✦ Moanologue / aka Ririel - a name I chose not just for the moans, but for the monologues that ache behind them.
Sometimes I write like I’m whispering in someone’s ear.
Sometimes I write to scream into the void.
But mostly, I write to feel...
to explore obsession, dependency, intimacy, vulnerability.
to build soft cages and call them comfort.
to peel skin with words and call it healing.
That’s the heart of this blog. That’s where my energy lives.
˚∘⊰⋆˙⟡˙⋆⊱˚∘
There might be moments when I share
☁ aesthetics
☁ fragments of other fandoms I love (Wuthering Waves, Where Winds Meet, some manhwas(maybeツ), k-pop(Skz and Atz) when I have breath for it)
☁ thoughts that have nothing to do with fiction but everything to do with me
This is not a NSFW blog. But it is vulnerable, sensory, and a little shameless in its emotional nakedness.
If you’re into hyperfixations, slow-burn control fantasies, and soul-picking prose - welcome ;)
Hey loves,
Can you feel it too? 🤭🎀 That shift in the air, longer days, warmer nights, the kind of freedom that makes your mind finally relax and say “Okay, now let’s make some creative stuff💅”
After a pretty intense winter-spring writing sprint (re-reading old drafts from winter, tearing apart scenes that didn’t hit hard enough, rewriting until my eyes burned and then a necessary pause to not completely burn out), I finally have enough free time to return to writing properly 😄😄😄 Some of you may have noticed that I've been quietly working behind the scenes for a while now, and I think it's finally time to talk about what's coming next.
This summer, I'm planning to focus on two long projects that have been living in my documents, notes apps, and brainrot folders since winter:
"ECU [Emotional Control Unit]: malfunction. Side Effects May Include Attachment"
Ateez | Yungi | Street Racing AU
Driver Mingi. Mechanic Yunho.
Speed, obsession, bad decisions, and the kind of attachment that slowly turns into a problem neither of them knows how to fix.
and
"Luxe & Haze"
Formula 1 | Russonelli | Canon-based
Built around real events, real races, real mistakes, and the dangerous line between admiration, fixation, and obsession.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The funny thing is that neither of these projects is actually new. I started planning both of them back in winter, and whenever I had enough energy, I kept writing scenes, outlines, and entire chapters.
The less funny thing is that after rereading everything, I realized some chapters simply don't work anymore.
Some need editing. Some need heavy revisions. A few probably need to be rewritten from scratch.
So that's why I'm not posting anything immediately.
Right now I'm going through old drafts, checking chapters, fixing plot points, and making sure both stories are something I'll actually be proud to share. If everything goes according to plan, the first chapters should appear on AO3 sometime during the second half of the month or in the last days of June.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
P.S. Since I know some people are probably wondering about "Say It Again" (Hawaii Five-0)... "Say It Again" is alive.
The truth is that it's still very much in development.
What I didn't expect when I started writing it was how difficult the story would become. Most of the time, I'm arguing with myself because Steve and Danny keep refusing to tell me which ending they want, so we've been stuck in negotiations for an embarrassing amount of time. Every path feels right for one reason and wrong for another.
The fic isn't abandoned, the author is simply being held hostage by her own plot, so I ended up picking up new projects to either give myself a break... or make things even worse by adding more stories to my workload.
As a result, updates for all three of my main projects will probably be irregular. I don't think I'll be able to maintain the "new chapter every Friday and Saturday" schedule that I somehow managed a year ago.
I'd rather take more time and post chapters when they're ready than rush them just to meet a schedule.
Hey everyone! I'm excited to share what I'm calling my "New Year's Trilogy" - a special collection of fanfiction that I've put together to celebrate the holidays and the new year.
✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚୨ৎ So what exactly is this trilogy?
It's a curated set of stories from three of my absolute favorite fandoms: NCIS, Black Butler, and The Mentalist. For each fandom, I've written two versions: a General Audience version that everyone can enjoy, and an Explicit version for those who prefer more mature content.
✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚୨ৎ That means six stories total, letting readers choose their own adventure based on their preferences and comfort levels. Whether you're looking for something cozy and wholesome or something with a bit more heat, there's something here for you!
≽^•⩊•^≼ I had so much fun exploring these different universes and giving each one the New Year's treatment. I hope you'll check them out and let me know what you think!
As we step into 2026, I wanted to take a moment to look back at 2025 through my favorite photo from each month. Each of these images captures a day filled with memories that are very precious to me.
📚 8+ Months on AO3: A Journey as Moanologue
It's been just over 8 months since I started sharing my stories on AO3 under the name Moanologue! Here's what this year brought:
9 works shared with the world
154,423 words in my longest fic (Say It Again)
56 subscriptions, 161 kudos and 107 comments on that story alone
Countless hours of writing, editing, and connecting with this amazing community
Every hit, every kudos, every comment has meant so much to me. Thank you for reading, for supporting and for being part of this creative adventure💕💕💕💕💕
🎮 Gaming Adventures
The charm of these games never ceases to amaze me💖💖💖
🎵 December Soundtrack
And because music fuels everything I do, here's what kept me company this December: my top 20 tracks featuring ATEEZ, YUTA, Marc Moon, and so many others. From "Fame is a Gun" to "Now this house ain't a home", these songs were the backdrop to my writing sessions and daily life.
And in 2026, there will be even more stories, more memories, and more moments worth capturing. Thank you for being here with me🌟
Relationship: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
The darkness is soft when I wake, not the heavy kind that presses down but the gentle pre-dawn dimness that means morning's coming but hasn't arrived yet. There's movement in the room: fabric rustling, the quiet clink of a belt buckle, the familiar creak of Steve's closet door.
I blink, my eyes adjusting slowly, still caught in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness. Steve's silhouette moves through the room. He's already half-dressed. Cargo pants on, the dark fabric hugging his hips in a way that would normally make my brain short-circuit, but it's too early for that. His shirt's still off, dog tags catching the faint light as he reaches for something on the dresser. (…?) The metal glints as he moves, and I watch the play of muscles across his back, the way his shoulders roll as he pulls open a drawer.
The room smells like fresh coffee and clean laundry, that particular scent of pressed uniforms that reminds me he's going into commander mode. Not the Steve who kissed me breathless last night, but Commander McGarrett, head of Five-0, the man who walks into dangerous situations like he's got nothing to lose.
I should say something. Should let him know I'm awake. But I'm caught just watching him move through the pre-dawn routine, this intimate glimpse of him preparing for the day. There's something mesmerizing about it… the economy of movement, the quiet focus, the way he's already mentally shifting into work mode even as he's still in our bedroom.
He reaches for his tactical vest, and that's when the digital clock on the nightstand catches my eye: 5:17 AM in harsh green numbers.
Shit. Wait-
My brain finally catches up, sleep-fog clearing in a rush of panic.
Five-seventeen. We're supposed to be at headquarters. The case. The surveillance. Am I late? Did I oversleep? Are we supposed to be leaving together?
Panic flutters in my chest, and I start to sit up quickly, the sheets sliding down to my waist. Cool air hits my bare chest, and I remember I'm still naked from last night.(…) Heat creeps up my neck at the memory, but I push it aside because… fuck, if we're late, if I'm making him late…
"What time is it?" I already know, but the question gives me something to say besides don't go. "Are we leaving? I can get ready in-"
Steve notices the movement immediately, turning from the closet with his Five-0 polo in hand. Even in the dim light, I can see the soft expression that crosses his face when he realizes I'm awake.
"Easy, Danno." He sets down his polo, and moves to the bed. "It's early. Just past five. You're not late."
"But you're-" I gesture at him, at the tactical gear, at the time glowing accusingly on the nightstand. "You're dressed. It's five in the morning. I thought…"
"I'm leaving early. Go back to sleep." He sits on the edge of the bed near my hip, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hand finds my chest, palm flat over my heart where it's hammering too fast. "Just for a couple hours. Early meeting about the warehouse surveillance. Nothing you need to be there for yet."
"Yet," I repeat, my brain still trying to shake off the sleep. "What does that mean?"
"Means today's going to be long. Probably run into tonight." The pressure is firmer now, pinning me in place. "You should rest now while you can."
But I should be there from the start, I should be up and dressed and following him out the door like a real detective instead of lying here in his bed while he goes to work without me. I'm his partner, aren't I? His second? I should be beside him, not…
Yet the weight of his hand on my chest and the exhaustion still clinging to my bones makes protest difficult. His hand is so warm, so solid, and I can feel my heart beating faster and faster against his palm.
"I'll call you when it's time to head in. Probably around nine, nine-thirty. That gives you a few more hours." His thumb strokes once, twice, across my chest.
A few more hours in his bed, in his space, surrounded by the scent of him. The thought should probably feel more pathetic than it does.
"And you?" I counter, because I can't just let it go completely. "When did you sleep? Because I know for a fact you were awake after I passed out."
"I'm fine. I've run on less."
"That's not an answer." I try to hold his gaze, though it's hard to be confrontational when I'm naked and horizontal and he's dressed and looming over me with that fond exasperation in his eyes.
"It's the only answer you're getting right now, Danno." He leans down, and I think he's going to kiss me properly, but instead his lips press against my forehead. The tenderness of it makes my throat tight. "Stay here. Rest. And don't forget to eat, there's stuff in the fridge. Don't just grab coffee and call it breakfast."
The specific instructions settle something in my chest that I don't want to examine too closely.
"Tsk, yes, Dad," I mutter, aiming for sarcasm but landing somewhere closer to affection. The word slips out without thought, a verbal eye-roll, and I freeze for a second as I realize what I've said.
Steve's laugh is quiet, dangerous in the pre-dawn stillness. "Dad?" His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and he tugs gently. My head tilts back automatically, exposing my throat, and I feel the vulnerability of the position even as my body relaxes into it. "That's not what you call me, Danny."
My breath catches. The shift in his tone and the tug on my hair sends heat pooling low in my belly despite the early hour, despite the fact that he's supposed to be leaving. "Steve-"
"That's better." He leans down, his lips brushing my ear, and his voice drops to that commanding tone. "You're going to stay in this bed. You're going to sleep. You're going to eat the breakfast I told you to eat. And when I text you, you're going to come to headquarters. Understood?"
The commands wash over me like warm water, and I feel my body respond before my brain can catch up. Muscles relaxing, resistance melting, that strange sense of relief that comes from having someone else make the decisions.
"Understood."
"Good boy." His lips press to my forehead in a kiss again. His hand tightens for just a second before releasing. "I'll call you when it's time to head in."
His hand stays on my neck for another moment, thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear, and I can feel him watching me, making sure I understand. Making sure I'll obey. Then he releases me, and the loss of contact feels like cold air on wet skin.
I sink back against the pillows, my head still spinning slightly from the combination of sleep and submission, and watch him finish getting ready. He pulls the polo over his head, the fabric settling across his shoulders, pulls on his tactical vest, checks his phone, grabs his keys from the dresser.
When he heads for the door, he pauses, looking back at me one more time. "Stay," he says again, and it's not a request. "I mean it, Danno."
"I will." Even though part of me wants to argue, wants to prove I can handle being there from the start, I won't. Because he told me not to. Because obeying him has become easier than fighting.
Because I'm his good boy, and good boys do what they're told.
The door closes with a soft click, and I hear his footsteps through the house, boots on hardwood, the distinctive sound of his tactical boots that I'd recognize anywhere, the jingle of keys, the front door opening and shutting. The engine of his truck rumbles to life, then fades as he pulls out of the driveway.
The silence that follows is oppressive.
I lie there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. The space where Steve was lying still holds his warmth, and I find myself rolling into it without thinking, burying my face in his pillow and gasping for breath.
More… More coffee, metal and that cedar cologne.
The scent of him surrounds me, and my body responds with a wave of relaxation so profound that I feel like I'm in paradise.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, and I reach for it automatically. No messages yet, but it's only been five minutes since he left. The screen shows 5:23 AM when I tap it, the brightness making me squint in the dim room. I set it down, pick it up again, check the time. 5:23 AM still. Time hasn't moved. I set it down again, this time face-up so I can see if the screen lights up with a message.
Get some sleep, he said. I'll call when it's time.
I should be able to do this. Should be able to spend a few hours alone without feeling this low-level anxiety humming through my veins. It's not like I've never been alone before. I lived alone for years before... before everything went to shit.
But now, in Steve's bed, wrapped in his sheets, the house feels too quiet. Too empty. Like something essential has been removed and the air pressure changed with it, leaving my ears ringing with the absence.
I force my eyes closed, practicing the breathing exercises. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The rhythm helps, slows my racing heart. The exhaustion from yesterday's full day starts to creep back in, my muscles relaxing into the mattress.
Just a few more minutes...
•
•
•
I'm in a car, not Steve's truck or the Camaro, something else. Something unfamiliar but not quite wrong. The dashboard is too clean, the seats too stiff. I'm in the passenger seat, hands folded in my lap, seatbelt tight across my chest. Not uncomfortable, but present. Noticed.
Someone's driving, but when I try to look over, their face is just a blur of features, a suggestion of a person rather than a person themselves. It might be Steve. The build is right, the set of the shoulders, but I can't quite focus enough to be sure.
The road ahead is familiar: Honolulu streets I know by heart, routes I've driven a hundred times. But they're wrong somehow. Too wide, or too narrow, or the buildings are in the wrong places. That restaurant should be on the left, not the right. That intersection shouldn't exist. The light is strange, too, neither day nor night but some liminal space between, everything washed in silver-blue like a photograph left too long in the sun.
We're moving fast. Not dangerously fast, but with purpose, like we're going somewhere important. I want to ask where, but my voice doesn't work. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
The driver beside me says something, but the words are distorted, underwater. I catch fragments: "...almost there..." "...just breathe..." "...trust me..."
I do trust them. That's the strange part. Even though I can't see their face, can't understand their words, my body knows this person is safe. My hands stay folded in my lap, my breathing stays even. I'm not afraid.
The road changes. We're suddenly on a bridge. A long one, stretching over water that's too dark, too deep. The ocean, maybe, but wrong. The water isn't moving the way it should. It's still, glass-smooth, reflecting the strange silver light until I can't tell where the bridge ends and the water begins.
The car slows. Stops. We're in the middle of the bridge now, suspended over this impossible dark mirror, and I realize I can hear my own heartbeat. It's too loud, drowning out everything else.
The driver turns to me, and for just a second, I see Steve's face, really see it. His eyes are that intense blue, fixed on mine, and his hand reaches over to rest on my chest, right over my heart.
"Don't move," he says, and his voice is crystal clear now, cutting through the dream-haze. "Don't breathe yet."
It's not a threat. It's an instruction, delivered in that same commanding tone he uses when he's trying to keep me safe. And my body responds without thought, going completely still, breath held, waiting for permission.
The water below us rises. Not slowly, all at once, like someone flipped a switch. It surges up around the car, dark and heavy. Steve's hand is still on my chest, anchoring me, and his voice cuts through the sound of water against metal.
"Not yet. Wait for me."
The water reaches the windows, and still I don't move. Don't breathe. My lungs are starting to burn, my chest tight, but Steve's hand is there, steady pressure, and I trust it more than I trust my own panic.
The seconds stretch. The burning gets worse. My vision starts to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing, but I don't move.
Just when I think I can't hold it any longer, his hand lifts, and his voice says: "Now. Breathe."
Relationship: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
The morning air outside tastes like salt and sun. I follow him out without really thinking about it. Just the sound of his boots on the porch, the faint jingle of keys in his hand. The wood beneath my bare feet is already warm, soaking up the early heat, and I pause at the top step, my hand gripping the railing as I watch Steve move with that easy confidence he always has. Like he's never doubted a single step in his life.
When I see which car he’s heading to, I almost laugh. “You serious?”
He looks over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded. “Figured you’d want something familiar.”
The Camaro gleams in the light, the same way it always did. A little too flashy, a little too loud. The sight of it hits me harder than I expect… all those hours riding shotgun, arguing about music, about tactics, about nothing at all. Just us and the road and the job. When did that become my life?
The car's been washed recently. Steve must have taken it through one of those automated places, because there are still water spots on the black chrome. I remember the first time I rode in it, how I'd made some crack about compensating for something, and he'd just grinned and peeled out of the parking lot fast enough to make my stomach drop.
He opens the driver’s door and glances at me. “Unless you’d rather I take the truck.”
I shake my head, sliding into the passenger seat before I can change my mind. “No. This… this is fine.” The leather's worn in all the familiar places, and my body remembers the shape of it, the slight dip where I always sat. I run my hand along the dashboard, fingers catching on a small scratch I don't remember being there. New damage or old memory failing me?
He starts the engine, and the sound is like muscle memory coming back to life, a steady rumble vibrates through my chest as we cut along the coastal road. The morning sun slashes across the ocean, each wave catching the light like a blade, sharp enough to make me squint. I slouch in the passenger seat, one hand curled around the door handle, the other brushing the crescent moon pendant at my neck. I’m doing this. I’m going back. I glance at Steve, his profile carved against the sunlight, one hand loose on the wheel. His leather jacket creaks faintly as he shifts, and the scent of it mixes with the humid air spilling through the cracked window. He smells like coffee and that cedarwood cologne he uses, and underneath it all there is something that belongs only to him. A kind of warmth and safety? God, when did I start cataloging his scent like some kind of-
“You’re staring,” Steve says, not taking his eyes off the road, but the corner of his mouth twitches in half-smile. “Am not,” I mutter, forcing my gaze to the window.
Busted.
In my mind, I recalled how I had running out of the bedroom like a frightened animal. The ocean stretches endless on one side, all blues and silvers, while the city rises on the other, glass and concrete glinting under the sun. “Just… thinking.”
“About?” He flicks his eyes to me and I feel the weight of his attention like a hand on my chest.
About how you looked at me.
“About how you drive like we’re chasing a suspect,” I say, aiming for light. My voice comes out steadier than I feel, but my grip on the door handle tightens as we take a curve, the tires humming against the asphalt. “You gonna get us there in one piece, or do I need to say a prayer first?”
“You’re in good hands, Danno.” The nickname lands soft, like it always does, but there’s an edge to it today, a weight that makes my pulse skip. His hand shifts on the gearshift, brushing closer to mine, and I feel the air shift, heavy with the memory of his thigh pressed between mine, his lips on my neck.
Those marks he left… Well, I checked them in the mirror before we left. Small, reddish marks where his teeth grazed my skin. Visible. Anyone could see them if they looked close enough. Jesus, not now. Not when I’m trying to hold it together.
I swallow hard, the pendant swinging lightly as I shift in my seat, and force my eyes back to the road.
The miles blur past, palm trees and tourist traps giving way to the more urban sprawl as we head deeper into Honolulu. My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh, and I catch Steve glancing at the movement. He doesn't say anything, just reaches over and turns on the radio some classic rock station playing something with too many guitars. It's not my usual choice, but the noise helps, fills the space between us with something other than my racing thoughts.
At least the music drowns out the sound of my heart trying to escape my chest.
"You need anything?" his eyes flicking to me again. "Water? We can stop if-"
"I'm fine," I cut in, too quick, and immediately regret the sharpness. "Really. I'm good."
He nods, doesn't push, and I'm grateful for that even as part of me wants him to keep asking, to give me an excuse to stall. The city grows closer with each passing mile, the buildings rising higher, the traffic thickening. A bus pulls alongside us at a red light, its windows reflecting the morning sun in blinding flashes. I catch a glimpse of passengers inside. A woman with headphones, a kid pressed against the glass, a man in a suit checking his phone. Normal people doing normal things.
And here I am, heading back to a job I'm not sure I can handle anymore.
The light turns green, and Steve accelerates smoothly, the Camaro pulling ahead with that familiar growl. My stomach twists, equal parts anticipation and dread.
The Five-0 headquarters comes into view. My chest tightens, not with panic this time, but with something hungry, like the first breath after being underwater too long. Steve pulls into the lot, the Camaro’s engine cutting off with a low growl, and the sudden quiet feels louder than the road.
I don't move right away. My hand's still on the door handle, frozen, and I stare at the building through the windshield.
Can I really step back in?
He turns to me, blue eyes shining like the ocean outside the window. “Ready?”
Hell, I don’t know, but I’m here, and that’s gotta count for something.
I nod, my fingers brushing the pendant one last time. “Let’s do this.” Before I lose my nerve. Before I remember all the reasons this might be a terrible idea.
But before we step out, Steve pauses, his hand resting on the gearshift. “You don’t have to prove anything today, Danny,” he says. “Just… be here. That’s enough.”
The offer should comfort me, but it doesn't. It just makes me more determined.
"No," I say, squaring my shoulders. "I need this. I need to know I can still..."
Be me. Be useful. Be more than the guy who breaks down in your arms.
He studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Okay. But we go at your pace, understand? You feel overwhelmed, you tell me. We take a break, we leave, whatever you need."
"Steve-"
"I mean it, Danny." There is a note of firmness in his voice, that commanding tone he uses when he is not going to back down. "Your call, always."
His words hit like a punch and I want to snap back, to tell him I’m not fragile, but the way his eyes hold mine stops me. Something in my chest loosens slightly. Not enough to make this easy, but enough to make it possible. "Okay," I say. "Okay."
I nod and push the door open, the morning air sharp against my face as we head toward the building.
The parking lot is bustling, a few uniforms moving between cars, their radios crackling with static. I catch a glimpse of Lou’s SUV pulling in across the lot.
Here goes nothing. Or everything. Probably everything.
The temperature shift from outside to in is jarring, the AC's cranked high, fighting against Hawaii's heat, and goosebumps rise on my arms. The lobby's got that particular government building smell: industrial cleaner, old coffee, the faint ozone scent from too many computers running in enclosed spaces. It's so familiar it hurts, like coming home to a house you're not sure you're allowed to live in anymore. A couple of uniforms nod at us as we pass, and I catch one doing a double-take, probably wondering why I'm here.
Yeah, me too, buddy.
The glass doors of the headquarters hiss shut behind us, sealing in the hum of phones ringing, keyboards clacking, which strikes me, bringing back memories I had been missing. The bullpen is alive, a pulse I used to ride without thinking, and now it feels both familiar and foreign, like slipping into a jacket that’s been tailored for someone else. My sneakers squeak faintly on the polished floor, and I’m hyper-aware of Steve at my side, his shoulder brushing mine as we move through the chaos. He’s not touching me, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the steady orbit he’s carved around me since we left the house.
Chin spots us first, his face breaking into a warm smile. “Danny,” he says, stepping forward, his handshake firm but lingering a beat too long. His eyes search mine, and I feel the weight of his text again like a stone in my pocket. “Good to have you back, brah.”
“Yeah, good to be back,” I say, forcing a grin. Chin’s gaze flicks to Steve for a second, and I catch the unspoken question, the check-in. It makes my skin prickle with something closer to embarrassment. Like I’m a kid who needs supervision.
Kono’s next, barrelling toward me with a grin that lights up the room. Her hug is quick, tight, her arms strong around my shoulders. “You look good, Danny,” she says, pulling back to study me. “Missed you around here.” Her tone’s light, but there’s a question in it, same as Chin’s, and I feel their caution like a glass wall between us. They’re happy to see me, sure, but they’re handling me like I’m fragile, like one wrong move might send me running again.
Kono's perfume is different, something citrusy and bright. She's pulled her hair back in a high ponytail, and there's a new watch on her wrist that catches the light. Life kept moving while I was stuck. The world didn't pause just because I did.
"The place didn't burn down without me?" I try for humor, and Kono laughs, but it's a little too careful, a little too relieved.
"Almost did a couple times," she says. "Steve tried to organize the evidence room a couple of weeks ago. It was... a situation."
"Hey," Steve protests, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. The banter helps, loosens something in my chest.
"He alphabetized everything by the suspect's first name instead of last name," Kono adds, her eyes sparkling with barely suppressed laughter. "Took us two days to fix it."*
"It made sense at the time," Steve defends, and I can't help the small laugh that escapes me.
"That's the most Steve McGarrett thing I've ever heard," I say.
"I was trying to help," Steve mutters, but there's no real heat in it. Chin's shaking his head, grinning.
"You should've seen it," Chin adds. "Aaron Mitchell's file under 'A,' but Alexander Kim's under 'K.' Complete chaos."
"I stand by my organizational system," Steve says, his hand hovers near my elbow, close enough to guide, and I feel the weight of every eye in the room, even the techs glancing up from their screens. I square my shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling, and follow Steve to my old desk, the surface cluttered with files I didn't leave there.
My desk. Except it's not really mine anymore, is it? Someone's been using it - there's a coffee mug I don't recognize, a plant I definitely didn't put there (probably dead within a week knowing this place), and the photo of Grace I kept in the corner has been moved. Carefully moved, respectfully, but moved. I pick it up, my thumb brushing over her smiling face, and something twists in my gut. The photo's from last summer - Grace at the beach, her hair wild with salt and wind, her smile so bright it could power the whole island. She's holding a surfboard that's almost bigger than she is, proud of her first successful ride. I wasn't there for that. I was working a case. How many moments like that did I miss?
"We kept your space," Steve says quietly, close enough that only I can hear. "Nobody touches it without permission. That's all temp stuff."
I nod and carefully set the photo back in its original spot. There. Mine again.
"Start here," Steve says, dropping a stack of folders in front of me. His hand brushes my shoulder, a quick squeeze, and I feel my face heat up, the memory of his fingers on my skin this morning flashing bright.
Not now. Don't think about that now.
I nod again, not trusting my voice, and flip open the first file, the paper cool under my fingers.
As I settle into the chair, the bullpen’s noise fades into a familiar hum, like the engine of the Camaro. I glance up, catching Lou across the room, his broad frame leaning against a wall as he talks to a uniform. He spots me, gives a quick nod, and I nod back, a silent acknowledgment that feels like a small victory. It’s not much, but it’s a reminder that I’m not just Steve’s shadow here. I’m part of this team, or at least I can be again. My fingers tighten on the file, and I dive in, determined to prove it.
Cold case. Missing person from two years ago. The details swim into focus - woman, mid-thirties, last seen at a beach party in Waikiki. The file's thin, not much to go on, but there's something there, something in the witness statements that doesn't quite line up. My brain latches onto it, grateful for the distraction, for something concrete to focus on that isn't Steve's presence at my back or the way everyone's trying not to stare.
Okay. So, Alana Kekoa. Age 34. Last seen wearing a blue sundress and flip-flops, her hair in braids decorated with small shells. She was laughing in the last photo anyone took of her, her head thrown back, a drink in her hand, surrounded by friends. And then she was gone, like the tide pulled her out and forgot to bring her back.
Three witness statements, all slightly different. One says she left around midnight, heading toward the parking lot. Another says she was still there at one AM, dancing by the bonfire. The third says they saw her talking to someone by the water, but couldn't describe who.
Three different stories. Someone's lying, or someone's memory is shit. Or both.
I glance at Steve, who’s now across the room, his head bent close to Chin’s as they review something on a tablet. His jacket’s off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and the way his forearms flex as he gestures makes my throat go dry. I look away fast, back to the file, but the pendant swings lightly against my chest, a reminder of him, of us, that I can’t shake. I force my eyes back to the page.
Hey, focus. You're here to work, not to ogle your... what is he, exactly? Your boss? Your something? Christ, I don't even know what to call what we are.
I flip through the witness statements again, forcing myself to concentrate.
Three different timelines. Three different versions of the same night. Someone's wrong, or someone's lying, or someone's memory got fuzzy with time and alcohol. I need to map it out, create a timeline, see where the gaps are.
The first hour passes in a strange sort of tunnel vision. I'm aware of the bullpen around me: voices rising and falling, phones ringing, the squeak of chairs, but it's all background noise. My world narrows to the files in front of me, the scratch of my pen, the slow rebuild of muscle memory. Read, analyze, note discrepancies, form theories. It's all still there, buried under week of fog, and pulling it back to the surface feels like stretching muscles that have atrophied.
Steve circles back periodically, dropping off water, a granola bar I don't remember asking for. He doesn't hover, exactly, but he's present, checking in without making it obvious. Or maybe it's obvious to everyone but me. Maybe everyone can see the way he watches me, the way his orbit keeps pulling him back to my desk.
Each time he approaches, there's a pattern: he'll glance at what I'm working on without commenting. Sometimes his hand will rest briefly on the back of my chair. Once, his fingers brush my shoulder blade through my shirt, so quick I might have imagined it if not for the way my body responds, heat blooming under my skin. I keep my eyes on the file, pretending I don’t notice, but my pulse betrays me, hammering in my ears.
"Doing okay?" he asks at one point.
"Yeah," I reply without looking up, still focused on the file. "Getting back into it."
He lingers for a moment, and I can feel his assessment, his concern. Then he moves on, and I can breathe again.
At one point, Chin stops by, leans against the edge of my desk. "How's it feeling?" he asks, nodding at the files.
"Like riding a bike," I say. "Rusty bike. With flat tires. But still a bike."
He chuckles. "You'll get your groove back. Always do, brah." He pauses, then quieter, "Really is good to have you here, Danny. We missed you. I missed you."
The sincerity in it catches me off guard, and I have to blink hard, my throat suddenly tight. "Yeah, well. Somebody's gotta keep you guys from screwing up the paperwork."
"There it is," Chin grins. "There's the Danny we know."
Is it though? Am I still that guy?
The morning slips by in a haze of paper and ink. The files are cold cases, nothing urgent: missing persons, old thefts, a smuggling lead that went nowhere. Safe, Steve called them, and I get it, but it still stings, like I’m being babied. Still, my mind latches onto the work, the familiar rhythm of scanning reports, spotting inconsistencies, connecting dots. My pen scratches notes in the margins, and I feel my old self stirring, the detective I used to be before everything got murky. Steve’s nearby, leaning over a monitor with Chin, his voice low as they talk logistics. Every so often, his eyes flick to me, and I pretend not to notice, my face burning under the weight of his attention.
But I do notice. Every single time. It's like my body's developed some kind of Steve-radar, that is hypersensitive to where he is in the room, which way he is looking, whether he is looking at me. It's distracting. It's comforting. It's driving me insane.
There's a cold case about a series of thefts from tourist hotels in 2012. The MO is consistent: high-end electronics, jewelry, always during housekeeping hours, never any witnesses. I start mapping out the locations, notice they're all within a three-mile radius of the same shopping district. It's probably nothing, but it's something to work with, a puzzle piece that might fit somewhere.
My coffee's gone cold in its cup, but I drink it anyway, barely noticing the temperature. The clock on the wall ticks past 10:00, then 10:30. Time moves differently when you're focused, stretches and compresses in strange ways.
So I decide to test my edges: a coffee run to the machine at the end of the hall, a hello to Meka’s old evidence tech who still chews the same gum. Nobody bites, nobody stares. When I come back, there’s a sticky note on my keyboard in Kono’s handwriting: “Breathe. You’re doing fine.” I roll my eyes on purpose and keep it, because I’m sentimental and because it helps.
By the time the second file yields a pattern: shipping manifests with the same initials buried in the consignee line, I’ve forgotten to watch my breathing. That feels like a bigger win than any arrest. I circle the letters twice and start cross-referencing dates, the old itch to move, to act, waking in my hands.
The initials are J.M., appearing on five different manifests over six months, always with different company names but the same handwriting on the signature line. Someone's not being very careful, or they didn't think anyone would look this closely at old paperwork.
Amateurs. Always the same mistake - getting sloppy.
Halfway through the third file, a shadow falls across my desk, and I look up to see Lou, his arms crossed, a half-smile on his face. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, Williams,” he says, his voice gruff but warm. “You good?”
“Good enough,” I reply, leaning back in my chair, my fingers brushing the pendant. “Just trying to keep up with this guy.” I jerk my head toward Steve, who’s still deep in conversation with Chin, and Lou chuckles.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” Lou says, clapping a hand on my shoulder before heading off. He doesn't say anything more, doesn't need to. That simple gesture means more than any welcome back speech could.
I turn back to the file, my pen moving faster now, the work pulling me in deeper, like a tide I’m finally ready to swim with.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since that granola bar, but I ignore it. I'm on a roll here, the files starting to speak to me in that way they used to, revealing their secrets if you know how to listen.
Just a little longer. Just one more connection to make.
The call comes just before noon, Steve's phone buzzing against the desk where he's been working. I'm deep in my third file when I hear his tone shift, watch his posture straighten. Whatever the call is, it's important. Or time-sensitive. Or both.
He talks for less than a minute, his responses clipped and efficient. When he hangs up, his eyes find mine across the room, and I see the calculation there: is Danny ready for this? Should I leave him here? Take him with me?
Please. Please don't leave me behind.
"Danny," he calls, and I'm already closing my file, already standing. Whatever it is, I'm not staying behind.
My legs are a little stiff from sitting so long, and I have to force myself not to rush across the bullpen like an eager puppy.
"Informant meet," he says as I approach, his voice low enough that only I hear. "Low-risk drop, just information exchange. You up for it?"
My heart kicks up, equal parts anticipation and nerves. Field work. Not just cold files at a desk.
"Yeah," I say, steadier than I feel. "Yeah, I'm up for it."
Steve studies my face for a beat longer, then nods. "Okay. But this is strictly observation, understand? You're there to listen and learn, nothing more."
The protective tone should annoy me, but instead it settles something in my chest. He's not leaving me behind. He's taking me with him, even if it's just to watch.
"Got it," I agree. "Listen and nod. I can do that."
"Good." His hand finds my lower back as we move toward the exit, a touch so automatic he probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. But I catch Kono’s glance as we pass, her eyebrow quirking just enough to make my cheeks flush. Does she see it? Does anyone? Steve’s acting like it’s nothing, just his usual take-charge vibe, but to me, it’s loud. His hand, his closeness, the way he’s steering me like I’m his to protect.
Well, I’m his, yeah, but anyway. It’s too much, too public, and I feel a prickly discomfort creep up my neck, a mixture of desire and shame squeezing my chest.
Kono's not subtle with that eyebrow raise. She knows something's different, even if she can't put her finger on exactly what. Or maybe she can and she's just being polite about it. The thought makes my face burn hotter.
We pass three more people on our way out, and I swear I can feel their eyes tracking us, tracking Steve's hand at my back, the way we move together like we're connected by invisible threads.
Am I being paranoid? Probably. But also maybe not.
"Subtle," I mutter under my breath once we're in the stairwell, out of earshot.
"What?" Steve asks, all innocence, but there's a glint in his eye that says he knows exactly what I mean.
"Nothing," I say, my face is still burning. "Let's just go meet this informant."
And try not to spontaneously combust from embarrassment in the process.
The Camaro's even hotter now, the leather seats practically baking in the midday sun. I slide in, the heat seeping through my jeans, and Steve starts the engine, cranking the AC. The cold air hits my face, and I close my eyes for just a second, letting it cool the flush in my cheeks.
"You good?" Steve asks, and I open my eyes to find him watching me, concern flickering across his face.
"Fine. Just hot."
In more ways than one, thanks to you.
I buckle my seatbelt, focusing on the familiar click and pull. "So this informant - what's his deal?"
Steve fills me in as we drive: some low-level runner for a smuggling operation, wants to trade information for leniency on an unrelated charge. Easy meet, he says, nothing dangerous. I'm not sure if he's telling me that to reassure me or if it's actually true, but I choose to believe him. Choose to trust that he wouldn't throw me into deep water on my first day back.
"Name's Tommy Akana," Steve continues, navigating through midday traffic with the same aggressive confidence he brings to everything. "Small-time dealer who got caught up in something bigger than he can handle. HPD picked him up on a possession charge, and he started singing about a smuggling ring operating out of the docks."
"And we believe him?" I ask, watching the city blur past my window.
"Chin ran his information against what we already know. It checks out. At least, enough of it does to make the meet worth our time." Steve glances at me. "He's nervous, probably jumpy. Don't take it personally if he seems paranoid."
"Noted," I say, filing the information away.
Standard informant behavior.
The AC is finally starting to work, cool air blasting from the vents, and I angle one toward my face. My fingers find the pendant again, that nervous habit I can't seem to break. Steve notices but doesn't comment, just keeps driving.
"You remember the Golden Dragon case?" Steve asks suddenly, and I blink at the non-sequitur.
"The restaurant shooting? Yeah, why?"
"That informant meet at the noodle shop, when the guy bolted and you tackled him into a display of fortune cookies?"
I can't help the laugh that escapes. "I was finding fortune cookies in my pockets for a week."
"You kept reading them out loud during briefings," Steve says, and there's warmth in his voice. "Drove me crazy."
"'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,'" I quote, remembering. "You told me to shut up and focus."
"You told me fortune cookies were ancient wisdom and I should show more respect for other cultures."
"I stand by that statement," I say, grinning despite myself. The memory is good, uncomplicated. A reminder that we had easy moments before everything got heavy.
Steve's smile lingers as he takes a turn, and I realize what he's doing - distracting me, reminding me of who we were before. It works. My shoulders relax a fraction, the anxiety loosening its grip.
The drive takes us through familiar streets that feel foreign after days of absence. We pass a poke place where Steve and I grabbed lunch once after a particularly brutal interrogation. The awning's been repainted - bright yellow now instead of faded red. Small changes. The world keeps turning.
The drive to the diner takes us through parts of Honolulu I haven't seen in days. We pass the farmers' market where I used to take Grace on Saturday mornings, the bookstore with the faded awning where she'd spend hours browsing manga, the shave ice stand that always has a line no matter the time of day.
The informant picked the location," Steve says as we get closer. "Wanted somewhere public but not too crowded. The diner fits the bill."
"Smart," I comment. "Public enough to feel safe, but not so busy that he can't spot threats."
"Exactly." Steve pulls into a side street, scanning for parking. "He's been involved in this smuggling ring for about six months, mostly as muscle and lookout. Claims he wants out but needs protection."
"And we're offering what in exchange?"
"Reduced charges, possible witness protection if his information is solid enough. Standard deal."
The car slots into a spot near the diner, and Steve cuts the engine. The sudden silence feels weighted, significant. Just an informant meet, nothing dangerous, but my heart's still hammering like we're about to breach a hostile location.
"Hey." Steve's hand covers mine where it's gripping my knee. "You've done this a hundred times. Just like riding that rusty bike, remember?"
"Right," I breathe out. "Rusty bike. Got it."
His hand squeezes once before letting go, and we exit the car into the midday heat.
The diner smells of grease and coffee, the kind of place where the vinyl seats are patched with duct tape and the menu hasn't changed since 1987. The AC is struggling, blowing lukewarm air that does nothing against the heat, and the clatter of dishes from the kitchen is almost deafening. We slide into a booth in the back, the red vinyl squeaking under us. The informant isn't here yet. Steve orders coffee for both of us, and we wait, the silence between us comfortable despite everything. Or maybe because of everything. I don't know anymore.
The waitress is in her sixties, her name tag reading "Mabel" in faded letters. She's worked here long enough to have seen everything, her expression barely flickering when Steve orders. She returns with two chipped mugs and a pot of coffee that's probably been sitting on the burner since breakfast, pours without asking if we want cream or sugar, and disappears back to the kitchen.
I cradle the mug between my hands, grateful for something to do with them. The diner's mostly empty. A couple of construction workers at the counter, an elderly man reading the newspaper in a corner booth, a harried mother trying to convince her toddler to eat his fries.
"You come here often?" I ask, trying for levity.
Steve snorts. "That's your line? Really, Danno?"
"Shut up. I'm nervous and deflecting."
"I know." His expression softens. "And no, I've never been here before. But it's got good sightlines, multiple exits, and the coffee's not actively trying to kill us, so it'll do."
I glance around, seeing what he sees: the clear view of the entrance, the emergency exit sign near the bathrooms, the way our booth gives us a view of the whole space while keeping our backs to the wall. Old habits. Good habits. The kind of situational awareness that's kept us alive more than once.
"He's late," I observe, checking my watch. Twelve minutes past the agreed meeting time.
"Give him five more," Steve says, his eyes on the door. "Informants are always late. Comes with the paranoia."
I sip the coffee… it's terrible, burnt and bitter and try to settle my nerves. My leg wants to bounce under the table, that anxious energy needing somewhere to go, but I force it still. Professional. Capable. Not falling apart.
Tommy Akana looks younger than I expected, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of hollow-eyed exhaustion that comes from too many sleepless nights and too many bad decisions. He's wearing a faded Aloha shirt and jeans, his hands fidgeting constantly - picking at his cuticles, drumming on the table, reaching for the water glass the waitress brings him.
"You Five-0?" he asks, his eyes darting between us. "Both of you?"
"That's right," Steve confirms. "You're safe here, Tommy. Just tell us what you know."
Tommy takes a long drink of water, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort of swallowing. "Okay, okay. So, like I told the cop who arrested me, there's this operation, right? Moving product through the commercial docks. They're using legitimate shipping companies as cover, hiding the drugs in regular cargo."
"What kind of drugs?" Steve asks, pen poised.
"Mostly heroin and meth. Some pills: oxy, fentanyl. Whatever's in demand." Tommy's leg bounces faster. "They bring it in from overseas, usually mixed in with electronics shipments or furniture. Stuff that doesn't raise red flags."
I lean forward slightly. "How many people are involved?"
Tommy's eyes flick to me, sizing me up. "At least a dozen that I know of. Could be more. They keep it compartmentalized, you know? I only know my piece of it."
"And what's your piece?" Steve's tone is even, non-judgmental. We need him talking, not defensive.
"I'm a lookout. I watch the docks, make sure HPD isn't sniffing around when they're moving shipments. Text a warning if I see anything suspicious." He runs a hand through his hair, greasy and unkempt. "That's it, man. I don't touch the product, don't know where it goes after they pick it up. I just watch."
Because I'm sitting across from him, Steve is next to me, and his knee brushing mine under the table. Another small touch, casual to anyone else, but to me, it's a reminder of this shitty morning's heat. His thigh between mine, the weight of him, the way I couldn't-
Stop. Focus on the informant, not on Steve's goddamn knee.
I force myself to focus, nodding as instructed. But I notice a random phrase about a warehouse near the docks.
"They use this warehouse," Tommy continues, his words coming faster now, nervous energy spilling out. "Number 2847, I think? Or maybe 2874? I'm not good with numbers, man, but it's in that area, near the commercial district. They store stuff there sometimes, between shipments."
Wait. Those numbers… I saw them this morning in one of the cold case files. The smuggling case that went cold eight months ago. Same area. Has to be.
I want to interrupt, to tell Steve, but his hand shifts slightly under the table, his pinky grazing mine in what might be accident or might be warning. Let him talk. Don't interrupt the flow. Right. I know this. I'm just rusty.
"How often do they use the warehouse?" Steve asks, his pen still moving.
"Couple times a month, maybe? It's not regular. Depends on when shipments come in." Tommy drains his water glass, sets it down with a shaky hand. "Look, I gave you what I know. That's gotta be worth something, right? You can help me?"
"We'll do what we can," Steve assures him. "But we need more. Names, dates, anything that can help us build a case."
Tommy’s eyes dart to the door, like he’s expecting someone to burst in any second.
He's more scared of them than he is of us. That's never a good sign.
“I don’t have names, man. They don’t exactly hand out business cards. But there’s this one guy, always wears a red cap, shows up at the warehouse sometimes. He’s not the boss, but he’s important. Gives orders, makes sure shit gets done.”
Red cap. It’s a small detail, but it’s something. I jot it down, my mind already racing back to the files, wondering if there’s a mention of anyone matching that description. Steve’s knee shifts again, pressing lightly against mine, and I don’t know if it’s a signal to stay quiet or just him being him. My focus splintering for a second.
“What’s he look like, besides the cap?” I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the heat climbing my neck.
Tommy shrugs, his shoulders hunching. “Tall, maybe six foot. Skinny. Got a tattoo on his neck, some kind of bird, I think. I don’t know, man, I don’t stare at him. He’s not the kind of guy you make eye contact with.”
It's something, a thread to pull, but Steve's voice cuts through, "Thanks, we'll follow up," and we're out before I can say anything.
The informant scuttles away, leaving his coffee untouched, and I want to tell Steve to wait, to push for more details about the warehouse, but he's already standing, dropping cash on the table for our coffees. The moment passes, and I'm left with the nagging feeling that we missed something.
"Steve-" I start, but he's already moving toward the door, his hand finding my back again, guiding me out.
"Not here," he says quietly. "We'll talk in the car."
Right. Public place, potential ears.
I follow him out into the blast-furnace heat of midday Honolulu, the sun reflecting off parked cars in blinding flashes. The Camaro’s going to be an oven, but at least it's private. The bell jingles behind us as the door swings shut, and I glance back, catching Mabel’s eye through the window. She’s wiping down the counter, her expression unreadable, and I wonder if she’s seen a hundred meets like this, a hundred nervous informants spilling secrets over bad coffee.
On the drive back, I chew on it, turning the detail over in my mind. The warehouse. The docks. There was something in one of the smuggling files, I'm almost certain. A mention of the same area, the same pattern. I need to get back to those files, need to cross-reference-
"You're thinking loud," Steve says, glancing at me.
"The warehouse," I blurt out. "The informant mentioned a warehouse near the docks. I think I saw something about that in one of the cold cases."
Steve's eyes sharpen, that instant shift from casual to focused that I've seen a hundred times. "Yeah? Which case?"
"I don't remember exactly. I need to check the files. But I'm pretty sure there's a connection."
He nods, and I catch the faintest hint of a smile. "Good catch, Danno. We'll pull it when we get back."
The praise lands warm in my chest, and I have to fight the urge to bask in it like a cat in sunlight.
Professional, Williams. Stay professional.
"It might be nothing," I hedge, suddenly uncertain. "Just a hunch."
"Your hunches are usually solid," Steve says, accelerating through a yellow light. "That's why you're a good detective, Danny. You see connections other people miss."
Traffic's heavier on the way back, lunch rush clogging the main roads. We sit in silence at a red light, the AC struggling against the heat, and I find myself cataloguing the hum of the engine, the smell of Steve's cologne mixed with coffee and vinyl, the pendant warm against my chest, the residual adrenaline from the informant meet starting to fade into something like satisfaction.
I did it. I went into the field, sat through a meet, contributed something useful. And I didn't fall apart. That's got to count for something.
The headquarters parking lot comes into view, and I realize my hands have stopped shaking.
When did that happen?
Steve parks in his usual spot - the one everyone knows better than to take, not because there's a sign but because it's just understood, and cuts the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves. The AC ticks as it cools down, and through the windshield, I can see people moving around the building. Everything is fine. Everyone is busy. Living with purpose.
Parking lot feels different coming back than it did leaving. Like I've passed some invisible test, proven something to myself if not to everyone else.
We exit the car, and this time when we walk across the lot, my steps feel surer. The building ahead isn't intimidating anymore. It's where I work. Where I belong.
Kono waves from her desk, holding up what looks like a poke bowl. "How'd it go?"
"Good," Steve answers. "Danny caught something that might break open the smuggling case."
Her eyes widen with genuine excitement. "Yeah? Nice work, Danny!"
I was about to mention the warehouse, but Steve’s already moving, his hand on my shoulder again, steering me toward another stack of files. “Nice work back there,” his voice low, and the praise lands like a warm spark. But his touch lingers, his fingers brushing the back of my neck as he leans over to point at a file. It’s nothing overt, nothing anyone would call out, but the shame grows stronger and my body tightens with excitement. I can’t take it anymore. His fingers are warm against my skin, finding that sensitive spot just below my hairline, and my whole body goes electric. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
Jesus Christ, Steve.
I glance around quickly. Chin's focused on his tablet, Kono's on a phone call, the techs are buried in their screens but I still feel exposed, like we're on display. Like everyone can see the way I respond to his touch, the way my breath catches, the way I want to lean into it.
"Steve," I mutter under my breath, a warning.
His hand doesn't move. If anything, his thumb brushes the spot more deliberately, and I swear I see the ghost of a smirk on his lips.
That's it. We're having this conversation now.
I grab Steve’s arm and nod toward the hallway. “Need a word,” I mutter, my voice low so no one else hears. My face is burning, the pendant cool against my chest as I lead him out of the briefing room, my sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. We slip into a quiet corner near the break room, the hum of the AC barely audible over the thump of my pulse. The hallway’s empty, the fluorescent lights casting sharp shadows, and I turn to face him, my arms crossed tight to keep my hands from fidgeting. Because if I don't keep them locked down, they're gonna reach for him, and that's the last thing I need right now.
The break room's visible through a window in the door, empty for the moment, but someone could walk by any second. We're not exactly hidden, but we're out of immediate sightline of the bullpen. It'll have to do.
“What’s up?” Steve asks, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed loosely, that calm, unreadable look on his face. But his eyes give him away, there's amusement there, maybe even satisfaction, like he knows exactly what he's doing and he's enjoying it.
The memory of his knee under the table, his hand on my back, flashes bright, and I feel the heat creeping up my neck again.
“You gonna hover all day, or you gonna let me breathe?” The words come out sharper than I mean and I force myself to meet his gaze, my cheeks burning. “All this-” I gesture vaguely at him, at the space between us, “-the touching, the steering, the… caring. It’s too much, Steve. People are gonna notice.”
If they haven't already. Christ, Chin's probably got a betting pool going.
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but there’s a glint in his eyes. “Notice what, Danno?” he almost a purr, and he steps closer, closing the small gap between us. His hand brushes my arm, his knuckles slowly and warmly sliding over my elbow, and I feel myself holding my breath as the warmth in my face spreads to my chest.
Don't you dare make that sound. Don't you dare.
“This?” he murmurs, his fingers trailing up to my shoulder. His eyes hold mine, blue and wicked, and I swear he’s enjoying this, watching me squirm.
“Stop it,” I hiss, but I don’t step back. “I’m serious, Steve. It’s… it’s embarrassing. You’re doing it in front of everybody.”
My back's against the wall now and he's close enough that I can smell cedar, see the flecks of darker blue in his irises, feel the heat radiating off his body.
Too close. God, I'm so screwed.
"They're going to figure it out," I continue, my voice dropping lower. "If they haven't already. The way you look at me, the way you touch me, it's-"
It's like you're staking a claim in front of the entire precinct. Like you want them to know.
He tilts his head, that damn smirk curling wider, and he leans in just a fraction, his breath warm against my ear as his hand brushes my hip, his thumb grazing the edge of my jeans. “Nobody’s watching, Danny,” he says, “but you’re blushing like they are.” His fingers linger for a second, then pull back, leaving my skin trembling, making me feel even more embarrassed, mixed with a treacherous spark of desire that causes pain in my chest. God, why does he do this to me?
"You're enjoying this," I accuse, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Maybe," he admits, his smirk softening into something warmer. "You're cute when you're flustered."
There's that word again…
"I swear to God, McGarrett-"
I swat his hand away, my face burning so bad I’m surprised I don’t combust. “You’re an ass,” I mutter, crossing my arms tighter, trying to hide the way my hands are shaking.
Shaking because I'm angry. Not because I want him to touch me again. Definitely not that.
“I’m here to work, not to be… your personal whim. Just let me do this, okay?”
His smirk softens, the teasing glint fading into something warmer, and he steps back, giving me space but not too much. “Okay,” he says, quieter now, his eyes still locked on mine. “I’ll back off. But I’m not going anywhere, Danny. You know that.”
I nod, my throat tight, the embarrassment easing but leaving a lingering heat under my skin. “Yeah, well… good,” I reply, more quietly now, my fingers touching the pendant again. The metal feels cool, but it doesn't really help calm the heat left behind by Steve's touch. ‘Just... let me do my job. I need it.’
He nods, his hand twitching like he wants to reach out again but doesn’t. “You got it, Danno.” The nickname hits soft, like always, but it’s laced with that teasing edge, and I feel my resolve waver, the pull of him as strong as ever. Damn him. Damn him for being exactly what I need.
"And for the record," he adds, his voice dropping even lower, intimate in a way that makes my stomach flip, "I think you're doing amazing today. Really amazing. I'm proud of you."
The words hit harder than any touch could, sinking into the vulnerable places I try to keep hidden.
Proud of me. When was the last time someone said that and meant it?
"Stop," I breathe, because I can't handle this, can't handle him being genuine when I'm already barely holding it together. "Just... stop." Before I do something stupid like cry in this hallway or kiss you in front of anyone who walks by.
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. Let's get back to work."
I turn back toward the bullpen, the pendant swinging lightly, and dive back into the files, determined to prove I’m more than the guy who’s still reeling from his touch.
The walk back feels longer than it should, my legs shaky, my face still hot. I'm hyperaware of Steve behind me, his presence like a second shadow, but true to his word, he doesn't touch me again.
When we reenter the bullpen, I catch Chin watching us with that too-perceptive expression of his. He doesn't say anything, just gives a small nod and returns to his work, but I know he saw something. Knows something. The question is whether he'll call us on it.
Please don't. Please just let me have this without the interrogation. I'll worry about that later. Right now, I have a warehouse to connect to a cold case.
Back at my office I dive back into the files with new purpose, searching for the warehouse reference, and Steve hovers nearby, not interfering but ready if I need him.
The files are organized by date, which means I'm searching backward through eight months of cold cases. My eyes scan document after document, looking for any mention of the docks, the warehouse district, those specific numbers Tommy mentioned.
Come on, I know it's here. I saw it this morning. Where is it?
"Here," I say after twenty minutes of digging, pulling out a file from eight months ago. "Smuggling case, went cold when the main suspect skipped to the mainland. But look - same area, same dock. Warehouse number..." I scan the page, "2847."
There it is, buried in a witness statement from a dock worker who saw suspicious activity but couldn't provide enough details to warrant a search. The lead went nowhere at the time, but now, combined with Tommy's information, it's lighting up like a neon sign.
There. I knew it. I fucking knew it.
"Warehouse 2847," I repeat, my pulse quickening. "Tommy said 2847 or 2874, but I bet he just got the numbers mixed up. This has to be it."
Steve leans over my shoulder, close enough that I can smell his cologne, and reads the file. His hand rests on the desk beside mine, not touching but close, and I have to fight the urge to lean into him.
Don't. You just told him to back off. Don't prove you can't handle even this much distance.
"That's good work, Danny," he says, and the warmth in his voice makes my chest tight.
"It could be coincidence," I say, but I don't believe it and neither does he.
"Could be," Steve agrees. "But probably isn't. Good instincts, Danno."
I allow myself a moment of satisfaction, letting the praise sink in.
I did this. I made this connection.
We bring it to Chin, who cross-references the warehouse with current shipping logs.
Chin pulls up the shipping logs on the big screen, and we gather around to watch as he filters through the data. "There," he says, pointing to a series of entries. "Warehouse 2847. Looks like there's been regular activity for the past three months. shipments coming in every two to three weeks."
"What kind of shipments?" Kono asks, joining us.
"Electronics, according to the manifests. Computer parts, mostly. All listed as coming from a company called Pacific Tech Solutions." Chin types rapidly. "Except Pacific Tech Solutions doesn't exist. Or at least, it's not registered in Hawaii, California, or anywhere else I can find."
"Shell company," Steve says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Danny, this might actually be it."
The team energy shifts, that collective focus that happens when a case starts to break. Kono's already pulling up satellite images of the warehouse, Chin's digging into financial records, and Steve's coordinating with HPD for potential surveillance.
And I'm part of it. Contributing. Useful. The feeling is intoxicating.
"We'll need eyes on the warehouse," Steve says, thinking out loud. "Set up surveillance, track who's coming and going. Build a pattern."
"I can take first watch," Chin offers.
"I'll coordinate with HPD, see if they can spare some units," Kono adds.
The formal title, used in front of the team, makes my spine straighten.
"Just doing my job," I say, but the smile tugging at my lips betrays how good it feels to say that and mean it.
The afternoon transforms into organized chaos, the kind I remember from active investigations. Chin coordinates with Harbor Patrol, Kono runs background checks on every name Tommy mentioned, and Steve builds a tactical plan for eventual warehouse entry. I'm given the task of compiling all the connected cases, building a timeline of activities.
It's grunt work, really. Organizing files, cross-referencing dates, creating a master document… but it's important work. The foundation that more dramatic arrests are built on. And I'm grateful for it, for the concrete task that keeps my hands busy and my mind focused.
Lou stops by around 2:30, drops a bag of malasadas on my desk. "Heard you're the one who broke the warehouse lead," he says. "Good job, Danny."
"Thanks, Lou." I eye the pastries. "These a reward or a bribe?"
"Can't they be both?" He grins. "Also, I figured you probably forgot to eat lunch."
He's right, I completely did. My stomach growls on cue, and I grab one of the malasadas, the sugar dusting my fingers. "You're a good man, Lou Grover."
"Don't spread it around. I have a reputation to maintain."
And like this, the afternoon stretches into something manageable. The files keep coming, and I keep working through them, finding my rhythm. Chin stops by twice more, checking in without making it obvious. Kono brings me fresh coffee without being asked. Steve maintains his distance like he promised, but I can feel his attention on me, that steady anchor I've come to rely on even when it makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Around three, there's a commotion near the elevators. Some witness being brought in for questioning, raised voices, the controlled chaos that comes with active investigations. Part of me wants to get up, to see what's happening, to be in the thick of it. But I stay at my desk, working my cold cases, proving I can handle this much before I reach for more.
Baby steps, Danny. That's what the therapist said. Baby steps.
Though she probably didn't mean baby steps involving your boss's hands on your body, but hey, I'm improvising here.
The commotion grows louder. A woman's voice, shrill with anger or fear, demanding to speak to someone in charge. Steve emerges from his office, calm and commanding, and the noise gradually subsides as he takes control of the situation. I watch from my desk, admiring the way he handles it, the way people naturally defer to his authority.
That's the Steve the world sees - the warrior, the leader, the man in control. And he is all those things. But I also know the Steve who holds me while I shake, who marks my skin with his teeth, who murmurs "Danno" like it's a prayer. The private Steve that belongs to me.
The duality of it makes my head spin.
By four o'clock, my eyes are starting to burn from staring at files, and my hand aches from writing notes. Steve materializes at my desk, and I look up to find him watching me with that soft expression that makes my heart do stupid things.
"Ready to call it?" he asks. "You've put in a full day, Danny. That's more than enough."
I want to argue, to push for more, to prove I can do this, but my body's screaming for rest and my brain feels like it's been through a blender. I glance at the clock and am shocked to realize how much time has passed. A full day. I did a full day.
"Yeah," I say, standing and immediately regretting it as my back protests. "Yeah, let's go home."
Home. When did Steve's place become home?
The word slipped out without thought, but once it's said, I can't take it back. Steve's eyes flicker with something but he doesn't comment on it. Just nods.
"Let me grab my jacket," he says. "Meet you at the car?"
"Yeah."
I take the long way to the parking lot, stopping by the bathroom first. In the mirror, I look tired but present, like someone who worked a full day instead of someone barely holding it together. The marks on my neck have faded to barely-there shadows, only visible if you know to look.
I splash water on my face, dry off with rough paper towels, and head out to face whatever comes next.
One day down. Who knows how many more to go. But one is something. One is progress.
The briefing room call comes just as I'm gathering my things. "All hands," Chin announces, and my stomach drops.
Shit. What now? Are we moving on the warehouse already? That seems fast.
But when I enter the briefing room, it's clear this is just a status meeting. Steve's at the head of the table, and the screens display various pieces of our investigation - Tommy's information, the warehouse details, the shipping manifests, my timeline of connected cases.
"Good work today, team," Steve starts, his eyes scanning the room, landing on each of us. "Danny's lead on the warehouse has given us our first real break in this smuggling case. Chin, where are we on surveillance?"
The briefing room's alive with tension, screens glowing with maps and grainy surveillance stills, the air thick with the scent of coffee and dry-erase markers. We're gathered around the table: me, Steve, Chin, Kono, a couple of techs whose names I should remember but don't. Steve's at the head of the table, marker in hand, outlining what we know so far. The smuggling ring, the ports, the patterns. My warehouse lead is on the board, circled in red, and seeing it there gives me a rush of satisfaction.
"Harbor Patrol confirms unusual activity at Warehouse 2847 over the past three months," Chin reports, pulling up images on the main screen. "Vehicles coming and going at odd hours, always the same three or four trucks. They ran the plates, all registered to shell companies."
"Same pattern as Pacific Tech Solutions," Kono adds. "I've traced the paper trail on five different LLCs, all leading back to the same PO box in Honolulu. Someone's being careful, but not careful enough."
Not careful enough for us.
Steve nods, marking notes on the whiteboard. "Surveillance starts tomorrow night. Chin, you'll take first shift with HPD backup. Kono, you're second shift. I want eyes on that warehouse 24/7 until we identify the major players."
"What about field entry?" Lou asks from his spot near the door. "We planning a breach, or are we building for warrants?"
"Warrants first," Steve says. "We do this by the book. But we need solid evidence before we can get a judge to sign off."
I'm following along, absorbing the tactical planning, when I realize everyone's looking at me. Waiting for something. Did someone ask me a question?
"Danny?" Steve's voice is patient, not annoyed. "Thoughts on the timeline?"
Oh. Right. My timeline. The one I spent all afternoon building.
I clear my throat, pushing aside the fatigue, and step closer to the screen where my timeline is displayed. "Based on the connected cases, the smuggling operation's been active for at least eighteen months, possibly longer." I point to the earliest date. "First documented activity was this cold case from March of last year, drugs found in a shipping container, but no arrests made. Then nothing for four months."
"They went dark," Kono observes.
"Or they got smarter," I continue. "Next documented incident is here" I point to another date "different dock, different warehouse, but same basic MO. After that, the frequency increases. One incident every six to eight weeks, then every month, now every two to three weeks."
"They're ramping up," Steve says, his eyes on the timeline. "Getting bolder."
Or greedier. Or desperate. Something's changed.
"Or greedier," Lou adds. "That's usually when mistakes happen."
"Exactly." I feel my confidence building as I talk through it. "Tommy's information suggests they're using Warehouse 2847 as their primary distribution point now. If we watch it long enough, we'll see their whole operation."
Steve's looking at me with that expression again and I have to glance away before I lose my train of thought.
"Good work, Detective Williams," he says formally, for the benefit of the room. Then, to the team: "We move carefully on this. No cowboy shit. We watch, we document, we build an airtight case. Questions?"
Lou shifts his weight, arms crossing over his chest. "Yeah, I got one. We're putting all our eggs in the 2847 basket, but what if Tommy got the number wrong? Or what if they're using multiple warehouses as a rotation? We could be watching the wrong location while they move product somewhere else."
Shit. That's... that's a good point. What if I'm wrong?
The room goes quiet, everyone absorbing the validity of that concern. Steve's jaw tightens slightly. It's a good question, one that pokes a hole in our current strategy. Chin pulls up the dock map, studying it with renewed scrutiny. Kono's already typing, probably searching for other warehouse registrations in the area.
My mind's been turning over the informant's information, cross-referencing it with everything I read in those cold case files. The patterns, the timelines, the witness statements. It's all clicking together in a way that feels solid, certain.
No. Wait. I'm right about this. I know I'm right.
I can't keep quiet anymore.
"Actually," I say, my voice cutting through the uncertain silence, steady despite the eyes that snap to me. "I don't think he got it wrong. And I don't think they're rotating locations. Not anymore." I move closer to the map Chin has displayed. "Look at the pattern in the old cases. For the first year, they did rotate. Different warehouses, different docks, never the same place twice. But that changed eight months ago."
Right when that big bust almost caught them. Right when they had to adapt.
I point to the timeline I built. "Right here. After this bust that almost caught them, they went dark for three months. When they came back, the activity consolidated. All the subsequent incidents, the ones we can connect, trace back to the same geographic area. The commercial district, specifically around Pier 19."
Come on, see it. See what I'm seeing. I'm not crazy.
"And Warehouse 2847 is at Pier 19," Chin says slowly, following my logic.
Yes. Thank you, Chin. You see it.
"Exactly. They stopped rotating because rotation was making them visible. Too many locations, too many people involved, too many potential leaks. They found one secure location with one reliable inside man - Marcus Kahale, and they've been using it exclusively." I tap the map. "Tommy said 2847 or 2874. He was nervous, under pressure, but he wasn't guessing. That number's burned into his memory because he's been watching that specific warehouse for months. He just second-guessed himself when he tried to recall it for us."
The room goes quiet for a beat, the weight of their attention heavy but not crushing. Steve's eyes are on me, sharp and assessing, and I can see him running through my logic, testing it for holes.
Chin nods slowly, his fingers already moving across his tablet. "That actually tracks with the shipping manifests. Let me pull up-" He stops, his eyes widening slightly. "Here. Every single shipment tied to Pacific Tech Solutions in the last six months has been logged through Pier 19, Warehouse 2847. Not 2874, not any other number. Just 2847."
Kono's grin flashes, bright and approving. "Damn, Danny. That's some solid detective work."
Steve’s gaze hits me last, and his “Good job, Danno” is low. The words spark something in my chest, a rush of pride so sharp it’s painful, but it’s laced with the memory of his hand on my hip, his thumb grazing my jeans, and my face flushes again, the pendant cool against my skin. I feel myself leaning into his approval, craving it like air, but there’s an edge to it, a flicker of unease. How much of this is me, and how much is me wanting to be the guy he sees? His eyes hold mine a second too long, and my stomach flips, caught between triumph and the weight of his pull.
Chin confirms the overlap in the logs, and the room kicks back into gear, plans forming around my hunch.
"Here," Chin says, breaking the moment. His tablet screen reflects on the wall display, showing harbor logs with highlighted entries. "Three shipments in the last month, all arriving between 11 PM and 2 AM. All logged as electronics or furniture. All signed off by the same dock supervisor."
"Who's the supervisor?" Steve asks.
"Marcus Kahale. Been working the docks for fifteen years, clean record until now." Chin's fingers fly across the screen. "But his bank records show some interesting deposits over the past six months. Nothing huge, nothing that screams money laundering, but consistent payments of two to three thousand dollars every few weeks."
"That's their inside man," Lou says. "He signs off on the shipments, makes sure nobody looks too closely at what's in those containers."
"Can we bring him in?" Kono asks.
"Not yet," Steve decides. "If we tip our hand, the whole operation goes underground. We need to catch them in the act."
The energy in the room shifts, everyone understanding what that means: stakeouts, late nights, patience. The unsexy part of police work that makes or breaks cases.
"Danny," Steve says, and I straighten reflexively at my name. "I want you to keep digging into the connected cases. See if there are any other Marcus Kahales we've missed, anyone else on the inside we should be watching."
"On it," I confirm, and the ease with which the words come surprises me.
The briefing breaks up with everyone moving to their assigned tasks. Chin heads out to coordinate with Harbor Patrol, Kono disappears into her office to keep digging into financial records, Lou's on the phone with HPD about backup units. The techs gather their equipment, talking in low voices about camera placements and surveillance vehicles.
I start to gather my things, my body reminding me how long I've been going today, when Steve appears at my elbow.
"You sure you're okay to drive home alone?" he asks quietly. "I can have Chin take my truck, ride with you."
"I'll be fine," I assure him, touched by the concern. "Besides, you've got coordination to finish here. I'll just head back to your place, maybe take a shower, order some food."
His place. Not home. I'm being more careful with my words now, trying not to assume, even though he gave me a key last week and there's a drawer in his dresser that's become mine by default.
"Okay," he agrees, but there's reluctance in it. "Text me when you get there?"
"Steve, it's like a twenty-minute drive."
"Humor me, Danno."
The nickname, used soft in this context, makes my resistance crumble. "Fine. I'll text."
I can't say no when you use that voice.
"Thank you." His hand twitches like he wants to touch me, then stops.
Good. Don't touch me here.
"I shouldn't be too late. Couple hours at most."
"Take your time," I say, meaning it. "I'll be there."
The promise settles between us, weighted with everything we're not saying in this public space. I'll be there. I'll wait for you. I'm not running this time.
His eyes soften, and I see him receive the message loud and clear.
The drive back to Steve's place gives me time to process the day. The city's settling into evening, the tourist traffic thinning as locals head home from work. The sun's starting its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reflect off the ocean. Beautiful.
I did it. A full day back in the field. Met with an informant, connected a major lead, contributed to a briefing, got assigned follow-up work. No panic attacks, no running away, no breaking down. Just... work. Normal, regular detective work.
The pendant swings as I take a turn, catching the dying sunlight, and I touch it briefly. My moonlight, Steve called me.
When did I start believing him?
Traffic slows near Waikiki, tourists crossing at random intervals, and I practice the breathing exercises while I wait. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The rhythm's becoming automatic now, a tool I can use before the panic even starts.
My phone buzzes at a red light - Rachel's name on the screen. I ignore it for now, making a mental note to call her back later.
I need to tell her I went back to work, need to coordinate seeing Grace this weekend. Normal life things. The things I stopped doing when everything fell apart.
Maybe I can do them again now. Maybe I can be a dad and a detective and whatever Steve and I are becoming. Maybe I don't have to choose.
Steve's street appears familiar and welcome, and I pull into the driveway with a sense of relief. Made it. Another threshold crossed, another small victory.
I let myself in with my key and the house greets me with its cedar scent and ocean sounds. Empty, but not lonely.
I pull out my phone and text Steve: "Home safe. You were right about needing the shower. I smell like cold case files and informant diner.
His response comes almost immediately: "Told you. Food's in the fridge if you're hungry. Be home soon."
Home. He said it naturally, casually, like it's not a big deal that this is my home now too.
Maybe I'm the only one making it complicated, freaking out about labels and meanings and what this all means.
I head toward the bedroom, my feet knowing the path without thought. The bedroom's exactly as we left it this morning. The scene of the crime. The bed unmade, sheets tangled from where I bolted, my pillow still holding the indent of my head.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my hand over the sheets. My fingers find the spot on the sheets where his hand had been pressed against my stomach, and I shiver despite the warm air.
God, I wanted him. Still want him. The wanting hasn't gone away just because I couldn't handle it this morning.
I strip off my shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to my skin from the day's humidity, and catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room. The marks on my neck have faded but they're still there if you know to look. I step closer to the mirror, tilting my head to see them better, and my fingers trace over each one.
He marked me. Deliberately. Wanted everyone to see that I'm his.
The thought should probably bother me more than it does. Should feel possessive or controlling or too much. But instead, it makes something dark and needy unfurl in my chest. He marked me because he wants people to know.
I pull off the rest of my clothes, dropping them in the hamper that's become "ours" even though most of the clothes in it are mine. Steve does laundry without comment, folds my shirts alongside his, hangs my pants in the closet next to his uniforms.
The shower calls to me, promising to wash away the day's accumulated grime, but I pause at the bathroom counter first. Steve's toothbrush sits next to mine, the blue one he bought without asking, just set it there one day like it was obvious I'd need it. His razor, his shaving cream, his cologne. I pick up the cologne bottle, twist off the cap, and breathe in deeply. Cedar and something else. I've been smelling this all day, in the Camaro, when he leaned over my shoulder at my desk, in that hallway when he pressed close and made me stutter over my words. It's embedded in my sense memory now, tied to safety and desire and the complicated knot of feelings I can't untangle. The scent makes my head spin, makes my body remember things I'm trying not to think about. His hands. His mouth. The way he whispered in my ear. I set the bottle down quickly, before I do something stupid like spray it on myself, and turn on the shower, waiting for the water to heat. Steam starts to fill the small space, fogging the mirror, and I step under the spray with a groan of relief.
Finally. Water.
Hot water cascades over my shoulders, down my chest, washing away the nervous sweat from the morning drive, the grease smell from the diner, the coffee and paper scent from headquarters. I brace my hands against the tile and let my head drop forward, water beating against the back of my neck.
Breathe. Just breathe. You made it through today. You survived.
But I can't stop thinking about hands on my body this morning. The way he touched me in the hallway at headquarters, watching me squirm with that knowing look in his eyes. The pride in his voice, like I'd personally hung the moon.
I reach for Steve's body wash, because of course I use his now, because using my own would mean his scent doesn't cling to my skin, and pour some into my palm. The smell intensifies in the steam, overwhelming and intoxicating, and I work it over my chest, my arms, my stomach.
My fingers brush over my abs and I remember the way Steve's hand splayed there this morning, his thumb brushing just above the waistband of my boxers. The memory makes my breath catch, makes heat pool low in my belly that has nothing to do with the shower temperature.
Jesus, what is wrong with me? I'm in his shower, using his soap, wearing his pendant, living in his house, and all I can think about is how much I want his hands on me again. How much I want to not run next time. How much I want to let him take me apart and trust that he'll put me back together.
I shouldn't. This is his shower, his space, and I'm already taking so much from him. But my body doesn't care about should or shouldn't. My hand drifts lower, wrapping around myself, and I gasp at the contact, my free hand slapping against the tile wall for balance.
Steve's name falls from my lips before I can stop it, barely audible over the water. I shouldn't be doing this, thinking about him like this, but I can't stop. His hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck, his thigh between mine, the weight of him pinning me down-
The pleasure builds fast, too fast, and I'm chasing it without thinking, my hips rocking into my fist. I imagine it's his hand instead of mine, imagine him pressed against my back in this shower, his voice in my ear telling me I'm good, telling me to let go, telling me-
No.
I freeze, my whole body going rigid, my hand stilling. What the hell am I doing?I ran from him this morning. Pushed him away when he was touching me, when he was right there, real and solid and wanting me. Bolted like a scared animal because I couldn't handle the intensity of what we were doing together. That's… that's messed up. That's not fair to him.
I pull my hand away like I've been burned, pressing both palms flat against the tile wall, breathing hard. The heat in my body doesn't dissipate - if anything, it gets worse, a frustrated, unfulfilled ache that makes my thighs tremble.
God, I want him. But wanting and being able to handle it are two very different things, and I proved that this morning. I can't just take the fantasy version in my head while denying him the real thing. That's not how this works. That's not fair.
The guilt settles in my chest, cold and uncomfortable despite the hot water still cascading over my shoulders. I'm taking everything from him. His space, his patience, his care, and giving back what? Panic attacks and mixed signals and jerking off in his shower while he's at work?
Jesus, Williams. Get it together.
I take a breath, then another, letting the water run over me until the tension in my body eases to something manageable. The want doesn't go away, I don't think it ever really does anymore, but it settles into background noise instead of urgent need. If I want him then I need to figure out how to not run when things get intense. How to stay. How to let him in without falling apart.
I soap up my neck, my fingers passing over the faded marks, and I press down slightly, remembering the sharp pleasure-pain of his teeth. He was careful, even in the heat of the moment. Didn't bite hard enough to really hurt, just enough to mark.
I wash my hair with his shampoo with the same cedar scent, because apparently I'm incapable of using anything that doesn't remind me of him, and wonder when exactly I became this person. This obsessed, dependent, desperate version of Danny Williams who catalogs every touch, every glance, every word from Steve McGarrett like they're evidence in a case I'm trying to solve.
Except I'm not trying to solve it. I'm trying to survive it. This feeling, this need, this absolute certainty that Steve has become as necessary to me as breathing. Like oxygen. Like water. Like I can't exist without him. That's not healthy. That can't be healthy. But I can't stop.
The water's starting to cool when I finally force myself to shut it off. I stand there dripping for a moment, steam swirling around me, and catch sight of myself in the now-fogged mirror. I wipe a hand across it, clearing a space, and stare at my reflection.
I look different. Softer somehow, despite the lean muscle and the faded marks on my neck. My eyes are clearer than they've been in days, no longer shadowed with constant anxiety. The pendant rests against my chest, the crescent moon catching what light filters through the steam.
I grab a towel, one of Steve's oversized ones that's so big it practically swallows me and dry off slowly, still lost in thought. The towel smells like him too, like his laundry detergent, and I press it against my face for a moment, just breathing.
This is pathetic. I'm pathetic. Standing in his bathroom, wrapped in his towel, smelling his scent on every surface and feeling like an addict getting a fix.
But I don't stop. Don't pull away. Instead, I wrap the towel around my waist and pad back into the bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood.
Steve's bed dominates the space, and I can't help but stare at it. How many nights have I slept here now? The sheets are probably still warm from this morning, still hold the imprint of our bodies tangled together before I freaked out and ran.
I should get dressed. Put on actual clothes like a functional adult. But instead, I sink onto the edge of the bed, my fingers gripping the towel at my waist, and let myself remember.
Steve's lips on my ear, whispering "good boy" in that voice that makes my knees weak. His thigh pressing between mine, the solid muscle, the way my body responded without permission. His hand sliding under my shirt, fingers spreading across my stomach like he was claiming territory. The overwhelming intensity of being wanted like that, desired like that, needed like that.
I wanted to disappear into him. Wanted to let him consume me completely. And that's what scared me. Not Steve, but the depth of my own need. The way I could feel myself letting go, surrendering control, trusting him to catch me.
What if he drops me? What if I give him everything and it's not enough? What if I'm too broken, too damaged, too much work?
But he keeps showing up. Keeps touching me, guiding me, praising me, believing in me. Even when I run, he doesn't let me fall.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, Steve's text: "Wrapping up. 20 minutes."
Twenty minutes until he's here. Twenty minutes until I see him again, hear his voice, feel his presence fill this space that feels empty without him.
I should get up, get dressed, make myself presentable. Instead, I lie back on the bed, still wrapped in his towel, the pendant cool against my overheated skin, and stare at the ceiling.
Twenty minutes feels like forever and no time at all.
I close my eyes and catalog the day: every moment Steve touched me, every time he looked at me with that soft expression, every word of praise. His hand on my lower back guiding me through the bullpen. His knee brushing mine under the diner table. His fingers trailing up my arm in the hallway.
I'm keeping score without meaning to, collecting these moments like precious things, evidence that this is real, that he wants me, that I'm not imagining the weight of his attention.
I touch the pendant, the metal warm now from my body heat, and mouth the words even though no one's here to hear them: "I'm yours."
The admission settles something in my chest, something that's been fighting and resisting and trying to maintain distance. My eyes drift closed, exhaustion pulling at me despite the nervous energy. Just for a minute, I tell myself. Just until Steve gets home.
But my last thought before sleep takes me is of his hands, his voice, his eyes holding mine like I'm the only thing that matters.
The living room's soft with evening light, the ocean a low hum through the open windows, the air carrying the faint salt tang I've come to associate with home.
I wake to the sound of keys in the door, Steve's footsteps in the entryway.
Shit, how long was I out?
The room's darker now, the last of the sunset faded to deep blue twilight. I sit up quickly, disoriented, my hair still damp from the shower, the towel barely clinging to my hips.
Wait… I'm still in the bedroom, still on his bed, still wrapped in nothing but his towel. I meant to get dressed. Meant to be presentable and functional and not... this. Not this needy, desperate thing waiting for him on his bed. Jesus.
"Danno?" Steve's voice carries from the hall, and my heart kicks up at the sound.
"Here," I call back, my voice rough with sleep. "In the bedroom. I fell asleep. Sorry."
His footsteps approach, and I watch the doorway like it's the most important thing in the world. When he appears, his expression when he sees me is soft enough to make my heart stutter.
His eyes do a slow sweep from my damp hair down to where the towel sits low on my hips, and the heat in his gaze makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Don't apologize," he says, his voice lower than it was a moment ago. He moves into the room, and I track every step. Except I'm not sure I want to run this time. "You put in a full day. You earned the rest."
"Yeah, well." I run a hand through my damp hair, self-conscious suddenly. "I meant to get dressed. Got comfortable and just... crashed."
"I'm not complaining." There's unmistakable heat in his voice now. He sits on the edge of the bed next to me. His hand finds my knee, warm through the towel, and I stop breathing. "How're you feeling? Really."
I take a moment to assess - the exhaustion in my muscles, the quiet satisfaction in my chest, the absence of the constant low-level panic I've been carrying for weeks. And underneath it all, the hyperawareness of his hand on my knee, the heat of his body next to mine, the way his eyes keep dropping to my bare chest. "Good," I say honestly. "Tired, but good. Like I actually did something today instead of just... existing."
"You did more than something, Danny. You broke the case open. That warehouse lead is everything."
The praise lands warm, and I let myself accept it this time without deflecting. "Felt good. Felt like being myself again."
"You've always been yourself," Steve says quietly, his hand sliding higher on my thigh, a slow deliberate movement that makes my breath catch. "Even when you couldn't see it."
The words hit deeper than they should, and I have to look away, blinking against the sudden sting in my eyes. "Don't," I manage. "Don't get all profound on me when I'm half-naked and emotionally compromised."
"Half-naked," he repeats, and there's amusement in his voice now, mixed with something darker. "Is that what's making you nervous, Danno? The towel?"
"Steve-" His name comes out breathier than I intend, especially when his hand moves higher, his fingers finding the edge of the towel at my thigh.
Don't. Do. I don't know what I want. Yes I do. I want him. God help me, I want him.
"Because you know you don't have to be nervous with me." His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, turning my face back toward him, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Not after
"I ran from you," I say, my voice small.
"And I let you go," he says simply. "Because that's what you needed. But you came back, Danny. You always come back."
His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "I don't know how to do this," I admit. "How to want you this much and not be terrified of it."
"Then don't do anything." His hand leaves my jaw, trails down my neck, his fingers ghosting over the faded marks he left this morning. "Just let me. Let me take care of you. You don't have to do anything but feel."
"Steve..." It's supposed to be a protest, but it comes out like a plea.
"Lie back," he says softly, and his hand on my chest gives gentle pressure. "Lie back for me, Danny."
I should say no. Should get up, get dressed, put some distance between us and this intensity. But my body's already obeying, lowering back onto the bed, the towel shifting but staying in place. The sheets are cool against my overheated skin, and I stare up at him, my heart hammering so loud I'm sure he can hear it.
Steve stands, and my mouth goes dry watching him. His hands go to the hem of his shirt, and he pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, the fabric sliding up to reveal tanned skin, lean muscle, the defined lines of his abs. Jesus Christ. He tosses the shirt aside carelessly, and I can't look away from the way the dim light plays across his chest, the shadows defining every curve of muscle. His dog tags catch the light, swinging slightly as he moves.
Beautiful. He's so beautiful it hurts to look at him.
"What are you doing?" My voice is hoarse.
Stupid question. You know exactly what he's doing.
"Getting comfortable," he says, that hint of a smirk playing at his lips. His hands move to his belt, fingers working the buckle with deliberate slowness, and my breath catches. Oh. Oh God. "Unless you want me to stop?"
I should want him to stop. Should pump the brakes before this goes somewhere I'm not sure I'm ready for. But the word that comes out is: "No."
He leaves his pants on but undoes the belt, the buckle hanging loose, and the casual intimacy of it makes my heart race. I get an eyeful of tanned skin, lean muscle, the body I've seen a hundred times in tactical gear and wet from the ocean, but never like this. Never in his bedroom with me half-naked on his bed, the air thick with want and possibility.
He kneels on the bed, one knee between my legs, and leans over me, caging me in with his arms. "You did so good today, Danno," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. "So fucking good. You know that?"
The praise mixed with the profanity makes something in my chest tighten. "Steve…"
Please. I don't know what I'm asking for but please.
"Shh." His lips trail down to my ear. "Let me tell you. Let me show you."
His mouth finds the marks on my neck, pressing soft kisses to each one, and my hands fist in the sheets. "I wanted to do this all day," he says against my skin. "Wanted to touch you, wanted to remind you who you belong to."
"I'm not-" I start to protest, but his teeth graze the sensitive spot below my jaw and the words dissolve into a gasp. Oh God. That. That feeling.
"You are," he says with certainty. "Mine. Say it."
"Steve, I can't-"
His hand slides down my chest, fingers splaying across my stomach exactly like they did this morning. "Say it, Danny. I want to hear you say it."
My breathing's ragged now, my body trembling under his touch, and the words spill out before I can stop them: "Yours. I'm yours."
"Good boy," he breathes, and the praise makes my eyes sting with unexpected emotion. His hand stays on my stomach, grounding me, while his lips continue their worship of my neck. "Such a good boy for me."
I'm shaking now, not with panic but with the intensity of being seen, being wanted, being claimed like this. "I don't know what to do," I admit, my voice breaking.
"You don't have to do anything," he says again, pulling back to look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but there's tenderness there too. "Just feel, Danny. Just let yourself feel without running."
"What if I can't?" The fear bleeds through. "What if I panic again?"
"Then we stop." Simple. Certain. Like it's the easiest thing in the world. "You say stop, we stop. No questions, no judgment."
The reassurance settles something in my chest, makes it easier to breathe. "Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
His smile is soft, and he leans down to brush his lips against mine. It's gentle, questioning, giving me space to pull away if I need to. But I don't pull away. Instead, I arch up into the kiss, my hands finally releasing the sheets to find his shoulders, his skin warm under my palms.
The kiss deepens slowly, his tongue tracing my lower lip until I open for him, and the taste of him makes my head spin. Coffee and something sweet, maybe those cookies someone brought to the briefing room. His hand on my stomach starts moving, slow circles that make my muscles jump, and I hear myself make a sound that's embarrassingly needy.
"That's it," he murmurs against my lips. "Let me hear you."
His hand drifts lower, fingers finding the edge of the towel again, and my breath catches. "Steve-"
"Too much?" He pauses immediately, his eyes searching mine.
"No, I just-" I struggle to find words. "I don't know what I'm ready for."
"Then we'll figure it out." His hand retreats to safer territory, back to my stomach, my ribs, mapping my skin with a reverence that makes my throat tight. "No rush, Danny. We've got all the time in the world."
His lips find mine again, and I lose myself in the kiss, in the solid weight of him above me, in the way his hand explores without demanding, promises without pressure. This is different from this morning, slower, more controlled, with escape routes clearly marked. He's giving me this, giving me the space to want without fear.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against mine. "You still with me?"
"Yeah," I breathe. "Yeah, I'm here."
"Good." He presses one more kiss to my lips, then rolls to the side, pulling me with him so we're facing each other on the bed. His hand finds mine, threading our fingers together. "You hungry? We could order something."
The abrupt shift from intensity to domesticity makes me laugh, slightly hysterical.
From claiming me to ordering pizza.
"You're gonna give me whiplash, McGarrett."
"Good whiplash or bad whiplash?"
"I don't know yet." But I'm smiling, and he's smiling, and the tension's eased into something more manageable. "Pizza?"
"Pizza," he agrees. "But first-" His hand comes up to cup my face again, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For trusting me. For staying. For letting me in." His eyes hold mine, serious now. "I know it's not easy for you."
"It's terrifying," I admit. "You're terrifying." Because I can't hide from you.
"I know." He kisses my forehead. "But I'm not going anywhere, Danny. No matter how scared you get, no matter how many times you need to run - I'm here."
Why? Why do you stay? Why do you want broken me?
The promise wraps around my chest, tight and secure, and I nod against his lips. "Okay."
"Okay." He gives me one more kiss, then sits up, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "Now, about that pizza. Usual order?"
"You know me so well," I say, and watch him dial, still shirtless, still rumpled, still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
And sitting there on his bed, wearing his towel, my pendant catching the dim light between us, listening to him order our pizza like we've done this a hundred times before, I think maybe I can do this. Maybe I can let him in without losing myself. Maybe I can be his without disappearing. Maybe this is what coming home feels like.
Relationship: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
My throat is dry enough to wake me, a scratchy pull tugs me from the haze of sleep.
Am I even awake, or is this another dream I won’t remember?
I blink into the dark and for a second it presses down so thick I can’t place myself, like I’m still caught in the ocean from yesterday until I feel the weight of Steve’s arm hooked over me. I tilt my head slightly, nestling deeper into the pillow and feel the warmth of his chest expand against my back with each steady breath.
Wow, he’s like a furnace. How does he sleep so close without burning up?
My body relaxes instinctively, molding into the curve of him, the oversized t-shirt bunching slightly at my waist. This shirt’s too big, but it smells like him. The fabric brushes my thighs and my fingers drift to the crescent moon pendant at my neck. Moon for my moonlight.
It's strange to hear him say something like that.I ease myself free, slow enough not to wake him. He doesn’t notice, just murmurs something low, a half-dream sound, and rolls onto his side.
Probably dreaming about saving the world. Or me.
I hope it's me.
Damn, why do I hope it’s me?
The house at night is its own ocean, the air thick with the scent of cedar and the faint tang of salt drifting through an open window. My steps are silent as I pad toward the kitchen.
Something feels off tonight. What do you mean off? Everything's fine. That's just it. When is everything ever fine?
Outside, a siren splits the silence, shrill and gone again before the echo fades. It twists something in me. Old habits, old adrenaline. For a heartbeat I miss it. Not the danger, but the rhythm of being needed, the pulse of a case, the way Steve’s eyes would find mine across a crime scene.
I miss being useful. Being more than just someone he worries about.
The kitchen’s dim, but the glow of a phone on the table cuts through it. One notification lights the screen. My eyes catch on the words before I can pretend not to read them:
You sure he’s ready? - Chin.
I stand there, heart bumping a little faster, throat tighter now for a whole different reason. Ready for what?
Why’s Chin texting him at this hour?
The words dig into me, stirring a vague unease, like the dream where Steve handed me that pill, murmuring “It’s for your own good.”
Was that real? Did I take it? I’d remember, right?
My fingers hover over the pendant again, tracing its curve.
I don’t touch the phone. Don’t answer. I grab a glass from the counter, fill it with water, the faucet’s hum steadying my pulse.
If I don’t ask, I don’t have to hear something I’m not ready for.
The water’s cold against my lips, sliding down my throat, but it doesn’t wash away the flicker of doubt Chin’s message left behind. I stare too long at the dark window, but that question makes me wonder what I’m not seeing.
And yet there's a feeling that something's wrong.
No, nothing's off. You're just paranoid.
Then why does my gut feel like it's tied in knots?
Because you're looking for problems where there aren't any.
Or because I've learned the hard way that when things feel too good, they usually fall apart.
Screw it all, I'm tired of it. I need to get back to him, need to feel him there.
I drift back to the bedroom, the hardwood cool under my feet, the siren’s echo fading into the night’s quiet.
Steve’s outline is softer now, sprawled across the bed, one arm flung out as if reaching for me even in sleep. I slip under the sheets, and he turns toward me automatically, pulling me in without waking, his arm curling around my waist, hand splaying warm across my stomach. His fingers brush the hem of the t-shirt, grazing the skin just above my boxers, and I feel my breath catch, the memory of yesterday’s blindfold game flashing through me, “Listen. Find me.” Chin’s message lingers, but Steve’s hold is heavier, his warmth seeping into me, drowning everything else.
I could stay here forever, wrapped in this feeling, his breath against my neck.
My eyes flutter shut, his steady breathing lulling me back to sleep.
•
•
•
Sunlight filters through the blinds, striping the bed in gold. I wake with Steve’s arm still slung over me, his chest pressed flush against my back, the same way it was in the dark.
He didn’t leave. He’s still here.
His legs tangle with mine, one thigh slotted between my knees. His hand rests low on my stomach, fingers splayed just under the hem of the oversized t-shirt, thumb brushing lazily against the sensitive skin above my boxers. The faint prickle of his stubble grazes my neck, a delicious contrast to the softness of his breath, and I feel my body hum, alive under his touch. He’s not asleep, his breathing’s too even, too aware.
Finally, the weight next to me hasn’t vanished.
How many mornings did I wake up alone before this?
My body feels lighter than it has. Rested. Like the night smoothed out something jagged inside me. The memory of Chin’s message still flickers somewhere in the back of my mind, but with Steve’s weight pressed into me, it doesn’t feel sharp anymore.
Maybe I’m overthinking it.
I shift slightly, testing the boundaries of his hold and his arm tightens, pulling me back against him.
Oh...
His lips brush the curve of my ear, giving me goosebumps, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. “You’re up?” His voice is rough with sleep, vibrating against my back, and it brings back a memory of him muttering, “Good boy.”
Jesus, that shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does.
“Yeah.” My throat is scratchy, but the word comes easy. I turn my head slightly, my cheek brushing the pillow, catching the faint cedar scent. His arm tightens briefly, pulling me closer before he lets out a slow breath. His thigh pressing firmer between mine, the muscle flexing slightly, and I can’t help the way my body responds.
What is he doing?
My hips shifting subtly, pressing back against him, and my legs spread slightly, letting his thigh sink in deeper. His hand moves slowly, slipping under the hem of the t-shirt. Palm brushes the bare skin of my stomach, his fingers spread wide, pressing gently against my abdomen, the heat of his touch sinking into me. “You’re tense,” his lips brushing the back of my neck now, making my toes curl against the sheets. “Bad dream again?”
I shake my head slightly, my hair catching against his stubble. “Not bad. Just… weird.”
Weird like that pill, like Chin’s message, like the way you’re touching me and I can’t tell if I’m safe or falling apart. And weird like I can't shake this feeling that something's coming. Something bad or something good?
I don’t mention Chin’s message, don’t want to break the spell of this moment, the way his touch makes everything else feel distant. His thumb brushes lower, grazing the sensitive skin below my navel and I suck in a breath, my stomach tightening under his touch.
Jesus Christ, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Relax,” he whispers, his lips moving against my ear now, making my toes curl harder.
Relax? When you’re doing this? Sure, Steve, I’ll just stop melting into a puddle.
I want to turn, to see his eyes, to catch that look he gave me yesterday, but his arm holds me in place.
Why won't you let me see you?
“You’re thinking too much,” he says, his lips brushing my ear again. “I can feel it.”
Yeah, no kidding. You’re the reason I can’t stop thinking.
His hand slides up, fingers curling around my ribcage, his thumb brushing the edge of my sternum, just shy of where my heart’s pounding embarrassingly obvious in the quiet. My body arches into him and I can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes, my fingers clutching the sheets tighter. The memory of yesterday’s kiss flares bright, his lips claiming mine, his tongue tracing the edge of my lower lip, the faint taste of coffee and lemonade, unraveling me in the dark. My thigh shifts, pressing against his, and his grip tightens, keeping me close, his fingers digging just enough to make my breath stutter.
This is dangerous. Shit, this is so dangerous.
“Maybe I’m thinking about you,” I murmur, and I feel his lips curve into a smile against my neck.
Idiot. You’re feeding the fire.
His hand slides back down, settling low on my stomach, fingers teasing the waistband of my boxers again, and I feel the heat pool lower, a subtle throb that makes me shift slightly.
Oh God...
His thigh presses firmer between mine, making my pulse race, and I bite my lip harder, trying to keep quiet, but a soft sound slips out, halfway between a sigh and a whimper.
“Good thoughts, I hope,” his lips find the hollow behind my ear, a slow, open-mouthed kiss burns me, my body arching further into his touch, the t-shirt riding up to expose more of my skin.
Good doesn’t begin to cover it, but it’s dangerous how much I want this. “You listen so well, Danny.”
The memory makes me tremble.
God, that’s not fair.
“You’re gonna kill me if you keep touching me like that,” I say, shudderingly. His chuckle is low, vibrating against my back, and his lips press another long kiss to my neck, his tongue flicking out, making my fingers digging into the sheets.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Danno,” he murmurs. Then he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, his arm still draped over me, his hand sliding to my hip, fingers curling into the fabric of the t-shirt, tugging it up just enough to expose the curve of my hipbone. The cool air contrasts with the heat of his touch. His thigh presses firmer between mine, the muscle flexing, and I feel my body arch subtly, pressing back against him, craving the solidness of him. His lips trail lower, brushing the junction of my neck and shoulder. A soft scrape of stubble followed by the warmth of his mouth, his teeth grazing lightly, sending a shiver through my limbs.
What the hell? When did he get so confident?
“Steve,” I breathe, his name slipping out like a plea, and I feel his smile against my skin, his lips parting to press a wet kiss to the curve of my shoulder. The pendant shifting against my collarbone.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up my side. “You’re so responsive. Just let me take care of you.”
He shifts his weight, his hand guiding my hip with gentle insistence, rolling me onto my back.
Oh, here we go.
His knee remains firmly between my legs. The pressure of his thigh now centered, pressing against the sensitive inner skin of my thighs, keeping them slightly parted.
God, that feels-
The thought fractures, replaced by the pounding of his heartbeat through mine. His body hovers over mine, his chest a warm, solid plane above me, one arm braced on the mattress beside my shoulder, caging me in a way that feels protective rather than confining. I lift one knee slightly, bending it to ease the weight of his body pressing down. The movement opening my hips further and allowing me to breathe more freely under the delicious pressure of his frame. His eyes lock onto mine, the blue catching the morning light, and I feel my breath catch, the same way it did yesterday when the scarf fell away.
His hand slides up my bare side, fingers grazing the edge of my ribcage, lifting the t-shirt higher to expose the flat plane of my stomach, his fingertips tracing the faint line of muscle there with a reverence that makes my skin tingle. “You’re beautiful like this,” his lips brushing my jaw. “All soft and open for me.”
No, don’t say that. Don’t say that now.
I push at his chest lightly, not enough to move him, just enough to feel the solidness of him under my palms. “You’re gonna make me forget how to think,” I say, my voice rough with the heat building in my core.
Hah, not that I’m thinking much now… You’ve got me chasing your touch like a dog with a bone.
“Am I?” he teases, his lips brushing the corner of my mouth now, so close to a kiss but not quite, the anticipation making my heart pound. “You seemed to handle me just fine yesterday.”
I grin shakily.
Handle you? I’m barely holding on, drowning in the memory of your lips, your hands and your damn scent.
“You’re gonna make me late for… whatever you’ve got planned today.” His hand sliding to the small of my back, fingers pressing just enough to make me arch closer, the t-shirt bunching higher, exposing more of my skin to the cool air and I feel my cheeks flush hotter.
“Got nothing planned yet,” he says, “Just you, Danno. That’s enough for now.”
That’s the problem…
“You’re playing dirty,” I say, and his smile widens.
“Only because you let me,” he says, his lips brushing the corner of my mouth again, then trailing lower, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the hollow of my throat where the pendant rests, his tongue flicking out to trace the edge of the metal.
“God, Steve,” I breathe, my head tipping back further, giving him more access, my body pliant under his touch. The pendant shifts again, tickling my skin, and my hands slide up to his neck, fingers curling into the short hair at his nape, tugging him closer, urging him to press harder against me. His hand slides up my side again, fingers grazing the edge of my sternum, then back down, settling on my hip, his thumb brushing slow circles.
More. I need more. I need-
His lips finally find mine with a light touch that disappears too quickly, making me chase after the warmth, press myself against him, crave more. His knee shifts slightly, pressing deeper between my thighs and I gasp softly. My bent knee rising higher to accommodate the shift, my hips tilting to meet him. His hand squeezes my hip tighter, anchoring me, and his soft lips return, grazing the curve of my lower lip before parting mine. My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and his lips press harder, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past mine in a slow dance that makes my toes curl against the sheets.
This. This is what I can’t stop chasing.
My hands slide down his chest, fingers catching on the buttons of his shirt, tugging lightly, desperate to feel the heat of his skin against mine. He chuckles and pulls back just to meet my eyes. “Patience, Danno,” his hand slides to my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip, parting it slightly, making my lips tingle under the slow drag of his skin.
You're out of your mind.
“You’re killing me,” I say, and he leans in, his lips brushing mine, not quite a kiss, just a tease. My hands tighten on his shirt, pulling him closer, but he holds back, his thumb still stroking my jaw, keeping me where he wants me.
Keeping you where he wants you. Listen to yourself.
I don't care where he wants me as long as he doesn't let go.
“Not yet,” he whispers, his breath hot against my lips, and I groan half out frustration, half out need. His hand slides down my chest, fingers grazing the pendant again, then slipping under the t-shirt, his palm flattening against my stomach. “I want to feel you like this,” he says, almost growling.
His lips trail lower, brushing the sensitive skin just below my collarbone, and I feel my pulse hammering under his touch. The heat in my core is building too fast, a tight coil of need that makes my raised knee tremble against his hip. My other leg shifts restlessly, the sole of my foot dragging along the sheet, seeking something to ground me as his hand slides from my knee to the inside of my thigh, fingers grazing the sensitive skin there.
Wait. Wait, this is-
My heart slams against my ribs, so loud it drowns out everything else, and my lungs burn, struggling to pull in air against the suffocating weight of his body hovering over me. My bent knee jerks higher, trying to ease the crushing pressure of his thigh, but it only opens me up more, making my hips buck against him, my body caught in a frantic tug-of-war between wanting him closer and needing to escape.
I want him, but I can’t… I can’t handle this.
My breaths come in sharp, shallow bursts, each one catching in my throat like a sob, my chest so tight it feels like it’s caving in. The pendant at my throat swings, grazing my skin and even that tiny sensation is a needle in the chaos, pushing me closer to the edge. My vision blurs, spots dancing at the corners, and a cold thread of panic snakes through me.
No. No, not now. Not with him.
“Steve…” My voice cracks, swallowed by the roar of my pulse in my ears. His lips graze the pulse point below my jaw, teeth nipping lightly, and the jolt that follows rips a strangled sound from my throat, my body arching involuntarily as my hands shove at his chest, frantic now, needing space, air, anything to stop the spiraling overload. His thigh presses harder, pinning me to the mattress.
“Danny, relax,” his voice drowned out by the pounding in my head. His hand slides up my side, fingers brushing my ribcage.
Too much, too fast. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t- “Steve, stop, I can’t…” My voice is a broken plea and my hands push harder, palms slipping against the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt as I thrash beneath him, my bent knee sliding free in a jerky motion. I roll to the side, nearly falling off the bed in my haste, my legs shaking as I scramble to my feet, the t-shirt clinging to my sweat-slick skin. My chest heaves, each breath a jagged, painful stab, and I stumble toward the door, bare feet slapping against the hardwood, the cool floor a shock against my overheated skin.
Run, just run, before you shatter.
“Danny!” Steve’s sharp with worry voice cuts through the haze but I can’t stop, can’t look back, not when my lungs burning, my skin crawling with the ghost of his touch.
I'm sorry. I have to get out, have to breathe.
The pendant bounces against my collarbone, each swing a reminder of how close I came to unraveling completely and I bolt down the hall, driven by the need to escape before I shatter.
The hallway stretches out before me, the faint hum of the AC barely registering over the thundering of my pulse. My chest is still tight, like a fist is squeezing my lungs, but the air out here feels less heavy, less like it’s trying to drown me. I stumble into the living room, my legs shaky, and brace my hands on the back of the couch, gripping the leather until my breath coming easier, the panic loosening its claws just enough for me to think.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Danny!” Steve’s voice follows me, sharp with worry but not angry. I hear his footsteps. I can’t look at him, not when my skin’s still buzzing. My fingers dig harder into the couch, the leather creaking under my grip.
“Hey.” His voice is closer now, softer. I feel him stop a few feet away, not crowding me and I’m grateful for it even if I can’t say it.
At least he's learning.
My throat’s too tight, my mouth dry, the words stuck somewhere behind the lump in my chest. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak and stare at the floor, the grain of the wood blurring as my eyes sting.
Don’t cry, don’t you dare cry in front of him.
“Talk to me, Danno.” His voice the same tone he uses on the job when he’s trying to talk someone down from a ledge. “What’s going on?”
I swallow hard, the pendant shifting against my skin and force myself to take a slower breath. “I just… I couldn’t breathe,” I manage to say hoarsely. “It was too much. You were-”
Don’t say it like it’s his fault. It wasn’t. You broke first.
I cut myself off, not sure how to explain the way his touch lit me up and burned me out all at once, how it felt like drowning in something I wanted but couldn’t handle.
How do you explain that you wanted to disappear into him and run away all at once?
You don't. Because it doesn't make sense.
None of this makes sense.
He doesn’t push, doesn’t move closer, but I can feel his eyes on me. “Okay,” he says. “You’re okay now. You’re right here.” I nod, still gripping the couch, my shoulders hunching as the tension starts to bleed out, leaving me shaky but steadier.
Here I am, running from the best thing I’ve got. Real genius move, Danny.
I hear him shift, the faint creak of the floor, but he doesn’t come closer. “You want water?” he asks. I nod again, not trusting my voice, and he moves toward the kitchen, his steps measured, giving me the space I need.
He’s listening, for once… why does that make me want to cry?
The sound of the fridge opening, the clink of a glass, the soft rush of water… it’s all normal, mundane, and it helps. He comes back, setting the glass on the coffee table in front of me, close enough that I can reach it but far enough that he’s not crowding me. I let go of the couch, my fingers stiff, and pick up the glass, the cold biting into my palm. I take a sip, then another, the water soothing the rawness in my throat.
“Better?” he asks, still keeping his distance, leaning against the wall now, arms crossed loosely. His shirt’s unbuttoned at the top, his hair mussed from sleep, and he looks softer like this, less like the unstoppable force he usually is. It makes it easier to breathe, knowing he’s not pushing, not demanding answers I don’t have.
“Yeah,” I croak, setting the glass down. My voice sounds steadier, even if I don’t feel it. I run a hand through my hair, tugging slightly, the sharp pull a small distraction from the lingering buzz under my skin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… bolt like that.”
Why do I always run when it gets too real?
“You don’t need to apologize,” he says, and there’s a firmness to it, like he’s shutting down any guilt before it can take root. “You got overwhelmed. It happens.” He pauses. “Was it me? Did I push too far?”
I shake my head, quick, because it’s not that, not exactly. “No, it’s not… you didn’t do anything wrong.” My fingers fidget with the hem of the t-shirt, pulling at a loose thread. “It was just… a lot. All at once. I don’t know.”
The memory of his hands, his lips, his thigh pressing into me… it was everything I wanted, but it hit like a tidal wave, too much to hold.
He nods, like he gets it, or at least he’s trying to. “Okay,” he says again. “You want to sit? Or… we can just stay here. Whatever you need.”
I hesitate, then sink onto the couch, my legs still shaky. The leather’s cool against the backs of my thighs, and I lean forward, elbows on my knees, the glass of water clutched between my hands. Steve stays where he is, watching but not hovering, even as part of me wants to pull him closer, to feel that solidness again without the panic.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “In for four, hold for four, out for four. You know the drill.” I follow, counting in my head, the slow inhale filling my lungs, the hold steadying my racing heart, the exhale easing the tightness in my chest. After a few cycles, the world feels less like it’s spinning out of control, the edges of my vision clearing.
“Thanks,” I mutter and glance at him. “I’m good. Just… needed a minute.”
“Take all the minutes you need,” he says, and there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. He pushes off the wall, moving slowly and sits on the arm of the couch. “You want to talk about it?”
How do I tell you I’m scared of you and want you all at once?
I shake my head, not ready to dig into the mess in my head, not when I’m still piecing myself back together. “Not yet,” I say, and he nods, accepting it without pushing. Silence descends, not too oppressive, but rather calm, like the quiet we’ve shared on late-night stakeouts, just the two of us and the hum of the world outside. I lean back against the couch, the tension in my shoulders easing. “You’re not gonna let me live this down, are you?”
His grin widens, a flash of the Steve I know, all cocky charm and unshakable calm. “What, you running out on me like I’m some kind of heartbreaker? Never.” I roll my eyes, the familiar banter pulling me the rest of the way back.
“Shut up,” a smile tugging at my lips. I take another sip of water, the coolness settling me further. I tug at the collar of the t-shirt, the spots where Steve’s teeth grazed my neck and shoulder prickle with a soft burn. My fingers hover one of those bites and I catch myself wondering if there’s a mark, something visible to prove it happened.
A mark? Like I need proof I’m his?
The thought pierces me, immediately embarrassing me. I glance down at the pendant, then at Steve, still perched on the arm of the couch. My gaze flicks to his, and I know he sees the way my fingers keep brushing the spot on my neck and the quick dart of my eyes away from his says enough.
I swear, the pendant at my throat feels heavier now.
“You’re staring,” I mutter and regret it the second it leaves my mouth because now he’s grinning, that lopsided smirk makes me feel like I’m in over my head.
He slides off the arm of the couch with that easy grace of his. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you some coffee. You look like you need it.”
I huff a small laugh and set the glass down on the coffee table. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re such a morning person,” I mutter, pushing myself up. My legs still feel a little unsteady, but I follow him, the faint sting on my neck pulsing with each step, a reminder of how close we were, how close I wanted to be before it all spiraled. The t-shirt hangs loose, brushing my thighs, and the cool air against the exposed skin makes the marks feel sharper, like they’re glowing under the fabric.
Like everyone who sees you will know exactly what happened.
Would that be so bad?
Yes. Because then you'd have to explain it. Explain him. Explain this.
As we move down the hallway, the morning light spills through the windows, painting the walls in soft golds and shadows. Steve’s ahead of me, his shoulders broad and I catch myself staring again at the line of his back, the way his muscles shift under the fabric.
Stop it. Just stop.
My fingers itch to reach out, to trace the curve of his spine, but I curl them into fists instead, the sting on my neck a warning to slow down, to breathe. “You always walk like you’re on a mission,” I say, trying to shake off the weight of the moment. He glances back, one eyebrow raised.
“Only when I’ve got a good reason,” he says. I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth quirks up. The hallway smells like always, the same scent that clings to Steve’s skin.
We step into the kitchen, and Steve already moves to the counter. The soft clink of the coffee maker, the rustle of the bag as he scoops grounds, the low hum of the machine starting up feels like home even when my head’s a mess. I lean against the counter, the edge digging into my lower back, and watch him. My fingers brush the spot on my neck where his teeth grazed, a faint warmth blooming under my touch.
Did he mean to mark me?
I drop my hand quickly, but not before Steve glances over, his eyes catching the motion.
He pauses, the coffee scoop hovering over the bag, and his gaze flicks to my neck, then back to my eyes. There’s a question there, unspoken, and I feel my face heat up, the sting of the bites suddenly louder. “What?” I say, defensive, but my cheeks burn under his gaze. He doesn’t answer right away, just sets the scoop down and steps closer, his bare feet whispering against the wood. I grip the counter harder, the cool edge grounding me as he stops just shy of touching me. “You keep touching that spot. Does it hurt?”
I shake my head too quickly, and the motion makes the pendant swing. “Not hurt,” I mumble, my eyes dropping to the floor, then back to him. “Just… sensitive.”
Sensitive like my whole body is when you’re near.
He reaches out slowly and his fingers brush the side of my neck, just below the mark, and I bite my cheek to keep from leaning into him. “You’re blushing, Danno.”
I swat his hand away, my face hotter. “Shut up,” I mutter, crossing my arms, the oversized t-shirt shifting against my skin. My fingers itch to touch the spot again, but I keep them locked at my sides, not wanting to give him more ammunition. His smirk widens in that infuriatingly charming tilt of his lips, and he leans back against the counter opposite me, arms crossed to mirror mine.
“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says, and I groan, rolling my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck.
Cute. He thinks I'm cute. Kill me now.
But you like it. Admit it.
Fine. I like it. Happy now?
But I know that the way my fingers twitch against the hem of the t-shirt betrays me. I shift my weight, the cool floor under my bare feet grounding me just enough to keep from bolting again.
Don’t run, not again. Just stay, just breathe.
“Cute’s not exactly the vibe I’m going for,” I shoot back, aiming for sarcasm but landing somewhere softer. He steps closer again. His hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching, and his eyes flick to the throbbing mark on my neck again. “You sure it’s okay?” he asks quieter now. “I didn’t mean to… push you too far back there.”
My throat tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the water I drank earlier. “It’s fine,” I say, and it’s mostly true. “Just caught me off guard, is all.” I meet his eyes, and there’s a flicker of something like guilt, maybe, or worry. He nods, his hand finally settling on my shoulder. “You’d tell me if it was too much, right?” His thumb brushes the edge of the mark and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting too obviously. My body still hasn't recovered from the earlier moments, torn between desire to lean into him and needing to keep some distance to think straight.
Would I tell you? I just ran screaming from your bed. I think you know the answer.
“Yeah, so stop looking at me like that,” I mutter.
His gaze flicks from my neck to my eyes.
“Like what?” His hand drops from my neck to the counter beside me, his arm brushing mine, and I swear I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of the oversized t-shirt.
Like you’re gonna swallow me whole.
“Like you’re planning something,” I say, trying to keep my voice and arms, too.
He chuckles softly and steps back just to grab the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug. “Maybe I am,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine. “But you’d like it, Danno.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, leaning back against the counter, my hands gripping the edge again. And now, standing here with the morning light spilling across the kitchen, I feel that same itch, that need to know where I stand, not just with him, but with myself.
Who am I if I can’t handle you?
I clear my throat. “So. Chin.”
Steve doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t ask how I know. He just nods, pours me a mug like he’s been waiting for this. “He’s worried about you. Wants to know if you’re ready to be back in the field.” A beat, then… “I told him I wasn’t sure yet. That it’s your choice.”
The words light something in me I didn’t think I’d feel again.
The field? Me, out there again?
That little pulse of possibility, of being more than someone stuck between four walls and too many quiet hours. I sip the coffee, try to play it cool, but my chest hums with the thought: I could be a detective again. I could be me again. The mug’s warm in my hands, my mind’s racing, picturing the rhythm of a case, the weight of a badge, the way Steve’s eyes would find mine across a crime scene. The way we moved together, like we were one.
“Back in the field,” I say, testing the words steadier than I expect. I glance at him. “I want to try. Today.” The words sound decisive and they surprise even me.
Today? Am I crazy?
“I’m done waiting, Steve. I need to feel like me again, and I need it now.”
He sets his mug down, leaning against the counter opposite me, his arms crossed loosely. “Today, huh?” he says. “You sure about that, Danno? It’s a big step.”
“I’m sure.”
No, but I have to be, or I’ll never know.
My fingers brush the pendant at my neck, the crescent moon cool against my skin, and I feel a surge of resolve. “I’m not saying I’m a hundred percent, but I can’t keep sitting here, feeling like half a person. I need this, Steve. I need to know I can still do it.”
He nods slowly, his eyes searching mine, and then he reaches out, his hand cupping the side of my neck again. “You’re still you, Danny,” he says. “You’ve always been you. And I’m not going anywhere.” Then don’t ever make me forget how to breathe again.
I manage a small smile, my fingers brushing the pendant again. “You better not,” I say, trying to keep it light. His hand slides from my neck to my shoulder, squeezing gently, and for a moment, we just stand there, the kitchen quiet except for the hum of the coffee maker and the distant crash of waves outside. “We’ll take it slow,” he says. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”
This year it turned out way more productive than I had originally planned, which I guess is actually a good thing. The only thing that stings is that because of my health (which has been messing with me for like a month now (╯‵□′)╯︵┻━┻) I never managed to go to the sea. Fingers crossed September blesses us with more warm days and water that isn’t freezing.
Also, for the past few days I can’t stop thinking about how Say It Again somehow grew into this gigantic project. When I first started writing, I definitely didn’t expect this many chapters or this much plot. There were even a couple of days where I completely froze, panicking about how to move the story forward. Since it’s my very first fanfic, I knew there would be difficulties… but not this much. (Massive respect to all the slow burn authors who somehow keep writing such long, layered works without collapsing 🙇♀️🙇♀️🙇♀️)
Anyway, after sacrificing several nervous system cells, I pulled myself together and kept working. Right now I’m on chapter 21 (God help me survive this).
(And it's not what you're thinking :))
But there’s one thing I need to mention: I might not have a clear update schedule from now on. I’m really sorry 😭😭😭
My main priorities at the moment are not burning out completely and still having enough energy left for study.
The good news is… every upcoming chapter will be long. Like, actually long. Maybe even each one longer than the last. So I really hope you’ll forgive the delays 〒▽〒
As for #My soulful moments updates: I recently found an old camera and now I’ve been spending most of my free time photographing literally everything that catches my eye. (Funny thing - I used to think this camera was absolute trash.) Anyway, I’m sharing a collage with you, and most of the pictures in it were taken with that exact camera.
Oh, and as usual, I'm attaching some extra songs (some of which, btw, are spoilers for the plot of Say It Again).
I was reorganizing my Notion again (because apparently that’s my favorite hobby at this point), and in the middle of it I decided to make a Moodboard card for Say It Again. Helps me lock down the exact vibe of the fic… and also because I had a huge aesthetic rush at 3AM that wouldn’t let me sleep until I made something pretty.
hiii (^▽^) i really need some help!! i’m looking for high-quality collages of Ateez that i can use for both phone wallpapers and pc/laptop backgrounds. i’m especially hunting for Mingi and Yunho ones (my heart needs them 😭)
pinterest has sooo many pretty edits, but the quality is always crunchy… does anyone know where i can find the actual HQ versions? like drives, editors who post packs, or even tag recs?
pls share or tag me!! i’ll love you forever(i swear) 💕
