Summary: You were stranded at the library in the pouring rain, the last shuttle bus had left just as you got there, you text your brother, Garrett Graham, if he could pick you up after practice. You'll never guess who he sends instead.
Warnings: none, just fluff, flirting
Between Us
P1, P2, P3, P4, P5, P6, P7, P8, P9
Summary: They were never nothing—but John Logan made sure they were never something either. Until the night he sees her with someone else... and realises too late what he let slip away.
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
i’m not sure how much you want to write for bobby franklin, but just in case, i wondered what you’d think of boyfriend!bobby helping his girlfriend cope with nightmares/trauma responses to what the two of them see after escaping the backrooms 💘
boyfriend!bobby comforting you after nightmares ⊹ ࣪ ˖
the backrooms had spit you out eventually, dragged you both through enough horror to leave your nerves permanently frayed, but escape did not mean peace.
it did not mean sleep came easy.
it did not mean your body understood that the fluorescent hum was gone, that the endless yellow walls were behind you, that the fear was supposed to stay there too.
it followed you home.
sometimes you would wake with a strangled gasp already caught in your throat, fingers twisting in the sheets, your whole body rigid like you had been caught somewhere far away and dragged back all at once. other times you woke trembling without a sound, eyes wide and glossy in the dark, staring at nothing for a moment before the reality of your room would slowly piece itself back together. bobby knew the signs by now. he knew the exact way your breathing changed, the tiny hitch in your chest, the way your hand would start searching beside you before you were fully awake, reaching for him like your body was desperate to make sure he was still there.
and he always was.
most nights the two of you slept tangled together, limbs wrapped around each other like even in your sleep you were afraid to lose the other one.
bobby held you close with one arm thrown around your waist, his face tucked into your hair, one hand resting steady and warm against your back. it made him feel better, keeping you there like that, like he was anchoring you to the world just as much as you anchored him.
but sometimes the terrors hit too hard, and no amount of closeness was enough to stop your body from jerking awake in panic.
this night was one of those nights.
you woke with a sharp inhale, your chest rising too fast, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might split your ribs open. for a second you didn’t know where you were, the room was dark, but the dark wasn’t comforting yet.
you tried to slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake your sleeping boyfriend.
careful because you didn’t want to bother him.
careful because you didn’t want to feel needy.
careful because part of you still hated how much the fear could take out of you, how it could leave you shaking and small.
but before your feet even hit the floor, bobby was up.
“hey,” he said softly, voice rough with sleep but instantly awake in the way only people who loved you could be. “babe?”
you froze for a second, hand braced on the mattress.
he was already sitting up, shirtless and half-dazed, the bed sheets falling low around his waist as he blinked at you in the dark. even half asleep, even still waking up, the concern on his face was immediate and real.
“c’mere,” he murmured.
you swallowed hard, trying to breathe through the lingering panic. “i’m okay.”
bobby gave you a look that said he did not believe that for a second. “i know…” he said gently.
bobby swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, moving toward you without hesitation. the floor creaked softly under his feet, and he came close enough to brush his hand down your arm, warm and steady against your cold skin. then, with the kind of care that made your chest ache, he guided you away from the bed and toward the kitchen.
“come on,” he said, his voice low. “let’s get you out of here for a minute.”
the apartment was quiet around you. bobby kept one hand on the small of your back as he walked beside you, not pushing, not rushing…
in the kitchen, he leaned against the counter and looked at you for a long second, studying your face in the dim light.
“do you want me to make you something?” he asked. “tea….coffee…hot chocolate?”
“no, m’okay thank you, bobby.”
it was such a simple thing, the offer. so ordinary. so painfully normal.
he didn’t treat you like you were broken. he didn’t act like your fear was annoying or inconvenient or something you should just get over.
“or we could watch tv. or i can take us to denny’s if you’re hungry enough for that. whatever you want, baby.”
you rubbed at your face and let out a shaky breath. “i don’t know.”
“that’s okay,” he said right away. “then we don’t have to decide yet.”
he moved to stand in front of you, tilting his head down so he could catch your eyes, his thumb brushing your cheek with such tenderness.
you were quiet for a moment, fighting the urge to apologize for being like this, for waking him, for needing too much, for not being able to just sleep. but bobby was looking at you like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else he could possibly rather be.
so you leaned into him instead.
his arms came around you instantly. no hesitation. he held you close with one hand at the back of your head and the other around your waist, lowering his chin to rest on top of your head.
“i've got you- i've got you-” he cooed.
your eyes shut. the fear was still there, but his arms made it easier to bear. easier to breathe. easier to remember where you were.
bobby swayed you gently in place, just a little, like he was trying to rock the terror out of your body.
“i'm sorry,” you whispered. the words were barely audible, but bobby heard them.
immediately he pulled back just enough to look at you. his brows pinched together.
“for what?”
you looked away. “for waking you up.”
the expression on his face somehow grew even softer. his thumb brushed beneath your eye.
“i was already up.”
“no you weren’t…”
“you’re up, i’m up, babe.” he leans down to kiss your cheek. “don’t ever have to have sorry-”
he kisses your cheek again.
“not for this.”
another.
“not ever.”
your eyes squeezed shut. there wasn't even the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice, no exhaustion, no frustration, just concern…..just love.
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – garrett's not jealous. he's simply standing across the room, watching a med student make the girl who's definitely not his girlfriend laugh.
warnings – jealousy, situationship drama, strong language, sexual references, possessive behaviour
notes from me – lots of ppl asking for jealous garrett... so here we are! for context, this takes place before patient zero. enjoy!!
word count – 4.8k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
Garrett is fine. That feels important. Foundational, even. A fact he would like entered into the record before Dean opens his mouth again and says something so irritatingly accurate Garrett has to either pretend not to hear it or commit a small act of violence near the beer pong table.
He’s fine.
He’s standing in his own living room with a beer in one hand, Logan half-draped over the back of the couch beside him, Tucker leaning against the wall with his arms folded, Dean doing that thing where he looks like he’s listening to the conversation but is actually watching Garrett with the shiny-eyed focus of a man who has found entertainment and intends to feed it until it grows legs.
The house is packed in the usual post-game way, bodies everywhere, music too loud, the kitchen already sticky in a way that suggests someone has spilled something sugary. There are girls in Briar sweatshirts and guys from the team yelling over each other and the front door opening every five minutes to let in another gust of cold air and another cluster of people who definitely were not invited but have arrived with beer, so the legal issue is blurry.
It should be a good night. It is a good night, technically. They won. He scored. The whole left side of his body aches in a familiar, satisfying way from a hit in the second period that would probably look worse tomorrow and feel better never, and he has no morning skate, which means there’s no rational reason he should be standing here grinding his molars into powder because some guy in a clean sweater and very serious watch is making her laugh near the dining room doorway.
A real laugh. The kind where her head tips slightly back and her hand comes up like she’s trying to stop herself from being too loud, even though Garrett knows for a fact she’s capable of being much louder than that and has several recent memories his brain really doesn’t need to supply right now while Dean is standing two feet away.
The guy says something else. She grins. She’s talking with her hands, one of them wrapped around a beer, the other moving as she explains something to him with the sort of focused, lively expression she gets when she’s discussing hospital drama or some disgusting ward story Garrett’s ninety percent sure he doesn’t want to hear but always asks about anyway because she lights up when she knows what she’s talking about.
The guy leans in. Garrett’s fingers tighten around the neck of his bottle.
“Careful,” Tucker says mildly. “You paid for that.”
Garrett doesn’t look at him. “I’m holding it normally.”
Logan snorts. “Yeah, man. Super normal. Real relaxed grip you’ve got there. Like a man seconds away from inventing glass dust.”
Dean, delighted, shifts closer. “What are we looking at? Oh, wait. Are we looking at the doctor?”
“He’s not a doctor,” Garrett says automatically.
All three of them go quiet for half a second.
Then Dean’s face does something horrible. “Oh.”
Logan makes a sound. “Oh, he knows lore.”
“I don’t know lore.”
“You absolutely know lore,” Tucker says. “That was immediate.”
Garrett finally drags his eyes away from the dining room doorway to glare at him. “She said he’s a med student.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says, nodding with grotesque sympathy. “And when did she say that, buddy?”
Garrett hates them. All of them. Deeply. With history and texture.
He looks back across the room before he can stop himself. She’s still there. Still smiling. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, a little messy from the cold outside and the party heat inside, and she’s wearing the top she wore last night under his hands when he had her pressed into his mattress with her thighs shaking around his hips. A different pair of jeans. Same mouth. Same mouth currently curving at Jeremiah or Jason or whatever the fuck his name is like he’s said something worth the amount of teeth she’s showing.
Which is fine. It is.
Garrett’s not stupid. He knows what this is. He knows what they are. They’ve been extremely clear. Painfully clear. Repeatedly clear, usually while naked or half-asleep or in the aftermath of some situation that makes clarity feel less like emotional maturity and more like both of them holding up a cardboard sign that says this is casual while standing in the ashes of casual’s house.
She’s not his girlfriend. She’s said this. He’s said this. The whole thing works because of it. She’s busy. He’s busy.
She has clinicals and labs and exams and shifts that wreck her enough that sometimes she sits on the edge of his bed in silence for five full minutes after taking off her shoes. He has hockey and captain shit and games and classes and the kind of schedule that turns eating lunch into an event if he manages it before three. They don’t need complicated.
Except he picked her up from the hospital two nights ago because she’d texted him something like might fall asleep in the elevator lol, and the thought of her taking the bus half-dead at midnight had made his body move before his brain finished pretending not to care.
He drove her home, got her into bed, put a glass of water on her nightstand, and told her to stop trying to answer her group chat because none of those people could force her to discuss wound care at 12:46 a.m.
Then this morning he drove her to clinic because it was raining and she had looked at the weather app and whined softly under her breath and because he’d wanted an excuse to see her in scrubs with her hair claw-clipped up and sleep still sitting sweet and heavy in her face.
So, who the fuck is this dickhead?
Who’s this future-doctor douchebag with his neat hair and his clean shoes and his little hospital-placement proximity, making her laugh at a party Garrett’s hosting in a house Garrett pays rent in, near a kitchen where she’s eaten his leftover pizza at one in the morning while wearing his hoodie and his boxers and complaining that Dean keeps buying the wrong orange juice.
Not his girl. Sure.
She was his girl last night when he had his mouth against her stomach and her hands in his hair, when he’d made her come twice before they even got under the covers properly because she'd arrived stressed and sharp and vibrating out of her own skin.
She was definitely his girl around the third time, when she got so loud Dean had thumped on the wall and yelled, “Some of us are trying to fucking sleep!” which had made her hide her face in Garrett’s shoulder and shake with laughter while Garrett, saint that he is, hadn’t gone across the hall and murdered him.
She was his girl when she fell asleep with one bare knee hooked over his thigh, hair in his mouth, one hand flat on his ribs like she needed to keep him there even unconscious.
But now, apparently, she’s standing by the dining room doorway with Doctor Sweater, laughing like he isn’t two comments away from making Garrett do something that will require an apology to the whole hockey program.
“Thought she wasn’t your girlfriend,” Logan says, because Logan has chosen death.
Garrett’s jaw tightens. “She’s not.”
Dean hums. “Right.”
“She’s not,” Garrett repeats, and hears how bad it sounds the second it leaves his mouth. Too fast. Too defensive. Like a man denying a crime while holding the stolen TV.
Tucker takes a sip of his beer, eyes on the scene across the room. “You look like you might kill him.”
“Not impossible,” Garrett says. “Still might.”
Dean’s laugh is immediate and bright. “Oh, he’s gone. He’s fully gone. Look at him.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“Physically, sure. Emotionally, you’re over there lifting your leg on her like a golden retriever,” Dean beams.
Garrett turns his head slowly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“A lot,” Logan says, nodding. “But he’s not wrong.”
“He is wrong.”
“Then why do you look like that?” Tucker asks.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to decide how much shit you’d be in if you body checked him right now.”
Garrett looks back at her again, because suffering is a hobby now. Jason is saying something with his hand raised slightly, like he’s making a point. Probably some hospital thing. Probably something about rounds or a consultant or whatever the fuck people who wear badges and make too much eye contact in break rooms talk about.
She’s listening with her face all open and interested, nodding along, and Garrett knows that face too. The one she gets when someone’s saying something actually worth hearing. The one she wore in the library when she was explaining veins on his forearm, all focus and warmth and that little crease between her brows.
His stomach twists, because that guy gets that version of her in the hospital. That guy gets her in scrubs, gets her tired and competent, gets to know the ward stories before Garrett does, gets to stand beside her at the nurses’ station or wherever they’re placed and watch her do the thing she’s good at in real time.
Garrett gets the after. The crash. The bad-day texts. The tears in his room. The pizza. The sex. The way she curls into him after pretending she isn’t sleepy. He likes the after. He likes it too much, probably.
But the thought of some other guy existing in the middle of her actual day, in the part where she’s bright and capable and not half-dead against Garrett’s pillow, makes something ugly and hot move in his chest.
Which is stupid. He talks to women. Women talk to him. She’s never once made a thing about it. Well. She’s made faces, maybe. Little ones. But she’s never walked across a room and performed some caveman territorial bullshit because a girl laughed at one of his jokes.
Garrett’s bigger than that. He is 100%, completely and totally, bigger than that.
However, Garrett’s, unfortunately, not bigger than that.
“I’m gonna get another beer,” he says.
Logan looks at the bottle in his hand. “You have one.”
“This one’s annoying me.”
“The beer?” Dean asks.
Garrett gives him a look.
Dean puts both hands up. “Right. My bad. Totally the beer.”
He lasts another eight seconds. Eight. Which is honestly generous, considering Jackson laughs at something she says and then puts his hand briefly on her upper arm.
Briefly. A normal person’s touch. Barely contact. Probably nothing. It’s there and gone in less than a second, and still Garrett sees it so clearly that the whole room seems to sharpen around it.
The guy’s fingers on her sleeve. Her not flinching. Her not even noticing, maybe. Her just smiling, still mid-sentence, because she’s comfortable enough around him that he can touch her arm and she doesn’t immediately step back. Garrett sets his beer down on the nearest surface with more force than necessary.
“Oh, here we go,” Logan says softly, like he’s narrating wildlife footage.
Garrett cracks his neck. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Dean’s practically glowing. “G, remember, she’s not your girlfriend.”
Garrett points at him without looking back. “One more word and I’m putting your mattress in the front yard.”
“You did that last semester.”
“And I’ll do it better this time.”
He crosses the room before anyone can answer. The party shifts around him automatically, people making room because Garrett is Garrett and because he’s moving with enough purpose that even drunk freshmen understand basic survival instincts.
He grabs his letterman jacket off the back of a chair on the way, the one he’d thrown there an hour ago because the house was too hot and because he had not, at that stage of the night, known he was about to need a visual aid.
She sees him when he’s a few steps away. Her eyes flick over from Joseph’s face and land on Garrett, and something changes in her expression so fast most people would miss it. A tiny catch at the corner of her mouth. Amusement, like she knows. Like she’s known for at least five minutes that he’s across the room slowly losing his mind and has chosen, with incredible cruelty, not to rescue him from himself.
Garrett’s blood pressure becomes a team concern.
“Hey,” she says as he reaches them, voice light, eyes bright. Too bright. Oh, she’s absolutely going to be insufferable later.
“Hey, baby.” He says it easily. His own mouth hears the possessive little curve in it and decides to double down because shame has taken the night off. He swings the jacket around her shoulders, warm from the room and heavy enough that it covers most of her top at once. “Told you to bring a jacket.”
Her lips press together. Not a smile, not yet, but close enough that he wants to bite her.
“I wasn’t cold,” she says.
“You were going to be.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Was I?”
“Mhm.”
She looks up at him with that almost-smile still sitting there, and for a second the room behind her drops away. Just the two of them. His jacket on her shoulders. Her eyes on his face. The last memory of last night alive and well between them, horribly unhelpful and very smug.
Then James clears his throat. Garrett looks over at him.
The guy isn’t ugly, which is offensive. He has that med-student look, clean and tired and self-important in the socially acceptable way, like he could diagnose a cough and then use the word actually before explaining why everyone else in the room is wrong. He’s holding a beer he’s barely touched.
Garrett hates him immediately and with some nuance.
“Hey, man,” Garrett says, making his voice pleasant enough to be legally admissible. “I’m–”
“Garrett Graham,” the guy says, his face brightening with recognition. “No, yeah, I know who you are. Big hockey fan.”
That should help. It does not.
“Oh,” Garrett says, nodding once. “Cool.”
She shifts beside him, and Garrett feels her trying not to laugh more than he sees it.
Jacob holds out a hand. “Joshua.”
Garrett takes it. Firmly. Not too firmly. Probably. “Justin?”
The guy blinks. “No– uh. Joshua.”
Garrett nods like this is brand-new and very important information. “Right. Totally. Joshua.”
Her shoulders shake once under his jacket.
Garrett looks down at her. “You good?”
She bites the inside of her cheek. “Mhm.”
His hand, which has somehow ended up at the edge of the jacket near her shoulder, tugs it more securely around her. It’s a stupid, small thing. A nothing thing. Except she lets him do it. She doesn’t shrug him off. Doesn’t roll her eyes in front of John.
Doesn’t make some cutting little joke about him being ridiculous even though he is being ridiculous, spectacularly so, at a level that may require group review.
She just looks up at him and says, “Hold this?”
Then she hands him her beer, like he’s the sort of person who stands there holding her drink while she slides her arms into his letterman jacket. Garrett takes the beer because he’s domesticated now.
She slips one arm into the sleeve, then the other, the jacket swallowing her in the shoulders and falling too big over her hands. The sight of it does something so abrupt inside him that he almost forgets Joel is present and breathing.
She looks like she belongs in it. That’s the problem. Worse, she looks like she knows what it does to him. She tugs one sleeve down, fingers appearing just past the cuff, then reaches for her drink again.
“Thanks,” she says, all sweet and casual and deadly.
Garrett hands it back. “Don’t mention it.”
She lifts the beer to her mouth, and her eyes stay on his for half a second over the rim.
Oh, she is evil. Beautiful, evil woman.
Jayden says something about the game, and Garrett answers. He thinks he answers normally. There are words involved. Something about the third period. Something about special teams.
He’s only half aware of it because she’s turned slightly back toward Joshua but is still close enough that Garrett can feel the edge of his jacket brushing his knuckles when she moves. Close enough that when she laughs softly at something Jasper says, she glances up at Garrett first, like she wants to see what it does to him.
It does plenty.
He drops his hand to the back of her shoulder, thumb pressing once through the thick jacket fabric. It could pass as absent. It’s not. She knows it too, because her eyes flicker for one fraction of a second, and then she looks back at Jared with her smile still intact.
Garrett bends and kisses her temple. He doesn’t plan it, it just happens. One second he’s standing there trying to participate in a conversation with a man whose name he’s already intentionally fumbled, and the next his mouth is at the side of her head, pressing a quick, warm kiss into her hair like he’s done it a hundred times before in front of people.
She goes still for half a breath, then her fingers tighten around the bottle.
Garrett feels something in him settle, low and pleased and stupidly male. It proves that Garrett is losing his grip on a situation he keeps insisting is casual. But she doesn’t move away. She doesn’t correct him. She just stands there in his jacket with his kiss still warm near her temple and says, “Anyway, the ward coordinator was being insane,” like her voice hasn’t gone just slightly softer around the edge.
Garrett isn’t proud of the fact that he enjoys this. But he enjoys it a lot.
He lasts maybe another minute before the satisfaction starts to curdle into the awareness that if he stands here any longer, he’s going to either keep touching her or start asking Joe invasive questions about his placement schedule. Neither option is ideal. One of them may violate several social norms and possibly university policy.
So he squeezes her shoulder once and says, “I’ll be over there.”
She looks up at him. The grin finally breaks properly, tiny and private, tucked into the corner of her mouth like she’s saving it for later. “Okay.”
“Come find me if you get cold.”
She looks down at his jacket, then back up. “Sure.”
Garrett can feel Joshua watching the exchange with the stiff politeness of a man who’s just realised he’s wandered into a situation with no clean label and a lot of territory already claimed by someone who refuses to call it territory. Good. Let him wonder.
Garrett gives him one last nod. “Jeremy.”
“Joshua,” the guy says weakly.
“Right.”
He turns before she can laugh in his face.
He makes it back to the boys and immediately regrets every friendship he’s ever formed.
Dean’s bent almost in half, one hand over his mouth, shaking with silent laughter. Logan has both eyebrows raised so high they’re basically in his hairline. Tucker looks like he’s trying to be kinder than the other two and failing because his mouth is twitching too hard.
“No,” Garrett says, pointing at all of them. “Absolutely not.”
Tucker takes a sip of beer, eyes still on Garrett. “Subtle jacket move.”
“That wasn’t subtle,” Logan says. “That was a billboard.”
“She was cold,” Garrett says.
Dean wheezes. “She’s indoors!”
“It’s drafty.”
“The thermostat is set to seventy-two and there are ninety people in here,” Tucker says.
“Drafty,” Garrett repeats.
Dean presses both hands together in front of his mouth like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t intend to use. “Baby, I told you to bring a jacket,” he says, pitching his voice lower in an atrocious impression that makes Logan immediately choke on his drink.
Garrett’s eyes narrow. “I will end you.”
“No, no, it was good.” Dean nods earnestly, fighting a grin so hard he looks pained. “Very casual. Extremely platonic. I actually put my varsity jacket on all my non-girlfriends before intimidating their male classmates.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
The words are automatic. They also, judging by the faces in front of him, are not helping.
Logan pats his shoulder. “Yeah, man. We know. You’ve said it a lot. Usually while looking like you’re going to put someone through the wall.”
Garrett looks away, which is a mistake because he sees her across the room, still in his jacket. She’s talking to whatever-his-name-is, but her body has shifted slightly, angled more toward Garrett than before.
The jacket sleeves hang over her hands. She lifts her beer, says something, laughs again, and this time her eyes flick over to him like she knows exactly where he is. Like she’s known the whole time.
His stomach does that stupid little swoop again. A quick drop, like missing the bottom stair. Because she’s wearing his jacket without complaint, because she let him kiss her temple in front of some guy from her hospital placement, because she’s going to tease him later and he already knows he will let her.
Worse, he’ll probably enjoy it. He’ll probably stand in his room while she shrugs the jacket off and says something sweetly evil like were you marking your territory, Graham? and he’ll tell her to shut up and kiss her against the door because the answer is yes and he’s not ready to put that in words.
“Look at him,” Dean says softly, with the reverence of someone witnessing art. “He’s doing it again.”
Garrett does not turn. “Doing what?”
“Staring at your not-girlfriend in your jacket.”
“She looks cold.”
“She looks smug,” Tucker says.
“She looks like she knows she owns you,” Logan adds.
“She doesn’t own me.”
All three of them stare at him. Garrett drinks from his beer and discovers it’s empty. This is disappointing because he was hoping it would give his mouth something to do besides continue lying.
Dean leans closer, voice bright. “Hey, G?”
“No.”
“You gonna ask the future doctor to leave or just silently audition for a jealous boyfriend role all night?”
Garrett gives him a look. “You really want your mattress on the lawn.”
“I’m serious. I need to know how far the delusion goes. Like, she’s not your girlfriend, but you pick her up from clinical, right?”
Logan starts counting on his fingers, because apparently he has prepared evidence. “Drives her places. Makes her eat. Lets her sleep in his bed. Gets weird if she doesn’t text back.”
“I don’t get weird.”
“You once came downstairs and asked if the Wi-Fi was working because she hadn’t replied in fifteen minutes,” Tucker says.
Garrett points at him. “That was a reasonable question.”
“It was raining,” Logan adds. “You said maybe the weather was messing with reception.”
Garrett shrugs once. “I was making conversation.”
“You were pacing.”
Dean looks toward the dining room doorway, then back at Garrett, his grin sharpening. “And now you’re about to fight a med student because he made her laugh.”
“I’m not about to fight him.”
“Because you already gave her your jacket and kissed her head, so you think the point’s been made?”
Garrett opens his mouth. Nothing useful comes out.
Dean’s smile widens with the slow horror of a man being proven right in real time. “Oh my God.”
“Shut up.”
“You do think the point’s been made!”
Garrett drags a hand over his jaw. It hurts because his jaw has been clenched for at least ten uninterrupted minutes. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Logan says cheerfully. “You need us. Who else is gonna tell you you’re acting insane?”
“I’m not acting insane.”
Tucker’s eyes move across the room again, and his expression softens slightly. “She doesn’t look mad, for what it’s worth.”
Garrett follows his gaze before he can pretend not to. She’s still talking, still smiling, still doing that animated hand thing, but now his jacket has slipped off one shoulder a little.
She reaches up absently and pulls it back into place without looking down, like keeping it on matters. Like it’s not just fabric. Like she’s decided, for whatever reason, to let him have this.
Garrett’s chest tightens in a way that is harder to turn into anger. “No,” he says after a second, quieter despite himself. “She doesn’t.”
Dean, because he has a soul only in theory, immediately ruins the softness. “That’s because she likes seeing you suffer.”
Garrett exhales through his nose. “Yeah, probably.”
“She picked a med student on purpose,” Logan says.
“She didn’t pick him.”
“She’s wearing your jacket and making eye contact across the room while another guy talks about hospital stuff,” Dean says. “That girl is conducting research.”
Tucker nods solemnly. “Clinical trial.”
Garrett gives them all a flat look. “You’re done.”
“Double blind study,” Dean continues. “Except everyone can see it except you.”
Logan laughs hard enough to fold into Tucker’s shoulder. Garrett’s very seriously considering the mattress thing. Possibly not just Dean’s. Possibly all of them. A clean sweep. Character building.
Across the room, she looks over again. This time, she smiles at him properly. Just for him, small and pleased and warm under the edges of his jacket. The kind of smile that says she knows exactly how stupid he’s being and, worse, that she’s not entirely against it.
Garrett’s hand tightens around the empty bottle.
Dean makes a soft, wounded noise beside him. “Oh, buddy.”
Garrett turns his head slowly. “What now?”
“You’re so fucked.”
For once, Garrett doesn’t immediately argue. Because she’s not his girlfriend. He knows that. He has the words memorised. He’s said them enough times that they should mean something by now.
She’s not his girlfriend, and he’s not her boyfriend, and Joshua can laugh at her hospital stories if he wants because she’s allowed to have classmates and friends and whatever other normal people things Garrett has decided are personal attacks.
But she’s standing in his living room wearing his jacket. She had let him put it on her in front of another guy. She had let him kiss her temple. She’d handed him her beer like his hands were a natural place to put things while she settled into his clothes.
She’s looking at him now like she knows exactly how jealous he is and has chosen, for reasons that are going to ruin his life, to be gentle with it until she can make fun of him somewhere private.
Garrett lifts the empty bottle to his mouth, realises again there’s nothing in it, and lowers it with a muttered, “Fuck.”
Logan claps him on the back. “There it is.”
“I’m getting another beer.”
“Sure,” Dean says. “Beer.”
Garrett ignores them and heads for the kitchen, taking the route that passes her, because he’s fully given up on pretending to be a rational person tonight.
As he passes, his hand brushes the small of her back through the jacket. Brief. Warm. Deliberate enough that she feels it, subtle enough that Jacob probably has to stand there and wonder if he imagined it. She turns her head slightly, eyes lifting to him.
Garrett bends just enough to murmur near her ear, “Still good?”
Her smile tugs again, private and dangerous. “Mhm.”
His fingers press once at her waist, hidden in the thick fabric. “Find me later.”
It comes out lower than he means it to. More instruction than request. A little too much of last night in it. A little too much of his hands, his bed, her voice muffled in his pillow, Dean banging on the wall. He hears it. She hears it too.
Her eyes flick to his mouth, then back up. “Maybe,” she says.
Garrett’s jaw tightens, but this time it’s not jealousy that does it. Or not only jealousy.
“Maybe,” he repeats.
She lifts her beer to her lips. “Don’t make me say it twice.”
Garrett stares at her for one second too long.
Then Joshua says, “Sorry, am I missing something?”
She looks back at him, sweet as anything. “Nope.”
Garrett almost laughs. Instead he gives Doctor Asshole one more polite nod. “Good seeing you, Jason.”
“Joshua,” the guy says, a little helplessly now.
“Right.”
He walks away before she can fully lose the smile. The boys are watching from the couch with expressions that make Garrett want to leave the country.
Dean lifts both hands in surrender before Garrett even reaches them. “Don’t worry, man. Super normal.”
Garrett drops onto the couch beside them, beerless, jacketless, pride in critical condition, and looks across the room one more time. She’s still laughing. Still in his jacket. Still not his girlfriend.
Garrett leans back, drags a hand down his face, and mutters, “Shut the fuck up.”
You and Dean take your three year old son, Addison-Maxwell, skating for the first time.
snuggling with dean on a rainy day | @deansbrat
FORBIDDEN LINE | @darkkdamsel00
Hockey player Dean Di Laurentis, falls for his teammate’s sister
HIS JERSEY | @goldsainz
you’re officially dating dean, which means wearing his jersey to his hockey games and having him go crazy for it.
PAYBACK | @/goldsainz
dean tries to act unbothered by the growing relationship between you, so you kiss his best friend as payback.
I told you so, part 2 | @railingsofsorrow
Dean is there for you, even when you think he shouldn’t be.
What, like it’s hard? | @alierecss
Dean Dilaurentis has been the only person in your class who comes close to your grade. You’ve been pretending not to notice him for three months. Then a professor pairs you together for a semester project, and suddenly you have no choice but to sit very close to him in a library for five weeks and figure out what to do about that.
All This Time | @yvaineseleneposts
dean di laurentis x retired figure skater!reader | @daystarpoet
you know how to skate?! | @/daystarpoet
dean di laurentis was being serious about a girl for the first time in his life. the final stage of his plan was taking you ice-skating, where you would fall for him—for good.
Truth or Dare? | @vampysuccubus
It’s your first week in college when Hannah drags you to the Kappa Chi house party when you are playing truth or dare you are dared to kiss Dean.When you are on the way to your dorm you received a message from who can it be and what will happen next?
The Alchemy | @starksrealdaughter
you are the new social media manager for the hockey team of briar university. and you catch someone's eye...
Oblivious | @pinkfairydreamgirl
You know Dean Di Laurentis to be loud, a player, and a bit of a meathead. Basically your exact opposite. So why is he talking to you all of a sudden? Why is he dramatically inserting himself into your life? He can’t be interested in you romantically. Right?
Three times is a pattern | @newobsessionweekly
You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.
Pucks and Pilates | @mattsmadness
When the Briar hockey team dismisses pilates as an easy workout, she stages a surprise conditioning session that leaves the elite athletes sweating and completely dismantled.
A LOT MORE TO LOVE | @melwnst
being plus size means talking down on yourself when you think every outfit makes you look terrible. Allie and Hannah are here to remind you look beautiful, while Dean has other interesting ways of showing it.
SHE’S SITTING WITH ME ! | @worldimaginedreaming
When Dean gets unexpectedly jealous at a Briar party and pulls you onto his lap in front of everyone, the line between friendship and something more suddenly disappears.
It Was Just A Kiss | @berrychaivibe
You and Dean never crossed path until tonight
sugar talking | @p1stach-io
you’re done being dean di laurentis’ favourite secret.
You’re Losing Me | @munsonsmixtapes
It’s New Year’s Eve, and after not seeing Dean for weeks after hooking up for months, you each have some news for each other.
BF!DEAN WHEN HE’S JEALOUS | @lacyydollette
Missing shoe | @xxmmandyxx
She Always Won. | @sasaririri
you dressed like a princess for him. turns out the kingdom was never yours to begin with.
Intervention | @/sasaririri
the aftermath doesn’t get easier. one week of silence, one unexpected visit from logan, and dean showing up outside your door with reasons he should’ve said a long time ago. but is it too late?
More than something | @momoxluv
The morning after an eventful night with Dean, you overhear him talking with Tucker...
Off the Record, part 2, part 3 | @finalgirlfiction
you're hopelessly in love with Garrett whose your best friend's boyfriend, so when you were cornered about your love life you came up with a lie that eventually started everything.
Sorry, Wrong Number | @minminn22
When Briar University's infamous right wing, John Logan, accidentally texts the wrong number, he expects a quick apology and a dead end. Instead, he finds a witty, sarcastic girl who isn’t afraid to put him in his place.
Legendary Lovers | @vampysuccubus
After Johns hard training you and him want to have intimacy but you need to admit that you can’t finish during… And theres when things change to a better way.
Imagine | @burgundysnow
THE LOVE ADVICE | @messylxve
the 3 times he got love advice + the 1 you did
too pretty to keep secret, part 2 | @rinvvii
Dating John Logan in secret would be easier if he knew how to act normal around you. Unfortunately, Logan is hopelessly in love, terrible at hiding it, and one affectionate comment away from exposing your entire relationship.
the boyfriend in row three | @/rinvvii
you have a competition, and logan and the boys show up to support you in their own chaotic way. with logan quietly by your side before you skate and the others cheering way too loudly from the stands. You perform under pressure and don’t win first place but you leave the ice feeling like you didn’t lose anything that matters.
Skating on the edge | @schinug
Secretly learning to ice skate, partying with my friends, and having a huge crush on John—it was just bound to go wrong.
we had it all. | @toonice113
Logan realizes his crush for Hannah isn't actually a crush, but is it too late? or, you realize that Logan has a crush on Hannah through little interactions and decide to distance yourself only for Hannah to make Logan realize his mistake and try to get you back before it's too late.
does it hurt? | @uwtloml
in which everyone knows that john logan is head over heels with you, and it’s not like you don’t feel the same way, so what’s the issue?
off limits, part 2 | @chanelnara
Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend’s little sister.
game misconduct, part two | @pucksandpower
one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Five Times Logan Almost Said I Love You | @rosiewrites28
five moments where Logan nearly confesses his feelings — and the one time he finally does.
she looks so perfect | @qtjohnlogan
john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
Friends | Looking after you | @drunk-on-melancholy
Slipping in the shower leads to you calling your oldest friend John to help, but for the first time you see him as more than a friend.
Tiny Librarian | @dilaurentispuckbunny
You were stranded at the library in the pouring rain, the last shuttle bus had left just as you got there, you text your brother, Garrett Graham, if he could pick you up after practice. You'll never guess who he sends instead.
one of many days | @utopeian
You’re avoidant, Logan’s anxious. Somehow, you both make it work.
Toxic | @sunnydilaurentis
in which your brother’s best friend, john logan, helps you find yourself after a toxic breakup.
Savior By Night | @dreamsdump
Picture Me in the Trees | @queensunshinee
Please Stop The Music. | @sasaririri
She’s been in love with her best friend for longer than she’d like to admit. He’s been hung up on someone he can’t have. One Halloween party later — everything falls apart in the best and worst way possible.
Noise | @sanguineterrain
John Logan smells like apples and lends you pencils and tells you it’s okay to wear your headphones in his car. He brings you to Dean and Beau’s party after you misunderstand who’s invited. He’s your friend now, apparently. You’re starting to think that maybe you don’t just want him as your friend, though.
plowed down!, part 2 | @seafoammm
you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now
Clinical notes on loving him incorrectly | @puckingcuckbunny
They were never casual enough to survive pretending they were.
Falling for ya | @/puckingcuckbunny
two times John Logan watched you faint, and the one time he realised loving you meant learning how to be scared without letting it consume him.
Jealousy is best served secretly | @/puckingcuckbunny
Being Dean di daurentis’ little sister came with many…features, hundreds of eyes would be trained on the both of you- a dynamic pairing that was sure to breathe life into a party just by blinking at the venue, lavish lives of comfort and quiet luxury, it didn’t help you had killer genes on top of it all. With those abilities came challenges, such as, your personal lives being the literal talk of the town.
I pucking love you | @/puckingcuckbunny
Dating John Logan came with many benefits, great sex, cute puppy dog eyes, free coffee and an eternal study buddy. But the one thing that you couldn’t align on- hockey.
Can you do a dean imagine from off campus where you and dean are best friends and like each other but dean keeps pushing it down because he’s afraid to ruin the relationship so he starts hanging with Allie. So you and Logan start hanging out because dean keeps avoiding you and maybe you are hanging out with Logan at the library and you both have this moment where you are about to kiss or actually kiss and dean walks in to the library finally realizing it’s been you this whole time? 😂 sorry
Always You
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
Word Count: 1266
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
Dean had spent the last two months doing a very convincing impression of a man who was not in love with you.
It was impressive, really.
He had perfected the casual smile, the easy jokes, the way he pretended your friendship was exactly that and nothing more. He had become so good at avoidance that even Garrett had started getting annoyed with him.
The problem was that avoidance was easier than risk.
Because you were his best friend, and if he crossed the line and ruined that, then he would lose the best thing in his life.
So when Allie started hanging around more, Dean let it happen.
It was easier to look busy.
Easier to flirt back just enough to keep people from asking questions.
Easier to convince himself that if he put his attention somewhere else, the thing he felt for you might quiet down.
It did not.
Which was unfortunate, because you noticed.
You always noticed.
You noticed Dean sitting with Allie at parties.
You noticed Dean laughing a little too easily when she was around.
You noticed Dean being very careful not to look at you for too long.
And then you stopped asking him to hang out.
That was worse.
Because now he had no excuse to see you.
So he kept trying not to think about you.
That lasted until he walked into the library and saw you sitting at a table with Logan.
At first, he almost turned around.
Then he saw Logan leaning over the book and heard your laugh, soft and warm, and something in Dean’s chest twisted hard enough to make him stop in the doorway.
Logan looked up first.
His expression shifted immediately. “Oh.”
You turned too.
And the moment you saw Dean, your face changed in a way he had been trying not to notice for weeks.
“Dean,” you said.
He hated how relieved he felt hearing his own name from you.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Hey.”
Logan looked between the two of you and very wisely started gathering his things. “I’m gonna give you two a minute.”
You opened your mouth. “Logan, you don’t have to,”
He was already standing. “I do.”
Dean barely heard him.
Because you were looking at him like you had been expecting this and somehow still didn’t know what to do with it.
He stepped closer to the table. “Can we talk?”
You stared at him for a second. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Dean winced. “I know.”
“Why?”
He exhaled and looked away. “Because I’m an idiot.”
Your brows drew together. “Dean.”
He looked back at you then, and the words that came out next felt like tearing something open.
“Because I like you.”
Silence.
It was the kind that made the entire library feel like it had narrowed to just the two of you.
You stared at him, and for a second he could not read your face at all. Then something changed there,surprise, hurt, and then a very specific kind of recognition.
Dean’s stomach dropped.
You stood up slowly. “You what?”
He swallowed. “I like you.”
You blinked once. “Now?”
“No.” He laughed once, miserably. “I mean yes, but not now. I mean I’ve liked you. For a while.”
You looked at him for a second, then let out a breath that sounded almost like disbelief. “Then why Allie?”
That question hit harder than he expected.
He looked down. “Because you were right there.”
You went quiet.
He kept going because he had already ruined enough. “Because you’re my best friend and I was terrified that if I said anything, I’d lose that. And because I thought maybe if I tried to look anywhere else, it would stop.”
Your expression softened and sharpened at the same time. “Did it?”
Dean laughed quietly. “No.”
You looked at him for a long second, then glanced over toward the shelf where Logan had very respectfully disappeared to give you space.
“When I saw you with Allie,” you said, voice quieter now, “I thought I had made this whole thing up.”
Dean’s head snapped up.
You gave a sad little smile that hurt more than if you had been angry. “I thought maybe I’d just been stupid for feeling anything at all.”
Dean stared at you.
Then the pieces started hitting him all at once.
Your silence.
His own cowardice.
The way you had stopped asking him to hang out.
The way Logan had suddenly become the person you spent more time with.
And right then, standing in the library with the air full of all the things he should have said sooner, Dean realized exactly what had been in front of him the whole time.
It had been you.
Always you.
His face changed all at once.
“Oh,” he said, quietly.
You frowned. “What?”
Dean took one step forward, then stopped like he was afraid to scare you off. “It was you.”
You blinked. “Dean?”
“It was always you.”
Your face went still.
He was breathing a little harder now, not from running, but from the sudden horrible relief of understanding what he had been too stubborn to see. “I thought I was avoiding making a mistake with you. I thought I was protecting the friendship.”
You looked at him with wide eyes.
Dean shook his head, a little stunned by his own stupidity. “I wasn’t protecting anything.”
A beat.
Then he said, softer, “I was just scared.”
You stared at him for a long moment, and then your expression broke into something tired and honest and painful and real.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”
Dean’s chest hurt.
He stepped closer again, this time not stopping.
“You went to Logan because of me,” he said.
You looked down. “He was easier.”
That nearly killed him.
Not because Logan was better.
Because he was not.
He was just brave enough to be around you when Dean wasn’t.
Dean’s voice dropped. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes lifted to his.
He swallowed hard. “For making you think it wasn’t you. For making you feel like you had to disappear so I wouldn’t ruin things.”
Your face softened all the way through.
And in the quiet of the library, with Logan deliberately pretending not to listen on the other side of the aisle, Dean finally did the thing he should have done months ago.
He reached for your hand.
You let him.
“I don’t want Allie,” he said softly. “I wanted distraction. That’s all.”
Your lips parted slightly.
Dean’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, nervous now in a way he never was when he was joking. “I want you.”
The air between you changed.
You looked at him for one long second, then stepped closer too.
Dean’s breathing stalled.
He thought, briefly, that maybe this was the moment.
Maybe this was where he finally got brave enough to kiss you.
Then a shelf creaked, and Logan cleared his throat dramatically from somewhere behind you.
Dean startled and looked over, half annoyed and half relieved to have the moment interrupted by something with less emotional weight.
Logan gave the two of you a very pointed look. “Should I leave again?”
You laughed softly, tension breaking just enough to make the room feel real again.
Dean looked back at you, and your expression was still warm and uncertain and hopeful in a way that made his chest ache.
He finally smiled.
Not because everything was fixed.
Because it wasn’t.
But because he had finally, finally figured out what had been staring him in the face the whole time.
Summary: They were never nothing—but John Logan made sure they were never something either. Until the night he sees her with someone else... and realises too late what he let slip away.
Warnings: angst
The first thing Logan notices is that you're looking away from him.
Not in anger, and not in the dramatic way people do when they're trying to make a point. Instead, it looks like you've simply run out of energy. Your shoulders seem heavier than they did an hour ago, and there is a weariness in your expression that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
It's the kind of tiredness that comes from carrying something for too long.
The kind that settles into a person after years of hoping, waiting, questioning, and hurting.
For some reason, that hurts him more than seeing you cry.
The tears are painful enough, but this feels different. This feels like evidence of all the years that came before tonight. Years during which he was the source of so much uncertainty in your life.
He was the weight you carried.
The realization settles heavily in his chest.
Neither of you says anything for a while.
The parking lot has grown darker around you, and the campus lights have begun flickering on one by one in the distance. Somewhere nearby, a car drives past. Across the street, a group of students laughs loudly as they walk toward one of the dorm buildings.
Life continues around you.
People keep moving.
The world keeps turning.
And somehow it feels strange that it does.
Because standing here, in this moment, feels more important than anything else Logan has ever experienced.
You finally wipe at your face and let out a shaky breath.
"Can I ask you something?"
Logan nods immediately.
There isn't even a moment of hesitation.
At this point, you could ask him anything and he would answer.
"Why me?"
The question catches him completely off guard.
You let out a small laugh, but there isn't any real amusement behind it.
"No, seriously."
Your eyes lift to meet his.
They're red from crying, vulnerable in a way he rarely sees, and painfully honest.
"Why me?"
The question settles between you.
For a moment, Logan doesn't answer.
Not because he doesn't know.
The truth is that he knows exactly why.
The problem is that there isn't one answer.
There are hundreds of answers.
Hundreds of moments.
Hundreds of memories.
Years of small observations and feelings that accumulated so gradually he didn't even realize what they were becoming.
His gaze drops briefly before returning to yours.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.
"I don't know how to explain it in one answer."
A sad smile touches your lips.
"Try."
Something twists painfully inside his chest.
Because even now, after everything you've been through, you're still giving him a chance.
A chance to explain.
A chance to be honest.
A chance he should have taken years ago.
Logan exhales slowly and searches for the right place to begin.
Eventually, he settles on the first thing that comes to mind.
"I love how you get angry."
You blink at him.
"What?"
A small, disbelieving laugh escapes him.
Of course that's your reaction.
"I knew you'd hate that answer."
"I do."
For the first time all night, a genuine smile appears on Logan's face.
"It was the first thing I noticed about you."
You stare at him, clearly confused.
Logan shakes his head.
"You get this look whenever you're annoyed."
His eyes soften as he remembers it.
"It's like the entire world has personally offended you."
You immediately roll your eyes.
"There it is."
Despite yourself, a small laugh slips out.
The sound makes something tighten painfully in Logan's chest.
God.
He loves that laugh.
He always has.
"I remember thinking you were terrifying."
Your eyebrows rise.
"Terrifying?"
"You cornered Garrett outside the student center for half an hour."
"He lost my notes before finals."
"I know."
His smile widens.
"And honestly, I've never seen someone look more terrified."
You shake your head, but there's a faint smile lingering on your face now.
For a moment, the heaviness between you eases.
Then Logan's smile slowly fades, replaced by something softer.
Something more vulnerable.
"I loved that you never cared who someone was."
Your expression changes slightly.
It's subtle, but Logan notices.
Of course he notices.
He always notices.
"You never treated people differently."
His voice grows quieter.
"You didn't care if someone was popular."
He pauses.
"You didn't care if they played hockey."
His eyes meet yours.
"And you didn't care if they could do something for you."
Your throat tightens.
Because he remembers.
Of course he remembers.
Logan lets out a quiet laugh.
"The first time we met, you barely acknowledged me."
You snort.
"I acknowledged you."
"No."
His smile grows.
"You looked at me once, decided I wasn't worth your time, and walked away."
A reluctant smile appears on your face.
"You were annoying."
"I was charming."
"You were annoying."
The smile remains.
And somehow that makes it easier for him to continue.
Logan swallows.
"I love how you take care of people."
The words come out softer this time.
More vulnerable.
Because these aren't funny memories anymore.
These are the things he's carried around for years without ever saying aloud.
"You remember when Dean got sick sophomore year?"
You nod slowly.
Logan remembers it too.
Every detail.
"You skipped class for three days."
Your brows furrow.
"Because he had the flu."
"Yeah."
His eyes never leave yours.
"You brought him food every day."
A pause.
"You did his laundry because he was too sick to get out of bed."
Another pause.
"And you sat on the floor next to him for hours because he said he didn't want to be alone."
The memory hits you unexpectedly.
You haven't thought about it in years.
Logan clearly has.
"I remember wondering why you were doing all of that."
Your chest aches.
His voice lowers.
Then he smiles sadly.
"And eventually I realized that's just who you are."
Silence settles between you.
Not uncomfortable silence.
Something deeper.
Because suddenly this conversation isn't about grand romantic gestures or dramatic confessions.
It's about being seen.
Really seen.
Maybe more completely than you've ever realized.
Logan takes another breath.
Then another.
The lights overhead cast a soft glow across his face.
"I love that you talk to yourself when you're studying."
Your eyes widen immediately.
"What?"
"You do."
"No, I don't."
"You absolutely do."
A laugh escapes him.
"You make faces too."
"Oh my God."
"And when you're tired, you'll reread the same sentence six times before realizing you haven't absorbed a single word."
You immediately cover your face.
Mortified.
Logan can't stop smiling.
Because somehow this feels easier.
Not easy.
Nothing about tonight is easy.
But honest.
More honest than any carefully prepared speech could ever be.
Because this is what love actually looked like.
It wasn't one dramatic moment.
It was years of noticing.
Years of remembering.
Years of collecting tiny details about someone until they became impossible to separate from your life.
His smile slowly fades again.
Emotion takes its place.
Something deeper.
Something heavier.
"You know what the worst part is?"
You lower your hands.
"What?"
Logan's eyes lock onto yours.
And suddenly there is nowhere else for either of you to look.
"The worst part is that none of this ever went away."
The ache returns immediately.
Raw and familiar.
His voice drops.
"I tried."
Your heart breaks a little.
"I dated other people."
He swallows hard.
"I told myself eventually I'd stop feeling this way."
A tear slips down his cheek.
He doesn't wipe it away.
"But every time something happened..."
His voice cracks.
"...you were the person I wanted to tell."
The tears return to your eyes immediately.
Because that one hurts.
That one reaches somewhere deep inside you.
Logan lets out a shaky laugh.
"I'd score a goal and think about texting you."
Your chest tightens.
"I'd have a terrible day and want to call you."
Another tear follows the first.
"I'd hear a joke and immediately think you'd laugh at it."
His smile falters.
"And every single time..."
He closes his eyes briefly.
When he opens them again, they're shining.
"...it was you."
The silence that follows feels enormous.
Neither of you moves.
Neither of you speaks.
Because there is nothing left to hide inside those words.
No confusion.
No uncertainty.
No almost.
Just love.
Years and years of it.
Messy and complicated.
Late in all the ways that matter.
Painful in ways neither of you can ignore.
But real.
And for the first time since you've known him, you believe every word.
Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.
Warnings: nothing but love and fluff
Your daughter, Angel's, first birthday was still a few months away when Dean started acting a little strange.
Not suspicious strange.
More like excited strange.
You began noticing little things that didn't quite add up. He would randomly smile down at his phone while reading messages, only to lock the screen the second you looked over. Sometimes he would step into another room whenever someone called him, speaking in a low voice before returning with an innocent expression. Other times, whenever you asked what he was up to, he would immediately change the subject so smoothly that it almost worked.
Almost.
The first time you really noticed it, you were sitting on the couch watching your daughter toddle determinedly between the coffee table and Dean's legs.
She had recently discovered walking, and unfortunately for everyone involved, she had also become completely convinced that she was indestructible.
"Careful, baby girl," Dean warned for what was probably the tenth time in five minutes.
He sat leaning forward with both hands hovering near her, ready to catch her at any moment. He looked less like a father and more like a nervous bodyguard assigned to protect a very important celebrity.
Your daughter ignored him entirely.
Naturally.
She took three more wobbly steps before her balance disappeared beneath her. She landed directly on her diapered bottom and immediately looked offended by the entire concept of gravity.
You laughed.
Dean was already reaching for her before she could decide whether she wanted to cry about it.
"My brave girl," he said as he scooped her into his arms.
The betrayal of the floor was instantly forgotten.
Your daughter wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder while Dean kissed the top of her head.
You smiled as you watched them.
God, you loved them.
Both of them.
More than you could ever properly explain.
Dean glanced up and caught you staring.
His expression softened immediately.
Then, just as quickly, something mischievous flashed across his face.
Looking back, that probably should have been your first warning.
About a week later, Garrett showed up at your house carrying what looked like enough baby supplies to last several months.
You opened the front door expecting maybe a quick visit, only to stop short when you saw him standing on the porch.
His arms were completely full.
There were several packs of diapers stacked against his chest, a container of formula tucked awkwardly under one arm, and multiple bags hanging from his wrists.
You immediately spotted baby snacks.
Then three different stuffed animals.
Then a tiny pink hockey jersey that looked suspiciously expensive.
And, somehow, what appeared to be a fully stocked emergency first aid kit.
You blinked several times, trying to process the sheer amount of stuff he had brought with him.
"Garrett."
"Yeah?"
You looked from him to the mountain of supplies and back again.
"What is all this?"
For a brief moment, he completely froze.
Not subtly, either.
The reaction was immediate enough that your suspicion kicked in almost instantly.
You narrowed your eyes.
"Garrett."
"Nothing."
The answer came far too quickly.
"Garrett."
He let out a long, dramatic sigh, shifting the bags in his hands.
"Dean is a manipulative asshole."
You stared at him.
"What?"
Garrett groaned and adjusted the diaper boxes before pointing accusingly toward the general direction of wherever Dean happened to be.
"Ask him."
The second the words left his mouth, he seemed to realize he had already said too much.
Without offering another explanation, he turned around and started walking back toward his truck.
"Garrett!"
He waved a hand over his shoulder.
"Nope."
Then he climbed into the driver's seat and left before you could ask a single follow-up question.
You stood in the doorway for a moment, looking down at the pile of baby supplies he had abandoned on your porch.
If anything, you were now even more suspicious than before.
Another year of somehow loving him more than you had the year before, even though every year you were convinced it couldn't possibly be possible.
The day itself had started completely normally.
You'd eaten breakfast together at the kitchen table while your daughter sat in her highchair between you, happily making a mess of everything within reach. The morning had been slow and comfortable, filled with the familiar routines that had become such a big part of your life over the past year.
You drank coffee while Dean scrolled through something on his phone.
Your daughter spent most of breakfast throwing blueberries onto the floor because apparently watching them bounce was the funniest thing she'd ever experienced.
Nothing about the morning seemed unusual.
At least not until Dean reached across the table and handed you a plain envelope.
You frowned immediately.
"What is this?"
A grin spread across his face so quickly that your suspicion only grew.
"Open it."
You narrowed your eyes at him before carefully opening the envelope.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
Then another.
Then another.
Your confusion slowly shifted into disbelief as you unfolded everything and realized what you were holding.
Plane tickets.
Hotel reservations.
An itinerary.
A week-long vacation.
Just you and Dean.
No diapers.
No laundry.
No midnight wake-ups.
No schedules built entirely around naps and feeding times.
Just the two of you.
For an entire week.
You stared at the papers for several long seconds, trying to process what you were seeing.
Then you looked up at Dean.
Then back down at the tickets.
Then back at him again.
"Dean."
His smile softened immediately when he saw the look on your face.
"You need a break."
Your eyes filled with tears before you could stop them.
Honestly, at this point you weren't even surprised anymore.
Pregnancy, postpartum hormones, motherhood, exhaustion—somewhere along the way your body had apparently decided that crying was now the appropriate response to every strong emotion.
Happy?
Cry.
Sad?
Cry.
Touched?
Definitely cry.
"Dean..."
He stood from his chair and walked around the table before gently cupping your face in both hands.
"You've spent the last year taking care of everyone."
His thumb brushed softly across your cheek.
"Our daughter."
A kiss against your forehead.
"Me."
Another kiss.
"Everybody else."
His voice was quiet now.
Tender.
Then he rested his forehead against yours.
"Now it's your turn."
Your chest felt so full it almost hurt.
Because he wasn't wrong.
The past year had been beautiful, but it had also been exhausting in ways you never could have imagined.
You loved being a mother.
You loved your daughter more than anything.
But somewhere along the way, you'd stopped taking care of yourself.
"But the baby—"
"Already handled."
You blinked.
"What?"
Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself.
The expression alone told you he'd been planning this for a while.
Before you could ask another question, the front door opened.
You turned toward the sound just in time to see Garrett and Hannah walk inside carrying enough baby supplies to survive a second apocalypse.
There were bags.
Boxes.
Extra diapers.
Toys.
Snacks.
A portable playpen.
You were fairly certain Garrett was carrying an entire emergency preparedness kit.
Your eyes widened.
"Oh no."
Garrett immediately pointed at you.
"Before you say anything."
His finger remained raised in warning.
"We've got her."
Beside him, Hannah nodded enthusiastically.
"We've literally been preparing for weeks."
You looked between them and Dean.
"Weeks?"
Garrett looked genuinely offended by your surprise.
"Do you think I'd let my niece suffer?"
You laughed despite yourself.
"Garrett."
"No."
He walked straight over and scooped your daughter into his arms before you could continue arguing.
The little traitor immediately cuddled against his chest without a second thought.
Garrett's entire face melted.
It happened every single time.
You had never seen anyone transform so quickly.
One second he looked intimidating enough to scare grown men.
The next, he was staring at your daughter like she personally hung the moon and every star around it.
The tough-guy act disappeared completely whenever she was involved.
He kissed the top of her head before looking back at you.
"Go."
Your throat tightened.
"But—"
"No."
He adjusted your daughter on his hip with surprising ease.
"I love you."
Your eyes immediately stung.
"And I love this little menace."
As if she understood exactly what he had said, your daughter reached up and smacked him directly in the face.
Hannah burst out laughing.
Garrett looked personally betrayed.
Dean looked delighted.
Your daughter looked incredibly proud of herself.
And despite the tears gathering in your eyes, you couldn't stop laughing.
Because honestly, watching Garrett get bullied by a one-year-old never stopped being funny.
The hardest part turned out to be leaving.
It wasn't because you didn't trust Garrett and Hannah.
You trusted them completely.
If anything, there were very few people in the world you trusted as much as them when it came to your daughter.
The real problem was that you had never been away from her before.
Not overnight.
Not for several days.
Not even for more than a few hours at a time.
Ever since she had been born, your days had revolved around her. Every feeding, every nap, every bedtime routine had become part of your life. Even when you were exhausted, even when you desperately wanted a break, the thought of being away from her for an entire week felt strange.
The moment you started packing your suitcase, anxiety began creeping in.
You would fold a shirt and suddenly wonder if she would sleep okay without you there.
You would zip up a bag and immediately think about whether she would miss you.
What if she cried?
What if she needed you?
What if she woke up in the middle of the night looking for you?
What if—
Dean noticed almost immediately.
Of course he did.
He always seemed to know when your thoughts were starting to spiral before you even said anything out loud.
That night, after your daughter had finally fallen asleep, you found yourself standing quietly in the doorway of her nursery.
The room was dimly lit by the small nightlight in the corner.
Your daughter was curled up in her crib, one tiny hand tucked beneath her cheek.
You stood there for several minutes, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath.
Listening to the soft sounds she made in her sleep.
Trying to memorize every little detail, even though you knew you would only be gone for a week.
A few moments later, Dean appeared behind you.
You felt his presence before he said anything.
His arms slipped gently around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.
You relaxed into him automatically.
"I don't know if I can do it."
The words came out quieter than you intended.
Dean rested his chin on your shoulder.
"Yeah, you can."
You looked toward the crib again.
Your daughter remained peacefully asleep, completely unaware that she was currently responsible for most of your emotional instability.
Dean pressed a soft kiss against your temple.
"Want to know something?"
You glanced up at him.
"What?"
You could hear the smile in his voice before he even answered.
"Garrett is more nervous than you are."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
"He is not."
"He absolutely is."
You turned slightly in his arms, narrowing your eyes.
Dean nodded with complete confidence.
"He called me six times today."
Your eyebrows shot up.
"What?"
Dean laughed.
"The first call was because he wanted to know what would happen if she missed her bedtime by twelve minutes."
You burst out laughing.
Dean continued, clearly enjoying himself.
"Then he called back twenty minutes later because he wanted to know if she preferred one bedtime story over another."
You covered your mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stop laughing.
"And then," Dean said, shaking his head, "he called again because he was worried she might miss you."
At that point you were laughing so hard tears had started gathering in your eyes.
The image of Garrett Graham—one of the most intimidating hockey players you'd ever met—panicking over bedtime stories and schedules was almost too much.
Dean smiled as he watched you.
"There it is."
You looked at him.
"What?"
"That laugh."
His arms tightened slightly around your waist.
"I've missed hearing it."
The warmth in his voice made your heart ache.
You turned fully in his arms.
Dean immediately lowered his head until his forehead rested against yours.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The house was quiet.
Your daughter slept peacefully down the hall.
And somehow everything felt calm.
"We're allowed to be more than parents."
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest.
Because he was right.
You loved being her mother more than anything.
There wasn't a single part of you that would ever change that.
But somewhere along the way, you and Dean had become Mom and Dad before anything else.
Every conversation revolved around schedules, naps, meals, and diapers.
Every decision centered around your daughter.
And while neither of you regretted that for a second, it was easy to forget that before all of this, you had simply been Dean and you.
Dean reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"This week," he said softly, "is about us."
His eyes met yours.
Steady.
Certain.
Loving.
And for the first time since he had handed you those plane tickets, the anxiety began to loosen its grip.
Not completely.
You were still going to miss your daughter.
Probably every single day.
But underneath that worry, something else was beginning to grow.
Excitement.
A smile slowly appeared on your face.
Dean noticed immediately.
His own grin widened.
"There she is."
You rolled your eyes, even as you laughed.
But he was right.
For the first time in a long time, you felt genuinely excited.
Not guilty.
Not nervous.
Excited.
A whole week with the man you loved.
A whole week where neither of you had to rush through conversations or collapse into bed exhausted at the end of the day.
And most importantly, knowing your daughter would be absolutely spoiled by Garrett and Hannah while you were gone.
Knowing she would be safe.
Knowing she would be cared for.
Knowing she would be loved.
Almost as much as she was by you and Dean.
Almost.
Because nobody loved that little girl more than her parents.
Summary: You were stranded at the library in the pouring rain, the last shuttle bus had left just as you got there, you text your brother, Garrett Graham, if he could pick you up after practice. You'll never guess who he sends instead.
Warnings: none, just fluff, flirting
The problem was that once Logan realized he was falling for you, he couldn't go back to the way things had been before.
It was like someone had flipped a switch in his brain.
All at once, every interaction seemed to carry more weight than it used to.
Before, texting you had simply been something he enjoyed. He liked your sarcasm, liked the way you always had a comeback ready, liked how easy it was to talk to you.
Now, every notification from you felt important.
He found himself checking his phone more often than he wanted to admit, wondering if you'd replied yet. If a message from you appeared while he was in class, at practice, or halfway through a conversation with someone else, his attention immediately shifted.
Before, running into you around campus had been a pleasant surprise.
Now, he caught himself looking for you without even realizing he was doing it.
His eyes automatically scanned crowded hallways. He noticed familiar jackets from a distance and felt disappointed when they belonged to someone else. He knew which routes you usually took between classes and which corner of the library you preferred when you wanted to be left alone.
And before, watching other guys talk to you had never bothered him.
Now it was becoming a serious problem.
—
It started on a Tuesday afternoon.
Practice had run long, and Logan was exhausted by the time he left the arena. His shoulders ached, his legs felt heavy, and all he wanted was food and a shower.
Then he spotted you sitting outside the student center.
You were curled up on a bench with your legs crossed beneath you, completely absorbed in a book. Earbuds were tucked into your ears, shutting out the noise of students passing by. Every few minutes you turned a page, your expression shifting slightly as you read.
The sight immediately made him smile.
You looked peaceful.
Comfortable.
Happy.
For a moment, he simply stood there watching.
He was already trying to figure out how casually he could walk over and start a conversation without making it obvious that he'd specifically come over because he'd seen you.
Then another guy got there first.
Logan slowed to a stop.
The guy approached your bench and said something.
You looked up from your book.
A polite smile appeared on your face.
Then you moved your backpack aside, making room for him to sit down.
Something unpleasant settled in Logan's stomach.
—
Nearly twenty minutes later, Tucker found him standing in almost the exact same spot.
"What are you doing?"
Logan didn't take his eyes off the bench.
"Nothing."
Tucker followed his gaze.
The realization was immediate.
A grin spread across his face.
"Oh my God."
Logan groaned.
"Shut up."
"You're literally standing here watching her."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
Logan finally looked away, but it was already too late.
Tucker had caught him.
And judging by the expression on his face, he was enjoying this far too much.
"Who is that guy?" Tucker asked.
"I don't know."
Tucker raised an eyebrow.
"Then why do you look like you want to fight him?"
"I don't."
"You do."
Logan glanced back toward the bench despite himself.
The guy was saying something that made you laugh.
Again.
The sound carried faintly across the courtyard.
Logan felt his jaw tighten.
"He keeps touching her arm."
For a second Tucker simply stared at him.
Then he burst out laughing.
Not a chuckle.
Not a laugh he tried to hide.
A full, uncontrollable laugh that made several nearby students glance over.
"Oh, you're gone."
"I hate you."
"No, seriously."
Tucker wiped at his eyes.
"You're jealous."
"I'm not jealous."
"You just spent twenty minutes staring at a guy because he touched her arm."
Logan opened his mouth to argue.
Then stopped.
Because unfortunately, Tucker wasn't wrong.
—
The worst part was that you had absolutely no idea any of this was happening.
As far as you were concerned, Logan was still Logan.
He still teased you constantly.
Still sent ridiculous texts at inconvenient hours.
Still called whenever he thought something sounded off in your voice.
Still showed up with coffee when you forgot breakfast.
Still remembered little details about your day that nobody else seemed to notice.
From your perspective, nothing had changed.
But for Logan, everything had.
Because now every thoughtful thing he did came attached to feelings he hadn't intended to develop.
Every text mattered more.
Every conversation lingered in his mind longer than it should have.
Every smile felt like a reward.
And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to stop it.
—
A week later, things got significantly worse.
Garrett invited you to lunch.
Normally that wouldn't have been a problem.
The issue was that Garrett had also invited half the hockey team.
Including Logan.
Including Tucker.
And unfortunately, including the sophomore from outside the student center.
Logan discovered this approximately three seconds after sitting down.
"Hey."
He looked up as you approached the table.
You smiled before dropping into the empty seat beside him.
Immediately, his mood improved.
Just having you next to him made something in his chest settle.
Then the sophomore sat across from you.
And smiled.
Logan's mood immediately worsened again.
—
The entire lunch became an exercise in patience.
You, of course, remained completely oblivious.
Garrett spent most of the meal talking about hockey.
Several teammates argued about something that had happened during practice.
Tucker looked like he was fighting for his life trying not to laugh.
And Logan spent the entire meal trying to act normal.
The sophomore kept talking to you.
Asking questions.
Making conversation.
Finding reasons to keep your attention.
You answered politely.
You laughed at his jokes.
You smiled.
At one point he offered you some of his fries.
You accepted without thinking twice.
Logan stared down at his own food and briefly considered throwing himself into traffic.
—
About halfway through lunch, you excused yourself to go to the restroom.
The second you disappeared around the corner, Tucker leaned forward.
"So."
Logan didn't even look up.
"No."
Tucker grinned.
"You like her."
"No."
"You're in love with her."
That finally got Logan's attention.
His head snapped up immediately.
Tucker's grin widened.
"See? That wasn't denial."
"Shut up."
Tucker laughed.
"Dude."
Logan dragged a hand through his hair.
"Don't."
"You brought her coffee three times this week."
"She forgets to eat."
"You called her at midnight because she sounded sad."
Logan remained silent.
"You know her class schedule."
Still silent.
"You bought her favorite candy at a gas station because it reminded you of her."
The silence stretched longer this time.
Across the table, Garrett finally looked up from his food.
"Who are we talking about?"
Every muscle in Logan's body immediately locked up.
Tucker's eyes widened.
"Oh."
Garrett frowned.
"What?"
"Nobody," Logan said far too quickly.
The answer came out so fast that even he knew it sounded suspicious.
Garrett narrowed his eyes.
The look on his face made Logan's stomach drop.
Because Garrett wasn't stupid.
And once Garrett started paying attention to something, he rarely let it go.
Thankfully, Tucker jumped in and changed the subject before any more questions could be asked.
The conversation moved on.
Everyone else relaxed.
But Logan couldn't.
Because for the first time, something genuinely unsettling occurred to him.
It wasn't just his feelings that were becoming harder to hide.
It was everything else.
The way he looked at you.
The way he talked about you.
The way he always seemed to know where you were.
The way he remembered things nobody else did.
People were starting to notice.
Tucker had noticed.
A few of the guys on the team had definitely noticed.
And sooner or later, Garrett was going to notice too.
The thought sat heavily in his chest for the rest of the afternoon.
Because he wasn't sure which possibility scared him more.
The idea of losing you.
Or the possibility that one day he would have to admit just how deeply he'd fallen for you.
Omg hiii! I just adore your writings anytime I see you post it just makes my day 10X better so when you said you were taking requests I just had to reach out!!
I was wondering if you could write something along the lines of Gator who’s taken an interest on a woman who’s new to town. He’s down bad for her but she doesn’t give him the time of day. After his umpteenth time of asking her out she finally tells him she’s a single mom.
Does gator continue trying to peruse her or does he run for the hills?
Okay that’s my little request thank youuuu and I hope you have a great day! 💕
us
gator tilman x reader
desc - when you first moved to stark county, you were expecting a quiet life for you and your daughter. what you didnt expect, was catching the eye of gator tillman and somehow getting him to stay
val speaks - aww hey thanku sm!!! that means the world ily💗 hope u enjoy !!
p.s - he doesn't run for the hills
word count: 7.2k
the first thing you noticed about your new town was how quiet it was.
the streets were narrow and mostly empty, the buildings low and tired looking in the particular way small town places got when they had been standing too long and nobody bothered to pretend otherwise. still, it had what you wanted. a little house at the edge of town, old but sturdy, with a porch that sagged just a bit on the left side and a yard small enough to manage on your own. it had been cheap in a way that made you suspicious at first, but the realtor had smiled too hard and said things like “good bones” and “quiet neighborhood” and in the end it was the price tag that sold you.
you hadn't moved here because you were looking for a fresh start in the dramatic sense. you just needed a place that was yours, a place where your daughter could sleep with her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm and not have to hear you worrying over every little sound in the dark. a place where you could make coffee in the morning without thinking about the man who had left you both.
you had wanted cheaper rent, fewer questions, and a life that did not ask more of you than you could give.
so you packed up what mattered, sold what did not, and drove until the landscape looked unfamiliar enough to be called new.
the first few days were a blur of boxes, half-assembled furniture, and your daughter running from room to room as if she were mapping out a kingdom she planned to rule. she adjusted faster than you did. children always did. she found the best spot by the front window, decided the hallway was perfect for games that involved being a fox, and declared the back step “her lookout.” by the end of the week she had already made a friend out of the woman next door, who had introduced herself with a casserole dish and a warm, practical smile.
her name was doris, and she was the sort of neighbour who knew when to offer help and when to let silence do its job. she had silver hair that she pinned up without much fuss and a front porch full of flowerpots that looked like they had all survived several winters out of pure stubbornness.
she was also, you learned with some surprise, a retired babysitter who had apparently looked after half the children in town at one point or another.
“if you ever need to run errands or anything,” she told you the second time you met, balancing your daughter on one hip as if she weighed nothing at all, “you bring her over. i mean it. she’s a sweetheart.”
you had thanked her more times than necessary, because gratitude came easier to you than accepting kindness without flinching.
and because your life had gotten just complicated enough to feel almost normal, that was when gator tillman started noticing you.
not that he had any right to call it noticing. everybody saw everything in a town this small, but there was noticing. and then there was the way he looked at you like you had been dropped into the middle of his day and, for reasons he couldn't explain, made the whole thing feel a little less dull.
you saw him first at the grocery store.
it was one of those fluorescent-lit places that looked a little too bright no matter what time of day it was. you had been standing in front of the cereal aisle with a box of cheap granola tucked under your arm, trying to remember whether your daughter was out of milk or just very committed to pretending she was, when you felt eyes on you.
when you looked up, there he was.
he was leaning against the end of the aisle like he had all the time in the world, sheriff’s department uniform neat enough to suggest he cared about appearances but not neat enough to make him look harmless. tall, broad-shouldered, that sort of face that looked like it had learned early on how to smirk without being asked.
there was something pretty in the wrong way about him, which was annoying because you had no interest in being distracted by a man who clearly knew how to take up space.
he glanced at the box in your hand and then back at your face, the look lingering just long enough to be rude.
“you new round here?” he asked.
the accent had a rough, easy drawl to it, the kind that sounded practiced even when it wasn’t. you gave him a polite smile that did not encourage anything.
“yes.”
“huh.” he pushed off the shelf and took a few steps closer, hands loose at his sides. “pretty girl like you, what’s she doin’ in a place like this?”
you stared at him for a beat, expression flat enough to freeze water.
“buying cereal.”
one corner of his mouth twitched, like he had been hoping for something sharper.
“single?”
that one earned him a look. not a flustered one, not a coy one. just a look that said he hadn't, in fact, earned the right to ask.
“that’s a strange thing to ask a stranger in the cereal aisle.”
“not strange where i’m from.”
“well,” you said, and slipped the granola into your cart, “strange where i'm from.”
he blinked once, then let out a quiet laugh that sounded too pleased with itself. he had the decency to look amused instead of offended.
“fair enough.”
you would've thought that would be the end of it, but it was only the beginning.
he kept appearing in your orbit after that in ways that were almost too convenient to be accidental. sometimes at the hardware store, where you were trying to figure out which kind of screw was used for what and he would appear beside you with all the confidence of a man who had never once admitted he did not know something. sometimes outside the gas station, where he would give you a lazy salute before asking if you’d “settled in yet.” once, at the post office, he held the door open for you and told you your haircut looked nice, which was so transparently him trying to get a reaction that you nearly laughed in his face.
he always looked a little more pleased with himself when you looked unimpressed.
“you always this cold?” he asked one afternoon while you were loading groceries into the back of your car.
you didn’t even turn around. “you always this annoying?”
he snorted. “you got a sharp tongue.”
“and you’re still talking.”
that made him grin in a way that probably worked on somebody else, somewhere, but not on you. not when your days were full of work and unpacking and making sure your daughter ate enough vegetables to count as a reasonable parent. not when every spare thought you had was already claimed by practical things.
still, you noticed things against your will.
that he always looked too carefully at you before stepping too close. that he wore his uniform like it had been chosen to impress people, and perhaps it had.
that there was something in his expression whenever he realised you weren't impressed by him, not even a little, that looked less like irritation and more like challenge.
he asked your name on the second week. then asked what you did before moving here. then asked, with a glance that made it obvious he already thought he knew the answer, whether you had someone waiting for you at home.
“why?” you asked, shutting your car trunk harder than necessary.
“jus' curious.”
“that sounds like a lie.”
he tilted his head, one of those small, self-satisfied gestures he seemed to make when he thought he was winning something. “maybe i’m interested.”
“in what?”
“you.”
you made a sound in your throat that was almost a laugh, almost disbelief. “you barely know me.”
“plenty of time f' that.”
there was no reason for your face to go warm, but it did.
you told yourself it was the weather, the late afternoon heat, or the fact that he was standing far too close with far too much confidence and an expression that said he liked being looked at. you took the grocery bags from the cart and shut the trunk with your hip.
“you should probably find someone else to bother.”
“and miss this?”
you glanced up at him then, really looked at him, and found that the amusement in his face did not hide something else entirely. something hungry, maybe. or simply determined. either way, it was the sort of expression that belonged to a man who was used to getting what he wanted and was still trying to decide whether he wanted you.
you smiled a little, just enough to be polite and not enough to be encouraging.
“good luck with that.”
then you got in your car and left him standing there with his hands on his hips and a look on his face like you had just made his week more interesting than he was prepared for.
you didn't tell him about your daughter.
not because you were hiding her in any shameful sense. never that. she was the best thing in your life, the bright center of it, the reason you kept yourself standing when exhaustion and loneliness tried to work you over in the quiet hours. but she was also yours. your responsibility, your tenderness, your boundary. you had learned the hard way that some men heard 'single mother' and made assumptions before they had even finished blinking.
and then there was the other reason, the one sitting under all the others like stone under soil: you were careful now.
your daughter’s father had left enough damage in his wake that you had stopped calling it heartbreak and started calling it a lesson. he had walked out before she was old enough to ask difficult questions, but not before he had left behind the kind of ache that taught you not to hand your life to men who liked the sound of their own promises.
after that, you had decided that if you ever dated again, it would be with both eyes open and your daughter’s safety in mind. no introductions unless you were sure, no temporary men drifting in and out of her world just because they made your own nights less empty for a while.
gator tillman was not the kind of man you would let near that kind of trust.
not yet.
besides, you had heard enough about the sheriff’s department by then to know better than to trust the uniform too quickly.
the town talked, and small towns always turned gossip into weather. you heard enough in passing to know that the department was not exactly full of role models, and the sheriff himself was apparently the sort of man who had made his own name synonymous with trouble, fear, and rot. people lowered their voices when they mentioned him. even doris, who seemed to speak plainly about nearly everything else, would only click her tongue and say, “that family’s got problems” in a tone that suggested the word problems was doing a great deal of work.
so when gator found you at the diner one morning and casually dropped that he was deputy of the sheriff’s department, you acted as if you didn't know, raised an eyebrow and said, “congratulations” like he had informed you of a particularly useless skill.
he looked offended for exactly half a second before recovering.
“not impressed?”
“should i be?”
that got him again. he seemed to like that you did not treat him like a prize, maybe because he had so clearly expected you to.
still, he kept at it.
not in a grand, romantic way. not in the way men in movies bought flowers or stood in the rain. gator was too proud for that and too clumsy with sincerity to try.
instead he flirted the way he did everything else, sideways, half-mocking with an expression that tried to disguise how earnest he was underneath. he’d make comments about your smile when you least expected it. tell you he liked the way you looked angry, which was ridiculous. offer to carry your groceries. ask if you always looked this tired when you were “tryin to ignore him” which was so transparently a trap you refused to step in it.
and every time you brushed him off, he came back anyway.
not always right away. sometimes he’d go days without crossing your path, and you would almost convince yourself he had finally gotten bored. then you would see him leaning against the counter at the pharmacy or parked across the street when you were coming out of doris’s house and there he’d be again, looking at you like the answer to some question had been hiding just out of reach.
the strange thing was that you didn't entirely mind him.
not in the sense that you wanted him, not at first. you did not trust him enough for that. but he was entertaining in a way that had become, against your better judgment, part of your routine.
he made you feel seen in an irritatingly persistent way. not understood, not really, but seen. and after months of keeping your head down and making sure life held together by force of habit, there was something disarming about being noticed with such blunt intensity.
it would have been easier if he had been smooth. easier if he had been charming in a way that made it simple to dismiss him. but gator was not simple. he was all swagger and half-sincere smiles, all bravado with something restless underneath it, something that looked like it was always trying to prove itself. you could tell, even from the little you’d seen, that there was a boy underneath the deputy act who had learned early on how to turn self-assurance into armor.
that didn't make him safer, it just made him harder to ignore.
the day he finally asked you out properly, it was raining.
not the dramatic kind, not a storm. just a steady gray drizzle that made the street shine and turned the town soft around the edges. you had been standing outside doris’s house, waiting for your daughter.
gator came around the corner in uniform, hair damp from the rain, gaze finding you immediately like he'd been looking for you for far longer than he was willing to admit.
“you keep pretending you don’t like talkin’ to me” he said as he approached.
“i’m not pretending.”
“sure.” he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the water gathered along the dark line of his lashes. “i’m askin anyway.”
you sighed, already tired of whatever game he thought this was. “asking what?”
“take you out.”
you looked at him for a long moment. the rain stitched silver lines through the air between you, and for some reason his confidence seemed almost quieter than usual, like he had made himself say it before he could change his mind.
“no” you said.
he nodded immediately, like he expected it. “figured.”
you folded the bakery bag a little tighter in your arms. “then why ask?”
“cause i wanted to.”
it was such a gator answer that it nearly made you smile, except he was watching your face too closely for that.
you were tired. more tired than you usually let yourself be around other people, and maybe that was why the next words came out before you had time to smooth them over.
“i have a daughter.”
something shifted in his expression so fast you almost missed it.
it was not dramatic. not disgust, not mockery. more like blank confusion, the kind that made his brows draw together as if the idea had to be rearranged in his head before it could fit.
“a daughter” he repeated.
“yes.”
“you got a kid?”
“yes, gator. i do.”
he looked at you like he was trying to solve a problem he hadn't known existed two seconds ago. then his face cleared, but not in the way you expected. not with apology. not with withdrawal. just with the dawning, baffled realisation that you had been a whole person this entire time and he had only bothered to ask about the parts he found convenient.
“oh” he said, very softly.
you had expected a lot of things. questions. awkwardness. maybe a flirty line twisted around the fact to make it easier for him to save face. maybe even disappointment if you were unlucky. but the confusion was strangely sincere, and it threw you more than it should have.
he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked away for a second, then back at you.
“single mom” he said, like he was trying the words out.
“yes.”
the rain ticked on the sidewalk. somewhere down the street a car passed, tires hissing over wet pavement. gator’s face had gone oddly unreadable, not in a cold way, but in a stunned one, like his brain had gotten stuck on a sentence it had not prepared for.
“right” he said at last, and you could not tell whether he sounded annoyed, impressed, or just confused in general.
you lifted one shoulder. “that’s why i haven’t been interested.”
he was quiet for a beat, then nodded once, too quickly, and gave you a small, almost stiff smile.
“okay.”
you frowned slightly. “okay?”
“yeah.” he shoved his hands into his pockets. “see ya round.”
and then he stepped back like the conversation had ended cleanly, like he had not just been knocked sideways by the simple fact that you had a child and a life that existed entirely outside his little orbit of self-importance.
you watched him turn and walk away down the wet street, boots splashing through the rain, and told yourself the reaction meant exactly what it looked like.
that he was done, that the daughter part had been the thing to put him off. that whatever half-finished attraction he'd been nursing toward you had finally met a wall it couldn't climb.
you should have felt relieved.
instead, you felt something you had no name for. disappointment, maybe. or the faint sting of being misread yet again. you tucked the feeling away with the rest of them and went back inside to your daughter, who was curled on doris’s couch with her socked feet in the air and her face smeared with jam, laughing at something on the television.
life moved on as it always did.
except gator didn't really leave.
he still showed up in your line of sight. still held doors, still tried to catch your eye, still made comments under his breath when he thought you weren't listening. but after that day, something changed in the shape of it. the flirting remained, but there was a little less swagger around the edges. a little less performance. he didn't ask about your single life quite so casually after that. he looked at you longer when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was reconsidering something he had assumed too quickly.
and you, stubbornly, kept your distance.
you let him be a nuisance. you let him be a familiar face in a strange town. you let his attention settle around you without giving him the satisfaction of thinking it had changed your mind. because it hadn’t. not really.
or that was what you told yourself.
the truth was that every now and then, when you were out with your daughter and saw him across the street, his gaze snagged on her for just a second too long, not in a bad way, but in the way of a man trying to fit a new fact into the picture of you he had been carrying around.
something in that look made your chest go tight, because there was no way to know whether it was interest or pity or merely surprise.
you hated surprise.
you hated the possibility that being a mother had turned you into a different kind of woman in his eyes, one less desirable, less worth the trouble.
so you let gator think what he wanted, let him believe you had shut him down cleanly. let him walk away thinking the answer had been no and not something more complicated and brittle and practical.
and for a little while, that was enough.
until the day you were halfway down the grocery aisle again, reaching for a box of pasta with your daughter’s voice reminding you to buy the fun shaped kind, when you heard a familiar voice behind you say, “you always this hard to catch, or is that just f'me?”
you closed your eyes for half a second.
of course it was him, of course he was back.
you turned slowly, already prepared to be unimpressed.
gator was standing there with one hand resting on the cart beside him, a crooked smile on his mouth, rain jacket damp at the shoulders. and then his gaze flicked, briefly, past you.
past your arm, past the cart and landed on the little hand peeking out from beneath the blanket in the child seat, where your daughter sat with her legs swinging and a packet of crackers clutched in one hand.
gator’s whole face changed, just for a second.
the surprise was immediate, yes, but it was something else too. something softer and much more dangerous.
your daughter looked back at him with open curiosity and no sense at all that this was a moment that mattered.
gator blinked.
then, very carefully, like he was approaching something that might bite him, he said, “well. hi there.”
your daughter smiled around a cracker crumb.
and you, standing there with one hand on the pasta shelf and your entire carefully guarded life suddenly visible, felt your patience and your nerves and something inconveniently warm all collide at once.
gator looked up at you after that, and the expression in his eyes told you, before he even opened his mouth, that whatever he'd thought about you before was gone.
completely gone.
and for the first time since you had moved to town, you had the distinct, unsettling feeling that your quiet little life had just become interesting in ways you weren't prepared for.
-
gator didn't stop being persistent after that day at the grocery store, but he did get quieter about it.
not less interested, exactly. just more careful with it.
it was the kind of careful that probably would've gone unnoticed on anyone else, but with gator it stood out. he was still the same man in the same uniform with the same easy confidence and the same habit of looking at you like he was trying to memorise the shape of your face, only now there was something else threaded through it. hesitation, maybe. not enough to make him back off entirely, but enough to make him think before he spoke.
the truth was that your daughter had gotten into his head.
not in the way he would have admitted out loud, and definitely not in the way he would have put it to anyone else. but it had happened anyway, quietly and all at once, like a door in his mind had opened onto a room he had never once considered walking into.
when he thought about a future, he had always assumed there would be a wife in it someday, because that was the sort of thing roy had drilled into him with the sort of confidence only men like them could manage. a wife. a home. children, eventually. a life that looked respectable from the outside and obedient from the inside.
maybe there would be a son to teach things to. maybe a daughter to spoil in ways he had never been spoiled. he'd never thought too hard about it, because thinking too hard had never done him much good.
but then there was you, and then there was the fact that you already had a child.
that should have made the whole thing simple. that should have made him walk away, or at least lose interest, or at the very least decide you were too much trouble for a few flirtatious exchanges in grocery store aisles and parking lots.
he'd told himself, more than once, that he was only interested because you were pretty and sharp-tongued and impossible to impress. that was how it started, after all. he had seen you, wanted your attention, and gotten irritated when you did not hand it over. that sort of thing was familiar to him. manageable. but now? now there was more to it than that, and he didn't quite know what to do with the fact that the more he learned, the less he wanted to leave.
what threw him most of all was that the daughter part didn't put him off.
it intimidated him, sure. it made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a conversation he had no language for. because it was one thing to think about being a father in some distant, abstract sense. it was another thing entirely to look at a woman you were genuinely interested in and realise she already had someone who mattered more than you could possibly matter to her. someone who came first. someone who didn't care how charming he was or how good he looked in uniform or how many times he'd managed to make her mother laugh.
he'd never been very good at not being the centre of things. and yet, embarrassingly enough, the fact that he was not the centre of your world made him want in more, not less.
he liked the challenge of it. hated that he liked it, but still.
he also liked that you didn't know him.
everybody in town had some version of him in their heads already. deputy. sheriff’s boy. trouble. arrogant. reckless. useful if you needed something done, impossible if you wanted honesty. maybe one or two people would have said handsome with the sort of tone that suggested it was a warning. but none of that was the whole story, and for once, there was something almost intoxicating about getting to be seen before a big rumor had finished introducing him.
with you, he had a chance to be whatever he wanted you to know first.
that thought sat in his chest in a way he didn't quite understand. not noble, not romantic, just strangely important. like the version of himself that existed in other people’s mouths had become irrelevant in the face of the version he could offer you instead.
and for your part, the fact that he hadn't run when you told him about your daughter changed things in a way you didn't entirely trust, but couldn't ignore either.
you had expected awkwardness. maybe a polite retreat. maybe the same sort of half-done interested expression men got when they realised there was baggage attached to dating you and decided baggage was inconvenient. you had prepared yourself for him to disappear into the gap between one conversation and the next, and you had even convinced yourself that would be for the best.
but he hadn't disappeared.
he'd blinked, looked confused, and then kept coming back.
not in a way that made you feel pressured, just persistently enough that you found yourself increasingly curious about him in spite of yourself. it wasn't that you were suddenly ready to bring him home for sunday dinner and call him part of the family. no, that was absurd. but maybe, just maybe, you were willing to let him know you beyond the surface of your own guardedness.
so when he caught you alone one afternoon outside the pharmacy and said, with far too much confidence for a man who had been carefully keeping his distance, “you ever rethink bout letting me take you out somewhere proper?” you surprised yourself by answering, “yes.”
the silence that followed was immediate and complete.
gator just looked at you.
not in a rude way, in a stunned one. like he hadn't expected the word to come out of your mouth and needed a second to make sure he'd heard correctly.
then, because he was still gator and couldn't leave anything sincere alone for too long, he cleared his throat, shifted his weight and said, “yeah?”
you smiled before you could stop yourself. “yes, gator.”
that got another blink out of him, slower this time. and then, in a very visible effort to recover his usual composure, he straightened a little and tucked one hand into his pocket.
“all right,” he said, trying very hard to sound as if this was not the most surprising development of his week. “i can do proper.”
you laughed then, because he looked ridiculous and smug all at once, and the sound of it made his expression soften in a way you hadn't expected. he asked if he could pick you up later, said he knew the best place in town, and you agreed before you could overthink it.
the dinner was better than you had any right to expect.
you felt a small stab of guilt leaving your daughter with doris so you could go on a date, but doris had waved you off with the kind of cheerful determination that suggested she enjoyed being trusted with important secrets. your daughter, meanwhile, had apparently decided doris’s house was a luxury resort, because she'd been thrilled to stay.
gator had actually shown up on time, which was your first surprise of the evening, and he'd looked annoyingly good in a way that made you briefly resent the existence of collared shirts.
he opened the car door for you without making a big deal of it, and when you thanked him, he just gave you that lopsided little look of his like he was pretending the gesture hadn't mattered.
the place he took you to was a small restaurant at the edge of town, the kind with dim lighting and booths that had definitely seen better decades. it wasn't fancy, but it was warm, and the food was better than its peeling wallpaper suggested.
more importantly, he talked to you.
really talked, in a way you hadn't expected.
not just the usual fragments of himself he threw at you when he was trying to flirt. he asked questions and waited for answers. he told you things about town without making them sound like he was showing off and when you asked him what he liked doing when he wasn't in uniform, he actually had to think about it for a moment before shrugging and saying, “not much, lately.”
that had led to a conversation about where you grew up, which had led to one about your daughter’s favourite cartoons, which had led to him admitting, after some prompting, that he had once wanted to be a pilot when he was younger because he liked the idea of leaving things behind and seeing the world from above.
you looked at him for a beat too long after that, because there was something unexpectedly vulnerable in the confession, something too honest to be part of the image he usually tried to sell.
the other people in the restaurant noticed him, of course. he was impossible not to notice. eyes flicked toward him from two tables over, then away again when they realised he'd seen them. you noticed it too, the little shifts in posture, the careful glances. you noticed how he ignored them without even turning his head, he simply sat there with you and let the room do what it wanted.
that, more than anything, was what stayed with you after the night was over.
he didn't make you feel foolish for being cautious. he didn't try to charm you into dropping your guard all at once. he simply made space for the conversation to happen, and by the time he drove you home, you found yourself feeling lighter than you had in months.
after that, there was no sudden declaration, instead, he just kept showing up.
better behaved than before, though not perfect. he still flirted, but the lines changed.
he stopped using words like hot and started using beautiful instead, like it mattered more to him. he told you he liked your laugh. he said your hair looked good when it was pulled back. he complimented the way you handled your daughter with a mixture of patience and firmness that made him look at you like you were quietly impressive in ways he hadn't expected.
and then there were the little things, little things that ended up mattering far more than the grand ones.
he mentioned, one afternoon, that there was a big play area just outside town that he used to go to as a kid. “they got a climbing thing,” he said, pretending to sound casual. “a trampoline. swings. some weird old wooden i fell in once.”
you laughed at that, and then he glanced over at you and added, almost as an afterthought, “she might like it.”
your daughter.
he had remembered that she existed, and not in a vaguely polite way. he had actually thought about what might make her happy.
that stayed with you longer than it should have.
doris, naturally, was not immediately convinced.
she didn't say anything cruel, because doris was not that sort of woman, but she did fix you with a look one evening over the fence and said, “you be careful with that boy, now. sheriff’s family isn't known for being easy to deal with.”
“he’s not his father” you said before you could stop yourself.
doris gave a small hum, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “just saying.”
you nodded because there was no point arguing with the town’s collective memory. but you weren't especially worried.
gator had already given you the short version of his father, and while he hadn't said anything directly ugly, there had been enough in the way his mouth tightened when he mentioned him to tell you the truth.
stern. controlling. a man who expected obedience and called it love. a man who got what he wanted and didn't much care who he hurt in the process.
that was enough to make the picture clearer.
and over time, the back and forth between you and gator turned into something steadier.
he drove you to work when he could, leaning across the passenger seat with a hand on the wheel and telling you to hurry up like he was doing you a favour, even when he offered. he started showing up with coffee exactly the way you took it, which annoyed you more than it should have because it was thoughtful. he remembered when your daughter had a school event and asked about it later, not in a probing way, just in a way that made it obvious he had been listening.
when she started school properly, he went with you to the first parent-teacher meeting when you realised you were more nervous than you wanted to admit, and he stood beside you in the classroom with his hands in his pockets, looking far more composed than you felt.
the teacher had called him your partner.
you opened your mouth to correct her, then closed it again.
gator, beside you, hadn't corrected her at all.
when she mistook him for your daughter’s father, he only smiled politely and let her get on with it until she had moved on to another topic. later, in the car, you gave him a look and said, “you didn’t have to do that.”
“do what?”
“let her think that.”
he glanced at you, one hand on the steering wheel. “didn’t seem important.”
you stared at him.
he shrugged, but there was a faint red creeping up the back of his neck. “figured i was there to help, not be difficult.”
that had nearly undone you on the spot.
months passed like that.
not rushed, just a slow, steady kind of closeness that crept in through routine until you realised one day that it had been there for a while.
he learned which cereal your daughter liked best. he learned not to make too much noise when he came by after dark. he learned that you liked your tea strong and your mornings quiet and your affection delivered in practical gestures.
in return, you learned that he was not nearly as hard as he looked, and that the parts of him the town called trouble were often just the parts of him that had learned how to survive.
he was still stubborn. still smug. still far too pleased with himself whenever he managed to make you roll your eyes. but he was also gentler than you had expected. gentler with your daughter, especially, once he got used to her. awkward at first, yes. entirely too aware of his own hands and voice and size, as if he was afraid of doing something wrong. but children have a way of making even the most self-important men honest, and your daughter did that to him almost immediately.
by the time the three of you went to the playhouse just outside town together, he'd already figured out how to kneel down to her height without making it seem awkward, how to answer her questions seriously even when they were ridiculous, how to carry a paper cup of juice in one hand while she dragged him by the other toward the trampoline with a grin that suggested she'd decided he belonged to her for the afternoon.
and to your absolute surprise, he let her.
he complained about the trampoline first, just enough to make you laugh. “i’m not doin’ that,” he said, watching the two of you bounce around like you had not a single care in the world. “i look stupid already, don’t need help.”
“you always look stupid” you called back.
your daughter immediately took his side, which seemed to delight him. “he doesn't look stupid.”
gator’s entire face lit up.
“see?” he said, pointing at her. “she gets it.”
and then he climbed onto the trampoline with the both of you.
you hadn't seen him laugh like that before.
it wasn't the sharp little huff he let out when you mocked him, or the smug grin he wore when he thought he had gotten the upper hand. this was something else entirely, something open and helpless and bright. your daughter was bouncing around in front of him, shrieking with joy, and he was making the kind of face men usually reserve for the moment they realise they're in over their heads and having the time of their lives anyway.
it did something strange to your chest.
later that evening, after the three of you had been home and your daughter had worn herself out so thoroughly she had gone down for a nap, gator was sitting down while you cleaned up the kitchen.
the house was quiet in that rare, soft way it got. sunlight leaned through the front windows, gold and tired. the air smelled faintly of soap and sugar and the lingering trace of the day.
you came back into the living room to find him on the couch with his elbows on his knees, looking around like he had started noticing details he had not seen before.
you paused in the doorway. “what are you thinking?”
he looked up slowly. “i like this.”
you leaned against the frame. “like what?”
he glanced toward the hallway, where your daughter was sleeping, then back at you. there was no swagger in him now. no performance. just a quiet sort of certainty that made him look younger and older at the same time.
“us” he said.
you felt the smile come before you could stop it. not a big one. just something small and true and impossible to hide.
gator noticed, because of course he did.
he stood then, crossing the short distance between you with a kind of care you wouldn't have expected from him months ago. he stopped and looked down at you for a moment like he was still deciding whether to say something else, then he lifted a hand to your face and kissed you.
it wasn't your first kiss.
the first one had been an accident, really, in the way certain things only become accidents when you are too busy to think about them. you'd been rushing out of his car one morning because you were late for work, one hand already on the door handle, your mind full of everything except the fact that he was leaning toward you to say something when you turned and, without thinking, pressed a quick kiss to his mouth in a distracted goodbye before hurrying off.
you froze for half a second afterward, mortified.
he, on the other hand, had looked so pleased with himself you had wanted to throw your coffee at him.
he had absolutely loved that kiss.
this one was different. this one was slow and deliberate and it made your breath catch in a way that had nothing to do with surprise. his hand rested lightly at your jaw, his thumb barely moving, and when he pulled back, he stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of him still there.
“what was that for?” you asked softly.
his mouth curved, almost shy if you did not know better.
“for bein’ here.”
you laughed under your breath, because of course that was the sort of answer he would give when he was being sincere.
and maybe that was the moment it really started.
not when he first flirted, not when he first asked you out, not even when he found out you had a daughter and stayed anyway. maybe it started here, in the quiet middle of things, where he'd already found his way into your home and your routines and the little safe spaces you had built around your life. where your daughter reached for him without fear, where he walked softly enough through both of your days that one evening you looked up and realised he was no longer just visiting, he was there.
not because he had forced himself in. not because you had been careless. but because he had proved, over and over again, that he could be trusted with the parts of your life that mattered most.
he was nothing like the rumors said, nothing like the shadow his father cast and nothing like the man you had first assumed he would be. he was still flawed, still arrogant, still infuriating in all the usual ways, but he was also gentle where it counted. attentive. patient. quietly devoted in ways he would probably have denied if called out on them directly.
a softie, really.
you probably would never say that to his face but you knew it now, and so did he. at least in the private little corners of your life where the two of you had started to belong to each other without ever quite saying so too soon.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining
c/w: some fluff at the beginning. but then more tension. mutual pining. angst. violence description. wounds description. injuries description. alcohol use. smut (+18). dirty talk. p in v. orgasm (i think nothing else omg i'm so bad at this)
words: 27k
summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining.
between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid.
turns out, it isn't.
a/n: HEY. hi... so... a few things. first of all, i know, i've created a monster. i sat down to write and by the time i realized how long the chapter had gotten it didn't make much sense to split it in half, so here we are. i'm sorry (not really).
i'm also leaving you with a longer chapter cause my exams are coming up, and there's a good chance i won't be updating next week.
and finally, i have to admit i'm so bad at writing smut, but i promise i'll try to get better at it.
again, thank u so much for all the lovely interactions and support. it really means a lot to me. now, enjoy !!
chapter six: everybody wants to rule the world
The silence of the downtown public library is only punctuated by the occasional, rhythmic ticking of the grand clock on the far wall and the soft, agonizing sound of pages turning.
On Wednesday afternoon, you have finally hit your breaking point. You have practically begged Roy for the rest of the week off, your voice bordering on desperate as you explained that the week of midterms is actively draining the life force out of your body.
Roy, surprisingly sympathetic for once, waved you off with a grunt, muttering something about the youth being unable to handle a little stress. You didn't care what he thought; you just knew that if you had spent one more hour staring at the shelves instead of your notes, you were going to lose your mind.
But now, sitting in the dimly lit corner of the library’s second floor, you aren’t sure this is any better.
Of all your career electives you could have chosen to take this semester, you have somehow managed to pick the absolute worst, most notoriously unforgiving class in the entire syllabus. The one that sounds impressive on paper, but in reality, it’s a walking nightmare.
You are currently barricaded behind a fortress of heavy, dust-smelling textbooks, surrounded by endless sheets of loose-leaf paper covered in frantic, barely legible diagrams of connections, frequency response charts, signal flow paths, and God knows what else.
The harsh, fluorescent lighting above is doing nothing to help the throbbing headache building behind your eyes.
The information simply isn’t entering your brain anymore. The black text on the glossy pages blurred together, looking more like an army of disorganized ants than actual words. You are acutely aware that if you tried to force your exhausted neurons to process one more paragraph about impedance matching or balanced audio cables, your brain is going to literally short-circuit and explode.
Thankfully, you aren’t suffering in complete isolation.
It’s midterm season for everyone, a collective misery that hangs over the student body like a dark cloud, so Robin is sitting directly across from you. Her side of the table is in a similar state of chaotic disarray, though hers is covered in massive, daunting anthologies of literature rather than technical manuals.
Earlier that morning, after spending the entire day cooped up in your cramped, stuffy apartment — breathing in recycled air and driving each other crazy with nervous pacing — the two of you reached a mutual agreement: you needed a change of scenery; and the downtown library, with its high ceilings, stained-glass windows, and strict noise policies, seemed like the perfect sanctuary.
Robin also had to pull strings to get the afternoon off, though her situation is slightly different, because Stella is calling her from the library's front desk every half hour to ask her how to reboot the computer system or how to find a specific French novel in the foreign section.
You let out a long, heavy sigh that ruffles the edges of your notebook paper. Defeated, you close your eyes, letting your heavy head drop forward until your forehead rests against your crossed arms on the cool wood of the table.
"It's impossible," you mumble into your sleeves, your voice muffled but dripping with absolute exhaustion. "I'm going to fail. I'm going to fail, and I'll have to drop out, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box behind the diner."
Across the table, the sharp thud of a heavy book snapping shut echoes slightly in the quiet room. Robin stretches her arms high above her head, leaning back in her wooden chair until it groans in protest.
"Tell me about it," she groans, rubbing her tired eyes. "I am in my senior year. My senior year, and I still cannot, for the life of me, tell you the fundamental differences between the literary epochs. Classical, Romanticism, Modernism… don’t get it”
You lift your head just enough to peek at her with one eye.
"At least your dead people speak in English. My book is trying to convince me that electricity has a personality, and I'm supposed to know how to fix its mood swings."
Robin snorts, a sharp, ungraceful sound that earns a harsh "Shh!" from a student three tables away. She waves an apologetic hand in the girl’s direction before leaning in over her literary anthologies, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper.
"Look, we just need to survive until Friday. Once Friday at four p.m. hits, we are officially on Spring Break, and I’m not looking at a single word printed on a page for a solid week. I might even forget how to read."
Before you can agree with her brilliant plan, a sudden, heavy thud makes you jump in your seat.
A worn, olive-green canvas backpack has just been dropped onto the empty space at the end of your table. You startle, sitting up straight, your heart doing a quick, nervous stutter in your chest. Your eyes snap up to meet the newcomers.
Nancy and Jonathan are standing there. Nancy’s offering a sympathetic, knowing smile, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, while Jonathan gives a tired but friendly wave.
They promised to come by and keep you both company during the grueling final hours of your study session, bringing the promise of moral support and, hopefully, caffeine.
But your breath catches in your throat, and your stomach plummets into a cold, terrifying free-fall.
You hadn't expected to see him.
Following closely behind Jonathan, stepping out from behind the towering bookshelf, is Steve.
Your heart does a violent, painful flip against your ribcage. The air in your lungs suddenly feels too thick to breathe.
You haven’t seen him properly since that weekend.
You can’t stop the memory hit you like a physical blow, flashing behind your eyes with terrifying clarity: the warmth of his room, the way the moonlight spilled across his bedsheets, the feeling of being entirely, completely wrapped up in him, believing that maybe, finally, things were shifting between you two.
But then he left.
And although you have seen him here and there since then — the times he left the store, or hearing his voice while he talks with Robin in your apartment — you have to admit you have been spending the last four days actively avoiding him, ignoring his attempts to start a conversation, dodging his smiles and gazes, trying to build your walls back up.
Yet, looking at him now — standing in the middle of the dusty library, wearing a simple gray sweater that hugs his shoulders perfectly, his hair effortlessly brushed — something inside you involuntarily softens.
Despite the hurt, despite the messy, unresolved chaos swirling in your head, seeing him here feels... good. Dangerously comforting. It’s a twisted, pathetic realization of just how much power he holds over you with just his presence.
Jonathan and Nancy pull out chairs, their quiet laughter blending into the hushed atmosphere as they begin whispering with Robin. Jonathan asks about her thesis, and Nancy immediately starts organizing her own pristine, color-coded notes.
Steve steps closer to the table. He moves toward Robin first. Resting a hand on the back of her chair, he leans down and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to the crown of her head. Robin instantly scrunches up her face in feigned disgust, aggressively rubbing the top of her head as if to wipe the kiss away.
"Ew, germs. Get away from me, dingus," she hisses playfully.
Steve just rolls his eyes, a fond smirk playing on his lips, and gives the back of her head a gentle, teasing smack. "Show some respect to your elders, Buckley."
Then, he turns. And he starts walking toward you.
Every instinct in your body screams at you to look down. To stare at the intricate diagram of a mixing console until your eyes bleed. To look anywhere but at him. But you are paralyzed. You can’t tear your gaze away from the way his eyes lock onto yours, pinning you in place.
He pulls out the wooden chair directly to your right. It scraps loudly against the floor, and he winces apologetically, murmuring a quick "sorry" to the glaring student before sinking into the seat next to you.
He’s close. Too close. You can feel the subtle, radiating heat of his body cutting through the drafty chill of the library.
He turns his head to look at you, his expression softening into a gentle, slightly tentative smile. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the heavy, unspoken tension lingering between you since… God knows how long.
"Hey," he whispers. His voice is low, a smooth rasp that sends a traitorous shiver down your spine.
You swallow hard, forcing your throat to work, fighting desperately to keep your tone completely neutral. "Hi."
It comes out in the exact same quiet register, cautious and guarded.
Steve doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts in his seat, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. He points with his chin toward the massive, intimidating textbook open in front of you.
"Looks intense," he notes quietly. "Too difficult?"
You let out a shaky sigh, the exhaustion of the day momentarily overriding the complicated knot of feelings in your chest. You slowly shake your head, staring down at the pages.
"It's killing me," you admit, the frustration bleeding into your voice. "I feel like I'm trying to read ancient Greek. None of these signal flow paths make any logical sense."
"Let me see," Steve murmurs.
Before you can react, he shifts his weight, sliding his chair an inch closer to yours and leaning his upper body into your space. He angles his head to look down at your textbook, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. The contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, freezing you in place.
He’s staring at the complex diagrams of audio interfaces and transducer mechanisms with an expression of intense concentration, as if Steve Harrington — a guy who barely survived high school chemistry — could suddenly decipher senior-year sound engineering acoustics.
But you aren’t looking at the book anymore. You’re completely overwhelmed by his proximity. His cologne completely floods your senses. It’s the same scent that had been buried in the pillows you woke up alone in that morning.
Your breath hitches, and you find your eyes fixed on the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheekbones under the harsh overhead lights.
You are so entirely, hopelessly absorbed in his profile that you completely tune out the world around you. You don’t even register that someone has been calling your name until a hand suddenly waves wildly in front of your face, breaking your trance.
"Hello? Earth to whoever is there?"
You blink rapidly, startled, snapping your head up and pulling back from Steve slightly.
You look across the table. Robin is staring at you, her eyebrows raised so high they are practically disappearing into her messy bangs. She has a distinctly unimpressed, knowing look on her face.
"Mmh?" you manage to hum intelligently, your cheeks burning with a sudden, fiery flush. You pray the dim library lighting hides your blush. "What?"
Robin sighs, leaning her chin on her hand.
"I asked, are you going to the party this weekend?"
You blink, trying to force your brain to reboot and switch from “panicking over Steve's proximity” to “casual social conversation.”
"Oh. Mmh. I don't know..." you trail off, genuinely unsure. You haven’t even thought about the weekend. You are barely surviving Wednesday.
Next to Robin, Nancy rolls her eyes playfully, tapping her neat pile of flashcards on the table to align them perfectly.
"Oh, come on. You have to go. If you don't go, you're going to leave Jonathan and me alone with this crazy person," she says, gesturing to Robin with a fond smile. "You know how she gets at these things. She'll spend the whole night over-analyzing interactions and trying to psychoanalyze the frat boys."
"If I wasn't so deeply intimidated by your terrifying competence, Wheeler, I would kick you under this table right now," Robin shoots back without missing a beat.
You can’t help but laugh softly at their dynamic. The tension in your shoulders eases just a fraction.
"I really don't know, guys. It depends on how I feel that day. If this exam actually destroys my soul on Friday, I might just hibernate until Monday."
Robin isn’t having it. She immediately launches into a rapid-fire spiral of conversation, passionately detailing exactly why this party is going to be the event of the semester. She explains how several guys from the university's upper-level art and business departments have pooled their funds to rent out a massive warehouse to kick off the break. She talks about the bands they have booked, the supposed elaborate lighting setup, and how it’s mandatory for their mental health to attend and just let loose for one night.
You try to concentrate on what she’s saying. You really, genuinely try to nod along and offer the appropriate reactions. But it’s an impossible task.
Steve's body is still pressed agonizingly close to yours. While the girls talk, he hasn’t moved away. In fact, he seems to have settled into the position, his arm brushing yours every time he breathes.
He hasn’t stopped staring at your textbook, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The sheer, magnetic pull of his presence right beside you is so distracting, so entirely disconcerting, that Robin's words begin to sound like they’re coming from underwater.
Suddenly, Steve sits up a little straighter.
"I think I get it," he announces, his voice slicing through Robin’s monologue and immediately capturing your full attention.
You turn your head slowly, staring at him in disbelief. "Get what?"
He turns to look at you, and that signature, devastatingly confident smile spreads across his face. It’s the smile that usually means trouble.
"This," he says, tapping a long finger against a particularly complex schematic of a multi-band compressor. "I think I actually understand it."
You furrow your brow, a skeptical, incredulous laugh bubbling up in your throat. "Excuse me? You, out of nowhere, just casually understand a senior-year acoustic engineering module just by looking at the pictures?"
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and leans even closer to you, closing the meager distance you have tried to put between yourselves. The scent of him envelopes you again, making your pulse race.
"Maybe it's just not as difficult as you're making it out to be," he teases, his eyes dancing with mischief.
If it were literally any other person sitting in that chair — some arrogant frat boy or a condescending classmate who had the absolute audacity to question your intelligence and belittle your major — you would have been furious. You would have slammed the book shut, stood up, delivered a blistering lecture on misogyny and likely stormed out of the library, but not before giving them a piece of your mind.
But it’s Steve.
And as he looks at you, that soft, teasing smile playing on his lips, the affection in his eyes completely neutralizing the arrogance of his words, anger is the furthest thing from your mind. All you can focus on is the way the library lights caught the amber flecks in his eyes.
You cross your arms over your chest, leaning back slightly and raising an eyebrow, accepting the challenge. "Is that right? Alright, Harrington. Enlighten me, then. Explain the mechanism."
Steve doesn’t back down. To your absolute shock, he clears his throat, points at the page, and actually begins to explain the mechanism.
"Okay, so look. The audio signal comes in here, right?" he starts, tracing the input line with his finger. "And it hits this... this splitter thing. The crossover network. And that divides the frequencies into your lows, mids, and highs."
You blink, genuinely taken aback.
"Then, each of those separate bands goes into its own independent compression circuit," he continues, his tone turning surprisingly earnest. He stumbles slightly over the technical jargon, but he’s pushing through. "So, you can, like, squash the bass without affecting the vocals in the mid-range. And then this part here," he taps the output stage, "sums it all back together at the end."
He keeps going, elaborating on the attack and release times, using clumsy but surprisingly accurate metaphors about water flowing through pipes to explain the electrical current.
Of course, you don’t stop him. You don’t interrupt to tell him that you already know exactly how a multi-band compressor works. You don’t confess that you have spent four hours the previous nights memorizing every single component of this exact diagram until you could draw it in your sleep. You haven’t been trying to learn it today; you were just exhaustedly reviewing it.
But you can’t bring yourself to shut him down.
Listening to him explain it to you — hearing those heavy, technical terms slipping past his lips, watching the way his brow furrows in deep, genuine concentration as he searches for the right words to make it easier to understand — leaves you completely captivated. You are utterly entranced.
If any other guy tried to “mansplain” your own degree to you, you would have slapped him. But watching Steve try so hard, just to engage with you, just to share this moment, melts the icy walls you have spent the past days building.
Your eyes wander freely over his face, tracking the movement of his lips as he speaks, counting the freckles across his nose, noting the moles on his cheek. You watch the way his expressions shift, the earnest desire to help you radiating from him.
Suddenly, Steve stops talking. He turns his head to look at you, catching you staring intently at his lips.
"Right?" he asks, his voice suddenly much softer, lacking the bravado from a moment ago.
You blink, dragging your eyes up to meet his. You can’t stop the fond, genuine smile from breaking across your face. You nod slowly.
"Right," you whisper.
He watches your face carefully, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile widens, transforming into something entirely knowing and slightly wicked.
"You're laughing at me," he accuses gently, dropping his voice to a whisper so only you can hear.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head.
"No, I'm not. Not at all. Why would you think that?"
Steve tilts his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes the rest of the library completely fade away. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin — they’re all gone. It’s just the two of you, suspended in this tiny, electrified bubble.
"You already know all of this, don't you?" he asks quietly.
You bite your lower lip, fighting a grin, and slowly nod your head.
Steve lets out a dramatic, frustrated huff, though the smile never leaves his eyes. He leans back in his chair, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.
"Then why did you let me keep going?! I was sitting here sweating, trying to remember what a transducer is!"
"Because," you reply softly, leaning in just a fraction of an inch, "I wanted to see how far you would take it."
The air between you instantly changes. The playful banter vanishes, replaced by something incredibly heavy and thick with the unspoken tension.
"Did I take it too far?" he asks.
His voice is barely a rasp now, incredibly low and intimate. As he speaks, his eyes dart down to your lips for just a fraction of a second — a millisecond, barely perceptible, but you catch it. It sends a wild flutter of panic and desire straight to your stomach.
You hold his gaze, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You think about the way he held your hand that night. But you also think about the empty bed. The confusion. The sting of his absence.
"You always take everything too far," you whisper back.
Your voice is trembling slightly, fragile. You speak the words as if they’re made of glass, terrified that if you say them too loudly, they would shatter. Terrified that he won’t understand the double meaning, the underlying accusation, and the desperate plea hidden within them.
Steve doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He absorbs the weight of your words, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he clenches his teeth.
"Is that a bad thing?" he asks, matching your hushed, fragile tone.
The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. He’s asking about the textbook, yes, but he’s asking about so much more.
He’s asking about boundaries, about pushing lines, about the shared but unfinished moments that happened between you two in the shadows and what they mean in the harsh light of day.
You open your mouth to answer, to finally address the elephant in the room, to tell him that you don’t know if it is a bad thing, but that it terrifies you—
SLAM.
The violently loud sound of a thick book slamming shut echoes like a gunshot through the silent library.
You and Steve both jump, violently ripped from your private bubble. You spin your head around.
Robin has closed her book with unnecessary, aggressive force. She’s already pushing her chair back and standing up, her posture rigid.
"Well, I think that is more than enough studying for one day," Robin announces, her voice entirely too loud for the setting. Her tone is sharp, clear, and undeniably pointed. "My brain is fried. We should probably get out of here, shouldn't we?"
She looks directly at you, her eyes wide and commanding. It isn’t a suggestion. It is a rescue mission. Or an intervention. You can hear the underlying accusation in her voice. She has been watching. She has seen the whispering, the leaning in, the tension. And her interruption is entirely, unapologetically on purpose.
You clear your throat softly, suddenly painfully aware of how hot your face feels and how close Steve still is to you. The spell is broken.
"Yeah," you stammer, awkwardly pushing your chair back and breaking the physical proximity to Steve. "Yeah, sure. I'm... I'm done."
You stand up on shaky legs and immediately begin gathering your scattered papers, shoving the acoustic diagrams into your folders with far less care than they deserve. As you zip your pencil case and reach for your heavy textbook, you pause.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can’t help but notice the silent, intense exchange happening beside you.
Robin is staring down at Steve. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and her expression is fiercely protective, almost glaring at him. It’s a look of pure accusation. What are you doing? her eyes seem to scream. Don't mess with her.
Steve is looking back up at her. He doesn’t look angry, just caught. He offers a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head — a silent denial, a plea for her to back off, an insistence that he isn’t doing what she thinks he is doing.
You can’t decipher exactly what the silent argument is about, but you know it’s about you. The weight of the unspoken, of Robin's fierce loyalty to you and her complicated best-friendship with Steve, all hangs heavily in the air.
Feeling like an intruder in your own life, you quickly tear your eyes away from them. You grab your heavy textbook, shoving it roughly into your backpack. You pull the zipper shut with a sharp, final zip, slinging the bag over your shoulder, leaving the heavy tension completely unresolved as you prepare to walk out into the cool air. Spring has arrived already, but the cold afternoons still hang around.
After hours trapped in the stagnant, paper-scented purgatory of the study halls, the crisp breeze is an absolute salvation. You take a deep, shaky breath, letting the chill settle into your lungs, hoping it would somehow cool the frantic, nervous heat still radiating just beneath your skin.
The transition from the suffocating silence of the library to the ambient noise of the city streets is jarring. Cars rumble past, their headlights cutting through the fading twilight, and the distant hum of evening commuters create a steady backdrop of white noise.
The sky above is bruising into deep shades of purple and indigo, the streetlights flickering one by one in a cascade of hazy yellow glows.
The five of you huddle on the concrete steps for a brief, somewhat awkward moment as everyone adjusts their bags and jackets. The tension from the table has followed you outside, clinging to the group like a heavy, invisible fog.
Robin is standing rigidly closest to you, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her oversized corduroy jacket. She’s still shooting subtle, sharp glares at Steve out of the corner of her eye, practically vibrating with the urge to say something. But Nancy, blessedly oblivious to the radioactive energy crackling between the three of you — or perhaps highly aware of it and tactfully choosing to diffuse it — steps right into the middle of the dynamic.
"So," Nancy begins, adjusting the collar of her neat cardigan and turning her bright, focused gaze onto Robin. "About this party. Are they actually bringing in proper sound equipment, or is it going to be another disaster where they just hook up a blown-out speaker to a cassette deck? Because if it's the latter, I'm bringing my own earplugs."
Robin blinks, torn away from her staring contest with Steve. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, glancing back at you as if to check if it is safe to leave your side, before her natural enthusiasm for complaining about frat-boy incompetence takes over.
"Oh, it's supposedly a full setup," Robin scoffs, falling into step beside Nancy as they begin walking down the wide pavement. "But you know how these business majors are, Nance. They think throwing money at a problem fixes the fact that they don't know how to plug in an amp."
Jonathan chuckles softly, falling in quietly beside Nancy. He offers you a brief, polite smile over his shoulder before turning his attention to the girls’ conversation, occasionally chiming in with a dry, sarcastic comment that makes Robin snort with laughter.
And just like that, the natural rhythm of the sidewalk forces the group to split. Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan take the lead, their shoulders brushing as they navigate the evening foot traffic.
Which leaves you trailing a few paces behind.
With Steve.
You keep your eyes fixed firmly on the worn heels of Robin’s boots, walking at a brisk pace in a desperate attempt to close the gap between you and the trio ahead. But your apartment is still five blocks away, and Steve’s long legs easily match your frantic, nervous stride.
He walks on your right, positioned between you and the street. It’s a subtle, protective gesture that you have noticed he always does without thinking, and realizing he’s doing it now sends a fresh, sharp ache straight through your chest.
For the first block, neither of you say a word. The silence between you is agonizingly loud, thick with the weight of the library, the unresolved questions, and the terrifying words you have exchanged just minutes prior.
“You always take everything too far.”
“ Is that a bad thing?”
The words echo in your mind with every step you take. You hug your arms across your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed despite your heavy sweater.
“How is your project going?” Steve’s voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, deep and resonant in the chilly night air. He breaks the silence like the hull of a massive ship breaking through a frozen sea, sudden but oddly comforting.
You instinctively wrap your arms tighter around your torso, burying your chin into the thick wool of your scarf. It’s a defensive gesture, a way of protecting yourself — though from the freezing wind or from the sudden warmth of his attention, you aren’t entirely sure.
“Good. It’s going really great, actually,” you reply, your voice muffled at first before you lower the scarf. “This week I already managed to interview two people. My professor told me that with two more solid interviews, I’d be completely set. So, the radio show is going to end up being a three-episode mini-series, which is honestly pretty good for a final project.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. A spark of genuine surprise flares in your chest. You hadn't expected him to remember your radio project. But lately, you are beginning to realize a quiet truth about Steve Harrington: he pays far more attention to the small details than you ever gave him credit for.
“That sounds awesome,” Steve says, slowing his pace just a fraction so he walks shoulder-to-shoulder with you. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, turning his head to look at you. The amber glow of a passing streetlight catches the rich, brown tones of his eyes. “What kind of interesting story did you get told this time?”
A soft, irrepressible smile touches your lips as you think back to the afternoon you spent in the dusty, vinyl-scented backroom of the record store. You remember the makeshift interview you conducted with Roy. He told you all about what it was like growing up in New York. How he scraped together every penny he had to found the record store, the crazy gigs he worked, and how he literally had to carve out a place for himself in the music industry just to get the right contacts.
It’s a story built on so much blood, sweat, and tears. There were some really dark moments he shared, times when he almost lost everything. It walks this perfect line between being deeply interesting and incredibly inspiring
“It was incredible, honestly,” you say, your voice brightening with sudden passion. “But I can’t share it with you yet”
Steve watches your face intently as you speak, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on his own lips.
“What? Not even the highlights?"
“Nope, sorry,” you tease, a playful lilt entering your tone. You look up and meet his gaze, feeling a sudden rush of boldness. “You’ll just have to wait until the episodes are edited and done, just like everyone else.”
He laughs softly, a warm, rich sound that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. He looks down at his boots, shaking his head slightly before his eyes find yours again, crinkling at the corners.
“Alright, alright. I’ll be waiting patiently, then,” he concedes, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost like a promise.
You both continue walking in silence, but the atmosphere has shifted entirely. The heavy, suffocating tension has melted away, leaving behind a comfortable, shared quiet. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a warm blanket, safe and familiar.
After crossing another block, Steve’s pace slows even further. He clears his throat, a sudden nervous energy radiating from him.
“You know… I’ve been meaning to tell you something—”
His words hang in the air, fragile and full of weight, but before he can finish the sentence, a voice calls out from across the street.
“Hey! We’re heading out!”
You both flinch slightly, the spell broken instantly. Nancy and Jonathan are standing by the corner, shivering under the awning of a closed bakery.
“Jonathan has a shift in the darkroom, so we have to go,” Nancy explains, pulling her coat tighter around her slender frame. She offers a polite, albeit strained, smile.
“Yeah, nice seeing you guys,” Jonathan mumbles, offering a brief wave, his hands immediately returning to his pockets to fight off the chill.
“Get home safe!” Steve calls out, stepping back into his usual, easy-going persona so quickly it almost gives you whiplash.
You offer a quiet wave as Nancy and Jonathan turn the corner, their figures disappearing into the dark of the night. Their departure leaves you alone with Steve — and, of course, Robin.
Robin drops back to join the two of you. She doesn't waste a single second reading the room. Instead, she immediately launches into a rapid-fire monologue about her upcoming exams.
“I swear to God, Steve, if Professor Walton asks me to analyze one more piece of post-modern French drivel, I am going to throw myself off the campus library roof,” Robin groans, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “It’s impossible. It’s literally designed to make us fail. I was staring at my notes for three hours today and the words literally started rearranging themselves into a mocking, demonic language.”
You watch as Steve seamlessly redirects his attention to her. He listens patiently, nodding at all the right moments, interjecting with a sympathetic hum or a quiet laugh.
A wave of complicated emotions washes over you. On one hand, a profound sense of tenderness swells in your chest as you witness the care he gives her. The platonic affection they share is beautiful, a deep-rooted bond that they try to mask with sarcasm and bickering.
You know Robin well enough by now to understand her. You know she cares deeply for both of you. You know exactly why she sometimes gets abrasive or blunt with the things she says, or how she says them — it’s her defense mechanism, her way of fiercely protecting the few people she has allowed into her inner circle. She is incredibly careful with you and Steve, even if her delivery is a bit rough around the edges.
But despite knowing all of this, despite loving Robin in your own way, you can’t completely suppress the tiny flare of annoyance that sparks in your chest.
Every time Steve gets close, every time the conversation between you two brushes against something real and raw, an interruption occurs. Usually, it’s Robin. But what can you realistically do about it? You can’t fault her for caring about you, and you certainly can’t fault Steve for caring about his best friend.
As they continue to bicker about French literature, your steps naturally fall a little slower, letting you trail slightly behind them. You use the distance to simply admire them under the glow of the streetlamps.
Robin says something wildly exaggerated, throwing her hands in the air, and Steve bursts into genuine laughter. He reaches out, wrapping a heavy, affectionate arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walk. Robin swats at him, but she leans into the embrace anyway.
The sight of it makes you smile.
It’s a pure, unadulterated display of love. But as Steve’s eyes briefly flick back over his shoulder to check on you, catching your gaze, you feel a sudden, intense rush of heat flood your cheeks.
You quickly bury your face back into the thick wool of your scarf, pretending that the sudden wind has made you colder than you actually are, hoping the darkness hides your blush.
When the three of you finally reach the old brick apartment building, the blast of the lobby’s forced-air heating hits you like a physical wall.
Steve walks in first, shaking the evening chill from his shoulders. He throws a casual wave toward the front desk.
“Evening, Arthur.”
Arthur gives Steve a curt nod — of course. However, as you and Robin step through the doors behind him, Arthur’s eyes instantly narrow, and he actively looks away, blatantly ignoring the two of you.
Robin rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath about Arthur’s lack of manners, while you just sigh, used to the routine.
You walk past the front desk and head down the poorly lit hallway toward the elevator. Miraculously, the heavy doors are opened, and the light is illuminated. For the first time in what feels like weeks, the piece of shit is actually working.
Steve hits the call button, and the doors slide open with a terrifying, metallic screech. The three of you step inside the small, wood-paneled box. It’s meant to fit four people, but with heavy winter coats, it feels suffocatingly intimate.
Steve reaches up and pulls his beanie off his head, shaking out his thick hair. The movement releases the faint familiar and specific brand of cologne into the enclosed space, making your heart skip a beat.
Trying to distract yourself, you begin to unwind the heavy scarf from your neck, sighing in relief as the stifling heat of the elevator begins to get to you. You reach up, attempting to smooth down the static mess your hair has become from the wind and the scarf.
Before you can fix it, Steve reaches over. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he intentionally ruffles his hand through your hair, messing it up far worse than it was before.
“Hey!” you gasp, laughing as you playfully smack his arm.
He chuckles, a low, breathy sound, and doesn't pull his hand away immediately. For a fraction of a second, his knuckles graze the side of your cold cheek. The air in the elevator suddenly feels ten degrees hotter.
You both turn your heads at the exact same time, only to find Robin staring at the two of you. Her eyebrows are raised high, her expression a mix of knowing amusement and exhausted exasperation. She doesn't say a word, but her face screams, “Really?”
Caught in the spotlight of Robin’s piercing gaze, Steve quickly clears his throat. To deflect, he reaches out and aggressively ruffles Robin’s hair too, trying to mask the thick tension with chaotic sibling energy.
“Don't touch the hair, Harrington!” Robin yelps, slapping his hand away and desperately trying to smooth down her messy bob.
The elevator shudders to a violent halt, the bell dinging as the doors slide open to your floor.
Robin doesn't waste a second. She storms out of the elevator, but not before turning around and delivering a swift, precise flick to the center of Steve’s forehead.
“Ow!” Steve complains, rubbing his brow.
“That’s for the hair,” Robin calls out over her shoulder, already marching down the hallway toward the apartment. “See you tomorrow, weirdo.”
And just like that, she’s gone, leaving you and Steve alone in the elevator once more. You step out into the hallway, your boots quiet against the old floor. Steve holds the door open with his hand, standing right on the threshold between the elevator and the hall.
You hesitate. You stand a few feet away, fiddling with the fringe of your scarf, your eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw. The silence returns, but the comfortable warmth from the street is gone, replaced by a nervous, fluttering anticipation.
“Do you… want to come in?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “We have some leftovers from lunch. We could heat it up.”
Steve’s lips curve into a soft, tired smile. He leans against the doorframe, looking at you with an expression that is painfully gentle.
“Tempting,” he murmurs.
He steps just a fraction closer. He reaches out, and this time there is no teasing, no playful ruffling. His fingers are careful, incredibly gentle, as he tucks a stray strand of your hair securely behind your ear. His fingertips linger against your skin for a heartbeat too long, tracing the curve of your earlobe before pulling back.
“But I can’t,” he says, his voice dropping, carrying a heavy note of regret. “I have things to do.”
You swallow hard, nodding your head slowly. Things to do.
It’s always the same vague excuse, the same sudden departures into the night. Weeks ago, hearing those words would tie your stomach into painful knots of anxiety and suspicion.
But now? Now the knots are gone. The doubt still quietly gnaws at the back of your mind, a persistent ache, but… you are slowly beginning to accept that this is simply who Steve Harrington is. You are beginning to accept his secrets. You are learning to live with the shadows that constantly seem to pull at his heels, the mysterious bruises, the exhaustion he can’t explain.
You realize, as you look up into his sad, beautiful eyes, that if this complex, guarded version of him is the one who is willing to look at you the way he does, if he’s willing to risk his own guarded heart for you in whatever broken way he can… you are willing to accept the shadows. You are willing to take all of him, secrets included.
But you don’t know if he’s willing to let you in.
“Bye, then,” you say softly, forcing a small smile to reassure him.
His shoulders relax slightly, relieved that you aren’t pushing for answers he can’t give. He smiles back, a genuine, blinding thing that makes your breath catch.
“Bye.”
He steps back into the elevator, letting his hand drop from the door. The heavy panels begin to slowly slide shut.
Panic suddenly seizes you. The realization that he is leaving, that the moment is slipping through your fingers, overrides your common sense.
You spin around.
“Steve, wait!”
He immediately throws his arm out, catching the heavy door before it can close, forcing it back open. He looks at you, surprised, his chest heaving slightly.
“Yeah?”
You take a tentative step forward, closing the distance between you until you are standing just inches from the elevator threshold. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“You… you were going to tell me something,” you stammer, the confidence fleeing you the moment the words leave your mouth. “Earlier. While we were walking back, right before Robin and the others interrupted us. You said you’d been meaning to tell me something...”
Steve blinks, staring at you for a long moment. Then, realization dawns on his face. He lets out a short, breathy exhale, running a hand nervously through his hair.
“Oh. Right,” he says, his voice suddenly thick. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a rare display of true awkwardness from him. “I was going to say… my shirt—”
Your heart drops into your stomach, plummeting so fast it makes you dizzy.
The shirt.
That next morning, you had worn the shirt he gave to sleep under your sweater, taking it home with you without a second thought. You had sworn to yourself that you would wash it and return it immediately. But the truth was, you hadn't. The shirt was still sitting, perfectly folded, hidden away in the very back of your bottom dresser drawer. It still smelled faintly of him. You hadn't even worked up the courage to pull it out and look at it, terrified that admitting how much comfort it brought you would make the reality of your feelings undeniable.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you rush out, the words tumbling over each other in your panic. Your face is burning hot now, an absolute inferno of embarrassment. “I swear I was going to give it back! I literally meant to bring it today, but between the radio project and studying for midterms, it completely slipped my mind, and—”
“Keep it.”
His voice cuts through your frantic rambling. It isn't loud, but it is steady and incredibly firm.
You freeze, the words dying in your throat. The silence stretches out between you, heavy and thick. You stare at him, your brain short-circuiting as it tries to process what he just said.
“What?” you whisper, entirely sure you must have misheard him.
Steve smiles. It’s not his usual cocky grin, and it’s not the tired, gentle smile from earlier. It’s a slow, devastatingly fond smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners. He steps right up to the edge of the elevator, bridging the gap so completely you can feel the heat radiating off his chest.
“I said, keep it,” he repeats softly, his voice a low, raspy murmur. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again, intensely locked onto yours. “You looked really cute in it.”
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. You can’t stop the furious blush from spreading across your cheeks, down your neck, burning hot under your collar.
You quickly drop your gaze to the tips of your boots, desperately trying to hide the sheer, overwhelming joy and embarrassment washing over you. But it’s a useless effort. A massive, foolish smile breaks across your face, ruining any chance of playing it cool.
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to compose yourself as you slowly lift your head to look at him. He’s still watching you, his expression open and incredibly soft, waiting for your reaction.
You take a deep breath, the scent of him and the old hallway air filling your lungs.
“Goodnight, Steve,” you whisper, the words practically glowing with unspoken affection.
Steve’s eyes soften even further. He doesn’t look away.
“Goodnight…” he murmurs, his voice wrapping around your name like a physical caress, gentle and deeply intimate.
You take a single, slow step back into the hallway, yielding the space. Steve lets his hand drop from the door frame. Slowly, with an agonizing finality, the heavy doors of the elevator begin to slide closed. You stand rooted to the spot, watching his face until the very last second, until the doors finally meet with a loud, echoing clack, leaving you alone in the quiet hallway with a racing heart and a secret tucked safely in your bottom drawer.
—
When the clock on the wall finally clicks to the top of the hour and the professor’s gruff voice announces that it’s time to hand in the final exam, a profound, almost intoxicating wave of relief washes over you. It is the kind of relief that sinks deep into your bones, loosening muscles you didn’t even realize you were clenching.
At this exact moment, you genuinely couldn’t care less if your exam went perfectly or if it was an absolute disaster. If you confused the impedance of Cable A with the frequency output of Cable B? So be it.
To hell with sound engineering.
To hell with acoustic physics, mixing consoles, and late-night study sessions fueled by terrible, lukewarm coffee.
Even if it is just for one short, fleeting week of spring break, you can finally just lie on your bed, stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling, and do absolutely nothing.
Well, perhaps nothing is an exaggeration.
Ever since you and Robin first bumped into each other — literally colliding in the campus dining hall and sending a tray of questionable macaroni flying — she has been relentless.
For years, she has been begging, pleading, and using every weapon in her chaotic arsenal of persuasion to get you to visit Hawkins with her. And because it’s your last spring break together before graduation scatters everyone to the winds, you finally caved. You promised her you would go.
Now, sitting in the hard wooden chair of the lecture hall, you are feeling a healthy mix of deep regret and undeniable, gnawing curiosity.
Hawkins. The way Robin talks about it, it sounds less like a town and more like a myth.
You’ve heard endless stories about its dense, sprawling woods, the eerily quiet lake, the small-town diner, and the video store where she and Steve used to work. You want to see the exact places where this bizarre, fiercely loyal makeshift family first collided. You want to meet "the kids" they are always endlessly complaining about yet fiercely protecting.
But mostly, if you are being entirely honest with yourself in the quiet confines of your own mind, you want to see where Steve grew up.
A sudden, sharp jolt of electricity courses through your veins just at the thought of his name.
It always happens.
The prospect of finally putting real, physical images to all the stories they’ve told you is thrilling. But the idea of seeing Steve in his natural habitat? Of peeling back another layer of the former high school "King" that you haven't yet been privy to? It is both incredibly exciting and terrifying at the same time.
You know the city version of Steve — the one who is surprisingly tender, fiercely protective, and hides a startling amount of emotional depth and secrets behind his perfectly styled hair and a cocky smirk.
But the Hawkins version of him? That is uncharted territory.
Shaking the thoughts from your head, you gather your things. You sling the strap of your backpack over your shoulder, the weight of your textbooks serving as a final reminder of the half semester you are leaving behind.
Pushing open the heavy double doors of the engineering building, you step out onto the campus grounds. The crisp spring air hits your face, a welcome contrast to the stuffy lecture hall.
You start the familiar, tedious trek toward the bus stop, keeping your eyes on the cracked pavement.
"HEY! OVER HERE! HEY!"
You flinch, your train of thought completely derailed. You frown, blinking against the afternoon sun. Even through the ambient noise of hundreds of students leaving class, you can instantly decipher that loud, chaotic, and entirely un-self-conscious voice.
It’s undeniably Robin. But what on earth is she doing on this side of campus at this hour?
You scan the busy street, your eyes finally catching a flurry of frantic movement. There she is, standing on the opposite sidewalk, aggressively waving both of her arms in the air like she's trying to flag down a rescue helicopter.
As your eyes adjust and focus past Robin's flailing limbs, your breath catches slightly in your throat. She isn't standing at the bus stop. She’s standing next to a vintage burgundy BMW. And leaning casually against the hood of that car, looking like he just stepped out of an achingly cool 1980s catalog, is Steve.
He’s wearing his favorite worn-in Levi’s, a blue t-shirt that fits him entirely too well, and his signature sunglasses. One arm is crossed over his body, while his other hand holds a cigarette, and even from across the street, you can see the cocky, fond smile playing on his lips as he watches Robin make a fool of herself to get your attention.
Confusion battling with sudden, sharp intrigue, you check for traffic and walk across the street.
"Uhm... hi?" you say as you approach, fixing your backpack. You point your chin toward the gleaming vehicle. "And what exactly is this?"
Steve’s smile widens into something incredibly genuine and overwhelmingly boyish. He turns slightly, giving the rich burgundy hood of the car two affectionate, rhythmic pats.
"Do you like it?" he asks, his voice carrying that familiar, warm rasp that always seems to settle directly in your stomach. "I brought my baby up the time I went back to Hawkins. I haven't wanted to use her until now, because honestly? I don't trust the absolute maniac taxi drivers in this city not to sideswipe her. But…" he pauses, pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to look you directly in the eyes, "considering we are heading out to the outskirts of the city tonight to celebrate a little bit, I figured it was finally time to take her out for a proper spin."
You try — and completely fail — to hide the complicated expression on your face. It’s a ridiculous mixture of mild disgust at how dramatically he talks about a piece of machinery, and undeniable admiration for how ridiculously good he looks leaning against it.
"Right. Of course," you say, a dry, sarcastic edge to your voice that you know he loves. "Your baby."
Steve chuckles, a low, rumbling sound.
"Come on, get in. Your chariot awaits."
Robin, vibrating with her usual excess of caffeine and nervous energy, immediately sprints around to the passenger side. "Shotgun!" she yells, throwing the door open.
You roll your eyes affectionately, opening the heavy, solid back door, you toss your bag onto the leather seats and slide in after it.
The drive from the campus back to the apartment building isn't incredibly long — certainly much shorter and infinitely more pleasant than the cramped, sweaty city bus.
The interior of Steve's car smells like old leather, a hint of expensive cologne, and something distinctly him. You have to admit, begrudgingly, that it’s a beautiful car. The engine purrs smoothly, gliding over the city streets with an effortless grace.
And then there is the driver.
Good Lord. Seeing Steve drive shouldn't be a spiritual experience, but somehow, it is. You hadn't realized that watching him casually steer with one hand resting lightly on the bottom of the wheel, the other arm propped casually on the window sill, was something you needed to witness in your lifetime. The muscles in his forearm shift under his skin every time he takes a turn.
You try to look out the window.
You try to focus on the blur of passing coffee shops and brick buildings. But time and time again, as if pulled by some inescapable magnetic force, your eyes drift back to his reflection in the rearview mirror.
You watch the way his brow furrows slightly in deep concentration as he navigates a tricky intersection.
You watch the way the corner of his eyes crinkle when Robin launches into a rapid-fire, breathless rant about a pretentious guy in her class.
For a few blissful minutes, you think you are getting away with your secret staring. Until suddenly, the car idles at a red light. Steve shifts his gaze up to the rearview mirror, and his dark eyes lock perfectly, undeniably, with yours.
The air in the car seems to instantly evaporate. Steve’s lips part slightly, the teasing smirk completely melting away into something much softer, much more intense. He holds your gaze, unapologetically, for three agonizingly long seconds. Your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Panic setting in, you violently snap your head to the side, staring intently out the passenger window at a perfectly unremarkable fire hydrant, pretending that you had been looking at it the whole time.
You can hear Steve let out a soft, knowing exhale from the front seat, but he mercifully says nothing.
A few hours later, the apartment is a scene of absolute, concentrated chaos. The air is thick with the suffocating scent of aerosol hairspray, floral perfumes, and the faint smell of a curling iron that has been left on just a minute too long.
You and Robin are darting back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom, tossing clothes over chairs and stepping over discarded shoes. Vickie and Nancy are here too. Even though they came over already "ready" for the party, they have somehow been sucked into the vortex of anxiety, entirely second-guessing their carefully curated outfits and hastily attempting new, elaborate hairstyles in the cramped bathroom mirror.
"Do these earrings say “I’m fun and approachable” or “I will aggressively critique your music taste”?" Robin yells, holding up two massive geometric shapes against her ears.
"The second one, definitely," Vickie laughs, standing behind her and gently adjusting the collar of Robin’s jacket. "But I think that’s why I like them."
Meanwhile, amidst the hurricane of female preparation, Steve and Jonathan are the eye of the storm. They are both slouched low on the worn-out living room sofa. Their arms are crossed defensively over their chests, staring blankly at the dark screen of the television, clearly having dissociated from reality at least forty-five minutes ago in complete silence.
Finally, miraculously, consensus is reached. Clothes are chosen. Eyeliner is applied perfectly.
"Alright," Nancy announces, clapping her hands together with her usual authoritative efficiency. "We’re ready. Let's move out before someone changes their mind about their shoes again."
Everyone practically herds toward the front door, grabbing keys and jackets. As you step out into the hallway of the apartment building, the group naturally stretches out into a line heading toward the stairwell.
Without anyone saying a word, as if bound by some unspoken, gravitational pact, you and Steve simultaneously slow your pace. Within seconds, you naturally fall into a rhythm, walking side-by-side, lingering just a few feet behind the chaotic, chattering mass of the rest of the group.
The hallway is quiet, the only sound the muffled thud of footsteps on the old floor. Steve walks with a lazy, athletic grace. He turns his head to look at you, really look at you, taking in the outfit you spent entirely too long agonizing over.
His eyes slowly drag from the hem of your clothes up to your face. He looks away for a split second to ensure the rest of the group is out of earshot, and then leans his tall frame slightly toward you, invading your personal space just enough to make your pulse spike.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant strictly for your ears.
The heat is instantaneous. A furious blush violently invades your cheeks, burning hot against your skin. You swallow hard, forcing your legs to keep moving, willing yourself not to stumble over your own feet or fall completely behind.
You glance up at him through your eyelashes, deciding to fight fire with fire.
"You don't look too bad yourself, Harrington."
Steve smiles. It isn't his usual, practiced charm. It’s the genuine, slightly shy smile that he usually reserves for moments when he’s completely caught off guard. He bites down hard on his lower lip, turning his head to look straight down the hallway again, clearly trying to suppress his grin.
But you can't let him win that easily. You decide to pluck the string.
"So," you start, your voice feigning casual indifference. "Are you meeting up with Gabriela there tonight?"
You know exactly what you are doing. You know that simply putting that girl's name on your lips is going to drive him absolutely insane.
Steve’s step falters for a fraction of a second. He turns to look at you, his jaw clenching slightly. He shakes his head, his eyes darkening with a sudden, fierce intensity.
"No," he says, his voice completely stripped of its previous playfulness. "No Gabriela tonight." He holds your gaze, making sure you understand the subtext,
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a victorious smile. You don't want to be too mean, but the rush of adrenaline is intoxicating. You simply give a small, nonchalant nod.
"Good to know."
When the group finally spills out of the stairwell and into the cool night air of the parking lot, the brief bubble of intimacy shatters. Chaos reigns once more as the battle for car seats commences.
"I'm riding with Vickie!" Robin shouts, immediately grabbing her girlfriend's hand. She practically drags Vickie toward the car, aggressively claiming the back seat by throwing herself into it.
"There is absolutely no chance in hell I’m riding in the trunk again," Jonathan deadpans, moving with surprising speed. "You guys pull this on me every single time, and my knees can't take it." Without waiting for an argument, he wedges his way into the back, unceremoniously pushing Robin and Vickie flush against the far door so that Nancy has enough room to slide in beside him.
You stand on the pavement, watching the ridiculous clown-car routine with a mix of amusement and exasperation. You feel a presence beside you.
You turn your head to see Steve standing by the passenger door. He has it pulled wide open. He offers you a slow, devastatingly charming smile, gesturing with his free hand toward the empty leather seat.
"I guess you'll be my co-pilot this time," he says softly.
You press your lips together tightly, trying desperately to hide the massive smile threatening to break across your face. You nod, stepping past him. As you slide into the low seat, his chest brushes briefly against your shoulder. The scent of him is dizzying.
"Thank you, Harrington," you whisper.
He shuts the heavy door behind you with a solid thud, and within seconds, he’s sliding into the driver's seat next to you.
The drive to the party is pure, unadulterated chaos. Steve cranks the radio up loud, the heavy, synth-driven baseline of “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears for Fears vibrates through the floorboards.
Nobody in the car stops talking for a single second. Robin is shouting an unfinished story from the back, Jonathan is arguing with her about a movie director, Nancy is trying to organize the timeline of the night, and Vickie is laughing at all of them. They are constantly talking over each other, voices rising and falling in a cacophony of overlapping jokes and sudden bursts of loud, uninhibited laughter.
But sitting there in the passenger seat, surrounded by the deafening noise, you feel a profound, settling wave of tranquility.
You rest your hands on your lap, feeling Steve’s eyes on you from time to time. In the midst of all this noise, you are exactly where you are supposed to be. You are with your people. You are safe, you are grounded, and the crushing weight of the semester feels a million miles away.
When Steve finally navigates the BMW down a dark, winding road on the edge of the city, the destination comes into view. You sit up straighter, peering through the windshield.
It looks like an entirely abandoned industrial building. The brickwork is crumbling, the massive windows are either boarded up or shattered, and there is a rusty chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter. However, it’s immediately clear that the post-apocalyptic exterior is merely a facade for tonight. The place is glowing with lights spilling from the cracks in the doors, and the deep, rhythmic thumping of heavy bass is literally shaking the gravel beneath the tires. It’s thoroughly equipped to host a massive, unsanctioned college rager.
As Steve parks the car in a muddy makeshift lot, you look at the massive crowds of people filtering through the heavy doors. At least from the outside, it seems Robin wasn't exaggerating. The senior class had clearly pooled a ridiculous amount of money and pulled every string they had to secure a professional sound system and a live band.
You all pile out of the car, the chill of the night air immediately replaced by the radiating heat of hundreds of bodies. The group begins to slowly carve a path toward the entrance, pushing through a sea of people. It’s a wild, eclectic mix — frat guys in polos, art students in ripped denim, townies who clearly don't go to the university, all blending together under the flashing lights.
The sheer volume of people is overwhelming. You are suddenly pushed hard by a guy stumbling backward with a plastic cup in his hand. You lose your balance slightly on the uneven gravel.
Before you can even attempt to catch yourself, you feel it.
A large, incredibly warm hand settles firmly, immovably, onto the small of your back. The touch burns right through the fabric of your shirt. The long, strong fingers grip your waist just tight enough to steady you, pulling you slightly backward against a solid chest. You don't even have to turn around. You don't have to guess. You would know the weight and the warmth of that hand anywhere.
Steve guides you forward, acting as a physical shield between you and the crushing tide of drunk college students. The tension that has been simmering between you in the car suddenly boils over, the physical contact sending sparks shooting up your spine.
"I’m going to look around the warzone and get us some drinks!" Jonathan screams at the top of his lungs, barely audible over the roaring bass of the band that is currently shredding on the makeshift stage inside. Without waiting for a response, Jonathan grips Nancy’s hand like a lifeline and physically drags her into the crowd.
You feel Steve lean down, the side of his face pressing so close to yours that his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck.
"I'll be right back," he talks directly into your ear. His voice is a low, raspy rumble that sends a shiver down your entire body. "Don't move."
You turn to nod, but before you can even formulate a response, the crowd surges. The pressure of his hand vanishes from your lower back, leaving a cold, empty space in its wake. You watch his broad shoulders disappear into the suffocating mass of jumping, sweating bodies.
You stand on your tiptoes, trying to keep track of him, but it's useless. You let out a breath, turning back to where Robin and Vickie were just standing.
"Hey! Robin!"
A tall guy with a shaggy mop of hair suddenly materializes from the crowd, throwing a heavy, friendly arm around Robin’s shoulders, pulling her into a brief, aggressive hug. You recognize him instantly. It’s a guy from one of your seminars. He’s usually the one hauling amps and managing the mixing boards at these parties.
"I haven't seen you in forever!" He yells, grinning widely. "Hey, I heard through the grapevine that you guys are heading back to Hawkins this week. That's awesome." He pauses, taking a swig from his red cup. "Hey, do me a favor? Tell that absolute bastard Eddie to make a trip out here to the city someday, huh? Tell him we actually miss his crazy ass."
Because the music is vibrating so violently through the floorboards, you can't hear a single word of Robin’s response. Just then, two girls giggling hysterically shove past you, forcing you to step sideways and turn your back to the conversation. Slightly irritated, you adjust your jacket and turn back around.
In the five seconds you were distracted, the music guy has completely vanished into the ether.
You step closer to Robin, having to practically shout over the wailing guitar solo tearing through the speakers.
"Who is Eddie?" you ask, your curiosity genuinely piqued. You know almost all the names in their Hawkins lore, but that one is entirely new.
Robin freezes. It’s subtle, but you catch it. Her eyes widen fractionally, a flash of something unreadable — surprise? panic? grief? — flickering across her features. But almost instantly, the mask slams down. She aggressively furrows her brow, leaning in close and cupping her hand over her ear, playing the oldest trick in the book.
"WHAT?!" she screams, looking at you with exaggerated confusion.
"I SAID, WHO IS EDDIE?!" you yell louder, annoyed by her sudden theatricality.
You can literally see Robin’s mouth open. You can see her brain scrambling, trying to formulate a lie or an explanation. But before a single syllable leaves her lips, a hand reaches out from the crowd, grabbing her wrist. One of her many chaotic college friends pulls her backward, and with a helpless shrug that looks entirely too practiced, she lets herself be dragged away onto the makeshift dance floor.
You let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. You cross your arms securely over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the cold air drifting in from the broken windows.
You look around. The flashing lights illuminate hundreds of faces, none of them familiar. Steve is gone. Jonathan and Nancy are swallowed by the crowd. Robin has fled the scene of an uncomfortable question.
You are entirely alone in the very center of a deafening, throbbing party, armed with a brand new, glaringly obvious secret about the town you are about to visit. Another one to the list.
You look toward the dark corners of the warehouse, waiting for one of your friends to reemerge.
It’s going to be a very, very long night.
—
After half an hour of standing practically rooted to the exact same sticky spot on the floor, waiting for your friends to finally show up, you are on the verge of completely losing your mind.
They have vanished entirely into the ether of the college party, swallowed whole by the pulsating sea of bodies. With every passing minute, it feels like the walls are inching closer together. More and more people keep pouring through the front door of the warehouse, laughing loudly, spilling cheap beer, and crowding the already suffocating space.
Even though the place is massive you can’t help but calculate the structural integrity of the floorboards. How much weight can this place actually take? You look up at the ceiling, already telling that the top floor is full of people as well.
The bass from the oversized speakers vibrates up through your sneakers, rattling right into your ribcage. The thought of a crowd crush, of a sudden panic where people trample each other to reach the single visible exit, begins to spiral in your mind, painting a terrifying picture of catastrophe.
No, stop it. Enough. You mentally scold yourself, taking a sharp breath of the stifling air. Don't be ridiculous. You're just spiraling.
Desperate for a distraction and a change of scenery, you slowly begin to murmur apologies, gently but firmly pushing your way through the dense throng of sweaty college students.
You navigate the maze of dancing bodies and drunken conversations until you finally reach the drinks island, or at least, the sticky wooden surface that is currently serving as a makeshift bar. Behind it stands a guy wearing a backward baseball cap and a stained fraternity shirt, haphazardly pouring liquids into red plastic cups. College parties are always exactly like this: everyone casually adopts whatever role seems fun in the moment, only to completely shed it and become someone else by the next weekend’s blowout.
You ask him for a drink, pointing vaguely at a bottle of clear liquor. He slides a generously filled cup across the counter. Offering him an appreciative, exhausted smile, you take a long, desperate sip of the cold beverage. The liquid burns slightly on its way down your throat, but almost immediately, you can feel the warmth of the alcohol begin to spread through your tense muscles. The loud thumping of your anxious heart slows down just a fraction. You lean against the edge of the counter, closing your eyes for a brief second to just exist in the noise without letting it overwhelm you.
“Of all the places in the world, I never thought I’d find you here.”
The sudden, familiar voice cuts through the booming bass and the chaotic chatter, startling you so badly that you physically jump. You spin around so quickly that a splash of your drink sloshes over the plastic rim, landing with a wet splat on your shoes and the grimy floor.
But the spilled drink instantly vanishes from your mind. When your eyes travel upward and connect with those striking, unmistakable green eyes, you swear you can feel your soul violently detach and leave your body. Your fingers go numb. The red plastic cup almost slips entirely from your weakened grasp, plummeting to the floor and spilling the rest of its contents over there.
“D-Dylan…”
Your voice breaks. It’s barely a whisper, a fragile sound entirely swallowed by the loud music, but he reads your lips. You can't help the stutter; your brain has completely short-circuited.
He smiles. It’s that same, perfectly crafted, devastating smile that used to completely disarm you. Deep dimples form on both sides of his cheeks, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. He tilts his head down slightly, and that familiar, messy lock of brown hair falls perfectly into his eyes. Just like he always used to do, he casually sweeps it back with his fingers, his gaze never once leaving yours.
“It’s like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he says, his voice a smooth, melodic hum that instantly transports you back to cramped dorm rooms and late-night acoustic guitar sessions.
Well, in a way, I have, you think to yourself, your mind racing, but you force the words down, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“Sorry, it’s just… I didn’t expect…” You stumble over your words, desperately trying to regain your composure. You wipe your damp palms on your jeans. “When did you get back to the city?”
You can feel the heat slowly creeping back into your cheeks, the color returning to your pale face, even though your heart is still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribcage. It’s not a panic attack anymore; it’s the sheer shock of confronting unresolved history.
He shakes his head lightly, the smile turning a bit more wistful.
“It’s just for a couple of days. My band and I are doing a mini-tour of the state.” He nods his head toward the far corner of the massive living room, right next to the makeshift stage where instruments are set up. You follow his gaze and spot several guys — his bandmates — laughing loudly, drinking, and flirting with a group of girls.
“I didn’t know you were back together with the band.” You say, genuinely surprised.
His smile widens into something incredibly proud, and his green eyes hyper-fixate on you, glowing with an eager, boyish excitement.
“We finally signed the contract.”
Your eyes widen in genuine shock. All the bitterness, all the complicated feelings temporarily take a back seat to the monumental news.
“Dylan! That’s incredible!”
He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, suddenly looking a bit shy despite his rockstar aura.
“Yeah, well, it’s with a small indie label for now, but it’s exactly what we needed. It gets our foot in the door. We’re playing a couple of venue shows in different cities, and since we were passing through town anyway, I figured I’d do a favor for the guys at the university. You know how it is.”
You nod slowly, lowering your head as a wave of heavy nostalgia washes over you. Dylan and his band had always been the staple entertainment at these university parties. That was exactly how you met him. He was the charming lead singer with the raspy voice; you were the girl who spilled beer on his setlist. That was the spark that ignited the intensely complicated, emotionally draining relationship that followed — a relationship defined by incredibly high highs and agonizingly lonely lows.
Suddenly, the space between you evaporates. His hand reaches out, his warm fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture sends a jolt through your system. His index finger lightly hooks under your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction. You feel a sudden, intense heat flush across your cheeks, and your eyes lock onto his once more.
In a fraction of a second, thousands of memories crash into you. Memories you had spent the last eight grueling months actively trying to bury, repress, and forget since the day he packed up his guitar and left town without saying goodbye. They hit you now like a train crashing everything in its path: the way he smelled like leather and cigarette smoke, the sound of his laughter against your neck, the crushing disappointment of waiting for him at dinners he never showed up to, the realization that he was always too cowardly to fully commit.
But as you stand there, physically close enough to feel his body heat, a strange revelation washes over you.
It doesn’t feel the same.
It feels intensely nostalgic, yes, but almost like watching a movie of someone else's life. It feels like an old, worn-out sweater that no longer fits. It just doesn't make sense anymore. Because while Dylan's fingers are on your skin, in the deepest, most guarded corners of your mind, another name is echoing.
Your skin silently protests, craving the heavier, more demanding touch of someone else. Your lips, pressed in a thin line, are quietly yearning for another pair of lips — a pair you know are infinitely more dangerous, and a pair you know you absolutely cannot have.
“It’s really good to see you again,” Dylan says softly, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with an unspoken question, a lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, you might still be waiting for him.
But your eyes betray him. Instead of staying focused on his perfectly green eyes, your gaze instinctively drifts away, drawn by an invisible, magnetic pull toward the front door of the building.
And there he is.
Steve.
He’s standing by the open doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe, smoking. One hand is tucked deep into the pocket of his perfectly fitted denim jeans, while the other holds a cigarette with an effortless, almost arrogant professionalism.
You watch, utterly transfixed, as he takes a drag, the glowing amber tip illuminating the sharp contours of his face in the dim light. He nods at someone standing just out of your line of sight, exchanging a few brief words with a person you can't identify. He looks entirely aloof, dangerously handsome, and entirely untouchable.
“I gotta let you go, we’re up next.”
Dylan’s voice breaks your trance. He casually slips his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, forcing your attention back to him. You blink, suddenly feeling guilty for getting caught looking away.
“We’re only going to play a couple of songs tonight, so don’t miss them, okay?” Dylan adds, flashing you a hopeful, familiar wink that used to make your knees weak.
You offer him a polite, practiced nod and a smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your lips press together into a thin, tight line.
“I wouldn't miss it.”
As Dylan turns and weaves his way through the cheering crowd toward the stage, you take a deep, shaky breath. You tell yourself to stay put. You tell yourself to go to the bar, get another drink, and watch your ex-situationship perform the songs he probably wrote about you. You try to suppress the burning, clawing curiosity in your chest. You really, genuinely try.
Over the heads of the crowd, you manage to watch Dylan hop onto the stage. You see him grab the microphone stand, confidently introducing himself and the band to the roaring crowd. You hear the drummer tap the sticks — one, two, three, four — and the first familiar, melancholy chords of their opening song ring out through the massive speakers.
But before your rational mind can fully process what is happening, you are already moving. You leave the remnants of your spilled drink by the bar, and your feet begin taking autonomous, unconscious steps forward.
You are weaving through the crowd, your eyes locked on the front door, pushing past dancing couples and shouting frat boys, making a beeline for the exit.
When you finally push through the heavy wooden door, the biting chill of the night air smacks you right in the face. The sudden drop in temperature makes you curse under your breath but it doesn’t even slow you down. You wrap your bare arms around your chest, shivering violently in your thin top, and frantically scan your surroundings.
There are plenty of people out here on the massive front lawn, too. Groups are huddled around the entrance, sitting on the hoods of parked cars, smoking, chatting, and laughing loudly into the dark night.
But as your eyes dart from face to face, your stomach plummets. There is absolutely no trace of the person your eyes are so desperately searching for.
Steve is gone.
Behind you, muffled by the heavy walls of the house, the band’s song hits its first chorus. You can hear the crowd cheering, the collective joy vibrating through the air. You should be in there. You shouldn't be out here freezing, chasing a ghost of a man who barely acknowledges your existence outside of the strange, domestic moments you’ve shared in private.
But you swear you saw him turn to the right as he flicked his cigarette away.
Without giving yourself a second to think, to talk yourself out of this incredibly stupid idea, your feet start moving. You step off the entrance and begin to walk down the side of the building, your steps determined and fast.
Where are you going? your brain screams at you. What are you going to say if you find him?
You don't have an answer. You just know you need to see him.
You push past a group of guys shotgunning beers, navigating around tightly parked cars sitting on the overgrown grass. Slowly, you approach the dark corner of the massive warehouse. The front is bathed in the warm, yellow light of the streetlamps, but as you near the side alley, the light cuts off sharply, swallowed by thick, impenetrable shadows.
Your feet come to a sudden halt at the edge of the darkness.
No, you tell yourself, staring into the almost pitch-black pathway that leads behind the building. It’s way too dark down there. There’s absolutely no way he went this way. Why would he?
You try to rationalize. He probably walked back inside through the side door, and you just missed him in the chaos. Or maybe he walked down the street to his car, heading in the opposite direction, and you simply didn't notice.
Yes, that makes sense.
You should just turn around. You are entirely certain he went to the right, but you are also certain that if you had crossed paths out here, you would have seen him.
It is physically impossible to not notice Steve Harrington. His presence demands attention; it shifts the gravity in a room.
You let out a heavy, defeated sigh. You turn around, looking back toward the brightly lit front where a group of people are laughing at a joke you can't hear. You take a step back toward the light, toward safety, toward the loud, uncomplicated college party.
But there is something — a primal, inexplicable tug in your gut, an instinct you can’t quite name or understand — that screams at you to turn back around and keep walking into the dark.
From inside the house, the muffled music shifts. The tempo slows down.
Dylan had told you they were only playing a "couple" of songs, which means this melancholic ballad is probably their last one before they pack up and leave town, before you lose the chance to see him again for who knows how many more months or years.
You stand frozen in the freezing night air, listening to the muffled sound of Dylan's voice.
You realize, with a striking sense of clarity, that you genuinely don't care.
Perhaps two months ago, you would have traded your own life just for a chance to look back into those bright green eyes that used to keep you awake until 4:00 AM. You would have given anything for him to play you those songs, to whisper sweet, empty promises against your collarbone. But the harsh reality was that the bond was never official. He was always, inherently, too cowardly to call you his girlfriend. He loved the idea of you, but he loved his freedom more. You realize now that you shouldn't have spent so much of your life waiting for his leftover crumbs of affection.
Besides, it’s not his green eyes that keep you tossing and turning in your bed at night anymore. It’s not Dylan's acoustic songs that make your heart hammer against your ribs, and it’s certainly not his whispers that make the hair on your arms stand up.
It’s the dark, brooding, impossible mystery of Steve. It’s the way Steve cooks pasta for you and your friends on a Friday night. Is the way you can be around each other in complete, comfortable silence. It's the heavy, intense way Steve looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention.
Taking a deep, resolute breath, you turn your back to the party. Before you can fully process the danger of your own curiosity, you are turning the corner, stepping fully into the oppressive darkness of the alleyway behind the building.
And then, you stop dead in your tracks.
You brake so hard your sneakers squeak faintly against the damp concrete. You instinctively press your back flat against the cold, rough brick wall of the building, shrinking into the shadows as if your body knows, long before your brain does, that you are absolutely not supposed to be witnessing the scene unfolding in front of you.
The alley is dimly lit by a single, flickering security bulb hanging over a rusted back door.
You immediately recognize Steve. He’s standing with his back rigid, his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, his posture radiating an intimidating, coiled tension.
Standing right beside him is a figure that makes the blood in your veins run ice-cold. Your skin instantly erupts in goosebumps. It’s him. The absolute scumbag who had aggressively stopped you and Steve on the street a few weeks ago. The guy who had harassed Steve, getting up in his face, while Steve had aggressively pushed you behind him, refusing to tell you who the guy was or what he wanted.
And standing directly across from Steve and the thug is a younger guy. You don’t recognize him at all. He doesn’t look like he belongs on campus; he looks young, terrified, wearing a cheap, oversized hoodie. He’s probably just a random kid from town who heard about the college party through friends of friends and wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
Your heart pounds furiously in your ears, making it difficult to hear over the distant thumping of the bass from the party inside. You strain your ears, holding your breath, but you can’t quite make out the exact words being exchanged. The voices are low, sharp, and aggressive.
But you don't need to hear the words to understand the severity of the situation.
You watch, eyes wide with mounting horror, as the terrified guy reaches into the front pocket of his hoodie with trembling hands. He pulls out a thick, brown paper package. He extends it toward Steve, his hands shaking so violently you can see it from where you are hiding.
Steve doesn't even uncross his arms. He merely tilts his head, and the scumbag beside him — the thug from the street— steps forward and snatches the package from the boy's hands. The guy rips the top of the paper open, pulling back the flap. Even in the dim, flickering amber light, the contents are unmistakable.
It’s a massive stack of cash.
The man who seems to be Steve’s associate, or friend, or muscle, or whoever the hell he is — you are so incredibly sick and tired of constantly guessing who the people in Steve’s life are — flips through the bills with his thumb. After a few seconds, he stops. He looks up at Steve, his face twisting into a nasty scowl, and shakes his head sharply.
Steve lets out a heavy, visible sigh. He uncrosses his arms, running a single, frustrated hand down his face, tilting his head back to look up at the starless night sky.
It’s a deeply cinematic image, one that, in a completely different context, would have probably made your heart skip a beat with pure attraction. His sharp, prominent jawline is highlighted by the flickering bulb. The dark jacket stretches tight across his shoulders and biceps as he moves. The collar of his shirt shifts, revealing the familiar, delicate smattering of moles on the side of his neck that you had caught yourself staring at over too many times to count.
But right now, standing in the cold, oppressive darkness of this isolated alleyway, surrounded by the stench of garbage and impending violence, that same image doesn't make your heart flutter. Instead, it sends a jagged shard of ice dragging slowly down your spine.
You have absolutely no idea what is happening, but every survival instinct in your body is screaming at you to run.
The low murmur of voices suddenly spikes into a loud, vicious argument. You still can't decipher the exact words — the thumping bass from the frat house and the distant roar of a passing car muffle the dialogue — but the tone is unmistakably violent.
Suddenly, Steve takes a slow, deliberate step to the side, allowing the other guy — the thug — to step directly into the younger's personal space.
The young guy immediately crumbles into a state of complete, pathetic vulnerability. He drops to his knees, raising both of his hands in a desperate gesture of begging. He’s pleading for his life. The sheer terror in the boy's posture hits you like a physical punch to the gut, tying your stomach into a nauseating knot.
Do something, Steve, you plead in your mind. Stop him. Tell him to back off.
Inside the house, Dylan’s song reaches its dramatic climax. The muffled sound of a heavy, distorted guitar chord rings out loudly through the walls.
And at that exact, horrible second, the thug pulls his arm back and unleashes a brutal, full-force punch directly into the kneeling guy’s face.
The sickening CRACK of knuckles hitting bone echoes sharply against the brick walls of the alley. The poor guy is sent sprawling backward, his head snapping to the side as he hits the dirty asphalt with a heavy thud.
You violently flinch. Both of your hands fly up to clamp over your mouth, stifling the scream that tries to rip its way out of your throat. Your eyes are wide, unblinking, brimming with shock, profound anguish, and an all-consuming, paralyzing fear. You are trembling so hard your knees threaten to buckle.
“Please! Please, man, I swear to God I’ll have the rest of the cut by next week—” the guy begs, spitting blood onto the pavement as he scrambles to push himself up on his elbows.
His desperate sentence is viciously cut short by a second, even harder kick to the ribs from the thug. The younger guy groans in agony, collapsing back onto the ground, curling into a tight fetal position.
“We already gave you an extra week, you little prick! Did you just magically forget the terms of the deal when we made it in the first place?!” The thug’s voice is a venomous snarl. He raises his heavy boot, preparing to stomp down on the boy’s head.
“Enough.”
Steve’s voice cuts through the alleyway like a blade. It isn’t a yell. It isn’t a scream. It’s a low, quiet, profoundly cold command that carries an incredible amount of authority.
The thug freezes mid-motion, his boot hovering in the air.
Steve steps forward, positioning himself directly in front of the bleeding, trembling guy. He looks down at him, his face completely devoid of any emotion. It’s an expression you have never seen on his face before, an expression you never, in your wildest dreams, believed he was capable of making. It’s absolute, chilling apathy.
“One week,” Steve says, his voice devoid of any warmth, cutting sharply through the cold air.
The thug behind him scoffs, dropping his foot and glaring at Steve with frustrated disbelief.
“Come on, Harrington! Are you kidding me? Your father is going to completely lose his mind and kill us both! You heard what he said, he said that we—”
In a flash of movement so fast it makes you blink, Steve pivots and shoves the thug squarely in the chest with one arm. The force of the push is massive, sending the guy stumbling backward until his back slams hard against a metal dumpster with a loud crash.
“Shut your damn mouth, Tommy,” Steve snarls, his voice dripping with lethal warning.
He doesn't even wait to see Tommy's reaction. He slowly turns his attention back to the younger guy, who is currently trembling violently and wiping a thick smear of dark blood from his split lip.
“Get up,” Steve commands quietly.
The boy hesitates, letting out a whimper of pain, but the sheer terror in Steve's presence forces his body to obey. Slowly, painfully, he drags himself up from the asphalt until he is standing, hunched over and favoring his ribs.
When they are standing face-to-face once again, Steve looks at him. And the look in Steve’s eyes — even from twenty feet away in the shadows — radiates a profound, terrifying darkness that is utterly impossible to hide.
“One. Week.” Steve repeats, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision.
Before the guy can even nod in terrified agreement, before he can even open his mouth to gasp out a 'thank you', Steve's leg snaps out. With brutal, calculated efficiency, he delivers a devastating kick directly to the side of the boy's kneecap.
The sickening sound of the joint popping echoes off the brick walls. The boy lets out a blood-curdling shriek of pure agony, instantly collapsing back onto the pavement, clutching his ruined leg and sobbing hysterically.
This time, it is physically impossible for you to contain the reaction. A sharp, loud gasp escapes your throat, a sound of pure horror that cuts through the night air. You clamp your hands over your mouth a second too late.
Steve freezes.
Slowly, terrifyingly, he turns his head toward the entrance of the alley.
For one agonizing, suspended millisecond, his dark, dead eyes lock onto yours through the shadows.
The man staring back at you is not the Steve you know.
It’s not the sweet, goofy Steve who makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. It’s not the Steve who slow danced with you some nights ago. It’s not the Steve that stands in the kitchen and annoys you and Robin about which movie to rent next.
It’s not even the Steve you had only ever caught fleeting glimpses of in your worst, most paranoid imaginations. It’s not even the Steve that Robin had sometimes — very rarely, and always after a few too many drinks — alluded to in hushed, frightened tones when she spoke about the dark side of Hawkins.
No. Your mind races, rejecting the comparison entirely. Not even close.
This Steve is so much worse than anything Robin had ever implied. This Steve is a monster, a ruthless, violent enforcer capable of shattering a guy’s leg without batting an eye. This Steve is entirely unimaginable, even in the absolute darkest depths of your worst nightmares.
Before he can utter a single word, before the shock can fully register on his handsome, terrifying face, your survival instinct entirely overrides your paralyzed brain.
You spin on your heels, your sneakers slipping for a frantic second on the damp floor, and you launch yourself forward. You are running blindly, sprinting away from the alley, tearing back toward the noise and the lights of the party as if the devil himself is chasing you.
Your chest heaves, your lungs burning as you drag in desperate gulps of the freezing air. Behind you, over the thumping rhythm of your own panicked heartbeat, you think you hear his voice shout your name.
Or maybe it was just the wind. Maybe your terrified mind just imagined his voice calling out to you in the dark. You don't look back to find out. You don't dare. If you turn around and see him chasing you with that same dead, violent look in his eyes, you know your heart might actually stop beating.
You round the corner of the building, practically throwing yourself back into the crowded front entrance. You push violently through a group of bewildered students, ignoring their angry shouts of protest as you blindly stumble toward the street. Your vision is entirely blurred by unshed tears of sheer terror and catastrophic heartbreak.
Suddenly, your body slams hard against something solid.
You let out a cry of panic, stumbling backward. Two strong, familiar arms shoot out and wrap securely around your waist, catching you firmly before you can hit the ground.
“Woah, hey! Careful there!”
Your breath catches in your throat. You flinch aggressively, expecting the smell of his perfume, cigarette smoke, and violence. But instead, the scent of cheap cologne and old leather fills your senses.
You quickly tilt your head up, your wide, tear-filled eyes scanning the face of the person holding you. An overwhelming, pathetic wave of relief crashes over you, and it actually makes you angry to admit how glad you are to see who it is.
Dylan has his guitar case strapped to his back, looking bewildered and slightly alarmed by your erratic state.
“Take me home,” you gasp out instantly, the words tumbling from your lips in a desperate, breathless rush.
Dylan furrows his eyebrows, his hands still resting lightly on your waist. He looks down at you, clearly confused by the sheer panic radiating from your trembling body.
“What? Are you okay? What happened—”
You don't let him finish. You reach out, your cold, shaking hands desperately grabbing onto his forearm. Your grip is painfully tight, your knuckles turning white.
“Please.” Your voice breaks into a pathetic, terrified sob that you can't suppress. “Please, Dylan. Just take me home. Right now.”
Dylan’s casual, laid-back demeanor evaporates instantly. He looks at your tear-streaked face, sees the raw, unadulterated terror swimming in your eyes, and his jaw sets. He glances up, his green eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the house, looking toward the shadows you just emerged from. For a second, he looks like he wants to go investigate, to fight whatever it is that put this look on your face.
But you yank on his arm again, snapping his attention back to you. The desperation in your gaze is all the answer he needs.
“Come on. Let's go,” he says firmly.
He shifts his grip, wrapping his large, warm hand securely around yours, squeezing it tight. Without asking another question, he quickly leads you away from the house, guiding you swiftly down the street toward where his battered sedan is parked.
You don't look back. You keep your eyes fixed on the pavement, letting Dylan pull you toward safety, leaving the thumping music, the crowded party, and the terrifying, shattered reality of Steve Harrington far, far behind you in the dark.
—
The sharp, metallic slam of the car door shatters the heavy, suffocating silence of the night. It is a violent sound that echoes down the empty street, yet it barely registers over the ringing in your ears.
Silence is all that had accompanied you during the agonizingly long drive from the blinding lights of the party to the shadowed entrance of your apartment building. Not a single song on the radio. Not a single whispered word.
Dylan walks beside you, his footsteps a steady, grounded rhythm against the concrete, a stark contrast to the chaotic, erratic thumping of your own heart. You walk until you reach the main glass doors of the building, the cool glow of the streetlamp casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement.
You turn around. Your arms are wrapped tightly around your own torso, hands gripping your elbows in a desperate, physical need to keep yourself from falling apart. At the very least, the tears had stopped flowing a few miles back, leaving your face tight and your eyes burning with a dry, exhausted ache.
And thank God — thank whatever merciful force exists — that Dylan hasn't asked a single question. He hasn’t pushed. He hasn’t demanded to know why you came running out of that party looking like you’d just seen a ghost.
You stand there, turned away from the glass doors, your posture screaming defense. Your arms wrap your body like a protective shield against the biting chill of the night air, and your eyes are stubbornly glued to the cracked pavement beneath your feet.
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing the lump in your throat, and finally gather the courage to look up at him.
"Thank you," your voice is barely more than a raspy whisper, fragile in the cold air. "For bringing me back, I mean."
Dylan nods slowly. His posture is relaxed but guarded, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He looks at you with a mixture of pity and lingering affection that makes your stomach twist with guilt.
"It's no problem," he says softly.
A few heavy seconds of silence stretch between you, filled only by the distant hum of city traffic. He shifts his weight, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Are you sure you're—"
"I'm fine," you cut him off quickly, the words tumbling out of your mouth before he can finish the question. You can't let him dig. If he digs, the dam will break again. "I'm fine, I swear. I'm just... I'm so tired. Midterm week completely ran me over."
You force a smile. It feels completely unnatural, a tight, plastic stretching of your lips, but you offer it up anyway, praying it’s enough of a mask to make him believe the lie.
He nods, his jaw setting. He’s clearly not convinced. His eyes search yours, looking for the cracks in your facade, but he is kind enough — or perhaps just tired enough — not to press the issue.
"Right," he murmurs, clearing his throat. The awkwardness hangs in the space between you, thick and palpable. "Do you think I could..." He gestures toward the brightly lit lobby of your building with his chin, a silent request to come up. To come in.
You instantly understand what he is asking. And for a fleeting, desperate second, a loud, rational voice in your head screams at you to say yes. Let him in, it whispers. Have a quiet, normal night with him, just like you used to. Let him hold you. Let him erase the nightmare you witnessed in that alleyway barely an hour ago.
It would be so easy to fall back into the comfort of Dylan. It would be safe.
But as you look at his hopeful face, something visceral and absolute stops you. It feels wrong. The very idea of pretending everything is okay, of letting him touch you when your skin still feels branded by the ghost of someone else, makes you feel physically ill.
You shake your head slowly, keeping your focus locked on his eyes, offering him the most genuine apology you can muster without words.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Dylan."
He nods, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as he presses his lips together in a tight, disappointed line.
"Right..." he sighs, looking down at his boots before meeting your gaze again. "Listen, the band is coming back to town to wrap up the tour here. I'd really like to see you, yeah? Maybe we could actually talk? Even just for a coffee?"
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, the sharp sting grounding you in the present moment. You nod your head, a jerky, automatic motion, not even truly processing the implications of agreeing to see him. You just want to be alone. You just want to escape.
A soft, relieved smile touches his lips. He steps closer, closing the distance between you, and slowly leans in.
You freeze as his face nears yours, his lips brushing softly against your cheek. Your stomach does a sudden, violent flip, but it isn't butterflies. It's a harsh, immediate rejection from your own body, because the lips pressing against your skin don't feel right. They aren't the ones you actually, desperately want kissing you.
"Dream of me, yeah?" he murmurs, pulling away and taking a step backward into the shadows of the street.
You can't even manage to fake another smile. You simply turn on your heel, pushing through the heavy doors and rushing into the empty, fluorescent-lit lobby.
Your feet hit the stairs with frantic urgency, taking them two at a time. You don't wait for the elevator; you need the physical exertion, you need to burn the adrenaline that is suddenly spiking through your veins.
You reach your floor breathless, your hands trembling violently as you fumble with your keys. You jam the metal into the lock, twist, and shove the door open, slipping inside and slamming it shut behind you with a deafening bang.
You lean your back against the solid wood of the door, chest heaving, gasping for air as if you’ve been drowning. You don't give yourself a second to think. You can't think. If you stop moving, the images will catch up to you.
You violently shrug off your jacket, tossing it onto the floor. You march straight into the kitchen, the hardwood cold through your feet. Your arms reach up, blindly yanking open the cabinet above the fridge — the designated spot for the liquor you and Robin save for house parties, or for those rare, quiet nights when you just want to sit on the counter and talk about life until the sun comes up.
You aren't even fully conscious of your own movements. Your hands grab the first bottle they find. You don't bother with a glass. You uncap it and bring it directly to your lips, tipping your head back and swallowing the burning liquid in large, desperate gulps. You drink as if the alcohol possesses some magical, corrosive property that can burn away your memories.
You want to erase the desperate, visceral need you have for Steve. You want to scrub away the phantom sensation of his large, calloused hands on your body. You want to obliterate the memory of his crooked, intoxicating smile that has somehow embedded itself permanently in your mind.
But no matter how much it burns going down, it isn't working. The scent of him seems to cling to the very air of your apartment, wrapping around you even when he is miles away.
You slam the bottle down onto the granite counter, the loud clink echoing in the empty kitchen. You brace your forearms on the edge of the counter and drop your head down, burying your face in your arms. You close your eyes, desperately trying to stabilize your ragged breathing and force your racing heart to slow its frantic, terrified rhythm.
Deep breaths, you tell yourself. He's not here. You're safe. It's over.
Suddenly, three sharp, authoritative knocks rap against your front door.
You physically jump, a startled gasp escaping your lips. You spin around, your eyes locking onto the door.
You let out a frustrated, angry sigh. A sudden, hot flare of irritation ignites in your chest. You are instantly annoyed that Dylan, even after you explicitly told him no, has the nerve to come upstairs and insist. Who does he think he is?
He was the one who left the city first, wasn't he? He packed up and went away without even giving you a proper chance to say goodbye. He left you stranded, standing in the emotional wreckage of your “relationship”, holding all your stupid, unrequited feelings in the palms of your hands. Why the hell does he think he can just waltz back into your life tonight and demand your time?
These angry, bitter thoughts swarm in your head like angry hornets as you stomp down the short hallway. You reach the door and rip it wide open, a rejection already locked and loaded on your tongue.
"Dylan, I said—"
The words die instantly in your throat. You freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as your eyes meet a pair of deep, frantic brown ones.
It isn't Dylan.
Without a single second of conscious thought, survival instinct takes over. Your hand grips the edge of the door, and you violently shove it forward to slam it in his face.
But Steve is faster.
His large hand shoots out, his forearm hitting the wood with a heavy thud, effortlessly stopping the door's momentum.
"Steve, leave." Your voice is trembling, betraying the sheer panic bubbling up inside you.
"Please..." he breathes out.
He says your name so softly, with such raw, unadulterated desperation, that it makes your chest ache. You look at his face. His hair is a wild, disheveled mess. His lips are bleeding a little bit but you're sure it is because he has been nervously biting it for the past hour.
But his expression... his expression is completely shattered. It looks absolutely nothing like the cold, terrifyingly violent mask you saw him wearing in that dark alleyway just an hour ago.
"Steve..." your voice cracks, the tough exterior crumbling instantly. Tears immediately well up in your eyes again, blurring your vision. "Steve, leave. Please, just go."
"Please," he whispers again, his voice breaking.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he lowers his arm from the door. But instead of backing away, he steps over the threshold. He takes one slow, deliberate step into your apartment, the sheer presence of him forcing you to stumble backward in retreat.
You can feel a massive, suffocating knot forming in your throat. It’s a sickening mixture of profound heartbreak, sheer terror, and the harsh burn of the alcohol threatening to come back up.
He takes another step, crossing fully into the entryway, and uses his free hand to gently push the door shut behind him. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. He looks at you, his eyes silently pleading, and slowly shakes his head.
"Don't be afraid of me," he begs, his voice cracking. "Please. Not you."
A sound rips its way out of your throat. You couldn't describe it if you tried — it is a horrific, broken noise, somewhere between a bitter laugh and a strangled sob.
You shake your head wildly, backing up until you are standing dead in the center of your living room, putting as much distance between you as the space allows.
"I can explain—" he starts, taking a half-step toward you, his hands raised in surrender.
"No!" You shake your head violently, throwing your hands up to stop him. "I don't want to hear it, Steve! I don't want to listen to you!"
Steve stops. He looks up at the ceiling, jaw clenching tight as he rests his hands on his hips, letting out a long, ragged sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world.
The sensations invading your body are entirely contradictory, and it terrifies you. You should be afraid. You just saw him beat a guy as if it was usual business. You should be running for the fire escape. You should be locking yourself in your bedroom and dialing the police. You should be screaming for help until your lungs give out.
And yet... the sight of him, standing and broken in the middle of your living room, brings an inexplicable wave of calm over you. His presence floods your system with a bizarre, twisted sense of safety that is completely devoid of logic and entirely removed from fear.
You hate yourself for it.
He drops his head, dragging a heavy, shaking hand down his face.
"You shouldn't have seen that," he mutters, his voice thick with shame.
You let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. The sound is sharp and biting.
"Oh, really?" you snap, the anger finally overriding the shock. "Yeah. Sure. I shouldn't have seen that. Just like I shouldn't have seen anything else, right? Just like I shouldn't have seen you completely battered and bleeding out on my doorstep that night two months ago! Just like I shouldn't have ever met that other guy — what's his name? Oh, right, Tommy! The one who looked at me like I was a whore! Just like I shouldn't have heard every single person in my life whispering behind my back that I shouldn't get close to you!"
You step forward, closing the distance you just created, driven by a furious, blinding need for answers. You can feel the heat flushing your cheeks, your blood boiling beneath your skin.
All the agonizing questions, all the crippling insecurities, all the silent doubts you have swallowed down and choked on for months are suddenly erupting from your throat like a volcanic release. You couldn't stop the words now even if you tried.
"Tell me, Steve! What are you?" you scream, your voice bouncing off the walls. "Are you a thug? Is that what you are? A grown man who spends his time harassing college kids? Bullying people for money in dark alleys? Extorting people? Is that it?!"
Steve’s jaw ticks. The muscles in his neck jump as he grits his teeth, his eyes darting away from yours, unable to hold your furious gaze. He stares at the wall, his chest heaving.
"I can't... I can't tell you everything—"
"Then get out!" you shriek, launching yourself at him. You cross the room in two strides, closing the gap completely. "Get out! Leave me alone!"
You raise your hands and shove him hard against his chest. It’s like pushing a brick wall; he barely stumbles back an inch, but you keep going, fueled by pure, unadulterated heartbreak.
"Stop pulling me toward you!" you cry out, hitting his chest again. "Stop confusing me! Stop saying all the beautiful, perfect things you say to me! Stop looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters, stop touching me the way you touch me, just to violently push me away and shut me out the next second!"
You grab handfuls of his shirt, shaking him, demanding he look at you.
"Stop ruining my life without even letting me see half of the person you truly are!"
You let go of him, taking a step back and raking your trembling hands through your hair, pulling at the roots in absolute desperation. You are hyperventilating, the tears finally spilling over your lashes and streaming hot and fast down your cheeks.
"You know what you are?" you spit, stepping forward to push him again. "You're a coward."
You shove him harder this time, putting your entire body weight into it.
"You are a fucking coward, Harrington!"
The words tear out of your mouth without a filter, meant to wound, meant to make him feel a fraction of the agony tearing you apart inside.
You raise your hands to shove him a third time, but as your palms hit his chest, his hands shoot up. His large, warm fingers wrap securely around your wrists, stopping your momentum instantly. His grip is firm, inescapable, but surprisingly gentle.
"Stop," he pleads, his voice low and urgent. "Stop, you're going to hurt yourself."
"I don't care!" You thrash against his hold, trying desperately to yank your wrists free. "Why would I care, Steve?! Nothing I do to myself will ever hurt me more than you do! My God, I've only known you for a few months, and I already feel like you have completely and utterly ruined my life! Don't you understand that?!"
A violent sob rips through your chest, breaking your voice into a pathetic whimper. You stop fighting him, your body suddenly going entirely limp as the fight drains out of you. He doesn't let go of your wrists; instead, he pulls you a fraction of an inch closer, supporting your weight as your knees threaten to buckle.
"I have never felt like this with anyone," you sob, looking up into his tortured eyes, letting all your vulnerability bleed out onto the floor between you. "I have never yearned so deeply just to know a person. It's making me crazy! There are days when you won't even look in my direction, when you walk right past me like I'm a stranger, and then... then there are moments where you look at me like you would give me the entire world."
"I would give you the world."
His voice is sudden. It isn’t a whisper; it is a firm, heavy, absolute declaration that rings through the quiet apartment like a vow.
The absolute certainty in his tone makes you freeze. You stop crying. You stop breathing. Your eyes snap up to his, wide and searching, desperately trying to comprehend the magnitude of his words.
"What—"
Before you can formulate a sentence, he moves. He lets go of your left wrist. His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, and his long fingers tangle deep into the hair at the nape of your neck. He grips you firmly, holding you in place, making it impossible for you to look away from him.
"Whatever you saw in that alley tonight," he speaks in a low, vibrating whisper, stepping so close that his chest brushes against yours. "Whatever you heard people saying about me. Whatever you saw that night I showed up bleeding..."
He ducks his head, closing the final inch of space between you, and rests his forehead heavily against yours.
The contact is electric. It sends a blinding shockwave through your entire nervous system. The warmth of his skin, the frantic, jagged rhythm of his breathing mingling with yours, the heavy, intoxicating scent of him — it entirely short-circuits your brain.
For a terrifying, beautiful second, you completely forget everything. You forget the violence. You forget the secrets. You forget the rumors, your fears, and your crushing anxiety. You forget that the foundation of whatever this is between you is built entirely on secrets rather than answers. All that exists is the pressure of his forehead against yours, and the thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"None of it changes anything," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "I would give my life for you."
You let out a broken gasp. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head, rubbing your forehead against his as you make a monumental, agonizing effort to stop the fresh wave of tears from falling.
"Don't say that," you whisper back, your voice cracking with heartbreak. "Don't say that to me when you can't even tell me half of the things that have happened in your life. Don't say you'd die for me when every single day you become more of a complete stranger to me."
Slowly, tenderly, he turns his head. The tip of his nose brushes softly along the curve of your cheek, a ghost of a touch that makes your breath hitch in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, digging your nails into your own palms, desperately trying to maintain whatever tiny shred of willpower remains inside you.
"That guy... out there," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine. "That's not me."
"It clearly was," you whisper back, a tear escaping and tracking a hot path down your face. "The man I saw standing there, watching someone get beaten into the pavement... that was you, Steve."
He shakes his head against your cheek. His hand tightens slightly in your hair, holding you closer, like he is terrified you will evaporate into thin air if he lets go.
"You don't understand."
You shake your head, stepping back just an inch, breaking the contact of your heads so you can look at him. Your chest heaves. Another tear falls, then another, a silent cascade of absolute defeat.
"No," you say, your voice hollow and completely devoid of hope. "Sadly, I don't understand at all."
He stares down at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your tear-stained face. He looks wrecked. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the jagged rocks below, knowing he has to jump.
Slowly, he leans in again. This time, his lips don't brush your ear. They graze lightly, agonizingly slowly, across the tear-streaked skin of your cheek. He kisses the salt away, a gesture so impossibly tender it makes your knees weak.
You let out a long, trembling sigh, your hands coming up instinctively to rest flat against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm that matches your own.
"Please..." he breathes against the corner of your mouth.
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You don’t need to ask what he wants, or what he’s begging for. You understand it with perfect, terrifying clarity, because the ache in your own chest is identical to the one in his. You need exactly the same thing. You need to bridge the gap. You need to feel him, to know that beneath the secrets and the violence, the guy who looks at you like you hung the moon is still there.
Slowly, you tilt your head up. You open your eyes, and his are already waiting. You lock gazes, the remaining inches between your faces charged with a static electricity that makes the air crackle.
It’s a silent, profound surrender. In that single, drawn-out look, souls connect, communicating a desperate, undeniable truth that words could never capture.
You don't know if it is the alcohol buzzing warmly in your veins, the sheer adrenaline crash of the night, or the overwhelming, suffocating tension that has been building between the two of you for months. But suddenly, your mind goes completely, blessedly blank.
The world drops away.
The next conscious sensation you register is the impossibly soft, warm press of his lips against yours.
The kiss starts slow. It’s tentative, a fragile, trembling question. He presses his lips to yours with a reverence that breaks your heart all over again, testing the waters, deciphering just how much you want this. His free hand drops down, coming to rest with warm, solid possession flush against the curve of your waist. His other hand remains buried in the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers tightening slightly, tilting your head to the perfect, agonizing angle to deepen the connection.
You let out a soft, involuntary whimper against his mouth.
That tiny sound is the spark that ignites the powder keg.
When he realizes you aren't pulling away — when he feels your hands slide up from his chest to wrap tightly around his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt to pull him flush against you — the hesitation shatters.
The kiss explodes.
It surges from a tender question into a desperate, hungry demand. Steve groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and his mouth opens over yours, urgent and commanding. You gasp, welcoming the slide of his tongue, meeting his fierce passion with a desperate hunger of your own. The taste of him is intoxicating. It acts like a drug, instantly addicting, making you crave more, making you pull him closer until there isn't a millimeter of space left between your bodies.
His arm tightens like a vice around your waist, lifting you slightly onto your toes, completely enveloping you in his warmth. His mouth is everywhere, devouring yours, angling his head to deepen the kiss until you are entirely breathless. It’s no longer just a kiss; it is a battle for dominance, a physical manifestation of all the unsaid words, the anger, the longing, and the profound, terrifying yearning that has been festering in the dark.
Your hands move frantically, sliding up into his messy hair, gripping the thick strands tightly to anchor yourself in the storm. You kiss him back with a ferocity that matches his own, pouring every ounce of your frustration and desire into the collision of your mouths.
He takes a sudden, staggering step forward, forcing you to step backward to keep your balance. The momentum is unstoppable. He walks you backward through the living room, neither of you breaking the kiss for even a fraction of a second. You stumble together, a tangle of limbs and desperate, gasping breaths.
Your leg violently clips the edge of the wooden coffee table. You don't even feel the bruise blooming; you don't care. Steve's hand immediately drops from your waist, his arm wrapping around your lower back to catch you, his grip bruising and possessive as he hoists you up, preventing you from falling.
He spins you, the world blurring in a chaotic swirl of colors, and the backs of your knees hit the edge of the couch.
With a breathless, ragged gasp, you tumble backward onto the soft cushions, pulling him down with you. He follows you instantly, seamlessly, his heavy body caging you in, pressing you deep into it. He catches his weight on his forearms, hovering just inches above you, his chest heaving against yours.
He breaks the kiss, but only to drag his mouth roughly down your jawline, his hot breath ghosting over your skin before his lips press open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of your neck. You let out a breathless, shattered sigh, your head falling back against the armrest, arching into his touch.
"Steve..." you pant, your hands sliding down his back, feeling the hard shift of his muscles beneath his jacket.
"Tell me to stop," he mutters fiercely against your skin, his teeth lightly grazing your collarbone, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. "Tell me to get out. Tell me to leave right now, and I will."
His voice is entirely devoid of its usual arrogant confidence. It’s raw, shaking with a violent restraint. He lifts his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his dark eyes blazing with an unholy mixture of lust and desperate adoration as he stares down at you, waiting for your verdict.
You look up at him. You see the guy who hides in the shadows, the guy who is terrified of his own darkness, the guy who just confessed he would die for you.
You reach up, cupping his jaw, your thumb gently brushing over his cheekbone.
"Don't you dare stop," you whisper.
A ragged breath tears from his lungs. The last thread of his control snaps completely. He crushes his mouth to yours again, hotter, harder, and infinitely more passionate than before, consuming you entirely as the rest of the world fades into absolute nothingness.
In this exact moment, you can’t think of a single rational thing. You don’t even have a fraction of a second to catch your breath, let alone process the sheer magnitude of what is happening.
The realization of just how agonizingly long you have been waiting for this exact moment — months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between you — is entirely lost in the haze of the present.
It’s finally happening.
After all the near-misses and all the quiet moments where you both pretended not to stare at each other, it is happening right here, right now, in the dimly lit living room of your apartment.
Your hands, moving entirely on their own volition, slide frantically beneath the heavy fabric of his jacket. Your fingers grip the material, desperate to pull it off, to eliminate any barrier between the two of you.
Steve senses your urgency. He breaks the kiss for just a few agonizing seconds — seconds that leave your lips feeling cold and needy — just long enough to shrug the jacket off his shoulders. He tosses it blindly, not caring where it lands, the fabric hitting some unseen piece of furniture in the shadows of the living room. Before you can even open your eyes, his hands are framing your face again, pulling you back in, and his lips crash against yours with a renewed, desperate hunger.
Your fingers find their way into his hair. You tangle them in the thick strand, messing it even more. You tug at the roots, a little harder than you intended, pulling his head closer to yours. The sudden friction draws a low, rough sound of deep satisfaction from the back of his throat. The vibration of that groan travels directly from his chest into yours, sending a wild, electric thrill straight down your spine.
Suddenly, as if communicating through some silent, primal frequency, you both pull apart just enough to kick off your shoes. They hit the hardwood floor with heavy thuds that echo briefly in the quiet apartment. Steve’s hands move to the waistband of your jeans, gripping the denim tightly. With a firm, decisive pull, he drives you backward until your shoulders hit the back of the sofa again with a soft, muffled thud. He follows you down instantly, slotting himself firmly between your thighs, pinning you in place with a weight that feels both grounding and intoxicating.
His hands, large and gentle, slip beneath the hem of your shirt. His palms are warm, rough with calluses, yet as they slide upward over your ribs, they leave a trailing path of undeniable goosebumps in their wake. Your breath hitches, the sensation so sharp it borders on painful.
His lips abandon your mouth, tracing a hot, wet path along the edge of your jawline before diving into the crook of your neck. If your mind wasn’t so entirely clouded by the intoxicating scent of him you might have the presence of mind to warn him. You might playfully tell him to be careful, to watch out for leaving marks that you’ll inevitably have to hide tomorrow. But you can’t think. You really, truly cannot form a coherent thought.
It’s utterly impossible for either of you to ignore the fundamental, magnetic need to press your bodies together, seeking friction even through the thick layers of your clothes.
Steve shifts his weight, his hands gripping your waist to tilt your hips upward, aligning yours perfectly with his. When he presses down, a sound escapes your mouth — a soft, breathy whine that instantly makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You want to swallow it back, but you can’t stop it. The sound only seems to encourage him, his breath ghosting hot against your collarbone as his grip on your hips tightens and he grinds down again.
Seeking out that same skin-on-skin contact, your hands begin to blindly map his chest through his shirt. You grab the hem of it, intending to pull it up and off, to finally feel the bare heat of him against you.
But instantly, the atmosphere shifts.
Steve’s hands shoot down, his reflexes terrifyingly fast, and his fingers wrap around your wrists like iron bands. He stops you dead in your tracks.
The abrupt halt sends a jolt of confusion through you. He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy and falling over his forehead. He looks down at you, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the sudden, intense vulnerability swimming in his dark brown eyes.
You look up at him, the fog of desire clearing just enough for understanding to dawn.
You know exactly why he stopped you.
You understand that he doesn’t want you to see his torso. He doesn’t want you to see the scars. It doesn’t matter that he’s already shown them to you once before. In this context, in the intimacy of a dimly lit room where the air is thick with desire, exposing them makes him feel bare. It makes him feel entirely vulnerable, and he has spent the last years building walls so high and so thick that vulnerability terrifies him more than anything could.
And looking at the hesitation in his eyes, a sudden, intrusive thought pierces your mind. You can’t help but wonder if the other girls have seen them. The other girls in Hawkins. The girls he has been with briefly in the city as he tries to run away from his past. Gabriela.
There’s a selfish, possessive part of you that desperately hopes they haven't. A part of you that prays he kept the lights off, that he kept his shirt on, that he never let them see the true, broken extent of what he has survived. You want to be the only one who gets to see all of him.
But there is another, much larger part of you — the part that feels for him entirely — that absolutely breaks at the thought of Steve walking through the world feeling so incredibly exposed and ashamed. It shatters your heart to think of him feeling like he can’t trust anyone enough to just be himself, to show the roadmap of his survival etched into his skin. To show the scars on his body, and by extension, the deep, jagged scars on his soul.
The silence between you stretches, heavy and thick with unspoken fears. He’s waiting for you to pull away. He’s waiting for you to decide if it’s too much work, too much baggage.
"Steve..." you whisper into the quiet space between you.
"I…" he mutters, his voice thick, his gaze dropping.
"Look at me," you say gently, refusing to let him hide. When he finally drags his eyes back to yours, you hold his gaze steadily. "Please..." you whisper softly.
Slowly, deliberately, you test his grip. Your hands turn slightly within his grasp, and your fingertips brush against the skin of his forearms.
Steve lets out a long, shaky sigh. It sounds like a physical surrender. The iron grip on your wrists loosens, his fingers uncurling, letting you go.
Your hands immediately resume their upward journey. You slide your palms under the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up slowly. As your hands travel upward, your fingertips brush over the raised, uneven textures of his skin. You feel the jagged lines into his sides, the marks, every scar tells a story of him bleeding God-knows-why.
But while your hands read the braille of his past, your eyes never leave his face. You stay completely locked onto his deep brown eyes, watching the emotions flicker across them: fear, anticipation, and an overwhelming, desperate relief.
You push the shirt all the way up to his chest. Steve swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His jaw clenches so tightly you can see a muscle feathering beneath his skin.
Then, with a sudden, fluid movement that speaks of a sudden burst of courage, he grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks it over his head, tossing it aside to join his jacket on the floor.
He sits back on his heels, entirely exposed to you.
Finally, you allow your eyes to drop down to his torso. It doesn’t matter that you have seen it before. The sight of it still makes your chest ache with a profound, twisting tenderness. Your heart physically squeezes at the sight of every silver line of scar tissue, some old and faded, others still terrifyingly pink and recent.
He looks like a battlefield.
He looks like a boy who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and taken the hits so no one else had to.
You raise your hand, intending to press your palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his racing heart, to ground him. But before you can make contact, his hand shoots out again. This time, however, he doesn't push you away. He catches your wrists gently, his large hands encompassing your delicate bones.
You look up at him, questioning.
Without ever breaking eye contact, Steve brings your wrists to his mouth. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your left wrist, right over your pulse point. Then your right. He maps his way up your forearms, his lips soft and warm, leaving a trail of reverent kisses along your skin. He moves closer, his face hovering just inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours once again.
For a split second, you see his lips part. You see a terrifying sincerity in his eyes, and you think he’s going to say it. You think he is going to say something profound, something that will shatter the fragile glass house you’ve both been living in, maybe even a confession.
But just as quickly as the moment arrives, you see him swallow the words down. He stops himself, the walls coming back up just a fraction of an inch.
Instead, he leans his forehead against yours.
"Can I...?" he whispers against your lips, his voice barely a breath. As he asks, his hands drop from your wrists and catch the bottom edge of your t-shirt, giving it a gentle, questioning tug. He’s asking for permission. He’s giving you the choice to stop, to keep your own armor on.
You nod, not trusting your voice. You begin to sit up, lifting your back off the cushions to give him more room to maneuver the shirt over your head.
But suddenly, something shifts inside you. A sudden, inexplicable surge of confidence — a fierce, burning need to take back control, to show him that he isn’t the only one who wants this with an overwhelming desperation — possesses your body.
Instead of just sitting up, you push your hands firmly against his shoulders. You use his surprise to shift your weight, sliding forward until you are straddling his lap entirely. You drop your knees onto the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, towering over him slightly.
Steve lets out a sharp intake of breath, clearly startled by the sudden change in dynamics. But the surprise quickly melts into a dark, heated gaze of approval. He accepts the new position instantly. His large hands immediately drop from the hem of your shirt down to your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above your waistband. He grips you firmly, pulling you downward, pressing you flush against him so that your bodies meet again in that exquisite, maddening friction.
You bite your lower lip hard. Usually, when you do it around him, it’s a nervous habit — a telltale sign that he has flustered you. But this time, it’s purely instinctual. You bite down to keep from crying out because you honestly have no idea how to react to the sheer sensory overload of straddling him, of feeling the hard planes of his body beneath yours.
Determined, your hands find the hem of your own shirt. In one swift, fluid motion, you pull it up and over your head, tossing it over your shoulder.
The cool air of the apartment hits your bare skin. Your shirt had been so tight, almost like a second skin, that you had made the bold decision not to wear a bra to the party tonight, knowing the underwire would just dig into you uncomfortably all evening. When you had looked in the mirror hours ago, you wondered if it was a terrible idea. But right now, seeing the way Steve is looking at you? It might have been the best idea you’ve ever had.
For Steve, it is unequivocally the best idea in the history of the world. He stops breathing. His hands freeze on your hips. His brown eyes go impossibly wide, filled with a mixture of absolute awe and raw, unfiltered hunger. His gaze drops, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your chest, and slowly, deliberately tracking back up to your flushed face. He looks at you as if you are something divine, something he has no right to touch but can’t possibly stay away from.
"Christ," he breathes out, his voice hoarse, sounding like he’s in physical pain. "You can't be... you can't be this fucking beautiful. It's not fair."
Your cheeks instantly flood with heat. You blush a deep, dark red — a reaction that is completely, annoyingly inevitable whenever Steve Harrington looks at you like that, let alone when he speaks to you with such profound, undisguised adoration.
Before you can formulate a response, Steve drops his head back against the backrest of the couch. One of his hands leaves your hip, traveling up your back to tangle deeply into the hair at the nape of your neck. With a gentle but unyielding pressure, he pulls your face down to his.
The kiss is different this time. It’s no longer just frantic; it’s deep, consuming, and territorial. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, his tongue tracing your bottom lip before slipping inside.
Unconsciously, your hips lift just a fraction of an inch, seeking relief from the building tension.
Steve groans into your mouth. His free hand immediately snaps back to your hip, his fingers digging into your skin as he forces you back down, flush against him.
"Keep going, please..." he whispers frantically against your lips between open-mouthed kisses. "Don't stop."
This time, the sensation of his hard bulge pressing against the seam of his jeans is much more prominent beneath you. Driven by your own escalating need, you begin to move your hips, grinding down against him in a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. It’s a delicious, mind-melting friction, but with every passing second, the barrier of your denim jeans turns the pleasure into a torturous ache.
Steve lets out a ragged, stuttering breath.
"God, I need you so much," he gasps, breaking the kiss to look up at you. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so much there is barely any brown left. He looks at you with absolute, puppy-dog desperation.
He leans forward. His lips pressing wet kisses over your left chest, while his thumb softly brushes over your right nipple. You can’t stop the moan that leaves your mouth.
But suddenly, loud noise from the hallway outside your apartment door cuts through the heavy air like a knife.
You jump violently, a squeak of absolute panic escaping your throat. It’s as if your soul has instantly slammed back into your body. The haze of lust vanishes in a heartbeat. You scramble backward, instantly crossing your arms over your bare chest to cover yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"Oh my God," you gasp, staring wide-eyed at the apartment door. "Robin is—"
Steve is faster. He doesn’t even flinch at the noise. He reaches up, his large hand gently but firmly gripping your jaw, forcing you to look away from the door and back down at him.
"Hey," he says, his voice remarkably steady, though his chest is still heaving. "Hey, relax. Look at me."
You blink down at him, still vibrating with adrenaline.
"Robin is not out there," he assures you, a small, amused glint returning to his eyes. "She told me she was crashing at Vickie's tonight. It's just a neighbor."
You let out a massive, shaky sigh of relief, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. Your arms, however, remain crossed tightly over your chest, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washing over you now that the immediate spell has been broken.
"Are you sure?" you mumble into his skin.
Steve bites his lower lip, trying to suppress a smile, though you can see the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
"I'm sure," he says softly.
He uncrosses your arms gently, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. Then, his arms wrap entirely around your waist. With a sudden shift and a display of strength that seems to require zero effort on his part, he stands up from the couch, lifting you entirely off it.
You let out a loud noise of surprise, your legs instinctively flying up and wrapping tightly around his waist to keep from falling. Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping his bare skin tightly.
"Steve!" you yelp, your heart skipping a beat.
"What?" he chuckles, his voice rumbling against your cheek. He adjusts his grip, holding your thighs securely as he walks effortlessly down the short hallway toward your bedroom. "I figure you'll be a little more relaxed in a room with a door we can lock, right?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He kicks your bedroom door open with his foot and, once you are both inside, kicks it shut behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place feels incredibly definitive.
Instead of just dropping you onto the mattress, he walks right up to the edge of the bed and lets himself fall forward, taking you down with him. You bounce against the mattress, a gasp escaping you. Steve hovers over you, catching his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you, slotting his legs perfectly between yours once again.
He wastes no time. He leans down, reconnecting his lips with yours, swallowing your laughter. The kiss is slower this time, sweeter, lacking the frantic panic from the living room but replacing it with a deep, simmering intent.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy. His hands move to the button of your jeans. He pops it open with practiced ease, slowly pulling down the zipper. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and begins to pull them down your hips.
There is something utterly indescribable in his gaze. It’s intense, focused, and completely reverent. Usually, being looked at like this would make you want to crawl out of your own skin with discomfort. You've never liked being perceived so intensely. But with Steve, nothing about this makes you feel uncomfortable. It’s strange, the absolute safety you feel under his heavy, heated stare.
As he pulls your pants completely off, discarding them onto the floor beside the bed, he doesn't immediately move back up to your lips. Instead, he ducks his head down. He begins to leave a slow, agonizingly soft trail of kisses starting from your knee, moving up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, stopping just agonizingly short of the edge of your underwear.
Your breath stutters violently in your chest. Your hands grip the bedsheets on either side of your body, your knuckles turning white. You look down at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your entire body trembling with anticipation.
Before he can make his next move, before his lips can go any deeper, reality crashes over you again. You reach down, your fingers tangling in his messy hair, and gently but firmly pull his head up.
"Wait..." you pant, your voice breathless.
He stops immediately, looking up at you with slightly glassy eyes.
"What is it? Are you okay?"
"I..." you swallow hard, a flush creeping up your neck. "I don't have any condoms."
Steve freezes for a singular, terrifying second. Then, slowly, a devastatingly arrogant, deeply amused smile spreads across his handsome face. He shifts his weight, reaching down into the pocket of his jeans for a moment before bringing his hand back up, holding a small, square, metallic blue packet between his index and middle finger.
He holds it up like a trophy.
The realization hits you like a physical weight in your stomach. Your eyebrows knit together, a sudden flare of indignation cutting through the haze of lust.
"Do you always carry a condom with you?" you ask, your tone a mixture of disbelief and irritation.
His smile only widens.
"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.”
There’s something about his words that, although playful, unsettles you for a second, and there’s a voice in the back of your head suddenly telling you how wrong it is to be doing this with him after what you saw tonight.
But you roll your eyes shoving the feeling away, so hard they almost hurt.
"You are absolutely impossible, Harrington."
Steve lets out a soft, breathy laugh. His head is still positioned low, and the puff of air from him hits your underwear directly. The hot breath sends an involuntary shudder wracking violently through your entire frame.
Before he can take advantage of your distraction and lean down to replace that breath with his lips, you grab his chin firmly. You pull him up, dragging his body back up the mattress until he is face-to-face with you again. The sudden spike of irritation has vanished, replaced entirely by the all-consuming, desperate need to simply have him. You cannot wait another second. You need him.
He reads the urgency in your eyes instantly. The playful arrogance drops from his face, replaced by a dark, serious hunger. He moves with startling speed, pulling down his jeans and boxers at the same time and kicking them away, not giving your brain a single second to catch up or overthink the reality of what is about to happen.
The sight of his prominent length twitching against the air of the room sends a shiver through your entire body. But when he tears open the small packet, you instinctively turn your head away, staring at the ceiling. A sudden wave of intense shyness washes over you, making you feel as though you are intruding on something incredibly private, something you shouldn't be watching.
Then, you feel his hands. They wrap around your waist, large and warm, pulling you physically closer to him on the center of the mattress. His thumbs press into your skin, a silent demand for your attention. He makes you look at him again.
Steve moves over you, a shadow blocking out the dim bedroom light. He lowers himself, his lips returning to your skin. He leaves soft, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, lingering over your ribs, trailing up between your breasts, tracing the line of your collarbone, and finally pressing a tender kiss against the pulse beating frantically in your neck.
He moves up, his face hovering right above yours. His lips are swollen and red from kissing you, slightly parted as he breathes heavily into your mouth. His brow is slightly furrowed with concentration and restraint, and a thick lock of brown hair has fallen across his forehead, clinging to a sheen of sweat.
He looks into your eyes, searching them deeply.
His hand wraps around himself, brushing the head of his throbbing cock against your folds, testing the waters. He bites his lips noticing how ready your body is for him.
"Tell me if this is okay, alright?" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Tell me to stop if you need me to."
You nod frantically. You bite your bottom lip, your hands reaching up to grip his broad shoulders. You are anxious, yes, but you are absolutely desperate to feel him, to finally cross this line that has been drawn in the sand between you for months.
Steve lifts his hand. His thumb gently brushes over your lower lip, coaxing it out from between your teeth. He leans down, connecting his lips with yours in a deep, slow kiss.
And then, before you can even brace yourself, before your mind can catch up with the physical reality, he’s pressing forward, sliding inside of you.
It’s impossible to hold back the sound that tears from your throat. A loud, shocked gasp that quickly turns into a deep, sustained moan. The sensation is entirely overwhelming — a feeling of being stretched and filled completely. You have to break the kiss, turning your head sharply to the side to bury your face in his shoulder, biting down on his skin to muffle the groan vibrating through your chest.
Steve freezes instantly. His muscles lock up, his arms trembling as he holds himself perfectly still above you.
"Shh, shh, hey," he whispers frantically into your hair, his voice laced with sudden panic. "Are you okay? I can pull out if—"
You silence him instantly, shaking your head vigorously against his shoulder. You pull back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are wide, glassy, and filled with a profound, aching longing.
"No," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "Don't stop. Please, Steve. Keep going."
He exhales a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he slowly begins to move.
His movements, at first, are agonizingly slow. They are deliberate, firm, and incredibly careful, giving your body the time it needs to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of him.
But you realize he isn’t completely in yet, so you wrap your legs around his hips, sinking him deeper, showing him you can take him all.
“Oh, f—,” your curse gets stuck on your throat. It isn't just the physical reality that it has been months since you were last intimate with anyone. It is the startling, profound realization that Steve seems to fit you in a way no one else ever has. He seems to fill not just the physical space, but an emotional void you didn't even know you were carrying. It feels terribly, wonderfully right.
Before you even realize the shift, the slow, agonizing pace changes. His restraint finally snaps. His hips begin to move faster, the gentle rhythm replaced by deeper, more urgent thrusts. His body collides against yours with a heavy, rhythmic sound that echoes in the quiet room.
One of his hands drops from your waist, gripping your hip bone with a bruised, desperate strength to anchor you to him. His other hand reaches up, tangling fiercely in the bedsheets right beside your head, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.
"Fuck... God..." The words are torn from his throat, soft but strained with intense effort.
His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, his brow furrowed so deeply it looks painful. Watching his face contort, a sudden, fleeting stab of insecurity pieces through your haze of pleasure.
You find yourself wondering, in the back of your dizzy mind, if there is some part of him that is regretting this. If, through the haze of adrenaline and lust, the reality of the situation is settling in and he's wishing he was somewhere else, with someone else. Someone less complicated. Someone who didn't know all his ghosts.
But every single one of your doubts is violently shattered by the low, guttural growl that rips from his chest.
The hand that was tangled in the sheets beside your head drops down, sliding down the back of your thigh. He grips the back of your knee, lifting your leg higher, hooking it over his forearm to open you up even further, pulling you flush against him so he can sink impossibly deeper.
"You feel so fucking good, God..." he grits out, throwing his head back toward the ceiling, the cords in his neck straining. His thrusts become rapid, completely uncontrolled. He looks back down at you, his eyes blazing. "Are you okay?" he demands again, needing reassurance.
You can't form words. The sheer sensory overload has short-circuited your brain. You can only nod your head frantically against the pillow, letting out small, broken gasps with every thrust.
The sensation is too much to process coherently. You act entirely on instinct. Your hands slide down from his shoulders, tracing the hard, sweat-slicked muscles of his back. You let your fingertips glide over the raised skin of his scars, tracing the lines of his trauma.
In the back of your mind, a quiet, desperate prayer forms: you hope that somehow, through this profound union of your bodies, you can offer him some measure of healing. You want to absorb his pain. You want to love the broken pieces of him until they don't hurt anymore.
Your hands continue their exploration, moving over his arms, feeling the coiled tension in every single muscle of his body. He’s wound tight as a spring, but you know, with a thrilling sense of power, that this tension is born entirely of pleasure, of a desperate need to hold on for just a little longer.
"God, I’m gonna..." Steve gasps out, his voice cracking, his rhythm stuttering as he loses the battle against his own body.
You look up at him, your vision blurred with tears of overwhelming pleasure, and you understand perfectly. You understand because, for the last several minutes, every time he thrusts forward, he has been hitting a spot deep inside you that sends electric, blinding shockwaves through your entire nervous system. It has been building and building, rising higher and higher like a tidal wave, and it’s entirely impossible to stop it from crashing.
Steve's hand moves from your leg, sliding up your chest until his fingers gently wrap around the front of your throat. It's not tight, just a firm, possessive grounding pressure. He leans down, crashing his lips against yours once more, swallowing your moans. Your hand immediately flies to the back of his head, your fingers burying into his thick hair, pulling him flush against you as you brace yourself for the edge.
For one long, suspended minute, the only sounds existing in the universe are the wet, obscene sounds of your desperate kisses, the heavy, rhythmic slap of your sweat-slicked bodies colliding, and the ragged sound of your shared breathing. In this suspended bubble of time, it feels as though the act is systematically burning away the rest of the world. It incinerates the fears, the deeply rooted insecurities, the anxiety of tomorrow. There is nothing left but him, you, and the heat.
"F-fuck."
The curse breaks from his lips against yours. He doesn't need to say another word; his body telegraphs everything.
Suddenly, every single muscle in Steve’s back goes rigid under your hands. He lets out a loud, breathless groan, a sound of absolute defeat and profound release, and thrusts forward one final, deep time. He holds himself there, trembling violently.
The sheer intensity of his release is the final push you need. The tension inside you snaps violently, sending wave after blinding wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy crashing through your body. You cry out into his mouth, your back arching off the mattress as you follow him over the edge, entirely consumed by the sensation.
Slowly, as the shockwaves begin to subside, his strength gives out. He collapses forward, his heavy, damp weight pressing you deep into the mattress.
You lie there, tangled together in the messy sheets. Both of your bodies are violently trembling, your chests heaving in perfect synchronization as you fight to pull oxygen back into your lungs. His face is buried deep in the crook of your neck, his hot, ragged breaths fanning across your damp skin.
You squeeze your eyes shut, your arms wrapped tightly around his back, trying desperately to process what has just happened, how entirely your world has shifted on its axis.
After a few seconds, when his breathing finally begins to slow to a somewhat normal rhythm, Steve shifts. He presses his hands into the mattress on either side of your head, slowly pushing himself up on his arms to look down at you.
He looks exhausted, thoroughly wrecked, and breathtakingly handsome. He has a soft, incredibly goofy, completely unguarded smile plastered across his face. He lifts one hand, gently brushing a damp piece of hair off your forehead, his thumb lingering on your temple.
You look up at him and can't help the soft, breathless laugh that escapes your lips.
"God..." you whisper, your voice hoarse.
"Yeah..." Steve replies, his voice equally rough, filled with a quiet kind of awe. He stares at you for a moment longer before asking, softly, "Are you okay?"
You hesitate. You don’t even know why. But you nod, a genuine smile breaking across your face.
"Never better."
His smile widens, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. His thumb drops from your temple, tracing the curve of your cheek down to your lips. He leans in and presses a soft, incredibly tender kiss to your mouth. It’s the polar opposite of the frantic, teeth-clashing kisses from the living room, but somehow, the gentle reverence of it makes your heart hammer even harder, making you blush all over again.
Reluctantly, he pulls away. He pushes himself up onto his knees, carefully pulling out of you. The sudden emptiness makes you whine in protest, a soft sound you try to bite back too late.
Steve just smirks at you, tossing the used condom into the small trashcan beside your nightstand with a terrifyingly accurate throw that you don't even have the energy to roll your eyes at.
You are utterly drained. Your limbs feel like lead. You simply lay there, spread out on your mattress, staring blankly up at the ceiling above you. You don't move a muscle until you feel the soft weight of a blanket being pulled up over your bare chest.
A second later, the mattress dips, and you feel the solid, radiating heat of Steve’s body as he slides under the covers and lays down flat on his back right next to you.
You turn your head to look at him. He’s staring up as well, his hands resting on his stomach.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely different. The adrenaline has faded, the lust has been satiated, and what remains in its wake is a heavy, complicated silence. It’s as if, in this quiet aftermath, you have both simultaneously crashed back down to reality.
You both realize the massive, irrevocable implications of what you have just done, of the line you have crossed, but neither of you has the slightest idea what the consequences will be.
Slowly, seeking comfort, you roll onto your side. You slide across the mattress and rest your head flat against his bare chest, right over his patch of hair, where you can listen to his heartbeat.
Steve reacts instantly. He lifts his arm, wrapping it securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. His hand rests on your bare back, his fingers lazily tracing idle circles against your skin. It’s comforting. It’s intimate. But neither of you speaks a single word.
It’s as though you both know the truth without having to vocalize it. You both know that even though you have finally satiated this massive, consuming need that has been chasing you for months; even though the physical act managed to completely obliterate the rest of the world and silence the demons for a few fleeting minutes; it didn’t cure anything.
There’s still something fundamentally, deeply broken inside him. And you still have absolutely no idea how to fix it.
As your eyes begin to droop shut, the exhaustion finally claiming you, you find yourself being lulled to sleep by the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the strong, comforting sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Ironically, it feels like the safest place in the world.
But deep, very deep down in the recesses of your tired mind, as the darkness of sleep begins to pull you under, a flash of memory violently intrudes.
You see the dark alleyway behind the building. You see the terror in that guy's eyes.
And you see Steve.
His jaw tense while he saw the guy getting beat up, his face unreadable as the younger one begged for mercy. You see him kick on the guy’s knee until he could stand up again.
You squeeze your eyes tighter, burrowing closer to his warmth, desperate to chase the memory away.
But as you drift off to sleep in the arms of the guy that has you completely wrapped around his finger, you realize with a cold — sinking dread — that perhaps you will never be able to forget it all.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
Summary: Steve has a lot of important conversations and not all of them are good.
Chapter Notes: Steve POV! Finally! Lovely writing this absolute simp of a man. But there is an obvious tonal change in this chapter because of this. Not proofread. Not even edited, unfortunately as I need to leave the house right now. Will try to edit later. Sorry!
Smut Warning: bigdick!Steve, virgin!reader, fingering, oral f and m! receiving, piv, also quite a bit of dialogue with Steve checking in constantly
A/N: Just one more chapter and an epilogue to round everything out! I'll likely push out some drabbles for this one, just because I love them so much.
Read other parts here: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
MASTERLIST
...
Sometimes, Steve wonders where he would be if you didn’t manage to come stumbling into his life.
(Although, technically Mike and Dustin practically dragged you into it. But he likes to think he did most of the work.)
Likely he would be trapped in some vicious cycle of mindless dating and even more meaningless sex. Never knowing if anyone would come into his life and finally see him, and all the love he is always too willing to give away.
He likes how he feels with you. Likes the way you look at him with love shining in your eyes. Loves the way that he doesn’t need to guess where he stands with you. Loves that there is only him to have been able to receive all the love you have to give, just so he can give it all back to you and then some. He loves how you wear your heart on your sleeve. Because he doesn’t have to speculate how you feel about him, doesn’t get left in the dark. And he likes to think of the heart on your sleeve as his own, whole and beating.
Because, the truth is… Steve isn’t a nice person. Not always. Just that he tries to be. He isn’t a happy person either. It’s hard to be either, to be honest.
But you don’t care.
And so he’s carefully removed all the other versions of himself, even the carefully crafted ones, and settles into the one he really is. The one who is maybe a little more needy than he’d like to be.
The Steve who is learning to explain what he needs and wants instead of focusing on what he can give just to convince someone to stay.
The most important thing that Steve has learned about himself, however, is that now that he’s in a loving and secure relationship, he’s feeling a lot more confident about being Steve. The real one. Like maybe… he wants to start figuring things out now. Because maybe he isn’t so scared to try now that he knows there’s someone who’s going to be there for when it doesn’t pan out.
And if you can love him through the Family Video employee version of Steve, he thinks you’ll love him through anything.
He loves you just as much, if not maybe a little more.
Or at least enough to make through this weird double-date situation that you and Nancy had somehow put together at the last minute together. As if the two of you are friends now. And like you didn’t just spend the night teasing the shit out of him.
But sometimes, you smile these little smiles, the little Steve smile, the one that you have just for him and he just melts and lets you do whatever the hell you fucking want. Like pushing him into a booth to have burgers and fries with Jonathan Byers.
Look, it’s not that there’s anything wrong with Byers. He’s a decent dude. But aside from shared traumatic events and the tiny town of Hawkins and its inhabitants, there isn’t really anything to tie the two of them together.
And yet here Steve is, sitting across the table from Jonathan Byers like this is normal.
But he looks at you, sees how you glow as you speak with Nancy about summer plans and he thinks he might hear the words barbecue and pool being tossed around at some point, watches as your fingers think they’re being stealthily as they lift a fry from his basket and slide it between the lips he’d rather have on his own. He likes seeing you swimming in his tuxedo jacket, likes seeing you in any of his clothes, really. He especially likes it when your hand drops down to his thigh, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his flesh.
He thinks he can live through this kind of torture.
And then you and Nancy head to the restroom (because girls have to go together all the time for some weird reason) leaving him behind with Jonathan.
Jonathan looks just as uncomfortable as Steve feels so Steve tries to smile at the other guy/former love rival though he thinks it may have come off as a grimace.
Jonathan doesn’t seem to mind though as he folds his paper napkin into what might be a boat.
“She’s cool,” Jonathan says, finally breaking the ice after giving up on his sad little origami project. “I was surprised when Nancy told me the two of you got together but now that I see you as a couple, I think I get it.”
“She’s awesome,” Steve corrects. “And yeah, the whole ‘making sense’ thing is overrated, I think.”
“I get it. No one ever thought Nancy and me made sense either. But… love, you know.”
Steve nods, unsure of what to say next because despite having killed interdimensional creatures and overlords alongside Jonathan, they really don’t have much to talk about.
He figures, honesty might be his best bet.
“Listen,” Steve folds his hands together on the table, “You probably have plans with Nancy for after this, because I know that I have… plans, with my girlfriend for after this. So what do you say, we get things on the road. Let’s grab the check so we can head out?”
Jonathan agrees immediately and Steve and him both push themselves out of the booth to the register to pay for their orders. Once the girls come out of the bathroom, Jonathan quickly tells Nancy that there’s something he’s been wanting to show her and leads her out of the diner with a helpless Nancy, who is only able to wave goodbye.
“He’s really effective when he puts his mind to it,” Steve mutters.
He grins down at you and proffers his arm. “Shall we head out?”
“You totally convinced Jonathan to leave, didn’t you?”
Steve chuckles before pressing a kiss on your lips and it’s all too brief but still always sweet.
“Believe me, he really didn’t take much convincing, sweetheart.”
…
Steve thinks he might seriously be done with you.
Despite his better efforts to try to reserve his plans for where his very comfortable bed is, he cannot quite seem to convince you to keep your hands off him. Which, technically, when he really thinks about it (and of course, he thinks about it and you quite a lot) there is nothing wrong with your girlfriend giving you a handjob while in the car.
But he’s trying to keep his eyes the road and it would be really beneficial to maybe not get pulled over by the cops because it is very difficult to concentrate with a girlfriend who seems dead set on breaking it. And when he feels your thumb swipe the sensitive tip of his erection, of course he’s going to swerve a little.
“Let’s try not to end up in a ditch!” you laugh and he would strangle you, really, but he loves you entirely too much for that.
So he plots his own revenge, because there’s no way he’s going to let you make him cum with at least giving you an orgasm first.
And he thinks that he’s ahead of the game when he has you leaning against the front door of the house, panting and needy from his kisses. But when he trails his fingers up your thigh, past that lace trim of your stockings that have been torturing him all evening, and encounters the sopping wet flesh of your cunt unhindered by the silk underwear he knew for sure you had on earlier, he thinks he might just cum in his pants.
“Are you fucking kidding me, sweetheart?” He can’t help but groan against your jaw before plunging his fingers inside of you.
He craves the little sounds he pulls from your lips as he thrusts his fingers inside of you. Loves the desperate whimpers and mewls as you roll your hips against his hand to get more friction, more pressure, anything that he can give you.
And he wants to give you everything.
Dropping down to his knees, he lifts your thigh through the slit of your dress and drapes it on his shoulder before he starts swirling his tongue around your engorged clit before sucking it between his lips. He almost smiles when you grind against his face and he loves that your fingers find the curls of his hair, tugging firmly but not enough to hurt.
“Steve,” you moan his name and Steve definitely loves the way you say his name.
He fucks his fingers into you, pumping them into your needy pussy, and when the pads of his fingertips push diligently and repeatedly against that spot that he knows makes you see stars, he’s awarded by you finally coming undone, shuddering deliciously against him as he holds you up with his hand on your hip, your heavy panting echoing through the empty house. He pulls his fingers out, wet and sticky, before he pushes his tongue into you, drinking the rest of you down.
Steve doesn’t think he loves anything more than having the taste of you on his tongue.
He’s painfully hard now and as he stands back up, he needs to take a moment to adjust himself. You looked so fucked out and he knows (absolutely knows without any doubt) that even if tonight only amounts to this… If it turns out that you’re not ready… he’ll be okay with that. Because he knows he’ll stick around forever and at some point you will be.
But for right now, this night, for Steve Harrington, has been perfect.
“I love you,” he tells you, because he needs to say it. These words that he has wanted to exchange with someone for so long. He gets to say them now whenever he feels them ring true and it’s often. “I love you so much.”
Your grin is so big, your eyes almost close all the way and it makes his heart feel just as big.
“I love you, Steven D. Harrington.”
At this point, he’s learned not to argue with you. If you say that that’s his name, then he supposes that makes him Steven D. Harrington.
You shrug his tuxedo jacket off and it lands on the floor by the stairs before you take his hand to lead him up to his bedroom. At the threshold you finally let go and walk into the room by yourself and stop at the foot of his bed before turning back to face him. It’s only then that he realizes you’ve lost your shoes somewhere in the house at some point.
You bite your lip as you stare at him, sultry and wanting. And Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful in his life.
But then you reach behind your neck to undo the tiny little buttons that hold your dress in place and Steve frozen in his spot as he watches the top of your dress fall forward, stopping at your waist. His hardon is almost unbearable now but he stops himself from moving forward, not wanting to overwhelm you and just wanting you to feel comfortable to continue taking the lead.
He watches as you unzip the side of your dress and the garment finally pools around your feet. You’re left in just your black lacy garter belt clipped into your matching thigh-highs and Steve thinks that yes, if he dies now, he’ll be dying very very happy.
From where he’s standing, he can still see your pussy wet and glistening.
And fuck.
If something doesn’t happen soon, he’s totally going to bust in his pants.
Which is perfectly fine. If that’s what you want.
Except he doesn’t think that’s what you want because you walk towards him and he thinks that his heart is going to fall out of his chest when you fall to your knees before him.
He stays still as you undo his belt and whip it from the loops of his pants. With a coy smile that he can see from beneath your pretty lashes, you unbutton and unzip his pants. He lets out an involuntary hiss as the pants fall from his hips and brush against his erection straining in his boxers.
Warm fingers trace his abdomen, teasing the edge of his boxers where a dark, damp spot has already formed before you torturously pull them down enough to free his cock from its confines.
“Fuck,” he gasps when he feels your hands on him and he thinks he might die when he feels you lick the underside of his dick because this uncharted territory for both of you now.
Up until this point you have only ever used your hands on him, and he’s been perfectly fine with that. He’ll always be happy with where you’re comfortable. But it seems some renewed sense of confidence has come over you and fuck if he isn’t careful, he just might come all over you too.
His hands come up to grip the sides of the doorway to his room as you swirl your tongue around the leaky tip of his cock. The amount of control he exerts surprises even him as he tries his best to keep himself from fully thrusting into and fucking your mouth.
“So fucking good, sweetheart,” he babbles as you take more of him in. “Your pretty little mouth… So perfect… Fuck! Hang on, baby.”
He steps away from you, holding his hands up before him. “I love you but I… okay, if you keep going, then that’s it. I’m gonna cum in your mouth and if that’s what you want then… That’s cool. I can, um…”
Visions of your perfect little mouth full of his sperm almost makes him cum on the spot and he physically shakes his head. But you’re staring up at him, on your knees with your sexy thighs spread out that he can see the puffy lips of your pussy and—Steve shakes his head again.
“But what I’m trying to say is… Or ask, rather, is how far you wanted to go tonight. Because I’m kinda… I’m pretty close, sweetheart,” he tries to explain.
And all you do is smile at him, the one that’s just for him.
And you could honestly tell him that you just want to go to bed and yeah… he could jack off in the shower if he needs to.
“Sweetheart?” he tries again, a little desperately this time.
You remain silent as you get to your feet and catch his right hand in yours before leading him to the bed. Steve’s pretty sure his heart is going to knock a hole out of his chest by how fast and hard it’s beating, especially when you let go of his hand and settle onto his bed.
Then you part your legs for him and fuck you’re still so wet and sweet looking.
“I think I’m ready,” you tell him softly. “Not think. I know… I love you and I… I’ve been thinking a lot about what you would feel like inside me.”
He groans at your words and quickly unbuttons his shirt before tugging it off completely, leaving him completely nude. Arousal burns through him as you stare at him hungrily.
“I fucking love you, you know that right?” he tells you and he relishes your shy little nod as he settles over your body, fitting in between your thighs, bracing his weight with his arms.
He sucks in his breath sharply when the underside of his erection pushes against your sopping pussy and he swallows the moan that comes out your mouth when he slides his cock against your clit. He does it again reveling in the delicious wetness that you’re leaking, letting it coat his cock, but he knows he needs to stop before he gets too excited.
Slanting his mouth over yours, Steve presses his fingers into you again, still unbearably wet from earlier and carefully stretches you out as he pushes them in and out of you. He knows he’s hitting that spot in you as you moan into his mouth but your hands come up and press against his chest, pulling your mouth away from his.
“No more teasing,” you gasp. “Just want to feel you inside me.”
“Fuck, sweetheart. Okay, but… um… it might be best to make sure you’re…”
“I’m…?”
This is really something that he should have thought through. Because what words are appropriate?
“Prepared?” Is the word that he finally settles on.
Your forehead scrunches in confusion. “Prepared for sex? I’m on the pill, Harrington.”
Steve takes a deep, shuddering breath as he shifts his weight a little and moves from his forearms to his hands.
“That’s uh, good to know. Really good actually like fuck…” Because truly, he isn’t sure what he’s done in his life to be able to deserve you. “But uh…”
“Shut up and fuck me already, Steve,” you whine, lifting your hips up, desperate for contact.
“I will, baby, but I… I just need to make sure you’re… that you’re…” He’s really struggling here. “That you can handle it,” Steve finally admits, closing his eyes.
“Handle sex?”
“Yes, with me and my… you know.”
“Steve Harrington…”
His eyes fly open at the sound of your giggle.
“Are you talking about your dick?” You ask between laughing. “Oh my god, you’re talking about your huge dick, aren’t you?”
He flushes with embarrassment (although he is a little proud of it too). “I… Okay, not to get too much into it, but I just want to make sure that you’re… ready.”
“Oh, I’m ready.”
“Don’t make it sound like a challenge, sweetheart.”
“I’m ready, coach! Put me in! Or rather, put it in me!”
He closes his eyes and sighs. He loves you but he really needs you to stop making jokes when he is painfully hard as it is.
“Okay okay,” you relent. “How about let’s just try to see if your monster cock fits and if we fail, we’ll do it your way?”
A plan is a plan and if he gets to put anything inside of you, he’ll consider it a win.
When he shifts his weight closer to you, he groans at the immediate contact his dick makes against your slick cunt and can’t help but slide against, feeling your arousal coat him liberally and he thinks, this may just work the way you want it to.
When he tilts his hips back and thrusts again, the head of cock catches a little at your opening before pushing against your pulsing clit.
“Fuck,” he hisses as you moan.
No longer willing to wait, having been so unbearably hard for a ridiculous amount of time, he sits back on his legs and takes his erection in his hand, pumping it a few times to spread your wetness around.
“It’s gonna hurt,” Steve warns before pressing the head of his cock against your opening.
Your breathing is shallow now, tiny pants as you raise your hips again. “I understand sex, Steven.”
“Just… you need to tell me if it’s too much.”
“Just fucking put it in me, Harrington!” you yell and Steve obediently pushes in slowly, watching as the blunt head pushes into you and the sight of your cunt gripping his cock makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“You feel…” he tries but words fail him. “Fuck, sweetheart.”
He pushes a little bit more, struggling to keep himself from pushing in all the way because the heat of you, the tightness, the slick, just feels too good. Your hands are clutching the bedsheets, twisting them between your fingers, and the way that your forehead is scrunched up, eyes screwed shut as if in pain slashes through some of the pleasure that he’s feeling.
“Are you okay?”
Your eyes fly open and land on his. “Yeah, just… Yeah, I’m okay… Can you try moving again?”
Steve nods immediately, but before he pushes in anymore of his length, he places his left hand by your hip, long fingers spanning your abdomen. Staring at you, he licks the pad of his thumb before touching it against your clit, a soft caress at first and he’s a reward with the sudden tilt of your hips, taking in more of him.
“Fuck,” you groan, a sound so glutaral that almost undoes Steve. You pant a few more times before speaking again and Steve’s trying his best not to let his control slip with the way that your pussy is gripping his cock. “What if we just try to like push it in, all the way and I’ll just deal with it.”
Steve doesn’t answer, just nods and concentrates on playing with the throbbing bundle of nerves between your thighs and the sexy moan you release tells him to push in a couple more inches. He’s been hard for so long now that he isn’t sure how long he’s going to last inside you. The feeling of you choking his dick, a tightness he hasn’t felt before, is seriously testing his self-control.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he makes himself ask just to be sure. “You feel so fucking good, baby.”
You nod immediately and he can’t help but lean down and capture your lips in a kiss and as your tongue slides against his, he pushes in a little bit more.
Your hands are on his back now, nails raking down his back deliciously and Steve allows himself to thrust a bit more earning a groan from both of you.
Suddenly, you tear your lips away from him and he follows your gaze and it turns towards where the two of you are joined and something like a nervous giggle erupts from your lips. He knows what you’re thinking—how is he still not all the way inside you by now.
So he distracts you, trailing his lips down your neck and down your chest before circling his tongue around your nipple. His fingers find your clit again, sliding against it bringing a soft whine from your lips and he feels you relax a little more under his attention. He takes the moment to push in the rest of his length into you, finally bottoming out.
“Steve…” His name dies on your lips, your chest rising and falling as you take deep breaths. Your eyes are blown out and he grasps the tops of your thighs where they meet your buttocks to push you firmly against him and your legs wrap around him instinctively.
He moans against your skin.
“You’re perfect, sweetheart,” he assures you because you are. You’re better than every single thought he’s had about you whenever he’s fucked his dick into his fist. “You’re taking me so well.”
And he takes that moment to thank whoever said that you could belong to him because he knows he’d be lost without you. But here with you, all he is, is found and seen.
His eyes close blissfully as your hot, wet cunt squeezes around him that he has take a couple of deep breaths to force himself to calm down. It takes him a moment to get to a place where he doesn’t feel like the slightest movement will make him cum. Beads of sweat have begun to form on his skin with the exertion.
“Please, Steve,” you plead and that’s all it takes for him to start moving against you.
The pace starts achingly slow but he needs you to get used to the size of him. But you’re a quick study and it doesn’t take long for you to start rolling your hips against him, looking for more friction. Steve knows he wants to draw this out but he doesn’t know if he can restrain himself long enough to do that, especially when you’re moving against him the way you are.
He pulls out almost all the way and thrusts back in, trying to give you what you want and your response is a pleased sigh and tightening around him. Your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulders and he groans.
“Fuck, sweetheart, so good,” he whispers and he repeats the action, earning another moan from you.
His control slips then and he snaps his hips against yours suddenly, unable to keep from fucking you the way his instincts are telling him to.
“Please,” you beg again. “I just need you…”
The hands on your hips tighten at your words. “Gonna give you what you need, baby,” he promises, voice rough with desire. “You’re doing so good.”
He begins fucking his cock in and out of you, a little more confident now that you’ve adjusted to the size of him. Pressing his forehead against yours for a moment before capturing your lips again in a deep kiss, his hands find yours and laces your fingers together, pushing them against the mattress as he slides inside you and out again.
He swallows each and every single moan and whimper you give him and he allows you take all his own groans and ramblings about how perfect you are. When he feels every part of you tighten around him, your grip on him, your thighs around his torso and your sloppy cunt around his cock, he knows you’re so close.
The room is filled with the lewd sounds of him fucking into you, trying to get you to where you need to be. He’s so close behind you, and the desperation has him letting go of your hand to reach between you to rub your clit. A few circles are all you need before you’re arching your back off the bed.
“Steve…”
“Just let go, baby, I’ve got you,” he slurs and almost on command your pussy grips his as you finally reach your orgasm. He fucks you in earnest now, chasing his own high, a frenetic pace that has him gasping against your neck as he finally spills inside you, allowing your still spasming cunt to milk him of everything that’s been building up inside him all night.
He’s boneless by the time it’s over and he carefully scoops you in his arms before he rolls over onto his side, making sure not to put any weight on you. He smiles as your arms try to come around him, but fail. Instead one arm makes it across his waist and the other falls against his scalp, lazily combing through the damp strands of his hair.
“How do you feel, sweetheart?” he whispers against your temple before pressing a tender kiss to it.
You make a series of noises that he thinks sounds positive and he chuckles. Shifting a little to grab one of the tissues from the box on his bedside table, your grip suddenly tightens, not wanting him to move.
“Just need to clean us both up, baby,” he explains and you answer with a lazy shake of your head.
“Later,” you murmur and he can already see the flutter of your lashes as they close. Your tiny breaths trace a line against his chest and he can’t help the grin that settles on his face.
“I love you, sweetheart. I can’t explain how thankful I am.”
A peaceful silence settles in the room and Steve measures your breathing with his own.
“I love you, too.”
…
When Steve wakes up, he immediately wishes for sleep to come back because of how comfortable he feels having you next to him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to waking up with you in his arms. There’s just a comfort there that you don’t even realize that you provide. And he knows, without a doubt that he will devote the rest of his life to making sure that his future will look exactly like this. You, sleeping on his pillow, mouth slightly ajar, hair mussed and a nipple peeking out from under the blanket.
Except there’s a noise coming from the house that immediately has him pull away from you. He’s silent for a moment trying to figure out what’s going on before the realization that his parents are home finally settles in his mind.
Ironic how they’re home when he thought they’d be gone and never around when he needs them to be.
As carefully as he can manage, he pushes himself out of bed and rushes to pull a pair of jeans on and a polo shirt, something presentable. Running his hands through his hair a couple of times to tame it, he quietly opens the door and steps out before shutting it just as silently behind him.
It’s his father’s voice that hits him first.
He’s ranting about something (likely about Steve, because when isn’t he?) and Steve quickly makes his way down the stairs. But not before almost tripping over your shoes. He scoops your shoes up before hurrying the rest of the way down the stairs and tosses them in the hallway closet before heading to the kitchen where his parents are seated at the table. He’s quick to notice that his tuxedo jacket from last night is hanging over one of the chairs.
Steve freezes when his father lowers the newspaper enough to give him a once-over.
“What are you doing up so late, Steven? Wasting away in your room?” his father snaps, harshly folding the newspaper in half.
The words are familiar to Steve. Almost like a script now that his father rattles every time he wants to feel like he’s a father.
“Actually, I have—”
“Have a little ambition, Steven,” his father continues, ignoring him completely.
Steve’s mother remains silent as she sips on a glass of red wine in the middle of the day, not even bothering to look at him. Steve wishes that maybe his mother didn’t care so little. Or at least would find it in herself to at least pretend that he’s her son and treat him like it from time to time.
His hands clench tightly and he tries not to feel so small under his father’s relentless glare.
All he’s wanted to do since the two of you got together is to introduce his girlfriend to his parents but now… Now he isn’t so sure he wants to if all they’re going to do is remind you of all the reasons why you would be better off without him.
“I just don’t understand how you can choose to just piss your life away after being given all the privileges you could possibly get.”
Steve takes a deep breath. “What do you mean?” he asks, trying to keep is voice calm.
“Are you serious?” His father lets out a sardonic laugh. “You were such a godawful student in high school that you couldn’t even get into any colleges. Not even fucking Tech.” The last word is said with such derision that Steve can’t help but flinch. “And now you’re stuck working some shitty job for shitty pay and for what? You’re going to just waste everything we’ve given you as you rot in Family Video?”
Everything we’ve given you.
The words keep repeating in Steve’s head until it feels like an echo in his brain.
He clenches his hands tightly at his sides. “I told you that it would be difficult to do both sports and maintain a good GPA,” Steve calmly explains, even as his heart hammers in his chest, unused to speaking up for himself. “But you were the one who insisted that I do both. You planned it all out for me—get the perfect girlfriend, get the sports scholarship, go to college. Just like you did. But… I’m not like you.”
His father studies him cruelly and Steve takes a deep breath, trying hard to crumble before him like he always would.
There’s something in him that wants to fight this time. To make them hear him. To make them see him.
“Nothing about what you said should have been difficult, Steven.”
“I can want different things, dad. Why does success have to be what you decide it should be?”
His father tilts his head to the side, jaw set. “You’re right about one thing,” his father finally says. “You aren’t like me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be such a complete and utter disappointment.”
That’s the final blow. The one that finally snaps the already delicate string that was holding onto a dream of making his parents happy. Because for once, Steve has so much joy in his life because of you.
And all he really wants is to be able to share that with his parents.
But he merely nods stiffly, unable to continue fighting for himself.
Except your hand slides into his, loosening his fingers until they’re laced together with yours. And Steve hopes that you’ll never let him go.
You’re barefoot in his parents kitchen, your hair a rat’s nest, and you’re dressed in a pair of his sweatpants with the waist rolled over several times to make it more manageable to wear and an old t-shirt of his from when he was in middle school. And you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” You demand and it takes Steve a moment to realize that you’re talking to his mom. “You’re his mother.”
His mother remains silent, merely raising an eyebrow at you and Steve as she raises her glasses once again to her lips. And Steve takes a deep breath, trying his best to keep his heart intact.
“Who the hell are you?” Steve’s father eyes are angry as they regard you.
Steve panic sets in quickly. “Please, sweetheart. Just stay out of it.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll stay out of it.” You shake your head. “But not before I tell your parents something.”
Steve thinks that his father might look a little bit impressed as he lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Apparently my home is full of rebellious teenagers today so why not?”
Your tongue swipes at your lower lip. “Steve is…”
Steve thinks he’s going to have a heart attack now. All he wants to pull you away from this conversation, from his parents and this house. But your grip on his hand remains firm and it tells him that you’re not going anywhere until you say what you need to say.
But you turn to look at him. And he sees all the love he’s ever wanted reflected in your eyes. And decides that he’s going to go where you want to go and if you want to stay, then that’s what he’ll do.
“Steve is a good man. In fact, I think he might be the best man I’ll ever meet.” You smile at him and he finds the courage to smile back. “Because he tries. He tries so hard for everyone. Tries to be the person that everyone needs him to be. And he does it all and never complains.”
You squeeze his hand and he squeezes back, his heartbeat slowing down as it also swells in his chest with love.
“But I don’t think anyone has ever really tried for him.” You tear your eyes away from Steve and stare down at his father. “You sit there and you want to talk about how big of a disappointment he is? When all his life, all he’s been trying to do is live up to this image of your dream son. And for what? To fit into your picture-perfect family?”
When Steve doesn’t think he can love you anymore, you scoff and roll your eyes at his father.
And he thinks…
He thinks he’s going to marry you one day.
“All I see are two miserable adults pretending that they’re the poster family for the American dream. But one day—and I hope and fucking pray that it’s one day soon—Steve is going to realize that he doesn’t need to live up to your impossible expectations.”
No, he thinks, he’s definitely going to marry you one day.
“That he doesn’t need you anymore. Because when that day comes, he’ll be all the happier for it. And you’ll just have an empty room in your house that used to belong to someone that had loved you.”
Steve doesn’t realize until he hears you sniffle that you started crying at some point. And he hates the thought of making you cry over him.
“But you never bothered to love him back enough to really get to know him and appreciate the man that he is.”
He doesn’t wait to hear what his father has to say. Because you’re right. About all of it.
And he’s done.
He pulls you by the hand, tugs you along until you make it out the front door. Remembering that he tossed your shoes into the abyss that is the hallway closet, he bends down and quickly sweeps you into his arms and carries you to his car. You can both hear his father’s angry yelling but the distance makes it hard to understand what he’s trying to say. And Steve can’t bring himself to care.
Steve sets you on the trunk and he moves to unlock the door for you, but you stop him, pulling on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Hey, look at me,” you say quietly.
He pauses before standing in front of you. Your eyes are shining, still wet from crying and Steve sighs as he wraps his arms around you.
“I love you,” he whispers into your ear. “But I don’t ever want you to cry over me ever again.”
“I love you, too, but don’t think I can promise something like that,” you tell him honestly, hugging him tight. “I feel too much for you. And everything that your dad said? That was so untrue. Because you’ve never once disappointed me.”
Steve’s always taken everything he can from everyone. Every single piece anyone has been able to give him, he takes it. Uses it to build up a person who is worth something to someone.
But he likes the weight that your words carry inside him. Not something unbearable, but something true and real.
Steve nods before pulling away to press a tender kiss to your forehead. “Thank you.”
You wave him away with your hand. “It was nothing. And honestly, it felt really good to unload on your parents like that.”
“It felt good to hear it.”
Steve grins as he feels your hands cup his face. “Then I’ll keep saying it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
You frown. “Actually, before we do anything else… I think I might need some painkillers. I honestly don’t know how I managed to get out of bed or walk down the stairs. There are muscles in places I didn’t know I had until now and they fucking hurt.”
“Ah yeah…” Steve nervously chuckles, rubbing his neck with his hand. Unfortunately, for the both of you, his plans of breakfast in bed and treating you like a queen while you recuperate from your first time having sex is no longer in the books thanks to his parents’ unexpected arrival.
“I’m sorry about that. I had a whole day planned for you and now…”
You shrug lightly. “Don’t be sorry. All things considered, it was perfect. Just…” You shift your weight a little. “I think I might need a couple of days to recuperate.”
“You flatter me way too much, sweetheart,” he jokes, kissing your cheek.
“Whatever.” You roll your eyes. “By the way, not to be a snoop but I was in your closet looking for something wear… why do you have a baseball bat with a bunch of nails hammered into it sitting in your closet?”
…
Steve really doesn’t think there will be a day where things just go the way he wants.
And this shit is honestly getting tiring.
Because instead of spending the day in bed with you like he wanted, he is now in the Wheelers’ basement along with the rest of the ragtag upside down team. He feels a little sorry for you as you sit on the couch, munching on a slice of pizza while seven pairs of eyes are staring at you. But you don’t seem to mind at all as you continue to enjoy your pizza, absorbing all the details of the sordid story that he and others have just relayed to you.
“So let me get this straight,” you say once you’ve finished the slice you were working on. “There is—”
“Was,” Dustin can’t help but correct you and Steve rolls his eyes.
“There was a place that you call the Upside Down that is the exact replica of Hawkins, located beneath Hawkins. And it’s filled with all sorts of monsters which you all defeated, which is also what caused the fire at the mall. And now the Byers plus Chief Hopper live in California with Mike’s girlfriend who has super powers.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Mike argues and Steve is thankful when Max elbows his side.
“Okay, fine. That would be correct if you’re going to skimp on words,” Mike amends quickly, grumbling.
You turn to Steve then and he freezes a little because he really didn’t plan on telling you any of this. He really would prefer for you not to have known that there was ever a threat like that in the world. Would rather you just live peacefully without having to deal with the knowledge like the rest of them do.
But one of the things he loves about you is your single-mindedness. Once you decide on something—in this case, figuring out why it was necessary for him to arm himself with a ridiculous makeshift weapon—then you stop at nothing to figure it out.
“How many times have you put yourself in danger, Steve?”
Steve’s mouth falls open and he quickly scans the rest of the group for help. “I mean, I wouldn’t say I put myself in danger.”
“Three times,” Max answers helpfully.
Dustin shakes his head. “More like four times.”
“He got the shit kicked out of him at least three times, that’s for sure,” Lucas supplies.
“Yeah, but the first time Jonathan beat him up so I’m not sure that one counts,” Nancy adds. “At least I wouldn’t count that as really putting himself in danger.”
“Yeah, that was more of him being an asshole. And an idiot.”
Steve glares at Jonathan. And he really thought that he and Jonathan could start getting along.
“I think the Russians beat him up more than once, though.” Robin pauses, trying to remember. “I would say that would be enough to count three beatings. Or like, two and a half at least.”
Steve takes a deep breath before trying to reason with everyone. “Okay okay okay.” He holds his hands up in the air. “That’s enough.”
“Oh I agree,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, your eyes still trained on him. “It’s not at all alarming to find out that your boyfriend has some type of secret death wish.”
“To be fair, I don’t think he wants to die. In fact, I think he’s incredibly good at staying alive.” Dustin looks at Steve proudly and Steve would love nothing more than to shove Dustin into the deep freeze.
But before Steve can say anything, you cut in.
“Henderson, I don’t think you have anything to be proud of considering it sounds like you’re mostly to blame for fueling Steve’s propensity to play the hero.”
Everyone is silent.
Thinking.
“No yeah, that sounds right to me,” Max murmurs and the rest of the group nod in agreement.
Except for Dustin who sputters indignantly and Steve slaps a hand to his head as he shakes it.
This is not going the way he thought it would.
Once he convinces everyone to give you and him some space to talk and everyone trudges up the stairs talking about how they’re going to be back in fifteen minutes whether he likes it or not, he sits on the sofa next to you and takes your hand in his.
You let him, which he thinks is a good sign.
“Sweetheart,” he says after allowing the silence to go on for too long that it’s made him uncomfortable. “I know it’s a lot but, I just want you to know that all of that is over now.”
You snort. “No, the other weird parallel universe is gone. But you’re still you, Steve. And you need to…” You take a deep breath. “I need to know that whatever propelled you to dive headfirst into danger in the past has been dealt with. And I don’t mean the upside down. And I don’t think I mean Henderson though I now harbor visions of setting him on fire.”
“No, I get it,” he admits and takes a deep breath of his own. “Sometimes I wonder why I did all that. I didn’t have to, but I’m honestly glad I did.”
He pauses for a moment. “Except for the getting beat up by Jonathan and the events that led up to that.” Steve winces at the memory. He could really do with that not having happened.
“The kids are safe. And everyone is alive and…” He shrugs helpless, unsure if he’s digging himself deeper with each word. But he owes you honesty, even when it’s hard. “I’d like to think I had a hand in that. So I can’t regret any of things I’ve done to protect them. It’s worth the sacrifice”
Steve’s not proud of everything that he’s done in the past. But he’s thankful to have been around to help make sure that everyone was safe.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow however, not having been able to save everyone. The unfortunate burden of survivors’ guilt, he thinks. But every day he’s grateful that he was around to do something. And a part of him hopes that you can at least understand that. Maybe be proud of him.
You sigh as you squeeze his hand. “I’m at least glad that you all decided to tell me the truth. That you all trusted me enough to tell me this. I mean, part of me still wants to think that this is some elaborate joke that you all cooked up but…”
Steve melts a little when you lift his arm over your shoulders and snuggle into his side. “I am a little impressed. A little concerned with all the head injuries, though. But what I really want is for you to promise me that you’ll… exercise caution.”
“Exercise caution?” he chuckles, remembering the conversation he had with you when you first started hanging out with him and the rest of the group. “What are you, my mother?”
You roll your eyes before turning your head and playfully bite the fleshy part between his armpit and his shoulder. “Shut up, Harrington. You’re on thin ice as it is. But I’m serious. You’re worth much more than you seem to think you are. And that’s doesn’t sit right with me.” You bury your face into his side and Steve’s grip tightens around you. “The next time something happens—and I really hope nothing happens—but if something does, promise me that whatever you do next lets you at least come home to me.”
There’s a tight knot that forms in his throat that he manages to swallow down before pressing a kiss to your temple. Because he likes the sound of that very much, loves the idea of always coming home to you.
“I promise,” he whispers.
“Good,” you whisper back.
“You guys better not be fucking on the couch!” Mike calls down the basement stairs.
…
The week that follows the big revelation is one that is quiet and predictable. So he’s at least thankful for that.
You and Steve have been dating for a full month now and despite you not wanting to “be corny and celebrate” he still brings you a bouquet of flowers when he picks you up at school and even as you scoff and roll your eyes, he can still tell by your pretty smile that you love them. And he takes you to his house, once again empty of his parents, and cooks you a spaghetti dinner. Granted the sauce came out of a jar but you didn’t seem to mind at all.
The only thing he does have to adjust to is working with Eddie Munson.
There’s not anything wrong with Eddie but knowing that there was a time that you had romantic feelings for him, do get in the way of Steve wanting to be friends with the guy.
Except on Wednesday, you have plans to see a movie with Nancy and Robin after class, and Steve is stuck with a closing shift with Eddie. The movie is set to end about forty minutes after the Family Video closes and with it being such a slow night, he and Eddie already have all the tapes rewound and shelves stocked. The work is mostly done in silence, though Eddie likes to hum often to keep himself occupied.
Once closing time comes around, the two of them shuffle out the door and Steve locks the store. He debates just sitting in his car and waiting for the movie to end or driving home and then driving back to grab you.
“Would you like to partake in some herbal offerings, Harrington?” Eddie asks when Steve looks over to him. Eddie has the backdoors of his van wide open and despite the clear threat of anyone just casually happening by, he’s holding a perfectly rolled joint in his fingers.
Steve looks around cautiously.
It is already dark. And there isn’t anywhere he needs to be.
Fifteen minutes later and Steve is high off his ass in the back of Eddie’s van while they listen to Van Halen playing on the tape deck.
Eddie’s emptying out a bag of chips into his mouth, uncaring of the ones that spill onto the floor and Steve can’t even remember what they were just talking about.
He thinks it might be something about wombats and poop. But he’s not too sure.
In the settling silence, Eddie turns to look at him from where he’s sitting on the floor of his van, his back propped up by the back of the driver’s seat. Steve shifts uncomfortably, his brain struggling to piece together decent conversation.
“I need to thank you, you know,” Eddie tells him, “She’ll say she doesn’t need it, and she doesn’t. But… it’s nice to have someone else look out for her. She’s happier. Everyone can tell.”
Steve thinks that he’s malfunctioning for a good minute before Eddie’s words finally process through his sluggish brain.
“She’s like…” He feels his lips form the words. “The most amazing thing, like, ever. In my life. Like… All the things.”
He hears Eddie chuckle. “You don’t smoke a lot, do you, Harrington?”
Steve blinks a couple of times before the answer comes to him. “I do… Sometimes. But this shit is strong, man.”
“Didn’t think the dude that Henderson described as being a ‘badass’ would be such a lightweight,” Eddie jokes lightly.
“He said that?”
“Absolutely.”
Steve smiles a little to himself, pleased to know that Dustin would refer to him in such a way. For all that Dustin can be trying sometimes, he’s still the little brother Steve never knew he needed and it warms his heart that the kid would go so far as to vouch for him to other people.
“But now I’m not too sure.” Eddie nods grimly before cracking a smile. “Nah, man. I’m just kidding. You’re cool.”
“As a cucumber.”
Eddie snorts. “And now you’ve ruined it.”
The laughter bubbles out of Steve’s chest, relaxed though unbidden and Eddie joins in.
“She told me that you thought we had kissed.” Eddie states simply once the laughter subsides.
“Fuck, you’re gonna bring shit up like that you better having another joint on you somewhere.”
Eddie pulls one out, almost out of thin air. “Your wish is my command.”
Steve watches as Eddie lights it and takes the first hit before reaching across the back of the van to pass it over to Steve. He takes it gratefully and takes his own hit, enjoying the way it muddles his brain and untangles his nerves.
“I didn’t kiss her,” Eddie clarifies as he takes the joint back. “I was jokingly pretending that I was going to and then she said ‘Eww stop!’” Eddie says in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like you and Steve chuckles.
While the topic is certainly uncomfortable, he appreciates Eddie’s efforts in clearing the air with him.
“She’s like a sister to me, that one. But I’ll admit I was surprised.”
Steve manages to raise an eyebrow at Eddie. “Really? Dude, it was so obvious.”
“Really?” Eddie looks a little impressed. “You must have really been looking to see all that.”
“I was,” Steve readily admits. “Still am. I hope to always be.”
Eddie shakes his head and takes another drag of the joint before passing it over again. “That’s some heavy stuff, Harrington. You know you’ve only been dating for a month, right?”
“I do.”
“And you know she’s going off to college in New York, right? That’s not an easy drive no matter how fancy your car is.”
Steve swallows hard at that statement, despite his mouth feeling dry.
Of course he knows. He thinks about it every day. Counts the days until you have to leave in September, first day of classes slated for the ninth. That’s why he takes every opportunity available to him to be with you, instead of what he would normally do which is to overthink if it’s worth his time to invest in this relationship. He already knows the answer to that.
Absolutely. You will always be worth it.
“Yeah.” It comes out as a whisper. He stares at the joint in his hand, burning through the thin paper, and he takes another drag.
“Are you going with her?”
Steve shakes his head. “No, I can’t… Just need to figure things out first. I don’t want to be dead weight.”
“Fuck that, man!” Eddie leans forward and snatches the joint back. “Look, I’m heading out to New York myself. No plans, just dreams and my guitar, brother.”
“Where would you even live, Munson?”
Eddie shrugs. “Couch surf for a little bit til I find a place of my own. I know a few guys out there that we’ve played shows with in the past.”
“How do you do that?”
Eddie tilts his head to the side curiously. “What do you mean? Do what?”
“Just do stuff.” The headiness is slowly ebbing away as the seriousness of the conversation starts to sink its teeth in him. “How do you know things will work out?”
“Oh, that’s beauty of it! I don’t!” Eddie kicks his legs out in front of him and crosses them at the ankles before taking another drag, filling the already hazy van with more smoke. “No one’s ever expected me to be anything. A blessing and a curse, lemme tell ya. Never thought I’d amount to anything but it’ll be nice to surprise everyone if I do. If it doesn’t happen then…” Eddie simply shrugs. “Then doesn’t. But my gut tells me I gotta go out there and try, you know?”
Steve nods, uncertain of what to make of receiving pearls of wisdom from Eddie Munson of all people. But he’ll take it where he can get it.
“I’m not sure what it is that I’m meant to do just yet,” he finally admits.
“Who the fuck cares, man? You just graduated last year. Gotta give yourself a break, Harrington. The only thing you need to think about is whether you’ll find the answer here in Hawkins fucking, Indiana or out there.”
Steve finds himself staring at Eddie’s scuffed up boots that look like they’ve lived through a thousand lives compared to the spotless pair of Nikes on his feet.
“Your girl is going places. She doesn’t have to go by herself. Just saying.”
“I don’t want to pull her down, though. I want to be… someone. For her. I guess I don’t want to be some lost puppy she has to worry about while she’s doing her thing.”
“As one of your closest friends—”
Steve chuckles. “We’re friends now?”
Eddie pretends to be stabbed in the chest, placing his hands on his heart. “I’m letting you date my sister, dude. We’re like… blood.”
Steve decides not to mention that you and Eddie aren’t even remotely related and simply rolls his eyes and Eddie responds with a grin.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, you’re kind of a downer. Totally my killing my buzz here. You got a chip on your shoulder. So what? We all do.” Eddie slides his back down from where he’s leaning until he’s laying flat on the floor of his van with his hands stacked behind his head. “But don’t be like my dad, man. Lemme tell you about Al Munson.”
Eddie heaves a long, tired sigh that Steve can feel in his own bones. “Because that man, all he ever fucking said was ‘When I hit it big, we’re gonna see the world, son’ or ‘When things start to work out for me, we’re gonna leave this trailer park, son’ and we never saw the world and I still live in the trailer park. All he was doing was waiting around for something to happen to him before he did anything that actually mattered.”
Steve realizes in that moment how similar he and Eddie are. Just a couple of kids with absentee parents who had to raise themselves even if they didn’t know what they were doing. And the thought makes him smile a little at the irony of it all given that at first glance he and Eddie look like the polar opposites.
“What if it’s here? What if I want to stay in Hawkins?” Steve finally admits.
He’s not good with plans. In fact, he sucks at them. At least the making a plan part. The following part, he’s quite good at. He’s always been reactive by nature instead of someone gifted with foresight. But now that he thinks about it, maybe he’s never really given himself a chance to try.
“Hey if your story is meant to take place in Hawkins, then that’s what’s going to happen. But!” Eddie shoves his boot against Steve’s shoe, getting a bit of dirt on it. Steve can’t bring himself to mind, though. “You gotta have that conversation with her, man. I’m telling you this as the best friend to both of you, she doesn’t know how to bring this shit up with you.”
Steve can’t help but smile at his sudden promotion to best friend.
“I hear you.” And he does, he really does. But maybe he’s the same. Because it’s hard. He likes this little bubble you’ve created for yourselves where reality hasn’t yet been allowed to set in. And it’s been nice to pretend that the future doesn’t exist when the present is so perfect.
“Now that I’ve done my best friend duties, have you ever listened to Pink Floyd, Harrington?”
…
A/N: Quick question – how does everyone feel about Steve’s canon ending? Did we like that he stays in Hawkins or do we feel like Steve should have been allowed to explore more of his options? Not going to affect the way this story ends, of course! But I am genuinely curious!
Tags/Warnings: Nothing really, except a bad case of social ineptitude and horrible flirting. This is a meet-cute. Age Gap with Older Man/Younger Woman, though that is kind of par for the course for me. Daddy Issues.
Words: 1.6k (short and sweet and silly)
Everyday, you marvelled at the fact that Maekar Targaryen – the DILFiest DILF to ever DILF – had not laughed in your face and turned you down when you’d begged him for his number, stuttering around the words and growing beet-red beneath his brother’s amused gaze.
You’d been in a café with your friend – she’d discovered it recently, swore up and down they had the best pastries she’d ever tasted – when you’d seen them enter and sit down, their legs impossibly long in comparison to the plush seats.
Immediately, you’d started drooling over him. The blond one. His dark-haired brother was very handsome as well, but you could see the ring glinting on his finger, and besides, he looked much too put together, much too perfect for someone like you.
Maekar’s scowl, his nervous shifting, the glare he shot at the low table – having to bend so much troubled his back, you’d learn – it was catnip to you.
You watched them, watched him, from that day forth. They appeared to work nearby, dressed smartly for white collar jobs, though the width of their shoulders belied it. Every week they came. Same day, same time. Like clockwork.
And, like clockwork, you would go. Tanselle would accompany you sometimes, but most often you’d go in alone, sit down in a corner with your laptop and pretend to work while sneaking glances at a man old enough to be your father.
You would have never approached him, never would have done anything about your silly infatuation with a stranger, had it not been for Tanselle’s encouragement.
“If nothing else, he’ll be flattered,” she’d said around a smile. “You’re young and pretty.” The way she added the last part had you hear what she meant. And he is neither of those.
Not young – at least fourty, you thought, probably older. Not pretty. Even you could agree.
He was attractive, arresting, but not pretty. Pockmarks divoting his cheeks – scars that his beard could not hide. A long, severe nose. Frown lines. He was a map of his life and you desperately wanted to learn it.
You took the first step on a warm summer day. You’d arrived precisely five minutes before they would. It was pathetic that you knew their – his – schedule so well. Along with your own order, you asked the barista to make a cold brew, large, with added caramel. “For the blonde man who’ll come in in a few minutes.”
The young man at the counter shot you a queer look, an eyebrow raised. He knew who you were talking about. Really, him? The scowling old man? You shrugged helplessly. I like what I like.
Heart hammering inside your ribcage, you watched from your seat as he sat down with his colleague.
(His brother.)
When he made to order, the barista gave him his usual. “Already paid for,” he added, and pointed you out, to your horror. Somehow you had not thought about that.
You were a wreck beneath his gaze. Shaking hands, trembling lips, mouth gone dry as soon as his violet eyes fixed on you. What do you want, they said, so blunt that embarrassed tears almost stung along your lash line.
Instead of succumbing to them, your face bloomed red with the sudden violence of a wave crashing against the tide.
You waved awkwardly, not knowing what else to do and secretly wanting to die inside.
Socially inept. One of the nicer things you had been called in your life.
You felt Tanselle’s incredulous eyes on your nape. Your friend had certainly seen you struggle to interact with people, but not this much.
The dark-haired man at his side appeared to understand your clumsy attempt at flirtation better than its recipient did, smiling slightly and clapping his companion on his back with twinkling eyes.
“You have a little admirer, it seems,” you overheard him say. They probably didn’t think you could hear.
But you’d always had keen ears. To your detriment, mostly.
She’s so weird, isn’t she? Such a nerd. Don’t her parents love her enough?
“Fuck off.” It was not the first time you heard him speak, but to hear him now… your knees went weak. You were glad you were already sitting, or you would have stumbled like an idiot. “She looks Aerion’s age.”
“And?” There was a wicked half-smile on the dark-haired man’s – Baelor, you recalled – face. “You’re not eighty, Maekar, and Aerion is a grown man.”
He exhaled through his nose, huffing like an annoyed bull. You’d seen that look on him several times already. The man you were infatuated with – Maekar – was gruff and sulky.
Just like your fa–
Nope, don’t finish that sentence.
Tanselle’s dark hair fell into your vision as she leaned towards you. “Go to him.”
Hesitantly, you glanced back at her. Your breath was stuttering already, just thinking about it. Are you sure? She only made a shooing motion.
When you stood, your legs were unsteady, wobbly like your grandmother’s termite-bitten oak table. You counted the strides – seven, it was seven – it took you to walk over to their table, trying to think of what to say.
Was the order right? You knew it was. You’d watched him get this exact coffee for weeks. But you couldn’t say that.
Does it taste good? He hadn’t even taken a sip yet. And it must, if he returned to it every time.
Come here often? Even worse.
You were still undecided when you stopped short of running into the tabletop. You looked at him, at Maekar, at this man. You had never asked anyone out in your life. And now you were starting with someone so intimidating, so attractive that your tongue felt like lead inside your mouth.
“Number?” you blurted out, cringed and started again. Oh gods, fuck. “C-can I have your number?” you asked, wringing your hands. Do I seem weird? Oh gods, I’m a creep.
“You’re really handsome,” you added lamely.
There was a look of utter confusion on his face. He looked at you, your face, devoid of lines, youthful, sweet.
Then, your shirt, a graphic tee of the Fellowship of the Ring.
Fuck. You should’ve dressed prettier. Like a woman. Why had you chosen your decade-old comfort shirt? Well, because it’s your comfort shirt.
You loved Lord of the Rings, had been obsessed ever since you’d first seen it with your father. Just one more thing that had set you apart from other girls your age who liked things that girls liked. Always the nerd, you were. Always the odd one out.
(Later, you’d find out that he’d stared at the shirt not because it was strange, but because he loved those movies as well.)
“Me?” he said, not quite a question, not quite a statement. “You are asking for my number?”
You nodded, feeling like you were close to tears. Someone kill me.
“Because you think I’m handsome?” He sounded incredulous. Like he couldn’t believe it. You shifted on your feet, trying not to think of how Tanselle was watching you.
“Y-yeah.” You tilted your head, peering at him, at his brother who seemed to be trying very hard not to smile.
“Brother, if you don’t give this sweet girl your number, I will do it for you. This is just what you need.” The last part, the dark-haired man said more quietly.
Something seemed to occur to him and he stood abruptly. “Why don’t you take my seat? I’ve just remembered something urgent at the office. Have a nice break, Maekar.”
Maekar glared at him, but made no attempt to stop him. You knew that particular brand of defeat that he wore on his face – the look of a man who had been outplayed by someone who knew him far too well.
You hovered, unsure. “What are you waiting for?” he told you in a huff, exhaling roughly. “Baelor won’t let me hear the end of it if I botch this now.”
You stared blankly. “Sit down,” he murmured, softer. You glanced back at Tanselle, saw her wave you off, a silent go on, and sat down. “Would you like anything?” he asked.
“I really like the pastries here. And a hot chocolate would be nice. Coffee’s too bitter.”
You hoped your sweet tooth didn’t make you sound childish.
(It didn’t. Maekar had often thought the same, though he preferred not to let others know that the harsh Anvil despised coffee for being too bitter – something that was, with considerable frequency, muttered about him. Fucking fools.)
You sat with him and you talked – or rather, you rambled and he listened, occasionally throwing in a brusk comment – and when you looked at your watch, you saw that over an hour had passed.
When you tried to stand, to apologise for keeping him for so long, he–
Well, it looked like a smile.
“What’s the rush, hmm?” he said. “I haven’t given you my number, yet. That’s what you came here for in the first place, wasn’t it?”
He gave you his number. The first text he sent you was an invitation to lunch the next day.
Despite each and every one of your blunders, your nerdy rants about video games, about science fiction and fantasy, about things that were quite meaningless to him, you continued seeing each other.
Your fourth date was supposed to be dinner at a fancy restaurant.
You’d been so nervous you’d cried, and your eyes were still wet when you opened the door to see him standing there, in dark shirtsleeves, so handsome your heart seized.
He took one look at you, your red face, your sweet dress, your attempt at looking presentable.
He kissed you. Ravished you. As though the sight of you had awakened a beast inside of him.
And, well, you never did make it to that dinner.
Instead, he held you on his lap, tasting your mouth like the sweetest wine. Somehow both the most undone and the most patient you’d ever seen him, taking his time to reassure you, to make you melt into his touch.
With him, slowly but surely, you lost your fears, your nervousness. You did not change, not precisely. You simply... blossomed.
