a small corner of the internet mostly dedicated to steve harrington and joe keery.
expect imagines, blurbs, edits, late night thoughts, fictional yearning. mostly stranger things for now, but other characters, films, actors, and random hyperfixations will slowly find their way here too.
a little bit organised mixed with a little chaos
if you have any recs or requests, please don’t hesitate to send them in
IM SO OBSESSED WITH HOW HE FURROWS HIS EYEBROWS IN CONCENTRATION WHEN HES MAKING OUT HE LOOKS SO INTO IT I CAN NEVER BE NORMAL ABOUT ANYTHING UGHHHFHSJJFDJS GIVE IT TO ME NOW
Summary: Is it better to wait out Joe leaving you, or to push him away on your own terms. Second part to this.
A/N: I fear the writers curse has caught up to me because I was supposed to finish this yesterday and fell down a flight of stairs instead :/. All good now tho, have a great day cuties xo
The apartment was dark when you got home.
You had asked your driver to park up near the back entrance, the one that skipped the lobby. It meant a whole heap of stairs for you to walk up, but it was worth it so the cameras didn't catch you in the bright lobby, the last thing you needed was your face highlighted all over the cameras in its blotchy state. Not in the way it crumpled every time you convinced yourself you had it under control.
You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your dress, the pins from your updo digging into your scalp, reminding you of how Joe had been playing with it before walking into the party. But you didn't have the energy to take any of it out. It felt wrong to undress like the night was over. Like you got to wash your face and climb into bed like none of it happened.
Your phone buzzed on the mattress beside you.
Joe: are you home
You stared at it for a minute, relief flooding your chest, before you typed back.
You: Yeah
Joe: can i come over
You wanted to say yes so badly your chest ached with it. But you also knew if he walked through the door, you'd fall apart all over again in a way you weren't quite ready for. You needed to sit in it first. You needed to feel just how much you'd wrecked tonight before you let him in to try and fix it, because some small, stubborn part of you didn't think you deserved the fixing tonight.
You: not tonight
You: i just need to think
The three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.
Joe: Okay
Joe: Here if you need anything
You pressed your hand over your mouth as you let out another choked sob. You wanted nothing but to be with Joe, apologising for how the night went, but you couldn't help but think he needed somebody a little less of a burden.
You didn't sleep much. You lay there running the whole night back like a tape stuck on rewind, the manicured hand on your arm, Joe's jaw ticking, "you get scared and you think it's me you're scared of." The thoughts warped your mind until the sky outside your window turned that pale, bruised blue that comes before sunrise.
By six, you gave up even trying.
You made tea you didn't drink and sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, phone in your lap, scrolling through headlines despite every gut instinct telling you not to. Your publicist had already messaged twice, and your manager had left a voicemail you hadn't opened.
The photos were exactly what you had expected. You and Joe, smiling like nothing in the world was wrong, his arm around your waist, your head tucked just so. It was a good photo. It was a lie, but it was a good photo, and somehow both of those things being true at once made your stomach turn.
Under it, a smaller photo. You, alone, starting to walk through the doors, head down, as a driver held the door open for you to climb in before you got too crowded by the paps.
Trouble In Paradise?
The article read, because of course it did. Because they had been debating which story to run, and the universe had just handed them a story wrapped up in a neat little bow.
You pressed your phone face down against the counter as you dug the heels of your hands into your eyes.
This was your fault. You knew it the way you knew your own name, no room for argument. Joe hadn't started it. Joe had asked if you were okay, and you'd turned it into a fight because some ugly, restless part of you needed there to be an argument. He'd tried to protect you from the journalist, and you'd punished him for it. He'd asked you not to turn it into something ugly, and you'd declared it already was, like you were daring him to prove you right.
You thought about the way his hand had slipped from your back, and you'd felt it like a physical loss. Instead of reaching for him, instead of asking him not to go, you'd needled him until he had a reason to.
That was the part that had scared you most. Not how frustrated he had gotten with you, but that you'd built the frustration yourself, brick by brick, like you always did, then acted shocked when the walls came crumbling down.
You thought about every version of this you'd lived through with other people, long before Joe. The way you'd learned that if you left first, if you were difficult first, it never hurt as much as waiting around to be left. You wondered, miserably, how many more nights like this it would take for that patience to finally wear off for good, and whether you'd even be able to blame him when it did.
By the time you'd given up on sleep, you had thought up a dozen apologies, and none of them were enough.
He showed up at nine the next morning.
You heard the knock before you heard your own name, soft, almost cautious, like he thought you might not answer.
You opened the door, and he was still in last night's shirt, sleeves rolled, dark circles under his eyes that matched yours. He didn't come in, just stood there in the doorway like he was waiting for permission, which broke something in you all over again, because Joe never asked permission for anything. He just did. He just showed up and made things okay whether you wanted him to or not.
Except last night you'd told him not to, and he'd listened, and apparently that lesson had landed harder than you meant it to.
"Hey," he said quietly.
"Hey."
Neither of you moved.
"I know you needed space," he said quickly. "But technically you had ten hours of it."
Despite everything, despite the heavy feeling sitting behind your ribs, the corner of your mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile. It was closer to relief.
"That's a technicality."
"My whole career's built on technicalities, baby." He shrugged.
You stepped back to let him in.
He didn't touch you at first, which felt strange after years of him reaching for you the second you were within arm's reach. He sat on the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, and you sat curled into the corner of it, putting the whole length of the cushions between you, like the distance could protect the both of you from saying something you couldn't take back.
"I was thinking about what I said to you last night," he started. "In my head. On the way home. About a hundred times."
You didn't say anything. You just watched him.
"I shouldn't have said it like that," he continued. "The bit about you leaving, it came out uglier than I meant it to. Even if some of it was true, that's not, it's not how I wanted to talk to you about it."
Your throat tightened. "Did you mean it?"
He looked up at you properly. There was no anger lingering anymore, just exhaustion.
"I think when things get hard, you push," he said carefully. "I don't think for one moment you don't love me. I know you love me."
"I think," he continued, "some part of you is waiting for the moment I get fed up and go, and you'd rather cause it yourself than wait around for it to happen."
You wanted to argue. You opened your mouth to argue. But nothing came out, because you knew he was right. For God's sake, he had only repeated what you'd been telling yourself in the early hours of the morning anyway, and lying about it now would only further prove his point.
"I don't want to be scared of you leaving," you said instead, voice cracking down the middle. "I want to be scared of normal things. Bad reviews, getting older. God, even running out of milk. But not this. Not you."
"I'm not going anywhere." He said it slowly, like he was trying to make sure every word stuck.
"I wasn't going anywhere last night either, even when you told me not to follow you."
"I can't believe I put you through that. You shouldn't be the one trying to fix it, I messed up. I'm the one who picked a fight when we were supposed to be enjoying the night. It's not normal. It's not fair to you."
"Hey." His hand found yours, stilling the way you'd been picking at your fingers. "Don't start that."
You only looked up at him in confusion.
"You're building a case against yourself." His voice was gentle but firm underneath it, the way it usually got when he wasn't going to budge. "I know what you're doing, trying to reach a verdict before I can. Guilty, case closed, no appeal, because it's easier to sit in the punishment than actually talk to me."
You could only blink, throat closed, because he wasn't wrong, and being caught out that clearly made something in you want to shrink.
"What if I deserve the verdict?"
"You don't." His voice was adamant. "You said some things that hurt. So did I. That doesn't make you a criminal. You felt cornered and your defence mechanisms just kicked in. I'm not sitting here to list out your crimes, baby. I'm just trying to understand you."
"I hated the way it felt," you admitted quietly, throat aching, "when your hand left my back. I know it was small, and I probably imagined half of it. But it felt like the beginning of you deciding I was too much."
"I was overwhelmed," he said. "Not by you. By that woman practically pricing you up like a product right in front of me, and not being able to do a single thing about it without making everything worse for you. I froze, and that's on me. Not you."
You finally let yourself move, sliding down the couch until your knee bumped his.
"I don't think either of us handled it well," you said.
"No," he agreed, a small, exhausted laugh leaving him. "We were both thinking of the worst possible scenario. It was a little unhinged."
You laughed too, wet and sudden, surprising yourself with it. "Just a little."
He reached for your hand then, slowly, like he was checking whether you'd let him, and when you didn't pull away he simply laced his fingers with yours.
"I don't need you to be perfect at any of this," he said, quieter now. "The cameras, the parties, none of it. I just need you to let me stand next to you during all of it, instead of sending me away the second it gets hard."
You looked down at your joined hands, at the tiny white scar above his knuckle from some stupid rock climbing trip years ago, at the way his thumb moved slowly back and forth over your skin, like he usually did when he was trying to be patient with you.
"I just don't know how to stop being scared," you admitted.
"I'm not asking you to stop being scared." He tugged you gently until you gave up and let him pull you against his side, your cheek finding the familiar spot on his chest. "I'm just asking you to tell me when you're scared, instead of biting my head off in front of a camera crew."
"That's fair." You mumbled into his chest.
"I thought so."
You stayed like that for a while, the morning light creeping slowly across the floor, neither of you rushing to fill the silence with anything else. Somewhere outside, the world was already writing its own version of your night, headlines and theories and strangers deciding what your relationship meant. But in your apartment, it was just the two of you, his heartbeat under your ear, steady in a way nothing else in your life quite managed to be.
"I'm sorry," you finally said. "For all of it, the bar, the picture, walking away."
"I know." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm sorry too, for all of it."
"What a mess."
His chest vibrated under your head as he huffed out a laugh. "Tell me about it."
You closed your eyes, and for the first time since the party started, the noise in your head finally went quiet.
Eventually your stomach growled, loud and undignified, right against his ribs.
Joe went still. Then he started laughing, the kind of laugh that shook his whole chest and made your head bounce where it rested against him.
"Was that you or the couch?"
"Shut up." You shoved at him half-heartedly, fighting your own smile. "I haven't eaten since the four canapés at the party."
"Four canapés." He shook his head, already untangling himself from you and standing, tugging you up by the hand before you could protest.
"Can't have you fading away after everything we survived."
"Survived? Very dramatic."
"I almost lost you to a woman with crazy eyes."
You laughed properly now, the sound surprising you with how easy it came after a night that felt like it would never end. "She wasn't that bad."
"She absolutely was unhinged, and you know it."
He pulled you into the kitchen, and instead of letting go of your hand, he just kept it looped in his as he opened the fridge one-handed, squinting at the mostly bare shelves.
"We have," he announced, "eggs, a lime… and leftovers? I think?" He squinted at the container. You hummed beside him.
"Very impressive spread."
"I'm thinking eggs."
"Groundbreaking."
He nudged you back a step with his hip so he could reach for a pan, and you let him, leaning against the counter and watching him move around your kitchen in yesterday's crumpled shirt like he'd never once considered being anywhere else. Somewhere between Joe knocking on your door and this moment, the tightness in your chest had unclenched itself completely.
"Sit," he said, motioning to the stool. "You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."
"But you need supervising."
"You're literally swaying like you're about to fall."
You were, a little. You climbed onto the stool anyway, propping your chin in your hand, and watched him crack eggs with far more confidence than his actual cooking skills warranted.
"You know," you said, "for somebody who burns toast, you seem very sure of yourself."
"My cooking skills have grown."
"You always look like you're about to burst into tears when you cook."
"It's called being overwhelmed." He pointed a spatula at you without turning around. "There's a difference."
You were laughing again, really laughing, the kind that made your ribs ache. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound, and something soft moved across his face, like he'd been waiting all morning just to hear it. You noticed, and sobered up a little.
"Shut up and make eggs." You smiled.
"Yes ma'am."
He plated the eggs slightly wrong, one side charred and the other barely set, and presented them to you with far more pride than the dish deserved. You ate them anyway, sitting cross-legged on the stool across from him as he stole bites from your plate when he thought you weren't looking.
"That's your third bite off my plate."
"You made yours look so good, I got jealous of my own cooking."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
You did. You loved it so much it almost scared you again, in a completely different way than last night did, the kind that made you want to hold on to something for dear life rather than run from it.
When you'd both finished, he came and stood between your knees, resting his hands loosely on your hips, and just looked at you for a long moment.
"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of it.
"Nothing. I just missed your face, even if I did see it ten hours ago."
"That's so cheesy."
"I've had a long twenty-four hours. Let me be cheesy."
You reached up and smoothed down a piece of hair that had been sticking up since he walked through the door, more out of habit than necessity, and he leaned into the touch like he'd been waiting for it.
"Stay today," you said quietly. "Just us."
"Wasn't planning on going anywhere," he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. "Told you that already."
"Tell me again."
"I'm not going anywhere." His thumb traced slow circles against your hip, patient in a way that undid something tender in your chest. "Not today, not any day you're testing it either. So you may as well stop bracing for it."
You breathed him in, tea and sleep and something else that just smelled like home, and for the first time in longer than you wanted to admit, you actually believed him.
"Okay," you whispered.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
He kissed you then, slow and unhurried, nothing like the tense, careful distance of last night's version of the two of you. When he pulled back, he was smiling, the real one that reached his eyes.
"Now," he said, stealing a leftover piece from your plate, "since we're staying in, I vote bad reality TV and not moving from this couch for the rest of the day."
"You'll finally watch Love Island with me?" Your smile brightened ever so.
"Been planning it since the eggs."
You slid off the counter, lacing your fingers with his as you let him tug you towards the living room, the noise from the night before, blessedly, a thousand miles away.
little update for you all, my two parter should be out Friday, potentially Thursday depending on the time I get off work.
Also starting next week, im gonna bring back the daryl imagines and maybe venture out a bit more with different characters BUT the Joe and Steve imagines aren't going anywhere if anything I'll probably be posting more frequently but thank you all for being so patient with me with the constant breaks ive been taking, its really helped me start loving to write again
Summary: You and Joe argue over his lack of enthusiasm for cleaning mugs, but he can't call you out on how insane it is because you're scary when you're sick
A/N: Based on this Request, I must admit this imagine does have a slight jumble between British English and American English. Have a lovely day cuties ox
It had all started over a mug.
It wasn't like either of you particularly cared about the mug or its significance in the sink. But somehow between long filming days, too many filming days, and perhaps one too many takeaways eaten on the couch, that single ceramic mug, painted in an array of colours that reminded you of a sunset, was your final straw.
It had been sat in the sink since you woke up. You'd walked past it three times already, giving it the stink eye each time. You knew why it annoyed you, dirty dishes were simply your kryptonite. You knew it. Joe knew it. The idea of a dirty dish being left in the sink would creep into your head throughout the day until you could get the chance to clean it. The both of you tried to keep your shared flat as tidy as possible, but during a disarray of a morning like this, it had begun to feel difficult.
The first time you walked past it, it didn't bother you too much, you'd thought that since Joe used it, he would clean it up when he could.
The second time, you let out a dramatic sigh. A tad immature. But you were too lazy to go through the motions of opening your mouth and asking your boyfriend, who would only sigh in response.
The third time, you were digging through one of your drawers trying to find a small knick-knack on your mind, as Joe hummed around the kitchen, pushing the mug out of the way so he could prepare himself another coffee. With a new mug.
You leaned against the counter, unnecessarily tense, your fingers twisting around the edge of the smooth surface.
"Are you going to clean that."
Joe glanced over his shoulder, mostly distracted.
"Hm?"
"The mug, Joe." You sigh.
"What about it."
You only stared at him, keeping your frustrations at bay.
"It's been sat in the sink all day."
He looked into the sink, scratching the stubble that had begun to grow on the lower half of his face.
"Oh."
"Oh?"
"I'll sort it."
He gave you an incredulous look, but you only crossed your arms in response.
"When?" Your tone becoming short.
"Later." He waves it off, focusing on his new coffee. In his new mug.
"It's always later with you lately."
"And yet I still manage to get it done."
You squint your eyes at him in frustrated confusion.
"It takes all of three seconds."
"So does asking nicely." He shoots back.
"I am asking nicely." Joe looked at you, raising his eyebrows.
"Are you."
Your lips part in disbelief. "You cannot be serious."
"I'm just saying your tone is a little…"
"A little what?" Your voice sharp as you let out a dry laugh.
He made a small gesture with his hand, waving you over.
"You know... a little mom-ish."
"Excuse you." Your eyebrows knotted together, taking more offence to the comment than you probably should've.
"See, this is exactly what I mean." He'd said it lightly, in his defence. Like he thought it would've at least made you smile. It didn't.
"So you think I'm mom-ish and dramatic, anything else we want to add to the list." You cringed internally listening to yourself speak. You definitely sounded like a mother.
"I didn't say dramatic."
"But you implied it."
"I really didn't,"
"It's one mug, Joe." Your voice cracked as you sighed, not because you wanted to cry, but because the exhaustion of it all had finally started to take over. Your eyes hurt, your body hurt, you didn't want to sound like your boyfriend's mother. In fact, the thought seemed pretty disturbing to you.
You stumbled over your words as you carried on, more talking to yourself.
"It's never really one mug, though, is it, it's the shoes and the laundry basket that never empties itself on days off, but it's okay because you'll do it later."
"Okay, so you really want to do this." He set his mug down on the counter so he could copy your crossed-arms stance. Now who's the parent, you couldn't help but think to yourself. Real mature.
"You want to list everything I've apparently done wrong this month."
"I'm not, I'm really not, just, if you followed through like you say, I wouldn't constantly have to bring it up."
"And maybe if you didn't feel the need to deep-dive into every minor inconvenience, I wouldn't feel like I'm walking on eggshells in my own kitchen."
The words landed harder than either of you expected. You could see it on his face too, the flicker of regret. But neither of you were in the business of backing down first.
"Fine." You pushed off the counter. "Don't clean it then. Ever. See if I care."
Real mature.
"Fine." His response came.
"Fine."
You didn't slam the bedroom door, because you weren't twelve. At least you hoped. But you shut it with enough force that it communicated everything a slam would've.
The thing about your petty fights was that they had a shelf life. By the afternoon, the both of you had cooled off significantly enough to the point where you could co-exist in the same apartment without combusting. But nobody had said sorry yet, so you found yourselves simply orbiting around each other instead. Polite, clipped, something in the air with a particular weight to it. He worked in the living room, while you stayed cooped up in the bedroom, scrolling through your phone, volume off, pretending like you weren't waiting for him to knock. He didn't.
You told yourself that it was fine, you had technically started it. Then again, maybe he had; it was all a blur and heavily depended on who was telling the story. Either way, pride was an excellent insulator, and you wrapped yourself in it and called it warmth.
Around six, you began to feel a tightness in your throat that hadn't been there earlier in the day. You caught it and, albeit uncomfortable, swallowed it. You put it down to too much talking in the days prior and the sharp tone you'd held that morning.
By seven, you were sniffling.
By eight, you had a specific ache behind your eyes that was normally reserved for when you had the flu. And yet, you didn't tell Joe.
Partly because admitting it meant showing weakness in front of somebody you were technically still giving the cold shoulder, despite that it was relying solely on principle now. Mostly, though, it was because a small nagging voice in the back of your head told you he was still annoyed, and your pride couldn't let you hand over the satisfaction of needing him for anything, especially not something as undignified as a cold.
So you did what any regular, mature person would do. You dug through cupboards for some paracetamol yourself, made your own tea without asking if he wanted one too, which you always did out of habit, and went to bed with a mumbled "Night" through the crack of the door that didn't invite any more conversation.
Joe, from the sofa, said "Night" with a clipped tone and didn't think much of it, which in hindsight, was the problem.
You did not sleep well.
Your throat had gone from tight to raw sometime around 2 a.m., and by the time the grey light started slipping through the curtains, you'd gone through half a box of tissues, and you were pretty sure if you tried to use your voice, it would come out somewhere between a croak and a whisper. You lay there for a moment trying to do the math on whether you had it in you to get up and make yourself look like a presentable, functioning human being before facing your boyfriend.
The math, however, did not work in your favour. You felt awful, and one quick look in the mirror confirmed you looked awful too.
Yet, you still refused to be the one to fold first. You could take care of yourself. You had managed in the past, and you'd sure as hell manage again, and pass with flying colours.
You had made it as far as the kitchen doorway before a cough took over. Sharp and fast. Doubling you slightly over the frame.
Joe, already up, was halfway through pouring his coffee, new mug again, you noticed distantly, and turned at the sound.
Whatever he'd been planning to say died somewhere in his throat.
"Hey." He was halfway across the kitchen before he could stop himself. "Hey, you okay?" Concern laced his voice.
"M'fine." It came out thinner than you'd intended, rough around the edges in a way that wrecked you completely.
He was across the kitchen before you could even manage to finish your sentence, hand landing on your warm forehead, tilting your head up gently with two fingers under your chin as he took in the dark circles around your eyes and your puffy face.
"You're burning up, baby." His eyebrows knitted together, all his earlier frustration replaced with something much softer and slightly panicked. "Since when. Why didn't you say anything."
You could only shrug, your body admitting defeat as the shrug turned into another small cough. "I didn't want to make a thing of it."
"You didn't want to," He sighed, running a hand over his face, taking a deep breath instead of finishing his thought the way he'd clearly wanted to. "Right, let's get you to bed."
"But I have things to-,"
"Now."
You only huffed in response.
"Now who's the parent." You sniffled, making him huff out a laugh from behind you.
You had wanted to argue more, mostly by principle, mostly because some petty part of you from yesterday was still keeping score. But your body had other plans, and you were actually quite glad you didn't have to take care of yourself anymore.
With a small huff of content, you let him steer you down the hall.
He came in twenty minutes later with a tray, which felt like overkill for eleven in the morning, but you weren't about to complain. Tea, with honey properly stirred through, unlike the weak yet thick consistency you'd managed to conjure up yourself the night before. Toast, cut into triangles the way you always liked, though Joe had always thought it pointless. Paracetamol already popped from the packet, sat next to a tall glass of water.
He set the tray carefully across your lap and then just stood there for a moment, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite place, until he spoke.
"You really weren't going to say anything, were you."
You picked at the crust of your toast instead of responding.
"I thought you were still annoyed with me." His voice had lost its earlier urgency, gone quiet instead. "About the mug thing. I thought that's why you went to bed early. I didn't even think you weren't feeling well. I just thought," He shook his head at himself. "I should've checked on you properly instead of sulking on the couch like an idiot."
"I thought you were the one still annoyed," you admitted, voice cracking somewhere between the cold and something else entirely. "I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of needing you for anything."
That got a small, rather shocked laugh out of him. More gentle than mocking. "The satisfaction of, baby, it's a mug. I was never going to hold a mug against you for more than a couple of hours, tops."
"Could've fooled me."
"Yeah, well." He sat carefully at the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the tray, and reached to tuck a strand of hair back from your damp forehead with a tenderness that undid whatever was left of your resolve to still be mad. "In my defence, you're a formidable opponent when you've decided to be stubborn about something."
"I learned from the best."
"Quite accurate. But, baby," he pressed a kiss to your temple, careful and warm despite you being clearly germ-ridden, "drink your tea. I'll go wash the mug."
"Which one."
"All of them. Every mug in this apartment. I'm declaring a fresh start."
You almost laughed, which turned into a cough, which in turn made Joe completely fuss over you again, pulling the duvet higher and instructing you to just rest. The mug, the argument, all of it, didn't matter nearly as much as you feeling better.
He kept his word the next morning too.
You woke slower than the day before, throat still raw but the fever having broken overnight, to the smell of cooking and the sound of Joe silently cursing to himself in the kitchen. When he appeared in the doorway a few moments later, he had a tray balanced in both hands. Eggs, done just the way you like them, more toast, a glass of orange juice, and tucked into the corner of the tray like an afterthought that clearly wasn't, a few squares of chocolate you usually hid in the back of one of your cupboards and had to use a chair to reach.
"Breakfast in bed." He announced, setting it down with more ceremony than the eggs needed. "Peace offering, slash apology, slash an I-love-you?"
"You don't have to apologise." Your voice was still a little rough, but steadier than yesterday. "I'm the one that didn't want to say anything."
"We can both apologise and it not be a competition." He climbed onto the bed beside you, careful not to knock you or the tray, settling in against the headboard as he looped an arm around your shoulders like the last two days hadn't happened.
"Although if it were, I'd obviously win."
"Obviously."
"Obviously." He pressed a kiss to the side of your head. "How are you feeling."
"Better." You leaned into him, stealing a square of chocolate before even touching the eggs. "Still tired, but better."
"Good." A pause, comfortable rather than loaded. "For what it's worth, I did the mug yesterday, and today, and I'll keep doing it so you don't have to give any dirty dishes the stink eye like I don't notice."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything you do, honey. I just don't always get around to it fast enough, apparently." He squeezed your shoulders gently. "I'm working on it."
You looked at him for a moment, hair still a mess from sleep, sleeves pushed up from cooking, watching you like you mattered more than any stupid mug or anything else for that matter.
"Thank you," you say quietly, "for this. All of this."
"Anytime." He reached over, stealing a bite of your toast without asking, which under normal circumstances might have started the whole argument all over again. Instead, you just laughed, sweet and sickly, and let him.
Some things, it turned out, mattered a lot less than being taken care of by somebody who had noticed you needed it, even when you were too stubborn to ask.
Summary: You and Joe just may be too disgustingly cute to be invited to the next group holiday
A/N: I took a short break but im back! Currently working on requests and a second part to in the clear yet, thank you for being patient with me cuties! Hope you all have a great day ox
The table outside had been set long before anybody was actually ready to eat. A long linen runner stretched down the centre, dotted with half-melted candles and wildflowers one of your friends had fallen in love with during a walk earlier that afternoon. Plates sat unevenly around the table, mismatched glasses glinting in the last of the evening sunlight.
The air smelled faintly of lavender and rosemary, while cicadas carried on their own little conversations somewhere beyond the garden wall. The sinking sun bathed everything in gold, stretching long shadows across the terrace and turning the lavender fields beyond the villa into something that looked almost unreal.
Everybody drifted outside at their own pace, carrying bowls and platters from the kitchen, still wrapped up in conversations from the day's walk. You, unsurprisingly, arrived last, brushing an imaginary crease from your dress as you stepped out into the warm evening.
"Finally," a voice laughed from the table.
You looked up to find Joe standing beside one of the empty chairs, one arm resting lazily over the back of it.
"We were fully prepared to send out a search party."
You rolled your eyes, unable to stop yourself from smiling.
"Relax. I was getting changed."
"For a party of six," one of your friends called, walking past with a basket of bread balanced against their hip.
"Just for one, actually."
"Sure," Joe replied, narrowing his eyes at you dramatically before pulling the chair out. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
You shook your head as you sat down, laughing under your breath.
It wasn't just Joe making you smile.
Beyond him, lavender fields stretched endlessly towards the horizon, glowing beneath the last of the day's sunshine. The villa already felt like home, despite only being there a few days. Somehow, all it had taken was good weather, good company and the promise that nobody had anywhere else to be.
As everyone began loading food onto their plates, two of Joe's friends picked up an argument that had apparently started hours earlier.
"...and then he genuinely thought he'd survive jumping off the balcony."
"It wasn't a balcony."
"It absolutely was."
"It was barely a metre off the ground."
"You almost died."
Joe leaned a little closer, clearly amused by how invested you were becoming in the debate.
"It was definitely a balcony," he murmured. "He broke three bones."
You laughed so suddenly that you nearly choked on your drink.
"Joe, man," his friend groaned. "Not you as well."
Joe only shrugged, a lazy grin settling across his face. He knew better than to throw himself directly into these arguments. He much preferred stirring the pot from a safe distance.
As the evening drifted on, conversations rolled around the table in waves. One story blurred effortlessly into another until nobody really remembered where any of them had started. A fork lay abandoned beneath someone's chair, catching the last of the sunlight, while a puddle of sparkling water slowly dried where a glass had been knocked over in the bustle of dinner.
Nobody seemed to care.
Maybe tomorrow someone would blame it on the wine. Or the champagne. Or the ridiculous amount of cocktail sausages everyone had demolished before dinner. Or maybe it was simply what happened when you trusted people enough that the little imperfections became part of the evening instead of something that needed fixing.
Joe reached for the bread bowl, his arm bumping yours just enough to send the cloudy liquid in your wine glass sloshing over the rim.
You looked at him, startled out of your thoughts.
"Sorry."
His grin told you he wasn't sorry in the slightest.
"You are insufferable, Joe Keery."
"And yet here you are."
"There was simply no other seat."
"A likely story."
You lifted your glass to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face, but Joe caught it anyway.
His expression softened slightly.
"So..." he said, resting his chin against his knuckles, giving you his full attention despite everything happening around him. "What's been your favourite part so far?"
The question caught you off guard.
"Hm?"
He gestured vaguely around the garden.
"Today. The pool. The market. Watching our friends desperately try to relive their youth."
A cherry tomato hit him squarely on the shoulder.
You laughed before taking another sip of wine, pretending to think about it.
"The market."
"The market?"
"There was a cat."
Joe stared at you.
"A cat."
"It was cute."
"You're in the south of France and your favourite part is a cat?"
"It had a little bell."
He paused for a second before throwing his head back in laughter.
"You're incredible."
"My priorities are simply in order."
"They really are."
You couldn't stop smiling.
The evening light caught in his curls, turning them almost amber, and every time he looked at you, it felt as though the rest of the table disappeared for a second.
Around you, conversations continued uninterrupted. Someone was trying to convince the group to drive down to the coast tomorrow, while someone else insisted that doing absolutely nothing was the entire point of being on holiday. Every now and then another story would spark fresh laughter, but somehow Joe always found a way of pulling you into quieter conversations between it all.
Even after two years together, he still spoke to you with the same curiosity he'd had at the beginning.
He asked what music you'd been listening to lately.
Whether you'd finally watched that film he'd been recommending for months.
Why you still insisted cereal counted as dinner.
None of it mattered.
It was just conversation for the sake of conversation.
The kind that made an hour disappear without either of you noticing.
"Oh my God."
The voice pulled both of your attention back towards the rest of the table.
"You two do realise there are other people on this holiday, right?"
Heat rushed to your cheeks until they rivalled the sunburn still lingering across the bridge of your nose.
Joe, on the other hand, didn't seem remotely embarrassed.
Instead, he casually hooked a foot around the leg of your chair and pulled it a little closer to his.
The table erupted into laughter.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, all innocence.
"You've spoken exclusively to each other for the last hour," someone replied. "Trying to have a conversation with either of you has been like talking to a brick wall."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
You buried your face against Joe's shoulder, laughing too hard to defend yourselves.
Joe glanced down at you before looking back at everyone else.
"...Has it really been an hour?"
The groans around the table only grew louder.
Then he looked back at you, the teasing fading from his expression.
"Didn't feel like it."
Something about the way he said it stole every coherent thought from your head.
The laughter around the table became background noise.
You couldn't decide whether the warmth spreading through your face came from the wine, the evening air, or the way he was looking at you.
Probably all three.
Joe reached for his glass with one hand while the other settled naturally around your shoulders.
By now the warmth of the day had begun to fade, replaced by the gentle coolness that settled over the countryside once the sun disappeared behind the hills. Goosebumps prickled your arms before you even noticed them.
Joe did.
Without a word, he shrugged off the lightweight sweater he'd been wearing all evening and held it out to you.
"You'll get cold," you protested.
"I'll be fine."
You hesitated before slipping it over your shoulders anyway.
It still held the warmth he'd left behind, carrying the familiar mix of sunscreen, aftershave and something that was just... Joe.
For the rest of dinner, it didn't matter how many conversations broke out around the table or how loud the laughter became. Every now and then your eyes found him again, and every time they did, he was already looking at you.
That small, quiet smile never really left his face. And somehow, beneath the fairy lights and the fading French sky, it felt like one of those evenings you'd still be talking about years from now.
hi lovely! Not sure if you’re still taking requests but if so could you do a joe x reader where one day they’re arguing over something and it’s stupid but they’re both getting a bit petty. Later that day reader ends up coming down with a cold but tries managing it herself (she’s still mad at Joe and thinks he’s mad at her). Joe realizes and takes care of her, perhaps making her breakfast in bed the following morning and completely putting aside the argument. Thanks!
Hi lovely!! 🤍 This is such a sweet request, I actually started working on it as soon as I read it because I couldn't resist the idea 😭.
It should be up around Tuesday/Wednesday if all goes to plan! Thank you so much for sending it in and for supporting my writing, I always appreciate your requests. My inbox is always open if you ever have any more ideas! 💌
Summary: Joe losing you is his worst nightmare, so why does it feel like you've already lost him
A/N: Been way off my usual posting schedule, the UK heat has in fact frazzled me and I completely forgot that I had this gem, potentialll two parter?? Hope you all have a great day cuties! x
The party was so loud it made your skin itch.
It wasn’t the usual kind of noise you were used to from being on tour. It wasn’t like hearing the crowd scream and chant your name in those odd moments when you decided to take your in-ears out. That noise had always made sense to you. There was a rhythm to it. A reason.
This kind of noise affected you differently.
It wasn’t just the public who had their beady little eyes on you for the night. It was the industry too. People laughing a little too enthusiastically at your jokes. Glasses clinking. Everybody kissing cheeks, followed by the clack of heels and disappointed looks hidden under quiet criticism. Like you weren’t quite the perfect picture of the character they had decided you were supposed to be.
You had ended up standing at the bar instead.
Keeping out of everybody’s way felt safer, but it didn’t stop the judgemental glances. Joe’s hand rested lightly on the small of your back, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of your dress. Usually, that would have been enough to ground you. Usually, it would have been enough to bring you back to him. Usually, you weren’t under this much scrutiny.
You could feel the camera flashing through the windows, waiting to catch any slip-up from the night. Waiting to feast on their next big headline. You sighed, because it wasn’t enough that the people around you were clocking every time you leaned into your boyfriend and he looked away. By tomorrow, the whole world would know too.
It was exhausting keeping up the facade so people wouldn’t try to pick apart the cracks in your life. As if everyone was desperate to get the newest dig in first, just so they could run to the hottest gossip page and say they had noticed the tension before anyone else.
Joe leaned closer to your ear. “You okay?”
You looked up at him, biting your lip slightly. He looked tired. Not bored. Not annoyed with you. Just tired. Somehow, that made the pull in your heart tug a little worse, so you tried to smile up at him.
“I’m fine.”
“Right.”
The way he said it made your heart palpitate. You took a slow sip of your drink, mostly so it would give you more time before you answered. Time to slow your quickening heartbeat.
“Please don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you act like I’m lying and get all annoyed because you think I’m not admitting to something.”
His hand slipped from your back.
It was such a small movement, but you felt it immediately. You knew you were testing his patience tonight, and you wanted so badly to pull yourself into check, but you just felt agitated. Not at him. At the entire situation.
“I’m not annoyed,” he tried to reassure you, but you caught the sigh that left his lips before he managed to reply.
“You seem annoyed.”
“I’m just asking you if you’re okay.”
“I told you I’m fine.” You didn’t mean to, but your voice carried a finality to it.
Joe huffed through his nose and looked out at the party.
“Okay.”
His jaw was ticking slightly. His usual tell-tale sign that he was getting fed up with the conversation. He wasn’t the only one.
As annoyed as you were, you hated the flatness in his voice. You hated how quickly he was giving up. More than anything, you hated that you wanted him to push. Needed him to push. That him simply asking wasn’t enough. That you felt the need to push him away just to see if he would come back.
Before you could get the opportunity to reach out to him, to try and fix things, a woman in a satin blazer rushed over with a whole camera crew behind her. She had a bright smile and what Joe would probably describe as “the crazy eyes”.
“There you are,” she said brightly, reaching over to brush something from your bare arm. “Everyone’s been dying to get a photo of the new IT couple of the night.”
Joe’s eyes locked onto where she had touched your arm.
The look in his eyes told you that if your behaviour tonight had peeved him, this was about to send him over the edge. You understood him entirely, but you knew starting a scene when you already felt like you were being dissected would’ve been the worst possible scenario.
“Oh,” you said, smiling politely. “Maybe in a little bit. We’ve only just gotten here.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, waving you off. “It’ll only take a second. Plus, the both of you are quite in demand.”
The way she described you like you were an item on sale for the public made you feel a little sick, but this was the life that came with creating the art you loved so much.
Joe tried to copy your polite smile, but his seemed strained. “Maybe later.”
The woman only laughed, but it sounded forced, and her eyes felt like they were closing in around the two of you.
“Don’t be boring now. Anybody would pay good money to be in either of your positions.”
Joe’s hand found your lower back again, but this time it was more protective. Tense. He was preparing to move you if a scene broke out.
The thought made a light sheen of sweat coat your back. You just wanted to get through the night.
“Okay, fine. A couple of photos won’t hurt.” You smiled up at Joe, but he could see the anxious look in your eye.
He tried to hold your gaze, to communicate with you without having to say anything out loud, but you were too uneasy to look at him for long. He squeezed your hip gently.
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s fine.” You laughed gently, but it came out so forced you almost sounded like the fame-hungry adults around you.
The photo really did only take a few seconds. It was over in a moment. But the damage between you and your boyfriend wasn’t.
You stood there with Joe’s arm around your waist, the two of you smiling at the camera like nothing was wrong, while every flash made you blink too hard. You were already imagining the headlines.
Loved Up
Awkward…
Trouble In Paradise
Because God knows those gossip sites could never agree on one story to follow. It never mattered what you did. Somebody else would always decide what it meant.
The woman walked away, flashing the whites of her eyes at somebody else, and the second she left, you felt the absence of Joe leave with her.
You turned to him.
“What?”
“What?” he repeated.
“You’re doing it again.” Your voice sounded small.
“I’m literally just standing here.” He shook his head.
“I’m sorry if you feel like I forced you into that.” Your voice sounded pitiful, even to you.
His brows pulled together. “I was trying to get you out of it.”
“Well, maybe what I wanted was to not make a scene.”
Joe scoffed quietly. “I wasn’t making a scene.”
“You were about to.”
He stared at you for a moment. For a second, you thought he was going to walk away, but instead, he laughed lowly under his breath.
“So either way, I’m in the wrong here.”
You folded your arms across your chest.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“You don’t get to tell me what I mean.”
You took a breath, looking down as you tried to calm yourself before checking around to see if you had created a scene by trying so hard not to. Luckily, everyone else was still clinking their glasses, taking photos, and pretending not to notice anything that didn’t involve them.
Joe rubbed a hand down his face. “You don’t get to snap at me every time I try to help you.”
That warmed your face, partly from the drink and partly from the honesty you were trying to avoid. You couldn’t help but notice the sting that lodged itself in your chest.
“I didn’t ask for help,” you said quietly, swirling your drink in your glass to pull your attention away from the tears threatening your eyes.
“No,” he said quietly. “You never do.”
You looked away entirely now, blinking too fast.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
The room around you blurred slightly. People were still laughing, and some were getting drunk enough to start dancing questionably to the music. If it were a lighter night, you probably would have been pulling Joe onto the dance floor, joking about letting the publicists capture something embarrassing for the both of you.
But right now, in this moment, all you could hear was Joe.
You never do.
You finally looked back at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I really don’t know what you want from me anymore.” He shook his head, biting his lip anxiously before his shoulders dropped after he finished his sentence, like he regretted letting it slip.
You swallowed, but your throat caught. “I want you to act like you want to be here with me.”
“I am here with you,” Joe practically pleaded.
“Yeah,” you smiled sadly. “Physically.”
His entire face dropped as hurt took over his expression, and God, the last thing you wanted was to hurt him. You wanted to take it all back. You wanted to let him tell Crazy Eyes that neither of you wanted the photo. You wanted to go back five minutes and let him help you.
But the party was so loud, and your throat felt tight, and despite the amount of people in the room, you felt cold all over.
So you continued.
“You haven’t spoken to me all night.”
“Yeah, because every time I try, you bite my head off.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is tonight.” He sighed, exasperated.
You shook your head, laughing because if you didn’t, you might have burst into tears. Deep down, though, you knew he was right.
“So you think I’m being difficult for the sake of it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Joe stepped closer, keeping his voice low. “Can we not do this here?”
You knew that was the sensible thing. If it had been any other night, you would have let him lead you away so you could breathe through it and talk properly instead of sniping at one another.
You couldn’t understand it, but tonight it felt more like a dismissal. Like he didn’t have time for how big your emotions were. It didn’t feel like he was trying to protect you. It felt like he was embarrassed.
“Why?” You finally held his gaze. “Scared somebody might see?”
“Don’t do this,” he pleaded with you again.
“Don’t what?” you sniffed.
“Turn this into something ugly.”
You stared at him for a moment, because the thoughts wouldn’t stop creeping into your brain and taking over.
“I’m not turning it into anything. It’s already ugly, Joe.”
Joe turned away, his jaw ticking again, like he was trying to swallow what he really wanted to say.
But he said it anyway.
“Maybe if you stopped trying to leave before anything can actually be okay.”
You went still.
Goosebumps broke out over your arms and legs, but you knew your body was only reacting that way because it was true.
Joe noticed how wrong it came out immediately, but you stepped back before he could reach for you.
“I didn’t mean-”
“Yes, you did.” You nodded slowly, closing your eyes as you willed the tears back. “You think I’m running away from you.”
“I think sometimes you get scared and you think it’s me you’re scared of.”
You managed a small huff of laughter through your nose as you looked back up at him, because the hits just seemed to keep coming. You didn’t know what to say because everything he had said tonight was true, but it felt like he had pierced your heart with about eighty different pins, and it was stealing away your ability to breathe.
“I can’t do this,” you said, shaking your head and taking a step back.
Then another.
“Baby…” He reached out for your wrist.
“No.” You kept shaking your head as you turned away. Joe knew the signs of panic in you. “I need air.”
“Then I’ll come with-”
“Please.”
It was your turn to plead now, while he stood behind you, facing the fancy updo in your hair that he had been playing with only hours ago.
He stopped.
But you hated that he listened.
You hated that he hadn’t fought you on it. That he hadn’t taken you into his arms and whispered in your ear that it was all going to be okay before cracking some corny joke just to see you smile. Instead, he just stood there looking stunned as you walked through the crowd on legs that didn’t entirely feel like yours.
But you had done this.
People were starting to glance as you walked away now. You began to wonder if, before, they had simply been trying to be polite. Now, eyes were glued to you as you made your way towards the doors with shaky hands and glassy eyes.
The cold air hit you in the face immediately.
You took it in, breathing deeply, before you were blinded by the flashes.
“Where’s Joe?”
“Why are you leaving alone?”
“Will Joe be leaving alone?”
Each question felt like a punch to the gut as tears threatened to spill over the ones already sitting in your eyes. But before they could capture your fresh breakdown, your driver opened the door for you, allowing you to climb in.
You let the tears finally take over as your driver began the journey home. You knew your publicist and your manager would be calling soon for damage control, but you didn’t want to share the details of your private life with either one of them.
You wished Joe was there to fight them off like he had been willing to do with the lady with the crazy eyes.
You said you couldn’t do this.
You said you didn’t want him to follow.
But God, you wanted nothing more than to crawl into his arms and bawl like a baby.
Summary: At a loud party, you get overwhelmed and hide in the bathroom to cry. Steve notices you’ve disappeared and comes to check on you, but he doesn’t force you to open the door or explain what happened.
The music downstairs was too loud.
Not in the normal party way, where everyone shouted over the bass and pretended they could hear each other. It was loud in a way that got under your skin. Every laugh sounded sharper than it should have. Every conversation blurred into one big mess of noise. Somebody dropped a cup in the kitchen and the crash made your whole body tense.
You didn’t even really decide to leave.
One second you were standing beside Steve, trying to smile at something Robin was saying, and the next you were pushing through the hallway, mumbling something about needing the bathroom.
You locked the door behind you and just stood there for a second.
Then the tears came.
Annoying, hot, stupid tears that made your throat ache. You pressed your hand over your mouth like that would somehow make it less real, like if nobody heard you, it wasn’t actually happening.
But of course, Steve noticed.
He always noticed.
You heard footsteps outside a few minutes later, slower than everyone else’s. Then a soft knock.
“Hey,” Steve said gently. “It’s me.”
You quickly wiped under your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you.
“I’m fine,” you said, your voice immediately proving that you weren’t.
There was a pause.
Steve didn’t say anything for a moment, and somehow that made you want to cry harder. You expected him to ask what happened. You expected him to tell you to open the door. You expected him to panic a little, because Steve Harrington was good at a lot of things, but being calm when people he loved were upset wasn’t always one of them.
Instead, you heard him slide down the wall.
The bathroom door shifted slightly as his back rested against the other side of it.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re fine.”
You blinked at the door.
“And I’m also fine,” he continued. “Even though I’m sitting on the floor of Tommy Hagan’s upstairs hallway, which I’m pretty sure has seen things no human should ever have to sit near.”
A weak breath left you, almost a laugh, but not quite.
Steve took that as a good sign.
“Seriously, this carpet is suspicious. Like, I don’t wanna be rude, but I think it’s sticky.”
You sniffled, pressing your sleeve to your nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“I know,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “That’s why I’m telling you. I’m suffering out here.”
“You don’t have to sit there.”
“Yeah, I do.”
His voice was quieter then.
You stared down at your shoes.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah,” Steve said again, softer this time. “I kinda do.”
The party carried on downstairs. People laughed. Music changed. Someone yelled something from the kitchen that made a whole group cheer.
But outside the bathroom door, Steve stayed.
He didn’t ask you why you were crying. He didn’t try to fix it before he even knew what was wrong. He just sat there, close enough that you could hear him breathe when the hallway went quiet.
Then, after a minute, he spoke again.
“Do you think ducks know they’re ducks?”
You frowned through your tears. “What?”
“I’m just saying,” he said seriously. “Like, do they have a concept of it? Do they wake up and think, damn, another day of being a duck?”
You let out a shaky laugh before you could stop yourself.
Steve went completely still.
Then you could hear the smile in his voice. “There it is.”
“Shut up,” you mumbled, but it came out softer than you meant it to.
“Nope. Too late. I got a laugh. I’m basically a professional.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re laughing, so.”
You leaned your forehead against the door, eyes closing.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Then Steve spoke, gentler this time. “I’m not gonna make you talk about it.”
Your throat tightened.
“Just so you know,” he added. “You can. Obviously. I’ll listen. I mean, I might say the wrong thing because I do that sometimes, but I’ll try really hard not to.”
You smiled a little despite yourself.
“But you don’t have to explain it right now,” he said. “You can just sit in there and I’ll sit out here.”
Your hand rested on the lock.
“You’re missing the party,” you said quietly.
Steve scoffed. “Oh no. How will I survive without watching Kyle attempt to shotgun a beer and miss half his mouth?”
You laughed again, a little more properly that time.
“Exactly,” he said. “Tragic stuff.”
You wiped your cheeks, taking a slow breath.
“I just got overwhelmed,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.
Steve didn’t jump on the answer. He didn’t make it bigger than it was. He just let it sit there for a second.
“Okay,” he said gently. “That makes sense.”
That nearly undid you more than anything else.
You unlocked the door before you could overthink it.
Steve turned his head slightly when he heard the click, but he didn’t move until you opened it yourself.
He was sitting exactly how you imagined him, knees bent, hair a little messy, one arm resting over his leg. He looked up at you like he wasn’t shocked by your red eyes or tear-streaked face. Like you hadn’t ruined anything.
Like he was just happy you’d let him see you.
“Hi,” he said softly.
You gave him a tired look. “Hi.”
His eyes flickered over your face, careful but worried.
“Can I come in,” he asked, “or is this a one-person breakdown situation?”
A small laugh slipped out of you. “You can come in.”
Steve stood up, brushing off his jeans with a grimace. “God, I’m never recovering from that carpet.”
You stepped back to let him in, and he closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise a little more.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Steve opened his arms, not pulling you in, not assuming.
Just offering.
And that was somehow worse.
You crossed the tiny bathroom and let yourself fold into him.
His arms came around you carefully at first, then tighter when you tucked your face into his chest. He smelled like laundry detergent and beer he hadn’t really been drinking and whatever cologne he always pretended he didn’t care about.
“You’re okay,” he murmured, one hand rubbing slowly over your back. “I’ve got you.”
You breathed him in and felt your shoulders finally drop.
Downstairs, the party kept going without you.
For once, you didn’t care.
Steve pressed his cheek against the top of your head and said, “For the record, I still think the duck thing is a valid question.”
please don’t use character tags for real person fics. no hate! just a genuine request as RPF in general makes a lot of people uncomfortable
Hi! No, that’s completely fair, and thank you for telling me in such a kind way. I’m really sorry, I honestly didn’t realise how ignorant it came across using character tags for RPF, but I understand now why it can make people uncomfortable and why it shouldn’t be mixed into those tags.
I’ll make sure to be more mindful with my tagging from now on and keep real person fics separate. Thank you again for explaining it without being rude about it.
Summary: You try to hide that you’re sick, but Daryl notices your fever and makes you rest. He acts gruff and annoyed at first, but stays by your side all night, changing the cloth on your forehead, bringing you water, and quietly worrying while pretending he isn’t.
You knew you were getting sick before anyone else did.
It started as a weird ache behind your eyes. Then came the chill that clung under your skin no matter how close you stood to the fire. By morning, your throat felt raw, your arms felt too heavy, and every little noise around camp seemed to hit your skull like a hammer.
Still, you got up.
There was always something to do. Water to carry. Clothes to wash. Food to sort through. People were already stretched thin enough, and you hated the thought of being one more thing for everybody to worry about.
So you tied your hair back, pulled on your boots, and pretended your hands weren’t shaking.
You made it almost an hour before Daryl noticed.
He was sitting near his bike, cleaning dirt from one of his bolts, when his eyes caught on you. You were stood by the water buckets, one hand pressed lightly against the side of your head like you could hold yourself together if you just applied enough pressure.
His gaze narrowed.
“You alright?”
You straightened too fast. The world tilted for half a second.
“Yeah,” you said, voice coming out rougher than you wanted. “I’m fine.”
Daryl didn’t move at first. He just looked at you in that quiet way he had, like he was reading all the things you were trying not to say.
“You don’t sound fine.”
You forced a small laugh and reached for one of the buckets. “That’s because you’re dramatic.”
“Mhm.”
You managed about three steps before your grip slipped. The bucket hit the ground with a heavy splash, water spilling into the dirt around your boots.
Daryl was up before you even had time to swear.
“Hey.” His voice sharpened as he crossed the space between you. “The hell are you doin’?”
“I dropped it,” you muttered, bending down.
He caught your arm before you could grab the handle.
You looked up at him, ready to argue, but his expression shifted the second his hand touched your skin.
His brows pulled together.
“You’re burnin’ up.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just warm.”
“It’s freezing.”
You glanced away, annoyed because he was right and even more annoyed because he knew he was right.
Daryl let go of your arm, but he didn’t step back. “Go lie down.”
“I’m fine, Daryl.”
He scoffed under his breath. “Stop bein’ stubborn.”
“I’m not being stubborn. I’m helping.”
“You’re about to fall on your ass in the middle of camp.”
You rolled your eyes, but the movement made your head throb. You tried to hide the wince. Of course, he saw it.
His jaw tightened.
“That’s it,” he muttered.
Before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed the bucket with one hand and nudged you gently but firmly in the direction of the house.
“Daryl-”
“Walk.”
“I don’t need to be babysat.”
“Then quit actin’ like a damn child.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You’re very comforting, you know that?”
“Good. Maybe you’ll listen.”
You wanted to argue again, mostly out of pride, but your body had started giving up on you. Every step felt heavier than the last, and by the time you reached the spare room, your legs were shaking badly enough that Daryl had to put a hand at your back.
Not pushing. Not rushing.
Just there.
You sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, trying to make it seem casual.
Daryl stood in front of you, arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed.
“Boots off.”
You blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“Boots. Off.”
“You’re bossy when you’re worried.”
“I ain’t worried.”
“Right.”
He looked away too quickly.
You smiled a little, though it faded when another shiver rolled through you.
Daryl noticed that too.
He crouched down without saying anything and tugged at the laces of your boots. You watched him quietly, your fever making everything feel soft around the edges. The room, the light through the window, his hair falling into his face as he worked.
He pulled one boot off, then the other, setting them neatly beside the bed like it mattered.
“You eat today?” he asked.
You hesitated.
His eyes lifted.
“That means no.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Course you weren’t.”
He stood and grabbed the blanket from the chair, throwing it over you with less care than he clearly meant to. It landed half across your shoulder and half across your face.
You pulled it down with a weak laugh. “Trying to smother me?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
But his voice was softer now.
He disappeared for a few minutes, and you told yourself you were only going to rest your eyes until he came back.
Then you woke up to cool water touching your forehead.
You flinched slightly.
“Easy,” Daryl murmured.
The room was darker now. You didn’t know how long you’d been out, only that your clothes were sticking to your skin and your head felt like it was full of smoke.
Daryl sat beside the bed, one elbow on his knee, a damp cloth in his hand. There was a small bowl of water on the floor beside him, along with a cup and what looked like the sad remains of some soup Carol had probably forced into his hands.
“You’re still here?” you whispered.
He glanced at you. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere useful.”
His face tightened at that. “Ain’t useless.”
You looked at him for a moment.
He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
Daryl dipped the cloth back into the water, wrung it out, and placed it across your forehead again. His fingers brushed your temple, rough but careful.
You closed your eyes.
“That feels nice,” you admitted quietly.
“Fever’s high.”
“You been checking?”
“Had to. You were mumblin’.”
Your eyes opened. “What was I saying?”
“Bunch of nonsense.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shrugged, but there was the smallest hint of amusement in his face. “Said somethin’ about Rick’s hat lookin’ stupid.”
You let out a breathy laugh, which turned into a cough.
Daryl leaned forward instantly, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how to do it without making a whole thing of it.
You waved him off once it passed. “I stand by that.”
“Yeah, well, don’t say it in front of Carl.”
You smiled faintly, but the tiredness was already pulling at you again.
Daryl noticed. He always noticed.
“Drink.”
You made a face.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
He helped you sit up enough to take the cup. You tried to hold it yourself, but your hands were unsteady, so he kept his fingers around it too, pretending he wasn’t basically helping you drink water like you were made of glass.
It should’ve embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
Not really.
Not with him.
When you were done, you sank back down into the pillow, exhausted from doing almost nothing.
Daryl adjusted the blanket around you. Again, not gently at first glance. But he tucked it close around your sides so the cold air couldn’t get in.
“You don’t have to stay,” you murmured.
He sat back in the chair, stretching one leg out. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“Had worse.”
“That’s not comforting either.”
“Go to sleep.”
You turned your head slightly, watching him through half-open eyes. He looked tired. More tired than he’d ever admit. His shoulders were tense, his fingers tapping against his knee, his gaze flicking from your face to the cloth to the window and back again.
Pretending he wasn’t worried sick.
You knew better.
“Daryl?”
“What?”
“You’re being nice.”
He scoffed. “Fever’s makin’ you delusional.”
“No,” you whispered, smiling faintly. “You’re always nice. You just make it weird.”
He looked at you then, properly. For a second, all the gruffness slipped. His eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache more than the fever did.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, looking down. “Somebody’s gotta keep you from dyin’ over a damn cold.”
You hummed. “So dramatic.”
“Sleep.”
This time, you listened.
You drifted in and out for the rest of the night. Sometimes you woke to the cloth being changed. Sometimes to Daryl shifting in the chair. Once, you woke to him standing by the window, crossbow in hand, checking the dark outside like your fever was something the whole world might try to take advantage of.
Each time, he came back.
Each time, the cloth was cool again.
At some point near dawn, when the sky had gone pale and the worst of the heat had finally started to break, you opened your eyes and found him sitting on the floor beside the bed, his back against the wall.
His head had tipped forward slightly, eyes closed, arms folded over his chest.
He’d fallen asleep sitting up.
You watched him for a while, too weak to move, too warm in a different way now.
“Daryl,” you whispered.
His eyes opened immediately.
He looked at you like he’d been awake the whole time.
“You okay?”
You nodded a little. “Think so.”
He leaned forward and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. Then your cheek. His expression loosened by the smallest amount.
“Fever’s goin’ down.”
“Told you I was fine.”
He gave you a look. “Don’t push it.”
You smiled.
He reached for the cloth again, but you caught his wrist lightly before he could move away.
“Thank you.”
Daryl froze for half a second.
Then he shrugged, like he hadn’t spent the whole night beside you. Like he hadn’t checked on you every time your breathing changed. Like he hadn’t looked scared when he thought you weren’t awake enough to see it.
“Ain’t nothin’.”
Your fingers slipped from his wrist, but he didn’t move back right away.
His hand stayed near yours on the blanket.
Close enough that your pinky brushed his.
Neither of you said anything.
Then he cleared his throat and stood, grabbing the bowl of water like he suddenly had a very serious job to do.
“Gonna get you more water. Maybe somethin’ to eat.”
You settled back into the pillow, smiling to yourself.
Summary: You and Joe had been broken up, but when seeing each other at a party, neither of you could remember why
A/N: This song has been stuck in my head since it came out
You hadn’t seen Joe in almost a year.
Not properly.
There had been little things, of course. His name showing up on your phone because a mutual friend had tagged him in something. A song of his playing low in the background of a shop while you pretended not to notice. A photograph online that you scrolled past too quickly because looking for too long felt like doing something wrong.
But you hadn’t seen him.
Not in real life.
Not close enough to remember the shape of his smile or the way his eyes softened before he laughed.
That was probably why you convinced yourself you were fine.
It was easy to be fine when he was just a name you avoided, a memory you kept folded up somewhere quiet. It was easy to tell people you were happy for him, that things ended naturally, that sometimes two people loved each other and still lost the timing.
That was what everyone said, wasn’t it?
Bad timing.
You hated that phrase.
It made heartbreak sound polite.
The party was smaller than you expected, tucked inside a friend’s apartment with warm lighting, half-empty wine glasses, and people sitting on the arms of couches because there weren’t enough seats. It was the kind of gathering you usually liked. Familiar faces. Music low enough to talk over. Someone in the kitchen making everyone try a dip they were very proud of.
You should’ve been comfortable.
Instead, from the second you walked in, you felt like you were waiting for something.
Or someone.
You knew Joe might be there. Your friend had mentioned it so casually that it almost made you laugh.
“Joe said he might stop by.”
As if that sentence didn’t still have the power to ruin your evening.
You’d nodded like it meant nothing.
“Cool.”
Cool.
Pathetic.
So, you did what you always did when you were trying not to care. You became too normal. Too cheerful. You laughed a little too quickly, asked people too many questions, kept your hands busy with a drink you barely touched.
For almost an hour, it worked.
Then the front door opened.
You didn’t turn around at first.
There were voices in the hallway, a burst of cold air, someone saying, “Finally, dude,” and then a laugh.
His laugh.
Your body knew before your brain did.
It was awful, really, how quickly it all came back. How one sound could reach across months and pull you straight back into every version of yourself that had ever loved him.
You stood near the window, your fingers tightening around your glass.
Don’t turn around, you told yourself.
Then you did.
Joe was standing in the doorway, half-lit by the warm yellow light from the hall. He was wearing a dark jacket, his hair slightly messy from outside, cheeks pink from the cold. Someone was talking to him, but he wasn’t fully listening anymore.
Because he’d seen you too.
For a second, the whole apartment seemed to fall away.
The music, the voices, the clinking glasses. All of it blurred around the edges until there was only him, standing there in the light of the window across from you, wearing that same smile.
Not a big one.
Not the kind he gave cameras or strangers.
It was smaller than that. Softer.
The smile that used to appear when he came home and found you asleep on the couch. The smile he gave you when you’d say something stupid and then immediately pretend you hadn’t. The smile you never realised you’d missed so much until it was right in front of you again.
And just like that, you remembered.
You remembered you loved him.
Not in some dramatic, movie kind of way. Not like lightning. More like breathing in after holding your breath for too long.
You remembered slowly and then all at once.
You remembered his hands on your waist in crowded kitchens. His voice in the morning, rough with sleep. The way he used to press his cold nose against your neck just to annoy you. The way he’d always say your name gently, even when you were arguing.
You remembered how safe he used to feel.
How much you had missed being known by him.
Joe looked at you like he was having the exact same realisation.
That made it worse.
Or better.
You weren’t sure yet.
He started making his way over, stopping when people greeted him, hugging someone quickly, answering a question with a distracted nod. His eyes kept coming back to you like he was checking you were still there.
By the time he reached you, your heart was beating so hard it felt embarrassing.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You swallowed.
“Hi.”
That was it.
Months of silence, and all you had was hi.
Joe smiled, but his eyes looked a little sad.
“Man,” he said, letting out a quiet breath. “It’s been a while.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out thinner than you wanted.
“Yeah. It has.”
He looked at you for a moment, properly looked at you, and you forgot how to stand normally.
“You look…” He paused, like he was trying to choose a word that wouldn’t give too much away. Then he shook his head a little. “You look really good.”
You smiled down at your drink.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I know.”
You looked back up.
Joe’s expression was open. Nervous, almost. Like he wasn’t hiding behind charm tonight.
“That’s why I said it,” he added.
You hated how easily that got to you.
There was a pause between you, full of every unsaid thing.
Then he nodded toward the window behind you.
“You still do that.”
“What?”
“Stand by windows at parties.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
“I do not.”
“You do.” His smile grew. “You say it’s because you like the view, but really it’s because you want to be near an escape route.”
Your mouth fell open slightly.
“That is not true.”
“It’s completely true.”
You wanted to argue, but the familiar warmth of it hit you too hard. The fact he remembered something so small. The fact he said it like no time had passed, like he still had a drawer full of tiny details about you in his head.
Your smile faded before you could stop it.
Joe noticed.
Of course he did.
His face softened.
“Sorry,” he said quietly.
You shook your head.
“No. It’s okay.”
But your voice had changed.
Both of you heard it.
Joe’s hand shifted at his side, like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he was allowed.
“You okay?” he asked.
You looked at him and almost laughed.
Because what a question.
Were you okay?
You were standing in front of the person you had spent almost a year trying to unlove, and he still knew where you stood at parties. He still looked at you like that. He still made the room feel smaller just by being in it.
“I don’t know,” you said honestly.
Joe nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”
The honesty of it made your throat tighten.
Someone behind him called his name, but he didn’t turn around. He stayed exactly where he was, looking at you with that careful, familiar softness.
“Do you want to get some air?” he asked.
You let out a tiny laugh.
“I’m already by the window.”
“I mean outside.”
“It’s freezing.”
“I’ll give you my jacket.”
“You always do that.”
His smile flickered.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
And that was enough to make your eyes sting.
You looked away quickly, blinking at the lights outside.
Joe’s voice dropped.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You still say that when you’re not.”
You looked back at him.
His eyes were gentle, but there was sadness there now too. The kind that came from knowing someone well enough to hurt them without meaning to.
You held his gaze for a second, then sighed.
“Air would be good.”
The two of you slipped out onto the fire escape through the window. It was clumsy and awkward, especially when your shoe caught slightly and Joe instinctively reached out to steady you.
His hand landed at your waist.
Just for a second.
Both of you froze.
His touch was warm through your clothes, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling back quickly.
“It’s okay,” you said.
You wished he hadn’t moved.
You hated that you wished that.
Outside, the air was cold enough to make you shiver almost immediately. Joe noticed within seconds and took off his jacket without a word.
“Joe.”
“What?”
“You’ll be cold.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m barely shivering.”
“You’re aggressively shivering.”
You rolled your eyes, but you let him drape the jacket around your shoulders. His fingers brushed your collarbone lightly as he fixed it, careful and gentle.
“There,” he said.
You pulled the jacket closer around you.
It smelled like him.
That was unfair.
You stared out at the street below, blinking harder than necessary.
For a few moments, neither of you said anything.
The party carried on behind you, muffled through the window. Laughter. Music. The kind of life you were meant to go back to once this strange little moment ended.
Joe leaned beside you, elbows on the railing.
“I thought seeing you would be easier,” he said.
You looked at him.
He let out a breath, smiling faintly but not happily.
“I don’t know why. That sounds stupid now.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does a little.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Maybe a little.”
He laughed quietly, and the sound settled something in you.
Then he looked at you again.
“I missed you.”
The words were simple.
That was what made them hurt.
You pressed your lips together, looking down at your hands inside his sleeves.
“I missed you too.”
Joe looked like he’d been holding his breath and had only just remembered how to let it out.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“Yeah.”
His eyes moved over your face, soft and almost disbelieving.
“I didn’t know if you did.”
You laughed once, but it came out shaky.
“Joe.”
“I know,” he said. “I know. I just…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I thought maybe you were better off. And I didn’t want to be selfish.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“You were always too good at deciding things for me.”
His face changed.
Not defensive. Just guilty.
“You’re right.”
That surprised you.
He looked out over the street.
“I told myself leaving you alone was the decent thing to do,” he said. “That if I really loved you, I’d let you move on without dragging you back into all of it.”
Your chest tightened.
“And did you?”
He looked at you.
“Did I what?”
“Let me move on?”
Joe’s eyes softened painfully.
“I tried.”
The cold air slipped between you.
You nodded slowly.
“I tried too.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Did it work?”
You looked at him, and that was answer enough.
Joe’s expression crumpled slightly, like he wished it didn’t make him happy to hear that.
You looked away first because your eyes were burning again.
“It’s so annoying,” you said, wiping quickly under one eye.
“What is?”
“You.”
He let out a surprised laugh.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” You laughed too, even though you were crying now. “You come back with your stupid hair and your stupid jacket and your stupid face, and I’m supposed to act normal?”
Joe’s smile broke through, soft and helpless.
“My stupid face?”
“Don’t make me say nice things right now.”
“I would never.”
“You would absolutely.”
He looked at you for a second, then his smile faded into something gentler.
“I saw you by the window,” he said, “and I just…”
You waited.
He looked down at the railing, almost embarrassed.
“I remembered.”
Your breath caught.
“What?”
Joe’s thumb rubbed against the side of his own hand, nervous.
“I remembered loving you,” he said. “Not that I forgot. I didn’t. But I think I got used to missing you in this quiet way, and then I saw you standing there, and it wasn’t quiet anymore.”
You couldn’t speak.
He looked at you then, eyes shining slightly.
“It was just there again. All of it.”
Your face crumpled before you could stop it.
Joe’s expression softened instantly.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” you admitted, laughing through the tears. “I’m really not.”
He stepped closer, slow enough that you could move away if you wanted.
You didn’t.
“I knew it,” he said quietly.
You looked up at him.
“I knew I missed you. I knew I still looked for you in every room. I knew I wasn’t over it.” His voice softened even more. “But then I saw you tonight, and I knew you. I remembered how it felt to know you.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Joe lifted his hand, then stopped.
“Can I?”
You nodded.
His thumb brushed the tear away so gently it made you want to cry harder.
“You still ask,” you whispered.
“Of course I do.”
That was it.
That was the thing that broke you a little.
Not a grand speech. Not a dramatic confession. Just the way he still treated your heart like something he was lucky to be near.
You leaned forward before you could overthink it, resting your forehead against his chest.
Joe froze for half a second.
Then his arms wrapped around you.
Carefully at first.
Then tighter.
Like he’d been waiting months to hold you and was trying not to make it too obvious.
You closed your eyes as his chin rested lightly on top of your head.
“I missed this,” you whispered.
His hand moved slowly over your back.
“Me too.”
“I missed you being annoying.”
“I can be more annoying. Really easily.”
You laughed into his shirt, and you felt him laugh too.
“I missed that,” he said.
“What?”
“You laughing at me.”
“I’m laughing with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” you admitted. “I’m not.”
His arms tightened around you for a second, and somehow that made everything feel lighter.
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
His face was close now. Too close to pretend this was casual. His eyes moved over yours, down to your mouth, then back up again.
But he didn’t rush.
He never did when it mattered.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said.
You swallowed.
“Then don’t.”
He nodded, serious.
“I won’t.”
“You can’t just say things like that because it’s a nice moment.”
“I know.”
“I mean it, Joe.”
“I know,” he said again. “I’m not saying I have everything figured out. I’m not saying we just go back like nothing happened.” He paused. “But I know I don’t want to walk back inside and pretend this didn’t mean something.”
Your eyes searched his face.
“And what does it mean?”
He smiled faintly.
“I think it means I’m still in love with you.”
Your breath caught.
There it was.
So simple.
So awful.
So perfect.
You looked down, overwhelmed, and Joe immediately panicked.
“Sorry. Was that too much? That was probably too much. I can take like, twenty percent of it back if you want.”
A laugh burst out of you through the tears.
“You can’t take twenty percent of being in love back.”
“I could try.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But I’m your idiot, historically.”
You looked up at him.
He looked nervous now, like he realised he’d said too much again.
You smiled, small and teary.
“Historically.”
Joe’s face warmed.
“I’ll take historically.”
You shook your head, but you were still smiling.
Then, because you were tired of pretending and tired of waiting and tired of acting like loving him was something you had grown out of, you reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around yours immediately.
Like muscle memory.
Like home.
“I think I’m still in love with you too,” you said.
Joe stared at you.
For once, he had no joke ready.
His eyes went glassy, and he looked away for a second, laughing softly under his breath like he needed somewhere to put the feeling.
“Don’t cry,” you said, even though you were crying.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m emotionally sweating.”
You laughed again, and he looked back at you with that same smile.
The one from the doorway.
The one from before.
The one you knew.
He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
It was so gentle that it hurt.
Not badly.
Just deeply.
Like something in you had been waiting for it.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he said. “I don’t want to assume anything. I just… I’d really like to see you again. Properly.”
“You’re seeing me now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He smiled.
“Dinner?”
You pretended to think about it.
“With you?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Hmm.”
“Wow. I pour my heart out and get hmm.”
You smiled wider.
“I’m considering.”
“Take your time. I’m only freezing.”
You looked down at his thin shirt and finally laughed properly.
“Oh my God. Joe, take your jacket back.”
“No.”
“You’re literally shaking.”
“I’m being romantic.”
“You’re being stupid.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
You rolled your eyes but stepped closer, wrapping the jacket around both of you as best you could. It didn’t really work, but Joe seemed pleased anyway, pulling you back into him with a smile.
“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.
“I know.”
His cheek rested lightly against your hair.
You stood there together, half-wrapped in his jacket, the city glowing beneath you and the party humming behind you.
Nothing was fully solved.
There would be things to talk about. Real things. The kind that didn’t fit neatly into a cute moment on a fire escape. You both knew that.
But his hand was warm in yours.
His smile was the same.
And when you looked up at him, you didn’t feel like you were going backward.
You felt like something had come back when it mattered.
Joe looked down at you.
“What?” you asked.
He smiled, soft and teary and familiar.
“Nothing.”
“You always say nothing when it’s something.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You know me.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I knew it.”
His smile grew.
“I knew you.”
And there it was.
The thing you’d both been pretending not to know.
That sometimes love left quietly, not because it was gone, but because it was waiting for the right moment to come home.
just a little update, i’m away on holiday for the week, so i might not be as active with comments and requests for a few days 🤍
i do have a few imagines scheduled to come out while i’m gone though, including steve, joe and daryl, so there will still be some posts going up during the week.
Summary: They don't call him Joe 'Keeps making jokes' Keery for nothing
The moment you stepped out of the car, you felt the noise hit you all at once.
It was louder than you expected. Cameras clicking, people shouting names, flashes lighting up the carpet so quickly that you barely had time to blink between them. You had been fine on the drive over, or at least you had convinced yourself you were fine, sitting beside Joe with your hand tucked into his and your knee bouncing beneath the hem of your outfit.
Now, standing in front of a wall of photographers with dozens of people calling for you both to look their way, you could feel your confidence slipping.
Joe noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
His hand found the small of your back before you could even say anything, warm and steady, grounding you without making it obvious. He leaned closer, his smile still fixed for the cameras, and murmured, “For the record, I also think this is weird. Grown adults yelling at us to turn left like we’re confused Sims.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Joe’s grin widened, pleased with himself. “There she is.”
You glanced up at him, trying to hide how grateful you were, but he already knew. He always knew. His hand stayed firm against your back as he guided you a step forward, careful not to rush you, careful not to let the crowd swallow you whole.
“Joe! Over here!”
“Y/N, this way!”
“Joe, can we get one together?”
Your shoulders tensed at the sound of your name being shouted from every direction. Joe must have felt it, because he shifted a little closer, his body angled slightly in front of yours, not enough to block you completely, but enough to make you feel sheltered.
He turned his head towards you again. “Do you reckon if I trip dramatically, they’ll stop taking photos of you and start asking if I need medical assistance?”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile too obviously. “Please don’t.”
“I’m just saying, I’m willing to commit to the bit.”
“You are not falling on a red carpet for me.”
“I would absolutely fall on a red carpet for you,” he said seriously, then paused. “Maybe not face first. I have limits.”
This time, you laughed properly, and the photographers noticed.
“Beautiful! Hold that!”
Joe looked smug. “See? I’m a professional.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he said, squeezing your waist gently.
The comment was quiet, meant only for you, but the way he looked at you was impossible to miss. Soft. Proud. Protective in a way that made your chest ache.
As you moved further down the carpet, an interviewer waved the two of you over. You felt your nerves return the second a microphone was pointed in your direction. Joe sensed that too. He always seemed to catch the smallest changes in you, the way your fingers curled into your palm or your smile became a little too fixed.
Before the interviewer could ask anything, Joe leaned towards the microphone and said, “Just so everyone knows, she’s carrying this entire evening. I’m mostly here for moral support and snacks.”
The interviewer laughed. “You two look amazing tonight.”
Joe looked at you instead of answering straight away. “Yeah, she does.”
Your face warmed, and you nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re meant to say thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said, still looking at you. “But I stand by what I said.”
The interviewer smiled, clearly picking up on the way Joe kept checking on you between questions. “You seem very calm together.”
Joe laughed under his breath. “That’s because one of us is actually cool, and the other one is me pretending I know what I’m doing.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling now. A real smile. The tightness in your chest had started to ease, replaced by the comfort of Joe standing beside you, making himself a shield without ever making you feel small.
When the interviewer asked you a question, Joe stayed quiet, but his thumb brushed gently against your side. A tiny reminder that he was there. That you did not have to rush. That you were doing fine.
You answered, your voice a little shaky at first, but stronger by the end. Joe watched you with that soft, proud expression again, the one that made it hard to remember anyone else was around.
When you finished, he leaned in and whispered, “That was very hot of you.”
“Joe,” you hissed, trying not to laugh with the microphone still nearby.
“What? I’m supporting you.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“Lovingly.”
The interviewer laughed again, and somewhere nearby, cameras flashed faster. You could already imagine the clips online later. Joe Keery making Y/N laugh on the red carpet. Joe Keery unable to stop looking at Y/N. Joe Keery being protective as Y/N gets nervous.
And maybe people were noticing.
Maybe they could see the way he kept his hand on your back, the way he gently moved you away from the louder photographers when they started calling too much, the way he answered quickly whenever someone tried to talk over you, giving you space to breathe.
But for once, you did not mind being noticed.
Because Joe made the whole thing feel less terrifying.
As you reached the end of the carpet, you let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. Joe looked down at you.
“You okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
His face softened. “You did so good.”
“You kept making jokes.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, slipping his hand into yours as you stepped away from the flashing lights, “you looked nervous.”
“I was nervous.”
“I know.” His voice went quieter. “That’s why I wasn’t going to let you stand there feeling alone.”
Your heart squeezed.
For a moment, the noise of the carpet faded behind you. There was only Joe, his fingers linked with yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his smile gentler now that no one was shouting for it.
“You’re very protective, you know,” you said.
He shrugged, trying to play it off, but the tips of his ears turned pink. “Only because you’re you.”
You smiled up at him. “That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense in my head.”
You laughed, and Joe’s expression softened all over again, like that had been the whole point. Like he would make a fool of himself in front of a hundred cameras if it meant getting you to breathe a little easier.
Then he leaned closer, his voice low and warm beside your ear.
“Come on. Let’s go inside before I actually have to fake an injury.”
Summary: You and Steve, but its in his golden retriever personality to be unable to stay mad at you
A/N: Slightly inspired by Im gonna miss you by milli vanilli if you couldn't tell from the title
It started over nothing.
Not nothing exactly, because in the moment it felt like something. It felt sharp and annoying and personal in the way small arguments sometimes do when both people are tired, when both people are saying things a little too quickly and listening a little too late.
But looking back, it was nothing.
Steve had been late. Only twenty minutes, which was not the end of the world, but you had been waiting outside the video store for him with your arms folded against the evening chill, pretending you weren’t checking your watch every few minutes and pretending even harder that you weren’t starting to feel stupid for standing there alone.
By the time his car finally pulled into the parking lot, music drifting low through the open window, you had already told yourself you weren’t going to make a thing of it. You were just going to get in, let him apologise, and move on, because it was Steve and you missed him and you didn’t want to waste the night being annoyed.
Then he leaned across the passenger seat, pushed the door open for you, and gave you a rushed little smile.
“Hey,” he said, trying for casual. “Sorry. Got held up.”
That was all.
You climbed in and shut the door harder than you meant to, the sound filling the car before you could pretend you hadn’t done it on purpose.
Steve glanced over at you, one hand still resting on the gear stick. “Okay. That sounded personal.”
“It wasn’t,” you said, looking ahead.
“It definitely was.”
“I’m fine.”
Steve stared at you for a second, and even without looking at him properly, you could feel the way his attention settled on the side of your face. “That’s not a fine face.”
You turned to him. “I don’t have a fine face.”
“Yeah, you do. It’s this little…” He gestured vaguely, as if drawing your expression in the air. “Tight mouth thing.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have a tight mouth thing if you weren’t always late.”
Steve blinked, like he hadn’t expected the conversation to turn that quickly. For a second, there was still room for him to soften, still room for you to smile and make it less serious than it sounded, but neither of you took the chance.
“I said I was sorry,” he said.
“You said you got held up.”
“Okay, and then I said sorry.”
“Barely.”
He let out a small laugh, but there was no humour in it, only frustration starting to edge into his voice. “What do you want me to do, get on my knees in the parking lot?”
“No, Steve. I want you to show up when you say you will.”
The car went quiet.
Steve looked away first, pulling out of the parking lot with his jaw set and his hand a little too tight on the steering wheel. “I’m twenty minutes late.”
“You’re always twenty minutes late.”
“That’s not true.”
“It kind of is.”
“Right,” he said, nodding once as he looked at the road. “Okay. So we’re doing this.”
You frowned. “Doing what?”
“The thing where one small thing suddenly means I’m the worst boyfriend in Hawkins.”
“I never said that.”
“You’re acting like it.”
“I’m acting like I’m annoyed because I was waiting for you.”
“And I’m acting like I’m sorry because I was late.”
“No, you’re acting like I’m dramatic for being annoyed.”
Steve glanced at you, his eyebrows lifting before he could stop himself. “You are being a little dramatic.”
The second he said it, you both felt the shift.
Your face dropped, and Steve’s expression changed too, just enough to show he knew he had said the wrong thing. But pride got there before the apology did, and instead of taking it back, he tightened his grip on the wheel and stared ahead.
“Seriously?” you said.
He exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I meant-” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if he already knew whatever came next would make it worse. “Forget it.”
You turned toward the window, watching the passing streetlights blur into soft gold lines against the glass.
Fine.
If he wanted to forget it, you would forget it.
Except neither of you did.
The silence stretched all the way to your house, but it did not make anything better. It only gave you both more time to sit in everything you had said, more time to replay the little digs, more time to feel hurt without admitting that was what you were feeling.
When Steve finally pulled up outside your house, he parked by the curb but left the engine running, one hand still on the wheel like he was already halfway to leaving.
That annoyed you even more, partly because you knew he was probably just unsure what to do, and partly because you hated that he was making you ask.
“You can come in, you know,” you said, though your tone made it sound more like a challenge than an invitation.
Steve looked at you carefully. “Do you want me to?”
“Do you want to?”
He gave a frustrated little laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Why are you answering everything with another question?”
“Why are you acting like being here is a chore?”
“I’m not.”
“You literally haven’t turned the car off.”
Steve looked at the keys, then back at you. “Because I didn’t know if you wanted me to come in.”
“You could ask.”
“I just did.”
“No, you asked like you were hoping I’d say no.”
He leaned back in his seat, his shoulders tense and his expression caught somewhere between hurt and irritation. “I can’t win with you tonight.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You turned to him fully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m trying, and everything I say is apparently wrong.”
“You’re not trying. You’re defending yourself.”
“Because you’re acting like I did something awful.”
“I’m acting like I wanted to spend time with you and you showed up late, then made me feel stupid for caring.”
Steve’s expression changed for a second. Softer. Guilty. Like the words had actually reached him.
But then he looked away.
“I didn’t make you feel stupid.”
The softness in you closed again, because for one tiny moment you had thought he understood, and then he had gone straight back to proving his point.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not deciding it. I’m saying that wasn’t what I meant.”
“But it is what you did.”
Steve’s fingers tapped once against the wheel. “Okay. So what do you want me to say?”
The question came out tired, but it sounded dismissive, like he was asking for the correct answer instead of actually wanting to understand you.
You stared at him. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing makes a girl feel loved like her boyfriend asking what line he’s supposed to say to stop the argument.”
Steve closed his eyes briefly. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then maybe think before you say things.”
He looked at you then, and for half a second, the hurt on his face was plain before he covered it with a harder expression. “I do think.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
The car went silent.
You regretted it almost immediately. Not enough to say so, not yet, but enough for your stomach to twist and for your fingers to curl slightly in your lap.
Steve looked forward, his jaw tight. “Nice.”
You swallowed. “Steve-”
“No, it’s fine.” He nodded once, eyes fixed on the road ahead even though the car was still parked. “Apparently I don’t think. I don’t try. I’m always late. Got it.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That is exactly what you said.”
“No, it’s what you’re choosing to hear.”
He laughed under his breath, bitter this time, and you hated it. You hated the way it made you feel like he had already decided you were impossible, like he had stopped seeing why you were hurt and only saw the argument itself.
“Right,” he said. “Yeah. Of course.”
“You know what?” you said, reaching for the door handle because leaving suddenly felt easier than staying there and letting the whole thing get worse. “Forget it.”
Steve turned his head. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“You’re just leaving?”
“You were clearly about to anyway.”
“I was parked outside your house.”
“With the engine still on.”
“Because we were talking.”
“No, we were arguing.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rising slightly now, “because you’re mad at me for being late, and I’m trying to explain-”
“You’re not explaining, Steve. You’re making excuses.”
That did it.
His expression shut down.
“Fine,” he said.
The word landed between you like a door slamming.
You waited for him to say something else. To soften. To reach for your hand. To do any of the things he usually did when he realised you were both going too far.
But he didn’t.
He just stared ahead, breathing hard through his nose, and the longer he said nothing, the more impossible it felt for you to say anything either.
Your hand tightened on the door handle.
Fine.
You opened the door and got out.
The cold air hit you instantly, but you barely felt it as you shut the door, harder than you meant to, and started toward your house. Behind you, Steve didn’t drive away, and for one second you thought he might get out.
You wanted him to.
You wanted to hear his car door open. You wanted him to call your name, to come after you, to say the whole thing had been stupid and he was sorry and could you both please just stop before you said something else you couldn’t take back.
But nothing happened.
So you kept walking.
When you reached your front door, you glanced back despite yourself.
Steve was still there, hands on the wheel, head lowered slightly, and for one tiny second your anger wavered because he looked less angry than lost.
Then his headlights shifted as he pulled away from the curb.
Your chest tightened.
Fine.
If he could leave, then you could let him.
You went inside without looking back again.
Hours later, the argument felt even stupider.
That was the worst part.
It hadn’t been about anything serious, not really. It had started with Steve being late, then a comment, then a look, then him saying something sharper than he meant to and you snapping back before you could stop yourself. Within minutes, it had grown into something neither of you knew how to get out of without being the first one to back down.
Now you could barely remember who had actually started it.
All you knew was that Steve had left with his jaw tight and his hands fixed on the steering wheel, and you had let him go because you were too proud to ask him to stay.
You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him.
You weren’t.
You were just sitting on your bed, staring at the same page of your book for the past twenty minutes because the words would not settle in your head. Every little noise outside made your eyes flick toward the window, and every time the phone stayed silent, your chest pulled a little tighter.
He was probably still mad.
Fine.
You were still mad too.
At least, you were trying to be.
You had replayed the argument so many times that the words had started to blur together. One second you remembered Steve’s face when you snapped at him, the way his expression had dropped before he covered it with irritation, and the next you remembered him looking away from you, muttering something under his breath like he didn’t trust himself to speak properly.
You hated that part most.
Not because he had left, exactly, but because you had stood there and watched him go. You had waited for him to turn around. You had wanted him to. But when he didn’t, you had folded your arms, lifted your chin, and pretended you didn’t care.
You cared.
Far too much.
Your room felt quieter without him in it. Usually, Steve had a way of filling the space even when he wasn’t doing much. He would sit at the end of your bed and flick through one of your magazines, making little comments under his breath, or he would complain that your window was impossible to open even though he still insisted on climbing through it half the time.
Now, the silence felt pointed.
Lonely.
You closed your book and threw it lightly beside you before pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes.
“I’m not apologising first,” you muttered to yourself.
The sentence sounded childish out loud, which only made you more annoyed.
Then there was a knock at your window.
You froze.
For a second, you thought you had imagined it. Then another knock came, quieter this time, followed by a familiar voice through the glass.
“Don’t throw anything at me.”
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
You got up slowly, pulling the curtain back to find Steve Harrington standing outside your window, hair slightly messy and jacket zipped halfway, holding a paper bag in one hand and looking far less confident than he usually tried to.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then he gave you a small, awkward wave with the hand holding the bag.
You opened the window but didn’t move aside yet. “What are you doing here?”
Steve looked down at the bag, then back at you. “I brought you something.”
You glanced at it. “Is that supposed to fix everything?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, I know it doesn’t. I just…” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes dropped from yours. “It’s your favourite snack.”
Your expression softened before you could stop it.
Of course he remembered.
Steve noticed things like that, even when he pretended he didn’t. He remembered which flavour you picked out first, how you always claimed you weren’t hungry and then stole half of his food anyway, and the small details you mentioned once and forgot about until he brought them back to you like they mattered.
“I’m still mad at you,” you said, but your voice had lost most of its edge.
“I know.”
“And you were being annoying.”
“I know.”
“And stubborn.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Okay, that one feels a little unfair coming from you.”
You gave him a look.
Steve immediately nodded. “Right. Not the time.”
For a moment, the silence sat between you both. It wasn’t heavy like before, but it was awkward and careful, like both of you were standing on opposite sides of something fragile and neither wanted to be the one to break it again.
Then Steve held the bag out a little.
“I miss you,” he said.
It was quiet, so quiet you almost thought you had imagined it.
Your throat tightened.
Steve looked embarrassed as soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes dropping to the window ledge as he let out a small breath. “I know it’s only been a few hours, and I know that sounds dramatic, but I do. I hate fighting with you. I hate walking away and pretending I’m fine when I’m just driving around like an idiot, thinking about what I should’ve said instead.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
The anger you had been holding onto felt smaller now, not gone completely, but softer around the edges.
“You were driving around?” you asked.
Steve huffed, glancing away. “Yeah.”
“Steve.”
“I know.”
“That’s very dramatic.”
He looked back at you. “I literally just said that.”
A tiny smile pulled at your mouth, and Steve’s shoulders dropped like that one small reaction had taken half the weight off him.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted. “I went past Family Video twice. Then Dustin’s house, but I didn’t stop because I knew he’d somehow make it worse. Then I ended up buying that.” He nodded toward the bag. “And then I sat in my car for ten minutes trying to decide if showing up here made me look pathetic.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “A little.”
Steve sighed. “Great. Love that.”
“But in a sweet way.”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Yeah?”
You nodded, softer now. “Yeah.”
Steve swallowed, his hand still resting on the window frame. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For what I said. And for leaving like that. I shouldn’t have.”
You looked down at the bag in your hands, the paper crinkling under your fingers.
“I’m sorry too,” you said quietly. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“You kind of had a reason.”
“So did you.”
“Maybe,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “But I still hated it. The second I walked away, I hated it.”
You glanced up at him.
Steve’s face had gone serious in that way it sometimes did when he was trying not to joke his way out of something. His hair was falling slightly out of place, and there was a nervous little crease between his brows.
“I don’t want us to be like that,” he said. “The whole saying things just to win thing. I don’t want to win if it means you look at me like that after.”
Your chest ached because you knew exactly what he meant. You had both been trying so hard to prove a point that neither of you had stopped to listen properly, and now that the anger had thinned out, all that was left underneath it was how much you hated being apart from him.
“I don’t either,” you said.
Another silence passed, but this one felt different.
Gentler.
You finally stepped back from the window. “Are you coming in or are you planning to stand there looking sad all night?”
Steve blinked, then pointed at himself. “I looked sad?”
“You looked very sad.”
“I was going for regretful.”
“Same thing.”
He started to climb through the window, which would have been much more graceful if his foot had not caught on the frame halfway in.
“Careful,” you said, grabbing his arm.
“I’m fine,” Steve said quickly, despite nearly falling into your room. “Totally fine. Very smooth.”
“You almost face-planted.”
“Didn’t, though.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling properly now, and Steve noticed that too.
Once he was inside, he stood in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne and the cold air still clinging to his jacket. For a moment, neither of you said anything, and then Steve reached out gently, his fingers brushing your sleeve like he still wasn’t completely sure he was allowed to touch you.
“I really did miss you,” he said again, softer this time.
Your chest warmed.
You leaned into him before you could overthink it, wrapping your arms around his waist, and Steve didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in immediately, one hand settling against your back while the other cradled the back of your head, holding you like he had been waiting all night to do it.
For a while, neither of you moved.
His hold was firm, almost like he was trying to apologise through it, like he wanted you to understand all the things he had been too stubborn to say earlier.
“I was waiting for you to apologise first,” you mumbled into his jacket.
Steve laughed under his breath. “Yeah, me too.”
“That was stupid.”
“Really stupid.”
“You’re still stubborn.”
“So are you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and Steve’s mouth twitched.
“But, like, in a cute way.”
“Careful.”
“Right. Sorry.”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh as he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. It was slow and soft, lingering just long enough to make your eyes close.
When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb lightly over your sleeve.
“Next time,” he said, “we should probably not wait hours to say sorry.”
“Probably not.”
“And maybe one of us should be the bigger person.”
You looked at him.
He nodded seriously. “I vote you.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly. “Steve.”
“What? You’re very emotionally mature.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet you missed me.”
You tried to glare at him, but it came out too fond to work.
Steve smiled, warm and pleased, then reached for the paper bag still sitting between you. “So,” he said, holding it up, “am I forgiven enough to share these, or is this more of a peace offering I have to surrender completely?”
You took the bag from him. “I’ll think about it.”
“That means yes.”
“That means sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of your bed like he belonged there, because he did. You joined him a second later, the space between you smaller than it had been all night, and Steve watched as you opened the bag, his knee brushing yours.
“You really remembered my favourite?” you asked.
He looked almost offended. “Of course I remembered.”
“I’m just checking.”
“I remember everything.”
You raised an eyebrow.
Steve paused. “Okay, not everything. But important things.”
Your smile softened.
He nudged your knee gently with his. “You’re important.”
The words were simple, but they settled into you anyway.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, and Steve shifted at once, making room for you like it was instinct. His arm came around you a moment later, warm and familiar, and for a few minutes neither of you said much at all.
The argument wasn’t fixed all at once, not completely. There were still things to talk about, still feelings to untangle, still apologies that would mean more because of what happened after them rather than what was said in the moment. But Steve was there, holding you like he didn’t want to let go, and your favourite snack was sitting between you like a tiny peace offering.
When he pressed another kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “Still mad?”
You looked up at him, pretending to consider it.
“A little.”
Steve nodded. “Fair.”
“But less.”
His smile came back, soft and relieved. “I can work with less.”
