⭑ star ✰

twenty-one gap-toothed and proud

[imfromthediningtable]

⸻𝐢𝐦𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞'𝐬 navigation! ⭑

made of outer space. tinker fairy. silver girl. ariana’s daughter. go for it. driving with the windows down. aquarius. miss psychology. 1950 forever. change. to mourn the wicked.

⭑ keep up with my reading list @ #star reads!

[ceruleanheaven]

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

[stvswrld69]

­ meetify algorithm

pairing: keys mckey x reader summary: keys creates an experimental dating app based on user compatibility to try to get a promotion at work. to make sure it works properly, he asks users to test it before its release. you download the beta out of curiosity, and the system matches you with the creator himself. wc: 3.3k warnings: +18 (minors do not interact), explicit nsfw, fem!reader, enemies (even if they don't know), mention of alcohol, explicit sexting, guided masturbation, m jerking off, fingering, penetration, use of sexual toys, dirty talk, cursing. author's note: thanks in this one to my girl nic for the help and also juls and juana for the motivation. also i'm starting with requests as soon as i finish my finals so pls be patient

keys sat over his desk on the floor of soonami studios. the blue glow of his multiple monitors reflected off his glasses and the office hummed with the usual boring energy; keyboards clacking, whispers and some laughs from the break room. but keys barely noticed any of it. 

his eyes were glued to the same block of code he’d been debugging for the last hour while his leg bounced anxiously under the desk.

he was tired. not just physically –though the dark circles under his eyes told that story clearly– but existentially tired.

keys had been working at soonami studios for some years now, and he was good at this job. really good. he could debug complex systems faster than most others developers and he actually cared about clean codes.

none of that seemed to matter. every time another developer position opened up, it went to someone better at office politics, someone who knew how to shake the right hands and smile in the right meetings.

keys was the guy who stayed late fixing other people’s mistakes. the guy who got praised in private but overlooked in promotions. the guy who was reliable.

he was sick of it.

that morning meeting was the final straw. the manager stood at the front of the room with his usually fake enthusiasm and talked.

‘’we’re looking for something original. something fresh. we want innovation. whoever brings me a truly unique project that actually works…. let’s just say there will be serious conversations about promotions.’’

key’s heart started racing the second he heard those words. this was it. his chance. 

he didn’t just want a promotion – he needed one.

so he made a decision, and for the next two and a half weeks, keys barely existed outside of work and his laptop. he woke up at 6 a.m., worked fully day at the office, then went home and coded until 3 or 4 in the morning. 

he ate microwave meals at his desk and drank enough coffee to make his hands shake. he told his friends he was ‘’busy with a side project.’’

he poured everything into meetify.

it wasn’t just another dating app. keys hated the shallow nature of modern dating apps: endless swiping, the focus on pictures and one-liners. he wanted something deeper. so he built a system that analyzed hundreds of data points: communication style, values, conflict resolutions patterns. 

the algorithm didn’t just match interests. it tried to predict long-term compatibility with uncanny accuracy.

he worked on the psychological questionnaire for days, making the questions strangely personal but not invasive. he fine-tuned the matching engine until the compatibility scores felt natural. 

he added privacy features that made the whole thing feel safe: no photos unless both users agreed later and end-to-end encryption on all chats.

when he finally finished the working beta version, he leaned back in his office chair and stared at the screen for a long time. 

‘’please… just work,’’ he whispered.

the next day during his lunch break, he created a reddit account under a throwaway name and posted in several beta testing subreddits.

r/betatesters • 1h ago

need 50 serious testers for an experimental dating app (100% anonymous) hey everyone,  i’ve built an experimental dating app named meetify. instead of swipes and pictures, it uses deep behavioral analysis and psychological profiling to match people based on real compatibility.  everything is completely anonymous. i need real users to test the matching algorithm and give feedback before i pitch it internally for a promotion. first 50 people get immediate access. if you’re tired of shallow dating apps and want to try something different, dm me. serious testers only.

he hit the post button with nervous fingers and then refreshed the page obsessively for the next hour. by the end of the day, he had 47 messages. 

on another hand, you had sworn off dating for almost a year. after a series of painful relationships, you decided you were done putting yourself out there. the idea of opening up to someone new felt exhausting and terrifying. 

but one night, while scrolling through reddit to see if someone could help you with work, a post caught your eye.

a post written by a user called walternetius. it promised to be something different, and curiosity got the better of you. after everything you had been through, maybe an algorithm could do better than your own terrible judgment.

you downloaded the app and created your account with the user y/nlocked.

the questionnaire was long and surprisingly personal. you answered honestly, even the uncomfortable questions about past relationships, trust issues and what you really wanted from a partner. 

when you finished, the app paired you almost instantly. 

wmckynotes. your eyebrows rose at the high number of compatibility. you opened the chat.

wmckynotes: hey wmckynotes: so we’re both beta testers for this thing? nice to meet you, y/nlocked

you smiled a little at the polite greeting and typed back.

y/nlocked: hi. yeah, looks like it. that compatibility is crazy. did u answer the questions honestly?

wmckynotes: haha… i was brutally honest. that’s why probably most of my other matches were below 20% :/ wmckynotes: u are the first person who makes sense according to the algorithm. wmckynotes: btw, how are u finding the app so far?

you leaned back against your pillows, thinking how to answer.

y/nlocked: i mean, it’s… different. the questionnaire was really long and some questions made me stop and actually think, but the interface is calm i guess. i really wanted to try something different

wmckynotes: most dating apps just feel so shallow. 

y/nlocked: yeah. this one feels more…. intentional. but wbu, why did you join the beta? are you also tired of normal dating apps?

wmckynotes: honestly? i’m the developer of this app. i’ve been working on it for months as a side project. my company is very corporate and i wanted to show them something original. wmckynotes: i needed real users to test it. i didn’t want people to feel pressured so i created everything anonymous.

y/nlocked: wait… you’re like the creator? that’s so cool lol. so u testing your own app?

wmckynotes: yeah… pretty much hahah i’m nervous as hell actually. i want it to work, to help people find something good. don’t tell anyone though. i’m trying to stay anonymous too. 

y/nlocked: your secret is safe with me

keys chuckled softly in his apartment, running a hand through his messy hair. you smiled at the phone feeling a warmth in your chest.

wmckynotes: so… be honest with me. what do u think so far? any feedback? wmckynotes: i’m glad the algorithm matched us. even if this is just a test, it’s nice talking to someone who gets it and works at coding too.

you thought for a moment before replying. the conversation flowed naturally. you two talked about movies, music. he was funny, a little nerdy, and surprisingly easy to talk to.

y/nlocked: yeah… it really is :) good night wmckynotes

a month has passed since you first downloaded that app, and what started as a random experiment born out of boredom quietly became the best part of you every day. 

you were at your desk on nexus dynamics. the open office was loud, with ringing phones and sighs. you were on the same customer support ticket for almost forty minutes while a man was yelling in all caps about a billing error.

you rubbed your temples, feeling the familiar headache building behind your eyes. your phone vibrated on the desk, you glanced around quickly to make sure your supervisor wasn’t watching, then opened the app.

wmckynotes: survived another meeting. how’s your day going? please tell me it’s better than mine.

you smiled despite yourself and typed back quickly under the desk.

y/nlocked: well i’m being yelled at a customer rn and i need a coffee

wmckynotes: i would def teleport with a coffee if i could. black with one sugar, right?

y/nlocked: you remember. i’m impressed 

wmckynotes: i remember a lot of things about u

you bit your lip, feeling warmth spread through your face. 

across town, keys was sitting in his chair. he checked the beta dashboard obsessively for weeks. the app was working better than he ever expected – at least for you two.

keys ran a hand through his messy brown hair and bit his lip when your message appeared. the conversation continued in short bursts or during breaks. 

after that, the conversations become more and more frequent between you two. 

even so, work was killing you. today was one of those days where you had to apologize because you were busy and you couldn't talk to him.

your company, nexus dynamics, was forced to attend the same exclusive networking event as soonami studios. the rivalry between the two companies was known throughout the world. it was serious: years of stolen talent, leaked projects and public shade in interviews. 

the tension in the rooftop was thick enough to cut with a knife, and the employees from both side-eyed each other with barely hostility.

you were there representing your company, dressed in a sleek black dress and holding a glass of champagne you had no intention of drinking. you stood near the bar, trying to stay out of the way of the obvious corporate warfare happening around you.

the founder of the company who prepared all this suddenly appeared beside you with a bright smile.

‘’ah! perfect. come with me for a moment.’’ before you could even protest, he gently guided you across the room toward a small group of the other company.

“so… this is our brilliant guy, keys. one of our sharpest young talents.”

keys turned to you. for a split second, something flickered in his eyes but he masked it with a polite professional smile and extended his hand. 

“nice to meet you,” he said with a measured voice.

you shook his hand firmly, keeping your expression natural.

“likewise,” you replied in a polite tone.

“you two are some of the youngest and most promising people from your companies. i thought it would be interesting for you to talk. healthy competition breeds innovation, right?”

with that, the walked away, leaving you and keys standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. the air between you two was immediately tense. 

keys slipped his hands into his pockets.

‘’so….’’ he said with a carefully neutral voice. ‘’heard your team has been pushing up some aggressive updates lately.’’

you lifted your chin slightly, matching his energy.

‘’and i’ve heard yours has been copying quite a few of those ideas,’’ you replied. ‘’imitation is the sincerest from flattery, i suppose.’’

keys let out a short dry laugh, but there was no real humor in it. you narrowed your eyes.

‘’bold claim. though i’m not surprised. y’all always loved throwing accusations around.’’

keys studied you for a moment, giving you an intense glaze. 

‘’you seem… familiar somehow,’’ he said quietly. ‘’have we met before?’’

you shook your hand, keeping your voice cool.

‘’i don’t think so. i would remember you.’’ 

he gave a bitter smile, and the conversation remained polite on the surface but with subtle jabs. the night was long and boring. you couldn't wait to get home, talk to that app user, and have some fun.

the network finally ended and you arrived home a little after midnight. your heels gave you wounds, and you swore you just wanted to rest. the entire ride way home, your mind kept replaying the conversation with that guy with glasses.

there was something about him that felt extremely familiar and even if you didn’t know his name –the way he looked at you, the dry humor– that felt strangely familiar. you shook the thought away. 

when you finally stepped into the apartment, you kicked off your heels with a sigh of relief. you changed into an oversized t-shirt and stayed in your panties, washed your face and collapsed onto your bed with your phone.

meanwhile, across town, keys entered his apartment, loosened his tie, and dropped onto the couch. keys didn’t even wait, he opened meetify on his phone and saw you were online.

he smiled and started typing.

wmckynotes: hey. u still awake?? wmckynotes: just arrived home. long night… i met someone w your name. funny coincidence right??

y/nlocked: it’s a pretty common name. they are probably like thousands of girls with it

wmckynotes: yeah… but anyways talking to u feels so much better. wmckynotes: i was thinking about u all night

y/nlocked: oh??? and what were u thinking about?

wmckynotes: being honest… was wondering u were laying in bed like i am now. if you were thinking about me too

the tone shifted. subtly. slowly.

y/nlocked: maybe i was and maybe i still am

wmckynotes: yeah? what are u thinking about?

the room was starting to feel hot, your chest was starting to pound faster. you closed your legs to try and cool down the heat between them. 

wmckynotes: yeah? what are u thinking about rn???

y/nlocked: about how nice ur voice probably sounds in general and about ur looks

wmckynotes: only that way?

y/nlocked: do u want me to say more?

you playfully bit your lip, waiting for his response. you had no idea how far the conversation could veer.

wmckynotes: maybe i do

y/nlocked: where are u rn?

wmckynotes: well wmckynotes: i’m in my couch… why?

y/nlocked: maybe i was thinking about me and u in your couch

his answer was fast. he never left the chat.

wmckynotes: great wmckynotes: me too

y/nlocked: what are u exactly thinking about y/nlocked: let’s see if we are thinking the same

wmckynotes: i was thinking about you in my couch… what are u wearing?

you smiled at the question, biting your lip, and then looked at your body as if it weren't obvious what you were wearing. as if you didn't know, or as if you were looking for confirmation before telling him.

y/nlocked: shirt and panties

wmckynotes: k. so i was thinking about u in my couch with that shirt and in only panties.  wmckynotes: then in my thoughts i kiss u first, i think your lips are probably really soft 

you let out a slow breath and slid your right hand down your body. you slipped it under the waistband of your panties, feeling the heat radiating from your pussy. 

you didn’t go straight for your clit. instead, you pressed your palm flat against your mound, feeling how warm and slick you already were. 

y/nlocked: yeah?? what more… tell me

wmckynotes: i’d kiss u deeper… slowly sucking on your upper lip while my hands slide under your shirt. 

you kept pressing and rubbing your palm against your panties, the friction making you wetter. your hips moved slightly against your hand. meanwhile, keys ran his hand down his stomach and began slowly palming his cock over his pajama pants, feeling it thicken and harder under his touch.

then the next message appeared.

wmckynotes: can u touch yourself for me?

y/nlocked: i was already doing it

wmckynotes: you so dirty wmckynotes: good

keys squeezed his growing bulge firmly, rubbing it up and down over the fabric, feeling it twitch under his palm.

y/nlocked: are you touching yourself? y/nlocked: touch yourself and tell me more

wmckynotes: i’d keep kissing and sucking on your neck while my hand slides between your legs.. imagine your hand is mine and please rub your clit over your panties for me, baby. slow circles

you moved your fingers up and started rubbing slow circles over your clit through the soaked fabric. soft whimpers left your lips.

y/nlocked: fuck…. it’s so sensitive. are you stroking yet?

wmckynotes: not yet. just rubbing and squeezing over my pajamas. keep going princess

he continued palming himself, occasionally squeezing the head of his cock through the fabric, feeling himself get fully hard. his breathing was getting heavier as he watched the chat.

y/nlocked: i’m so wet… panties are a mess

wmckynotes: then pull ur panties aside and touch your bare pussy for me. tell me how wet u are

you hooked your fingers on the side of your panties and pulled them aside. your fingers immediately glided over your slick bare folds.

y/nlocked: my fingers are sliding everywhere

wmckynotes: fuck that’s so hot wmckynotes: start rubbing your clit directly now. slow circles wmckynotes: i just pushed my pants down. gonna touch myself for u. i’m so hard

keys pushed his pajama pants and boxers down to his thighs, freeing his thick hard cock. it slapped against his stomach, already leaking. then he wrapped his fist around the base and gave it a slow stroke, spreading the pre-cum over the head with his thumb.

you moaned as your fingers made direct contact with your swollen clit, rubbing slow, tight circles.

y/nlocked: this feels so good

wmckynotes: i’m stroking slowly. base to tip… pls push two fingers inside yourself for me. fuck yourself 

you did it. you slid two fingers deep into yourself, moaning louder. keys tightened his grip imagining that as he started stroking with long firm movements and his fist slid easily. 

y/nlocked: i’m fingering myself y/nlocked: wish those were your fingers tho

you didn’t stop. you saw him typing.

wmckynotes: fuck wmckynotes: do u have any toys?

you bit your lip, hesitating for just a second before answering honestly. you had one, you bought it when you were dating that pathetic boy you had as your boyfriend. he never made you come, and that's exactly why you bought it.

y/nlocked: yeah. i got one in my drawer

you reached over the nightstand drawer and took the toy in your hands. then you positioned yourself comfortably with spread wide legs. 

wmckynotes: rub the tip against your clit. get it nice and wet. i’m strocking faster now

you rubbed it up and down your slit, coating it with your wetness. keys was now fully focused on his own pleasure. keys’ hand moved faster. his hips were starting to buck up into his fist as he got more into it.

wmckynotes: push it inside and imagine it’s me stretching u

you did it, pressing it against your entrance and slowly pushing it in, gasping as it stretched you open.

y/nlocked: fuck… it’s thick. i need u

keys' large hand wrapped around his entire cock. he moved his hand up and down painfully, feeling that it wasn't quite enough. it wasn’t enough for him because he needed you. 

wmckynotes: fuck w it baby. nice and deep… imagine is my cock filling u up

you started thrusting the toy in and out, moaning louder with every push. your legs were already starting to shake, and your stomach was starting to feel strange.

y/nlocked: fuck… it’s thick

wmckynotes: don’t stop. i’m so fucking close baby :) i want u to cum all over the toy while i cum all over my hand

your moans turned into cries as your orgasm built rapidly.

y/nlocked: fuck… gonna cum. gonna cum so hard

wmckynotes: cum for me. fuck, i’m cumming too

you came with a loud scream. your back arched off the bed, your thighs were shaking violently as your pussy clenched around the toy. 

at the same time, keys groaned deeply, his hips buckling as thick ropes of cum shot across his stomach.

wmckynotes: are u ok

y/nlocked: fuck yeah y/nlocked: gonna clean this mess

wmckynotes: right wmckynotes: same

you got up to go to the bathroom and freshen up a bit. washed your face and drank some water before sitting back down on the bed and checking your phone.

he wrote again since the last message.

wmckynotes: since this is getting like wmckynotes: a little bit more serious wmckynotes: do u have like… discord or something?

y/nlocked: yeah y/nlocked: i use it for work sometimes

wmckynotes: can i add u there

y/nlocked: yeah ofc

you sent him your username, waiting for him to add you and it didn't take long for him to do so. but when you saw his discord profile picture, you froze. 

it was his face. and he wasn't just anyone.

he was the guy you met that very night at the work event. 

it was him. keys.

© dividers by angeliicide and suupersonic

[imfromthediningtable]

WHERE TF DID ALL THIS KEYS CONTENT COME FROM WTF

[washoutmyhairdye]

the one with the rude neighbour

keys mckey x reader

summary: your neighbour gets tired of your constant loud noises and decides to take matters into his own hands.

warnings: smut +18 mdni, mention of alcohol, cursing, kissing, nipple play, p in v, unprotected sex, spit play & cum play.

wc: 2,1k

author's note: this is for juana whom i initially wrote this for as a joke... and for las nenas because they'd kill me if i didn't mention them. also, this is my first fic ever and english isn't my first language, so proceed at your own risk...

it was 11 p.m. on a saturday night, all keys could hear in his apartment was the frantic typing on his keyboard, the consequence of yet another project cutting too close to the deadline and being stuck rewriting his coworkers’ sloppy code.

well he could hear that... and also the bass thumping through the wall from the apartment next door; ever since a new neighbor had moved in, it had become a common occurrence to get almost no sleep on weekends thanks to their parties. 

he usually didn't mind the noise that much, he would put on his noise-cancelling headphones and tune it out, but tonight he couldn't afford distractions, he had to finish fixing those glitches on the game. he was already getting a headache and his mood was worsening increasingly as the music and laughs next door grew louder and louder.

two minutes before midnight he finally had enough. he didn't want to be the cranky next door neighbour but he wasn't taking any chances with this project; he had to get it done by the end of the weekend and that was not going to happen unless he got some actual peace and quiet to concentrate.

he let out a heavy, defeated sigh, got up from his desk, walked to the front door and paused for a few seconds, contemplating if he was really going to go through with this. deciding there was no other choice, he stepped out into the hallway, walked next door, and knocked three times. 

a minute passed and he knocked again, harder this time. no answer.

losing his patience on the third try, he simply turned the knob and walked straight in. the music was even louder in there, no wonder no one had answered, he squinted his eyes trying to see something between the low lighting and the mass of bodies grinding against each other. that’s when it hit him: he had no clue who he was looking for; he didn't even know what his new neighbor looked like. how could he, when he barely ever left his own apartment?

suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder and when turned around he was caught off guard by the pretty girl apparently talking to him.

"um, what?"  he cleared his throat confused.

"i said, who are you?!" you yelled over the loud music.

"well, i could ask you the same thing!" he yelled back, nervously adjusting his glasses.

"you're the one who just walked into my apartment..."

that's when he finally realized.

"oh... i’m keys... well, i’m actually walter but everyone calls me keys i mean, i'm your neighbour... apartment 3B?"

"nice to meet you... keys" you said with an extended hand.

he brushed it off. 

"look, we can do introductions later. i need you to turn down the music. it's making my head feel like it's about to split in half."

"why would i turn off the music at my own party where you showed up uninvited?"

"because some people are actually trying to work, and your music can be heard throughout the entire fucking building!"

"work? on saturday night?" you asked, confused and starting to get irritated by his tone. 

keys was growing more and more frustrated as the loud noise was numbing his senses and you were starting to get on his nerves. 

"i don't owe you any explanations," he said, crossing his arms tightly "you either turn the music down, or i call the cops and let them handle it."

you couldn't believe the audacity of this guy, showing up at your place, being rude as fuck, and demanding things. your vision was a little blurry from the drinks you’d had so far, but you couldn't help but notice that this angry neighbor named... keys?... was actually not bad looking at all.

his hair was messy, obviously from how many times he’d run his hands through it in the span of this 3 minute conversation, his glasses were a little smudged because he kept nervously fixing them and he was wearing some dorky star wars t-shirt. you weren't about to let him crash the party while everyone was having such a good time; maybe it was time to take a slightly different approach. 

you took a step closer.

"mmh, you know what? maybe you should just stick around..." you murmured casually, licking your lips and smirking when you caught his gaze dropping to follow the movement.

"what?" he asked, his brows furrowing in confusion.

you nodded.

"yeah.. working on a saturday night... maybe all you need after all is to loosen up a little, have a few drinks... maybe it'll stop you from being an obnoxious asshole." 

"what did you just call me?"

"oh, you heard me loud and cl-" 

you couldn't finish the sentence before he stepped into your space, backing you up against the wall and putting a hand over your mouth to shut you up.

"i dare you to finish that thought," he whispered, his voice suddenly dark and low.

your eyes widened and you looked at him with a strange mix of fear and lust, you knew you shouldn't be feeling this way about a literal stranger…  but the drinks you had so far and the heat of his body pressed against yours was making it impossible to think straight.

you gently pulled his hand down from your lips, batting your eyelashes. "or what? what exactly are you going to do about it?"

he suddenly looked around, conscious of how many people were surrounding the both of you; not like anyone was paying attention anyways. noticing his hesitation, you pushed him off softly, wrapped your fingers around his wrist, and led him straight toward the bathroom. 

once you were both inside, you clicked the lock into place. turning back to him, you smirked. "now, what were you saying...?"

keys didn't waste another second, he stepped forward, gripped your waist with both of his hands, and smashed his lips against yours, backing you up until your lower back hit the edge of the cold bathroom counter. the kiss was rushed and sloppy, your tongues mixing, driven by pure adrenaline as the heavy bass still vibrated through the bathroom walls.

he pulled away for a second, breathing heavily, knowing that he should stop this now. yeah, it had been a while since he had sex and maybe you were right about how he needed to loosen up, but fucking the neighbour that he has just met not even half an hour ago was not the right way to do so, no matter what the obvious bulge on his pants said.

keys didn't have much time to overthink before you gripped his shirt and pulled him back against you, hooking a leg over his to press him closer.

he got the hint and groaning against your mouth, he gripped your hips and lifted you effortlessly onto the counter, stepping between your legs and pressing his erection against your center. his mouth was back on yours again; he nipped at your bottom lip, sliding his tongue into your mouth in a slower and deeper rhythm that made your head spin.

his hand started to make his way up beneath your shirt, then he pulled back for a fraction of a second, his eyes searching for yours in a silent question. the moment you nodded he eagerly helped you take it off, exposing your skin to the cool bathroom air, and immediately got to work; cupping one of your breasts with his firm, warm hand while dropping his mouth to the other, swirling his tongue around your nipple before gently biting and sucking. you gasped, arching against him while you reached down for his belt, unbuckling it with trembling, impatient fingers. 

you pulled his zipper down, your knuckles brushing against the hot fabric of his underwear which made him let out a sharp breath. he spread your thighs wider, lifting your skirt up and brushing his long fingers over your already soaked panties. he smirked against you when he noticed how wet you were, then pressed his thumb firmly over your clit through the damp fabric, holding it there long enough to tease you and deliberately refusing to move it any further. grabbing him by his hair, you pulled his face back to yours and murmured against his lips, “please…” 

“do you have any condoms here?”

you sighed in frustration. “no… but i’m clean and on the pill. you can just pull out.” 

he nodded and he took his length out of his pants; you didn't even have time to register his impressive size before he brought his hand up to your mouth “spit,” he commanded with a dark voice. 

you complied.

he used your spit to stroke his dick a few times, letting out a low groan, then not even bothering to take your underwear off, he just pushed the fabric to the side, dragged his tip across your folds, circling on your clit before lining himself up and pushing his full length into you in one deep thrust. 

the sudden, burning stretch left you speechless, your eyes widening as your breath caught in your throat. he stayed still for a moment, burying his face in the crook of your neck, giving you the chance to adjust to his thickness, and feeling it pulse inside you. then, he began to move.

he started a merciless pace, his hips slamming with force against yours, the heat of his skin making an abrupt contrast with the cold marble beneath you; your moans were muffled by the party still going on outside so you didn't bother to hold them back. keys looked like a beautiful mess, lips parted, letting out ragged breaths, eyes barely open and his glasses completely fogged. you felt so full you couldn't even think straight.

 “keys… fuck, fuck…” 

“maybe this will teach you to do what i say next time,” he said, accentuating his words with an even deeper thrust. 

“i- mmgh…” you couldn’t even form a proper reply as he hit your sweet spot again and again. desperate for more you wrapped your legs against his waist pulling him as deep as he could possibly go.

he leaned down, lips brushing against your ear, "you like being loud, don't you? let's see if you can scream my name louder than that fucking music outside." he asked as he picked up the speed.

"keys- please” you gasped, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

listening to your pleas he guided his hand down between your bodies rubbing on your clit in perfect sync with his thrusts, driving you right over the edge; the double stimulation was too much, you arched your back, your walls clamping down around him tight as you came, crying out his name.

he gave a few more desperate thrusts while you rode your climax, cursing at the way your walls were squeezing him then pulled out, gripping his length and stroking himself 

as he came all over your stomach, letting out low grunts with every spurt. 

you both stayed completely still for a moment, trying to catch your breath, praying that no one had passed close enough to the bathroom to have heard any of that.

when you made a move to reach for the towel to clean yourself up, he pushed your hand away softly; leaned down, eyes locking onto yours as he licked the warm fluid pooling on your stomach. once he gathered most of it, he pulled back up to capture your mouth, and fed it back to you in a deep kiss. 

he finally broke the kiss and you both stayed completely still for a few seconds as the adrenaline slowly started to fade.

the contrast of the sudden quiet inside the bathroom hit you immediately; keys ran a hand through his completely ruined hair and adjusted his fogged glasses, swallowing hard as he fixed his pants and buckled his belt back on.

you slid off the counter, put your shirt back on and fixed your skirt and underwear making sure he was watching every move; you walked past him toward the door, hand resting on the knob before you paused.

"i'm turning the music down half a notch," you said, looking back over your shoulder for a second with a smug smirk "just because you asked so nicely."

then you opened the door and walked out, letting the loud music swallow you back in, leaving keys alone in the quiet bathroom to try and figure out what the hell had just happened.

[levanswrites]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐬

another fun little hc because i am deeply unwell with keys fever rn

.   *　✦　　.　 ˚　✦　 .

Keys is, without question, the most attentive boyfriend you've ever had.

Sweet, kind, considerate—maybe a little introverted, not the type for grand gestures or constant PDA—but he always takes care of you in all the ways that matter. 

He's the kind of guy who automatically switches sides so he's the one closest to traffic when you're walking together. The kind who remembers your favorite snacks after you mention them once; he somehow always has them waiting in his pantry whenever you come over.

If you fall asleep on his couch with your head in his lap, he'll sit there for hours with his leg completely numb before even considering waking you up. 

And that carries over into the bedroom, too.

He’s attentive in a way that makes you feel so completely safe, so completely looked after. Always checking in, always tuned in to the smallest shifts in you. You think he genuinely likes taking care of you, making sure you’re alright, making sure you feel good, that you're enjoying yourself as much as he is.

He's open-minded—always willing to try something new if it interests you—though the two of you usually end up drifting back to your favorites. Missionary, lotus, anything that gets him close enough to brush your hair back from your face, to watch your face scrunch up in ecstasy. He's the type to lace his fingers through yours just so you’ll have something to hold onto when you let go.

With Keys, affection isn't loud.

It's the hand on your waist guiding you through a crowd, the jacket draped over you when you fall asleep on the car ride home.    

He’s a sweet guy, is what you’re saying.

So naturally, about a month into dating, you decide surprising him at his apartment is a great idea.  

You slip inside with the spare key because he told you weeks ago “it’s okay to stop by whenever.”

You think it'll be cute.

Maybe you'll sneak up behind him, cover his eyes, press a kiss to his cheek just to watch him go all flustered and pink for you. 

You've got a soft plushie tucked under your arm—a teddy bear wearing a blue hoodie and tiny little glasses that looks exactly like him. Keys Bear, as you'd immediately named him in your head.

You're still grinning to yourself as you jiggle the door open.

Except the moment you step inside you hear:

“Motherfucker.”

You stop dead, the keys still dangling from your fingers, plushie nearly slipping from your arm, because... 

Who the hell was that?

You know that voice.

But at the same time... you don't.

It sounded like Keys.

Except lower, rougher. Completely stripped of the soft-spoken warmth you're used to hearing.

“There’s no fucking way that hit me.”

Click.

Click-click-click.

“Where did this guy even come from?”

Click-click.

“Yeah, okay. Sure. That's bullshit.”

Your eyebrows slowly climb toward your hairline.

Keys swears?

Obviously he does; he's an adult, you've never assumed otherwise.

But around you, the harshest word you've ever heard him say is probably “damn.”

You inch down the hallway toward his bedroom, the door cracked open enough for you to peek through.

And you find your sweet, considerate, impossibly patient boyfriend sitting there, three inches from the monitor, headset on, shoulders wound so tight they're practically touching his ears.

His eyes are locked onto the screen with laser-focus, fingers flying across the keyboard faster than you can follow.  

The same fingers that slip into yours mid-conversation.

The same fingers that patiently untangle your necklaces when they knot, zip up your dresses when you're struggling with the clasp.

The same fingers that help you fold laundry on lazy Sunday mornings because “it's faster if two people do it.” 

The same fingers that once spent forty-five minutes researching heating pads online because he was not about to let you suffer through cramps with anything mediocre.  

You've never seen him look this focused before. 

Jaw set tight, a tendon in his neck standing out in a way you’re not used to seeing. His eyes are narrowed behind his glasses, the screen reflecting in quick, restless flashes of light across the lenses. 

“Are you actually serious right now?”

Click.

“Push mid.”

Click-click.

“No—don’t stand there, move.”

Click.

“Yeah. That's what I thought.”

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

Because...

Is this your boyfriend?

Your sweet boyfriend? 

Your “text me when you get home” boyfriend? 

Your “hold still, it's cold” boyfriend?

Your “I saw this and thought of you” boyfriend? 

Your “I made extra food because I knew you’d forget to eat” boyfriend? 

The man who says “sorry” when he needs to squeeze past someone in a grocery aisle?

The man who once spent an entire afternoon helping his elderly neighbor move furniture because her grandson couldn't make it over that week?

The man who gets pink in the face whenever you compliment him?

Who still gets visibly flustered every time you kiss his cheek?

That man?

And what really gets you, about all this, isn't the swearing.

It's his tone. 

Key’s isn’t shouting into his microphone or slamming his desk the way you’d expect from most gamers.

If anything, he’s speaking in this low, calm register.  

Something a little degrading in his voice when he tells his teammates: “You wanna try that one again?” or “Nice job, buddy. Maybe hit something next time.”

A kind of cool, knowing arrogance that only comes from being completely certain he’s right.

Which, judging by the groans from the people in his headset and the score steadily climbing on his screen, he usually is. 

You always knew your boyfriend liked being right. 

When you first met Keys, you'd figured out pretty quickly that he was insanely smart. Competitive, too.  

You just never realized he’d been holding himself back this whole time. 

It's like discovering your golden retriever has teeth.

Because for the first time, it occurs to you that your boyfriend isn't nice because he lacks a backbone.

He isn't sweet because he's incapable of being mean.

He's sweet because he actively chooses to be. 

Watching him now, it's obvious.

That quick wit, that confidence. That razor-sharp sarcasm and the ease with which he fires back cutting comments without missing a beat.

A side that clearly existed long before you met him.

It's always been there, just hidden underneath polite smiles and good manners.

That contrast, unfortunately, is making it very difficult for you to think straight.

And even more difficult to stand straight.

You shift your weight in the doorway, still clutching little Keys Bear against your chest as you feel heat pool between your thighs, growing wetter with each passing second—another low, mumbled comment from him, dry and just this side of mean, effortless in the way he says it and so different from the softness he shows you.

On screen, another defeat.

Keys lets out a long, suffering sigh, dragging a hand through his hair as he slumps back in his chair.  

It swivels slightly with the motion, and his gaze finally catches on you in his peripheral vision.

You watch as those big, expressive puppy-dog eyes go round with shock. 

And just like that, Gamer Keys disappears. 

He jolts, the headset nearly flying off as he yanks it from his head, sending it clattering onto the keyboard. 

“Baby! Hey!” The smile that spreads across his face is instantly familiar, warm and soft, albeit surprised. “When did you, uh, when did you get here?”

You blink, remembering to swallow the spit pooled on your tongue before you speak. 

“Just now.”

Keys studies you for a second.

The slack-jawed, slightly dazed look on your face must give you away, because his brows pull together.

“Is... everything okay?”

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Okay, cause… I mean, you’re kinda just staring at me right now? So...”

Yeah.

Because ten minutes ago you thought your boyfriend was the sweetest man alive.

And you still do.

Except now you’ve discovered there’s an entirely different side to him underneath all that softness.

A side that's confident, quick-witted, ruthless, almost intimidating when the situation calls for it.  

Mean.   

You clear your throat, glancing down at the teddy bear still squished against your chest before holding it out.

“I brought you this.”

Keys blinks at it, then carefully takes it from you with both hands.

And the expression that breaks across his face is so soft, so fond, it makes you doubt whether the last few minutes were real at all.

“Wow, this is... he’s so cute,” he huffs out a quiet laugh, turning it in his hands, thumb smoothing over its head. He looks up at you, a boyish grin pulling at his mouth, his glasses catching the light. “Is this supposed to be me?”

You nod.

He lets out another laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. I see it.” 

He gently props the plushie up right beside his monitor, adjusting it once before letting it settle.

Then he reaches for you. It’s easy and instinctive—one arm slipping around your waist as he draws you closer, spreading his legs and guiding you into the space between his knees. 

Your hands come up to rest on his shoulders, fingers carding through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. 

He tilts his head up to look at you, still a little concerned, trying to figure out why you haven’t stopped staring at him. 

“Hey, you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, quieter this time, thumb brushing against your side.  

You lean down, palms gently holding him in place as you press a sweet, feather-light kiss to his cheek. You give his face a soft little squeeze afterward, pleased by the scrunch of his nose and the way his grin spreads.

His ears turn pink.

There he is.

Your Keys.

“Just missed you,” you mumble, then glance toward the glowing monitor behind him. “Can I watch you finish your game?”

His brows lift slightly.

“The game?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, you sure?” he blinks, clearly thrown. “We can do something else.”

You shake your head.

“No. Keep playing. I wanna see.” 

A slow, slightly confused smile tugs at his mouth before he nods. 

“Okay, yeah, sure. Let me grab you a chair.” 

You hum, then—much to Keys’ surprise—you turn around and plop yourself down, right into the space between his thighs.

His chest presses flush against your back, the familiar warmth of him wrapping around you. The sudden closeness seems to catch him off guard; you feel his breath hitch right by your ear, his lips grazing against your skin when he exhales.

You wiggle your hips, rubbing against his lap as you try to get comfortable, and immediately feel him go still behind you.

You bear just a little more of your weight down before turning your head, catching his wide-eyed gaze with a sweet smile. 

“Is it okay if I sit here instead?”  

[levanswrites]

𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: keys mckey x reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: walter keys mckey realizes he's in love with his best friend. unfortunately, his best friend is busy chasing someone else. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: college au, friends to lovers, inexperienced!reader, mutual pining, idiots in love, yearning, lovesick keys, jealousy, unrequited feelings or are they?, angst with fluff, slow burn, eventual romance/smut

✰ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✰

A lot of people assume that Keys is smarter than his feelings.

Which is funny, because if anything, the opposite is true.

Walter McKey can untangle impossible code at three in the morning while surviving entirely on stale vending machine chips and whatever energy drink happened to be cheapest at the campus store. He can stare at a monitor for six straight hours and notice a single misplaced character buried under ten thousand lines of programming.

In five minutes, he can fix bugs most people don't even know how to find.

But realizing he's in love with his best friend?

That takes him an embarrassingly long time.

Years, actually.

Mostly because every time the truth gets a little too close, he explains it away.

Like, of course he wants to spend every second of every day with you.

You're his best friend.

That's what best friends do.

Of course he starts saving memes on his phone because he knows they'll make you laugh. Half his camera roll is screenshots he hasn't sent yet because he likes building up a little collection for when you're having a bad day.

That's normal.

Of course he shows up to class with your favorite breakfast sandwich without asking; he knows you never eat before your 8 a.m. lectures, no matter how many times you insist you will.

That's normal.

When he finds himself checking his phone at one in the morning because you mentioned going to a party, that's normal too.

Not that he’s a creep, stalking you or anything—you both have location sharing on.

Lots of friends do.

So maybe he checks it before bed if he knows you’re going to be out late.

Maybe he stares at the faint glow of his phone in the dark, watching the little circle with your picture drift across the map until it finally settles at your apartment.

Maybe the tight knot of worry sitting in his chest eases the second it does.

Maybe he sleeps better.

That's normal.

He's allowed to worry.

Friends worry.

When he walks into a crowded lecture hall and automatically scans for you before he even finds a seat, that's normal.

When he spots a sweatshirt in a store window and immediately thinks you'd like the color: normal.

When he buys two coffees and only realizes afterward that you're not actually there: normal.

When something funny happens during the day and the first thing that enters his mind is the sound of your laugh:

That's perfectly normal.

...Right?

The point is, he's got an explanation for all of it.   

He's a computer science major. He runs on logic. Patterns. Variables. Inputs and outputs. Problems that can be solved if you stare at them long enough.

Feelings are just another system.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

Then Ethan shows up.

And suddenly all of Keys' explanations start throwing errors.

Because Ethan is, objectively speaking, kind of a douche.

A frat bro whose entire personality seems to consist of flexing in mirrors, lifting heavy things, and three different sports that all involve chasing a ball around a field.

Yet somehow, you're interested.

Which means every Friday night now consists of you sitting cross-legged on the floor of his dorm room, happily providing updates on Ethan Carter from Alpha Delta Whatever.

And Keys is discovering that he actually hates hearing about him.

A lot.

More than what feels reasonable, or healthy.

More than he can explain away with the same two words he always defaults to:

Just friends.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Keys is supposed to be studying for finals.

The laptop glows in front of him, three hundred lecture slides stacked into an exam that’s worth sixty percent of his grade, all of it waiting for him to care.

He reads the same sentence four times, retains none of it.

Because every thirty seconds, his attention drifts back toward you.

You're sprawled across the beanbag in the corner of his room, one he definitely didn't buy specifically because you liked sitting in it.

The late-afternoon sun filters through the blinds, laying thin stripes of light across the carpet. Every so often, one of those lines drifts over you, catching on your cheek or the edge of your smile before slipping away again.

A loose strand of hair falls across your mouth while you're talking. You puff air at it without looking up from your phone, still smiling, completely unaware of how beautiful you look when you’re not trying to be at all.

You don't notice him staring.

You never do.

“...it’s weird, ‘cause he’s actually kind of nice in person.”

Keys hums. “Mm.”

“And he invited me to that party next week. You know, the end-of-year one at Sigma Chi?”

Another hum, slightly delayed this time. “Cool.”

You slowly lower your phone.

“Dude.”

“What?”

“You're not even listening.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“No, you're not.”

“What? No, I am, swear.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Okay. What’s his name?”

Keys freezes.

“...Chad?”

Your glare is instantaneous.

Unfortunately for you, Keys finds this particular expression incredibly endearing.

The way your nose scrunches, the tiny wrinkle that appears between your eyebrows and the annoyed huff you let out in barely contained disbelief.

It's adorable.

Which is probably a totally normal thing to think about your best friend.

“Chad? Really?”

“Shit, is it Brad?”

“Keys.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, holding up both hands in surrender. "In my defense, statistically speaking, there was a decent chance I was right."

“No, there wasn’t,” you counter, still glaring at him, though the corners of your lips betray you first. “And it’s Ethan.”

Keys grimaces. “That's worse.”

You blink once.

Then you reach forward without a word, snatch the nearest thing on his desk—a crumpled receipt—and fling it at him.

It smacks directly into the bridge of his glasses, bouncing off his nose.  

His face scrunches up reflexively, eyes briefly crossing as he tries to follow where it landed.

“Hey!”

You burst into a laugh, bright and unfiltered, the sound of it filling the tiny space of his dorm room in a way that makes everything else feel quieter by comparison.

And there it is.

That stupid feeling.

That small lift he feels somewhere under his ribs every time he manages to pull that sound out of you.

It happens fast. Familiar by now, but never really less noticeable.  

A feeling he's never quite managed to explain away, no matter how many times he's tried.

It's embarrassing, honestly, how much he likes it.

How your laugh can cut straight through whatever mental noise he’s sitting in and change the shape of it completely.  

And despite the uncomfortable weight that's been sitting in his chest ever since Ethan entered the conversation, Keys can't stop the smile pulling at his mouth.

Because making you happy has always been his favorite thing.

Even when it costs him.

Maybe especially then.

He rubs the bridge of his nose where the receipt hit, nudging his glasses back into place.

He watches you grin from across the room.

The way your pretty lashes flutter in slow blinks as the last of your laughter fades out of you.

Then you glance back down at your phone with a soft hum.

“Ethan said they're renting a DJ.”

The warm feeling disappears so fast it almost gives him whiplash.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

And suddenly, that's all Keys can think about.

Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

His mind racing, supplying comparisons he knows are unfair.

Ethan doesn't know your coffee order.

The extra pump of vanilla you ask for when you're exhausted. The way you always say you're getting a small and somehow leave with a large. The fact that you'll drink coffee that's gone completely cold because you get so engrossed in conversations you forget it exists.

Ethan doesn't know you hate thunderstorms but love the rain.

That you'll sit by a window for hours listening to it hit the glass. That every single time, without fail, you'll insist you're not sleepy right before falling asleep.

He doesn't know that when you're anxious, you start picking at the skin around your thumbnail.

Or that when you're sad, you rewatch the same three movies you've loved since middle school.

He doesn't know that you hate grape-flavored anything with a level of passion that's honestly a little concerning.  

He doesn't know that when you're upset, the first thing you say is, “I'm fine.”

And that when you're really upset, you call him.

Keys knows all of those things.

He knows hundreds of those things. Thousands, probably.

Little pieces of you gathered over years of lectures and late-night conversations and random Tuesday afternoons that didn't seem important at the time.

And maybe that's what hurts.

Ethan's known you for, what, three weeks?

Keys has known you for four years.  

Four years should mean something.

Shouldn't it?

So what does it say about him—about all those years, all the ways he’s come to know you—if you still look at Ethan the way you do?

And for the first time, Keys wonders if this is what “just friends” is supposed to feel like.

If everyone else’s friends take up this much space in their head.

He clears his throat, and drops his gaze back to the screen.

“I thought you didn’t even like frat parties,” he mumbles, pushing his glasses up his nose.

His voice is perfectly casual, eyes fixed on the blinking cursor in an empty word doc while he pretends to type something he isn’t actually writing.

You shrug. “I mean, maybe this one will be different.”

The cursor keeps blinking.

On. Off. On. Off.

His throat feels strangely tight

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Maybe.”

And in the silence that follows, he's forced to reckon with a truth he's spent years avoiding.

He doesn't actually care about Ethan.

Ethan is just a symptom.

What scares him isn't some frat guy you've known for three weeks.

It's the possibility that, one day, you'll stop being his person.  

The person who gets your random 2 a.m. texts when your brain won’t shut off and you just need someone on the other end of it. The inside jokes that don’t make sense to anyone else. The “holy shit, did you see that?” look you send across a room when something funny happens, because you already know he caught it too. The late-night calls that start with “are you awake?” and drift into silence until one of you falls asleep first. The shoulder you lean into when you’re tired. The hand you squeeze in crowded parties when you feel overwhelmed.

Your safe place. Your home.

One day, he’ll stop being that person.

And someone else will take his place.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

It won’t leave him alone.

The thought that one day, he won’t be the first person you reach for anymore.

So Keys does what he always does when something starts getting too loud in his head.

He overcorrects.

He buries it.

Finals prep becomes a kind of tunnel vision. He scrolls through lecture slides on autopilot, rewrites class notes in slightly different ways just to keep his hands moving, just to keep his brain busy enough that it can’t wander back to you.

Just friends. That’s the rule.

So he acts like it.

He sits a little straighter when you’re close. Keeps his replies a little too short whenever you text.

Just Friends.

And sure, he still shows up to study sessions with your favorite dining hall blueberry muffin and an extra bag of sour gummies—only because you get cranky when you're hungry and always end up stealing his.

Just Friends.

And sure, he helps you set up a study planner app on your laptop—something for exam tracking, color-coded and slightly over-engineered, because you started using sticky notes again and he can't stand how easily they fall off. He ends up fixing it twice when you click the wrong setting and everything rearranges itself—only because it’s easier than watching you struggle through something he knows he can solve in seconds.

Just Friends.

He saves your seat in the library with his backpack without looking up from his screen. Installs the plug-in that stops your tabs from crashing when you have too many open. Renames your files so they’re actually readable when you give up halfway through organizing them. Slides his charger across the table when your laptop hits ten percent because yours only works at a very specific angle.

Just Friends.

He walks you back from the library late at night even when you insist you’re fine on your own, your hands brushing in the dark, slowing his steps to match yours because he knows you hate walking fast.

Just Friends.

He practically lives in the library now. He’s pretty sure his bloodstream is mostly caffeine at this point, the rest denial.

Anything. Literally anything else.

It almost works.

Until it all goes to shit three days before finals.

You’re sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor between two shelves because all the tables were taken hours ago. Both of you are running on fumes, at that late-stage of studying where the pages go blurry and nothing really sticks anymore.

In hindsight, sitting this close was a mistake.

Shoulders pressed together, thighs bumping in the tiny gap of space between you.  

He really should be studying.

He isn’t.

His laptop is open in front of him—half a presentation deck finished, a blinking cursor waiting in a paragraph he stopped reading ten minutes ago. He’s moved on to his coding assignment instead, because logic feels easier than thought right now. But even that isn’t going right. He keeps rewriting the same function, changing variable names that don’t matter, deleting lines just to put them back again.

He pushes his glasses up harsher than necessary, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at the screen as his fingers fly across the keyboard.

Delete. Rewrite. Undo. Redo.   

Beside him, your hoodie shifts as you lean closer, grazing his arm. He feels it right away—the soft rustle of fabric, the familiar scent of your body spray—and his attention snags on it before he can stop himself.

You've stopped looking at your notes.

You’re looking at him.

He doesn’t look back.

“Keys?”

“Mm?” he answers automatically, still typing.

“Keys, can you stop typing for a sec?” your voice is quieter than usual. “I need to ask you something.”

“Yeah, hold on, I just have to—” he starts, eyes still locked on the screen.

Your hands slip into his space before he finishes his sentence.

They settle over his fingers, gently stilling him in place. Your thumbs press lightly over his knuckles, rubbing soft and slow, and his breath catches in a way he doesn’t manage to hide.

You’re close.

Close enough that he can’t escape anymore, nothing left to hide behind.

He swallows, eyes flicking down to where your hand is still covering his before forcing himself to look up at you.   

The laptop light washes over your face in soft blue, catching on your lashes, the faint tension between your brows. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek.

A nervous habit, he’d know it anywhere.  

“Okay, so…” you start, chest lifting in a quick breath, like you’re trying to steady yourself before you lose your nerve. “I need to... ask you something.”

You inch closer, still not letting go of his hands.

“And you have to promise you won’t make it weird.”

That makes him pause.

“Make what weird?” he asks carefully.

“Just—” you frown, shaking your head a little. “Just don’t laugh, okay?”

His expression shifts immediately. Eyes sharpening, concern cutting straight through the exhaustion that’s been dragging him down for hours.

He’s tired, but he knows that tone.

It’s the one you get when you’ve been worrying about something for too long and finally run out of ways to deal with it on your own.

“Hey,” he whispers, softer now, brows pulling together as he studies you. “I’m not gonna laugh. What’s going on?”   

Your gaze drops to your hands, thumb brushing over his knuckles again.

“So... hypothetically… if I needed to learn how to, um…”

You stop again, fingers tightening around his.

Keys is painfully aware that you're technically holding hands right now.

“...how to what?”

You swallow.

Then, like ripping off a bandage, you blurt it out all at once:

“I don't know how to give a guy a blowjob.”

And Keys’ brain does something it’s never done before.

It stops.

Whatever thought he had a second ago drops out of reach like it’s been yanked away. A hard screech, all the gears in his head catching at once and locking up the whole system.

Even running on two cans of Monster and finals-week delirium, he has absolutely nothing.

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then the heat hits.

It starts at the back of his neck, rushes up along his jaw, spreads straight to the tips of his ears. The pink flooding his cheeks is bad enough. Surely it can't get any worse.

Then you blurt out the rest.

“And I need you to teach me how.”

Well.

Shit.

So much for Just Friends.

✰ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✰

[imfromthediningtable]

i love my job bc i cosplay being the happiest person ever and people believe it. in reality in the angriest, raging bitch. hashtag FRAUD

[thecreelhouse]

always ready to be left out in the cold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.

WC: 18k+

Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.

A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine.

‎♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬

This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.

Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.

Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.

Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.

Yeah, lucky you.

This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.

You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.

It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.

And that's never your call to make.

Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.

He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"

"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."

"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.

"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"

"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."

"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."

"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."

"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"

"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."

Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."

"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"

"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.

Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."

There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.

Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.

Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?

It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.

You'd drift in, drift out.

Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.

In, out.

All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.

So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.

Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.

When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.

What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?

What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?

What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.

It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.

That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.

No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.

Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.

Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?

Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.

You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.

Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.

Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.

That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.

Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.

The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.

That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.

You can only tread water for so long, though.

"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"

Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.

"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."

And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."

His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.

Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.

What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?

Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.

Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.

"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."

He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."

"God, you're such a bitch."

"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."

"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"

"I meant the van, asshole!"

Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.

Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.

You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.

"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"

Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.

His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"

You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.

Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.

"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.

"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"

He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."

Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.

She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"

You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.

"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"

Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."

"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.

In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.

Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."

"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."

So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.

Fantastic.

"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."

Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.

"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"

"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"

Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.

Well, can't say you didn't try.

Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."

You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.

You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.

Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."

"Language."

"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.

"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."

So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.

There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."

Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling a cold.

You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.

"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."

You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."

Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.

"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"

"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."

Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.

Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.

"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."

Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.

"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."

There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.

Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.

He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".

"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."

Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."

Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."

Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."

That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.

Together.

Alone.

"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"

A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.

It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.

Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.

"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"

"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"

Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?

"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."

Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."

"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.

"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.

There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.

Unless…

There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.

You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.

"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."

But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"

"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."

"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."

"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"

His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.

"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"

"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."

"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."

He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"

Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"

"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"

You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"

"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"

"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."

"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"

"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."

"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."

"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.

Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.

The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.

If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.

Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.

The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.

Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.

Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.

Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.

He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.

And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.

So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.

He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.

By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.

Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?

What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.

To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.

To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.

The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.

The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.

He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.

Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.

You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.

Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.

It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.

Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?

In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.

There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.

"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.

You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.

"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.

When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.

"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.

It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.

Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.

Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.

"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.

Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.

And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.

Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.

He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.

Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."

"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."

"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."

The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"

"M'yeah, s'kay."

If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.

Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.

Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.

He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"

"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."

"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.

He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.

"Okay, c'mon, boots first."

Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.

Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.

And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.

He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.

You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.

"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."

There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.

At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.

"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.

"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.

"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."

He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.

"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."

If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.

"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."

You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.

"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"

That's a dumb fucking question.

"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."

When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.

About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.

"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."

"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.

"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."

Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.

Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.

But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.

Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"

"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.

You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."

He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.

What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.

Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.

"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."

He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?

That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.

Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.

Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.

He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.

That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.

The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?

God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?

Whatever.

It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.

The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.

Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.

That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.

Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—

"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"

Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.

Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.

Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.

He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.

"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.

He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.

"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."

Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."

The words ache with more desperation than he intends.

"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.

"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.

"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"

He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Fu- fucking cold."

"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."

You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."

"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."

You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.

Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.

Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.

Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.

"Be n- n- nice!"

"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"

"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"

The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.

Like a fucking fool.

"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."

The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.

"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."

"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"

You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"

"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"

"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.

He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."

"You could h- have some f'ya' want."

"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."

"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."

"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.

You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."

He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."

Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.

"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.

You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.

"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."

Oh, if only you knew.

"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"

"Make wh- what weird?"

Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.

The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."

"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."

"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.

The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.

"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."

"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."

You sound mortified.

"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"

"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"

He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?

"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."

"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."

He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.

There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.

Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.

Talk about something else. Anything.

"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.

"Hm? Wi- with what?"

"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."

"We still ended up in a ditch—"

"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."

You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.

"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."

Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."

"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."

Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.

"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."

"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.

"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."

It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.

"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."

He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.

"… What?"

Because since when do you care about letting him down?

"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."

Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.

"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."

And look where that got the two of you.

Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.

You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."

"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."

"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."

"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."

The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."

We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.

"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."

An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.

Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.

"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."

It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…

Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.

And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.

"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"

"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"

"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."

Scared is an understatement.

He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.

He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.

He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.

And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—

Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.

Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.

Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.

Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.

And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.

Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.

Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.

If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.

And you.

You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—

It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.

He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.

Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.

So much wasted time—

"Steve?"

Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.

Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"

"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"

A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."

"Oh my god, Steve."

"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."

"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.

"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."

Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.

"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.

"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."

"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."

Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.

"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."

A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.

The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.

"Fuck, shit, fuck—"

Yeah. He's hard.

He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.

Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."

"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"

Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."

Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.

"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"

Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."

He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?

"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."

"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"

"Not to death."

"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."

"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"

"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"

"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"

He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.

"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."

"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"

"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."

"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.

No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."

"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"

He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.

Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.

Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.

Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."

Not like this one's much easier to talk about.

Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.

"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"

"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."

You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.

It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.

"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"

When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.

"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."

For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.

"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."

It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?

There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.

The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.

"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."

Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.

Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.

You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.

He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.

The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.

"Shit, Steve…"

He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.

He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.

"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"

"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.

If, you know, you were into that.

His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.

The two of you just have to survive this night first.

"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."

You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.

Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.

"Finish. The. Sentence."

You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.

"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"

"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."

Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.

"Bet you were this wet before you left."

Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."

"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."

"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."

Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.

"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."

"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.

"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."

Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."

The smug expression falters, "Too much?"

"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."

Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."

Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.

He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.

Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."

"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."

"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."

You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."

"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"

"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."

He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.

And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.

The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.

"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."

Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.

"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"

Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.

"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."

The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.

"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"

The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.

"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"

Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.

"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"

You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.

This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.

Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.

And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.

He's missed you. So, so much.

The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"

Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.

"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."

Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.

"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.

"I- I want it."

"Want… what?"

Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."

"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."

"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.

Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.

Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.

"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."

As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.

You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.

"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"

Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."

He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.

"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."

Steve blinks as the words sink in.

Oh.

"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."

"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.

"One step at a time, okay?"

He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.

Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.

Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.

"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.

Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.

"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.

In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."

Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.

Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.

"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"

You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.

Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.

Oh, no.

"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"

Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"

"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"

"Steve."

"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.

"Were you— oh my god."

"What?!"

A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.

The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."

He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.

Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"

"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."

"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"

"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."

Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.

You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.

It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.

A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.

Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.

It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.

By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.

He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.

Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.

"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"

The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.

"S'okay?"

"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.

"But?"

Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.

Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.

He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.

"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"

"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."

Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.

As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.

You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.

Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.

"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.

"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'

Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."

And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.

"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."

"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."

"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."

Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.

"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"

Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.

With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.

"You done talking logistics yet?"

Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.

That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.

No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.

"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."

"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.

Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in. 

Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.

Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.

What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.

Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.

It tightens.

Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.

"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.

The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.

"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."

Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.

But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.

Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.

That plucks at his heartstrings, too.

"Steve?"

Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.

"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."

Baby.

Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.

Wait, did you say he was crying?

"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."

"Steve—"

"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."

"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."

"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.

"St—"

He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.

You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"

"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."

And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.

You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"

He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.

"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"

"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.

You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.

"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."

Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"

"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."

Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"

It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.

His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.

And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.

No one's like you. No one could even compare.

"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."

"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."

Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.

"Steve," you whine.

"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."

You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."

"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."

"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"

"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."

You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."

"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"

"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."

"Please… what?"

"Steve, I s- swear to god—"

"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."

"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.

He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.

"Such a what?"

"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"

Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.

"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.

 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same. 

"I… Yours?"

 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.

"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"

Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.

"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.

He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"

"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you. 

"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."

"Y- you."

Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.

"I'm right here."

Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.

The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.

And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.

"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.

It's only fair to match his energy.

"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."

He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.

No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.

"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."

Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.

Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.

God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.

"Fuck, you're unreal."

You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.

Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck

"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.

"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"

He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.

Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.

Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.

Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.

That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.

"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.

All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.

"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."

Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."

"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."

Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.

The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.

"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."

And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.

There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.

"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."

"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"

Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"

"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.

Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.

It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.

"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."

"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"

"Okay."

"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."

This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.

"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."

He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."

"Steve."

The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will. 

And he will, too.

[imfromthediningtable]

“baby you’re crying” RIIIIGHT RIGHT RIGYH

[maroon-cardigan-deactivated2025]

christmas affairs | steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: your christmas turns into a chaotic mess when your boss can’t fly back home and you end up stuck in New York City with him.

millionaireboss!steve harrington x assistant!fem!reader | friend-ish to lovers | no use of y/n | no mentions of specific race, hair type or body type.

word count: 26.7k

warnings: this one shot and the content i write are +18, minors do NOT interact. heavy slowburn, lots of pining & yearning. | slight age gap between reader and steve but is not specified | ANGST, tw: loss of a parent (reader’s) | SMUT, spitting, unprotected p in v, oral (f & m receiving).

author’s note: hi cuties ! ♡ i’m so sorry it took me so long to post this but it’s a LONG one so it took me ages to finish it and ages to edit it. this was the first idea that popped into my mind when i started writing down ideas for the christmas library, so i’m so so happy to finally share it with you ! enjoy and lmk what you think x

[banners: @adornedwithlight & @cafekitsune]

‘So, all the presents you pre-approved have already been sent to your father’s home.’ You said distractedly while looking at the list of tasks on the iPad. ‘All wrapped. All carefully tagged for each member of your family.’

‘Right.’ Steve said sitting next to you. You didn’t notice the way he observed you from his seat, eyes focused on how your hands typed quickly on the keyboard as you mumbled nonsense to yourself.

You only lifted your head briefly when the sound of the wind outside became too loud. Your boss’ eyes followed your confused stare until your eyes fell on him. The subtle, shy smile on his mouth made you frown. The way his brown eyes lifted, adorned by young wrinkles, made you feel equally flushed and annoyed. Mr Harrington had this thing sometimes; he would simply look at you and not say anything until you lifted your eyebrows or asked him directly.

‘What is it?’ You said going back to the list on the iPad. ‘Just fifteen minutes until you can start boarding the jet.’

You saw him shake his head from the corner of your eye, still looking at you.

‘Are you excited to go back home?’

‘Absolutely.’ You said going back to the list. ‘Thrilled.’

He let out a snorty laugh to your indifference, and to your surprise, you smiled softly.

‘Who’s waiting for you there?’ He pressed, moving softly towards you. The smell of his expensive pine cologne engulfed you; it had a subtle note of smoke underneath. Somehow that scent always managed to make you feel equally stressed and relieved. ‘Cousins? Grandparents? You have a stepdad, right?’

‘I do.’ You said locking the iPad before looking back at his expectant brown eyes that rarely intimidated you this much. ‘It’s just him and my mom.’

He nodded softly, looking down at his freshly polished shoes. You wondered if he knew the reason they were so shiny was that you had remembered his staff to polish them twice this week. If he knew the reason he was wearing his favourite suit was because you had selected this one for him that morning. That you were the one that had bought the navy cashmere scarf he was wearing, just because you knew his confidence would boost considerably that way. He hadn’t put gel on his hair today, making the few premature grey hairs above his ear more visible.

You resorted to look back at your work phone to stop staring at him.

As his Personal Assistant, you had a vague idea of what was waiting for Mr Harrington back home, the heir of one of the wealthiest corporations in the country. The disapproving stare of his father, siblings that expected he’d make a mistake so they could take over. He had never told you that he didn’t even want to do any of it, but he didn’t need to. Having worked for two years with Steve, you could see it very clearly by yourself.

That could be the reason why he was asking so many questions about you, things he knew already. Just so he could focus on something else.

‘Do you hang out with any school friends?’ He asked then, you lifted your eyes to find his lit up with cheeky interest. He was too unaware to notice, though, that you’d never give him more information than necessary. ‘Got a boyfriend to catch up with over there?’

You were very aware that he knew the answer to that question, having played this game so many times before.

‘I’ve got something better than a boyfriend.’ You said, to what his eyebrows lifted with more curiosity. You opened your mouth to say something, when your personal phone started buzzing inside your pocket. Standing up, he followed your movements with his eyes as you looked back at him with unusual humour in yours. ‘I’ve got two boyfriends.’

You heard his subtle, chesty laugh behind you as you walked in the toilets’ direction.

‘Hey, mom.’

‘Hey, sweetie.’ She said when you walked inside the ladies’ with two other people behind you. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good.’ You replied softly, feeling the anxiety rushing to your chest. You rested your back against the wall, avoiding your reflection on the mirror. ‘Just… busy, you know? I’m at the airport right now.’

‘Hopefully to come visit your mother?’ She pressed.

‘Mom.’

‘Gosh! I just can’t believe that obnoxious man won’t let you spend Christmas with your family!’

‘It’s just…’ You started to say, but your eyes fell on the woman who washed her hands on the sink next to you, trying to hide the fact she was staring through the corner of her eye. You rarely got recognised, but it could happen. Lots of people wanted to get close to Mr Harrington, sometimes you were the quickest way to do that. ‘We’re just very busy this time of the year.’

‘No one should be working on Christmas.’ She argued.

You bit your lip as the woman dried her hands with some tissues. She smiled at you, and you had to be polite enough to return the gesture.

‘I-I was there for Thanksgiving.’ You said once she left the room.

‘Just for three days.’ Your mother complained. ‘Three days.’

‘I know, mom. And I’m sorry.’ You sighed, looking at the ceiling, pondering about what to do. The winter wind outside echoed against the walls of the private airport, and you wondered if it had started snowing yet. ‘Listen, I— I might have an interview scheduled in the next few days.’

‘You’re going to quit?’ She asked after a while.

‘Maybe.’ You swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know. If I get a good offer, I might.’

‘Oh, thank God!’ You rolled your eyes, ‘I just hate to see you working for that spoiled man. And his father! I can tell he’s vile, too. The stories you’ve told me—’

‘Mom— Mom, those are confidential, okay?’ You said quickly. ‘It’s not gossip that you can share on your knitting club, you hear me?’

‘I crochet.’

You rolled your eyes again, checking your watch. ‘Listen, I’ve got a plane to catch, okay? I love you. Hopefully I’ll see you for New Year’s Eve.’

‘Hopefully? You know very well I need you here by the 30th.’

‘I’ll try.’ You said before hanging up.

Outside, you found Steve standing next to his and your hand-luggage. You smiled softly, checking your list once again, and making sure that everything was in order.

‘I know the journey’s super quick, but I made sure to pack some books for you. They should be in the jet already— What?’

‘Nothing.’ He laughed softly when you looked back at him, his eyes took over your frown for a second before he shook his head. ‘Do you have everything? For your family?’

‘Me?’ You asked, before letting out a silly laugh. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Good.’ He said, licking his lips. Almost hesitating. ‘Good. Well, uhm…’

His eyes saw the way yours got lost behind him, probably checking that he was in the right gate.

‘…Try to disconnect a little, okay? Get some rest, maybe turn off every single device you own for a few hours.’

‘What?’ You said looking back at him. ‘Don’t be silly, Mr. Harrington. We’ve got work to do.’

He always laughed when you employed a formal tone with him, and it never failed to make you roll your eyes.

‘I got work to do.’ He said then. ‘You just have to enjoy your Christmas.’

‘Right.’ You said sarcastically under your breath before standing up straight, you opened your mouth to say something, but the noise of the wind against the airport’s rooftop forced you to close it.

Steve observed you in the few seconds it took for the weather to calm down, playing with something inside his pockets. You smiled uncomfortably at him before your eyes fell on the few other people that were around. Cleaning staff, security, a few pilots that walked towards other gates.

‘Why are you being so awkward today?’ You finally said, looking back at him.

‘Me?’ He laughed in that cocky way that irritated you, making you lift your eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I’m just figuring out a way to wish you a Merry Christmas.’

‘Well, Merry Christmas, then.’ You said as politely as you could, ignoring the heat that rushed to your cheeks.  ‘I’ll see you in a few days. I’ll try my best not to call you, but please keep an eye on your emails— What’s so funny?’

He was smiling, amused probably by your irritability or your nerves. He shook his head softly, looking at you with unbearable condescendence.

The speakers called for him then, announcing that his jet was ready to board and wishing him a good journey. This was it. Yet he stood a few seconds in front of you, almost hesitating. Your eyes lingered on his weird posture, on the way he kept playing with his pockets, on the tap of his shoe on the floor.

‘Merry Christmas.’ He simply said with a shy smile.

You didn’t leave until you saw him walk through the gate.

It had been a couple of hours since you had said goodbye to your boss, when you received a call from the recruiter. She had said something about New York’s weather and having to drive back home from Christmas, and now you were having your interview today.

It was fine. You were prepared, and most importantly, you were done with Mr Harrington. The experience you had acquired this last couple of years was invaluable, really. He was generous, and apart from his usual forgetfulness and chaotic private life, he was a good boss. But it had been weeks, maybe months really, of feeling that you needed to leave this job.

If you only knew why you felt this way.

‘I’m so sorry about this.’ Robin said as she walked down the corridor in her red suit.

You stood up from the seat on the reception to her office, shaking your head softly.

‘I just need to leave before the weather gets worse, you know?’ She spoke. ‘The news are showing the forecast’s terrible, and we all need to be home for Christmas, right?’

‘Right.’ You said shyly as you followed her inside.

Maybe not you, though.

‘Please have a seat.’ She said as you walked inside her luxurious office, though you had seen prettier and bigger. Steve’s was probably the size of the whole floor.

You did as she said, your eyes getting briefly lost on the snowy skyscrapers behind her as she sat in front of you.

‘Right.’ She said enthusiastically putting her glasses on, ‘Let’s get to the point. I know you’re familiar with my clients’ work. Not much to say, she’s easy to work with. Believe it or not, most authors are. At least they’re easier than millionaires.’

You laughed softly.

‘Well, I love Miss Wheeler’s work and have followed her since I was in college. It’d be nice to maybe use my skills for the area I specialised back then.’

‘Well, I have to say, your CV is impressive.’ She said going through the piece of paper with your name on top. ‘You could work for the president if you wanted to.’

You smiled softly at her flattery, yet there was something inside you that felt different. Something that felt wrong.

‘It says you’ve been Harrington’s publicist for most of this year too?’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ You sat straighter on the chair. ‘That’s temporary, though. His PR representative… Hannah, she’s currently on maternity leave.’

‘She’s been on leave for six months?’ Her eyes observed you under her glasses with incredulity.

‘Uh, well— Yes.’ You said shyly. ‘St— Mr Harrington, he offered her paid leave for the first year.’

Robin sat back, letting out a defeated laugh. You felt insecure somehow, observing the way she removed her glasses to chew at the temple’s tip.

‘But I can’t offer you that.’

‘Well, you don’t have to.’ You straightened your back even more. ‘I mean, I’m not even planning to—’

‘But you might.’ She left the CV on her desk, biting her lip as you felt your confidence melt. ‘There might be stuff he’s giving you that my client won’t be able to offer. Nancy can be generous but she’s still an author. An Editorial PA earns considerably less than an Executive PA.’ She laughed. ‘Much less. For some it’s like an entry level job, and you’re past that at this point.’

‘But I want this job.’ You argued. It came out so small you didn’t even believe it.

‘Why?’ She asked perplexed.

‘Because I’m…’ What? Because you were what?  Steve had always treated you with respect and trust. He was the reason why you were able to buy your first apartment, the reason why you were almost done paying your student loans. Then what was it? What was it about him that made this job so unbearable? ‘I’m unhappy.’ 

‘Unhappy?’ She repeated. ‘How? Is he a creep or something?’

‘No!’ You rushed to say. ‘No, of course not. Mr Harrington is good— he’s uhm, he’s kind. He’s been very kind to me. I’m just, perhaps… A bit bored.’

You tried hard to believe your own lie, but the truth was that every day with Steve was different. He was always somewhere, doing something new and unique. He was very smart too, it was hard to keep up sometimes, but it challenged you. This, him, was everything but boring. The thought made the heat rush to your cheeks, and as if you had evoked him, your phone started buzzing on your pocket.

‘Boring?’ Repeated Robin as you took the device out to confirm it was Steve. You did something you had rarely done and sent his call to voicemail. Robin’s laugh made you look back at her. ‘Well, I’m afraid to tell you I wouldn’t call working with Miss Wheeler fun. In fact, it will be very monotonous.’

‘I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.’ You pressed. ‘Listen, just because I want a change it doesn't mean I’m capricious…’

‘It’s not that.’ She said leaning in on over the desk. Her eyes were full of kindness, and still, you hadn’t felt this childish in a long time. ‘Listen, you’re overqualified. And Nancy can’t afford you.’

You sat still on your seat, processing her words for a few seconds before nodding.

‘I mean you could apply to work with the FBI.’ She said. You tried to conceal your annoyance the best way you could. ‘Or as I said, with the President.’

You were pretty sure your frown turned worse with every suggestion, so all you could do was try to smile politely. Robin sat down more comfortably, looking back at you with interest.

‘I can check with my contacts if there’s any kind of offer that’s appropriate for your level of knowledge and experience. Someone who could afford you.’

‘You mean other corporate executives.’

‘Possibly, but not necessarily.’

You repressed a sigh, considering your alternatives.

‘I just…’ You started to say, but you seemed unsure of what to say, looking through the window at all those snowy skyscrapers you had learned the names of in the last couple of years working for your boss. You looked back at her with honesty overflowing form your eyes. ‘I have a deep hatred for those kind of men.’

‘You don’t seem to hate Mr Harrington.’

Precisely, you thought. You didn’t. You couldn’t.

It had been a few hours since you had left Robin’s office, and the sense of failure hadn’t left your body. It was odd, you considered, sitting down against the window of your hotel room wearing your silk robe over your pyjama dress. It had been a long while since the last time you hadn’t gotten something that you wanted.

The city looked silent from the window of the Plaza Hotel, a thick layer of snow falling over the buildings, the streets, and the people. You drank the last drops of wine from the glass, surprised at the weight of the bottle once you stretched your arm to refill it. Somehow you had managed to drink a whole bottle by yourself before dinner time.

Once you found the courage to stand up, the room around you moved slightly before you could find your balance, realising you underestimated how drunk you were. You needed some room service, maybe a bath and an early night. And then you’d fix your broken heart tomorrow.

But when you walked to get the telephone to order food, the screen of your work phone showed three missed calls from Steve. He had even called you once on your personal number, the screen had shown you had a pending voicemail.

Your heart beat hard against your chest for some reason, immediately returning the call. You’d listen to the voicemail later, the only thing you were focused on now was the sound of your pulse in your ears as the dialler beeped.

‘I’m so sorry.’ You said as soon as he picked up the phone. ‘I’m genuinely, genuinely sorry.’

His laugh on the other side of the line made you even more embarrassed.

‘It’s fine.’ He said softly, you could hear the heavy noise of the wind on the line. ‘Listen, we had to fly back to the city. The wind was too much, apparently there’s going to be a snowstorm tonight, so… I need a hotel room.’

You shut your eyes, nodding and hating New York City like you never had in your life.

‘Sure.’ You spoke. ‘Right. I’ll sort it out, just give me a few minutes.’

‘Thanks.’ You heard him laugh awkwardly as you searched for your laptop in between your luggage. ‘I’m sorry, too. Like, I was really gonna try hard not to disturb you during the holidays. Did you make it home safely?’

The softness of his tone would’ve had a different effect on you if it wasn’t for the fact all the hotels in the city were booked. You felt your anxiety rise on your chest, the stress starting to beat your temples, thinking about what to do.

‘Are you there?’

‘Yeah.’ You said. ‘I, uh… I-I missed my plane too. I’m staying at the Plaza. I’m gonna try to get you a room here. Otherwise, I will, uhm, maybe have a look at that penthouse we went to see during Thanksgiving?’

‘Right!’ He said as you put him on speaker. ‘I should’ve really bought it, huh?’

You laughed softly as you took your robe off and replaced it with your trench coat.

‘I told you; you need your own place in the city.’ You said looking at yourself in the mirror. If you fixed the buttons and the belt nicely, no one would notice you were wearing just a slip dress underneath.

He sighed in resignation while you fixed your makeup and hair in the hallway mirror.

‘I should listen to you more often.’ He said.

‘Can’t argue with that logic.’ You said walking towards the bathroom to use some mouthwash.

Steve stayed silent for a while as you spit on the sink, it was so quiet you thought for a second that he had hung up.

‘Maybe I should ask my dad—’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ You interrupted him. ‘I’ll get you a room here. At the Plaza.’

‘It’s gonna be impossible.’

‘Not for me.’

He laughed softly, almost tenderly. It was unbearable.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I have a room.’ You said before hanging up.

‘That’s not true.’ You said calmly as you stood in front of the reception counter. ‘I happen to know the person who manages Mr Munson, and I know for sure, that he’s not gonna be staying at the hotel tonight.’

The reception was busy with important guests walking around in their evening gowns and smoking suits. There was jazzy Christmas music coming from somewhere and the cold wind sneaked in from the revolving door every time someone walked inside. You felt overwhelmed, still a bit affected by the alcohol, but there was no way you’d take no for an answer.

‘I can’t confirm or deny confidential information, Ma’am.’ The manager said from behind the counter. He was a tall man with the moustache of a 1940’s detective, almost caricaturesque in the least convenient way.

‘It’s confidential for you.’ You said carefully. ‘Not for me. I know Eddie Munson’s not going to be here tonight because he couldn’t fly to New York. I know that his booking is cancelled. And I know you have a Vanderbilt King Suite available for my client.’

‘As I said, we can’t deny or confirm that information.’ He said with a polite smile that hid everything but politeness behind it. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, Ma’am. There’s no rooms.’

‘Listen.’ You said, feeling defeated. ‘You’re trying to do your job, and so am I. My boss is about to get here in fifteen minutes. He’s a public figure, he needs privacy and security. His family has been staying at the Plaza for generations. I need to get him a room, and you need to provide a service that meets the standards of the hotel. However, I’m willing to make adjustments if that’s needed. He doesn’t need a butler, for example.’

‘Ma’am.’ The way he looked at you made you clench your jaw. It happened sometimes, in restaurants, hotels or venues, when people realised you were just an employee to someone else, and any respect they could have felt for you disappeared as soon as their impression from you changed. ‘I’m sorry. But we have no rooms.’

You swallowed hard before taking your purse and walking out of the lobby. The cold wind burned your cheeks when you stood over the red carpet of the luxurious entrance wondering what to do, as the valet received the well-dressed guests that were arriving. You were so irritated, and so behind work now that instead of relaxing like you were meant to, you were about to cry.

Until you saw Steve’s silhouette getting out of a taxi. He saw you immediately too, it was impossible not to, as you were standing above the steps, almost like waiting for him.

You saw him thank the valet for taking his luggage inside and you felt a sense of defeat once he stared climbing the stairs.

‘Any luck with the room?’ He said fixing his coat as he stood in front of you. Your eyes lingered on the navy scarf a bit too long, and you blinked away your tears so he wouldn’t notice how frustrated you really were.

‘I’m working on it.’ You smiled, trying to hide the fact that you didn’t know what to do.

‘Cool. Should we have some dinner first?’ He asked as soon as you crossed the golden revolving doors.

‘Dinner?’ You frowned. ‘No, I— I’m going to sort this out first. You go ahead and eat something at the restaurant.’

‘You can’t work if you haven’t eaten.’ He said blocking your way before you could walk in the direction of the elevator. He looked down at you with his tired brown eyes and a soft smile. You felt his fingers subtly brushing yours. ‘C’mon.’

‘I definitely can.’ You walked around him in the elevator’s direction.

Steve stayed on his place as he saw you walk inside the open elevator and ask the bellboy for your floor, before he quickly decided to follow you.

‘You’re so stubborn.’ He said under his breath.  

‘That’s why you hired me.’ You reminded him, hugging yourself over your coat. You could see from the corner of your eye, how he was fighting the smile that threatened to take over his face.

And yet that stubbornness was so useless sometimes. The beautiful penthouse Steve had thought of acquiring last month had been sold to a famous tennis player a week ago. You tried to get literally anything, from standard hotel rooms to smaller apartments that would fit your standards, but everything was either booked, unavailable or unhabitable. And the snowstorm was so merciless you couldn’t even consider renting a house outside of the city.

You sighed deeply, fighting the need to rub your eyes as they stung from looking at the screen, when you suddenly closed the laptop.

‘Right.’ You sighed before standing up. He was laying on the bed, reading one of the books you had packed for his trip. The sight was actually calming, you always liked seeing him wearing glasses. ‘I think I can make a couple of calls and see if any of my friends would let me crash at theirs. You can keep the room.’

‘What? No. I’m not kicking you out.’

‘Well, you need a place to sleep—’ You started.

‘So do you.’ He laughed sarcastically before sitting up. ‘What am I? The spoiled asshole that can’t fend for himself?’

You frowned briefly, before letting out an offended snort. You had never had an attitude with each other, not even in your most stressful days at work. Not even when he made your life more chaotic by his mistakes.

‘When did I ever say that?’

He just shook his head briefly, taking his phone out of his pocket.

‘Who are you calling?’ You crossed your arms over your chest uncomfortably, feeling that you had failed him, but being too proud to admit it.

‘My dad’s secretary.’

You swallowed hard, nodding once before you tried to find what to do with yourself. It didn’t help that he was observing your moves the whole time, that was worse than being ignored.

Out of habit, you picked your personal phone to scroll on social media, but the first thing you saw was his missed voicemail from earlier. So, you locked it again.

‘She’s not picking up.’ He said frustrated before putting the phone back inside his pocket.

You both stayed in silence for a few seconds, your bare toes played with the carpet in attempt to calm your nerves.

‘I don’t—’

‘M sorry for snapping on you like that.’ He said. ‘I’m just— I’m sorry, what were you gonna say?’

‘I don’t think is a good idea to keep searching tonight.’ You said, still looking at your feet, too prideful to accept his apology. ’You won’t get anywhere in this weather.’

You lifted your gaze to look back at him, his piercing eyes were looking at you deeply. As if they were trying to decipher something.

‘We can share tonight.’ You finally said, softly and as indifferent as possible. As professional as possible.

He stayed quiet for a while, until you saw the way he swallowed hard at your proposal. It flattered you that the idea could make him feel nervous, but the possibility itself was absurd.

‘I won’t let anyone see us.’ You assured him immediately. ‘You know, rumours and… privacy. I’m still your publicist.’

He let out a choky laugh, quite awkward and low, before nodding.

‘Yeah. Okay, I guess we’ll have to.’ He sighed, looking at you from where he sat on the bed. All trace from stress and tension had left him. You envied that, how he always seemed to let things go easily. ‘Let’s eat something, okay?’

‘You can go ahead and—’

‘No.’ He stood up, taking a step towards you with a boyish smile on her face. ‘How many times do I have to remind you that you need to eat?’

You looked back at him patiently, a cheekiness you were trying hard to hide taking over your face.

‘I meant, you can wait for me downstairs.’ You said slowly, trying hard to repress the smile that mirrored his. ‘I need to change.’

‘You look great.’ He shrugged.

You took a deep breath, looking to your side before your eyes fell on him again.

‘I’m not wearing much under this coat.’ You clarified.

‘Oh.’ He said then. Almost clumsily, he took a step back. It was really tender, the way his cheeks had turned a shade of pink, how he swallowed hard at the mental image of whatever he was thinking about. ‘Right.’

‘Right.’ You repeated, silence taking over while you moved to grab some clean clothes from the small wardrobe next to the room’s door. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’

‘Huh?’

‘Can you try not to make this any weirder than it already is?’

You looked behind your shoulder to find the man standing up in the same place you had left him, hands in his pockets, cheeks flushed and nothing but shyness behind his eyes.

‘We already need to share a bed and spend Christmas together.’ You said, resting your back against the wardrobe. You didn’t seem annoyed by the idea, and neither did he. Still, there were unsaid rules to respect and boundaries to enforce. ‘Let’s keep it professional.’

‘Of course.’ He said after a while, running his fingers through his hair. The warm light of the room mixed with the reflection of the snow outside. He was still blushing, the forbidden grey hairs in between his brown locks turning messy with the movement. You felt very warm in his presence too. ‘Yeah, I would’ve never—’

‘I know, Steve.’ You smiled softly. You couldn’t hear the rest of that sentence; you wouldn’t be able to face him if he finished it.

A few seconds of silence opened between you two before you moved to change in the bathroom.

‘I still think we can have a nice Christmas, though.’ He said before you could close the door behind you.

You nodded softly.

‘I think we can try.’

As much as you tried not to, you always felt out of place. It didn’t help that since you had dived into the luxurious world of the wealthy two years ago, you were more conscious of social cues, more educated on protocol, and therefore more self-aware of your humble upbringing.

You walked into the hotel’s restaurant searching for your boss and trying not to check if people were judging you, with your minimalistic red lip and your simple black turtleneck. It was nothing compared to the fancy dresses the other guests were wearing or their designer shoes.

The restaurant was beautifully decorated with warm Christmas lights and velvet bows of a deep red shade, waiters dressed in white suits walked around with silver trays while an elegant old woman played a jazz piece on the piano. You could appreciate the magical atmosphere, the hopeful air of Christmas Eve that filled you with a deep sense of nostalgia. Often, especially during the holidays, you would ask yourself what it must have been like to grow up like this, to grow up like he did. Surrounded by all this luxury and comfort. And that just made you miss home even more.

Hugging your iPad closer to your chest, your eyes finally landed on him. He was talking enthusiastically to the manager. You lowered your gaze as soon as he made eye contact with you, fitting perfectly in the room full of vain guests. Your boss nodded at you, feeling once again embarrassed by the fact you had been arguing with the man he was talking to just a few hours ago, and still, you hadn’t succeeded at getting Steve a room.

You walked towards his table noticing how everyone around was engrossed in their own conversations. You had learned very early that if you didn’t try to impress anyone, if you didn’t try to pretend you were at the same level as them, they wouldn’t even notice that you didn’t fit in. They wouldn’t feel entitled enough to remind you that you would never fit in.

‘There she is.’ Said Steve as soon as you made it to the table.

‘How are you tonight, ma’am?’ The manager said, pulling the chair out for you.

You looked from Steve to the man for a few seconds before sitting down.

‘I’m okay.’ You whispered softly, sitting more comfortably, and skimming through the menu to avoid Steve’s eyes.

‘I’m deeply sorry about our misunderstanding earlier.’ He said, standing in front of the table.

‘There was no misunderstanding at all.’ You said taking the wine list. ‘As I said, you were doing your job and so was I.’

You closed the menu and looked back at him with an attempt of a polite smile.

‘I’ll have the Malbec.’ You simply said. ‘And olives for starters, please.’

‘Sure, ma’am.’ He said in the same tone, not without smiling to Steve before leaving.

You resorted to have a look at the main courses again, just to distract yourself.

‘I hate it when you do that.’ You said after a while.

‘Do what?’ You didn’t need to look at him to know he was smiling.

‘Force people to apologise to me.’

You finally looked back at him. He shrugged, looking at you with that soft smile of his that made it all a bit more difficult.

‘You deserved an apology. And I didn’t force him.’

You shook your head as you unlocked the iPad, you had to update Steve’s calendar and therefore yours had to be arranged too. If you managed to squeeze some work here and there, you’d might be able to visit your mother on New Year’s Eve.

‘Next time I’ll book an extra room just in case, like I did that time in São Paulo.’

‘God, I miss Brazil.’ You heard him say under his breath.

The fond smile that lifted your lips was impossible to conceal. Your eyes seemed lost in the menu, but they were lost in distant memories. You had been working for Mr Harrington just for a couple of months, in which you had indulged your perfectionism to always be one step ahead, perhaps to prove yourself to him. Yet you had miscalculated the days you were supposed to be in South America, and you ended up having an extra twenty-four hours to explore the gorgeous city. That’s when you really started to get to know each other.

‘It was a nice time.’ You agreed.

‘I think that’s something I wanna do more often next year.’ He said as you kept fixing his schedule. ‘Just… travel, see some new places. I only went to Europe twice this year and I can’t stand the fact I only got to see Amsterdam and Zürich through the Taxi’s window; you know?’

‘Maybe sometime in February?’ You said distractedly, tapping the keyboard on the screen. ‘Since January’s going to be insanely busy for you.’

The odd silence after your comment made you lift your eyes. Steve was looking at you with a confused stare on his face and his lips partly open, as if your words had caught him off guard. The heat rushed to your cheeks then, though you weren’t sure why. You were so confused yourself that you were about to double check on the iPad if what you said was true, when the waiter came back with your drinks.

‘Are you ready to order?’

‘Sure.’ He said then.

The tension dissipated as you both ordered, and he behaved as his usual self with questions and little jokes that flattered the waiter. It was noticeable that a few people had clearly recognised him now, as you scanned the room with your eyes, but though curious, they didn’t seem like the kind that would disturb him.

‘Thank you.’ You heard yourself say when you returned the menu.

‘Any bets tonight?’ He asked playfully as he took a sip of his wine.

‘Mhmm.’ Your pondered as you played with a few drops that slid down your wine glass. ‘M sure the pretty one by the fireplace would love a picture with you.’

From the corner of your eye, Steve cautiously looked for the girl you were talking about. She was very young, with that innocent look in her eyes that you had once too. She was more than pretty, with a delicacy in her manners that could only be the result of a fine education somewhere in Europe. You noticed her very early, as soon as you sat down, and her hopeful gaze had turned into a longing stare towards your boss as soon as she recognised him.

‘Green dress?’ You murmured when you realised he still hadn’t noticed. ‘Uhm, she’s wearing a ponytail.’

‘Oh.’ He said. ‘Oh no. God no, she looks nineteen.’

‘She looks at you every three seconds.’ You hid your smile behind your glass before taking another sip. ‘Oh, she’s looking now.’

Steve imitated you and took a sip of his wine, looking the opposite way in a poor attempt not to entertain the girl’s attention.

‘Ah, this one likes you too. Brunette, blue shirt, sitting at the bar. She would totally send you a drink.’

The woman you spoke about had a more feline air than the girl, her movements were slow and yet confident. She was probably known inside some social circle you could never conceive or imagine. Playfully, she ordered a drink before looking behind her shoulder and giving your boss an intentional smile. An invitation.

‘Jesus.’ He whispered to himself.  ‘She could be my mother.’

Your eyes fell on him then, sitting more comfortably on his chair, you couldn’t help but laugh softly at the familiar pink shade tinting his cheeks.

‘She seems used to being admired.’ You murmured, taking another look at her.

‘I guess.’ He said, playing with his napkin. ‘A lot of people are. I’ve never been good at it.’

‘You do have a weird relationship with praise.’

It took you a couple of seconds to realise you had said it out loud. Your heart immediately raised its pace, feeling the embarrassment washing over you.

‘Wow—’

‘I’m so sorry.’ You sat back, looking at him with the outmost terror overflowing your eyes. ‘I’m— that was so unprofessional of me.’

‘No.’ He laughed, it didn’t even seem like it had offended him. He visibly relaxed against his chair, as if this was a casual conversation and not a professional dinner. ‘I’m genuinely curious about why you say that.’

You sat silently, trying to find a way to put your thoughts in order, or to find a better apology.

‘It’s not my place to make any judgments about your character.’

He shrugged, that careless smile that equally irritated and intimidated you was taking over his face again.

‘You clearly have already.’

You took a deep breath, following the wet rings your wine glass had imprinted on the fancy tablecloth.

‘Well…’ You shrugged. ‘Listen, it was just a silly assumption. I’ve just seen…’ You looked back at him shyly. ‘An interesting number of congratulation cards in the trash since I started working for you.’

‘Hmm.’ He was looking down at his napkin before his cheeky brown eyes fell back on you. ‘You don’t miss anything, do you?’

‘It’s none of my business, anyways.’ You said looking down at your glass again.

‘I mean, I guess it’s not.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t mind it. You are a bit right though, but you’re also a bit wrong. I just don’t enjoy this… artificial flattery that surrounds business.’

You nodded then, encouraging him to keep going if he wanted to. He observed you, studied you, licking his lips as he contemplated the possibility of saying more. 

‘Here we are.’ The waiter said when he made it to the table with your order.

Discreetly, you put the iPad and your phones aside to make space for the food, dying to know what else he had to say, but relieved at the possibility of him dropping the subject.

You both said your thanks and started eating as soon as he left, only the sound of your cutlery against the plates and the soft jazz in the background filling the void.

‘That’s one of the reasons why I hired you, you know.’ He suddenly said.

‘Sorry?’ You said cleaning your mouth with your napkin.

‘You’re good at reading other people’s character.’ He clarified. ‘You’re also very discreet, which works for you, but it rarely favours anyone else.’

It was uncertain for you if that had been a compliment or not. He was smiling and so were you, wondering if you should press him on the subject.

‘What do you mean?’ You finally said.

‘You just know.’ He said, taking another sip of his drink. ‘I don’t know how you do it. If I introduce you to someone; a new business partner, a potential client, I don’t know, a lawyer… I just know that things aren’t going to go well if you don’t seem receptive.’

You processed his words slowly, a bit impressed at this facet of yourself you weren’t really aware of. Of course you were protective of Steve’s relations, but that’s why he hired you. It was part of your job to preserve his reputation and legacy, whatever that was.

‘That’s what you pay me for.’ You joked nervously, taking another sip of your wine.

‘Uh-uh.’ He said smiling once again. It felt weird now, as if he had caught you falling back into a bad habit. ‘No, at first I thought: Well, she’s just starting, maybe she’s intimidated by these people or something. And then it became a pattern, you know? A reporter would walk in, and you’d get quiet or tense, and then a few weeks later that interview would become a problem. Or someone would come in, proposing a new investment, and you’d stop doing whatever to keep listening to their pitch. And then months later I’d find out they were bankrupt or selling again.’

You smiled to yourself, feeling rather proud that he was able to see that. You let him stare at you for a few seconds before you reached for your wine again.

‘You do meet a lot of stupid men.’ You admitted, trying to drop the subject.

‘It’s not just men.’ He said then, and this time you weren’t going to look at him as you rearranged your fork and knife neatly over your empty plate. ‘I mean Cecelia was—’  

‘Please.’ You murmured awkwardly, feeling the heat rushing to your cheeks. ‘Steve.’

‘I should’ve just, followed my gut, you know.' He said. ‘But what my gut said was that if you two didn’t get along then it would never work.’

You shook your head softly. The names of different guys you had dated in the last couple of years came to your mind: Eliott, Dan, Victor, Theo. There were some others, always complaining about the number of hours you put into work, always insensitive about your sacrifices, and always, always annoyingly noisy about your relationship with Steve.

‘Not every woman you date is going to like me. I mean…’ You let out a scoff-like laugh, it was impossible not to feel a bit uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken. ‘We spend way too much time together.’

Your words hung out in the air as you stayed in silence, and you were unable to look back at him. You did so briefly and failed, he seemed to be lost in his thoughts, biting the inside of his cheek.

Slowly, the restaurant started to take shape around you two. Most of the guests had already gone into their rooms, only the lonely, quiet people who sat at the bar were chatting softly. Taking a deep breath, you smiled at your boss, and Steve tried to return the gesture before he asked the waiter to add the bill to the room.

The wine had only made you more tired and sleepy. You both made it to the room in silence, moving slowly and used to each other’s quietness after a long day.

In the room, you took your pyjama and robe and excused yourself to change in the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, you tried to ignore the subtle shake of your hands as you removed your make up and washed your teeth. Things were about to become so awkward between you and him, and you didn’t know how to stop it.

The screen of your personal phone lit up as soon as you turned the tap off. Almost as if it was a reflex, you looked behind your shoulder, knowing very well there was no way Steve would even think about opening the bathroom’s door.

You locked it anyways, completely lost in your thoughts as you sat on the floor to read Robin’s email. Judging by the few spelling errors, you assumed she had written it on a rush to leave the city.

The job offers listed were equally interesting and disappointing. You didn’t know Eddie Munson was in search of a Personal Assistant, and though the idea sounded attractive, it was also incredibly non-practical. You knew his habits and character by the brief interactions you had had with him in the past, and you knew for certain that the rockstar lifestyle would never be your thing.

You rolled your eyes at the sight of Billy Hargrove’s name, having known him for the last couple of years and certain that you could never work for a man like him. For starters, Steve despised him. You knew he was a terrible boss as well, by the way his PAs seemed to come and go so quickly.

And then lastly, there was Jonathan Byers, whose movies had been continuously acclaimed by the most elitist film festivals in the last five years. Taking a deep breath, you thought about it, you considered it. A movie director that was respected and discreet, someone private enough that wouldn’t compromise your own integrity. He travelled as much as Steve, but he dealt with other kind of pressures that would certainly be less demanding for you. You could do it. Most importantly, you wanted to.

You leaned the back your head against the bathroom door for a second, feeling your heartbeat increasing, until you finally got the courage to reply to the email and stating you were interested in Mr Byer’s offer.

When you went out, Steve was calmly reading on the bed once again. Only the lamps on the bedside table were on, but he was still wearing his shirt and suit trousers. The sight of his glasses, of his undone cufflinks, and his messy hair filled you with bitterness, maybe envy. Deep down, there was also something else, a strange kind of sadness that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t really get rid of. You felt so young, hugging the robe against your body to avoid showing off the silk underneath, but he was too engrossed in his novel to notice your shyness.

You sat on your side on the bed, silently getting rid of your jewellery as you heard him close the bathroom’s door behind him. Absentmindedly, you wondered if it had been you who had made things weird as you turned your lamp off and got inside the covers.

The sight next to you was beautiful, the snowy city quiet behind the thick glass of the hotel’s window. You had been working for him for two years, but it felt much more than that, like a lifetime. Maybe it was a thing about your age and experience, but you had never gotten so attached to a job. And you should’ve never had on the first place, that’s why you had to leave before it was too late.

A smell of body wash and toothpaste filled the air when you heard him turn the light off behind him. You were too warm under all those layers but there was no way you were going to sleep next to him wearing just your slip.

He sighed before turning the light off, and you had to bite your lip to fight the need to ask him if he was okay, if he needed something, but you stayed quiet as he made himself comfortable in the tense darkness.

‘Goodnight.’ You heard him whisper tiredly.

You swallowed hard, too nervous to say anything, pretending to be too exhausted to even reply. After a few minutes, you laid back in the dark, trying to relax and failing at it.

‘Earplugs.’ You whispered then.

‘Uh?’

‘Your earplugs.’ You repeated in the dark. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot them—’

You were about to sit up when you felt his hand touch your forearm softly under the covers. The tender texture of his thumb brushing your wrist soothingly kept you from moving at all.

‘Don’t worry.’ He murmured in the same tired tone. Something inside you, something pure told you that his eyelids were peacefully close. ‘I only need them when I sleep alone.’

‘Oh.’ You said before nodding. Your eyes were slowly getting used to the darkness, but you didn’t dare to look back at him. ‘Right, I did not know that.’

‘S fine.’ He laughed softly, a sweet sound that came out of his chest. He moved, his hand wrapped around your arm delicately, rubbing the space between your elbow and wrist underneath the robe. ‘It helps me to hear someone else’s breathing. It’s weird.’

‘S not weird.’ You whispered sweetly.

‘This okay?’ He asked in the same tone as he kept stroking your arm. ‘Calms me down.’

‘Hm.’ Was all you could say, hearing your heart beating hard against your chest. Nerves mixing up with something else, feeling like you already missed this, missed him like this. ‘S okay.’

‘You’ve got goosebumps.’ He whispered before moving closer to you, feeling all the warmth he radiated in the space between your bodies. ‘Are you cold?’

You shook your head.

‘M fine.’

You both stayed silent for a few seconds as you got used to each other’s presence, each other’s bodies. You knew he was awake, and he knew you were as well. There was certain peace to it though, there was something so indescribably soothing about this shared moment.

‘M sorry you can’t be at home for Christmas.’ He finally said.

You shrugged, finally getting the courage to look at him. He was already looking at you, and for once you didn’t see him as someone who had a professional relationship with. For once, you saw him as just Steve.

‘It’s… fine.’ You said, lost in your thoughts and in his touch.

You wondered if there was really a way in which you could separate this different side of him from the man you saw every day at work. From the man in the finance magazines and newspapers, from the strategic businessman sitting at the end of the table in the meeting room, and the lonely man you sometimes saw looking at the city through his office’s window.

‘Hmm, it’s not fine.’ A subtle smile slowly took over his mouth, and you felt your own lips lifting too. ‘I’ve got some stuff planned to make it up to you.’

‘What?’ You whispered surprised. ‘No, I mean— it’s fine. I’m fine with having a quiet Christmas.’

His soft laugh made you frown before he spoke again.

‘You didn’t even let me cover your plane tickets so you could fly home.’ You looked down in embarrassment, feeling guilty for lying to him. ‘The least you can do is let me try to make it up for the money you lost, and the fact you’re stuck with me during the holidays.’

You wanted to tell him right there, that you had never bought tickets to go home, that you had lied to him and everyone else, because your plan had always been to spend Christmas inside this hotel room applying for jobs, and working, and waiting for his call.

‘Steve…’ You whispered his name in the dark. It wasn’t your intention to make it sound so needy, to make it sound so sad. Maybe it was time to tell him that you had just accepted a job offer, that you couldn’t do this anymore.

‘Please.’ His hand was still brushing your arms softly, his skin was still warm, maybe warmer than before. ‘I haven’t had a nice Christmas in years.’

‘Now, that’s manipulative.’ You joked, and he let out a boyish laugh that made your smile wider. You stayed like that for a few seconds, soothed by the sound of each other’s breathing. Maybe his idea wasn’t so bad, and this would be a nice way to say goodbye. Maybe, for once, you could enjoy his company and the moments you shared together without feeling guilty. ‘I guess I haven’t had a good one in a while either.’

The light woke you up, so you moved to your side where it was less bright and comfier. The rest of your senses started to awaken as well, it was very warm underneath the covers, you suddenly realised your shoulders felt cold, and there was a familiar scent in the air; woody, like pine and cinnamon. It made you calm, but also a bit nervous and tense, because it belonged to him.

Steve was already awake when you opened your eyes, sitting next to you with a different book between his hands. He had changed his pyjamas for a casual outfit that still looked classy on him. His hand was running through his hair, his glasses on top of his nose and eyebrows frowning in concentration. You stretched, at first lazily, and then out of sudden you were sitting up.

‘What time is it?’

‘Good morning.’ He closed the book to look back at you, his eyes studied your face and then the rest of your body as you looked back at him, staring like an idiot. Instinctively, your fingers searched for the robe to find that it had loosened throughout the night. Steve cleared his throat as you fixed it again. ‘It’s uh, eleven.’

‘Eleven?’

He observed you amused as you searched blindly for your phones on the bedside table, but there was no sign of your work phone as you ignored the few text messages you mom had sent to your personal one.

‘What the fuck.’ You said under your breath.

‘I heard your alarms,’ He said then, ‘But I thought it’d be nice to let you sleep.’

You sat quietly for a seconds before scoffing softly.

‘Steve, I’ve got so much work to do.’ You said, breathing softly to try not to lose it. ‘I swear, you’ve no idea. I’m so behind.’

‘You’re not working today.’

‘Of course I am.’ You stood up, securing your robe again as you looked around the room for your work suitcase. ‘I need to update your calendar for the first two weeks of January. Then change your mailbox address of your office in Boston because the moving’s next week, and send someone to get your clothes at the drycleaners back at your parents’ because you’re not there now, so…’

‘You’re not working today.’

‘I have to find time to send Hannah a Christmas present for the baby under your name because I was supposed to do that yesterday, and… Where the fuck is my laptop?’

‘In the safe, with the iPad and the phone I got for you.’

You turned around to look back at him, you felt betrayed and still you couldn’t help but bite your lip when he looked back at you with a rising eyebrow and boyish cheekiness behind his brown pupils.

‘Steve.’

His challenging eyes didn’t leave yours as he stood up from his place in the bed.

‘This is not gonna be a discussion.’ His hands found your shoulders and he leaned a little to have a better look at you. ‘It’s Christmas Day.’

It was too early to feel this flushed, and the way his thumbs were starting to massage you over your robe was only making it worse. You looked back at him, feeling stressed and unsure of how to react to his carelessness.

‘Your life’s going to be a disaster if I don’t.’ You murmured.

‘S very sweet for you to think that my life’s not already a disaster.’ He pinched your chin out of nowhere, and you felt like a shy teenager when your cheeks turned warmer. ‘But we have a lunch reservation in an hour, and you need to get ready.’

His phrasing stayed with you as you styled your hair after your shower, and as you finished your make up. Your eyes stayed on him as he wrapped the navy scarf around his neck while you walked together down the hotel’s corridor. You hadn’t stopped to consider for a second that maybe New York City’s weather had conspired in Steve’s favour and maybe it had kept him from facing things you didn’t even know about.

‘How’s your coffee?’ He asked as you looked at the snowy city through the café’s window.

You nodded as your eyes looked back at the expensive piece of porcelain that you had stained with your red lipstick after your first sip.

‘Delicious.’ You said. ‘Thank you for bringing me here, it’s really pretty.’

The café was as beautiful and as luxurious as any other place that he attended regularly, with long columns and marbled floors. All the little Christmas details had made the lunch a bit more special too: the green and gold serviettes, the pinecone shaped butter, the mini eggnog mousse they gifted you and Steve after the meal.

‘Dad used to bring me here all the time when I was a kid.’ He said before taking a sip from his own cup. ‘I always ask for the same table because this is where we used to sit.’

‘That’s so sweet.’ You heard yourself say. ‘Does it still look the same?’

‘Yeah,’ He leaned in slightly to have a look through the window. ‘It’s outside that always looks different. I used to sit where you are and make sketches of the street sometimes. Have I ever told you I wanted to be an architect at some point?’

You shook your head softly, thinking of a younger version of Steve, with glasses and suits too big for him, who used to sit where you sat now. He was here, as well, looking through the window, staring curiously at the world outside.

‘Come here. Look.’

You leaned in subtly as well, taking in the busy image of the white-coloured street where taxis and bikes coexisted with birds and trees.

‘There used to be a square where that building is now, and a carousel where I wasn’t allowed to go on.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I loved that thing. I drew that same view so many times I can probably still do it by memory.’

‘I haven’t seen you draw in a while.’ You whispered to yourself before sitting back. You lowered your eyes as you grabbed your spoon and dip it in the mousse once again. ‘You used to do that a lot when you first hired me.’

‘Hmm. Yeah.’ He considered your words, sitting back as he tried to read you while you finished your dessert. ‘Well, you used to leave those little notepads in my office the first months after I hired you and I didn’t know what else to do with them. I thought it was adorable.’

You shut your eyes briefly then, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks as you took another sip of your coffee.

‘I thought you needed to… write notes.’ You bit your lip as you tried not to laugh at your own naivety. ‘And— I don’t know, important stuff.’

‘Because you thought I was an important man.’ He said resting his crossed arms on the table to get closer to you.

‘Only for the first month.’ You joked before looking back at the window. 

‘Oh, wow.’ He laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it.

He always acted like a teenager in the rare instances where you had friendly exchanges like these, but you were careful not to cross any lines or get too funny. It was hard though, because it was nice and even if you knew it wasn’t true, sometimes it was good to feel like you were friends.

‘What is it?’ He said when he saw the way you were putting a strand of hair behind your ear as you looked to your side.

‘Can we…’ You nervously played with the tablecloth underneath your coffee cup. ‘Uhm, can we talk about work?’

The way he licked his lips with amusement worried you. You were both two days behind work now and the idea of knowing there was a concerning number of emails accumulating in your phone was making you anxious.

‘Listen,’ It took you by surprise when his hands found yours over the tablecloth, it wasn’t until then that you realised you were cold, just because he was so irresistibly warm. You were too overwhelmed to even know if he realised. ‘You’re an amazing assistant. You’re smart, very capable. Incredibly stubborn. You have a weird relationship with authority but somehow that—’

‘What!’ You exclaimed offended. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You hate following orders.’ He said carefully before squeezing your hands.

‘I don’t!’ You argued, attempting to sit back, but his hands held yours over the table, and he seemed to be enjoying this little argument way too much.

‘You do.’ He laughed like a little kid. ‘You fucking do. Like now, I told you to relax because it’s Christmas and you’re not doing as you’re told.’

‘You’re unbearable.’ You said finally sitting back and feeling your cheeks hotter than ever. ‘Like, I swear. You think everything is a joke.’

‘Right.’ He took a sip of his coffee while you crossed your arms over your chest, feeling your hands turn cold at the absence of his touch. ‘Okay, let’s make a deal.’

‘What kind of deal?’

‘A business deal, who do you think I am?’ He joked.

You scoffed softly, feeling even more flushed than before and wondering where all this confidence was coming from, he had never dared to employ so many double-meaning jokes with you. He had also never dared to touch you like he had been doing or smile at you like he was smiling now.

‘We’ll get to do one work thing— Listen, I’m your boss, so I’m trying to help you out here, okay?’ He said when you were about to roll your eyes. ‘We’ll get to do one thing for work, if you do one thing I have planned for you.’

‘Are we seventeen?’ You scoffed. ‘Absolutely not, Steve.’

‘Come on.’ He insisted. ‘For once, I get to plan your day rather than the other way around. I like it.’

‘So what? You want to be my PA today or something?’

He shrugged, sitting more comfortably in the little booth.

‘It’s my Christmas wish and only you can make it real.’ He said sarcastically.

You took a deep breath. From your place, he looked like the conceited teenager he’d probably had been once, the private-school little shit that you read about in magazines. He’d never get a no for an answer, but you probably could never say no to him either.

‘Do I get my iPad back?’ You asked, biting your lip.

You observed him quietly as he searched for something inside his pocket. He seemed to hesitate for a second, as if he was realising something, and you looked at him with inquisitive eyes.

‘What is it?’ You asked. 

He took a deep breath before placing your work phone on the table.

‘You get this for now.’ He said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘All I’m saying is let’s leave the calendar for after New Year’s.’ He argued.

‘The calendar is for January.’ You said hugging yourself as you walked next to him. ‘January is literally right after New Year’s. It needs to be updated now.’

‘I don’t want it updated yet.’ He simply said.

You took a deep breath, walking right behind him as you checked your email and added more things to the list of things you had to do. You had also completely forgotten to call your mother, but the idea of doing it in front of him didn’t make you comfortable.

‘Well, okay.’ You stopped in the busy sidewalk. ‘I guess if we can find a quiet place I can change the address—’

‘I already did that this morning.’

‘What?’

‘While you were getting ready.’ He said. ‘You already called the drycleaners, so we get to do something I planned. Something actually fun.’

He started walking again and you put the phone on inside your pocket as you caught up with him.

‘Being a PA is not about planning fun stuff, you know?’ You said.

‘No shit.’ He said sarcastically. ‘No wonder why I hired you.’

You let out an offended laugh-scoff before punching his side with your elbow.

‘That was very mean.’

‘What kind of boss would I be if I wasn’t a little mean every now and then?’ He said as you followed him inside a shop.

You were about to say something when you realised where you were.

‘…I have an appointment at four.’

‘Of course, Mr Harrington.’ Said the pretty Salesgirl before she offered to take your coat.

‘Do you prefer Dom Pérignon or Grand Siècle?’ She asked you then.

‘Uhm, well I’m work—’

‘We’ll have the Siècle, please.’ Said Steve said instead.

The pretty girl nodded once and got lost behind a corridor as you entwined your hands in front of you and looked around you like a lost deer.

‘Why did you bring me here?’ You murmured shyly at Steve.

‘We’ve got plans tonight.’ He said shrugged. ‘And it’s Christmas. You need a dress.’

‘But this is like…’ You looked around you, detailing the beautiful High-Couture sample gowns that the mannequins modelled. They were all breath-taking pieces, but you couldn’t imagine yourself wearing anything like this. When you turned to look at him, his eyes were already on you. ‘Where are we going?’

‘It’s a surprise.’ He said sweetly, studying your worried semblance as he took a few steps towards you. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t need to wear anything too fancy. I called them beforehand and let them know that you often wear deep shades and lots of black. Thought I have to say, red would look so elegant on you I asked them to add a few specific pieces I thought you’d might like.’ He shrugged, swallowing as he looked away from you. ‘But you don’t need to try them if you don’t want to.’ 

You blinked a couple of times as you tried to find words to thank him, feeling equally flattered and impressed, but still not sure if this was a good idea or not.

Where were you supposed to draw the line? You thought as you stood in your underwear in front of all the different dresses that had been picked for you. If only you hadn’t left your work phone inside your trench coat, you’d have some way of calming your nerves right now. You weren’t sure if this was a good idea at all, if indulging yourself in this friendship with your boss was the safest thing to do.

It was all coming to and end though, you thought as you placed the thin strips of the red dress over your shoulders. In a few days you’d have to sit down with him inside his big office and break him the news, so why were you still worried about being unprofessional?

You took a deep breath, downing the champagne the salesgirl had given you to put your doubts aside. Once the dress was all zipped up, you looked at yourself in the mirror. It was so pretty you couldn’t help but smile, with a midi skirt that ended just below your knees. You stroked the front fabric to find out it had pockets, and that somehow convinced you.

It was like feeling like a child again. You opened the door of the changing room and shyly walked the little corridor that took you back to the room where he waited for you.

‘I told you I’d do everything that was on my hands, and I couldn’t.’ You heard him say.

You walked into the room frowning, feeling as you had so many times before on instances where he was having a work call that turned into a personal one. Or in hard moments when he dealt with relationships outside work, and you didn’t know if he needed an assistant or a friend.

‘Well, I don’t think I’m on a position where I care at this point.’ He said gravely as he took a few thoughtful steps. ‘Why don’t you ask…’

As soon as he turned back his eyes locked with yours, standing above the little steps that led to the room.

‘Dad, I’ll call you later.’ He hung up while his eyes were still on you, and you shyly walked down the steps to meet him in the middle of the little room.

‘Is everything okay?’ You tentatively asked.

‘Everything is perfect.’ He said with an idiotic smile as his eyes looked from the dress to you. ‘You look so beautiful.’

You looked at him, then, ignoring the compliment as you searched for answers in his eyes. He knew that you were trying to read him and succeeding at it.

‘Steve.’

‘Everything’s fine.’ He insisted as he took a step towards you. He looked down at you with a sided smile, his brown eyes overflowing with a happiness that anyone could’ve described as delusional.

As much as you wished to be able to show your emotions as freely as he did, you were still worried about his father’s call, about the state of things back in the office once this little fantasy of his was over. You were about to open your mouth to speak when the touch of his hands on yours stopped you. He looked into your eyes with an intense honesty that you had never seen before.

‘Miss.’ The voice of the Salesgirl made you turn around immediately. If she had seen something, she didn’t say anything, she only walked down the steps towards you, carrying your coat carefully. ‘It’s your phone.’

You smiled at her softly before searching inside your pockets, hearing the distant buzzing and thinking that it was probably your mother. As soon as you took the devices the blood left your face at the sight of the name on your work phone.

‘Would you excuse us for a second?’

The pretty salesgirl nodded discreetly before she walked out of the room. Steve stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the marble floor and avoiding your eyes as only the sound of the buzzing phone could be heard.

‘Don’t pick up.’ He finally said without looking at you.

‘It’s your father.’

‘Don’t. Pick up.’ He finally lifted his eyes to look back at you.

‘I work for him, Steve. I can’t just—’

‘You work for me.’ He said taking a step towards you. All the softness that overflowed from his brown pupils was gone, in exchange for a coldness that you had only seen him employ with other people, but never with you.

Steve walked away towards the window as you nodded once. The insisting phone still buzzed on your hand as he looked out, isolating himself in that way you often witnessed at his office, and just as all those times before, you stayed silent. He had hurt you, but deep down you also knew you’d never be petty enough to betray him by picking up that call.

Things turned even more awkward when the phone stopped buzzing, the uncomfortable silence falling between you like snow on Christmas day. You waited for one, two, three seconds, and when he didn’t say anything, you climbed the little stairs and walked towards the changing rooms.

The air was cold as ice when you walked out of the shop wearing your clothes and trench coat. You needed to think. You needed to think about what had happened today and last night, and what had been happening in the last two years since the day you started working for Steve Harrington.

It wasn’t hard to make a decision when you crossed the street and got inside the first shop that caught your eye, your heart beating hard with anxiety as you did. As soon as you walked in, the first notes of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer started playing as if they came from a musical box.

The toy shop had a giant, carrousel-like column in the middle, where pretty dolls were displayed inside their boxes, new and perfumed and magical. Christmas trees of all sizes had been placed around the shop, surrounded by train sets that looked exactly as if they came from those movies you used to watch as a child.

It wasn’t as busy as you thought it would be, tourists walked around taking pictures and videos of the picturesque shop while you browsed in silence and smiled to yourself every now and then. The place gave you a weird sense of nostalgia as your fingers stroked the hand painted roof of the biggest house doll you’d ever seen. You thought of past Christmases back home, the smell of your mother’s food mixing with the scent of wrapping paper, learning how ride a bike on the snowy pavement, the fading memory of your dad’s face…

Blinking away your tears, you found a sunny spot to sit outside, next to the river, hearing the seagulls and the distant melody of the carol singers. Taking a deep breath, you took the phone to your ear and called your mother.

‘About time.’ She complained right before laughing.

‘I’m sorry.’ You shut your eyes before messing your neatly brushed hair. ‘Merry Christmas. I miss you.’

‘Merry Christmas, sweetie.’ She said. ‘When are you coming?’

‘Uhm,’ You bit your lip. ‘I’ll try to get tickets for tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever. I’ll be there before the 30th.’

‘Does the evil boss know his?’ She joked.

You swallowed hard, feeling the salty taste of tears in the back of your throat.

‘I’m working on it.’ You sniffed quietly. ‘But don’t you worry about it. How’re things? Was Santa generous this year?’

‘Very generous.’ She said. ‘I got a new perfume, a nice purse…’

‘…And?’ You smiled to yourself. ‘A nice cashmere scarf I hope?’

‘I loved it very much.’ She said. ‘Thank you, sweets.’

‘You’re welcome, mom.’ You said looking at the city beyond the body of water in front of you. ‘I know it’s silly, I guess it just— I don’t know. It’s a nice tradition.’

‘Oh, honey! I know, It’s not silly. It makes me happy too, you know that.’

You laughed weakly, feeling in the verge of tears again, when you felt a body sitting on the bench next to you.

‘Uh, mom, I gotta go.’ You said looking back at him before your eyes focused on the river once again.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, it’s just… work.’ You sighed. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘In person.’

You made a pause, taking a deep breath.

‘Sure.’ You finally said. ‘Merry Christmas. Love you.’

‘Love you too, honey.’

Steve leaned forwards to have a better look at you as soon as you hung up, and you hated that. You had so many reasons to cry right now and you didn’t want to face any of them, so all you could do was hug yourself while the air froze your cheeks.

‘I am so, so sorry.’ He finally said.

‘How did you find me, anyways?’ You looked back at him.

‘Uh,’ He shook his head, and you could’ve sworn he had blushed a little. ‘Your phone. Your work phone. I can access its location in case you lose it. You know, confidential information and all of that.’

‘That’s quite invasive.’ You tried to joke, but it came out much more passive aggressive than you intended.

‘I know, but it comes in handy when I behave like a complete asshole.’ He said. ‘I’m sorry.’

You looked down, playing with one of the buttons on your coat and thinking about what to say. Maybe the best thing to do was to quit right then. Offer Steve an honest explanation, hand him the phone back and pack. He could keep your room, your check, your heart. Anything he wanted. You just wanted to be alone.

‘Sometimes…’ He swallowed. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to separate work from personal attachments. Especially when there’s not a lot of people around that I can trust.’

Your eyes kept looking at your skirt, your legs, your shoes… anywhere that wasn’t him. It was too hard to look up, to sit here and hear him call this a personal attachment, a business relation, everything except what it was.

‘I keep doing this thing…’ He said. ‘Where I put you in these… complicated, and awkward situations because I desperately need a friend…’

You couldn’t help but look at him then, feeling a mix of compassion and pity and fear and sadness for him.

‘…And it’s so unfair to you.’ He said softly, anxiously looking for a sign of forgiveness on your face. ‘I’m so sorry.’

It took you a while to find the words, to get the courage to look back at this lonely man. It took everything in you to tell him right then, that he wasn’t lonely at all, and that you had always been right here, and as long as you could, you would.

You shook you head softly. ‘I know things with your dad are complicated—’

‘It’s not only about my dad.’ He said moving closer to you. You looked back at him as the freezing breeze blew a few stands of your hair. The sight was overwhelming: his softly frostbitten pink cheeks, his cosy scarf, the scent of his woody pine cologne filling you with longing. You couldn’t help but arch your eyebrows subtly when one of his hands extended over the bench to touch your face, but he seemed to abandon the thought quickly, placing it behind you. ‘You were there when Cece left, too.’

‘Steve—’

‘When she moved out, when she—’

‘Steve.’

‘…Lost the baby.’

You took a deep breath, taking your hands to the bridge of your nose and fighting the need of screaming at him.

‘You know, I don’t need this today.’ You said facing him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ The touch of his thumb on your cheek caught you completely by surprise, and suddenly you weren’t so angry anymore. ‘I could’ve handled it; I should’ve been there instead of you.’

It was getting harder to keep your tears to yourself, but you still managed to. You had to. You were sure she must’ve told him everything before she left, how she hung on to you after months of ignoring you while she was engaged to him, how she begged you not to say a word until she was ready. And you did. You did, because the idea of seeing him suffer shattered your heart.

And it did anyways. It hurt when he asked you to call the interior designer to get rid of the baby blue wallpaper, when you secretly donated the packs of diapers he had piled inside the closet. It hurt to see him show up to work the next few days as if nothing had happened, to pick up those calls from his therapist every week for a month, asking why he hadn’t shown up. It hurt to find out Cece was pregnant again through the press a year after, not a millionaire businessman this time, but a senator of some kind. It hurt that she called you and thanked you for supporting her through it all.

‘You seemed so happy.’  Your voice almost broke at the end of the sentence, looking back at his eyes helplessly. ‘And Cecelia… she didn’t want you there. I— I had to respect that.’

His mouth turned into a line then, you could see he didn’t like what you were saying, but his touch was still soft as his eyes moved from your eyes to your lips while he considered your words. His bitter frown didn’t change even when his soft palm moved to your neck, and his eyes looked back at yours again.

‘I can’t need you this much.’ He murmured then. ‘It’s not fair to you.’

Your hand caught his on your neck and you gave him a sad smile before looking down at the way your knees instinctively touched his. You wished you could tell him it was perfectly fine, that not only being needed was an intrinsic part of you, but that being needed by him was all you thought about every day.

‘Don’t say that.’ You whispered, squeezing his hand. ‘I’m your friend. You know that.’

‘I’m still sorry.’ He whispered with a sad smile. His thumb drew a line from your chin to your jaw as you looked at each other, sharing a silence full of bittersweet understanding. A few snowflakes that fell from a above sat on your lashes and you both finally laughed together. A thin layer of snow was painting the river white, yet you still felt warm, sitting on this bench next to him.

‘I’ll tell you what.’ You said sitting straight, your hands instinctively started playing with the hem of his navy scarf and you smiled softly at him. The gesture seemed to have lifted his spirit, by the way his lips lifted subtly, and his brown eyes were full of dreamy tenderness. ‘I just saw the biggest, pinkest house doll ever inside that toy shop over there. If you get that for Hannah’s daughter, I’m willing to forget this and actually try to have a fun Christmas with you.’

‘She’s not even one.’ He laughed softly.

‘She’ll love it.’

He nodded once, studying your face while he smiled softly.

‘Consider it done.’

‘We’re going to be late.’ You said in the car, checking the time on your phone.

‘You don’t even know where we’re going.’ Steve said, rolling his eyes at you. The gesture almost made you smile, so used to be the one that always rolled her eyes at him.

‘You said we needed to leave by seven.’ You said annoyed, hugging yourself over your coat. Yet you could still feel the warmth of his shoulder resting against yours.

‘That was just so you could be ready by six.’ He murmured, the warmth of his breath on your scalp made you realise how close you were from each other. You could feel his chin hovering over your head as he looked through the window, the Christmas lights making the snowy streets colourful, the people walking, the distant sound of sirens.

You felt nostalgic, or maybe just deeply comfortable in the back of the car, stillness within the chaos of traffic. Maybe it was something else, you thought as you felt your body getting warmer, you were safe. The thought kind of terrified you, but at the same time, you thought as you leaned in and rested your head against him, it wasn’t so bad to indulge yourself in his company, was it? After all, it was Christmas.

‘Are you okay?’ He murmured.

You leaned even closer to him then, and he heard you swallow hard as your hand wrapped around his bicep. His body couldn’t simply not react to all that warmth, to all that tenderness, and he finally gave in and placed his chin softly on your head.

‘I’m just feeling a bit homesick.’ You confessed in the dark of the backseat.

‘Hmm.’ The back of his finger stroked your cheeks softly to get your attention. You lifted your eyes shyly, giving him a subtle smile before you sat more comfortably. ‘You wanna go back to the hotel?

‘No.’ You smiled at him, sitting back. ‘No, I just— Sorry, it’s just… Christmas, it always— it makes me kind of crazy.’

You laughed awkwardly, feeling more flushed every second you didn’t move away from him.

‘What do you miss?’ He asked then.

You almost choked as you sat better; your cheeks turned even hotter before you could speak again.

‘From home?’ You placed your cheek against the seat and looked back at him as he nodded. ‘I don’t know. I guess more than missing something specific, what I really miss is being a child.’ You looked away, still feeling his eyes on you as you smiled sadly. ‘Sometimes, when I wake up too stressed or overwhelmed, I stay in bed with my eyes closed and I take a deep breath. And you know, just for a second, I feel like I can smell my bedroom again. Isn’t that weird?’

‘It is weird.’ He murmured as you looked back at him. ‘It’s also very cool that you have such a good memory. I always feel like I don’t remember anything about my childhood.’

‘You remembered the carousel back at the café.’ You reminded him.

‘Yeah, but I don’t have memories there. I just remember not being allowed to get on it.’

‘Hmm.’ You considered it for a few seconds before looking back at him. ‘What about your childhood home?’

He shrugged, looking something unspecific in the distance.

‘I don’t know. I guess it smells like my dad’s office.’ He admitted. ‘That’s why I’m always so paranoid about having candles and plants all over my place.’ You laughed then, thinking it was odd but kind of funny too. ‘Even if I spend most of my time travelling, I can’t bear coming back to a house that smells untouched. Like a hotel.’

And yet he still did, you thought as you looked through the window beyond his shoulder. His maids were always telling you how boring it was to work for Mr Harrington, because all they did was clean dust. There was no mess or things to clean inside his home. There was nothing.

‘We’re here, sir.’ The voice of the driver made you sit down properly, looking through the window next to you this time.

The city lights reflected on the river like little candles with dancing, twinkling flames. You were surprised you hadn’t thought about this possibility, but when the driver opened the door for you, you didn’t know exactly how to feel about the luxurious yacht that sat next to the private pier in front of you.

‘So,’ Steve Said once he had made it out of the car. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s nice.’ You simply said.

‘We’ll watch the fireworks from the river.’ He said enthusiastically.

‘That’s nice.’ You repeated shyly. ‘It’s quite, uhm, big.’

‘I know, I had completely forgotten I had it.’ He said taking your hand before he pulled you towards the pier.

You let out a laugh of disbelief as you followed him, feeling his warm fingers entwining with yours.

‘How could you forget you have a yacht?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I never use it. I used to party in these a lot when I was in college, but I don’t really have time for that anymore.’

You took a deep, patient breath while you climbed the stairs towards the upper deck. Your eyes looked around for other people, lingering on the lights of the yacht and the dark waters underneath. You could imagine what you’d find inside, but that didn’t mean it would surprise you less.

‘Give me your coat.’ He said once you walked in behind him.

Inside, the yacht hid a luxurious lounge with leather couches, an extensive bar and a pool table. You let him take your trench coat as your eyes lingered on the other side, where there was a giant TV screen and a couple of armchairs. Somehow the heat rushed to your cheeks at the sight of it all, before a loud pop behind you made you jump.

You looked back to find Steve pouring champagne in two glasses from the other side of the room. He was still wearing his coat, but yours was laying on the chair behind him, and you suddenly felt flushed as his eyes lingered briefly on your uncovered shoulders.

‘This is obscene.’ You said once you stood in front of him.

He laughed then, loudly and childishly while he offered you the glass of the bubbly alcohol. You took it carefully, feeling warm under his stare.

‘You have no other option but enjoying yourself tonight.’ He said with a smile before clicking his glass with yours.

You took a sip of your drink before rolling your eyes and he smiled back at you. He seemed to be enjoying your shyness, your inadequacy, way too much. 

‘I didn’t want the crew to stay during Christmas, but they did leave some food so we’re having a proper holiday dinner upstairs in the dining hall. And then I also asked them to leave a swimsuit for you, in case you wanted to try the jacuzzi.’

You let out a nervous laugh, before looking to your side. Steve frowned softly as he placed his glass on the bar’s mahogany surface.

‘What is it?’ He said, taking his coat off.

‘Nothing.’ You shrugged.

‘You want to go back to the hotel?’ He asked.

‘No.’ you said, feeling a bit helpless, a bit lost. ‘No, it’s not that. This is very nice, Steve.’

‘But?’ He asked, searching for some sort of validation in your eyes.

You shrugged, looking around you before your eyes landed back on him.

‘I just can’t stop thinking about the fact that you had a place to stay the whole time.’ You said softly.

Realisation fell on Steve’s eyes, and something else, something deeper that sadness took over them. He was angry. If it was at you, or at himself, you wouldn’t know. His fingers held the glass he had placed on the bar, pondering with a frown. As if you had caught him doing something bad, something improper.

‘I guess I just didn’t want to be alone on Christmas.’ He played with a few drops that fell from his glass before looking back at you. He swallowed hard. You opened your mouth to say something, regretting your words immediately, but Steve kept talking. ‘Listen, honestly, I didn’t even remember I had this place until this morning. I know maybe spending Christmas with me is not the most appealing idea in the world but—’

‘Steve, it’s not like that.’

‘… I just want you to have a good time.’ His eyes were full of honesty as he looked at you, but a part of you felt he had grown cold at your words. ‘Whether that is here, or back at the hotel, or anywhere. It’s kind of my fault that you’re stuck here, anyways. I shouldn’t have made you work on Christmas Eve.’

You took a deep breath, looking away and feeling the guilt rising on your chest. He had tried to give you a decent Christmas. He had bought you this lovely dress, he had requested a proper Christmas dinner, and all you had been doing all day was lie to him.

‘I’m sorry.’ You finally said, taking a step towards him. ‘It’s not your fault, I’ve spent the whole day being stubborn. I guess I didn’t want us to get behind with work, and— if I’m honest with you, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with Christmas. It’s not your fault.’

You looked at each other for a few seconds before you bit your lip, trying to repress your embarrassment.

‘Okay.’ He finally said, considering your words. ‘What if… instead of going all the way up to the dining hall we just have dinner here in front of the TV, huh? We can watch a Christmas movie or a horror movie or like, a documentary…’

You let out a snorty laugh then, nodding as you smiled at him.

‘Okay.’ You said then. ‘Sounds good.’

‘Great.’ He said with a smile.

It took little time for you two to get used to the comfort of the understanding silence as you brought the food downstairs. As the evening started, you slowly stopped caring too much about the yacht and its excessive luxuries. This was Steve’s life, after all, but there was also no reason why you had to stick to those unwritten rules you followed in professional instances tonight. A few minutes after your third glass of champagne you were taking your shoes off and walking around barefoot as you filled your plate with turkey and stuffing, and potatoes.

Steve followed you by getting rid of his jacket and shoes and you both forgot the armchairs and sat down on the floor to watch The Parent Trap.

‘I can’t believe you’ve never seen this masterpiece.’ You said once the ending credits rolled. You dipped your finger on the cup of gravy before taking it to your mouth. ‘This is on my top five of comfort movies.’

‘I can see why.’ He cleaned his mouth with a napkin before sitting back against the bottom of the armchair. ‘I guess that’s what I get for growing up with no sisters.’

‘You’ve got, what? Five brothers? And none of them were really into cheesy movies?’

He laughed.

‘Apparently not. They all have their own thing.’ He shrugged.

‘Hmm.’ You said putting your plate aside. ‘Like what?’

‘Well, you know Nick. He was always very into music. And then Trevor’s always been into fencing, he always wanted to do it on an Olympic level, but he’s never been that good.’ He joked, placing his elbows on his knees as his eyes got lost on the patterns of the carpet. ‘Jake’s an aircraft engineer, so he thinks he’s the smart one. And then the twins surf, but Dan is better at that than Richie. I don’t know, they all have a thing.’

‘What’s your thing?’ You asked then.

‘Huh?’

‘What’s your thing?’ You repeated.

He shrugged.

‘I don’t think I have one.’ He admitted.

Steve and you stayed quiet as you thought about his words. He rarely spoke about his family to you, but you had learned things about them in discreet silence. It was widely known that Nick Harrington had a substance problem; Steve himself had driven him to rehab many times. You had only learned this because you had to help Hannah handle the scandal that one time the press leaked the address of his rehab centre.  

You knew that Trevor and Jake didn’t get along with Steve, by the way he absently signed the birthday cards you posted to their addresses every year. You always made sure to date them on the inside, above the empty, cold Happy Birthday printed on the card. You knew that the twins were spoiled and ungrateful, because they never cared to learn your name or address you nicely every time they called Steve for money when their father refused to indulge yet another one of their fleeting business endeavours.

‘How come?’ You asked softly as he took the remote control. Steve stayed quiet for a while, switching to a jazz playlist on Spotify.

You thought for a second he wasn’t going to give you an answer, until he entwined his hands behind his neck as he rested his back against the armchair.

‘I don’t know.’ He said as his hands fell slowly on his knees, losing himself in his thoughts before he looked at you. ‘I don’t think I was given the chance to.’

He stayed in silence for a second as your eyes lingered on his face, as if no one had ever asked him this question before. Then he laughed softly, bitterly, and you frowned.

‘Isn’t that funny?’ He said. ‘The guy with all the opportunities wasn’t given one.’

You lifted your eyebrows as you looked down to your knees, processing his words.

‘S fine.’ He shrugged before standing up. ‘I don’t want to think too much about it right now.’

Your eyes followed him as he moved to the bar, grabbing a bottle of wine before walking towards you and extending his hand.

‘C’mon.’ He said with a soft smile. You didn’t know how he did it, or why he didn’t really care about the sad conversation you almost had. ‘I wanna show you the place.’

You grabbed his hand while holding the two empty wine glasses on the other, and he took you on a tour of the yacht. You had already seen the dining hall, big and impersonal but decorated by a giant red rug that felt soft and cozy under your feet. The staff had managed to place an improvised but prettily decorated tree on the further conner, and a few Christmas lights around the place.

It wasn’t until he took you towards the helm that you realised how comfortable you had felt holding his hand the whole time. The area consisted of three luxurious screens that surrounded the captain’s seat, along with the steering wheel and the engine controls.

‘You wanna drive it for a while?’ He joked in the dark as you looked at the weather and pressure data on the screen.

‘Absolutely not.’ You said immediately. He laughed at it, rubbing his thumb against your hand softly as he took you out of the little room. ‘Do you know how to?’

‘Nah.’ He said as he took you through another room, much more luxurious than the one downstairs where you had eaten. There were more L-shaped couches, and a piano at the end. Beyond that, you could see through the windows that there were lounge chairs outside, probably a pool too. ‘…Could’ve learned at some point, but I never liked boats that much.’

You let out a sarcastic laugh as your eyes lingered on the jacuzzi on the other side of the room. Then, walking past him, you took the wine bottle while he looked at you with an amused stare.

‘What?’

You filled your glass before placing the bottle next to his on the crystal table in the middle of the room. Once again, you kneeled next to the table, looking at him still standing up on the other side of it.

‘You know, I’ve heard things about your times in private school.’ You said with a childish smile that he seemed to find funny as he lifted his eyebrows. ‘I used to think they were just rumours, but I can only imagine the kind of things young Steve Harrington could be up to in one of these.’

He rolled his eyes then, walking around the table to sit on the couch like an important man. His brown eyes piercing, almost mischievous, as he rested his back against the cushion with his legs open. The couch was so big he wasn’t even taking all the space, but this was Steve, he was used to having it all.

‘So…?’ You pressed, taking another sip of your drink. ‘Am I wrong?’

He shrugged. ‘You’re not wrong.’

‘So, it’s true.’ You said almost pleased. ‘King Steve.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ He looked away, shaking his head as you giggled. He took a deep breath, looking back at you as if you were a trouble kid and he didn’t know what to do with you. He leaned in a little bit, placing his elbows on his knees before entwinning his hands. ‘Listen, of course it got out of hand sometimes. You can’t raise a kid telling him he’s got all the money and power in the world and expect him to be a decent teenager. I never said I wasn’t spoiled.’

‘You never said you were indecent either.’ You said softly, looking back at him as you took a long sip of your wine.

His eyes lingered on your face as you swallowed, lifting your delicate hand to clean the drop that fell down your mouth.

‘Some of us have secrets.’ He said after a while. He extended a hand to fill his on glass as you considered his words. ‘You, for example, have many.’

You lifted your eyes to look back at him, thinking that maybe he had figured you out. You thought maybe someone he knew had told him all about your plans to quit, after all Steve knew everyone. You could’ve said something there, act offended or tell the truth. But instead, you just took the bottle back to fill your glass.

‘I’m not interesting enough to have secrets.’ You smiled softly, eyes focused on the pouring liquid as you avoided his stare.

‘I don’t agree.’

‘I know you don’t.’ You simply said with a smile before taking your glass with you as you stood up.

You knew his eyes were on you as you walked around the room, placing the glass on the edge of the jacuzzi before your hand ventured to stroke the still water inside. The sudden bubbling of the water startled you as the lights of the thing turned on, and you heard Steve’s soft laugh behind you.

‘I thought it’d be warm.’ You said foolishly as the heat rushed to your cheeks. Only then you realised how drunk you were, feeling that your skin was more than just warm, your lips were a bit dry, your thoughts all over the place.

The water did turn warm a few seconds later, and you dared to touch its surface again, this time diving your hand a little bit as you rested your chest against the edge of the jacuzzi. It was very quiet, your eyes lingered on the soft waves that the bubbles below created, taking in the colours of the exploding fireworks on the water before you looked up to the window.

You lifted your eyes to look at the sky when Steve turned the lights of the room off, his slow steps echoing through the room until he stood beside you. Only then you wondered how you were supposed to go back home this week.

Resting your chin on the extended arm that stroked the water, you saw Steve placing his crossed arms over the edge of the jacuzzi. He stayed quiet as if you had commanded him to, as if he knew that you needed him to stay like this. As if this silence was his present to you, it felt like that in a way.

‘One Christmas,’ You said then, ‘When I was seven, mom and I woke up and dad wasn’t home. She called him after a couple of hours, and he said he was buying fireworks for that night, and like, that wasn’t weird, really.’ You paused to take in the beautiful explosions in the distant sky, the silhouette of the skyscrapers being illuminated by the colours, the warmth exuded by the attentive body next to you. ‘So, we waited for him to have breakfast together, but he didn’t show up. He also skipped lunch, and we didn’t see him until the evening when he came home and set his fireworks outside. He spent the whole night lighting them up while ignoring us.’ You made a thoughtful, bitter pause before looking down at the water again. ‘He was mad. He had found out he had cancer. I think he didn’t really know how to tell us.’

You felt him swallow hard next to you, and only then you stood straight. Your eyes looked back at him as you rested your fingers on the edge of the jacuzzi. His stare was still on the water as he tried to find his words, but you knew what he was thinking: What can you say to that?

‘Sometimes keeping a secret is just delaying the truth, I suppose.’ He said then. It surprised you that he had come to that conclusion so quickly and effectively, while all you had done was overshare the sad little story of your dad’s diagnosis.

‘I guess so.’ You murmured unsure, before looking down at the water. You both stayed silent for a while, looking at the water as if the jacuzzi was a well that hid all the answers to the drunken questions in your head.

Delaying the truth. Was that what you had been doing these last two years?

‘I need to fly home tomorrow.’ You said, taking a step back, looking at your feet before you started climbing the steps to get inside.

Steve’s eyes lingered on you as you started undoing the zip of your dress. With his lips partly open he offered you a hand that you took as you made it to the border.

‘Mom and I always visit his grave on the 30th.’

‘I can get you tickets.’ He said as you let his hand go, taking a step back as you started undoing the straps of your dress. Something shifted then, the silence was cruel and definite, as if time had turned slower when the dress gently slid down your body and you kicked it to the side.

You couldn’t look back at him as you stepped inside the water, feeling like it wasn’t warm enough to sooth your flushed skin. And yet you kept telling yourself that it wouldn’t happen, that he’d kept it professional and polite between you two, but maybe you didn’t want him to. He had been touching you all day, you had slept in the same bed, for fuck’s sake.

Maybe all you wanted was to challenge him, to see if he dared to. Because if he didn’t do anything here, as you looked behind your shoulder to find him resting his arms over the edge again, then that could only mean that this had always been a one-sided thing.

‘You don’t get to share secrets like this.’ He whispered, shamelessly looking from your face to your body under water before he looked back at you. ‘It’s not fair.’

You turned back fully then, looking into his eyes and knowing he was dying to take a peek at your breasts under that lacy black bra you were wearing tonight. But he didn’t, instead he looked down at his hands as you walked slowly towards the edge, tendered by the red tint on his cheeks. This was so bad. It was so, so bad. Deep down you knew he was weak right now, that there were rules you were breaking, roles that you weren’t adhering to.

‘I know it’s not fair.’ You said searching for his eyes. ‘A lot of things aren’t.’

He looked up again, his eyes studied your face this time. Little drops of water had fell on your cheeks, but your make up was still shimmery under the lights of the jacuzzi.

‘What do you want me to do?’ He leaned in then. Straightforward surrender, maybe the only logical solution. Your faces were only inches away from each other as he challenged you. ‘If you tell me you want me to leave, I’ll leave. If you want me to join you there, I will. If I need to get you out of the water myself, take you upstairs, and make love to you in my bed, I will.’

Your hands played with the water that surrounded you as you looked back at him with partly open lips, wondering if Cecelia, Giovanna, Conny, Harriet or the rest whose names you had never cared enough to learn had been here before. But that didn’t matter, did it? They didn’t have what you had. They weren’t forbidden like you. They were nothing.

‘This is wrong.’ You whispered it as a fact, knowing very well that you didn’t mind, that it was just a cliché that needed to leave your mouth before things could really go deliciously wrong.

‘I don’t think you care.’ He said then.

‘Do you?’ You lifted your eyebrows then, placing your hands on the edge of the jacuzzi as you looked back at him with anxiety written all over your pretty face. ‘Care?’

Steve smiled then, blinking a couple of times as sweet sincerity took over his features slowly, unbearably gentlemanly and patient. His hands found yours over the edge, entwining your hands when his forehead brushed yours and you looked down at the buttons of his shirt, hiding from him.

‘Why don’t you get out and find out?’ He whispered then.

You nodded softly, the silence tense and sweet before you pushed yourself up as he took a small step back and you shyly sat down on the edge of the jacuzzi. He didn’t stay far for too long, catching himself biting his lips at the wet, half-naked image of you splashing water everywhere. His hands found yours on either side of your thighs as he took another tentative step forward, and almost instinctively you opened your legs for him, finding his brown locks with your wet fingers.

His own hands tested your comfort, landing on your hips as you looked down at him with a shy smile.

‘Hi.’ You whispered.

‘Hi.’ He said in the same tone.

You smiled softly, this time more cheekily, as your fingers wandered down, sneaking into his partly opened shirt just because you wanted to feel his burning skin, his chest hair, those corners that you had once forced yourself not to look at.

Unconsciously, you fisted his shirt when he dared to lean in subtly, following your head as your noses brushed, poking yours playfully to break the tension a little. Oddly, knowing that he was enjoying himself in his own time gave you a sense of confidence, you even dared to smile a little before you pulled him in.

You tasted his smile before his lips, maybe he found funny that your urgency seemed almost young and inexperienced, but you knew what you were doing. It took him a few seconds to breathe deeply under your mouth, to gain control by squeezing your waist and lean in even closer to you as your tongue demanded for space in his mouth.

A soft noise left his throat, and you chased his lips to swallow it, begging him to give you another one, please. But now his hands were cupping your face, and you felt more and more like a feather in his arms. It got much worse when he lifted you from your butt with sudden confidence, swallowing the sweet whimper of surprise you let out while he led you to the closest couch.

He let his body fall as you comfortably sat on his lap, making a mess out of his locks as his hands repositioned your thighs closer to him and his needy mouth search for your neck to kiss and bite.

There were so many different instances in which you had imagined the texture of Steve’s tongue before, but you would’ve never thought he’d be so gentle with his teeth as he played with your body. Then, as if he’d reminded this was the first time he had you this close, he chased your mouth for a soft, almost innocent kiss before looking back at you.

‘You okay?’ He asked with a nod.

‘M fine.’ You stroked his face: his beautiful boyishly blushed cheeks, before you leaned in to bite his lip playfully.

The silence was tense as you looked at each other with a cheekiness you would’ve never thought you discovered in each other. You knew now you were driving him crazy, and he knew you were dying to prove yourself. Still holding your challenging stare, his soft hands started to pull down the fabric of your bra.

You were waiting for the moment that his eyes fell on your bare chest, but he was amusing himself by staring at you with his heavy eyelids and cheeky sided smile. Steve was too busy looking at the safest places of you: your eyes, your lips. Yet the boldness of his face slowly died when his hands finally cupped your breasts, and you let out a shaky breath when his thumbs brushed your freezing cold nipples.

He nodded encouragingly as your hands climbed to his shoulders under his shirt and he kept massaging your breasts while your nose brushed against his. While your breaths turned heavier, and your hips started moving softly.

Steve’s eyes were still open, eyelids heavy and pupils glossy while his lips brushed against yours and he swallowed the air your exhaled. His hands wandered down your back, finding a way to sneak under the side straps of your thong, and suddenly the tiny piece of fabric didn’t feel as discreet as you’d thought it was. He gave your ass a good, loving squeeze that left you breathless, and he seemed to enjoy that, by the way he was smiling when he pushed you against his body until your mouth was on his again.

It all turned much slower but much more sensual after that. You skin was hot and full of goosebumps as he held you by your waist to lay your back against the couch. You were dazed, and so overwhelmed as he left a trace of wet kisses between your breasts down to your ribs.

Then, with the patience of a child holding a bird, he placed his cheek against your belly button and looked back at you. His lips were puffy, his cheeks preciously pink. You dared to do something you’d always dreamed of doing and dived your fingers inside those dark brown locks of hair, slowly stroking the hidden grey strands next to his ear.

You could’ve both simply fallen asleep like that, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was stroking your thighs so softly, and your pussy got warmer and wetter the more you felt his weight on top of yours. You held your breath when he pulled your underwear aside, and his finger finally dared to brush those nerves, a thin thread of wetness connecting your pussy with his finger as you kept stroking his hair and he simply looked down to that deliciously sensitive slit in between your legs.

You should’ve been blushing by the way he seemed fascinated by how your pussy pulsed every second he teased you, by how your wetness leaked out, staining his couch in the most sweetly obscene way. He could lick that, yeah, starting from the bottom and then all the way up to your clit. He’d do that for you until you moaned his name, or the word please, he wanted you arching your back, fisting the cushion underneath you. He had thought about this so often that somehow it was hard to know if it was really happening or if this was just another one of his fantasies, another one of those dreams that tended to leave him with insomnia, sweaty and hot in his lonely bed.

There just seemed to be so many endless ways to taste you for the first time and he couldn’t decide which one, so he just went for the easiest one, rubbing his face against your perfumed skin as he slowly left a trail of wet pecks until his mouth was finally kissing your pretty needy pussy.

Steve sighed before you even could, diving his head in between your legs and eating you selfishly as his hands squeezed your thighs. He licked slowly and sensually, from the entrance of your cunt up to your clit before sucking gently, as if he had all the time in the world.

‘…taste so fucking good.’ He said to himself before leaning back. You held your breath as he looked at your shamelessly open and wet pussy while he removed your thong fully, before pushing you knee softly outwards to spit on you. His saliva was warm, and you were so sensitive, the gesture made you release a little moan before his finger dived inside you and you were arching your back again.

His free hand wandered up your hip, admiring your squirming body, the way your chest ascended when you took a deep breath and then softly descended when you released it in the shape of a sweet longing sigh. He grabbed one of your breasts then, this time more firmly, as if he was entitled to, and your own hand squeezed his over it.

‘Fuck.’ You moaned when his finger managed to stroke a particularly nice spot. He had rarely heard you swear before and now he wanted to hear you do it all the time, because your voice made it all sound sweet and harmless. ‘There.’

‘Hmm?’ He asked sweetly, keeping the same sexy rhythm, touching the same damn spot. ‘There?’

‘Ha.’ You moaned almost painfully. ‘Mhm. Yeah. There.’

You were shutting your eyes now, trying not to think too much about how you looked as the wetness leaked out of your pussy the closer you got, feeling it drip down your thighs and ass. Steve’s lips were puffy and wet when he kissed the side of your knee, his hair was stroking your leg unintentionally, his other hand wasn’t pressing your breast anymore, just merely letting you hold it as your breaths turned faster.

‘I don’t wanna cum like this.’ You begged then, opening your eyes to look back at him with arched eyebrows and sweaty cheeks. His eyes were still on you, mesmerised and heavy as he kept his rhythm, not stopping yet.

‘I don’t understand.’ He whispered before kissing your knee again. ‘You look beautiful. I wanna see you like this.’

‘I—’ You sighed heavily, feeling on the edge every second that he kept touching you there. ‘I want you inside me.’

‘You’ll have me.’ He murmured lovingly, still fascinated by the obscenely sweet image of your agonizing body. ‘Soon, baby. So soon. Cum for me first. Cum like this.’

You let out a moany breath again, nails scratching the cushion on your side as he rested his cheek against your knee, drunk by the greed of being the one who could do this to you. You swallowed hard as your hips started to convulse with the rest of your body, and then he felt it, the contractions of your inner walls, your puffy clit pulsing right there under his eyes, glistening with the mix of your wetness and his spit. Your open mouth, noiseless as you held your breath and your breasts pointy and exposed for him before your back landed on the couch again.

‘Shit.’ Your voice sounded so soft and defeated as you closed your eyes lazily, feeling his body hovering over you. Your hands instinctively dived inside his hair when his lips kissed your neck and ear.

‘You were perfect.’ He whispered as you felt the fabric of his pants rub against your sensitive clit by accident, and you were rolling your eyes at how something so subtle was arousing your again.

‘Mhm.’ Your moaned when your blind mouth could finally find his and this time you were messier and dirtier than before, licking his lower lip and wrapping your sweaty legs around his waist. ‘Fuck me.’

He moved you both onto your side, your wet back now against the cushion of the couch as he melted into your body and his arms wrapped around your waist.

‘You’re half asleep.’ He laughed softly, squeezing your naked frame.

‘I don’t care.’ You looked back at him, tasting the wine in the back of your throat and knowing that all your make up was probably ruined by now. You must’ve looked so pathetic, sweaty cheeks, smudged eyeliner, and fucked-out face. It didn’t matter. ‘I’m in love with you.’

He leaned back softly then, studying your face before his hand brushed your cheekbone softly. You were looking at him, pleading that he wouldn’t let you humiliate yourself like this, all vulnerable and naked in his arms.

Steve softly arranged your bodies more cosily on the couch, he lifted himself briefly before placing your head against his chest, stroking your precious hair, smelling your perfumed scalp as your legs remained entwined. And all you were begging was for him not to be too cruel, too patronising, when he’d inevitably break your heart tonight.

‘Are you cold?’ He asked after a while, brushing his fingers against your bare back that was full of goosebumps.

‘Aren’t you going to?’ You were unable to be patient anymore, but you couldn’t face him, otherwise it’d be too embarrassing. And then you had to use that awful wording he used before, belittling yourself even more. ‘Aren’t you going to make love to me?’

Something came out of his chest then, and you frowned. It couldn’t be a laugh, though, there was nothing funny about this.

‘Of course, I am.’ He said then. ‘Just not now.’

‘When, then.’ You said more angrily than you intended to as you leaned back to finally confront him. God, you were drunk. You were a mess of emotions and alcohol, your throat was dry, your ears still buzzing by the long-forgotten orgasm.

It was as if his limbs were instinctively connecting to you, fingertips hovering on your face as they traced a line from your cheek to your chin.

‘I’m tryin’ to find the courage first.’ He explained very seriously. ‘To tell you that I love you.’

You blinked softly, stubbornly, as you frowned. You weren’t unhappy but somehow mad, that you were both this stupid. He stroked your cheek again, his nose looked blindly for yours, and it was if you didn’t want him to kiss you out of sudden. Rejection would’ve hurt less.

‘Come here.’ He said searching for your mouth.

‘Steve.’

‘Come here.’ He said more insistingly this time, pulling your jaw towards him and what else could you do but to give in? He had promised he’d made love to you, and he intended to, by the way his body was turning unbearably hot under all of those layers. He kissed you more purposely then, as your legs wrapped around him again and you unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, softly scratching any bit of skin you could find in the process.

His intentions were patient, but his body wasn’t. You could feel him getting harder as he went in for your neck, your jaw, your temple. At some point he grew too desperate, and the sound of his belt was followed by a clean pull of his boxers and pants, all falling down on the end of the couch.

Now your fingers were able to discover more, to stroke much more skin: the hairs on his stomach, the faded stretch marks under his hips, he had round, firm butt cheeks that you would’ve loved to tease him for, if this wasn’t a sad scenario, if things between you were different.

Your nails left half-moons on his shoulder when his dick first pushed a little through your entrance. Eyes-shut, open mouth and breath held in your chest as he didn’t dare to push himself fully.

‘Easy.’ He whispered on your open mouth, his top lip against yours as he cooed you into it. ‘Slow. Take your time.’

You nodded enthusiastically, because this time you didn’t want to be stubborn, and you really wanted to enjoy this, him. He let himself partly out before pushing a bit deeper, and you seemed to release your breath out, feeling a bit more relieved. One of your hands dived inside his hair as you pulled him closer to you, and he let you guide him as your walls progressively opened for him.

‘You’re so tight.’ He laughed to himself, and you swallowed it before he kissed your shy smile. ‘Goddamn it, your pussy feels so good, baby. You hear that?’

It was the obscene noise of your wetness, of his dick sliding inside you repeatedly in a slow pace.

‘Mhmm.’ You moaned softly as your nose brushed against his, and your hands stroked his cheeks lovingly. ‘Show me?’

The grip on your waist turned tighter then, holding onto you to pull his hard cock in and out of you while your arms wrapped around his neck, and he was finally making love to you, but you were just hugging him, you were saying goodbye to everything he had meant to you.

The thought didn’t let you live, but you were still letting out throaty moans every time he thrusted into you in this sensual rhythm and his cock made you feel blissfully full. You could’ve tried to move your hips a little, but you didn’t want to ruin the perfect synchronicity, and he was so thick you could feel yourself getting wetter while one of his hands held your thigh and your hands stroked his hair lovingly.

‘Where can I?’ He asked urgently. ‘Where?’

You leaned back to have a look at his pretty fucked face, those reddened cheeks, puffy lips, glossy brown eyes that drove you insane. You couldn’t help but leave soft kisses all around his cheekbone, his nose, his jaw.

‘Where do you want to?’ You purred. ‘Huh? Where do you wanna cum?’

He let out a choky breath resting his forehead on yours. You frowned as he slowed his rhythm, letting out an awkward laugh.

‘I don’t know—’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t know if you’re on the pill, or…’

You shook your head then, putting a strand of hair behind his ear. ‘I can take something tomorrow.’

He shook his head then, smiling softly with his eyes closed.

‘Tempting,’ He breathed heavily. ‘But no.’

‘Steve…’

‘Where else?’ He said, frowning painfully as he squeezed your waist and his rhythm fastened once again. ‘Where else can I cum, baby, c’mon on. Please.’

You looked at him with perverse adoration then, wondering how many times you had imagined this scenario before, and how pleased you were by his sweet desperation.

‘Mouth?’ You asked tentatively.

‘Mouth?’ He repeated. His eyes opened in disbelief, panting heavily as you looked at him expectantly. ‘Your mouth?’

You laughed softly. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah?’ He asked again.

‘Yeah.’ You moaned sensually as you searched for his mouth, leaving a sloppy kiss on his lips. ‘Want it inside me. Wanna taste you. Swallow you.’

He sighed heavily before nodding, and you could’ve sworn he had rolled his eyes at your irresistible descriptions.

‘Okay.’ He kissed your temple then; you could see that he wasn’t making much sense anymore and that meant he was probably really close. ‘Lay back for me.’

You did as he said, letting him roll you carefully in the little space until he was hovering on top of you. It was exciting in a completely different way: your eyes could linger on the way his muscles flexed as he supported himself in one arm, on the back of his fingers brushing against your cheek as he adjusted himself inside you again.

Because you weren’t searching for an orgasm now, it was much easier to get lost in the details that would’ve escaped from you if you had been drunk by frantic desire. You discovered he had a nice pretty mole on his chest, hidden by all the hair next to his nipple. The image of his dick getting lost inside you would haunt your nights for years as he squeezed your hip. He had this thing too, where he always licked the skin of your neck before nibbling on it, almost preparing it for its teeth. It was sweet, you thought to yourself as you smiled. He had been as gentle as you had always imagined.

‘M so close.’ He said under his breath, placing his head on your breastbone as he prepared his manoeuvre to cause you the minimal distress.

‘Okay.’ You said softly, kissing his scalp as you tried to encourage him. ‘That’s fine. ‘M ready.’

He let out a humming noise, a repressed whine that turned into a moan as he got closer and closer and you kept stroking his hair, as you kissed the protuberant vein on his temple.

‘Open your mouth.’ He instructed when he pulled out and you did as he said. ‘Open your pretty mouth, goddamn it.’

And you did, yes you did. It was a bit messy, but only a few drops fell on your chest before his dick found a warm place to cum inside your mouth. He didn’t try to push it in, or to do anything else, and you trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t. Steve simply stayed there, mesmerized as you sucked the sensitive tip with the right pressure, as he saw the movement of your throat swallow his hot, bittersweet release. You made out with it, with him until there was nothing else. Until he was clean and soft again.

His eyes lingered on your puffy, glossy lips when he pulled it out of you; his hand stroked your mouth and cheek as you both breathed heavily, and he thought about what had just happened. What you had trusted him enough to do.

Your expectant eyes looked back at him from below, waiting for something, anything to happen as you leaned in against his palm.

‘Bed?’ You finally asked.

He nodded, exhausted, feeling that there was so much he wanted to say but he didn’t know where to start.

You weren’t going to ask any questions or let out any more embarrassing confessions. In silence, you moved in the darkness of the room as you headed for the stairs fully naked, leaving the room intact with the smell of sex and the shame of sadness.

A little scratching noise woke you up a few hours later. When you opened your eyes, it took you a while to remember where you were, as all you could see was the curious face of a seagull poking the window of top of you. Behind the silly animal there was a white sky, a few remains of snow melted on the corners of the glass, and all you could do was take a deep breath as you gathered the strength to move.

Next to you, Steve slept peacefully. Your eyes lingered on all the moles that adorned his back, and the messy locks of hair that rested against the pillow. You remembered he had fallen asleep with his head on your shoulder, and how you stayed at least an hour looking up at the early morning sky through the window before you were able to fall asleep.

You still didn’t know what to do. The events from last night replayed in the back of your head and all you wanted was to pretend that none of it had happened, but inside the yacht it was impossible, considering that everywhere you looked took you back to the texture of his mouth, or the heat of his skin against yours.

Eventually, you slowly climbed down the bed before tiptoeing towards the toilet, where you found a bathrobe to cover your body with before walking down the steps to the second floor. You tried to repress a smile when your eyes wandered around the crime scene: his clothes still on the couch, your underwear on the rug, and the red fabric of the dress scattered on the floor like shameful evidence.

Trying to put aside your embarrassment, you picked all your stuff and got rid of the bathrobe, dressing up as your eyes got lost in the desolated deck outside. The underwear was still damp from the jacuzzi, but it’d have to do. The dress hadn’t suffered any damage; you flattened the skirt, thinking about your shoes and trench coat that were somewhere downstairs.

You took a deep breath, sitting down on the couch where you had let him do whatever he wanted with you last night, eyes lingering on the half-empty wine glasses, on the expensive bottle still resting on the glass table as you pondered. You needed some time to think.

You could think back home. You could book the tickets, leave tonight, and have a few days away from this jungle of a city to think things through, to make a decision. But it was obvious that all the possibilities of staying in this job had disappeared after what you had done last night.

After a while, you resorted to go down to the first floor to get your phone. Maybe call your mother and for once not worry at all about emails or calendars, but it seemed that the more stairs you climbed down in this place the more lucid and terrified you felt about the events of the last few hours.

It was as if you were an intruder in Steve’s paradise of luxury, there was no fucking way there would be space for you in this world of his beyond the job of an assistant. In the back of your mind you had flirted with the possibility, of course, many times. Of maybe becoming something else, as you both had confessed last night, but there was no way this thing between you would survive.

The coat was still resting on the chair next to the bar, and you put it on quickly before your hands dived deep into the pockets to find your phones. And you did find them, but the feeling of something else made you frown as your fingers encountered the velvet square box inside.

Your heart beat hard against your chest as you squeezed the little box in your palm, thinking that if you’d squeeze it hard enough maybe it would become less real. Maybe it would disappear, but no. It was small, and hard to the touch, and very real.

Just then, your phone started buzzing and only when you sniffed softly you realised that you had tears in your eyes. You hoped to God that it was your mother, but instead your personal phone just showed a random number, and it took you a few seconds to make the decision to pick up the call.

‘Hello?’

‘Is this Miss—?’

‘Yeah.’ You said weakly. ‘This is she.’

‘Oh. I’m Jonathan Byers?’ The name filled you with anxiety in a completely different way, looking around the room as you cleaned your face. ‘Sorry, is this a bad time?’

‘No.’ you said immediately. ‘No, Mr Byers, it’s fine. How are you?’

‘I’m okay.’ He said carefully. Your breath still felt trapped inside your throat as he kept talking. ‘I was hoping we could schedule an in-person interview soon? I just wanted to speak to you first before I make you an official offer.’

‘Of course.’ You said, trying to process his words. ‘I just, uh, got caught in some extra work. Is it possible to postpone it after New Year’s?’

A tense silence set on the line as you held your breath before he released an awkward laugh.

‘I thought you needed to leave your current job? That’s what Robin said.’

‘A-And she was right.’ You said, feeling your scalp warm and sweaty. ‘I do.’

Your fingers wrapped around the velvety box inside your pocket once again, holding onto it as if it was an amulet. The words stayed on your throat as you repeated them in your head: I do. I do. I do.

‘What about this afternoon?’ You suddenly said. Looking for a clock anywhere around you. ‘I need to book a flight back home, but I’m staying at the Plaza and if it’s not too far from you, we could meet there.’

‘Right.’ He said then, thinking about it for a second before he took a deep breath of relief.  ‘I have a new production starting on the 15th and…’

You nodded as he spoke, looking behind your shoulder when you thought that maybe you had heard something behind you, but there was nothing. Steve was still sleeping peacefully upstairs as Mr Byers kept talking on the phone and you took your work phone out of the coat to place it on the mahogany surface of the bar.

‘Sure.’ You said to whatever Jonathan was saying before you swallowed hard, finally getting the courage to pull out the tiny little box from its hiding place. A frown took over your face as your thumb stroked the perfect red surface of its lid, licking your lips as you tasted salty tears on your throat. ‘Of course.’

‘…Looking forward to meeting you.’ He finally said.

‘Thank you, Mr Byers.’ You said softly.

Your eyes were still holding the phone against your ear when he hung up. The temptation of opening it was taking all over your body, but you weren’t sure if you would be able to leave this place if you confirmed your suspects, if after all it ended up being true.

So, you did the brave thing, which was also the coward thing to do, and placed it on top of the phone where he had called you so many times before the last couple of years. All through different time zones, during the holidays, or from the office. Whenever he needed you, as an assistant, a friend, or just someone to talk to.

You stood there, looking at the sad little image, knowing that you had to leave soon if you wanted to be on time to get your things ready, check out from the hotel and meet Mr Byers. But you were trying to find a better way to do this. There had to be a much better way to leave without breaking his heart in such a cruel way. You just didn’t know how.

Carefully, you let out a defeated sigh, tying the strips of your coat around you before you searched for a pen, something you could write him an extensive and sincere apologetic letter. But there was not much that you could say or write, was there?

Sighing, you grabbed a napkin from the bar, feeling that time was melting the more you delayed your leaving, the more you searched for words. It was only then that you wondered, really wondered, if there was anything you could offer the man you were in love with.

Give me some time, was all you could write on that miserable piece of paper

The flight back home was short, or at least it felt that way because you couldn’t remember much of it. The whole time you had been looking at your personal phone, now your only phone, wondering if you’d have a missed call from Mr Harrington once you landed.

There was still an unheard voicemail from him that you didn’t know if you had the courage to listen to. You had to start drafting an official resignation letter now that you had a new job, and in the next few days you had to start organizing Mr Byer’s schedule for January while leaving everything in order for Steve’s new assistant.

While your mother drove home, you wondered if there could be anyone who paid attention to the little things as much as you did. Would this new person know in which order to organise his meetings so he could be more efficient? Would they remember to get him some earplugs for his long flights? You bit your smile as you remembered how sometimes you used to tell him that his Friday afternoon meeting had been cancelled when really it was scheduled on Monday, just so he could have an hour or two for himself when things were too heavy. But you knew very well now that most of those things had nothing to do with the role and everything to do with the way you cared about him.

‘Are you listening, honey?’ Your mother said that night when you jumped on the table, thinking that maybe you had heard the buzz on your phone when really it had been your stepdad’s. ‘I said Mrs Vandermann’s now too old to manage the Christmas dinner for the homeless shelter so I thought I might volunteer next year.’

‘Right.’ You nodded. ‘Yeah, sorry, mom. I’m still a bit tired. That’s nice.’

‘Oh, ‘s that awful boss of yours.’ She said standing up from the table, she squeezed your shoulder before getting lost in the kitchen as she kept talking. ‘I’m so happy you won’t be working for him anymore. Ask Allan, he’s everything I’ve been complaining about for the last few days.’

Your stepdad didn’t really say much as he quickly scrolled down the news in his phone. You fought the need to roll your eyes at some of the headlines on those sensationalist websites he used to read, but you weren’t going to start a discussion after skipping Christmas, not now that your mother seemed so happy.

‘There you go, you two.’ She said placing two plates with fruitcake in front of you, before clapping enthusiastically. ‘Oh, I’m so happy we finally get to be together as a family.’

Oh, a family. The thought didn’t leave your head as you finished your dessert, and your absent eyes got lost in the worn face of your father in the pictures. You wondered if you’d tell him about Steve if he was still here, sitting on the place where your stepfather was playing Candy Crush while he complained about the news with your mother. Or maybe they would’ve eventually ended up getting divorced, like most of your friends’ parents who had fallen in love in High School and stayed in town.

That night you lay on your childhood bed, among young adult novels you probably needed to give to charity and boyband posters that the sun had bleached until you couldn’t recognise the face of your favourite member anymore. You had seen him once or twice in events where Steve had been invited to, quietly observing him in the distance, wondering what had your teenage self seen in that man. Then Steve had playfully squeezed your shoulder, mockingly asking you if you wanted to be introduced.

You remembered those things fondly as you played with a worn teddy bear your grandparents had brought to the hospital the day you were born. The thing was missing an eye, and some stitches had given up with time, but you still placed your cheek against its fluffy head in the darkness of your room, hearing the snores of your stepdad in the distance.

Give me some time. That had been your request, and in exchange you had received not only time, but also space and silence. Checking your phone for the thousandth time, your eyes lingered once again on the voicemail notification from two days ago.

You took a deep, terrifying breath before taking the phone to your ear. The dial beeped a couple of times before the robotic voice of the operator told you what you already knew: that you had a missed voicemail from Mr Steve Harrington.

‘Hey.’ He had said, only the sound of his voice had you shutting your eyes hard as you moved to your side on the bed. ‘I, uh. I hope you have a happy holiday. I also hope you rest. Like, really rest. Seriously. Or you won’t get your bonus this month.’

The sound of his laugh almost made you tear up. You both had really ruined something precious, huh? Something innocent and harmless that had your broken heart beating fast now.

‘I just wanted to thank you for your support. These last few months, you, uh, you’ve been incredible. And you’re much more confident, and talented and smarter than the girl I met two years ago in my office. I always knew you’d be great at this job… Maybe too great. I—, well. I was calling for two things, actually. First, I wanted to say I forgot to give you your Christmas present at the airport.’ He made a long pause, sighing softly. ‘Actually, I didn’t exactly forget. I… I want to talk to you in person. I don’t want you to think anything weird about this, and I understand if you think I overstepped, but I just recommended you for a job. With someone else.’ He had stayed silent for a while again, maybe searching for the right words. ‘Someone better. It’s a long story. I just don’t know if I want to… be this person anymore. This… busy businessman, disappointing firstborn. Hated brother. I, uh… It doesn’t matter. It’s got nothing to do with you. I know you won’t agree. Because you see the good in me.’  You sobbed in the pause he took, thinking of all the things that had happened in the last couple of days. ‘Because you’re good. You’re the best, actually. And I hope you have the Merriest Christmas.’

A night of insomnia followed a couple of days of walking around absently, forgetting silly things like where the glasses were or where the shortcut you used to walk through whenever you went to the supermarket was.

‘Here.’ Even your stepdad was a bit worried, surprising you with a humming cup of tea a night while your eyes stayed on the TV without really watching anything. ‘You look a bit sick.’

‘Thank you.’

You did feel sick, worse than that, you felt ashamed. You were going through your resignation letter again, checking for spelling errors or unclear sentences, but it was all very simple: you thanked him for the opportunity and set your last day of work as the 31st of December.

All those ideas you had of leaving things ready for the next person had vanished after you listened to that voicemail. Steve had legal decisions to make, he had to decide which one of his siblings to transfer the business to, if he wasn’t thinking about selling or leasing. He had to call in emergency meetings with partners and employees, he had to inform the press eventually. This was new territory that you could’ve navigated with him if only you hadn’t fucked things up. If you hadn’t left that phone and the little box on top of it. If you were still deserving of it.  

Taking a sobby breath, you pressed sent before closing your laptop. You still needed to start catching up with Mr Byer’s calendar and book plane tickets to go back to the city. But there was too much in your head and still nothing at all. It was 29th of December. Tomorrow it’d be a hard, long day, one of those that reminded you that you had never been good at forgetting.

Steve parked in front of the little cottage, trying to imagine a childhood version of yourself in this very porch, walking around in a Halloween costume or waiting for your mom on the first day of school. He tried to imagine you filling the car with boxes when you were leaving for college, and he tried to imagine you on a day like this, years ago, when your father passed away.

He knew that what he was doing was invasive and probably crossing the lines of rudeness, but after receiving that impersonal and abrupt email he needed to come see you. You didn’t get to reject him just like that after two years of hiding his feelings for you, of dodging the accusations of his girlfriends, of fighting the need of touching you in events where it had seemed imprudent and even indiscreet. Two years of night calls that started as business updates and ended in whispered small talk, while you were in New York and he was working in San Francisco, or you were in Boston while he called from London.

You just didn’t get to end things like this.

His eyes lingered on the Christmas wreath hanging from the door before he dared to ring the bell. It was cold, despite the fact he had gloves he still hid his hands inside his coat, wondering what he’d do as soon as he saw your face. If he’d be brave enough to tell you everything or if he’d just melt and cup your face in his hands.

But it wasn’t you who opened the door, exactly. Someone like you, but older. Steve would’ve hoped that your mother might have been as welcoming and sweet as you, but her eyes hid an unexpected indignation that he could’ve never predicted.

‘Hi, Mrs—’ He said your last name, not sure if your mother still went by it. ‘I’m St—’

‘I know who you are.’ She said, still looking quite irritated. They both stood in silence for a few seconds as she studied his face, until her eyes fell on the navy scarf he was wearing. Steve couldn’t miss the way her semblance shifted just subtly, as if she had realised something. ‘How can I help you, Mr Harrington?’

‘Please, call me Steve.’ He said softly, almost as an apology. ‘I know today is a mourning day for your family, but I was hoping I could speak to your daughter.’

She took a deep breath, considering his words for a few seconds, before she closed the door behind her.

‘Listen, Steve.’ She took a slow pause. ‘You’ve already ruined my family’s Christmas by keeping my daughter working absurd hours.’ She said crossing her arms over her chest. ‘She’s been miserable the last few days, missing her father I suppose, as she always does during this time of the year. I need you to respect that.’

Steve frowned, trying to process your mother’s words as he stood on his place, staring at her like an idiot.

‘Mrs —’ Steve repeated her name, but he didn’t really know what to say.

‘Coming here, on the day of her father’s death, trying to get her to work for you again…’ She shook her head, feeling bad for the lonely man that stood on this threshold asking for you. ‘Even for a powerful, educated man like you, there are limits, honey. You should be home with your family.’

Steve stayed in silence for a few seconds, trying to understand where this all was coming from. His mouth was open, but the words seemed inaccessible to him as he tried to solve this puzzle in his head.

‘Is this what she told you?’ He murmured. And your mother must’ve seen the outmost hurt that his brown eyes exposed so sincerely, because suddenly she felt flushed and a bit foolish at what she had just said.

‘W-Well…’ She said unsure, her eyes falling on the scarf once again before looking back at his face. She then released a long sigh, fighting the need of rolling her eyes as she surrendered. ‘Come on in, I’ll make some coffee.’

Steve’s eyes looked for you, and you were everywhere, in pictures that hung from the wall or were placed above the chimney. His eyes lingered on framed drawings from the first grade, on a poetry contest certificate with your name that must’ve been ten years old placed on a bookshelf.

‘She’s on the basement playing chess with Allan.’ Your mother said, bringing a tray with two cups of coffee into the living room. ‘Those two never agree on anything but they’re insanely competitive.’

Steve smiled to himself at your mother’s words.

‘I’ll let her know you’re here.’ She said after a while.

‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’ He said then. ‘Thanks for letting me in.’

Your mother stood on her place on the other side of the living room table, hesitating, until she got the courage to speak.

‘He used to wear those all the time.’ She seemed a bit moved, by the way her eyes shone momentarily as she looked at Steve’s scarf. ‘My husband. I guess that’s why I let you in. That child, she’s always been good at keeping things from me, but I would’ve never thought...’ She sighed as she shook her head.

Steve stayed still as she looked away thoughtfully. He kept silent, trying to remember where he had gotten the warm piece of fabric that he wore every winter, but he was unable to. It had always been there, on the hotel bed next to his pressed suit, inside his suitcase, hanging from the coat rack in his office.

The sound of steps made them both lift their gaze.

‘Fucking cheater.’ You said under your breath once you made it to the top floor. You were about to walk towards the kitchen when your eyes fell on the scene happening in the living room from its entrance.

Only then, Steve realised he had never seen you wear jeans before. It certainly made you look much younger, the thin layer of skin that peaked between the hem and your cardigan, the way your wrists got lost in those wool sleeves. It was so endearing and warm, and God, he was supposed to be mad at you, but he had missed you too much for that.

‘We’ll talk later.’ Your mother whispered on a passive aggressive tone as she walked past you, getting lost on the hallway behind you.

The heat rushed to your cheeks, you didn’t know if it was because of her disappointment or by the way you hadn’t been able to take your eyes off him sitting inside your mother’s living room. He looked so out of place, inside your childhood home where there was barely space for the Christmas tree.

‘Hey.’ He finally said. There was coffee on the table. She had let him in, and she had made coffee for him. There were some pictures somewhere here, of you taking a bath when you were five years old. You needed to get rid of them as soon as possible, before he saw them.

‘Hi.’ You said then, stepping inside the living room with your hands in your back pockets.

Outside, something moved. You both looked out through the window into the snowy landscape, before a little white bunny hopped away back into the forest.

‘I’ve got your email.’ He said then. Steve stood up as your eyes fell back on him. Forgetting the coffee, and everything else he had prepared to say.

You nodded.

‘I’m sorry that I can’t keep working for you.’ You said after a while.

‘It was either you quitted, or I fired you.’ He sadly admitted. ‘Jonathan said he was impressed by your interview… I told him you don’t disappoint.’

‘Hm.’ You smiled softly, playing with the sleeves of your cardigan. ‘Thanks for the recommendation. He never mentioned it, but I know— I know now.’

He swallowed hard, looking away towards the window, before his eyes got lost in the untouched cups of coffee.

‘I wanted you to be safe.’

You nodded once again; your hands fell on the armchair that stood in between you when you took a step forwards.

‘Thank you, Steve.’ You said sincerely. ‘For everything you’ve done for me.’

He shook his head softly, a soft sad smile taking over his mouth as he studied your face.

‘I should be the one thanking you.’

The awkward silence in between you was filled by the distant noise of your stepdad watching the TV, and your mother’s steps in the kitchen.

‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ You asked then, unsure of what to say. All your life, you had never brought a boy home and suddenly he was here, and you didn’t know what to do. ‘This is a small town, but most people keep to themselves.’

‘A walk sounds nice.’ He cleared his throat.

He guessed you were right; it was a small town but also a desolated one. You walked together around the house towards the forest, hearing the noise of the wind and the sound of your steps over the snow.

‘It’s very quiet in here.’ He said after a while. ‘I like it.’

‘Yeah.’ You said softly as you walked towards a distant bench on the other side of the park. ‘I couldn’t stand it as a child. I needed to leave.’

He stayed silent for a while; you could feel his eyes on you as you kept walking towards the bench, the silence progressively turned worst the longer it lingered between you.

‘Is that why you lied to your mom?’

You looked back at him with an offended frown. ‘What are you exactly accusing me of? Not wanting to come back to my depressing hometown during the holidays?’

He stopped in his tracks there, feeling that his patience was running out as he looked at you. You, who had left. You, who had broken his heart.

‘I’m trying tounderstandwhy you would tell your family that I forced you to work on Christmas.’

‘But you do understand, Steve.’ You said looking back at him, feeling the blood rushing to your cheeks. ‘For the same reason you didn’t spend Christmas with yours, because I can’t stand being here. You never really planned on getting on that jet, did you?’

He looked back at you with a blank face, swallowing hard before you resumed your walk and he tried to catch up with you.

‘How do you know that.’

‘Uh, well—’ You turned back, feeling the tears rushing to your eyes. ‘Maybe the fact that you were planning on giving me a ring?’

His eyes turned soft at the mention of his present, his eyebrows arching as he pictured the circlet inside the little box. One he had chosen carefully with months in advance, one day of September in which you had called in sick. That never happened, it was a sign. The little box had been inside his pocket when he was at the airport, he had played with it back in the café, while you sipped your coffee absently. It had felt like a weight inside his pocket the whole time until he sneaked it inside your coat.

‘Listen, it’s not like that.’ He said softly, taking a step towards you. ‘It’s not that type of ring.’

‘Not that type of ring.’ You sobbed, feeling the cold wind burning your cheeks as you looked back at him, pathetically admitting your defeat. ‘What does it mean, Steve!’

‘Sweetheart,’ He took a step towards you, his gloved hands finally cupped your face as you looked back at him with the outmost desperation. ‘It means whatever we want it to mean, I— I was going to explain it all to you later that same day.’ He blinked softly, swallowing hard. Yet his voice was still hoarse and full of despair when he spoke again. ‘I just didn’t think you would leave me like that.’

You released a sobby breath, looking away into the forest because his hurt stare was too much to handle.

‘I’ve been preparing my resignation since the summer,’ He explained as his thumbs stroked your cheeks, catching your tears as your hands finally held onto his wrists. ‘My plan was always to tell you, but… You know, I needed to speak to my family first. And the more I delayed telling them the more I delayed telling you, that I wanted a life with you.’

You released an exhausted breath as you let him guide your wet face into his chest. You hid your face there, before your arms wrapped around his neck and his around your waist. Lazily, you moved when you felt he was searching for your skin with his mouth, tiny little pecks warming the skin of your jaw and ear.

‘I love you.’ He whispered.

‘I love you too.’ You said stroking the back of his neck. You could’ve spent hours like this, with no witnesses around, only the snow and the wind surrounding you.

‘What are you doing?’ He laughed against your skin as your hand blindly searched for something on the side of his coat.

‘Nothing.’ You admitted leaning back softly when he started helping you.

He smiled to himself, taking the little box out of his pocket. You stood there looking at the way his eyes went from happy to serious to terrified.

‘You don’t have to take it now.’ He said softly, stroking your cheek as his eyes looked everywhere in you face except your eyes. ‘I can save it for you. It’s yours anyways.’

You shook your head softly then, sniffing a little as you placed your hands on top of his scarf, fixing it even if it wasn’t needed.

‘If it’s mine, I want it.’ You whispered. ‘Can I have it?’

Steve’s soft stare lighted up at your words, and he finally opened the little box in between your bodies. You bit your trembling lip at the sight of the delicate gold circlet, with the simplest, tiniest diamond on top of it. It was whatever you wanted it to be, but you both knew exactly what it meant.

You offered him your shaky hand, looking back at him, your eyes full of terror and adoration as he took it out of the little cushion.

‘Am I allowed to—’

‘If you kneel, I swear I’ll kill you.’ You laughed in between tears.

He laughed again, licking his lips as he slid the ring down your finger. Then his lips clashed against yours, he tasted sweet, he tasted certain while his squeezing embrace hurt your ribs. You tasted his tears and his joy as he leaned back to look at you, all teary and happy.

You both sighed when his forehead rested on yours, finally able to feel the sweet relief sitting on your shoulders, taking over your chest. Your hands climbed to pull him from his scarf as he looked down at you, shaking his head.

‘You’re insane.’ You whispered.

‘I know.’

‘We should keep this to ourselves.’ You whispered again, though no one could hear you here though, not even the forest was awake enough. And the city was far, so very far.

‘I know.’ His finger stroked your cheek as a foolish, childish smile started forming in his mouth. ‘Good thing we’re good at keeping secrets, huh?’

🏷️: @keerysfolklore @starrgurl46

I do no consent for people to plagiarise, translate, copy or repost any of my written works anywhere. I do not consent people to use any of my written work for AI purposes.

[maroon-cardigan-deactivated2025]

THE LUCKY ONES | steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: every december you try to forget what happened in christmas 1976, when your parents didn’t show up to pick you up from boarding school and you had to spend the holidays at the harrington’s. steve and you were too young back then to understand the curse that ran through your veins, but eight years later, temptation knocks on your door, and you find yourself fucking the one guy you would’ve never fucked.

oldmoney!steve x oldmoney!reader | enemies with benefits | no use of y/n | no mentions of specific race, hair type of body type.

word count: 23.5k

warnings: this one shot and my blog are +18, minors do not interact. NSFW. christmas angsty smut, basically. mentions of alcoholism & miscarriage, reader and steve got family issues but there’s no violence. hate fucking, kinda mean!steve but also mean!reader (i love a balanced dynamic). public sex. fingering, finger licking, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving). use of good girl, spoiled brat, etc. but no degradation.

author’s note: hello ♡ this one shot is my favourite thing i’ve written for this blog so far, and I’m so proud of it !!! this is shamelessly inspired on gossip girl & sooo lana del rey coded. please forgive my basic understanding of american geography. this is a repost, because i had some problems with the tags, so i tagged everyone who interacted with the first post at the end.

masterlist

[dividers by @benkeibear & @cafekitsune]

THE LUCKY ONES ♡

People did this kind of thing when they were drunk. Or high. Or worse, people did this kind of thing when they were needy. Not you, though. Never you.

That’s what you thought after the first time you had sex with Steve, wondering what had taken you to fuck the one guy you’d never fuck. Because you couldn’t stand Steve Harrington, and he couldn’t stand you. Yet it seemed like that mutual aversion was what kept you two orbiting around each other after all these years, until the inevitable collision happened.

There was a time where things were different, though. When you were a kid, you almost became Steve Harrington’s friend. You would even dare to say, he was your friend once, the year you had the loneliest Christmas of your life.

DECEMBER 1976.

You had been looking at your shoes for the last couple of hours. Shiny little loafers that your mom got you on your last trip to New York. The Sales Assistant that helped you had smiled at you as you put them on.

‘Every girl, no matter how young or old, deserves some Prada.’ She said.

You smiled back while standing up on your little feet. You walked a straight line, feeling the eyes of your mother on you before you looked back and made an exaggerated pose, making her laugh.

‘I’ll take those as well.’ She said to the girl behind the counter.

On the way out she let you carry the bag with the shoebox inside. She lent you her sunglasses, shiny and black sitting on the top of your little head between your pigtails. In the taxi, you fell asleep on top of her fluffy red coat that smelled like her. It was a good trip.

That’s how you knew something was wrong. Your parents would never forget you at school, specially not on Christmas Eve. The housemistress had helped you pack the day before knowing that your mom would pick you up in the morning. But it was almost noon, and you were still at the dinner hall, sitting all alone waiting for her.

You looked up at the lovely lights of the chandelier above you, short legs hanging from the bench you were sitting on and sight blurry as you convinced yourself that they had abandoned you, and now you’d be spending Christmas with the kids whose parents were too busy working to care about them. That wasn’t you. That had never been you.

The clicking of a pair of heels caught your attention then. A tall, lovely woman of feathered hair wearing a red suit smiled at you. She was beautiful. She was kind. She made you feel safe.

‘Hello, Mrs. Harrington.’ You said standing up. You weren’t going to cry in front of your parents’ friend, that would’ve been impolite.

‘There you are, sweet thing.’ She said opening her arms when she stood in front of you. You took a few hesitant steps towards her before she embraced you in a hug. Blinking many times and impressed at her warmth, you inhaled her sweet perfume.

Only then you saw him next to her. A little polo under a sweater, hands in his pockets, black hair almost reaching his shoulders. You couldn’t help but blush.

‘Your parents asked me to come pick you up.’ She said breaking the hug. Her warm eyes looked back at you as she stood, leaning to be at the same eye level as you. Her fingers brushed your bangs, removing the hair off your face. ‘You’re spending Christmas with us.’

You knew something was wrong, but you thought it wouldn’t be polite to ask Mrs. Harrington what it was. You walked in your little loafers looking around the Harrington’s house, observing the green and red decorations.

The mansion filled you with a strange sense of sadness, the living room you stood in too similar to the one you wished you were in. You missed home, the voices of the staff saying hello miss whenever you walked in, everyone ready to hug you. There was nothing like that here.

‘I don’t have any dolls.’ You heard him say behind you. You turned around to find Steve with a basket full of toys. ‘But I’ve got dinosaurs.’

You looked at the basket before looking back at him, and he almost got scared at the line that adorned your lips. Steve thought sometimes being with you was like being with the adults. He had hoped that the toys might change your mood.

‘I like dinosaurs.’ You said quietly, sitting on the rug as he imitated you.

‘…Haven’t really spoken to her since then.’ You heard someone murmur.

Steve was making explosion noises next to you, two toys on each hand as he played, and you tried to hear what Mrs. Harrington was saying. From where you were, you could only see her heels, legs crossed as the back of the armchair she was sitting on faced you, and the telephone cord being wrapped and unwrapped by her manicured hand.

‘No. Of course not. She deserves a lovely Christmas.’ She said. ‘Only ten years old, can you imagine? She’s just a baby.’

You frowned at the words of Steve’s mother; certain that she was talking about you.

‘Are you ok–’ You put a hand on his mouth, placing your index finger over yours. Steve simply nodded, the contact of your hand on his skin making his cheeks hot.

Mrs. Harrington sighed.

‘I don’t know. I think he made the decision. And good for him, but he didn’t tell her anything. He just left her a note saying he was leaving her to go to rehab. She’s dealing with the press now.’

You stood up then, walking to the other side of the armchair to face her. Mrs. Harrington jumped at the sight of your little frame; eyes too young to be hiding such darkness behind them.

‘Oh, sweetie!’ She said. ‘K-Karen, I’ll call you later, okay? Or I’ll see you tomorrow either way. Y-Yes. Yes, see you later.’

She hung the phone and gave you a reassuring smile, but you could see the way her shoulders moved up and down as she breathed, nervous by the sudden interruption.

‘Are my parents getting a divorce?’ You said.

She had to blink a couple of times before standing up, swallowing hard and rubbing her hands against her lap as she stood in front of you.

‘Stevie.’ She put her hands on your shoulders to walk you back to where Steve was playing. Her skin was freezing. ‘Can you prepare a bath for our little guest? Just how I taught you, please. I’m sure she’s had a long day, haven’t you, sweetie?’

You looked up at her behind you. Calm smile, beautiful face and sweet perfume. You couldn’t help but notice what a tense woman Mrs. Harrington was.

You were leaning against the frame of the bathroom’s door as Steve emptied a bottle of a pink liquid in the bathtub.

‘This is my favorite one.’ He said. ‘It’s got stars in it.’

That interested you, lifting your head subtly to look at the shiny bubbles growing at the bottom of the tub, little glittery stars mixing with the water.

‘That’s cool.’

Steve’s eyes lit up at your comment, smiling at you. You had forgotten how cute he was, looking at the way he had to roll the bottom of his jeans because they were too big for him.

You closed the lid of the toilet to sit on top of it, looking at the way the iridescent bubbles started to rise, and the water turned pink. You could feel his eyes on you as you placed your chin on your hands, just like you would if a teacher asked you a question you didn’t know the answer for. You were thinking about your mom, wanting to hear her voice and wondering if Mrs. Harrington would let you call her.

Steve remembered something then. He walked out of the toilet, leaving you alone with your thoughts for a few minutes while the sound of the water running filled the silence.

‘I got you these.’

He walked inside the toilet again, a pink towel on one hand and a teddy bear on the other. You smiled, realising how bad you missed your own toys back at home, wondering if they’d miss you too.

You grabbed the teddy bear first, a patchwork pink thing you hugged hard against your ribs. Steve observed you, leaving the towel on the little step next to the bathtub, black strands of hair falling on his forehead. You thought he looked like one of those boys on the covers of your mom’s music records.

‘Why do you have girl stuff?’ You asked then.

Steve shrugged. ‘It was for my sisters. Mom says she lost them, but I’m not really sure how you can lose a kid.’ There was a silence between you two as you both frowned. ‘No one uses them.’

‘Maybe my parents lost me and that’s why I’m here. With you.’ You said.

‘Maybe.’

When the water almost reached the top of the bathtub and the pink bubbles were like a giant mountain of foam, Steve closed the tap. You waited until you heard the noise of his steps walking down the stairs to lock the door, take your clothes off and get inside.

You hugged your knees inside the pink pool of bubbles, pulse slowing down and muscles relaxing. And for the first time in that strange day, you felt really safe. Cared for. Important.

You walked out wearing your pink pyjamas, it wasn’t until you put them on that you remembered that tomorrow was Christmas day. The hallway was silent in a scary way, long and big in a house you didn’t know very well.

‘Steve?’ You whispered. But there was no answer. No sound.

Except for one subtle thing.

The room was dark when you stood outside of it. The texture of the carpet warm under your bare feet as you pushed the door slightly.

She was on the other side.

Mrs. Harrington still looked beautiful with her mascara running down her cheeks, and her eyes lost on the flames of the fireplace. She took the bottle to her lips, eyes closed, and shoulders relaxed as she swallowed. You knew what the liquid in it smelled like, because you had smelled it on your dad’s breath too many times before.

You didn’t remember who took you to bed, but you slept next to Steve that night. What you did remember were his rocket pyjamas, and the way he moved next to you all night because he was too excited about the presents under the tree.

You remembered how he said your name when he woke you up the next day and the excitement on your chest as he did, heart beating fast against your ribs. He didn’t have any siblings, neither did you. This was the closest thing to it that you both had ever experienced.

You remembered how every present you had asked Santa for was under the tree. And you remembered Mrs. Harrington’s eyes on you as you opened them while her husband sat next to her. Mascara in place and feathered hair framing her beautiful face. She was smiling.

A car came to pick you up on the day after Christmas. Steve would never forget the relief in your face when his mom announced you were going home from the living room, and the disappointment he felt. He didn’t forget your little hand waving at him from the backseat of the black vehicle as the snow fell outside the house. Or your pretty smile as you wore the outfit his mom had picked for you that morning. He would never forget the way her eyes lit up as she brushed your hair in front of her vanity mirror while he sat down on his parents’ bed. She looked happy.

You had made their Christmas better. And Steve knew then what he had to do to keep his mom as happy as she was when you were here.

He had to ask for a sister.

You could’ve been friends after that, right? Maybe. Or maybe not.

You were taken back to an empty house. In the next weeks you spent all day surrounded by the staff that took care of the house. By the time you understood what was happening you had to pack your things and go back to school.

Your dad had gone to rehab while your mother had to handle it all by herself: the press trying to destroy him, and the multi-millionaire business generations of your family had worked on. The investors. Your grandmother blaming it all on her. She did it all looking as glamourous as always, and you didn’t know this by the letters she sent you, but by the pictures of her you saw on the newspapers and magazines while she travelled, and you stayed at school. Alone. All of that just so she would divorce him right after he went out.

You grew up in a public mess. But you weren’t the only one. Stevie turned into Steve, a boy who ignored you on the first week of January 1977. He came back with an arrogant frown on his face and a loneliness in his eyes that you had only seen on grownups.

Sometimes you spotted him in between the mess of uniforms in the campus, but you were growing up now, and girls like you didn’t beg anyone to be friends with them. So, you forgot him. And in your absence Steve turned into King Steve, son of Roger and Martha Harrington, descendant of a long line of successful and renowned corporate lawyers in the country. Known by his popularity, his wild parties and his inability to keep his dick in his pants.

So, people changed. Sometimes for the worse, like Steve. Sometimes for the better, like your dad.

That didn’t mean you were exempt from catastrophe. Sometimes people screwed up. You, more than anyone, knew that when temptation knocked on the door, you and Steve were prone to welcome it. It ran in your blood anyways.

It all started the last Friday of November.

26 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

Parent conferences never made you nervous. Not because of your grades, but because it was more about the parents than the kids. You knew your mother would have a little chat with your teacher, go to the dinner hall to have a couple of drinks with some of your friends’ mothers and later in the evening knock on your door to ask you if you wanted to spend the weekend at hers. Easy.

That’s why you froze on the spot when you walked inside the classroom to find your dad sitting on one of the desks, talking to Robin Buckley’s mom. His eyes lit up as soon as he saw you standing with your lips opened in surprise. Something hit you on the shoulder, making you blink many times before you saw Steve Harrington’s silhouette walk past you, not even looking behind after hitting you.

You took a deep breath before making you way to the desk he sat on.

‘Dad.’ You tried to sound happy, hands playing with the sleeves of your uniform’s sweater as you stood in front of him. He smiled back at you. ‘What are you doing here?’

The way your question made his eyes drop broke your heart.

‘Your mom called me from Paris. Her flight’s delayed.’ He took a deep breath as he studied you with his eyes. ‘She doesn’t know I’m here. Told me to send her assistant.’

You bit your lip hiding your smile. ‘Carmen.’

He rolled his eyes at the sound of her name. ‘Can you fucking believe that?’

You laughed loudly, sitting next to him on the desk. Only then you realised there was a bouquet of roses on the sit behind you. ‘Are those for me?’

‘Of course, flower.’ He said smiling.

You couldn’t help but smile widely, wrapping an arm around his and placing your head on his shoulder.

It was good for both of you. You stayed quiet the whole meeting, sitting on the seat next to his as your teacher talked to him. You placed your chin on your hand when his eyebrows lifted at the sight of your grades from the first semester, trying to hide your smile.

On the way to the dinner hall, he asked you a few questions about how things were going. You hadn’t seen him in about a month, before he flew to Hong Kong for business, so there was not a lot to talk about except Thanksgiving and what books you were currently reading. You missed him a lot.

It didn’t surprise you that people observed you when you walked inside the hall. Whispers behind fizzy glasses and looks of pity while you kept chatting with your dad. Outside the borders of the elite, he was on the front of every single business magazine, but here he seemed to always be regarded as the man who abandoned his family on Christmas day. Not like that mattered when they needed favours from him, though. But you had to learn diplomacy the hard way, by getting along with everyone but friendly with almost no one.

Everyone except one person.

Steve sat quietly on a chair on the other side of the room, while his dad stood up next to him. He was scolding him, you imagined, by the way he sat with his arms crossed on his chest, nodding slightly every now and then as his father spoke. The sleeves of his uniform’s sweater were rolled up on his elbows and his brown gaze lost on the wooden floor.

Mr. Harrington’s eyes lit up as soon as your dad nodded at him, the atmosphere changing instantly at the sight of you two. You smiled too, but the gesture fell from your face when you saw the crystal glass with the brown liquid on his hand. You took a deep breath as you followed your dad, hands on your lap as you ached to squeeze his arm and ask him to leave early.

‘So good to see you here.’ Said Mr. Harrington patting your dad’s shoulder. ‘Though I’m sure there’s nothing you should worry about with this one. I’ve heard she’s doing great.’

You smiled politely, ignoring the way Steve rolled his eyes at his father’s flattery. He looked at you from where he was then, eyes lingering on the way you scratched the back of your knee sock with your shoe in nervousness, the hem of your uniform skirt lifting a little bit with the movement.

‘She is, actually. I’m very proud.’

The words made him look up at you then, your face going from tense to soft at your father’s words. Shy smile adorning your face, a subtle thing none of them noticed. He almost said something sarcastic, but his father was quicker at replying.

‘Maybe you could help Steve the next semester?’ He joked. ‘He could do with a good influence.’

You were about to answer something harmless, when Steve let out a scoff, a bitter laugh that made you look back at him. He lifted his eyebrows then, inviting you to say something, when Mr. Wheeler joined in, a glass of whiskey on his hand too, greeting your dad with a pat on his back.

Your father smiled at him, and the three of them started talking while you slowly became invisible. You walked back, flattening your skirt before sitting down next to Steve, ignoring him in silence as you witnessed the conversation in front of you, feeling the anxiety rising on your chest.

You heard words about business, finance, and stocks, but your eyes just lingered on the liquor glasses and how empty they became with the passing of minutes. You observed your dad’s attentive nods and wondered what he was thinking about, if he could smell the alcohol from where he was. He was throwing his head back while laughing, he was making jokes. He seemed happy.

That couldn’t be good.

‘You sure got that good girl act together, don’t you?’

You turned your face to Steve momentarily, distracted by the way your dad’s voice had turned louder. ‘What?’

He studied your face before looking away, licking his lips.

‘I said your daddy comes here and suddenly you’re playing the part of the perfect daughter. Good influence my ass.’  

You frowned at his words, eyeing him with disdain before looking back at your dad.

‘Well, I’m sorry I’m not like you, Harrington. Publicly fucking around with everyone. I bet your dad must be very proud of your voyeuristic tendencies.’

‘You’re one to talk, pool girl.’ He said under his breath.

You scoffed, shaking your head. Your eyes were still fixed on the conversation in front of you, the way your dad seemed to fit in perfectly in the cheerful environment, talking with his hands and laughing loudly with Mr. Harrington and Mr. Wheeler. Your stomach twisted, the discussion with Steve making you even more irritated.

‘I have no idea what Jason told you, but sucking dick is hardly a crime when you compare it to being found out in the school’s rooftop. Do you think I don’t notice the way you’re avoiding Mr. Wheeler’s eyes right now?’

‘Nancy was my girlfriend.’ He said feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. Something about the way your eyes refused to meet his made him even more annoyed, he wasn’t used to be ignored.

You were still looking at your dad when you leaned into your side, whispering the words that you knew would shut him up.

‘Yeah. Until she got bored of you.’

It all happened so fast. You saw the way the waitress approached them, holding the tray so Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Harrington would leave their empty glasses on them, a set of three refilled ones waiting for the gentlemen’s hands to grab them.

You saw it before it happened because you knew him. Because you had witnessed this same scene many times before. When your dad’s fingers brushed the glass of whiskey, you felt Steve’s irritated sigh stroking your cheek. You lifted your eyes then, meeting his brown stare full of hatred, cheeks flushed by your provoking words. And you had no other option than to lean in.

It was a silly thing, really. Lips crashing on his in front of everyone in the dinner hall for just a few seconds. You heard the gasps, the whispers, and your name falling from your dad’s mouth, making you break the kiss.

Steve’s eyes still lingered on your face though, cheeks and neck getting even hotter by the unexpected kiss, tasting your strawberry gloss and missing the feeling of your mouth against his. His eyes followed you, confused and lost as you stood up, your dad’s hand wrapping on your shoulder while you tried to hide your smile.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ He said to you. He wasn’t mad, not really, silly giggles leaving his mouth as you let out a snorty laugh while you left the dinner hall together.

You knew that on Monday morning you’d be called into the principal’s office by your improper behavior. You knew by then your mother would be back in the country and you’d had to find an excuse to explain why you kissed Steve in front of everyone. But none of that mattered, really. Your dad was sober and amused at your mischievousness. He’d ask you to spend the weekend at his after not seeing him for a month. He’d take you to play golf and have milkshakes. He’d watch The Apartment with you for the thousandth time.

Fuck Steve.

25 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

Disaster knocked on the door at the Harringtons’ annual charity party. Steve saw you walking through the doors of his parents’ mansion with your hand wrapped around your dad’s arm. You were wearing a velvet red dress, and a matching bow on your hair. A little present wrapped just for him on the first day of December.

He still wondered what it all had meant, why you kissed him in the middle of one of your stupid arguments. What had been different that time. He had spent all Saturday morning wondering if he should call you, but he thought that was ridiculous. You had kissed him, and he was honest when he said he really hated that good girl act you played in front of everyone’s parents.

You didn’t notice his eyes on you as a waiter offered you a couple of glasses of champagne and you politely declined with a smile, squeezing your dad’s arm. The Hargroves greeted you two then, and you unfolded your arms from your father’s, interlacing your hands on your back.

Steve knew you didn’t drink, an implicit promise you and your dad made to each other, and he had kept even after all these years. He understood that. But everything else seemed unnecessary. The grades, the manners, the networking abilities his dad’s interns could only dream of having. It wasn’t real. Nothing about you was real.

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he saw you laugh at something Billy Hargrove said. You looked around the crowded room then, a few couples dancing in the middle of it to the jazz music playing in the background. Your gaze found his from where you were, eyebrows arching and eyes turning soft. Steve frowned at your reaction before he realised that what you were actually looking at was behind him.

He looked behind his shoulder to find his mom laughing loudly next to Joyce Byers, a glass of whiskey on her hand. The image filled him with a strange feeling. A knife twisting on his stomach.

‘Steve! How are you?’ The voice of your father made him turn his face back.

‘I’m doing good, sir.’ He smiled at him, avoiding addressing you directly. ‘How are you?’

You were standing a few steps behind them, eyes stealing glances at his mother whenever she laughed, biting your lip, and feeling your shoulders tense. The truth was you would always care about Mrs. Harrington. You had never told anyone what you saw that Christmas Eve in that dark room. Not your parents. None of your friends. And definitely not Steve.

‘Are you okay, honey?’ You lifted your eyes to find Mr. Harrington in front of you. Steve and your father were looking at you, expecting a response to a question you hadn’t heard.

‘I’m sorry.’ You said blinking, heat rushing to your cheeks. ‘I’m good. How are you, Mr. Harrington? I love the decorations this year.’

Steve fought the need to roll his eyes at you.

‘Thank you, dear.’ He smiled then, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I’m good. Was hoping Steve could take you to the dancefloor so I can steal your father for a couple of minutes. I’ve got an important conversation and a new mini golf set in my studio.’

Steve held his breath. Ever since you had kissed him his dad was convincedhe had to shoot his shot. She’s a nice girl, Steve, he said. He knew you were not. He observed the way you smiled politely, arms still behind your back while you licked your lips.

‘Actually, my heels are new, and I don’t really feel like getting stepped on, but if you must steal my dad, please do so. He hasn’t won a mini golf match in a while and I’m sure he could do with the ego boost.’

Only your dad and Mr. Harrington laughed loudly at your cheekiness.

‘Your daughter would be a good lawyer, you know that?’ Said Steve’s dad as he put a hand on your dad’s shoulder and guided him on the direction of his studio.

You bit the inner skin of your cheek. It hadn’t been that funny, but you were bored and wouldn’t miss an opportunity to provoke Steve. Your eyes followed the silhouettes of the two men for a few seconds, wondering if your dad would be tempted tonight like he was on Friday.

‘I can’t believe you.’

His voice made you look back at him. You eyed him in his black suit, hair on its place for once, his cedarwood perfume invading your lungs even if you didn’t want it to.

‘What?’

His eyes looked up and down at you while he put his hands on his pockets, making you feel suddenly self-conscious.

‘Nothing. It’s just fun seeing you pretend you’re not as fake as everyone in this room.’

You took a deep breath before speaking. ‘Fake how, Steve?’

He licked his lips then, taking a step towards you as he spoke. From this distance you could see the way his brown piercing eyes craved to provoke you, a single strand of hair falling in the middle of his forehead.

‘Laughing at Hargrove’s jokes knowing your daddy wants a deal to acquire thirty percent of his father’s company. Wearin’ a Karen Wheeler dress so she agrees to design the costumes of your mom’s next movie. Teasing my dad to get him to accept the business offer your dad must be talking about right now.’ He made a pause then, warm breath sending shivers through your body. ‘You think I don’t notice?’

You took your time then. He stood still when your hand found his tie, getting closer so your mouth could whisper to his ear.

‘So, you pay attention to what I do. Sounds like a fixable problem between your dick and your hand, Harrington.’

You moved to take a step back, but Steve put a firm hand on your waist, taking the hand resting on his chest in his and before you could blink, you two were swinging to the Billie Holiday song playing in the background.

‘You sure as hell know how to use that pretty mouth, don’t you?’ His voice had turned lower then. His words were full of arrogance, but his thumb brushed softly against the uncovered skin of your back.

You held your breath at his words, cedarwood scent getting stronger, skin full of goosebumps by his touch.

‘You tell me.’ You said. ‘Seems like you’ve been thinking a lot about my mouth since Friday. Are you really that easy? I don’t even remember using my tongue.’ You lowered your voice even more, lips brushing against his earlobe as you spoke. ‘And I’ve been told I’m pretty good at using it.’

Steve swallowed hard at your words, wondering if there was an implied proposition behind them. You didn’t know why you were teasing him; the kiss had just been the quickest way of keeping your dad from reaching that glass. But seeing him on this suit and letting him hold you against his body had you wondering if that had been the only reason.

Maybe it was the way he pushed you closer to his body, or how he sighed deeply against your skin while your eyes fixed on Mrs. Harrington over his shoulder, grabbing another glass from a tray and dropping the empty one she had on her hand. Maybe it was the fact you were still fond of her, or maybe for some strange reason, you wanted to save Steve from the embarrassment of seeing his mother like this.

So, before the glass could reach the floor, you started walking out of the room. Fingers subtly brushing his, so he’d get the hint to follow you. He heard the sound of glass shattering behind him, some exclamations, a familiar voice saying sorrysorrysorry. But none of that mattered.

As soon as you walked into the hallway, his hand wrapped around your arm, pushing you against the wooden wall next to the door, dim lights illuminating your profile. Steve’s brown eyes stayed on yours as his hand found your chin, silence filling the tense air between you two. He had pushed you so unexpectedly that one of the strips of your dress had fallen off your shoulder. His gaze followed the line of your collarbones before looking back at you, thumb pushing lightly so your mouth would open for him.

He made you breath him in first, noses brushing and lips ghosting as he pushed his body against yours. You couldn’t help but arch your eyebrows at the feeling of his hardened dick against your thigh, the realisation falling on your innocent eyes, a soft gasp leaving your lips. It killed him.

He leaned in then. Lips full of hatred but tongue aching to taste you as his thumb opened that sweet mouth of yours. His hand fell on your chest then, stroking your breast over the velvety fabric before making its way down to your leg. He briefly wondered why you smiled under his lips, until his hand found the lace of your black stockings and garter belt under your dress.

‘Fuck.’ He whispered desperately, the adrenaline of potentially getting caught running through his veins. ‘Let me see you, I wanna see you.’

His forehead rested against your temple as he looked down while his hand lifted the skirt of your dress, taking in the beautiful view of your boobs pushed up and the little black thong you were wearing that night. ‘Shit. Look at you, all dressed up to be fucked.’

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head subtly enough so your noses were brushing. ‘You don’t have to be so obscene about it, Harrington.’

His breathy laugh stroked your lips as his fingers wandered under your skirt.

‘I’ll tell you what’s obscene, princess.’ You couldn’t help but lift your chin when his thick fingers ventured under the lace of your underwear, three fingers stroking your soaked folds. ‘How fuckin’ wet this pretty pussy is for me. Now that is obscene.’

You could only close your eyes and let out a deep breath when he started fingering you, the reasons why you were here on the first place long forgotten. You let out a soft moan as the sounds of his fingers going in and out of you filled the hallway.

‘D’you hear that? Huh?’ His lips sucked the skin of the curve of your neck. ‘Bet you can get even wetter for me, can’t you?’

‘Steve.’ Your intention was to sound irritated at how cocky he was being, but it came out as a sweet moan, his fingers had found that spot inside your walls and you couldn’t help but tighten them in response.

‘Hmm, yes you can. I can feel it. Soakin’ wet on my hand.’ He was leaving kisses on your collarbones now, moving to the other side of your head so he could whisper to your ear. ‘I should leave you like this. A soakin’ mess, walkin’ ‘round my house with your pussy wet. Spoiled little brat. Shouldn’t even make you cum.’

You opened your eyes at his words, taking a manicured hand to his jaw so he could face you. You started moving your hips slowly as he kept fingering you, heavy eyelids over needy brown eyes looking back at you.

‘Fuck you, Harrington.’ The hand on his jaw moved to the back of his neck pushing his face towards you. ‘We both know you wanna make me cum so badly.’

He looked at you for a few seconds as his nose pushed against your cheek and his opened mouth sighed over yours. His digits kept going in and out of your pussy as he got impossibly closer to your body.

‘Want you to ask me.’ He admitted then.

‘Not fucking happening.’

‘C’mon, you little brat.’ His voice turned deeper as his thumb started to stroke your clit, his own hardness throbbing under his pants. You bit your lip to hold the moan that begged to leave your mouth. ‘Look at you, all whiny just for me. I know you can say it.’ You shook your head repetitively then, and he moved to look at you. ‘No? Why? Not used to ask for things, are we? That’s fine. I can teach you.’

What happened next was decisive in the events that unfolded in the next few weeks.

When he took his fingers out of you, you let out a breath of relief, thinking that you had somehow preserved some of your dignity in your little slip with Steve Harrington. What you didn’t really expect was seeing him get on his knees in front of you, your hands instinctively finding the brown locks of his hair when his mouth came in contact with your sensitive cunt.

‘F-Fuck.’ It was a whispery high-pitched thing, leaving your mouth as you pushed your back against the wall and his hands firmly squeezed your thighs to keep you obscenely open for him.

His flat tongue rubbed against your clit, and this time it was you who had to lift your dress to have a better look at the sight in front of you. Dark eyes and mouth hungrily eating you out while you looked down with your pretty pure stare and your eyebrows arched, innocent agony on your face.

‘That’s it.’ He whispered against your pussy when you started grinding against his tongue, hands gripping at his hair, words choked by his lips on yours. ‘That’s it.’

‘Steve.’ You whispered, knowing that you were losing. The other strip of your dress had fallen on your shoulder too, the subtle shade of your nipple peeking through the top of your dress, goosebumps all over your chest by how turned on you were.

‘Hmm?’ He kept licking you, sloppily and loudly.

Steve inserted two fingers inside you before start kissing up your pelvis and stomach, while your fingers still played with his hair.

‘Are you ready to be fucked?’ He said in between pecks to your skin. ‘Huh? Ready to ask for it?’

You licked your lips, hesitating. Your silence made him look up at you, and you subtly nodded. He didn’t stand up just yet, taking his time to pull your dress and underwear down your body, releasing your braless chest for him. You should’ve felt exposed as he helped you step out of the velvet piece of clothing, naked in a hallway where anyone could’ve seen you two. But the sight of Steve kneeling in front of you made you feel something worse than vulnerability; it made you feel powerful.

‘What do you want, huh?’ He buried his head in you once again, leaving a wet kiss on your pussy. ‘Tell me.’

‘Steve.’

‘Don’t you get fucking bratty on me, now.’ He said licking the space in between your leg and your lip. ‘Look how wet you are. You want to be fucked so badly it’s fucking embarrassing.’

You let out a breathy laugh then, looking down at him. His chin was over your belly button now, as your fingers played with his hair, taking it off his face before they traced a line from his cheekbone to his lips, shiny with your wetness. He softly pressed a kiss on them, a subtle thing that made the cheekiness on his eyes die down and your smile turn into a line.

What the fuck were you doing?

A distant noise made you lift your head, arms instinctively crossing over your body and your cheeks turning hot with anticipated embarrassment. Steve took your dress quickly, before taking your hand and leading you into the nearest room, closing the door behind him.

‘Stev–’ He didn’t let you finish, lips back on yours and hands undoing his belt with desperation as he led you to the bed. He was tired of begging you.

‘Lay down.’ He said unbuttoning his shirt. You did as he said, looking at the thin gold chain that hung from his now uncovered chest. Somehow the adrenaline from it all was making you dumb. ‘Uh-uh. On your front.’

You blinked many times at the way he felt so entitled to command you, not sure if you were going to give him the pleasure to. He removed his boxers then, but you refused to look at his dick. You refused to acknowledge how badly you wanted him to fuck you.

‘I don’t–’

‘Can you just fucking do as you’re told?’

His hands found your hips, effortlessly moving them you so you’d be laying on your front. One of his hands made his way to your pelvis between the bed and your skin, reaching your now swollen clit while you felt his hardness against your thigh. He started drawing circles on your bud then, his forehead resting against your neck as you gasped at the sudden stimulus.

‘See?’ He murmured, ‘Just wanna make you feel good. Are you gonna let me make you feel good, now?’

‘Uh-uh.’ You whispered; eyes shut at the pleasure overtaking your body. You had been teased for too long.

‘Let me see you.’

You looked back behind your shoulder, hair messy, lips swollen, and cheeks flushed. His eyes studied yours for a few seconds, the silent realisation of what you were doing falling in between you two. He positioned himself on your entrance then, both of you holding your breaths as his dick slowly stretched you out.

Steve shut his eyes and released a choked sigh, forehead resting against your temple once his dick was deeply buried inside you.

‘So fuckin’ tight.’ He whispered as he started to fuck you, hips crashing against your ass, slow but firm. ‘So fuckin’ tight for me.’

You were quiet on the way back to your dad’s, lost in your thoughts as you looked through the car’s window, uncertain darkness behind it. People did this kind of thing when they were in need of dazzling euphoria. They did this kind of thing when they craved for blissful intoxication. Not you, though. Never you. Until now.

‘Are you okay, flower?’ He asked, making you lose your train of thought.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You said smiling softly.

22 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

On Monday you were called into the principal’s office. You knew you’d find him sitting on the chair in front of Mrs. Halter, legs carelessly open and sweater rolled up to his elbows. What you didn’t expect was finding Mrs. Harrington sitting next to him.

‘Hello.’ You murmured.

She was sitting on the chair next to him, looking behind her shoulder and smiling at you.

‘Hey, sweetie.’

‘Hello, Mrs. Harrington.’ You murmured as you walked in, looking at the principal. ‘I’m sorry about my mother, Mrs. Halter. She landed in New York last night, but her flight has been delayed again.’

You didn’t look at Steve as you sat down on the chair on the other side of him, leaving him in the middle between his mother and you.

The principal placed both hands on the surface of her mahogany desk, looking at you two through her glasses.

‘I don’t like repeating myself. This is strike one for you, but this is the second time Mr. Harrington comes to this office for this kind of improper behavior. I can’t accept this, Martha.’

You noticed the way Mrs. Harrington looked at Steve, disappointment all over her face as he avoided her eyes. You bit your lip looking down at your pleated skirt. When you leaned in to kiss him it had seemed like a really good idea. Now you weren’t so sure about it. But you couldn’t explain Mrs. Halter why you did what you did.

Mrs. Harrington opened her mouth to say something, but you spoke first.

‘It was a stupid bet, Mrs. Halter. Steve didn’t even know about it.’ You rushed to say. ‘And if you want to know, my parents are already refusing to take me skying to the alps this year because of it.’

Steve bit the inside of his cheek at the way you sat straight with your hands over your crossed knees. You were using your diplomatic voice then, and the scene took him back to what his dad said the night of the party. Yes, you could be an amazing lawyer. You were hypocrite enough for the job.

‘What a nightmare.’ She said sarcastically.

‘Precisely.’ You replied.

She stood in silence for a few seconds. ‘Anything to say Mr. Harrington?’

He shook his head then, innocence all over his face as he pretended to hesitate on what to say. ‘Uh, it won’t happen again, Mrs. Halter.’

The three of you walked out of the office. Mrs. Halter let you go with a warning because you had never really been caught in any offensive conduct, and you had somehow managed to convince her to do the same for Steve.

‘I’m so sorry about that, sweetie.’ Murmured Mrs. Harrington while stroking your back. He was a few steps behind you, walking with his hand on his pockets. ‘I’ll talk to Steve about it, he can be so impulsive sometimes.’

You heard him scoff behind you. The blood rushing to your cheeks knowing he had heard her words.

‘It’s not like that.’ You murmured.

The three of you stopped in front of the school’s reception. Mrs. Harrington stroked your arms, standing in front of you. You studied her face then; she had aged gracefully. A few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, hair still voluminous and outfits as colourful and glamorous as they had been in the past.

‘I know my son.’ She said to you before eyeing him. You got the feeling she really didn’t. Steve rolled his eyes at her words as she took a step towards him, the clicking of her expensive heels echoing through the empty hallway.

‘Mom–’

‘Stay out of trouble, okay?’ Her voice was low when she said it, almost hurt at something you couldn’t quite grasp. She brushed the brown strands of hair that fell on his face. ‘I’ll see you next weekend.’

He simply nodded. You looked down to your shoes, unsaid words hanging in the silence between them.

‘Bye, sweetie.’ She said to you as she walked towards the exit.

‘Goodbye, Mrs. Harrington.’ You softly replied.

Steve couldn’t stand the way you bit your lip while playing with the sleeves of your sweater. He couldn’t stand the way you had gotten him out of trouble. He couldn’t stand his mom’s inexplicable affection towards you. And he couldn’t stand the sadness behind her eyes as he looked down at him with disappointment.

You opened your mouth to say something, but he started walking in the opposite direction, fingers brushing his messy locks as he hit your shoulder with his before heading to class.

‘Thought you said it wouldn’t happen again.’ You whispered as his hand found the curve of your ass under your skirt. Your noses were brushing as you laid against the lockers of the gym’s changing rooms, his sweaty body against you, one knee resting on the bench while the other stood straight.

‘You were the one who came to see me during practice, needy thing.’ His hand squeezed your butt cheek, nails leaving half-moons on your skin as his face was buried in your neck and your hands ran through his sweaty hair.

It wasn’t a lie. You just wanted to see if he was okay after what happened with Mrs. Harrington earlier. It’s not like you cared about him. But in the last few days you had realised how much in debt you felt to her for what she had done for you when you were a child, and she seemed to be getting worse and worse with the passing of years.

His lips on yours made you forget all about it, though. Wet tongues fighting for dominance as he put your soaking underwear aside and his dick teased your wet pussy. ‘This better be quick, okay? No fighting, no bratty attitude. Have to go back in twenty minutes.’

‘You’re so fucking full of your– Uh.’ You couldn’t help but moan when he went in with no warning, fucking you against the locker, your head hitting the metal behind it softly.

‘S exactly what I fucking mean. Can’t shut the fuck up and let yourself be fucked, can you?’

He pushed in deeper as you rolled your eyes at how full your felt, back arching at the sweet sensation of your walls closing around his length.

‘N-No.’ You said in between breaths. ‘Wouldn’t be fun that way.’

To your surprise, he laughed against you ear as he fucked you deeper and deeper, your walls getting wetter by the stimulation. ‘So fucking rude aren’t you? Gonna fuck that brattinness out of you. Gonna– Shit. Gonna ruin’ you.’

‘Try.’

‘What did you just fucking say?’ He took his face out of its hiding place to look at you. But you didn’t reply, instead you took the opportunity to push him down, body falling on the bench as you moved to position yourself on top of him.

You sat on his dick then, the sudden friction making him hit his head against the metal door behind him, your open palm next to it to support yourself. You started moving your hips, grinding on him as his hands found your ass, squeezing again.

‘Shhh-Shit.’ he said under his breath as you followed his mouth with yours.

‘I said try, Harrington.’ You whispered then.

‘Fuck you.’ He said under his breath. His hands squeezed even harder as you started bouncing, firmly and deeply, making him release a soft growl.

‘You’re already doing it.’ You said as he started guiding your hips just how he wanted while you tried to hit that spot you liked with his cock. Both of you using each other’s bodies to reach that sweet point of no return.

He laughed against your neck, a low thing eclipsed by the noises of skin against skin and the quiet moans you were fighting to hold in. A few minutes of sighs, whines and hard gulps passed while you felt your skin fill with goosebumps and getting sweaty at the same time. Your cheek pressed against his, mouth close to his ear to he could hear your desperate moans as you got closer.

‘Steve.’

‘I know. Fuck, I know.’ His arms wrapped around you, holding you impossibly closer to his body. ‘You feel so fucking good. Touch your pussy for me, yeah? Can you do that? Can you fucking do as you’re told for once?’

You were grateful he wasn’t looking at your face, rolling your eyes in pleasure at the way his voice turned deeper the more impatient he became. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when your hand reached under your skirt, drawing soft circles over your clit.

‘Good girl.’ He said in between heavy breaths. Your hips and knees started to shake as you got closer to your orgasm. ‘Yeah, that’s a good girl. That’s a good girl. Let me see you.’

You didn’t know why you were giving in so easily, head moving to place your forehead on his as he controlled the rhythmic speed that was working for you two. He started nodding encouragingly, head resting on the locker behind him to enjoy the way your eyebrows arched, needy eyes looking into the sweet brown of his.

‘Fuck.’ You whispered. ‘FuckFuckFuck.’

Your eyes shut hard, nails digging on the exposed skin of his shoulder as you felt the walls of your cunt tighten. He squeezed your ass once more, pushing your lower back towards him before you felt his hot release inside you. A mess of sticky thighs and heavy breaths filling the changing room.

‘Move.’ He said squeezing your hips. You did as he said, ears ringing and soreness starting to burn in between your legs. You sat on the bench with your back against the lockers, catching your breath as he fixed his gym shorts. ‘Don’t come here for this again, okay?’

You frowned then, staying silent for a long second before you scoffed.

‘Are you being serious right now?’

He looked up and down at you before cleaning his face with a towel.

‘What? I told you I only had twenty minutes. And I don’t wanna get caught again. I actually want to graduate, you know?’

You stood up from the bench, blinking repeatedly at nothing in particular, feeling stupid out of sudden. You took a few steps forwards to be face to face with him.

‘You’re a fucking asshole.’

Steve followed your silhouette with his eyes as you walked out of the changing rooms.

18 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

You had finals before Christmas break, so you tried to study with your thighs pressed under your desk, ignoring the sex flashbacks that often visited you at night when you were alone in bed.

You hadn’t spoken to Steve since Monday, and your determined aims to ignore him brought you memories from the period where your dad was in rehab. Spotting him in between the mess of uniforms, lowering your gaze if you walked next to him in a hallway, holding your breath if his cedarwood cologne invaded your lungs when you walked into a classroom he had been in before.

Everything was fine. You had a little slip no one knew about. You hadn’t been caught, and you were about to get a well-deserved break after months of studying until feeling your head would explode. You’d find someone else to fuck in a few months and it would all be forgotten.

But Steve wasn’t going to let you forget it. He’d still look right at you whenever your walked into the classes you shared, being annoyingly obvious by tilting his head a little and lifting his eyebrows the counted times your eyes met his. You learned to dodge his shoulder when he walked past you, and a couple of times he felt the urge to grab your elbow, so you’d look back at him to ask you what the fuck your problem was.

You endured it with frustrated sighs, rolling your eyes when no one saw you, and staying as long as you could in your dorm studying. You had a lot to look forward to. Your mom would come pick you up on Friday and you’d go to the city over the weekend to buy Christmas presents. You’d go to the Prada store together just like you did every year, and order room service while trying on all the new moisturisers she’d get.

Every winter you tried to forget December 1976, and so far, every winter you succeeded. Fucking Steve Harrington a couple of times wasn’t going to prevent you from succeeding once again.

But on Friday, when you left your room and walked out of the reception with your suitcase, your smile fell at the sight of a man in a suit holding a sign with your name in it. Worse than that, it wasn’t just your name on the sign.

Steve lifted his eyebrows when you walked out, he was leaning against the black car with his arms crossed, wearing jeans and a camel sweater. You blinked many times at the man in front you, a confusing frown adorning your face.

‘Hello, Miss–’

‘This must be a mistake.’ You interrupted him. ‘I-I’m sorry, I was supposed to be picked up by my–’

‘Your mother kindly asked the Harrington family to pick you up this weekend. I’ll make sure to drive you home. You have nothing to worry about.’

‘Kindly asked–’ You whispered under your breath, eyes stinging and anxiety rushing to your chest. ‘Excuse me.’

Steve frowned when you left your bags in front of the chauffeur, walking back inside the school, boots clicking over the mahogany wooden tiles.

‘Get the bags inside, Jack.’ He told the man in the suit. ‘Just gonna check what’s going on now.’

You stood in front of the payphone, holding the handset against your ear as the tears pooled in your eyes.

‘Pickup,pickup,pickup.’ You repeated to yourself tapping your heel against the floor. A few minutes passed as your ears only focused on the beeping of the line and the beating of your heart.

‘Hello?’ You let out a deep breath of relief. ‘Hello?’

‘D-Dad.’ You tried to control your voice, but it came out as a shaky breath.

‘Hey, flower.’ He said, he sounded okay. You were certain he sounded okay. ‘Is everything good? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’ You laughed then, cleaning your cheek with the back of your hand. ‘I-I’m sorry. I just, I was just being silly. Didn’t remember who was picking me up this weekend.’

‘Oh.’ He said. ‘Well, technically is your mother, but I can come pick you up if you want to? I thought you were going Christmas shopping tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’ You rushed to say. ‘Yes, we are. I just– I think I’ll just leave with Steve instead. He’s going to Hawkins anyways.’

‘Sounds good then. Give me a call when you’re home safe. Okay, flower?’

You nodded as if he could see you. ‘Sure, dad.’

‘Bye. Love you.’ You smiled, a breathy laugh mixing with your tears.

‘Love you, dad.’

You cleaned your nose with the back of your hand as you hung the phone. You were about to turn around when a hand resting on the top of the payphone startled you.

‘What’s going on?’ You looked up to find Steve’s brown stare, eyebrows frowning at the sight of your watery eyes. ‘Wha– Why are you crying?’

You shook your head in response, moving to walk back to the parking lot.

‘Let’s just go home, Steve.’

‘No.’ He grabbed your elbow, relieved that he finally had a reason to do it. ‘What’s wrong?’

You avoided his eyes, looking to your side, sounding exhausted when you spoke. ‘Steve, I don’t wanna do this right now. Can we go home?’

He didn’t reply, so you looked back at him while you got rid of his grip. ‘Please?’

His hand fell on his side as he nodded.

‘There you are!’ Said your mother as soon as the car parked in front of the Harrington’s house, open arms ready for you. She looked annoyingly gorgeous wearing her red turtleneck and pearl earrings. Mrs. Harrington was standing next to her, looking just as beautiful with a martini glass on her hand.

‘You could’ve told me you weren’t picking me up.’ You said partly returning the hug as her perfume surrounded you.

‘Oh, don’t be silly.’ She took a step back to have a better look at you. ‘Martha invited us for dinner, and I thought it’d be easy if you came with Steve rather than driving all the way there.’

Steve climbed the steps of the entrance, opening the door for the three of you.

‘Right.’ You said under your breath as you walked into the mansion’s entrance. You smiled at Mrs. Harrington then, it was supposed to be a polite gesture, but the drink on her hand only made you feel sad.

‘Are you okay, sweetie?’ She said arching her eyebrows.

You nodded subtly. ‘M just tired.’

‘Why don’t you take a nap in the guests’ room?’ She said squeezing your shoulder, the glass had made her hand cold. ‘Or I can ask a maid to prepare you a bath?’

Steve’s eyes found yours then, standing against the stair’s banister with his hands in his pockets. He frowned at the way you blinked many times, trying to dissimulate your blurry gaze. Without the people, the music and the decorations from last weekend’s party, this place made you feel as if you were ten years old again.

It had never occurred to him you still remembered that one time he prepared you the bath with the pink bubbles. The way you had talked in your sleep while the excitement of the Christmas morning made him wide awake. Your pink pyjamas, having hot chocolate for breakfast. His mother braiding your hair.

The breakdown she had when he asked for a sister right after you left.

‘I’ll take the guest room, please.’ You whispered.

‘I think I made clear I’m not in the mood to deal with you, Steve.’ You said walking down the hallway to get to the guest room.

‘As if I’m ever in the mood to deal with you.’ You heard him say behind you.

You let out a deep breath, rolling your eyes as you walked inside the room. You knew he wasn’t going to leave just like that, so you threw your bag on the little armchair and started undressing.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ You said throwing your jeans on top of your bag. ‘I’m trying to get ready for a nap.’

‘Oh, yeah. You sure as hell are.’

You were left on your panties and your matching cami top, heat rising to your cheeks when you realised you looked exactly as if you had chosen the set with the intention of having sex.

Steve took a few steps towards you, a cocky smile on his face while he studied you. Your eyelids were slightly puffy, and he wished he could just brush his thumbs over them, but there were certain types of touch he knew he was not allowed to give you.

‘Is this your idea of teasing?’ He asked.

You rolled your eyes as you walked to the bed.

‘Not everything is about you, Steve.’

You had just put the covers over your legs when you heard the noise of his belt dropping on the floor.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ You asked as he walked around the bed wearing only his boxers.

‘Getting ready for a nap.’ He said getting under the covers.

You let out a sigh as you looked at the ceiling, feeling his weight on the mattress. You were fighting hard not to smile. You were fighting hard not to cry.

He knew something was going on, but he couldn’t just ask. That’s not what you two did. He wasn’t sure what you did was, but it certainly didn’t involve deep, personal conversations. So that’s why he was careful when his fingers started brushing the skin of your thigh.

You shut your eyes at his touch, letting out a deep breath as his hand traced a line from your knee to your hipbone. You hated to admit it, but it was actually working, making your body relax. Steve took a look at your profile, following the line from your forehead to your chest, pebbly nipples showing through the pattern of pink flowers on your top, a little ribbon in between your breasts. He could’ve just stayed there looking at every single hair of your body turn into a goosebump and that would’ve been enough.

‘You don’t fucking get to time it.’

Your voice made him lift his eyes back at you. ‘What?’

‘You don’t get to time how long we have sex for.’ You said then. ‘Or where. You were a fucking dick last time.’

‘Oh, really?’ He said sarcastically, lifting his eyebrows at your boldness. His hand moved from your thigh to the hem of your panties then, playing with the lacy fabric. ‘What else?’

You rolled your eyes at the way you felt yourself getting wet already. He couldn’t help but look at your mouth when you licked your lips to speak again, scoffing as you pondered about where to start.

‘It makes me fucking angry when you boss me around.’

The idiotic smile on his face almost made you roll your eyes again if it wasn’t for the fact that his fingers had found the wet patch on your underwear, thick digits rubbing the gentlest circles on them.

He moved so his face was closer to you then, breath brushing on your ear as he whispered.

‘Really? ‘Cause I think it makes you fucking wet, and that is what makes you angry.’

You wouldn’t have been able to keep in the wetness that damped your underwear then, your body betraying you in the filthiest of ways as Steve’s deep laugh echoed in your ear.

He moved, making you resist the urge to cross your legs at the absence of his fingers. Steve took his own sweet time, and you had had such a long day that you just let him wrap his fingers on each ankle and place them on either side of his legs as he kneeled in between them. He brushed his hair with his fingers, taking in the sight in front of him.

Your hair falling on the pillowcase, your puffy glossy eyes, the curve of your neck turning into the line of your collarbones. Your perfect nipples hard and sensitive under the fabric of your top, the space between its hem and the lace of your panties. That perfect damp spot turning wetter and wetter every second. His hand cupped your cheek then, thumb brushing your lower lip that he had been thinking about that same morning. Tense silence falling like snow on Christmas Day.

‘You don’t get to tell me what to do.’ He said.

He wanted you to believe him, but your eyes were looking at the bulge in his boxers, then back at his brown eyes, driving him insane. Controlling every single reaction of his touch starved skin. It was the way you so willingly nodded at his words that seemed suspicious to him.

‘You don’t believe me?’ He asked, lifting his eyebrows.

You sat on your elbows then, looking at him with eyes full of irreverence. ‘Of course, I believe you.’

It was the first time he was able to take his own time with you, getting rid of your panties and focusing on the thread of wetness still connected to your underwear when he finally took them off your ankles.

‘You’re lying.’ It was an accusation, but it sounded soft, almost sweet.

His fingers stroked your legs from your knees to your thighs, squeezing there before brushing your puffy clit just lightly, your head falling back onto the pillow at the sensual touch. ‘Why are you fucking lying?’

‘M not– Shit, Steve.’ You lifted your head to find his head buried in between your legs, tongue playfully stroking your clit. ‘Why can’t you just fucking warn me before doing that?’

He laughed softly, breath stroking your cunt just nicely. Two of his fingers found their way inside you, making you squeeze your wet walls around them as you arched your back.

‘You’re not listening. You don’t get to fucking tell me what to do.’He repeated before burying his face in between your legs again, mouth hungrily eating you out as you grabbed your top with your fists, the movement causing you to expose your breasts slightly.

‘Steve–’ You moaned.

‘Shhh.’ He whispered against your pussy while adding a third finger inside you. ‘Shut the fuck up. You don’t want them to know I’m eating your pretty cunt, do you?’ You shook your head in response. ‘No, of course you don’t, needy thing. So stay fucking quiet while I eat you, then.’

‘You’re such a piece of shit.’ You said in between heavy breaths.

‘And you’re a needy brat that’d do anything to get fucked. Guess we deserve each other.’

His flat tongue licked your slit then, reaching your puffy clit and he kept it exposed and wet for you to grind on it. You heard him swallow, and the sound just made you even wetter, looking down at him as he made out with your pussy. You were tired of fighting, and he was right about something. At that point, you’d do anything to get fucked.

So, you just let him take care of it. You made sure to keep your moans low as he kept fingering you and eating you out. Only the wet sounds of his mouth on you and his fingers getting in and out of your pussy filling the room.

And he got lost in it. In your perfume and your taste, in the way you caged him with your legs, wanting him closer. In the needy noises you were fighting to keep in, coming out as whispery whines.

‘Such a sweet cunt, fuck.’ He whispered against it, overindulging every single nerve of the shiny skin that he knew deserved to be devoured. It was as if you didn’t even exist anymore, mouth only focused on the swollen folds in front of him.

A gasp left your lips as you got closer, hands grabbing onto locks of brown hair and legs trying to open impossibly wider. Steve pushed your thigh with his free hand, and you looked down at him to take in the pretty sight in front of you. Eyes shut in concentration, shiny lips hungry and swollen. He was trying to prove something to you, and in the process, he was losing.

‘That’s it.’ You said in a high-pitched whispery moan. ‘Yeah. Eat me just like that. Fuck. Let me just–’ You pushed his head firmly against you and he moaned. ‘Hmm. You like that, don’t you? Look at me, Steve.’

He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe he was just pussy drunk on you, or maybe it was the way you said it in such a quiet yet demanding manner. Not like you wanted it, but like you needed it. But he lifted his eyes look at you. He gave in. He couldn’t just not.

You didn’t expect him to, but his surrender was probably what sent you to the edge. Hips moving, back arching, and legs closing over his head as your pussy clenched and throbbed in sweet pleasure.

You both exhaled loudly when the moment died down. He moved from your legs, cleaning his face with the back of his hand as you reached for your panties. You felt weird then, as if you had to thank him or something.

The thought made you even more flushed. You looked up at him, an awkward laugh leaving you lips that provoked the same response in him.

‘Do you want me to–’

‘Nah.’ He shook his head, checking the watch on his wrist. ‘Dinner will be served in a few minutes so we better hurry.’

‘What?’ You said standing up from the bed to reach for your jeans. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you say something?’

Steve put his hands on his hips then, looking at you from the bed with an amused expression.

‘Thought you didn’t want me to fucking time you.’

11 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

Next week, you sat down for your finals in the mornings and met Steve in the evenings to relieve stress. At least that’s what you were telling yourself.

He visited you in your dorms rather than you going to his, because it would’ve been more obvious that way, high on the thrill of a shared secret. And in a mess of love bites, tongues and moans you started to memorize each other’s skin.

You’d look both ways in the hallway before grabbing the neck of his sweater and pulling him in, the smell of coffee lingering in the air as his lips met yours, walking you backwards to your bed and pushing you on top of your open books.

The days he had basketball practice or had gone swimming, he took it slow, letting you take over just a little, tired brown eyes looking up at you as you bounced on him, tangled hair framing your face while you sucked on his thumb. But most times he fucked you while you still wore your uniform, too needy to waste any time undressing you, just removing your underwear and burying his face on your neck, hands squeezing your thighs while you sat on your desk, your desperate moans making him even more impatient.

Steve was so overtaken by temptation that he missed the signs. He should’ve noticed that Friday afternoon, when he knocked on your door and you opened it with an irritated face.

‘Oh, great.’ You scoffed before walking back into your room. You didn’t look at him with the usual darkness behind your eyes or pull his sweater the way you had done the last few days. You just walked back inside.

He should’ve known that things were going downhill, because he followed you instead of leaving as he would’ve done in any other situation with any other girl. But something in his chest stung at the way you had greeted him, and he couldn’t stand it.

‘What the fuck is your problem?’ He said closing the door behind him.

Your room was a mess of books and clothes, a couple of bags on the bed that you were preparing for when you stayed over at your dad’s this weekend.

‘Nothing, I just–’ You shook your head, grabbing a couple of pants from the floor. ‘I totally fucked up on my Spanish test today.’

Steve’s silence made you turn your back to him. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

‘S that all? That’s the reason why you’re being so bitchy right now?’

You held a breath while taking some more clothes from your bed, not bothering about folding them and throwing them inside the bags.

‘Yes, Steve. Some of us actually give a shit about school, you know?’

‘I give a shit.’ He said walking towards you, an uncomfortable feeling of frustration growing on his chest as you hid your eyes from him. He stood next to you with his hands in his pockets. ‘But you need to pull that stick out of your ass. You can’t be the best at everything.’

You clinched your jaw then, eyes blinking and anger rising to your chest. You didn’t know why, but you thought about your dad sitting on the classroom looking at your grades while he spoke to your teacher, and something in your stomach twisted.

‘You wouldn’t get it.’ You said under your breath, closing the zip of your bag.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t get it?’ He scoffed while his hands found your hips.

Only then your eyes landed on his face, making you hold your breath. He had changed his uniform already, a burgundy sweater with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The softness of it all made you uncomfortably warm, arms crossing on your chest as you look to your side. But Steve wasn’t having any of that, lifting your chin with his thumb so you would look at him. 

‘Stop being so stuck-up.’ He said. ‘You’ll be fine.’

You don’t know why you leaned in then, crashing your lips with his and running your fingers through his brown strands of hair. Maybe you just needed to drain your anger, or maybe it was the fact that his patronizing attitude had made your eyes water, and you didn’t want him to notice. Steve held you closer, hands wandering under your skirt, gently squeezing your butt cheek as you kissed him with something worse than hatred. Something darker than desire.

‘Fuck– Did you just fucking bite me?’ He said leaning back.

You laughed softly, cleaning your mouth with the back of your hand as you moved to lay on the bed with your legs partly opened, a sweet invitation to make the whole thing much worse than it already was. ‘You kind of deserved it.’

He scoffed, eyebrows lifting slightly as he undid his belt in that cocky way of his, while you enjoyed the view of his flushed cheeks and swollen lower lip. You could’ve sworn there was a smile hiding behind it when he stood in between your legs and put one hand on each of your knees.

‘You don’t get to decide that.’ He said opening your legs, fingers brushing your skin as they drew a line upwards.

His fingers found the lace of your panties, pulling them down slowly, pretty brown eyes focused on the wet patch in the middle of the fabric he threw on the floor. He lifted the fabric of your skirt to peek into your soaked folds letting out a longing sigh, and you felt your nipples turn harder under your bra.

You saw him lean towards your centre and you held your breath, craving for his touch, but his lips landed on the inner side of your thigh, where his mouth sucked hard to leave a love bite. He felt the way your hips sank on the mattress, longing for any type of touch, but his hands only sneaked into your skirt to stroke the skin over your hipbones.

‘Hmm. Spoiled girl. What am I gonna do with you?’ He whispered against your skin, nose brushing as he left a trail of kisses up your stomach, avoiding your needy core. ‘Do you think maybe getting fucked is gonna fix that bitchy attitude?’

He moved to get on top of you, brown strands of hair tickling your forehead as he studied your face. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes when you felt the tip of his cock on your entrance, teasing your clit with soft strokes. Steve tilted his head to have a better look at you, enjoying the way your breath had turned heavier.

‘Answer me.’

Your eyes hid from his then, suddenly turning shy. You didn’t see the way he frowned at your change of mood, and he wondered if you had maybe changed your mind. If your mood had to do with something that wasn’t the test. But a second later you looked up at him with that darkness he knew so well, and you pulled the neck of his sweater towards you so his lips would brush yours, giving him what he had been wanting since the moment he stood up behind your door.

‘Maybe.’ You whispered against his lips. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Hmm. Need a better answer.’ He said, the tip of his cock already on your entrance. ‘Maybe an apology for bein’ so fucking irritating.’

He started slowly inserting his dick, teasing you and making you lift your chin in response.

‘Steve.’ You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking him to fix everything with his touch.

‘…Talkin’ about tests ‘n shit when we could’ve been doin’ this since I got here.’ He buried his head on your neck then, slowly getting carried away by the way your walls were already tightening around him. A breathy laugh left his lips, as he kept teasing you with his dirty talk. ‘Little Miss Perfect. Can’t stand not winning for once, huh?’

You released the breath you were holding when he finally pushed himself inside you, shutting your eyes hard as he started to fuck you slowly. You moved your head to brush your nose with his, and he took the opportunity to look at you while you kept your eyes closed; the way your eyebrows arched in a beautiful, desperate frown. The needy breathes leaving your mouth, mimicking the rhythm in which he fucked you.

‘You’re so mean to me.’

It was a whispery whine. A mess of needy, breathy words that he wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t this close, if he hadn’t been looking at your face as you said it. He leaned in then, softly pecking your mouth.

‘I’m so good to you.’ You whispered against his lips, opening your eyes just slightly as you wrapped your legs around him. He looked at you with heavy eyelids, brown stare lost in the way your innocent eyes looked up at him. ‘I’m so good to you and you’re so mean to me.’

He should’ve known then, by the way his heart was beating fast against his ribs. By the way he instinctively cupped your face with his hand, thinking you were the sweetest thing he’d ever fucked.

‘How else am I gonna make you cum, huh?’ He whispered back. You laughed softly at his words and his eyes lit up as he smiled. ‘Wanna make you feel good. You’ve had a hard day, right?’

You nodded subtly, closing your eyes at the tender touch of his thumb rubbing your cheek softly.

‘S okay, needy girl. ‘M gonna fuck that stress out of you, okay?’ He whispered against your lips as he buried his dick deeper inside you, gaining speed. You let out a moan at the sudden change of rhythm, arching your back as you got exactly what you needed. ‘You’re taking me so well. Feelin’– Feelin’ so goddamn tight around me.’ Heavy breaths leaving his mouth as he tried not to get carried away again. ‘Did you touch yourself a little before I came here?’

You swallowed hard as you wrapped your legs even tighter around his hips, urgently nodding.  ‘S okay. Told you it was gonna help. See how good it feels when you do as I say?’

You didn’t reply to his arrogant remarks, but you did dig your nails deep into his freckled back underneath his sweater, growing needier as his speed increased and things came back to the way they always were between you two.

‘Let me see you.’ He whispered. ‘Keep your eyes open. I– I wanna see you.’

You did as he said, fist holding hard onto his sweater, looking deep into his eyes while your vision turned blurry and the pleasure took over your body. ‘Needy thing’s been so tense lately, huh? Cum for me. Look at you. Fuck, look at you.’

9 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

You should’ve been suspicious by the fact Steve sent his driver to get you. You had woken up that Sunday and put on your comfiest clothes when the ringing bell made you frown your eyebrows. On Sunday the staff took the day off, and your dad went golfing, so you walked down the stairs of the lonely mansion to find Jack standing in his normal clothes, the absence of his usual suit making you narrow your eyes.

‘Good morning, Miss.’

‘Hi.’ You said shyly. ‘I thought you didn’t work weekends.’

The blood rushed to your cheeks by your stupid comment.

‘I usually don’t.’ He said. You could see he was repressing a smile. You realised then that this man was a hundred percent aware that you were fucking the son of his boss.

‘You could’ve called.’ You said.

He was standing against the door frame of his room, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt over his body, looking at you checking the movie tapes scattered around his TV.

He shrugged. ‘Figured I’d just send Jack since we had breakfast together.’

The truth was, he didn’t know what else to do. He had woken up that morning wishing for once to be at the school. He was sure he was getting a cold; the staff was off, and his parents were away on a trip. The house was so intolerably deserted that he knew the echoing silence was going to drive him insane. But now you were here.

He should’ve realised then.

You stood silent for a few seconds, walking around the bed, and sitting over the teal bedsheets.

‘He knows.’

Steve let out a soft laugh. ‘He doesn’t know.’

‘He fucking knows.’ You said with a cheeky smile you were trying to hide, making his wider. ‘He drove me here and left. Believe me, he knows.’

He walked into the room, sitting on the chair of his mahogany desk opposite to your spot on the bed to have a better look at you. Strands of brown hair falling on his forehead, cheeks unusually flushed making you frown your eyebrows.

‘Is that a problem?’ He asked.

His eyes followed your body as you moved from the bed, knees on the floor of his bedroom as you crawled towards him. You enjoyed the way his chest moved when he sighed at the sight of you, stare following the perfect line from your back to your ass, eyelids heavy over brown eyes as you made your way to him in silence.

‘I don’t think so.’ You said sitting on your knees in front of the chair. Your delicate cold fingers found the cord of his sweatpants, carefully undoing it before moving the fabric down, freeing his already hard cock. His body filled with goosebumps with anticipation, dying to be inside your mouth.

Steve let out a deep breath at the sight in front of him. He had the whole day, the whole day for you to fuck in every single room of his lonely depressing house. His hands reached for your face as you started stroking his dick, but you couldn’t ignore the subtle shake of them as they moved to cup your face.

‘Why are you shaking?’ You said taking one of your hands over his on your face. But he simply shrugged, too mesmerized by the sight of your pretty mouth to answer you. ‘Steve, are you sick?’

He shook his head, but you kneeled forwards to put a hand on his neck to check his temperature. ‘You’re burni–’

‘Hey,’ He wrapped his fingers around your wrist. ‘It’s nothing, okay? Don’t worry about it. It’s just a cold.’

‘We shouldn’t be doing this.’ You said then, standing up. His eyes followed you, turning soft at the sudden rejection.

‘Hey– No.’ His tone was urgent while he fixed his sweatpants. ‘C’mon, I’m fine.’

You crossed your arms over your waist, raising one of your eyebrows. ‘I’m not doing this unless you take something, Steve. I’m sure you’ve got a fever.’

He rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh. ‘Right, okay.’

He didn’t say anything when you followed him down the hallway. But as you walked behind him, your mind took you back to eight years ago, walking past the bathroom where Steve had prepared you a bath, feeling the softness of the carpet under your feet, until you both made it to his parents’ bedroom.

You tried to hide your curiosity as you looked around that room you hadn’t really been in before, only imagining the corners of it you never got to see through the memories of your childhood. You remembered it bigger and darker. The empty fireplace and the king size bed illuminated in blue shades of winter since Steve didn’t bother turning the lights on when he walked in.

You followed him into the toilet as he opened the mirror cabinet, looking through the medicines. Standing next to him, you tried to read the labels on the bottles of pills, trying to find anything that could help with a mild cold.

‘Oh.’ You said lifting a hand and taking a glass bottle. ‘Do you have a cough?’

Steve grabbed the bottle from you then, leaving your empty hand in the air by the sudden reaction.

‘No.’ He said putting it back into its place.

You frowned next to him, but he didn’t look at you as he grabbed a little plastic bottle and placed it on the sink.

‘I, uh, I think it won’t hurt to have some. Just to prevent a cough, you know.’ The gesture had caught you so off guard you voice had come out softer than you intended.

He shook his head slightly, avoiding your eyes as he picked the glass on the counter and filled it with water from the sink. You instinctively took a step to your side, looking for his eyes with yours.

‘That’s not cough syrup.’ He simply said twisting the bottle’s lid and taking two pills out.

You realised what he meant as he threw his head back and drank the water swallowing the pills. How could you not? You more than anyone knew what it was like to find stashes of alcohol in the most random places. Behind the bookshelf, among your mom’s shoes collection, under your bed. Between your dolls.

He cleaned his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes focused on the way his hand emptied the remaining water down the sink. An awkward silence fell between you two as his hands rested on either side of the counter.

‘Do you think I don’t know my mom’s an alcoholic?’

The coldness of his tone didn’t surprise you, but you weren’t used to it, not when it came to this. You didn’t blame him though; you’d been in his position before. You knew the resentment overflowing his tone wasn’t directed at you.

‘I–’ Your throat was dry as you whispered, so you had to swallow hard before speaking again. ‘I thought maybe you just… ignored it.’

He scoffed, a bitter smile in his face as he shook his head and turned around to lean his back against the sink. He still didn’t dare to look at you. He didn’t know if he would be able to stand your soft stare when all he felt was anger. ‘Wish that was the case.’

You nodded in silence, cleaning your sweaty hands on your leggings.

Steve’s mind could only focus on the coldness of the bathroom and his parents’ room. On the fact he had pathetically had breakfast with the chauffeur that day, who had his own family he went to see after doing him the favour of picking you up from your dad’s place. He was sick and no one knew. He probably would’ve forgotten to take something if it wasn’t for you.

That realization didn’t make him feel comfortable.

‘I, uh– I’m actually not feeling well.’ He said running his fingers through his hair and looking down to the bathroom’s tiles. ‘Sorry. I killed the mood.’

You shook your head, voice still soft as you spoke. ‘Don’t apologize.’

He finally looked at you. It was like being ten years old again, almost hoping that if he blinked, he might get to see you wearing your pink pyjamas. He couldn’t stand the sadness in your eyes, your silent sympathy. But he didn’t want you to understand him. In fact, he wished then that you didn’t.

He remembered the little girl that got lost in a mess of uniforms after she came back to school in January 1977, the anger on his chest that first day after Christmas break when he saw you climb out of a black car all by yourself, too many bags for such a little girl. The fight his parents had, one that he had triggered when he mentioned how much he’d love a sister after you left. You turned into just another ghost of childhood.

You noticed how the soft smile on his lips was fighting to make it to his eyes as he looked down to his hands again. ‘You don’t, uh– You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to. I just don’t feel like doing stuff anymore.’

Your hands craved for the feeling of running them through his messy hair, cheeks turning even redder with the fever and the anger. But all you did was nod, and he opened his palm pointing at the door, inviting you to walk out first. You felt his steps behind you as you left his parents’ room in silence, coming back to the present, and pretending this house wasn’t haunted by the same ghosts that once wandered in yours.

Steve and you sat in front of the TV on opposite ends of the couch. You thought you two could hang out without making it awkward, but after half an hour of pretending to watch a Christmas movie, you snorted a laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

‘You’re unbearable.’ He said still looking at the TV while his chin rested on his hand and his elbow on the couch’s arm.

‘I’m sorry.’ You said playing with the corner of the blanket that covered your legs. ‘I just– I find it funny how we spent last week fucking almost every day, but we can’t even watch TV together.’

‘Well, that’s because you were “stressed” with finals.’ He said drawing quotes in the air.

‘I was stre– Oh, damn.’ You stopped yourself when you saw the heaviness on his eyelids over his glossy brown pupils. ‘You look like shit.’

He let out a weak laugh, taking his fingers to his eyes. ‘Thanks.’

‘You need to lay down, Steve.’ You said, moving slightly to spread half of the blanket over him. Your body that close from his made him ever warmer, but he wasn’t going to admit that. You palm lifted to check his temperature, placing it on his forehead, your perfume starting to drive him crazy as you sat next to him. Maybe he should’ve fucked you, he was sure that would’ve helped. ‘You still have a fever.’

‘M fine.’ He said closing his eyes at your touch.

‘Can’t you just fucking do as you’re told?’

He opened his eyes to find you smiling cheekily, like a child. He was trying to supress his own smile, but you didn’t let him. Not when you licked your lips with so much sassiness, looking back at the TV to avoid his eyes.

‘Right.’ He said with fake irritation. ‘You got me.’

You weren’t expecting him to move to place his head on your lap, but you didn’t protest, putting the blanket over his body and noticing the slight shake of his hands as he wrapped himself with it. You followed his pretty profile with your eyes, dying to count the freckles on his neck. Steve sighed at the comfort of your fingers in his hair, looking annoyingly cozy under your touch.

‘See how good it feels when you do as I say?’ You mocked him as your fingers ran through the brown strands.

‘Jesus.’ He said taking his hands to his face. You could’ve sworn he was turning even redder under the blanket. ‘Stop. Please. Now.’

Your laugh echoed through the walls of the house like jingle bells as you made a mess of his hair and he shut his eyes in embarrassment. He should’ve realised then, as you adjusted yourself to be more comfortable on the couch, that the rules were bending, and the lines were being crossed. But your smell was everywhere, and he was exhausted and so, so cold. He could hear the pattern of your breath from where he was, and the distant noises of the TV.

He woke up in total darkness. The digital clock next to the TV showed it was eight in the evening. His fever had lowered, and he felt sweaty and in urgent need of a shower. There was an untouched glass of water on the coffee table on top of a note saying there’s soup in the kitchen.

He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of your handwriting.

The phone ringed twice before he heard your voice on the other side.

‘Hello?’

‘I didn’t know you could cook.’ He said.

He swore he could hear you smile on the other side of the line.

‘I don’t.’ You laughed softly. ‘Dad brought it for you when I called him to pick me up. Are you feeling better?’

It took him a few seconds to reply, he had to take a breath to try to ignore the feeling in his chest.

‘Yeah. Just wanted to check you’d gotten home safe.’

He shut his eyes hard then, taking a hand to his face and hoping you didn’t misunderstand his words, but the short pause on the other side of the line made him think otherwise.

‘Right.’

‘Hey, uh, my parents just got here.’ He said then, eyes already used to the lonely darkness that surrounded him. ‘I’m gonna check on them. I’ll see you later.’

‘Yeah. See you later, Steve.’ He heard you take a deep breath. ‘Get well soon.’

‘Thanks.’

He was still holding the phone’s handset against his ear when he heard you hang up.

He should’ve realised then.

3 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

The annual Christmas gala at the Country Club was supposed to be fun. Each year your mother commissioned your dresses in September, and every two weekends you visited the designer’s studio in the city to try them on. You usually spent all day getting your hair and nails done, and she overindulged you with desserts and nice food. It all sounded nice if it wasn’t for the fact that it was the one day of the year where your parents tended to argue the most.

You sighed silently in the limo as you sat in between them two. The tense silence was killing you, after an argument about your college applications had escalated into a fight about things they read on the newspapers: your dad’s new girlfriend, the alcoholic character in your mom’s new movie.

All you could do was sit in silence and roll your eyes until the three of you stepped out of the limousine and smiled for the photographer who stood at the entrance.

Every year it was the same. You walked together to a table that you usually shared with another family. Joyce Byers gave a speech. If you father had a relapse recently, you didn’t leave his side the whole night. If he hadn’t, you’d talk to a few people from school and gossip with your mom. This year it seemed you would just have to endure the tension between them.

It shouldn’t have surprised you when your parents walked towards the table and you saw him sitting down next to an empty chair wearing his suit, hair partly brushed and in place. How long had it been? More than a week since the last time you’d had his body over yours.

You licked your lips as the Harringtons greeted you, your dad and his quickly jumping into a conversation, and his mom giving you a hug, the smell of liquor on her pores making your stomach twist.

‘Hey.’ His eyes lingered on the black dress you were wearing, a strapless short gown with matching gloves. The velvet choker on your neck made him swallow hard as you sat next to him, your perfume suddenly reminding him how long he’d been without fucking you.

‘Hey.’ You repeated with a plain tone. You grabbed the place card on top of your plate and started playing with it as your parents and the Harringtons started talking.

It was all smiles and laughs between the two families as usual, except for you and Steve. He saw the way you frowned as you internally hated them for ruining your mood, the conversation about college making your muscles tense.

You didn’t even notice when the waiter extended a hand and poured wine on your glass, your sad eyes still focused on the gold lettering of your name.

‘What’s your deal today?’ Steve asked then, making your eyes lift.

You were about to shrug and said something defensive, but when you saw him grab the glass with the red liquid and switch it with his own empty glass, gesturing the waiter not to pour any more of it, your semblance softened.

‘College.’

 He let out a bitter laugh. ‘Understandable.’

You lowered your voice, moving slightly towards him so your parents didn’t hear you. His arm automatically extended over the arm of your chair, while his brown eyes looked at you attentively.

‘Mom wants me to go to Berklee. Dad wants me to go to Harvard– Don’t laugh!’

‘M sorry, ‘m sorry.’ He said licking his lips in a way that made you roll your eyes. ‘It’s just– It’s an honest problem, I get it. I just…’

He shook his head, eyes getting lost on the untouched glass in front of him.

‘What?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s cool that they have such high expectations of you.’

You didn’t reply, seeing the way his eyes turned slightly sad as the weight of his observation fell between you two. A part of him had unconsciously accepted that his parents would probably buy his way into college a long time ago.

‘M sure you’ll be fine.’ He said with a reassuring smile.

‘Look at them.’ The voice of Steve’s mom made you lift your eyes. Your mom was smiling, looking down to her napkin while Mrs. Harrington looked at you two with endearing eyes.

The heat rose to your cheeks and your chest hurt at the way she swallowed the last sip of her wine as she put her glass aside, eyes leaving yours to call the waiter.

Steve saw you clinch your jaw, sinking on your chair as his arm left the back of it to sit straight. His mom didn’t notice the change of atmosphere as you avoided everyone’s eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. A waiter came and refilled her glass as you felt her eyes still on you.

‘I aways wanted you two to get together.’ She said in a sweet tone.

‘It’s not–’

‘Jesus, mom.’ He interrupted you, standing up. His hands reached for the refilled glass of wine on her side of the table. ‘We’re just talking, for god’s sake.’

‘Steve!’ She said frowning as he placed her glass next to his.

‘You’ve had enough. It’s not even nine and you’re embarrassing yourself already.’

‘Steven.’ His dad’s eyes were serious when he said his name, the hardness behind them making you lower your own.

You heard him stand up, the chair’s loud noise making a few people look back at your table. You didn’t look behind your shoulder as he walked outside, getting lost between the crowd of the party. But you did look at the way his mother reached out for the wine glass, sitting back as an awkward silence fell on the table.

Joyce Byers asked everyone to be silent through the microphone then, and you saw the way they all looked up at the little stage on the other side of the room, except for your dad, whose blank stare was focused on the glass of soda in front of him.

You discreetly looked around the room trying to find Steve, a feeling of annoyance on your chest as you did. He had skipped dinner, and his parents had just sat there pretending nothing had happened, laughing and joking with yours. Mrs. Harrington was getting progressively drunk with the passing of hours, and your dad was already on his third glass of soda.

It was unbearable.

The merciless December cold hit your face and body as you stepped out in the parking lot, rubbing your arms with your gloved hands. You narrowed your eyes in the dark, finding his silhouette not far from where you were, leaning against his maroon BMW.

You held your breath as you walked towards him.

‘What are you doing?’ You said standing with your arms crossed at a comfortable distance from him, not entirely sure if you wanted to stay here.

He took the bottle of beer to his lips then, swallowing while looking at you. For some reason that made your blood boil, you felt betrayed in a way. Disappointed, even. But why?

He shrugged.

‘Just thinkin’, I guess.’ His sad tone made you even more frustrated.

You rolled your eyes as you walked the short distance and leaned against the car on the space next to him.

‘Did you drive here?’ Your tone was hostile as you tried to fill the silence with anything.

He nodded in silence.

‘I always bring my car to these things. Sometimes mom gets too drunk, and I drive her back while dad stays.’

You turned your head to your side, licking your lips. You didn’t want him to see your eyes had turned glossy. When you managed to calm yourself down, you looked back at him again.

‘You know you’re dealing with this in the worst way possible, right?’ Your tone was cold, and the scoff that followed it even colder. ‘It’s fucking pathetic.’

He laughed sarcastically as he took the bottle to his lips again, almost agreeing with you.

‘You’re so full of yourself.’ He said under his breath.

‘What?’ You said moving to face him, trying to understand if you had heard him right.

‘The fuck do you care how I deal with it?’ He snapped then, looking back at you. ‘‘M not entertaining your saviour complex, princess. You come here and scold me like this is your fucking business, as if we were together–’

‘I’m not your fucking girlfriend, Steve.’

‘And you think I want to be your boyfriend?’

You sighed looking to your side then.

It shouldn’t have hurt you the way it did.

Steve let out a frustrated growl before standing straight and moving a few steps away from the car. You stayed silent, standing straight as he emptied the contents of the almost full bottle on the pavement, clenching your jaw and looking at the chaos you two had created.

Steve walked back and opened the backseat’s door, his eyes looking at you through the messy strands of hair that fell on his forehead.

‘Get in the car.’

You tapped your heel on the pavement for a few seconds, avoiding his gaze and still clenching your jaw.

‘Please.’ You lifted your gaze to look at him, soft eyes and arched eyebrows looking back at you. His voice was an exhausted choky whisper when he spoke again. ‘Please, for god’s sake. Get in the car.’

You knew you should’ve said no. But what Steve, or anyone else didn’t know about you was that you had lived your whole life knowing that temptation would knock on your door one day. Just like it had knocked on your father’s door once. Just how it knocked on Mrs. Harrington’s door every day. What no one knew about you was that you had been waiting for it your whole life, and you were so glad you could finally open the door after yearning for it for too long.

His lips pressed against yours when he got in, and you pulled him in with your eyes closed, hearing the door locking as you laid on the backseat. Your fingers ran through those brown strands of hair you had missed so much, your needy tongue feeling the remains of beer in his, savouring the taste of alcohol for the first time in your life.

One of his hands cupped your face as you got rid of his tie and your demanding fingers started undoing the buttons of his shirt. He kissed down your jaw and neck while rubbing his hardness against your thigh, whimpers leaving your mouth as he moved down to your chest.

You opened your eyes at the sound of fabric stretching, your boobs out of the dress he had pulled down with his fists, gently caressing them with his tongue, wet nipples turning hard under the dim lights of the parking lot.

He sat up to look at you, and you stared back with needy eyes, mesmerized by the way he looked with his shirt opened and jacket still on. He lifted the dress over your stomach, hands stroking your stockings from your knees to your thighs, squeezing your hips and taking in the beautiful sight in front of him.

You gasped when his hand found the skimpy lace of your thong, soaking wet for him, and he started to rub circles on it, making you arch your back as a sweet sigh left your mouth.

‘Love the sounds you make for me.’ He whispered putting your underwear aside and inserting two fingers inside. ‘So whiny and desperate.’

The car filled with the noises of your wetness as he fingered you, leaning forwards to get impossibly closer to you. His forehead rested against your temple, and you heard him take a deep breath as the warmth of his body made yours sweaty.

Steve started to rub his bulge against your leg, hips moving sensually and weight crashing you just nicely as you could feel him get harder. He released a deep growl against your ear, the pressure making him desperate to be inside you.

‘Steve.’ You whispered his name, a high-pitched thing that made his cock throb. ‘Please.’

He took his face of his hiding place, cupping yours with his free hand. Brown eyes soft despite the darkness behind them, rubbing his thumb against your cheek as if you’d disappear any second then. A choky breath stroked your lips as his nose brushed yours and he shook his head.

‘Want to take my time with you. I fucked up out there.’

‘No.’ You whispered back cupping his face with your hands and looking down to his lips before staring at the brown of his eyes again. ‘Nonono, please. I want you. Please.’

He looked into your eyes, hesitating. Your vulnerable tone had made his dick impossibly harder, those innocent eyes driving him insane. You did what he didn’t dare to, and your hands wandered to undo his belt and pants, pulling them down along with their boxers. He observed it all, breaths getting heavier as you grabbed his length while wrapping your legs around him before pushing him towards you with them.

You both held your breaths as he stretched you out, his partly open mouth hovering over yours while you both silently adjusted at the sudden friction.

‘Shit.’ He breathed out.‘You’re so wet.’ His arms caged you when he started to move, feeling your walls squeeze him. ‘You’re so fucking wet, baby, it’s so fucking hot.’

The pet name caught you off guard, making you moan and arch your brows as you bit your lower lip. He laughed softly, his pretty brown eyes lighting up before giving you a soft peck.

‘You like it when I call you that?’ His nose brushed yours softly, the tenderness on his tone making you weak. ‘Uh, baby?’

You shut your eyes, staying silent for a few seconds as the feeling of his cock inside you made you dumb, holding your breath as he fucked you deeper, refusing to answer.

‘Shit, you do, don’t you?’ He whispered against your lips. ‘Always so fucking needy, I fu– I fucking love it. Makin’ me wanna f-fuck you harder.’

So, he did. Hips crashing against you firmly and faster as you back arched and sweet moans left your pretty mouth. You felt his lips kiss your nose, the space next to your mouth, your cheek, your temple, making your legs weaker with every worshipping gesture.

‘Let me see you, baby.’ He said softly as his lips hovered over yours once again. Your shy eyes looked up at him while your hands played with the hairs of his chest. ‘There she is.’ He kissed you once again. ‘Love seein’ your pretty face while I fuck you. Tell me what you want.’

‘Want you–’ Your eyes closed in pleasure as his hand found your clit in between your bodies and you moaned your words. ‘Want you to fuck me harder.’

‘Yeah?’ His other hand found yours then, interlacing them above your head before licking your lower lip. ‘Want me to spoil you?’

‘Fuck.’ You whispered, rolling your eyes as you started moving your hips. ‘Steve.’

‘What, huh?’ He said nodding at you from above, that cockiness that turned you on so much overflowing his tone. ‘Are you getting bratty on me now, baby?

‘N-No. I just– Shit.’ He tilted his head, looking at your angelical face as your words got lost in between your breaths. ‘I need you. Just you. Please.’

Steve’s eyes turned soft then, leaning forwards to place his forehead on yours. His hand squeezed yours as you kept whining with a face full of agony, almost shivering at the pleasure you felt. He’d do anything to give it all to you, everything you needed, as long as he could hear that sweet voice of yours asking for it forever.

‘Tell me to stop.’ He whispered, making you open your eyes at the sudden request. But he kept fucking you as he studied your face, eyes following the lines of your collarbones, the curves of your bouncy boobs, your swollen lips and glossy eyes. ‘T-Tell me to stop. F-fuck, tell me to stop if you’re not mine.’

You blinked repeatedly at his words while he went deeper inside you, hips grinding fast, begging, trying to fuck a confession out of you. One he didn’t know if he was ever going to get.

The fear of never getting one made him hide his face on your neck, letting the air get filled with the noise of his growls and your heavy breaths as his movements turned violently needy.

His hand squeezed yours as you held onto him in confusion, pulling the hair on the back of his neck as he fucked you faster and you felt the pleasure overtaking your body. You should’ve asked him to stop there, but every time you opened your mouth to say something a loud moan left your lips instead. He was fucking you just how you liked it and you were certain he knew it, keeping you from acknowledging the hard truths that were being unleashed the more he turned your body into nothing.

You shut your eyes hard as you felt your walls closing around him, soft animalistic sounds leaving your throat as the bittersweet orgasm numbed your senses. But Steve didn’t stop, he kept fucking your overstimulated cunt in the same rhythm, wanting to do so until you forgot your name, or that you hated him, or that he was foolishly risking it all like an idiot. Fucking you until you forgot you had ruined him.

‘Ste–’

‘Shhh.’ He hushed you as his other hand held onto your hip and squeezed the skin there, his desperate voice eclipsed by the sounds of skin against skin. ‘Just– Just let me fuck you.’ He only moved his face to crash his lips against yours, trying to show you what he couldn’t say with words. ‘Let me fuck you, please. Just let me– Let me– Sh-Shit.’

He collapsed on top of you as his hot cum filled your pussy. Your eyes got glossy while he stayed there, body heavy and sweaty on top of yours, and you wondered what to do. Your shaky fingers hesitated on his scalp as you two tried to catch your breaths, and the lust vanished, leaving a void of emptiness behind.

You pushed his chest softly, gaze to your side as he sat up quickly. His eyes tried to find yours as he took your hair off your face, but he stopped when he noticed the way you shrunk under his touch, licking your lips as you searched for your shoes and underwear in the backseat of his car.

You heard him sigh, a shaky scared thing you weren’t going to acknowledge. He was right, you had this stupid saviour complex that put you in these absurd situations and you had to stop screwing it all in the name of it at some point.

‘C-Can you stay?’ Steve asked, but you shook your head repeatedly in response. His hand hovered over your arm, but after touching you so many times before, he still didn’t know how to hold you. ‘I-I’ll drive you home.’

‘You shouldn’t drive, Steve.’ You said putting your shoes on. ‘You were just drinking.’

‘Please. Heyheyhey.’ His hand found your face when you moved to open the door, and you had no other option than to look back at him with hurt in your eyes. Brown pupils mirroring the ache you tried to hide. ‘Let’s talk, let’s–’

‘No.’ you said holding his wrists and getting rid of his grip. ‘I’m sorry, Steve. I’m not doing this. I can’t. We’re not doing this anymore.’

He swallowed, trying to understand how you could be so cold right after burning under his fingertips. He observed you in silence, eyebrows arching, and eyes hurt as his hands still lingered close to your body.

You stepped out of the car, closing the door behind you as you walked back into the party. You heard the sound of the other door closing over the clicking of your shoes.

‘Can you just listen to me for a second?’ His hand on your elbow made you turn back, finding him with his shirt still unbuttoned under his jacket, messy hair, and glossy eyes as he looked at you. It was so cold you could see his breath in the air.

‘Steve–’

‘I’m trying…’ He said in between breaths, the anxiety rising to his chest as he spoke. ‘To t-tell you… how I feel.’

You stood straight, shaking your head as you looked at your shoes. He tried to take a step towards you then, but you moved before he could, a clear warning of how things had drastically changed in a matter of seconds.

‘I’m not doing this, Steve. We’re too similar.’

‘Sweetheart,’ he said in an exhausted tone, word almost breaking at the end as he got the courage to cup your face in his hands. He was tired of not being able to touch you like wanted, love you like he wanted. ‘How’s that a bad thing, huh? Look at me.’

‘I don’t– Steve.’ You couldn’t help but melt at his touch as his thumbs stroked your cheeks. ‘I’m not doing this.’

‘Listen–’

‘No, you listen. I’m tired of saving people.’ You said putting your hands on his wrists once again with the intention of getting rid of his grip, but they stayed there, holding on to his touch. ‘I’m exhausted. You know why I kissed you that day at school? Because my dad was about to grab a glass of whiskey and fuck my life over for the thousandth time. I was so desperate.’

His eyes got soft at your confession; his hands would’ve fallen from your face if you hadn’t been holding them.

‘And then–’ you said in a shaky breath, tears pooling on your eyes as you did. ‘And then there’s your mom.’

You knew you were hurting him, but there was a reason why you had kept yourself away from the Harringtons for so long. And now that you had crossed the lines, the possibility of Steve following her steps was too painful to bear.  

‘My mom.’ He took a step backwards, studying your face as his hands finally fell from your face, your own hovering over his wrists now.

You shut your eyes, feeling the tears run down your cheeks. Feeling selfish and scared. And desperate to have those hands cupping your face again.

‘I am terrified that you will end up just like her.’ You admitted crossing your arms over your body, the shameful admission making you shrunk.  

Steve’s eyes looked away from you, hands finally falling on his sides as he attempted to leave, but after taking a few steps away, he seemed to change his mind.

‘You think you’ve got your shit figured out, but you’re as likely to end up like your dad as I am to end up like my mom.’ He said, anger overflowing his tone as he looked at you. ‘You can’t stand the sight of her? Well, she can’t even look at you without remembering how badly she wanted another kid.’

Your eyes turned soft as his honesty, and he had to look away, rubbing his shaky hand against his mouth as the frustration took over himself.

‘D’you know there was a time we couldn’t even mention your surname in the house? Or talk about your dad? Do you even remember when my mom stopped talking to your mom?’ He laughed bitterly, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Probably not. But I do. I sure as hell do. You have no idea what it’s like to go through what she’s gone through. Or what it was like to see her miserable efforts to have another baby when she couldn’t even be my mom.’

You bit your lip as you look to your side, taking a deep shaky breath. He couldn’t stand the sight of you with your shivering arms and your long gloves and your short dress that couldn’t keep you warm like he knew he could.

You lifted your gaze when you heard him sniff and he just stood there, looking at the snowy ground. Looking at what you had created and destroyed together.

‘You think you’re above everyone else, but you’re just a coward, and I hope you know that.’ He said, before whispering under his breath. ‘I hope you fucking know that.’

You stood there as he left, walking past the BWM as he buttoned his shirt up and got lost in the maze of cars and snow. Your knees were shaky, and your nose blocked, but you still stood there cold, and alone. Thinking that maybe that’s what you deserved after all the damaged you had caused.

CHRISTMAS DAY, 1984.

You woke up in the room of your mother’s house with the excitement of a little girl. Your blankets were soft, the heating was at the right temperature and for what you could see through the window of your balcony, it seemed like it had snowed last night.

You climbed out of the bed to walk downstairs, too excited to notice the absence of the smell of coffee in the air, the lack of the television sounds, the emptiness so unlikely in your house. On Christmas day you had breakfast with your mom, lunch at the Club, and dinner with your dad. After that, you went to his place, played one of his records and shared a can of soda to celebrate his sobriety. It was one of those days of the year where you felt the most grateful and lucky to have the life you had.

That’s why when you walked into the living room to find the Christmas tree empty you smile fell.

‘Mom?’ Your voice echoed through the house; you were about to walk towards the kitchen when you saw the note on top of the coffee table.

Emergency. Call Dad.

You stood there for a few seconds in shock before you ran fast to the phone. Your fingers shook as you dialled his number while feeling eyes watering. The line beeped. Someone picked up.

‘D-Dad? Daddy? Are you okay?’ You asked with a shaky voice.

‘Hi, flower. Yes. Yes, I’m okay.’ You felt your heart beating fast as he spoke. ‘I’m getting ready to pick you up, okay?’

‘W-What is going on? Where’s mom?’

‘Uh,’ You heard him hold his breath, realizing you didn’t know yet. ‘Martha had an accident last night. She was drunk and hit a tree. Your mom’s at the hospital with the Harringtons right now.’

You let out a deep breath, nodding as if he could see you. You felt so stupid then, as the tears pooled on your eyes. As if you could’ve done something to prevent it.

‘Right. I’ll go get ready.’

‘Okay, flower. I’ll see you in ten minutes.’

‘Okay.’ You said letting out a shaky breath. ‘Okay.’

Your dad parked outside the hospital, the white building looking dreary and lonely surrounded by the snow. You rubbed your hands on your jeans as you tried to warm your hands, but you didn’t think it was the cold what was making you shiver.

You took a deep breath, waiting for your dad to turn the engine off, but the heating was still on, and the car was still filled with silence as you looked at the blue gift bag next to your shoes. You thought maybe the excuse of giving Steve a Christmas present would help with the apology you knew you owed him. But now it seemed like a shallow idea.

‘Dad?’ You said lifting your gaze.

It was then you realised he didn’t want to look at you, making you bend forwards, looking for his eyes. He took his hands to his mouth, hesitating about what to say.

‘I, uh… I can’t go in there, flower. I just can’t go in there.’

You swallowed then, realising the real weight behind his words, the endless fight that you had witnessed throughout the years, from your childhood until now. You nodded silently, grabbing his hand over the console and squeezing hard.

‘Dad, you’re doing great. Christmas is always hard and you’re doing great.’

He shook his head, looking at the way his eyes got lost beyond the windshield. There was a long silence as he still avoided you, before he let out a deep breath.

‘The charity party. Bourbon.’

Your eyes dropped as you remembered that night, the way you left with Steve to save him the embarrassment of seeing his mom drunk. You knew it now; this wasn’t your weight to carry. You’d never get to win. Steve and you would never win.

You opened your mouth to say something, but he spoke first.

‘I’m sorry, flower. I–’ He looked back at you then, reading the hurt in your eyes. ‘I know I’m a terrible dad, but I promise you I haven’t drunk anything else since then. And I try. I want you to know that I try.’

You shook your head, a sad smile on your face as you held his hand again. ‘That’s twenty-five days sober, daddy. It’s good. It’s enough, okay?’

‘Okay.’ He said breathing out. A soft smile lighted up his face then. ‘Thank you, flower. I’ll wait for you here.’

You nodded, letting his hand go, and climbing out of the car to face the coldness that awaited you.

‘There you are.’ Said your mom as soon as you walked into the hallway, blueish lights making you feel sick just by the look of them. She handed you a brown bag and a cup of coffee, and you tried to balance it all out on your hands. ‘Okay so, they’re on the third floor. She left surgery a couple of hours ago, and Roger’s calling the family while I deal with the paperwork of the rehabilitation centre.’

You blinked many times, digesting all the information she rambled about.

‘I’m trying to get hold of some contacts that helped me when you dad got in, so I need you to be useful. Those are for Steve; poor kid hasn’t even eaten since yesterday.’

Your heart beat hard at the mention of his name, thinking about him getting the news, and sitting all alone in this depressing place.

‘…And it’d be nice if you apologized for whatever you said at the Country Club.’ Your eyes lifted to find her looking back at you, tone firm and eyes serious as she spoke. ‘That kid’s been miserable all week. And I hope you’re taking your birth control just like I taught you.’

‘Mom.’ You felt the heat rising to your cheeks then. She started looking for something in her bag, taking out a cigarette case. You felt so stupid for thinking she wouldn’t notice what had been going on.

‘Don’t Mom me.’ She said taking out a cigarette and putting it in her mouth. ‘It’s important. Now go upstairs and be useful, I’m gonna make some calls outside. I need to get out of here, you know how much I hate hospitals.’

He was sitting outside room number 325. You stood outside the elevator like an idiot, feeling the cowardice all over your body and wishing you could just turn back and tell your dad to take you home. But then he lifted his eyes, brown and exhausted, and you had no other option than to walk towards him.

‘Hey.’ You said standing in front of him, he was looking at his shoes while you put the cup of coffee and the brown bag on the table next to him. ‘Mom got you breakfast. She said you haven’t eaten.’

He sniffed quietly, shaking his head. ‘M not really hungry, but thanks.’

You stood straight again, your shoes in front of his as you thought about what to do. Your hands ached to touch him, resting on either side of you, and you hated yourself for the mess you had made, knowing you probably needed him more than he did right now.

‘Steve…’

His head tilted forwards then, crashing softly against your stomach. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to inhale your perfume, hands finding your hips as your fingers instinctively ran through his hair and your pulse ran fast on your ears.

His firm hands wrapped around your hips, and he pulled you in, sitting straight so his head rested against your breastbone, one of your hands finding the back of his neck, and the other stroking his messy hair, leaving soft kisses that wouldn’t fix anything, but he still needed like oxygen.

You stayed there for minutes or hours, whispering I’m sorrys against his scalp while his soft sniffs echoed through the hospital’s hallway.

‘I owe you a can of soda.’ You told your dad as you stood on the threshold of Steve’s house.

He shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it, flower.’

Your hug caught him by surprise, you noticed by the way his arms hesitated before wrapping around you.

‘Merry Christmas, dad.’ You said hugging him tighter. He laughed softly, patting your back.

‘Merry Christmas, flower.’ You took a step back, smiling at him. Even though Steve was already inside he was sure to murmur. ‘You take care of each other, okay?’

You nodded, smiling softly as you put one of your hands on your back pockets while the other held the blue gift bag.

‘Your mom’s coming over later, but if she can’t, make sure to call me.’

‘Sure, sir.’

He smiled at you before making his way to the car.

You closed the door behind you, thinking about the little girl that once walked in wearing her little Prada loafers, how scared she was as she made her way to the living room like you were doing now.

‘Hey.’ You said as you walked in. He was sitting in front of the tree, cross sitting with his back arched looking at the presents.

His eyes looked at you for a second before falling on your wrist.

‘S that for me?’ He asked. The smile on his mouth didn’t reach his eyes, but you could see he had at least found it amusing.

You shrugged. ‘S got your name on it.’

‘Maybe Santa got the wrong address.’ He joked.

‘Maybe he did.’ You agreed, sitting next to him. You removed the bag handle from your wrist and placed the present in front of him. ‘Merry Christmas.’

He bent forwards then, grabbing a green bag from the mess of presents under the tree. You smiled as he placed it in front of you.

‘Merry Christmas.’

The silence was filled with the noise of the bags being opened, childish excitement taking over your body as your curiosity increased.

‘No way.’ You said taking out the pink pyjama set.

‘That’s uh…’ He said lifting the rocket pyjama pants you got for him, a soft laugh leaving his lips. ‘Thank you.’

You smiled at him, eyes looking down at your hands playing wit the pink fabric as you tried to find the right words to say.

‘I, uh… I owe you a huge apology, Steve.’  You licked your lips. When you looked up, his eyes were lost on the patterns of the rug, his pretty brown eyebrows frowning.

 ‘I–’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it. I just– It’s been a long day.’

You nodded then, looking away so he wouldn’t notice the way your eyes were getting glossy. You let out a sigh.

‘Okay.’

You wondered is this was how things would be from now on. The warmth you both shared in the hospital now gone, Christmas lights illuminating the room as the blue shades of winter sneaked into the living room. You followed him with you eyes as he stood up, taking the gift bag with him.

‘I’m gonna take a shower, but just make yourself at home, okay?’ He scratched the back of his neck in nervousness as the real weight of exhaustion fell on his shoulders.

You nodded from your place on the floor, seeing him hesitate for a second before walking upstairs.

Your eyes were absently looking at the TV as the sun set outside. Pictures of little Steve hanging from the wall made you bite your lip as you tried to concentrate on the movie, but the unbearable feeling of knowing he was all alone somewhere in the house was making your hands sweaty. So you put your pride aside and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

You were about to knock the door when it opened. Watery brown eyes and red nose as he sniffed softly. His hair was still wet, and the sight of him wearing a long sleeve top and the rocket pyjama pants would’ve warmed your heart if it wasn’t for the fact that he was crying.

‘Are you okay?’ You whispered, it was a silly thing to ask, but a good excuse to cup his face with your hands. You got closer, brushing your nose with his as his hands found your hips to hug you tight against him. Eyes shut as you cleaned his cheeks with your thumbs.

‘Can you just…’ He breathed out a tired whisper. ‘Can you just stay here, please? I just– I just need you to stay here, and we can just– just go back to normal when this is over, but–’

‘Shhh.’ You said stroking his nose with yours. He opened his eyes to look at you, eyebrows arched as he tried to hold onto you. ‘I’ll take care of it. Let me take care of it, okay?’

He leaned in first, pulling you with him as his needy mouth kissed yours, fingers sneaking under your shirt as you both fell on the bed, and he rolled over to be on top of you.

It was cold. It was quiet. Too many words unsaid as the clothes fell on the floor and you both gave in once more. The taste of his tongue got mixed with his tears as his hands got rid of your underwear, and you let him use you. Your mouth opened to say his name many times, trying to get him to look at you, but every time his mouth found a way to be on yours, shutting you up with sweet desperation.

His breath pattern was getting unusually fast when you felt his dick on your thigh, and you pushed him softly but firm enough to finally break the kiss.

‘I, uh…’ He looked down, eyebrows almost frowning in pain as you tried to look for his gaze. ‘Maybe I c-can’t do this.’

‘Steve. Look at me.’ One of your hands cupped his face, placing his forehead on yours and the other was flat on his chest. ‘Let me see you.’

He looked up at you then, brown pupils confused at the sweetness on yours, glossy eyes staring back at him as you whispered. ‘I’m here. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.’

His eyes turned soft then, shaking his head lightly. ‘Don’t say it if–’

‘I love you.’ You repeated, this time looking for his lips with your mouth as his warmth made you feel needier. ‘And I’m yours. You can fuck me like I’m yours.’

He let out a deep shaky breath that he didn’t know he was holding. His face fell on your neck then, and you released a gasping moan when he finally went inside you.

Your hands held onto his hair as you wrapped your legs around him. His mouth leaving sweet kisses on your neck, drawing a line towards your ear as he fucked you slowly, patiently.

‘loveyou. loveyou. loveyou.’ He repeated, his nose against your cheekbone as he did. ‘Hmm. ‘M never getting tired of tellin’ you. Gonna f-fuck you until it gets into your pretty head.’

You laughed softly, and he took his head out of its hiding place on your neck to look at you. Pretty brown eyes lit up like Christmas lights at the sound of your laugh.

He stared at your body, licking his lips and increasing his speed as your eyebrows arched and your eyelids got heavy with the pleasure. A whispery whine left your lips as you tilted your head, walls squeezing him deliciously.

‘What?’ You were suddenly turning shy at his stare.

‘Just love seein’ you.’ He said. ‘You’re mine, right?’

You nodded as you started moving your own hips, swollen lips partly open as you got lost in the pleasure. He cupped your face momentarily, before inserting two of his fingers inside your mouth. You made sure to make them sloppy for him, holding his wrist with your hands and blinking slowly as you did so. His eyes taking in the beautiful sight in front of him before taking them out to stroke your clit.

‘My good girl.’ He sighed, kissing your temple while he drew the softest circles on your sensitive bud. ‘My sweet girl.’

He placed his forehead on yours again, and your finger drew a line from his cheek to his lips before brushing his mouth with yours. ‘Wanna cum for you. Need you to fuck me harder so I can cum for you.’

He smiled softly, doing as you said, giving into your sweet request that he’d never deny. His tongue found yours as his hips crashed against you firmly, filling the room with the sounds of skin against skin.

He got lost in the way your pretty mouth bit his lower lip, in the way your hands scratched his back as he made sure to give you what you wanted, yielding completely to your overwhelming warmth.

You opened your eyes for him when you felt your walls starting to squeeze, and your breath started to get heavier, nonsense leaving your lips as you tried to tell him, but he was so deep inside you, and you were being fucked so nicely that all you could do was let out those choky moans that drove him crazy.

‘Cum like you’re mine, baby.’ He said. He begged. ‘F-fuck. Cum for me, needy thing.’

Your fingers squeezed the skin on his ribs as you moved your hips, and you rolled your eyes, knowing you were getting close. You tried to instinctively move your head to your side, but Steve held your chin firmly so you would look at him.

‘Uh.’ You gasped. ‘Baby, I’m–’

But you couldn’t finish any sentence until his nose brush with yours and the sweet, innocent peck he gave you finally sent you to the edge.

‘That’s it.’ He kissed your sweaty cheek as your frail body convulsed under his and he reached his own orgasm. ‘That’s it. S-Shit. So good– So good for me.’

You stroked his hair as he hid his head on your neck, body falling on yours and arms wrapping you, catching your breaths as the night fell outside and only the reflection of the snow lit up the room.

Steve sat back to grab the blankets on the end of the bed and wrapped you two in them, coming back to his space between your legs. You could notice the way he avoided your eyes as he fixed your hair, arranging the wild strands that fell on your face.

‘Hey.’ You said playing with the hairs of his chest.

His eyes lifted then, full of doubt as you looked back at him. He was almost expecting you’d take it all back.

But all you did was tilt your head, hand cupping his face and thumb brushing the little stubble that was growing. You felt him relax under your touch, eyes getting soft by the way you were smiling at him.

‘You need a nap.’ You whispered.

‘And you need a shower.’ He said in the same tone.

You laughed softly, but you saw the way his eyes had turned serious again.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ You said. You’d repeat it as many times as he’d need to hear it.

He moved then, laying on his back and opening his arm so you’d cuddle against him. You saw him swallow hard as you laid on your side, elbow on the pillow and jaw on your hand as you noticed the way his eyes got glossy.

Steve let out a deep breath when your hand drew a line from his forehead to his chin, relaxing under your touch. He took your hand and kissed your palm before holding it against his cheek.

‘Thank you.’ He whispered.

You shook your head. ‘Anytime.’

He smiled softly, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your naked body to him. He buried his head on your chest, letting himself be lulled by your smell and the warmth of your skin, brushing your skin with his thumbs.

He closed his eyes as you kissed the soft brown locks of his head, and he fell asleep on your arms, hearing your soft I love yous in the distance, and knowing it was true. Two lonely kids stitching each other’s wounds on Christmas day.

this is a repost, because i had a few problems with the tags. tagging everyone who kindly interacted with the first post (if you’re not here it’s because tumblr didn’t let me tag you but ily anyways): @claire0531 @liacrain @aurora-austen @stevesbeautifulhair @idontevenlistentomitski @pumpkinonice

I do no consent for people to plagiarise, translate, copy or repost any of my written works anywhere. I do not consent people to use any of my written work for AI purposes.

[softwaring]

[sweetlikenonsense]

Under Your Fingertips

♡ Steve touches you as if he can press the truth directly into your skin.

Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • Enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst (blood/injuries, fear of losing someone), smoking (cigarette), smut (unprotected sex, fingering, semi-public ie outside), emotional vulnerability, protective Steve Harrington, praise kink(?) with themes of trauma, self-worth, and comfort throughout

Pairing: Steve Harrington x impossible girl!Henderson!reader

Word count: 7.3k

Summary: After yet another failed crawl leaves you trapped beneath collapsing concrete, Steve Harrington finally snaps. Forcing you to confront what you really mean to him.

Chef’s Note: yes, the glasses stay on. Send any tips to this customer @roseswebcorner (Order in comments) ♡

The 1,000 followers menu

Rain spits against the windows of the station, turning the parking lot outside into a smear of neon reflections and black asphalt. The ‘WSQK’ sign buzzes red against the storm, flickering ominously over puddles and the van which Steve had abandoned at an angle near the curb, one wheel half up on the pavement. 

Wind rattles the broken gutter overhead, and through the rain-streaked glass you can just about make him out, standing beneath the awning. Barely sheltered. 

Head tipped back against the brick. White t-shirt damp beneath his cord jacket where the rain had soaked through. Hair curling at the edges, pushed back off his forehead evidently from running his hands through it. His wire-framed glasses catch the red every few seconds, briefly obscuring the exhausted look underneath them before the light flickers away. 

Steve. 

Steve with blood drying across his knuckles. Steve with a cigarette between his fingers despite the fact he told the others he’d quit months ago.

You push open the station door and step out into the damp night air, the storm immediately swallowing you whole. Instinctively wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself.

He spares you the briefest of glances when you step out, closing the door behind you. His eyes catch yours; sharp for half a second before he drops his gaze back to the cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight behind the slow curl of smoke.

You cross the narrow space between you and lean against the wall opposite him, back against damp brick. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the awning between you, hitting the pavement in uneven taps. 

Neither of you speak. Steve just takes another drag; choosing to focus on that and not the fact that you followed him out here.

“You know those things kill you, right?” you say eventually, voice so uneven you're not sure you sound like yourself. 

He lets out a humorless huff through his nose. “Think I’m aware.” 

The stick glows orange between his fingers. You just watch his hand. 

Swollen knuckles. Split skin. A faint smear of blood slowly drying near his wrist.

Without really thinking about it, only really to distract yourself from the way your stomach twists, you reach forward and pluck the cigarette from between his fingers.

Steve’s eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move to stop you.

You take a drag before you can think it through, the smoke burning harsh down your throat. For a while no words pass between you. Just the cigarette.

Until eventually you realise you haven’t stopped staring at his hand.

The way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching at his side. The almost imperceptible wince every now and then that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

“You should probably clean that up.” 

His jaw flexes.

“Yeah?” he says flatly. “You think?” The way he looks at you when he says it—tired, angry, something rawer underneath —makes you swallow harshly.

Steve takes the cigarette back from you, shoulders tenser than you’ve ever seen them. Then, quieter but just as sharp, he adds, “Maybe you should stop giving me reasons to punch things.”

“There it is.” You knew that was coming. The blame. Is it warranted? Probably. Do you want to hear it? No. 

You tilt your head back against the brick, forcing your voice to be lighter than you feel, forcing yourself to say your next words. “That wasn’t my fault.”

His head lifts slowly, eyes finding yours before skirting over you just as slowly. Rain-dark hair plastered messily around your face. Mud streaked across the knees of your jeans from where you hit the ground. The tiny cut near your cheekbone you hadn’t bothered cleaning.

Something sharp flashes across his face so quickly it looks physical. 

He grits his next words out. “You ran in there alone.”

Your jaw tightens instantly. “I had it handled.”

Steve actually laughs out that. Cutting. Slightly mocking. “You did, did you?” 

A flashlight beam disappearing around the corner before he could grab your hand. Your voice crackling through the radio—I’ll be fine, just cover the other side—

Then static.

You flinch. You don’t need reminding.

The floor giving out beneath your feet. Rust and concrete collapsing inward. Your shoulder slamming hard enough into the wall to make your vision spark white.

You force yourself to shrug anyway. “But I got out.”

“Because of me.” Steve steps forward as he says it, the words sharper and louder than everything else he’s said tonight before he visibly catches himself.

His voice lowers again, words scrapped raw. “You got out because I got to you in time.”

His eyes lock onto yours and don’t move. Don’t even blink. And for a second neither do you. Like you're in a trance.

Rain continues to hammer down around you. Neon red flickers across the sharp line of his jaw, catches against the lenses of his glasses, turns his soaked white t-shirt pink for half a heartbeat before fading again.

You look away first.

Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. Steve’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but from whatever ugly thing he’s been trying to hold down since you all came back up. 

“You know what I heard?” he asks.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t give you time to. 

“You telling me to shut up, a loud crash—” His voice catches suddenly, wavering around the next part like he physically hates saying it out loud. “You scream.”

His eyes lock back onto yours, he swallows, hard, before continuing. “And then nothing.”

The words hit harder than they should. 

Because, yes, you remember it too.

The static swallowing your voice mid-sentence. The sick drop in your stomach when the tunnel floor gave out beneath you. The impact. Dust choking the air so thick you could barely breathe around it.

And then silence.

Deafening. All-consuming. Terrifying. 

Steve drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every little move he makes. “Do you have any idea what that was like?”

You hate this.

Hate the way he’s looking at you. Hate remembering the panic clawing up your throat beneath all that concrete. Hate remembering how helpless you felt down there. Hate the fact he saw you like that.

So you default to the only thing you know how to do in a moment like this: deflection.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not the fucking point, Henderson.” 

You cross your arms tighter over your chest like a shield; voice raising to match his. “Then what is?”

For a second he just stares at you like he can’t actually believe you’re asking. As if he genuinely cannot comprehend how you don’t get this. And in your rational brain, maybe you do. A little. But understanding something and letting yourself feel it are two very different things.

He just laughs, again. This time it’s softer. Not quite so mocking anymore.

In fact it sounds a little wrecked.

Actually, it sounds completely and utterly wrecked. 

“I found you trapped under concrete,” he says, rough and low, every word a struggle for him to say. “And you were still trying to joke with me.”

Your stomach twists, you feel your hands grow clammy and shake by your side because suddenly you’re back there. 

Steve dropping to his knees beside you so hard the impact echoed through the building. Blood already running over his knuckles from the door he’d punched and kicked through to reach you. His hands shaking while he shoved broken debris away from your leg.

And you, dizzy and hurting and terrified in a way you didn’t want to name, still forcing out:

“Took you long enough, Harrington.”

Steve had looked at you like the joke physically hurt him.

And now, eyes glassy behind rain-speckled lenses, cheeks flushed, his jaw flexes the exact same way. 

“You looked at me like-like it was no big deal—“

You swallow harshly, cutting him off. “It wasn’t—”

“How can you say that?” His voice cracks this time. Barely, but you hear it.

“Jesus Christ, do you think I wanted to not be able to fucking answer Dustin when he’s screaming down the radio that you’re not answering? Cause I didn’t know why you weren’t. Cause you had decided to go off alone. Again.”

Rain rattles violently against the metal awning overhead. Steve looks away suddenly, dragging a hand over his mouth before shaking his head once.

“Do you think I wanted to be the one to tell him that you—” His voice catches hard enough that he has to stop. “That you…”

He can’t say it.

You realise with a horrible twisting ache that he physically cannot force the words out. Like saying them aloud might make them real. Might drag you right back beneath the rubble where he found you.

The storm presses in around you both, so loud now that it almost feels intrusive. Like the night itself is listening.

Steve stares out into the rain, chest rising hard beneath the damp white t-shirt, cigarette long forgotten. 

You don’t know what to do with this version of him.

Steve annoyed? Easy. Steve sarcastic? Easy. Typical. Steve looking at you like losing you would’ve broken him? That hurts. 

In a way you don't understand. In a way that makes your chest actually ache. 

“He would’ve been okay,” you say quietly, and you almost believe yourself. 

But Steve’s head snaps toward you so fast you instantly regret it. “What?”

You shrug even though the motion feels stiff. Defensive. False. “Dustin. He would’ve been okay.” You nod as you say it; like that will make it true. 

For a second Steve just stares at you. 

Then something furious flashes across his face. 

“No,” he says immediately. “No, he wouldn’t have.”

You open your mouth to say-to say—you don’t know. You don’t know what to say, what to do, where to look. 

“No.” Steve shakes his head once, sharp and disbelieving. “No.”

You look away on instinct—the look in his eyes, the rawness of his voice suddenly all too much. You try to make yourself smaller somehow. Fold inward. Retreat back behind the walls that usually keep people out before he can force his way through them.

But he won't let you. Not anymore. Not after today. 

He’s moving before you can. 

One second there’s space between you. And then the next there isn’t. 

Rain clings to his lashes. His glasses sit crooked from where he shoved a hand through his hair moments earlier. His chest rises hard beneath his soaked t-shirt as he steps into your space like he physically cannot stand this distance anymore.. 

And then before you can even blink his hand is grasping your jaw. Firm. Unwavering. His fingers curl against your skin and drag your face back up until your eyes are on him. Only on him.

No chance to run. No chance to hide from this. From him.

“Harringto—”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. Too thin. Too breathless. Like you’re begging for something you can’t even name. For him to stop. For him not to stop. For him not to make you stand here and let him see you like this.

“No. You’re not listening to me.” His thumb presses sharply against your jaw as frustration bleeds through every word. “You keep saying this shit like people would just get over it. Like losing you wouldn't-wouldn't mean anything.” 

Your pulse stumbles hard against your ribs.

“You think Dustin would’ve been okay?” he says incredulously.

“You think your brother wouldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if he could’ve stopped you from running in there alone? That if he had done even the slightest thing differently that you would still be here. Going over and over and over it in his head wondering where he fucked up?”

“You keep acting like you’re expendable,” he says, voice cracking around the last word. “As if it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t come back.”

You try to pull away instinctively, discomfort clawing up your throat too fast, but Steve’s grip tightens slightly before immediately softening again when he realises it.

Not letting you go. Not letting you disappear. 

“And me?” It’s not only his voice that has broken but his expression, as he struggles to speak. “You think I would’ve been fucking okay?”

He’s staring at you like he needs you to understand this. Like it matters more than his pride. More than winning any argument. More than whatever this thing between you has become.

It's almost like he’s trying to show you something in his words, in his face, in the desperation in his voice. Something he’s been trying to show you for a long time now and you just keep refusing to see. 

If he can just make you see it—really see it—maybe he can stop you from slipping through his fingers next time.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Because the worst part is—

Some part of you thinks you do see it.

That maybe you always have. 

And that is infinitely more terrifying than pretending you don’t.

“Why?” you croak out before coughing lightly and trying again. “Why?”

The question seems to knock the air out of him for a second. His brows pull together hard as he almost spits out “What?”

“Why would you care?” You mean for it to sound sharp. Defensive. Detached. 

Instead it comes out small. Confused. 

Steve, for all his frustration and anger, just stares at you. 

It’s still raining heavily, wind now pushing cold mist beneath the awning, but all you can feel is the warmth of his body standing so close to yours.

Then he laughs once under his breath. But it's devoid of any humour.  

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, swiping the hand not cupping your jaw down his face and through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t know.”

Immediately your defenses slam back into place. “Know what?” you say quickly, trying for sarcasm mixed with anger and missing completely. “All I do is annoy you.”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not—”

“We fight constantly,” you cut in, words tumbling out faster now because if you stop talking you might actually have to hear what he’s trying to say—what he’s been trying to say for years now. “I drag you into insane bullshit, I nearly got myself killed tonight, I got you injured, I make your life harder basically every time I—”

Suddenly you’re cut off.

Not by more words.

But by a forceful pressure.

Specifically, Steve's mouth on yours.

He crashes into you. Moving like he's been holding this in for years—like if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll drown in the weight of it. Like he cannot stand hearing one more terrible thing leave your mouth.

It's not soft. Not careful.

It’s desperate and angry and messy, his lips pressing hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your jaw to keep you there.

You gasp against him, and he takes full advantage, slanting his mouth over yours again, teeth scraping, breaths mingling sharp with the almost addictive combination of nicotine and rain. 

You stumble back a step, shoulders hitting the wall, but he doesn’t let you retreat. He uses his body instead of his words to cage you in, one hand still gripping your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head. His glasses dig into your cheekbone, the frames cold where they press against your skin, but you don’t pull away. You are not sure you could. 

You finally snap out of the shock of it, and in that moment all you want is him closer than humanly possible. Your hands fist in the damp cotton of his shirt, dragging him closer with a desperation that surprises even you. . 

Steve lets out a ragged moan against your mouth, the sound muffled by the sharp press of teeth and lips—half frustration, half surrender—before he mutters a broken, "Fuck," against your skin. 

It’s all hands and teeth and the dizzying press of bodies. 

His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the scrape of his stubble.

You gasp at the feeling, and he fully takes the opportunity given to him to deepen the kiss, tongue hot and insistent, like he’s trying to rewrite every argument, every sharp word, every moment you’ve spent at each other’s throats. 

All in this one kiss. 

“You think I don’t care?” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. “Jesus Christ.”

Another kiss.

Another sharp inhale.

His lips drag against yours slower this time, but no less desperate.

“I punched through a fucking door for you,” he says hoarsely, words breaking apart between kisses. “When I heard you scream—” His voice catches roughly. “When I saw you trapped down there alone I-I couldn't breathe.” 

Your chest aches so hard it feels unbearable.

“Not till I knew you were okay.” His hands are still shaking even as they hold onto you.

Steve kisses you again before you can speak, like he already knows you’ll try to argue your way out of this too. 

He’s not wrong. 

“No,” he mutters against your lips, thumb trembling where it rests beneath your jaw. “No, you don’t get to do that anymore.”

Steve touches you like he can press the truth directly into your skin; then you might finally believe him. “You matter to me,” he breathes against your mouth.

And then, quieter. Rougher. “So fucking much.”

Another kiss, slower now, but somehow just as devastating.

“More than you’ll ever know,” he says hoarsely against your lips. “More than you ever could.”

Your throat tightens dangerously. And for the first time all night, maybe ever, you don’t call him Harrington. 

.“Steve…” 

The name leaves you like something fragile, like it physically hurts you to let him hear it. 

Hearing his name said by you, like that—soft, fractured, stripped bare—destroys whatever last shred of restraint he’d been clinging to. 

Steve’s breath stutters against your lips, his grip tightening in your hair reflexively. The sound of his name in your voice—not Harrington, not king Steve, not something thrown at him in anger or challenge–does something violent to his chest. 

He doesn’t just kiss you this time—he devours you. 

He drags you impossibly closer, his teeth catching your lower lip hard, his tongue sweeping in long before you can recover. There’s absolutely nothing gentle about it—this is Steve memorising your mouth like it's proof you’re real. 

That he didn't lose you before he ever got the chance to have you. 

“Been trying not to do this for so long,” he admits roughly against your mouth

Surprisingly, that brings a smile to your face—a real one, small and disbelieving but there—and you feel the tension in your chest loosen just enough to breathe. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or the way Steve’s hands are trembling where they’re tangled in your hair, but suddenly you can’t help it. 

You tilt your head back to break the kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “You’re telling me Steve Harrington, King Steve, has been pining after Henderson’s big sister? All this time?”

Steve freezes. 

For a second, he just stares at you, rain dripping from his lashes, mouth slightly parted like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or kiss you again. Then his grip tightens in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. 

“You’re fucking impossible,” he grits out, but there’s no anger left in it—just exasperation, fondness, something raw and aching beneath the words.

The grin tugging at your mouth only widens. “You need to work on your moves.”

Steve blinks at you, mouth not even an inch away from yours.. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “That’s a little bit embarrassing, don’t ya think? And not for days, or weeks—years.” 

Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh.

“You made me your enemy when really you just wanted to have me.”

Steve goes absolutely, completely, still.

For one glorious second Steve Harrington actually looks completely and utterly, beautifully speechless.

The wind changes direction causing the rain to hit the both of you. Rainwater slides down the side of his face as he stares at you, jaw flexing hard—actively trying not to react to that sentence the way he wants to.

You can practically feel the moment his patience snaps—his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, and his gaze narrows. “You,” he grits out, thumb tapping your chin, voice rough, “are pushing your luck.” 

You grin up at him, tilting your head to make his grip shift. “Am I?” 

His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up further. “Yeah. You are.” 

There’s a beat of silence—then you hum, deliberately slow, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up. “I don’t think I am.” 

Steve exhales sharply against your lips, the heat of his breath mingling with the chill of the rain still dripping down his face. His fingers twitch where they’re tangled in your hair, grip tightening just enough to make it hurt. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, voice rough—half protest, half plea.

You meet his gaze, eyes innocent—unaffected—rainwater catching on your lashes. “Then stop.”  

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. 

His thumb drags slowly along your jawline, pressing just shy of painful when it catches on the curve of your chin. Then it traces your jawline, slow and deliberate, before his fingers drop lower. Curling into the damp fabric of your shirt, then dragging downward until they catch on the waistband of your jeans. 

His gaze locks onto yours, challenge burning behind rain-speckled lenses. "You wouldn't care?" he murmurs, voice rougher than the storm overhead. 

You tilt your head, feigning indifference even as your pulse kicks violently against your ribs. "Mm?" 

He flicks the button open, fingers hovering over the zip. "So if I just—" 

His gaze is locked onto yours, daring you to stop this. Daring you to stop him. 

The zipper rasps open under his touch, cold air biting at exposed skin as his hand slides in. His fingers trace the dip of your hipbone, rough and warm against the bite of the wind. 

"You wouldn’t care if I went back inside?" he murmurs, voice scraping low.

Your breath hitches. You should push him away. Should say something sharp, something defensive but all you can manage is a shaky exhale as his fingers dip lower, skimming the edge of your underwear. 

Steve watches you with a focus that borders on predatory. His fingers pause, testing, waiting for you to bolt or shove him back. When you don’t, his lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but something darker. Something hungrier. 

"Guess that answers that," he mutters, and then his hand is sliding fully into your pants, palm hot against your stomach.

Steve’s fingers slide beneath your underwear with a precision that shouldn’t be possible given how badly his hands were shaking moments ago. His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet—impossibly so—despite the cold, despite the argument, despite everything.

His breath hitches against your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you.

You gasp, sharp and involuntary, your hands scrambling for purchase against his rain-damp jacket as your legs threaten to give out entirely. 

Steve doesn’t give you the chance to collapse.

His free hand slides around your hip, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, hauling you up against him like you weigh nothing. Your thigh instinctively hooks around his waist as he pins you against the brick wall.

All the while he doesn’t stop, his fingers working you with a rhythm that borders on punishing, his palm grinding against your clit with every upward stroke. 

You bite down on a moan, forehead dropping against his shoulder, nails raking down the front of his jacket, his neck—really anywhere you can reach. . 

The angle is awkward: the wall digging into you, his glasses still digging into your cheekbone, but none of it matters. Not when his thumb circles once—hard—and your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking against his hand. 

“Fuck—Steve—” The name tears out of you, ragged and broken, as his fingers curl just right, pressing deep.

Your gaze catches briefly on the split skin across his knuckles where his hand grips your hip. “Careful,” you breathe instinctively. “Your hand—”

Steve lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh against your throat, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the concern physically hurts him. “Don’t care,” he mutters. 

Before sinking his teeth into the curve of your neck hard; claiming the space between your pulse and your collarbone. Then his tongue follows, slow and hot, soothing the sting in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle again. 

All the while, his fingers don’t stop moving inside you; dragging a choked, alien noise from your lips.

“Still think I don’t care?” he mutters against your skin. His thumb circles your clit again, deliberate, relentless, and you choke on absolutely nothing. 

You don’t get a chance to answer—not that you could even form words right now—because Steve’s mouth is back on yours. Fingers working you faster, rougher, until your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps against his mouth.

He continues, this time his breath fans your ear, “Still think I hate you?” he repeats. 

You whine–it’s high, desperate and pathetic—in the back of your throat. His palm grinds against your clit; everything is too much and not enough all at once. 

“Honey—” Steve’s voice cracks around the word, rough with something that isn’t just frustration anymore. “I could never hate you.” His fingers curl inside you, pressing deep enough to punch out another pathetic whine. 

“You annoy the absolute shit out of me,” he admits hoarsely. “You drive me insane. You never listen to me, you throw yourself into danger without a single thought about yourself, and every time you do I just wanna grab you and shake some sense into you.”

His thumb strokes your cheek almost unconsciously as he says it. The softest he has ever touched you–by far. 

“But hate you?” Steve lets out a breathless laugh, the idea utterly ridiculous to him. “Jesus Christ.” He cuts himself off with a ragged exhale, forehead dropping against yours as his thumb circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. 

“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think properly.”

Your stomach flips violently.

“You argue with me about everything.”

“I do not—”

“You’re literally about to,” he says immediately, kissing the corner of your mouth when you glare at him.

It pulls the smallest unwilling laugh from you but you still can’t help but roll your eyes.

Steve’s expression softens at the sound instantly. And then more seriously, even more sincerely:

“I know what kind of mood you’re in by how hard you slam a door. I know when you’re lying by the scrunch of your nose.” His jaw tightens slightly.

“I knew you were in trouble tonight before anyone else even realised something was wrong.”

Your chest aches.

Steve swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to make you understand something impossible. “You’re not forgettable,” he says quietly.

The words hit harder than they should.

His thumb brushes your cheek almost absently, tenderness bleeding through every movement now.

“You walk into a room and people look for you when you leave it.” His voice roughens slightly. “You’re loud and difficult and stubborn as hell and somehow you still make everything feel…” He breaks off with a frustrated breathless laugh, shaking his head once. “Fuck.”

Your pulse stumbles beneath his hand.

Steve presses his forehead against yours again before finishing quietly:

“You’re everything.”

Your breath catches to the point where you think you might stop breathing. 

He closes his eyes briefly as if he didn’t mean to say that part out loud. But when he looks at you again, he doesn’t take it back. He doubles down. 

“And I need- I need you to believe that.”

“I tried not to—” He cuts himself off with another rough laugh. “I really fucking tried not to do this.”

“But then you smile at me,” he says softly, almost accusingly. “Or you say my name and suddenly I’m done for.”

You stare at him speechless.

Steve brushes his nose against yours gently before kissing you again, nowhere near as frantic this time but somehow all the more intimate for it.

“So no,” he murmurs against your lips. “I don’t hate you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I think-” he pauses, taking a deep breath, his fingers slowing, “I think-I’ve been in love with you for a really, really long time.”

You whine—high-pitched and completely broken—as Steve’s fingers thrust just right, pressing deep, and suddenly the world fractures.

Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, nails biting into the damp fabric of his jacket as pleasure crashes over you in waves so sharp you actually can’t breathe.

And Steve? Steve doesn’t let you ride it out in peace. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you through the aftershocks. His tongue licks into your mouth just as his thumb circles your oversensitive clit, dragging a sob from you that he swallows greedily. 

"That's it," Steve murmurs against your temple, lips brushing damp skin as your hands scramble clumsily over his shoulders. "Good girl." 

The praise sends yet another shudder through you, legs still trembling from the aftershocks. You're barely lucid, fingers twisting in his soaked shirt as you press impossibly closer with a whine—high and needy, the sound muffled against his collarbone where your mouth rests. 

"Steve—" Your voice cracks around his name, raw from earlier shouts now reduced to breathless pleading. "Please—" 

"What, baby?" His fingers stroke gently through slick heat, coaxing another weak jerk of your hips. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your flushed cheeks when he leans down. "What do you need?" 

You can't answer—not coherently at least—just rut against his hand with a broken noise, oversensitive but desperate for more after he just gave you the best orgasm of your life.

His chuckle is dark, warm against your ear as his free hand slides up to your jaw, cradling it. “Gonna need you to say it baby.” 

The words shouldn’t wreck you the way they do. They absolutely shouldn’t send heat coiling low in your stomach all over again—but they do.

They absolutely do, and Steve absolutely knows it. You can see it in the way his eyes darken behind his glasses, in the way his thumb presses just under your chin, tilting your face up slowly. 

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallow hard, your throat working around nothing, because god, this is torture. 

The way his fingers are still inside you, curled just enough to tease but not enough to give you what you need. The way his breath fans over your lips, warm and uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together. The way his glasses are fogged beyond repair, rainwater clinging to his lashes, his hair a mess from where you’ve dragged your hands through it god knows how many times. 

You hate the way you sound—whining, desperate, voice cracking around his name like some lovesick idiot—but god, you don’t care. Not now. Maybe later. 

"Steve," you murmur again, hands fisting desperately in the soaked fabric of his shirt, vying to drag him closer even though there’s not an ounce of space left between you.

He hums, considering, like he’s weighing whether to give in—and for one stupid, hopeful second, you think he will. But then he pulls his fingers out of you with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively— chasing the loss, the sudden emptiness—only for his free hand to press flat against your stomach, holding you firmly against the wall. 

He lifts his fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them in a slow, obscene lick that elicits a moan from your throat before you can stop it. 

You could kill him. You will kill him. Later. After.

His gaze locks onto yours, dark and unreadable behind rain-speckled lenses, as he cleans every last trace of you off his fingers with agonising precision. 

Your face burns, your thighs twitch, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know you should be embarrassed—should really shove him away or snap something sarcastic—but all you manage is a weak, "Fuck."

Annoyingly causing Steve’s mouth to lift into a smug little smile.

“Want you,” you whisper helplessly, forehead knocking lightly against his shoulder. “Idiot.”

"That’s not very nice, now is it, baby?" Steve murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

You huff, fucking hell–what more does he want for you? 

His thumb presses into the delicate skin beneath your jaw, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. ”Calling me an idiot," he continues, voice dropping lower, "after I just let you come?" 

His other hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, until his palm rests over your hammering heartbeat. "You’re such a brat," he mutters against your lips, breath uneven. "Always have been."

Steve exhales sharply before he relents. His hands dropping to his belt in rough, jerky movements. The buckle clinks too loud, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of his jeans before he finally shoves them down just far enough to free himself. 

He doesn’t give you what you want, though, not quite yet. Instead, he presses the hot, heavy length of himself against your thigh, rocking forward just enough to make you gasp at the contact, the friction maddeningly light.

"Say it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours as his fingers tighten on your hip—not guiding, not forcing, just there, holding you in place while his cock twitches against your skin. "Say you believe me."

You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, hips jerking involuntarily against nothing, desperate for more. For him. 

Steve doesn’t let you. His forehead knocks clumsily against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts between kisses that are more teeth than anything else..

"Say you’ll think twice next time," he growls, dragging his mouth down your jaw to nip at your pulse point. His hips roll forward again, the head of his cock catching against your clit for one devastating second before he pulls back, leaving you gasping. "Say it."

You whine, nails scraping down the skin of his neck as you try to pull him closer, but Steve resists, his grip ironclad. 

His laugh is dark, uneven, his lips curling against your throat while you buck against him fruitlessly. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Not until you—fuck—"

His words cut off abruptly when your teeth sink into his shoulder, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he wrenches himself back with a muttered curse.

His grip tightens in your hair, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. "You think this is a joke?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.

"You think I don’t fucking mean it when I say I can’t lose you?" 

You arch toward him instinctively, but Steve doesn’t budge. Just watches you with that same unreadable expression.

"Tell me you believe me," he whispers, voice rough with something that isn’t just want anymore. "Tell me you know how much I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, fingers flexing against your hip like he’s physically restraining himself from finishing that sentence. 

But it’s the look in his eyes that finally undoes you. 

Not the way his hands shake where they grip your hips, not the ragged edge of his voice when he says your name—no, it’s the raw, unfiltered fear behind those rain-speckled glasses. . 

Steve Harrington, who’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care about anything, looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that matters. 

And something inside you finally breaks.

Your hands move before you can stop them.

You grab his face hard enough to push his crooked glasses further up his nose, fingers cold and shaking against rain-damp skin as you drag him down toward you.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice cracking badly enough that Steve immediately stills. “Hey.”

Your forehead presses against his.

And for the first time tonight, you stop trying to pull away from what he’s giving you.

You let yourself feel it.

The fear. The relief. Him.

Your eyes burn suddenly, embarrassingly, and you let out one sharp, frustrated breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.

“I’m here,” you whisper brokenly, trying to convince the both of you.

Steve makes a wrecked sound at that. His hands tighten on your hips almost painfully. “Yeah,” he breathes instantly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re here.”

Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.

And suddenly, the words are there before you can stop them. 

“I do.” 

The confession slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, but Steve goes utterly still. 

His breath catches audibly, fingers twitching against your skin like he’s been shocked. For one terrifying second, you think he might pull away—might bolt like a spooked animal—but then his forehead drops against yours with a shuddering exhale. 

“Say it again,” he rasps, voice cracking. His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing rainwater. “Please.”

“I do,” you whisper again, voice cracking. His breath stutters against your temple, his fingers trembling where they grip your thighs—like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.

Then he moves.

There’s no finesse to it, just raw emotion. 

Just Steve’s hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he presses into you with a ragged groan that gets lost in the rain. The stretch burns briefly before giving way to a fullness that steals your breath. 

The sound punched from your throat is half-sob, half-laugh, the words spilling again without thought: “I do.” 

Steve’s hips jerk uncontrollably at that, his breath hitching like the confession is a physical blow, and then he’s moving in earnest. No rhythm, no ounce of control, just raw, shuddering need.  

Every snap of his hips drives the words from you again, fractured and breathless: “I do—Steve—I do—” His name cracks on a moan as he angles deeper, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His teeth finding your pulse point, biting down just shy of pain as his pace turns punishing, the wet slap of skin lost beneath the storm’s roar.  

You’re babbling now, nonsensical; repeating it like a mantra between gasps, each thrust wringing the words out like he’s starving for them. 

Steve’s grip tightens, his other hand splaying over your ribs like he’s counting each ragged inhale, each stuttered “I do” that spills from your lips. 

The world fractures as pleasure crashes over you in waves so violent they steal your breath. 

Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping around Steve’s hips, nails biting into his shoulders as you shatter with a sob he swallows greedily.

Steve follows with a groan so broken it barely sounds human, his forehead dropping against yours as his hips jerk erratically, his fingers tightening in your hair.  

For one suspended moment, there’s nothing but the ragged sound of your breathing, the rain still hammering against the awning above you, Steve’s pulse thundering beneath your lips where they rest against his throat.

Then reality rushes back in all too quickly—the cold brick against your back, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, Steve’s glasses digging into your cheekbone where they’ve been knocked askew. 

He doesn’t pull away. 

Neither do you. 

Instead, his hands slide up your back, slow and unsteady, smoothing over the rumpled fabric of your jacket. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. Whispered so quiet you know he doesn't mean for you to hear it.  

One hand rises to card through your tangled hair, fingers gentle where they work through the knots. “You’re okay.” 

The words are less a statement than a plea, repeated like a prayer as his breathing gradually slows. 

When you tilt your head back to look at him, his glasses are fogged beyond recognition, rainwater and sweat streaking down his flushed cheeks. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. 

Your fingers rise to push his glasses up his nose, clumsy with exhaustion, and Steve catches your wrist before you can.

His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, his gaze dropping to your swollen lips, then lower—to the mark blooming on your collarbone, the rumpled state of your clothes. Something dark flickers in his eyes before he exhales sharply, forehead dropping to rest against yours again.

“‘M okay,” you murmur softly, fingers brushing back his rain-damp hair where it’s plastered to his forehead. 

Steve exhales sharply—half laugh, half sob—his breath warm against your lips as his hands slide up to cradle your face. His thumbs trace the hollows beneath your eyes with a reverence that makes your chest ache. 

“You’re not,” he counters, voice cracking, glasses still crooked, but you can still see the raw fear lingering in his gaze.

His fingers tighten fractionally, like he’s physically willing you to understand. “You were under a building, you idiot.” The words crack on the last syllable, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as his breathing stutters. 

You can feel him shaking—fine tremors running through his arms where they cage you against the wall, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips when you touch his throat. It’s unnerving. Steve Harrington doesn’t tremble. Steve Harrington doesn’t falter. 

But he is now. 

Under your fingertips. 

His glasses slip further down his nose when he tilts his head to press a kiss to your temple—clumsy, unpracticed, achingly tender. “Christ,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Your chest aches at the honesty of it. 

Steve Harrington—loud, stubborn, impossible Steve Harrington—standing here shaking in your arms because of you.

Your sworn enemy. The bane of your existence. The boy who could rile you up with nothing more than the arch of an eyebrow and one stupid smug look.

And yet here he is, holding you like losing you would’ve destroyed him.

Slowly, carefully, you reach up and straighten his glasses for him. It’s the smallest thing. Basic decency, really.

But it hits him anyway.

You see it happen in real time—the way his breath catches softly, the way his eyes lose some of that frantic edge as they search your face. As if he can’t quite believe you’re touching him so gently. 

Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, softer now than you think you’ve ever seen it.

“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly.

This time when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate.

No teeth. No frantic grasping. No fear.

Just warmth.

His hands cradle your face carefully, thumbs brushing your cheeks while your fingers curl into the damp collar of his jacket. The kiss is slow enough that you can actually feel it this time—every soft press of his lips, every shaky exhale against your mouth, every lingering second of him choosing you.

Like coming home after being lost for a very long time.

And for once—

you don’t fight it.

You let yourself be held.

P.S. I do not recommend engaging in this type of behaviour after having a building collapse on you. Please seek medical attention first. Lots of love, the chef ♡

[xpeachsunsidex]

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Summary: Gator’s always going to protect his baby girl, even after he’s been busy breaking her heart.

WC: 2.6k

Warnings & What to Expect: Gator struggling to commit, angst w/ happy ending, mentions of alcohol & sex, men putting their hands where they don’t belong, the cliche bar trope but i loveeee it, allusions of spice - but no smut.

Masterlist If Interested

Peach’s Note: ughh this was originally a request and i freaking accidentally DELETED it while trying to respond 😭🫠 so sorry anon, but this was the one about gator intervening at the bar to protect his girl. if you’re seeing this, hope you enjoy lovie 🧡

tysm to everyone showing love on my works - it means the world. requests are open! feel free to send anything Steve Harrington or Gator Tillman related and I can certainly try my best 🫡

Divider credits to @cafekitsune

If there was one thing Gator Tillman was good at, it was breaking your heart.

It’s why you were wallowing in self misery at the local bar with a couple of your girlfriends in the middle of the work week.

You’ve knocked back more shots than you really should’ve, knowing you’ll have a killer headache in the morning with an even harsher reality check when Gator finds you here - which he will, because he always does.

Tracking and chasing you down was his specialty after all.

Your pointer finger lazily traces the rim of the drink you’re finally nursing after your friends convinced you to slow down, and your mind reflects back on what pushed you to go out in the first place.

Gator had stopped by your place during his break on the night shift, greeting you eagerly when you opened the door for him.

He’d taken a longer break than normal - allowing himself to sit on the couch with you propped up in his lap. Your knees sunk into the plush of the cushions on either side of his hips, hands planted on his chest - delicately brushing the exposed skin by the collar of his shirt.

His arms were looped around you, hands intertwined at the base of your back, smirking at you when he’d cup the curve of your ass - trying to cop a feel despite the fact that he doesn’t have that much time.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Alligator,” you whispered breathily by the shell of his ear.

Gator groans in frustration, “Then stop teasin’ me baby.”

It makes you shift your hips, pressing more firmly against him, and he lets out a strangled noise of pleasure at the contact.

“Gotta stop, or else Roy will cut my dick off if ‘m late again cause of you,” he chokes out, and it makes you giggle at his dramatics.

One of his hands trails up your back, before he brings it around to gently grasp your chin between his fingers - forcing you to look at him, “Don’t you laugh at me, you know how pissed he was last time.”

His thumb swipes across your bottom lip, and you open your mouth to playfully bite down on it, making his eyes blow wide.

“C’mon baby girl, don’t do this to me,” he practically begs.

You sigh loudly, pretending to think about it, “Hmm, I guess since you asked so nicely.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes without any ill intent, before going quiet - taking you in. The lapse of talking allows you to remember the phone call you’d gotten before he showed up at your door - the one you were hesitant to tell him about.

“Somethin’ on your mind, baby girl?” He questions, genuine interest lacing his tone.

The way he’s looking at you, softly, almost as if he were memorizing your features - like he’s storing them somewhere in the depths of his mind and it allows you to make your decision.

“I was thinking,” you start, breaking off when he ducks his head to nip at the base of your throat.

“Usually leads to trouble,” he teases, sucking lightly at the now tender skin - knowing it’ll leave a possessive mark.

Your fingers play with the tendrils of hair poking out from the back of his hat and you work up the courage to finally just ask.

“My parents are coming to visit soon, and they wanna meet you,” you admit.

Gator goes rigid under you, mouth and hands stopping their wandering, and he pulls away to look at you with disbelief clouding his eyes.

“Why? It ain’t like wer’ together or somethin’ like that,” he grumbled, displeased at the idea.

The words stir something ugly under your ribs, disappointment at his continued insistence to not make anything official between the two of you.

That was the problem with a man like Gator - wanted to keep you around for all the benefits, but didn't want to label it so he could get out of the responsibility that came with being in a relationship.

It was giving you whiplash - experiencing how affectionate he could be while being so mean at the same time.

You were tired of it and decided to call him out on his bullshit, “Are you seeing other girls, Gator?”

He pauses, lips parting briefly before closing again, and it makes your stomach roll uneasily because you didn't think he was actually seeing other girls.

You start to pull away, but he frantically grabs at you, keeping you securely in his hold, “No, ‘m not seeing anybody else, promise.”

“Then what are we doing?” You gesture between the two of you.

Gator’s thumb comes up to smooth out the crease that your eyebrows have created, “We’re havin’ fun.”

“What if I want more than just fun?” You ask tentatively.

He shrugs his shoulders, “Then we should probably stop foolin’ around.”

His indifference is gut wrenching, but it’s nothing new - been let down before by him and his lack of commitment.

“You really don’t have any deeper feelings for me than that?” You ask him resolutely.

You can almost see the internal battle happening in that tortured brain of his - the one where his daddy is yelling at him for letting a girl make him soft, and the other one that’s whispering to him to let you in.

Gator’s teeth clenched tight, and you know his answer will hurt when his face pinches as if he’s annoyed, "Thought you knew what this was.”

“Guess I was stupid enough to think otherwise,” you mumble, and he doesn’t fight you this time when you force yourself off of him.

“Baby girl, don’t be like that,” he tries weakly.

“It’s fine, but you should be heading out now, Gator. You’ve got work to get back to and obviously we should stop ‘foolin’ around’ since I want you for more than just sex,” you bite out, tone harsher than you meant for it to be.

He breathes out harshly through his nose, “Didn’t mean it that way.”

“Whatever, Gator. I don’t care. Just go, please,” you fold your arms, retreating into your shell shamefully at his dismissive behavior.

A muscle in his jaw twitches like he wants to talk it out, but he glances at the watch on his wrist and realizes he needs to go.

“Can I still come over later?” He asks a little desperately.

“I don’t see the point. Goodnight, Gator,” you tell him stiffly, shutting the door behind him - locking it loudly so he gets the hint.

When you texted the group chat to vent about the awful exchange, your friends persuaded you to meet them for drinks to lift your spirits.

It didn’t help - instead, it made you feel worse at seeing the couple in the booth you considered yours and Gator’s when you came to the place together - had you remembering when he sneakily trailed his hand under your skirt one time - made you nearly pass out from the blissful feeling he was giving you in a public setting.

You just couldn’t get him off your mind - head spinning, wondering what you could’ve done to make him want you more.

You encouraged your friends to go play pool when a few guys from out of town came up to your group to flirt around, but you stayed behind at the bar - feet kicking the air sadly as you sat on the stool.

Suddenly, a hand slithers around your waist - making you freeze.

It’s a man from the group that came up to your friends, whose eyes had been lingering on you - making you nervous, because that look wasn’t interest. It was entitlement, like you owed him something he deserved.

“Please don’t touch me,” you try being polite, hoping he’ll listen the first time - which is pointless. If anything, his fingers dig into your skin uncomfortably harder.

“You’re just so pretty, dollface, can’t help myself,” he shares huskily, tilting his head, breath littered with traces of liquor - trying to get you to look at him.

Your heart starts hammering loudly, and there’s a shift in energy at the bar as people start to take notice of the man’s hands on you - because while Gator may not lay claim to being your boyfriend, everyone certainly knew not to mess with his girl.

The bartender knows it too, “Hey man, she asked you to take your hands off. I would listen if I were you.”

The man barks out a laugh of irritation, “Ain’t the boss of me. I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

His hold on you is borderline painful at this point, and you're overwhelmed by the rush of signal firings of fight or flight taking over your body.

“Get off of me,” you command, squirming to break free.

“Don’t need to be such a priss about it, baby,” the guy sneers at you, refusing to let go. The pet name is revolting coming from anyone else but Gator, let alone a random guy trying to feel you up.

You’re nearly hyperventilating at his insistence - panicking about the fact that everyone else is either too drunk to notice or intervene.

Little did you know that the bartender had already reached out to the station - had been paid off by the Tillmans to keep an eye on you. The call came across the radio system in Gator’s deputy truck - who was already parked outside the bar - has been for an hour now. He’d been weighing the options on how you’d react if he showed up inside, but the call instantly made the choice for him.

Gator doesn’t need to storm in - his presence alone commands the attention of the room, eyes following his slow footsteps as he treks his way across the room to you. He can’t help the instant flood of pride that washes over him when he watches you throw the remains of your drink at the sleazy guy dangling off of you.

The guy rears back, jumping up from his seat, “What the fuck!”

Gator’s nearly at your side by now, and he smoothly slides in front of you, arm coming out to block the guy from trying to get to you.

“Gonna need yah to back off man,” Gator warns.

You startle at his appearance - would have been less than thrilled to see him earlier, but now you’re immensely grateful he’s shown up.

“Listen prick, this bitch-,” the man starts, and it’s all it takes for Gator to snap.

He grabs two fistfulls of the guys shirt, shoving him hard into the ledge of the counter top and gets real close to his face - murderous look behind those pretty eyes of his.

“I said, back, the fuck, off,” Gator pushes hard at the man’s chest, enunciating each word viciously.

The guy finally quiets at the threat, but his eyes narrow into slits, sizing Gator up like he’s determining if he could take him or not.

“C’mon baby girl, let’s go,” he leisurely lets go of the man, slipping an arm around your shoulders - guiding you towards the front door.

Gator’s almost steered you to the exit when you’re caught off guard by a rough tug at your arm, and a whimper leaves your lips at the sharp sting of the asshole’s nails cutting into your wrist when you rip yourself away from him.

The sound of you in pain makes Gator’s face twist in rage, and he whistles a signal to one of Roy's ranch hands who’s been cautiously watching from the entrance - worry pools in your gut because you know that means Gator’s about to beat the ever living shit out of the guy.

“Wait, Gate, it’s okay,” you say calmly, trying to talk him down from the dumb decision he’s about to make.

His eyes flick down to your wrist that you’re cradling, “Yer bleeding. Like hell it’s okay.”

The ranch hand stands beside you, and Gator gives a quick demand, “Get her in the car.”

“Gator,” you plead, but he’s already got his back to you.

You catch the first swing of his fist - cracking against the guy’s nose easily, but the ranch hand moves you out into the cool evening air before you can watch the rest of the brewing fight.

The car ride back to your house was silent. You probably couldn’t speak even if you wanted to with the way the bile was climbing up your throat at seeing Gator’s knuckles swollen and bleeding. The only other evidence of his brawl was a large bruise blooming on the underside of his jaw - must’ve been the only underhook throw the guy got on him.

You were livid at him - not only had he left you in broken pieces earlier in the day, but he threw himself into a fight that wasn’t needed and could've seriously gotten hurt.

Despite the fact, you had him sitting on your bathroom sink while you cleaned up his raw fingers - layer of skin missing from how hard he’d been swinging.

You were standing between his parted thighs, far too close for comfort after the devastating words he’d uttered just hours ago, and you could feel his breath fanning across your skin - leaving behind a traitorous trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“God, you drive me crazy, Gator Tillman,” you tell him when you’re done, throwing the dirty cloth you used into the laundry basket.

“That a good thing or bad thing?” He teases, grinning wildly at you.

“Bad, definitely bad,” you roll your eyes, stepping back - but Gator refuses to let you leave him, hands snatching out to grasp at your waist, delicately dragging you back to him.

“Excuse me for wantin’ to defend yer honor,” he chides, raising his eyebrows.

“If we ‘ain’t in a relationship’,” you mock, using his own words, “then how come you felt the need to do so?”

“Cause he was a jackass,” he splutters.

You shake your head, “Not good enough of a reason.”

“Woulda done if for anyone,” he mumbles, blatantly lying.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhausted from his stubbornness, “Oh my god, just be honest with me for once, Gator.”

“Fine, dammit, because yer mine. Got that? Mine. And nobody lays hands on my baby girl,” he seethes, jealously flaring like hot coals in his chest.

You reach up to cup his jaw in your hands, sweetly brushing over the bruise, and he closes his eyes in content at the touch.

You stand on your tip toes to get close, press a soft kiss to the tender skin and whisper, “Was that really so hard to admit, Alligator?”

He swallows thickly, eyes fluttering back open to look at you with desire, “Didn’t label it because I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

“You won’t, not if you just try for me,” you promise, nudging your nose against his - a silent request for him to kiss you.

He grants your wish, strong arms tracing the length of your torso, hand coming up to cradle the back of your head - gauze wrapped fingers tangling with the tendrils of your hair.

You press yourself eagerly against him, lips slotting with his like second nature. You’re not sure how much time passes as you bask in each other before finding yourselves intertwined beneath the bedsheets, under the glow of the moonlight shadowing your room.

And if Gator snuck out in the middle of the early morning - pausing to press a kiss to your hairline, admiring you as you let out a little noise of satisfaction - before leaving to go smash in the windows of the car of the idiot who dared to put his hands on you, well then that would be a secret Gator would take to his grave.

[lisbondollxox]

“peach street diner”

౨ৎ Joe Keery x younger!reader ౨ৎ

warnings: age gap (22/26), fluff, slow burn, reader works at a diner, strangers to lovers, mild drinking, lots of stranger things cast + production appearances

word count: 5.8k+

summary: During the filming of season three of Stranger Things in Georgia, you accidentally become part of the strange little world surrounding the cast after they start visiting the diner where you work almost every night. Somewhere between thunderstorms, late shifts, and burnt coffee, Joe Keery starts falling for you a lot faster than either of you expected.

The diner looked prettier at night.

Not in an obvious way. During the daytime it was still the same old roadside place sitting twenty minutes outside Atlanta with cracked leather booths, faded tile floors, and neon signs buzzing softly behind dusty windows. The menus were slightly sticky no matter how much people wiped them down, the coffee always tasted vaguely burnt, and the air permanently smelled like fryer oil and vanilla milkshakes.

But after midnight, when Georgia storms rolled across the highways and headlights blurred against rain-covered glass, the place started feeling cinematic in a way it probably wasn’t supposed to.

You noticed that during your second week working there.

The third week was when they started showing up.

At first it was only people from production. Assistant directors still wearing headsets around their necks while ordering burgers at one in the morning, exhausted makeup artists carrying giant bags beneath their eyes, camera operators complaining about humidity ruining equipment. You didn’t think much of it until one Friday night when half the restaurant suddenly went quiet.

The bell above the door rang.

And then the cast of Stranger Things walked inside.

Not formally.

Not dramatically.

They entered like a tired group of teenagers and coworkers who just wanted food after a fourteen-hour shoot. Hoodies, baseball caps, messy hair, exhausted faces. The younger cast crowded together near the front while somebody from wardrobe argued with a producer about losing a jacket somewhere on set.

You recognized all of them instantly anyway.

Millie Bobby Brown was talking animatedly with both hands while walking beside Noah Schnapp, who looked seconds away from laughing at something. Finn Wolfhard had headphones hanging around his neck, and Caleb McLaughlin was stealing fries directly off somebody else’s plate before they’d even sat down.

Then more people entered behind them.

Gaten Matarazzo carrying drinks.

Natalia Dyer beside Charlie Heaton.

Maya Hawke laughing loudly enough that literally everybody turned to look.

And behind all of them—

Joe Keery.

You noticed him last, mostly because he was quieter than everybody else.

At twenty-six, he already felt older than the younger cast somehow, not old exactly, just calmer around the edges. He walked in wearing a dark hoodie with damp curls pushed back messily from his forehead, one hand holding the restaurant door open for people behind him while the other shoved into his pocket.

Then he looked up.

Straight at you.

Your stomach immediately dropped.

“Table for… a million?” Maya asked dramatically.

Your manager nearly shoved menus into your hands.

“You’re taking them.”

“I literally started working here two weeks ago,” you whispered.

“And?”

“And what if I spill something on them?”

“You spill things on normal people too. Go.”

You wanted to die instantly.

The cast ended up taking over almost half the diner, everyone sliding into booths and moving chairs around loudly while crew members apologized for the chaos. Rain hammered softly against the windows outside while thunder rolled somewhere far across the Georgia sky.

You walked over gripping your notepad so tightly your fingers hurt.

“Hi,” you managed.

Your voice sounded embarrassingly small.

But immediately, Joe smiled.

Not fake celebrity smiling.

Not polite either.

Just warm.

“Hey.”

That somehow made everything worse.

The weird thing was how normal all of them felt after ten minutes.

The younger cast immediately started arguing over milkshakes. Noah kept trying to steal fries from Gaten’s plate. Caleb laughed loud enough to make half the diner turn around again. Finn sat sideways in the booth listening to music through one earbud while talking to Charlie about bands you’d never heard of.

And Joe—

Joe mostly listened.

Sometimes he laughed quietly at something Maya said. Sometimes he leaned back against the booth with tired eyes while the younger kids talked over each other around him. Sometimes he just watched everyone with this soft older-brother expression like he’d seen this exact chaos a hundred times before.

“You’re new here, right?” he asked eventually while you refilled drinks.

You glanced up from your notepad. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little.”

“That bad?”

“No.” He smiled slightly into his coffee. “Just haven’t seen you before.”

The diner lights reflected softly against the silver rings on his fingers.

Outside, rain streaked across the windows in blurry lines.

“I just moved here,” you admitted quietly.

“From?”

“Chicago.”

His eyebrows lifted instantly.

“No way.”

“Oh my God,” you sighed. “Don’t start talking about deep dish pizza.”

“That was literally my next sentence.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And for some reason, Joe looked weirdly pleased about it.

After that night, they kept coming back constantly.

Sometimes after filming wrapped. Sometimes during weird afternoon breaks between shoots. Sometimes almost everybody showed up together, and other nights it was only a few people wandering inside looking exhausted beneath baseball caps and sunglasses.

And slowly, without really realizing when it happened, you stopped being “the new waitress” and became somebody they all recognized.

The younger cast started greeting you loudly every time they entered.

“Hi, diner girl!” Noah yelled one night before immediately getting scolded by Millie for calling you diner girl.

Production assistants waved at you now.

The makeup department started giving you leftover snacks from catering trucks because they found out you practically lived off fries and iced coffee during college finals week.

Even one of the Duffer Brothers started saying hi whenever he walked in.

It became strangely normal.

Not glamorous.

That was the thing people probably wouldn’t understand.

Most nights everybody looked exhausted.

Georgia heat ruined hair and makeup constantly. Filming schedules stretched impossibly late. The younger cast looked half asleep most of the time, usually collapsing dramatically into booths while parents hovered nearby with water bottles and jackets.

Sometimes you’d see Millie’s mom sitting nearby while Millie argued with Noah over mozzarella sticks. Sometimes Finn’s parents stopped by briefly. Sometimes production assistants tried unsuccessfully to stop Gaten from eating an alarming amount of diner pancakes after midnight.

It all felt weirdly familiar after a while.

Messy.

Warm.

Loud.

And somehow Joe always ended up near you.

Not obviously.

Never enough that you thought he was doing it intentionally at first.

But if everybody sat in a booth, Joe somehow landed closest to the counter where you worked. If you were wiping tables down, he drifted over casually with another coffee refill he definitely didn’t need. If the younger cast started throwing fries at each other, Joe’s attention still kept sliding back toward wherever you were moving through the diner.

You noticed it slowly.

Then everybody else noticed it too.

One humid August night, Maya cornered you near the soda machine while you filled drink cups.

“He’s doing the thing again.”

You blinked. “What thing?”

“The staring.”

Your face immediately went hot.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maya looked deeply unconvinced.

Across the diner, Joe was leaning against the counter talking to Charlie, but the second he noticed you looking over—

He smiled automatically.

Maya nearly screamed.

“Oh, you guys are doomed.”

“Please stop talking.”

“No.”

The teasing only got worse after that.

Finn started calling you Joe’s diner girlfriend even though Joe nearly choked every single time he said it. Noah kept asking if dating Joe meant free extra fries forever. Gaten openly acted like he’d been predicting the relationship from the beginning.

“You two flirt like divorced people reconnecting at a gas station,” Maya announced one night.

Natalia laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

Meanwhile you wanted the earth to split open beneath you.

Joe wasn’t helping either.

Because now he touched you casually sometimes.

Tiny things.

His hand brushing your lower back while squeezing behind you near the counter. Fingers grazing yours when you handed him coffee. Knees bumping beneath booths when everybody crowded together too closely.

Little things that made your brain stop functioning normally.

And the worst part was how natural he made it feel.

One rainy night in October, the diner lost power during a storm.

The entire restaurant went dark except for emergency lighting near the kitchen and the flickering neon beer sign beside the windows.

Everybody immediately started yelling.

Maya screamed dramatically just to be annoying. Noah started recording videos on his phone. Somebody from wardrobe tripped over a chair loudly enough to make half the diner laugh.

Thunder shook the windows hard enough that you instinctively flinched.

Then suddenly Joe was beside you.

“You okay?”

The emergency lighting painted half his face gold while the rest stayed shadowed.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. I just hate storms.”

Another crack of thunder rolled outside.

Your shoulders tensed automatically.

Joe noticed immediately.

Something softened in his expression after that.

The power stayed out for almost half an hour, trapping everybody inside together while rain flooded the roads outside. Candles got dragged out from storage, phones became flashlights, and eventually the diner settled into this strange warm atmosphere that felt more like a sleepover than a restaurant.

The younger cast ended up crowded together in one booth sharing fries and telling horror stories while production assistants begged them to calm down. Caleb and Noah kept trying to scare Millie with flashlight shadows, Finn played music quietly from his phone speakers, and somewhere near the counter Charlie and Natalia sat shoulder-to-shoulder watching the rain.

You found yourself beside Joe in the back booth.

The candlelight made him look softer somehow.

Tired in a pretty way.

“You’re less nervous around us now,” he said quietly while everyone else talked across the diner.

“I was terrified of all of you.”

“You hid in the kitchen the first time Maya spoke to you.”

“She’s intense.”

“She’d love hearing that.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Outside, rainwater streamed silver against the glass while thunder rolled across dark Georgia skies.

The diner smelled like candles, coffee, and wet pavement.

Joe leaned slightly closer toward you.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Depends.”

“I thought you hated me at first.”

You stared at him.

“What?”

“You never looked at me.”

“Because you’re Joe Keery.”

He made a face immediately.

“That still sounds fake.”

“You’re literally famous.”

“Not in here.”

The way he said it made your chest ache unexpectedly.

Because sitting inside that tiny diner with his curls falling messily into his eyes and candlelight flickering across his face, he really did just feel like some guy.

A very pretty guy.

But still.

You looked down toward his hands resting against the booth table, silver rings catching softly beneath the light.

Then back toward him.

“You know what I mean,” you murmured quietly.

Joe looked at you for a second too long after that.

Long enough for your stomach to twist.

Then suddenly, across the diner—

“OH MY GOD, JUST KISS ALREADY!” Maya yelled dramatically.

The entire restaurant exploded instantly.

You covered your face while Joe dropped his head against the table laughing.

“No shame,” Natalia muttered.

“Absolutely none,” Charlie agreed quietly.

The power came back seconds later, flooding the diner with bright light again, but when you looked back at Joe—

He was already looking at you.

Still smiling.

But softer now.

Different.

After that night, something shifted permanently.

Joe started staying after everybody else left.

He walked you to your car after late shifts ended at one in the morning. He sat at the counter while you studied between slow hours, stealing your highlighters just to annoy you. Sometimes he’d show up alone during afternoon breaks between filming just to drink terrible diner coffee and sit near you while you worked.

The age difference scared you sometimes.

Not because of him.

Mostly because your lives felt so wildly different.

You were still struggling through university classes and shared apartments and calculating grocery prices before buying anything.

Meanwhile Joe spent his days surrounded by cameras and trailers and scripts and giant Netflix sets.

But somehow, inside the diner, none of it felt far apart.

One freezing night near December, filming wrapped earlier than usual.

Only a few people came afterward.

Natalia and Charlie left quickly looking exhausted. Finn disappeared with crew members. Maya hugged you dramatically before leaving and whispered “please marry him” directly into your ear while Joe nearly died beside her.

Then eventually it was just you and him.

The diner had gone quiet by then, soft music humming through the speakers while employees cleaned tables nearby. Christmas lights outside reflected faintly against wet streets from earlier rain.

Joe sat across from you instead of beside everybody else for once.

No distractions.

No cast members yelling.

Just him.

“You know everybody thinks we’re dating, right?” you asked quietly.

Joe smiled slightly into his coffee.

“I know.”

“And?”

“And…” He looked up at you. “I don’t really mind.”

Your heartbeat stumbled painfully hard.

The diner suddenly felt too warm.

Joe leaned forward slowly against the table.

“Can I be honest?”

You nodded.

“I think I started liking you the first night you argued with me about coffee.”

You laughed softly. “That’s embarrassing.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve picked something cooler.”

“Nope. Burnt diner coffee did it for me.”

The smile tugging at his mouth made your chest ache.

Then he looked at you in that same soft way again.

The way that always made everything else blur a little.

“You’re really pretty, you know that?”

Your stomach flipped instantly.

Not because of the compliment.

Because of how gently he said it.

Like he wasn’t trying to flirt anymore.

Like he just wanted you to know.

You looked down at the table automatically.

Joe smiled softly at that.

Then quietly—

“Hey.”

You looked back up.

His eyes flickered briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

The entire diner disappeared around you.

The music overhead, dishes clattering near the kitchen, neon signs buzzing softly beside the windows—

All of it faded behind the feeling of him looking at you like that.

You nodded once.

And when he kissed you, it felt warm and slow and patient, one hand sliding carefully against your jaw while the other rested near your waist. He tasted faintly like coffee and mint gum, and when you kissed him back harder, you felt him smile softly against your mouth like he couldn’t help it.

Then somewhere behind the counter, your manager yelled—

“FINALLY.”

Joe pulled away laughing instantly while you buried your face in your hands.

And outside the diner windows, you could literally see Maya jumping up and down near the parking lot.

“Oh my God,” you groaned.

Joe was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

By the next week, everybody on set knew.

Not officially.

But enough.

Joe brought you lunch during one of your shifts and Noah immediately posted a blurry picture of the two of you onto somebody’s phone story before getting yelled at by production. Finn started calling you “the diner wife.” Millie became personally invested in your relationship like it was her full-time job.

Then eventually Joe brought you to set.

The whole place smelled like sunscreen, fake smoke, hairspray, hot pavement, and catering food sitting too long beneath warmers. Crew members rushed between trailers carrying wires and clipboards while extras wandered around dressed in bright eighties clothing.

Joe kept his hand resting lightly against your back while leading you through everything.

Not possessive.

Just natural.

Millie spotted you first.

“Oh my God,” she gasped dramatically. “It’s official.”

Joe closed his eyes immediately.

Finn looked over from a folding chair. “Wait, diner girl’s here?”

“Stop calling her diner girl,” Joe groaned.

Noah looked genuinely emotional. “This is huge for us.”

Caleb laughed loudly beside him while Gaten looked ridiculously proud of himself.

“I literally predicted this months ago.”

Maya appeared seconds later wearing giant sunglasses and immediately grabbed both your shoulders.

“How does it feel dating the most emotionally repressed man alive?”

Joe looked horrified.

“Why are you all like this?”

“Because we’re right,” she answered simply.

Even Natalia laughed quietly beside Charlie while the Duffer Brothers walked past exchanging amused looks like they’d already heard every detail from somebody in production.

And somewhere in the middle of all that noise and Georgia heat and people yelling between trailers—

Joe looked back at you again.

Softly.

Like he still couldn’t fully believe you were there.

Later, while filming paused and the younger cast crowded around craft services stealing snacks, Joe sat beside you near the monitors in full Steve Harrington costume with hairspray still stiff in his curls.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You looked around at the giant set, the lights, the cameras, the people everywhere.

Then back at him.

“They’re insane.”

“They like you.”

“They bully me constantly.”

“That means they really like you.”

Across the lot, Maya yelled, “WE CAN STILL SEE YOU FLIRTING.”

Joe’s face turned pink instantly.

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

And for the first time since moving to Georgia, sitting there beside him while the entire Stranger Things set buzzed around you beneath the hot southern sun—

You didn’t feel far away from anything anymore.

thank you for reading:) really proud of this one, hope you like it!!!!!<3

[baroqueplayhouse]

The Lensing Effect 🛸༄˖°.

Steve Harrington has spent years learning how to survive monsters, which was never easy, but facing a girl he used to torment in high school somehow turns out to be much harder. As Hawkins slips toward its final disaster, strange anomalies begin gathering around her: red-violet matter, interdimensional creatures, government officials - you know, the works. While the rest of the group tries to figure out what she is, Steve becomes increasingly concerned with a different issue entirely…he can’t seem to convince her he’s not that guy anymore.

(6.6k words, fem!reader, some body horror, experimentations, religious guilt, yearning from Steve, protective Steve, first kiss, semi-smut, happy ending for everyone!!!)

A/N: I had this romance/sci-fi idea for Steve Harrington, and while this is a concept, it reads like a full story - start to finish. It has dialogue and action. I just wanted to toss it out there!

The story starts after the crawl has gone wrong, with the demogorgon attacking the caravan Hopper is in.

During that sequence, Hopper takes refuge and spots something that doesn't fit the usual Upside Down environment. In a church, The Hawkins Presbyterian Church, there is a specific pew with red-purple matter hovering around it, faint particles gathered over the seat, and in the air above it. It’s nothing like the typical vines and floating spores. Hopper touches it, and it bursts against his fingers and burns him. He jerks back, swears, and remembers the location exactly.

In the real world, at that same time or close to it, the FMC had been sitting in that pew alone, crying, though Hopper and the party do not know that. Her emotion left a residue/pressure in the Upside Down equivalent of the space.

After Hopper gets out, he relays what he saw. At the same time, Eleven and Nancy rush off to her home upon hearing there’s a demogorgon going there. (I forgot who else goes).

So Steve, Robin, and Dustin go to the church that night to check the pew. The church is closed, but they find the FMC there alone. She has glossy eyes that she is trying to blink clear, and Steve notices because he is watching her too closely. It’s clear she does not understand why they are there, because she says the church is closed, they are not parishioners, and even if they were, they cannot be there after hours. Robin tries to sweet talk her and keep the situation from turning too tense. Dustin just slips past and goes toward the general area/pew Hopper described.

Steve remains near the entrance at first, looking at her. When he steps farther in, she backs up.

Dustin reaches the pew and notices the seat is warm, and asks if anyone else was there. She says no, it’s just her. That unsettles Dustin, but it’s not enough proof for anything yet, so he doesn't keep pressing her.

She politely asks them to leave.

After Karen explains what happened with Mr. Whatsit and after they learn Derek is next, Will uses his connection.

He sees the Hive Mind movement, but he also sees demobats circling another house in the Upside Down. He describes it, saying: “White mailbox. Blue flowers painted on it, and a cross on the side. The house number is One-eight-six,” and there is a silver Mercedes parked in the driveway.

At the same time Joyce worries if there are children in that house, Steve recognizes the house and says there are not, or at least, not younger children. He is struck with the guilty memory of him, Tommy H. and Carol driving by, laughing after a senselessly cruel “joke.”

That is the FMC’s house.

Dustin connects it immediately. Hopper saw red-purple matter at the church pew, the pew was warm, the FMC was the only person there, and now Will sees demobats circling her house. He doesn’t know what it means exactly, but he knows something is up.

Steve, Dustin, and Lucas go in the daytime to check on the house. Her mother answers the door, and she is suspicious immediately because three boys are on the porch asking for her daughter.

Lucas panics and says something fast to cover, “Steve’s her boyfriend. He just wants to see her.”

Steve snaps his head toward him while Dustin looks horrified and equally thrilled by how bad that lie is, and the mother stiffens.

The FMC’s father suddenly appears behind her. He knows enough about the Hawkins situation, through old government connections or continued communication or whatever to recognize the boys as dangerous proximity. He may not know every detail, but it’s clear he knows their circle is tied to Eleven, Hopper, the Wheelers, the Byers, and the incidents.

So he tells them to leave.

As the FMC appears somewhere behind him, confused and embarrassed and mortified, Steve sees her but cannot speak to her properly before the door closes.

After the door is shut in their faces, Dustin knows something is off, and says as much, so they look into her father. Through Murray or whatever other route, they learn enough to justify watching the house.

He is a materials physicist with theoretical training. Seemingly has a Department of Energy connection, and had an abrupt move to Hawkins twenty some odd years ago, and apparently has some unexplained money since he has such a nice car and home. Has some redacted project work, and no clean public explanation for what he actually did work-wise.

Steve, Dustin, and Lucas return to her home, hiding in Steve’s car outside the house. They want to wait until she leaves and ask her questions without her father present, hoping she goes to the church again late at night.

Then two black SUVs pull up, and her father lets the men in. Minutes later, she is carried out, limp and in pajamas, slung over a man’s shoulder.

Her parents watch from the doorway, the mother clutching her husband’s arm, but neither of them look particularly sad or heartbroken. Rather, they seem sort of relieved. Steve doesn’t like that.

As Steve starts the car, Dustin is panicking, trying to talk and think at the same time, and Lucas tells them to follow without getting seen.

They trail the convoy.

On a back road leading out of town, demogorgons attack the vehicles, and the vehicle carrying the FMC overturns. As the government men are torn apart, she wakes enough to crawl out, drugged and disoriented.

Steve gets out as one of the demogorgons goes after her, and Dustin screams for him to stay in the car, the Eddie shadow hitting him immediately. Lucas gets out too, to help Steve. Right as the demogorgon pounces on her, Steve sees a burst of red-purple particles, then the creature lands beside her with a scorch mark in its chest, writhing. Steve reaches it and slams his nail bat into its head until it stops moving.

All the while, Lucas grabs the FMC under her arms and tells her to come on. But she is staring back in horror at what happened, so Steve fists the front of her pajama top and drags her when she does not move fast enough.

They get her into the car.

In the car, Dustin starts rapid-firing questions:

“Did you do that?”

“Have you done that before?”

“Why did those guys take you?”

“Are you like El?”

“Does your dad know? Your mom?”

She is drugged, shaking, trapped in a car with three boys she barely knows, one of them being someone who used to be part of a crowd that mocked her, and she is terrified of what came out of her.

Steve swerves and curses as a red-purple pop flares, blinding him momentarily. Dustin exclaims and Lucas tells Dustin to stop talking. Then another pulse happens, and Steve brakes hard and stops slanted in the road. He turns around, pointing as he tries to get everyone under control.

“Everybody shut up.” And when Dustin starts to argue, Steve says, “No. You--stop asking questions.”

Lucas is half out of his seat, looking as if he’s ready to bolt. “You--stop trying to climb out the damn window.”

Then Steve points toward her and says, “And you--just calm down.”

A wisp of red-purple particles pops near his finger and burns him, and he jerks back. She apologizes instantly, twice over, and tries to cover herself, curling up and seemingly pretending what is happening is not real, but Steve senses that her fear and shame make the energy worse.

Steve readjusts and lowers his voice. “Okay. No. Sorry. Don’t--don’t do that. I mean, don’t listen to me. Just breathe.” He almost says she is okay, but stops. “Nobody’s touching you. Nobody will. We’re just taking you somewhere safe.”

Lucas says they need to get off the road, constantly checking out the back window.

They bring her to WSQK, plopping her on the sofa. She’s still in pajamas, wrapped in Steve’s jacket that she didn’t initially want to take, but Steve insisted. She’s exhausted, a little dazed, dirty from the road.

To the group, Dustin explains everything too fast; restating Hopper’s church anomaly, the warm pew where no one else but her was present, Will seeing demobats over her house, the father shutting them out. Then the juicy stuff; the SUVs, the demogorgon attack, and the red-purple burst that maimed a demogorgon.

Then Dustin tells her to show them. She does nothing, so he says it again. Steve tells him to knock it off, and Dustin argues that everyone needs to see it.

Steve says something like, “She just got dragged out of a van and almost eaten. They can wait.”

Hopper suddenly checks the inside of her wrist for a number, but there is none. At the same time, Steve sees the marks on her arm (not SH). As she pulls her sleeve back down, everyone starts suspecting she might be another lab kid, just from a different lab, or maybe a hidden subject Brenner never numbered.

Eleven does not agree. Steve thinks Eleven is trying to reach into her mind while everyone else is talking.

With the FMC already overloaded, red-purple flurries start. She apologizes immediately, trying to stand and leave, but Steve gives her a look, enough to make her sit again.

Everyone is confused about what that was, and what it makes it. Dustin shakes his head because none of their guesses and speculations line up.

After everyone disperses and the Turnbow trap begins forming, Steve goes to check on her. She’s still sitting on the sofa, and he asks if she is okay. She answers curtly. When he sits beside her, she tilts her legs away from him. He starts to ask something else, but she excuses herself to the bathroom and leaves.

Robin overhears and comes to sit beside Steve, telling him to play nice.

Steve says, “She needs to play nice with me. I’ve been playing very nice.”

Robin makes it clear that niceness is not the issue, that this is still a Steve issue, an unresolved one.

Steve grumbles because he knows. He remembers the snide comments about her clothes, Tommy H. pretending to ask her on a date, then Carol humiliating her for trying to take “her man,” and Steve laughing when it happened and the look on her face.

As Steve stands, Robin tells him she (the FMC) is overwhelmed and he should leave her alone, but he ignores her.

He waits by the bathroom, but Jonathan walks out instead, so he searches for the FMC, finding her walking down the radio station driveway.

He jogs to catch up, standing in front of her. “Where are you going?”

She skids to a stop. “I don’t know.” She looks over his shoulder. “…home.”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I get wanting to get away from here. It’s a lot,” he says. “The monsters, the questions, Henderson doing that thing where he talks faster when he’s worked up, which is, honestly, terrible in a crisis. Everybody staring at you.” She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, and he watches before continuing, “It’s scary. And weird. And it’s new to you, which is probably the worst part, because the rest of us are used to all of this.”

“I don’t know why I did what I did. I don’t know how it happened, or if it will happen again. I don’t know anything. I don’t want to answer any more questions.”

“Then don’t.” He steps closer. “I mean it,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dustin can survive not knowing something for ten minutes. It’ll be hard for him, but he’ll live.” He pauses. “When you do want answers, though, Dustin can explain the monster stuff. Henderson loves explaining monster stuff. El might understand the… whatever happened with…whatever you did.”

“Okay.”

“And me, I guess I’m mostly the guy who used to be an asshole to you and now keeps yelling in cars.” He says with a sad smile. “I know you probably don’t want me being the one checking on you.” She stiffens. “Which is fair,” he says. “Really fair.”

She doesn’t say anything, she just turns back toward the building.

But Steve steps in front of her again, walking backward, saying, “I used to be shitty.” He pauses when she halts. “Very shitty. Especially to you.”

“I don’t need you to--“

“I know.” He nods too fast. “I know you don’t need anything from me. That’s not why I’m saying it.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because you’re standing here in Robin’s sweater, and you’ll look at her, and you’ll look at Nancy, and then I walk up and you look like you’re waiting for me to be shitty again.” She frowns. “And if you tell me it’s fine,” he says, quieter, “I’ll probably let myself believe you.” He gives a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t really want to be that guy anymore.”

She looks toward the building. “Be that guy then. It’s fine.”

“No.” He doesn’t budge when she takes a step. “It’s not.”

“It was high school.”

“Yeah, and that made it easier to be awful. It didn’t make me do it.”

“It really is fine, Steve,” she says again, softer this time, and he hates that some stupid part of him notices how his name sounds in her mouth.

She starts trying to walk, and he lets her, and walks backwards in front of her again.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m not even asking you to like me. I’m just saying I know being around me probably sucks, and I get why. I would hate being around me too.”

As he bumps his heels into the steps and almost falls, she reaches out.

She walks past him up the stairs and says, under her breath, “It’s even.”

He turns. “What?”

She pauses, one hand on the railing. “You saved me. So it’s even. Let’s leave it there.”

That hurts him.

(She’s gotten a change of clothes from Robin, and has talked to Dustin. Steve knew because he watched from a distance, seeing her face as she took everything in - the Upside Down, the government, the Russians, Vecna/Henry, what’s been happening.)

After the Turnbow trap is established and before the party splits up, Dustin asks if the FMC is going to help. Lucas and Joyce think it is a bad idea, and Steve makes a face. The FMC says no at first.

Eleven scoffs, then makes a comment before she and Hopper leave, something like, “So you can do something, and you won’t?” Mike rubs Eleven’s back, his focus only on her.

Steve picks up that the comment stung her because she sits up straighter and pinches her lips before looking down. He tells her she does not have to go, but she walks away.

Robin shakes her head.

Before they leave, the FMC shows up and says she is going. Steve starts to object, but Nancy tells him to shut up and let her choose. So she goes.

At the Turnbow house, she shadows Robin first, then Nancy while they set things up, carrying what she is told to carry, holding wires, passing supplies, and following instructions.

Steve keeps watching her. Dustin notices and says, “Stop being creepy.”

Steve shoots back, “I’m not being creepy.”

Dustin says something along the lines of, “You’re staring at her like she’s a bomb.”

Steve snorts, “She might be.”

When the demogorgon attack happens, one leaps over the FMC, and she ducks. Steve gets cornered in the upstairs balcony, swinging the nail bat. It lodges in the creature’s flesh, and he can’t pull the bat free.

Red-purple particles wisp over the demogorgon, burning it, before the mist spreads and grows, then bursts, knocking the creature over the second-story railing.

She is stunned by what she did, doing it seemingly on purpose, so Steve lurches forward and grabs both her forearms to keep her from falling, squeezing once.

Then the fight keeps moving. When the demogorgon goes into the gate, Steve, Nancy, Dustin, and Jonathan rush to the car to follow. She gets in too.

He drives into the Upside Down.

At the lab in the Upside Down, the group splits. Nancy and Jonathan go off like normal. Steve, Dustin, and the FMC go another direction.

Dustin and Steve encourage her to search the records because they still think she might be connected to the lab kids somehow, so she goes through files.

All the while. Steve and Dustin have their fight then their heart to heart, as in the show, while she keeps searching.

After Jonathan and Nancy are retried from the melted room, and before the group goes to the roof, Dustin carefully says the FMC should not go any closer.

He explains, holding up Brenner’s journal as he does, that her abilities resemble the ball of exotic matter, that her matter is reacting to it, and if she gets closer, she will set it off fully.

She realizes she caused Nancy and Jonathan to fall, explaining that she found nothing in the records that they suggested she go through, and she just got so upset that the cabinet caught fire. (So instead of Nancy shooting the exotic matter and destabilizing it, the reaction is triggered by the FMC - her being so close, using the matter she’s made of.)

That is what causes Nancy and Jonathan to fall into the melting part of the building. She apologized the moment she realizes, then she says she will go outside and they should continue without her.

Steve follows her.

Outside, she is sitting on a retention wall, holding Brenner’s journal in both hands. Dustin gave it to her because he thought she deserved to see it herself.

She sees him and closes the journal, staring straight ahead as Steve sits beside her. The journal rests between them or in her lap, and after a while he takes it carefully. He skims enough to just barely understand through all the science-y mumbo jumbo that the wormhole was useful only while controllable, that if Brenner’s system ever stopped obeying him, he needed a way to destroy it before anyone else could take it, expose it, or use it without him.

Steve understands that no one like Brenner would ever build a door without also building a lock only he can use.

They tried time and again to contain the exotic matter; a device can hold it for a while, machines can measure it, and chambers can suspend it. But to interact with it at the level needed to collapse the wormhole, it needs a living regulator.

He read that a human body can do what machinery can’t. Adapt second by second, carry a counter-reactive form of exotic matter, respond to shifts in the wormhole field, cross or touch the boundary without immediate failure, and house the failsafe in plain sight.

She was placed in a home to remain stable, hidden, and retrievable. If she had been kept in the lab, she might have destabilized early, died young, been discovered, or been damaged by testing. A normal life keeps her biologically stable and socially invisible until retrieval.

Given to a scientist that would understand her and what she’s made of.

He read that survival is labeled as unlikely, irrelevant, and impossible, and shut the book right after.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then he tried to comfort her, going about it the wrong way.

“Okay,” he says. “Then we stay away from the chamber and the giant ball up there. Easy.” When she gives him a look, he corrects himself. “Not easy.”

She doesn’t respond, and Steve sits the journal at the other side, where she can't take it. He doesn’t want her reading anymore about her making, at the clinical and methodical and unfeeling way her life is described to be.

He sneaks a glance, watching her chest rise and fall slowly, then says, “Those assholes didn’t have it all figured out.” When she stays silent, he adds, “They didn’t plan for me. Or Dustin, or Nancy, or Robin. Or any of us being stupid enough to make this harder for them.We’ve messed things up for them before. What’s one more?”

She would murmur his name, going to slide off the wall, but he grips her elbow. “I’m sorry.” He’s sorry for everything - what he’s responsible for and what he’s not.

She sits again, furrowing her brows. Steve wants to say something, anything, but doesn’t. Before long, she says, “My mother said I had the worst ‘terrible twos’ she’d ever seen. That I got into everything. That I was always hurting myself.” She pulls the sleeve of Robin’s sweater to the bend of her elbow, showing many tiny burn patches. It looked like his finger after the particles popped. “She never told me what I touched to make these. I always thought I must have pressed myself against heaters, pulled an iron down, or spilled my dad’s tea, or…”

Steve looks from the burns to her face. “And that’s why she was so careful with you?”

She says, “Maybe not for the reasons I originally thought.”

Without thinking, he sits his hand at her lower back, thumb moving over the knit of Robin’s sweater and the line of her spine beneath it. He immediately thinks back to how he and his friends used to torment her for wearing long sleeves and skirts year round. He wants to apologize for that too, but knows it’s not the time.

He would ask, “You never knew? Never randomly made those red and purple cloud things before?”

She looks up at the bright sphere where Nancy, Jonathan, and Dustin were. “No. Sometimes, when I got upset, I’d feel hot, really hot. My mother said I needed to calm my spirit, so she’d make me pray with her. If I couldn’t stop shaking, she told me to hold my breath between the words.” She pauses. “I don’t know why,” she says as Steve stares at her. “It always helped take my mind off what I felt.”

“Yeah,” he says, almost deadpans. “Because you couldn’t breathe.”

Again, another bout of silence ensues, Steve runs his hand up her back, twirling the ends of her hair around his fingers. He is admiring her, looking at her profile - the slope of her runny, sniffling nose, the flutter of her wet lashes, the curve of her bottom lip she kept worrying at.

Wearing his heart on his sleeve, he vows when he shouldn’t, “Whatever that journal says, it doesn’t get to decide what happens next.” And, “That thing up there isn’t your responsibility.”

“I was made to be.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And that’s bullshit.” Then, “They made you. Fine. I hate it, but fine. That doesn’t mean they get the rest.”

“You can’t promise that.”

He says, “No. I can’t. But I can promise I’m gonna be really annoying about trying.”

She lightly shakes her head, but doesn’t speak.

Then he says, “You can hate me for making these promises today. Tomorrow too.” She looks over. He keeps going, “And the day after that. As many days as you want.” Then the heart of it, “You’ll have them.”

Later, when everyone is discussing the ins and outs of what's happening and what will happen to Hawkins and the rest of the world as the Abyss is getting closer, the conversation shifts to the exotic matter and how to destroy it.

The FMC is sitting beside Steve while Dustin explains the chamber within the lab. That it’s somewhere in the sublevels that funnels through the lab’s containment system and upward into the core. The chamber doesn't merely use her “fireworks,” (as Dustin likes to call them) it pulls the counter-tuned exotic matter out of equilibrium inside her body, and her body is what keeps that matter stable. Once the chamber starts draining it, the reaction damages the tissue that contains it.

He mumbles that extracting it would tear the containment system apart and the feedback from the collapsing core would run back through her, and that her nervous system and organs couldn’t survive the full discharge.

Steve rejects it immediately, saying, “Absolutely not.”

She presses against him.

Even though no one has said she is to be used or has to die. He says they will have to find another way, that they could detonate it.

Dustin shakes his head, “A bomb may only rupture part of it, or scatter matter, maybe widen the damage, or create uncontrolled openings. It’s not guaranteed to destroy the wormhole.”

With a shrug, Steve says, “I’m willing to take that risk.”

No one really wants a young girl to sacrifice herself, especially if there’s another way. Even if that other option is murkier and potentially unhelpful in the long run. So, they agree - blow up the exotic matter.

Before the party enters the Upside Down, Steve pulls her into a small conference room, wanting to say his goodbye in private, just in case.

He starts by saying something practical, that she should stay near Max and Vickie, and if anything happens, she should not try to use whatever is in her unless she has to. That he will be back.

She started talking too fast about Vecna, the Mind Flayer, then about everything else Dustin had said to her earlier about the unknowns of the Abyss. How the air might not have enough oxygen, how they could be flattened like pancakes, or how they could freeze instantly. If the pressure was low enough, their blood could do things blood was not supposed to do. Their lungs could pop, or their eyes would. There could be something in the atmosphere that poisoned them before they even found Vecna.

Steve tries to make it lighter, “Henry survived there. That has to count for something, right?”

That doesn’t comfort her like he hopes it would, and she says, “And Dustin said the Mind Flayer is enormous.” She crosses her arms. “Seven hundred feet, maybe. Maybe more. He said it might be connected to everything there. Won’t it know you’re there before you even know where to look for it? And Vecna? What about the demogorgons? And what about--”

Steve tries again. “Hey. I’ve fought these things before.”

That does not help either, and she says, “But not on their own planet.”

And he finally reads it for what it is and looks at her and asks, “Is this about the Abyss, or is this about me not coming back from it?”

She looks away, “Those aren’t separate things.”

Steve steps closer as she presses herself against the boardroom table. “Yeah. Okay. But are you?”

She doesn’t answer directly as the red-purple matter flickers faintly along her knuckles.

He suspects he knows the answer, so he says, “I’m coming back.” When she looks over his shoulder, he adds, “I promised you days, remember?” Then he steps in again, slotting himself between her legs. “I want some of them too.”

He leans in, forehead pressed together. His nose bumps against hers, their breaths mingling. They kiss.

Red-purple exotic matter responds to her desire and fear, sparking and wisping around them, almost holding him closer. He likes it. He likes it a lot. It’s warm against the back of his neck, and tickles over his shoulders and down his arms.

When he breaks away just an inch, lips grazing, he tells her, “When I get back,” His thumb moves along her jaw. “You can have more of those.”

As Hopper yells for Steve, the matter winks out.

She notices what she did, then looks over Steve’s body with worried hands and wide eyes, scared it hurt him.

But it didn’t, and he says as much, “It didn’t hurt.” Even adding, “Kind of the opposite, actually.”

He takes her hands, kissing each palm to calm her when she keeps feeling up and down his arms.

She starts to say something, but Hopper interrupts by throwing open the door.

(Steve would learn all this later)

While everyone is gone, government vehicles arrive at the radio station while the FMC is there with Vickie and Max.

Her father led them back to the Brenner failsafe protocol when he learned news of the attacked convoy, and his missing daughter. So they know what she is, or know enough, and follow through with her design purpose.

They sedate her, way heavier this time, before taking her. Others take Max and Vickie.

The government brings her to the old failsafe chamber in the Upside Down.

It’s a vertical restraint frame, thick glass around it, cables running up into the ceiling with copper coils and magnet rings, and analog gauges.

Hopper and Murray are waiting to hear back from the group before setting off the explosive/timer plan.

Murray is still dealing with the record-player timing, the wiring, the practical ugly mechanics of making the bomb do what it is supposed to do, then something changes. The old conduits begin lighting up, and the core system starts to randomly react.

Murray realizes something else has been activated, and it can only be the chamber, so they find her restrained inside it. Hopper kills the few soldiers and two scientists.

By then, the machine has started pulling from her, and her body is already reacting badly.

Hopper understands enough immediately, and Murray understands more technically, and that makes his silence worse.

The chamber is killing her, and if they let it finish, it may guarantee collapse. But if they stop it, the bomb plan becomes less certain. Hopper has a brief thought of turning around and walking out, but ultimately refuses to leave her there. He and Murray fight to get her out before full terminal discharge.

Since they interrupt the process and the chamber has already taken enough to alter her body, it makes her matter unstable.

Either way, she’s alive.

Meanwhile, Steve is with the group in the Upside Down and then into the Abyss-facing part of the mission.

After Vecna and the Mind Flayer are defeated, Steve helps get the kids out with everyone else. The group loads into the truck and drives through the Upside Down. All the while, Murray and Hopper start the record player, and leave themselves.

They reach the gate and drive through.

They come out into the real world and are met by the government, the sonic speakers, and guns pointed at them.

Steve is trying to locate everyone at once, then he sees Hopper and Murray. And with them, he sees her.

He doesn’t understand what he is looking at, why she’s there. She is supposed to be at the radio station, she’s supposed to be waiting. For him to come back to her like he promised.

Instead, she is barely upright, held between two soldiers, her body changed in ways he can’t see clearly enough.

Steve starts toward her, but he’s held back.

The government men try to regain control all around them, and the FMC is sparking and flickering now, no longer able to fully regulate herself. When a man grabs her to force her upright when she starts to slump, her matter burns him. Another man tries to restrain her and swears when the red-purple particles flare against his sleeve and skin.

One of them throws her down to get her away from them, and she hits the ground hard.

He starts moving toward her, yanking free of whoever is holding him. Dustin and Robin shout after him, and other soldiers reach for Steve and miss.

Then the attention shifts because Eleven is in the collapsing Upside Down.

Mike is screaming, and so are the others.

As the screaming around spikes, Steve glances at the FMC, seeing particles gather around her.

The men closest to her burn first, some catch fire while others stumble back screeching. The sonic speakers spark, rupture, and shriek with feedback before blowing apart. The air breaks open in a red-purple surge.

At the same time, behind Eleven, on the inverted side of the gate-space, Steve sees a red-purple cloud, particulate and bright, almost exactly like what Hopper described seeing in the Upside Down church near the pew. As she cried in the church, the same spot in the Upside Down had reacted, and the same was happening in that moment. Only made worse because of the exotic matter dispersed and soaring in the wormhole.

A red-purple explosion tears open behind El, striking at the worst and best possible second, and the force throws Eleven forward, back toward their world.

She tries to push herself up but can’t, folding inward, as the air around her keeps popping.

Steve runs the rest of the way toward her. The discharge lashes out and burns his hands when he gets too close, but when the popping finally drops low enough, Steve rushes to touch her.

His hands are running all over her back, trying to turn her over, but she’s limp.

Steve manages to get her on her side, her head resting in his lap. Her breath comes shallowly before she starts to sob. He leans over her, smoothing her hair away from her face, away from her damp cheeks while asking if she can hear him, saying he’s right there with her.

One sleeve is partially burnt, but not enough for him to understand what he is looking at when he sees color beneath it. Steve gently rips it open, careful not to pull where the fabric clings. From the shoulder down, her arm is ruined. Burned with dark red-violet light moving underneath in pulses. The muscles jump under the surface, twitching her wrist and curling her fingers in spasms she doesn’t seem able to control.

He picks her up and carries her away.

I don’t know…maybe…Owens survives being chained to a wall in Nevada and helps redirect official attention toward other anomalies and prior experiments, hinting at other subjects and other remnants of Brenner-era work.

(Mike and Eleven get their three waterfalls.)

Steve becomes a high school baseball coach and, to everyone’s endless amusement, teaches sex education too. He’s saving up to buy a home, one he hopes to share with the FMC.

The FMC works at the library in the next town over, then starts taking one class at a time at community college, working slowly toward an associate degree in science.

Steve loves to drive her to her night classes, and loves grading quizzes as she does homework.

Steve is hopelessly enchanted and devoted to the FMC.

The fic ends in Steve’s apartment, though by then it has stopped looking entirely like his.

One of her many sweaters is slung over the back of a kitchen chair, her hairbrush is in the bathroom beside his comb, and one drawer in his dresser is almost empty, pretending he just got rid of some clothes. He didn’t. They’re shoved on a shelf in the top of his closet.

She is sitting at the end of his bed, trying to button her cardigan with one hand.

Steve watches her struggle through two buttons before he crosses the room and kneels in front of her.

“Let me.”

“I can do it,” she says.

“I know.”

He does it anyway. One button, then the next, his knuckles brushing the knit over the swell of her chest. When he finishes, his hand skims down the line of buttons until he reaches her bad arm resting in her lap.

He lifts it carefully. A tremor moves through her hand into his, the nerves damaged. He brings her knuckles to his mouth and kisses them, then the back of her hand, then the skin at her wrist.

“Steve.” He looks up and she adds, “It could hurt you.”

“It’s not.”

“It could.”

“A lot of things could.” He pushes her sleeve up, watching her face while he does it. “This isn’t.”

Steve kisses just above her wrist, then higher and higher, looking at the now translucent scars that reveal her unstable exotic matter coursing wildly within her. They’re all over her body.

The wisps come slowly, red-purple and warm, grazing his cheek, then running along his throat. She stiffens, eyes searching his face for pain. The warmth starts to heat up, becoming almost too hot.

He lifts his other hand to the back of her head and kisses her. Her good hand grabs the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric, and he groans against her mouth as she draws him closer. His knee presses into the mattress beside her hip.

“You were leaving,” he murmurs against her lips.

“I was thinking about it.”

“Terrible idea.”

She makes a sound that was almost a laugh, but Steve kisses it before it could fully become one. The matter moved again, curling around his waist, then lower, making him grip the sheets tightly.

That is new, and is a little wicked. He likes it. A lot.

His hands brace on either side of her head as he pulls back enough to look at her. Her eyes are changed forever, burnt through with red and violet, and he loves them so much it nearly embarrasses him with how often he gets caught staring.

He kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the bridge of her nose. When he draws back, a faint red-purple hue lingers beneath the skin there before dimming. Steve stared at it, then at her.

“What?” she asks, worried again.

“Nothing.”

He kisses the place again, and the color warms under his mouth. A wisp gathers near her jaw, then slips lower before it fades. Steve follows it without thinking, kissing the place where it had been. Another curls at the side of her throat, and he kisses that one too.

The air changes around them. There is a subtle metal taste at the back of his tongue, under the brown sugar of her lotion. By then, he knows her unstable matter does that sometimes, making the room taste a little like a storm cloud trapped indoors.

Steve smiles against her throat, nipping once before he sees a swirl around her collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of her cardigan.

“Still not hurting me,” he murmurs as the warmth sweeps lower along his waist, popping twice, each burst hot enough to pull a moan out of him before it threads beneath the waistband of his joggers. “Actually,” he says, kissing lower, “it’s being pretty good to me.”

[morninglesss]

versions, pt. 2

I decided to write a follow up to this little drabble from a few weeks ago. I did not think I’d write almost 12k words. Whoops.

NSFW/MDNI

When Steve announces he’s going on date number four with a girl you know he’s not really into, you have to work out what your damn problem is.

tw: unprotected PIV (use a condom, kids), oral sex (m to f and f to m), fingering, creampie, jealousy.

Friday mornings have a different quality to them compared to the others. Something in the light, or the particular relief of it being the last day of the working week, or just the fact that your roommate is reliably in a better mood on Fridays than any other day. Steve’s already at the stove when you pad into the kitchen in your socks, and the coffee’s on, and something about the slant of the warm morning light through the window makes the whole thing feel like a commercial for the kind of life people dream about.

“Something smells good,” you say, dropping into your usual chair.

“Eggs,” he says, without turning around. “We’re out of the good bacon so you’re getting turkey bacon and you’re going to be grateful.”

“You mean you didn’t rush to the store for some of the thick cut smoked good stuff I like? I’m devastated.”

“You’ll cope.”

You pour yourself a coffee. He’s not wrong.

He plates up, sets yours in front of you, fingers scratching briefly and absently through your hair as he passes on his way back to the counter, like it’s nothing, like he’s done it a hundred times. He has done it a hundred times. You’ve stopped noticing, mostly, except for the way you feel yourself relax into his touch every time.

You eat in the comfortable quiet that’s become a Friday morning fixture. He’s in his work clothes already, his tie left loose because it’s always loose until the last possible moment. You’ve got half an eye on the paper. He’s got half an eye on the window, doing the thing where he watches the weather while he runs through his plans for the day, staring out into the sky as he tries to account for any glitches or issues the class might throw at him today.

“Marcus brought a lizard to school yesterday, did I tell you?” he says absently, not looking away from the window.

You look up. “Is that the kid you’re worried about?”

“Yeah.” He points his fork, turning his attention back to his plate. “Snuck it in inside his lunchbox. Mrs Peterson nearly had a cardiac event.”

“Is the lizard okay?”

“The lizard is fine. Marcus is in trouble. Mrs Peterson is recovering.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Kid’s something else.”

“You like him.”

“I like all my students.”

“You like him most.”

He doesn’t argue with that. You go back to the paper. He steals the section you’ve already read without asking, which is standard, and the familiar companionable silence settles comfortably.

It’s him that breaks it.

“I’ve got something on tonight,” he says around a mouthful of toast, not quite meeting your eyes. “So I won’t be around for dinner.”

A square of turkey bacon hangs from your fork, ignored. “Something on like what?”

He turns his coffee mug a half rotation. “Dinner. With Claire.”

You put your fork down. Not dramatically. Just setting it on the side of your half-finished plate. “Claire,” you repeat. “As in…?”

“Yeah.”

You look at him for a second. He’s looking at his eggs.

Here’s the thing about you and Steve - in the months you’ve been sharing the apartment, you’ve always told each other things. Not in a sitdown serious way, just in the way of two people who share a kitchen and a couch and a habit of debriefing your dates over whatever’s in the fridge when one of you gets home late. You know about the girl from the wine bar who’d seemed great until she’d spent forty minutes crying about her ex. He knows about the guy from your work’s Christmas party who’d been so aggressively dull you’d nearly fallen asleep at the table. You’d told him about the decent ones too, the almost-theres, the ones that hadn’t worked out for reasons you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He’d done the same.

Claire had come up a few weeks ago. She’s an admin assistant at some office in town, she laughed at his jokes, he said she was perfectly nice. First date had been fine. Second date had been fine. He’d said fine in the particular tone that means not fine but I don’t want to make a thing of it. You’d pressed him on it, gently, and he’d said something like “she’s nice, but…” and you’d said “so are you going to see her again?” and he’d shrugged, halfhearted, and said “maybe?”

Their third date had been last weekend. He’d come home a little after one and you’d still been up watching M*A*S*H reruns because why not, and he’d made you both tea without being asked and sat on the other end of the couch. You’d waited until he was settled before you’d started the standard post-date debrief, asking him a singular “well?”. He’d made a fuss over blowing on his hot tea before he’d responded, “she took me back to her place. I don’t know, it was fine, I guess,” said more into his mug than to you. He’d continued after a long moment, “there just wasn’t much… y’know, going on. I wasn’t really… I kept thinking about coming home.”

You hadn’t asked what he meant by that.

“I thought you said -” you start.

“Yeah.” He cuts across it, sharp, before you can finish. “I know what I said.”

That’s new. The cutting across. You look at him properly and he’s still not looking at you, the line of his mouth set in a way that’s not quite defensive but is heading that way.

“Hey, I’m just asking,” you say, trying to keep it easy. “Because you said there wasn’t much…”. You knock the knuckles of both hands together. “Spark. Last time.”

Last time, it had taken him another beer and a longer silence than usual before he’d said anything more. They didn’t make a habit of going into any real detail about sex - there was a line that they’d both been able to define without discussing it. But that night he’d wanted to say it out loud to someone, you’d thought. That it had been fine. That she had been fine, that he couldn’t fault her for any of it, but that when they’d had sex he’d felt so distant from the whole thing, like he’d been somewhere else entirely. He’d said that last part quietly, almost to himself, hadn’t elaborated any further, and you hadn’t pushed.

You pick up your fork again, shaking off the limp square of bacon.

“It’s just dinner.” He says it to his plate. “People go on dates, it’s not a big deal.”

“I know it’s not a big deal, I’m just -” You reach out, your hand finding his shirt sleeve. “We always talk about this stuff. I’m not trying to -”

“- I know you’re not, it’s fine.” He shakes off your hand and pushes back from the table slightly, picking up his mug once more. “I just don’t want to make a whole thing about it.”

You look at him for a moment. He meets your eyes briefly and then doesn’t.

There’s nothing to say to that so you don’t say anything. You cut a fresh piece of bacon, then decide you’ve had enough and set your cutlery down. He looks at his eggs.

The light through the window is exactly the same as it was five minutes ago. It’s just doing something different now.

****************

You make it out the door at roughly the same time, the way you usually do most weekdays, coats on and bags over shoulders and the low-grade chaos of two people trying to leave for work simultaneously. He locks up. You’re fishing for your bus pass when he glances over.

“I’m going your way. You want a ride?”

“Sure,” you say. Automatic.

You do, because you always do, because it’s easier and warmer and his car smells like warm leather and the jelly bean air freshener Robin bought him as a joke that he kept because he actually likes it. He holds the door for you on his way round to the driver’s side, which he always does, except this time he doesn’t quite look at you when he does it. You settle into the passenger seat and he pulls out and it’s fine, it’s normal, except that it isn’t quite. There’s a politeness to it that sits wrong, the kind that only exists between people who are usually well past needing it.

The drive to the vet clinic takes twelve minutes on a good day. Today the lights are with you.

He mentions next Monday’s staff meeting first. Something about a new assessment framework the principal wants to roll out before the end of the year, a lot of extra paperwork, the kind of thing that makes him tight around the eyes when he talks about it. You ask a couple of questions. He answers them. It’s not unfriendly, it’s just… all surface, no feeling. The kind of conversation you’d have with someone you don’t know that well yet, which is not a thing you are. You haven’t been strangers for months.

You watch the town go past your window.

He changes the radio station twice, settles on something neither of you particularly like, leaves it on anyway.

“This is a fun drive,” you say, to the window.

He doesn’t answer.

“Really enjoying the radio.” You let that sit for a second. “You could have just said no to the ride, you know. I do know where the bus stop is.”

“Don’t,” he sighs.

“Don’t what?” You keep your voice pleasant. “I’m just saying. You can just drop me at the next stop, it’s fine.” You pause while you pull a loose thread from your coat, inspecting the thread between your finger and thumb. “You’re never normally this weird about a date. Claire must be really something.”

He makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “Can you just -”

“I’m serious.” You’re not serious. You’re very much not serious, and you both know it. “Four dates, Steve. You must have made quite an impression on her.”

“Okay.” His hands on the wheel are tight. “That’s enough.”

“Why? I’m just excited for you. Claire might be the real deal, even though you said -”

“Christ, I - I know what I said.”

The second time he says that, it hits differently. There’s something underneath it you can’t quite get at. Something that might be irritation but reads more like discomfort wearing annoyance as a coat.

“I’m not trying to interrogate you, I just -”

He signals and turns into the road that leads to the vet clinic. “Can you drop it? I don’t want to do a whole thing about it, okay? It’s just dinner at Enzo’s.”

“Enzo’s?!”

You stare at him from your seat. The set of his jaw. The way won’t look at you, one hand tight on the wheel, the other digging into his scalp as he tugs through his hair.

“Fine, whatever,” you say, retreating.

You face the front.

The clinic appears on the left and he pulls up outside and the engine idles and neither of you says anything for a second that goes on slightly too long.

“Have a good day,” he says eventually, flat, shifting the car back into drive.

“Yeah, you too,” you respond in exactly the same tone.

You get out. You close the door behind you, not hard, just shut, and you don’t look back through the window because you already know what you’ll find. Him looking straight ahead. Hands on the wheel. Ready to pull away.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

You tell yourself that all the way through the front door.

****************

The morning stretches out, and the afternoon dies quietly.

By two o’clock the appointment board is clear, the waiting room empty, and someone’s playing a tape that’s doing more harm than good. Alone is filtering through from the office, all building keyboards and Ann Wilson doing things with her voice that feel slightly accusatory at two forty-three on a Friday afternoon. Any other day, you’d have no feelings about Heart whatsoever. Today, something about it is sitting wrong, in the same vague way everything has been sitting wrong all day.

You’ve cleaned your station twice. You’re supposed to be catching up on the week’s paperwork but there’s a form that’s been on your desk for forty minutes and you’ve filled in exactly one line - Shelby. Bassett Hound. Rubber duck ingestion.

Your mind keeps going over and over the same thing.

Four dates. Fine, I guess. Kinda blah. And still, he’s going out with her again.

You’re not an idiot. You know how dating works. You know that sometimes you go back even when it’s not setting you on fire - easier than being alone on a Friday night, or maybe it’ll be different this time, or inertia is just that powerful. You’ve done it yourself, more than once. Sat across from someone perfectly nice or perfectly boring and ordered dessert anyway, told yourself it was the venue, or the day of the week, or the fact that you’d had a long week and weren’t really giving it a fair shot. Told yourself next time, different place, better mood.

Knowing perfectly well the problem was the person.

Knowing perfectly well, if you were being honest with yourself, that you kept going back because the alternative was going home to an empty apartment and sitting with something you weren’t ready to look at directly.

But Steve isn’t like that. Steve would rather stay home on a Friday night than spend it somewhere he doesn’t want to be with someone who doesn’t do anything for him.

You’d watched him do it - turn down a second date, perfectly politely, with a woman Robin had set him up with who was, on paper, Good For Him, because he’d said afterwards there was just nothing there, what’s the point and meant it without cruelty.

You’d thought I could never do that so cleanly and also god, I really like this person.

He didn’t fake things. No inertia, no next time maybe. If it didn’t light something up in him he simply wouldn’t go back.

Which is why Claire makes no sense.

Steve doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do. Not if he can help it.

Except apparently he does now. Apparently Claire from the admin office rates four dates and a third-date sleepover despite the fact that he’d described the whole thing as kinda blah with the particular tone of someone describing their favourite toilet paper.

You stare at the form on your desk.

You think about the car. The radio he’d settled on without caring what it was. The hair tug, the tight hand on the wheel, the way he’d said it’s just dinner at Enzo’s like he was daring you to make something of it. The way he’d barely looked at you once the whole twelve minutes.

It’s just dinner at Enzo’s.

You’ve been turning it over all day and you keep arriving at the same place. He doesn’t want to go. You’d stake everything you own on that. So why is he?

You’ve asked yourself things before. Whether you were bothered about the dates in general - and you weren’t, or you’d told yourself you weren’t, or the difference between those two things had never mattered enough to examine. Whether it was weird, the foot thing, the way his hands know exactly where the tension sits in your arches. Whether the head scratches meant something or they were just Steve being Steve, tactile and easy with the people he’s comfortable with.

Whether you’d started leaving the hall light on because you genuinely worried about him coming home to a dark apartment, or because it meant he’d know you’d been thinking about him.

You stuff the form back into the stack it came from.

Your supervisor is in the back office, tape playing, the door left open. You knock anyway.

“Is it okay if I head out early?” you ask. “I’m not feeling great.” You clutch your stomach and hope you look clammy enough.

She looks up, takes you in, nods. “Sure, we’re dead today anyway. See you on Monday.”

You get your coat and your bag and head out into the cold. You don’t let yourself think too hard about what you’re doing, because if you think too hard about it you’ll talk yourself out of it, and you’d go home on the normal bus at the normal time and have a perfectly fine Friday evening. Alone.

That damn song.

The bus takes half an hour. You spend the first ten minutes looking out the window at the town moving past, the Friday afternoon version of it, people leaving work early, kids coming out of school, everyone with somewhere to be. You spend the next ten minutes trying to work out what you’re actually doing.

You’re going home to talk to him. That’s the plan, such as it is. You’re going home because he’s about to spend his Friday evening sitting across a restaurant table from a woman he has described, on multiple occasions, as kinda blah, and you can’t quite make yourself be fine about that, and that’s, that’s -

That’s what, exactly?

That’s his business, is what it is. You’ve never once involved yourself in his dating life beyond the debriefs, which he volunteers, which were his idea as much as yours. You’ve heard about the Wine Bar Girl and The One From The Gym and the Perfectly Nice Teacher from the school two towns over who’d been great on paper and a nightmare in person, and not once had you felt the urge to do anything about any of it. You’d handed him a beer at every debrief, listening, laughing in the right places and cringing with him in others. It was never bitchy or mean-spirited; you both made sure that the dates were never the butt of the joke, it was always your own high standards. And when he’d go out you’d wish him luck and mean it, genuinely, because that’s what you did. You wanted him to be happy. You’d find something to watch on the TV, and if you were still up when he came home you’d do your little debrief and that would be that.

So why are you on a bus right now?

You watch a woman unload a stroller onto the sidewalk outside New Starcourt. A group of kids from the high school pile past her, loud and boisterous.

The thing about Claire specifically, you tell yourself as the bus moves off, is that it doesn’t make sense. That’s what’s bothering you. It’s a logic problem. You’re a person who doesn’t like things that don’t add up, and this doesn’t add up, and that’s why you’re here. That’s all this is.

There’s something else, though. Something you’ve been giving a wide berth all day - and you’re not really thinking about this hard, you’re just giving it a little room to breathe before you discard the notion completely - he went back to Claire’s place after the last date and you’d known he’d done that, because you hadn’t heard his key in the lock by eleven and the absence of that was usually a sure sign that Steven D. Harrington was getting lucky. But you’d stayed up, waiting, and you hadn’t let yourself think about any potential reason for that until now.

And he’d come back, eventually. He’d come back, made you both tea and said ‘I kept thinking about coming home’ into his mug and you hadn’t asked what he meant by that.

You know what he meant by that. Even if you think you don’t want to - and right now, you don’t.

You look out the window.

You don’t want him to go out tonight. The why of it doesn’t matter. That’s the thing you keep arriving at no matter how many times you try to approach it from a different direction. You don’t want him sitting across from Claire at dinner in Enzo’s, you don’t want him being charming and warm and attentive with someone who doesn’t even - who doesn’t -

You look at your hands in your lap.

Right. Okay.

You know his schedule. He’ll be home by quarter past four at the earliest, shower straight away like he always does on school days, some ritual decompression thing he’s never explained and you’ve never asked about. You’ve got a window.

You have absolutely no idea what you’re going to say when you get there.

But you’re going anyway.

****************

Your coat and bag end up dumped on your bed. You don’t mean to leave them there, you just put them down as soon as you get in and don’t pick them up again.

The laundry basket’s been sitting in the corner since Wednesday and you drag it out and start sorting because your hands need something to do and because if you just sit on the edge of the bed staring at the wall you’re going to drive yourself insane. Darks in one pile, lights in another, the few things that need to be done separately. It’s brainless and methodical and normally you find it almost meditative.

Today your hands are shaking slightly and you’ve sorted the same pair of jeans into three different piles.

You still don’t know what you’re going to say. You’d had half an hour on the bus and you’d come up with nothing, and you’d had however long it took to walk from the stop to the front door, and you’d had the time it took to sort roughly two thirds of a laundry basket, and you still have nothing. No speech. No argument. No version of this that doesn’t sound, when you try to put it together it in your head, like jealousy.

And this isn’t jealousy.

You think about Enzo’s. The way it had come out of him so casually, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just said he was taking a woman he’d described as kinda blah to the nicest restaurant in Hawkins. You think about the way your own voice had sounded when it came back out of you. The pitch of it. The way he hadn’t looked at you.

You think about I kept thinking about coming home.

You hear the front door a little before five. His keys in the lock, the particular sound of him coming in - bag down, coat on the hook, a few seconds of quiet that’s probably him going through the mail. Your hands go still. You listen to him move through the apartment, his footsteps crossing from the hallway to the kitchen and back, the sound of the fridge opening and closing, and then the bathroom door opens and shuts and the pipes shudder and the shower bursts into life.

You put down the shirt you’re holding.

You sit on the edge of the bed.

Your heart is doing something unreasonable.

He doesn’t know you’re here. You’d come in quiet, force of habit, and your door had been closed when he’d passed the hall. He’s in there right now, on the other side of the wall, thinking he’s got the place to himself. Hot water and steam. The citrus soap he saves for date nights, which you know because you share a bathroom and you’re not blind. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. About him in there, water running over his shoulders, working the shampoo through his hair the way you’ve seen him do it a hundred times after the pool in summer, head tilted back, eyes closed.

You’re thinking about it anyway.

You pick up a t-shirt and put it down again.

The thing is - and this is not a thing you’re going to look at directly, you’re just going to acknowledge it exists the way you’d acknowledge a strange noise in the walls and then go back to what you were doing - the thing is that you know what he looks like. You live with him. You’ve seen him half asleep in the kitchen and furious at the TV and laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, and you’ve seen him in a towel, once, when the bathroom rota went wrong, and you’d said sorry and retreated and neither of you had mentioned it. You know the exact geography of his face when something’s bothering him. You know the sound of him moving around in the morning before he’s properly awake.

You know him, is the point. You know him, and he’s on the other side of that wall, and in approximately forty-five minutes he’s going to walk out of this apartment to take someone to Enzo’s who doesn’t -

Who doesn’t.

You put the jeans you’d picked up back in the basket.

Through the wall, the water cuts off.

The fan kicks in. The cabinet opens. You know that sequence by heart now, the rhythm of him winding down. Only now he’s organising himself into something he thinks Admin Claire might want.

Your heart does it again. That unreasonable thing.

This is the part where a reasonable person would sit back down. Would decide that this is his life and his Friday and his choice of restaurant and none of it is actually your business in any way that you could defend out loud. A reasonable person would unpick the afternoon - the ignored form on your desk, the early finish, the bus, the laundry - and recognise it for what it is, which is an overreaction to something that has nothing to do with you.

You stand up.

You’re not a reasonable person, apparently. Or you are, usually, but not today, not about this.

You open your door.

****************

You’re in the hallway when he comes out.

He startles, actually startles, one big hand flying to his chest. “Jesus christ -” He exhales, leaning back against the doorframe. “I didn’t - why - when did you get home?”

“A little while ago.”

He takes that in. You can see him processing it - how long you’d been here, whether you’d heard him, what it means that you’re standing in the hallway waiting.

He’s not wearing a shirt. You’d known, abstractly, that he wouldn’t be - he never does straight out of the shower, just grabs whatever’s closest in his room when he’s ready - but knowing it abstractly and having him standing half naked three feet away from you are two different things entirely.

His hair is dark with water, starting to curl at the ends the way it does before he’s started the routine on it. No shirt, just those worn basketball shorts he lives in around the apartment, bare feet on the hallway floor. Still warm from the shower, still slightly damp, smelling like citrus soap and the expensive mousse Robin had talked him into and he’d never stopped buying. There’s a water droplet tracing a slow path from his collarbone downward into his chest hair and you make a very deliberate decision not to follow it with your eyes.

You mostly succeed.

“Are you okay?” he asks, more careful now.

“Yeah, I - I needed to talk to you.”

Something moves across his face. He knows, you think. He’s been reading you for months, he knows your crease and your stomp and approximately seventeen other tells that you’re probably not even aware of.

He looks away first.

“If this is about this morning,” he says, carefully, “I’m sorry I was an ass. I didn’t mean to be weird about it.”

As outs go, it’s a good one. Clean and simple, and it gives you somewhere to put this that isn’t where it actually is. You could take it. You could say it’s fine, I just wanted to clear the air and he’d nod and you’d both go back to your rooms and he’d finish getting ready and go to Enzo’s and that would be that.

“It’s not about this morning,” is what you come back with instead. “I mean - it is, but it’s also not.”

He nods slowly, dripping water from the ends of his hair to the floor. Still not quite looking at you.

“Okay… so what is it about?”

And there it is. The question. Sitting there waiting to be answered and you’ve had half an hour on a bus and however long sorting laundry and you still don’t have a single word that doesn’t sound completely crazy when you try to say it out loud.

Where do you even start? The truth?

“I just -” you start. “I didn’t want you to -” Stop again. You look at the wall somewhere to the left of him. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

He waits, patient.

“Steve, don’t. Please don’t.” It comes out before you can stop it.

He goes very still.

The word don’t hangs there between you in the narrow hallway, impossible to take back, and you don’t try. You’re done taking things back today. You’re done retreating.

“Don’t what?” he asks you. Not a challenge.

“I don’t -” You stop. Start again. “I don’t think you should go tonight.”

Nothing moves.

He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks, the way he does when he’s trying to work something out, and you let him because you don’t have anything left to hide behind. You came home early. You sorted laundry for forty minutes. You stood in a hallway and watched a water droplet trace a path down his chest and you mostly looked away. You’re here, is the point. You’re here and you’re not moving and he can read all of that as clearly as he can read the crease between your eyebrows.

“Yeah,” he says, finally. Something in his voice has shifted, something precise and controlled, like he’s decided something about how he’s going to handle this. “And why’s that?”

And there it is. The question you’ve been trying to answer since two forty-three this afternoon and you still don’t have it, not really, not in any form that doesn’t sound insane out loud.

“Because you don’t even -” You trail off weakly. “You told me it was blah. You said there was nothing there. You came home last weekend and you said… you said…” The sentence has taken you somewhere you weren’t quite ready to go. You stop.

He’s watching you now. Really watching.

“What did I say?” he asks. Quiet. Like he needs to hear you say it.

You look at him. The wet hair, the warm skin, the concentration in his eyes. The way he’s holding himself, like he’s made a decision to stay very still and see what happens next.

“You said you kept thinking about coming home.” It comes out smaller than you’d like. “That’s what you said.”

He doesn’t answer. The muscle in his jaw moves.

“And I didn’t ask you what you meant,” you continue, because you’ve come this far and you left work at three o’clock and you got on a bus and you are not retreating again. “I didn’t ask because I… I think I already knew.”

“Yeah,” he says. Very quietly. “I think you did.”

It feels as though the air has been sucked out of the hallway, all of a sudden. Nothing moves.

“Steve.” You say his name because you need an anchor. “I left work early. I got on a bus. I came home and I sorted laundry for forty minutes because I didn’t know what else to do with myself, and I still don’t -” You exhale. “I don’t have a speech. I don’t know how to explain it. I just couldn’t let you go. I couldn’t sit here tonight knowing you were at Enzo’s with someone who doesn’t -”

The sentence won’t finish itself. It hasn’t been able to finish itself all day.

But he’s not holding the line anymore.

You can see it happening. Whatever careful architecture he’s been building for months - the dates, the deflections, the radio stations he didn’t care about - it’s coming apart. Right here, in the hallway, in front of you. His hand comes up and presses flat against the doorframe like he needs something solid to hold onto and he looks at you like you’re something he’s been trying very hard not to want and has completely failed at.

“You couldn’t let me go,” he whispers.

“No.”

He’s looking at you the same way he looked through the windshield this morning, except it’s not the road he’s seeing now, it’s you, and there’s nowhere else for either of you to look. His face carries everything he’d been holding in since breakfast, since he’d said it’s just dinner like he thought if he said it plainly enough it would become true.

It’s not plain now. None of it is plain now.

His eyes are doing the thing they do when he’s working something out, except you don’t think he’s working anything out anymore. You think the answers already come to him. You think he’s been working it out for months and he’s just now letting you see that.

You don’t look away.

Neither does he.

“I’ve been trying,” he begins. Then he stops and looks at the floor for a second, jaw tight, like he’s deciding how honest he’s going to be. When he looks back up at you he seems to have decided.

“I’ve been trying really hard not to -” He stops again, but differently this time. Not because he doesn’t have the words. Because he does, and he knows what saying them out loud means. “Claire wasn’t - this was never really about Claire. You know that, right?”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you’re breathing.

“I just thought…” He exhales, and runs a hand through his damp hair, a gesture you’ve seen from him a hundred times when he’s finding something difficult. “I thought if I could just - if there was someone else, if I could make it work with someone else, then I wouldn’t have to -” His hand moves between you, the hallway, the whole apartment, all of it. “I wouldn’t -”

“You wouldn’t what?” you ask him.

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. Like it’s been obvious for months to everyone except possibly the two of you.

“Want you,” he says. Simply. Like it’s the easiest and hardest thing he’s ever said. “I’ve been trying really hard to not want you. Every single day. And you’re just -” His voice drops. “You’re right here. You’re always right here. And I am so tired of pretending that I don’t.”

The hallway is very quiet.

“Steve,” you murmur. Just his name. Just that.

Something flickers across his face. He reads the silence the wrong way - you can see it happening, watch him decide that he’s miscalculated, that he’s said too much, that the fragile thing he’s been holding together for months has just fallen apart in his hands.

“Right.” He nods, once. Looks at the floor. “Right, okay. Forget I said anything, that was -” He exhales through his nose. “That was a lot to put on you, I’m sorry. It won’t -”

“Steve.”

“- it won’t be weird, I promise, we can just -”

“Steve.”

“- pretend I didn’t say it, it’s fine, I just -”

“Steve.” Sharper this time. Enough to stop him.

He stops.

He’s looking at the floor, jaw tight, one hand still flat against the doorframe. Braced for it. Whatever he thinks is coming.

You wait until he looks up. It takes a second.

“Me too,” you say.

He stares at you.

“Me too,” you say again, steadier, holding his gaze so he can’t look away from it, so he can’t talk himself out of believing you. “I’m not… I didn’t come home early to talk you out of going. Or maybe I did, but that’s not -”

You stop yourself, closing your eyes for a moment, blocking out the damp warmth of him so you can gather your thoughts without distraction.

“I came home because I couldn’t not. Because I couldn’t sit at work for one more minute knowing you were going to walk out that door and I hadn’t said…” You sigh, a little helpless. “Something. Anything.”

He’s looking at you like you’ve just handed him something he’d stopped expecting to receive.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment. His voice has gone rough at the edges. “Yeah, okay.”

He closes the distance in two steps and his hand comes up to cup your face and he kisses you, and it’s not tentative, it’s not a question, it’s the answer to something that’s been sitting on the couch between you for months.

You kiss him back.

Not carefully. Not gratefully. You get your hands into his damp hair and you pull him down to you and you kiss him like you came home early for this, because you did, because whatever you’d told yourself on the bus about talking and sense and just needing to say something - this is what you came home for. He makes a low groan against your mouth, almost surprised, and his other hand finds your waist and pulls you in and you go, closing the last inch between you.

He’s warm. Impossibly warm, still shower-warm, and he smells like the citrus soap and you can feel his heartbeat where your hands are pressed against his chest, fast and a little unsteady, which does something to you that you’re going to think about later.

His hand slides from your face into your hair and yours travel from his chest to his shoulders, his neck, pulling him closer because closer is the only thing that makes sense right now. He kisses like he does everything else - with his full attention, like there’s nothing else in the room - and when his tongue finds yours you stop thinking entirely. Just warmth and the solid weight of him and his mouth, and his hand tightening in your hair, and you make a sound you didn’t plan and feel him respond to it immediately, kissing you deeper, slower, like he’s got a point to prove and all the time in the world to prove it.

You break apart. Just enough to breathe.

He’s looking at you the way he was looking at you thirty seconds ago except it’s different now, it’s got something new in it, something that’s been locked up a long time.

His thumb traces your cheekbone. You turn your face into it slightly, without meaning to, the way you always turn into his touch without meaning to. His eyes track the movement.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a really long time,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you say. “Me too.”

Something shifts in his expression. He glances down at your hands, still flat against his chest, and then back up at you.

“This isn’t just -” he starts.

“No,” you tell him. Before he can finish. Before he can make it a question you have to talk your way around. “It’s not.”

His eyes hold yours for a moment, making sure. Reading you the way he always reads you, except this time you’re not trying to hide any of it. You let him see all of it. The bus. The laundry. The whole long stupid afternoon of not being able to name this and now not needing to.

He kisses you again, because once wasn’t enough, because it turns out it was never going to be enough.

This one is slower, more sure of itself. His hands are careful and certain and know you the way they always have, the way they knew where the knot was in your foot before you did. The hallway is narrow and the residual dampness from his shower has soaked into your scrubs and neither of you has moved an inch from the spot where this happened.

You don’t need to yet.

His hand slides upwards to your hair again, and yours find the back of his neck, both of you taking your time now that time is something you have. He walks you back one step until your shoulders meet the wall and you go with it, pulling him with you, and he makes another sound, rougher this time, less surprised.

You feel it in you, everywhere.

When the kiss breaks you’re both breathing harder than is strictly dignified and his forehead drops to yours and neither of you says anything for a moment.

“Steve,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“Take me to your room.”

He pulls back to look at you properly, checking, reading, the way he always does. Whatever he finds there makes his expression do something complicated and certain all at once.

You take his hand and walk backward, and he follows.

****************

His room smells like him. That’s the first thing you notice - cedar and cologne and something underneath both of those things that’s just Steve, that you’ve never had a word for but would recognise anywhere. The bed is made, the surfaces mostly clear. There’s a glass of stale water on the bedside table next to a paperback left face down, spine thoroughly creased. His laundry basket is full. The half-damp towel from this morning’s shower is on the floor where he dropped it, a few feet from the basket, because he is who he is.

You don’t get long to take any of it in.

He kisses you again and the room stops mattering. This is different from the hallway - the hallway had been relief, had been months of careful distance finally collapsing, but this has intent behind it, direction, the knowledge that the bed is three feet away and neither of you is pretending otherwise. His hands move from your face to your waist and you go toward him rather than waiting to be pulled, your hands finding the warm skin at his sides, nothing between you, and he inhales sharply at the contact, his stomach tensing under your palms.

He hums against your mouth. Not pulling back, just sounding it into the kiss like an anchor.

“Don’t think,” you whisper at his lips. “Just -”

He kisses you harder. Correct answer.

You spread your hands flat against his back, and feel him shiver slightly despite the shower-warmth still in his skin. His hands tug at your scrub tunic and you break the kiss just long enough to help him with it, arms up, and then it’s gone, tossed away, and he pulls back to look at you and his expression does something that you feel in your stomach.

“Jesus, honey, you’re…” he groans, almost pained, his eyes roaming over your body.

You look down at yourself, dressed only in the black sports bra you’d pulled on when you were still half asleep this morning, your baggy blue scrub pants knotted tight at your waist. Had you known, you’d have chosen something more fitting for the occasion.

“I’m straight out of work, I’m usually a little more -”

He stops your words with another heated kiss, dragging his lips from your mouth to your ear.

“You’re fucking perfect”, he whispers, lips against your lobe, and something inside you bursts.

He walks you back toward the bed, his mouth back on yours, and you go willingly, hands moving over the warm planes of his chest, his shoulders, exploring him the way you’ve been pretending for so long you didn’t want to. The backs of your legs find the edge of the mattress and you reach for the knot at your waist, undoing it without breaking the kiss. Your scrub pants pool on the floor and you step out of them and then you sit, and he follows you down, almost crouching before you, and for a moment you just look at each other, slightly breathless, his hands braced either side of you.

“I’ve been so stupid,” he says quietly.

“We both have. Monumentally,” you agree, moving deeper into the bed. He follows.

He kisses you again, slower this time, one hand tracing down your side from your ribs to your hip and back up again, lazy about it, like he’s got something to prove about patience. You get your hands into his hair and pull him closer and he goes, settling his weight above you, and it’s warm and certain and nothing like the careful distance of the last few months.

You lose track of time a little.

His mouth finds your jaw, your neck, the soft skin below your ear, and you tip your head back and settle into his pillows to give him better access. You feel him smile against your throat, pleased with himself, which would be insufferable if it didn’t feel so good. His hands are learning your body the way he learns everything - methodically, carefully, coming back to the things that make you react. You make a sound you didn’t plan when his teeth find your collarbone and he lifts his head briefly to look at you.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Y-yeah, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t stop.

You roll him onto his back and get your hands on him in return, because this is not something that’s happening to you, this is something you’re doing together, and you’ve been wanting to touch him for long enough that you’re not going to be passive about it now. You kneel above him, your fingers tracing invisible patterns over his chest, following the trail of dark hair that leads to his stomach. You scratch at his abdomen and the hiss it drags out of him is exquisite, his hips bucking uselessly upwards. You memorise that. Then you do it again, moving your hand down and down until you’re palming him through his shorts.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

“You like that, huh?”

He can only nod.

You let him lie there for another moment, enjoying the particular power of having Steve Harrington temporarily speechless beneath you, his chest rising and falling faster than usual, eyes blown dark and fixed on your face. Then he reaches up and gets a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you down to him, and you go, and the kiss is different from the ones in the hallway - hungrier, less careful, both of you past the point of being gentle about it.

He sits up, taking you with him, and you end up in his lap with your arms around his neck and his hands spanning your waist, and for a second you just kiss, slow and deep, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your back like he can’t quite help himself.

He reaches behind you and unclasps your bra with a focus that makes you laugh, and he grins against your shoulder, and then his mouth moves down to lavish kisses over your breasts and you stop laughing entirely. His lips wrap warm around a peaked nipple and you arch into him, pulling him closer, and the room is very quiet except for your breathing and the sounds you’re both making and the distant murmur of the street outside.

He pulls back slightly. Just to look at you. Then he reaches out and traces his thumb along your collarbone, slow and deliberate, moving from one end to the other like he’s got all the time in the world, and you stay very still for it the way you’d stay still for something you didn’t want to startle away. His eyes follow the movement of his own hand.

“Steve,” you say quietly, just for the sake of having his name in your mouth.

“Yeah.” He hums, not really answering, more just confirming he’s with you.

“I’m glad you’re not going out.” You press a kiss to the top of his head.

He goes still. Actually still, the way he does when something’s just surfaced through everything else. He pulls back slightly, runs a hand over his face.

“Shit. Claire.”

You blink at him, the crease at your brow deepening. “What?”

“I have to -” He’s already shifting, already looking slightly frantic around the edges. “I have to call her. I can’t just not show, she’ll be sitting there waiting and I -” He waves a hand at the door, in the general direction of the kitchen beyond it. “I have to call her. What time is it?”

You look at him for a second.

Then you start laughing.

“I’m… it’s not -” he starts.

“No, I know, go.” You’re still laughing. “Go call her. Let her down gently.”

He’s already off the bed, casting one last look at you like he’s checking you’re real.

“Kitchen,” you tell him. “The phone’s on the wall in the kitchen, Steve.”

“I know where the phone is.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t -” He points at you, backing toward the door. “Don’t move.”

“Steve -”

“I mean it. Stay exactly -”

“Steven.”

He goes.

****************

You lie back on his bed and look at his ceiling. There’s a small water stain in the far corner that you’ve never noticed before, which makes sense because you’ve never been on his bed looking up at it.

You can hear him down the hall, the sound of the receiver picked up, the rotary dial turning. Then his voice, muffled by distance and two closed doors, the tone of it apologetic and slightly stumbling. You can’t make out the words. You don’t try. You just lie there in your panties on his neatly made bed and listen to him cancel a date with a woman who didn’t know him at all.

You look at the damp towel on the floor.

The full laundry basket.

The creased paperback on the bedside table.

His room, which you’ve been in before to borrow things and return things and once to wake him up when he’d slept through his alarm, but never like this. Never horizontal. Never with his pillow under your head smelling of his shampoo.

You think about the hallway. His face when he saw you. The two steps he’d closed.

You think about the bus ride, the laundry, the form on your desk that you couldn’t process.

You think about the hall light you leave on when he’s late.

You’re still thinking when you hear the receiver go down, and his footsteps fill the hall.

Then the door opens.

He stands in the doorway looking at you. Taking in the fact of you, here, in his bedroom, having stayed.

He says your name. Quiet. Almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, like it surprised him, like he’d expected to come back and find the room empty.

You hold out your hand.

He crosses the room.

****************

He takes your hand and then he’s kissing you again, slower this time, like the interruption burned off the last of the urgency and what’s left knows it has nowhere else to be. You pull him down to the bed with you and he comes willingly, and his hands move over you like he’s been given the permission he wasn’t sure he’d ever have and he intends to make the most of it.

You know you’ve got all night.

His mouth traces down your throat, your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach, taking his time with it, and you let him because you’ve been wanting him for months without admitting it and you’re not going to rush it now.

His thumbs hook into the elastic of your underwear and you raise your hips off the bed before he has a chance to say a word. He drags them down your legs, fingers scratching your skin as he pulls the fabric to your calves, watching as you kick them to your ankles and then off the side of the bed.

He settles himself kneeling between your legs, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob in his dry throat.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you kicked your underwear away.

“Are you okay down there, Steve?”, you tease. “Do you need some help?”

It takes him a moment before he lifts his eyes to yours. You think he might shake his head, that he might come out with something over-confident and eager, but instead he just nods and reaches out for your hand.

“Yeah. Yeah, I want you to show me what you like.”

You take his hand and you show him.

You guide him, quiet and direct, parting your lips and gliding your own fingers between them. They come away slick with your arousal, glistening in the light, and he takes them into his mouth before you have a chance to do anything else, hot tongue licking them clean. His hand slides down from your hip to explore between your thighs, and you gasp out loud when the pads of his fingers find the tight bud of your clit.

“Fuck, Steve…”

He grins, flicking his gaze between his hand and your eyes. “We’ll get there.”

When it gets too much, too sensitive, you pull his hand away and show him how you like to tease and touch yourself. He sits back on his heels and watches, his hand joining yours, following your lead with the same focused attention he brings to everything, copying, adjusting, coming back to what works. When you slip two fingers inside yourself he groans out a curse, palming himself through his shorts as he watches. He brings his mouth to your clit and kisses you, teases you, draws his tongue down your folds until his mouth meets your plunging fingers. Carefully, he takes your hand away and replaces it with his own and you can’t stop yourself from arching off the bed. He looks up at you, questioning, and you can only nod quickly, muttering out some kind of praise as he coordinates his mouth, tongue, lips and fingers until you’re writhing against him.

“There,” you manage. “Like that, don’t -”

He doesn’t stop.

You feel it build slowly, inevitably, his hand and his mouth and his eyes on your face, and you stop trying to be quiet about it because this is Steve and the apartment walls are thick enough and you have been wanting this, wanting him, for months. You get your hand in his thick hair and hold on and let it take you, and when your orgasm hits it does it completely, your limbs trembling, gasping his name like you’ve been saying it your whole life.

He works you through it, careful and thorough, until you pull at his hair and drag him back up to you. He moves up your body, mouth finding yours, and you can taste yourself on his lips and you kiss him deeper because of it. His hands are moving over you, wanting, and you feel him hard against your hip and decide you’re nowhere near done with him yet.

You press a hand flat to his chest and push.

“Your turn,” you say against his mouth.

He makes a low noise that isn’t quite a word.

He goes onto his back without argument, looking up at you, chest heaving, hair wrecked. You take a moment to look at him properly - spread out across his own bed, waiting, watching your face with that open expression that keeps surprising you.

You slip your hands into the waistband of his shorts and pull them down his thighs. He lifts his hips to help and then he’s bare and the shorts are forgotten because what you have in front of you instead is so, so much more interesting.

You wrap your hand around him and he hisses through his teeth, his head dropping back into the pillow.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, more than.”

“Good. Tell me what you want.”

He talks. God, he talks, and he adjusts your hold on him and the pace of your hand incrementally until something gets caught in his throat and whatever he’d been wanting to tell you comes out as a desperate whine. You take your time with him the way he took his time with you. Your hand first, learning what makes his breath hitch and his hips twitch upward, finding the rhythm that makes him squeeze his eyes shut and curl his hand into the sheets. When you lower your mouth to him he makes a sound like something got knocked loose and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there, like he needs the contact.

You work him slowly, deliberately, tongue pressed flat against him as your mouth tries to accommodate him. He barely moves, letting you set the pace as you slide your lips lower, slick and hot and messy, drawing yourself up to the tip the moment he hits the back of your mouth. You keep your hand around whatever you can’t swallow, stroking gently, teasing more of those little sounds out of him while your mouth works him over.

He attempts to stay quiet and spectacularly fails, and you feel a deep satisfaction at every sound you drag out of him. His thick thighs tense up under your hands. His breathing gets ragged.

“Hey,” he says, his voice wrecked. “Hey, you need to - if you don’t stop right now I’m gonna -”

You pull back, breathless, your jaw a little sore.

He looks at you, his chest heaving, undone in a way you’ve never seen him and intend to see again as often as possible.

“Come here,” he says. Low. Not quite steady.

You move up his body and he reaches for you, hands finding your waist, pulling you to him. He kisses you slow and deep and you feel his hands moving over you, and then you’re sitting up, your thighs either side of his hips, and he looks up at you in the low light with that open unguarded expression and you reach between you and guide him and sink down slowly and watch his eyes close and his mouth fall open and his hands grip your thighs hard enough to leave marks.

You stay still for a moment, just feeling him, letting yourself have it after all the months of not letting yourself have anything. His chest rises and falls. His hands are warm and certain on your thighs.

“How d’you feel?” you ask him.

He opens his eyes. Looks at you.

“Just…” he begins, rough at the edges. “…good. Really, really good.”

You move.

You set the pace, slow and easy, and watch his face the way he watched yours - learning what undoes him, coming back to it. The way his jaw tightens when you roll your hips. The way his hands flex against your thighs, gripping and releasing. The way he says your name when something feels particularly good, not quite a word, more like a breath that happens to have a shape.

You plant your hands on his chest and find a quicker rhythm and he lets you have it, lets you fuck yourself on him, his hands moving from your thighs to your hips to your waist, not directing, just touching, like he can’t quite decide where he wants them and settles for everywhere.

“God,” he says, to the ceiling. “Jesus, god.”

“Mm,” you agree.

His stomach tenses under your hands. You feel him everywhere and you want to stay here, exactly here, for as long as possible.

You lean down and press your mouth to his throat and feel his pulse hammering against your lips and something about that - the evidence of it, the physical proof of what this is doing to him - makes your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Months. You lost months to not saying it.

He seems to feel the shift in you. His hand comes up to your back, warm and steady, and you press your face into his neck for a moment and just breathe him in.

“Honey,” he says softly, his hand soothing over your shoulderblades. Private. Just for you.

You lift your head and look at him. And then, looming from above, you see it. Blu-tacked to the wall above his headboard, slightly lopsided, Ann Wilson’s eyes boring directly into yours.

You lose it, collapsing into giggles as the roll of your hips slows.

“What?” he asks, alarmed, trying to think about anything another than the way your giggles are travelling through your body.

“The poster,” you say around your laughter. “Steve, you have a Heart poster above your bed.”

He twists to look at it like he’s forgotten it’s there, which he probably has, and then looks back at you.

“It’s a good poster.”

“I can’t believe,” you say, dissolving, “that I’m letting you fuck me under a Heart poster. Alone is going to mean something completely different to me now.”

He stares at you for a second.

Then he starts laughing too, really laughing, surprised and helpless, his whole chest shaking with it, and you feel it everywhere he’s still inside you and you collapse forward onto him, both of you laughing into each other’s necks like idiots.

“I don’t even know why it’s still up there,” he says, when he can speak, rolling you both onto your sides. You hook your leg over his hip, holding him close. “I kept meaning to take it down, just never got around to it.”

You lift your head to look at him, both of you still breathless, his hair a complete disaster, his eyes bright. He looks younger somehow. Lighter.

“I feel like it has to stay up, now,” you tell him.

“Definitely. Taking it down would feel wrong.”

You kiss him, soft and deliberate, and feel him shift against you.

“Come here,” he says against your mouth.

He rolls his hips into yours before he withdraws, and you wince at the sudden loss. He rolls you again, onto your back this time, smooth and certain, and Ann Wilson watches impassively from the wall as everything stops being funny and starts being something else entirely.

He settles his weight above you and you look up at him and this time neither of you are laughing. His eyes are dark and very focused and he reaches down between you, cupping you, fingers sliding into you. The moment he touches you, you inhale sharply, and your hips tilt up toward his hand of their own accord.

“Please,” you murmur. You’re not embarrassed about it. “Steve, please.”

He plays with you for a moment, two fingers sliding into you once more, then a third that leaves you reeling. His thumb flicks against your clit, teasing over and around it until you’re whining his name and clutching both hands to his forearm.

“N-no, not yet, not until you’re inside me, please…” is all you can tell him, and he groans out something that you think is agreement.

He takes your hips and pulls you closer, sliding himself against your pussy until he’s slick and covered with you. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth again, concentrating, eyes focused as he positions himself to your entrance and drags his gaze up your body.

You nod, and he presses in.

This is different from before. Before you’d been in control of it, setting the pace, holding something back. Now it’s his, and he gives it everything, his full attention, his full focus, the same Steve who notices the crease between your eyebrows and the knot in your foot and the fact that you stomp when something’s wrong, applied to this, to you, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. His hands are learning you once more, cataloguing, returning. When he finds an angle that makes you gasp he stays with it, adjusting slightly, watching your face for confirmation, and you give it to him, you give him everything, your hands on his back and his name in your mouth over and over like it’s the only word you know.

“I’ve got you,” he says into your hair.

“I know,” you whisper in return. “I know, don’t stop, please don’t -”

The room falls very quiet except for the two of you. His breathing and yours. The old wooden bed frame. Quiet moans and gasps and brief words shared as you kiss and touch and move.

It doesn’t take long, not now, not when he’s had his hands and mouth on you, not when you’ve spent the entire day with him on your mind, and god knows how many days and night denying that before. When you break, you break completely. Your whole body tenses and trembles, your hands gripping his shoulders, his name just a cry from your throat, your whole body tightening around him, pleasure obliterating everything else.

You feel his rhythm falter. The stutter in his hips, the way his breath catches and breaks, the rough exhale of your name against your throat - not quite a word, not quite a sound, something in between that you’ve never heard from him before and feel everywhere.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, there’s a cry, and you feel him pulse his release into you.

You hold on.

He’s still for a long moment, just breathing, his weight pressed into you, and you run your hand up his back and feel the tremor in him, the aftershock of it, and something about that - the vulnerability of it, Steve Harrington languid and heavy in your arms - makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with want and everything to do with something larger and quieter that you’re not going to name right now.

Later. You’ll name it later.

For now you just hold him, your hand moving slow up and down his spine, and listen to his breathing even out. His lips find your shoulder, your neck, the hinge of your jaw. Not heated, just present. Just him, telling you he’s right here in the only language that’s ever come naturally to either of you.

His hand finds yours on the pillow and holds it.

You run your other hand up his back, slow, and feel him shiver.

“I’ve got you,” you tell him, turning your face to press your lips to his temple.

Neither of you says anything else for a while.

****************

It’s Steve who breaks it, the way it’s always Steve who breaks the comfortable silences.

“I’m starving,” he exhales heavily, to the ceiling.

You start laughing. You can’t help it - the specific absurdity of it, the timing, the fact that this is Steve, that his bed is somehow where the evening has ended up. You laugh until your stomach hurts and he starts too, the bed shaking with it, and he rolls toward you and presses his face into your shoulder and you feel his grin against your skin.

“Chinese?” you eventually ask him.

“God, yes.” He’s already sitting up, reaching for his clothes. “Same as usual?”

“Yep, the usual.”

He pulls on his shorts and goes to call it in - the phone on the wall in the kitchen, the same phone he’d used more than an hour ago for a very different purpose - and you stretch out in his bed and look at his ceiling and feel the particular quality of a Friday evening that has turned out nothing like it started.

You find your underwear on the floor and his old Tigers shirt in a drawer and pull it over your head because it’s there and it smells like him and you’ve been wanting to do that for longer than you’re willing to admit. You sit on the edge of his bed and look around his room again - the full laundry basket, the creased paperback, the damp towel still on the floor, Ann Wilson presiding over all of it from above the headboard with her knowing expression. You’re still smiling when he comes back.

He stops in the doorway. Takes you in - in his shirt, on his bed, in his room. His expression does the thing it did in the hallway, the complicated certain thing, except softer now, easier, like something that’s been wound tight for months has finally been allowed to loosen.

“That’s my shirt,” he says.

“It’s mine now, sorry.”

He crosses to the bed and tips your chin up and kisses you once, lingering just a little, and then he pulls back and looks at you.

“Stay in here tonight,” he says. Not a question.

“I was going to anyway.”

He smiles. Just that. And then he holds out his hand.

****************

You end up on the couch the way you always do on Friday evenings, the TV buzzing with a game show on low, the radiator clicking, the remains of your food left in cardboard cartons abandoned on the table. He sits at his side, you at yours, and then he reaches out and wraps his hand around your ankles and tugs, and you go, settling your feet into his lap like they belong there.

Because they do, now.

His thumbs find your arches. Slow circles, the same as always, the same careful attention wearing a different cloak now that everything between you is the same but different. You let your head fall back against the armrest and look at the ceiling and soak up the warmth of a Friday evening that has turned out nothing like it started.

At some point his thumbs slow. You look over and find him watching you, not the TV, just watching you with that same open expression from the bedroom, the one that keeps catching you off guard.

“What?” you say.

“Nothing,” he smiles. “Just happy.”

He looks back at the TV. His hands rest on top of your feet.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

[imfromthediningtable]

need more roommate steve ASAAAAPP