Bellie

Sher/Her, 19 Unfortunate Joe Keery obsession. I also like: TLOU Yellow Jackets Music Marvel/DC Star Wars Life is Strange Until Dawn Anything within the rock music genre Horror Movies Tarot and anything Spiritual And so much more!

[oneddjo]

gatorade

Summary: You and Gator used to be best friends from your childhood to the middle of your adolescence. But because of choices that were made back then, your friendship fell apart. After 15 years, Gator is incarcerated in a medical facility because of his blindness, serving his sentence for the crimes he committed. Although in this facility, coincidentally or not, you are the new art therapist, and your paths cross again.

Pairing: blind!prisoner!Gator Tillman x psychologist!fem!reader

Word count: 34.2k

Warnings: post canon, best friends to strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, angst, slow burn, fluff, smut just in the end, yearning, fake love triangle, insecure!Gator, mostly Gator's pov, angry confessions, art therapy sessions, dealing with blindness, problems with parents, Dorothy as sort of a sister figure and the sweetest person ever, mention of anxiety disorder, no use of y/n

Note: Hey! First of all, today is my birthday, but who gets the present is you guys! Secondly, as a therapist, I loved to write this. I had this idea when I was planning my previous fanfic about Gator. Having him in a medical facility, I could only imagine him having some kind of therapy as well, so I thought art therapy would fit in the story perfectly. And I'm 100% sure that the way the facility he is in is not accurate; I didn't mind doing a research about it, I just did how a facility for disabled people would be in my dreams. This is my first time writing angst and hurt/comfort like that, and I think it ended up pretty good. Hope you like it! English is not my first language, so keep that in mind.

AO3 link | Wattpad link masterlist

"Seriously? This fucking shit again?” complains Gator, snorting while seated on an armchair in the common area, listening to some football game playing on the TV.

“Seriously, Tillman,” says nurse Willow, “now c’mon, get your ass up here. Chop chop,” rushes him, clapping his hands, “you want your cane, or want to walk with me?”

“The hell walking with you,” Gator murmurs to himself in protest, feeling for his cane that is resting on the side of the armchair. When he grabs it, with his free hand on the seat arm, he pulls himself up and stands.

Gator starts walking towards a guidance path, with Willow right beside him. “Is this one, right?” asks Gator when he hits the path with his cane.

“Exactly,” confirms Willow, his hands tucked behind his back as he walks beside Gator. “You know,” he adds a few seconds later, “the psychologist is good for the eye; it’s a shame you can’t see her,” teases Willow, chuckling, nudging his friend slash patient with his elbow.

“You know I could sue you for harassment, right?” says Gator back, groaning at the back of his throat, turning a corner, “for making fun of my fucking expense.”

“Sue, huh?” Willow laughs, following Gator when he does another corner, “You are indeed spending a lot of time with your lawyer; you are even using her jargon now.”

“I should introduce her to the new shink then. She could sue you, too, for sexual harassment,” says Gator, bitterly, turning the last corner.

“You get really grumpy when someone steps on your toes, Tillman,” Willow chuckles, lightly nudging Gator’s ribs, his smile fading a little, a little more serious now. “My bad, man, I know how difficult this is for you.” 

Gator stays silent for a few seconds, then enters the therapy room, placing his hand on Willow’s shoulder as a way to ask for guidance and also to thank him for his apology.

Willow places his hand over Gator’s hand on his shoulder and walks towards a nearby stool. Gator’s cane hit the stool before they reached it, grabbing the seat to sit there properly, resting his cane at his side at the table in front of him.

“What the hell is happening here, Low?” asks Gator, tilting his head closer to Willow as he feels the things on the table, trying to understand what he is holding. “What the fuck?” he says to himself, confused.

“It’s some instruments to shape clay,” Willow says, and Gator can hear him waving to someone.

“Clay?” exclaims Gator, furrowing his eyebrows. “for fuck sakes, these art therapy sessions are unbelievable,” he groans, frustrated, tilting his head towards Willow while he hears some footsteps approaching them from the door. “This is really a requirement for me to reduce my sentence?”

“If you want to be set free from here, I highly recommend that to you, inmate. It might help you in your healing process as well,” you say between laughs, resting your side at the table beside his cane. 

“Hey, Willow,” you greet the nurse, crossing your arms over your chest, then turning back to look at Gator.

Gator furrows his brow, turning his body toward you. He releases the instruments from his hand, resting his elbow on the table. You laugh at the confusion on his face, clearly visible even behind his sunglasses.

That sound makes his heart pound loudly and hard on his chest. He straightens his posture, his mouth opening and closing without a single word leaving him for a few seconds. “No fucking way,” he says, breathless, grabbing the back of the stool and the table.

“Hey, Gatorade,” you giggle beamingly, “long time no see.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gator chokes, “Ginger,” he calls you in a strangled sob, pushing himself up from the stool and launching himself into your arms. He holds you with his arms wrapped around your neck, mostly because of the height difference between you tw.

You take some steps back from the crash, but you freeze for a second by the sudden affection. However, you hold him back right after, holding him by his middle, your head just under his chin. You shut your eyes and fist his shirt in the back, pulling him closer.

Without you being aware of it, this was all that Gator needed to stop restraining himself. He let a shaky gasp leave his lips, followed by a strangled sob. He moves his arms to embrace more of you, his hands wrapped fully around you, his hands wide-spread on your shoulder blades.

“You still smell like vanilla,” he sobs, pulling you even closer. A trembling hand goes to your head, cradling the back of your neck, pressing his temple to the top of your head.

“Fucking stupid glasses,” he murmurs to himself, taking off his sunglasses, severely crooked on his face, and placing them at the table beside you, not caring at all where he put them.

“Gate,” you choke against his chest, your voice muffled against it, “I’m your therapist, this is not professio-”

“Fuck professional,” Gator cuts you, pressing his lips on your temple, his hand on the back of your head, grabbing it fully while he fists the back of your shirt. 

“It’s been what?” he chokes. “15 years?” he pulls back, holding both sides of your head, pressing your foreheads together. You grab his wrists tightly, both of you sobbing, your wet and hot breaths hitting each other’s faces.

Gator pulls back, kissing your forehead, his lips lingering there for a couple of seconds before pulling away and grabbing his sunglasses again. When he releases you just afterward, you both wipe your tears, chuckling weakly, him putting his glasses back on with trembling hands.

“What the hell just happened here?” Willow says, confused as fuck, looking at one another in disbelief. “Do you know each other?” He turns to you, his tone a pitch high, “And ginger where?”

You chuckle along with Gator, placing a hand over his shoulder beside you, with him placing his hand above yours, “Yeah,” he answers, “she was my best friend, we were attached to the hip,” he grins, adjusting his glasses on his face with his free hand, leaning back at the table, stumbling on his cane, holding it by his side.

“And Ginger because my hair used to be red,” you chuckle, watery, leaning towards Gator unconsciously, “now I dye it black since high school.”

“Oh, that’s really something,” Willow smiles at you two, chuckling, “and what happened? Seems like you haven't seen each other for many years, huh?”

You notice Gator getting tense in his shoulder. You glance at him and see him clenching his jaw and swallowing hard. With his eyebrows furrowed, he opens his mouth to answer, but you cut him off and look back at Willow.

“Life happened,” you simply say, shrugging while smiling slightly, as if what happened between you two was not the most hurtful thing in your life.

Gator squeezes his hand between his, his shoulders relaxing. He tilts his head towards you, smiling thankfully. “Yeah, huh,” he clears his throat, turning his head to the direction of Willow’s voice, “different high schools,” he lies, making you exhale sharply through your nose.

“But huh,” he adds just afterward, holding your hand tighter, leaning his head in your direction again, “I kept seeing her around town until this shit happened,” he points to his eyes with the hand over yours.

“Are you for real?” You snap your head towards him, your heads closer now. You sound surprised: “When was the last time you saw me?”

“It was a little after Thanksgiving,” he says quietly, a soft smile on his lips. “You were doing groceries,” he chuckles from the memory, “you were wearing brown pants and an orange sweater,” he smiles fondly from the memory, “and your hair was just as short as now, and was black too.”

“How do you remember?” You ask breathlessly, your eyes slightly wide from surprise, your heart aching in your chest, “It's been three years…”

“How could I not remember?” He turns to you, confused. “It's you, Ginger,” he says sweetly, “I can't forget about you even if I tried.”

“Also, I had the chance to see you one last time before this,” he points to his sunglasses, smiling happily, “ so now you are engraved in here forever,” he chuckles boyishly, with two fingers pointing to his head.

In contrast, you can not laugh brightly like it. You freeze, too stunned by his statements. What does he mean by all of it? He never forgot about you? He… He couldn’t even if he tried?

You are too out of breath and too speechless to say anything back. You swallow a lump in your throat, your breath becoming a little erratic, your nostrils widening more and more with the rise and fall of your chest, the time between those movements shortening.

As the good nurse he is, Willow notices you starting to hyperventilate. He even thinks you might be having a panic attack. 

Gator starts to notice your state of being, since his hearing has become one of his most-used senses over those years without vision, and he can hear you gasping for air over and over. And he is about to ask you if you are okay when Willow intervenes, putting his hand over the other shoulder of Gator.

“Hey, man, let’s get ready for the session, shall we?” he says to Gator, but exchanges a look with you, taking slow, deep breaths and exhaling slowly for you to follow. He nods and smiles encouragingly at you when he sees you following his lead.

“Oh, yeah, but-” Gator tries to protest, holding your hand properly now, taking it out of his shoulder. He turns towards you while he awkwardly starts to walk away with Willow, holding his cane in his free hand. “Are you okay, Ginger?”

You nod too quickly, chuckling nervously, but way calmer now, even though your heart is pounding hard on your chest. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, Gator.” You squeeze his hand, trying to reassure him of something you are not.

“But we really need to have it starting soon, or I’ll be called out,” you chuckle humorlessly, hesitantly releasing his hand from yours. “Now let Willow get you some place, and I’ll set everything ready.”

“Yeah, c’mon, Gator,” says Willow, winking at you with empathy and guiding Gator closer to the other inmates around the table. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees how tense Gator seems to be, but he also notices how he tilts his head slightly back, his ear pointing in the direction you were at.

“It was something I said?” he asks sadly, quietly, his eyebrows lowered, just like his lips, as he pulls up a stool and rests his cane beside it when Willow arrives and places Gator there. 

“She just must still be surprised that she got to see you after all these years of you being apart,” Willow says gently, placing his hand on Gator’s shoulder blade, trying not to stress his patient slash friend, at least for now.

Before Gator could say anything, you clear your throat at the opposite side of the rectangular table, calling everyone’s attention. Willow says farewell to Gator, waving goodbye at you as he walks out of the room, leaving you to work.

“Good afternoon, boys!” You say as happily as possible. You scan the faces in front of you, smiling gently while you tell your name, “I’m the art therapist who is going to work with you for this upcoming year.”

Even fighting to, you keep glancing at Gator every couple of seconds, and you always find him facing you, leaning a little forward, his elbows and arms resting on the table. He nods at your words while he adjusts his perfectly positioned sunglasses.

“I guess you are already familiar with this kind of therapy since I’m not the first one working with you, but I would like to introduce you to art therapy either way.” You look at the inmates in front of you one by one.

“Art therapy is a way to express yourself and process your feelings, but instead of talking...” you bend over the table, grab a big piece of unused clay, lifting with both of your hands, “you do art!”

Gator smiles at your excitement, his heart skipping a beat with what you say next. You point to a clay close to Gator while you ask for the inmate beside him.

“Could you please pass this piece of clay to the guy beside you so that he can feel it, please?” Gator hears the man beside him agree, and just a second later, he feels the clay on his hands, startling Gator.

“Thank you…?”

“Marlon,” the guy beside him asks.

“Thank you, Mr. Marlon. But next time be gentler, okay?” you chuckle softly. “he can’t see, and we don’t need to scare him every time we pass something to him, okay?” you say just as gently. “Pat his shoulder next time before passing him something, okay?”

“Yeah,” Gator hears Marlon leaning back at his stool, his tone a little annoyed, “whatever,” he adds in a murmur to himself, shifting on his seat.

Gator’s heart aches even more in his chest with your last sentence. He smiles widely and softly to himself while he turns the clay in his hands, and you keep talking in the background.

“So, as I was saying,” you spin the clay in your hands, “we can use it to relax, to treat trauma, to know ourselves better.” 

You place the clay back on the table, and when Gator feels the vibration of it hitting the table, he does the same with the one in his hands.

“And I know some of you are here because you want to, what I appreciate from the bottom of my heart,” you grin, putting your hands on the table and keeping your weight on them, “but I know most of you are here to decrease your sentence, am I right?”

You hear a lot of murmurs of agreement; you see them nodding, but you also notice how Gator laughs to himself, pushing himself back to lean on the stool, crossing his arms over his chest, nodding as well with the widest smile possible.

“Either way,” you chuckle to yourself, “I hope we all have a good time together, and that we can learn a lot from ourselves from this.” You smile gratefully at everyone as you shut the doors around the room, making it more comfortable for them. 

“Now, to start this properly, I would like to know,” you lift your hand, counting, “your names and age, if you are here for free will or to reduce your sentence, how many years are you incarcerated and how long is your sentence, and the reason why you are here, and if you already did any sort of art therapy, and if affirmative, what kind.”

Gator hears a protest around him as you list the things you want to know about them, and, to support you, he raises his hand and clears his throat. “Can I start, doc?”

You snap your head towards Gator, surprised by his initiative, and smile widely in approval. “Yes, of course!”

Gator grins and gets butterflies just by understanding you are smiling and happy. “Huh, I’m Gator, I’m 30,” he chuckles while also counting on his fingers, something he got from you from the years you were friends, and when you notice he still does it, your heart aches. 

“I’m here to reduce my sentence, but I’ve already done some of this before, like crochet, embossing drawings, painting too,” he thinks for a while, “oh, I also made collage with sticks, leaves, rocks, sand…” he chuckles, “that was something…” he hears some guys chuckling, and notices they are agreeing with him.

Feeling more comfortable, he points to you, laughing and smiling playfully on his lips, “so I’m not shitty on this, I’ll probably be the most centered dude here,” his colleagues laugh.

“But yeah, huh,” he chuckles bitterly, crossing his arms again, still counting, his smile fading, “I’m here because of,” he lift his other hand, because the reasons are a lot, chuckling humorlessly, “first-degree murder, kidnappning, assault, arson, tempeting with evidence” he lifts his other hand now, still counting, swallowing dryly, “attempt murder of a lawmnet officer and official misconduct,” he ends the list quietly.

“And huh,” he clears his throat, fixing his perfect sunglasses again, “I’ve been in jail for almost three years already, and I only got a 10-year sentence because I was acting under duress, because it would have been over 50, I guess,” he chuckles nervously.

He clears his throat again, soothing himself as he runs his hands over his thighs. “And my lawyer and I are trying to reduce it to four years.” 

Even after all those years, repeating it numerous times, this still makes him really upset and ashamed of himself for the things he did for his father, a man who never showed him love, but he has been so willingly seeking approval for his whole life.

So, when the men around him cheer him up, clapping and whistling, Gator is caught totally off guard. He startles at the sudden sounds, but relaxes just when he hears the sound he missed for all these years: your laugh, still audible even over the others, and it still remains his favorite sound ever.

When everyone calms down, you still giggle a little. “That is amazing news, Gator,” you say softly, “and I really hope this works out for you as planned!” 

His heart aches at the kindness in your voice, something that never changed, even throughout those 15 years apart. “I hope that too, ma’am,” he says with a small but warm smile.

The rest of his colleagues introduce themselves, and Gator tilts his head to both hear them and you. You notice from across the table how he always seems to have his attention on you in every way possible. You get butterflies and smile to yourself every time you glance at him and notice it.

“Thank you, everyone, for introducing yourselves,” and just by your excitement in your voice, Gator can tell how wide your smile is, making himself smile broadly too, “Now it’s my turn.”

“I already said my name, so I’ll not reapeat myself,” you chuckle, “I’m 30 years old, and I’m a psychologist for almost 7 years,” someone whistles, surprised, and you chuckle a little shy, “I’ve already worked as a counselor in schools, as a therapist itself too, in social service as well,” you scan the faces in front of you, “and it was three years ago that I started working with art therapy,” you smile to yourself, proud of your journey.

“And I always wanted to work in a penitentiary, so being here is an enormous pleasure and honor, mostly because I can work with art therapy with you,” Gator smiles to himself, happy that you achieved what you have wanted so much since you two were little.

“So, now that the introductions were made, let’s put these hands to work?” you say while rubbing your hands together, “feel yourself at home and grab a piece of clay and one of the bowls with water to humidify it over there on your lefts,” you point to a side table against the wall of the room, “and grab some apron too to not make a big mess.”

While you talk, Gator hears people standing up and walking away, but the footsteps approaching catch his attention; he turns his head towards them, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. 

“You can use the clay that is already on the table in front of you, if you want to,” you say kindly. “Do you want me to bring a bowl to you, or do you do it yourself?”

“No, I can get it,” he smiles when he notices it's you. He stands up, holding his cane. You step back to give him space, and you both giggle when the cane hits your shoes. By the noise of his colleagues, he walks towards the table, and you walk back to your place, watching him.

From the bag on the stool beside you, you grab your notebook and pencil case, set them on the table, and get ready to take notes on today's activity. You sit at the another stool close to you, just in time for Gator to get back and place the bowl on the table in front of him.

“Well, now that everyone has clay and water, have fun. The water is used to make the clay manageable, so this first encounter is to learn how to maneuver it, learning how much water, pressure, and shape you can make with it,” you say while scanning their faces. “If you need anything, let me know,” you dismiss with a smile.

Gator nods to your instructions, pulling the stool closer to the table. He places the clay in front of him and the water bowl a little behind it. Since you didn’t say how to water it, he dips his hand in the water and starts to manage the clay.

He can shape little parts of it, but the piece is still too hard, so he tries one more time, then one more, and then gives up. Gator leans back on the stool; his hands are wet with clay resting over his thigh, over his apron, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

You notice, from across the table, smiling weakly to yourself, that he still gets this grumpy face when he's frustrated. You are ready to stand up and walk towards him to guide him, but he surprises you, making you sit still and pay even closer attention.

With a frustrated but also determined groan, he leans towards the table again. Gator cups one of his hands at the water bowl, and carefully pours it into the clay he is holding with his other hand.

His eyebrows rise when he notices how malleable it is now, and he smiles proudly and boyishly to himself. It’s still a little hard to manage, but now he understands how to do it.

You smile so widely that your cheeks hurt, and your heart skips a beat. You look down at your notebook and take notes about him and his other colleagues. 

After a couple of minutes, an inmate calls for your help. You lift your head from your notebook, close it, stand up, and head to the inmate.

Gator tilts his head toward your footsteps as he continues playing with the clay in his hand. He can’t hear you or the dude you are talking about, but just hearing your muffled voice at a distance after all this time is priceless either way.

After helping the guy, you walk up to them one by one and ask if they need anything from you. Gator hears your footsteps approaching, and, unconsciously, he straightens his posture, his ear still facing you as you move around.

“Need anything, Gator?” you ask nicely.

He turns his head to you, resting his elbows on the table, his hands up with clay around them. “No, doc, I’m good.” he smiles at you. “Since I started this shrink thing a couple of years ago, I’m not like that stupid quitter I was back then anymore,” he chuckles, cupping the bowl again and letting the water run onto the clay, playing with it.

“You were never a quitter, Gator,” you say kindly, your eyebrows slightly furrowed, as it is painful to hear him talking so little about himself. “You just had difficulty with frustration, that’s all.” 

“But either way, this is amazing progress, Gator. Congratulations, you are doing really well!” You pat his shoulder gently, lingering there for a second before pulling away and heading to the next inmate.

Gator freezes with his hand on the clay for around ten seconds. You… you congratulated him? For him making progress? For him learning how to deal with frustration?

No matter how much time passes, he believes he will never get used to being praised, even though Dorothy always praises him for every damn thing he does. You and Dot have a lot in common, he realizes, smiling to himself as he returns to manage the clay on his hands.

You sit back on your stool, opening the notebook again and taking notes as you observe. You watch as the inmates manage and learn how to deal with something hard to manage, that requires water, something so essential but also so disposable sometimes, to make it manageable. 

You wish for them to get it before the end of this long year, while you focus on your notes and the minutes go by. You stand up when you see that one hour has passed, clearing your throat to call for everyone’s attention.

“Well, this is all for today, guys,” you announce while opening the door of the room again. “If you want to continue to play with your portion, feel free to stay here, but you are all excused now,” you smile widely. “Thanks for coming; see you all next week.”

As everyone starts saying their goodbyes to you, you pour the water from their bowls into a large one you grabbed from the side table.

Gator slowly stands up from his seat, cleaning, or at least trying to, his hands on the apron he is wearing. He hears the steps fade in the distance until the only things he can hear are you walking around the room and the water pouring from one thing to the other. 

“There is a sink here, or something, that I can wash my hands in, Ginger?” Gator asks with a hand on his cane and the other on the table, his head tilted in your direction.

“Yeah, Gate, at the corner on your left,” you say, walking towards him, offering your arm for him to take, your elbow pressing against his. “C’mon, I need to pour this water out too.”

“Okay then,” he chuckles, taking your arm, walking by your side. You walk at his pace, and he feels grateful for how thoughtful you are to him—something he likes to realize, even after all these years, that you keep to yourself.

“Here,” you say as you two approach the sink. “You can go first.” He feels the shape of the sink. “There is a bottle of soap on the left of the faucet,” you instruct, as his hands run around the edge of the sink to the bottle.

You take Gator’s cane so he can wash his hands properly, and he smiles at you, tilting his head towards you as you pump the soap bottle for him. “Thanks.”

He turns the faucet on, rubbing the soap in his hands, taking a little of the water to make the soap easier to clean his hands with clay.

While Gator takes his time cleaning them, you pay attention to him. The last time you saw him, you think it was September or something. He was in his deputy clothes, leaning back against his Jeep parked on a random street, when you passed by him in your car.

You still remember what you felt that day. He had his eyebrows furrowed in that permanent scowl he had on him, vaping. You could see him the moment you turned the corner on that street, and you couldn't, for anything in the world, take your eyes off him.

You felt a lump in your throat since the first moment you recognized him. Your eyes crossed as you got closer, and your window being down helped him recognize you as well.

You held each other’s gaze while you crossed his path, and you noticed how his expression changed as he realized it was you. 

The scowl? Gone, replaced by an expression you could read like the palm of your hand. He looked at you the same way he used to when he ran to you after a fight with his father, crying and asking why he didn't like Gator, why his father couldn’t love him.

It was a look that said: ‘I want you in my life, why can’t I have you?’ His eyebrows got together as if he was in pain, and you remember noticing his breath becoming shaky.

You saw in your rearview mirror, while you drove past him, when he pushed himself from the car, walking to the street while he watched you drive away.

And before you turned the corner to the next street, you saw him slamming down the vape in his hand onto the asphalt with rage, and both of his hands going to his hair, grabbing it by its roots. 

You could even swear you saw him squatting in the middle of the street, but at that time, you were already sobbing, stopping the car in the middle of the street. 

Gripping the wheel until your knuckles turn white, your forehead pressed against it, sobbing loudly, shamelessly, because no matter how many years had passed, you still missed him and loved him with your full heart.

“Ginger?” You startle, the grip around his cane tightening as you are pulled back to the present. “Are you there?” he chuckles weakly, reaching and grabbing your wrist.

You freeze, starting to hyperventilate again, your eyes wide at him while you try your hardest to calm down. You look down at his hand on your wrist, squeezing your eyes shut.

He starts rubbing your pulse there, like he always did to you when you were younger, while you were having something you didn't know what it was until you got into college: a panic attack.

This touch, after all these years, is strange and painful, but also so familiar that, even with the pain of the memory and the loss of this touch for 15 years, you can calm down, taking a deep breath and exhaling heavily.

The grip on his cane tightens, and you tense when his other hand rests hesitantly at the side of your shoulder, “Hey, Ginger, talk to me, please.”

You hold a whine from leaving your lips when you hear the pain and concern in his voice. You nod, shut your eyes even harder, and swallow a lump in your throat, placing your free hand over his on your arm.

“It’s just-” Your voice cracks slightly as you squeeze his hand, slowly opening your eyes to face him, your heart aching when you find him looking so worried at you, and you try your best not to cry in front of him.

“I’m just happy to be here, Gatorade,” you chuckle humorlessly. The smile doesn't reach your eyes, “and for meeting with you again.”

His breath hitches, then he chuckles with relief, even though he feels that something is off either way. He presses your pulse one last time, releasing your wrist hesitantly, but not letting go of your shoulder.

“I missed you too, Ginger; you have no idea how much,” Gator chuckles, with a grin growing on his face.

You stay silent for a while, and he absently and unconsciously rubs your shoulder as you stare at him. You are still trying to calm down completely while you learn the new fine lines and features he has on him now.

“Huh,” he clears his throat, chuckling nervously, reluctantly releasing your arm, already missing feeling you under his touch, “do you need help organizing the stuff around here? I’m free for the rest of the day.”

“Yeah, huh,” you chuckle nervously, passing his cane to his hand. Your fingers linger against the other, making both of you get butterflies.

You take a step back, a little disoriented, and walk to a cabinet on the opposite side of the room. “You can bring the used clays for me here. It’s…” You stay quiet, counting under your breath, “15 pieces,” you say, reaching the cabinet.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gator agrees while heading to the table. With his apron still on, he grabs a clay with one hand, bringing it close to his chest to keep it from falling. With his cane in one hand and the clay in the other, he goes on and on, landing them on you.

Gator feels the table for the next clay on it, not having so much trouble finding them by the water spilled on the table and some dry clay as well. Even blind, he can still use his investigation skills, just not with his vision now.

While you stand by the cabinet, you notice it. You notice how he adapted something he lost by using other skills in hand, pun not intended.

“So you really got into psych, didn't you?” he asks while walking back to you. “You used to talk about how you liked that shit back in the day.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, taking the clay from his hand while he turns back to the table, “I got in right after school.”

“Of course you did,” he agrees proudly of you, “you were always smart, Ginger.” He rolls a clay off the table to take it to you, “Where did you go?”

“UCLA,” you answer like it is nothing, but you have a proud smile on your lips.

“Are you fucking kidding?” He freezes in shock, smiling so widely that all his face has smile lines. His eyebrows are raised high, a proud smile on his lips. “You got into UCLA?” he returns to walk, handing you the piece.

When he hears you put it in the cabinet, he holds you by your middle, lifts you into the air, spinning you. You cackle carefree, in shock by the movement, your hands on his shoulders. “You fucking did it, Ginger!”

Gator puts you down, his hands still around your waist with yours still over his shoulders, even though he pulled away. “How was it to be at the place you always wanted to study at?” he asks with genuine interest, still grinning.

You giggle, hitting his shoulder playfully, blushing. “It was really awesome. It was really a dream, you know?” you confess, giggling.

During your speech, just by your tone, Gator knows how happy you are, and his heart has never been this full of pride. Knowing that you got into the university you always dreamed of getting into makes him so full, but slightly sad that he wasn’t there to congratulate you at the time.

“You deserved it, Ginger,” Gator says bluntly, unconsciously rubbing your waist, “I never doubted you would get in. I’m so proud of you.”

You swallow hard when he starts rubbing your side, and your head starts spinning when he praises you. Your heart races at the same speed as the butterflies in your stomach that are flying and hitting against your walls there.

“Thank you, Gator,” you say, a little breathless, blushing hard, trying so hard not to hold his shoulders tight. “Now c’mon,” you chuckle nervously and quietly, pulling away from his arms, “let’s finish this.”

Gator chuckles with a lopsided smile, flexing his hand once while he returns to the table. His heart is racing, but also longing. He grabs another clay and walks back to you

Even though his touch is no longer around you, you can feel a tingling sensation in the area where his hands were, at your waist, just like he feels around his shoulder. So, for the sake of your sanity, you change the subject to redirect your mind.

“So, huh,” you clear your throat, chuckling nervously, “you did crochet before?” There is a slight hint of teasing in your tone, and Gator notices it, tilting his head a little, a lopsided smile on his lips as he hands you another clay.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, his fingers brushing against yours, making him a little nervous, already turning back to the table again, “it was the only thing I could do at the time to reduce my sentence,” he states, grabbing another clay.

“I was damn good at it, you know?” he smiles smugly, turning to walk back to you, “did socks, purses, even beanies too.”

“Awwwn,” you coo playfully, giggling, as you take the clay from his hand to place it in the cabinet. “You made beanies?”

“Shut up,” Gator says with no sign of resentment, laughing just after, turning back to grab the last clay on the table, “I did a decent job at least; they warm my ears in winter.”

“Awwwn, they get your ears warm?” You tease again, laughing, “Wow, never thought you would get this soft, Gatorade.” You chuckle, watching while he returns with the last piece, then you hold it and put it in its place, shutting the cabinet.

He laughs carefree, his body shaking, unconsciously leaning his body slightly towards the direction of your voice, “This art therapy shit isn't supposed to help me heal? Guess the shrinks before you did a good damn job.” You walk beside him towards the table. “I’m a softie now, apparently.”

“Yeah, perhaps,” you chuckle, you two stopping at the corner of the table when his cane hits the table’s foot, “but without this...” You place your palm over his heart, you can even feel his heartbeat under it, “not a single change would be possible, Gate,” you say fondly.

He stays quiet for a while, his head turned toward you. He exhales heavily, swallowing hard, and places a hand over yours on his chest, holding your hand. 

“That's… that's really kind of you, Ginger… thank you,” he says quietly, but full of gratitude. “You were always so sweet to me,” he confesses just above a whisper, a sad smile on his face, while unconsciously holding your hand tighter.

You thank whatever divine creature out there for your hands not being over your heart, because it's embarrassing how hard and strong your heart is beating in your chest. You can even swear you can hear it.

“Huh,” you chuckle nervously, trying not to hyperventilate again. Against your will, you take your hand off his chest and away from his hand. You turn to the stool where your bag is, your hands a little trembling as you pack your stuff.

Gator feels the ache in his chest, just like the cold on his hands, from the absence of your touch. He turns his head toward the noises you are making and recognizes the sound of paper and pens being put away.

He might not see, but he became really good at interpreting people’s sounds. And even if he wasn’t an expert, you sound the same when you are nervous or uncomfortable, as he did when he had the honor to be in your life back then.

“Hey, Ginger,” he says quietly, awkwardly. Gator places his hand at the edge of the table and walks towards you, guiding himself by it. “Do you have something to do now? Another session or something to head to?” He plays with the stripe of his cane, a nervous habit he developed.

“No, I'm done for the day,” you say with a nervous smile on your face, happy that he can’t see it, but little do you know that he can read you like the back of his hand since always. 

“Why? Do you need something, Gator?” You ask, closing your bag as you straighten up and hold the strap. You swallow dryly, also noticing that his claw is clenched just like yours.

“No, huh…” he shakes his head, taking a second, “actually yeah…” he says softly, quietly, “guess we need to talk, Ginger…”

“No, Gate, don’t worry about it,” you laugh nervously, dismissing it, putting the strap of the bag over your shoulder, “it’s oka-”

“The hell it is, Ginger!” Gator exclaims a little frusttated, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply that the wrinkles are deep between them, “I know you, okay?” he says breathless, as if he is in pain, putting the cane against the table, “even without those fucking things,” he points to his eyes, “I can feel it is not okay, that you,” he points at you, “are not okay,” he says slightly quieter.

“I-,” his voice cracks, his hands are lifted in front of him, unsure of what to do with them, “I thought I would never know about you ever again,” he runs his hands through his hair, a little trembling, “and when I heard your voice again earlier…”

Gator says it with so much sadness, but also hope, and relief even: “It was like this fucking universe gave me another chance to make it right to you.” He, disregards all his instincts, he places his hands on your shoulders, sliding his hand down until he reaches your hands.

“And I don’t want to screw this again,” his voice cracks, holding your hands tightly against his, “so please,” he begs, “please let’s talk.”

Your heart aches, and you do your best not to cry, something that is nearly impossible because you can’t see him suffering and not cry along. “Okay,” you say quietly, holding his hand back, taking a gasp out of him, “let’s talk.”

Gator exhales so heavily with such relief that he feels dizzy. “Okay, okay,” he nods quietly, frantically. “Do you mind if I close the doors?” he asks, already releasing one of your hands to grab his cane.

“No, but let me clo-”

“No, let me do this,” he cuts you off, already walking with his cane, following the guidance path to the door, closing them one by one. 

You remain nervous, but fight against your own body and grab another stool for him to sit beside you. You pick the skin around your fingers and do your best not to spiral again.

Gator comes back a minute or two later, and he gets surprised when his cane hits a stool that you are not at. “Oh,” he says, grabbing the edge and sitting on it, resting the cane on the table. “Thank you, that was… really thoughtful of you,” he says quietly.

“No mention it,” you are as quiet as he is.

“I, huh,” he cleans his throat after a couple of seconds, bouncing his leg, pulling his collar, feeling nervous, “I want to start this apologizing to you, Ginger.”

You lift your head at him, sitting straight, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning back in the chair. “No, Gator,” you say dismissively, chuckling ashamedly, “you don't need-”

“No, I definitely need to,” he straightens up, resting his hands over his thighs, “this fucking shrinking thing must have been good for something,” he murmurs under his breath, taking a deep breath, his face turned to you. 

Gator says your name with pain, full of regret, “I pushed you away out of nowhere,” he extends his hand, searching for yours that you give to him like second nature, without you even realizing it.

He holds your grip tightly. “I had just lost my mom, and then Dorothy ran away too,” he shifts into his seat, uncomfortable, “and the last thing I wanted was for you to run away from me too,” his voice cracks.

“So I selfishly thought that pushing you away would hurt less than you pushing me away,” Gator gets closer to you, sitting at the edge of the stool, searching for your other hand, which you give right away as well.

“But I was so fucking stupid wrong, Ginger,” his lips are trembling, his brow furrowed, “until we graduate, I cried every single damn day,” he sobs slightly, holding your hands tighter, “because I have lost the last most important person I had in my life.” 

“I spent the last 15 years of my life cursing myself for having lost you,” he takes a deep, shaky breath, bringing your hands over his heart, “I’m so sorry, Ginger,” he stands up, saying your name, hitting his knees against your legs, “I’m sorry for being a fucking asshole and for pulling you away.”

Gator leans forward, hesitantly resting his forehead to yours. “Please,” he cries unshamelessly, his body slightly shaking, you giving up your self-restraint as well, crying along with him, “please, forgive me.”

“Gate..” you sob back, pressing your foreheads together, holding his hands as tight as possible, “I thought you hated me,” you confess between sobs, leaning towards him, “no matter how much time passed… There wasn’t a single day I didn't think about you, Gator.”

You pull back to look at him, and you see how wrecked he is, just like you. Tears running down his face, his lips parted from his cry, the sadness in his face you only saw on him when he talked about Roy, and when Linda disappeared, and Dot ran away.

“Ginger,” he cries out your name, pressing your hands deeper on his chest, “I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you,” he lifts your knuckles to his lips, pressing a longer and eager kiss on them. “Please, forgive me,” he sobs against your hand, lifting his head to face you.

“Of course I forgive you, Gatorade,” you say while hugging him by his neck, sobbing quietly.

The moment your arms wrap around him, he freezes for a second, trying to process what is happening, melting just as your scent enters his nostrils, hugging you back by your middle.

His arms wrap around your back, embracing all of it like a lifeline, mostly because it sort of is. You hold each other tightly, smelling one another. It is like coming home after years of trying to find yourself in a world that doesn't make sense, until now.

You both pull back after a while, with Gator unable to take his hand off you, sliding them from your back to hold you by your shoulders.

He can’t see, so he isn't aware of how close you two are right now, forcing you to pull a little back to be able to think properly, sliding down your hands to his shoulders as well, squeezing one last time, your touch lingering there before letting go.

You chuckle nervously, wiping the tears on your eyes, “Gate, do you mind if I put my stuff away? Since it’s my first day, I need to do a report to my supervisor.”

“Yeah yeah,” he chuckles nervously as well, his touch lingering a second more in your shoulder before stepping back, wiping his tears from under his glasses. He adjusts his perfect glasses on his nose, “of course, go do your big girl stuff.”

“Big girl stuff?” you ask over your shoulder, chuckling, heading to the stool where your bag is.

“Responsibilities, reporting to others,” he shrugs, lop-sided smiling, sitting back on the stool, grabbing its edge to guide himself on it, “big girl stuff.”

“So you being a deputy, it was you being a big boy?” This sounds too flirtatious for your liking, the words leaving your mouth before you could even process them. You freeze in place and look away, still organizing your bag, your back to him, while blushing and your heart racing.

Because of that, you don't notice Gator blushing, and the twist on his mouth trying to prevent a smile from showing. Were you flirting with him? He got it right?

Gator chuckles, leaning back on the stool, feeling confident about the possible flirtatious tone. You look over your shoulder and see his arms crossed over his chest, and he manspreads with his feet resting on the bars under the stool. 

You have to look away from your own sanity, because no matter what Gator Tillman would wear, from his pjs when you were younger, to school uniform, to tactical gear, to even a fucking facility uniform, you will always find him the most handsome, attractive, and hot guy ever.

“I’m still a big boy, doc,” his tone is slightly flirtatious as well, testing the ground, could even sound like nothing if you don’t pay close attention. “Going to art therapy is a responsibility I take very seriously,” he chuckles, “and it depends who the shrink is; I commit even more depending on who it is.”

You blush harder; your breath hitches. You can hear the smirk in his tone. You’ve flirted with each other before, but you were teenagers; it was nothing more than calling one another pretty. But now you are adults, and this has gotten to a different level.

But before you could even think about something to say back, you two snap your heads towards a knock on the door, finding Willow there.

“Hey,” he greets with a friendly smile, half of his body in the room, “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all!” You chuckle nervously, and Gator can’t help but notice, smiling to himself, tilting his head in your direction to pay more attention to you.

“Good,” Willow enters the room, and Gator hears his steps coming in your direction, “because I would ask if you are going to the office now. I’m on break, and I would like to continue to show you the place around.”

“Oh, I would love to!” Gator can hear the relief in your voice, just like the smile you have on your face. He sits upright on his seat, straightening his posture, a little uncomfortable.

“That’s great!” Gator notices Willow’s excitement as well when he pats Gator’s shoulder, “Want help to leave the room, or are you staying a little more, Tillman?”

Gator exhales through his nose, nodding, a forced smile on his face, “I’ll be here for a minute or two, but thanks.”

“Anytime!” Willow smiles back, noticing that Gator is not comfortable at all, but he is not sure why. He turns to you, stepping forward, “ready?”

“Yeah,” you smile, and Gator hears you putting your bag on your shoulder while you step towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it and rubbing with your thumb.

“Thanks for today, Gatorade. It was amazing seeing you again after all those years.” The fondness in your voice makes his chest ache, and a soft smile appears on his lips, and he instinctively places his hand over yours on his shoulder. “See you next week, yeah?”

“Of course,” he squeezes your hand, smiling widely, “I’m never going to skip art therapy ever again.”

You chuckle shyly and blush, feeling your heart pounding on your chest. Without wanting to, you let go of him, and you notice his hand lingering in your hand too.

“Bye, Gatorade, have a nice week,” you say, walking away.

“Bye, Ginger,” he says affectionately, smiling like a fool.

And Willow notices it, narrowing his eyes at him, saying a see you later to Gator and walking by your side to the back door of the session room.

You look over your shoulder one last time and find Gator not as happy as he was just seconds ago. He has his jaw clenched, a scowl on his face, and his arms crossed over his chest. With confusion and an ache in your chest, you follow Willow to the administrative part of the facility.

“Hi, sweetie Gator boy,” Dorothy greets Gator while entering the visiting hall. Her arms are wide open, just like her smile, a bag over her shoulder. When she approaches him, who is already standing, smiling like a little boy just by hearing her voice, she hugs him tightly.

“Hey, Dots,” he hugs her back, his heart warm with the smell of baked cookies she always seems to have when go visit him. They pull away after a while with a content sigh from Gator, with her sitting by his side.

“I have something to tell you,” unable to hold the biggest smile, what catches Dot’s attention, narrowing her eyes slightly, smiling sweetly.

“Oh, and what is it?” she says in a quiet giggle, happy for whatever reason it might be.

“Huh,” Gator chuckles, adjusting his sunglasses, which are perfectly nice on his face. He says your name and last name to her, shifting in the seat, blush appearing on his cheeks, “Do you remember her?”

“That sweet friend of yours?” Her face softens. “Yeah, of course I remember her! She was always around when Roy wasn’t,” she smiles, “you were always happier around her, you know?” she giggles, and Gator blushes even harder, “but what about her?”

He chuckles nervously, bending over the table, his forearms resting there, but not before fixing his perfect glasses again, “She, huh,” he clears his throat, “she is working here now; she is the new art therapist.”

“Are you kidding!” Dots exclaims, giggling, making Gator giggle in relief for some reason, “That’s incredible, Gate! You've missed her, I imagine.”

“Totally,” he grins, his chest aching just by remembering the time you two went apart, “I never told you that we were not friends anymore after you left the ranch, or did I?”

“No, you did not!” Her eyes go sadder, leaning towards Gator, “What happened? You were so close!”

Gator groans from self-embarrassment, pressing his hand over his forehead, rubbing his finger there while telling her what he told you. His tone is low, almost like he was grieving, which he absolutely was at the time.

Dorothy’s face gets sadder and sadder throughout the story. She extended her hands over the table and held Gator’s free one, rubbing his knuckles while he passed through the events.

His shoulders get less tense with her affection, and his voice becomes warmer when he starts to talk about meeting you again previously at the beginning of this week.

“So now,” he starts to conclude, “after 15 fucking years, we are talking again,” he smiles dreamily just by saying it, just by imagining having you in his life again.

But then reality hits when he hears the facility's siren ringing behind him. His smile fades, and a scowl starts to show up. “But I’m stuck here for I don't know how long,” he shrugs, clenching his jaw, his tone a little bitter, “So dunno what will happen after this year.”

Dorothy grabs the edge of the chair with one hand, doing little jumps to get closer to Gator. She passes that arm over his shoulders, pulling him to rest on her shoulder. She rubs his shoulder with affection, her head against the top of his.

“Yeah, we don’t know the future, that’s for sure,” she starts, and just for being on her arms, Gator relaxes, clinging to her embrace, “but we have the present, which is a gift in its own. Pun intended," Gator chuckles weakly, making herself giggle a little.

“Take this time with her back into your life and make the best of it,” her voice is sweet, calm, reassurance. “You will have around 60 encounters to make it memorable.” 

She pulls back, cupping Gator’s face with the hand over his, leaning into her touch while furrowing his eyebrows in a painful affection, something he is still getting used to again. “So don’t waste this beautiful opportunity life is putting on your hands again, okay?”

Gator smiles weakly, but warmly, nodding just after, “Okay, I’ll try my best not to screw up this time again.” Beside his smile, his tone is a little bitter towards himself.

“Oh, don’t you dare be mean to yourself!” Dot pulls away, looking at him with disapproval. “You went through a lot, things that most people never go through,” she notices how Gator turns his face away, but paradoxically tilts his head towards her to hear her better.

“It might not be the better response, but it was the best one you could have back there,” she takes a deep breath, placing her hand on his shoulder, then up to his hair, running her fingers through it, Gator leaning towards her touch.

“So don’t be tough on yourself about it, okay? She forgave you, and now you two have a new chance, so do the best with it, okay?”

Reluctantly, not necessary feeling worthy of such words, Gator nods after a while, making Dot grin widely. “I don’t want her out of my life again. I’ll do everything to have her as my friend again.”

“Who said she can be just a friend?” she giggles, joking, making Gator blush hard, chuckling from embarrassment. “I always had this feeling you liked her back there when you were kids.”

“Can we not, please?” Gator chuckles embarrassingly, blushing even more, making Dorothy laugh beamingly. “Hope you brought my cookies for compensating for picking on me this early.”

Dot laughs while cradling his head to kiss his temple, pulling away from their embrace to go through her purse. “It’s 10 a.m, Gator; it’s not early.”

“Whatever,” he says, fake annoyed, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair. Dot giggles at his grumpiness, placing the bag of cookies over his chest. The scowl on his face disappears, and the boyish smile ever appears.

Because of the dynamic settled on that ranch so early on, Dorothy always looked at Gator as someone to take care of. First as his older sister, then later as his stepmother. But now, that the scenario is not the same anymore, seeing him as her younger brother makes her heart bloom. Mostly because seeing her little bro falling in love again makes it even more endearing.

One week has passed, and you are late for the art therapy session. Gator is seated at his spot for more time than necessary.

He got there really early to have the opportunity to chat with you before the session, but the minutes went by, and other inmates started to arrive, and nothing from you.

As time went by, he grew anxious, shifting his weight on the stool, playing with his cane, trying to ease his nerves. He sharpens his hearing all the time, trying to catch a glimpse of a sound that would announce you.

But just after 15 minutes of your lateness, he finally hears you. It’s about the walk you enter that is rushed, the way you walk, a characteristic that he remembers from previous years. Your steps were always something he learned to recognize, the only few he felt relief to hear.

“Boys, I’m so so sorry,” Gator notices how short of breath you are, and he hears you dropping the bag at a stool. He also hears your steps fading away, just like your voice.

“I’m not used to the traffic of this city yet. I swear I’m not going to be late again,” and as you say it, your voice becomes louder again, and then Gator hears a sound and senses the vibration of the table, startling a little.

“Let me just pick the clays for you to continue, and we can go with our session, okay?” Gator notices the nervousness in your voice even if you are saying it as lightly as you can say it. He opens his mouth to ask if you need help, but he is cut off before he could say anything.

“Uuuuh, doc,” says an inmate from his right while laughing, “did you dye your hair?” Gator furrows his eyebrows in confusion, his head tilted towards the guy, then tilted towards you, curiosity hitting him.

“No, no,” you chuckle lightly, the vibration of 15 balls of clay already placed on the table done, “I'm just going to let it natural now.”

“Oh, no way!” someone afar laughs, incredulous, “so you are a redhead? Why did you dyed black then?”

What? Gator widens his eyesockets in surprise, a wide smile spreading across his face by the realization that you are ginger again, something he stopped seeing in you since the beginning of High School.

You chuckle nervously, and Gator can hear you sitting at the stool across from him. “You know that thing about women who change their hair when we go for some breakup? It is true sometimes,” you state, chuckling.

“So why you change it to natural now?” asks Gator before he could stop himself, his jaw clenching while he swallows hard, fixing his perfect glasses on his face, “You broke up with someone?”

“I, huh,” you laugh nervously, and Gator senses a vibration over the table; it’s you bending over and resting your elbows there, “I actually was quote unquote on a break that doesn’t exist anymore, so no need to have my hair black anymore.”

Gator stills with your answer, his heart beating fast against his ribs. He can’t see you, but you are just as nervous as him now, sweat starting to accumulate at your hairline and you bretahing becoming faster as well.

“But anywaaaaay,” you bring you both back to reality, taking your eyes away from Gator, trying to focus on something else to calm yourself down, “you can grab the bowls at the table by the wall and fill them with water,” you state while turning pages from your notebook, “and you can start to sculpt today.”

Gator hears the stools being pulled away and his colleagues heading to the table, and even still shaken by your statement, he grabs his cane and walks towards the sound, grabbing his bowl and then filling it with water. It might not be the necessary quantity, but it will work for now.

You watch Gator coming back to his stool, and you notice he is counting under his breath the stools he goes by with the help of his cane, hitting its feet. You smile warmly to yourself with it, glad to see how independent he has become even in a difficult situation like this.

When he gets to the number of his own stool, he smiles small to himself, placing the bowl at the table and then sitting back on the stool, leaving the cane beside him against the table.

With everyone in their places, in a quiet room filled only to slightly groans from effort, water being cupped from the bowl, and clay being sculpted, the art therapy session of the week begins.

Gator doesn't have a single idea in mind about what he is going to make, but either way, he rolls a clay ball to be placed in front of him, and slowly, really therapeutically, he wets it and starts to mold it, trying to get used to its texture and how malleable it is with a certain quantity of water.

He was never really good at drawing, so the perception of things’ shapes and else were not something he was a master at, but since touch was one of the senses he uses the most from the past three years, he had memorized some things and some shapes.

When Scotty come with Dorothy every now and then to visit him, he always asks for them to bring some toys that were from them, and he runs them around his fingers, sensing the shape of them. It was cars, farm animals, domestic animals, kitchen supplies, and sometimes fruits too. And then the recall something.

When you were kids, you had a stuffed animal that you lost after a family trip. You were in a rush, and unintentionally you left it behind. It was a giraffe, a baby giraffe.

You gave him an alligator, and you had a giraffe, and you played together for many years until Miss Long Neck went missing. Gator passed years looking for a stuffed giraffe like the one you had, but he never found it.

So just like that, he made his decision: Miss Long Neck will be brought back to life, and he will gift you with her until the end of this one year of your art therapy thing.

While taking your notes at the opposite side of the table about the patients there, your eyes always end up landing on Gator, and you notice how his expression changed from absently molding the clay until something hit him.

His face totally changes from his eyebrows furrowed from thinking to them being high from realization. You saw it growing; the change was progressively subtle, but by the eagerness of his hands around the clay, you can imagine he has an idea to accomplish now.

You smile warmly to yourself while noting it down, and when you lift your eyes again, they stay in Gator for a couple of minutes, and you feel your heart swelling just by looking at him, just like when you were younger and you lost track of time because you enjoyed to watch him existing, your place of peace in the middle of hell that was your life.

When you realize the feelings that are blooming inside of you again, you shake your head, lowering your eyes back to your notebook. You can’t feel this kind of stuff again; you are his therapist now. Well, not the traditional kind of therapist, but he is still your patient, and you can’t fall for him again. Well, continue to fall, actually.

So you try your best to focus on something else, cursing yourself for the lack of professionalism. The important thing is to try your best not to show any sign of your real feelings to him. These types of things can happen, but unlike in the clinic, you can’t “fire” him as your patient, so you can’t let your feelings show. At all.

The rest of the session goes by, until the end of it arrives.

“Hey, boys,” you call their attention quielty, smiling fondly, “the time of our session today is over, but feel free to stay over time working on your projects,” you bend over, your elbows on the table, “but if you don’t want it, just please discard the used water and place the bowl back at the table, and put the clays away on the cabinet. Thank you for today, boys, see you next week!”

With that being said, Gator hears stools being pulled back and steps going in different directions, and after a while, the silence in the room is present again. He chuckles to himself before talking to you.

“Guess I’m the only one here now, huh?”

You giggle, nodding, “Precisely, so I’ll let you be -”

“NO!” he protests too eagerly, answering it too quickly, his face in shock. He chuckles nervously, shifting his weight on the stool, “I mean, we can talk. It’s okay for me.”

You giggle again, cursing yourself in your mind for being just a fool for him, like you always have been, “Okay, we can chat.”

“Good,” he smiles widely, “that’s good,” he chuckles, still molding his clay, multitasking.

“So,” you start, standing up and cleaning the parts of the table that are not being used anymore, “what are you planning to create?”

Gator smiles to himself, his head tilted towards you, which seems to be somewhere on his left as he hears you wiping the table, “it’s a secret.”

“Oh, c’mon!” you protest, laughing, making him laugh too, “so I’ll only know what you are planning to sculpt in a year from here? You are mean,” you laugh beamingly.

“Not mean, just mysterious,” he says with flair, laughing just after, “don’t spoil the fun, Ginger, just trust the process.”

“Okay okay,” you say laughing, in surrender, “oh!” you exclaim, walking back to your bag. Gator hears you searching for something in there, “aha!”

With his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, he hears you coming in his direction; he even straightens his posture and cleans his hands on his apron, taking as much clay out of it as possible.

“Extend your hand,” you command, and he obeys, just like he always did. Gator feels the weight of it on his hand, his brow furrowing a little in recognition, a boyish smile spreading on his face.

“Are you serious?” he chuckles, then laughs properly when he opens the bottle, smelling inside of it. “No way you got the cherry one,” he giggles, taking a long sip of his Gatorade.

“Of course I did,” you giggle just as lightly. “You were obsessed over those things back there,” you recall. “The first time I saw you, you were drinking some Gatorade,” you laugh carefree.

“And still you remember my favorite flavor,” he teases, smirking smugly while drinking a little more. “Wow,” he chuckles, closing the bottle, “I really missed it. Since I got arrested, I’ve never drunk it again.”

“Oh my god, don’t say I committed a violation because I gave you this!” you say, scared, making Gator laugh, dismissing it with his hand.

“Don’t worry about it, Ginger. I just thought it would be pointless to ask Dot to bring me some,” he shrugs, placing the bottle at the table carefully, “and I always had way more important things to worry about than a fucking Gatorade,” he chuckles, leaning back on the stool.

“Well,” you chuckle, shaking your head when you notice how smiling like a fool you are, going back to your place, “I’ll take it as my personal task from now on every week then.”

“This is a lot of commitment, Ginger,” he jokes humorlessly, returning to his sculpture, wetting his hand to mold the clay again, “I’m your charity project now?”

You turn to him, your eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, a little offended as well. You take a couple of seconds to respond, sounding as calm as possible, “What that’s supposed to mean, Gator?”

He shrugs, chuckling humorlessly, still molding the clay under his hand, his head facing his hand, “I’m a fucking prisoner, Ginger. Giving gifts to me or whatever hell this is must be some local project about resocialization or some shit.”

You are so surprised and incredulous by the blasphemous words that left Gator’s mouth that you don’t catch the bitter tone of his voice. You are too shocked to say something back right away, so you open and close your mouth numerous times trying to find words.

“Wow, Gator,” you say after a while, breathless, hurt, “this is what you think you are to me?” You chuckle bitterly, a little watery even, “a fucking charity project?” you scoff with disgust.

But before Gator could say anything back, Willow knocks on the door, making you both snap your heads towards the sound. “Hello, you two,” he smiles, friendly, “may I come in?”

You turn your face away, taking your eyes away from both Willow and Gator and focusing on your bag. You clear your throat, your voice leaving it a little husky, “Yeah, Low, come in.”

Willow enters the room, heading to Gator’s side, and he notices how his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are tense while he plays with the clay. Willow furrows his eyebrows in confusion, looking at you, your back facing both of them, and he notices you putting your stuff in your bag.

“Are you already leaving?” he asks you while watching Gator's expressions, and he sees he freezes for a second before returning to his activity.

“No, I’m just organizing my stuff,” you answer, still with your back to them, “I need to be in the facility for at least three hours, so since Gator is still working, I’ll stay here.”

“If I’m trapping you here,” Gator says a little irritated, cleaning his hands on his apron, his head facing the forming sculpture in front of him, “I’ll put my clay away and let you free of me.”

“Gator, she didn’t say th-”

Gator cuts Willow, taking his apron off while he is standing up. With a big scowl on his face, he sets it over the stool, grabs his cane, and marching towards the door to leave, farewelling over his shoulder a short have a nice rest of the day towards you.

You and Willow watch Gator leave the room. It’s like a punch on the stomach for you. You turn your face away again, trying to prevent the tears from dropping, and Willow notices.

“I’ll talk to him, let me just put his things awa-”

“No need, Willow,” you say as firmly as possible, but the shakiness in your voice is not so subtle as you think it is, “I’ll put them away. Go talk to him.”

After years of being a healthcare professional, Willow learned how to recognize someone who needs space, so he just agrees, saying he will come back in some minutes, heading to the door Gator just left. He shuts the door behind him, leaving you with some privacy, mostly because he is sure you will cry once you are left alone, which indeed happens.

It doesn't take long for Willow to spot Gator. He is heading to the yard behind the facility when Willow approaches him.

“What the hell just happened, Gator?” Willow walks beside Gator, confused as hell.

Gator doesn't respond right away, but he clenches his jaw harder, and the grip on his cane gets tighter while walking in the yard along the guidance path.

“I was holding her back by staying after session there,” his voice is low.

“Oh, that’s why then you couldn't even put your things away and let your sculpture, apron, and everything else there for her to put away?” Willow chuckles sarcastically, “Good manners of you, huh?”

Gator swallows dryly, the scowl getting uglier on his face, but Willow doesn't let him say anything back. “What happened, Gator?”

Gator stays a while in silence, both walking side by side, the sun hitting his face. It’s fall, so it’s not so hot to burn, just enough to warm. A little calmer from the hug of the sun, Gator answers him. “Nothing, just-” he takes a deep breath, “I just don’t want to be on her way.”

“And why would you be? She told me that she would suggest you stay after the session to keep the work going if you want to. Wasn't that the reason you were there?”

Gator doesn't say anything, just keeps walking. He breaks the silence after a while. “You are friends?” he asks as nonchalantly as he can.

He can’t see, but Willow shrugs. “Sort of, yeah. We chat in the staff room when she is around,” he turns to look at Gator, “But you didn't answer my question.”

And Gator doesn't say anything again, but he keeps playing Willow’s words in his head. So you are sort of friends… How could he compete with Willow? A good guy who is not a fucking criminal?

“Well,” Willow chuckles after a while, tiredly, noticing he would not get an answer from Gator, “I’ll help her clean the mess you made. See you later, dude.” he pats his shoulder before turning and heading back to the session room.

You are sobbing quietly, wiping the tears from your face while placing Gator’s clay back in the cabinet when Willow knocks on the door, making you startle a little, snapping your head into his direction.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, but his smile fades when he notices your face is wet from tears. “He can be a dick sometimes, you know?” Willow walks towards you, “don’t take it to your heart.”

You chuckle weakly, walking back to the table by the stool your bag is on. “It’s easy for you to say when it’s not you who spent 15 years apart from him.”

“True,” he chuckles quietly, looking with empathy at you. “Would you mind telling me what happened?” he asks while pulling a stool to sit by your side, “he didn’t say much.”

You stay in silence for a while, sitting on your stool. You bend over the table, your elbows on it, while picking the skin on your finger, looking at them. You glance ahead of you and see the Gatorade bottle there, and your face turns even sadder, your mouth and eyes pointing down.

“He thinks he is my charity project,” you say quietly, standing up and walking around the table to grab the bottle, then coming back and sitting on the stool again.

“I gave him his favorite drink, and he thinks he is charity-,” you choke, “sorry.” You squeeze your eyes, bending over the table again, elbows on it while your hands press against your eyes. You let a strangled sob leave your lips, the bottle still in your hand. 

Willow looks at you with his eyebrows furrowed together, with such empathy towards you. He rubs your back to soothe you, and he says something back after a minute, “he is not used to kindness, I suppose.”

You take some shaky deep breaths before taking your hands from your eyes, pulling from the table to sit straight again. “Not anymore at least,” you state, wiping your tears, playing with the bottle in your hand, “Life wasn't always so tough on him back when we were kids.” You smile sadly, recalling, “kindness wasn't something so foreign for him back there...”

“But anyway,” you chuckle weakly, shaking your head to center yourself, “would you mind giving him back this?” You extend the bottle to him. “I like to think he forgot about it after running away, rather than he chose to leave it behind.”

“Yeah, of course,” he smiles, friendly, grabbing the bottle from you. “Meet you at the staff room later?” he asks while you stand up and hang your bag over your shoulder.

“Yeah, totally,” you smile gently, heading to leave from the door behind you. Willow watches you go and curses under his breath.

“Stupid Tillman,” he murmurs while standing up, leaving the room from the other door, shutting it behind him. He goes to the yard again and finds Gator sitting on a bench far from the back entrance of the facility.

“Here, you idiot,” Willow says while extending the bottle to Gator’s hand, making him startle. “You forgot it there.”

“Oh!” he says in surprise. “Thanks,” he adds quietly. Unsure if he is dignified to drink it still, he reluctantly opens the bottle and takes a sip from it.

“Don’t be a dick to her again, okay?” Willow firmly states, “And we both know the last thing you feel about her is something negative.” Gator doesn't respond, just drinks his Gatorade.

“So stop being an ass to the best thing that happened to you after she went away,” Gator opens his mouth to protest, but Willow cuts him off, “and don’t you dare correct me because those words left your mouth. I know you don't mean harm, so watch that big mouth of yours.”

Gator just scowls, taking a long sip from his drink again. “Be the big man you are and think about your actions. I’ll let you be. See you later, Tillman,” Willow farewells, heading back to the facility, leaving Gator to his own thoughts, cursing himself for being such an ass to you.

More than a month has passed since the day Gator had you in his life again. During the past weeks, he has apologized to you. He asked Dot to bring some brownies to give to you, since it’s your favorite.

So the next session he had, he was earlier, and you got in time. Still awkward from the previous situation about you last week, you greeted him politely.

“I, huh,” he cleared his throat, playing with the brownie on his lap, out of your sight, “I brought you something. As an apology for being a dick to you.”

“Oh…” you said quietly, placing your bag on the stool beside you.

“Yeah, huh,” he chuckled nervously, standing up. He took his hand behind his back, grabbing his cane with the other and walking slowly towards you. “You were being sweet as you always were to me, and I treated it like it wasn't usual from you. I’m sorry, Ginger.”

He extended his hand to you, bringing the brownie to your view. “This is an apology gift for you.”

You looked from the brownie to him; a warm smile appeared on your face, just like your heart aching on your chest. But just as quickly as this feeling, another thought came up to your mind; a smirk grew on your lips. “This is part of some program to reduce your sentence, Tillman?” you tried to say as steady as possible; you were trying your best not to laugh.

However, Gator didn’t notice it. His face turned horrified at the idea, his eyebrow lifting in desperation, “No, no, no, Ginger! I’m really sorry, I would never do that to-,” then he heard your muffled laugh because of the hand over your mouth.

He laughed together, pointing a finger towards you with the brownie in hand, a boyish smile on his lip, “You got me, mama.”

“Here, you idiot,” you laughed while extending your hand to him. You grabbed the brownie and placed another bottle of Gatorade in his hand.

Gator continued to laugh while he sensed the bottle in his hand, recognizing the shape. Along with this, you unwrapped the brownie and took a bite of it, humming in approval, rolling your eyes back in delight. “God, they seem like the ones Nadi-, sorry, Dotothy used to do when we were kids.” 

After swallowing the Gatorade, Gator added, “because it is from her,” and you noticed a smug and proud smile on his face.

“No way!” you laughed beamingly, taking another bite, covering your mouth when you said back, “I missed it so much! I never found a brownie so good as this one!”

“I know,” he simply stated, smiling fondly at your excitement. “Sooooo,” he leaned into your direction, “do you forgive me for being a dick?”

You froze for a second, so he remembered you liked those brownies? But you shook your head, chuckling nervously, focusing on the situation in front of you. “Yeah, Gatorade, of course I forgive you.”

Gator cheered like a little boy, making you giggle at his response. You chatted a little until you both finished your gifts. You placed the little wrap back on your bag as a souvenir, and he put away the empty bottle to take to his room later as a souvenir as well. 

After that, the weekly art therapy sessions went great, and because of excitement and anxiety as well, Gator was always way early in the art therapy room, sitting on a stool there waiting for you. Just like now.

“Who would imagine that you would become enthusiastic about art therapy, huh, Tillman?” teases Willow, chuckling while entering the room. Gator hears the steps coming from behind him, tilting his head back towards the sound.

“You don’t have anywhere better to be right now, Willow?” Gator says, a little grumpy, facing ahead of him. 

“You are grumpy as usual, so what is different now?” Willow chuckles, and Gator hears him pulling a stool to his side, and he mentally rolls his eyes back.

“Oh yeah, Ginger,” Willow chuckles in amusement, making Gator groan in annoyance, “that’s the reason you are here so early.”

Gator turns his head towards Willow, an immense scowl on his face, “Would you mind shutting that hell of a big mouth of yours at least once, Willow?”

“Years have passed, and you still have the dirtiest mouth in the world, huh, Gatorade,” you laugh while entering the room.

Gator snaps his head towards the source of your voice, his features softening instantly, a lop-sided smile even appearing.

“He is all tough just for the appearance, Low; he is a softie deep inside him,” you tease, and Gator hears you pulling a stool across him, his head tilted towards you all the time.

“I’m not a fucking softie!” he protests, getting a scowl again, making both of you and Willow laugh.

“How are we today, boys?” you say, and Gator can hear you taking things out of your bag and placing them over the table.

“Good, excited to celebrate Thanksgiving later,” Willow answers. “You are all dressed up today,” he teases you, making Gator curious as he tilts his head towards you. “Are you going out after work?”

You dismiss it, blushing, smiling, “nah, I’m just wearing those old brown pants and my orange sweater.” You glance to Gator to see his reaction, your heart swelling when you catch it.

His eyes go wide with realization, his mouth open from surprise. You are wearing the same clothes you were wearing the last time he saw you. His heart pounds hard and strong on his chest.

You smile to yourself, a little breathless when you add next, “but I need to wear the lab coat either way, so it’s just to feel nice.”

“We will have a Thanksgiving party later here,” Gator says too quickly, his voice a pitch high from the excitement. “You can stay over,” he chuckles weakly, “since you don’t have anywhere better to go.”

“I would love to,” you smile widely at him, and he knows it just by the way your voice sounds, “thanks for the invitation.”

“Are you going to pass the weekend with your parents?” asks Willow to you, trying to hide the proud smile towards Gator from growing, “it must be a ride to be there.”

You chuckle nervously, grabbing the bottle of Gatorade from your bag to give it to Gator, placing it in front of him. He feels the vibration, smiling gratefully at you while grabbing it, placing your brownie where the bottle was.

You melt at it, like every time for the past weeks. You grab it and start to unwrap it as you answer Willow, “No, I’m huh,” you chuckle humorlessly again, “I don’t have a relationship with my parents.”

“What?” Gator is shocked, the bottle halfway to his mouth. “Things got shitty like that?” he asks sadly, concerned.

“Yeah,” you chuckle nervously, “we had a big fight when I went to college, and it was the last straw for me.” You take a deep, painful breath.

“So when you were in town…?”

“I was visiting friends,” you smile sadly, “or sometimes visiting some member of my family, but never because of my parents.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that-” Willow begins, but you cut right away, dismissing it with a forced smile.

“Nah, don’t be,” you chuckle. Gator notices the nervousness and sadness on your voice, fighting his instincts to offer his hand to you, “I always had a strange relationship with them, and as the years were passing, I became more aware of the shit they put me through, and when I went to college I just cut relation,” you shrug, taking a bite of the brownie, “I feel sad for not having parent figures, but never for not having them around.”

Gator can’t see you anymore, but he recognizes the same signals you always gave since you were young about how you were feeling. So now? He still can notice how your voice goes to a lower volume when talking about it, like you are trying to make yourself small.

“Have you eaten the brownie already, Ginger?” so he chooses to change the subject, taking a sip from his Gatorade, smiling as widely as he can to distract you, “taste it with the Gatorade after; cherry and chocolate work together.”

“Ugh,” you cackle, wrinkling your nose with disgust at the idea, “are you serious? This doesn't sound good at all.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he laughs, extending the drink to you, “give it a chance; I’ll give you double next week if you don’t like it,” he extends his other hand with his pinkie to you, “promise.”

You smile at it. You used to pinkie promise over anything when you were kids, and seeing Gator bringing this tradition back swells your heart. With the brownie in hand, you lace your pinkies, and with the other hand you grab the bottle from his.

“For fucks sakes, Tillman,” you murmur while laughing, making him laugh. You take a bite from the brownie, already lifting the bottle to your mouth. “If I throw up, I don’t fucking care if you are blind or not; you will wipe this floor.”

“Guess you are not the only one with a dirty mouth here, huh?” Willow teases Gator, laughing along with him. 

“She got it from me.” You roll your eyes at Willow but with no heat in it, and push Gator playfully by his shoulder, making him cackle even more. 

Then you drink it. Yeah, Gatorade is not your thing, but it’s not horrible either; you are making a funny face between disgust and curiosity when Gator speaks again. “You are doing that face, don’t you?” he chuckles beamingly, “you are too quiet.”

“What face?” Willow looks confused from Gator to you while you give the bottle back to Gator.

“The exact one I’m doing,” and that makes Gator cackle even more, “fuck Gator, this is not the worst thing ever, but fuck, seems like I’m vaping .”

“Ooooh,” Gator realizes, laughing still, “so that’s probably the reason I might like it.”

“Oh, it totally is,” you laugh, finishing your brownie when other inmates start to come to the session.

“Well, I guess this is my lead,” Willow smiles at you and pats Gator’s shoulder, “good art therapy for you two, see you later.”

You both farewell Willow, and you place yourself across from Gator while he finishes his drink and you wipe your hands on the lab coat that you are putting it on.

The session goes well. Gator is still learning how to mold the clay the way he wants to; it’s taking a while, but progress is noticeable. You take your notes about your patients, and your eyes always end up landing on him, over and over.

You keep blaming yourself for the feelings blooming stronger in your heart, and you want to believe you are managing it well. But in reality? You are not so nonchalant as you think you are.

Willow already noticed how you two are around one another, but since he understands the dilemma you are going through, he keeps his thoughts to himself.

But when it is about Gator… He teases him frequently, and this is what he is doing while both of them are in the common area, having a gathering for the Thanksgiving celebration at the facility after the session, waiting for you.

“I knew you were going to ask her to come,” Willow giggles, nudging Gator’s ribs, the latter groaning in annoyance, “you are so obvious, Tillman.”

“I’m not obvious for shit, Low,” protests Gator, eating turkey from a plastic plate, leaning back against a wall beside Willow, his cane by his side. “I just like her a lot, always have and always will.”

Gator tilts his head in different directions every couple of seconds, trying to hear your steps or your voice when you will finally show up. And of course Willow notices it, laughing to himself.

Willow is drinking absently, scanning the faces around the common area when he sees you coming from afar. He grins to himself and turns to look at Gator, watching when he will notice you are here.

Oblivious about being his subject of study, Gator sharpens his hearing, and just a couple of seconds later, he stays still, his ear tilted towards your direction, capturing steps he recognizes as yours.

Since he was younger, Gator learned to discriminate footsteps as a way to get ready for upcoming trouble. So, because of that, he not only learned the dangerous ones, but also the ones that calmed down his nervous system.

So despite himself, Gator is grinning like an idiot when he hears you approaching. You are still very far, but even after 15 years, he can’t forget the footsteps that calm him the most.

He straightens his posture, his whole body facing towards you while you greet some of your patients there, some staff, with the expectation of encountering you again.

Gator hears you getting closer, and by the direction of your voice, you are close to the table with the food over it. You giggle because of something one of the nurses says to you. Gator can’t hear what it was, but his heart warms and his face softens just by hearing your laugh, something that he really missed and always lit up his day.

“You are not so nonchalant as you think you are,” whispers Willow, leaning towards Gator, laughing just after, “you are aware of that, right?”

Gator sighs in annoyance, “Shut up,” groans in frustration, but his expression melts just after when he hears you approaching them, making Willow roll his eyes with no heat in it, drinking from his cup.

“Hello again, boys,” you greet both of them, but your attention is mostly towards Gator. “Thanks for inviting me,” you say to him, “I didn't know here in the facility festivities like that were celebrated.”

You two were always touchy with one another back in the day, and mostly because he can’t see you now, you sense the urge to be even more present physically. So for that, you stay up with your feet apart just enough to your tiptoe to touch his, making you present there.

Gator notices your move while you thank him, his heart racing a little while some butterflies fly around his stomach, something he doesn't recall feeling for… 15 years, coincidentally?

“Huh,” he chuckles nervously, shifting the weight on his feet, fixing his glasses that are perfect on his face with his free hand. Willow chuckles into his cup, looking away to give his friend/patient some privacy. “Yeah, it was something a shrink suggested some years ago before I got here.”

“It was a shrink and a social worker, actually,” adds Willow. “I knew them; they were incredible professionals and did an amazing job here with the inmates,” he smiles proudly, “Here is the best special needs unit in the country because of them.”

“That’s why, Lorraine, because of Dot,” Gator smiles fondly just by recalling, “made everything into her hands to put me here. No other facility offers the therapies that are here.”

“Oh, that’s incredible,” you smile widely from Willow to Gator, “I was aware of its excellence when I was looking for a job in a facility, but I didn't know the history behind it.”

“It’s a five-star facility basically,” Gator jokes, making you giggle lightly. Willow excuses himself and goes to talk to another of his patients, leaving you two alone.

When Gator notices Willow is really gone, his head tilted slightly in his direction, he exchanges his focus back to you, a big smile on his lips.

“Seriously, Ginger, thanks for coming; I was afraid you would not show up,” confesses Gator, chuckling shyly.

“Why wouldn't I show up?” you chuckle, confused.

Gator shrugs, chuckling nervously, shifting the weight on his feet, but not stopping from touching your feet; he could never let go of your touch like that. “Dunno, hanging out with some delinquent is not something I have ever imagined you would be up to do.”

Your heart aches with his self-deprecating. Fuck Roy for always having made him doubt himself, and for dragging him in a path where Gator considers himself a fucking delinquent, and nothing else.

“It’s because I’m not hanging out with a fucking delinquent,” your tone is cold, almost angry, making the smile on Gator’s lips fade, “I’m hanging with Gator Tillman, my friend.”

Gator clenches his jaw, swallowing a lump in his throat, tilting his head down. He can’t seem to get used to you seeing him with such good eyes, even when you were kids.

“You did shit and are paying for it,” you say softly, flexing your hand and tucking it into the front pocket of your lab coat, preventing you from holding him. “Roy doesn't dictate you anymore.”

It’s like a punch in his guts. He presses his lips together, twisting his mouth. He switches weight on his feet again, feeling really uncomfortable with such truthful but also so unsettling words.

Willow comes back a second after, and you and Gator engage in a conversation that he is not totally paying attention to, too focused on his inner battle.

He can’t see himself the way you see him. He is an inmate, has a criminal record for the rest of his life with crimes that would get him arrested for the rest of his life if he wasn't disabled.

And you? You are a fucking incredible professional, who can get and be around anyone else; why would you choose him over all people? You are sunlight and fresh life, while he is darkness and a rotten piece of shit. You deserve so much better than someone like him.

Some time has passed, and it’s now Christmas week, and just like always, Gator is some considerable minutes earlier for the art therapy session. Always willing to spend more time with you, but now it’s more special, since he has a gift for you.

He has a package on the table in front of him while he is seated on the stool, leaning back. He plays with the wrapped plastic around the brownie in his hand. It’s a way to ease himself from the nervousness he is feeling.

After some short but torturous minutes, the back door of the room cracks open, and his face, which had been pointed at the brownie in his hand, snaps up towards the sound. And before the door is even shut, he hears you.

“Hey, Gatorade,” he can hear the smile in your voice, making himself grin, even with his nerves up. He straightens up his posture while he climbs off the stool. He grips the edge of the table to stabilize himself, and also to hold something tightly without smashing the brownie on his hand.

“Hello, Ginger,” he chuckles, a little nervous, adjusting the glasses on his face. He clears his throat while hearing you approaching and getting closer by every second. “I have something for you,” he senses the table until touching the present over the table. 

You chuckle, amused, and Gator hears you putting your bag at the usual stool, “I can see that,” and stopping just a couple of steps in front of him.

“But first, for you, as always,” he grins as confidently as he can, extending his hand with the brownie on it.

“And for you,” and you two exchange the little gifts, you grabbing the brownie and he the Gatorade from your hands. Your fingers brush, sending a jolt of electricity through your bodies, making both stomachs get chills.

Gator places the Gatorade on the table, putting a hand over the present and pushing towards you over it. He has a nervous, but mostly tender smile on his face. “Merry  Christmas,” he says your name fondly just after, “hope you like it.”

“Oh, Gate,” he can hear how soft your voice sounds. He hears a soft and low sound, like you are placing something over the table. It might be the brownie, he believes.

After it, he can hear you taking the package in your hands. “You didn’t need to,” you say, while he hears you unwrapping it carefully.

“But I wanted to,” he simply states. 

You look at him with such ache on your chest you think you might cry, so you look away, concentrating on opening the gift. Out of nervousness, Gator plays with the bottle that is now in his hands, spinning it against the table, his head tilted towards you, paying the closest attention possible to you.

When you finish unwrapping the present, you see it is a simple purple box. Gator speaks again when he no longer hears paper being unwrapped.

“I asked Dot to bring a beautiful box a couple of weeks ago,” he says quietly, pointing vaguely towards you, “and I did my best wrapping it,” he chuckles, adjusting his glasses again. “I, huh, I wanted to do it myself too.”

“And it got really great,” you turn your head to him, “thank you, Gator.” He can hear you smiling, your voice so soft that his heart aches.

But just after it, his heart starts to race when he hears you pulling the lid of the box open. You place it beside the box, and you stay silent.

Gator hears you moving and holding something in your hand. He can even hear your thumbs rubbing the fabric of the crochet piece of clothing.

“I made them a month ago,” he confesses quietly. “It’s winter, and it’s pretty cold here during this time,” he explains, squeezing the bottle a little tighter in his hand while he soothes himself over his thighs.

“It’s beautiful, Gate,” and he notices how awed your voice sounds, how he would even consider you are slightly breathless. He hears you moving while you add, “do you mind if I wear them during the sessions?” You turn to him, grabbing the second thing in the box.

“Not at all!” he answers too quickly, taking an embarrassed chuckle from him, and an amused chuckle from you. “I would love that, actually.”

“Good,” you chuckle weakly, taking a step closer to him, making him swallow a lump in his throat, “because I really loved them,” you confess with such awe that he practically melts with your confession, sighing in relief.

“Would you like to see how they are in me?”

Gator chuckles, confused, “I don’t know if you are aware of it, but I can’t see, Gin-”

“Not like this, you fool,” this takes an unbelieving, funny, and shocked laugh from him, “like this,” and you hold his free hand, placing it at the fabric around your neck.

Gator freezes at your move. Not from the suddenness of it, but from the intimacy of it. Slowly and carefully, really sensing it, he runs his finger of one hand, then later the other one that was previously in the bottle, along the scarf around your neck.

He senses the way the scarf turns around your neck and that its ends are on each side of your neck while the middle wraps around your neck. The fabric is soft; he made sure to get the softest one possible.

“Are you getting warm?” he asks quietly, afraid to scare this sacred and precious moment away, like he is in a dream.

“Totally,” you confess just as quietly, studying his face while he senses the scarf on you. You notice how careful his touch is, and how his hands are slightly trembling, and you wonder why, but don’t ask anything.

“And you remembered red is my favorite color,” you add just after, and you notice a smug but weak smile at the corner of his lips.

“How could I ever forget it?” his tone starts warm, but quickly turns teasingly. “You used to write in red in every fucking place you could touch,” he huckles, making you chuckle back.

“Can I, huh,” he chuckles nervously, clearing his throat, “can I see how the beanie is on you?”

“Only if you say if the scarf looks good on me,” you tease, slightly nervous like him.

“Any shit look good on you, Ginger,” he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the damn world, “I don’t need eyes to know it.”

And he doesn't need your words of approval to go up from your neck to your head. What is good. Because you are speechless with his statement, your heart pounding on your chest, too self-aware of the proximity and intimacy of this moment.

Even though Gator is some 15 centimeters taller than you, slightly hovering over you, his touch is feather-like. His head is tilted down while his hands slide from the scarf to your jaw.

Because of a lot of things he doesn’t even know how to start enumerating, he can’t trace the line of your jaw until your chin, even if he is aching so much to, so he just keeps going up from the sides of your face.

His fingertips run over your cheeks to your temple. The touch is so light that a shiver is sent down your spine. You have to shut your eyes to try to compose yourself. 

The last time you were intimate like this with him was when he was comforting you because you fought with your parents, and with the care and affection he always had for you, he had cupped your cheek to wipe the tears away from your face.

Gator is oblivious to your reaction to his touch, but he is really aware of his own. It’s been way over a decade since the last time he touched your face with such delicacy, or even at all. 

Your face has changed, of course; you are a grown woman now, but the softness of your skin remains the same, with a wrinkle or two at the corner of your eyes that must have appeared during these years apart.

He chuckles breathlessly when he thinks about how many times you must have laughed to have those fine lines, and his heart melts just by imagining you smiling widely, being happy, even without him.

“What?” you ask quietly, noticing the way he is smiling.

“Nothing,” he says, reaching the hem of the beanie around your head, the fabric just as soft and just as red as the one around your neck, “just appreciating my good work.”

You chuckle, his hands now rubbing all the extensions of the beanie. It’s squareish, forming corners, like little cat ears. He squeezes it playfully, making you two giggle.

Before letting you go, just because Gator is Gator, he shuffles your head, tucking the beanie more into your head, covering your eyes, making him laugh at the possible outcome of his action.

“You are an idiot, Gator Tillman,” you say while feeling defeated, hearing him laugh while you can't even see. You adjust the beanie properly on your head and see him folding by laughing. “It’s not even that funny, dickhead.”

“Oh, it totally is,” he wipes the tears from under his glasses, stopping the laugh little by little. “You probably did the same face you have always done when we were kids.”

“You jerk,” you laugh while walking away, making Gator furrow his eyebrows when he hears you stepping away. “Don’t make me regret getting a Christmas gift to you,” you joke.

You search into your bag, coming back after a while in front of him, “extend your hand.” You command, and he obeys, without any discussion, like always. Gator feels a thick and big piece of paper in his hands. When he holds it properly, sensing it, he identifies it as an envelope.

“Once you mentioned you have a CD player in your room, so I did something to you.”

Gator furrows his eyebrows together, his head tilted to you. There is volume inside the envelope, he notices. He opens it carefully not to rip it off since it's glued together. Without a lot of effort, he opens it, pulling a plastic square thing on his hand.

“I recorded your favorite songs you liked when we were kids,” you chuckle, and he notices you are the one nervous now, “and during these years we were apart, I saw you hearing some other songs as well,” you confess quietly, “and I put them in there too.”

Gator lifts his face from the CD in his hands to you. His heart aches with your confession about how you paid attention to him even though he pushed you away. Something that makes him a little surprised, because he thought he was the only one doing that.

“Merry Christmas, Gatorade… Hope you like it,” you smile quietly, and he hears you shifting the weight on your feet, and you rubbing some plastic on your fingers, which he assumes is from the brownie.

“I already love it,” he smiles at you slightly breathless, his heart swelling, “thank you, Ginger. This… was really sweet of you.”

“Thank you too,” you add just after, embarrassed, chuckling nervously, “now I’ll spend the rest of the winter warm.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my time here with the best soundtrack,” he lifts the CD in front of his face, making you both giggle slightly.

“Oh, did you not see the card!”

“Card?” he asks, confused, coming back to the envelope in his hands, searching inside of it. “Oh, the card,” he chuckles when he pulls it out of it.

“You know I can’t quite read now, right?” he jokes, opening it.

“It’s in raised print,” you say, giggling proudly, “I made sure you got the message.” He hears the tone of tease in your tone, making him smile in suspicion.

Gator runs his fingers over the raised letters, doing the curves and corners of the letters, mumbling the letters and then the words being formed, laughing harder and in fake incredulity with each word coming to light.

“The worst soundtrack to the best dude,” he finishes, laughing amused, “I thought your taste in music would get better as you got older, Ginger,” he teases back, putting the card back in the envelope, “you know, the older, the wiser.”

“You are right, Gatorade,” you start, tease, “wiser, not tone deaf,” you laugh.

“Fuck you,” Gator says with no heat, laughing along with you.

But before you could do anything else, the front door of the session room opens, and the other inmates start to come inside. You both snap your heads in the direction of it, composing yourselves and putting the packages and present away.

You say a warm and heartfelt goodbye to Gator while he sits on his stool, opening the Gatorade and smiling to himself, rubbing the corners of the envelope with the CD back in, tucked in his front pocket. He smiles to himself with the most tender and loving feeling on his chest.

You come back to your place as well, placing the beautiful purple box in the stool with your bag beside it. You smile warmly to yourself as well, adjusting the scarf and beanie better on you when your eyes land on Gator. The way he's smiling, matching with yours, makes it really hard to concentrate on anything else but him.

But well, you have a job to do, so you clear your throat and do the greetings and instructions. However, even as the session progresses, you always keep glancing at him, just like you notice his head tilted slightly in your direction as well, making a beat from your heart skip every time you notice.

A couple of months have passed, and with that, the sessions continued and progressed. His sculpture is getting the shape of his liking, looking more like something that resembles a giraffe, but there are still around 6 months to come for this project to end.

Just like the art therapy sessions, the visitations with Dorothy go on as well, with the current one, Scotty being present as well.

“Gator!”

“Hey kiddo!” Gator chuckles, shortly out of breath from being crashed by Scotty, their arms wrapped around him. “Long time no see,” he says while ruffling their hair affectionately.

Scotty hug Gator for a little while, pulling away after and sitting in a chair beside Gator while Dorothy hugs him hello. “I got a lot of homework those last weeks,” confess Scotty sadly, “I’m sorry for not coming the other times. I tried to convince my mom, but she doesn't let me come.”

“Oh, that’s okay, kid,” smiles Gator towards Scotty, grabbing the edge of the chair and pulling closer to them, “school is way more important than this.”

“Dunno,” Scotty thinks a while before adding, “I’d rather come here and spend time with you than other things. You are way cooler!”

Scotty declares it like it’s simple, obvious. Dorothy smiles at them, then turns her attention to Gator.

Gator is blushing. Hard. He’s been seeing Scotty at least twice a month since he got arrested, and their relationship has grown since the beginning. 

But this? Admiration? Gator is not stupid; he always noticed the affection that Scotty get towards him had only grown, but being said bluntly like it? Like it’s just right? It makes Gator feel shy, uneasy.

Love is something that became foreign to him over the years. It is something he is trying to get used to again, but this always takes him out of his guard. Mostly when it comes to Scotty.

“You are right, baby,” adds Dot after a while when she realizes Gator is too speechless to say anything, chuckling to herself and looking back at Scotty, “Gator is indeed way cooler than homework,” and this takes a breathless but legit chuckle from him, “but you have responsibilities.”

“And you doing your responsibilities makes you just or even cooler than me,” Gator adds, smiling boyishly, “or you think I fart around?” This takes a light laugh from Scotty, encouraging him.

“I need to do a lot of shit arou-”

“Language!” Dorothy cuts him off, making him and Scotty laugh.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, rephrasing, “I need to do a lot of things…” he punctuates the change, tilting his head towards Dot, making her shake her head, smiling, thinking how silly he is, “here to get out of here soon. Remember the sweater I gave you two years ago? I learned how to do it here.”

“And he does sculptures now too,” Dot says teasingly, wiggling her eyebrows. Scotty look from her to Gator, their eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Why is she smiling funny like that?” they ask Gator, who blushes even more.

“Do you remember that girl I told you he was friends with when he was younger, when me and him lived together?” Dot turns to Scotty, who nod. Gator rubs his forehead in frustration, “She is his art therapist now.”

“Oh, that’s cool!” Scotty turn to Gator, and he can hear the smile in their tone, making himself smile despite himself. “You have your friend back now!”

“Yeah,” Gator starts quietly, a warm smile spreading on his face, his chest aching from affection towards you, his head tilted towards Scotty, “I have my friend back.”

“But maybe she is not just a friend…” teases Dot. Scotty snap their head to her, opening their mouth in surprise, then back at Gator. They are smiling widely when they speak again, excitedly.

“Do you like her?”

“Yeah, but not like that!” Gator exclaims defensively, his tone pitched a little high, blushing hard

“So why are you blushing like that?” interrogate Scotty, crossing their arms over their chest. Gator can hear by their moves and the tone of their voice that they won’t let it go easily.

“Because you are accusing me of something that is not true!” he stays defensive, blushing even more. “She is just a friend, my best friend that happens to feel like home, okay? Jesus…”

“You like heeeer, you like heeer,” Scotty teases, humming.

“Scotty, sweetie,” Dot chuckles while calling their attention, “if we keep teasing him, he is not going to trust us anymore to talk about her, okay?”

“Oh,” adds Gator, chuckling, faking betrayal, “so you are just nice to me to get gossip?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” she jokes while laughing, making them both laugh, “but I want you to feel comfortable around us too, so it’s a double win,” she chuckles warmly.

“I always forget how smart you are,” Gator laughs, pointing at Dot.

“Sooooo Gator,” start Scotty again, making Gator sigh, tuning to them with a fake annoyed expression on his face, “how is she like? I think you never told me about her.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles in realization, “I think I’ve never… So, well…” he chuckles a little nervous, bending over the table, elbows resting there, “we went apart for around 15 yea-”

“Why?”

Gator chuckles humorlessly, “because I’m an idiot.” Dot chuckles against her hand, muffling her laugh, making the smile on his face grow. “But life saw me as someone who deserved a second chance - twice, apparently - and she is now in my life again.” He takes a deep breath, so light and enamored that it’s impossible to deny it.

“She is the funniest,” he starts again, a little breathless, “the light of the room; she always calls out my bulshi- sorry,” Dot chuckles along with Scotty, “she is really good at her job, and so gentle and kind…”

Gator gets lost in his own memories of you from when you were kids, but also your voice nowadays keeps playing on his head, “she has the most beautiful smile I’ve ever heard too, and she is so thoughtful, so caring…”

“You love her,” begin Scotty, “you know that, tight?”

“Yeah!” Gator starts defensively, a pitch higher, “but like I said, not like that.”

“Totally,” Scotty don’t buy it at all, “you keep saying that like it would change the fact that you love her.”

“This kid got your mouth, you know that, right?” Gator turns to Dorothy, a little scowl on his face, then turning to Scotty, “For someone who thought I was cool, you are being a pain in the ass.”

“Just admit it, and I'll stop,” say Scotty defiantly, challenging Gator, leaning back in the chair and crossing their arms over their chest.

Gator just groans, leaning back as well, crossing his arms, a big scowl now on his face.

“Wow,” Dot says after a while, laughing, “we have two kids on this table, it seems.” Gator does a funny mock face, mimicking her, which just makes her laugh.

“So, since I'm the only grown-up here,” Gator does the face again, “let me tell you some good news!” She starts beamingly, grinning, “Seems like we got your appeal, Gator!”

Gator freezes for a second, then slowly turns his head towards the sound of her voice. His eyes widen in shock, his mouth opens in a little o. “What?” He says lowly, as if he is scared he might wake up from a dream.

“Seems like you will be free earlier than 10 years! It's not completely sure yet, but Lorraine told me it's 90% sure, just need paperwork from the facility about your activities and some signatures and stuff.”

“Jesus Christ, Dorothy…” starts Gator quietly, his hands trembling, his breath speeding, “are you for real?”

“We don't have anything official yet,” she adds, “not even a date yet, but yeah…” she chuckles warmly, “it's going well and promising, and I hope we will have good news really soon.”

“Oh Lord,” says a breathless Gator, but slowly he becomes energetic. His smile starts to spread while he runs his hands over his hair, his breath still heavy. “I’ll be out of here soon…” It’s still so foreign the idea that he speaks lowly, afraid to wake up.

“Yeah, you will!” agree Scotty while they jump on Gator, making him short of breath but laughing just after, wrapping the kid with his arms, while tears start to accumulate on his waterline.

Dot watches the scene with so much warmth, and care, and affection that she thinks her heart might explode by seeing this sweet boy who was encountered by loss at such a young age, who was introduced to violence and corruption, but is now graced to have met love again, getting a beginning to a new start.

You and Gator are chatting, as always, when the rest of your patients enter the session room for the day. You greet them with a hello and farewell Gator with a sweet goodbye while finishing your brownie.

You walk to the stool where your bag is and place the plastic wrapped around the brownie inside of it, still chewing the last bite of it when you talk to the inmates, covering your mouth. This makes Gator smile, a mix of smugness and happiness.

“I would like to add something new to our meeting today,” you announce while swallowing, and Gator hears you taking something out of your bag.

He hears you stepping away, somewhere close to the table by the wall on his left, your voice getting distant with the steps you take, “I was running through my stuff yesterday, and I found this: an old CD of mine I did when I was in middle school.”

Gator hears the smile in your tone, tilting his head towards you to hear you better. He furrows his eyes in concentration, thinking if it’s the CD he thinks it is. He hears you opening the tray of the CD player. He hears you putting the CD in and shutting it, then pressing a button, and shortly after ‘Complicated’ by Avril Lavigne starts to play.

Gator chuckles to himself with shock, leaning back on his stool, rubbing his chin while a grin appears on his face. It’s the same fucking CD you recorded with him one afternoon after school while you were hanging in his bedroom.

“Hope you enjoy the soundtrack of the day, boys.” Gator hears the smile on your face getting wider, his own smile growing big as well. “Now go grab your bowls, fill them with water and all the usual stuff,” he hears you sitting at the stool, flipping through your notebook.

Gator waits for everyone to get their stuff, as usual, and then, heading to the table at the wall, he says over his shoulder to you, “Can I change the song, doc?” You can’t see, but he has a proud smile on his face.

“Oh!” you say apologetically, “of course, Gator, you can change it if you don't li-”

But before you could finish your sentence, Gator is pressing the skip button over and over again. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. When you are about to ask what he is doing and why he is not listening to the songs before skipping, the intro from ‘Cherry Pie’ by Warrant starts to play.

You chuckle in amusement, surprised, a little short of breath even. He turns his head to you with a smug smile, “being years since I heard that one,” he states while grabbing his bowl to fill with water.

You look at him with incredulity, but also in awe. He… remembers? This is your favorite song back in the day, and still is one of your favorites. And he not only remember it, but also remembered which track it was in that CD.

You have to make a lot of effort to take your eyes off him. But either way, your heart is pounding loudly, and with butterflies all over your stomach. 

You smile and chuckle to yourself during the whole session, glancing up at him constantly, noticing how his hands work around the sculpture. They are wet and with dry clay around his fingers, molding the piece in front of him into something you are a little suspicious about, but not totally sure.

You notice how delicate the movements of his hands have become even more since the beginning of the sessions. He was already good with delicate handcrafts since the previous art therapy sessions he had, and paying attention to his hands molding and being so smooth around the clay does something funny to your core.

You blush hard with the realization of the filthy thoughts you are having. You shake your head as quickly as possible to shut those thoughts down, even though they have been present fairly enough since the first day you met him again.

There are still 20 minutes before the art therapy session begins, but Gator is already heading to the room, using the guidance path along with his cane to get there.

Willow sees Gator from a distance, then starts walking in his direction, but he stops still far away when Gator opens the door to the art therapy room and sees you are already there, for some reason. 

Actually, he knows the reason why. He just smiles happily to himself, turning on his heels and heading somewhere else, leaving the two of you on your own.

“Hey!” you greet Gator when he opens the door, scaring him a little, making you both giggle just after, “I’m so sorry, Gate, didn’t want to scare you.”

“That’s okay,” he laughs, guiding himself into the room, heading to his stool. “What are you doing here so early?” his cane hits the stool’s leg, and he grabs its back.

“Because it’s your birthday!” you exclaim beamingly, a beat skipping on Gator’s heart by hearing the excitement in your voice, but also…

“Do you remember it?” he chuckles breathlessly, pulling the stool to sit on it, placing the little package with your brownie at the table while resting his cane beside him.

“Of course I remember,” you chuckle in disbelief, as if it's obvious. “Besides being 4th of July, I could never forget when your birthday is,” you chuckle while sliding a present box towards him over the table, placing the Gatorade on top of it. 

“Do you remember we joked about the fireworks being because of you?” you chuckle just by the memory of it. “You became cockier and cockier over the years because of it.”

“I still think they are for me, okay?” he chuckles, his eyebrows a little furrowed by the sound of something sliding over the table, something way heavier than a bottle of his favorite drink.

But before he could ask what it was, you speak first, “Open it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles playfully, making you blush but smile widely as well.

He senses the table until reaching the box, going up to the top and finding the bottle there. He grins widely, shaking it slightly in the air and placing at the table.

There is a ribbon bow on top of the present you got for him, which makes his smile soften. Gator pulls it carefully, and the flaps of the box open slightly. He finishes opening them, folding them to the outside. He starts to put a hand inside the box when you speak again, “Just be careful,” he freezes mid-air, a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“For fucks sakes, woman,” he teases, continuing his movements more carefully, “I’m blind, but I'm not a caveman, so this might be classified as discrimination.”

“Shut up before I take it back and change my mind.” Gator can hear the smile in your voice, a grin growing wider on his face.

When he touches the first thing inside the box, he feels something… smooth? He senses it better, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. “What the hell is that?” He pulls it out of the box, holding it with both hands, running his fingers around it carefully.

“It’s a succulent plant,” Gator hears the excitement in your voice, tilting his head towards your direction. “It represents resilience, the ability to overcome hard times,” your voice softens. “And also represents enduring love,” he notices you are a little nervous.

He chuckles a little smugly, but also fondly when he speaks again, “and I guess the resilience part is about my fucked up life,” his voice softens, “and the enduring love... Us?”

“You are not a dumbass after all, it seems,” you tease, laughing, himself laughing with incredulity. “And don’t worry, it is easy to take care of. You said once that a lot of sun enters your room; she just needs to be under it, and needs water only when the soil is dry.”

Gator nods, chuckling to himself, feeling as comfortable as he always felt around you. He places the plant beside the bottle on the table. “Noted,” he starts, running through the box again, “I’ll call her Desert then, because she needs just a little water,” he lifts a box from inside, this one smaller.

“So creative,” you joke while Gator turns the little box in his hand, opening it carefully, running his hands around the objects inside of it, hard plastic rubbing together.

“You gave me one of those on Christmas,” he smiles wide, turning his face to you.

“Yeah, but I didn’t make those,” he hears the smile in your voice. And when he does that confused face you always loved, you chuckle, “I bought them… You always wanted them, and when we were kids, you told me you would buy them when you lived on your ow-”

You don’t even have time to finish before he laughs in disbelief, shock, beamingly as well. “Are you fucking kidding me!” He stands up from the stool he was sitting on, stepping towards your voice, “Are they…?”

“Yeah,” you laugh brightly, “it’s ‘Bleach’, ‘Nevermind’ and ‘In Uterus’ from Nirva-”

You cackle when he wraps his arms around your middle, spinning you in the air. “For fucks sake, Ginger!” His laugh mixes with yours. You wrap your arms around his neck to hold yourself to keep balance.

When he puts you on the ground again, pulling back from you, Gator doesn’t notice, too excited with the CDs in his hands, running his fingers over them, but you are really close to each other.

It’s been a while since you were this close to him. You notice the fine lines between his eyebrows more closely, lines that deepened from the past years of all the stress and worry his job asked of him.

You also notice that the smile lines on him are way less deep than the ones between his eyebrows; this makes you a little sad, because you recall how strong they were when you were kids. You hardly saw Gator not smiling, and you were attached at the hip, so you spent a significant amount of time with him.

Your heart is pounding when your eyes fall to his lips, and you find that fucking stupid pretty smile of his that you always loved so much still has that silly light from his youth. 

You take a step back because you are his fucking art therapist, for fucks sake! You need to keep this fucking professional for at least until the end of your contract, more than four months to go. You can fucking do this!

“There are still things on the box, you know?” Your voice leaves huskily from your lips, so you clear your throat, “or I can take them bac-”

“NO! No, don’t take them back,” he takes a step back, sensing the table until reaching the box again, “I just zoned out,” he confesses, grinning, placing the CDs beside the previous gift, “what else do we have here?” he hums while running his hands inside the box, finding a Tupperware there.

Gator shakes it carefully, but doesn't recognize the sound. You notice his confused face, using all his skill in investigating and failing miserably. “Open it,” you suggest.

“You are bossy today,” he chuckles, a mischievous smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, “I like it.”

You blush hard and almost choke into the air. You feel the heat spreading from your neck through your face, and you do your best to cool yourself while he effortlessly opens the pot, the smell already hitting both of your noses. “I finally learned how to bake them,” you confess quietly, still too shaken by his tease, or whatever shit that was.

Unfortunately, he is too stunned by the smell of the oatmeal raisin cookies that hit his nostrils, tilting his head down to the pot. He reaches one of the cookies, bringing it to his mouth when you speak again, “With all due respect,” you start, receiving a raised eyebrow from Gator while he chews, making you chuckle, “they are disgusting.”

“What the hell?” he chuckles in disbelief, in fake, but not so much, offended, with the cookie still being chewed on his mouth. “You must be the one in jail, not me!” he chuckles slightly bitterly, but mostly playfully, taking another bite. “Your mouth is way dirtier than I thought.”

You laugh, finding the face he is making funny, holding the pot with the cookies like you would attack it. “Seems like they are good.”

“Yeah, they are,” he says it lighter now, smiling a little even, finishing to eat the current cookie, his mouth full of it still. You watch him, your heart getting warmer just by seeing him hum from contentment. 

His mother used to bake those, and you literally spent your whole life trying to recreate those cookies the exact way she used to do. And being able to achieve this on his birthday is something you are really proud of.

“Thank you, Ginger,” he starts, swallowing, placing the pot by the table as well. “Really,” he turns his face to you. “I’ll take good care of Desert while listening to Nirvana,” he chuckles boyishly, “but seriously,” he takes a step closer, willing to but afraid to reach for your hand, “I really loved it,” his smile fond, his heart aches, “the best birthday gift I’ve ever got.”

“For real?” he hears the smile in your voice, grinning in response.

“For real. I, huh” he chuckles nervously, fixing the glasses on his face, “I’ve missed your gifts through those years, you know?” he confesses quietly, “you are the best gift giver, so I really missed it, I, huh,” he chuckles nervously again, clearing his throat again, “I feel seen… every time you give me something.”

You melt with the confession, your heart aching, tightening your chest. All you want is to pull him into your arms and kiss him. But you can’t. So, for the sake of your mental health, you tease him, “Awn, prison AND therapy made you the softie I always knew you were, Gatorade.”

He groans in annoyance, but you see a smile slipping through the corner of his mouth. He shows his middle finger to you, making you cackle while he fights a grin, but is defeated just after, laughing with you as well.

Behind Gator, you both hear the front door opening and the inmates start to show up for the session. You chuckle, the laugh fading while you help him put the presents back in the box.

The art therapy session begins just a little later; the box is on the ground at the feet of Gator’s stool, his half-drunk Gatorade on top of it, molding the clay into something that resembles a giraffe, you notice, but you're not quite sure, while you eat the brownie, taking notes in your notebook.

Around a month later, Gator is seated at the table in the art therapy room way earlier than necessary for its beginning as he always is, but today it’s different. Well, not entirely true. He is waiting for you to chat, that’s for sure, but today is also your birthday.

Gator has a little present bag in his hands. He can’t sit still for too long. He gets up from the stool and bounces on his toes. Then he paces along the length of the table, one hand at the edge of it to guide him. He fixed his glasses on his face way more times than needed. He ran his hands over his hair way more times than necessary.

The only thing that could make him stop pacing around is you. And just a short period of time later, he snaps his head towards the back door. The sound of you entering the room is almost Pavlovian to him. His shoulders drop, a grin grows big on his face, and he sighs, relieved, while he places the present bag on the table.

“Good afternoon, birthday girl,” he turns his body totally towards you, his arms wide for you while he hears your steps getting closer and closer to him, along with his heart pounding on his chest.

You chuckle, and just by the sound of it, Gator knows your smile is as big as his. “Didn’t know you would remember.” Your heart is beating just as fast as his. You place your bag on the stool by your usual spot, your arms open to fit against him.

“I could never forget,” he confesses so sweetly that you melt against him, already in his embrace, your hum of contentment reverberating against his chest. You hug him by his middle, while he holds you over your shoulders.

You press yourself against his chest, his arms around you pulling you closer. You shut your eyes, intoxicated by his perfume; it’s still woody, and it’s always been since you can remember it. He smells like home.

Gator cradles the back of your neck, rubbing your scalp with such affection that your heart aches. You fist the fabric of his shirt tighter, making him press your bodies together even more. Both of you relax on each other’s arms. A place that was always home, and continues to be even with those long years being apart.

Gator has his temple pressed against the top of your head, his face tilted slightly towards you, trying to not make so obvious that he is trying to smell your hair. You smell like vanilla, and he smiles to himself when your scent hits his nostril. The familiarity of it always makes him dizzy for some reason.

You could die in his arms, that’s for sure. But you are at work, and he is your patient. You can’t stay like this with him at all, but for some reason you continue to stay in that ambiguous line of professionalism and throwing your ethics in the air.

So, reluctantly, you pull away after a while. Your head is already spinning, and then you find resistance from his part, his embrace lingering a second longer until pulling back too. You try your best not to think much of it, but fail miserably.

“I brought you something,” Gator’s voice is croaky, forcing him to clear his throat, giving you the little present bag, taking it from the table.

“Awn, Gate,” you coo, making Gator melt with the sweetness of your voice, “you didn’t need to do that,” he hears you placing the bag back on the table, opening it.

“I know,” he chuckles nervously, leaning his side against the table, trying to act cool, even crossing his arms over his chest, “but I wanted to.”

You glance at him while a grin grows on your face. And you do such a painful face just by looking at him, turning your attention back to him for a few more seconds. Fuck, he always looked so charming, dangerously charming leaning like that.

You shake your head, cursing yourself in your mind, focusing on the bag again. You laugh when you see two brownies on top of a little box. “You are generous today, it seems,” you joke, and he hears you taking them out of the bag, putting them aside.

“Don’t let this go up your head,” he teases, chuckling too. “One is mine, and the other is Dot’s,” his tone softens. “She said she wanted to give you something, but didn’t know what exactly, so she went with the safest option.”

You smile tender to the brownies, then back to Gator, “Thanks her for me, please? If I bump into her someday, I’ll thank her myself too.”

“Of course,” he smiles fondly as well. You shake your head again, focusing on the bag again. You pull the little box inside of it out. It’s ornamented, but it’s noticable its handcrafted.

Gator notices your silence, and he deduces you are examining the little box. “I made it too,” he adds quietly, “Dot just bought the box. I painted and all.”

“Too?” you repeat, a little breath taken. The box is beautiful, and no one can deny how much attention Gator gave to it. It is brown and has yellow beads glued to it, perfectly aligned to the edges of the little box. There is also a red fingerprint on one side of the box. You smile to yourself, because it must be Gator’s, and having a little piece of him like that makes butterflies fly on your stomach.

When you open the box, Gator tenses. You fall into even more silence after, and he tries his best not to freak out, using all the tools he learned with years of therapy since he got to the facility.

“I made them,” he clears his throat, his voice quiet. He pulls the sleeves of his long shirt up, showing a peyote stitch bracelet on his wrist, with dark green and black beads interleaved.

You lift a similar one from the little box, but the beads are red and orange. You look from yours to his, your heart beating fast against your ribs.

“It’s beautiful, Gatorade,” your voice is quiet, in awe. Gator sighs with quiet relief. He hears you moving, and by the sound, you are sliding your hands into the bracelet, putting it on your wrist as well. “Did you learn to bead here too?”

“Not exactly,” he chuckles, pulling both of his sleeves up to his elbows now, “I do crochet, as you know,” he points vaguely at you, you both chuckling, “and I was used to seeing you beading all the time, so I was already familiar with it.”

You giggle, but not from the story, but from the present. It fits you perfectly. You think if there is a correlation between him always holding you by your wrist at least once a day and this perfect fit, but for the sake of your sanity, you don’t pay too much attention to it.

“I still have our first one…” you confess quietly. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to yours?”

Gator chuckles humorlessly, a little sadly even. “Roy ripped off just a few days after me and you…” He hesitates, “You know,” he sounds embarrassed, but swallows it quickly and continues just after, “he was mad and all that shit. I cried over it for a week,” he chuckles sadly, remembering how heartbroken he felt.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Gate…” you coo, but you are shortly cut off.

“Don’t worry,” he dismisses it, not wanting to come back to that day, to that fucking week. “I kept the beads,” he smiles more warmly, but still a little down, “maybe someday you can redo it for me.”

I kept the beads. Your heart skips a beat. He still has the beads from a bracelet you made for him almost 20 years ago. “Yeah,” you chuckle breathlessly, “maybe.”

“Did you see the other present?” he asks quietly, smiling lop-sided. “It’s in the little box too.”

You were so amused by the bracelet that you didn't even notice another gift for you in there. You look back at the little box you placed on the table and, indeed, there is another present there.

Gator hears you pulling the gift out of the box, the beads rubbing the inside of it. He hears your breath catching for a second, and a proud smile surges on his face.

“Gator…” you can't even finish your sentence. It’s a necklace, beaded by him as well, you assume. Well, it’s actually a choker, a clasp to close it around your neck. The beads are brown, a possible match for the bracelet if you want to.

“Willow helped me with the colors,” he adds, a little smug by the effect of the presents to you, “and to put this stupid small clasp too.”

You chuckle, but it’s breathless. You are in awe, amused. You turn your face to him, swallowing dryly. “Could you put it on me?” It’s quiet, a little scared even.

“Yeah,” his voice is just as quiet as yours, “of course,” just a little huskier. He pulls himself from the table, his hand outstretched to you, and you place the choker on top of it. 

You turn your back to him. Both your hearts are pounding strongly on your chests. He passes the necklace to the front of you, holding the other end of it, and the beads touch your neck. You hold your breath when his fingers brush the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to calm yourself. But the step closer he gives, and his hot breath hitting the back of your neck, doesn't do much to help.

You are too focused on your own emotions, so you don’t notice how nervous he is as well. He fails to clasp the choker more than once, his hands too shaky to do it correctly.

This proximity, this intimacy always made him dizzy. Even when you were younger. But back there he didn't feel this insecure, this unsure around you. You are still home. Comfort. Peace. What changed then? Self-consciousness? Probably.

“Here,” he speaks just a little above a whisper, “done.” He takes a step back while you turn towards him, and you watch his expression. He seems just as shaken as you… No, no. Your mind is just too fogged to think straight.

“They are really beautiful, Gate,” you thank him fondly. “Both are my favorites now,” he can hear your grin getting bigger, smiling along with you. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Glad you liked it,” and before any more interactions, the other inmates enter the room for the art therapy session of the day. 

You two do your farewells. You grab the box, bag, and brownies and step away from him, and when he sits on his stool again, gripping the edge of the table to balance, his fingers hit something. When he grabs the thing properly, he smiles boyishly. His Gatorade. Even on your birthday, you are giving him a gift? But, c’mon, how could you not? Gator just aren't aware of it.

Gator is leaning back in the chair in the visiting hall, manspreading, the cane between his legs. He plays with the end of it, his mind far away, thinking about anything in particular. Just another visit day. Right?

His head snaps up when he hears Dot’s voice from shortly afar, probably thanking a guard for letting her in, or some shit like that. Gator hears her steps, and how fast she seems to get to him. He is standing up to greet her, but before he could straighten up properly, she has her arms around him.

Gator laughs breathlessly at the impact, holding her by instinct for now, and before he could ask anything, she pulls back just as fast as she crashed into him. “We have a date set!”

“What?” Gator chuckles with such confusion, his eyebrows furrowed together, dizzy with all those things happening all at once. “A date set for what?”

“For your release!” She does little jumps from excitement, giggling beamingly, “You will spend Thanksgiving with us!”

“What?” Now he is breathless; he can even swear his blood pressure dropped. His voice leaves his lips with such pain and disbelief, still unable to comprehend what is happening.

Needing to get his balance, he drops his cane he was holding to the floor and grabs the edge of the table in front of him. His grip on it is so tight that his knuckles turn white. He turns his face to Dot, “are you serious, Dot?” his voice cracks, his lips slightly parted. “I’m going out of here in less than three months?”

“I’m dead serious, sweetie,” she cups his cheek, wiping tears falling from behind his glasses. “Just in a few months you will be a free man again, Gator,” he sobs quietly against her hand, her face tilted towards her touch, “no more prison… no more Roy.”

And this is the last straw for him to break completely. Gator launches himself towards Dot, wrapping his arms around her, sobbing uncontrollably, and he turns that little kid again. And just like before, Dorothy holds him like an older sister holds her little brother.

“I’m getting out of here…” he sounds so little, so uncertain, so scared, as if he thinks he is dreaming and afraid to wake up. His sentence almost sounds like a question.

So Dot reassures him, “Yes, you are, sweet Gator. You are,” rubbing his head with affection and care.

“Can’t wait to tell her,” he confesses between his sobs, taking a fond smile from Dot.

“Well, boys,” you start, calling their attention while standing up from the stool you were sitting on, facing the inmates in front of you across the table and their beautiful sculptures in front of them. You smile at their achievement, and inevitably your eyes keep being drawn to Gator over and over.

“It’s been a long and incredible year that I spent here with you,” Gator can hear the smile in your voice, and his heart aches, grateful for this year. 

“I learned a lot from you all. I learned a lot about yourselves as well, your background, lessons that life has taught you,” you take a deep breath, chuckling with emotions. Your watery response doesn't go unnoticed by Gator, who gets emotional as well.

“And those beautiful sculptures you made,” you point to them, grinning so widely that your face hurts, “it’s a reminder from this journey of healing and self-knowledge. I really hope this year working together did good to you as it did to me.”

Some inmates complement your speech, adding the importance of this year to them, what they overcame and learned during this process. Consciously, Gator decides not to add to the conversation, spending his energy on holding the emotions that are close to overflowing. The lump on his throat represents the blessing of having you in his life again, but also the loss of you from next week.

But he shakes his head and sniffs hard, trying to remember that he will be free in less than a month; then he will be able to have you around more. Right?

“Oh! One last thing!” you chuckle, forcing Gator to come back to the present. “The sculptures are yours now, a souvenir to keep from this process,” you smile widely. “Well, that’s it! Thank you for this year, boys. Congratulations!”

Everyone claps, celebrating the end of this journey. Gator startles a little from the sudden noise, clapping just after. From across the table, he hears you giggling gently. He deduces it’s because of him. He tilts his head towards you, smiling warmly at you.

Around him, he hears the inmates around him pushing the stools and leaving the room while chatting. He stays on his seat, waiting for the crowd to exit completely. While waiting, he hears you walking around the table, pouring the water from the bowls in the sink.

When the only thing he can hear is you, he clears his throat and stands up, holding the edge of the table to keep balance. “Ginger?”

“Yeah, Gate?” you say over your shoulder, organizing the bowls at the table by the wall.

“Can you come here?” 

The nervousness in his tone calls your attention. You are already walking towards him when you speak again. “Yeah, of course.”

Gator chuckles at the softness in your voice, his shoulder dropping slightly. When your steps stop and he notices you are close, he speaks again. “First of all,” he chuckles nervously, fixing his perfect glasses on his face, “my memory is not that good, and I'm blind, so be aware of it.”

“Okay…” you chuckle, confused, but paying attention.

“Do you remember Miss Long Neck?”

He can’t see, but your eyes shine with the memory of your stuffed animal. “Of course I remember her; it’s a shame I lost her.”

Gator hums with content, and before you could answer back, he continues, “Stuffed baby giraffes are difficult to find, you know?” he chuckles, his hand sensing the table to grab the sculpture, pulling it closer to him.

“I never found one to give to you,” your heart swells with his confession, “so I made you one.”

You look stunned from Gator to the sculpture he is sliding towards you. It’s not perfect, but it is indeed a giraffe, a baby one. It even has a shorter ossicone. Your silence is broken by an amused chuckle that leaves your mouth. You hover the piece of art with your hand with hesitation, afraid to touch it, and break it, and upset Gator, and lose him again, and-

“It’s yours, Ginger,” Gator cuts your spiraling, forcing you to look at him. His tone is kind, tender. “Touch it. I made it for you.” And with that, he holds your wrist, smiling wider when he feels the bracelets he gave you there, and lands your hand over Miss Long Neck.

Your breath catches at the touch of his calloused hands on your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. But when you finally touch the giraffe, your heart aches and your eyes sting. He fucking remembers that silly stuffed baby giraffe you had when you were 10 years old, something from 20 years ago.

You remain speechless, not trusting your voice to say anything else. You run your fingers through the sculpture with such care, feeling the shape of his finger that stayed there. The beautiful and perfect imperfections. And the fucking shorter ossicone.

“I can’t believe you remember her,” you chuckle weakly, looking at Gator.

His features soften even more when he hears the emotion in your voice. He searches for your hand, seeking to comfort you. He is rubbing your knuckle when he speaks again.

“I still have my alligator in my room here,” he confesses, and you see the blush spreading on his face.

“No way!” you chuckle lightly now, making him smile. “You still have Leather?” you ask beamingly. “By the way, what a dark name to give to a fucking stuffed animal, Gator,” you laugh loudly.

He laughs just as carefree as you, holding your hand tighter. “Yours is Long Neck, not so original,” he squeezes your hand unconstincly, “but yeah, I still have him, but he is well hidden.”

“Yeah, because it would totally ruin your reputation of being tough, huh?” you tease, and you find yourself getting closer to him. When you realize, you shake your head and your smile fades, taking a step back again. But you refuse to let his hand go.

Gator notices some movement coming from you, but not being able to get it entirely, he undoes the furrow on his face and smiles back, “because I’m tough, it’s not just a reputation, darling.”

You can swear your heart skipped a beat and your blood pressure dropped. Darling? For fucks sake… The only thing you can do is chuckle nervously, letting go of his hand and keep it busy, holding the sculpture with both hands now. “I hope you don’t need to hide him for that long,” your voice leaves your lips a little shaky, making Gator confused, furrowing his eyebrows because of your reaction.

However, he shakes his head, focusing on telling you the big news. “Well, about that…” you turn to look at him again, finding him fighting a grin to spread on his face, “I’ll be discharged at the end of November.”

“WHAT?” you practically scream, startling him but also making him laugh. “Gator Tillman, are you serious right now?” Your voice cracks, “don’t fucking play with this.”

The emotion in your voice hits him like a punch, leaving him breathless and even dizzy. He needs to focus to answer you properly, “Dot told me last week,” his voice thick with emotions as well, “I’ll be free soon.”

“Oh my god,” you choke, and before he could process anything, you throw yourself into his arms, and he doesn't take more than a second to hold you back by your middle.

You wrap your arms around his neck, making him snuggle against the crook of your neck. You both cry into each other’s arms. He fists your lab coat as a lifeline, clinging to you, pressing you two as close as possible.

The cry you are sharing is not just about him being released from jail, but also some kind of promise. A promise to meet again out of this facility, in the real world. A promise to continue something that a bad decision in the past pulled apart.

“How are you feeling, bud?” asks Willow, one of Gator’s bags over his shoulder while his hand rests on his shoulder. Gator walks with the help of the guidance path with his cane.

“Nervous as shit,” Gator chuckles, indeed nervous, his voice shaky and a little emotional. Willow squeezes his shoulder in compassion, nudging his side. “Don’t forget the party next week, okay? Dot will kill me if you don’t show up.”

Willow chuckles, “I’ll be there, I promise.”

They pass the bars from the entrance of the facility to get to the reception, and Gator notices how Willow’s breath hitches; he also feels his grip around his shoulder getting tighter for a fraction of a second.

Gator turns his head towards Willow while he hears someone standing up, probably from some chair somewhere by his side, and when he is about to ask what happened…

“Hey, Gatorade.”

His head snaps towards your direction, his mouth opening in an o. Chocked, surprised. He chuckles waterly, dropping the bag over his shoulder on the floor by his feet, and walking with his cane towards you.

Faster than he thought, mostly because you walked towards him as well, your bodies crash. He drops his cane on the floor, being quickly picked up by Willow.

His hands are spread across your back, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. You hold him by his neck, his face buried at the crook of your neck, sobbing against it, tightening the grip around you.

The glasses get crooked on his face, and he quickly takes them off and tucks them into the front pockets of his pants, wrapping his arm around you again, pulling you even closer.

You cradle the back of his neck while you cry with him, his bigger body shaking against your smaller one.

“You are a free man now, Gator,” you say between your sobs, tightening the grip at the back of his neck. “You are free now.”

Gator cries harder, almost fusing you into his body. “Yes, I am,” he agrees between sobs, a mix of shock from your presence there and the relief and sense of freedom.

When you push away from each other, you two chuckle waterly. You wipe the tears from under his glasses, his hands holding your wrists, trying to ground himself, but also not wanting to let you go.

“Where is Dot?” his voice is waterly still.

“At home,” you state, just as emotional as him, “I talked to her and offered to pick you up.”

“Are you for real?” he chuckles, his voice thick with emotions, “you came here just to pick me up?”

“I don’t get the surprise,” you chuckle back, your eyes stinging, “I might not be your art therapist anymore, but it doesn't mean I don't have a bond with you,” you poke his nose playfully despite yourself, making him startle slightly and giggle just after, “besides, I thought we were best friends.”

“Fuck yeah we are!” he laughs while holding your middle and lifting you in the air, making you cackle. When he puts you on the floor again, his hands linger around your waist. “Come to the Lyons' Thanksgiving next week.”

“Are you for real?” you chuckle, amused.

“You and this fucking habit of questioning every fucking thing I tell you,” he laughs, “of course I’m for real, dumbass,” and he receives a punch on his shoulder from you, laughing louder. “This is harassment, you know?”

“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, making him laugh along with you. Fuck… He is fucked.

Willow looks at the two of you with the biggest and proudest smile on his face while signing Gator’s discharge papers; he can’t wait to see you two together next week.

Gator is chatting with Scotty by the couch in the living room when the doorbell rings. Gator snaps his head towards the sound, automatically standing up. He soothes himself by running his hands through his hair. Scotty chuckles from their place on the couch, looking at how nervous Gator is, knowing he would deny it if asked. While Gator pulls his collar and fixes his perfect glasses on his face, he hears Dorothy walking towards the front door, and when she opens it…

“Oh my god," Dot greets with such joy, "you two are so beautiful! Hello sweeties!”

You two? You and Willow came together? 

Gator’s heart begins to beat fast, and his mind starts to spiral. You and Willow? Yeah, of course you and Willow. How stupid of him to think that it would be different just because now that he is free-

"Hey, Gatorade,” he is brought back to the present when you hold your arms around his neck, greeting him with a caring hug. He was so out of reality that he didn't even hear you and Willow entering the house and going towards him.

Besides his brain full of insecurity, he hugs you tightly, painfully letting you go and greeting Willow just next. He is not mad at his friend; how could Gator be? Willow is great.

Gator hears you two greeting Scotty by his side, and he smiles despite himself, because seeing you all getting along means a lot to him. After doing the introductions, you four head to the kitchen.

You hold Gator's hand to guide him towards the new room. He holds your hand tightly, like a lifeline, trying to ignore the possibility of you holding Willow’s hand with your other hand.

In the kitchen, all the Lyons are there doing something for the upcoming dinner. You are introduced to all of the remaining members, and Gator unconsciously totally ignores that no one mentions you and Willow as being together, with Gator still spiraling on his own insecurity.

Later, you chat with Lorraine for a while while Gator talks with Willow, but his attention always drifts back to you. He hears Lorraine saying that he is going to work with her at the beginning of the next year.

Gator will train the new security guards she is about to hire. He was really good with tactical-related stuff, he hears Lorraine say to you, and he can’t help but smile proudly, his chest warming with recognition about his hard work as a deputy in the past.

Some hours later, while Gator is helping Scotty by the counter with some juice for the dinner that is being prepared, he hears you and Willow chatting a little afar from him. 

You are laughing along with him, and jealousy and even more insecurity spread inside of him just as hard as before. He can’t hear what you both are talking about, but just hearing you being carefree like this with Willow makes his heart ache and his eyes sting. 

However, beyond good sense, he is totally ignoring that you laugh even more when you are with him, that you are way more comfortable around him. You were like this at the facility, and now that you two don’t have some institutional shit between the two of you, you are even more yourself with him.

He takes a step back to escape from this nightmare, wanting to go to his room to put his head in place, but ends up stepping on Wayne with his back, who drops the plates he was holding while heading to the kitchen table. 

The loud sound of the ceramic shattering makes the room go quiet. Gator excuses himself, apologizing to Wayne. He sprints to his room down the hallway, stumbling against the wall because of the speed he is going. 

Everyone in the room exchanges looks, and you are even more confused about what happened. Your heart is racing; you excuse yourself too and follow Gator’s steps.

You walk quietly down the hallway, your ears sharpening, trying to hear any sound that might come from his room. When you get to his door, you knock gently against it. Knock knock.

“Gator?” you call him kindly, your ear close to the door, “It’s me… Can I come in?”

You wait around five seconds, but after waiting with no response back, you realize your question was hypothetical, because you are already turning the knob to enter his room. When you open it, slowly, trying your best not to scare him from where he might be, you see him sitting on the edge of his bed. 

His back is facing you. He is bending over his body, elbows on his knees, both of his hands intertwined at the back of his neck. You can even notice his body moving, and when you shut the door behind you and start walking slowly towards him, you see it’s his leg bouncing out of anxiety, probably.

“Gator?” you call him quietly again, but a little worried. When you reach the opposite side of the bed across from him, you stop, uncertain whether you should get closer or not, afraid to suffocate him. 

“Is everything okay? What happened?”

“It’s everything okay,” he uses your name, not Ginger, and this makes you a little suspicious, and you even notice his voice cracks. “Go back there,” he straightens up, taking his glasses off and wiping the tears aggressively from his face.

“That’s why you are crying, then? Because everything is okay?”

Gator scoffs bitterly, putting his glasses back on and tilting his head in your direction. His hands are on each side of his hips at the bed. “Don’t worry about me, I don’t want to steal you from Willow.”

You furrow your eyes at this sentence, confused as hell. You even take a couple of seconds to find the right words to say something back, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You were having so much fun together,” he says bitterly, even a little angry, the smile on his face not friendly at all, “don’t want to ruin it for you two.”

You scoff with disbelief, stepping closer, incredulous, “Are you seriously jealous, Gator?” You chuckle, shocked, “of Willow?” you say it like it’s the most stupid thing ever, something you can’t even comprehend as a possibility.

“I’m not jealous,” he chuckles back, trying to sound as convincing as possible, and failing miserably, “I just don’t want to ruin what you are building together.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You are so confused and starting to grow angry. “We were talking, Gator! I can’t talk with another friend of mine without you becoming all mean and insecure?”

Gator clenches his jaw, turning his face away from you, grabbing the sheets under his hands out of anger. “You are living a pretty good life without me around. And Willow is a fucking great guy. An amazing professional too…”

His tone is calmer, but you notice how much pain Gator is in just by the way he talks. “Don’t let me stop you from living a good life, Ginger,” his voice cracks. “I’ll be coming there soon. Go be with Willow.”

You can’t even comprehend what Gator is saying. When you are trying to make sense of all that nonsense of him, he speaks again, and your heart aches.

“Every time that I saw you during those years,” the pain is still audible in his voice as he speaks, “it was a mix of feelings,” he starts to confess, “It was mostly pain, but also relief, because you would be able to have a beautiful life where a shithead like me was not on your way.”

“Gate…” you say his name sweetly, but with pain as well, a lump in your throat.

“Don’t Gate me,” he says your name angrily, “please.” It’s painful, bitter. He stands up from the bed, walking away from you as he speaks, “I always was an asshole, since we were younger, so making you free of me was a blessing afterward.”

“A blessing?” you say angrily, incredulous, walking towards him, “Gator, you were always the light of my da-”

“Bullshit,” he says bitterly, but not because he really believes what he is saying, but because he can’t believe what you are saying.

“Bullshit?” you scoff, angrier. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me, Gator Tillman,” you confess, loud sobs appearing in your throat.

You start moving your arms with irritation as you continue, “I was left without ground when you told me to go away,” you get closer to him, “do you remember what you said to me that day?” you chuckle sarcastically. “You said-.”

“I said that you were being a pain in my ass and that you were annoying as hell,” he cuts you off, turning to your direction, saying as loud and angry as you, but with a bigger dose of regret and shame, “and that you should never go after me again,” his breath is shaky, just like his hands.

“Yeah, I remember it,” he spills it with so much shame from himself, “I remember every. single. fucking. word I told you that day,” he breathes a couple of times heavily while you stay speechless. 

“I repeated that fucking day over in over in my head for years, Ginger,” he cries angrily, “as a way to deal with the fact that I was always a piece of shit and that you deserved someone way better than me,” he chuckles sarcastically, hitting his chest angrily, “because I always knew that I didn't deserve you,” he confesses with so much pain that your head spins.

“You deserve someone like Willow,” he chuckles humorlessly, tears running down his face, “a fucking good guy, with a fuckling clean record, an ethical professional,” he sobs painfully, “just like you.”

“You-” he gasps, breathless, heartbroken, “you were always in my mind, Ginger,” he says painfully, “my mom, Dot, and you showed me what love looks and sounds like,” he cracks, “and I thought-” he gasps for air, sobbing, “I thought that losing them would mean that I would lose you too.” 

Gator sobs uncontrollably, tears running down his face uncontrollably, “and I would not be able to live if you left me as they did,” he feels dizzy, stepping back to the dresser behind him to support himself, “it was so selfish at first, but as the time passed, I saw the shit of a man I turned into.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, wiping his tears under his sunglasses. “And at the end of the day,” he sobs shakily, “even if I ended up mourning losing you,” he confesses, “you being away from me was the best thing I did to you.”

“Fuck you, Gator,” you say with your voice low, but full of hurt and anger. He snaps his head up toward you. “Fuck you!” you say louder, sobbing, pointing a finger at him, even though he can’t see it. 

“Best thing you did to me?” you scoff bitterly, poking your chest, walking towards him. “It was my worst nightmare coming true, Gator!” you scream at him, making him flinch, bumping into the dresser behind him.

“There wasn’t a day I didn't cry over you,” you poke his chest painfully, sobbing angrily, “there wasn’t a fucking day I didn’t think about you,” you confess sadly, pacing around, moving your hands vaguely energetically, “there wasn’t a fucking. single. day I didn't think about what I have done to you for you to hate me that much,” you run your hands through your hair.

You stop for a while, gripping the footboard of the bed in front of you, taking a deep breath to calm yourself, and pressing a hand to your forehead. “You were my fucking world, Gator,” you confess between painful whimpers, your voice lower. You turn to face him. “You were my everythi-” your voice cracks, unable to finish, sobbing uncontrollably.

You both stay silent for a while; only your heavy breaths can be heard, along with remaining sobs. Then you break the silence with something not much louder than a whisper: “I was planning to confess my feelings to you that week.”

“What?” Gator is breathless, shocked. He feels his chest aching, his head spinning.

You chuckle in disbelief, crying a little more and bitterly, leaning your side against the footboard, looking at him. “I loved you, Gator,” you confess with such sadness, “with my full heart,” you sob, looking away, unable to look at him.

“I really thought you liked me too,” you chuckle sadly, wiping away the tears. “But guess I was wrong, apparently,” you chuckle humorlessly.

“You were not wrong,” he says your name with the same painful tone as you, forcing you to look back at him. He takes a step forward, reluctantly, “I was just too stupid and scared to deal with it-”

“That’s okay, Gator,” you cut him off, looking away again, wiping the remaining tear, “it was a long time ago,” you dismiss, the pain is too much for you to bear now, “we were just kids,” you chuckle waterly, sadly, “it’s not like we feel the same now anyway…” it’s so painful to say it that it almost doesn’t leave your lips on how big this lie is.

“Tell for yourself, Ginger,” his face is marked with pain, a lump in his throat, “because I am as madly in love with you as I was when we were 15.”

You snap your head towards him, in shock, breathless. “What?”

“I never stopped loving you, Ginger,” he confesses with his full heart, “and since that first day you showed up in that fucking art therapy room,” he takes a shaky breath, “it was like those years apart never happened.”

You freeze, staring at him. Gator can’t see you, but he sees how the silence lands heavily, insecurity growing stronger inside of him. 

“Just forget about it, okay?” he chuckles, turning his body away, one hand on the dresser while the other fists his hair. “What the hell was I thinking?” he chuckles bitterly while talking to himself, “I was a fucking prisoner when we met again, what the hell was I thinking?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh c’mon Ginger!” he chuckles bitterly, snapping his head towards you, “You are fucking incredible,” he says breathless, in disbielef, “you went to college, have a stable job,” he counts on his fingers, “you are the nicest person I have ever met,” his voice cracks, “and the most beautiful soul ever,” he finishes breathless, “you are too much of a woman to me, Ginger,” he chuckles weakly, “you always was… That’s why you should be with Willow, not me.”

“Gator…” you say kindly, painfully.

“Please don't,” he chuckles sadly, extending his arm to you, his hand sighing you to stop, “I don’t need pity, I’m a grown ass fucking man and I-”

“Can you just shut the fuck up for once, Gator Tillman?” you cut him, frustration growing inside you. “God, you always think you have everything figured out, don’t you?” You chuckle in disbelief, slightly angry. “I could not care less about Willow, Gator! I don’t give a fuck about him!”

Gator stays speechless, his chest rising and falling, what you take as a clue to keep going, “I’m in love with you too, Gator. I never stopped loving you,” you take a deep shaken breath, trying not to sob again, “I would even say that falling more deeply in love with you this past year showed me that sweetness and kindness always fitted in you,” you add gentler, “it was just the world trying to corrupt you.”

“Don’t say that, Ginger,” he says, breathless, both hands gripping the edge of the dresses behind him, his back leaning back against it, “don’t say things like that unless you mean them, please.”

“I mean every single one of them, Gator,” you say, just as breathless as him.

“But why?” He pulls himself from the dresser, confused, but his voice is full of hope. “Why…” He tries to find the right words.

“Why do I love you?” you complete in disbelief. “As I said, you are the kindest person ever, Gatorade.” You both chuckle a little shyly and waterly. “You are a caregiver, always were,” Gator takes a shaky breath. “You always treated animals and children so well.”

“You were always so damn brave, Gatorade,” you say so fondly that he feels himself being pulled towards you, walking slowly towards you, “and even afraid, you always took initiative to do what you had to do.”

“You are extremely loyal as well,” Gator swallows dryly, taking another step towards you, being guided only by your voice. “You would die for the people you care for and love the most.” He takes another step forward, making you swallow dryly now.

“You may not always be good with words, but you were always a good listener,” you chuckle weakly when he takes another step towards you, only two apart, “and you always showed, at least with actions, when you cared and loved for someone. You would do anything to make the ones you love safe.”

Gator stops a step away from you, you both facing each other, both hearts hammering in your chests. “That’s why I love you, Gator,” you take a shaky breath, “that’s why I’ve always loved you,” you confess breathless, just a little above a whisper.

“Ginger,” he says so quietly. He extends his hand, hovering over your shoulder until he places his hand there. He slides his hand down your arm, and you feel goosebumps appearing where his fingers were.

Gator goes from your arm to your waist, his hand trembling as he holds you there. He takes a short step forward, pulling you closer, your chests meeting, your faces so close you can feel each other’s breath.

He lifts his other hand to your shoulder, and with his fingertips, he goes through your neck, making you shiver down your spine, up to your face, cupping your cheek, rubbing your cheekbone.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily, and Gator senses you leaning into his touch. He presses your foreheads together, his thumb rubbing your waist as well.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, breathless against your lips, his hot breath hitting you.

“Please, don't,” you beg, and just after a painful whimper leaves his lips along with your name, he crashes his lips against yours.

Both of you groan at the back of your throats; his hand goes to your hair, gripping its roots, while his other hand wraps around your middle, pressing your chest against his.

Your hands go instinctively to his waist, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pressing your bodies together, trying to reduce any space left between the two of you.

You feel his glasses crooking in his face. “Stupid glasses,” he murmurs under his breath, pulling away from you just enough to take his glasses off and toss them at the bed behind you, coming back to kiss you even more eagerly, his hand cradling the back of your head.

Gator tilts your head to deepen the kiss, both of your lips opening to crash your tongues together. You whimper against each other's mouths. Not just from the desire of the moment, but from all these years. The years you loved one another when you were just friends, when you were just kids who knew nothing about love, only that what you couldn't get at home, you got when you were with each other.

This kiss is one full of wait and love being spilled from all the years of longing, and years apart because fear separated you from each other. You both pull back because you both startle when you hear a knock on the door, and it opens just after, “The dinner is ready, swee- oh!”

Dot smiles warmly by the door at the scene in front of her. Gator’s hand is still on your waist, holding you as if he is afraid of you disappearing, while his other hand runs through his hair, facing down. You have your back facing the door, your hands still fisting his shirt, trying to ground yourself.

Both of you are panting slightly, out of breath, cheeks flushed with puffy lips, and your hair is a little messy. “Thanks, Dot,” Gator says back with a husky voice, clearing his throat just next, “we’ll be down in a minute,” he smiles shyly.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she smiles fondly at you two, “it was about time already,” she giggles, “I’ll let you be,” she closes the door, leaving you two alone again.

You laugh nervously, covering your mouth, being followed just after by Gator chuckling, “Perfect timing.”

“She always had this superpower,” he adds to your observation, laughing. He slides his hand up your waist to up your face, tucking your hair in your face behind your ear. 

He leans forward and kisses your forehead, lingering for a second before pulling back. “Now c’mon, I don’t want you to eat a cold dinner.”

When you both get to the kitchen, no one is looking at you with mischief, or giggling, or teasing. They are just existing.

Lorraine and Wayne glance at you, calling you to sit at the table, and the fact that they don’t have a reaction when they see your hands are intertwined makes you wonder that this, you and Gator, was inevitable, and it was just a matter of time indeed.

Scotty pull a chair by their side, calling you to sit there. You smile fondly and pull Gator to sit at your other side. Across from the table, Willow sits and smiles softly at you two, making your heart ache even more.

The dinner is comfortable, friendly, warm, really family-like. Something that neither you nor Gator are used to have, so living this, and with one another, means a lot to you two.

They ask about you, your job, your likes and dislikes, your college. And during all this, Gator can’t take his hand off of you. His hand rests on your thigh all dinner. It’s not possessive, not lustful. It’s actually grounding, natural. You intertwine your fingers with his at some point during the evening, rubbing the knuckles on his hands, and he seems unable to stop smiling like a fool for the rest of the night.

It wasn't what you had planned at all, but after dinner, you ended up agreeing on spending the night wth the Lyons. So you say goodbye to Willow, hugging him tightly by the front door.

“I’m really glad that you two stopped being fools and are together now,” he confesses into your ears, making you grin widely and blush hard. When he hugs Gator to farewell, he must have said something similar, because Gator is red as a pepper.

Since it is really late already, everyone says their goodnight and heads to their respective rooms. Dot lends you some of her clothes for you to use to sleep for the night, and when the house is quiet again, you find yourself at Gator’s room again.

“What did Willow tell you?” you chuckle, putting the clothes over the dresser.

Gator chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair, sitting at the edge of the bed, facing you. “He, huh,” he clears his throat, “he told me to use protection.”

You choke with air, burning from embarassement, while Gator laughs at your reaction. “He even gave me a condom,” he lifts it in the air, and you get even redder, while you press you lthighs together.

“And what you intend to do with it?” You don’t know where this boldness came from. Maybe from the heat that is spreading from your core up to your body. Gator freezes. His brain curtcirtiut, and you see him getting nervous and speechless. 

This. This makes you even wetter. It’s his shyness all of a sudden. His nervousness about being with you like that. And you know he wants this; a bulge growing in his pants doesn't hide it. And before you could make any funny comment about him stunned like that, he stands up slowly, a little unsure, and slowly walks towards you.

You are not so far apart, so in just a few steps he is close to you. With trembling hands, the condom no longer in view, he cages you against the dresser, one hand on each side of your hips.

His breath is a little uneven, and, a little worried, you rest your hands on his hips, squeezing them, trying to ground him. When you touch him, his head resting against yours, forehead with forehead.

“I don’t want this to be rushed, Ginger,” his voice leaves his lips a little husky, just above a whisper. His grip on the wardrobe tightens, his knuckles turning white.

“Me neither, Gate,” you confess, his shoulder dropping, and a sigh of relief leaving his lips. 

His hands leave the furniture and rest on your hips. “Good,” his voice is low, “because I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You won’t,” you reassure him quickly, your hands going up to his shoulder, nuzzling your nose to his. He laughs through his nose, nuzzling back.

Gator slides his hands up to your waist, caressing you through your shirt. “I’ve dreamed about having you like this for so many years” his voice is low, husky, “mine… Not only my best friend,” he swallows a lump, “but as my… as my girl.”

“So I’m your girl now, Gator Tillman?” you tease slightly, your fingers rubbing the hair at the back of his neck now.

“I would like you to, honestly,” he confesses, pulling away. He slides his hands up until it reaches your cheek, cupping it, rubbing your cheekbone.

You lean into his touch, watching his expressions, how soft his face is turning, how his smile is tender on his lips. He says your name sweetly, with so much affection that your chest aches. “Would you be my girlfriend?”

“Of course I would, Gator,” you answer just as sweet as he asked. His smile is so wide that it hurts, and without wasting any more time, he pulls you to a tender kiss, sealing this new stage of your relationship.

He holds you by your middle, his free arm pressing your body against his, and your back arches when he presses you against the dresser. You pull him closer, pulling him by his neck, deepening the kiss.

He tilts your head by holding your jaw, pressing his tongue against your lower lip. Your mouth parts for him, and your tongues crash; he hums content at the back of his throat.

Stepping back towards the bed, his hand goes to your hair, tangling at its roots. When the back of his knees hit the bed, he slowly turns you and carefully lays you on the bed, holding you by your middle, without breaking the kiss.

Letting go of your hair, he holds you and places you on his pillows. Your head rests against fluffiness, him hovering over you. One of his forearms rests beside your head, preventing him from pressing his whole weight on you. He kisses you with such passion, tongues together, no rush, just savoring one another.

His other hand is on your waist, his fingers spread at its curve, squeezing it every time you move beneath him. Your hands are on his shoulder, sliding slowly up to his hair. You tangle your fingers there when he starts dry humping you. You part your legs for him to settle better between them.

You feel how hard he is for you, and you both moan quietly and breathe heavily against each other, the kiss becoming more intense. His hand on your waist slides to your thigh, grabbing it and putting it around his waist. His hand stays there, his finger digging into your skin even over your pants. 

His thrusts are not rushed. They take their time. His hips roll against your core, applying pressure for a second, then rolling again. It’s intoxicating, addictive.

You spend quite a while like that, savoring each other, taking your time to memorise every single part of you. The shape of the lips. The responsiveness. The sounds you make. The way your touch feels. The taste you have.

“Gate?” you call him quietly between moans.

“Yeah?” he moans in response, pressing your foreheads together while rolling his hips against your core over and over again.

“Can I see you?” you ask quietly, and you see his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Your eyes,” you clarify. “Can I see them?”

His thrusts fail, and his breath catches. He pulls back, his hand on your thigh squeezing harder, but now from insecurity, fear.

“What? Why?” he asks, a little scared, and you cup his face with both your hands, and he shudders into your touch, leaning into it. His glasses crooked on his face.

“Because I want to see all of you,” you confess, and his breath hitches, leaning even more into your touch.

“It’s ugly, Ginger…” you see how embarrassed he feels, how his voice is low, just above a whisper.

“Nothing on you is ugly, Gator,” you caress his cheek, “you could never be ugly.”

“Ginger…” It’s painful, but you see the reluctance in his tone.

“Trust me, Gate. Do you trust me?” he nods too quickly, too eager. It’s not just him wanting to reassure his trust in you, but also his deep desire to be bare to you. Soul bare.

So you slowly and carefully let go of his face and hold the arms of his glasses. You notice how nervous he is, how much he is fighting his urge to pull away. You pull the glasses off his face completely, and without really thinking, he turns his head away from you.

You place them at the nightstand, and you hold his face, turning him to you. You cup both of his cheeks and rub his cheeks. You look at his eyes, how full of scars they are, and you can’t even imagine how much pain he must have gone through.

So, slowly, to not scare him away, you pull him down and press feather-like but tender kisses over each scar there. You can feel him shaking under your hands, how his breath is heavy, and how nervous he is.

“So beautiful,” you whisper against his lips, kissing him softly and gently, your hands tangling on his hair to pull him closer. He whimpers against your mouth, melting into your kiss. He was never called beautiful before. Not like that. Never like that.

You saw the worst part in him, and you still chose to call him beautiful? And it’s not just the scars and his blindness. It’s his past. The crimes he committed. The years he spent in prison. The way he pushed you away. Even after all that, you came back… Came back to him. Like he is worthy of getting love.

With trembling hands, he holds the hem of your blouse, and he hears you lifting your arms for him, and he pulls your blouse off slowly. He doesn't want to rush it at all.

When the blouse is in his hands, letting you shirtless and bare, he tosses it away somewhere and pulls himself up from the bed, his hands supporting his weight.

“Can I touch you?” his voice is fragile, scared, but so very respectful. “I can’t see you,” he swallows a lump in his throat, trying not to get too emotional, “but I can still feel you… Can I?” It’s like a plea, a blessing he is asking you to concede for him.

“Of course, Gate.” He whimpers with your permission, your voice as sweet as the sweetest candy. 

He starts slowly by your face, cupping your face, roaming the curve of your cheek, the shape of your ear, nose, lips. His touch is feather-like, reverent. You notice his eyebrows furrowed, how focused he seems to be, like he is trying to memorize you.

He runs his fingers through your jaw, your chin, then down your neck. He grins so widely when he feels the choker he gave you for Christmas resting against your neck, his heartbeat racing. He continues his journey; he learns the curve of you, how your neck connects with your shoulders, then your collarbone.

His hands slide down your arms, slowly, learning the thickness of them, how the texture of your elbow and inside of it is. When he gets to your wrist, he chuckles waterily when he feels the bracelet he gave to you as well.

He studies your fingers one by one from both hands, at the end lifting them to his lips, kissing each one of them with such reverence that you feel dizzy. "You are so gorgeous," he confesses just a little over a whisper, totally awed by you, breathless.

Gator kisses one of your arms up, taking his sweet time. He kisses and worships every single piece of you with open-mouthed kisses, leaving goosebumps behind. When he gets to your shoulder, he pulls himself up again, his hands now running down your chest.

His fingertips travel down through your cleavage. Goosebumps start to show on your body, your nipples getting hard from it. His breath hitches as well, his hands becoming slightly shaky too.

He slides down to your belly button, smiling to himself, until the waistband of your pants. He swallows hard at the idea of taking them off soon. He traces your hip bone, up to your waist, squeezing it lightly, making you both chuckle with expectation, but also from nervousness.

At your ribs, both of his hands rub them, one on each side. And slowly goes up, getting to the bottom curve of your breasts, and now it’s your breath that hitches.

He follows the curve of them until he gets to the top, going down towards your nipples. And he whines quietly when he finds them hard. He rubs them under his thumb lightly, and his head spins when he hears your little moans in response.

He feels your back arching for him, so with one hand he cups your breast, rubbing your nipple, and with the other he rests his forearm aside his face to be able to suck the other one. You moan sweetly when his wet mouth capsulates your hard nipple. His tongue circles it while he hums against you. Your hand goes to his hair, grounding yourself.

And he takes his sweet time, savoring you. After a couple of minutes, he switches, mouthing the other nipple, and with the previous one being wet now, the friction against it is even more delicious. You even hold his hair a little tighter, while gripping the sheets at the bed until your knuckles turn white.

He kisses you up slowly after a while. In your collarbone, he kisses it open-mouthed, your fingers rubbing his scalp, making him groan against your skin. He licks, nips, suckes, kisses, but so tenderly. He is worshipping and memorizing you, and he is going to take his sweet time with you.

He kisses up to your neck, leaving light marks that will vanish the next morning. When he gets to your ear, he breathes heavily and hot against it, sending a shiver down your spine, making you moan shakily. The husky and smug chuckle he gives into your ear does interesting things to your underwear.

He kisses your jaw, your chin, your cheek, then he cups your face and kisses you with passion. Your tongues meet at the same time his lips meet yours, an inseparable duo by now.

His other hand roams your body with such tenderness that you think your heart will explode. After a couple of minutes, his hands run down the waistband of your pants.

“Can I take them off?” You nod quickly, eagerly, and he cuckles boyishly against your lips. He gives you a lingering peck before pulling up.

You lift your hips for him, and he carefully takes your pants off, tossing them somewhere not important. And then he starts with your feet. He plays with your toes a little just to hear your giggle. With his own giggle fading down slowly, he runs his fingertips from your feet to your heels, then scarf and knees.

In your thighs, he spreads his hands wide against them and slowly, feather-like, slides them up your thighs. He can feel the goosebumps appearing under his touch, and he smugly smiles to himself.

When he gets to your hips, he holds you there properly. His fingers spread on his grip, making you gasp. He rubs your hipbone with his thumbs, then he hooks two fingers at the lace of your underwear. He swallows hard, “Can I?”

“Yes,” your voice is quiet, just above a whisper, but he can hear the need in your voice.

You lift your hips for him, and he slowly slides them down your legs. When they pass your feet, he brings your panties to his face, taking a deep smell of them. His head spins, and a painful groan leaves his mouth. “Fuck, you smell amazing,” he confesses in a whisper.

Gator throws your panties away as well, and holds your feet, kissing up from there until your core. He takes his precious time, licking your body, open mouth kissing you up.

He settles between your legs, resting your legs over his shoulders, holding you by the back of your thighs. He kisses your knees and up to your inner thigh, then to your groin. You whine with need, and with all of his mercy, he kisses where you need him the most.

He makes out with your pussy, wet, dripping for him. He licks from your entrance to your clit, mixing his saliva with your arousal. You moan sweetly, one hand on his hair and the other gripping the sheets while he hums with contentment against your core.

“You taste so good,” his confession sounds muffled against your pussy, but it vibrates up your body, the heat spreading through your body.

You look down at him, and you find a man who worshiped you for the last minutes with his hands, his mouth, now devouring you like you were the most delicious thing in the world, which for him it’s entirely true. His face is shining with fluids from you and him, and he doesn't seem bothered at all; the opposite, actually, his favorite spot to be, for sure.

After some long minutes, he presses his tongue flat against your clit, moving it and sending jolts of pleasure up your body. The build is progressive. Gator is consistent, and this helps the heat to spread from your core up your body.

“Gat-,” you whine between a moan, an attempt to warn him.

“I know, I got you,” he responds.

When you come, first your toes curl, and your legs lock. Your back arches off the mattress and his name leaves your lips in a strangled moan. You squeeze your eyes shut while heat spreads from your back to your face, moaning more freely as you continue to come.

You whine through the aftershock, and he takes good care of you. He doesn't stop, but slows down. When your legs start to get shaky and start to hurt from overstimulation, you pull him by his hair away from your core.

With you breathless against the pillow, he takes your legs off his shoulders, letting you spread to settle between your legs. He crawls up to you, hovering over you, and kissing you tenderly. You taste yourself on his tongue, the wetness from his face passing to yours, and you couldn't care less. The smell of your sex makes you dizzy.

After some minutes, you grab the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms for you to take it off. You toss the shirt away and press your hand against his sternum, keeping him up for you to watch him.

With both hands, your fingertips roam his bare torso. His neck, his shoulders, down his biceps, forearms. At his hands, you rub his knuckles, making a fragile smile appear on his face.

When your fingers go back up to his shoulder, you see goosebumps on his arms and chest, making you smile to yourself. You run your fingertips down his sternum, his stomach, belly button, happy trail, and V lines. You feel and see his muscles tensing under your touch, and his dick twitching inside his pants, a huge bulge showing how much he wants it, and you get wetter just by the vision of him like that to you. 

With your fingers, you run up to his chest, then down again, noticing how Gator shudders at your touch. When you get to his waistband, he hears you taking off his belt, and he swallows nervously. You toss it away as well.

You zip down his pants, and your hands go under them, but above his underwear. You don't take your eyes off him, so you see when he whimper when you touch him like that.

You stroke him over his underwear, his hard dick pulsing against your hand. He thrusts against your hand by impulse, unconsciously. You chuckle with affection, seeing how needy he is for you. You stroke him a few more times, then with both hands you start to pull down his pants and briefs. He lets you until you set him free.

When you pull his boxers down, his dick snaps against his stomach. You salivate at the view, holding him and giving a few strokes. He whimpers, throwing his head back.

You rub your thumb over its tip, spreading the pre cum around it. You stroke him up and down with the right pressure, and you watch how he thrusts into your hand without meaning to.

“Please, doll,” he whines, the pet name slipping from his lips without him even noticing. Heat rushes to your cheeks; what is ironic is that you are blushing with a pet name, and not with what you are doing right now. “Let me have you, please.”

With such a sweet request, you agree. You let go of him, and already missing you around him, he takes the condom off his back pocket and strips the rest of his clothes off.

He tosses them somewhere, and with trembling hands, he rips the plastic, taking the condom off and sliding down his length. He settles himself properly between your legs, with one forearm resting beside your head, and the other one holding him on your entrance.

Gator rubs its head against your folds, and you both groan, needy. He presses his forehead against yours, placing the head on your entrance, and pulling inside slowly.

You moan with the stretch of him inside of you. With his hand free now, he intertwines your hand with his, placing it at the other side of your head. He slides inside you until balls deep on you. Both your breaths are heavy, hot breath against each other’s mouth.

“You okay, doll?” he asks a little concerned, nuzzling his nose to yours.

“Yeah, babe,” you say with a light moan, nodding, nuzzling back.

Gator feels your walls taking him so well that his head spins. He starts moving slowly, in and out. It burns at the beginning, but you quickly get used to him, and you two start to moan against each other.

His thrusts become deeper, the pace is more comfortable, less torturous. His tip heats the perfect spot inside of you. He holds your hand tighter, his face resting at the crook of your neck, moaning against your skin, resonating straight to your core.

Your free hand is tangled on his hair. He pulls away from your neck and kisses you. It’s sloppy, wet, clumsy, teeth hitting teeth. Your walls start to tight around him, and he can feel that you are close. His thrusts become more erratic now too. You both are close, you can feel him pulsing inside of you.

He says your name with such awe, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he repeats with each thrust.

“I love you too, Gator, I love you so much” you whine when you come again. Your climax is stronger now, just like your moans are louder. He kisses you, swalloing the sweet, lovingly sounds you are making.

Your fingers tighten the grip around his hair, but this just adds to Gator's orgasm. While kissing you, your walls tighten more, and one, two, three more thrusts, and then he comes, pressing himself deep inside of you.

He whines against your mouth. He cups your face and kiss you deeply, both of you come with tears running down your cheeks. Even with his body shaky, his rolls his hips against yours slowly, not willing for this to end.

You ruined it for him. But since the beginning of it all you ruined it, let’s be fair. He just had the confirmation you are the love of his life. You are the one who showed him that he deserves to be loved, that he is worthy of such thing.

At the end of the day, he is what he was afraid he would never be. A winner. Just by having you.

Note: Hey! This fanfic was way more beautiful than I thought it would be, and I'm so proud of myself for the outcome. Hope you liked it as much as I did. Gator deserved love after all the neglect and violence he got in his life, and giving it to him heals something in me. As someone myself who doesn't have a good relationship with my parents, I resonate with Gator a lot, so for the ones who resonate with him too, this was for you, for us <3

[amorieile]

THE COSMOPOLITAN METHOD ⸝⸝ oneshot

summary: According to Cosmo, two years together meant you and Steve Harrington were officially getting "too comfortable." Armed with a magazine checklist and absolutely zero mercy for your boyfriend, you spend the evening running Steve through every flirty test on the page just to watch him utterly lose his cool !

pairing: steve harrington x reader

content warnings: playful teasing, flirting, kissing, light relationship anxiety, unserious magazine advice (unserious everything really), talks about the future cs we all love that surely, mentions of canon events for plot sakes, taking superficial advice with a microscopic grain of salt (good, yes!), MDNI! 18+, smut, dry humping, groping, nipple play, fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving), unprotected p in v (do NOT do as you see pls), riding, edging, praise, teasing, dirty talk, creampie, cockwarming(?? not really, I just got tired at the end sry), always assume not betaread because I just can't read my own writing after a while I cringe myself out (</3), lmk if I missed anything!

w/c: 16.5k (way more plot than smut trust)

— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !

a/n: kinda based on a true story of me tormenting my boyfriend with a 2012 buzzfeed quiz while he fought for his life trying to understand it 😭 (strictly for comedy sakes) anyways, steve harrington taking a relationship quiz was a NEED, so watching him panic inspired this whole thing because I just know steve would treat a magazine relationship quiz like a life-or-death mission 🙂‍↕️ I hope this makes you giggle!! <3

By the time you pushed through the front door of Family Video, Hawkins had gone melty with heat.

It clung to the backs of your knees, made your lips feel tackier than they should have, and turned the parking lot outside into a flat, bright stretch of wavering air. The glass doors had been smudged by fingerprints and sunblock and whatever candy residue children carried around on summer afternoons. 

Family Video always had its own weather.

Cold at the front, stale near the horror aisle, warm and dusty by the back room where the employees pretended not to nap on slow days. You'd learned it well. The carpet had been vacuumed badly enough that one popcorn kernel still sat near the base of the New Releases shelf, and the whole place smelled of plastic cases, old cardboard, butter flavoring, and Steve’s cologne whenever he passed close enough.

You had bought the Cosmopolitan at Bradley’s Big Buy ten minutes earlier because Steve’s shift still had twenty minutes left and you had already spent enough of your life pretending to be fascinated by the same movie boxes. The magazine was glossy and ridiculous and slightly bent from being shoved into the paper bag with your gum and cherry ChapStick. Its cover promised impossible hair, dangerous romance, and a quiz that claimed it could tell you whether your boyfriend was “summer fling material or forever trouble.”

You had bought it mostly because the cashier had taken one look at the cover, looked at you, and smirked. You felt the need to spite whatever assumption they'd made.

Now, standing in Family Video with the magazine tucked under your arm, you could hear Robin before you saw her.

“No, sir,” she was saying from behind the counter, her voice flat with the kind of patience that had already been used up twice that day. “Late fees do not disappear just because you personally disagree with the passage of time.”

A man in a tucked-in polo stood on the other side of the counter, holding a tape case in both hands. “I’m saying I returned it.”

“And I’m saying I was here when you did not.”

Steve was beside her, rewinding a tape with the solemn concentration of someone performing surgery. He had one elbow propped on the counter, his Family Video vest hanging open over a striped polo, name tag slightly crooked. His hair looked good in the unfair way it always did, even after a full shift under fluorescent lights. A pencil was tucked behind his ear. You'd learned that he only did that when he was pretending to be busier than he was.

He noticed you almost immediately.

He always did, even when he tried to play it cool. His eyes lifted from the rewinder, found you near the candy display, and softened before the rest of his face caught up. For a second, his posture changed. Not much. One shoulder dropped. His mouth tilted. The pencil behind his ear slipped slightly.

“Hey, babe,” he smiled gently in his usual greeting. His gaze flicked over you quickly, not dismissive, just practiced. “You look nice.”

Then the rewinder clicked, and he looked back down.

Nice.

You stopped with one hand on the edge of the counter.

It was not the worst thing he could have said. It was not bad at all, technically. Nice was safe. Nice was warm enough to count. Nice was the kind of thing you said to someone you loved when you were also trying to remember whether The Man with One Red Shoe belonged under comedy or suspense.

But you’d spent longer than usual getting ready today.

You had changed twice before leaving, had stood in front of your mirror with one earring in and one earring out, and tried to decide whether the pink skirt was too much for a Friday night at Family Video. You had redone the front of your hair because the first attempt had gone strange in the humidity. You had put on the good perfume, the one you used sparingly because the bottle was small and because Steve always noticed when you wore it.

Or he used to.

Nice sat there now, plain and harmless, while Steve returned to his tape and Robin told the polo-shirted man she could absolutely call Keith if he wanted to experience the same answer with less eye contact.

You slid yourself onto the stool at the end of the counter and sat the magazine down.

The cover girl smiled up at you in all her glossy confidence, her lips bright, her shoulders bare, and her hair reaching heights that probably required a prayer. You flipped through pages of perfume ads, diet soda blurbs, lipstick spreads, and letters from readers who apparently, lived lives full of beach parties and emotional ultimatums.

Then, you found the article.

The “Too-Perfect” Romance: 7 Flirty Signs He’s Getting a Little Too Comfortable!

You read the title once. Then again.

A laugh pressed against your throat, but you held it in.

Steve looked up quickly anyway. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed at your quick response. “That wasn’t a nothing sound.”

You smiled with a shake of your head. “I didn’t make a sound.”

“You made a face.”

Robin’s customer finally huffed his way out of the store, muttering about principles. The bell above the door jingled after him. Robin watched him go with a dead-eyed expression, then turned toward you.

“What did you find?”

Your eyes flitted across the words of the page. “An article.”

“That’s never good.” Steve leaned over the counter, trying to see. You tilted the page away from him just as he came near.

His voice came low with curiosity.  “Why can’t I read it?”

You hummed lightly, “because you’re the subject.”

He blinked down at you, his eyes turning owl-ish at the vagueness of your words. “The subject of what?”

Robin’s mouth opened into a grin. “Oh, this is promising.”

You smoothed the magazine page with your palm and began reading silently.

You’ve made it past the two-year mark without a single major blowout, and your Friday nights are a perfectly oiled machine of movie rentals and shared pizza toppings.

You glanced up.

Steve was watching you now, tape forgotten, eyebrows drawn together. He had the expression he got when Dustin explained something too quickly and Steve was trying to decide whether he had missed an insult.

You looked back down.

Don’t get too cozy just yet! In our fast-paced eighties, there is a very fine line between a secure romance and a total relationship snooze-fest! Sometimes, when a guy knows he’s finally "won" your heart, he quietly hits the cruise control button. He might love you to pieces, but is he still trying to wow you?

Grab that gloss, lounge back on your bed, and take this quick checklist to see if your dream boy is secretly sliding into the "Comfort Trap"—and exactly how to tease him right out of it!

It was stupid. Completely stupid. Written in the breathless, bossy voice of someone who had never met Steve Harrington after midnight in a hospital waiting room, or seen him go quiet when one of the kids flinched at a loud noise, or watched him check the rearview mirror three times on the way home because caution had become part of him.

Still.

You had twenty minutes to kill.

Steve had said nice without really looking. And the article had numbered instructions. You folded the magazine back just enough to hide the page title and smiled to yourself.

Robin, who had the instincts of a person raised on chaos, took one step away from Steve.

He noticed and immediately frowned in questioning. “Why are you moving?”

Robin shrugged, her shoulders reaching the ends of her hair in doing so. “No reason.”

“That is also not a no-reason face.”

You tapped the first numbered section with your fingernail.

Steve looked between you and Robin, suddenly alert. “What’s happening?”

You kept smiling.

“Education,” you had to bite the i side of your cheek to stop from laughing outright.

───

The “Automatic” Compliment

When you spend forty-five minutes crimping your hair or putting on your absolute best pleated miniskirt, does he give you a real, jaw-dropping reaction? Or does he just look up from his car radio, smile, and say, "You look nice, babe," out of total reflex? If his praise feels like an automated recording, his eyes might be getting a little lazy.

The Solution:  Next time he says it without looking, step right into his line of sight, block his view, and playfully demand he give you three specific reasons why!

The article accused him of having lazy eyes.

You found that unfair, mostly because Steve’s eyes were not lazy. They were restless if anything. Always tracking movement. Always catching on exits and windows and whoever had just walked into a room. Even when he seemed relaxed, some part of him stayed awake, cataloging changes, and always listening for small changes.

But the article was not interested in nuance, the article clearly wanted drama. The article wanted you to step right into his line of sight and demand three specific reasons.

So, you did.

Steve had just gone back to sorting returns into piles with the kind of vague competence that would probably make Keith complain later. He held Teen Wolf in one hand and Out of Africa in the other, staring at them with open uncertainty.

“Comedy?” he muttered, his lips were pulled into a small frown as he wracked his brain for the possible answer.

“Drama,” Robin said without looking.

Steve wasn't entirely convinced, his voice turning questioning. “There’s a wolf.”

“It has feelings.”

He scoffed that, “all movies have feelings.”

Robin quickly shot back her response. “Not the ones you recommend.”

You took that moment to slip off the stool and come around the counter besides your boyfriend.

Steve saw you move, but he didn't seem to understand the danger quickly enough. He looked at you, then at the magazine on the counter, then back at you right as you stepped in front of him and blocked the shelf.

He stopped, not with suspicion, but with clear unsureness.

“Hi,” he said with a softness that made you grin on instinct. 

Steve mirrored your expression by impact and pure reflex. “Hi.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for the briefest second. “Do you need something?”

You nodded with severe certainty “Yes.”

“Okay,” Steve looked up into your eyes and his head tilted, he seemed to wait for the further set of instructions he was clearly waiting for.

You specified soon after that, each word clearly enunciated, and your fingers held up in pairing. “Three specific reasons.”

He waited for more clarification with a gentle handed posture. His soft smile hadn't disappeared, but it became mixed in with something else now. “For…?”

“Why I look nice.”

The silence after that was truly beautiful.

Robin slowly lowered the inventory sheet she had been pretending to read and you swore her hard blinks could be heard across the air.

Steve stared at you with the VHS tapes still in his hands, and his mouth parted slightly. He looked, for one unguarded moment, completely removed from every version of himself he had ever practiced in a mirror or labeled to be. Instead, he just was your boyfriend in a dumb vest, ambushed by a request he should probably have been prepared for.

“Three,” you repeated with the underlying giddy feeling in your body simmering.

He stammered a bit at the blunt reminder. “Right now?”

“You already had time when I came in.”

“I was working.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly in clear disbelief. “You were rewinding Short Circuit?”

“It requires attention.”

Robin made a small noise from where she watched, mirroring your disbelieving look. “Does it?”

Steve shot her a look, then returned his attention to you. His gaze moved over your face properly this time, slower than before, and the amusement in you shifted into something quieter. You had meant to tease him, you hadn't expected the teasing to make him actually look.

He noticed your earrings first. You could tell because his eyes caught on the little flash near your jaw when you turned your head.

“Your earrings,” he cleared his throat with a particularly strong bobble of his head. Your brows quirked up on instinct. 

“That’s one?”

Steve shook his head quickly, then continued. “No, that’s the category. I’m building.”

Robin whispered to you with a clearly mocking tone that had you biting back a wider smile, “He’s building.”

Steve ignored her with effort, you could tell by the lack of bite back. “They’re the ones you wore to the Fourth of July thing, right? Before—” He stopped, jaw shifting around the rest of the sentence. You could tell he was trying to reference a memory that didn't come clearly to him, so you let him go on without issue. “Anyway. They look good. They do that little shiny thing when you move.”

You felt yourself soften, then immediately fought it because you were supposed to be conducting an experiment. A terribly stupid experiment, but an experiment you decided was going to be fun entertainment nonetheless. 

“One,” you allowed with your index finger tilting to the side in counting.

He adjusted the tapes in his hands, more comfortable now that he had survived the first answer. “Your skirt. The buttons on the side.”

The sentence wasn't what you were expecting it to be, your voice turned questioning before it evened back out. “You noticed the buttons?”

He gave you a look that was clear betrayal, his hand went up to stretch across the back of his neck. “I’m trying to be respectful in front of Buckley.”

Robin lifted both hands as if offended by being compared to something akin to an obstacle, “Im not even here. I am basically a chair.”

“You’re a very loud chair,” Steve huffed back to her. Then, to you, “Yes, I noticed the buttons. I noticed the whole skirt. It’s pink and it makes your legs look—” He stopped again and your eyebrows lifted along with your smile.

His ears went red, he gave a weak cough as his eyes looked at the ceiling than back to you. “Long.”

“Two,” you then counted with another finger, deeply pleased now.

Steve looked relieved to be nearing the end, then immediately concerned because the third reason required more care. He looked at your hair, your lips, the way you were standing there with one hip angled against the counter, pretending you had not started this solely just to watch him squirm.

“Your hair,” he said with finality. “You did something different.”

You touched it without meaning to. “Different bad?”

“No—Different good. It’s softer here.” He gestured near his own temple, not quite touching you like you'd have preferred. “And it keeps falling forward, so you keep pushing it back, and you only do that when you’re trying not to mess with it because you spent time on it.”

You went still at the explanation. 

Steve seemed to realize he had said something too observant for the tone of the game. He looked down at the tapes, then back up, shrugging one shoulder with a forced casualness that didn't suit him.

“So,” he licked his lips as his eyes lifted to meet yours with a hopeful expression. “Three.”

Robin broke the silence first, which you'd been grateful for because you were all too aware of the warmth seeping into your chest. “I hate to say it, but that was kind of good.”

Steve pointed Teen Wolf at her, “don’t sound so surprised.”

You took the tapes from his hands and set them on the counter, and you looked at him through a slight tilt of your head. “Better.”

His words came back questioning again. “Better than what?”

“The automated recording,” that was all you said with a light breeze in your tone.

“The what?” He asked but you had already gone back to the stool, pulling the magazine into your lap.

Steve watched you sit down. He felt a strange mixture of pride and suspicion, which was not an emotion he enjoyed. Pride, because you were smiling at the page now in a way that meant he had done something right. Suspicion, because he had no idea what the page had made you do in the first place.

Robin leaned close to him and murmured, “If she asks you to describe her personality next, fake your death.”

Steve whispered back, “What magazine is that?”

Robin looked at the glossy cover and grinned at Steve’s distress. “The kind that destroys men who say nice.”

Steve looked at you again.

You only turned the page.

He swallowed more visibly distressed now as you remained quiet.

───

He Swaps the Leather Jacket for the Lounge Sweatshirt

Remember those first six months when he wouldn't dare meet you without a splash of premium cologne and a perfectly pressed jacket? If he now regularly shows up to your dates wearing his old high school gym fleece with a mystery stain on the sleeve, the mystery is officially fading.

The Solution:  Snatch his favorite oversized sweatshirt right off his back and wear it yourself with nothing but your favorite perfume. Remind him who really looks best in his clothes!

Steve’s shift ended late because nothing in Hawkins could ever end at the time printed on a schedule.

A kid knocked over half the horror display and immediately blamed the “wind,” despite the fact that the air inside Family Video had not moved with any conviction since June. Keith called from the back office to complain that someone had stacked the returned tapes “emotionally wrong,” which made Robin press both palms flat on the counter and whisper, “I am not going to jail for him.” Then, a mother came in looking for a cartoon whose title she didn't know, only that it involved “a little man, maybe a duck, and possibly space.”

By the time Steve was finally allowed to clock out, his patience had frayed around the edges.

You could see it in the way he pulled off his vest, too fast, and missed the hook when he tried to hang it in the back. You could hear him mutter something at the locker that sounded less like English and more like a private feud. When he came out again, he had changed into the old Hawkins High gym sweatshirt he kept there for cold nights, rainy closings, and days when he claimed the uniform made him feel “itchy in a spiritual way.”

The sweatshirt was gray in theory. In practice, it had been washed into a soft, faded color that belonged to old socks and cloudy dishwater. The cuffs were stretched. The collar sat loose at the base of his throat. One sleeve had a faint stain near the elbow that neither of you had ever successfully identified, though Steve had once insisted it was “probably nacho cheese” with a confidence that made you less comfortable.

He looked tired in it.

He also, looked painfully familiar.

Your eyes dropped to the open magazine in your lap.

He Swaps the Leather Jacket for the Lounge Sweatshirt.

The article spoke of fading mystery and premium cologne with the urgency of a national crisis. You read the solution once and felt your grin arrive before you could stop it.

The words repeated in your brain: snatch his favorite oversized sweatshirt right off his back.

Steve came around the counter while digging in his pocket for his keys. “You ready?”

You stood and he glanced up, saw your expression, and stopped walking with clear intent.

“No,” he said with an immediate shake of his head

You hadn't even moved yet, your hands came up to your sides on instinct. “No what?”

Steve groaned in a way that didn't quite feel frustrated, but was knowing. “No whatever that face is.”

“I don’t have a face.” You did.

“You have the face you had before the whole three reasons thing.”

Robin, clocked out but still lingering because apparently this was better than whatever she had waiting at home, grabbed her bag from behind the counter. “For the record, I support her.”

“You don’t even know what she’s doing,” Steve immediately sighed in defeat.

Robin didn't seem bothered by the lack of information. “I know enough.”

You stepped closer and caught the hem of his sweatshirt. Steve’s hands immediately closed around your wrists, not tight, just startled. His expressive eyes instantly fell to your with faint concern and mostly curiosity.  “Whoa. Hi. What are we doing?”

You shrugged your shoulders, lips finding the familiar grin that had him faltering. “Testing a theory.”

Steve pouted in a way that you knew he'd deny if questioned later on. “Why do your theories involve grabbing me at work?”

“Because you just happen to be here.”

“That can't possibly be a complete answer.”

“It’s a location, though.”

Robin leaned on the counter, delighted as she sang over to you. “He’s panicking.”

“I am not panicking,” Steve scoffed with dismissal, but regardless of his claim, his voice was panicking enough.

You tugged the sweatshirt upward, with a plea on your lips and a look in your eyes. “Arms up.”

He sputtered at your request, his brows shooting upwards in clear refusal. “Absolutely not.”

“Steve…”

“No, this is a public establishment.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, looking over at his stance. “Keith is in the back alphabetizing gum wrappers or something.”

“Buckley is right there.”

Robin waved over at herself with the familiar grin you loved, humming a tune. “Chair.”

Steve looked at you, then at Robin, then toward the front windows where the parking lot sat mostly empty except for his car. His resistance lasted three more seconds. You could see the exact moment he gave up, because his jaw worked to hide a smile and his eyes dropped to the floor.

“Fine,” he muttered, but he didn't make a show of sighing this time. “But if you stretch the collar, I’m suing.”

There was no containing the laugh that left you. “You don’t even know how to sue.”

“I’ll learn.”

He ducked his head and lifted his arms, letting you pull the sweatshirt up over his torso. His white T-shirt rode up for half a second, revealing a narrow strip of skin above his jeans before he yanked it down with one hand before you could reach for it. He promptly ignored your dramatized look of resignation at being denied. His hair emerged from the collar in static-disrupted disarray, several pieces standing up at angles he would have considered unforgivable under normal circumstances.

You put the sweatshirt on before he could take it back. Although, you doubted he would ever actually do that. For all his whining, your boyfriend rarely said anything beyond a few complaints.

It swallowed you in the familiar fabric.

The sleeves fell past your hands, the hem dropped low over your skirt, and the collar slipped a little too wide on one side. Warmth held inside the fabric from his body. So did the smell of him: laundry detergent on the old cotton, the faded spice of his cologne, and something skin-warm and harder to name. The perfume you had put on earlier rose beneath it, mixing with him until the whole thing felt private despite the fluorescent lights and Robin’s shameless staring.

Steve went quiet in the moments still. You pushed your hair free from the collar and lifted your chin. Your hands were now taking residence upon the sides of your hips. “Well?”

He had seen you in his clothes before. A borrowed jacket during a rainstorm. A T-shirt after a late night when you spilled soda on yourself at his house. Socks frequently, because your feet had gone cold and he had acted annoyed while digging through a drawer with unnecessary urgency.

But there was a difference between necessity and choice.

This, was choice. This was you standing in the middle of Family Video wearing his old sweatshirt over your skirt, perfume clinging to the collar, and looking at him with bright, ridiculous expectation.

Steve’s brain provided several responses and rejected all of them for being either too honest or too stupid.

“That’s mine,” he managed with a breathlessness that immediately made him wince when heard.

You corrected him, clearly pleased. “Was.”

“You’re swimming in it.”

“I'm aware.”

“You look—” He stopped because your eyes sharpened in a way that told him his next adjective needed to mean something.

Robin clapped once from where she was, and you refrained from sighing at the girl's clear joy at her friend's inner struggle. “Careful, Harrington.”

Steve dragged a hand over his mouth, buying time. He had just been trained, apparently. Nice was no longer safe. Nice had been retired from service.

“You look good,” he decided to settle for, then saw your mouth twitch and hurried on. “You look really good. In my sweatshirt. Which is confusing because it looks better on you, but it is still, legally mine.”

“‘Legally’?”

Steve quickly corrected himself again. “Emotionally.”

You stepped closer and lifted one sleeve-covered hand to poke his chest. The movement had him squirming a bit because you knew where to poke to get a reaction. As such were the benefits of being with someone for so long. “I think I’ll keep it.”

Steve looked down at your covered hand, then at the place where the collar had slipped, then back to your face. He tried for annoyance and missed by several miles. He was never good at that.

His words didn't match his tone nor face. “You’re lucky I’m generous.”

“You’re lucky I look better in your clothes.”

Robin made a noise of approval that had you slightly leaning on the heels of your shoes. “She does.”

“Why are you still here?” Steve asked with such restraint that you let one palm rub against his forearm. He welcomed the familiar touch by leaning into it.

“I live here now.”

Keith appeared in the back doorway at exactly the wrong time, holding a clipboard and a soda. He took in the scene: Steve in his T-shirt, you in Steve’s sweatshirt, Robin grinning beside the register. His expression flattened.

“Is this happening on the clock?”

Steve grabbed his keys and reached up for your palm to pull you besides him. “Nope. Leaving. Bye.”

Outside, the evening heat pressed immediately. The air smelled of asphalt, cut grass from somewhere beyond the plaza, and the warm metallic scent of Steve’s car after a day in the sun. He unlocked the passenger side first out of habit, then paused when you walked past it.

His head shot up. “Where are you going?”

You looked over your shoulder with a smile that had him already weary. “You’ll see.”

Steve felt the first prickle of fresh suspicion. You still had the magazine tucked under your arm. He knew then that he really should have hidden it when he had the chance.

───

The Dreaded “I Don’t Care, What Do You Want to Do?”

Flexibility is cute, but romantic laziness is not!  If every single date night starts with him shrugging his shoulders and leaving the heavy lifting of choosing the restaurant or the movie up to you, he’s retired from being the captain of the ship.

The Solution: Take total control. Steal his car keys out of his pocket, slide into the driver's seat yourself, and drive him to a secret destination without telling him where you’re going!

The BMW had been baking all afternoon, and climbing into it felt briefly like entering a punishment designed by someone who hated vinyl. You pushed through either ways.

Steve opened both doors first to let the heat roll out. He complained under his breath when you leaned against the driver’s side, because he was already beginning to understand what you wanted and did not know how to prevent it without sounding insane.

His words sounded strained in their attempt not to seem sure. “You’re not driving.”

“I haven’t exactly asked.”

Steve's hands came out to gesture wildly at you. “You’re standing by the driver’s door wearing my sweatshirt and holding an evil magazine.”

Your frowned, lips pulled to the side as you argued against the idea. “Evil is strong, don't you think?”

“I think it's accurate.” You huffed out a sigh and merely held out your hand to him He stared at it blankly, big hazel eyes flicking to your face then your outstretched palm.

“Keys,” you all but sang in glee.

Steve laughed once, not because it was funny, but because his body needed somewhere to put the clear alarm. “No way.”

“The article says I’m supposed to take total control.”

Steve's voice now was a delightful mix of clear distress and restrained panic. “Babe, articles have never seen you parallel park.”

“I don't even parallel park.”

“Exactly.” You only wiggled your fingers in response, paired along with a particularly determined look up at him.

Steve looked toward the empty storefront beside Family Video, then back at you. His keys sat in his palm, heavy with all the trust and terror he attached to that car. He loved the Beamer in a way he would not have admitted under oath. Actually, scratch that—Steve would gladly declare his love for his car anytime, but now? It felt oddly like a trap. It had been freedom when his house felt too quiet. It had been status when he had been shallow enough to need it. And later one, it had gone on to become transportation for the kids with their walkie-talkies, frantic errands, and the late-night drives where neither of you said much but the silence was nice anyways.

Letting someone else drive it was not nothing to Steve.

Letting you drive it while grinning like you had a plan was something else entirely.

“You know,” he said carefully, his muscles pulled at where they crossed against his chest, “a healthy relationship includes respecting boundaries.”

Your question came instantly. “Is your boundary the driver’s seat?”

“My boundary is not dying.”

“I’m a good driver!”

“You once hit a curb and blamed the curb!”

“It came out of nowhere.” The Defense felt weak now on your lips, and you barely held in the wince that tried to escape you.

But Steve only closed his eyes and you waited.

The thing was, you knew he would give them to you. Not because he was helpless, he certainly wasn't. Not because you could push him anywhere you wanted, both him and you weren't like that. Steve could be stubborn when something mattered. He could dig his heels in so hard it made everyone around him want to throw things. But this was not about the car, not really. It was about you asking him to let go of control for twenty minutes, and Steve had been trying, in small uneven ways, to learn how to do that.

He dropped the keys into your hand with such anguish you saved the date so you could make fun of him later on. But for now, the keys in your palm were a big enough win.

“If you grind the gears,” Steve exhaled with more defeat than irritation, “I’m breaking up with you until Monday.”

The threat was as fake as his excitement. “It’s Friday though?”

“I'll need the recovery time.” You slid into the driver’s seat before he could change his mind at your delighted grin.

Steve walked around the front of the car slowly, one hand trailing over the hood in a gesture so mournful you laughed before he even got in. He lowered himself into the passenger seat with stiff dignity and immediately reached for the dashboard by pure instinct.

You looked at his hand and he quickly moved it to his knee with a faint twitch of his fingers.

Your voice came passive in its gratitude. “Thank you for bracing, real show of trust.”

His defense came hot and rapid. “I wasn’t bracing!”

Yours came cooler and breezily. “You were absolutely bracing.”

Steve decided then to correct his stance into something more softly shaped. “I was settling…”

“You were preparing for impact—”

Steve pointed at the windshield with a regained passion that had you rolling your eyes. “Eyes on the road.”

“We’re parked?”

“Consider it practice.”

You adjusted the seat, which made him wince because you moved it forward. He quickly turned silent when you glared at him through your side profile. Then, you adjusted the mirror, the hanging air freshener swayed gently at the movement. Steve watched every change with increasing distress, mouth pressed into a line, fingers tapping once against his thigh before he made them stop.

You started the car a moment after leaning in to give him what you'd call, and you were sure he'd also deny, a much needed kiss near the corner of his mouth for his tension.

The engine rumbled to life beneath you, familiar but different from this side. Steve’s car always sounded more dramatic than necessary, and now that sound moved up through the soles of your shoes, into your knees, into the base of your ribs. You pulled out of the parking space carefully. 

Too carefully, apparently, because Steve inhaled and did not exhale until you straightened.

“See?” you made a point to extend your hand in a show of gesturing. 

He finally exhaled, his head whirling around the perimeter. “Great. We’ve traveled twelve feet.”

“Progress.”

You drove past the pizza place first.

Steve twisted in his seat, his face losing some of that tension when confusion took its place. “Wait. I thought we were eating.”

“We are.”

“Pizza is back there.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel,  and inhaled sharply when Steve seemed like he wanted to comment on that too. Thankfully, he refrained. “Maybe we’re not getting pizza.”

He looked genuinely unsettled now, looking something akin to a puppy set free in a foreign meadow. “But it’s Friday.”

“Exactly.” Your words did little to ease him in the slightest.

“What does exactly mean?”

Your right hand came up to emphasize your next words. “It means you say ‘I don’t care, what do you want to do?’ too much.”

His expression shifted, defensive at first, then confused. “I say that because I don’t want to make you do stuff you don’t want to do.”

You nodded to his words because they were true, and because you loved him more for it. “I know.”

Steve was sure he was feeling unrecorded levels of distress currently. “So why is that bad?”

You glanced at him, then back at the road. The light had gone soft and low, catching in the dust along the windshield. “It’s not bad! It’s just sometimes I want you to want something out loud.”

Steve leaned back, the argument leaving him in stages.

He had not thought of it that way. To him, letting you pick felt considerate. It felt safe because if he chose wrong, if you got quiet, if the night bent into disappointment, then it would be his fault in a way he could not fix by rewinding a tape or buying another soda. It seemed better to let you choose. Better to be the guy who went along with what you wanted and did not become another person demanding things from you. Steve was many things, considerate high on that list.

But you were looking at the road with both hands on his steering wheel, wearing his sweatshirt, saying you wanted him to want things.

That sat somewhere tender.

“Okay,” he spoke softner after a minute had passed in the lull.

You felt the agreement settle without the usual push and pull. “Okay?”

Steve let one roughened palm drag over his eyes as he cleared his throat. “Okay. I can want things out loud.”

You smiled, but kept your eyes on the road. Your nails tapped against the wheel again now. “Good.”

“Right now, I want to know where we’re going.”

The attempt had you smiling and not bothering to hide the exasperation on your face. “Nope, not that kind of want.”

He groaned against his hand, “that’s cruel.”

“It’s mysterious.” you preferred the term over his.

“It’s kidnapping with lip gloss.” You laughed at his response, and Steve’s shoulders eased by pure bodily instinct. 

You drove beyond the familiar restaurants, beyond the streets where the houses sat close together with bikes in driveways and porch lights beginning to flick on. The town thinned into trees and long grass. The car moved through pockets of cooling air, windows down, and the radio catching half of one station and then another until Steve gave up and turned the volume low.

When you finally turned onto the road near an old quarry, he sat up.

“Oh,” his brows twisted as he took in the dim, but no less deliberate view..

You parked near the overlook where the trees opened just enough to show the water below, darkening under the evening sky. Nobody else was there. The place had an abandoned feeling now, less romantic than it probably used to be, because Hawkins had taught everyone to distrust woods after sunset. Still, the view was good. Ot was pretty in an intimate way. The water held the last orange light in broken pieces. Cicadas screamed from the trees, and somewhere far off, a dog barked and stopped.

You turned the engine off then, the keys rustling softly against the opening. For a few seconds, the car ticked quietly as it cooled.

Steve looked at the overlook, then at you. His voice came out different when he spoke, less teasing. You liked the shift. “You planned this?”

You nodded with an unnecessary addition of solemnity. “I had a magazine and a lot of confidence.”

“That’s a dangerous combination.”

“Apparently.”

He smiled, but his eyes moved back to the view. You could tell he liked it because he didn't immediately make another attempt at a joke. He just sat there with his elbow near the open window, hair slightly ruffled by the drive, looking out over the quarry while the last of his workday drained out of him.

Steve had spent a lot of time in cars with people he loved and feared losing. He had driven toward danger, away from danger, around town at three in the morning because somebody needed a ride or a distraction or a place to talk where no parents could hear. Sitting still in the passenger seat while you turned off the engine was strangely difficult. It left his hands empty. It left the evening open.

Then you held out his keys, the abrupt movement had him looking down at them quickly.

“You survived,” your voice came out lighter than intended. 

He took them and let his fingers brush yours deliberately. Steve's posture wasn't as tense as it had been prior, and you took it as a tactical win. “Barely.”

You didn't let him off so easily. “You liked it.”

“I liked the destination.” His words had truth to them, but certainly not the full truth.

“You didn’t like my driving?” He hesitated one second too long.

You gasped and Steve immediately turned to you, one hand reaching out to rub your forearm. “No, no, your driving was fine.”

“Fine?”

He quickly corrected himself. “Good. Great. Beautifully legal even.”

You rolled your eyes and got out before he could continue and somehow dig himself deeper.

Steve followed, still smiling. That was your favorite part. He went to the trunk and pulled out the old blanket he kept there. You caught sight of a flashlight, jumper cables, an empty fast-food cup, and the stupid nail-studded bat partially hidden beneath a towel. He noticed your exasperated gaze land on it and shut the trunk a little too fast.

“Emergency stuff,” he cleared his throat too fast.

You looked at him and he suddenly found the grass beneath him interesting. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Steve murmured into the open air. “Not a nothing face.”

The decision to ignore the words came easy. You reached for the blanket instead of asking. He handed it over with a small nod, grateful and embarrassed at once.

The two of you spread the blanket over the hood of the car after he made you promise not to scratch the paint. It was still warm from the engine beneath, and when you climbed up beside him, the metal gave a faint settling sound. Steve passed you a bag of pretzels from the trunk, opened badly down the side, and you ate them while the sky turned deeper and the heat softened around you.

For a while, there was nothing else.

There was just Steve telling you about a customer who asked whether Pretty in Pink was part of a series because “there had to be other colors,” and you telling him about the woman at Bradley’s who squeezed every peach in the bin with the intensity of a medical exam. He laughed with his head tilted back, throat exposed to the evening, and you felt the ordinary pleasure of having made him laugh settle into you.

Then the windshield caught his reflection.

Steve glanced at it and you saw the words actively flash in front of your eyes.

───

His Mirror Time Outpaces Your Eye-Contact Time 

An eighties boy who spends an hour fixing his legendary hair or splashing on his favorite cologne is great to look at — but if he spends more time checking his reflection in the diner window than he does looking deeply into your eyes across the table, his vanity might be serving his own ego rather than trying to impress you!

The Solution: Mess up his hair! Messing up a vain boy's hair is a high-risk, high-reward move that instantly forces his full attention away from the mirror and entirely onto you.

The first time, you let it pass.

Steve had always had an intimate relationship with reflective surfaces. Car windows, store glass, dark television screens, spoons if he was desperate. It would have been annoying if it were not so earnest. He checked his hair with the focus of a man maintaining an ecosystem. He denied it every time, but the evidence was constant.

The second time, he turned his head slightly, pretending to watch a bird move through the trees while his eyes flicked toward the windshield.

You lowered your half bitten pretzel into your lap, waiting for the moment to prove itself.

The third time, he smoothed one hand near his temple.

You reached for the magazine, which sat on the hood beside your thigh, and tapped the fourth section.

Steve noticed the movement.

“What number are we on?” he asked with the faint resignment of a man knowing he's in too deep to argue anymore.

You held your fingers up at his face. “Four.”

His face fell and his exhale came steady.  “Oh, God.”

“You don’t even know what four is!”

“I know I won’t like it.”

You smiled at the truth of the statement and even more at his expression.

He put both hands up in a time out position, his grin was weak in its pleading. “Can I opt out?”

Your answer came sharply ennunciated. “Nope.”

“Is this democracy?”

“Why would I possibly have this be a democracy?”

He looked toward the empty road, and his exaggerated sigh didn't fool you enough to ignore his bitten back smile. “Is there a witness?”

“Nope.”

“This can't possibly be just—”

You moved before he could get any farther and he immediately tried to escape. But he was too late, because your hands went straight into his hair by then.

Steve made a sound of pure betrayal. The sound erupted a warmth in your chest as you grinned hearing his own struggle with maintaining betrayl. “Hey! No—no, watch the hair!”

You laughed so hard your first attempt barely did any damage, which gave him hope for half a second. Then you got both hands properly into it, pushing the front back, raking your fingers through the carefully maintained height, mussing the sides until his entire head looked softer, younger, more touchable and less arranged.

He caught your wrists and his eyes twinkled near yours. Small pieves of now unkempt hair fell over his brows and he had to blow them away. “We have rules.”

“We do not have rules,” you argued, struggling against his grip.

His hands were still wrapped around your wrists, they weren't restraining as much as they were holding in pleading hope. His grip was gentle, pulling you into him. “My hair has rules!”

The correction came quick on your tongue.“Your hair is vain.”

Steve gasped in blatant pffense which only served to make you laugh harder. “I'll have you know, my hair is a public service.”

You couldn't be comvinced. “You looked at yourself in the windshield three times.”

“I was checking for danger.” he tried to firmly combat your argument with his own.

“Was the danger split ends?”

Steve stared at you, scandalized. There was no hiding the wide smile that crawled its way onto your face now at his whine. “Sweetheart, that was really mean.”

“It was accurate.”

“It was both.”

You tried to continue ruining him, but he held your wrists away now, laughing despite himself. The sound exhoed against your ear drums. His grip was warm. His thumbs landed near your pulse points. The evening had cooled enough that the warmth of him felt more noticeable, especially with the blanket beneath your legs and his sweatshirt still hanging loose over your body.

His hair had slowly become a disaster.

Not terrible, it could never be terrible. Steve Harrington’s hair seemed incapable of true failure, which was deeply unfair to you. Or anyone else, really. But the shape was gone from it. One piece fell over his forehead, another stuck up near the back, and the sides had lost their polished swoop. He looked less like the version of himself he presented to the world and more like the one who woke up late and padded barefoot into the kitchen, squinting at the coffee maker.

Your laughter thinned into a smaller version of a smile. Steve saw the change and stopped pulling your hands away.

“What?” he mirrored your expression, as if your joy could be naturally echoed into his just as easily.

“Nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes at the softness of your voice. “You don’t get to use my line.”

You just shook your head at him, eyes softening gently. “You look different.”

“Worse?” The question left him in natural humor.

“No.”

He looked at you, and beneath the joking offense there was something cautious. Steve was used to being looked at. He had been looked at for years by people who wanted something from the surface. He knew how to stand under that kind of attention. He knew what to do with it.

But with you, it was always different. 

You were looking at him with his hair messed up and his guard lowered, your sleeves falling over your hands, your knee pressed against his thigh on the warm hood of his car. You were not laughing at him now, not exactly. You were seeing him in a way that made him want to joke and stay quiet at the same time.

He released one of your wrists, and you used your free hand to push the fallen piece of hair back more gently than before.

“There,” you breathed softer into the chilling air. “Improved.”

He huffed with a glint in his eye as he tilted his head looking to you. “Ruined.”

You remained steadfast in your description. “Improved.”

“Sabotaged.” a sigh escaped you before you decided to settle on the middle ground.

“Humanized.”

“That’s worse.”

You laughed again, and he grabbed you around the waist before you could dodge. It was not a dramatic move. It was entirely clumsy, half seated on the hood, one knee sliding on the blanket, and had pretzels nearly tipping over. You yelped, caught his shoulder, and he pulled you closer with a grin he wouldn't ever bother hiding.

“Retaliation,” he hummed against you.

Your eyes narrowed to glare up against him. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Steve.”

“You attacked a national treasure.”

The laugh left you all sputtered and incredulous. “You are not a national treasure.”

“My hair is.”

He tried to tickle your side through the sweatshirt, but the fabric was too thick and his angle was bad. You squirmed anyway because the attempt was enough, laughing into his shoulder while he complained about unfair defenses and oversized sleeves. The blanket bunched beneath you. Your knee knocked the pretzel bag. Steve caught it with one hand at the last second and looked so proud of himself that you shoved his shoulder.

“My hero,” you sighed dreamily as you exaggerated fanning yourself.

“Always.”

It was a joke, but it landed in the quiet between you with more weight than either of you meant. His smile flickered for half a second. Not gone, just altered instead.

You knew better than to poke directly at that. There were words that made Steve stiffen because they came with too many memories: hero, brave, fine. Compliments could hurt when they touched old bruises.

So you stole a pretzel from the bag he had saved and held it up against his lips. “Your reward.”

He accepted it solemnly, head tilting down to nibble against your fingers rather than the pretzel. That had you shoving at him all the same. “I deserve more.”

“You deserve a comb.”

“That too.”

The transition back into ease happened slowly but naturally, without announcement. Steve leaned back on his hands, letting his ruined hair stay ruined. You sat beside him, head against his shoulder, watching the quarry disappear into blue shadow. The air cooled enough that you finally felt grateful for his sweatshirt. He did not ask for it back again.

Later, when he drove you home, he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror only once. That once was entirely enough for you anyway. 

You reached over and tilted the mirror away.

He groaned your name and you smiled all the way to your driveway.

───

He Treats Your Presence Like a Given

Does he toss you his car keys, expect you to carry the snacks, and assume you’ll just automatically follow him wherever his friends are hanging out? When a guy stops asking you out on real, proper dates and just expects you to "be around," he’s treating you less like a girlfriend and more like his favorite security blanket.

The Solution:  Create a little mystery. Next time he assumes you're free, tell him you have "secret plans" for the afternoon. A tiny bit of healthy distance will make him realize just how much he misses his favorite view!

The next morning, Steve called before noon.

You were still sitting on your bedroom floor with your back against the bed, legs stretched out, the Cosmopolitan magazine open beside a half-eaten bowl of cereal. The window was cracked, but the air coming through was already warm. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower started, stopped, then started again with the stubborn cough of old machinery from your neighbors. 

Your room smelled faintly of hairspray, clean laundry, and the perfume still clinging to Steve’s sweatshirt, which you had absolutely not returned.

The phone rang twice before you picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Steve greeted immediately. His voice had that slightly distracted quality that meant he was at work and probably doing three things badly. You could hear the store behind him: Robin talking too loudly, the dull clack of tape cases, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights even through the line. “Movie tonight?”

No lead-in. No question about your morning. No attempt at charm.

Just movie tonight, offered with the easy assumption that of course you would be there, because usually you were. Usually you liked being there. Usually Steve called and you fit yourself into the shape of his evening without minding much at all.

You looked down.

Number five sat open on the magazine page.

He Treats Your Presence Like a Given.

The article accused him of turning you into his favorite security blanket.

That was unfair too, but not entirely untrue in the way the most irritating things sometimes were. Steve did not take you for granted, and certainly not on purpose. He was too careful for that in the places where it counted. He noticed when you were cold. He remembered which pizza toppings you hated. He opened doors because he had been raised with manners and then kept doing it because he liked the brief second where his hand landed near your back.

But he did assume you would be around.

Sometimes, because he wanted you there.

Sometimes, because he needed you there and had not learned how to say need without dressing it up as a casual plan.

You let the silence stretch as your fingers came up to your lips in pondering. 

On the other end, Steve paused. “Hello?”

“I have secret plans.”

The line went quiet after your words.

You could picture his face too clearly: eyebrows lifting, mouth tightening a little, free hand landing on his hip. Steve did not like mysteries unless he was solving them, and even then he preferred them to arrive with flashlights, maps, and Dustin explaining too much.

“Secret plans,” he repeated, and you could practically see the way his face had been scrunching up.

“Yup.”

“With who?” The question came out too quickly.

You smiled into the receiver and you were sure he could practically hear it.

Steve regretted it immediately. You could hear it in the way he inhaled and then exhaled through his nose, probably turning away from Robin so she could not see his face.

“I didn’t mean that in a weird way,” he added. You knew that, of course. But would that stop you from poking fun at your boyfriend? Absolutely not.

You forced a flat hum to even your voice. “And what way did you mean it?”

Steve’s defense came strong, but no less real. “A normal boyfriend curiosity way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not jealousy. I’m not jealous.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m clarifying.”

Your fingers looped around the phone cord as your eyes flickered down to the magazine sprawled in your lap. “Sounds suspicious.”

At Family Video, Steve leaned against the wall near the phone and closed his eyes. Robin, sitting on the floor with a stack of returns around her, looked up with predatory interest.

“Are you being dumped?” she whispered, her blue eyes wide at his bodily reaction.

Steve covered the receiver and promptly ignored her, though not before throwing Robin a glare. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

He turned his back to her. And into the phone, he cleared his throat and said, “Are your secret plans dangerous?”

You only hummed in response. “Maybe.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“They’re secret.”

The faint spund of rustling hit your ear, and you could picture the scene everytime you blinked. With Steve running his hand through his hair because he'd become fidgety all of a sudden. “You keep saying that like it explains anything.”

You tried not to feel cruel at how the mental image made you grin and feel warmth crawl up your body. “It does.”

“It explains nothing.”

You pulled the sweatshirt sleeve over your hand and toyed with the phone cord wrapped around your ankle. “You can survive one afternoon without me.”

“I know that.”

Judging by his voice now, you weren't entirely convinced. “Do you?”

He stopped.

That was the trouble with joking. Sometimes it opened a door you had not meant to touch.

Steve knew he could survive without you for an afternoon. He had survived worse things than an empty passenger seat. He had survived silence in his parents’ house, survived losing versions of himself he had once thought were permanent, survived monsters with too many teeth and nights where sleep arrived late and left early.

But his day had begun to arrange itself around you without asking permission. He knew when you usually came by. He knew which stool you liked. He knew the face you made when Robin got into a fight with a customer and the face you made when Steve pretended he was above gossip and then leaned in anyway. He knew the small relief of looking up and finding you there.

He knew familiarity for certainty.

The realization made him pick at the peeling edge of a sticker on the phone.

“You’re really busy?” he asked, quieter.

You softened, because you hadn't really meant to hurt him. “For a little while.”

“Okay.”

Your tried not to falter, but your voice didn't heed your wishes. “You sound disappointed.”

Steve denied it quickly. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m handsome and disappointed.” That got you. You laughed, and the line loosened again.

Your secret plans were not glamorous. They involved going to the mall with a friend, buying a lemonade too sour to fully finish, and letting yourself try on clothes you couldn't afford in a department store dressing room with bad lighting. You walked past the arcade and heard machines chiming through the open entrance. You lingered in the music store longer than necessary, flipping through records with one hand while the other kept finding the soft cuff of one of Steve’s other jackets you held onto and never gave back.

You did miss him.

That was the annoying part. Or, rather, not.

The magazine had intended mystery to make him miss you, but nobody had warned you that absence worked both ways. By mid-afternoon, you caught yourself wondering whether he had eaten lunch or just stolen Red Vines from the candy display. You wondered whether Robin had teased him into a worse mood or a better one. You wondered if he had fidgeted with his hair because he'd become restless.

At four, you found a pay phone near the arcade.

The metal was hot against your fingers. A kid with sticky blue lips waited nearby, bouncing on his heels, probably impatient to call his mother for another ride he had already missed. You fed coins into the slot and dialed Family Video from memory.

Steve picked up on the second ring.

“Family Video, where late fees are real and the employees have no mercy.”

You snorted at the welcome. “Nice greeting.”

There was a pause, and then his voice changed. “Hey.”

One word, and it was warmer than it had any right to be.

You leaned against the phone, voice softening after hearing his. “My secret plans are over.”

“Oh, thank God.” You tried to not laugh at the sincerity of his wreckage. 

“You survived?”

“Barely. A woman asked for a movie with ‘the guy from that thing,’ and Robin threatened to eat the return log.”

You clicked your tongue in sympathy. “Sounds traumatic.”

“I’ve seen war.” His tone had you picturing the bobble of his head clearly.

You leaned your shoulder against the side of the pay phone. “Did you miss me?”

Steve looked toward the front of the store, where Robin was helping a teenager pick between two horror movies and making both sound morally inferior. He turned slightly toward the wall.

“Yeah, always,” he said.

No joke.

No handsome and disappointed.

Just yeah, always

Your fingers tightened around the phone cord.

The mall noise continued around you: sneakers squeaking, teenagers laughing too loudly, and the arcade machines spilling synthetic music into the corridor. But the line between you and Steve felt briefly separate from all of it, thin and private and warm.

“I’ll come by,” you hummed into the receiver.

“I’ll act surprised.”

“You better.”

When you walked into Family Video an hour later, Steve looked up from the counter and caught himself before saying the first easy thing.

You saw the effort.

His gaze moved over you properly, taking in the mall bag at your side, his jacket on your body, your hair slightly wind-tangled from the drive.

Then he smiled.

“There you are,” he greeted.  It was not a compliment, exactly.

It worked better than one, though.

Robin glanced between you both and rolled her eyes so hard it was nearly athletic.

“Disgusting,” she scoffed at Steve,  before smiling secretly when she saw the affect it had on you. “Do it again.”

Steve threw a wadded receipt at her and missed. And you sat on your stool, pretending you were not pleased.

He noticed anyway.

───

The Future is a Forbidden Zone 

Pay close attention to how he acts when you bring up anything happening more than two weeks from now. If he cracks a defensive joke, blushes, or immediately changes the subject to sports or cars, he might be totally terrified of growing up. He might love you today, but is he brave enough to dream about tomorrow?

The Solution:  Don't nag him! Instead, paint a fun, wildly dramatic picture of what you two will look like in the upcoming decade. Turning the future into a playful joke takes the pressure off and lets him see that growing up doesn't have to be boring.

Closing dragged that night.

Not in a bad way. Just in the way ordinary time dragged when nothing terrible happened and everyone was tired enough to notice the minute hand moving. A storm threatened for an hour without arriving. The air outside thickened, pressing against the windows, and the neon sign gave the front glass a red-blue glow that made the aisles look emptier than they were.

Keith left early because of “stomach problems,” which Robin translated as “he found something better to do.” She stayed until her ride came, drumming her fingers against the counter and telling Steve that if he forgot to lock the back door again, she would personally spread rumors about his favorite movie being The Care Bears Movie.

“It was one time,” Steve had defended himself vehemently. 

“One time is enough when crime exists.”

“No criminal wants our instructional workout tapes.”

“You don’t know their lives!”

After she left, the store settled even more.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while Steve counted the register. He had let you stay because he always let you stay, even though he complained that Keith would blame him if you scuffed the laminate. The Cosmopolitan lay open beside you, pages softened from a day of folding and handling. A half-empty soda sweated onto a napkin near your thigh. 

Steve counted bills under his breath.

You watched his hands.

He had nice hands, though he would have made a face if you said it too seriously. They were steady with money, restless when he talked, amd gentle when he touched you in public because he was more careful now than he used to be. There was a faint scar near one knuckle. Another near his wrist. Small reminders that did not announce themselves unless you already knew where to look.

You glanced down at the sixth section.

The Future is a Forbidden Zone.

The article described boys who blushed, joked, or changed the subject when anything more than two weeks away came up. It sounded exaggerated. It also sounded enough like Steve to make you bite the inside of your cheek.

Steve could talk about tomorrow. He could talk about next Friday, the next shift, the next movie, the next time Dustin needed a ride and pretended it was not a favor. But farther out than that, his voice shifted. He did not shut down exactly. He just moved sideways. A joke, a complaint, a sudden question about whether you wanted fries.

The future made him slippery.

You understood why.

The future had not been a reliable place for anyone in Hawkins. Plans got interrupted here. People disappeared. Malls burned. Girls moved away. Boys woke up different than they used to be and had to keep living in the same houses, driving the same roads, and pretending the town had not opened its mouth beneath them.

Still, the magazine said not to nag.

It said to paint a fun, wildly dramatic picture.

So you leaned back on your hands and said, “What do you think we’ll be doing in the nineties?”

Steve lost count instantly.

You knew because his lips stopped moving and his thumb froze on a five-dollar bill.

He looked up, expressive eyes on yours. “The nineties?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

“The decade?”

The scoff left you before you could help it, and so did the sarcasm. “No, Steve. The sandwich.”

He stared at you with his scrunched up face, and you only smiled innocently.

He looked back down at the money, too focused now. “I don’t know. Hopefully not this.”

You tilted your head down at him, one leg dangled of the edge of the counter now, swinging casually. “You don’t see yourself managing Family Video for the rest of your life?”

Steve’s sigh came almost endearing in how displeased it was. “Please don’t say something that depressing while I’m holding cash.”

You continued brighter now that his face seemed determined to keep its sour state. “You could have a little office.”

“No.”

“A nameplate?”

“No.”

“Keith could work under you.”

Steve looked up at you horrified now. “Why would you say that?”

You laughed, then swung one foot lightly against the cabinet beneath the counter again. “Fine. Not Family Video. Something else. Something with ties.”

“Ties?”

The words came assured. “You’ll own at least three.”

“I already own ties.”

“Not funeral or wedding ties. Work ties.”

He made that familiar face that had you wanting to kiss it back to normal. “I don’t trust jobs where your neck has to be trapped.”

You continued on, you weren't quite sure he was a engaged as you,  but you went on anyways. “You’ll complain every morning and wear them anyway.”

“Sounds right.”

“And you’ll drive something practical.”

Steve's refusal came instantaneously. “No way.”

You only have a hum in response. “Uh-huh.”

“No.”

The words continued to flow. “A station wagon.”

Steve put the money down, hands resting on the area above where your thighs rested. “We’re breaking up.”

You didn't bother rolling your eyes at his words; instead, you let your smile stick and your tongue continue. “With wood paneling.”

“We’re broken up and I want my closet back.”

You crossed your arms in his jacket and continued to ignore him. “You’ll have little sunglasses in the glove compartment.”

“I already have sunglasses in the glove compartment. That part is cool.”

“And tissues.”

Steve nodded alongside you at that. “For allergies.”

“And snacks.”

“For emergencies.”

You leaned into him then,  the smile still easily in place. “And you’ll yell at kids for putting their feet on the seats.”

“They should not put their feet on the seats.”

You pointed at him for proving your point. “See? Dad car.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The word dad seemed to have landed differently than the rest.

You saw it happen. He tried to keep the joke moving, but his fingers shifted against the counter, pressing lightly into the laminate. His gaze dropped to the register. Not scared, exactly. Just weary at it being verbalized.

Steve had a complicated relationship with the idea of becoming anything permanent. He wanted it more than he trusted it. You knew that. You had learned it in pieces. In the way he got quiet around families at diners, watching fathers who remembered their kids’ orders. In the way he talked about his own parents with a shrug too practiced to be casual. In the way he could handle six teenagers in danger better than one sincere conversation about what he might want when danger was not the center of the room.

So, you kept the tone light.

“You’ll be the kind of dad who says he’s not mad, just disappointed, and then immediately gets mad.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, almost embarrassed at the accuracy. “I don’t say that.”

“You would.”

He tried to disagree stronger. “I’d be cool!”

You nodded at that. “You’d try.”

“I would succeed.”

Your grin came unabashed as your imagined ymthe picture you were painting. “You’d wear tube socks with sneakers.”

“That, is a personal attack.”

“You’d stand at the grill holding tongs and click them twice before using them.” Everyone clicked tongs twice. You were fairly certain it was law. But Steve looked down, smiling despite himself.

“Okay,” he sighed at final, with an amount of pleased resignation that you hadn't fully been ready to receive. “What about you?”

You blinked before you could help it. “What about me?”

Steve smiled at you, and your brain did a weird stutter. “In our tragic station wagon future.”

You had not expected him to ask it so seriously.

You had been building the future out of jokes so it would not collapse under its own weight. Suddenly, he was looking at you through the fluorescent quiet of Family Video, his hair still a little imperfect from running through it before, and his tired eyes steady on your face.

You swallowed quickly after realizing you fell quiet.

“I’ll be there,” you settled for, then made yourself smile before it became too much. “Obviously. Someone has to pick the radio station.”

Steve held your gaze.

His face did not do anything dramatic. There was no sudden confession. No grand realization. He just breathed in, small and careful, then nodded once.

“Obviously,” he repeated.

He looked back down at the register after that, but he had lost count beyond saving.

You didn't tease him immediately like you'd normally do.

You let him start over with the bills while you reached for the soda and took a sip that had gone mostly watery. The silence between you stayed easy enough, though changed at the edges. Steve counted more slowly this time. Every so often, his eyes flicked up to you, then away.

He was thinking.

Not running, not joking his way fully out of it.

Thinking.

When he finally finished the register and locked it, he leaned both hands on the counter and looked at the magazine.

“So,” he exhaled deeply into the open air, “is there a number about girlfriends who use journalism for psychological warfare?”

You closed the magazine with a strange lightness. “Probably in next month’s issue.”

He nodded. “Great. Can’t wait.”

You slipped off the counter, landing close enough that he had to look down at you. The store was dim except for the front lights and the glow from the sign. Steve smelled faintly of work and cologne and the peppermint gum he had chewed earlier.

“You’re doing okay,” you said at last because you couldn't help yourself. 

He lifted an eyebrow at that.  “Am I being graded?”

“Constantly.”

“What’s my grade?”

“it's pending.”

Steve snorted. “That’s worse than failing.”

“You can improve with extra credit.”

His expression warmed and he let his hands fall to your waist. “Oh, yeah?”

You took one step back and pointed toward the door. The smile on your face mirrored his before it fell. “Lock up.”

He groaned, but still went.

You watched him move through the store, checking the back, flipping switches, rattling the front door after locking it because Robin had trained him with fear. He looked young in the empty store and not young at all. He looked tired and solid and a little ridiculous with his key ring in his mouth while he adjusted the alarm panel.

When he came back to you, he held out his hand without making a production of it.

You took it.

Neither of you said anything about the nineties again that night, but Steve held your hand all the way to the car and didn't let go until he had to open your door.

───

The Spark Has Moved from the Bedroom to the Sofa

If your primary shared activity has slowly shifted from breathless, passionate sessions to falling asleep halfway through a rented thriller tape on the couch, your chemistry is taking a backseat to comfort. Snuggling is wonderful, but it should never entirely replace the fire!

The Solution:  Turn off the TV right in the middle of the movie's climax. When he complains, look him dead in the eye and tell him you have a much better way to keep both of you entertained!

Steve’s house was too clean when his parents were gone.

It always unsettled you a little, though you had learned not to say that. The Harrington house had the polished stillness of a place maintained for people who were rarely there long enough to leave evidence behind. The lamps worked. The counters shone. The couch pillows were arranged with decorative precision until Steve got home and ruined them by existing.

You liked it better after he ruined them.

You liked the shoes near the door, the jacket over the banister, and the half-empty glass of water beside the sink. You liked when he left a tape on the coffee table and a blanket half-folded over the arm of the couch. Those small messes made the house less showroom and more shelter.

After closing, he drove you there with the windows down and the radio low. The storm still had not arrived, but the air had changed. It smelled damp now, heavy with the promise of rain. Steve kept one hand on the wheel and the other near your knee, not quite touching until the roads emptied and his fingers finally settled there.

At his house, he insisted he was making popcorn because “date night requires snacks.” You followed him into the kitchen, still wearing his jacket because it was warmed than any blanket he could give, and watched him tear open the plastic wrapper with more confidence than the task required.

“You burned it last time,” you frowned at his work.

He was quick to correct you. “I did not burn it. I gave it character.”

“You set off the smoke detector.”

He paused before murmuring. “Briefly.”

“You waved a dish towel at it and yelled, ‘Don’t start.’”

Steve only shrugged. “That was a negotiation.”

You leaned against the counter while he put the bag in the microwave. He pressed the buttons, then turned around and caught you looking at him.

“What?”

The words came naturally. “Nothing.”

They also did little to please Steve. “Nope. We retired nothing. Be specific.”

You smiled and simply just shook your head. “You look nice, babe. ‘That's all.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s my trauma now.”

Your voice came light and teasing now. “Three reasons?”

“I’m not falling for that.”

“You sure?”

The microwave started popping. Steve tried not to smile and failed by inches. “One, I’m making popcorn. Two, I drove. Three, my hair recovered from your previous assault.”

You didn't bother to hide the roll of your eyes. “You call those reasons?”

He simply shrugged with his grin. “I call them evidence.”

The popcorn began popping faster. Steve glanced back, then leaned beside you against the counter. His shoulder brushed yours. For a few moments, neither of you moved. The kitchen light was warmer than at his job, softer on his face, catching the tiredness under his eyes without making him look worn down. He had taken off his work polo and changed into a plain T-shirt, and the simplicity of it made you aware of how long the day had been.

He looked at you then, properly.

Not because a magazine told him to. Not because you demanded reasons. Just because you were there in his kitchen, sleeves over your hands, perfume faded, and hair imperfect from heat and wind and the day’s nonsense.

His hand found the hem of the jacket. “Still mine.”

“Still not.”

He pulled you into him by the grip he had on the hem of the fabric. “I’m going to start charging rent.”

You tilted your head up at him because the angle needed you to. “I’ll pay in compliments.”

“Specific ones?”

You huffed and leaned up to plant a chaste kiss on his lower jawline. “Don’t get greedy.”

The microwave beeped before he could answer.

The first bag came out mostly edible, only slightly scorched at one corner, which Steve declared a triumph. He poured it into a large bowl, added too much salt, then carried it into the living room with the dignity of a man presenting a feast.

The movie was a thriller neither of you had strong feelings about. Steve had picked it because the cover looked “medium scary,” which apparently meant scary enough to justify sitting close but not scary enough to ruin the evening. You took your usual side of the couch. He took his. Within five minutes, your legs were over his lap and his hand rested on your shin, his thumb moving absently over the ribbed cuff of your sock.

The television threw blue-white light across the room.

A woman on screen walked through a dark hallway with a candle despite every instinct and all available electricity. Steve, who had survived things that made movie monsters look lazy, immediately became furious.

“Don’t go in there,” he groaned at the television with his hands gesturing wildly.

Your reminder came gentle and blank. “She can’t hear you.”

“She should!”

“She’s fictional, babe.”

“She’s stupid.”

You took a handful of popcorn and shrugged. “Maybe she’s brave.”

“Brave people can turn on lamps.”

You laughed, and his hand tightened briefly around your ankle, pleased with himself for the achievement. 

This, apparently, was the comfort the article had warned you about.

The couch. The shared popcorn. The old rhythm of your legs across him, his fingers warm through your sock, the easy commentary over a bad movie. The way you both knew without discussing it who would get up for drinks, who would complain about the blanket being too far away, who would pretend not to be sleepy first.

It did not feel like the absence of romance.

It felt lived in.

You thought about the word comfortable and how the magazine had treated it like something dangerous, a warning sign in glossy print. Maybe sometimes it was. Maybe people did stop trying. Maybe affection could become furniture if no one touched it on purpose. But you had seen Steve try in ways that did not look glamorous enough for an article. He tried by checking your tires when he noticed one looked low. He tried by buying the cereal you liked and pretending it was for him even when he hated it. He tried by standing between you and things he had every right to run from.

Still, the final instruction was sitting there in your head, bright and absurd.

Turn off the TV right in the middle of the movie’s climax.

So, you waited.

The movie dragged itself toward chaos. Rain lashed the windows on screen. Someone found a bloody key. The heroine finally realized the killer was in the house roughly forty minutes after Steve had announced it.

He leaned forward despite himself.

“Okay, now run,” he instructed, his voice antsy now. “No, not upstairs. Why is it always upstairs? There’s nowhere to go upstairs!”

You reached for the remote, and you had to bite back a grin at how ridiculous this all seemed in reality.

He did not seem to notice, he was too entranced by the stupidity of the characters through the screen. 

The music rose. The heroine hid behind a door. A shadow moved across the wall.

And you clicked the television off.

The room fell silent so abruptly that the house seemed to inhale.

Steve froze promptly. 

His face, lit now only by the lamp, stayed aimed at the blank screen. His mouth was slightly open. One hand hovered above the popcorn bowl.

For three seconds, he did nothing. Then he turned to you, mouth agaped.

“You did not.”

You set the remote on the coffee table and nodded with a premium amount of sympathy. “I did.”

“That was the climax!”

You hummed, “I’m aware.”

Steve’s face was shoved into his hands now, his whine xould practically be heard for miles. “We watched the whole movie to get there.”

“Technically, you yelled at the whole movie to get there.”

“The killer was behind her!”

“I’m sure he’ll wait.”

Steve stared at you with deep, personal betrayal. “You’re sick.”

You tried to look serious and failed when you broke into a smile.

His eyes moved from you to the magazine lying on the coffee table, where you had dropped it earlier without thinking. The cover caught the lamp light. The headline peeked up from beneath the fold.

You watched understanding hit him.

Slowly, then all at once.

“Oh my God,” he said.

You pressed your lips together, which did nothing to hide the small giggles that left you as his voice turned blatantly aggrieved. 

“This whole time!”

Yoy played dumb. “What whole time?”

“This whole time was that—that thing.” He pointed at the magazine with such venom in his voice it was even barder to take him seriously now. “You’ve been Cosmo-ing me!”

You shook your head but couldn't stop your amusement. “I have not been Cosmo-ing you.”

Steve started to list his recount of the events. “You stole my sweatshirt.”

You shot back quickly. “You gave it up willingly.”

“You hijacked my car.” His voice became more breathless with each passing second with every realization. 

“You handed me the keys!”

This time, his tone of betrayal made you roll your eyes. “You attacked my hair.”

“It was deserved—”

“You had secret plans.”

You grinned at his expression. “They were secret.”

“You made me talk about the nineties!”

You shrugged and picked at the invisible lint of your bottoms. “The article made a few points.”

Steve sat back against the couch, processing betrayal with one hand over his mouth. He was quiet long enough that you wondered if the joke had gone too far. Then his shoulders started shaking.

He laughed.

Not loudly at first, just a helpless, disbelieving sound behind his hand. Then he dropped his hand and looked at you with his hair slightly messy again from the couch, eyes bright, mouth pulling open into the kind of laugh that made him look younger than he let himself be most days.

“You are unbelievable,” he breathed out, almost disbelieving. 

Your voice came out just as quiet as it was incredulous. “You’re not mad?”

“I don’t know. I might be. I can’t tell because it’s stupid.”

You tried for your favor. “It was educational.”

“It was psychological warfare with perfume.”

You smiled before you could control it. “You passed some of it.”

“Some?”

The words came instinctively. “You need room to grow.”

He pointed at you with a new sense of knowledge. “That is exactly what a magazine cult leader would say.”

You laughed, then reached for the popcorn bowl before it tipped. The room had changed without the TV. Not into something staged, but something quieter. More aware of itself. You could hear the refrigerator hum in his kitchen, the faint rush of air through the vents, and the distant roll of thunder finally approaching after hours of threats.

Steve’s laughter softened.

He looked at you, and this time there was no audience, no fluorescent light, no Robin waiting to make things worse. Just the couch, the cooling bowl of popcorn, the blank television, the old sweatshirt, and the magazine that had started as a joke and somehow exposed all these small places where comfort and effort touched.

“So,” he tilted his head upwards to the ceiling, “what’s the final diagnosis?”

You picked up the magazine and flipped it closed. The cover girl disappeared under your hand.

“You’re comfortable,” you decided to say at last.

Steve watched you carefully.

You could feel how much hung on the word now, though neither of you had meant for the night to become serious. His hand still rested near your ankle, but his thumb had stopped moving. He was waiting with the particular stillness he got when he was trying not to brace for bad news.

You nudged his thigh gently with your foot.

“But not lazy.”

His shoulders loosened and you wanted to melt into them. “You sure?”

You nodded against the cushion beneath your head. “Yeah.”

He looked down, smiling faintly. And you appreciated the sight on reflex. “Because I said nice?”

There was a faint silence before you took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile yourself. “You recovered from that mishap.”

Steve nodded to himself at your words. “I gave three reasons.”

“You did.”

“Good ones.”

“Mostly good ones.”

He made an offended sound, but it did not land. His hand resumed its slow movement over your sock. “For the record, I’m not trying to stop trying.”

You looked at him, because you weren't sure where else to look at.

He didn't look away, but he did look a little uncomfortable with his own sincerity. His jaw shifted, and his free hand picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

“I know sometimes I do the easy thing,” he said before you could jump in to stop him. “The restaurant thing. Or the movie thing. Or I just assume you’re coming over because you usually do, and I like when you do, so I don’t. . . think about how it sounds.” He paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the blank TV. “And future stuff is… I don’t know. Weird.”

You let him find the words without helping too much. You knew it was important to him.

Steve was not always graceful with this. If you rushed him, he might joke his way out. If you stared too hard, he might shut the sentence down and pretend it had never started. So you kept your body relaxed against the couch and waited. 

You would wait for him forever if need be, Steve was worth that and more.

He exhaled, “I want things. I just don’t always say them because saying them makes them real, and real things can get messed up.”

The words sat between you.

You looked down at the sweatshirt sleeves over your hands, then back at him. “I don’t need you to be perfect.”

“I know.”

You made a face. “Do you?”

He gave you the small, crooked smile that you loved. “I’m learning.”

There it was again: the same answer from the night before, but quieter now. Less joke, more promise.

Rain finally began against the windows, soft at first, then steadier. It tapped along the glass and filled the room with a low, gentle sound. Steve glanced toward it, then back to you.

“You also don’t have to use a magazine to tell me stuff,” he cleared his throat.

“I know.” And you did, that was something you were entirely sure of when it came to Steve. 

“Do you?”

You smiled because you deserved that. “Maybe I’m learning too.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because if next month’s issue tells you to fake your own disappearance to test my devotion, I’m calling Hopper.”

“He’d be very annoyed, I'm sure.”

“He’d arrest the magazine.”

“You think he has that authority?”

“For you? Probably.”

The seriousness eased. Not vanished, exactly, but folded into the warmth already there. Steve reached over and took the magazine from your lap, holding it up between two fingers.

“This,” Steve declared with a fevered passion, “is going in a drawer.”

Your words came out song-like and taunting. “You’re scared.”

“I prefer the term cautious.”

“You literally fight monsters.”

Steve gave you a pointed look. “Monsters don’t give you numbered relationship advice.”

You grabbed for the magazine, and he lifted it out of reach, which made you lean across him. The popcorn bowl wobbled dangerously. He caught it again with one hand and laughed under his breath.

“Careful.”

“You started it.”

“You started it at approximately five-ten yesterday after noon.”

“You kept failing tests.”

Steve defended himself fiercely. “I didn’t know there were tests!”

“That’s how tests work.”

“No, that’s how traps work.”

You got the magazine back only because he let you, though he pretended otherwise. When you tossed it onto the far end of the coffee table, he looked at you with narrowed, wide eyes.

“You’re done?”

“With the article?”

“Yes.”

You nodded solemnly, but your eyes gave you away to joy. “Done.”

“No more solutions?”

“No more solutions.” you promised. 

“Good.”

A beat passed.

Then you looked him dead in the eye, deciding to follow the last stupid line of advice you were given. “I do have a much better way to keep us entertained, though.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted.

The line was ridiculous. You knew it. It belonged to the glossy page and the bossy article and the version of romance that thought every moment needed a dramatic instruction. But in the quiet living room, with rain beginning properly outside and the movie forgotten, it made Steve’s mouth curve.

“Oh, yeah?” he hummed with a tilt of of head. 

“Maybe.”

His hand slid from your ankle to your calf, still slow, still asking. “Does this better way involve stealing any more of my clothes?”

“You’re not wearing a sweatshirt anymore.”

“Thank God for that,” his words came out dry and low, sending goosebumps against where his fingers touched.

“Could steal your shirt though.”

His laugh came out all startled. “Okay, trouble.”

You grinned, but when he leaned closer, he didn't rush. That was one of the things you trusted about him. For all his teasing, for all the old reputation that still followed him around town in pieces, Steve had become careful with closeness. His hand came to your jaw, thumb resting near the corner of your mouth. His eyes searched your face with enough patience to make your chest ache.

“You sure the movie can stay off?” he asked against you. 

Your brow quirked up.  “You were yelling at it.”

“I was invested!”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely,” he murmured and before you could argue, Steve kissed you.

The first kiss was smiling and badly aimed because you laughed right before it landed. His nose bumped yours. Your hand went into his hair by instinct, and he made a muffled sound of protest against your mouth.

“Hair,” he murmured with his lips putting against yours, the reaction only spurring you on more. 

“National treasure,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You kissed him again, better this time.

The rain thickened against the windows. The lamp beside the couch hummed softly. Steve’s hand moved to your waist, fingers pressing into the thick fabric of his sweatshirt, and you shifted closer until your knees fit awkwardly against his thigh and the popcorn bowl had to be relocated to the coffee table for everyone’s comfort.

It was certainly not graceful. Your elbow hit the cushion, and he laughed into your mouth. You told him to stop laughing, which made him laugh more. He called you bossy. You called him dramatic. He tried to defend himself and lost the thread of the argument when you kissed the corner of his mouth.

This, too, felt comfortable.

But it was not dull.

It was the kind of comfort that knew where to put its hands and still paid attention. The kind that could laugh without breaking the mood. The kind that did not need to perform mystery to feel wanted, but could still play at it for fun. Steve touched you with familiarity, yes, but not carelessness. You could feel the difference in every pause, every small adjustment, and every time he pulled back just enough to look at you before leaning in again.

Your fingers fisted in the cotton of his shirt as the second kiss deepened, slower at first, then messier. Steve’s mouth opened wider under yours, his tongue slid hot and slick against your own, with spit gathering at the corners of your lips. Every breath you took was shared; the air between you grew thick and humid. He tasted of some sort of your faint chapstick taste, and tilted your head so your nose brushed and your teeth clicked again.

One of his hands then slide up your back, his palm broad and warm, until it cuped the nape of your neck and held you exactly where he wanted you. The other hand stayed low, fingers splayed across the curve of your lower back, squeezing once, then again, guiding the subtle roll of your hips that neither of you planned.

“Thought you weren't a fan of this,” you murmured against his lips when given the chance to break free for a moment. The moment didn't last long because his hand on your head pulled you in once again, a pout on his lips at your escape.

“Correction, I'm not a fan of the magazine,” you huffed a laugh at the intensity of his correction, and he used the opening to pull you in for another kiss. Though, this one was softer in a way that had your breath hitching on contact. “I'd like the record to show—I'm pretty encouraging of this.

Against his lips, you scoffed because he didn't let you break apart again. You could feel his smile against yours as you shoved at him for his distinction as his hands fell to your hips once more. 

Pressing closer to him, you felt him hardening beneath you, thick and insistent through the soft cotton of his sweats. The friction was barely there; just the slow, unconscious grind of you against the ridge of him, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch every time the head of him caught against you through your bottoms more insistantly now. You rock forward again, slower this time, as if trying to test something. 

Apparently, it's successful since Steve groans into your mouth, and the sound vibrates against your tongue, and his hips lift in a tiny, helpless thrust that drags another wet slide of fabric on fabric.

“Okay, so that's really not fair.” He breaks the kiss with a wet sound, lips parting from yours by inches. A thin strand of spit stretches, then snaps. His warm eyes are now turned glassy, his pupils blown wide, and his mouth red and shiny. “You know, you're the one that was excited for this movie for like—I don't know, a week?” he managed finally through pants, with his voice hoarse, and chest heaving under your palm.

“Ever think I was just trying to seduce you?” The ridiculous words did little to wipe away your smile, or his, for that matter.

Steve quirked his eyebrow up at you, “with begging and whining?” 

The look you shot at him must've been a good one, because he grinned down at you and pulled you in closer. “I'm kidding.”

“Mhm.” You weren't convinced, but it did little to deter him. Steve pressed his lips against the column of your neck in a makeshift trying apology. 

Instead of replying, your mouth found his again; slower this time, deeper, and your mouth curling together in a hazy slide. Steve’s hand at your neck tightened on reflex and the action had you pulled in closer, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind your ear. The other hand sliped lower now, taking up residence on your upper thigh. His fingers dug in just enough to guide another slow, deliberate grind of your hips. 

The ridge of his length dragged alongside you through two layers of cotton. The pressure was entirely maddening, it wasn't enough and too much at once. You felt yourself getting tenser, the crotch of your leggings clinging and every tiny movement he took made the fabric pull and drag.

Steve’s breathing grew more ragged against you. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth then nibbled, then soothing with his tongue after you made a winced noise before diving back in for another open-mouthed kiss that left the both of you gasping. 

His hand that was placed below your ear roamed now. Up your side and over your ribs, with  the heel of his palm brushing the underside of your breast through your top. He doesn’t cup or squeeze like you'd prefer, he just let the weight of his hand rest there, thumb stroking slow circles that makes your body push up towards the friction. 

His hips lift again, meeting your slow grind with a shallow thrust that presses him harder against you, leaving you to curse against his lips. The friction sparked through you, sharp and sweet, and you moan into his mouth, though the sound swallowed by another kiss.

“You're such a weirdo.” The exhale that the words left you from was more breathless than you'd intended.  His hand on your breast finally moved when you spoke, a rough palm covering the soft swell, thumb flicking once over a stiff peak more incessantly this time. The touch is still half-hidden under your shirt and still restrained, but the heat of it burns through the fabric all the same. 

Steve would've sputtered at your words if he didn't know you better. And fortunately for him, he did. “Just say you missed me, honey. It'll make it easier for the both of us.”

“Can't say it if I don't mean it.” Your response had him strained against your throat, and the vibrations of his laughter sent shivers up your spine. You arch into his grip, pressing down against him harder with every slow roll of your hips. Steve’s abdomen flexed beneath you, the spasms eased through shaky exhales, and the tiny, helpless thrust of his hips tells you he’s just as affected.

“Come on, just say it.” His words were pressed into you now. You could hear the room becoming actively smaller between the two of you. Steve’s fingertips slid underneath the rising hem of your top, gripping at your sides directly now, leaving you to feel the warmth of his skin more clearly.

You could feel your head distantly shaking side to side, more so with just the need to push at him further than any real argument against his statement. His groan was propelled into your skin at that, his head tilting into you as if it was bodily necessity. 

Steve’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight into you again. “You’re so damn stubborn,” he muttered, and his lips dragged higher over your pulse. His fingers slipped higher beneath your top until the fabric bunched under your arms, baring your stomach and the lower curve of your breasts. He didn’t bother pulling your top or bra off, he just shoved it up and out of the way so his palm could close over one bare breast, hus thumb circling the stiff nipple before he pinched it between his fingers.

You gasped instantly, hips jerking forward on instinct. The bulge of his cock dragged harder against you, the head catching right where you needed it. Steve groaned at the sudden pressure alongside you, his free hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you inhumanly closer.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he breathed, his voice turning rough. “I can feel it even through your clothes.” His hips rolled up to meet your grind in another slow and deliberate movement, letting you feel every inch of him. The cotton of his sweats was damp where you’d been rubbing against him, clinging to the shape of him.

You rocked harder, chasing the friction he slowly gave you. Steve’s thumb flicked over your nipple again, then he ducked his head and sucked it into his mouth through the bunched fabric of your top, his teeth scraping lightly before his tongue soothed the sting. The wet heat of his mouth made your back arch, pushing your breast deeper against his lips.

“Steve,” His name came out shaky. Your fingers threaded into his hair by the pure need to hold onto something, then holding him there as he sucked harder, the pull sending sparks straight between your legs. He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment while his hand worked the first, rolling and tugging until both peaks were tight and aching.

His other hand stayed on your ass then the flesh of your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he guided your hips in a slower, filthier grind. Each roll dragged your swollen clit against the head of his cock through the layers of fabric, the pressure building until your thighs started to shake. Steve’s breathing grew ragged against your chest, hot puffs of air cooling the wet and reddening spots he’d left on your top.

“Still not gonna say it?” he asked, though his voice was muffled against your breast. He looked up at you through his long lashes, eyes dark and glassy, and his lips were pink as they coated themselves in saliva everytime his tongue poked out to wet them. His hips lifted again, thrusting up to meet your familiar movements, the motion making his cock catch and drag right over your clit in a way that had you moaning.

"I'm good, thanks." You shook your head, but the motion was weak and entirely distracted by the way his hand was sliding lower, how his fingers were slipping between your thighs to your front. He pressed two fingers against the soaked fabric covering you, rubbing slow circles that made your hips stutter.

“God, you’re dripping,” he breathed out, almost wonderingly. His fingers pressed harder, pushing the fabric against your entrance, the pressure just shy of pushing inside. You shot him a glare at his teasing. “I can feel how hot you are. How bad you want it.”

You rocked back against his hand, chasing more. He wouldn't fully give it to you, though. Steve’s mouth found yours again, the kiss messy and filled with wanting, it had your tongues sliding together in tandem as his fingers kept working between your legs. The heel of his palm ground against your clit while his fingers continued to tease your entrance through the thin fabric, the material growing wetter with every pass.

His cock twitched beneath you, thick and insistent, and you had to bite back the noises that wanted to leave you. Steve’s free hand slid up your back, having his fingers splaying wide between your shoulder blades as he held you close, chest to chest, with the heat of his skin burning through both your shirts.

“Say it,” he pleaded against your lips, the words barely audible over the wet sounds of your mouths moving together. His fingers pressed harder, the tips just barely pushing the fabric inside you, the stretch barely there but enough to make you clench around nothing but the want of him. “Just say you missed me and I’ll give you what you want.”

Steve’s fingers kept working between your legs. His mouth stayed on yours, swallowing every shaky breath you let out while his other hand stayed busy under your top, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple in slow, deliberate tugs whenever his hand moved.

“Still so stubborn,” he chuckled against your lips, voice low and warm with the click of his tongue. “You’re twitching in my lap and you still won’t say it?” 

“Stop being smug,” was the only response you could get out. You rocked down harder then, chasing that pressure, and Steve groaned into your mouth. You had to bite back your smile against his lips at the reaction. His hand slipped out from between your legs only to grip the waistband of your bottoms, his fingers hooking under the elastic at your hips. He tugged once, slow, testing, then looked up at you with that half-smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Lift up for me?” he murmured the leading question softly. You braced your hands on his shoulders and raised your hips just enough for him to peel the pants down your thighs, dragging your panties halfway with them. The cool air hit your skin and you shivered on contact, but Steve’s hands were already back in their place, and his warm palms slid up the backs of your thighs until his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties too.

He paused there, looking up at you with his painfully mesmerizing big and soft eyes. “Still not gonna say it?” His voice stayed gentle, almost coaxing. He only grinned wide when you glared back up at him.

“That’s alright. I’ll get it out of you eventually.” He pulled your panties down the rest of the way, leaving them tangled around one ankle as he settled you back down on his lap. The cotton of his sweats was entirely damp where you’d been grinding, and now there was nothing between you and that thick, prominent feeling  of him except the thin fabric of his bottoms.

Steve’s hands settled on your hips again, guiding you into another slow roll. This time the friction was hotter, wetter, the head of his cock dragging right through your folds and catching on your clit with every pass. You gasped, fingers tightening on his shoulders, and he made a low approving sound in his throat.

“There you go,” he cooed, his voice soft and a little condescending, like he was praising a pet that finally learned the trick. You didn't have it in you to bite back at the moment. “That’s better, isn’t it? All that attitude and you’re still soaking my sweats.” His hands squeezed your hips, encouraging another grind. “Look at you, dripping all over me and still pretending you didn’t miss me.”

“Shut up, Steve.” The words weren't fruitful or honest. You rocked harder quickly after that, chasing the feeling even though your legs shook at the movement, and Steve’s breath hitched. That noise made the slight sting all the more worth it. One hand slid between your bodies again, fingers spreading your folds so the head of his cock could press more directly against your clit. The pressure was perfect, just enough to make your hips stutter and he held you there, letting you grind against his fingers and the thick length trapped in his pants.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he repeated again in that same breathless way. “I can feel how swollen you are. How bad you need it.” His thumb found your clit and rubbed slow circles while his fingers teased your entrance, not pushing inside yet, just pressing and circling until your thighs started to shake. The taunting had your head bowed low and a whiny plea in your throat. “You're killing me here.”

He shifted you higher on his lap, one hand sliding down to grip the back of your thigh and lay you on your back as he spread you open. Then he leaned in, his mouth finding the soft skin just above your hip, kissing and nipping his way lower until his breath ghosted over your bare skin. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and warm, and that same soft, iritatingly condescending tone crept back into his voice that made your stomach flex.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, having his lips brushing your inner thigh now in soft kisses. “So worked up and still being so mean to me.” His tongue dragged a slow stripe up your slit, tasting you, and he hummed like he’d just found something sweet. “Sweetheart, you taste so fucking good when you’re not being mean.”

“I wasn't—fuck, I wasn't mean.” Your words fell on deaf ears when his hands held your thighs apart as he licked again, slower this time, with his tongue flat and broad as he dragged it from your entrance up to your clit. He circled the swollen bud once, twice, then sucked it gently between his lips, the wet heat of his mouth making your back arch against where you were laid out. One hand stayed on your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles, while the other slid up to press two fingers against your entrance, rubbing but not pushing even though your hips lifted up to meet them.

“Say it,” he whispered against your clit, the words vibrating through you. “Just say you missed me and I’ll give you my fingers. I’ll give you my tongue. I’ll give you whatever you could want.” His tongue flicked over your clit again, faster now, while his fingers pressed harder, the tips just barely stretching you. His words seemed to leave you as if they were a carousel, only reaching you when your head stopped spinning. “Or you can keep being stubborn. Either way, I’m not stopping until you’re shaking and begging.”

“Fuck. Please, Steve—don't, don’t tease.” Your words came desperate in their pleas as you rocked against his mouth, chasing more. Steve groaned into you at that, the sound muffled but hungry. His fingers finally pushed inside then, slow and deliberate, curling just right as his tongue kept working your clit. The wet sounds of his mouth and your slick filled the space between you, mixing with the low, coaxing praise he kept murmuring against your skin.

“That’s it,” he cooed, voice soft and warm even as his fingers thrust deeper. Your forearm came up to your face now, sprawled across your face to muffle your sounds. “Good girl. Just like that. Keep grinding on my tongue. I’ve got you.” His free hand slid up your body again, finding your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers while his mouth stayed busy between your legs. The action had you gasping out his name and biting the sleeve of the jacket underneath you. “You’re so fucking pretty like this, honey. All spread out and dripping for me.”

Your hips rolled in tiny, shaky circles over Steve’s mouth, thighs trembling around his head as his tongue kept flicking quick and firm over your clit. Every pass made your stomach clench and your breath hitch, and the fingers he’d finally pushed inside you curled just right, dragging over that spot that made your walls flutter around him.

“F-fuck—Steve—oh god,” you gasped, voice cracking. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as your whole body twitched. “Please—please, fuck, I missed you, won’t ignore you again, I missed—ah!”

He hummed against you, clearly pleased, the vibration shooting straight through your clit, and you felt him smile against you. His fingers thrust deeper now, more slow and steady, while his tongue circled and sucked, never letting up. Your hips jerked on pure reflex now, chasing every bit of pressure, and you could feel how soaked you were, seeing through half-lidded eyes the slick dripping down his fingers, and coating his chin, making every wet sound louder.

“That’s it,” he murmured with his voice low and warm against you. “Good girl. Say it again, tell me how much you missed me again?”

“I missed you,” you sighed, and the words tumbled out broken and breathless. “Missed your mouth, missed your stupid attitude, missed—fuck, Steve, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His tongue pressed flat and hard, licking languidly from your entrance up to clit, then sucking the swollen bud between his lips again after forcing your hips flat with his other hand wrapped against your waist. His fingers kept working inside you, curling and thrusting, and stretching you open while his thumb rubbed tight circles. Your thighs shook harder, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

“Close,” you whimpered with a voice thin and shaky, you were borderline wordless now. “Steve, fuck—I’m gonna—please, I’m so close—”

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing your slick folds. “Not yet,” he breathed heavy and his voice rasped. “You’re not coming until I say so. You can hold it for me, can’t you?”

You whined with your hips stuttering, trying to chase his mouth again, but he held you steady with a hand on your thigh. His fingers slowed inside you, just barely moving now, forcefully keeping you right on the edge without letting you tip over. Your walls clenched around him, desperate, and you felt yourself dripping even more, the wet sounds filthy and loud in the quiet room.

“Steve, please—fuck, I need it, I need to come, please let me just—” He licked you again, his movements slow and deliberate, and his tongue continuously dragging over your clit until your whole body jerked. 

“Not yet,” he repeated with a gentle voice but still firmly, his grasp on you turning slightly tighter in a soft warning. “You’re so pretty like this. You can wait a little longer, yeah?”

Your head fell forward, forehead pressing against his as your breath came in shaky gasps. Every nerve in your body felt on the frustrating edge without being allowed to be tipped over completely. Your head lifted weakly as your proped yourself on your elbows to look at him. “Please—come on, please? I’ll do anything. Fuck, Steve, I’m so close right now—”

He kissed your inner thigh in what felt like an apology, then your clit, soft and teasing. The action had your breath shake and your groan turn entirely frustrated. “I know, baby. I know. Just a little more.” His fingers curled inside you, pressing right against that spot, and you felt your orgasm building again, hotter and tighter, but he pulled back just before you could tip over once more.

Your words came out a mixed sobbed with your thighs shaking, and hips twitching against nothing anymore. “Fuck—fuck, Steve, don't do that! Come on—”

He shifted you down his body, hands guiding your hips until your legs were straddling his lap again and you're no longer lying down. His cock was rock hard under his sweats, the fabric soaked where you’d been grinding. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved them down just enough to free himself, the thick length springing up between you, all flushed and leaking.

“Ride me,” he murmured this time and his voice low and coaxing. “Take what you need. You’ve earned it, honey.”

You didn’t hesitate, the restlessness in your body didn't let you. You reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock, not before and lined him up, the head pressing against your entrance. You sank down slow, feeling every inch stretch you open, your walls fluttering and clenching around him as he filled you. The stretch was perfect, deep and thick, and you moaned loud and broken as you bottomed out, hips flush against his.

Steve groaned alongside you with his head tipping back, and hands gripping your hips harder now. “Fuck—there you go. So fucking tight. So wet for me.”

You started to move, slow at first, rolling your hips in languid circles, feeling him drag against every sensitive spot inside you. Your hands braced on his chest, nails digging in as you rode him, each roll of your hips sending sparks through your whole body. Steve's broken gasps sounds filled the room, mixing with your broken moans and his low, practically mindless praise.

“That’s it,” he breathed, and you could clearly hear how his voice shook. His head tipped back with every movement. “Good girl. Fuck, you feel so good. Missed this so much. Missed how you squeeze me, how you drip all over me.”

You couldn’t form words anymore. Your head lolled forward, forehead pressed to his, breath coming in short, desperate pants. Your hips moved on their own with his strained help, chasing every bit of friction he gave while inside you. The pleasure built fast, hot and tight, and you felt yourself tipping over the edge again, walls clenching hard around him.

Your hand came up to smack agakn his bicep helplessly. “Steve, fuck—”

He thrust up to meet you messily now, rough palms guiding your hips with his voice low and urgent. “Close? Let me feel it, yeah?”

You shattered with a broken cry, your whole body shaking as your orgasm continued to build and crashed through you. Your walls pulsed around him,  and you kept moving through it, riding out every wave with shaky and unstable footing. Steve groaned loud against his mindless bubbles against your shoulder, his hips jerking up in a stutter and you felt him throb inside you as he came down with you.

You stayed there for what seemed like a lifetime, bodies pressed limblessly together, breathing hard, and your hips still twitching with the remaining aftershocks. Steve’s hands stroked your back, then your hips, soothing and warm, while you melted against him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath coming in shaky wordless sounds.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and he almost sounded reverent. Steve's knuckles went to drag against the line of your spine, the touch barely registering with how light it was. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You just hummed, too far gone to speak with your body still twitching and clenching around him as the pleasure slowly ebbed, leaving you warm and languid and utterly spent.

Steve’s hair was a mess now. Yours couldn't have been much better now either. The collar of your shirt had slipped off one shoulder, and he kept tugging it back up absently, not because he was concerned about modesty so much as because taking care of you in small ways was one of his habits. Your breath was still easing down when you felt the pressure of a kiss just below your eye, then one followed up to your temple. 

You were ready to let all the leftover tension in your body release when he spoke.

“Tomorrow,” Steve started quietly, and he took the moment for him to hook his chin over your head, pulling you into him even more.“I’m picking the date.”

You opened one eye to scan him when your vision returned to you. “Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“What are we doing?”

Steve used your words against you with a clear hum of delight. “Secret plans.”

You smiled against his chest, your own knuckles across him, mirroring his own actions on you. “With who?”

He pinched your side gently through the shirt that covered you once more, the action pulled a squirm from you. “Funny.”

“You walked into that!”

“I did and I regret it.”

The rain tapped steadily and the the microwave clock glowed green. Steve’s arm rested around your shoulders, heavy and warm.

“I’ll pick something,” he said. “A real thing. Not just pizza because it’s Friday.”

“I like pizza because it’s Friday.”

“I know. But I’ll pick.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him. He was staring at the blank television, but not really seeing it. His face had gone thoughtful in the dim light, mouth relaxed, and his eyes were tired but not drained. 

“And,” Steve added, “I’ll ask first. If you want to come.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You kept your voice light because otherwise the moment might become too delicate to touch. “That sounds very advanced.”

“I’m an advanced boyfriend.” You weren't entirely convinced. 

“You’re a boyfriend with homework.”

“I did great on the first quiz!”

“You got a B-minus.”

His head snapped toward you. “B-minus?”

You conceded. “Maybe B.”

“I gave three reasons and let you drive my car?”

“B-plus.”

“And discussed the nineties.”

You considered that, “A-minus.”

He relaxed back into the couch. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get too comfortable just yet.”

Steve looked down at you with his mouth tilting. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You settled against him again, listening to the rain and the steady beat of his heart. The house around you felt less empty than it had when you arrived. The couch pillows were crushed. The popcorn bowl sat abandoned on the table. The magazine lay face down near the remote, defeated for now. Steve’s shoes were kicked halfway beneath the coffee table, and your mall bag had tipped over near the armchair, one receipt peeking out.

It was ordinary evidence, proof of a night spent badly and well.

After a while, Steve kissed the top of your head. He probably thought you were too sleepy to call him on it when he murmured, “You looked really pretty today.”

You smiled without opening your eyes quickly. “Three reasons?”

His sigh moved beneath your cheek when he pressed another kiss there. “I created a monster.”

You could only shrug. “You encouraged her.”

“I did.” His hand moved once over your shoulder. Steve’s fingers gently rubbed small circles into your shoulder blades, and you could only lean onto his touch. “Okay. The jeans. The ribbons. Your hair. The way you stole my clothes again and acted like I was lucky to witness it.”

“That’s four.” Your voice came pleased against him.

“I’m overachieving then. ”

“Good.”

“And,” Steve said quieter, “the way you came back.”

You opened your eyes and he was looking at the ceiling now, not at you, because that last one had slipped out seemed more vulnerable than he intended. His throat moved. His fingers kept tracing a small, absent path over your sleeve.

You didn't tease him for it this time, something told you that'd be too cruel; Instead, you reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his as if it was always meant there 

“I'm always going to come back,” you decided to settle for saying, your voice soft.

Steve looked down at you then.

For a second, the room held still and quiet around you: rain at the windows, lamp light on his tired face, qnd your hand in his. He didn't say anything grand, really. He didn't need to. Steve just squeezed your fingers once and rested his cheek against your hair.

“Good,” Steve murmured against the crown of your hair.

It was not magazine-perfect, it was even better.

other links: ▪︎ my masterlist

[covered-in-you-now]

MASTERLIST - I wanna be yours

Read this before anything.

I wanna be yours - Gator Tillman.

Summary : Gator Tillman has your heart. You'd do anything for him, but he treats you like you're nothing. Will he ever change his mind and his beliefs ?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21

Part 22

Part 23

Part 24

Part 25

Part 26

Part 27

Part 28

Part 29

Part 30

Part 31

Part 32

Part 33

Part 34

Part 35

Part 36

Part 37

Part 38

Part 39

Part 40

Part 41

Part 42

Part 43

Part 44

Epilogue

[mysticbellie]

#thisbrokemeinthebestway

[mysticbellie]

Is anyone seeing Joes freaky IG story posts in the last 30 min?!?!

what is wrong with him I can’t breathe😭

[djospurnell]

he’s the most boyfriend ever i’m sick

[mysticbellie]

Hey so I'm actually so in love with him ITS SICKENING

[thecreelhouse]

always ready to be left out in the cold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Reader

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

WC: 18k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, lucky you.

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

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

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

And that's never your call to make.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

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

You'd drift in, drift out.

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

In, out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

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

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

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can only tread water for so long, though.

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

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

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

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

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

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"God, you're such a bitch."

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

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

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

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

"I meant the van, asshole!"

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

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

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

"Shit, shit, shit!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastic.

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

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

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

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

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

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

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

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

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

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

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

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

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

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

"Language."

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

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

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

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

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

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together.

Alone.

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

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

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

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

"M'yeah, s'kay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay, c'mon, boots first."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's a dumb fucking question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words ache with more desperation than he intends.

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

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

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

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

"Fu- fucking cold."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Be n- n- nice!"

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

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

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

Like a fucking fool.

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

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

"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, if only you knew.

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

"Make wh- what weird?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sound mortified.

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

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

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

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

"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."

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

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

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

Talk about something else. Anything.

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

"Hm? Wi- with what?"

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

"We still ended up in a ditch—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"… What?"

Because since when do you care about letting him down?

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

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

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

And look where that got the two of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scared is an understatement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you.

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

It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.

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

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

So much wasted time—

"Steve?"

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

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

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

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

"Oh my god, Steve."

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

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

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

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

"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck, shit, fuck—"

Yeah. He's hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not to death."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."

Not like this one's much easier to talk about.

Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.

"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"

"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."

You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.

It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.

"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"

When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.

"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."

For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.

"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."

It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?

There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.

The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.

"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."

Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.

Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.

You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.

He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.

The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.

"Shit, Steve…"

He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.

He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.

"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"

"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.

If, you know, you were into that.

His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.

The two of you just have to survive this night first.

"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."

You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.

Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.

"Finish. The. Sentence."

You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.

"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"

"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."

Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.

"Bet you were this wet before you left."

Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."

"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."

"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."

Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.

"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."

"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.

"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."

Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."

The smug expression falters, "Too much?"

"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."

Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."

Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.

He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.

Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."

"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."

"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."

You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."

"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"

"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."

He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.

And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.

The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.

"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."

Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.

"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"

Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.

"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."

The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.

"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"

The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.

"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"

Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.

"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"

You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.

This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.

Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.

And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.

He's missed you. So, so much.

The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"

Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.

"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."

Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.

"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.

"I- I want it."

"Want… what?"

Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."

"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."

"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.

Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.

Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.

"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."

As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.

You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.

"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"

Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."

He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.

"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."

Steve blinks as the words sink in.

Oh.

"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."

"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.

"One step at a time, okay?"

He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.

Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.

Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.

"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.

Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.

"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.

In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."

Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.

Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.

"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"

You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.

Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.

Oh, no.

"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"

Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"

"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"

"Steve."

"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.

"Were you— oh my god."

"What?!"

A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.

The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."

He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.

Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"

"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."

"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"

"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."

Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.

You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.

It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.

A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.

Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.

It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.

By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.

He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.

Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.

"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"

The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.

"S'okay?"

"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.

"But?"

Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.

Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.

He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.

"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"

"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."

Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.

As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.

You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.

Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.

"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.

"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'

Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."

And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.

"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."

"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."

"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."

Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.

"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"

Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.

With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.

"You done talking logistics yet?"

Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.

That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.

No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.

"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."

"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.

Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in. 

Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.

Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.

What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.

Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.

It tightens.

Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.

"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.

The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.

"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."

Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.

But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.

Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.

That plucks at his heartstrings, too.

"Steve?"

Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.

"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."

Baby.

Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.

Wait, did you say he was crying?

"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."

"Steve—"

"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."

"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."

"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.

"St—"

He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.

You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"

"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."

And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.

You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"

He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.

"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"

"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.

You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.

"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."

Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"

"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."

Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"

It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.

His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.

And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.

No one's like you. No one could even compare.

"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."

"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."

Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.

"Steve," you whine.

"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."

You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."

"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."

"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"

"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."

You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."

"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"

"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."

"Please… what?"

"Steve, I s- swear to god—"

"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."

"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.

He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.

"Such a what?"

"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"

Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.

"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.

 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same. 

"I… Yours?"

 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.

"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"

Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.

"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.

He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"

"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you. 

"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."

"Y- you."

Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.

"I'm right here."

Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.

The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.

And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.

"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.

It's only fair to match his energy.

"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."

He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.

No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.

"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."

Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.

Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.

God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.

"Fuck, you're unreal."

You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.

Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck

"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.

"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"

He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.

Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.

Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.

Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.

That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.

"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.

All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.

"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."

Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."

"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."

Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.

The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.

"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."

And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.

There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.

"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."

"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"

Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"

"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.

Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.

It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.

"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."

"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"

"Okay."

"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."

This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.

"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."

He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."

"Steve."

The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will. 

And he will, too.

[discodjo]

conflict resolution - walter ‘keys’ mckey

⏻ 01. welcome to soonami - 7.7k

“You’ve known me for, what, twenty minutes?”

“And I already have you figured out.”

pairing: keys mckey x fem!reader

summary: soonami studios forces you and keys mckey into a shared apartment as a temporary housing arrangement. at first, it's just surviving each other - the arguments, the competition, the constant tension of being around someone who gets under your skin too easily. but the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore how naturally your lives start folding into each other. and once someone becomes part of your everyday life, losing them starts feeling a lot more dangerous.

warnings: forced proximity, workplace rivalry, profanity, tension, mutual annoyance, emotionally unavailable behavior, reader and keys being incapable of communicating normally, housing instability, mild flirting if you squint, sarcasm, workplace chaos

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You got there twenty minutes early, which apparently was a mistake since no other intern was. The lobby of Soonami Studios is busy in a way that doesn’t include you. People move through it like they already belong here, badges tapping against glass doors, conversations picking up mid-sentence, steps that don’t slow down or second-guess. You stand just inside the entrance for a second too long, adjusting your bag on your shoulder like you’re waiting for someone to tell you what to do next. You could’ve shown up exactly on time. You could’ve waited outside, walked in with everyone else, blended into something that already existed instead of standing here like you’re trying to figure out where you fit in it.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, pushing yourself forward before you can overthink it again. It’s your first day, you’re supposed to be here. That has to count for something.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, you try to ignore it but you can’t. You already know what it is. Same apartment listing site, same problem. Same prices that don’t work no matter how many times you look at them. You scroll once, twice, like there’s going to be something new, something reasonable, something that doesn’t give you a headache.

The cubicle they give you is smaller than you expected. Not bad, just like it was set up for someone passing through, not someone staying. A desk, a chair that rolls too easily, a divider that barely reaches above eye level when you sit. There’s a desktop waiting to be logged into and a pen left behind in the corner. You set your bag down slowly, taking a second to look at it.

You sink into the chair, adjusting it slightly as it rolls back an inch more than you meant it to. Around you, people are already working—typing, talking, moving like they’ve done this a hundred times before. You try not to stare, try not to look like you’re taking everything in too fast. You’ll get used to it, eventually. Out of nowhere, you heard a masculine voice say your name. You look up quickly, your manager Parker stands just outside your cubicle, one hand resting lightly against the divider. He looks exactly how he did during your interview. Calm, put together, like nothing here ever really goes wrong.

“Hi—yeah,” you say, straightening a little. “Hi.”

“Welcome,” he says easily. “Settling in okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer, a little too fast. “I mean—Yes. I’m good.”

He nods like he expected that. “Come on,” he says after a second, gesturing down the aisle. “I’ll walk you through things.”

You grab your badge off the desk and stand, falling into step beside him. The office feels different when you’re actually moving through it, less like something you’re watching and more like something you’re part of, even if you’re still figuring out where you fit in.

“UI/UX is over here,” he says, motioning toward a section filled with dual monitors and half-finished layouts pulled up on screens. “You’ll be working with them primarily. Interface design, user flow, making sure things feel intuitive for the player.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“You’ll be collaborating with the dev team a lot,” he adds. “What you design, they build. So there’s a lot of back and forth.”

He slows slightly as you pass another area. “Deadlines can get tight, but don’t get stuck on something longer than you need to. Ask questions.”

“Got it.”

“You’ve got a good portfolio,” he continues, glancing back at you briefly. “We’re expecting you to contribute, not just observe.”

“Okay,” you say, quieter. “I will.”

“I did see your email,” he adds, almost casually.

Your stomach tightens. “Yeah,” you say, trying to keep it light. “I just—sorry, I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing. I just needed to figure something out with housing.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “You’re not the only one.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“I’ve got someone else in a similar situation,” he continues. “Out-of-town, nothing lined up yet.”

A small bit of tension eases in your chest. “Okay,” you say. “That’s… good.”

“We don’t usually handle housing for interns,” he adds, “but I took another look at your resume.” That catches you off guard. “And theirs,” he says.

You glance at him.

“You’re both strong,” he continues. “Stronger than most we get at this level. So I figured it was worth trying to make something work.”

You don’t say anything, just nod, letting him keep going.

“We had a unit open up nearby,” he says. “Two-bedroom. Walking distance from here. It’s not official—more of a temporary solution. A favor, really. You’d each have your own room, just sharing the space.”

“If you’re both comfortable with it,” he finishes.

You hesitate for a second, already knowing there’s a catch. “Who’s the other intern?” you ask.

You try not to think too hard about what kind of person they are. Whether they’re awkward or quiet or messy or the type to leave dishes in the sink for days. Whether they snore. Whether they’ll talk too much. Whether this is going to turn into one of those horror stories people tell later to make themselves laugh. You barely even know where you’re sleeping next week and somehow now you’re about to discuss living with a complete stranger.

Your manager doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest. He keeps talking as he walks, pointing out sections of the office you pass like this is still part of the tour. “Most intern teams stay pretty collaborative,” he says casually. “Especially in your department. We try to avoid keeping people boxed into one thing too early.”

You nod, though you’re only half listening now. Your brain’s somewhere else entirely. The office door comes into view at the end of the hallway. Your manager reaches for the handle without hesitation.

“Like I said,” he says, glancing back at you briefly, “this is completely up to you both. If either of you are uncomfortable, we can try to figure something else out.”

That somehow makes you more nervous.

Your manager, Parker, opened the door and there was a guy sitting down in the office already. For a second, all you really register is that he looks just as out of place as you feel. His hair falls messily over his forehead like he’s pushed his hands through it too many times to care anymore, and there’s a pair of thin-framed glasses resting low enough on his nose that he keeps looking over them instead of through them. Sleeves pushed up slightly at the wrists, one leg bouncing faintly under the chair, fingers tapping once against the side of his coffee cup before going still again. Defined jaw, soft mouth, eyes that look like they’re constantly focused on something five steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He doesn’t smile when you walk in, but there’s still something almost amused sitting underneath his expression, like he’s already making observations he’s not saying out loud.

The worst part is that he looks like he belongs here.

He glances up the second the door opens, eyes flicking toward you first, then your manager.

“Perfect,” your manager says easily, stepping past both of you and toward his desk. “Now everyone’s here.”

The guy sets his coffee down slowly, straightening just slightly in his chair. Up close, he looks a little tired. Not exhausted exactly, just the kind of tired that comes from staring at screens too long.

Your manager gestures between the two of you, he said your name then, “This is Walter Keys McKey.”

The guy lifts a hand slightly in acknowledgment before leaning back again.“Please don’t call me Walter,” he says immediately.

You blink once, catching you off guard. Parker snorts quietly like he’s heard that sentence a hundred times before.“He goes by Keys,” Parker explains.

“Yeah,” Keys mutters.

Parker gestures toward you then. “And this,” he says, looking back at Keys, “is the other intern I was telling you about.”

Keys’ eyes flick toward you again.

“She’ll be working on interface and visual systems mostly,” Parker continues casually. “Strong portfolio. Fast learner. Probably one of the better applications we got this cycle.”

Keys raises his eyebrows slightly at that before looking back at you again.

“She’s also apparently homeless,” Parker adds bluntly.

“Parker,” you say instantly.

“What?” he asks innocently. “You literally said that in your email.”

Keys snorts quietly into his coffee cup before trying to hide it behind another sip. Your eyes narrow immediately.

“Oh, good,” you mutter. “Love that this is my introduction.”

“To be fair,” Keys says finally, setting his coffee back down, “mine wasn’t much better.”

Parker points toward him immediately. “Yeah. He wrote me a three paragraph email about how he couldn’t afford rent without selling a kidney.”

Keys shrugs slightly. “The market’s bad right now.”

You let out a laugh before you can stop yourself.

Keys glances toward you almost immediately afterward.

Parker moves around behind his desk then, completely unaware of the weird shift in energy happening across the room. “Anyway,” he says while shuffling through papers, “you two actually have a lot in common professionally.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Keys says casually.

You look at him immediately, he doesn’t even look apologetic.

Parker ignores that completely. “Both of you scored ridiculously high during application review. Similar strengths too. Problem solving, adaptability, creativity—”

“Competitive,” Keys adds dryly.

Parker points at him once. “Very competitive.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Is that supposed to be a warning?”

“A little,” Parker admits.

Keys leans back farther in his chair. “I just don’t love working with people who slow projects down.”

Your eyebrows lift immediately, “That sounds like something someone says right before becoming unbearable in a group setting.”

Keys looks toward you calmly. “I usually end up being right.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those.”

“One of what?”

“The kind of guy who thinks being condescending counts as a personality trait.”

Parker physically closes his eyes for a second like a man already developing a migraine.

Keys tilts his head slightly toward you. “You formed that opinion in under thirty seconds?”

“You made it easy.”

“That’s impressive,” he says flatly. “Usually people wait at least a week before deciding they hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you reply instantly.

Keys raises his eyebrows slightly.

You pause.

“…yet.”

That finally gets a real reaction out of him. Some amusement at least.

Parker clears his throat loudly before the conversation can spiral farther. “Okay,” he says carefully, “before the two of you start fist fighting in my office—”

“She started it,” Keys says immediately.

Your jaw drops. “Oh my god.”

Parker points between both of you. “This is exactly why I hesitated before bringing up the shared apartment.”

“The shared apartment?” Keys repeats slowly.

Parker nods once before leaning back in his chair. “Like I said earlier, the company owns a furnished two bedroom apartment nearby. Since both of you emailed about housing issues…” He gestures vaguely between you. “I thought this might help.”

Keys leans forward first. “No offense,” he says while looking directly at you now, “but this feels like a terrible idea.”

You blink at him. “Oh, none taken. I was literally thinking the same thing.”

“Great.”

“Fantastic.”

You glance sideways before you can stop yourself. Keys is already looking at the manager, jaw resting lightly against his knuckles, expression unreadable.

“We had a two-bedroom unit open nearby,” your manager continues. “Walking distance from the office. Furnished. Temporary.”

“You’d each have your own room,” he says. “Shared common space. That’s it.” Then your manager adds, “There’s one other thing.”

You don’t know why that immediately feels ominous.

“You’re both on the same placement track.”

Your brows knit slightly. “Meaning..?”

“It means,” he says calmly, “that while your departments differ slightly, you’ll both be working under the same branch of development.”

Beside you, Keys sits up a little straighter. Parker keeps going, he points at you. “Your focus is UI and player experience. Keys, yours is systems implementation and backend integration. Your work will overlap constantly.”

“At the end of the internship,” he says, “there will be one full-time position available.”

You actually thought you heard him wrong for a second. “One?” you repeat.

“One,” he confirms.

You glance over slowly, Keys is already looking at you. Like the second your manager said one position, something clicked into place for him.

Competition.

“We’re not expecting hostility,” Parker says lightly, almost amused. “You’ll still be collaborating on projects. But yes, technically speaking, you’re competing for the same role.”

You barely know this person, and now you’re apparently supposed to live with him and compete against him at the same time.

“So,” Keys says finally, leaning back slightly again, “best-case scenario, we either become coworkers…” His eyes flick toward you briefly. “…or one of us gets unemployed.”

Parker laughs. “You’ll both survive,” he says easily.

You glance at Keys again, just for a second this time, trying to get a read on him. He doesn’t exactly look thrilled about any of this, but he also doesn’t look like he’s backing out. Which probably means you aren’t either.

You look back toward Parker. “How far is the apartment?”

“Five-minute walk.”

You exhale slowly through your nose, staring down at your hands for a second before nodding once. “Okay.”

Beside you, Keys is quiet for another second longer. “…yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Your manager nods, satisfied. “Good. I’ll have the keys waiting for you with Kenzie the receptionist downstairs after work.”

Neither of you say anything for a second after that. The conversation feels oddly finished, like the room itself already moved on before you did. Parker reaches for something on his desk. A folder, another email, some other problem waiting for him and it becomes very clear that to him, this arrangement is simple. Meanwhile, you’re sitting there trying to process the fact that less than twenty minutes into your first day, you somehow agreed to live with a stranger competing against you for the same position.

Parker glances between you both one last time. “You’ll get your project assignments by the end of the day. For now, just settle in. Meet your teams. Try not to stress yourselves out too much.”

You nod anyway, adjusting your grip on your folder before standing. Besides you, Keys does the same, slower somehow, like he’s still mentally catching up to the conversation. For a second, the two of you just awkwardly stand there. Then Parker’s already looking back down at his computer.

You glance toward the door first and Keys notices immediately, standing back just enough to let you walk out ahead of him. “Thanks,” you mutter automatically as you pass him.

“Yeah.”

The door shuts softly behind you, cutting off Parker’s office from the rest of the building again. For a second, neither of you moves. People pass through the hallway around you, keyboards clicking faintly from nearby cubicles, conversations carrying from somewhere down the hall, but the silence between you feels separate from all of it.

You shift your folder against your chest. “So…”

Keys looks over at you.

“This is weird, right?” you ask.

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, almost like he wasn’t expecting you to say that first. “A little.”

“A little?”

“You could’ve said no.”

“So could you.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “But unlike you, I enjoy not couch surfing.”

You stare at him for half a second. “…you’re annoying already.”

“Good to know.”

You start walking before the conversation can stall out again, hearing his footsteps fall into pace beside yours a second later. The elevator at the end of the hall dings open just as you reach it, and the two of you step inside together. The silence comes back immediately. You press the button for your floor, then lean back lightly against the wall, staring ahead while the doors slide shut. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Keys adjusting the sleeves of his black button-up before shoving his hands into his pockets.

The elevator hums quietly as it moves.

“So,” you say eventually, mostly because the silence is starting to feel intentional now. “Backend systems?”

He glances over. “UI?”

You nod once.

“Hm.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You said it like it meant something.”

“It didn’t.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “God, help me.”

“You seem like you redesign things that already work.”

Your eyebrows lift immediately. “You haven’t even seen my work.”

“I saw your portfolio.”

That catches you off guard. “You looked at my portfolio?”

“You were sitting right next to me in Parker’s office while he talked about it for five minutes,” he says flatly. “Kind of hard to avoid.”

You fold your arms loosely. “And?”

“And it’s very…” He pauses just long enough to make it irritating. “…pretty.”

You let out a short laugh. “Wow. You really are a developer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you think functionality matters more than design.”

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It literally does.”

You shake your head immediately. “See? Annoying.”

“And you sound expensive.”

“What does that even mean?”

The elevator dings before he can answer. The doors slide open. Keys steps out first this time, glancing back briefly when he realizes you’re still staring at him. “…you coming?” he asks.

You blink once, then step out after him. The hallway outside the elevator is quieter than the rest of the office, lined with dark carpet and glass windows that look out over the city below. Keys slows just enough for you to walk beside him again, though it doesn’t feel intentional.

“So?” you say after a second. “You’re just not gonna explain that?”

He presses the button to another hallway door with his badge. “Explain what?”

“You saying I sound expensive.”

“I said you sound expensive, not that you are.”

“That somehow made it worse.”

Keys pushes the door open, holding it there just long enough for you to walk through first. “You talk like the type of person who’d spend six hours picking a font.”

You let out a short laugh. “Okay, first of all, fonts matter.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“They literally affect readability.”

“They literally don’t.”

You stop walking long enough to stare at him. “You’re one of those people who thinks default settings are acceptable, aren’t you?”

“I think if something already works, you don’t need to redesign it every five minutes.”

“That’s because you people think functionality is enough.”

“You people?”

“Yes. Developers.”

Keys glances over at you, finally looking slightly entertained. “You’ve known me for, what, twenty minutes?”

“And I already have you figured out.”

“That’s impressive,” he says dryly. “Wrong. But impressive.”

The two of you round another corner, and you’re suddenly very aware of how strange this entire situation actually is. You met him less than half an hour ago. You still barely know anything about him besides the fact that he’s sarcastic, works in backend systems, and apparently enjoys arguing just to argue.

“So what’s your deal?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Keys glances over. “My deal?”

“Yeah. Like… where are you from?”

“Oh.” He adjusts the strap of his bag higher onto his shoulder. “Seattle.”

You nod once. “Okay. That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look like you haven’t seen sunlight in years.”

He deadpans immediately. “Good one.”

“Thank you.”

“And where are you from?”

You glance over at him briefly. “California.”

“Yeah. That tracks.”

You reach the row of cubicles again, slowing near yours while Keys continues walking another few steps toward his side of the office. He glances back when he realizes you stopped.

“Well,” you say, adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder, “I should probably see if I can actually get some work done.”

Keys nods once. “Probably a good idea.”

“Yeah.” You gesture vaguely toward him. “Some of us didn’t move across the country just to stand around arguing with men who look like they correct grammar for fun.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “I don’t correct grammar.”

“Not out loud, maybe.” You point toward your cubicle. “Anyway, I have better things to do.”

“Like what?”

You glance at your still-unopened computer. “…wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Okay well, good luck with that,” he says.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Was that condescending?”

“A little.”

“Wow. We really are off to a great start.”

“Could be worse.”

You scoff softly. “Don’t jinx it.”

Then, before he can say something else irritating, you turn and head back toward your cubicle. Even from behind you, you can practically feel him watching you for a second longer than necessary. The office around you buzzes softly with overlapping conversations, keyboards clicking, phones ringing somewhere farther down the hall. A few people glance your way curiously before going back to their screens. You barely sit down before another voice cuts in from beside you.

“Okay,” a girl says quietly, leaning against the divider between cubicles, “what was that?”

You look up immediately.

The girl leaning against your cubicle wall smiles first. Soft features, long dirty blonde hair falling over one shoulder, oversized cardigan hanging off her arm. She looks approachable immediately. The kind of person who probably knows everybody’s business without being weird about it.

Beside her, the other girl has sharp small eyeliner, round blue light tinted glasses, rosey cheeks, and the kind of expression that says she’s already decided this situation is entertaining. Lanyard clipped to her jeans, rings covering half her fingers, one brow raised like she’s actively waiting for drama to unfold.

“Okay,” the second girl says immediately, “what the hell was that?”

You blink. “What was what?”

“The weird heated enemy thing you just had going on with Keys,” she says.

Becca groans instantly beside her. “Eve.”

“What?” Eve defends. “You saw it too.”

“I met him like twenty minutes ago,” you say.

“That’s somehow worse,” Eve says immediately.

Becca laughs softly before holding her hand out toward you. “I’m Becca, by the way.”

“And I’m Eve,” the other girl says.

“Unfortunately.” Becca rolls her eyes playfully.

Eve points at her. “See? This is what I deal with all day.”

“You literally create ninety percent of your own problems.”

“And the other ten percent are caused by engineering.”

Your eyes flick automatically toward the other side of the office again, landing on Keys. He’s leaned back in his chair now, one hand resting against his mouth while he squints at something on his monitor. Glasses slipping lower on his nose again while he types one-handed like he’s already irritated with whatever he’s working on. Then, like he can physically feel you looking at him, his eyes flick up. Straight toward you, causing you to look away.

“…and that one specifically,” Eve adds.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Please tell me he’s not always like that.”

Eve snorts. “Girl, we met him today too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Becca says with a laugh. “You’re not alone. Parker introduced him to us this morning and within five minutes Eve already called him emotionally unavailable.”

“Because he is,” Eve defends instantly.

Across the room, Keys shifts in his chair slightly, still typing.

“He hasn’t even been here a full day,” you point out.

“And yet somehow he already acts like he’s correcting everyone’s code personally,” Eve says.

“That’s because he probably is,” Becca mutters.

You glance over again before you can stop yourself. You narrow your eyes at him automatically before turning back around.

Eve follows your line of sight for a second before shrugging slightly.

“I mean,” she says casually, “he’s annoying, but unfortunately he is cute.”

Becca snorts softly into her coffee. “Very unfortunately.”

You blink once. “…him?”

Eve looks at you like that’s the most obvious thing she’s ever heard. “Yes, him.”

You physically grimace. “No.”

“Girl, be serious.”

“He looks like he’d explain cryptocurrency at a party.”

“That doesn’t cancel out the face,” Eve argues.

Becca nods slightly. “The glasses situation is helping him a lot.”

You glance over again against your better judgment. Keys pushes his glasses farther up his nose absentmindedly while staring at his screen.

“No,” you repeat firmly.

Eve grins. “Oh, so you’ve thought about it enough to disagree passionately.”

“I hate both of you already.”

“That’s fine,” Becca says easily. “We’re still right.”

Before you can defend yourself again, one of the office phones rings sharply somewhere behind you.

Becca immediately groans. “Oh no.”

Eve points at her. “Don’t make that face. You answer it.”

“You answer it.”

Finally, Becca reaches across your desk and hits the speaker button dramatically.

“Design department,” she says.

“Hi,” a voice says immediately. “Quick question. Why are none of you answering? I called like fifteen times.”

Eve snorts instantly. “Morning, Emi.”

“Unfortunately,” the voice replies. “And unless somebody wants Parker seeing the homepage mockups before I fix them, I need you and Eve in conference room B like… immediately.”

Becca sighs. “Can I at least finish my coffee first?”

“No, suffer.”

Eve leans closer to the speaker. “You’re literally a manager.”

“And yet somehow none of you respect me.”

“That sounds earned,” Eve says.

“Okay wow. Hostile work environment.” There’s a pause before Emilie continues casually, “Also whichever bitch just left comments calling my formatting ‘complicated’ is officially my enemy and I need them gone.”

Becca slowly turns her head toward the engineering side of the office. “…Keys,” she says carefully.

“The new guy?” Emilie says immediately. “Oh, absolutely not. He’s been here like twelve minutes.”

You glance across the room automatically. Keys is still sitting there typing like his life depends on it, completely unaware he’s currently being talked about over speakerphone.

Eve narrows her eyes. “I knew I didn’t trust him.”

“You called him cute like thirty seconds ago,” Becca reminds her.

“Cute people can still be deeply irritating.”

“Unfortunately true,” Emilie agrees through the speaker.

You laugh quietly before you can stop yourself.

“Wait,” Emilie says immediately. “Who was that?”

You freeze.

“The new intern,” Eve says.

“Oh my god,” Emilie replies instantly. “Hi. I’m so sorry you got placed with us. It’s genuinely chaos over here.”

“That’s becoming very clear.”

“Perfect. You’ll fit right in.” You can practically hear her grin through the phone. “Anyway, conference room. Now. Before I get fired for threatening engineers emotionally.”

Becca hangs up finally while shaking her head.

You stare at the phone for another second. “…I think I’m gonna like her.”

Eve grabs her coffee immediately. “Yeah. Everyone does.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ .

By lunchtime, you’ve learned five things.

One: nobody at Soonami Studios explains anything fully the first time.

Two: every single system requires a different password and somehow all of them have different rules.

Three: Eve treats workplace drama like live entertainment.

Four: Becca has already saved your life twice and it’s only been a few hours.

And five: Keys is somehow everywhere.

Every time you look up, he’s somewhere nearby. Leaning against someone’s desk while talking about some code, walking through the office with coffee in his hand, typing so fast it sounds aggressive from three cubicles away. I mean fuck, it’s his first day too. He’s acting like he already owns the damn place.

The onboarding files Parker sent over are still open in front of you, except now they’re joined by three tabs you didn’t mean to click on and an error message you definitely don’t understand. You click through the window again, with the same error still popping up.

“…okay,” you mutter under your breath. “Cool.”

Your eyes flick briefly across the office before you can stop yourself. Keys is sitting at his desk a few rows down, glasses low on his nose while he stares at one of his monitors with an expression that somehow looks annoyed and focused at the same time. One hand’s moving absently against his keyboard while the other rests against his mouth.

You’d honestly probably rather die than ask for his help. So instead, you spend another five minutes trying to fix it yourself.

You let your head fall back against your chair for a second, staring at the ceiling before finally muttering, “Oh my god.”

“Problem?”

Your eyes snap open, Keys is standing beside your cubicle.

You straighten immediately. “No.”

He glances toward your screen, then back at you. “…right.”

“I have it handled.”

“You’ve clicked the same thing six times.”

Heat rises into your face instantly. “Why are you watching me?”

“You sigh really loud when you’re frustrated.”

You stare at him. “That’s weird information to have.”

Keys shrugs lightly. “You’re not subtle.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Did you come over here just to insult me?”

“No.” His attention shifts toward your monitor again. “Move.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You broke the login loop somehow.”

“I did not break it.”

“You definitely broke it.”

“I literally clicked what it told me to click.”

“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That was your first mistake.”

You scoff softly but shift your chair back anyway, mostly because now you want to prove he’s wrong. Keys leans down slightly beside you, one hand resting against the edge of your desk while he uses the mouse with the other. Up close, he smells faintly like coffee and something clean you can’t place immediately.

“You skipped a verification step,” he says after a second.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I literally followed the instructions.”

“Yeah, and Soonami’s instructions are terrible.”

You watch quietly while he fixes something buried under three different menus you never would’ve found yourself. You stare at the screen. “…oh.”

Keys leans back again. “There.”

You look up at him reluctantly. “Thanks.”

He nods once like it was obvious. “Try not to break anything else before three.”

You immediately point toward the exit of your cubicle. “Okay, you can leave now.”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “See?” he says. “You are mean.”

“And you’re annoying.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

You fold your arms. “And yet you keep proving it.”

Someone across the office calls his name, and the moment breaks immediately. Keys glances away first. “Later, California.”

You stare after him as he walks off.

Asshole.

Still, the rest of the day goes better than you expected. Somewhere between lunch and your third cup of office coffee, things start clicking into place. The systems stop feeling completely foreign, the programs become easier to navigate, and eventually you stop hesitating before opening things because you’re scared of breaking them. You figure out the internal messaging app, finally organize your inbox, and by mid-afternoon you’re moving through your assignments without rereading every instruction three times first.

Turns out you’re actually good at this, which shouldn’t be surprising. You know you earned your spot here. You know Parker didn’t offer you housing out of pity. But there’s still something reassuring about seeing it happen in real time, watching the nerves slowly get replaced with muscle memory. One of the designers compliments one of your mockups before disappearing into a meeting. Another coworker stops by your cubicle to tell you your player flow notes were “actually really smart,” which embarrasses you a little more than you’d like to admit. Even Parker pauses at your desk once on his way somewhere else, glancing over your screen before nodding once.

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The office around you grows quieter as people start packing up for the night. Conversations drift toward elevators and dinner plans while monitors shut off one by one across the floor. You stretch slightly in your chair before finally saving your work and closing your laptop with a soft click. You start gathering your things slowly, charger stuffed into your bag, notebook shoved underneath your laptop, phone finally pulled from where you tossed it beside your keyboard hours ago. Your shoulders ache a little from sitting all day, but it’s the satisfying kind. You slip your bag onto your shoulder and stand, glancing around the office one last time.

That’s when you notice Keys. He’s still at his desk a few rows away, one elbow resting against it while he types something with the other hand. Most of the lights around his section are already off, making the glow from his monitors sharper against his face. Glasses low on his nose again. Sleeves pushed up, completely focused. You look away before he can say anything else and head toward the elevators, adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder as you walk. The office feels completely different now compared to this morning, less intimidating somehow. Most of the interns are already gone, and the people still left behind look settled into the kind of late-night focus that probably comes with working at a place like Soonami Studios.

The doors slide shut and you exhale quietly, letting your head lean back against the wall for half a second. Your first day is over. Somehow. You didn’t embarrass yourself - besides messing up and needing Keys’ help, didn’t get fired, didn’t cry in the bathroom, which honestly feels like a successful start. The apartment thing still feels insane, though. Living with someone you met less than twelve hours ago shouldn’t feel legal, especially not someone like Keys. He feels like trouble. The elevator dings softly as the lobby comes into view again. The second the doors open, the noise of the building shifts around you, phones ringing faintly from somewhere behind the desk, quiet conversations near the entrance, the low hum of traffic outside the glass doors.

The receptionist from earlier notices you almost immediately. “Hey,” she says with a small smile. “You’re here for the apartment keys, right?”

You nod. “Yeah. Parker said they’d be down here.”

She reaches underneath the desk for a small envelope. “Just keep going up this street, make a right on Cornelia and you’re there.” You take it from her carefully this time, immediately checking the front.

Address. Entry code. Parking information.

“Your roommate hasn’t come down yet,” she adds casually.

You try very hard not to react to the word roommate.

“Right,” you say instead.

The receptionist smiles knowingly anyway, which makes you instantly suspicious.

“It’s a nice place,” she says. “Parker did his big one.”

The lobby doors slide open behind you, letting in a rush of cool evening air and footsteps. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Kenzie,” Keys says behind you casually, “did you tell her I’m the favorite intern yet?”

Kenzie laughs immediately. “You wish.”

Keys walks up beside you a second later, dark backpack slung over one shoulder, sleeves still pushed up from earlier. Up close, he looks more tired now than he did this morning, though somehow still irritatingly put together in that effortless way you’re starting to resent. You hold the envelope a little closer to your chest before he can try taking it.

His eyes flick down to it instantly. “…you already grabbed them?”

“Yes,” you say slowly, already defensive.

“That’s usually how picking something up works.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “You are physically incapable of having a normal conversation.”

“And you’re weirdly territorial over an envelope.”

“It has my future apartment in it.”

“Our future apartment.”

You immediately grimace. “Don’t say it like that.”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

“Oh,” Kenzie says, glancing between both of you. “You two are gonna be entertaining.”

You and Keys speak at the exact same time.

“No we’re not.”

You look away first, already regretting staying downstairs this long. “Anyway,” you mutter, adjusting the envelope under your arm, “I’m gonna go before this gets worse.”

Keys leans one elbow against the front desk casually. “Pretty sure it already did.”

You point at him immediately. “See? That. That’s exactly what I mean.”

Kenzie is fully invested now, watching the two of you like she just turned on a reality show.

“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “most roommates at least pretend to like each other on the first day.”

“We’re not roommates,” you say automatically.

“We’re two people temporarily sharing a space,” Keys corrects.

You stare at him. “That was somehow worse.”

“Thank you.”

You exhale sharply through your nose before turning back toward Kenzie. “See? I can’t live like this.”

“You literally agreed to it.”

“Under financial distress.”

That gets another laugh out of her. Keys pushes himself away from the desk then, adjusting the strap of his backpack onto his shoulder. “Relax, California. I’m not planning on bothering you.”

“That’s reassuring coming from someone who already bothers me professionally.”

“You’ve known me for one day.”

“And it’s been exhausting.”

The corner of his mouth twitches again, it’s stupid how often he almost smiles.

For a second, the lobby settles into a quieter rhythm around you, people filtering out of the elevators, the front doors opening every few seconds with gusts of evening air drifting inside. Outside, the city’s already slipping into that blue-gray hour between afternoon and night, lights reflecting against the glass windows.

You glance down at the envelope in your hands again. You clear your throat slightly. “So… what’s the plan?”

Keys looks over. “Plan?”

“For the apartment.”

“Oh.” He shrugs lightly. “I was just gonna head over later.”

You blink. “Later?”

“I need to stop somewhere first.”

Honestly, relief hits you a little faster than it should. “Oh!”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he noticed that reaction immediately. “Why? Were you scared to be alone with me?”

You scoff instantly. “Please. I was scared you’d talk the whole walk there.”

“That’s crazy coming from you.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve spent ninety percent of today insulting me.”

“And every single one was deserved.”

Keys shakes his head slightly, looking almost amused now. “You’re a lot meaner than you looked this morning.”

“You looked annoying this morning.”

“I wasn’t even talking.”

“Exactly.”

Kenzie actually snorts behind the desk this time. You point toward her without looking away from Keys. “See? She gets it.”

“She’s enjoying this way too much.”

“She’s not the only one,” Kenzie says immediately.

“No she’s not,” you mumble under your breath before realizing you said it out loud.

Keys’ eyebrows lift slightly, heat flashes into your face instantly. You recover way too fast to let him enjoy it. “I meant enjoying watching you embarrass yourself.”

“Mhm.”

“Oh my god.”

Keys reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone before glancing back at you one last time. “Anyway. Since apparently my existence causes you emotional distress, I’ll let you walk there alone.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you get lost, I’m not coming to rescue you.”

You clutch the envelope dramatically against your chest. “I think I’ll survive.”

“Debatable.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “See ya, Keys.”

He starts backing toward the doors. “Bye, California.”

“Stop calling me that.”

The doors slide open behind him before you can say anything else. You stare at the closed lobby doors for another second before letting out a quiet breath through your nose. “He’s unbelievable.”

Kenzie smiles knowingly from behind the desk. “You say that now.”

You immediately point at her. “Don’t start.”

She laughs softly, lifting her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile despite yourself as you adjust the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder again. “Have a good night.”

The evening air hits cooler once you step outside, carrying the noise of the city with it. Traffic humming past the curb, distant music spilling from somewhere down the block, people talking over each other as they pass. For a second, you just stand there. Then you reach into your bag, untangling your wired headphones from the absolute knot they somehow became over the course of the day. After a minute of fighting with them, you finally shove them into your ears and hit play without really looking.

Your Indie Pop mix fills your ears immediately. The city feels different now than it did this morning. Earlier, everything felt huge and intimidating and temporary. Now, even with your feet aching slightly and your brain still overloaded from the day, it feels a little more real. You pass glowing storefronts and crowded sidewalks, people laughing outside restaurants, cars lined up at intersections while neon signs flicker against windows. Somewhere nearby, someone’s walking a dog that looks more dressed up than you are. Someone else is yelling into their phone dramatically enough that half the block can probably hear it.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the envelope tucked under your arm as you keep walking. Apartment. Roommate. Job. Everything changed in a single day, and it still doesn’t totally feel real yet. Still, before you can even think about settling into the apartment, you have one more thing to deal with. The motel. Cheap, slightly questionable, and somehow always smelling vaguely like old cigarettes no matter how many air fresheners the front office tried to use. You’d booked it in a panic after realizing how impossible housing was going to be near the office, telling yourself it would only be for a few nights until you figured something else out. Technically, you did. Even if “something else” ended up being Keys McKey.

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Four hours later, you’re exhausted. Not emotionally exhausted, though there’s definitely some of that too, but physically exhausted in the way that only comes from carrying your entire life up multiple flights of stairs because the motel elevator stopped working halfway through the second trip. Turns out you owned more stuff than you thought. Or maybe everything just feels heavier after a ten-hour day.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside.

Plain, mostly. Just, very corporate. Beige couch, a brick accent wall which added a pop to it, generic framed art that probably came with the unit. The kitchen’s small but clean, tucked right beside the living room with barely enough counter space for two people to function without bumping into each other.

You drop your bag near the couch with a tired exhale before taking the place in properly for the first time. The living room opens up enough that it doesn’t feel cramped, and both bedrooms sit on opposite sides of the apartment with the bathroom shoved awkwardly between them. Equal-sized rooms too, which somehow feels important. No obvious “better” room. No reason to fight about it. Your boxes sit stacked near the wall where you left them after your last trip from the motel. Clothes shoved into duffel bags, makeup case barely zipped shut, random chargers tangled together in ways that make no sense. Half your wardrobe is currently hanging out of a laundry basket because at some point you gave up trying to pack things properly. You stare at the mess for a second, then laugh quietly to yourself.

You walk slowly toward the rooms, nudging the door open wider with your foot. Same plain furniture setup as the rest of the place, a bed already made with stiff white sheets, basic dresser, small desk shoved near the window. No decorations. No personality. Nothing that says someone actually lives here. You set your tote bag down on the mattress and glance around again, trying to picture yourself here. Morning routines. Work nights. Hearing someone else moving around the kitchen while you get ready for work. Sharing a space with someone who already knows exactly how to annoy you after one day.

You flop backward onto the bed dramatically, staring at the ceiling for a second. The apartment’s still completely quiet.

Which means Keys isn’t here yet. Honestly? Relief.

You need at least ten more minutes before dealing with him again. Maybe twenty. Maybe the rest of your life. You close your eyes briefly, letting the silence settle around you while the city hums faintly outside the windows. You slowly sit back up with a quiet sigh, rubbing your hands over your face before glancing around the room again. One duffel bag half unzipped near the dresser. Tote bag on the floor. Shoes kicked somewhere near the doorway. The lamp that nearly killed you carrying it upstairs leaning awkwardly against the wall.

You reach for your phone beside you, opening your music again before letting music start playing softly through the tiny speaker this time. The sound fills the room just enough to make it feel less empty while you stand and start unpacking little things first.

Toiletries into the bathroom, setting up your desktop onto the desk, jewelry tray beside the bed, smallish things.

You grab one of your hoodies off the bed and pull it over your head before climbing back onto the mattress, legs crossing underneath you. Tomorrow’s another workday. Another full day of pretending Keys McKey doesn’t get under your skin, even though you just met the guy.

You stare across the room again. His room sits dark across the hallway, door cracked open just enough for you to see the plain furniture inside. No boxes. No clothes. No signs that someone else is about to live here too. For now, the apartment still feels like yours. You let your head fall lightly against the wall behind the bed, listening to the music drift softly through the room while the city glows outside your window. Somewhere downstairs, a car alarm briefly goes off before someone starts cussing. A siren echoes faintly in the distance after that.

Temporary apartment. Temporary roommate. Temporary chaos.

But the job? That part matters. And tomorrow, you’re going to make sure nobody forgets it.

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an: i hope you loved the first chapter bc god i’m so obsessed with them already. adding my oomfs to this is so fucking fun too god i’m having way too much fun writing this already. if you have any reqs on what you wanna see happen, shoot them my way. i’ll try my best to incorporate anything. also send me your thoughts and reactions i loveeee reading them hehe.

comment to be on taglist!

reblogs and reposts are appreciated as always, thank you.

@skkeletonns @tiredpurplee @adaydreamaway30 @ellasaddiction2 @djopug007 @roddyincowgirlboots @mysticbellie @tator-gilman @clarksgf @djopuppy @tenderlyuniquepatrol @decidessrun @swirledyouintoallmypoems @madsapplejuice @r-jj09 @amy-brooklyn99 @biologicallyyours @drifting-daydream @djocufics

[beasbrain]

10ThingsIHateAboutYou

description: you’re Hopper’s daughter, which means one thing: no dating. ever. unfortunately for Eleven, that also means she can’t date either, unless you do first. cue Mike and Dustin coming up with the worst (best) idea possible: paying Eddie to take you out. too bad you’re the last person in Hawkins who’d ever fall for it… right?

pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)

tags: hoppers daughter! reader, enemies to lovers (or something like that...), punk x menace, you hate everyone but him (eventually), he falls first, persistent idiot x guarded girl, sibling dynamic with el, soft eddie munson, we love a mean girl with a soft center, slight angst

TW: deception/manipulation, mild angst

WC: 12.2k (sorry not sorry)

A/N: i just re-watched 10 Things I Hate About You for the millionth time and immediately caught inspo. it's taking everything out of me to not make this a series but i stay doing that to myself. reblogs are always appreciated :) enjoy!!!! <3

The road is quiet in that late-afternoon way Hawkins always seems to settle into, golden light stretching across the pavement, your window cracked just enough for the wind to tug at your hair and carry in the faint smell of something burning from someone’s backyard. 

You’re halfway through a cigarette you probably shouldn’t be smoking when you see them up ahead, two figures walking a little too close together to be accidental.

You don’t even have to squint to recognize Eleven in that oversized flannel she stole from your closet three weeks ago and never gave back.

You slow the car just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to take it in. She’s looking up at Mike like he hung the goddamn moon, and he’s talking with his hands like he always does when he’s nervous, their shoulders brushing every few steps like it’s something they’re still getting used to but don’t want to stop.

It’s… harmless, objectively. Soft, even. The kind of thing most people would smile at.

You don’t.

You flick the ash out the window, press your foot back on the gas, and drive right past them without so much as a glance in their direction, because whatever this is, it’s not your problem. Not yet.

By the time you get home, Hopper’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means you’ve got a small window of peace before the nightly interrogation disguised as dinner.

You take it without hesitation, tossing your keys on the counter and kicking your shoes off like the house belongs to you, because in every way that matters, it does.

El walks in about twenty minutes later.

You hear the door before you see her, the soft creak, the careful steps like she’s trying not to be noticed, which is almost funny considering the fact that she is, quite literally, impossible to ignore.

You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through some old magazine you found under a stack of mail, when she finally steps into the kitchen, pausing when she realizes you’re there.

Like a deer caught in headlights that doesn’t quite understand what a car is yet, but knows it should probably be afraid of it.

You don’t look up.

“You walk home?” you ask, voice casual in a way that’s almost too deliberate.

“Yes.”

You hum, turning a page. “Must’ve been a long walk.”

She doesn’t answer that, and for a second, you think she’s going to drop it, retreat, let it go the way you just did out on the road. But then she shifts, something in her posture tightening, like she’s bracing herself.

“I was with Mike.”

You glance up finally, one slow look that says everything you’re not bothering to put into words, and she lifts her chin just slightly under it, defiant in that quiet way of hers that almost makes you respect it.

“Congrats,” you say flatly, tossing the magazine back onto the counter. “Want a medal or are you just sharing?”

Her brows pull together. “You saw.”

“Yeah,” you shrug, reaching for the fridge like this conversation couldn’t matter less. “Hard to miss the whole hand-holding, walking-like-you’re-in-a-romance-movie thing.”

“It is not a movie,” she says, sharper now, stepping closer. “It is real.”

You close the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning to face her fully now, leaning back against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. 

“Then maybe you should be smarter about it.”

Her eyes narrow. “You think you are smarter?”

“I know I am.”

You can see it in the way her jaw sets, the way her hands curl at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to do something she’ll regret.

“You don’t understand,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t even try.”

You let out a small laugh, not kind, not cruel, just dismissive. “Oh, I understand plenty. I just don’t care.”

That’s the wrong thing to say.

You know it the second her expression shifts, something hurt flashing across her face before it hardens into something else. Something a little more calculated, a little more familiar to you than you’d like.

“You are alone,” she says quietly. “You push everyone away.”

You go still.

“And now you want me to be alone too.”

There’s a moment where you could back off, could soften it, could remind her that you won't say anything to Hopper.

“If you end up alone,” you say, voice even, “it won’t be because of me.”

The front door opens before she can respond.

Hopper fills the doorway like he always does, presence first, everything else second, shrugging off his jacket and glancing between the two of you like he already knows he walked into something he doesn’t have the patience for.

“Why do I feel like I missed a fight?” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen.

You push off the counter, grabbing your keys again. “Because you did.”

“Hey—”

“I’m going out,” you cut him off, already moving past him. “Don’t wait up.”

“Dinner’s in twenty—”

“Then eat it without me.”

You’re halfway out the door when El’s voice cuts through the air, quiet but deliberate.

“I was with Mike.”

Slowly, you turn back.

Hopper frowns. “You were what?”

El doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes on him.

“We were walking together. We are… dating.”

Hopper’s expression darkens. “No, you’re not.”

El’s chin lifts. “Yes. We are.”

You watch it unfold like a car crash you could’ve prevented but chose not to. Something almost detached settles over you as Hopper starts pacing, running a hand over his face.

He's already gearing up for a lecture that’s going to last longer than either of you has the patience for.

“I told you, no dating,” he says, voice rising. “You’re too young, you’re not—this is not happening.”

El’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward you.

And then, like she’s made a decision. “Just because she does not date doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I don’t want to.”

Hopper looks between the two of you, something clicking into place in that stubborn, overprotective brain of his, and you can actually see the moment the worst possible idea forms.

“…Fine,” he says.

“If she wants to date,” he continues, pointing at El, “then the rule changes.”

“Dad—”

“No dating,” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours now, “until you do.”

Silence. You stare at him, and he stares right back.

And then you laugh, full and sharp, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.

“That’s not a rule, that’s a death sentence for El.”

“And why would that be?” 

You roll your eyes. “Please. I would never date the neanderthals in this school if they were the last living organisms on earth.”

Hopper crosses his arms, satisfied. “Then I guess nobody’s dating.”

El’s lips press together, trying and failing to hide the smallest hint of disappointment.

You point at her. “This is on you.”

The next morning feels heavier for her in a way she can’t quite name.

Hawkins High hums the same as it always does, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against the tile.

Eleven moves through it like something slightly out of place, like the rhythm doesn’t quite match her steps. 

People notice her before she notices them, and then they look away just as quickly, conversations dipping, shoulders angling.

A group of girls by the lockers goes quiet when she passes. One of them mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to repeat, just loud enough to land.

El doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens, her hands curling into the sleeves of her sweater as she keeps walking, eyes forward, because she’s learned that looking back only makes it worse.

She doesn’t understand all of it, but she understands enough.

She finds Mike and Dustin near their usual table, both of them mid-conversation, Dustin animated as always, Mike nodding along like he’s only half paying attention until he spots her.

His whole face changes. “Hey,” he says quickly, standing up like he always does, like it’s instinct now. “Hi.”

El slows when she reaches them, glancing briefly at Dustin before looking back at Mike.

“Hi.”

Dustin leans forward immediately, eyes flicking between them. “Okay, so, I feel like something happened because you look like you just came back from, like, emotional warfare—”

“El, did you get in trouble—” Mike starts, already bracing.

“It is worse,” El cuts in.

Mike’s brows pull together. “Worse than what?”

“Hopper made a new rule.”

Dustin groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never good. Last time there was a new rule I wasn’t allowed in your house for, like, a month—”

“He says I cannot date,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “until she does.”

Mike blinks. “Until… who does?”

El doesn’t have to say it. Their heads both turn slightly, almost in sync, scanning the cafeteria like they expect to spot you immediately.

Dustin’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not kidding.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair, already stressed. “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not even fair.”

“It is not fair,” El agrees, sharper now. “It is stupid.”

Dustin nods emphatically. “Super stupid. Like, impressively stupid. Like, I didn’t even know you could make a rule that stupid—”

Mike cuts him off. “Okay, okay—wait.” He looks back at El. “Why would he do that?”

El’s expression shifts, something more complicated flickering there. “Because she does not date.”

“…At all?” Dustin asks.

El shakes her head. “She said she would ‘never date the neanderthals in this school.’”

Dustin lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… harsh. I mean, not entirely inaccurate for some of the male population here, but still. Harsh.”

Mike doesn’t laugh; he’s busy thinking.

“I want to be with you,” she says quietly. “Not in secret. Not like… like something bad.”

Mike looks at her, and whatever frustration he had a second ago shifts into something more determined. “Yeah. I know. I want that too.”

Dustin straightens, eyes lighting up just a little, that familiar spark of an idea forming, whether anyone asked for it or not. “Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”

Mike groans. “Dustin—”

“No, hear me out,” he insists, pointing between them. “If the rule is that she has to date someone, then all we have to do… is make that happen.”

Mike stares at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Dustin says quickly. “I’m saying it’s… possible.”

El tilts her head slightly. “How?”

Dustin leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something highly illegal, which, in his mind, is probably half the appeal.

“We find someone who’s willing to go out with her.”

Mike blinks. “And why would anyone do that?”

Dustin pauses, considers. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually means trouble. “…Incentive.”

Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No, absolutely not—”

“It could work!” Dustin presses. “Think about it, man. We just need one guy, right? One guy who’s not completely terrified of her—”

“That’s already a short list,” Mike mutters.

“—and who doesn’t care about her whole… thing,” Dustin continues, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’d do it for the right price.”

El watches them, confusion knitting her brows. “You want to pay someone to date my sister?”

Mike winces. “When you say it like that—”

“That is what you are saying.”

Dustin shrugs. “I mean… yeah. But it’s not, like, real dating. It’s just…strategic.”

El looks between them, uncertainty flickering, but underneath it is something stronger. 

“If it works,” she says slowly, “the rule will change.”

Mike hesitates, then nods. “If it works… yeah.”

Dustin claps his hands together once, already scanning the cafeteria like he’s picking from a lineup.

“Okay. So. Who do we know that’s got a high tolerance for danger, questionable decision-making skills, and absolutely nothing to lose?”

There’s a pause. And then, almost simultaneously, both boys have the exact same thought.

Across the room, at a table that feels more like its own territory than part of the cafeteria, sits Eddie, boots up on the bench, laughing too loud at something one of the Hellfire guys just said, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, a very bad idea has just found its target.

They don’t move right away.

For a second, both of them just stand there, watching from a distance like they’re about to approach a wild animal that might be friendly but could just as easily bite.

Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot while Mike very clearly considers abandoning the plan entirely.

“This is a terrible idea,” Mike mutters under his breath.

Dustin doesn’t disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it’s also the only idea.”

Mike glances back at Eleven, still standing by the table, watching them with that quiet, unwavering expectation that makes it very hard to say no to her.

He sighs. “…Fine.”

The Hellfire table is loud in a way the rest of the cafeteria isn’t.

“Wheeler. Henderson,” Eddie drawls, leaning back slightly, a grin already forming like he can smell trouble from a mile away. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure? You here to finally admit my campaign last night was amazing, or—”

“We need a favor,” Dustin blurts, cutting him off.

That gets his attention.

Eddie’s brows lift, interest piqued, grin sharpening into something more curious as he slowly lowers his boots from the chair.

“A favor,” he repeats. “From me.”

Mike crosses his arms, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Yeah.”

Eddie glances between them, taking in the tension, the way neither of them looks entirely sure about what they’re about to say, and it only makes him more entertained.

“This should be good,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

Dustin steps forward like he’s presenting a business proposal. “Okay, so. Hypothetically—”

“Oh, we’re starting with hypotheticals,” Eddie hums.

“—if someone,” Dustin continues, ignoring him, “needed you to, I don’t know, go out with someone—”

Eddie snorts. “Henderson, you’re gonna have to narrow it down. My dance card is shockingly empty.”

Mike cuts in, faster this time. “We’ll pay you.”

Eddie goes still for half a second, definitely caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting them to skip straight to that part.

“…You’ll what?” he says, slower now.

Dustin nods, serious. “Pay you.”

Eddie lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he leans forward onto the table, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke he hasn’t been let in on yet.

“You’re offering me money,” he says carefully, “to go on a date.”

“Yes,” Mike says.

“With who?” Eddie asks, already half amused again.

Mike hesitates.

Dustin doesn’t.

“Hopper’s daughter.”

Eddie leans back in his seat, something thoughtful creeping into his expression now.

“…That Hopper’s daughter,” he repeats.

Mike nods. Eddie’s gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, across the cafeteria. It doesn’t take long to find you.

You’re not hard to spot, not because you’re loud or attention-seeking, but because people give you space without meaning to, a quiet radius that forms around you wherever you sit. 

You’re leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, completely uninterested in anything happening around you.

Like the entire room is background noise you’ve already tuned out. He’s never talked to you, not once. But he knows you. Everyone does.

The attitude. The sharp tongue. The way you look at people like you’ve already decided exactly what they are and found it lacking.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at them.

“…You want me,” he says slowly, “to go out with her.”

“Yes,” Dustin says again, like repetition might make it sound less insane.

Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he leans back, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“You guys have a death wish or something? I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at people. I’m pretty sure I’d burst into flames on contact.”

“You won’t,” Mike says quickly. “Probably.”

Eddie shoots him a look. “Reassuring.”

Dustin leans in. “Look, it doesn’t have to be real. You just have to take her out a couple times, make it believable, and that’s it.”

“Why?” he asks.

Mike hesitates. El answers from behind them.

“Because I want to be with him.”

All three of them turn.

El stands a few steps closer now, her gaze steady as it moves from Mike to Eddie, something earnest and unfiltered sitting right at its center.

“Hopper says I cannot date until she does,” she continues. “So she must.”

Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly, and he glances back at you again. You haven’t noticed him. Or maybe you have, and you just don’t care.

Either way, it does something strange in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for. He looks back at Dustin and Mike.

“…And you’re paying me,” he says.

Dustin nods eagerly. “Yes.”

Eddie taps his fingers against the table, thinking.

“You do realize,” he says after a moment, “this is gonna blow up in your faces, right? Like, spectacularly. Possibly with casualties.”

“Probably,” Mike admits.

Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, almost absently, his eyes flick back to you one more time, alone at your table.

He tilts his head, something like a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“…Alright,” he says.

Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”

Eddie shrugs, pushing himself up from the chair, grabbing his jacket like he’s already halfway committed before he’s even finished deciding.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.”

Dustin grins. “And the money.”

Eddie points at him. “And the money.”

Then he glances back at you, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand yet but very much intends to.

“…Plus,” he adds, almost to himself, “I’ve never met a dragon I didn’t want to try and charm.”

Mike groans. “Please don’t call her that to her face.”

Eddie’s grin widens. “No promises.”

The bell cuts through the cafeteria, sharp and final, and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping, conversations breaking, bodies funneling toward the exits in a familiar, restless wave.

You don’t rush, you never do.

You take your time gathering your things, sliding your bag over your shoulder, letting the crowd thin just enough that you don’t have to fight your way through it.

You don’t notice him at first, not until he’s already there.

Falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the first time he’s ever willingly placed himself in your orbit.

“Hey,” Eddie says easily, turning slightly so he’s walking half backward just to catch your eye, a crooked grin already in place. “Hopper, right?”

You don’t stop, you don’t even look at him.

“Do I know you?” you ask flatly, eyes fixed ahead.

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s cold. I’m hurt.”

“Tragic.”

He snorts, clearly entertained, and then, without missing a beat, sticks his hand out between you like he’s introducing himself at a business meeting. 

“Eddie. Munson. Local celebrity, part-time academic menace, full-time delight. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

You glance down at his hand. Then back up at him. And just… stare.

He holds it there a second longer than most people would, grin twitching slightly at the edges as he realizes exactly what’s happening, and then he exhales a quiet laugh, dropping it back to his side.

“Alright, tough crowd,” he mutters, half to himself.

You keep walking.

“So,” he continues, undeterred, falling back into step beside you like he’s decided this is a long game. “I was thinking, dangerous, I know, but maybe you and I could—”

“No.”

He blinks. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”

“I didn’t need you to.”

That earns a laugh, low and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to shut him down that fast but he’s not exactly mad about it either.

“Okay, fair,” he concedes, nodding like you’ve made a solid point. “But hypothetically, if I had finished the sentence—”

“You shouldn’t.”

You cut around a group of people blocking the hallway, not slowing, not adjusting your pace to make room for him.

He sidesteps neatly back into place beside you, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

“You always this friendly,” he asks, “or am I just special?”

You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re not special.”

“Ouch,” he says, though there’s no real sting to it, just amusement. “Gonna have to try harder, I see.”

You stop at your locker, spinning the dial without acknowledging him, and he leans casually against the one next to yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“I mean, come on,” he goes on, softer now, less performative, more coaxing. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”

“I don’t care about your pitch.”

“Not even a little curious?”

You glance at him then, finally, just a flick of your eyes.

“…No.”

He grins, like that’s the answer he wanted.

“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong,” he says, pushing off the locker, stepping just a little closer. “Because if you were really not curious, you would’ve told me to shut up and left already.”

You slam your locker shut. “I’m telling you to shut up now.”

He laughs, full and unbothered. “There she is.”

You sling your bag back over your shoulder, turning to walk away again, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like this is just how things are now.

“Just one shot,” he says, holding up a finger. “One sentence. If you hate it, I’ll disappear, never bother you again, you can go back to your regularly scheduled brooding—”

“You’re already bothering me.”

“—but if you don’t hate it,” he continues smoothly, ignoring that, “you hear me out.”

You stop again, slowly.

“…You have one sentence,” you say.

His grin comes back, slower this time, a little more careful.

“Go out with me.”

Silence. You stare at him, and he holds it, waiting.

And then you let out a short laugh, like he’s just confirmed exactly what you thought about him the second he opened his mouth.

“Absolutely not.” And just like that, you turn and walk away, not even giving him the chance to respond this time.

Behind you, Eddie just watches you go, something thoughtful settling in behind the amusement. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he falls back a step.

“…Alright,” he mutters to himself, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth again. “Challenge accepted.”

By the time the plan reaches its next phase, it already feels like something that’s gotten out of hand. Not that that stops them.

The cabin is quiet when they get there. Late afternoon light spills through the windows, warm and low, dust floating lazily in the air like the place is holding its breath, and Eleven pushes the door open without hesitation.

The boys follow more cautiously.

Mike lingers just inside the doorway, already tense, eyes darting around like Hopper might materialize out of thin air, while Dustin closes the door behind them with a soft click, lowering his voice instinctively.

“This feels illegal,” Eddie whispers.

“It is not illegal,” El says, already moving toward the hallway. “It is necessary.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going through her stuff.”

El pauses, glancing back at him. “We are learning.”

“That’s worse.”

They find your room easily.

The door’s half-open, like you never bothered to shut it fully, and there’s something about that alone that makes all four of them hesitate for a second.

Dustin pushes it open anyway.

“Okay,” he says under his breath, stepping inside. “Recon mission.”

The room is exactly what Eddie expected. And not at all.

It’s not messy, not really, but it’s not polished either, not curated in that way some people’s rooms are.

Yours feels lived in, real. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, books stacked unevenly on your nightstand, a jacket tossed carelessly across the end of your bed like you’ll come back for it later.

There are posters on the wall, and not the ones people expect. Not pop stars or clean-cut bands, but darker, louder things, edges curling slightly at the corners, ink-heavy designs that feel more like statements than decoration.

Eddie steps further in, slower than the others, gaze dragging across the details, taking it in piece by piece like he’s reading something written in a language he almost understands.

“…Huh,” he says quietly.

Dustin’s already at your shelf, flipping through a stack of vinyls with growing enthusiasm. “Oh, this is gold. This is gold—she’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”

Mike’s still hovering, arms crossed. “Can we not touch everything?”

“We’re not touching everything,” Dustin argues. “We’re strategically observing.”

“You’re holding it.”

“That’s part of observing.”

El moves toward your desk, fingers brushing lightly over the surface, pausing on a notebook left half-open, but she doesn’t flip through it. Not that.

Even she seems to recognize there’s a line somewhere.

Eddie, meanwhile, drifts closer to your wall. He studies the posters more carefully now, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit as something clicks into place.

“…She’s not just mean,” he says, almost absently.

Mike glances over. “What?”

Eddie gestures vaguely at the wall. “This stuff—this isn’t random. She’s got a whole thing going on. It’s like…” He trails off, searching for the word, then shrugs. “Curated chaos.”

Dustin snorts. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Eddie shoots back, though his attention’s already shifted again, scanning the room like he’s trying to piece together a person out of fragments.

There’s something quieter in him now. Less show, more interest.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to, but it’s there in the way he lingers, the way he notices things the others don’t, the way his gaze softens just slightly when it lands on something small, something personal.

On your nightstand. A folded piece of paper sticks out from under a book, worn at the edges like it’s been handled more than once, and Dustin, of course, zeroes in on it immediately.

“Ooh, what’s this—”

“Don’t,” Mike says quickly.

Too late. Dustin pulls it free, unfolding it with zero hesitation, eyes scanning over it before lighting up.

“No way.”

“What?” Mike asks, stepping closer despite himself.

Dustin turns it so they can see. Tickets. Two of them. Worn slightly at the corners, like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.

“To a show,” Dustin says, unnecessarily.

Eddie steps in closer, eyes dropping to the print, and something in his expression shifts again, sharper this time, recognition sparking.

“…You’re kidding me,” he murmurs.

El tilts her head. “What is it?”

Eddie reaches out, not taking the tickets, just brushing his fingers lightly against the edge like he needs to confirm they’re real. “This is—”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “—The Misfits,” he finishes.

Dustin blinks. “Is that… good?”

Eddie looks at him like he just asked if oxygen is optional.

“Is that good? Henderson, that’s not just good, that’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, still half smiling. “That’s not exactly mainstream around here, alright? That’s… specific.”

Mike frowns slightly. “So she likes them?”

Eddie exhales, glancing around the room again, like everything suddenly makes a little more sense. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”

Dustin’s grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate. “Okay. So. We use that.”

Mike hesitates. “Use it how?”

Dustin gestures with the tickets. “Conversation piece.”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at the tickets, at your room. At the pieces of you scattered around it like clues he didn’t expect to care about.

“…That’s not a terrible idea,” he admits finally, quieter than before.

Mike stares at him. “You’re actually considering this.”

Eddie glances at him, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I told you. I like a challenge.”

But it’s not just that anymore.

“…Guess I’ve got my opening line.”

The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle when it opens, the kind that’s been rung a thousand times and stopped caring somewhere around the five hundredth. You don’t look up right away.

The record store is slow this time of day, the low hum of music drifting through the speakers, something scratchy and familiar playing from behind the counter as you flip through a stack of new arrivals, reorganizing them more out of habit than necessity.

“Afternoon,” you say flatly, still not looking.

“Yeah, I’m hoping it gets better from here.”

You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, you lift your head.

Eddie stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who very much does not belong here.

Your eyes narrow instantly. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grins like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Miss me?”

“No.”

“Cold,” he hums, stepping further inside, gaze drifting lazily over the shelves like he’s browsing. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You weren’t.”

“Okay, no,” he concedes easily. “I wasn’t.”

You go back to what you were doing, dismissing him with the same efficiency you would anyone else you don’t care to deal with.

“Then leave.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he wanders closer to the counter, fingers brushing along the edge of a display, scanning the titles like he’s genuinely interested. Even though the slight tilt of his mouth says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“So,” he starts casually, like you’re in the middle of a normal conversation. “You got any Misfits vinyls in stock, or am I gonna have to take my business elsewhere?”

That stops you.

“…You like the Misfits?” you ask, tone edged with suspicion more than curiosity.

He catches it immediately, doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal.

“Yeah. Shocking, I know. Dude in a leather jacket listens to loud, obnoxious music. Real plot twist.”

You step closer, bracing your hands on the counter, gaze locking onto his like you’re trying to catch him in something.

“Name three songs.”

He blinks once. Then huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. Gatekeeping. Love that for you.”

“Name them,” you repeat, unmoved.

He studies you for a second, something amused flickering in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“…‘Last Caress,’ ‘Hybrid Moments,’ ‘Where Eagles Dare,’” he says easily, ticking them off on his fingers. “Want me to keep going or—?”

You hold his gaze a second longer. Then lean back slightly, crossing your arms.

“…Lucky guesses.”

“Ouch,” he says, though he’s smiling again, a little softer this time, like he’s pleased he got under your skin even a fraction. “You wound me.”

You turn, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Third crate. Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He finds the crate easily, crouching down to flip through it, but he doesn’t speak right away this time.

But, after a moment: “Minor Threat, huh?”

You don’t turn around. “What about them?”

He glances up at you from where he’s crouched, one brow lifting. “Didn’t peg you for the straight-edge type.”

“I’m not.”

He hums, flipping to the next record. “Bad Brains.”

You go still. “…You’re just naming bands now?”

“Descendents,” he adds, like he didn’t hear you.

“How do you know that?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, expression shifting just slightly, and meets your gaze.

“I pay attention,” he says simply.

You search his face, like you’re trying to find the angle, the trick, the punchline that hasn’t landed yet.

“…That’s creepy,” you decide finally.

He exhales a soft laugh, nodding like he’ll take that. “Yeah. Little bit.”

You shake your head, turning away again, but it’s not the same dismissal as before. There’s something else under it now, something you don’t quite like.

“You’re not getting a discount.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“So,” he tries again, a little lighter now, easing back into that easy charm like he never left it. “You work here often, or is this a special occasion thing?”

You don’t miss a beat. “I’m here every day.”

“Good,” he says.

That makes you look at him again. “…Why?”

He shrugs, picking a record from the crate, holding it up like that’s his whole answer.

“Makes it easier to come back.”

You stare at him longer this time. Trying to decide if he’s serious. Trying to decide if you care.

“…Buy something or leave,” you say finally, turning back toward the counter, but your voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was when he walked in.

Behind you, Eddie just smiles to himself, something thoughtful tucked behind it as he glances down at the vinyl in his hands.

Hook set, whether you realize it or not. The next day, the idea finds him again before he can talk himself out of it.

You’re at your locker when he spots you.

Same as yesterday. Same hallway, same noise, same carefully maintained distance people keep from you like it’s second nature.

You’re leaning slightly into the metal, spinning the dial with that absent, disinterested look like none of this matters, like none of them matter.

He watches you for a second, then pushes off the wall and heads over.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie Munson calls lightly as he approaches, like this is already a routine between you. Like you didn’t shut him down less than twenty-four hours ago.

You don’t even look up. “Wrong person.”

He grins. “Debatable.”

You slam your locker shut, finally turning to face him, unimpressed as ever. “What do you want, Munson?”

“No hello?” he hums. “No, ‘how’ve you been, Eddie, light of my life, bane of my existence’?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Good,” he says easily. “This’ll be quick.”

That makes you pause, just slightly.

“There’s a party tonight,” he continues, casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not watching your reaction a little too closely. “At Nancy Wheeler’s place. Parents are out of town, whole suburban rebellion thing, you know the drill.”

You blink once. “…And?”

“And,” he says, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep your attention, “you should come.”

Then you laugh.

“I’d rather die.”

He winces theatrically. “Jesus. You always go straight to homicide, or is that just me?”

You shoulder your bag, already turning away. “Find someone else to bother.”

“I did,” he calls after you. “Didn’t take.”

That slows you down. You glance back, eyes narrowing. “…What.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the entire point. “Figured I’d aim higher.”

You stare at him, and he holds it. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke.

“…I don’t think so,” you say finally.

He tilts his head, considering you, something softer slipping into his expression for half a second before the grin comes back.

“Alright,” he says.

You turn away again, done with it.

“Pick you up at eight.”

You stop.

“…I didn’t say yes.”

“You also didn’t say no,” he shoots back immediately.

You turn, ready to argue, but he’s already walking backward down the hall, hands up in surrender, grin wide and unbothered.

“Eight o’clock, sweetheart!” he calls. “Wear something scary!”

You watch him go. Annoyed... and something else you refuse to name.

That night, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that means something’s about to go wrong.

Eleven moves carefully, slow steps down the hallway, shoes in her hand, eyes flicking toward the living room like she expects Hopper to appear at any second.

She makes it halfway to the door.

“Where are you going?”

She freezes. Hopper stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already unimpressed.

“…Out,” she says.

“Out,” he repeats flatly. “At night. Without telling me.”

She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “There is a party.”

“Oh, there is a party,” he echoes. “And you’re just gonna—what—sneak out and go to it?”

She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

Hopper shakes his head, already gearing up.

“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this—no dating, no parties, no—”

“She is going.”

Both of them turn.

You’re leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, already in something that looks like you might leave the house even if you haven’t admitted it yet.

Hopper frowns. “She is not—”

“I am,” El insists, stepping closer. “Because she is coming with me.”

You scoff immediately. “No, I’m not.”

El turns to you. And then, she does it: big eyes, slight tilt of her head.

That quiet, stubborn softness that somehow hits harder than any argument she could make. You stare at her.

“…No,” you repeat.

She doesn’t look away. “Please.”

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face like this is physically painful for you.

“You don’t even know those people.”

“I know Mike.”

Hopper groans. “We are not doing this again—”

You glance at him, back at her, then at the door.

“…Fine,” you snap finally. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

El’s face lights up just slightly. Victory.

Hopper points between the two of you. “No. No, no, no—hold on, I didn’t agree to this—”

Too late. There’s a knock at the door, and all three of you freeze.

You close your eyes briefly.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Hopper squints toward the door. “Who is that?”

Another knock. Louder this time. You push off the wall with a sigh, already heading for it.

“A mistake,” you mutter under your breath.

When you open it, there he is.

Eddie, leaning casually against the frame like he’s been there for a while, like this is perfectly normal, like showing up early to something you never agreed to is just part of his charm.

He looks you up and down once, quick. Then grins.

“…Eight o’clock felt a little late,” he says. “Figured I’d get a head start.”

You stare at him. Behind you, Hopper steps closer.

“…What the hell is this?” he asks.

Eddie straightens, instantly switching gears, hand coming up in an almost too-friendly wave. “Evening, Chief.”

You drag a hand down your face. “This,” you say flatly, “is exactly why I don’t go out.”

The drive is louder than it needs to be.

Not because of conversation, there isn’t much of that, but because Eddie keeps the music just a little too high, fingers tapping against the wheel, glancing at you every so often like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.

You sit with your elbow hooked out the window, gaze fixed on the blur of trees and streetlights, cigarette smoke trailing behind you, acting like he’s not there at all.

He doesn’t push it, not yet.

The house is already packed by the time you pull up.

Cars line the street, music spilling out through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even make it to the front door.

El is out of the van the second it stops, practically sprinting toward the house like she’s been waiting for this all week.

“Hey—don’t—” you start, but she’s already gone.

Eddie watches her disappear inside, then looks at you, one brow lifting slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“…After you.”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him without a word, pushing the door open like you own the place, like you’re not even slightly out of your element.

The noise hits you all at once. Laughter, shouting, music too loud for the speakers it’s coming from, bodies moving through the space in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm. You head straight for the kitchen.

It’s instinct at this point, find the drinks, find something to do with your hands, something to anchor you in a room you already know you don’t want to be in. Eddie follows.

Not hovering exactly, but close enough that you’re aware of him, that steady presence at your side as you weave through people, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the way heads turn just a little too slowly as you pass.

It doesn’t take long. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

You don’t even have to turn to know the tone, but you do anyway.

A couple of guys leaning against the counter, red cups in hand, smirks already in place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

“The shrew herself,” one of them adds, louder this time, making sure people nearby can hear.

“Bite me,” you say flatly, already reaching past them for a drink like they’re nothing.

“God,” Eddie murmurs, just low enough for you to hear, “you’re terrifying.”

You crack open the drink, not looking at him. “Then why are you still here?”

He shrugs, grabbing one for himself. “I’ve got a thing for danger.”

You take a sip, letting the noise of the party settle around you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

For Eddie, that’s new.

Instead, he just stands there, shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the space between you.

You glance up at him.

“Why did you want me to come, anyway?” you say, nodding toward the crowd. "What's in it for you?"

He looks down at you, like he didn’t expect the question. “What, I can’t invite someone to a party without ulterior motives?”

“You?” you say, arching a brow. “No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, bringing the cup to his lips.

He takes a sip, pauses, then grimaces immediately. “…Yeah. Okay. That’s foul.”

You almost smile, and he catches it.

“Was that—” he leans in a little, eyes bright, voice dropping like he’s in on a secret, “—was that a smile?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he says easily. “Already planning my future around it.”

You shake your head, but there’s something softer in your expression now. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs, a little less guarded this time.

“And for the record,” he adds, quieter, “I didn’t come for the party.”

You glance at him. “No?”

“Nah.” A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I came for the part where you show up and pretend you don’t hate me for a couple hours.”

That does it. You smile fully, just a little. And he looks like he just won something.

Across the room, the party swells, louder, messier, people spilling into hallways, voices rising, music shifting tracks. 

But Eddie sticks by your side.

The kitchen settles around you in waves, people rotating in and out, laughter rising and falling, and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, you stop counting the seconds until you can leave. Eddie’s still there.

Leaning back against the counter now, one foot hooked behind the other, drink forgotten in his hand as he talks, like this is easy, like you’re easy, like the whole thing isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle.

“…and then Henderson swears the dice are cursed,” he’s saying, gesturing with his hands, animated in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, not really.

“Like, full conspiracy, thinks the entire campaign is rigged against him personally, which—honestly—not entirely wrong, but still.”

You glance at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You rig your own games?”

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’m a tyrant. A menace. It’s in the job description.”

“That’s pathetic.”

He grins. “That’s leadership.”

You huff out a quiet breath, something that’s dangerously close to a laugh, and he catches it immediately, eyes lighting up like he’s just hit a milestone.

“There it is again,” he says, pointing at you. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Oh, I’m gonna push it,” he says easily. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”

You shake your head, taking another sip of your drink, but you don’t shut him down. He seems to clock that too, something softer settling into his expression for a second before he covers it with another smirk.

“So what,” he goes on, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, testing the boundary. “You just sit around all day, scaring small children and rejecting perfectly charming invitations, or—”

“Children scare easily.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see why.”

You glance at him again, like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is and coming up short.

“…You talk a lot,” you say.

“I’ve been told it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”

“It’s not.”

“Agree to disagree.”

There’s a pause. Then, before you can stop it, you laugh.

It slips out of you like you didn’t mean for it to, like it caught you off guard just as much as it does him.

Eddie goes quiet, like he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Wow,” he says after a second, softer now, something genuine threading through the usual humor. “Okay. That— that was worth the price of admission.”

You roll your eyes immediately, the moment passing just as quickly as it came. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he’s still smiling. Not the loud, performative grin from earlier.

“Hey—” You both turn.

Nancy stands a few steps away, red cup in hand, looking pleasantly surprised, like she almost didn’t believe it when she heard you were here.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

You shrug, already bracing for whatever comment’s coming next. “I didn’t plan on it.”

Nancy’s eyes flick briefly to Eddie, then back to you, something knowing in her expression that you immediately don’t trust.

“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “I’m glad you did. It’s… nice to see you out of your shell.”

You stare at her. “I don’t have a shell.”

Eddie snorts into his drink.

Nancy laughs softly, unfazed. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

She just shakes her head, still smiling, like she’s decided not to push it, and takes a step back. “Just—have fun, okay?”

He glances at you, one brow lifting. “Out of your shell, huh.”

“Say one more word, and I’m leaving.”

He holds his hands up immediately. “Hey, hey—zip it. Noted.”

Then, quieter, “For what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time, “I think you’re doing great.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for him.

The Hideout isn’t trying to impress anyone.

Dim lights, sticky floors, a stage that’s seen better decades, the low hum of a crowd that feels more like background noise than the main event.

It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Eddie to bring someone.

It’s not the kind of place you expected to like. And yet…

You’re sitting across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, one leg tucked under you, drink sweating in your hand as he tells stories.

Dumb ones, mostly, about Hellfire campaigns and arguments over rules and how Henderson once tried to “unionize the party,” whatever that means.

You don’t fully understand half of it, but you listen anyway.

“…and then he goes, ‘you can’t just kill my character because I questioned your authority,’” Eddie finishes, shaking his head, clearly still entertained by it. “And I’m like, ‘watch me.’”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a compliment.

You take a sip of your drink, studying him over the rim of the glass, something quieter settling in your chest, something unfamiliar and a little unsettling. Because he’s not what you expected, not entirely.

He’s loud, yeah. Annoying. Persistent in a way that should get under your skin more than it does. But he’s also gentle, in strange, fleeting ways.

Like the way he slid into the booth first, so you wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. The way he asked what you wanted before ordering, like it mattered. The way he listens when you do speak, even if you only give him scraps.

It’s disarming. You don’t like that.

“…What,” he says suddenly, catching your gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I,” he hums, leaning forward just slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye again. “Because I’m pretty sure that was a nice look.”

“Don’t push it.”

He grins, softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he reaches across the table, not touching you, just tapping his fingers lightly against the surface like he’s resisting the urge to close the distance.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

Simple, no joke attached. You don’t answer right away.

“…Me too,” you admit, quieter.

His expression shifts, just a fraction, something warm flickering there before he looks away, like he needs a second to recover from it.

“Careful,” he says lightly. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”

You scoff. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But there’s no bite to it, not really.

You don’t realize how far you’ve let your guard down until you stand up to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t follow. You don’t expect him to, but you notice it anyway.

The hallway’s quieter, the music muffled, the buzz of the bar fading just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.

This was a mistake; it has to be. You don’t do this. You don’t sit in booths and laugh at stupid stories and let people get close enough to matter.

And yet...You push the bathroom door open, splash water on your hands, stare at your reflection for a second longer than necessary, then head back out.

You hear it before you see them.

“…I’m just saying, man, you better get your cut.”

You slow, just slightly. Voices from around the corner, familiar in that distant way you recognize but don’t care enough to place.

“Yeah, seriously,” another one adds. “How much is Henderson even paying you for going out with Hopper’s daughter again?”

Your stomach drops, cold and sharp. You step around the corner, and there he is.

Eddie, leaning back against the wall, a couple of Hellfire guys clustered around him, laughing like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke that doesn’t have a target. Like it’s not you.

He doesn’t laugh, not really. But he doesn’t shut it down fast enough.

“…It’s not—” he starts. Too late.

They notice you, and the laughter dies. Eddie’s head snaps up. And the second his eyes meet yours, he knows.

“Hey—” he says, pushing off the wall immediately, something urgent in his tone now. “It’s not like that—”

You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Wow.”

He stops a few feet in front of you, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast. “I can explain—”

“That’s rich,” you cut him off, voice low and sharp, eyes burning into him. “'Nothing in it for you', huh?”

“I was going to tell you,” he insists, stepping closer. “I just—”

“When,” you snap. “After you got paid? Or were you waiting on a bonus for sleeping with me?”

“It’s not about the money anymore,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been for a while.”

You laugh again, harsher this time. “Oh, please.”

“I mean it,” he says, more forcefully now, frustration bleeding through. “Yeah, it started that way, I’m not gonna lie to you, but that’s not what this is now—”

“You expect me to believe that,” you cut in, stepping back, putting space between you like you need it to breathe. “You expect me to believe you suddenly just—what—like me?”

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation, no joke. It almost makes it worse.

You shake your head, backing up another step, something tight and ugly twisting in your chest that you refuse to name.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—”

“You didn’t mean for me to find out at all,” you correct.

You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something colder, something safer, something that doesn’t let any of that hurt show through.

“Don’t follow me,” you say flatly.

Then you turn and walk out. Leaving him standing there, the noise of the bar rushing back in around him, the taste of something good turning bitter in his mouth before he even has time to process how badly he just screwed it up.

The next morning feels different.

Not in the way anyone else would notice, not in the noise or the routine or the way Hawkins High hums along like nothing ever really changes, but in the space around you.

You move through the hallway like you always do, head high, eyes forward, expression locked into something unreadable, but there’s an edge to it now, something sharper, like you’ve sealed something off and thrown away the key.

People still move out of your way; they always do. But this time, you don’t even register them.

Eddie is leaning against a row of lockers, mid-conversation with one of the Hellfire guys, but the second you round the corner, his attention shifts completely, like everything else drops out of focus.

He pushes off the wall without thinking. “Hey—”

You don’t slow.

“Hey,” he tries again, falling into step beside you, voice lower this time, less show, more real. “Can we just—”

“No.” Not even a glance.

He exhales, quick, frustrated, but keeps pace anyway.

“Just listen for a second, okay? I know you’re pissed, I get that, but I—”

“I’m not pissed,” you cut in, voice flat. You keep walking. “I just don’t care,” you finish.

He hovers there for a second, like he’s been physically pushed back, then jogs a step to catch up again, not ready to let it go.

“That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, almost like he’s trying not to spook you. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be—”

“Don’t,” you snap, finally turning to face him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

He lifts his hands slightly, backing off just a fraction. “I’m not—”

“You lied,” you say simply.

“I didn’t lie about everything,” he pushes, something desperate creeping in now. “I meant what I said—”

“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you asked me out, or the part where you cashed the check.”

A couple of people nearby slow down, sensing tension, but neither of you notices or cares.

Eddie swallows, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that.”

You step back, putting space between you again, shutting it down before he can try to spin it into something softer.

“Find someone else to entertain you,” you say, voice cold. “I’m done.”

And this time, you walk away without stopping. Without looking back. Without giving him anything to hold onto.

He just stands there for a second, staring after you, something tight and frustrated and stuck settling in his chest.

“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Eddie drops into the seat across from them harder than necessary.

Dustin startles. “Jesus—”

“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie says flatly.

Mike winces immediately. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Eddie drags a hand down his face. “No, like—won’t. Won’t even look at me. I tried this morning and she just—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t exist.”

El looks up at that. “You hurt her.”

Eddie exhales, nodding once. “Yeah. I got that part.”

Mike leans forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”

“I didn’t let anything—” Eddie starts, then stops, because he knows how it sounds, because he knows they’re not wrong. “…Okay, yeah. I did. I know.”

Dustin folds his arms. “So what’s the plan now?”

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

They all look at each other. No immediate answer. Which is… not encouraging.

“You apologize,” Mike says finally.

“I did.”

“No, like—actually apologize,” Dustin adds. “Not the whole ‘I’m sorry but also here’s why I’m still kind of right’ thing you do.”

“I didn’t do that,” Eddie argues.

“You definitely did that,” Mike says.

Eddie groans, dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll apologize better. Then what?”

El watches him for a second, quiet, thoughtful. “You tell the truth,” she says.

He looks up at her. “I did.”

She shakes her head slightly. “Not just about the money. About… everything.”

Eddie leans back in his seat, staring at the table like it might give him an answer he doesn’t already know.

“…She doesn’t believe me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even if I say it, she’s just gonna think it’s another lie.”

“Then don’t make it sound like one,” Dustin says.

Eddie snorts. “Helpful.”

“I’m serious,” Dustin insists. “You can’t just charm your way out of this one, man. That’s like—your whole thing. She’s not gonna buy it.”

Mike nods. “You need to… prove it.”

Eddie glances between them. “How.”

El speaks again. “Do something for her,” she says simply.

He frowns. “Like what.”

She shrugs, small, but certain. “Something she would know is real.”

Your room feels smaller than it usually does. Not physically, nothing’s changed.

Same half-made bed, same stack of books by the nightstand, same records leaning against the wall like you meant to put them away and never did.

But it’s quieter in a way that presses in on you, like the air’s heavier, like everything’s waiting for you to do something you’re not going to do.

You’re stretched out on your bed, a book open in your hands, eyes moving over the same paragraph for the third time without actually reading a word of it.

It’s stupid, all of it. You knew better. You always know better.

A knock breaks the silence. You don’t look up.

“Go away.”

A pause. Then, softer, “Please.”

You close your eyes briefly, irritation flickering up fast and familiar.

“I said go away, El.”

The handle rattles, and you hear her try it once. Twice. Then: a quiet click.

Your head snaps up just as the door pushes open. Anger hits first.

You sit up fast, book forgotten as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, already moving.

“I told you not to do that anymore,” you snap, voice rising as you step toward the door. “What part of that is confusing to you, you little—”

You stop. Because it’s not just Eleven standing there. She’s off to the side, watching.

And in the doorway, Eddie. The anger doesn’t disappear. If anything, it sharpens.

“What the hell is this,” you say, colder now, folding your arms like that’s enough to hold yourself together. “You recruiting now?”

El looks between the two of you.

“He wants to talk,” she says.

“I don’t.”

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push into the room, doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin. He just stands there, hands empty, like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”

You scoff, looking away. “Then what are you doing here.”

“I gave it back,” he says.

You glance at him. “…What.”

“The money,” he clarifies, swallowing once. “I gave it back to Henderson. All of it. Told him I’m out.”

You stare at him, searching. For the angle, the lie, the performance.

“…Why.”

He lets out a breath, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it again, like he doesn’t want to hide behind the motion.

“Because it’s not what I want,” he says.

You don’t react.

“Wasn’t at first,” he adds, honest in a way that almost makes you more irritated than if he’d tried to sugarcoat it. “I’m not gonna pretend it was. But somewhere in there, it stopped being about that.”

You shake your head slightly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “And I’m supposed to just believe that.”

“No,” he says immediately.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say,” he continues, voice steady, even if there’s something tight underneath it. “I just… needed to say it.”

El shifts slightly by the door, unsure, watching both of you like she’s waiting for something to break.

You look at Eddie again. No grin, no attitude, no bullshit.

“…You should’ve told me,” you say, quieter now, but no less sharp.

“I know.”

“Before.”

“I know.”

“You let me sit there,” you continue, stepping a little closer, not soft, in your anger now, “and actually think you—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.

He doesn’t fill the space.

“That part wasn’t fake,” he says instead, softer.

You laugh, but it’s weaker this time. “That’s convenient.”

“I liked you,” he says. “I like you. That didn’t start with the money and it didn’t end when I gave it back.”

You shake your head again, but there’s less certainty in it now, less bite.

“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he says, a little breath of a laugh slipping through. “Been hearing that a lot lately.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds.

Your eyes flick back up to his.

“I’m not asking you to go out with me again,” he continues. “Or even talk to me after this.”

“I just didn’t want you thinking it was all fake,” he finishes. “Because it wasn’t.”

You don’t move, and you don’t respond.

Just stand there, caught somewhere between the version of him you decided on and the one standing in front of you now.

Behind him, El watches, quiet, hopeful in a way she’s trying not to show.

You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face.

“…You’re still an asshole,” you say finally.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“And you showed up to my house uninvited.”

He glances at El. “…Yeah.”

“And she broke into my room.”

“She did.”

You look at him for another second. Then, “…But you gave the money back.”

It’s not a question. He shakes his head.

“Didn’t feel right keeping it.”

“…That was stupid,” you decide.

A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, softer now, something shifting under the surface whether you like it or not. “You could’ve at least kept it.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought about it.”

“…You still owe me a real date,” you say.

His head tilts, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right. “…I do?”

You roll your eyes immediately, looking away like you already regret it. “Don’t make it weird.”

A slow, careful smile spreads across his face. Not big. Not cocky. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You cross your arms again, trying to regain some control over the situation. “And if you screw it up again, I’m not giving you another chance.”

“Fair.”

“And you’re not picking me up early this time.”

He nods, serious. “Eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock,” you confirm.

Behind him, El’s face brightens just slightly, relief slipping through before she quickly tries to hide it. You catch it anyway.

“Get out,” you tell her flatly. She doesn’t argue this time. Just turns and disappears down the hallway.

You look back at Eddie. He lingers in the doorway for a second longer, like he’s making sure this is real, like you didn’t just shut the door on him again.

“…I’ll see you at eight,” he says. You don’t answer, but you don’t tell him to leave, either. And when he finally does, the room doesn’t feel quite as small.

You stare at your closet like it personally offended you. Nothing looks right. Everything looks like you, which is the problem.

You tug a shirt off a hanger, hold it up, hesitate, toss it onto your bed with a quiet huff.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror across the room, arms crossed, expression already halfway to annoyed, like you’re judging yourself for even trying.

It’s just a date. A real date.

You roll your eyes at the thought, dragging a hand through your hair before turning back to the mess you’ve made.

After a second, you pull something else out. Simpler. Still you, just… softer around the edges. Something that doesn’t scream don’t talk to me quite as loudly.

You hesitate, then change anyway. When you step back in front of the mirror, you don’t smile. But you don’t hate it either.

“…Shut up,” you mutter to your reflection, grabbing your jacket.

The knock comes right at eight.

You freeze for half a second in the hallway, like your body needs to catch up with the fact that this is actually happening. Then you force yourself forward, pushing past it before you can overthink your way out of the entire night.

Hopper gets to the door first.

“Stay,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for the handle like you’re a dog he doesn’t trust to bolt.

You scowl but don’t argue, lingering just behind him as he opens the door.

Eddie's standing on the porch like he’s been there for a while, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture just a little straighter than usual, like he’s aware of exactly whose house he’s standing in.

“Evening, Chief,” he says, lifting a hand in a small wave.

Hopper eyes him up and down.

“I know you,” he says.

Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Munson.”

“I knew your dad,” Hopper adds, like that explains everything.

Eddie winces slightly. “That can’t be good.”

Hopper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Depends on the day.”

Then Hopper steps out onto the porch, pulling the door halfway closed behind him so you’re left just inside, listening whether you want to or not.

You lean slightly, just enough to catch it.

“You’re taking her out,” Hopper says, voice lower now.

“Yes, sir.”

Hopper studies him for another second, something shifting in his expression. Like he knows the reputation, but he’s also seen enough of the kid underneath it to not write him off completely.

“I don’t care what people say about you,” Hopper continues, steady. “I care how you treat her.”

Eddie nods immediately. “Fair.”

“If she asks, you bring her home. No questions.”

“Of course.”

“And if she looks even a little unhappy—”

“I won’t let that happen,” Eddie cuts in.

That pauses Hopper, just for a second. He looks at him again, sharper this time, like he’s trying to decide if that confidence is arrogance or something else.

“…Alright,” he says finally.

He steps back, pushing the door open again. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Eddie gives a small nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re already there when he steps back inside.

Leaning against the wall like you haven’t been eavesdropping, like you didn’t hear a single word of that. Eddie looks at you and stops, just for a second.

His eyes flick over you, quick but not careless, taking in the change, the effort, the fact that you showed up to this night differently than before.

Something soft crosses his face.

“…Wow,” he says quietly.

You immediately cross your arms. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, pushing past him toward the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The drive is different this time.

“…So,” you say after a while, glancing at him. “Where are we going.”

He glances over, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll see.”

“I hate surprises.”

“I figured.”

“Then why—”

“Because this one’s good,” he cuts in, softer this time.

You study him for a second, then look back out the window.

“…It better be.”

The venue isn’t in Hawkins. Small, a little rundown, lights buzzing faintly above the entrance, a line already forming outside, people packed close, voices loud, energy crackling in the air.

You step out of the van and stop, recognition hitting instantly.

“…No way.”

Eddie leans against the door, watching your reaction, something almost nervous flickering behind the usual confidence.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”

You look at the sign again. At the crowd. At him.

“…Descendents?”

He nods once. “Figured I’d start strong.”

“You got tickets.”

“Had to pull some strings,” he admits. “Almost sold my soul, but, you know. Worth it.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it.

“…You’re unbelievable,” you say.

“Yeah,” he grins. “Been told.”

“…Thank you,” you add, quieter.

That hits him in a different way; you can see it. The way he stills for just a second before nodding, like he doesn’t trust himself to make a joke out of it this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”

He pushes off the van, stepping closer, not crowding you, just enough to fall into step beside you as the two of you move toward the line together.

The crowd spills out of the venue in loose waves, people shouting over each other, laughing, reliving moments that already feel bigger than they probably were.

You step out with them, breath catching slightly as the quiet starts to settle back in.

“…Okay,” you admit, pushing your hair back from your face, still a little flushed from the heat inside. “That was—”

You stop, like you don’t want to give it to him.

Eddie watches you, already grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he knows exactly where this is going.

“Go on,” he says. “Finish the sentence.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not ruining anything, I’m encouraging honesty.”

You scoff, starting down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like he always does now, like there’s no question about it.

“…It was good,” you say finally, quieter this time, like it costs you something.

His grin widens. “Good?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m just saying, I expected at least a ‘life-changing experience’ or a tearful confession—”

“I said don’t push it.”

He laughs, softer this time, not trying to get a rise out of you, just simply enjoying it.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “But for the record, I think I deserve more credit here.”

“For what,” you ask, glancing at him.

“For broadening your horizons,” he says easily.

You blink at him. “You took me to a band I already like.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “But I picked the right band.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.

“…They were better live,” you admit after a second.

That catches him.

“Yeah?” he asks, a little surprised.

You nod slightly. “Yeah.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

You glance at him again, brow lifting. “You didn’t think they were good?”

“I thought they were fine,” he says carefully. “Like, solid. Respectable.”

You scoff. “Respectable.”

“Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he shoots back. “Can’t just go around admitting I enjoyed something that much.”

You bump your shoulder into his, a little harder this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “But you’re still here.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t move away, either.

There’s a moment as you walk, the noise of the crowd fading behind you, replaced by the quiet stretch of road, the hum of distant cars, the lingering echo of music in your chest.

And then, his arm comes up. Slow. Careful.

Not like he expects it, not like he’s claiming anything, just resting across your shoulders, light enough that you could shrug it off if you wanted to.

You feel it immediately; the warmth, the weight. You tense, just for a second. He feels it too and starts to pull back.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

But you don’t move away. You don’t shrug him off. Instead, you pull his hand around the rest of the way.

You lean into him just slightly, your shoulder fitting more comfortably under his arm like it makes sense there.

Like it’s allowed. He goes quiet.

“…You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, softer now.

“So are you.”

“Yeah, well,” he glances down at you briefly, something warm in his expression, “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done that once.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Trying not to make it a pattern.”

“…You’re doing alright so far,” you say. It’s quiet, almost lost to the night. But he hears it.

“I’ll take that,” he says.

You glance up at him for a second, catching the way he’s looking ahead, not at you, like he’s giving you space even now.

The van comes into view at the end of the lot, headlights dim, the night settling in around it like a quiet pause between moments.

Neither of you rushes toward it. Neither of you breaks the space between you.

And as you walk, side by side, his arm still draped over your shoulders, your weight just barely leaning into him; it doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel forced. Just easy in a way you're a little scared to name.

The ride home feels softer than the one there.

The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, cool against your skin, the kind that keeps you awake in a way that’s not exhausting.

The music is lower this time, something steady humming through the speakers while the road stretches out in long, quiet lines ahead of you.

You’ve got your elbow hooked out the window again.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, like he’s still half in the rhythm of the show.

“…So,” he says after a while, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”

You don’t look at him. “I am always honest.”

He snorts. “That’s terrifying, but not what I meant.”

You finally turn your head, brow lifting. “What did you mean.”

“Scale of one to ten,” he says. “How good was it.”

You consider it for a second, dragging it out just to annoy him.

“…Seven.”

He scoffs immediately. “Seven?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“That was at least an eight,” he argues. “Minimum.”

“Seven,” you repeat.

He shakes his head, like he’s deeply disappointed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into planning the perfect night—”

“You bought tickets,” you cut in.

“—and this is the thanks I get,” he finishes anyway.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth again, one you don’t bother hiding this time.

“…Okay,” you say after a second. “Eight.”

He glances at you, quick. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me take it back.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, settling back into his seat a little, “I might be good at this.”

“At what.”

“Dating you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve had one successful outing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“One and a half,” he corrects. “You didn’t hate the first one until the whole… you know.” He gestures vaguely.

You exhale through your nose. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Right. Sorry.” He nods once. “Moment preserved.”

“…You’re not as bad as I thought you were,” you admit.

It slips out before you can stop it. The car goes quiet. He looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you’re messing with him.

“…Wow,” he says softly. “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he murmurs.

You turn back toward the window, but your shoulder brushes his arm for a second when the car shifts, and neither of you pulls away right away.

By the time you pull up to the cabin, the night’s settled in fully.

He cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost too loud after everything else, and for a second, neither of you moves.

“…Home sweet home,” he says lightly.

“Don’t say that.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s weird.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Noted.”

You reach for the door. He’s already out of the van by the time you step onto the gravel, circling around without thinking, falling into step beside you like it’s automatic now.

The walk to the door is short, too short. You notice that, annoyingly.

Neither of you says much, the quiet stretching out again, not uncomfortable, just full of something neither of you is naming.

You stop at the door, turn. He’s already looking at you.

For once, he doesn’t have a line ready. Just that same careful, steady look he’s had all night, like he’s trying not to mess this up.

“…I had a good time,” he says.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

“…Eight,” you add.

His mouth twitches. “I’ll take it.”

You should go inside, you know that. You always know when to end things. Clean. Simple. No room for anything to get complicated.

But instead, you step forward. He barely has time to register it before your hand catches lightly on his jacket, pulling him just enough, and you kiss him.

It’s quick, but not hesitant. Not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else.

You pull back just as fast, like you’ve already decided that’s all he’s getting, like if you linger, you might rethink it.

He stares at you. Completely caught off guard.

“…Wow,” he breathes.

You roll your eyes immediately, stepping back toward the door.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, because he is a little stunned, because that definitely wasn’t what he expected.

You reach for the handle, pause, then glance back at him over your shoulder.

“…Goodnight, Munson.”

A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You disappear inside before he can say anything else.

And for a second, he just stands there on the porch, staring at the door like it might open again. Like, he didn’t just imagine that.

Then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back toward the van.

“…Eight,” he mutters to himself, still smiling.

AGHAHGDHHS okay here it is. i hope you all enjoyed :3

taglist is open!

beasbugs:

@bitterestwillow@kozume-ko, @obsessed-eddie, @doomdabss, @julxsxx, @leelei1980@hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses@meadows-ofasphodel @whitakerstorm @dreamerjj @sariahs-stuff @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @sisteramycatherine @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullstevepeachpuffs25 @abirdinthehouse @m-art000 @enne02

@ludachrissy @echo-is-worth-more-than-2000 @hecatesw1tch @lokishortnsweet

[mysticbellie]

'Only Happy When It Rains' Update

Hey you guys! I'm so sorry about the wait for chapter 2 of OHWIR. I have had a lot of personal stuff come up that has kept me busy but I SWEAR chapter two should be out by end of next week/early May.

Also THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE LOVE ON MY TWO FIRST EVER FICS YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!!!

LOVE YOU ALL MWAH 😘

[mysticbellie]

Giving In. (Oneshot)

Travis'Teacake'Meacham x Fem!reader

Summary: You and Teacake have been best friends since you were kids. You had a fleeting crush on him once when you were teenagers but you knew you had to let go of that quickly before ruining what you had with him. All of that changed when he got released from prison and asked to live with you. And wow are you grateful for it...

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Best friends to lovers, Travis just got out of prison, fluff, mentions of yearning from both reader and Teacake, Teacake is a munch, grinding, oral (f receiving), mentions of p in v, and I can't think of anything else so lmk if I've missed anything!

Word count: 2K

Authors note: This is my first time writing smut so go easy on me please! Also sorry this took so long. I had like no motivation to write yesterday. Anyways I hope it's good!

It’s a random Friday afternoon when you get the call. 

Travis is getting out…today. You haven’t seen him in a year and a half since his gullible ass got tricked into driving a getaway car. You would have visited him. You really wanted to. But life got busy with work promotions, relationships, and last winter when you got pneumonia twice. 

So you stuck to weekly phone calls and even sent him commissary money one time for Christmas. With the limited time that you did have on the phone, you talked about everything under the sun and laughed until your cheeks hurt. Travis always made you feel that way no matter what, and you for him. 

That means that when he asked for a place to stay, you didn’t hesitate. And apparently you should have because when he walked out the steel doors you felt butterflies you haven’t had since he added highlights in his hair freshman year of high school. Highlights you found out were for Amelia Robinson, the much older, much prettier cheerleader. 

It tore your heart into two when he took her to the spring formal and not you like he promised. He bought her a corsage, told her she looked beautiful, and slowly danced with her. A dance that was supposed to be with you. He promised.

You vowed to yourself after that that you wouldn’t let a little crush get in the way of your friendship with him. Travis ‘Teacake’ Meacham was the boy who let you win at Mario-kart when you were sad and you wanted to keep it that way. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Teacake has been living with you for a few weeks now. It’s been going good, truly. He washes his own dishes, doesn’t leave the tv blasting at night, and hanging out with him again has been so rejuvenating. 

You’re sitting on your living room couch, feet tucked underneath you and a fuzzy blanket in your lap. He is laughing every once in a while at whatever sitcom rerun is playing on the TV screen. You would laugh too except you have been staring at the moles that dance along his neck since he sat down beside you.

He looks different now. His hair is longer and bleached to the nines, he has prison tattoos all over that he somehow makes look good, way too good, and arms that are definitely bigger… arms that you would love to-

NOPE. No. You are not doing this. Not again. Travis is your best friend, he is not an option. You have so many other guys in your phone who would fuck you into oblivion if you just batted your eyelashes. 

He seems to feel you staring because he turns his head and his honey brown eyes meet yours. His brow furrows, a grin decorating his lips “What?”. You look away and try to pretend like the show playing is the most interesting thing in the world after all. 

“Nothing” you mumble, shaking your head.

He laughs in disbelief “Oh come on. I know you Angel, just tell me what's going on in that head of yours.”

Angel. He’s been calling you that nickname since you were kids and it is not helping the warmth pooling in your stomach as he says it. 

You turn your head towards him and smile softly, “Do you want popcorn? I bought chipotle flavour packets that I’m dying to try. I bought coke too, do you want coke?”. 

Before you can get up to go to the kitchen Teacake grabs your wrist, his calloused hands sending a shock through your nerves. 

His eyes soften and he fully takes your hand in his, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. “Don’t do that. Talk to me.” he pauses for a moment “I’m not asking this time Angel”.

You can feel your eyes start to burn and shake your head slowly.

 “I can’t. You’ll never look at me again like how you do now.” you whisper after the world's longest silence, voice wavering.

“I don’t think there is anything that could keep me from looking at you.” he says seriously before he begins to laugh “Not even your gross wet hair on the shower wall or how you snore like an old man after a long day at work.” you laugh too, rolling your eyes, and you can’t help but notice how your thighs touch. He continues “You are my best friend. I have seen every bad phase, every weak moment. I have stayed quiet while you yell at me about the new annoying thing I’ve done that day- which by the way I disagree with you almost every single time but the idea of arguing with you kind of scares me because although you’re pretty, you are very very scary and-”

You interrupt his rambling, putting your hand on his shoulder “Travis.”

He exhales and eyes flutter closed for a second “I lo- I care about you so much. So please, just talk to me”. 

You do nothing but stare at him for what feels like forever. Eyes tracing over his strong nose, down to his plump soft lips, and back up to your favourite eyes. Warm and inviting. 

His shoulders tense but his warm hands are still holding yours. “Please jus-”

Suddenly your lips are on his, kissing deeply like you never want to come back up for air. You whine against him when he kisses you back with the same vigour. He lets go of your hand to hold your waist, squeezing and pulling you against him. You rake your fingers through his hair, nails scratching his scalp just right, which pulls a deep groan from him. Travis tilts his head to get a better angle and runs his tongue against your bottom lip, asking for entry. When your tongues meet in a desperate fight you wonder what you were so worried about because this feels so good.

His grip on your waist starts to loosen and he leans back enough to rest his forehead on yours. His breath is hot against your face, you try to kiss him again but he stops you before you can “You have no idea how long I have wanted this baby. How long I’ve wanted you. I never thought that you would ever- I mean that we could ever-”

“You have always had me Travis” you kiss him gently, “and I want you too.” You kiss him again. “So bad.” And again. Before you know it he has lifted you up and over, your hips straddling him. Then he starts quickly nipping at your jaw, moving down your neck to suck at your pulse point below your ear. The feeling has you holding onto his strong shoulders, your hips immediately grinding forward on his. 

He smooths over the mark on your neck with his soft tongue and grips his hands on your thighs to help move you closer against his already hardening length. 

“Mhm you feel so good baby” he groans as he dips his tongue into your mouth once again. He moves his right hand towards where the hem of your shirt and jeans meet, pulling you even more flush against him as he quickens his pace. The pressure of his stiff length in his jeans rubbing against your heat has you whining into his mouth. 

“Travis… touch me. Please.” you whine desperate for more. 

His lips curl upwards as he lifts your shirt off, revealing your lacy bra. He leans down to press longing kisses against the top of your breasts. Sucking and nipping at one while his hand squeezes the other.

You whine impatiently. Too nervous to tell him what you actually want. 

It's almost like he can read your mind because next thing you know your back is flush with the seat of the couch and Travis kissing down your breasts, over your stomach just above the hem of your jeans. 

He stops to look up at you for a moment to ask for permission to keep going. You nod desperately. Lifting your hips while he unbuttons your jeans and pulls them down your legs, finally exposing the slick between your thighs. 

“So wet for me. So beautiful.” he presses a light kiss on your clothed pussy that sends a shiver down your spine. He pulls down your laced panties and tosses them to the side. Travis licks a strip against your wet core, all the way up to your clit, holding your hips down in place with both of his hands. A loud gasp leaves your mouth before you can stop it and it causes him to grin against you. 

His face is buried in between your legs. Making out with your core until your legs shake. “Travis…” you breathe out as he begins to suck on your clit, rough and unforgiving. 

“Ah… God. Don’t stop- please don’t stop!” you beg, rutting your hips upwards to get him closer to you somehow. He doesn’t respond, just continues sucking and licking your wet folds while your core clenches against nothing. 

“You're so close, baby. I can feel it. Let go for me.” he grumbles against you, devouring you until you scream out and he can feel your release all over the lower half of his face, dripping down his chin. 

He finally lifts off after a few cleaning licks against your folds that have you twitching in overstimulation. He crawls up your body, kissing you deeply so that your sweet release transfers from his mouth to yours. 

As your tongues dance, you begin to tear his clothes off of him one by one. His t-shirt, then his jeans, all the way to his boxers, finally your bra too until his warm skin is flush against yours. 

Your fingers rake through his coarse waves while he sucks a mark into your collarbone. “I want you… inside me, Travis. Now.” your demand makes him lift up enough to have his warm eyes with honeysuckled flecks meet yours. 

“Are you sure?” he asks and you nod with want. 

He asks if you have a condom and you say no. 

“Aren’t you the guy? Shouldn’t you have condoms?” you ask innocently, brow furrowing in confusion. He huffs out a small laugh and shakes his head, his thumb is tracing gentle circles on your arm the whole time. “I just got out of prison 3 weeks ago and you’re the one who’s been doing the grocery shopping” he pauses for a second “plus I haven’t been with anyone else since I got out. I’ve only been able to think about you…” You swear his eyes sparkle when he says it. You smile so big your eyes might pop out. Travis smiles back and leans down to kiss you gently, a couple of domestic pecks. 

You move your hand to rub his back, brushing over the moles you used to fantasize about. 

“If I didn’t forget to take my pill last night like an idiot I’d have you inside me in a matter of seconds.” you pout, lip jutting out a bit. 

The thought of having you wrapped around him right now causes Travis length to twitch. He groans and drops his forehead down to your shoulder dramatically, which causes you to giggle. God, he loves that sound so much.

“Yeah…” he mumbles.

“I’ll go to the store tomorrow I swear.” you promise, still stroking his back.

After a few seconds of silence and synced breaths Travis lifts his head just enough to have his soft lips brush your ear. 

“You know… there are a lot of other things we can do in the meantime.” he growls and smirks against your ear.

Your brow furrows “Really? Like wha-” before you can finish your sentence Travis lifts you off the couch and throws you over his shoulder. 

You scream and kick your legs, begging to be put down but he ignores you and walks you towards your bedroom down the darkened hall. 

He squeezes the soft plush of your thigh just below the curve of your butt before he twists the handle of your bedroom door. 

“I have some ideas Angel. Trust me.” he whispers, smirking against your skin where your hip sits on his shoulder. 

And Lord do you trust him alright. 

Who knew Travis Meacham could be such a munch…

[beasbrain]

As Above, So Below: Masterlist

pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)

description: The house was supposed to be perfect for your family’s mortuary business: old, untouched, full of “energy.” What they don’t tell you is that the spirits inside aren’t quiet, they aren’t kind, and they definitely don’t want you there. When your first night ends in a nightmare that feels too real to be a dream, you start to understand: this house doesn’t just hold the dead, it keeps them.

tags: dark romance, ghost!eddie, witch!reader, coven dynamics, haunted house, mortician family, supernatural horror, forbidden relationship, dead dove (proceed with caution), slow corruption, power awakening, “the house chose you”, morally gray love, obsession but make it romantic, american horror story vibes, chilling adventures of sabrina core, blood ritual, dark baptism, occult themes, religious horror undertones.

TW: NSFW (18+) MDNI!!, graphic gore, blood (heavy), ritual sacrifice imagery, occult practices, religious themes (satanic/anti-christian imagery), dark magic, possession themes, death, suicide (referenced), “dead dove adjacent” themes

chapter one: pilot

chapter two: hecate

chapter 3: veritas

[mysticbellie]

OH THIS IS TEWWW GOOD

As a horror and witchcraft loving girly this is everything to me right now.

[mysticbellie]

Guess who has a teacake x reader oneshot cominggg 👀 I'll hopefully have it out by tonight or tomorrow!

[mysticbellie]

I am currently like 40% through chapter two of 'Only Happy When It Rains'. I'm going to be busy with life for the next week but will try to get it out as soon as I can. But I wanted to ask a question first because chapter 2 will be the first time I'm posting any kind of smut and I'm a little scared lol

Sooooo

What should I do?

Post a smut oneshot to test the waters (i.e. Joe Keery Characters)

OR post ch.2 and hope no one hates it

Voting ended onApr 18

Feel free to send ideas in my inbox for a oneshot! 🥰

And thank you SO much for the love on my first ever fic!! You have no idea how much it means to me ❤

[mysticbellie]

Only Happy When It Rains

Musician!Eddie - Record Store Owner!Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1K (Will eventually be a full series!)

Summary: A measly old record store sits with rusty windows and dying plants. Inside it, a crabby yet intriguing black cat wonders day in and day out. That’s not actually a lie. His name is Clark and he always smells like fritos for some reason. Black cat #2 would be the music loving, jewelry adorned, witchy, 24 year old owner of said record shop. She's stubborn and has a slight attitude problem, but her smile makes a certain metalhead want to set up camp outside. She would too you know, if it weren’t for the million and one reasons why she can’t.

General Warnings: 18+, Angst, fluff, eventual hurt/comfort, avoidant/disorganized attachment issues from reader, future suggested smut (I only say suggested at the moment bc I have never written smut in my life and don’t want to make promises I can’t keep), specific chapter warnings to come.

Author's Note: Hi! I have read fanfiction for as long as I can remember and always had ideas circulating in my head but never truly sat down to put pen to paper. So yes, this is my first ever fic. Go easy on me PLEASE. I am by no means a writer (yet.) but I am an almost 20 year old girl who thinks wayyy too much so I think that counts for something! Anyways I’m really just here to have fun, learn new things, and even make friends.

P.S. I am not American so I do apologize for any inaccuracies but I will obviously try my best. For example, records where I live are like 35-40 dollars on the low end so I really just guestimated the USD. I have been to New York before but I have the memory of a goldfish. Again I deeply apologize for what I get wrong going forward in this story. 

P.S.S. The POV will switch between Eddie and Reader (will be mostly Reader going forward) but today we are starting with Eddie! This story is also set in modern day and will obviously not be canon compliant.

Anyways, much love and I hope this brings people as much happiness as it has brought me so far! Enjoy 😊 Feel free to message me if I am missing anything (i.e. warnings) or if you have tips.

It's about 9:30pm on a muggy summer evening in New York City when Eddie Munson finds himself wandering in and out of stores and buying absolutely nothing. Zilch. Zero. Fuck all. 

Saying he’s bored would be the understatement of the century. 

He just got off of a national tour with Corroded Coffin that had them signing posters, t-shirts, and body parts until their hands fell off. You’d think he’d be riding that high well into the new year, but nope. Eddie Munson is tired, fidgety, and in need of something more exciting. 

After what feels like years taken off his life, suddenly as if all of his prayers have been answered, he comes across a small vintage record shop along the quiet strip. It is quaint with its rickety wood shelves, hanging plants that could use a drink, and a large violet tiffany lamp that adorns the counter at the back, casting a warm light across an already yellowed Fleetwood Mac poster. 

More importantly, its light casts upon a black haired, tattooed, broom skirt wearing beauty, who is basically the female version of Eddie if he also had an extensive crystal collection. 

She’s reading some sort of psychological thriller that still smells like the coffee she spilled on the cover last week. Her wired headphones sit fully over her ears, clearly not a care in the world for the next customer to walk through the door. They usually don’t buy anything anyways. 

In the blink of an eye Eddie finds himself standing right in front of her across the counter. His eyes trail along her smokey eyelids, glossy plump lips, and how her fingers are full of whimsical rings that are most certainly leaving green stains on her skin. 

Bored? Whoever said he was bored? That’s crazy. 

“Hey, do you have Metallica’s ‘Ride the Lightening’ on vinyl?” he manages to squeak out, sounding like a 12 year old boy and not the grown 25 year old man he's supposed to be. Also completely ignoring the fact that he already owns a copy of the album. 

Without looking up from her precious novel, the girl grumbles “Yup. Under the painfully obvious dedicated metallica section located at the front. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll ring you up”. 

Eddie just stands there and blinks, very slowly, mouth hanging open like he wants a bug to crawl inside. Normally he would question such an attitude from someone who’s supposed to be in customer service but this time, he had nothing. 

After a moment of silence and continued staring, the girl behind the counter finally decides to let her eyes leave her page and land on the metalhead in front of her. She squints, he blinks once more, “Need a little help there hon? Or are you just going to keep staring me down until your eyes pop out?”. Trying to ignore the term of endearment that slipped through the cracks of harsh words, Eddie stutters “Yeah, yeah no all good. I mean I’m all good with the help. Not that my eyes popping out would be good. That would probably be very very… bad”. She sighs, dropping her book and headphones in one fell swoop. She walks out from behind the counter toward the front of the store, leading Eddie to the section labelled “M”. She flips through a couple albums before landing on the one he asked for and hands it to him, their fingers grazing but not enough to be noticed. At least not by her. Eddie on the other hand feels like he just took a bath with the entire city's electrical grid. 

“Thanks” he whispers, grinning like a kid on Christmas day. She nods “No problem” and he can’t help but notice the slight twitch of her lips. They meet up at the counter again and as she’s putting the vinyl in a new protective sleeve, Eddie notices the black bats that sit behind her right ear, slightly trailing down her neck. 

“No. Fucking. Way”. 

She freezes immediately, eyes widening “What?”

“I mean I knew you were a hot badass the second I walked in but we have the same damn tattoo” he lifts his right forearm towards her, showing his nearly identical tattoo.

“Hot?” her eyebrows pinch in amusement.

“What?” he asks innocently but the smirk splayed across his face tells a different story.

“You just said that you think I’m hot”. Her head tilts and there is no hiding the crimson of her cheeks now. 

Eddie grins, “Cute works too. Beautiful even”. 

She almost huffs out a laugh “Flattery just earned you a coupon!” she exclaims with mock enthusiasm but inserting a 15% off coupon into the bag nevertheless. 

He leans in, his nose is flooded with amber and vanilla which nearly has his knees buckling  “Does it earn me the pretty girl behind the counter too?” he whispers and somehow manages to keep his cool. She rolls her eyes but irritation doesn’t come across whatsoever, “That will be 24.98 Romeo,” she pauses to reach out her palm and he hands her the cash reluctantly, “ Now go on, would ya? I’ve got a book to finish and a store to close in 45 minutes.” she insists while opening her novel once again. 

“Could I at least get your name?” he asks with a not so hidden undertone of “your hand in marriage would be good too!”. Good thing he's stone cold sober right now or else he might have actually said that last part. She looks up at him through her eyelashes and shakes her head no. 

This might just be the weirdest, most difficult, stubborn woman he has ever met.

“I’ll just have to come back tomorrow then!” he huffs, throwing a teethy grin her way before he turns around. Once she hears the bell above the door jingle her shoulders drop and she shakes her head in disbelief.

 “Please don’t.” she mumbles. 

Lying to herself is a special talent of hers.

[cha0ticstranger]

— 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬

𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚞𝚜!𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚡 𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚢𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚎!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

See, someone's got to tell the tale Whether or not it turns out well Maybe it will turn out this time

in the devastation that shakes hawkins following the murders of your fellow classmates at hawkins high, you find yourself alone with nothing but memories and the clothes off your back. abandoned, you don't expect to find shelter in the form of the harrington house off maple street. you just wanted to survive the quarantine and maybe find your family again once this all passed. only the fates know what's in store. it's an old song, it's a sad song, it's a love song — and we're gonna sing it again!

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .‧₊˚

✎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

coming soon...‧₊˚

✎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (recommended) hadestown — any way the wind blows — come home with me — epic I — all i've ever known — a gathering storm — epic II — hey, little songbird — wait for me — flowers — come home with me (reprise) — if it's true — epic III — promises — wait for me (reprise) — road to hell (reprise)

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .‧₊˚

— to join the tag list for this fic, please comment below!

[mysticbellie]

I saw Hadestown in May of 2024 back when it was Jordan Fisher and Isa Briones!!! Im so excited for thissss

I have a picture of me and my bestfriend sobbing after Jordan Fisher walked so closely past us we felt a gust of wind. Im not kidding.

*Reposting my reblog cuz I accidentally reblogged a reblog and not the og post (say that 5 times fast oml)

[djospurnell]

swallowing him whole

[mysticbellie]

33 YET SO BABYGIRL

[linenotfound]

You’ve met me at a very Joe Keery time in my life