summary: after he insists they're just friends, she gets a much needed reality check from Lily and finally confronts him
wc: 4.2k
warnings: self loathing(R), ig hurt/comfort?, angst with happy ending??, miscommunication, english not being my 1st language
a/n: I got back into my atyd spiral and decided that I really do need Remus J Lupin
! masterlist !
"What's up with you and Remus?" Lily asked suddenly, sitting across from you in your favorite spot in the library
You hummed quietly and looked up at her from your Transfiguration homework.
"What do you mean 'what's up with me and Remus?' " you asked before looking down at your parchment paper
"Hello? I have eyes, you know?" Lily placed her forearms on the table and lightly leaned towards you "You two are avoiding each other like fire. Everyone can see that"
You let out a quiet scoff and rolled your eyes, without answering you went back to writing your essay. You didn't answer her, obviously. The ink on the paper began to swirl and blur before your eyes, it stopped making sense some time ago.
Lily watched you for a long moment
"You know that you should talk to him" she said quietly
A hollow laugh slipped out of you “Yeah. Because that’s worked out so well lately, Lily, thanks for the advice"
“You haven’t actually tried” she looked at you with something you could call a pity and oh how you hated it
“I did” you snapped, louder than you meant to. A few heads turned again. You lowered your voice “I did, Lily. He just—” you swallowed, jaw tightening “He shuts down. Or he leaves. Or he acts like nothing ever happened”
“And what did happen?” she pressed, not looking away even for a second
You stared at the same line of your essay, over and over, until the letters blurred and your head started to hurt. Everything but just not to look at her, it would break you.
“I don’t even know anymore” you admitted after some time of silence, your voice barely above a whisper “One minute everything’s fine, we're having fun, and the next…” you trailed off, shaking your head “It’s like I imagined all of it, and maybe I did” you shrugged lightly
Lily’s expression softened, but she didn’t interrupt. She never did. That was what you loved about her, she wasn't like Mary or Marlene, Lily just let you say whatever was on your mind without interrupting.
“You ever get that feeling” you went on hesitantly “like you’ve already said too much? Like you crossed some line you didn’t even see was there?” Your fingers tightened slightly around your quill “And now you can’t take it back?”
Silence settled between you. A deafening, flat silence.
“…What did you say..?” Lily asked gently
You hesitated. But then, added, much quieter now “Enough.”
That was all.
Because that's what happened. You're sure you said so many words while talking to Remus that you probably wouldn't even have written them in your essay. So many pointless words.
It hadn’t been planned. That was the worst part.
If you’d had time to think about it, really think, you probably wouldn’t have said anything at all.
You were sitting beside him, like you had a hundred times before. Same spot. Same worn-out sofa in the common room. The fire crackling low, most people already gone to bed. It was quiet in that comfortable way that never used to feel awkward with him. Because how could it?
Remus had a book open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading it anymore. You could tell. He’d been stuck on the same page for at least five minutes. And that's not really like Remus 'I enjoy a little reading' John Lupin.
“You’re not even turning the pages” you pointed out softly, a little humour in your voice
A small smile tugged at his lips “I am thinking about it”
“That’s not how reading works, Moons”
“Says who?”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head “You’re ridiculous”
“Mhmm. I’ve been told countless times "
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable. Not yet. Just…quieter. Did it feel weird? Maybe a little.
Your shoulder brushed his slightly when you shifted, and neither of you moved away. That was normal. It had always been normal.
…Right?
You glanced at him. He was already looking at you. That wasn’t new either. You often caught him looking at you while you were doing stuff. Even when it was something as simple as using your wand to pin your hair up or listening in Professor McGonagall's class.
But something about it felt… different this time. Like the moment lingered a second too long. Like neither of you quite knew what to do with it.
Your stomach flipped. And that was definitely weird.
“Remus?” you said, before you could stop yourself
“Yeah?”
You hesitated, cursing yourself mentally.
There it was. That tiny window where you could still back out. Say something else. Make a joke. Pretend you’d forgotten what you were going to say. You should’ve taken it. Instead, of course, you had to open your mouth.
“Can I ask you something?”
His expression softened slightly "You just did, silly” he let out a soft chuckle
You rolled your eyes “You know what I mean, idiot”
“Alright” he said, closing his book halfway, giving you his full attention now “Go on then"
That made it worse. Now you just had to say it.
Your hands fidgeted slightly in your lap “Are we…?” You stopped, grimacing at your own voice “That sounded soo stupid.”
“Are we what?” he asked gently
Oh, fuck you, Remus John Lupin and your stupid ability to be the gentlest person on the whole planet.
You let out a breath, forcing yourself to just say it “Are we just—friends?”
The second it left your mouth, you felt it.
That shift.
Small.
But unmistakable.
Remus went still. Not dramatically. Not obviously. But enough that you noticed. Enough that your chest tightened immediately.
“I mean...obviously we’re friends” you rushed to add, words tripping over themselves now “I just...sometimes it feels like maybe it’s...more? Or I’m reading it wrong, which is also possible, and that’s fine, I just thought I should—”
You stopped
Because he still hadn’t said anything.
“…Remus?”
He looked at you. And there it was. Not anger. Not confusion. Something worse.
Conflict.
Like he was trying to solve something in his head that didn’t have a good answer.
“I—” he started, then stopped
Your stomach dropped.
“It’s okay” you said quickly, even though it wasn’t “You don’t have to—”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea” he said suddenly
The words landed harder than you expected.
You blinked “What?”
His jaw tightened slightly, like he already regretted how that sounded, but he didn’t take it back.
“Us” he clarified quietly “If that’s what you’re asking, y/n”
Oh.
Oh.
Right.
You nodded once, a little too fast it almost made you dizzy “Okay”
That was it. That was all you said. Because what else was there to say?
Remus looked like he wanted to explain, like there were more words sitting right there, waiting, but they never came.
The silence stretched. Thick. Uncomfortable. Nothing like before.
You forced a small shrug, looking away “Yeah. No, that totally makes sense”
It didn’t.
But you said it anyway.
“I mean, we’re fine as we are” you added, your voice sounding distant even to yourself “I was just...curious”
He didn’t respond to that.
Didn’t agree.
Didn’t disagree.
Just…watched you, that same conflicted look still there, like he was holding something back. And somehow, that made it worse than if he’d just said no.
You stood up abruptly “I should go”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do” you cut in quickly, maybe too quickly “I forgot, I promised Lily I’d help her with something”
That was a lie. But it was the first thing you could think of.
Remus nodded slowly “Right”
Another pause. Neither of you moved. You had to say something, right..?
“Goodnight, Moony” you smiled slightly
“Goodnight”
You didn’t look back when you left. And that was the problem. It wasn’t just what he said. It was everything he didn’t. And that was the problem.
Lily exhaled slowly, leaning back again, studying you like she was piecing together something fragile “So you told him how you felt” she asked to make sure
You didn’t respond, but that was answer enough.
“And he didn’t say anything?”
You shook your head, not really trusting your voice.
Not entirely true, but not entirely false either.
He’d looked at you. That was the worst part. Not confused, not upset, just… distant. Like something in him had already decided to step away before you’d even finished speaking.
“I wish he’d just said it” you muttered “Anything. That he didn’t feel the same. That I was being stupid. I don’t care.” Your voice cracked slightly despite your effort to steady it “Just… something real.”
Lily reached across the table, nudging your wrist lightly “Hey”
You pulled your hand back, not harshly, just enough “I’m fine.”
“You’re not”
“I said I’m fine.”
The words came out flat this time. Final.
Lily studied you, then slowly nodded. “Alright” she said, though her tone made it clear she didn’t believe you for a second. She stood, gathering her books. “But for the record? Avoiding him isn’t going to make it hurt less. It just… stretches it out”
You didn’t look up.
You didn't want anyone to see the little droplets falling down your cheeks. What exactly caused this? Only Godric knows. Maybe it was Lily being so damn right about everything? Or maybe it was all the emotions you held back finally bursting out?
The sound of Lily’s retreating footsteps seemed to echo in the quiet expanse of the library. Only when the heavy wooden doors clicked shut behind her did you finally let your shoulders drop.
The dam broke.
You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to force the hot, stinging tears back, but it was useless. They leaked through your fingers, smudging the fresh ink on your Transfiguration parchment until the essay you had spent three hours on was utterly ruined. A perfect metaphor for your life right now, really.
You sat there in the suffocating silence of your favorite spot for what felt like hours, staring blankly at the stone wall. Lily’s parting words hung in the air like a heavy fog. Avoiding him isn’t going to make it hurt less. It just… stretches it out.
"Easy for her to say" you whispered bitterly to the empty rows of books. She didn't have to look into Remus's eyes and see that agonizing, guarded wall go up. She didn't have to feel the sudden, freezing chill of a friendship dying in real-time.
With a shaky exhale, you stuffed your quills and ruined parchment into your bag, blinking away the last of the tears. You couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, Madam Pince would kick you out anyway.
The walk back to the Gryffindor common room felt entirely too short. Your feet dragged against the stone floors, your mind spinning. You dreaded crossing that portrait. What if he was there? What if he was sitting in your spot by the fire, reading that same book, looking at you with that awful, pitying conflict?
You paused outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, taking a deep, stabilizing breath. Get a grip, you told yourself sternly. You're a Gryffindor. Act like it.
"Mimbulus mimbletonia" you muttered
The portrait swung forward. You stepped through the hole, your eyes instantly darting toward the fireplace, entirely against your own free will.
The common room was mostly empty, save for a few fifth years whispering in a corner over chess. The worn-out sofa was vacant. Remus wasn't there.
A wave of relief washed over you, followed immediately by a sharp, pathetic pang of disappointment. You hated yourself for it.
"Y/n?"
The voice came from the shadow of the staircase leading to the boys' dormitories. You froze, your heart violently hammering against your ribs.
Remus stepped into the dim amber light of the hearth. He wasn't wearing his school robes anymore, just a faded, oversized brown sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked exhausted. Dark circles shadowed the hollows beneath his eyes, worse than usual, and the full moon was still over a week away.
"Hi, Remus" you said, your voice tight, choosing to use his actual name instead of the familiar nickname that now felt like a legal liability. You immediately made a move toward the girls' stairs "I'm just heading up to bed—"
"Can we talk? Please?"
The sheer vulnerability in his voice stopped you dead in your tracks. It wasn't the distant, closed-off Remus from a few nights ago. He sounded almost desperate, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists.
You kept your back to him for a beat, swallowing the lump in your throat. You didn't turn around until you were sure your face was a perfect, unreadable mask.
"I don't think there's much left to say, is there?" you asked, aiming for detached but landing somewhere closer to fragile "You made yourself pretty clear back then, Remus"
Remus flinched. It was a tiny movement, but you caught it. He stepped off the stairs, closing the distance between you, though he stopped a careful three feet away, as if respecting an invisible boundary line you had both crossed and broken.
"I didn't" he said quietly, his voice cracking slightly "I didn't make anything clear. I panicked, Y/n. I said the easiest thing I could think of because the alternative..." He trailed off, running a frustrated hand through his sandy hair, making it stick up in wild directions
"The alternative being what, Remus? Telling me the truth?" You crossed your arms, defensively shielding yourself, oh how you hated yourself "If you don't look at me that way, you could have just said so. It would have hurt, yeah, but at least I wouldn't feel like I completely hallucinated the last four years of our lives"
"Hallucinated?" Remus stepped closer, his eyes wide, a sudden, fierce emotion breaking through his usual calm exterior "You think you imagined it? Y/n, I am losing my mind. I haven't slept in three days because every time I close my eyes, I just hear the way your voice dropped when I told you it was a bad idea"
You stared at him, completely thrown off balance "Then why did you say it?"
"Because it is a bad idea!" he burst out, his voice a harsh, tortured whisper. He looked around the common room nervously before looking back at you, his eyes swimming with something terrifyingly raw "For you. It's a horrible idea for you, Y/n."
He took another step, and before you could retreat, his hand twitched forward, as if he wanted to reach out.
"You deserve someone who can give you a future, Y/N. Someone who doesn't disappear once a month to break their own bones. Someone who isn't a danger to everyone they love" he whispered, the self-loathing practically dripping from his words "When you asked me if we were more than friends... God, it was all I've wanted to hear for months. But I can't be selfish with you. I can't drag you into my mess"
The silence that followed wasn't flat or deafening like the one in the library. It was electric, charged with a truth that left you entirely breathless.
Lily was right. You hadn't actually tried to talk to him. And Remus hadn't been avoiding you because he didn't care, he had been avoiding you because he cared far too much.
You stood there, completely paralyzed, the echo of his words bouncing around inside your head until your brain finally managed to process them.
It was all I’ve wanted to hear for months
The anger, the embarrassment, the crushing weight of rejection that had been suffocating you since that night, it all just vanished, replaced by a sudden, dizzying rush of clarity. You looked at him, really looked at him. The tense line of his shoulders, the way he was practically vibrating with anxiety, waiting for you to say something, to run away, to confirm his worst fears about himself.
"You idiot" you breathed out "You fucking idiot"
Remus blinked, entirely taken aback "What?"
"You absolute idiot, Remus John Lupin" you said, your voice finally finding its strength. You took a step toward him, closing that agonizing three-foot gap he had so carefully tried to maintain "You think you're being noble? You think you're protecting me?"
"I‘m trying to—"
"Well, you're doing a terrible job!" A half-sob, half-laugh escaped your throat, and you wiped a stray tear from your cheek with the back of your hand "Did you ever stop, even for a single second, to think about what I want? To ask me how I feel about it?"
"Y/n, you don't understand the reality of it" he said desperately, though he didn't step back as you moved closer. His eyes locked onto yours, wide and terrified "The war outside... my condition... it’s not just a monthly inconvenience. It's a curse. It ruins everything it touches. I can't let it ruin you"
"Let me worry about what ruins me!" You reached out, completely throwing caution to the wind, and grabbed the front of his faded brown sweater. Your fingers balled into the soft fabric, anchoring you to him "Do you think I care about a future that doesn't have you in it? Do you think I care about some perfectly safe, easy life if it means I have to sit across the room from you and pretend you're just a stranger?"
Remus let out a ragged breath, his chest heaving. His hands hovered near your waist, trembling, fighting a brutal internal battle against his own restraint.
"I've known who you are for years, Remus" you whispered, looking up at him, your voice cracking with all the emotion you'd been hiding "I know about the full moons. I know about the scars. I know the worst parts of you, and I am still here. I am choosing to be here. So don't you dare sit there and decide for both of us that I'm not strong enough to handle it"
That broke the last of his defenses.
With a low, defeated groan, Remus closed the final inch of distance between you. His hands came up to frame your face, his long fingers tangling gently into your hair, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks of tears on your cheeks. His touch was warm, slightly rough, and so incredibly tender it made your knees weak.
"I'm sorry" he whispered, his forehead leaning down to rest against yours. His breath was warm against your skin "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I'm a coward"
"You're not a coward" you murmured, closing your eyes, completely losing yourself in his closeness "Just stupid. You're just a little stupid, Remus"
A small, genuine breath of a laugh shook his chest "Yeah. Brilliant at school, completely stupid at everything else"
He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes searching your face, no longer guarded, no longer distant. They were full of a quiet, fierce affection that made your heart skip a beat.
"If we do this" Remus said softly, his voice serious but laced with a vulnerability that completely undid you "if I let myself have this... I don't know how to do it halfway. I'm all in. Even when it's bad. Even when I'm trying to push you away because I'm scared. You'll have to fight me sometimes"
You smiled, a real, bright smile that felt like the first bit of sunshine after a massive storm. Your hands moved from his sweater to wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him just a little bit closer.
"Moony, I've been fighting you for the last three days just to get you to look at me" you whispered "I think I can handle it"
Remus didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss wasn't frantic or rushed, it was slow, hesitant at first, like he was still terrified he might break you, before deepening into something that felt like a quiet, desperate relief. It tasted like warmth, like the familiar scent of old books and chocolate, and the crackling fire of the common room. Every ounce of unspoken tension, every late night glance across the library, every pointlessly wasted word from the past week just melted away.
When he finally pulled back, his hands were still resting securely on your waist, keeping you flush against him. He looked down at you, a soft, incredibly rare, beautiful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Lily is going to be incredibly smug about this, you know" he murmured, his thumb lightly brushing against your hip.
You let out a genuine laugh, burying your face in his shoulder "Oh, God. Don't remind me. She's never going to let me hear the end of it"
You stayed like that for a long moment, your face hidden in the soft fabric of his sweater, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart beneath your cheek. It felt surreal. Just an hour ago, you were crying your eyes out in a dark corner of the library, convinced that everything was ruined. Now, his arms were wrapped tightly around you, refusing to let go.
Remus rested his chin on the top of your head, his breath shifting your hair "We should probably sit down" he murmured, though his grip didn't loosen even a fraction "Before my legs completely give out from the shock"
You huffed a laugh against his chest, finally looking up at him "The great Marauder, taken down by a conversation"
"By you" he corrected gently, pulling back just enough to take your hand. His long fingers slid perfectly into the spaces between yours, a natural fit that made your stomach do that familiar, dizzying flip, only this time, the anxiety was completely gone
He led you over to the very same sofa where it had all gone wrong a few nights ago. But as you sat down, the atmosphere was entirely different. Remus didn't sit on the far edge this time. He pulled you right along with him, tucking his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You curled your legs up onto the cushions, resting your head back on his shoulder.
The silence that settled over the common room now was warm, heavy, and incredibly safe.
"I kept looking at your spot in the library today" Remus admitted quietly, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your upper arm "James kept kicking me under the table because I was staring so much. He told me I looked like a pathetic, kicked puppy"
"You were being pathetic" you pointed out, a small smile playing on your lips "And Lily caught me. She knew exactly what was happening"
"Of course she did. Evans sees everything" Remus let out a soft sigh, his fingers pausing their movement to gently squeeze your arm "I'm sorry I made you cry, Y/n. When I saw you walk in just now...your eyes were all red, and I realized I did exactly what I was trying to prevent. I hurt you anyway"
You shifted slightly, looking up at his profile in the firelight "You didn't break me, Remus. The only thing that was hurting was the thought that you didn't care"
He turned his head, eyes dropping to yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch "I care so much it terrifies me" he whispered "It's always been you. Even when I was trying my hardest to convince myself it was just a stupid crush that would pass. It never did."
Your heart swelled, warmth spreading through your chest. You reached up, your fingers lightly tracing the faint, pale scar that ran across his jawline. He didn't flinch away from your touch this time, instead, he leaned into it, closing his eyes for a brief second.
"Good" you murmured "Because I'm not going anywhere"
Remus smiled, that sweet, slightly lopsided smile that always made your knees weak. He leaned down and kissed you again, sweet and lingering, before pulling back with a sudden, thoughtful look on his face.
"What?" you asked, noticing the shift
"I just realized something" he said, a touch of his usual dry humor returning to his voice "If we're... whatever we are now..."
"Boyfriend and girlfriend?" you offered, your cheeks warming up at the words
"Yeah," he smiled, the word clearly tasting good on his tongue. "If we're boyfriend and girlfriend, it means Sirius is going to find out. And he's going to be absolutely insufferable"
You groaned, burying your face in his neck as the realization hit you. "Oh, no. He's going to make a speech at breakfast, isn't he?"
"Worse" Remus chuckled, his arm tightening around you as his chest shook with laughter "He's probably going to try and give me 'the talk' about respecting you, as if he isn't the one who sets curtains on fire for fun. We might have to stay in this common room forever”
"Deal" you whispered, looking up to meet his eyes one more time, entirely content to stay right where you were "I'm perfectly fine right here”
Got busy again but this time with my fuckass school 😃 BUT! I'm almost done with writing something😃😃 I might have exams to pass on Monday but who carees
summary: you married a menace, but wouldn't change it for anything else
wc: 500+ or 600+ not sure
warnings: steve acting like a horny teen, he calls reader 'baby'
masterlist
It starts, as it always does, with the washing machine.
You’re bent over, shoving a rebellious sleeve into the drum, muttering about how fitted sheets are a scam invented by the devil, when you feel it, warm big hands sliding onto your hips.
You don’t even flinch anymore.
"Don't" you chuckle, without even looking back
“Ma’am” Steve says gravely behind you, voice already wobbling with poorly concealed laughter “I’m gonna need you to stay exactly like that, not move an inch”
You snort “Absolutely not”
But, oh, he's so committed now.
“Ooohhh, baby” Steve groans behind you, voice already wobbling with barely contained laughter “Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, it's so hot”
You burst out laughing before he even finishes the sentence.
He steps closer, chest against your back, and exaggerates the slowest, most ridiculous thrust you’ve ever felt in your life. It’s barely movement. Pure commitment to the bit.
“Oh my God” you wheeze “You are twelve, Harrington”
“I’m a married man” he corrects solemnly, gripping your hips a little tighter “This is domestic intimacy, pure domestic intimacy, baby”
“Domestic intimacy” you repeat, losing it again
He presses a loud, over-the-top kiss to your shoulder and resumes the worst acting performance of his career “Mmm, yeah, load that laundry. Don’t stop. I’m so close”
You nearly drop the detergent.
This is a thing now. It started months ago, one random day in the middle of the week when he walked in at exactly the wrong, or right, moment and decided he’d never let the joke die. Now it’s tradition. Not only with the laundry, but each time he catches you picking up something from the floor or even just leaning on the counter in the kitchen while drinking your morning coffee.
You finally manage to shove the last sleeve inside and slam the door shut “You’re insufferable, really”
“And yet” he says smugly into your neck, placing another featherlight kiss there “you still married me, baby”
You twist in his arms to face him, hands braced on his chest. He’s grinning like he’s just accomplished something monumental instead of dry-humping the air in your laundry room.
“You’re lucky you’re cute, you know?”
“Uh-oh, incorrect” he says, leaning in until your noses bump “I’m lucky you think I’m funny, extremely handsome and the best husband ever”
The washing machine starts its cycle with a heavy clunk, vibrating faintly behind you. He glances at it, then back at you, eyebrows waggling.
“Round two during the spin cycle?”
You shove his shoulder, but you’re smiling too wide for it to have any bite “Get out, child”
He laughs, but instead of stepping away immediately, his hands softly slide from your hips to your waist. The ridiculous tone drops, not completely, just enough.
“You know I only do this because you laugh like that” he says quietly
“Like what?”
“Like I hung the moon instead of making an ass of myself in the damn laundry room”
Your chest does that annoying, soft thing it always does when he slips sincerity into the joke.
“You are making an ass of yourself” you say gently "Can't argue with that"
“Worth every second of it”
He kisses you then, not dramatic, not exaggerated. Just warm and easy and familiar. The kind of kiss that feels like home and fabric softener and an ordinary life you wouldn’t trade for anything.
The machine thumps louder as it picks up speed.
He pulls back just enough to smirk “You know” he murmurs, already slipping back into menace mode “this vibration really adds something to the atmosphere”
You stare at him, blinking slowly.
He holds it for exactly three seconds before you both dissolve into laughter again.
"Oh my God, get out!"
You shove him toward the door, laughing again as he stumbles dramatically backward, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him.
Some people get grand gestures. Sweeping romances. Candlelit dinners.
You get a man who pretends to seduce you over a pile of damp towels just to hear you laugh.
summary: Bucky comes home after a long day at the council and is greeted by his loving sweet wifey
wc: 1,5k
warnings: english is not my first language!, I wrote this half asleep, mentions of y/n, use of pet names (honey/baby), not proofread
masterlist
It was not so warm Friday in the middle of October as you came back from work, this time earlier than usual.
At your apartment you decided that you'll make something to eat for yourself and your husband Bucky, who usually finished work at the same time as you, but since you finished off early, he's gonna be a bit later than you. He'll probably come back tired from all those people at congress so you decided to make his favorite casserole.
Almost one and a half hours later the front door opened and closed with a quiet click. At the same time you were taking the food out of the oven. You smiled slightly and opened the cabinet to grab two plates.
“Honey?” he called, slightly uncertain if it's you making the noise or someone else “You're home?”
After that he appeared in the kitchen door, his tie slightly loosened, jacket unbuttoned.
“Hi baby” you smiled and looked at him over your shoulder before looking down at the casserole
A second later you felt a featherlight touch on your waist and a peck on a cheek. He whispered a quiet ‘Hi’ and rested his chin on your shoulder to see what you're 're making.
“Looks good” he muttered and placed a light kiss on your shoulder before moving to grab a glass from the cabinet to fill it with water a second later.
“Mhmm” you hummed and placed a portion of food on the plates “How was work? They approved that….that…oh you know that thing you prepared for’’
“Of course they didn't, they never do’’ he said and took a sip from his glass
You let out a quiet hum and stole a quick glance at him “Stupid fucks” you muttered and walked up to the cabinet to take a glass for herself.
“Language y/n” he said and crossed his arms, leaning back on the counter
You let out a little chuckle and placed the plates on the counter beside him and took a small step so you were standing in front of him. You sighed softly and pretended to stretch but instead you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“They stressing you too much baby” you murmured and lightly tilted your head “Take a break, let's go on vacation”
He let out a quiet chuckle and lightly wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you even closer just to feel your warmth against him. He let out a deep sigh and looked down at you.
For a moment, the usual weight he carried, the meetings, the expectations, the constant scrutiny that came with being both a former soldier and now a public figure, softened in his eyes.
“You know” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face “sometimes I think the only reason I survive those rooms is because I get to come home to this”
“To casserole?” you chuckled, raising a brow
“To you” he corrected gently
Your expression melted. The teasing smile turned softer, warmer. You squeezed him a little tighter, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“They don’t deserve you in there” you muttered “All those people acting like they know what sacrifice looks like”
He huffed a quiet laugh “Careful. That sounded almost patriotic and it's not you”
You rolled your eyes “Don’t start”
He smiled, really smiled this time, and leaned his forehead against yours “It’s just politics, honey. Half the time it’s arguing for the sake of arguing”
“And the other half?”
“Convincing people to care”
You studied his face. The faint crease between his brows. The tiredness he tried so hard to hide. You lifted a hand and gently smoothed your thumb over the line there.
“Then let someone else convince them for a week” you whispered “We’ll go somewhere quiet. No cameras. No speeches. Just you and me”
His arms tightened slightly around your waist “Somewhere warm?”
“Obviously. I refuse to freeze in the name of romance”
He chuckled, the sound low and fond “What would I do without you?”
“Eat instant noodles and forget to sleep..?” you answered immediately
“That’s… alarmingly accurate”
You grinned triumphantly, but the look in his eyes softened again, something deeper, something grateful. He dipped his head and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead.
“You’re my peace” he said quietly “You brought it back after years”
The oven timer’s earlier beep felt like a lifetime ago as the scent of casserole filled the space between you. The world outside your apartment, debates, headlines, expectations, felt distant. Small.
You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips this time, lingering just long enough to make his hands tighten at your waist.
“Eat first” you whispered against his mouth “Then we’ll plan your escape from Congress”
He hummed thoughtfully “You’re very persuasive”
“I know.”
He finally let you go, reluctantly, and reached for his plate. But before you could turn away, his vibranium hand gently caught your wrist. Not tight. Just enough to stop you.
“Thank you” he said simply
Not for the food.
Not for the vacation idea.
For being there.
You smiled, squeezing his fingers before pulling him toward the table.
“Always, Buck. Always.”
He didn’t let go of your hand even as you both moved to the table.
Instead, he tugged lightly, pulling you back into him so you stumbled forward with a small laugh.
“James Buchanan Barnes” you warned, though there was no real heat in it
He leaned down, brushing his nose against your temple “You were saying something about a vacation?”
You smiled “I was”
“Hypothetically” he began, guiding you to sit on your chair but keeping his hand on your thigh under the table, thumb tracing slow, absent circles “where would we go?”
“Somewhere by the water” you answered instantly “No suits. No ties. No press. Just sun, sand, and you finally relaxing for once”
He huffed softly “I don’t know how to relax”
“Yes you do.”
“I really don’t.”
You tilted your head, studying him “Okay. Step one: you sleep in. Step two: I sleep in with you”
He raised a brow “Sounds illegal”
“I’ll risk it”
He laughed properly this time, full, warm, the sound filling the kitchen in a way that made your chest ache in the best way. It was rare lately, that kind of laugh.
You reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
“I hate that they make you feel like nothing you do is enough” you said softly
His jaw tightened just slightly before he forced it to relax “It’s not about enough. It’s about… proving I belong there”
Your heart tugged at that.
“You don’t have to prove anything” you murmured “You’ve already done more than most people ever will”
He held your gaze, blue eyes steady and vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see.
“It’s different in those rooms” he admitted quietly “Sometimes I still feel like the ghost they whisper about instead of the man sitting at the table”
You stood without thinking, walking around to him. He instinctively opened his legs so you could stand between them, hands settling at your hips.
“You’re not a ghost” you said firmly, cupping his face “You’re my husband. You’re stubborn, and dramatic, and occasionally grumpy. Very solid. Very real”
He huffed a breath that was half a laugh, half something heavier.
“Occasionally grumpy?”
“Extremely grumpy”
His forehead rested against your stomach as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tighter this time. Not playful. Not teasing.
Grounding.
You ran your fingers through his hair slowly, soothingly.
“Stay like this a minute” he murmured
“As long as you need, Buck”
The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the distant city noise outside the window. His breathing gradually evened out, tension easing under your touch.
After a while, he tilted his head up just enough to look at you.
“You really think I should take a week off?”
“Yes.”
“You’d survive a whole week with me around constantly?”
You pretended to think about it “Hmm. Might be dangerous”
“Dangerous how?”
“You’d get spoiled”
He smirked faintly “I already am”
You leaned down and kissed him gently, slow and reassuring. When you pulled back, you brushed your thumb along his cheek.
“Then let me spoil you more”
His eyes softened again, that quiet gratitude shining through.
“Okay” he said finally “One week. Somewhere warm”
Your face lit up “Really?”
“Really.”
You grinned and kissed him again, quick and happy this time “I’ll start looking tonight”
He groaned dramatically “You move fast”
“I’ve been planning this since the food went into the oven”
He shook his head, amused, but there was something lighter about him now. The weight hadn’t disappeared completely, but it had definitely shifted.
And as he pulled you back into his lap, arms snug around your waist, you realized something simple and certain.
No matter how loud the world got, you two would always find your quiet.
summary : She almost leaves. The man leaves instead. Years pass. They speak once, tell the truth, and go back to their lives. She stays.
wc: 5.4k+
warnings: so many time skips because I'm a bitch, !reader is highkey stupid but that's fine cuz I'm the reader, idk a little angst if you reaaalllyyyy squint, no proofread<3
a/n: it is what it is, I'm not signing up under this because I hate it with my whole heart ❤️
P1
Steve leaves on a random Wednesday, way before the season even ends.
Not with a speech. Not with a goodbye you’re allowed to hear.
You know because the equipment shed is locked when you arrive, because the rake isn’t leaning against the fence like it always is, because the man running warmups doesn’t crouch when he talks to the kids. He just points. He blows a whistle. He doesn’t smile.
Your son notices immediately.
“Where’s Coach Steve?” he asks, glove dangling uselessly from his fingers
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“He’s not coaching today” you finally say, which is technically true
Your son frowns, eyes scanning the field like Steve might materialize if he looks hard enough. He plays anyway, but he’s sloppy. Distracted. Misses an easy catch and shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
It matters.
Everything feels slightly off now, like the world’s been nudged a few inches to the left and no one else can tell but you.
By the end of practice, parents are murmuring. Someone says Steve got a better job. Someone else says he’s “just young” and probably wanted to move on. Carmen gives you a look that lingers a second too long, then turns away.
You drive home with your hands locked tight on the steering wheel.
Your son is quiet in the backseat.
That’s worse than questions.
At home, life continues with a cruel kind of enthusiasm.
Dinner needs to be made. Homework checked. Laundry folded. Your husband asks if you remembered to call the insurance company. You nod. You forgot.
“You okay?” he asks, not unkindly, when you space out stirring a pot that’s already boiling
“Yeah” you say automatically.
It doesn’t even feel like a lie anymore. It feels like a reflex, something you taught yourself to do.
That night, your husband reaches for you in bed. Familiar. Absent-minded. His hand warm on your hip like it’s always been.
You freeze.
He notices.
“You tired?” he murmurs
“Just… yeah, yeah I am”
He rolls away without comment, already half asleep.
You stare at the ceiling and think about Steve’s hands. The way they always looked a little beat up, a little too honest. The way they held you like stopping was going to hurt worse than continuing.
You press your hand to your mouth to keep from making a sound.
You don’t see Steve for eleven days.
You count them accidentally. Then on purpose.
On the twelfth day, you run into him at the grocery store.
It’s stupidly mundane.
He’s in the coffee aisle, staring at a wall of options like he’s never seen coffee before in his life. He looks a little bit thinner. Tired. His hair’s longer than it was during the season, like he stopped bothering.
He hears the cart before he sees you.
For a second, neither of you move.
The fluorescent lights hum. A woman reaches between you for a can of something and mutters “sorry” like you’re just strangers in her way.
“Hey” Steve murmurs finally
“Hey”
Your heart does that stupid, traitorous flip, like it hasn’t learned a thing.
“How’s… how’s he doing?” Steve asks, not saying your son’s name like it might break something if he does
You swallow “He’s okay. Mad at baseball. Says it’s boring now. Some days I have to drag him there”
Steve winces, genuine “Yeah. That tracks”
That tracks.
That.
Tracks.
There’s so much you don’t say. He misses you. You do too. You don’t know how to make this right.
“I didn’t want to disappear” Steve says quietly “I just… needed space”
“I know” you say, because you do Because you asked for this.
A beat.
“I’m leaving town” he adds
That one you weren’t prepared for.
“Leaving?” Your voice cracks, just a little
“Couple hours north. Friend of mine’s got a warehouse job. Not glamorous, but…” He shrugs “Clean”
You nod, because nodding is easier than reacting.
“When?”
“End of the month”
You look at him then. Really look. This isn’t a threat or a test. He’s already halfway gone.
“Well” you say, forcing a smile that feels like it might tear your face apart “That’s… good”
He watches you carefully “Is it?”
You don’t answer.
He steps back, giving you space like he always did when he was being careful “Take care of yourself” he says
“You too”
He hesitates, then nods once and walks away.
You stand there long after he’s gone, staring at the coffee shelf like the answer might be hidden between brands.
Your son asks about Steve that night, after you accidentally mentioned to him that you bumped into Steve.
“Is he coming back?” he asks, lying on his stomach on the living room floor, coloring something blue that should probably be green
“He’s….” you say and take a deep breath “No, he's not, baby”
He goes very still “Why not?”
You sit down beside him, cross-legged on the carpet. “Sometimes grown-ups have to leave jobs, even if they like them”
“Did he like us?” he asks
The question hits you right in the chest. Harder than it should.
“Yes” you say without hesitation “He did. I think he really did”
Your son nods, considering this, then goes back to coloring “He was my favorite”
You close your eyes.
You close your eyes, because he was your favorite too.
The month passes anyway. Because it always does.
Steve leaves town. The leaves change. You start wearing a jacket in the mornings. The radio plays more sad songs than you remember being popular.
Your marriage doesn’t explode.
That’s the strange part.
It just… settles.
You and your husband talk more. Not about anything important. About schedules. About groceries. About whether the kid should try basketball instead of baseball next year.
Sometimes you catch him looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out and can’t quite get there.
Sometimes you almost tell him everything.
You never do.
One night, weeks later, you’re folding laundry when you find the T-shirt your son wore to his first practice. Dirt-stained. Grass-smudged. All the stains that just couldn't disappear in the washing machine. It still smells faintly like summer.
You sit on the bed and hold it to your chest, grief sudden and sharp.
Not just for Steve.
For the woman you were before you noticed how quiet your life had become. For the version of yourself who believed wanting something didn’t automatically make you a bad person.
You don’t know if you made the right choice.
You only know that you made one.
And that it changed you.
Some loves don’t ruin your life.
They just mark it.
And you carry the outline of them quietly, carefully, for the rest of the years you keep going.
The thing you don’t expect is how normal everything looks once Steve is gone.
No scandal. No whispers that reach your ears. Carmen stops watching you so closely once there’s nothing left to watch. The bleachers fill with different parents, different routines.
By October, it’s like Steve Harrington was never there at all.
Except he was.
Because your son stops asking to play catch.
At first you tell yourself it’s the weather. Then homework. Then cartoons. Then one afternoon you toss the ball anyway, a gentle underhand throw in the backyard, and he lets it hit the grass between you without even lifting his glove.
“I don’t wanna” he says, already turning away
“Since when?” you ask, too sharply
He shrugs “Since Coach Steve left”
The words are simple. Flat. Not accusatory.
They still knock the breath out of you.
That night, you sit at the kitchen table long after everyone’s gone to bed, a cup of coffee going cold in front of you. You stare through the window as he'll appear if you look hard enough.
He obviously doesn’t.
You wonder if Steve’s already forgotten you.
You wonder if that would hurt less.
Your husband starts coming home earlier.
It’s subtle. A coincidence, he says. A schedule shift. But suddenly he’s there for dinner more often, sleeves rolled up, loosening his tie like he’s settling back into a life he almost wandered out of without realizing.
“You seem… different” he says one night while you’re washing dishes
Your stomach tightens “Different how?”
He shrugs “Quieter. Like you’re somewhere else even when you’re here”
The plate slips slightly in your hands. You steady it before it breaks
“I’m just tired” you say quietly
He nods, accepting it too easily. That’s what hurts the most, that he doesn’t push. That he’s willing to live with half of you as long as you stay.
Later, in bed, he reaches for your hand. Not your body. Just your hand.
You let him.
You stare at the dark and think about how intimacy used to mean proximity, not truth.
The letter comes in November.
No return address.
Your name written carefully, like the person who wrote it didn’t trust himself to rush.
You know before you open it.
You sit in the car in the driveway, engine off, radio murmuring softly, and hold the envelope like it might burn you.
Inside, the handwriting is familiar. Slanted. A little uneven.
I didn’t know if I should write this. I still don’t.
I won’t pretend leaving fixed anything. It just stopped me from doing more damage than I already had.
I think about you more than I should. Less than I want to.
I hope your kid’s okay. Tell him I said he had the best swing on the team. That part’s still true.
I don’t regret knowing you. I regret the timing. I regret that wanting something doesn’t always mean you get to keep it.
Take care of yourself. I mean that. You deserve more than feeling like a mistake.
—S
You fold the letter back up with shaking hands and stuff it in the envelope.
He didn’t ask you to leave.
He didn’t ask you to choose.
He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.
It somehow hurts worse than if he had.
You never reply.
Not because you don’t want to, but because you finally understand that replying would be choosing the ache over the life you’re still responsible for. You cry anyway.
Winter settles in fully.
Snow. Heavy coats. Static electricity. Your son starts basketball, and you cheer too loud from the bleachers like enthusiasm might make up for everything you failed to protect him from.
Sometimes, late at night, you let yourself remember.
Not the kisses.
The conversations.
The way Steve listened like what you said mattered. Like your inner life wasn’t just background noise to a shared mortgage and a television schedule.
You realize, slowly, painfully, that this is what you’ll miss most.
Being seen without having to ask.
One evening in January, your husband pours you a glass of wine and sits across from you at the table.
“I’ve been thinking” he says
Your heart starts racing. This is it, you think. The moment everything collapses
“I don’t think I’ve been a very good husband” he continues, staring into his glass
You blink “What?”
He looks up. Tired. Honest in a way that surprises you “I got comfortable. I stopped noticing things. I don’t want to do that anymore”
Something twists in your chest.
“I don’t either” you say, and for the first time, it’s not just something you say because it’s expected
He reaches for your hand again.
This time, you squeeze back.
Not because everything is fixed.
But because you’re choosing to stay present in the wreckage instead of escaping it.
Sometimes you think about that summer in 1989 like you think about old photographs, proof you were there, proof you felt deeply, proof you survived something quiet and devastating without anyone ever knowing.
And sometimes, late at night, when the house is asleep and the world feels unbearably still, you’ll press a hand to your chest and think:
I loved someone once.
It didn’t save me.
But it woke me up.
And that will have to be enough.
Spring comes back slowly, like it’s unsure it’s welcome.
The snow recedes into gray piles at the edges of parking lots. The air smells like wet dirt and thawing grass. You catch yourself checking the field one afternoon when you drive past it, half-expecting to see Steve’s car parked crooked near the fence.
It’s empty.
You don’t feel the sharp pain anymore. It’s more like a dull pressure, something that flares when you press on it too hard.
Your son starts playing outside again. Not baseball, just riding his bike, scraping his knees, coming in flushed and loud and alive. You watch him from the kitchen window and tell yourself that this is proof you didn’t break him.
Some nights, that’s enough.
Other nights, it isn’t.
You almost call Steve in March.
You find the number written on a scrap of paper tucked into the back of a drawer, folded so many times it’s gone soft. You don’t remember saving it. You must have. Some part of you knew you’d want it later.
You sit at the kitchen table with the phone in your hand, cord tangled around your hand, while the house sleeps.
You don’t even have a plan. No speech rehearsed. No apology ready.
You just want to hear him say your name again. Just once.
The clock ticks. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere down the hall, your husband snores softly, the sound familiar enough to be almost comforting.
You hang up without dialing.
You feel stupid for shaking afterward anyway.
Your husband suggests a weekend trip in April.
“Just us” he says, tentative, like he’s bracing for rejection “My sister said she’d take him for a couple days”
You hesitate too long. He notices.
“You don’t want to?” he asks
“No” you say quickly “I do. I just..wasn’t expecting it”
Neither of you says what you’re both thinking: we haven’t done this in years.
The trip is fine.
That’s the word you keep coming back to. Fine.
You walk on the beach. You eat seafood. You share a bottle of wine and laugh at something stupid on television. In bed, he touches you carefully, like he’s relearning your body, and you let yourself stay present instead of drifting somewhere else.
Afterward, you lie awake staring at the dark ceiling and realize something uncomfortable.
You could have lived like this all along.
That doesn’t absolve you.
It just complicates things.
The baseball field reopens in May.
New teams. New kids. New coach.
You don’t sit in the same spot on the bleachers anymore. You don’t linger after practice. You pack snacks and sunscreen and bug spray like a woman determined to do things correctly this time.
Sometimes you catch yourself scanning the sidelines anyway.
Old habits die slow deaths.
Your son does better this season. Not amazing. Not terrible. Just… steady. He laughs more. He talks about school friends instead of coaches.
One afternoon, out of nowhere, he asks “Do you think Coach Steve ever thinks about us?”
Your heart stutters “Why do you ask that, baby?”
He shrugs, swinging his legs off the bench “Just wondered”
You choose your words carefully “I think some people stay with you, even after they’re gone”
He nods, satisfied with that, and hops down to chase a ball.
You sit there a long time after, thinking about how true that is.
In June, you hear about Steve from someone who doesn’t know he matters.
A woman at work mentions her cousin moved north some time ago, married a guy who used to coach kids’ baseball. You almost don’t catch it. Almost let it pass like background noise.
Your pen freezes mid-sentence
“What’s his name?” you ask, too casually
She says it.
Your chest tightens, but it doesn’t collapse.
“Small world” you manage
That night, you dream of him for the first time in months.
Not touching. Not kissing.
Just sitting on the hood of his car, sharing bad coffee, watching the sun go down like you had all the time in the world.
You wake up with your heart aching and your sheets twisted around your legs, the dream clinging stubbornly to you.
You don’t cry this time.
You get up and make breakfast, as you should.
By the end of the summer, you stop counting how long it’s been.
The ache fades into something quieter. A knowing. A chapter you don’t reread but never throw away.
You’re different now. Not ruined. Not redeemed.
Just aware.
You notice when your husband drifts, and you call him back with a question or a touch. You notice when you drift too, and you anchor yourself before it goes too far.
Some days you resent that responsibility.
Some days you’re grateful for it.
On an August evening, almost exactly a year later, you stand in the backyard watching fireflies blink in and out of existence. Your son laughs somewhere behind you. The air is thick and familiar and heavy with memory.
You think about that first summer. About dust settling on a baseball field. About how long it takes to notice what you shouldn’t.
You don’t wish it hadn’t happened.
You wish it had happened in a world where wanting didn’t come with collateral damage.
But this is the world you have.
You breathe it in anyway.
And when the fireflies wink out one by one, you don’t chase the light.
You let the dark come gently, knowing you’ll still be standing when it does.
The next year doesn’t announce itself as different.
It just quietly is.
Your son grows an inch. Maybe two. His shoes don’t fit the way they did last fall. His voice hasn’t changed yet, but it’s heading there, rougher around the edges, less sing-song. He stops reaching for your hand in public unless the crowd is big.
You notice. You don’t comment.
There’s a new rhythm to your days now, one you didn’t choose so much as adapt to. You wake earlier. You go to bed tired enough that sleep comes easier. You and your husband develop a careful politeness that sometimes passes for intimacy and sometimes really is.
Some nights you talk.
Some nights you don’t.
Both feel intentional.
In October, the leaves clog the gutters and your husband climbs a ladder to clear them out. You stand below, holding it steady, craning your neck to make sure he doesn’t fall. He looks down at you and smiles, a quick crooked thing that reminds you, uncomfortably, that you once chose him on purpose.
“You good?” he asks
“Yeah” you say and force on a light smile “I’ve got you”
The words linger after he climbs back down.
You stop thinking about Steve every day.
This isn’t a victory.
It’s just how time works.
But he still shows up in small, uninvited ways.
A song on the radio you don’t immediately change.
The smell of cheap coffee at a gas station.
A man with similar hair bending down to talk to a kid in a grocery store aisle.
Each time, your body reacts before your mind does, heart hitching, breath catching, then settles again once you remember where you are.
Sometimes you wonder if this is what people mean when they say you carry things with you.
Not like a wound.
Like a weight you learn to distribute evenly so it doesn’t pull you under.
Your son’s school hosts a fall fair.
There’s a dunk tank. A cake walk. Someone’s dad mans the grill like it’s a sacred duty. You volunteer at the ring toss, smiling until your cheeks ache.
Your husband wanders off to talk to another dad. Your son disappears into a knot of friends.
You’re alone for a moment, watching kids run past with sticky fingers and painted faces.
And then, stupidly, impossibly, you think you see him.
It’s not Steve. You know that immediately. The man is taller, broader, wrong in a dozen small ways.
Still, your chest tightens.
You look away, then back again, just to be sure.
Nothing.
You feel foolish afterward. Old habits, you remind yourself. Ghosts don’t mean anything.
But later that night, lying in bed, you realize something that unsettles you more than missing him ever did:
You don’t know who you would be if he actually walked back into your life now.
Not the woman you were then.
Not quite the woman you are now.
Just someone standing in the middle, holding two truths that don’t work together.
In December, your husband asks you a question you don’t really expect
“Are you happy?”
It’s late. The house is quiet. Christmas lights blink softly through the window. He doesn’t sound accusing. Just tired. Curious.
You think about lying.
You think about telling the whole truth.
Instead, you say “I’m trying to be”
He nods slowly, like that answer makes sense to him “Me too”
He reaches for your hand. You let him. You lace your fingers together, the way you used to when things were simpler, or maybe just less examined.
That night, you dream of the baseball field again.
But this time, you’re alone in the stands. No kids. No coach. Just the sound of wind moving through chain-link and grass growing wild where it shouldn’t.
You wake up calm.
That’s new.
Years from now, though you don’t know this yet, you’ll be able to think about that summer without your chest tightening at all.
You’ll tell yourself a different story about it. Not a romantic one. Not a tragic one.
Just a true one.
That you were lonely.
That someone saw you.
That you didn’t blow up your life, but you did crack it open enough to see inside.
And once you’ve seen something, you can’t unsee it.
So you live differently afterward. Quieter in some ways. Braver in others.
You speak up when you feel yourself disappearing.
You notice when love turns into habit and nudge it back toward intention.
You forgive yourself, not all at once, but in pieces, over time.
It happens on the most random Thursday.
Nothing significant about the day. Just errands stacked one on top of another, dry cleaning, groceries, a stop at the hardware store because a cabinet hinge won’t stop squeaking and your husband keeps forgetting to fix it.
You’re halfway down the canned goods aisle when you collide with someone.
“Sorry-” you both say at the same time
You steady your cart, already moving on, when the woman laughs.
“No, that was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going”
You recognize her a second later. Linda. One of the moms from years back. Her kid played shortstop. She moved away halfway through the season, if you remember right.
“Wow” she says, smiling wide “It’s been forever, you're glowing!”
“Oh, thank you so much, you look good too!” you say, returning it “How are you?”
“Good! We’re back in town, actually. Just moved back last month”
You nod, polite interest engaged on autopilot “Oh, really? How’s that been?”
“Oh, you know. Weird coming back” She chuckles, then gestures vaguely behind her “My Henry's grabbing cereal. He ran into Steve the other day, actually.”
You lightly tilted your head
“Steve?” you repeat, lightly confused, even though something ringed in the back of your mind
“Steve Harrington” she says with a smile “You remember him, right? Baseball coach? Apparently he moved back a few months ago. Works over near the industrial park now. Small world”
The store feels suddenly too bright. Too loud. A child cries somewhere near the registers. A cart squeaks past you. Oh, but you were doing so good lately.
“Oh” you let out and cleared up your throat quietly “That's good for him, to be back in his hometown”
Linda keeps talking, oblivious “Yeah, my husband said he looks good. Older, obviously, but still has that whole…” she laughed and gestured lightly “You know. Thing”
You know. Oh, you know so well.
“That’s… nice” you manage
Linda smiles again, then glances down at her list “Anyway, it was so good seeing you. We should catch up sometime!”
“Yeah” you say “We should”
She waves and disappears down the aisle.
You stand there for a long moment, staring at a pyramid of canned tomatoes like they’ve personally offended you.
Back.
He’s been back.
You don’t feel the rush you expect. No swoon. No panic.
Just a slow, creeping awareness that something you thought was sealed off has quietly unlocked itself.
You don’t tell anyone.
Not your husband. Not your son. Not even yourself, really.
You finish your shopping. You load the bags into the trunk. You drive home, stopping at red lights like nothing has changed.
But that night, you can’t sleep.
Your mind keeps circling the same questions, useless and persistent.
How long has he been back?
Does he ever come by the field?
Has he thought about you, or is this only tearing something open on your end?
You hate that you still care.
You hate that part of you is relieved you weren’t the only one who stayed marked by it.
You don’t run into him right away.
Which is somehow worse. Everything would be easier if you just bumped into him and that awkward first time would be behind you.
Every mundane outing becomes charged with possibility. The gas station. The post office. The grocery store again. You scan faces without meaning to, your body reacting before your brain can stop it.
You tell yourself you’re being ridiculous.
Then one afternoon, you see his truck.
Parked outside the hardware store.
Your stomach drops so hard you have to lightly grip your purse resting on your lap.
You sit there, your husband already left the car and waiting for you outside, your kid kicking a small rock beside him. You could just lie and say you're not feeling well and wait in the car.
You don’t.
Inside, the store smells like sawdust and oil. You wander aisles, following your husband around. You don't even know what you are doing here anymore. You let a little lie slip and just say that you want to look at the paint colors, because you actually might want to repaint your kitchen. He nodded and with a quiet hum continued to look at screws or other types of nuts.
You hear his voice before you see him.
Low. Familiar. Laughing at something a clerk says.
You freeze.
He’s older. There’s more stubble now. A faint line between his brows that wasn’t there before. He looks… steadier. Like someone who’s lived a few more years with the consequences of his choices.
He hasn’t seen you yet.
You could walk away.
You don’t.
“Steve” you say, and immediately hate yourself to your guts
He turns.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Then his face changes, surprise first, then something softer, heavier.
“Hey” he says quietly
“Hey” you repeat
The word feels strange in your mouth, like you’re borrowing it from someone else’s life.
“I didn’t know you were back” you say and mentally curse yourself
“Yeah” he nods “Been a little while”
“How are you?”
He hesitates, just a fraction “Good. I think”
You smile, small and careful “That’s good.”
There’s so much space between you. Emotional. Physical. Earned.
“I didn’t want to just… show up” he says “Didn’t want to make things complicated”
You exhale softly “You always were considerate”
He smiles at that, faint and sad “Tried to be”
You stand there, surrounded by shelves of things meant to fix small problems.
Neither of you reaches out.
“I should go” you say eventually “They're probably looking for me by now”
“Yeah” he agrees “Me too”
You pass each other in the aisle, close enough that you feel the heat of him. Close enough to remember everything you didn’t let happen.
At the end of the aisle, he stops
“I’m glad you’re okay” he says
You nod lightly “Me too”
You don’t look back when you leave.
But later, much later, you realize something important.
Seeing him didn’t unravel you.
It didn’t undo the life you chose.
It just reminded you that some chapters don’t close cleanly. They just stop being the one you’re actively living.
And somehow, that feels survivable.
You don’t plan it.
That’s the only reason it happens.
It’s a Sunday afternoon, late enough that the day already feels like it’s slipping away. Your husband has your son at the movies. You’re supposed to be home, folding laundry you’ve already folded once and pretending that counts as productivity.
Instead, you’re at the field.
You don’t tell yourself that’s where you’re going. You just… drive. Muscle memory takes over, turns the wheel for you. The place looks smaller than it did years ago. Or maybe you’re bigger now, or maybe you're just used to the new one.
The bleachers are empty. The grass is uneven. Someone’s left a jacket draped over the fence like they meant to come back for it and didn’t.
You sit. You breathe. You tell yourself this is just nostalgia doing what it does best.
Then you hear footsteps.
You don’t turn right away. You know who it is. You knew the second the air shifted behind you.
“Hey” Steve says quietly, like saying it louder could hurt him
You close your eyes for half a beat before turning. He’s standing a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, like he doesn’t trust them loose.
“Hey” you answer
He nods toward the field “I come here sometimes. Didn’t think anyone else would be”
“Neither did I” you say with a light nod
A pause. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy
“I didn’t mean to avoid you” he says “I just didn’t know how to… do this right”
You give a small smile “I don’t think there is a right. I don't think there ever was right”
He exhales, a quiet laugh with no humor in it “Yeah. That tracks”
You sit side by side, not touching. The distance feels deliberate. Earned.
“I heard you’re married” you say, though you already knew
“Yeah” he answers with a slight smile “Two years now”
“How is she?”
He thinks about it. Really thinks “Good. She’s… good for me. Feels like the right one”
You nod. That’s the answer of a man who’s learned how to choose stability without resenting it.
“I’m still married” you offer, smiling lightly, barely there
“I figured” he let out a quiet chuckle
Silence again. Wind through the fence. Somewhere, a car door slams.
“I want to say something” Steve says finally “And I don’t know if I should”
Your heart thuds once, hard “Better to say than regret later not saying it”
“I loved you” he says. No drama. No hesitation. Just confident and sure “I didn’t just want you. I loved you. ”
Your breath catches, sharp and involuntary.
“I know” you say quietly “I loved you too”
There it is. Plain. Undeniable. Finally said out loud, when it can’t ruin anything anymore.
Steve nods, eyes fixed on the dirt “I needed to know you’d say that. Not because I wanted anything now-” He looks at you then, steady “But because sometimes I wondered if I imagined it”
“You didn’t” you say “I just didn’t choose it”
“No” he agrees gently “You didn’t”
You finally turn to him “That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter”
He swallows “I know”
For the first time, the grief feels shared instead of solitary.
“I used to think” you say slowly, and looked back at the grass ahead “that if we’d met at a different time, everything would’ve worked out”
“And now?” he asks.
You consider it “Now I think we met when we were supposed to. Just… not for the reasons we wanted back then. I think this is where we really belong”
Steve smiles at that. Sad. Grateful “Yeah”
You stand first. He follows.
There’s a moment, one last, treacherous second, where it would be easy to reach for him. To collapse into the familiar gravity of almost.
You don’t.
“Take care of yourself, Steve” you say
He meets your eyes “I am”
You believe him. And you're so damn glad that he got his own life, even if it's not with you. But that's weirdly fine with you, because you have your own little world.
As you walk back to your car, you don’t look over your shoulder. Not because it wouldn’t hurt, but because you don’t need to carry that version of the story anymore.
Some loves are meant to be lived quietly.
Some are meant to end without resolution.
Some exist only to show you that you are still capable of feeling deeply, and surviving it.
You drive home before the sun sets.
When your husband and son come back later, the house fills with noise and popcorn smells and the sound of a life continuing, imperfect and real.
summary: he is your son's baseball coach, but despite this, you have not managed to maintain a professional relationship.
wc: 3.6k+
warning; english isn't my 1st language!, badly written, cheating(sorry), kissing, language, mentions of y/n, she's lowk stupid ig, sorry if you'll get lost in all that
a/n: I decided to make it in two parts, if I'm feeling generous, maybe three. I'll try my best to post 2nd tomorrow! also I got inspired while watching a mockumentary, except in it the woman's husband turned out to be gay—
By the summer of 1989, you know exactly how long it takes for the dust to settle on the baseball field.
Long enough for your son to drop his helmet at your feet,
long enough for the metal bleachers to creak empty,
long enough for the sun to slide low and turn everything gold and unforgiving.
Long enough for you to notice things you shouldn’t be noticing.
Like Steve Harrington’s hands.
They’re always dirty by the end of practice. Chalked white, smeared with some dirt, knuckles nicked from catching balls barehanded when the kids miss. He wipes them on his jeans without thinking, like it doesn’t matter if he leaves stains behind. Like he doesn’t notice the way parents watch him. Like he doesn’t notice the way you do.
You tell yourself you’re just grateful.
Grateful that your son finally likes baseball.
Grateful that the team has a coach who shows up early and stays late. Grateful that Steve crouches down to eye level when he talks to the kids, that he remembers their names,
that he never raises his voice unless it’s to cheer.
Grateful is a safe word.
Grateful doesn’t mean anything.
“Hey, champ” Steve says, clapping a hand on your son’s shoulder as he jogs past “Good swing today, buddy”
Your son beams, chest puffed out like he’s ten feet tall instead of eight. He looks at Steve like he hung the moon.
You swallow.
“Thanks for staying late” you say, because you always do. You stand at the fence longer than you need to, purse looped around your wrist, sunglasses pushed up into your hair even though the sun’s already fading
Steve shrugs lightly “Comes with the job”
It doesn’t, really.
He’s not getting paid enough to care this much.
He’s not getting paid enough to stay after,
to rake the infield himself,
to crouch beside your kid and patiently explain footwork for the third time.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders back. Sweat darkens the collar of his T-shirt, and you look away before your brain can finish the thought it started.
“Well” you say, too brightly “we should get going”
Your son groans “Mooom”
Steve laughs. It’s an easy sound, warm and unguarded “Tomorrow” he promises your kid “We’ll work on it tomorrow, don't worry buddy”
Tomorrow is always a promise.
You don’t talk about Steve at home.
That’s the rule you don’t consciously make but follow anyway. Your husband asks how practice went, and you say fine, because it always is. You say good, because nothing is wrong. You say he likes his coach, and that’s all.
Your husband nods, distracted, eyes on the television, as most of the days. There’s a ballgame on, volume turned just a little too loud. He smells like aftershave and the garage, like the life you’ve been living for God knows how long, because you stopped counting the moment he stopped caring to even wish you stupid happy birthday.
You rinse dinner plates at the sink and watch your reflection in the darkened window. You look like yourself. You don’t look like someone who thinks about another man’s smile while scrubbing dried sauce off porcelain, with a husband sitting just a room away.
So you don’t mention Steve Harrington.
Not his crooked grin, not the way he runs a hand through his ridiculously perfect hair when he’s thinking, not the fact that he’s only a few years younger than you but somehow feels like a different lifetime entirely.
You definitely don’t mention the way your stomach flips when he says your name. Definitely.
It starts innocently. It always does.
Steve asks if you can stay a few minutes after practice one afternoon because he wants to talk about your son’s batting stance. You agree because that’s reasonable.
Because that’s responsible.
Because that’s what parents do.
Your son runs off to chase fireflies with the other kids while Steve leans against the fence beside you, arms folded. The cicadas are loud. The air is thick.
“He’s got good instincts” Steve says “Gets in his head sometimes”
“He gets that from me” you joke
Steve smiles, softer this time “Yeah?”
You don’t know why your chest tightens “Yeah”
He hesitates, then adds “Have you ever played?”
“Softball. High school” you shrug lightly “Feels like another life”
Steve nods like he understands that feeling intimately “Yeah. I get that”
There’s a pause. Not awkward.
Just… lingering.
“You’re doing a good job” he says suddenly
“With… baseball?” you ask stupidly
“With him” Steve gestures vaguely toward where your son is laughing, breathless and happy “He’s a good kid”
Your throat tightens. Compliments about your parenting land differently than compliments about anything else. They go straight for the softest part of you. You rarely hear them. Even from your own husband.
“Thanks” you say quietly with the slightest smile
Steve’s eyes stay on you a second longer than necessary. Then he clears his throat and steps back “Anyway. Tomorrow”
By August, you know his schedule.
You know which days he stops at the gas station across the street after practice. You know he drinks cheap coffee from a chipped mug he brings from home. You know he smokes sometimes, even though he tries to hide it from the kids.
You find this out accidentally, of course.
You’re late one afternoon, your husband worked late, traffic was bad, dinner didn’t work out the way it was supposed to. You pull into the lot expecting everyone to be gone.
Steve’s car is still there.
You hesitate. You really do.
Instead, you park.
He’s sitting on the hood of his car, cigarette between his fingers, staring out at the empty field like he’s memorizing it. He looks up when he hears your door close, startled.
“Oh- hey” he says, quickly flicking the cigarette away and crushing it under his shoe “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone-”
“It’s fine” you say, even though your heart is pounding “I’m so sorry you had to stay” you gestured vaguely towards your son, who was crouching in the corner of the parking lot playing with a stray cat.
He shrugs “Happens. I would drop him off, if no one showed up ”
You stand there, keys digging into your palm. The sky is pink and orange, the kind of sunset people write songs about. You hate that it feels like a setup.
Steve wipes his hands on his jeans again, nervous this time “You want some coffee? It’s terrible”
You laugh despite yourself “Sure”
You sit on the hood beside him, careful to leave space. The metal is still warm from the sun. He hands you the mug, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long.
The touch is nothing.
It feels like everything.
You talk about nothing important. The team. How your kid did. The weather. Music on the radio. He makes a face when you admit you still listen to Springsteen like it’s a personality trait.
“Hey” he says, mock-offended “Born in the U.S.A. is a classic”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t” he grins, and you look away way too late
The silence that settles afterward is different.
Heavier.
Charged.
“I should go” you say, standing too quickly “He's definitely hungry as a lion”
Steve stands too “Yeah. Definitely”
Neither of you move.
“This is… probably not-” he starts, then stops
Your heart is in your throat “Not what?”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck “I don’t want to make things weird”
You almost laugh. Almost cry “Weird how?”
Steve meets your eyes, and something honest and dangerous flickers there “Like this”
The word hangs between you.
You could step back. You could make a joke. You could say his name like a warning.
Instead, you stay.
Nothing happens. Not really. He doesn’t touch you. You don’t touch him.
But something shifts.
And when you drive home, hands shaking on the steering wheel, your son rambling in the backseat, you know with quiet certainty that you’ve crossed the first line, even if no one else can see it yet.
You tell yourself that now you’re aware of it, you can stop.
Awareness feels like control, at least in theory. You’re not blindsided anymore. You know what that tightening in your chest means when you see Steve Harrington’s car in the lot. You know why you fix your hair in the rearview mirror before getting out.
You know why you linger instead of rushing home.
Knowing should make it easier to behave.
It doesn’t.
Steve is careful after that afternoon. Painfully so. He keeps his distance at practice, sticks to clipped comments and coach-voice praise. He doesn’t sit near you on the bleachers. He doesn’t look for your eyes unless he has to.
You should be relieved.
Instead, you feel like something’s been taken away.
It’s ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. You have a house and a husband and a child who depends on you. You don’t get to feel deprived because a man you shouldn’t want is acting responsibly.
Still, when practice ends and he packs up without so much as a glance in your direction, it stings.
Your son notices.
“Did Coach Steve do something wrong?” he asks one night, spooning cereal into his mouth long after dinner
“No” you say, too fast “Why would you think that?”
“You’re quiet, mommy” he shrugs “And you didn’t talk to him today, and you always do”
Kids see everything. You force a smile and ruffle his hair “I was tired, that’s all”
He accepts that because he trusts you.
The guilt that follows sticks to your ribs.
It breaks on a Tuesday.
The team’s short a kid, rain threatening but never quite falling. Parents cluster under the bleachers, murmuring. Steve paces the dugout, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
You catch his eye accidentally.
He looks away.
Then double-checks.
Something passes between you, a question, maybe. Or a challenge. Or just relief at being seen again.
After practice, he approaches you like he’s approaching a wild animal. Slow. Deliberate.
“Hey” he says “Can I talk to you? Just a sec”
Your heart kicks “About..?”
“Nothing bad” he promises quickly “I just….yeah”
You nod. You always do.
You walk toward the outfield, far enough that the other parents blur into the background. The grass is damp under your shoes.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been weird” Steve says, staring at the ground “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding “Oh, no, no, you didn't”
He looks up then, eyes searching your face “Okay”
Silence stretches. You can hear a bat clang somewhere, laughter drifting over.
“I just figured” he continues, quieter now “better safe than sorry”
You swallow “Right”
He nods, jaw tight “Right”
You want to scream. Or laugh. Or grab him by the front of his shirt and tell him to stop being so damn noble. Or do something you would definitely regret.
You do none of those things.
Instead, you say “I miss talking to you” Which is probably way worse
The words slip out before you can stop them.
Steve’s breath hitches. He looks around reflexively, then back at you “You can’t say things like that”
“I know” you whisper “I’m sorry”
He rubs his face with both hands, frustration clear on it “You’re married”
“I know.”
“You’re my best player’s mom”
“I know.”
The way you say it, cracked, desperate, makes him soften despite himself. He drops his hands, shoulders slumping.
“I think about you” he admits, like a confession “More than I should”
Your chest aches “Me too..”
There it is. Ugly and undeniable.
“We shouldn’t” he says
“No.”
Neither of you moves.
Steve exhales, defeated “Come here”
It’s barely louder than the wind.
You step forward.
His hands land on your arms, light at first, like he’s giving you time to pull away. You don’t. He pulls you in, foreheads touching.
For a second, that’s all it is.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not dramatic. No fireworks. No sweeping gestures.
It’s careful. Pressed. Full of restraint that’s already failing.
You make a soft sound you don’t recognize as your own, and that’s what breaks it. Steve kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s been starving and didn’t realize it until now. One of his hands wandered the back of your head, holding you close, almost worried you'll pull back early. Almost like he didn't know you wouldn't.
Almost like you didn't press all your body weight on him.
Almost like soft sighs didn't quietly leave your lips.
When you pull back, you’re both breathing hard.
“We can’t” you say again, even as your hands clutch his shirt tightly in your hands
“I know” he says, voice wrecked
He kisses your temple instead, lingering “We have to stop”
You nod, because you’re not brave enough to say no. You nod, because that's the right thing.
You call for your kid and walk away before either of you can change your mind.
You don’t sleep that night.
Your husband rolls toward you, arm heavy around your waist, familiar and thoughtless. You stare at the ceiling and replay the feel of Steve’s mouth over and over until it makes you sick deep down into your stomach.
You promise yourself that was it.
One mistake. One moment.
Then you hear the phone ring at your work desk the next day.
“Hey” Steve says, low “I know this is a bad idea”
Your stomach flips, like it used when you were nothing but a teenager “Then hang up” you said, writing something down on the documents "I'm working"
He doesn’t “I just needed to hear your voice”
You close your eyes.
The affair never becomes physical beyond that kiss.
Not really.
But it becomes everything else.
Late-night calls when your family is sound asleep. Lingering touches that almost don’t happen. Conversations that cross lines you can’t uncross. He tells you about his dad, about feeling stuck, about how coaching makes him feel like he matters.
You tell him things you’ve never told your husband.
Each word is a betrayal. Each one feels necessary.
You start arriving early to practice. You start leaving last. You start lying with terrifying ease.
And then, one afternoon, your husband shows up, completely unannounced.
You see his car in the lot before Steve does.
Your blood turns to ice.
Steve’s laughing with one of the dads, completely unaware. Your husband steps out, scanning the field.
You don’t have time to warn him.
“Daddy!” your son shouts, waving from the middle of the field
Steve turns, immediately.
His eyes meet yours across the field and you know, with sick certainty, that whatever this is… it’s about to cost you something.
Your husband doesn’t stay long.
That’s the worst part, the mercy of it.
He waves from the fence, chats briefly with another parent, claps your son on the back. He never once looks too closely at you. Never notices the way your hands won’t stop shaking or how Steve has gone unnaturally still near the dugout, like a deer caught mid-step.
“Didn’t know you were stopping by” you say later, trying to sound normal as you walk back to the car together
“Thought I’d surprise him” he shrugs “Work let out early”
You smile. You even mean it a little “He loved it”
“I could tell” He opens the passenger door for your son, then glances back at the field “Coach seems like a good guy”
Your heart stutters, you had to stop the urge to choke down in your breath “Yeah”
That night, you cry in the shower with the water turned up too loud, forehead pressed to the tile like you’re praying for something you don’t deserve.
Crying, because you felt like the worst mother in the whole freaking universe. Like the worst wife a man could imagine for himself. Like the worst person to ever exist in the whole humankind.
Steve doesn’t call for three days.
You tell yourself it’s good. Necessary. A relief.
It feels like withdrawal.
By Friday, you’re jumpy and sharp edged. Every sound makes you flinch. Every quiet moment fills with him, the way he says your name, the crease between his brows when he’s worried, the warmth of his hands on your arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Practice is unbearable.
You can feel him watching you without looking. You can feel the things he’s not saying crowding the air between you. When the kids run drills, you catch his reflection in the chain-link fence, eyes on you, jaw clenched, almost to the point it could break.
When practice ends, he intercepts you before you can leave.
“We need to talk” he says
Your pulse roars in your ears “Not here.”
“Then where?”
You glance around, to see if your son was still playing with his friends before their parents pick them up, heart pounding “My car”
You don’t touch on the walk over. The distance feels deliberate. Punishing.
Inside the car, the silence is immediate and suffocating.
“I can’t do this anymore” Steve says, voice low
You close your eyes “Okay”
He exhales sharply, leaning in the seat “That’s it? Okay?”
“What do you want me to say?” you snap, emotion spilling over “You’re right. This was a mistake. A huge one”
“I didn’t say that” he says quickly, way too quickly “I never did, y/n”
You laugh, bitter “You didn’t have to”
Steve leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the dashboard.
“When your husband showed up… I thought I was going to throw up”
“So did I” you muttered quietly, lightly shifting in your seat
“I kept thinking” he continues, voice rough “this isn’t just about us. This is your life. Your kid”
You press your hand to your mouth “I know”
“I don’t want to be the reason everything blows up” he says quietly “I don’t want to be the guy who ruins things for you”
You look at him then, really look. He looks exhausted. Haunted. Like he’s been carrying the weight of this alone.
“And what about what it’s doing to you?” you ask softly
He lets out a humorless laugh “I’m already in too deep”
The honesty cracks something open in you.
“I don’t want to stop” you admit, barely audible “I know I should. I know what this makes me. But I don’t want to..”
Steve turns to you, eyes dark “That’s the problem, y/n”
The space between you feels electric. He reaches out, then hesitates, a silent question.
You answer it by leaning in. Or maybe he did it first?
This kiss is nothing like the first.
It’s desperate. Messy. All the restraint burned away. Steve’s hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing you. You grab his shirt, pulling him closer, needing the pressure, the proof. It felt so fucking wrong, you felt like fainting. And not the good type of fainting.
When you break apart, you’re both breathless.
“We’re playing with fire” he murmurs against your forehead “Wildfire”
“I know”
He kisses you again anyway. He kisses you as if the silver ring on your finger didn't even exist. As if your son wasn't playing with his friends a little further away. As if you were his.
As if.
It’s only a matter of time before someone notices.
You’re more careful than you’ve ever been about anything, but it doesn’t matter. Affairs don’t unravel because of one big mistake. They unravel because of patterns.
You linger too long after practice. You laugh too easily at Steve’s jokes. You look for him first when you arrive.
So does someone else.
It’s one of the other moms, Carmen or Carol, the mother of one of your son's friends, sharp-eyed and bored. She watches you from the bleachers one afternoon, gaze flicking between you and Steve.
That night, she corners you near the concession stand.
“You and the coach seem close” she says casually
Your stomach drops “He’s my son’s coach”
“Mmhmm, mine too, but I'm not that close to him” she smiles thinly “Just saying. People notice things”
The warning is clear.
You tell Steve that night, voice shaking.
“We have to stop, Steve” you say “For real this time”
He goes quiet. Too quiet.
“If we stop” he asks carefully, looking you in the eyes “do you think you’ll be okay?”
You swallow “I don’t know”
He nods, eyes glistening with something unsaid “Yeah. Me neither..”
The next practice, Steve announces he’s stepping back at the end of the season.
There’s confusion. Complaints.
Parents grumble. Kids pout.
Your son looks crushed.
“You’re leaving?” he asks Steve, eyes wide, glistening with tears
And you felt so bad, so damn bad, that you did that to your beloved child. You felt like shooting yourself right then and there, if only you had the option. You had to turn the other way because you felt your eyes start to sting, even though you were wearing dark glasses.
“Not yet” Steve says gently, crouching to his eye level “But soon, yes”
Your chest aches with something like grief. Could you call it grief? Isn't this a bit excessive?
Later, alone, you confront him.
“You didn’t tell me” you say, anger slowly raising
“I didn’t want to put it on you” he replies “This is my mess. I made the bed, so I have to lie in it, y/n”
“You don’t get to decide that alone”
Steve looks at you, pain clear in his expression “I don’t see another way, we took it way too far”
You reach for him, stopping just short “What if I do? What if I see the other way?”
He laughs softly “Then we’re both screwed. Like really screwed.”
Hey babes! I know I kind of promised the second part for today, but I'm not gonna make it:(
I have suuuch a fever that I can't think straight. But! I'll try to write something tomorrow if I feel better than I do now when I feel like I got hit by a big ass truck.
summary: he is your son's baseball coach, but despite this, you have not managed to maintain a professional relationship.
wc: 3.6k+
warning; english isn't my 1st language!, badly written, cheating(sorry), kissing, language, mentions of y/n, she's lowk stupid ig, sorry if you'll get lost in all that
a/n: I decided to make it in two parts, if I'm feeling generous, maybe three. I'll try my best to post 2nd tomorrow! also I got inspired while watching a mockumentary, except in it the woman's husband turned out to be gay—
By the summer of 1989, you know exactly how long it takes for the dust to settle on the baseball field.
Long enough for your son to drop his helmet at your feet,
long enough for the metal bleachers to creak empty,
long enough for the sun to slide low and turn everything gold and unforgiving.
Long enough for you to notice things you shouldn’t be noticing.
Like Steve Harrington’s hands.
They’re always dirty by the end of practice. Chalked white, smeared with some dirt, knuckles nicked from catching balls barehanded when the kids miss. He wipes them on his jeans without thinking, like it doesn’t matter if he leaves stains behind. Like he doesn’t notice the way parents watch him. Like he doesn’t notice the way you do.
You tell yourself you’re just grateful.
Grateful that your son finally likes baseball.
Grateful that the team has a coach who shows up early and stays late. Grateful that Steve crouches down to eye level when he talks to the kids, that he remembers their names,
that he never raises his voice unless it’s to cheer.
Grateful is a safe word.
Grateful doesn’t mean anything.
“Hey, champ” Steve says, clapping a hand on your son’s shoulder as he jogs past “Good swing today, buddy”
Your son beams, chest puffed out like he’s ten feet tall instead of eight. He looks at Steve like he hung the moon.
You swallow.
“Thanks for staying late” you say, because you always do. You stand at the fence longer than you need to, purse looped around your wrist, sunglasses pushed up into your hair even though the sun’s already fading
Steve shrugs lightly “Comes with the job”
It doesn’t, really.
He’s not getting paid enough to care this much.
He’s not getting paid enough to stay after,
to rake the infield himself,
to crouch beside your kid and patiently explain footwork for the third time.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders back. Sweat darkens the collar of his T-shirt, and you look away before your brain can finish the thought it started.
“Well” you say, too brightly “we should get going”
Your son groans “Mooom”
Steve laughs. It’s an easy sound, warm and unguarded “Tomorrow” he promises your kid “We’ll work on it tomorrow, don't worry buddy”
Tomorrow is always a promise.
You don’t talk about Steve at home.
That’s the rule you don’t consciously make but follow anyway. Your husband asks how practice went, and you say fine, because it always is. You say good, because nothing is wrong. You say he likes his coach, and that’s all.
Your husband nods, distracted, eyes on the television, as most of the days. There’s a ballgame on, volume turned just a little too loud. He smells like aftershave and the garage, like the life you’ve been living for God knows how long, because you stopped counting the moment he stopped caring to even wish you stupid happy birthday.
You rinse dinner plates at the sink and watch your reflection in the darkened window. You look like yourself. You don’t look like someone who thinks about another man’s smile while scrubbing dried sauce off porcelain, with a husband sitting just a room away.
So you don’t mention Steve Harrington.
Not his crooked grin, not the way he runs a hand through his ridiculously perfect hair when he’s thinking, not the fact that he’s only a few years younger than you but somehow feels like a different lifetime entirely.
You definitely don’t mention the way your stomach flips when he says your name. Definitely.
It starts innocently. It always does.
Steve asks if you can stay a few minutes after practice one afternoon because he wants to talk about your son’s batting stance. You agree because that’s reasonable.
Because that’s responsible.
Because that’s what parents do.
Your son runs off to chase fireflies with the other kids while Steve leans against the fence beside you, arms folded. The cicadas are loud. The air is thick.
“He’s got good instincts” Steve says “Gets in his head sometimes”
“He gets that from me” you joke
Steve smiles, softer this time “Yeah?”
You don’t know why your chest tightens “Yeah”
He hesitates, then adds “Have you ever played?”
“Softball. High school” you shrug lightly “Feels like another life”
Steve nods like he understands that feeling intimately “Yeah. I get that”
There’s a pause. Not awkward.
Just… lingering.
“You’re doing a good job” he says suddenly
“With… baseball?” you ask stupidly
“With him” Steve gestures vaguely toward where your son is laughing, breathless and happy “He’s a good kid”
Your throat tightens. Compliments about your parenting land differently than compliments about anything else. They go straight for the softest part of you. You rarely hear them. Even from your own husband.
“Thanks” you say quietly with the slightest smile
Steve’s eyes stay on you a second longer than necessary. Then he clears his throat and steps back “Anyway. Tomorrow”
By August, you know his schedule.
You know which days he stops at the gas station across the street after practice. You know he drinks cheap coffee from a chipped mug he brings from home. You know he smokes sometimes, even though he tries to hide it from the kids.
You find this out accidentally, of course.
You’re late one afternoon, your husband worked late, traffic was bad, dinner didn’t work out the way it was supposed to. You pull into the lot expecting everyone to be gone.
Steve’s car is still there.
You hesitate. You really do.
Instead, you park.
He’s sitting on the hood of his car, cigarette between his fingers, staring out at the empty field like he’s memorizing it. He looks up when he hears your door close, startled.
“Oh- hey” he says, quickly flicking the cigarette away and crushing it under his shoe “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone-”
“It’s fine” you say, even though your heart is pounding “I’m so sorry you had to stay” you gestured vaguely towards your son, who was crouching in the corner of the parking lot playing with a stray cat.
He shrugs “Happens. I would drop him off, if no one showed up ”
You stand there, keys digging into your palm. The sky is pink and orange, the kind of sunset people write songs about. You hate that it feels like a setup.
Steve wipes his hands on his jeans again, nervous this time “You want some coffee? It’s terrible”
You laugh despite yourself “Sure”
You sit on the hood beside him, careful to leave space. The metal is still warm from the sun. He hands you the mug, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long.
The touch is nothing.
It feels like everything.
You talk about nothing important. The team. How your kid did. The weather. Music on the radio. He makes a face when you admit you still listen to Springsteen like it’s a personality trait.
“Hey” he says, mock-offended “Born in the U.S.A. is a classic”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t” he grins, and you look away way too late
The silence that settles afterward is different.
Heavier.
Charged.
“I should go” you say, standing too quickly “He's definitely hungry as a lion”
Steve stands too “Yeah. Definitely”
Neither of you move.
“This is… probably not-” he starts, then stops
Your heart is in your throat “Not what?”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck “I don’t want to make things weird”
You almost laugh. Almost cry “Weird how?”
Steve meets your eyes, and something honest and dangerous flickers there “Like this”
The word hangs between you.
You could step back. You could make a joke. You could say his name like a warning.
Instead, you stay.
Nothing happens. Not really. He doesn’t touch you. You don’t touch him.
But something shifts.
And when you drive home, hands shaking on the steering wheel, your son rambling in the backseat, you know with quiet certainty that you’ve crossed the first line, even if no one else can see it yet.
You tell yourself that now you’re aware of it, you can stop.
Awareness feels like control, at least in theory. You’re not blindsided anymore. You know what that tightening in your chest means when you see Steve Harrington’s car in the lot. You know why you fix your hair in the rearview mirror before getting out.
You know why you linger instead of rushing home.
Knowing should make it easier to behave.
It doesn’t.
Steve is careful after that afternoon. Painfully so. He keeps his distance at practice, sticks to clipped comments and coach-voice praise. He doesn’t sit near you on the bleachers. He doesn’t look for your eyes unless he has to.
You should be relieved.
Instead, you feel like something’s been taken away.
It’s ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. You have a house and a husband and a child who depends on you. You don’t get to feel deprived because a man you shouldn’t want is acting responsibly.
Still, when practice ends and he packs up without so much as a glance in your direction, it stings.
Your son notices.
“Did Coach Steve do something wrong?” he asks one night, spooning cereal into his mouth long after dinner
“No” you say, too fast “Why would you think that?”
“You’re quiet, mommy” he shrugs “And you didn’t talk to him today, and you always do”
Kids see everything. You force a smile and ruffle his hair “I was tired, that’s all”
He accepts that because he trusts you.
The guilt that follows sticks to your ribs.
It breaks on a Tuesday.
The team’s short a kid, rain threatening but never quite falling. Parents cluster under the bleachers, murmuring. Steve paces the dugout, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
You catch his eye accidentally.
He looks away.
Then double-checks.
Something passes between you, a question, maybe. Or a challenge. Or just relief at being seen again.
After practice, he approaches you like he’s approaching a wild animal. Slow. Deliberate.
“Hey” he says “Can I talk to you? Just a sec”
Your heart kicks “About..?”
“Nothing bad” he promises quickly “I just….yeah”
You nod. You always do.
You walk toward the outfield, far enough that the other parents blur into the background. The grass is damp under your shoes.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been weird” Steve says, staring at the ground “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding “Oh, no, no, you didn't”
He looks up then, eyes searching your face “Okay”
Silence stretches. You can hear a bat clang somewhere, laughter drifting over.
“I just figured” he continues, quieter now “better safe than sorry”
You swallow “Right”
He nods, jaw tight “Right”
You want to scream. Or laugh. Or grab him by the front of his shirt and tell him to stop being so damn noble. Or do something you would definitely regret.
You do none of those things.
Instead, you say “I miss talking to you” Which is probably way worse
The words slip out before you can stop them.
Steve’s breath hitches. He looks around reflexively, then back at you “You can’t say things like that”
“I know” you whisper “I’m sorry”
He rubs his face with both hands, frustration clear on it “You’re married”
“I know.”
“You’re my best player’s mom”
“I know.”
The way you say it, cracked, desperate, makes him soften despite himself. He drops his hands, shoulders slumping.
“I think about you” he admits, like a confession “More than I should”
Your chest aches “Me too..”
There it is. Ugly and undeniable.
“We shouldn’t” he says
“No.”
Neither of you moves.
Steve exhales, defeated “Come here”
It’s barely louder than the wind.
You step forward.
His hands land on your arms, light at first, like he’s giving you time to pull away. You don’t. He pulls you in, foreheads touching.
For a second, that’s all it is.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not dramatic. No fireworks. No sweeping gestures.
It’s careful. Pressed. Full of restraint that’s already failing.
You make a soft sound you don’t recognize as your own, and that’s what breaks it. Steve kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s been starving and didn’t realize it until now. One of his hands wandered the back of your head, holding you close, almost worried you'll pull back early. Almost like he didn't know you wouldn't.
Almost like you didn't press all your body weight on him.
Almost like soft sighs didn't quietly leave your lips.
When you pull back, you’re both breathing hard.
“We can’t” you say again, even as your hands clutch his shirt tightly in your hands
“I know” he says, voice wrecked
He kisses your temple instead, lingering “We have to stop”
You nod, because you’re not brave enough to say no. You nod, because that's the right thing.
You call for your kid and walk away before either of you can change your mind.
You don’t sleep that night.
Your husband rolls toward you, arm heavy around your waist, familiar and thoughtless. You stare at the ceiling and replay the feel of Steve’s mouth over and over until it makes you sick deep down into your stomach.
You promise yourself that was it.
One mistake. One moment.
Then you hear the phone ring at your work desk the next day.
“Hey” Steve says, low “I know this is a bad idea”
Your stomach flips, like it used when you were nothing but a teenager “Then hang up” you said, writing something down on the documents "I'm working"
He doesn’t “I just needed to hear your voice”
You close your eyes.
The affair never becomes physical beyond that kiss.
Not really.
But it becomes everything else.
Late-night calls when your family is sound asleep. Lingering touches that almost don’t happen. Conversations that cross lines you can’t uncross. He tells you about his dad, about feeling stuck, about how coaching makes him feel like he matters.
You tell him things you’ve never told your husband.
Each word is a betrayal. Each one feels necessary.
You start arriving early to practice. You start leaving last. You start lying with terrifying ease.
And then, one afternoon, your husband shows up, completely unannounced.
You see his car in the lot before Steve does.
Your blood turns to ice.
Steve’s laughing with one of the dads, completely unaware. Your husband steps out, scanning the field.
You don’t have time to warn him.
“Daddy!” your son shouts, waving from the middle of the field
Steve turns, immediately.
His eyes meet yours across the field and you know, with sick certainty, that whatever this is… it’s about to cost you something.
Your husband doesn’t stay long.
That’s the worst part, the mercy of it.
He waves from the fence, chats briefly with another parent, claps your son on the back. He never once looks too closely at you. Never notices the way your hands won’t stop shaking or how Steve has gone unnaturally still near the dugout, like a deer caught mid-step.
“Didn’t know you were stopping by” you say later, trying to sound normal as you walk back to the car together
“Thought I’d surprise him” he shrugs “Work let out early”
You smile. You even mean it a little “He loved it”
“I could tell” He opens the passenger door for your son, then glances back at the field “Coach seems like a good guy”
Your heart stutters, you had to stop the urge to choke down in your breath “Yeah”
That night, you cry in the shower with the water turned up too loud, forehead pressed to the tile like you’re praying for something you don’t deserve.
Crying, because you felt like the worst mother in the whole freaking universe. Like the worst wife a man could imagine for himself. Like the worst person to ever exist in the whole humankind.
Steve doesn’t call for three days.
You tell yourself it’s good. Necessary. A relief.
It feels like withdrawal.
By Friday, you’re jumpy and sharp edged. Every sound makes you flinch. Every quiet moment fills with him, the way he says your name, the crease between his brows when he’s worried, the warmth of his hands on your arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Practice is unbearable.
You can feel him watching you without looking. You can feel the things he’s not saying crowding the air between you. When the kids run drills, you catch his reflection in the chain-link fence, eyes on you, jaw clenched, almost to the point it could break.
When practice ends, he intercepts you before you can leave.
“We need to talk” he says
Your pulse roars in your ears “Not here.”
“Then where?”
You glance around, to see if your son was still playing with his friends before their parents pick them up, heart pounding “My car”
You don’t touch on the walk over. The distance feels deliberate. Punishing.
Inside the car, the silence is immediate and suffocating.
“I can’t do this anymore” Steve says, voice low
You close your eyes “Okay”
He exhales sharply, leaning in the seat “That’s it? Okay?”
“What do you want me to say?” you snap, emotion spilling over “You’re right. This was a mistake. A huge one”
“I didn’t say that” he says quickly, way too quickly “I never did, y/n”
You laugh, bitter “You didn’t have to”
Steve leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the dashboard.
“When your husband showed up… I thought I was going to throw up”
“So did I” you muttered quietly, lightly shifting in your seat
“I kept thinking” he continues, voice rough “this isn’t just about us. This is your life. Your kid”
You press your hand to your mouth “I know”
“I don’t want to be the reason everything blows up” he says quietly “I don’t want to be the guy who ruins things for you”
You look at him then, really look. He looks exhausted. Haunted. Like he’s been carrying the weight of this alone.
“And what about what it’s doing to you?” you ask softly
He lets out a humorless laugh “I’m already in too deep”
The honesty cracks something open in you.
“I don’t want to stop” you admit, barely audible “I know I should. I know what this makes me. But I don’t want to..”
Steve turns to you, eyes dark “That’s the problem, y/n”
The space between you feels electric. He reaches out, then hesitates, a silent question.
You answer it by leaning in. Or maybe he did it first?
This kiss is nothing like the first.
It’s desperate. Messy. All the restraint burned away. Steve’s hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing you. You grab his shirt, pulling him closer, needing the pressure, the proof. It felt so fucking wrong, you felt like fainting. And not the good type of fainting.
When you break apart, you’re both breathless.
“We’re playing with fire” he murmurs against your forehead “Wildfire”
“I know”
He kisses you again anyway. He kisses you as if the silver ring on your finger didn't even exist. As if your son wasn't playing with his friends a little further away. As if you were his.
As if.
It’s only a matter of time before someone notices.
You’re more careful than you’ve ever been about anything, but it doesn’t matter. Affairs don’t unravel because of one big mistake. They unravel because of patterns.
You linger too long after practice. You laugh too easily at Steve’s jokes. You look for him first when you arrive.
So does someone else.
It’s one of the other moms, Carmen or Carol, the mother of one of your son's friends, sharp-eyed and bored. She watches you from the bleachers one afternoon, gaze flicking between you and Steve.
That night, she corners you near the concession stand.
“You and the coach seem close” she says casually
Your stomach drops “He’s my son’s coach”
“Mmhmm, mine too, but I'm not that close to him” she smiles thinly “Just saying. People notice things”
The warning is clear.
You tell Steve that night, voice shaking.
“We have to stop, Steve” you say “For real this time”
He goes quiet. Too quiet.
“If we stop” he asks carefully, looking you in the eyes “do you think you’ll be okay?”
You swallow “I don’t know”
He nods, eyes glistening with something unsaid “Yeah. Me neither..”
The next practice, Steve announces he’s stepping back at the end of the season.
There’s confusion. Complaints.
Parents grumble. Kids pout.
Your son looks crushed.
“You’re leaving?” he asks Steve, eyes wide, glistening with tears
And you felt so bad, so damn bad, that you did that to your beloved child. You felt like shooting yourself right then and there, if only you had the option. You had to turn the other way because you felt your eyes start to sting, even though you were wearing dark glasses.
“Not yet” Steve says gently, crouching to his eye level “But soon, yes”
Your chest aches with something like grief. Could you call it grief? Isn't this a bit excessive?
Later, alone, you confront him.
“You didn’t tell me” you say, anger slowly raising
“I didn’t want to put it on you” he replies “This is my mess. I made the bed, so I have to lie in it, y/n”
“You don’t get to decide that alone”
Steve looks at you, pain clear in his expression “I don’t see another way, we took it way too far”
You reach for him, stopping just short “What if I do? What if I see the other way?”
He laughs softly “Then we’re both screwed. Like really screwed.”
summary: A faulty batch. That’s what it has to be.
Except it isn’t. And when Steve comes home early to find you locked in the bathroom with two bright lines staring back at you, everything shifts
wc: 1.7k+
warnings: language, English isn't my 1st language!
“What if I'm pregnant and just not aware?” you said, laying on your back, twisting a strand of your hair between your fingers
“What?” the two girls snapped their heads up from whatever crossword puzzle they were solving
It was a lazy afternoon in early July, as you and your two best friends, Nancy and Robin, were laying on two big blankets in a park, snacks thrown all over the soft material.
It was the usual girl's day you loved so much. Maybe it was just sitting with them and talking about everything and nothing, but days like that always made you forget all the shit that happened over the last few years.
“Don't know” you shrugged and rolled onto your stomach “Just thinking”
Nancy looked at you with a tilted head and blinked slowly, her mouth opening and closing for a few seconds.
“But you said you haven't…” she gestured vaguely “Well, you know”
You sighed and leaned your cheek on your hand, lightly tapping your fingers against your skin.
“Yeah, like, three months ago while I had a total breakdown, because he cancelled our date and I thought he doesn't love me anymore” you said with a light smile, your mind going back to that time
A moment of silence spread between the three of you. The girls continued their writing, not really digging into the topic, knowing well enough to not let you talk too much about stuff like that. Last time you pulled out this topic was way before you and Steve started dating, barely even held hands. But yeah, all it took for you to talk about it was the two of you attending a party, getting ridiculously drunk and your memory going blank right as you were kissing in one of the party host's guest rooms. At the time you didn't know it ended there, because Steve knew you'd never done this before, so he stopped everything before it became something you might regret later.
“Stop baiting yourself into believing things like that, y/n” Robin sighed, finally breaking the silence “Dingus might be stupid and childish sometimes, but he knows well enough to not be silly and wrap the willy” she shrugged
“Robin!” you and Nancy nearly shouted
Little did you know that almost a month later you'll be sitting on the closed toilet, holding a white stick in your shaky hands.
This felt so scary and surreal at the same time.
“Holy fuck” you muttered quietly to yourself and covered your mouth with one of your hands
This couldn't be real. You and Steve were being careful. Like, extremely careful. And now this? This test must have been a faulty batch, so you took another one out of your bag that you threw on the tiles, which you bought just in case.
After you had done it, you put it on the sink and sat on the toilet again, mentally reciting the rosary. The three minutes dragged on mercifully long, giving the impression that you had been waiting for over an hour. After glancing at your watch, you let out a heavy, shaky breath and slowly stood up from your seat.
“Baby! You're home?” a voice called just in the very same moment your hand reached for the cursed white stick resting innocently on the porcelain.
“Shit, shit, shit” you mumbled and quickly closed the bathroom door, twisting the lock
You looked at yourself in the mirror and swallowed thickly. Why the fuck Steve was home already? You could have sworn he told you in the morning that he wouldn't be back until around seven o'clock because he and Robin had a shit load of work at the radio station.
You shook your head and without thinking more, grabbed the pregnancy test.
Positive.
Two lines. Two fucking bright lines.
“Oh God” you whispered shakily and felt tears prickling in the corners of your eyes
“Baby?” you nearly jumped as he knocked lightly on the wooden door “You alright there? Or did you slip in the shower?” He chuckled quietly
“No, no, I'm alright!” you said, but couldn't hold back the quiet sniffle that came after that
“Can you open the door?”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“I- yeah. Just…just give me a second” you croaked, frantically wiping under your eyes with the back of your hand. Like that would magically erase everything
Another knock, a little firmer this time.
“Hey” Steve said, the smile still there but softer now, cautious “You sure?”
You stared at the test in your hand, the plastic suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Your fingers were numb. You didn’t know where to put it. The sink felt too obvious. The trash felt wrong. Hiding it felt… worse. There was no right choice.
“Fuck” you whispered again, mostly to yourself
There was no version of this where you could stall forever.
You unlocked the door with shaky hands and cracked it open just enough to peer through. Steve was standing there in his jacket, keys still dangling from his fingers, eyebrows already knitted together in concern.
“Hey” he said quietly, his voice so damn gentle “What’s going on?”
You swallowed, throat tight, and opened the door the rest of the way. The bathroom suddenly felt way too small for the two of you. His eyes flicked over your face, the redness around your eyes, the way your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
“Jesus” he murmured “Did something happen? Is it your mom?”
You shook your head. Then nodded. Then shook it again, a broken little laugh escaping you before it turned into a sob you couldn’t stop.
Steve moved instantly, dropping his keys and stepping closer “Whoa, hey…hey” he said, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you yet “Talk to me”
You held out your hand.
The test was still there, stark and unforgiving.
His gaze followed the motion, confusion flickering for just a second before his eyes focused. And then..
Oh.
You watched it hit him in real time. The way his mouth fell slightly open. The way his shoulders stiffened. The way the air seemed to leave the room entirely.
“That’s… that’s not-” he started, then stopped. He leaned closer, squinting like the lines might change if he looked hard enough “That’s… two lines”
You nodded, tears finally spilling over “I took two” you whispered “Both were positive”
Silence.
Not the bad kind. Not the angry kind. Just… stunned.
Steve dragged a hand down his face and let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh “Holy shit” he said under his breath
You braced yourself. For panic. For denial. For this can’t be happening. Instead, he looked back up at you, eyes glassy, voice unsteady.
“Are you okay?”
That broke you.
“I don’t know” you sobbed “I’m scared, Steve. I’m so fucking scared”
He didn’t hesitate this time. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clutched his jacket, burying your face against him as he held you tight, one hand cradling the back of your head.
“We’ll figure it out” he murmured into your hair, voice shaking just enough to prove he was scared too “Okay? You’re not alone. I’ve got you”
You nodded against him, breathing him in, the reality still terrifying and surreal and very, very real.
Two lines.
Two lives that were never going to be the same again.
He held you there for a long moment, rocking ever so slightly like he was grounding both of you at the same time. His heart was pounding against your cheek, fast, uneven. It made everything feel real in a way the plastic stick hadn’t quite managed to yet.
After a while, he pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still firm on your waist like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. His thumbs brushed gently under your eyes, wiping away tears with clumsy care.
“Hey” he murmured “Look at me. Baby, look at me”
You did, reluctantly. His eyes were red too now. Not crying, but damn close. Real close.
“You didn’t do anything wrong” he said, like he needed you to hear it more than once “Okay? I know your brain’s probably spiraling right now, I know you, but… this isn’t your fault”
“I know” you whispered, even though you weren’t entirely sure you believed it yet “I just- I thought we were careful enough”
“So did I” he admitted quietly. He glanced down at the test still clutched in your hand, then back up at you “Guess the universe had other plans”
That earned a weak, breathy laugh from you, one that broke almost immediately. Steve smiled faintly in response, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Are you…” he hesitated, swallowing “Are you in pain? Like… physically?”
You shook your head “No. Just… overwhelmed”
“Yeah” he said softly “Yeah, that tracks”
He guided you to sit on the closed toilet lid, crouching down in front of you so you were eye level. One of his hands wrapped around yours, careful and warm.
“We don’t have to decide anything right now” he said “Not tonight. Not this second. We can just… breathe”
You squeezed his hand, nodding “I didn’t even know how to tell you”
“I’m kinda glad you didn’t have to” he said, huffing quietly “I don’t think I would’ve survived suspense Steve mode”
That made you laugh for real this time, tears still slipping down your cheeks. He smiled properly now, crooked and familiar, and leaned forward to press his forehead against yours.
“I’m scared too” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper “But I’m also… not going anywhere. Okay?”
Your chest tightened painfully at that “Promise?”
He didn’t hesitate “Promise.”
He kissed your forehead, slow and deliberate, like sealing it. When he pulled back, he rested his hands on your knees, grounding you.
“How about this” he said gently, lightly rubbing your knees “We order some really shitty takeout, sit on the couch, and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a couple hours”
You sniffed “You’re paying”
He snorted “Obviously. I’m the one who knocked you up”
You swatted his shoulder, but you were smiling through the tears now. Still terrified. Still unsure. But no longer alone.
summary: years after their teenage love ended, she crosses paths with a man who seems to know her in ways no stranger should. While she struggles to place him, he recognizes her immediately, and chooses to let her meet him as he is now, not as the boy she loved.
wc: 2,261
warnings: Steve never healed, i guess it's safe to say I'm setting this in the 90s so they're both adults if that even matters, use of y/n, english is not my 1st language!!, cursing
a/n: my Tumblr decided it's my time and crashed so absolute shit happened to this one
that's why it looks how it looks, skipping how shitty it's written
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“But what don't you understand, Steve?” you said, tears going down your cheeks flushed from the cool wind
He stopped on the pavement pacing and ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. He turned his back to you and looked at the slowly darkening sky, taking a deep, slightly shaky breath.
“What I don't understand, y/n?” he said, finally turning to you, his voice slightly quivering even though he tried to not show it “Why do you have to leave in the middle of the fucking semester? Can't you just stay with your mom? Please, help me fucking understand this, because, God, I'm so fucking lost right now, y/n”
You looked at him, your teeth slightly sinking into your shaking bottom lip. In that moment you didn't know what to say, not because you had no idea, but because you had so much to say at once and putting this into one thought felt like hell.
“Steve…” you started quietly, not trusting your own voice “You know very well that if the choice were mine, I would stay here for the rest of my life. But my dad got this amazing job offer in Chicago, and it can really help us”
He didn't answer, just looked at you with this pained look on his face that made you want to run away as far as possible, just to not have to see that pain and sadness in his beautiful brown eyes, which until today were staring at you as if you were the greatest thing in the entire world.
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Chicago was a huge shock for someone coming from a small town.
Steve didn't know what to put his hands in as he put his suitcase down next to the hotel bed. He walked over to the large window and pulled back the heavy curtains, taking a deep breath as he saw the view of the city.
Some time later he was walking along the city sidewalks, occasionally catching something with his camera.
He passed a row of cafés, their windows fogged from the warmth inside, the smell of coffee cutting through the cold air. Steve slowed without realizing it, his camera hanging loose in his hand as he framed a shot he never took.
Laughter drifted out through an open door, soft, familiar. Then he stopped.
The decision felt automatic, as if his body had recognized something his mind was still catching up to.
The bell above the door chimed as Steve stepped inside, the sound too bright for how suddenly his chest felt tight.
The café was warm and crowded in a muted way, low conversations, clinking cups, the steady hiss of steam. He joined the short line, fingers curling loosely around his camera strap, and tried not to stare.
You were behind the counter.
Up close, the years showed in ways he hadn’t expected. You cut your hair, dyed them dark, way too dark, he'd say. Your face was more defined now, your expression steadier, but when you glanced up and smiled, it was the same smile he remembered, automatic, kind, practiced.
“What can I get you?”
“Coffee” he said “Black”
You reached for a cup “Name?”
“Steve”
“Steph?” the marker hovered
“Steve.”
“Mmm” you wrote it anyway, turning away toward the machine. Steve watched the letters appear on the sleeve, S-T-E, then stop. Your hand lingered there a beat too long.
You turned the cup back towards yourself. Eyes lifted slowly, really looking at him this time. Not the quick scan of a customer’s face, but a searching look, like you were lining him up against a memory you hadn’t touched in years.
“Oh-” The word fell between them, soft but, oh, so heavy
He nodded once “Hey”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The espresso machine hissed, a coworker called out an order behind your back, someone in line cleared their throat. The world kept going, oblivious.
“You-” you stopped, cleared your throat “I didn’t—sorry. I didn’t recognize you”
“That’s okay” he said quickly “I almost didn’t either” it wasn’t true, but it felt like the safer thing to say
You gave a small, uncertain smile at that, then slid the cup across the counter. Your fingers brushed his, brief and accidental, but the contact sent something sharp and familiar through him.
“Still black?” you asked, like no time had passed at all
“Yeah” Steve said “Some habits stick”
You nodded, eyes flicking to the cup, then back to him “I’ll bring it over”
Steve stepped aside, carrying the coffee to a small table by the window. Outside, the city moved on in blurs of coats and traffic. Inside, he waited, unsure whether he was bracing himself or hoping.
You didn’t come over right away. You just couldn't.
Steve told himself not to read into it, but his eyes kept drifting back to the counter anyway. You moved through the space with practiced ease, calling out orders, laughing softly at something a coworker said. Every now and then, he felt you glance in his direction. Quick, uncertain, as if you weren't sure you were allowed to look for too long.
By the time you finally crossed the room, his coffee had gone untouched. Almost like he was waiting for you to be there so he can start it.
“Sorry” you said with a light smile on your face, setting a small plate with a biscotti on the table “It’s on the house. We got busy”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know” you offered a polite smile and took the chair across from him anyway, folding your hands in your lap, not sure what to do with them “I just… had a minute”
The two of you sat there, the space between you oddly careful.
“So” you started “Chicago?”
“Yeah. Just got in” He nodded toward the window “Still figuring it out”
“It does that” you said and nodded lightly “Takes a while, that's for sure”
Another pause. Not awkward exactly, more like both of you choosing your words too carefully.
“You look…” you stopped yourself, then tried again “You look well”
“Thanks. You too” he hesitated “I didn’t know you still live here”
“I didn't for maybe a year” you traced the edge of the plate with one finger “Life happened, so I got back” you shrugged
“Yeah” he said softly “It does that”
Your lips curved into something almost like a smile at the familiar phrase, then faded just as quickly. You glanced towards the counter, where your coworker was watching a little too knowingly.
“I shouldn’t sit long” you cleared your throat quietly “But I’m glad you came in”
“So am I” he replied, and meant it more than he was ready to admit
Oh, if only you knew how damn much he meant it.
You stood, lingering just a second longer than necessary “I’m on until three” you said, as if the words slipped out before you'd decided to say them “If you’re still around”
Steve nodded “I’ll be around”
As you walked back to the counter, he finally lifted the cup and took a sip. It was still hot. Bitter, familiar, grounding.
Steve checked his watch for the third time and told himself it didn’t mean anything. Three o’clock came and went, the café thinning out until the noise softened into something almost intimate. He’d moved to a second cup of coffee he didn’t really need, his camera resting on the table like an excuse to stay.
You wiped down the counter, untied your apron, and hung it on the hook by the back. Your shoulders ached the way they always did at the end of a shift, but your eyes kept drifting toward the window anyway. When you finally stepped outside, you scanned the sidewalk once, then saw him standing there, hands in his pockets, like he wasn’t sure where to put them.
Your smile this time was different. Less careful. Almost surprised. “Hey” you said, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your sweater “You waited”
“Yeah” he said “I figured I’d see the city from one spot for a while”
You laughed quietly at that and nodded toward the street “You picked a decent one”
You started walking without really discussing it, your steps falling into rhythm after a block, like the space between you remembered how. The afternoon light stretched long between the buildings, catching in the windows, turning everything gold for a moment. A bus roared past, and you both instinctively slowed, letting it go before continuing.
“So” you said after a while “How long are you staying in the big great Chicago?”
“A week. Maybe more” he glanced at you “I don't have much of a plan ”
“That sounds like you” you said, then winced “I mean- sorry, I didn’t-”
“It’s okay” he said, almost smiling “It is me”
You shared a small smile, the kind that didn’t ask anything of the other person. At the crosswalk, you stopped, standing close enough now that he could smell coffee still clinging to your clothes, warm and familiar. Neither of you stepped away.
“I thought about you” you said suddenly, eyes fixed on the red light. Saying it felt strange, but not wrong “Not all the time. Just… sometimes”
He exhaled slowly “Me too”
The light changed. You didn’t move right away. When you finally looked at him, really looked, his face seemed both older and exactly the same, like time had learned where to be gentle.
“Do you want to grab dinner?” you asked “Not-” You gestured vaguely between you, searching for the right boundary “Not to fix anything. Just to talk”
He nodded, something steady settling in his chest, something that looked a lot like relief “Yeah” he said “I’d like that”
Dinner ends up being someplace small and unremarkable, the kind of place you’d never remember if it weren’t for who you’re sitting across from. A narrow table. Too-close chairs. The low hum of other people’s conversations filling in the gaps when neither of you speaks.
You talk carefully at first.
Work. Cities. The safe geography of facts. You tell him how you ended up behind the café counter, temporary, at first, the way all long-term things begin. He tells you about the camera, about chasing light in unfamiliar places, about never quite staying long enough to feel settled.
“I still hate crowds” you say, absently tearing your bread in half
He looks up, smiles “You always did”
the word always lands softly, but it stays
Later, when the plates are cleared and neither of you reaches for the check right away, the conversation loosens. You catch yourself laughing, really laughing, at something stupid he says, and for a second it’s seven years ago, summer air and open windows and the way he used to make you laugh when you swore you wouldn’t.
You look away first.
Outside, night has settled in fully, the city cooler now, quieter in the way only big places ever get. You walk again, slower this time. Your shoulders brush once, accidentally. Neither of you apologizes.
“I used to think” you say, watching your breath fog in the air “that if I ever saw you again, I’d have a whole speech ready”
“Yeah?” he asks
“I’ve got nothing” you admit “Blank page”
He nods “That feels right”
You walk side by side, the night air cool against your cheeks. Streetlights stretch along the pavement, catching in puddles from an earlier drizzle.
You talk about Hawkins, about the creek behind your house, the treehouse that collapsed during a storm, the diner you used to haunt after school. Laughter spills softly between you, easy, familiar. For a while, it feels like the years never happened.
“I can’t believe you remembered that” he says, smiling at a detail from the treehouse
“I remembered everything” you reply, almost too quickly, because you realize you’ve missed this, missed being seen, understood, known
The walk slows as you near your block.
Lamplight pools on the sidewalk, painting the street gold. Neither of you wants to break the quiet, but you know the moment can’t last forever.
“Thanks” you murmur as you reach your door
“For what?” he asks, tilting his head, eyebrows raised
“For walking me home” you say with a shrug
He shrugs as well, a small, easy smile tugging at his lips “I should’ve done it a long time ago”
You pat your pockets, frowning “Keys…”
“You forgot them?” he asks, amusement softening his tone
“Yeah. Brilliant, right?” You give him a rueful smile
He chuckles “Guess I’ll have to wait with you”
You knock on the door, heart thudding faster than it has all night. A moment passes. Then, the door swings open.
It’s a man. Tall, casual, confident, the kind of familiarity that sinks straight into your chest, making it skip a beat.
Steve freezes beside you, his eyes widening before he even speaks.
“Hi, baby” the man says, grinning softly
You stare, realizing in that instant.
The one thing you never told Steve, the one thing you thought didn’t matter, the thing you’d completely forgotten to mention, is glaringly, painfully obvious.
Steve swallows. His smile falters. The air between you is suddenly heavy, sharp, and unrelenting.
A little girl stormed clumsily through the door. She looked just like you. The same big doe eyes, hair curling at the ends, just like yours did back then, rosy cheeks that didn't drop the smile even for a second as she ran towards you.
“Mommy!!”
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a/n: I'm sorry, I got really mad at smth in the middle of writing and had to put it out somehow, so I dropped the idea of it being a fluff xx (they were supposed to end up back together btw)
summary: A drunken kiss at a summer party cracks open their carefully maintained denial, leading to months of denying feelings, tension, and almost-confessions.
wc: 2,536
warnings: kissing but not detailed, steve being down bad, use of y/n, fem reader, friends to lovers, set between s3 and s4 ig, !english isn't my 1st language!, slight angst if you reaaally squint, no mention of Dustin tho(just realized lmaoo)
a/n: soooo, idk what to think about it tbh
the last time I wrote a fic it was 2022 if not a little bit later but that's still a bit of time
so my apologies if it's bad
masterlist
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
When summer began, everyone knew. Everyone, except you two.
They'd known since last winter, since the way Steve always showed up to pick you up with your favourite cassettes tucked in the space on the door or when your laugh softened when it was him telling some unfunny joke. Since the way the two of you always leaned closer to yourselves when a place got too crowded.
Everyone knew.
The party was at Steve's old friend's place, the kind of house only someone whose parents were “on a weekend business trip” could offer. Sprawling lawn, hedges clipped into some hideous shapes, and a big white gazebo in the back of the garden that looked like the one from wedding magazines you used to read as a little girl, imagining you're standing there in a princess wedding dress. Someone had strung fairy lights through it, warm yellow lights, plugged into an extension cord hiding somewhere in the trimmed grass.
Loud music blasted from the inside. Talking heads, The Prince, then something heavy that definitely made everyone feel way cooler than they actually were. The air was soaked with cigarette smoke, lots of beer and something completely summery.
You were already drunk when Steve found you sitting on the wooden steps, sitting sideways with your shoelaces untied and tangled together.
“You disappeared on me” he said loudly, trying to compete with the tunes leaking from inside
“Got overwhelmed” you said with a little sigh “By all the people”
Steve smiled in that stupid way of his “Figured that out”
He grabbed a six-pack someone left unattended somewhere in the grass and walked towards you, kicking some small rock on the way. Pretending it all was a coincidence. Pretending like they didn't always orbit around each other like this. Pretending like they didn't go to all those parties to have some excuse to spend more time together.
Steve sat on the step higher than you, your knees almost touching.
“Hey, do you think..” you started, staring at the grass “that maybe we're doing something wrong with our lives?”
“On a daily basis” he laughed “Do I have to remind you what I do for a living?”
“No, no, I mean…” you waved your beer vaguely “Like, we're missing something that's so freaking obvious..?”
Steve looked at you. Really looked at you. The way your mascara was lightly smudged under your eyes, making your eyes look a bit darker. The way you were playing with the button on your denim jacket, like you had to hold onto something.
“Like what?” he asked
You shrugged with a quiet sigh “I don't know, something that everyone else sees..?”
That should've been the moment it clicked into place. It almost was. Almost.
Instead, Steve let out a heavy breath and took a sip from his beer “You're drunk, y/n”
“So are you”
“Less poetically”
Both of you laughed, and the laugh tipped you closer, shoulder to shoulder. Steve could feel the warmth seeping through the denim of your jacket, alongside the bad decisions.
Inside the house, the song changed. Outside, someone laughed loudly. Somewhere in the dark, someone absolutely broke something expensive.
You turned to Steve, suddenly feeling stupidly serious “Hey”
“Hey”
“Promise me something”
His stomach did a small stupid flip, that he definitely couldn't explain “Okay?”
“Promise me that no matter what happens” your eyes glassy from all the alcohol in you “we won't get all weird”
He swallowed and lightly tilted his head “What do you mean weird?”
“Well you know..” you smile, crooked and so drunk “like..ruin this”
You were so close now that Steve could smell the fruity scent of your way too expensive shampoo and something completely yours. For him the world narrowed to the lights, smell of you and your stupid big doe eyes.
“Yeah” he said quietly “I promise”
That was definitely a lie. Or maybe just the truth that landed way too late.
You leaned in first, or maybe he did. It was clumsy and unplanned, and absolutely unserious. His mouth tasted like beer, something sweet and definitely impulse. Your fingers found the collar of the stupid leather jacket you loved on him, like they were waiting eternity for it.
For a second, there was surprise, wide eyes, a half-laugh against a mouth, but then it settled into something easy, something practiced by imagination if not by experience.
You kissed like people discovering a secret everyone else had been tired of keeping. Like people who would later insist this “just happened” even though it had been happening for years.
When you pulled back a little, breathless and stunned, the gazebo lights flickered a bit brighter.
“Oh” you let out
“Oh” Steve echoed
The two of you sat there, foreheads touching, the party roaring on behind you, the future rearranging itself quietly.
You didn’t kiss again right away.
That was the strangest part. Both of you clearly wanted to, both of you absolutely frozen by the realization that something had tipped and didn’t know how to right itself.
You broke the silence first “Soo” you said, too smiley for your own good “that happened”
Steve nodded “Objectively, yes”
You two laughed again, but it was thinner this time, the sound of people trying to convince themselves they were still on familiar ground.
You leaned back on your hands, staring up at the gazebo ceiling like it might offer instructions.
“This is… probably just the alcohol” you shrugged lightly
Steve knew that was false in the way some things announce themselves as lies even as they’re spoken. Still, both of you grabbed onto it.
“Yeah” he said “Totally. Classic alcohol behavior, totally”
You snorted quietly. Relief flickered across your face, and you bumped your knee against Steve’s. “Great heavens. Can you imagine if we actually meant it?”
Steve imagined it instantly. Imagined it too vividly. Imagined it with terrifying clarity. He didn't even know his imagination was that good.
“Terrifying” he said instead
You and Steve sat there until the night air cooled the heat in your faces, until someone stumbled past you toward the lawn and yelled drunkenly “GET A ROOM” in a tone that was far too affectionate to be cruel
You groaned “We’re never living this down”
“Please” he chuckled “By Monday, everyone will be obsessed with whatever new disaster happens in this town”
As if summoned, a crash echoed from the house, followed by cheering.
You stood up at the same time, suddenly unsure where to put your hands, your eyes, your entire selves. You wrapped your jacket a bit tighter around yourself. Steve brushed nonexistent dirt from their jeans.
“Friends?” you asked, holding the word carefully, like it might crack
The boy met her gaze “Of course, you idiot” he let out a chuckle
You walked back into the party together, leaving the gazebo glowing behind you.
The next morning was much worse.
Steve woke up with a headache and the distinct memory of your mouth and your stupid lipgloss, which felt wildly unfair.
By noon, the phone rang.
“Tell me you remember last night” you said, no greeting, voice tinny through the receiver
“I remember” he sighed “Unfortunately very detailed”
“Okay. Good. Same. So we’re not… hallucinating or something”
You talked around it for half an hour, or maybe a little longer. Who knows.
About hangovers. About the expensive broken lamp at the party. About the fact that someone had stolen your jacket and replaced it with a denim vest that definitely did not belong to you.
You didn't talk about the kiss.
The call ended with you promising brunch ‘sometime this week’, which obviously for the two of you meant literally the next day.
Brunch turned into a pattern.
So did sitting too close.
So did hands lingering an extra beat when passing salt or lighting cigarettes, both of you promised to quit.
So did the way silence between you started to feel charged instead of comfortable.
Everyone noticed.
“You know you’re basically married” your coworker, Allie, said one afternoon, stirring sugar into her coffee with a stupid smile plastered on her face
Robin was less subtle when it came to Steve “If you don’t date her” she said “I’m going to”
The world kept nudging.
Steve and you kept pretending not to feel it. You always had to stifle the scream that threatened to escape each time you came back from hanging out. And he always sat a few minutes longer in his car in front of your house after dropping you off.
Until one night in October, leaves piling on the sidewalks, you showed up at Steves’s place with a bottle of wine and no pretense.
“I can’t do this anymore” you said, standing in the doorway, your bag hanging loosely on your shoulder “The not-doing-this”
Steve didn’t ask what you meant. He stepped aside and let you in. Everything felt weirdly natural.
This time, when you kissed, it wasn’t surprising. It was careful. It was sober. It was the kind of kiss that rearranges things permanently. One of your hands lightly placed on his cheek while the other on the side of his neck, while his big hands were sprawled on your sides.
Afterward, you laughed into Steve’s shoulder, a sound half relief, half disbelief “Everyone’s going to be so annoying about this”
He smiled, pulling you closer, almost onto his lap “Yeah” he said “But at least they’ll finally shut up”
“Wait until the kids finds out” you chuckled quietly, loosely wrapping your arms around his neck “Then you can forget about anyone shutting up”
You two didn’t tell anyone right away.
Not because you were hiding, at least that’s what you insisted, but because saying it out loud felt like it would make it fragile. Like naming it would turn it into something that could be broken by other people’s opinions, by jokes, by inevitability.
Telling people about relationship short after it started never was a good idea. You learned it the hard way when a few years back, you told your best friends about the new guy you were seeing. They got involved to the point he broke up with you.
So for a while, it was just you and Steve.
You still met the same way you two always had, you knocking without knocking, Steve already halfway to the door like he'd been waiting, already on his way to kiss you. The difference was in the pauses. The way eye contact lingered too long. The way hands hovered, then committed.
The first time you stayed over, none of you slept much. Not because of sex, though there was that, awkward and laughing and earnest, but because afterward you lay tangled together, wide awake, listening to the town hum.
“This is weird” you murmured into his bare shoulder
Steve smiled into the dark “Good weird or bad weird?”
“Both” you said quietly, letting out a quiet sigh “Like… I don’t know where to put all this”
Strve knew exactly what you meant.
Wanting you had been a low, constant ache for so long that now, having you felt disorienting. Like finally sitting down after standing all day and realizing how tired you were. Like drinking a glass of cold water after waking up in the middle of the night, feeling like you have a desert in your mouth.
In the morning, the smell of burned toast filled the air in the kitchen. Steve drank coffee you had made definitely too strong. You wore Steve’s shirt and pretended not to notice how carefully he watched you move around his kitchen.
You kissed goodbye like teenagers, like it's the last time you're seeing each other. His hands under your shirt, gripping your waist and your fingers in his always effortlessly stupid perfect hair.
The first crack came weeks later, small but sharp around the edges.
You and Steve were supposed to meet at a record store after work.
You waited.
And waited.
And waited.
By the time Steve showed up, breathless and apologetic, the light had shifted toward evening. The setting sun casting a yellow light around the place
“I lost track of time” he said “I’m sorry, I really am, baby”
You nodded, but something had already tightened in your chest. You hated that feeling with your whole heart, how quickly disappointment slipped into fear. How you started to feel the little stinging under your eyelids way before tears appeared.
“It’s fine” you said, too quickly for his liking
Steve heard it anyway “It’s not”
“It is” you insisted, arms crossed “We’re not…. I don’t want to be the kind of person who gets upset about schedules..”
He frowned and lightly tilted his head “Why not?”
Because wanting things felt dangerous.
Because expectations were how things broke.
Because once, friendship had been enough to keep her safe.
You exhaled heavily “I just don’t want this to turn into… pressure, Steve”
Steve’s voice softened “Y/n, I want pressure. I want it to matter”
That stopped you.
You looked at him then, really looked, and saw the same fear mirrored back. Not fear of being trapped. Fear of being careless. Fear of making the same mistakes he did years ago.
“Oh” you muttered quietly “You mean that”
“Yeah, I do”
You stood there among the bins of vinyl, surrounded by other people flipping through records, living ordinary lives, while something important recalibrated itself between you two.
You reached for Steve’s hand, tentative but sure “Okay” you said “Then I’ll try to say when I care. Even when it’s scary”
He squeezed your fingers “And I’ll try not to disappear when it is”
You never did go back to that first gazebo.
It became one of those stories you tell people after a few drinks. And only then.
Steve and you let it belong to the summer, to beer and noise and denial.
What you did instead was quieter.
You kept living your lives alongside each other, sometimes seamlessly, sometimes at an angle. There were mornings that felt effortless and nights that felt like negotiations. There were arguments that ended unresolved, apologies that came late, filled with touches and kisses until it felt right, laughter that arrived exactly when it was needed.
You and Steve didn’t break. But didn’t promise forever, either. You never wanted to think about the future too much.
One evening, late in the year, you sat on Steve’s fire escape with a shared cigarette, coats pulled tight. Somewhere below you, a radio played something familiar and tinny, an old song, already becoming nostalgic.
You exhaled smoke into the cold “Do you think this lasts?”
He didn’t answer right away. The town breathed around you. Windows lit up, went dark.
“I think” Steve said slowly, looking at the cigarette “it’s already lasted longer than we ever admitted”
You smiled at that, not sad, not certain. Just honest. You leaned your head against Steve’s shoulder. Just the way you loved.
The two of you stayed like that for a while, listening. Not deciding. Not undoing anything.
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