red creeping up his neck. “you don’t know what love is. he’s filled your head with lies, with sin. he’ll drag you down to hell with him.”
behind you, gator bristles, chest pressed to your back, breath hot against your hair. “ain’t no lie in me wanting her. nothing sinful bout the way i take care of her.”
“take care of her?” your daddy spits, stepping forward, shoulders squared. “you’re a coward. a sinner. you think you can stand in my house—my church—and lay claim to what’s mine?”
gator’s laugh is humorless, sharp. “she ain’t yours. never was. you just been keeping her locked up like property.” he shifts his stance, towering, muscles coiled tight. “you want a fight, old man? i’ll give you one.”
“stop!” you cry, your hands clutching gator’s arm, tears streaming hot and fast. “please, both of you, stop—”
but neither man breaks their stare. it’s a standoff, fire meeting fire, and you can feel the world tilting, about to split wide open.
then your daddy’s voice cuts low, cold as stone. “you want him so bad? then choose.”
your breath leaves you in a rush, the words slamming into you like a blow. choose. your heart races, your chest heaves, your tears blur both of them into shapes of rage and desperation.
gator’s hand finds yours, warm and trembling, and that’s all it takes. your choice has already been made.
“fine,” you sob, squeezing his hand tight, voice breaking. “then i choose him. i choose gator.”
your father’s face goes slack, shock and fury warring in his eyes, but you don’t wait to see which wins. gator’s already pulling you with him, his grip sure and unyielding as he drags you down the aisle.
your shoes skid against the worn wood floors, your tears still falling, but you don’t look back. not when the church doors slam behind you, not when the cool air rushes your face, not when gator throws open the door to his truck.
“c’mon, angel,” he mutters, voice thick, shaking as he helps you inside. “we’re getting outta here. we’re gone.”
the door clicks shut behind you, and gator slides in beside you, boots thudding softly against the floor. his hand finds yours again, fingers curling tight around yours like a lifeline. your chest heaves, and the heat of tears still lingers on your cheeks, but there’s relief now, too. a fierce, fluttering kind of relief.
you fumble for your phone, going to text your mama— thumbs trembling as you type,
> i love you so much… please don’t be mad
you hit send before second-guessing yourself. the little vibration against your palm feels like a lifeline. your eyes sting, the tears threatening to spill, and you press your forehead to the cool glass of the window, trying to steady your racing heart.
gator leans over, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. “hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. “don’t let it get you. it’s okay to feel all that, angel.”
you sniffle, trying to blink away the hot streaks, and he shifts closer, draping an arm across your shoulders, pulling you into him. you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the low hum of the truck around you. it’s grounding, safe, like the world has shrunk to just this moment.
“we can go wherever we want,” he whispers, lips brushing the top of your head, voice rough with that lazy southern drawl. “don’t gotta look back. don’t gotta worry about anyone else. just us, okay?”
you tilt your head up slightly, letting a small, shaky laugh escape through your tears. “okay,” you murmur, the weight in your chest lightening just a little. the brief pinch of doubt fades, replaced by the thrill of freedom, choice, and the knowledge that you made it.
gator’s grin is crooked, eyes softening. “that’s my girl,” he says, squeezing your hand. “we’ll figure it out. wherever you wanna go… we’ll go.”
you pull back just a little from his chest, blinking up at him, still shaky but smiling through the lingering tears. “i… i’ve never been to the beach,” you admit quietly, voice small, almost sheepish.
gator’s grin widens, eyes lighting up with that mischievous glint. “never been to the beach, huh? well… then beach it is,” he says, voice low and teasing, like it’s a promise.
you bite your lip, looking out the window as the sun catches the edges of the trees passing by. “but… we don’t have anything—no towels, no swimsuits, not even a toothbrush. nothing.”
he shrugs, casual, almost like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “ain’t a problem, angel. i’m sure california’s got stores too. we’ll figure it out.” his hand drifts to your thigh, warm and reassuring, and your stomach flutters.
“i can’t believe we’re doing this,” you murmur, half to yourself, half to him.
“believe it,” he says, voice warm, confident, full of that calm you to your bones energy. “just us. miles of road. and whatever we want at the end.”
you exhale, feeling the tension loosen, your chest rising and falling in tandem with his steady heartbeat. the world outside the truck fades to nothing, and for the first time in hours, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. safe, wanted, and alive with the decision you made.
Hi can you write about Joe wearing a cowboy hat and he give it to the popstar reader on stage. Then everyone goes crazy because of the cowboy hat rule iykyk 🫣
The 'hat' thing...
Some people just had different trends to take care of in their sets:
Role Model had his sally, Sabrina Carpenter had her arrests. Well, Joe had you.
You who in your own right were an artist. A successful one, career spanning more years than Joe knew. Pop's punk, due to your poppy style with slight punk or rock themes. It was how you'd met, Joe backstage at a concert of yours two years ago.
What was only supposed to be a simple 'cat and mouse' chase, a way to get the fun out of the both of your systems turned into something more, a share of songs and help in the studio, captured in film pictures that Joe kept in his wallet. Secret dinners where nobody could spot you but the one or two eagle eyes fans. Small nods to each other in songs, a wink at the camera when on stage.
It was all a push and a pull.
But the internet was wild with your yet to be confirmed relationship. The hottest couple in the music industry, that was what you were coined as as soon as the rumours started.
It was only basically confirmed when you joined him on tour, featuring in many of the videos he teased fans with. Whether he was mocking your stretches, waving to you in the stands at rehearsal or straight up having his arms around you at sound check.
Joe had brought you on stage a handful of times for his Crux tour, an album you loved almost as much as him.
When it came to his guitar riff on 'Back to You', he knew how much you loved to watch him play (or the way his fingers moved on the strings- whatever). One night he dragged you on stage, sat you down and danced around you while playing it.
The crowd couldn't believe it, neither could you. It wasn't something he asked to do but you knew just as he did there was nothing like the high of a show.
You'd laughed the whole time, running away after that.
But it seemed that small spark balled up to Joe making it a regular thing.
"Sing with me tonight," he's said one night, the two of you in bed at some hotel in Europe. His arms were around you, keeping you in place, glasses were already slipping down his nose from how he'd slipped them on first thing.
"Sing with you?"
"Yeah, come out for a song. I miss you when I'm up there," he said it all casually, not even opening his eyes from the slumber he was trying to escape.
You chuckled, holding onto his arms, running your nails up and down till he was left shivering. "I'm only in the stands."
"Mh, too far," he said. "C'mon, pick a song, any song."
That's how that night you shocked fans, running out to the mic at 'basic being basic'. The band laughed loud, supporting and Joe let you. In fact, he stood behind you, looming over as he put either arm at the side of you, grabbing the mic and caging you in.
He stayed there, moving the mic to his lips sometimes to sing a line before moving it back to you, all the while his hips moved behind you and you felt every movement from how close he stood.
From that night on you practically joined him every time for the song.
He kept you up there while he sang 'Gap tooth smile'.
On one night, where he just couldn't get enough of it, he grabbed you and kissed you in his blue shirt 'something extra'. He wasn't just kissing you, he was keeping you there and sliding his tongue in.
The crowd lost it every time and frankly it was becoming odd if you didn't turn up.
Joe'd have to deliver the news to the crowd when they started chanting your name. He'd pout with them.
Once, he facetimed you so you could do the call in 'Charlie's garden' instead of, well, Charlie.
They chanted your name in another night- a night well-eyed fans spotted your Instagram at the venue and they couldn't let it go.
It was during the semi-calm in 'Flash mountain' that he panted into the mic. "I'm so sorry, she couldn't make it tonight," there was a collective 'awe' before he smirked. "Sike motherfucker-"
You ran out to him, joining the madness that was that song.
A fan favourite, an absolute steal moment of the show was when he was finishing the set, wearing again your favourite 'I've got something extra' blue top that just hugged him perfectly. Oh, and a cowboy hat. As he was singing boys in the band had dragged you out, carrying you in arms.
Joe greeted you with a smile and then when his band mates deposited him down, Joe grabbed his hat and plopped it on your head, pushing it down till it fit snug, practically hiding your eyes from the world.
The fans screamed louder than when he first came on.
When he'd finished the song and they were all walking off, taking their things with them, Joe followed close behind you, mimicking a gallop on a horse and a whip as he left with you. He may as well have been grinding on you as you exit, a hand steady on your hip.
The fans were only talking about one thing, the internet only had one thing to say as the both of you got back to the hotel.
Joe was slouched on bed, the cowboy hat returned to him as you rummaged around in his case for something to sleep in or something. "Babe, what's this cowboy rule everyone's crazy about?" he asked.
You looked back at him. You knew he wasn't on his phone enough to see everything, but surely. "What?"
"Everyone's talking about it. When you take a cowboys hat... if you know you know," he said, folding up his phone to the comments.
You grinned, chuckling to yourself as you climbed up the bed.
Joe dropped his phone aside, watching you make your way up. "Hello."
"Well you know what they say, right? Save a horse, ride a cowboy?"
He nodded, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Yeah."
"Well, there's another little rule that when you wear the cowboy's hat," you pursed your lips and pulled your brows together, doing your best to act disappointed at the rule you'd have to follow. "You have to ride the cowboy."
His eyes lit up, a smirk tilting his lips. "Well, in that case-" Joe dropped the hat atop you and wrapped an arm around your waist, bringing you into him.
𝗕𝗘𝗬𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔 𝗔𝗨 ⋆𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆ 𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗩𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗢𝗡
Steve finds a girl in his pool. A very wet, very bloody, and very scaly girl. mermaid!reader
all in one place — newest first
the first fic
you attempt to figure each other out
Steve tells Robin about the mermaid
you are nearly discovered
you spend a few hours in bed
Steve takes you back to the pool
you meet Dustin and Eddie
Eddie teaches you how to swear
Steve gets hurt by the pool
you ask for company
you have a hand to heart
Steve gets you some bikinis
you, Steve, and unending eye contact
you don’t understand and get upset
you give Steve an important gift
everyone tries to cheer you up
an animal outside scares you
you make a big change
Steve takes you to the mall for clothes
Steve explains ‘want’
Robin discovers your new features
you take your first bath
Steve feels you ‘purring’
you get the wrong idea about Nancy
you go klepto, to Steve’s distress
you take a bite out of Steve’s arm
you need Steve to explain real kissing
Steve gives you your kiss
there’s an intruder in the house
you hurt yourself making a bagel
Steve realises what’s missing
you wake up in an unfamiliar room
Steve’s guilty conscience creates distance
you and Hopper have a talk
you get a kiss for your headache
Steve takes you to lovers lake
★ summary: flying during the holidays is horrible enough; even worse is when your flight gets delayed by 24 hours. the only thing that makes it worth it is the brown eyed boy who's determined to make the next 24 hours the best date of your life.
★ pairing: modern!steve harrington x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, love at first sight, brief mention of heart attack & cpr, cursing, airport bathroom sex, oral sex, unprotected sex, big dick & dirty mouth steve harrington you guys know the drill
★ word count: 10k
★ notes: watched before sunrise, cried, then opened a google doc :) this is also me soft launching emt!steve
“We regret to inform you that flight UAL-8777 to Chicago has been delayed until tomorrow at 6 o’clock central time. Please head to the Airline Counter if you have any more questions. We sincerely apologize.” The intercom buzzed, followed by the loudest in unison groan you might have ever heard in your life. Flying around the Holidays were stressful enough as it was, but now your flight had been pushed back nearly 24 hours.
God forbid you take the cheaper flight with a layover; now, here you were trapped in a random Midwest airport for hours.
“Jesus fucking christ.” You grumbled, kicking your suitcase more aggressively than you needed to. Taking your anger out on the poor, hard plastic. “Save a hundred dollars, Y/n, it’ll be fine. No, I’m so excited to spend Christmas Eve in the airport, this is exactly what I wanted.”
You were mumbling to yourself like a madman, plopping down in a quiet corner. There was no way you were going to the ticket counter now; the angry mob of people had grown tenfold in just the few minutes it took you to walk over here.
“Us frugal spenders got the short end of the stick, huh?” A voice spoke, making you spin your body in the hard plastic airport chair.
“Fuck.” You laughed, holding your chest. “Oh my god, sorry I didn’t know you were over here.” A man with headphones wrapped around his neck was sitting on the floor, charging his phone. Barricading himself in his own corner, a similar idea to the one you had. His hair was organized chaos, his smile wide.
“No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to startle you.” His eyes went soft; they were brown. A warm honey brown you could imagine yourself drowning in.
He was attractive, that much was obvious. If it wasn’t his face, it was how he held himself, even as he was tucked into the wall. Hoodie sleeves covering his hands to keep warm.
You spun in the chair, pulling your knees up to your chest. “I’m sure you didn’t expect a crazy woman to come over here and begin speaking to herself like she’s lost her mind.”
He smiled, a true with-teeth grin. “Worst things have happened than a pretty lady having a moment of insanity. Besides, I think if you can lose your mind anywhere where it's socially acceptable, it’s the airport.”
You hummed in agreement. Ignoring the way your cheeks flushed at his compliment. “Are you also going to Chicago?”
“Guilty. My best friend just moved there, I’m thinking of joining, but I wanted to visit a few more times.” He smiled.
“Funny. I just signed a lease there. My work is moving me.” You smiled, his eyes lighting up. “My sister’s waiting for me in my new place.”
“God, well, now I have to move, huh?” He grinned; all you could do was laugh.
“It’d be nice to have a friend in the city…” You trailed off.
He moved his bag, shuffling towards you with his hand outstretched. “Steve. Steve Harrington.”
“Y/n, Y/n Y/l/n.” You said, shaking his hand clumsily. He pulled away first, sitting there awkwardly for a moment before another announcement came on, announcing more cancelled flights.
“Well, Y/n, I think you deserve a $20 coffee that tastes like dirt water and an overpriced sandwich that tastes like hospital food.”
“Wow, Steve, you treat all your ladies like this?” You teased, standing up to join him.
“All my ladies I befriend in airports for 24 hours? Absolutely.”
“Hmm, and how long is that list?” He stood next to you, ready to take your bags from your hands immediately. The chivalry oozes out of his pores.
“Right now? Pretty short,” He smiled, “Let’s say we claim this corner, huh? Unless you had accommodations for tonight.”
It was an invitation to stay, one you’d be ashamed to admit you didn’t even think through before you were nodding. This fairytale book of a man showed up in his oversized hoodie, carrying your bags, and talking sweetly to you. You could see the looks of disappointment on your friend's faces now if you told them you just walked away, getting a hotel for the night as a normal person would.
“Consider this corner conquered.” You said, a smile lighting his features. His eyes crinkled as he moved your bags next to his.
“So I’m thinking, coffee first, then food. Then we attempt to occupy ourselves and somehow get sleep in this disaster.”
“While also trying not to get trampled by the Home Alone family over there.” You added, watching a family of at least 12, all running through the terminals at full speed.
He nodded, “Dying would be bad. This first date would be off to a bad start.” He said absentmindedly, the two of you walking side by side.
“Date, huh?” You smirked, side-eyeing the man. He froze, his hands moving wildly before he began speaking.
“Wait, ha. I didn’t mean, like I was joking. But also kinda not?” He babbled, running his hand through his hair wildly. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. We did literally just meet. I promise I’m not like a creep or anything-”
“You’re cute when you’re nervous.” You smiled, watching him continue.
“And I swear I just said it. I don’t think sometimes, I should have asked, but-” He slowly caught up, “Wait, you think I’m cute?”
You nodded, a shy smile on your lips. “Very. And for the record, we may never see each other again. So you better make this a very memorable date.”
He brought his hand up in a salute, “Yes, ma'am.”
Once the date was solidified, you both ordered your food. When you reached into your purse, Steve ignored you, handing over his card to the barista without a second glance. Your cheeks were red, your chest giddy with excitement. You felt like a middle schooler again, complete with the clammy hands and awkward gait.
“How is it?” He asked when you took a drink, your eye twitching.
“Tastes like they ground the beans with a rusty hammer and brewed it with mop water.” You cringed, “So exactly how I expected it to taste.”
“Oh, that’s my favorite kind!” He gasped, taking a drink of his own. Swallowing it down harshly, “Oh god, that’s like horrible.”
The two of you ate your overpriced, horrible food with small talk. The silence wasn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. You learned that his best friend Robin had just gotten a segment on NPR, and his brother, for all intents and purposes, Dustin, was interning at the Field Science Museum during his undergrad.
“It’s almost like the universe really wants you in Chicago.” You teased.
His face went soft, nodding silently at you. “I think it’s sending me some pretty strong signs.”
You told him about your very boring corporate job in Healthcare; it was the first job that gave you an offer after graduation, so you took it. You had some family not too far away, so it seemed like the best plan. He said that he dropped out of school, you saved the pity, and just shrugged.
“Things happen,” You reassured him. “What were you studying?”
“Criminal justice and prelaw.” He admitted with a heavy breath. “Wasn’t sure if that’s what I wanted to do or if I was just doing it to make my Dad proud of me.”
You stayed quiet for a moment before speaking. “Well, what do you wanna do?”
“Is it embarrassing to admit that I don’t know?” He spoke with an earnest look in his eyes. He propped his elbows up on the table, setting his face in his hands to look at you. “Sometimes I feel like a loser. 26 years old and all I have to show for it are some college credits and a resume of job hopping.”
You shook your head, “I don’t think that’s embarrassing at all. Everyone moves at their own pace. I appreciate that you haven’t forced yourself to do anything you didn’t enjoy. I did. I earned a degree I don’t care about and a job I know I’m going to hate. Simply because it felt like it was the right thing to do.”
“What did you wanna do?” He asked, flipping it back onto you. You let out a hefty sigh.
“Oh man, I wanted to be a journalist. Wanted to travel the world and write about it. Meet new people, learn new things. Maybe write a book or two.” You smiled, a hint of sadness in your eyes. “But journalism doesn’t pay the bills if you don’t have a foot in the door.”
“You know, my ex-girlfriend, well, really she’s just a friend now, is a Journalist. Moved to New York and everything. She just had her first baby.” He hummed, lost in thought, “Serious if you ever wanted to pursue that, I could give her a call.”
You blushed, shaking your head. “No, that’s too much to ask. Besides, I don’t even know if I’m good at it, really. It was always just a faraway dream I had.”
“Well, listen, the option is always there. Nancy would love to show you the ropes.” He smiled, his feet brushing against yours under the table. It was crazy the connection that spiraled between you two; the conversation never dried up. The next thing you knew, it had been well over an hour, and the airport was slowly clearing out as some flights went on and people found their accommodations for the night.
“Do you think it’s time we venture back to our humble abode?” He asked, scooting out from his chair.
“Lead the way.” You smiled, accepting his outstretched hand. His hand was so much larger than yours, your smaller one falling into his palm perfectly. You tried to stop the large smile creeping up on your face, feeling like a kid with a schoolgirl crush. It was ridiculous.
His body stopped abruptly, your body nearly running into his. “Pit stop.” That was all he said before he dragged you into a random convenience store.
“What?” You giggled, watching as he grabbed a tiny basket. Shoving it into your hands.
“We’re gonna need snacks, drinks. This is also the perfect opportunity to judge your taste.” He smirked. Making you gasp.
“My taste is fine, thank you.” You jutted your lip out, beginning to stalk down the aisles. Throwing various chips and candies into the basket.
“Sour candies. Good choice.” He hummed, throwing in a package of cookies.
“Chocolate chip cookies? What are you, 12?” You teased, grabbing a couple of water bottles.
“You wound me, Y/n.” He pouted, continuing to go through and judge every single thing you looked at too hard. The lady behind the counter glared at you two, but you ignored her. Lost in your own bubble of giggles and endless flirting. It was just as toothrottingly sweet as the pile of sugary drinks and snacks in the basket.
“Is this everything?” She asked in a monotone voice, which unfortunately just made you and Steve fall into another fit of giggles.
You tried to pay, only once again getting pushed away by Steve’s outstretched hand, tapping his card to the machine.
“You didn’t have to,” You frowned, “I mean, I think all of this was more than you saved on the flight.”
He shrugged, uncaring. “This is still a date. It’s very rude to let a lady pay.”
By the time you made it back to your corner, a few others were occupying the gate with you all. Most of them lay around, attempting to get some rest. It was hard to fathom sleeping while the sun was still setting; mostly, you were too wound up at the prospect of hanging out with Steve to even think about sleeping.
“So I’m thinking, makeshift fort. Movie?” He hummed, pulling out a travel pillow and a jacket from his bag. You did the same, making your own little cushioned seat. You slipped your laptop from your bag, connecting it to the wifi while Steve arranged the snacks.
Content on scrolling through the movies you hummed, the two of you trading off what you’ve seen before and what movies you’d never watch, when scrolling Before Sunrise caught your eye. You laughed a little amongst yourself.
“This date is sort of like the movie Before Sunrise,” You noted, propping your laptop up on the makeshift table. Which was just your suitcase on its side. “We're just stuck in an airport and not in Vienna.”
“Vienna would be so nice,” Steve mumbled through a mouthful of Red Vines, which you absolutely bullied him for. He tried to hide them underneath the pile of snacks, but it was no use. He was adamant about enjoying the cherry-tasting rubber wire. “Have you ever been out of the country?”
You shook your head, “Never had the money. You?”
“Nope. We should go.” He said as if it were the casualist thing in the world.
“What? Do you wanna hop on a flight right now? Abandon our lives and go jet set in a European country?”
“I don’t think we’re in that kind of cheesy rom com,” He snorted, “But I think you’d be a great travel companion. I mean, you can be pretty judgmental about my favorite candy, but besides that, you’re pretty cool.”
“Pretty cool.” You mocked, his shoulder brushing against yours.
“What? You are.” He laughed, adjusting himself closer towards you. You were both so close to each other, thighs pressing against each other. Your shoulders brushed with each movement you made. Once your laptop was ready, you leaned back, taking the risk of leaning against his side. Giving him a moment to pull away if he wanted, and he didn’t. If anything, he leaned further into you, his hands untangling his headphones.
“Let me guess, time to judge my taste in movies?” You asked, taking the earbud he handed to you.
The two of you share the wired pair, your heads now close together. He smelled like fresh laundry and cedar. His body warm against yours, you wanted nothing more than to lay your head on his chest.
“See, you’re learning.” He smiled. “What about that Sunrise movie you talked about. I’ve never seen it.”
You gasped, immediately pulling it up. “What a disgrace. I’m gonna have to show you true cinema.”
“I don’t watch a lot of romantic movies, mostly action movies. I did watch a lot of movies in high school, Robin and I worked at Family Video.”
“Family Video? Jesus, they’re still in business?”
“Oh, absolutely not, went bankrupt a few months into us working there. Robin was convinced it was our fault. But of course it wasn’t, it was one of the last ones opened since the 80s, I think.” He hummed the subtle music of the movie’s introduction, traveling through the headphones.
“You’re not a movie talker, are you?” You asked, turning to look at him. Which was a mistake, his face was so close to yours. His eyes are even dreamier up close. You could smell the red vines on his breath.
The freckles on his cheeks that you never noticed before were now all you could focus on.
“I could lie and say no, but I’ve been told it’s one of my only flaws.” He spoke softly, trying his hardest not to watch the way your lips curved with every word you spoke. He knew you were beautiful from the moment he first saw you, but now he was blown away. Your eyes staring into his made his chest ache, a warmness blooming there.
“Well, I guess someone as perfect as you did need some.” You whispered, nearly jumping when the movie officially started, taking it as your cue to turn back to the screen.
It was obvious the two of you were dancing around each other; you were slowly leaning into his shoulder at a snail's pace. And you caught Steve mustering up the courage to raise his arm, welcoming you into his chest. He’d stop himself each time, his teeth coming down to bite at his lip in frustration. He was nervous, and it was the most adorable thing you had ever seen.
“What if he were a murderer?” Steve spoke up, eyes glued to the screen. “She was too trusting of him, I think.”
You laughed at the irony, “Are you a murderer? I mean, look at us. We’re on a date now, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, but that’s different. We’re in one location, arguably a heavily armed and secured place. They’re in a foreign country just running around with each other.”
“I think it’s romantic,” You hummed, “To forge a connection with someone so quickly. To chase that feeling, not even thinking about the consequences.”
It was silent for a moment, Steve’s eyes boring into the side of your face. “I think I would have asked you to join me in Vienna.”
“I think I would have joined you.” You said almost immediately, his arm finally moving up. Resting around your shoulders, giving you the chance to lay your head on his chest. He leaned back, giving you the perfect angle to rest against him. You could feel his heart thumping wildly under your head, matching the beat of your own.
“See, I knew he was lying about something.” He whispered, his breath fanning hot against your neck. Making your skin prickle all over. You took his little comments in stride, what would normally be annoying for you, you suddenly found endearing. Enjoying his little bits of commentary.
You sat up a little when the credits rolled, ready to get his reaction.
“I hated that ending.” He spoke, face contorted deep in thought.
A laugh bubbled out of your chest, “What? Hate is a strong word.”
“For two people to have a connection that strong, that fast. It’s ridiculous to let that go right?” He scoffed, “I mean it’s f-fate, right? Something like that has to be. She could’ve given him a phone number. Something.”
“This movie really changed your perspective, huh?” You smiled, recalling how hesitant he was in the beginning.
“Something like that.” He looked at you, really looked at you. In a way, you weren’t sure you’d ever been looked at before. Like he really saw you, for who you were. Like he wanted to know you, to peel back every layer and memorise you. Like he was bottling this memory up to watch on rewind later.
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. You kept your eyes on him, realizing just then that you were hanging on his every word. The thought was terrifying in its clarity. You were falling in love with a stranger, someone who had only existed in your life for a single, fragile stretch of time.
“I feel like we could have a better ending than that.” He decided on, smiling down at you.
You made a noise of agreement, lifting your head off his chest. Already missing the warmth he provided.
“What’s our ending look like to you?” You asked. He looked down at you, your lips barely inches apart. His warm breath hits yours, anticipation brewing in your stomach.
“There is no ending,” He spoke softly, “Not to sound like a sap, but love doesn’t end. It goes on forever.”
“Hmm. You do sound like a sap.”
“Do you not believe?” He asked, “In love, I mean.”
“No, I do.” You smiled, both of your lips gravitating towards each other. “I just didn’t know you were such a romantic.”
“Have I not been romancing you?” He teased, his hand coming up to rest gently on your hip. A respectable placement, one to keep close. To steady himself.
You shook your head, “Consider me romanced.”
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, his brown eyes darkened. All you could do was nod, meeting him halfway. When your lips met halfway, the rest of the world faded out of view. Gone was the noisy airport traffic; all you could feel was him. His soft lips are moving eagerly against yours.
Sparks flew beneath your skin, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You were both lost in the kiss. In the feeling of each other, his hand pulled you closer. Your body was nearly toppling on top of his before you both stopped.
It was as if, simultaneously, you both remembered where you were, breaking out of your own orbit.
Your surroundings came crashing back down. His face was flushed, lips glossy from your own. You were winded, staring at him with a wild look in your eyes.
“You’re beautiful.” He gave you one last peck on the lips before letting you pull yourself up. Sitting back upright.
“You’re beautiful.” You returned because he was. Every inch of his face looked as though he had been hand-carved by the gods themselves.
He made a pathetic noise, covering it up with a loud cough. Only making you laugh. “No one’s ever called me that before.”
“Then I need to find all of your ex-girlfriends and give them a piece of my mind,” You hummed, letting your hand cup his cheek. Your thumb rubbing small circles into the skin. “Because you are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I mean it.”
“You sweet-talking me for more kisses, huh?” He asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t think I have to.” You teased, pressing your lips together once again. He felt like a drug; the moment you got a taste, you weren’t sure how you were supposed to let it go. You were addicted, drowning in him.
This one was different, more intense. His mouth explored yours, your mouth parting for him with little to no effort. Letting his tongue pry out pathetic whimpers from your mouth. Hands gripping each other messily, your hands in his hair. His hands on your face, your hips. He pulled away, pressing wet kisses down your neck. Sucking gently on the flesh between your ear and neck.
“We might get kicked out of this airport if we keep going.” He whispered, your lips parted in a broken gasp. “As much as I’d like to continue, I don’t intend on being on a do-not-fly list.”
You gave him a breathy laugh, slapping his chest playfully. “Maybe we should have gotten a hotel.”
The words made him pause, his brows dipping slightly while you readjusted in your spot.
“I want you to know that I didn’t ask you on this impromptu date just for that.” He started, “I really like you. I just wanted to get to know you; it wasn’t some grand scheme to get laid.”
“I know,” You smiled, “I do think it would be a bonus though.”
“Well, yeah, obviously.” He scoffed, grabbing your hand in his. “I just didn’t want you to think I was using you.”
“I didn’t think that, Steve.” You assured him, lacing your fingers through his. Bringing it up to press a small kiss to his palm. “You know I’m not using you either, right? I do really like you. Probably more than I should for having just met you.”
“I mean, it would be an honor for you to use me,” He smirked, “But I feel the same way. Like, I’ll wake up, and this was all some weird dream. These kinds of things don’t happen to me. Only in movies.”
He nodded his head to the now darkened laptop screen.
“I find that hard to believe. I bet you sweep all the ladies off their feet.” You laughed, trying not to think about just how many. You had no right to be upset, but your chest ached at the thought of him doing this same thing to other women.
He just shook his head, “I’m actually terrible with women for the most part. Between my last few girlfriends, I’ve just been awful at it.”
“I don’t see how.” You admitted, “I mean, look at us. We’ve already had at least three dates in one. We’ve spent five or more hours together. We just had our first kiss. We’ll be married by midnight at this rate.”
“I don’t know. Just seems like I’m never good enough, you know? I mean, both my ex-girlfriends married the person they left me for. Just kinda seems like I’m bad luck, you know?”
Your heart ached for him, squeezing his hand tighter from where it sat in yours. “Well, I disagree. I also think they’re fools for not realizing what was right in front of them when they had it.”
“I just think we won’t be together long enough for you to realize it, or you’d be running for the hills.” He tried to laugh it off, but you could hear the ache in his voice.
“How presumptuous of you,” You settled on, “You deserve love. Anyone who can’t handle you just wasn’t worthy of you. That has nothing to do with you and everything to do with them.”
“Maybe my parents messed me up more than I’d admit.” He sighed, “They were super absent. Not in love, I don’t think they ever were. I was just a byproduct of a young mistake. So by the time I got my first girlfriend, I just kept screwing it up. Typical young cliche mommy and daddy issues.”
“I mean, I don’t disagree.” You smiled, “But give yourself a break. The whole time I’ve known you, albeit not very long, you’ve been way too hard on yourself. Any girl would be lucky to love you, to be loved by you.”
Your words felt heavy on his chest. “And you. How are you not already taken? I would’ve thought someone would’ve been wise enough to put a ring on your finger already.”
You laughed, a real one. Ugly and nasally. “Oh my god, no.”
“Oh, so commitment issues then?” He cocked an eyebrow at you.
“Maybe, I dunno.” You laughed, “Just haven’t found anyone I click with long term. I don’t know if you knew this, but most men suck. Like astronomically bad. You’re like the first man in years that’s blindly paid for a first date. Last date I had he sent me a Venmo request while I was still in the parking lot.”
“Want me to kill that guy for you?” He deadpanned, making you laugh even harder. He would be fine if that was the last thing he ever heard in this world.
“By all means, my night and shining armour.”
“You deserve more than just a free meal. You deserve,” He sighed, “Romance. Like true romance. Candlelit dinners, roses, the whole red carpet.”
“Oh, so you don’t take your dates to the airport and spend hundreds of dollars on shitty snacks with them?”
“Not typically, no, you’re just extra special.” He grinned.
“Thank god for that.” You smiled, leaning into his space once again. Letting your faces hover over each other. Both of you just drinking each other in. “But just so you know, I don’t need all that fancy stuff. All I need is good company. And I think I got the best.”
“Yeah?” His eyes lit up, flickering between your eyes and lips.
“Yeah.” You breathed out, pressing another lingering kiss to his lips. This one is heavier, full of words unsaid. Full of the tension that had been coiled tightly between you two.
“Well,” He let out a breath, “Enough of that. What’s next on our movie list?”
“Let’s watch a Christmas movie and then dinner? Options are slim, but I can wine and dine you later.” You winked at him, finally getting the smile back on his face. “And you’re letting me pay.”
“Yeah, sure.” He said, very uncovningly. “But a Christmas movie? Not feeling very in the spirit?”
“I’m missing all my Christmas Eve festivities. The least you can do is entertain me with some Christmas joy.” You laughed, watching him pull your laptop into his lap.
“I got it,” He snapped his fingers after some scrolling. “Die hard.”
You stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. “I said a Christmas movie.”
“I can’t believe you don’t consider Die Hard a Christmas movie.” He scoffed, your shoulders brushing against each other, purposeful now. Leaning into each other for warmth. No hesitation in your actions. Your bodies now clinging to each other, physically mourning each moment you were apart.
“I can acknowledge it takes place during Christmas,” You argued, “But it’s just an action movie that so happens to be around the Holidays.”
“Didn’t know you were such a bah humbug.” He joked, pressing play anyway. “After this, you’re gonna change your mind. I promise.”
You both weren’t a few minutes into the movie before a shrill scream ripped your eyes away from the screen. Looking for the source of the noise. It was a few rows away, an elderly lady, barely holding her husband up as he clasped his hand over his chest. Falling to the floor as each second passed.
Neither you nor Steve wasted a second; both of you yanking the shared earbuds out of your ears, rushing over to the couple. Steve was on his knees, fingers pressing against the man's neck to check for a pulse.
“No pulse.” He said, his eyes wide. Your healthcare training kicked in, ready to drop to your knees and give CPR before you realized Steve had already started. His hands were perfectly positioned, giving chest compressions.
“Oh my god.” The wife wailed, almost dropping to her knees. You steadied her, pulling her into your arms.
“M’am don’t worry, EMS is coming, okay.” You spoke, watching people gather around. Airport employees have already made the call.
“What’s his name?” You asked her, keeping her eyes on you.
“Adam.” She cried out, clutching onto your sweater.
“Come on, Adam,” Steve grunted, his hair falling onto his forehead.
You sat the wife down in a nearby chair, “It’s gonna be okay, EMS is on the way.” You assured her, a small crowd was gathering. You could see airport staff running over, calling in the incident.
“Steve.” You spoke, and he looked up at you. His arms not stopping compressions. “They’re on their way.”
All he could do was nod while you let his wife sob into your shoulder. When EMS came over, it was a blur, a short switch of Steve hopping off the man, and the paramedic taking over.
His wife, Cindy, you learned, wouldn’t leave your side. You walked with her to the ambulance when they got him on the gurney. You even helped her shaky hands to call her son, helping explain what happened when she couldn’t calm down. You gave her son your number, telling him to call if they needed anything tonight. He thanked you endlessly. When Cindy was taken to the Hospital, following the ambulance, you got the chance to take a breath.
The cool night air prickles your sweaty skin. Steve was the same, having shed his hoodie after the paramedics came. The two of you worked seamlessly beside each other, not able to talk until now.
“So that was crazy.” He breathed out, a dry laugh escaping his throat. “Like holy shit.”
“Dude.” You sighed, rubbing your face. “I’m like shaking.”
“You okay?” He asked, wrapping his hands around your waist. You nodded, “Adrenaline, I think.” Your hands were draped around his neck.
“Hell of a drug.” His body was shaking much like yours was, your bodies pressed against each other.
“How do you know CPR?” You asked. “I was a medical assistant in undergrad. Most people rarely do CPR correctly.”
“Lifeguard for four years, and swim team.” He smirked.
“Oh, of course,” You shook your head, “Bet you were prom king too.”
His silence was all you needed for an answer, smirking at his bashful face. “Yeah, you little heartbreaker.”
You took a minute to admire him in his short sleeves, his muscles flexing from where they were wrapped around you. “Swim team. No wonder you’re jacked.”
“M’ not jacked.” He huffed, “I barely work out anymore.”
“See. You need to let people compliment you. You’re so hard on yourself.” You huffed alongside him, making him roll his eyes. “I’m thinking about your biceps wrapped around my neck, and you’re here huffing and puffing that you’re not a bodybuilder.”
His eyes widened, “I’m sorry, what?”
“Hmmm?”
“That thing you just said. Bout my biceps?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, sure you don’t.” His mouth went dry, his eyes stuck on your faux innocent smile. You looked up at him from your lashes. Your hands are messing with the hair on the back of his neck.
“I’m just saying. You’re hot. S’also not the best time to admit you looked really hot saving that guy's life.”
He could feel his body reacting before he could process it, the bulge in his sweatpants twitching against your thighs.
“S’just the adrenaline. I’m sorry.” He mumbled shyly, all confidence out the window.
You simply smiled, refusing to let him pull away. Holding him close to you outside the airport emergency exit.
“I’m about to suggest something insane, and you’re free to say no. I don’t want you to feel weird about it.” You spoke before your mind could stop you. Your fingers toying nervously with his hair.
“What?” He asked, peering at you.
“In the international departures terminal, there’s a family bathroom. Passed it on my way in. It’s in the back corner, and international flights have been halted. And it’s nearly midnight…”
You let the words linger in the air, bracing yourself for his reaction. It took him a minute before he spoke, his face contorted in thought.
“O-oh. You’re suggesting…” he trailed off.
Fear took over you, your body going still. “God, I’m sorry. I never should have said anything.”
“I didn’t say that.” He cut you off, “It’s not something you’d regret, right?” His eyes were soft, kind. Making sure you didn’t feel pressured. You shook your head, biting down on your bottom lip.
“Not at all. I really, really want to.” You admitted, letting it sit in the air between you.
He pulled you close, gnashing your lips together messily. Only long enough for you to part your mouth before he let you go, “Meet you there in 10?”
“Y-yeah.” You stuttered, watching him turn around. Holding your hand until you made it back inside. He went to check on your bags, and you headed straight to the bathroom. You crossed your fingers, silently celebrating that the end of the hall was dead.
The bathroom was huge, with a toilet and a sink, two plush chairs, and a changing table counter in the corner.
A knock on the door took you out of your thoughts, making you jump. You cracked it open to reveal Steve, who slid in easily. You felt like a teenager, all giddy to be breaking the rules. Steve Harrington made your heart race in a way you didn’t know it could.
“Do you think it’s ethical to fuck on a changing counter?” You giggled, pointing to the counter on the back wall. It seemed to be the perfect height.
Steve shrugged, reaching down to pick you up in his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, his lips attaching themselves to your neck.
“Don’t care.” He grumbled, walking you backwards onto said counter. Setting you down gently, he stood between your legs. Your clothed hips brushing against each other.
“I mean, it’s perfect.” You moaned, hands gripping the collar of his shirt while he sucked a noticeable bruise into the side of your neck. He felt like a teenager in heat, having the primal urge to mark you up. To mark you as his.
“I didn’t know you were so obsessed with counter heights.” He teased, his hand crawling underneath your sweater. Cupping your tits through your bra.
“M’not.” You sighed, “I think I’m just obsessed with you.”
Your words only made his cock throb harder, helping you pull your shirt off. You leaned forward, letting him unclasp your bra, your hardened nipples perky in the chill air.
“Fuck.” He groaned, both of his hands coming up to cup your chest. Thumbs immediately tweak the buds, causing your eyes to flutter shut. “You’re so sexy.”
“Shirt off.” You grumbled, pulling his own shirt off his head. You were face-to-face with his toned, hairy chest, basically salivating at the sight. You ran your hand through it, trailing down his abs all the way to his happy trail. Letting your fingers slip into his waistband.
Not before he could stop you, “Going too fast. Let me make you feel good.” He cooed.
“Do we have time?” You asked, helping him slip your leggings down.
He scoffed, “I’m sure. Unless we’re really unlucky, but you’re at least gonna cum before we leave this room.”
“You’re unreal.” You giggled, letting him pepper kisses on your chest. He takes each swollen bud into his mouth before releasing it with a pop. “Fucking perfect tits.”
“Oh, you have a dirty mouth.” You moaned, the heat between your legs becoming unbearable as he made his way down your torso. Leaving wet kisses and small bites on your flesh.
“Oh yeah,” He groaned, “M’gonna show you just how dirty this mouth can get.”
His fingers pulled your underwear down easily, falling to join your leggings on the floor.
“Been wanting to do this since you walked over, talking to yourself like a madwoman.” He groaned, his knees hitting the tile.
“You’re insane.” You sighed, watching him.
“No, we’re insane.” He grinned up at you, his face diving in between your legs. If he wasn’t holding your legs open, you were sure to slide off. The moment his warm tongue flattened itself over your clit you were convinced you had died and gone to heaven. His tongue swirled around your clit expertly, sucking and eating you out like a man starved.
“Holy fucking shit.” You moaned, covering your mouth with your hand. If you had told yourself just a few hours ago you’d be getting eaten out by the hottest man you’ve ever seen in the airport bathroom, you wouldn’t have believed it.
Now you were writhing out broken moans of his name, ready to cum all over his face. “Steve..” You breathed out, your hand combing through his perfect hair. Tugging at the roots. This only spurred him on, his nose nudging your clit with each thrust of his tongue. “You like that, huh? Dirty boy.” You sighed, only to be caught off guard by your orgasm approaching, “I’m gonna-”
He never even came up for air, content to let you smother him while you came. Your legs were shaking as he licks you through it, only stopping when you beg. Pulling his head up to you by his hair. Gnashing your lips together. The taste of your release on his tongue had you moaning, hands fumbling to pull his pants down.
Neither of you could wait any longer; the bulge in his boxers definitely couldn’t. You heard a slap when he pulled his boxers down, his cock slapping against that happy trail you’d definitely dream about.
“Holy fuck.”
“Oh fuck, I don’t have a condom.” He panicked, assuming that's what you were freaked out about.
“I don’t care. I have an implant. Where have you been hiding that?” You pointed to his cock, which sat heavy between his legs. His tip was red and leaking with precum. If circumstances were different, you'd beg to wrap your mouth around him, feel him hot and heavy in your mouth.
“Oh.” He blushed, wrapping a hand around his thick length. “Like what you see?”
His confidence was coming back each moment you stared at him, your legs wrapping around his hips. “As much as I’d love to wrap my bicep around your neck and fuck the shit out of you,” He hummed, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’d much rather watch your gorgeous face when you cum around my cock.”
His words made you dizzy, melting into his touch. “Next time.” You mumbled, he nodded. Neither of you even registered whether there was going to be a next time. Too focused on the task at hand.
“Need it inside of me, now.” You begged, watching him line himself up. Smacking himself on your swollen clit a few times, before pushing his tip inside your entrance. The stretch made you coo, grabbing his shoulders.
“G-god, you’re so tight.” He whimpered, slowly pushing himself in. Inch by inch.
“You’re just fucking huge.” You gasped, biting into his freckled shoulder. “Feel s’good.”
Your eyes rolled into the back of your head by the time his hips met yours, his cock piercing your womb. He gave you a second to adjust before he rolled his hips, dragging his cock out slowly before pushing back in. Taking your breath away each time. Not only could he eat pussy the way he did, but he fucked like a god. You were almost annoyed with how perfect he was if he wasn’t currently making your toes curl.
“Can’t believe how good y’pussy feels.” He slurred, switching between kissing you hungrily and panting filthy words into your neck. His hips pounding into you loudly, skin slapping against skin, echoed throughout the room.
He was all over you, all you could taste, see, smell was him. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. It was fast, hot, and even messy. At one point, he leaned down, biting harshly at your bouncing tits. Making you squeal.
“Steve.. Fuck.” You let out a guttural moan, no longer worried about being heard. You couldn’t be worried about anything other than the way his cock felt inside you.
“You gonna cum?” He asked, steadying his feet. He bent your legs, spreading them open wide. Giving him the perfect view of your blissed out face, and his cock pistoning in and out of your cunt.
“Keep fucking me like that.” You begged, falling back into the wall as both of his hands held your legs.
“Wouldn’t dream of stopping.” He winked, making you laugh before it turned into a choked moan.
“Close.” You spoke through gritted teeth, watching him lean down, spitting onto your cunt. Never once stopping his movements.
“Touch yourself, baby.” He ordered, his voice hoarse. He was just as close. You obliged, his hands too busy keeping you in the position that had him rubbing against the spot inside of you that was ready to burst. The moment your fingertips found your swollen clit, you were gone. Each messy swirl of your fingers had you falling apart, barely able to choke out anything other than his name.
“Can feel you,” He huffed, shaking his hair out of his face, “You gonna cum? Need to feel you cum, baby. You look so fucking sexy. Wanna make you cum every fucking day.”
“God, yes.” You let go, your legs thrashing against his hold as you came around him. A choked moan leaves his lips as your cunt suckles him in deep, squeezing around him, soaking him completely.
“There you go.” He nearly sobbed, folding your legs deeper. His hips stutter with each sloppy drag of him. “Gonna cum.” He spoke as a warning, your jaw lax watching him. His brown eyes were glossy, his skin shiny with a thin layer of sweat.
“Inside.” You whined, and he immediately obliged. Emptying his cum deep inside of you, muttering your name over and over like a holy vow. You were the only god he could believe in, ready to crawl on his knees through hot ash to see your blissed-out eyes look at him every day the way they were right now.
He slipped himself out of you, helping you sit up straight, sure your body was cramping from the weird position you were in. You didn’t care, your body tingling all over.
“You okay?” He mumbled against your temple, holding your sweaty body against his. All you could do was nod, a short burst of giggles leaving your mouth. You could feel his cum sliding down your legs.
“Where’d you learn to fuck like that?” You asked rhetorically, making his chest rumble with laughter.
“Let me clean you up.” He departed with a gentle kiss, walking to the sink to wet some paper towels for you.
You watched him as he walked. Smirking softly at his bare ass. Your release pooled around the base of his cock, wetting the tuff of hair there. It took everything in you not to drop to your knees, sucking him clean.
He came back and cleaned you up as best he could, given the circumstances. He helped you dress on shaky legs, which he loved poking fun at. But mostly, he was just proud he was the cause of them.
“So…” You started, making him smirk at you. “Dinner? I’m fucking starving.”
“God, yes.” He laughed, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as you walked out. The terminal was still dead empty, the loud sound of the baggage claim drowning out any noises that could have slipped out of the bathroom.
You two ended up in the booth of a random quick stop location, splitting a box of greasy pizza and sipping on cheap beer. You were across from each other, your feet resting on his lap across the table.
“So, what are your Christmas plans? You already moved in?” He asked, picking a piece of pepperoni off his slice and popping it into his mouth.
“Yes, and no. My sister is at my apartment now, she drove my car and cat up there.” You admitted, “I had a work thing and couldn’t, so she offered. I paid for her flight home in exchange. Movers did the rest. So we’re gonna probably get drunk and go to the Christmas market. What about you?”
“Not gonna let you mention a cat and not show me a picture,” He pointed, “But Robin and her girlfriend planned this huge dinner. A lot of our friends are coming into town to do the same. Maybe we’ll cross paths at the market.”
Your head swam at the idea of meeting his friends, already picturing the two of you holding hands and walking through the booths. You didn’t know what was going to happen after this, and you didn’t want to know. Not now, you didn’t wanna spoil the moment.
“This is my cat, her name is Chai.” You showed him the photo of the black and orange calico. She was lying against your chest in the photo. He cooed.
“Oh, little chai. I need to meet her.”
“Are you trying to father my daughter already?” You teased, and he threw his hands up.
“Guilty.” He laughed, “I’m the father that stepped up.” His weak joke only made you laugh harder; surely your cheeks were going to be sore by tomorrow with all the laughter.
Sleeping arrangements were what you were dreading the most; half the hotels were overpriced or already booked by the time you looked. So it seemed useless; the two of you had already committed to this sleepover. This was how you two ended up bundled underneath airport blankets and pillows on the floor, your head curled into his chest.
He watched your eyes flutter closed, your breathing mellow into a gentle rhythm. All he could think about was how utterly fucked he was. He’d never felt this way about a girl before, especially not so soon. He stayed awake for hours, dreading the inevitable sunrise that would tear them apart. In the meantime, he listened to your breathing, letting it lull him to sleep.
He woke first, your head still in the exact spot it was when you went to bed. Your mouth was parted, toeing the line between sleeping and being awake.
“Good morning, beautiful.” All he got in response was a muffled groan.
“Breakfast?” He yawned, smoothing down your bedhead. “There’s some overpriced breakfast bowl with my name on it.”
“Want a smoothie.” You grumbled, not wanting to move from where you were tangled together. Kept warm by a thin airline blanket and his jean jacket wrapped around your shoulders.
“I can get you one. Just gotta let me up.” He whispered, your head immediately shaking no. “Come on, sweet girl, I’ll be back in no time.”
You reluctantly let him get up, leaving you to curl up into his hoodie when he left. It wasn’t long before he came back, food in tow. You sat up, the two of you eating in comfortable silence.
“Have you ever thought about being a paramedic?” You asked, stealing one of his hashbrowns. He paid no mind, simply shrugging.
“No, I mean to be honest, yesterday was the only time I’ve used it on someone that wasn’t near a pool.”
“You were a natural. I mean, you didn’t hesitate at all. Just jumped right in. You were so kind to Cindy, too.” You paused before adding, “The adrenaline rush is always nice too.”
“Knew you were gonna get nasty there.” He rolled his eyes, stealing a drink of your smoothie. To any onlooker, they’d probably think you had been dating for years. Not that just the day prior, you were complete strangers.
As much as Steve brushed it off, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The idea of being the first responder, being able to help people in their time of need. It called to him in a way that he couldn’t quite name yet. For most of his life, he had never really known what he wanted, only what felt expected of him.
He had moved forward without direction, choosing what was safe instead of what felt right. But now, for the first time, he was following his heart, and that decision pointed him toward Chicago. Toward you. It felt like the beginning of a new life, like pieces of himself were finally lining up after years of being scattered.
After breakfast, the two of you parted ways, only long enough to wash up and change. Meeting back up at the designated ‘fort’ you both began calling it. You both still had about eight hours before your flight took off, but the hours seemed to roll by. Faster than either of you wanted them to. All your worries about Christmas plans seemed to fly out of the window.
“So, is this date technically still ongoing?” You asked, a bag in your hand. This made Steve smile, with a similar bag in his own.
“Contractually, until our plane lands in Chicago, we are still on a date. So yes.”
“Good,” You smiled, holding out the bag. “Merry Christmas.”
He held out a similar bag, “Merry Christmas to you too, Y/n.”
“Great minds think alike.” You both sat down on the row of chairs, each of you opening your gift shop bags. Steve opened his first, pulling out a plane-shaped keychain with the airport's name on it.
“So you never forget the longest and best date of your life.”
“As if I could anyway.” He beamed, holding the keychain close to his chest. “Thank you.”
Your heart felt giddy, ripping into your own bag. Inside was a box containing a necklace; on the end of it was a dainty airplane pendant. You nearly burst into tears, holding the delicate jewelry in your hands.
“Steve…” You whispered, “I can’t accept this, you’ve already spent so much-”
“Shhhh.” He stopped you, placing a hand on your knee. “I want you to have a piece of me close to your heart.”
You sniffled, pulling your hair to the side, “Help me put it on.” He moved behind you, placing the necklace gently around your neck, pressing a kiss to the skin after he clasped it.
“I love it. It’s beautiful. So beautiful.” You said, wrapping your arms around him. Breathing him in deeply when he hugged you tight. The two of you stayed like that for a while before you pulled away.
“We have about 3 hours left. What’s left on the agenda?” He asked, making you hum.
“What if we got a drink at the bar, and people watched. It’s what I do on my own.” You shrugged.
He clicked his mouth, grabbing your hand. “Sounds like a plan.”
Four mixed drinks later and making up backstories for over a dozen people, the minutes were ticking by. You caught yourself memorizing the sound of his laugh, the way it startled out of him when you surprised him, the way he leaned closer without thinking. Your flight was finally back up on the call board, your leg bouncing anxiously. It only made sense that the two of you gravitated back towards your spot, both of you saying meek goodbyes to the corner you called home for the past 24 hours.
“Well, we board in 30 minutes. Our rows are only a few apart. Immediately after we meet up?” He asked, running his hands through his hair nervously. Unwanting this day to ever end.
“Of course.” You nodded, the two of you clinging to each other until the last possible moment. Steve tried to haggle with an older gentleman to switch seats with him, losing terribly. This only made you laugh, which only annoyed the man even more. Your hand kept reaching up to the necklace around your neck, rolling the small charm between your fingers, grounding yourself as panic and excitement tangled together.
As soon as the plane landed, embarrassingly, you and Steve were some of the first to stand. A blush creeping up both of your necks at getting caught, too eager to see each other again. You wondered if this was what people meant when they said love made you stupid. If this were the love that would have you running headfirst, not caring if it hurt.
“How was the flight?” He sneaked up on you, grabbing your bag off the conveyor before you even had the chance to grab it.
“Jesus.” You squealed, jumping into his arms. “Scared me.”
“Missed you.” He admitted, holding you close.
“I did too.” You frowned, unwilling to think about what would happen when the two of you went your separate ways. You had known him for a day, yet the thought of leaving already felt like a loss. “My sister called me a car, it’s already here.”
You could see him deflate; you saw it in his eyes. You thought you’d have more time.
“I’ll walk you out? Ride share is different from where Robin is picking me up.” You nodded, holding his free hand in yours.
“I think I’d love Robin.” You admitted, the two of you pausing on the sidewalk. The snow-covered ground crunches beneath your feet.
“I think she’d love you. You guys would gang up on me, I’d never get a break.”
“Good.” You smiled, rubbing your thumb against his palm.
“Yeah, I think it would be good.” He smiled, both of you stalling.
“Okay. I’m gonna say something admittedly insane.” You huffed, deja vu hitting you at once, “I don’t think you have to know someone for years to really know them. Like, truly know them. Because you’ve seen me the past day in ways that no one ever has before. And all it took was a look. It scared me. Scared me to my core. It almost feels like we aren’t strangers, like we’ve always known each other.”
“And this may sound even more insane, but I don’t think you need to have years with someone to love them either. Sometimes it just happens when we aren’t expecting it. Maybe when we don’t even want it to happen, because the future isn’t promised. But it happens anyway, because how could it not?”
“Like, do you know how many things needed to align tonight for us to meet? And they all did. I know real life isn’t like the movies, but…” You breathed out, Steve’s face softening at your words. “What I mean to say is….” You huffed, chickening out at the last possible second, “Have a good Christmas?”
He let out an awkward laugh at your words, both of you speechless. “I agree, life isn’t like the movies.” He started, “It’s so much better. It’s real, it’s tangible. I can’t explain just how much the past day has meant to me. To be heard, to feel…. wanted.”
“And yeah, life is complicated and messy. But that’s part of being human. I’ve never felt as human as I have today. I feel like something in me shifted, like I’m stepping into my own life instead of watching it pass me by. You made me see things about myself today that I wouldn't have before. I’ve felt things today I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.” He admitted, his cheeks going red from the cold, “I want to see you again. I want you. God, it’s all I want.”
You never believed in true love. Not the kind that arrived without warning and rewired your chest in a single day. Love, to you, had always been something that grew slowly, carefully, with time as proof. A slow-growing plant in the corner of a room, taking its time to bloom. Yet here you were, standing across from Steve, feeling something reckless bloom anyway in your chest. Something that felt a lot like love. Something that can be nurtured into something beautiful.
Steve leaped, a leap he should have taken long ago, too scared before, too unwilling to let something this fragile slip through his grasp. He refused to let you walk away like in the movies. He chose to put everything on the line, to reach for something fleeting and honest before it could disappear.
“Hey,” You stopped, grabbing him by the arm. So much has happened in the past few hours, it felt like days had passed since you first saw him huddled up in that corner. “When you’re back in Chicago. Find me. Wine and dine me like you didn’t get the chance to.”
He paused, a smirk wide on his face. When you turned on your heel, ready to walk away, you were stopped. His hand tight over your hand. “This isn’t a romantic comedy.”
“It was a romantic drama.”
“This isn’t a romantic drama.” He corrected, his cheeks aching from how wide his smile was. “Now I would sulk through the streets of Chicago for years for you, but I’d rather not waste any time. So, can I please have your phone number?”
“I was just waiting for you to ask.” You admitted, grabbing his phone and texting yourself. “Fall in love with the city, and maybe stay?”
“I feel like I’m gonna fall in love with more than just the city.” He admitted, your brows softening in realization at his words.
You pulled him in for one last kiss, putting all of your heart into it. “Don’t take too long to text me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” He yelled, never once taking his eyes off of you until you were in your car, waving frantically as the driver took you into the heart of the city.
The moment his feet landed on the sidewalk, he was clicking on Robin’s contact photo, so quickly his fingers were shaking. She answered on the first ring, a confused “Hello?”
“I just landed.” He got out quickly, jogging back to the baggage claim. “You’ll never guess what happened.”
“I’m literally in the pickup waiting for you,” She sighed, watching Vickie stifle a laugh, “Can this not wait five minutes?”
“No,” He breathed out, “I’m moving to Chicago. After New Year's, I’m gonna enroll in EMT courses, I think? Of course, I need to do some research, and I might have to crash in your spare room for a few months. I also think I found the love of my life?”
Robin’s eyes widened, staring at the phone in disbelief, “What the hell happened during that layover?”
older!neighbor!widower! steve x fem!reader - a slow burn series of blurbs and one shots | modern au!
🎶All I really want is you, what would you do? Laying in the rain with you, middle of June🎶
summary: In between summer days, when the sun barely touches the sky, when no one else is awake, you start to fall in love.
this series takes place over the course of one summer and is told in the form of blurbs and one shots of your run in’s with your handsome neighbor.
warnings: 18+ for my blog and smut in later parts of the story. age gap: reader is 30 and steve is 42, drinking, smoking (steve smokes cigars), mentions of death (peep the widower), steve is not a dad in this one. sorry to my jenny crew.
SERIES PLAYLIST // Steve & Bandit sketch 🧡
Welcome to the neighborhood
Fancy meeting you here
Mr. fix it
Good morning & good night
Whiskey & cigars
I don’t know you, but I want to
Bad idea
Red, white, & boom
Ask me what I’m thinking about
Baby, I’m yours
Heaven knows you better (Epilogue)
bonus blurbs:
First camping trip with Steve at Starved Rock 18+
How Steve treats you on your birthday 18+
Trying a new position 18+
Fire pit cuddling
Steve and Orange Colored Sky Eddie FT call by @carolmunson
characters mentioned: Dustin Henderson, Nancy Wheeler, Barbara Holland, Carol Perkins, Mike Wheeler, Will Byers, Billy Hargrove, Max Mayfield, Lucas Sinclair, Eleven Jane Hopper, A random guy named Jimmy Peterson.
synopsis: Best friends since childhood, you and Steve have always been there for each other through every high and low. As the Hawkins Middle Snowball dance approaches, hidden feelings bubble beneath the surface, leading to a night full of nervous confessions, tender moments, and unexpected closeness. Can the King of Hawkins finally admit what’s been in his heart all along?
"You two look like you're my parents." Dustin pointed out.
"Shut up and pay attention, Henderson." Steve shot back, causing you to stiff back a laugh.
Steve's left hand was on your lower back, his right hand holding yours, his body pressed ever so slightly to your body as you swayed gently left and right together to 'hopelessly devoted to you' by Olivia Newton-John.
The snowball dance was tomorrow, and you both knew Dustin had no idea how to dance, so, Steve had suggested that the two of you teach him.
That's how you ended up here, in the Harrington's empty house. Dustin on the couch, watching as you and Steve swayed as if you've done this a thousand times before... Well, to be fair, you have done this plenty of times before. Growing up right next door to the Harrington's it only made sense to befriend Steve at a really young age, being the one that's there when he gets stood up, or someone cheats on him, or when he needs somewhere to go when his house is too quiet from his constantly busy parents being at work. At almost every school dance you had when you were in school, Steve always stepped up as your date, you had yet to understand why.
Steve has always clung to you, always walking you to your locker, or to class, driving you anywhere and everywhere, sleeping over at your place when he feels lonely, and it makes the girls in Hawkins high go crazy because almost every girl has a crush on the infamous 'King Steve.' And the only girls that tolerated you were Nancy Wheeler, Barbara Holland and Tina. Occasionally, Carol Perkins too. Not that you liked her anyway.
Steve had become a lot clingier toward you when all the Demogorgon and upside down stuff had happened. He was scared and you knew it. You always knew it. He was scared he might not be able to protect you and the kids, terrified something horrible was gonna happen.
After hearing about Will it just got a lot worse, and he started sleeping with you a lot more frequently. Not that you minded. You only ever minded when people assumed you were dating just because you were always together. Or did you?
It didn't help that the kids constantly tried pushing the two of you together, it did give you butterflies sometimes especially when Steve looks at you as if you hung the moon, but you respected Steve and he respected you and even though there were many times you've nearly kissed, both of you never crossed the line.
"You alright?" Steve asked as he leaned down just a little bit so he could whisper softly. The two of you swayed so calmly together, and in sync, pressed so faintly close that he could feel your heartbeat.
He loved moments like this with you, the quiets ones where he was close to you like this. Like when he'd sneak into your room at midnight and just cuddle until he fell asleep. Or when you'd fall asleep in his car and he'd have to carry you inside the house. It had been like this ever since the start.
The first day you had become friends was when you both were just five years old and starting primary school. You were sitting by yourself during recess and unbeknownst to Steve, it was on purpose. He had spotted you on the swing, reading a book and you instantly caught his attention. He admired you from afar until he saw one of the older kids picking on you for reading, Steve had intervened and shoved the kid. He did in-fact get detention right after.
You felt bad for getting him in trouble, so you stayed outside the detention door until he came out. And when he walked out and saw you? That's when he realized he's in love with you.
"I'm alright, just... thinking," you replied, leaning up to whisper into his ear, and his left hand tightened on your lower back, slowly going lower but never crossing the line. Dustin continued watching the way you held each other, the way your hips swayed in sync, the way Steve was so horrible at hiding how he wanted to rest his head on yours, the way your left hand shook slightly on his shoulder as it fought hard not to tangle itself in Steve's ridiculously fluffy hair.
He knew Steve liked you, and he knew you liked Steve, and out of all of the kids, he was always the one trying the hardest to push you together.
He could see it in the way you looked at each other, the way you always gravitated naturally to each other. He could see it in the way you held Steve's head in your lap in the car when Max was driving because you and Steve were too injured from Billy to drive. He could see it in the way Steve held you tight when he'd carry you into your house because you fell asleep in his car. He could see it in the way you laughed together, shared straws, forks, spoons, drinks bites of food with no hesitation. He could see it in Steve's eyes when he'd seen Billy flirting with you. He could see it in the way you always looked disappointed whenever someone brought up Steve and Nancy's past relationship.
But unbeknownst to you, he only dated Nancy because he couldn't have you.
You were so caught up in dancing that you hadn't even realized that you were slowly starting to fall asleep, he knew instantly based on how you slowed down slightly, how your hands were becoming lighter in his, and before you both knew it, you pressed yourself harder into him without even realizing it, and your head fell right onto his chest, where his heartbeat is.
When you felt it pounding against your ear, you realized what had happened and pulled away quickly, apologetically looking at him, desperately hoping he can't see your flushed cheeks, and pink ears in the lighting. When Steve looked at you, he instantly turned red and turned to look at Dustin, who was still watching, incredibly amused by how the two of you haven't kissed yet.
Desperately trying to avoid Steve's gaze, you turn to look at Dustin, "Henderson, you wanna give it a try?" you asked, and he immediately smiled at you as he stood up, Steve took a step back to give you space.
Dustin took your hand the same way Steve did, and his left hand snaked behind you to hold your lower back, not as low as Steve's hand went though. You held his hand, as your left hand moved to his shoulder, Dustin started swaying, trying to do exactly what Steve did. And you told him to relax, to find his own rhythm, go at his own pace, and in no time, he got the hang of it.
By the time it was 10pm, the three of you were in the car, Steve was dropping you and Dustin off, your house was the first stop. Dustin tried so hard not to make any jokes because he knew when you're tired, you're not gonna hesitate to shut him up. But kept a close eye at the sight in front of him, the way your hand stayed close to Steve's on the console, how you looked out the window as if your mind was filled with millions of thoughts, how Steve glanced at you every three minutes. You two were so obviously disgustingly in love and everyone saw it but you.
Steve pulled over and brushed his finger against your hand on the console just to get your attention because you hadn't realized you were home already, "oh uh, i guess i'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Dustin. Thank you for bringing me home, Steve, goodnight."
Dustin smiled wide at you as you opened the door, "goodnight!"
"Yeah, goodnight," Steve said, you gave him one last look before shutting the door. Your heart beat fast as you walked up to your front door, hands shaking, butterflies erupting in your tummy because you knew, he was watching you and waiting to see you get in safely before driving off.
Dustin wasted no time hopping into the front seat, "sooo, when are you gonna tell her?"
"Tell her what?" Steve asked, not taking his eyes off the door you had already walked through, his heart thumping through his chest as he could still smell your cologne, hear your laugh, and feel your hand on his.
"That you're in love with her duhhh?"
Steve turned to glare at him, not denying but not admitting either. The drive the Dustin's house wasn't much considering you and Dustin lived on the same street, Steve's house just two streets down.
Steve dropped Dustin off and as soon as he got back home, that empty feeling crept in, loneliness, sadness, plus the regret of not telling you how he feels. He was just so scared of losing you. He could handle not seeing his parents every day, but not you, never you.
The next evening came fast, you had spent the day dressing up, taking your time. You were one of the volunteers that played a significant role in bringing the dance to life. Your role wasn't too important though; you were the designated photobooth picture printer.
You wore a soft blush-pink dress with puff sleeves and a full twirl-worthy skirt, it was simple, pretty, and unfairly flattering, like it was made just for you. Steve loved this dress.
When you walked into the gym of Hawkins Middle, and you instantly spotted Lucas, Mike, Will and Max. As soon as they saw you, they smiled and ran toward you, immediately complimenting you and attempting to twirl you around but failed because they were too short. You had asked where Dustin is and Max told you that he's on his way. Butterflies erupted as you realized that you were going to see Steve soon because Steve agreed to driving Dustin.
You chatted with Max until the doors opened, and you spotted Dustin running in, smile big like the bundle of joy he is. He ran to hug you first then turned to the rest of the party, and they started talking immediately, complimenting his hair, you heard one of them ask about El, and as you turned to glance at the door he walked in through, you saw Steve in his car, already looking at you. Wearing the red knitted sweatshirt that always ends up in your closet because you love stealing it.
The chatter behind you faded as you started walking toward the door, the party noticed and smiled instantly when they realized that you're heading toward Steve.
You walked out and the December air hit your skin immediately, but you hadn't noticed as you were too busy getting into the passenger seat of Steve's car.
There wasn't a single second he took his eyes off of you.
"You look gorgeous. Uh not that you're not usually gorgeous, i mean you always look gorgeous and-"
You watched as he ranted, trying to fix his mistake nervously, letting the shyness take over him.
You shut him up by placing your hand on his over on the console, "thank you, Steve."
His ears burned red instantly at the physical contact, "Dustin looks cute, did you do his hair?"
He laughed, "yeah, i also told him not to rawr at the girls."
"Oh, he did it anyway, heard him rawr at Max,"
Steve chuckled, shaking his head, nervously adjusting his sleeves, then finally running a hand through his hair.
"Cute sweater." you observed, he looked at you. Gosh, those big beautiful brown eyes made your knees go weak instantly. "Of course you think it's cute, you steal it at least twice a month."
Finally, you build the courage to ask, "come dance with me, just one i promise?"
"I'm not exactly dressed up for a school dance, princess."
The way he called you that gave you butterflies instantly.
"I don't care, you're King Steve, i don't think anyone else is gonna care either."
Steve hesitated but could never tell you no, so with one final glance, he moved the gear so he could park his BMW. The two of you got out together and a few heads definitely turned when you walked in together, including Dustin, who was already dancing with Nancy to 'Every breath you take' by The Police. You saw Mike dancing with El, Lucas with Max, and Will with a girl you assumed is in their class.
By the time you and Steve got on the dance floor, the song started fading out, fading into 'hopelessly devoted to you' as you took Steve's hand in yours, he held your lower back with his other hand, and yours found his shoulder as it always does.
You swayed slowly together, and he sang softly into your ear as he leaned down a little bit, your faces close yet turned opposite sides. Your cheek was near his shoulder as he pressed you more into him, and you caught Dustin smiling as he watched the two of you. You mouthed a threat that only made his smile widen.
Gosh, the way Steve kept singing so softly in your ear made a shiver run down your spine.
You were so caught up in the sound of his voice, the press of his hands, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his body so close to yours, the words just slipped out before you could even stop it, "I'm so in love with you."
Steve paused, as did you, the second you realized what you said, you pulled back and he stared at you, processing the words. You turned and started walking out instantly, but Steve didn't let you get far, ''hey, hey, it's okay. come on." he said as he grabbed your hand and pulled you outside, into the parking lot and into his car. Of course, he opened the passenger door for you. Jogged back to his side, and got in, looked at you, and took your hands in his, desperately trying to calm your nerves before you freak out. You're obviously embarrassed, Steve is your best friend, and you just casually confessed your feelings in such a sloppy and awkward way.
Steve took a deep breath before making eye contact with you, "do you remember the day we met?" you nod, "obviously you remember the part where i shoved Jimmy Peterson for making fun of you, what you don't remember is that the day before that, you sat next to me in english class and handed me a pencil when i realized i left mine in my locker, you smiled at me and gosh, i thought you were the most pretty girl ever... well i still think that, i didn't mean it in past tense, sorry anyway, a few hours after that i saw you talking to Barb, comforting her because someone made her cry, and i saw you start to cry because you hated seeing Barb upset. The very next day, at recess, you were sitting on a swing, all by yourself, your hair was curly and messy, and it made you look so cute, you were reading the Lord of the rings, until Peterson started making fun of you, i got so upset, but all i wanted was to protect you so i ran up to you guys and i shoved him. In detention, Jimmy was making jokes about me having a crush on you, it was true."
He paused, but by now you had already started crying, he continued as he moved his right hand to cup your cheek and wipe a stray tear with his thumb, "then, when i finally finished my time in detention i walked out, only to see you waiting on the other side, on the floor, looking sad, i had asked you 'what's wrong?' and you said 'i'm sorry i got you in trouble, Steve' i barely processed your words because all i could think of was 'oh my gosh, she knows my name' and since then i've made it a priority to do right by you as a friend, to raise your standards so high that you think that no guy in Hawkins is going to be good enough for you, i never told you because i didn't want you getting tangled in feelings and my family drama, we were young and the last thing i ever wanted to do was hurt you or put you in the wrong position,"
You were full on sobbing and he didn't stop.
"So, i asked you to school dances before anyone else did, brought you lunch, walked you to classes, helped you study even though you've always been smarter than me. I tried dating other girls, but none of them has ever understood me the way you do, i've always known you were the one and i'm so damn tired of pretending i'm not hopelessly devoted to you, i'm done pretending i'm not in love with you, because i am, i'm so in love with you."
By the time he was done, he was out of breath, not stopping for a single second because he wanted to say it fast, like ripping a band aid off. Avoiding your eyes because he's nervous you think he's stupid for even remembering the little details, but before he can even open his mouth to say anything, you squeeze his hand before pulling away to wipe your tears, he watches you apologetically, he hadn't meant to make you cry.
When you're done, your cheeks are faintly wet and flushed, and you look back at him. Your eyes are sparkling, your lashes are wet, your breathing slightly uneven. Even after crying, you still look so insanely beautiful. The moonlight spilling through the windshield, casting a faintly glow on both of you as you look into each other's eyes, hearts beating fast, nerves spiking, hands shaking, so desperate to hold each other. Before you knew it, you leaned in over the console and he met you halfway.
Your lips met in a surprisingly soft kiss, eyes shut closed, hands moving to grab his sweatshirt to pull him even closer to you. His left hand tangled in your hair and pulled your head back so gently to deepen the kiss and as soon as his tongue met yours, you moaned into his mouth. Gosh, the way you sounded drove him crazy, he wasted no time moving his hands down to your waist so he can pull you over the console, your left leg moved over his right leg, and you landed right onto his lap.
His right hand stayed on your back, pressing you into him, and his left hand cupped your cheek, your hands were still holding onto his sweater until your left hand moved to tangle in his hair, pulling his head impossibly closer to yours. "You're so beautiful." he murmured against your lips.
The bulge in his pants hadn't gone unnoticed by both of you. He was embarrassed by how hard he was already, but you didn't mind. You showed it to him by moving your hips gently, almost hesitantly, testing the waters. When he groaned into your mouth as your tongues moved in sync, you took it as a signal to do it again, and this time his right hand drifted lower until they were holding your ass, pulling you closer.
Your hands kept fumbling with the skirt, the fabric bunching between your legs, blocking your movements—making frustration simmer under your skin, Steve noticed how annoyed you were getting when you broke the kiss and huffed as you tried getting the dress out of the way, "relax, baby. Here, let me help you," he said as he moved around to find the zipper at her back, "is this okay?" he asked, searching for signs of hesitance in your eyes and body language, he starts pulling it down slowly once you nod.
He pulls it down all the way and moves his hands so he can slide it under your dress, his hands go from you knees, to your thighs, to your bare waist. He definitely felt those lace panties of yours when crossing from your leg to lower stomach.
He pulled the dress up slowly, giving you the chance to stop him, to pull away. But you don't. And he keeps pulling until the dress lifts off over your head, it messes up your hair but Steve doesn't mind. It makes you look hotter. You throw the dress off your lap and into the backseat and Steve takes in the sight in front of him.
You're in matching pink panties and bra, and you look so breathtaking like this. In your underwear, on top of him, his arms wrapped around you. The way he looked at you made your heart skip, "you're stunning, darling." he whispered and his voice cracked slightly as if he was in disbelief you were even here. You pulled him back in for a more hungry kiss. Tongues meeting almost instantly, his arms pulling your lower against him and you started dryhumping him again.
He groans and the kiss breaks, his head falls back against the seat and the sight makes you lose your mind, your head falls onto his shoulder as your pace gets slower and then faster. He immediately lifts his head and moves his right hand to grab the side of your neck, he starts kissing right over your pulse point, sucking, biting, leaving marks. You moaned out his name softly and his hands tightened.
His left hand moving lower, first playing with the strap of your panties before he slips his hand underneath it and onto your clit. "You're so wet already, sweetheart. Such a good girl." You couldn’t get your brain to catch up with your body. Every time you closed your eyes, the same thought pulsed through you—This is Steve. Steve who grew up beside you. Steve who held your hand on your first day of middle school. Steve who’s looking at you like he’s wanted this for years.
You moan again and he starts rubbing back and forth, in circles, before slipping a finger inside you, "oh, Steve," you whisper, right in his ear before placing a wet sloppy kiss on the conch of his ear. Your heart was beating so wildly it felt like it was everywhere at once—your palms, your throat, your stomach. It was so frantic you were so sure he could ear it.
You didn’t know if you were trembling from adrenaline or from him.
Before he could use a second finger, you pulled back just a little bit to pull his sweatshirt over his head. Leaving him bare-chested right in front of you. He's such a beautiful man. The longer you took him in, the more your pussy throbbed for more.
You pulled back and he took that as a sign to slip his fingers out so he could unbuckle his belt and pull his jeans and boxers off just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and veiny, precum leaking through the tip. A sight just as beautiful as his face.
He hooked his fingers through the waistband of your panties and pulled it off, you lifted yourself slightly so he could pull it off fully. Instantly, he moved to rub his tip between your wet folds. You tried hard not to fall apart then and there, but he could already feel that your legs were giving out, so? He guided you. Held your hip with one hand, held his cock at your entrance with the other, and slowly you sank onto him.
"Oh, baby. Shh, it's okay, take your time." he cooed, knowing it hurt for you. But when you sank fully onto him you let out a whimper, he let out a moan, not expecting you to take him so well.
"You're so good, baby. Taking me so well." You moaned in response, the words spilling right into your ear. He sounded so good when he was talking you through it.
He held you close as you moved slowly, up, then down, grinding over and over again. "You feel so incredible, baby." he said breathlessly. The fact that you were making Steve Harrington feel good was unreal.
Moaning each other's names. Hand hitting the fogged window before tugging desperately on his hair. Leaving marks on each other's necks, tongues tangling in sloppy kisses, breaths mixed, heartbeats racing, yet perfectly in sync.
You kept catching the way he looked at you—like he was memorizing you, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
You didn’t understand why it made your chest tighten so painfully.
In no time, he felt you start to clench around him, "Steve, i'm close—" you managed to get out, "i know, i know, baby, me too." he said before placing a kiss on your temple.
You picked up the pace, riding his cock faster. Chasing the high. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling your face close to his to kiss you.
It amazed you how in the middle of sex, Steve still wanted your lips on his. Not wanting to be apart for a single second. You were hyper-aware of everything—his breath against your cheek, the warmth of his skin, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to his shirt. Every sense lit up at once, flooding your system in a way you weren’t prepared for. "Please." you moaned out, "Cum for me, darling." He said softly against your lips, hands sliding back down to hold your ass. Control the pace just a little bit. Help you through it — guide you.
When you came your pace faltered, your head fell onto his shoulder tiredly, and your hands rested on his chest. He controlled the pace as he came, and with a few more thrusts, you rode it out together. Reaching the orgasm together.
Your sweaty skin stuck to his, your hair in his face as you looked out the fogged window, trying to catch your breath, his hands held you close gently, your chest pressed to his. He rubbed a finger up and down your spine, kissing your shoulder, whispering quite assurances, asking if you were okay.
You finally lifted your head, and made eye contact with him instantly. And before you could say anything, he spoke first without hesitance, "can i... can i be your boyfriend?"
You smiled tiredly as you nodded. Pulling him in for another kiss. This one was tired, a soft peck. Your arms moved behind him to get comfortable, and he held you even tighter.
"Steve?"
"Yes, baby?"
"I fell in love with you the second you shoved Jimmy Peterson."
"Good, because i've loved you since the second i saw you."
As soon as everything settled, your heartbeat finally slowing from a frantic drum to something heavy and warm, Steve tucked you against his chest. "You okay, darling?" His hand brushed slow, absent circles between your shoulder blades—maybe trying to soothe you, maybe trying to steady himself. "More than okay." you said softly, almost inaudible.
You didn’t last long.
Sleep dragged at you almost instantly, exhaustion and comfort teaming up to knock you out right there against him.
Steve felt your weight slump softly into him.
His eyes widened.
“Oh—oh shit,” he whispered under his breath, instantly stiffening like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands.
He tried sliding out from under you without waking you—failed immediately.
You whined the tiniest bit, reaching instinctively for him even unconscious.
He froze.
Then let out a tiny whisper-laugh.
“…yeah, okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
He awkwardly maneuvered both of you toward the backseat, half-carrying you, half-praying he didn’t bang your head on the roof of the BMW.
It was the clumsiest thing he’d ever done in his life.
He finally settled you on the backseat, then climbed in beside you and pulled the old emergency blanket from the trunk over both of you. The blanket you tended to use when both of you didn't wanna go home and slept in his car.
You curled into him instantly.
He swallowed hard, cheeks red in the dark.
“Yeah,” he breathed softly, brushing a thumb across your temple,
“I’m so screwed.”
And within minutes, he was out cold too.
The dance was over.
Kids were spilling out of the gym.
Dustin marched across the parking lot, head held high, ready to brag to Steve about his night.
Until he noticed the foggy windows.
“…the hell?”
He leaned closer.
Saw two tangled shapes under a blanket.
Squinted.
Saw you curled against Steve’s chest, both knocked out like dead people.
He froze.
Made a face.
Backed up slowly like he saw an actual crime.
Then he turned around and ran to Nancy.
“NANCE?!”
He grabbed her sleeve, out of breath. “I—I need a ride. Right now. STEVE. IS. BUSY.”
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