summary: gator tries his best to make up for making you upset, and you do your best to drag it out.
tags: gator is bad with emotions and pitiful and pathetic (whats new), reader is sensitive, reader has gator on a leash pretty much, lowkey ooc gator but shhh, briefly proofread
wc: 3.3k (got carried away whoops)
This was ridiculous. All because of stupid argument. Not even an argument.
All because of Gators stupid self saying something stupid just because he was frustrated after work.
And now being alone and being ignored for hours has Gator parking on the sidewalk outside your house at midnight.
He found out early on that even though you were shy, you got snappy too. You got mouthy with him, you had an attitude at times.
But he’d expect at least a goodnight text, no matter how annoyed you’d get with him in the past, you’d always send some sort of little text to remind him you were there, and that you were still upset.
Tonight, he got nothing. No call, no text, not even a little emoji, nothing.
You had argued somewhere after the dinner rush. He got back from cleaning up his dads dirty work and being scolded for not doing good enough for him.
Right after being chewed out by his father, he stopped by the little library where you work, as he always does after his shifts.
And he promised. You hadn’t seen him in a few days due to him being ordered to run around doing whatever the hell he did, you didn’t like to think about it. He promised he’d make sure to see you today.
So, of course when he texted you as soon as you got on your lunch break saying he was outside, you rushed your way out, abandoning the rest of your chips and sandwich just to see him.
You hopped in his truck and immediately crossed over the center console, sitting in his lap and wrapping yourself around him.
He hugged you back, but his arms were tight and tense around you.
“I missed you.” You smiled into his neck, pressing little kisses against his neck to his jaw to his lips. You continued all over his face, his lips were weak and loose when he kissed you back.
“Baby- hold on, hey.” He said as nicely as he could, he turned his face away and held your wrists. “Can you calm down with the touchiness?”
“What?” You mumbled.
“Baby- don’t get me wrong, It’s nice and stuff, but you’re doin’ a lot right now, like goddamn just give me a minute to fuckin breathe.” He muttered, wiping a hand over his face.
Then he saw the way your face fell, that crease form between your eyebrows, the way you gulped and clenched your jaw. You pulled away slowly.
You slid off his lap and back into the passenger seat quietly. It took a few seconds of sitting in silence and staring ahead before he heard the car door open.
“My lunch break is almost over, I should go back.” You muttered the lie as you hopped out, slamming the door shut before he could get a response out.
Now, the only light outside is the streetlamps, and Gators phone is still void of any texts from you while he decides what to do.
He sighs, both your parents' cars are in the driveway. From what it looks like from the windows, every light is off in the house.
Except for the small rectangle of warm light on the side of the house, where your room is.
If Gator wasn’t so pissed off right now, he’d feel like a teenager again as he sneaks out to the side of the house, rapping his knuckles lightly on the window.
He can see that your door is closed, the doorknob is locked, you are nowhere to be seen in your room, and there is a small slither of your window left open with no screen on it.
He really should have never taught you how to take the screen off your window.
But now he’s worried, not panicking, he doesn’t panic. He just doesn’t like the idea of you being out this late at night by yourself. You already nearly made him pass out the other week with the spider.
Gator only clenches his fists and stomps as he mutters out curses. He whips out his phone and starts sending even more pathetically apologetic texts to you.
He’s on his second attempt of calling you by the time he’s back in his truck seat. He’s bouncing his leg enough to the point the vehicle is slightly shaking along with the movement.
Your voice appears but it’s only your voicemail telling the caller to “leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon!”. And you sound so fucking sweet in it, it’s killing Gator.
The slicked back style of Gators hair has been long destroyed by now with the amount of times he’s ran his hands through it and his excessive stomping. The next best thing he can do is try and find you himself, he is not waiting.
The truck pulls off the sidewalk and he keeps his foot on the pedal with enough weight for him to be going at a slow but tolerable pace, he’s impatient. He’s worried, but he doesn’t like to say that. It makes him feel like he’s saying he’s scared, which he is, but it makes him feel weak.
You couldn’t have gone far? It’s a small neighborhood. You’re probably just walking somewhere farther down the sidewalk? Maybe you were walking the other way when he was coming down your street?
He’s nearing the end of the street and he’s on the verge of smacking his horn, but a few more feet and you’ve appeared.
You’re at the playground that got built not too long ago at the end of your neighborhood, you’re sitting on the swingset. You’re in an old hoodie and pajama pants, your using the toe of your sandal to sway yourself back and forth.
Gators headlights practically blind you as you look up. He can see you squint, recognize it’s him, then grimace and look away.
He doesn’t even try to attempt to park nicely in between the freshly painted white lines. His truck is slanted and taking up three parking spaces.
You’re still swaying, you know Gator is walking up but you keep your eyes on the ground. Keeping that pouty look while you let your head lean against the chain on the swing.
Gator sighs and slides his hands into his pockets, he’s doing his own swaying now too.
Goddamn, he feels like a piece of shit.
“Planning a getaway?” He tries to joke. It falls flat.
“‘M not talking to you, Gator.” You mumble.
You didn’t mean to be so sensitive, you were just excited to see him. Gator is still getting used to physical touch being a good thing. Your hands have been the first to feel like his skin isn’t stinging when you touch his.
“Yeah. I kinda..noticed that.” He sighed. For the first time in awhile, Gator has no smart comebacks.
“Thought you wanted space. Thought you wanted to be alone.” Your eyes are burning holes into playground dirt, digging the sole of your old closed toe sandal into the woodchips.
“I wanted to say…that ‘m sorry.” He winces, it sounds pained. He doesn’t apologize much. “Sorry” is a word that’s becoming more common in vocabulary now that he’s met you.
God, you hate him. You’re considering taking your shoe off and throwing it at him.
You’re considering telling him to leave. But you won’t. You don’t want him to.
You’ll torture him a bit more.
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” He says clearly. Pitfully, pathetically.
“I heard you.” You finally look up at him, your pink and slightly puffy eyes feel like a million tiny daggers into his body.
“So…you’ve got nothing to say about that? Nothing to say back?” He sticks his neck out. You roll your eyes and look away. You’re not looking at Gator, it’s making him ache.
“What is there to say? I heard you.” You shrug, pursing your lips together.
Gator sighs again, sliding his hands out of his pockets and pressing them against his back. He lets out a little groan as he stretches, he’s torturing you now.
“I guess you won’t be gettin’ my apology gift then.” He shrugs.
He catches the way your eyes shoot up. You’re a sucker for gift giving. Giving and receiving. Though you don’t get the latter much often from others.
Gator does his best to make up for it.
“Guess I’ll just return it, I got the receipt somewhere in my glovebox.” He shrugged. “It’ll just go back on the shelf and some other sorry boyfriend will buy it.” He sighs, kicking a few rocks. He’s putting on the most dramatic act to win you over.
And it’s working. God, you hate him.
He turns slowly and walks back to his truck, he can feel your eyes on him. He turns on the engine, but he’s not moving anywhere. He’s counting down.
Waiting for it.
It takes a little over 30 seconds. And then there’s the light knocking on his passenger window. Your silent way of asking to be let in. You can’t help but be polite.
He reaches over to push the door open, letting you see the surprise sitting on the passenger seat.
It’s a teddy bear with a little bow wrapped around it’s neck, as well as a fake flower that you can slip from its arms. There’s two party sized bags of your favorite candy along with it.
Worst of all, he’s buckled the bear in. The seatbelt is fastened right around its stomach and over its shoulder.
You almost smile, you have to fight it, really fight it.
Yeah, he’s won you over. But you won’t let him know what yet.
Gator’s got one hand on the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching. His bottom lip is tucked under his teeth. He’s nervous.
You purse your lips and clench your jaw, tilting your chin up as you inhale.
You unbuckle the seatbelt and grab the bear from it’s spot, you hold it in your hands and stare at it like you’re analyzing it. You’re pretending to decide how you feel.
The poor teddy's little beady eyes are staring right back at you. You swallow your pride happily.
Gator’s already moving the bags of candy out the way so you can sit. His eyes stay on you while you hop into the seat. You shut the door and keep your eyes on the bear.
Gator tilts his head, he’s trying to look at you, get you to look at him. You rub one of the bear ears between your thumb and pointer finger, the fur is soft and a little silky against your skin.
“I’m still mad at you.” You let him know sternly, you still haven’t smiled yet.
“I know.” He sighs. He lets his hand fall from the steering wheel.
He grabs the bar under his seat and pushes his seat back, all the way back.
“C’mere.” He murmurs, laying slack against the seat. His hands lay flat on his thighs.
You slouch down into your seat and look at the side mirror, pretending to ignore him.
“Don’t make me ask you again.” Yet there’s no demand in his tone. But fuck, he’s worried he’s being mean again.
“You’re not even asking me. You’re just telling me.” You grumble.
But you go and you sit in his lap anyways, leaving the bear back on your seat and crawling over the center console to get to him. Lips jutted and eyes looking down and away from his face. You can see the cocky little smile blooming at the ends of his mouth in your peripheral vision.
“You’re so pouty.” Gator squishes your face between his fingers while his other hand lays against your waist.
The thing that’s changed in your personality now that you’ve gotten more comfortable with Gator. You pout a lot, you’re sensitive, you’re still quite shy. Just pouty too. Gator brought out the mouthy side of you that’s been hidden for years.
And Gator takes any chance he can to tease you for it. Because he’s Gator.
“I’m not pouty.” You grimace.
“Yea? Then what’s all this about?” He squishes your cheeks more and shakes your face lightly in his grasp.
“You.” Now you’re getting annoyed. You shove his hand away and move your head back. Your face seems to be stuck in a scowl.
Gators face slowly drops, he feels like an asshole again.
“Hey.” He says as softly as he knows how to, “Hey, ‘m not mad at ya.” The hand that you shoved away comes up to rub at your upper arm. Your fiddling with his hoodie strings, eyes focused on the way the gray cords of fabric twirl around your fingers.
Gator runs his hand down your arm and stops at your hand. He takes it into his, the rough pad of his thumb skates over your knuckles. He tilts his head down again, trying to get you to look at him. You give in.
Your eyes meet his and you swear you can see his face soften with relief.
“Look, ‘m pretty pissed you snuck off this late in the cold in this lil pair of shorts.” He mumbles as he tugs at the hem of your pajama shorts with his other hand, rubs at the fabric. “But ‘m not mad at you.”
A little sigh leaves you, you’re not sure how to respond. So he takes his chance to keep talking.
“Baby, I love you touchin’ me. I love your hands on me, all over me.” He takes your hands in his and presses them against his chest. You can feel the rump of his heartbeat under your palm when you press. “I love you touchin’ on me, yeah?” He brings up one of your hands to his lips, he presses kisses over your fingers, your palm, your knuckles, your wrist.
He’s really trying to make it up to you.
“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just- I had a shit day, I’ve been surrounded by asshole and fuckin idiots and- I was pissed off and I should’ve let myself cool down real quick before I saw you,” He’s rambling, this is new. “I should’ve told you I was pissed off and I could’ve- I should’ve been nicer ‘bout it. Should’ve been nicer to you.” His eyes are wandering all over as he fumbles through his words, looking everywhere but your face.
He takes a breath to swallow his own stubbornness.
“And I’m sorry, baby.” He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head a bit.
Good fucking god, he’s embarrassed. He can feel you looking at him and he wishes you weren’t, at least not in this moment. He can’t let you see him like this.
When he opens his eyes, you look away again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek.
“C’mon baby.” He murmurs, cradling his hand against your face, giving it a little push of encouragement to get you to turn your face to his. “I’m sorry.” You still avoid his eyes, he knows you’re waiting for more, you’re making him beg. This is a humiliation ritual for Gator.
He gets an idea and reaches over to the passengers seat where your new bear lays.
“Gator’s sorry, yeah?” He picks up the bear, brushes the face of it against yours. The fake fur tickles your nose. Your face spreads into a meek smile. “You gonna forgive Gator? Gonna stop torturing him?” He keeps pressing it against your cheek until you can’t hold back and let out a little giggle.
You grab the bear and he takes his chance to press a kiss against your cheek while you’re occupied.
“Fine, fine.” You say through another giggle, Gator could faint at hearing your voice again. “I’m done torturing you. For now.”
“Good.” He smiles. “You can get fussy with me all you want, I deserve that, but don’t go running off ‘cus of it.” He holds your chin gently, tilting your face down to give you a kiss to your forehead, the tip of your nose, then your lips.
You just smile and kiss him back before you wrap your arms around his neck, you smush yourself against him.
“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” You speak into his shoulder.
“You don’t gotta apologize, ‘s nothing. You made it better.” He feels like a cornball saying that outloud, but he can feel you smile against him, so it’s not too bad.
The two of you stay like that for a little while. Gator strokes his hand up and down your back while pressing little kisses to your neck here and there. Your shoulders loosen after some time, your chest rises and falls more slowly against his.
“You falling asleep on me?” He nudges you.
You absolutely are.
“Mm-mm.” You give him a lazy shake of your head.
Gator pulls you away from him like he’s trying to take tape off a piece of paper without ripping it. Once he gets a look at your lidded eyes and pouty lips, he knows you’re about to knock out.
“Alright, time to go home.” He rubs his thumb against your cheek and you groan.
“Why can’t I just stay with you?” You whine.
Last time you fell asleep in his car, smushed against him, your neck hurt the rest of the following day.
“Next time.” He promises with a kiss to your lips. “Gotta get back to the ranch.” He holds onto your waist as you slip off his lap and onto the passenger seat, he’s pretending to guide you, he really just wants to hold you.
“I thought you were patrolling?” You yawn, leaning your head on his shoulder.
“Only to find you.” He kisses the top of your head before turning on the engine. You smile to yourself.
Once he’s parked outside your house again, he walks you to your window and lifts you just a little bit so you can sneak back in through your window.
“Get your little sneaky ass back in there.” He gives you a small swat to your ass and he can hear the little giggle you try to hide.
He passes you the two bags of candy he bought for you, you already carried your bear with you crawling through your window.
Gator finishes off giving you his gifts by leaning in and pressing one last kiss for the night to your lips, he lingers.
You’re just about to say goodnight and close your window when he stops you.
“Uh uh, screen back on the window.” He tells you with that stupid cocky grin. You roll your eyes but you listen anyway, you pick up the window screen from where it’s laying against your wall and shove it back into the windowsill.
It’s annoying having to look at each other through the thin grid, you feel like some princess locked in a tower.
“I better not see you running around this late again.” He's still got that stupid grin on his face. He shoots a wink at you before walking away from your window.
“Uh huh. Later Gator.” You say with a sweet sweet smile, you know it pisses him off.
And before he can fully turn around, you’re shutting your window and closing your blinds. You laugh behind your hand, you love torturing him.
Gator drives back to the ranch in silence. He yawns and runs his hand down his face to his neck, rubs at it.
He wishes he crawled through the window with you, wrapped his arms around you and stayed in your bed for the night. Feel your arms tucked around him and legs lay over his under the covers, feel your hands twitch the way they always do and listen to the little breaths you always make when you’re asleep.
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader
wc: 5.6k
tags: MDNI//SMUT- use of slut and bitch (reader likes it), sorta mean gator but not really... kinda just like a fuckboy i guess, semi-public sex, public sex, vaginal sex, dirty talk, possessive gator, fuckbuddies, lowkey panty kink, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, masturbation (f), nipple play, perhaps they have caught feelings, cutie ending bc i'm a romantic at heart
a/n: back on my bullshit 🐊🖤
&&
The perks of getting to the station at the asscrack of dawn were few and far between. As far as you could tell, there were two.
The first was the peace and quiet, without the shuffle of papers or chatter of your colleagues.
The second was Gator.
“Fuck—fuck, right there,” you half-shouted, hands scrabbling over the wood surface of the sheriff's desk, searching for purchase, as Gator held your hips even tighter, his hips slamming into your ass, driving his cock into you even further with every thrust, feeling like he was going to split you in half in the best fucking way.
“Yeah, that's right,” he said, voice gravelly from behind you as he pushed a little too roughly against you, your hands sliding over the reports placed on the desk, scattering them to the floor. Neither of you cared enough to worry about what they might have been or if they were in any particular order.
“Gator,” you moaned, just letting your upper half collapse onto the desk, not trying to move away from him but instead giving yourself the leverage to hike one of your legs up onto the surface beside you, your right knee nudging the sheriff's desk lamp and almost knocking it over, as you spread yourself even further apart for your fellow deputy behind you.
“God, fuckin' good little bitch y'are,” Gator muttered, and you groaned, reaching back with your right hand to dig your fingers into your ass cheek, holding yourself open too, now, so Gator could see himself entering you. You heard him chuckle.
“Fuck me,” you whined in response, half sprawled out on his father's desk as he slid his hands to your waist, pulling you back onto his cock as he just kept pounding into you, the slap of skin on skin audible, the wet sounds of him entering and leaving your tight pussy just serving to make your clit throb, your tongue peek out of your mouth. You were so goddamn worked up you were fucking panting.
And Gator clocked it, because of course he did. He could read your body like no one else ever had. He laughed again, derisive—your pussy clenched down on him, and he groaned before he spoke, his hand skimming up your spine through your uniform shirt, because all you'd bothered to remove was your boots and pants.
“Losin' yer breath there, huh?” Gator asked. “Need it that bad.” That one wasn't a question.
“Yeah,” you agreed, knowing you were better off keeping your wits about you, since you were here for work, after all, but not quite able to shake it off. Gator was a motherfucker with a mouth on him, someone you wouldn't bring home to mama, but with how he took care of you in other ways, that was actually the perfect reason not to bring him to meet her.
“Need me t'fill up this perfect little tang a'yers,” he said, and you loosed a stuttering breath at how filthy he made you feel, the absolutely vile shit he said to you—the way it made you clench down on him, made the slide even easier because he had you gushing at the demeaning words leaving his lips.
“Please,” you moaned, and he shoved into you fully, and stopped.
“N—Gator, don't—don't stop,” you whined, and he just laughed again, pulling out of you, watching as your pussy gaped a little once you were empty, your slit fluttering around nothing.
“Turn over,” he said, waiting as you managed to flip yourself around on shaky legs, leaning back against Roy's desk, watching as he made sure the condom was still exactly where it was supposed to be, not paying you any attention at all.
Your arousal was running down one of your thighs as you stood there waiting, his thick cock jutting straight out from his front, curved up just a little, the rubber sheathing him shiny, doused with you.
“Lean back,” he said, stepping closer to you, and you did, bracing yourself on Sheriff Tillman's desk—your boss and his father, making all of this even more fucked up than it was—and before you really had your balance, Gator had hooked one of his hands beneath your thigh, pulling it up roughly, opening you for him again. He held onto it, crowding you, bullying his cock back into your loose pussy and you groaned as he bottomed out yet again, this time feeling his breath fanning over your lips and cheek, mint mixed with tobacco, his eyes on yours.
“Y'like me close like this, right?”
“Yeah,” you agreed, but you'd take him in any position in any place at any time. You weren't picky, not when it came to him.
“Yeah,” he sneered, echoing you. “Like ya like this too. Grindin' that sweet little tang all over my cock, go on, get movin'.”
He held your leg to the side, making sure that he had enough room to fuck into you as you balanced half on the edge of the desk, the wetness that had been dripping onto your thigh now smearing over his front as he rolled his hips against you.
“I said get movin',” Gator said, and with his free hand he reached back behind you, pressing his fingers beneath you to cup your ass so you were nearly sitting on his hand. It spurred you on—you bucked into him, feeling his cock press even deeper into you, drawing a groan from your chest as you felt his cheek round up as he pressed the side of his face to yours, grinning as he whispered to you. “Y'know yer mine, right?” Gator asked you.
You shuddered, nodding, but that wasn't answer enough for him. He squeezed your ass, squeezed your leg, pushing it back even more to spread you open further, fuck you even deeper.
“All fuckin' mine,” he said. “Ain't no one else ever gonna fuck you like I do, y'know that, right?”
“Yes, G—” you started to say, but he wasn't finished yet. His hips pressed tight into yours as he pushed into you all the way, stilling deep inside you. Your body was squeezing down around him, your walls clinging to him, pulsing, trying to entice him to start moving again, though the weight of him just resting inside you was still satisfying in its own depraved way.
“This pussy belongs to me,” he said, pulling out and thrusting back in. “This mouth belongs to me.” He let his lips brush over yours but didn't kiss you—he never did. “This fuckin' tight little ass belongs to me.” He dug his fingertips into the plush flesh of your backside so hard it almost hurt. “I think y'like that, don'tcha?”
“Yes,” you nearly cried out.
His cheek was against yours again, lips brushing over it as he spoke, the faint tickle of his eyelashes making you shudder. “Then give it all t'me, darlin',” Gator said. “Show me how much y'like it, c'mon.”
“Gator...” you whimpered, and he huffed a short laugh as your hands gripped his arms, shaky fingers pressing into his triceps.
“Fucked ya out already?” he mused. “Fuckin' pillow princess.”
You whined as his hand slid out from beneath your ass and moved to your thigh, splaying out there as his thumb crooked against your mound, sliding down to press between your labia. He rubbed at the hood of your clit for a moment before moving down just a little further, the pad of his finger finally making contact with your neglected clit.
“Ah, fuck, Gator,” you said, not dipping your head back but forward, resting your temple against his shoulder, tipping your chin to kiss his neck.
“Wanna feel ya come, ya little fuckin' slut,” he said, with as much affection as he could muster—which wasn't a lot, but you had done this enough times by now that you knew the tone with which he said it wasn't as harsh as it could be. “Know I ain't done 'til you are.”
“I'm close,” you said, grasping at him. The sun was rising higher in the sky—the other deputies would be arriving soon. Sheriff Tillman would be arriving soon, and if he caught his son with you in his office, one of you would be getting the boot and it wasn't Gator.
“S'prised it took this long,” Gator mumbled, rubbing your clit in slow, deep circles now, feeling it kick against his thumb, feeling your pussy ripple around him in waves. “Must be offa my game.”
“Tried to—hold it back,” you admitted, and Gator didn't pull away to look at you, just kept shallowly dragging his cock out of you and then pushing back in, giving you the depth and pressure you liked rather than the friction he needed.
“What fer?”
“Wanna feel you all day,” you breathed, and you felt Gator's cock twitch when you did, his hips rub against your thighs as his body tried to seat him even further inside you. It affected him, but of course he had to pretend it didn't.
“Think ya wouldn't if it was quick?” he said, starting to fuck you properly again, but keeping it slow for you, snapping his hips in at the last moment so his front hit yours with a little extra pressure.
You whimpered in response, and he fucked you harder, quicker, picking up the pace with his thumb too. After a few passes, he hit just the right angle, and your orgasm hit you, your whole body tightening up around him—vaguely, you heard him groan as he fucked into you one last time, his hips stuttering against yours as your orgasm pulled Gator's along with it, and you both rode it out together, his face pressed into your cheek, your lips kissing his earlobe, drawing it between your lips for a brief moment.
“Fuckin' shit,” Gator half-growled as he came down, holding onto you to ground himself before he even attempted to move.
“Jesus,” you sighed, as he lowered your leg back down but didn't pull out of you, your thighs tight on either side of his hips. You looked up at him, eyes meeting, and he studied you for a moment.
“Fit fer duty?” he asked, as he always did after he wrung you out, and you laughed, because that was what you always did too.
“As a fuckin' fiddle,” you replied, and Gator pulled out of you, the both of you flinching a little at the sensation of losing each other, not wanting to even if this was nearly an every day occurrence for you. You slid off of the sheriff's desk as Gator backed up, tying off the condom and grabbing some tissues out of his jacket pocket for the two of you to clean up.
“Got any more?” you asked, still wiping your thighs. “I'm, um...”
Out of the moment, you were never as good with dirty talk, but Gator didn't have that problem, even a little.
“Got ya soakin' wet, didn't I,” he said, handing you the rest of the tissues he had. “Had ya fuckin' drippin' down yer own leg.”
“Yeah, well,” you said, dismissively, but felt your cheeks burning.
He stepped closer, caging you in against his dad's desk, even though you were at risk of being discovered now more than ever.
“Yeah, well,” he said. “She knows who she belongs to, don't she?”
You swallowed, nodding.
“Who?” Gator asked.
You scoffed, not quite believing he was going to make you say it.
“Who,” he demanded. “Say it.”
“You,” you replied. “You, Gator.”
He put his hand on your hip, sliding it over your abdomen, his thumb dipping into your folds again to brush over your swollen clit, still sensitive and wet, making you tense a little. “Goddamn right.”
He tugged his pants back up, tucked himself away, left you standing at his father's desk half-naked and completely debauched. “Have a good day, Deputy,” he said, smug, and left the office.
&&
The coffee you stopped for an hour later did nothing to calm you the fuck down—in fact, it only made you feel even more wound up. Gator was probably doing a task for his dad—you'd heard the sheriff reaming him for something or other as you twirled your keychain around your finger and headed out to the lot to climb into your cruiser and take off on patrol, waiting to become useful to dispatch.
But it was a slow morning. You'd pulled off the highway just behind a low wooded area, hiding yourself from oncoming vehicles to try and catch anyone who might get the bright idea to speed in broad daylight on the open road, and sipped your coffee. You'd ordered it light and sweet, heavy on the sweet, and apparently the guy who'd made it for you didn't know what either of those words meant because it was still dark and barely tasted of sugar at all.
You nursed the steaming cup, settling back in your seat, watching for anything untoward happening on the highway, but you didn't spot much, other than people slowing down once they noticed your car as they were halfway to passing you.
Wasn't worth pulling someone over for going only a few over the limit. No, you were waiting for the small-dicked show-offs in their overpowered pickup trucks or bright and shiny sports cars, pushing triple-digits because they thought they could.
It didn't take long for your mind to wander—the radio chatter wasn't worth listening to, not really, so you put your tepid coffee in the cupholder and exhaled deeply, sliding a little bit further down in your seat and adjusting your seatbelt so it wasn't pressing against your throat.
Sighing heavily, you tuned back in to the radio for a moment as you heard Gator's voice.
“Anyone know what time the pizza place near the station opens?”
You snickered, and then laughed quietly to yourself as dispatch responded.
“Deputy Tillman, the radio is to be used for official department business.”
“Fuckin' hell,” Gator said back. “Just tryna find out when I can get a slice.”
“It opens at 11,” Lemley answered, and you just smirked as Gator thanked him and a different dispatcher admonished them both.
You let your head tip back against the driver's seat, your hand trailing over your thigh, clad in your thick uniform trousers. Even through the canvas, you still felt yourself get twitchy, your inner thigh jumping a little at your touch.
God, you did still feel him, even though it had been a couple hours since you'd hooked up.
You glanced at the radio—silent. Surely there wouldn't be anything going on so early this morning that you'd be needed to get involved with. You hesitated, then lifted your hand from your thigh to lower the volume. It was fine.
With your right hand, you unbuckled your seatbelt and with your left, you dug into your pocket for your phone, swiping to open it and navigating to your text thread with Gator, which was pretty much exclusively nudes and lewds that you two sent to each other as spank bank material—you didn't have much to talk about otherwise, truthfully.
Scrolling through the photos with one hand, you unbuttoned your pants with the other and tugged down the zipper, lifting your hips and shoving them down just enough that you could slip your hand down between your thighs.
This was some Gator type shit to do, for sure—you smirked, because just as the thought crossed your mind, you passed a photo he'd sent you of his cock, propped up on the steering wheel of his cruiser, his thumb curled over the head, smearing his precome away from the slit. You felt your pussy clench a little at the sight of him, and pressed your fingertips against your slit through your panties, but kept flicking through pictures.
You paused for a moment on one you'd sent, a shot of you from the waist up, one hand gathered in your hair, head cocked slightly to the side, the other playing with one of your nipples, lips swollen from how you'd been biting them. You studied yourself, then nodded approvingly. You were fucking hot. You rubbed at your slit, then stopped. You might be a little conceited but probably not enough to jack off to yourself.
Back to Gator.
You loosed a little groan as you slid your hand up your front and then back down into your panties, letting your middle finger slip between your folds as you kept looking through pictures—and then stopped, finding one he'd sent pretty early in your situationship, when you were both still walking on eggshells around each other and thus going all out in your dick and titty pictures.
His cock was flushed, red at the tip, drooling precome in a streak down the head; he was flexing it toward the camera, so you could see how big he was, how close to coming he'd been when he snapped the picture, his hand not wrapped around it but just propping it up on his palm.
“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, pressing your finger further between your labia to rub over your clit, sighing a little. You were still wet, even though you'd tried to clean yourself up; your fingertip was slicking so goddamn easily over your clit that you felt your nipples perk up in your bra at how easy it was to touch yourself. You were still fucking drenched, and you curled your wrist a little, the pad of your fingertip sliding down from your clit to your leaking cunt, rubbing at your entrance but not moving inside—this was going to be quick and dirty to try to get it out of your system, not you taking your time the way you wanted to.
You tapped the picture of Gator's cock, fullscreening it, and moved your finger back up to your clit, tongue flitting over your lips as you rubbed yourself, looking at the picture but mostly thinking about Gator, especially that morning.
“Ain't no one else ever gonna fuck you like I do," he'd said, and you groaned quietly, because god, he was probably right. It took a special kind of person to walk the line between generous and debaucherous, and Gator balanced on it perfectly.
The sound of your hand working between your legs filled the car, and you closed your eyes, but held your thumb on your phone screen in case you wanted a visual to go with your memory, and you thought of the way you'd felt his lips just brush over yours, the slight graze of his eyelashes on your temple, and your whole body gave a kick, your clit throbbing, your pussy desperate for something inside of it again.
“Y'know yer mine, right?” he'd asked you.
“Yours,” you mumbled, so fucking lost, a little embarrassed of the hold he had on you, but fuck if he wasn't right. You did like it, liked how possessive he was of you, how much he wanted you, desired you. If you belonged to him, you knew that the reverse was also true—he could claim your pussy was his as much as he wanted, but all that meant was he was yours just the same. Wrapped around your little finger.
You opened your eyes and looked down at the picture again, then frantically swiped back through them to find the one of him in the cruiser, because suddenly that one seemed like the right one to see at the moment.
“Fuck,” you said, loudly, because you were about to crest your peak, your finger slipping erratically over your clit, and you still hadn't found the picture you were looking for—and then all of a sudden, a knock came at your window.
You shrieked a little, your hand stilling between your legs, dropping your phone; it bounced off your thigh and slid down between the door and the seat.
“Hell you doin'?” Gator asked, bemused, a smirk on his lips.
“Gator?” you asked, mouth dry, cheeks burning hot. “What are you—?” You got half the question out before you saw his eyes dip down to your lap, and then back up to your face. His lack of a reaction told you he'd seen what you were doing before he'd tapped on your window.
“Open the window,” he said. “Don't move otherwise.”
“Gator,” you said, stern, and started to pull your hand out of your pants as you reached to depress the button to roll the window down.
“Don't you fuckin' dare,” he said, leaning half into the car. You thought for one hysterical moment he was going to kiss you. Your heart sped up a little in your chest, even though it was already fluttering.
But no—he didn't even look at you as he leaned over you, past you, his arm reaching for your radio. He turned the volume knob up until you could hear.
“—pond?” A pause. “Deputy, please respond?” the dispatcher was requesting.
Gator grabbed the radio with one hand.
“Go on,” he said, voice low. “Respond.” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, hanging half into the window of your cruiser, and held the radio up to your mouth while pressing the button on the side.
With his other hand, he reached down to cup his hand over yours, pressing your hand against yourself. Your breath hitched.
“D-Deputy sheriff, badge number 4101,” you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady. Gator tucked his hand further between your legs. “All clear, all—all set. Musta accidentally hit the radio knob 'nd turned the volume down.” You looked up at Gator, who just about nudged your cheek with the radio, then slid his hand up just the same as you'd done, and then right back down, fingers lacing with yours as he moved them together, making the pad of your finger slide over your clit again. “Deputy Tillman is on scene,” you said. “No problems, thanks.”
“Thank you Deputy,” the dispatcher said. “Be more careful with that radio.”
“Will do,” you said, shaking a little, waiting for Gator to release the button that would transmit any audio from your cruiser, and once you saw his finger move away, you moaned, moving your free hand to his wrist, clinging to him.
“Jesus fuckin' Christ,” he said, tossing the radio into the passenger seat, the coiled wire bouncing around as he did. “Didn't give it to ya good enough this mornin', ya needed even more?” He crowded into you, even though he was leaning in through the window. “When I said ya were a good little bitch I didn't think you'd start actin' like y'were in heat. God damn.”
“Gator,” you whined, and he smirked down at you, pulling his hand out of your pants and then, as you watched, lifted his wet fingers to his lips and sucked them off.
“Get out,” he said, as he lowered his hand. When you hesitated, he jerked his head toward the backseat. “C'mon. Get movin'.”
You opened the door to your cruiser as he backed up a few steps, taking his hand as he helped you out and then walked you right past the rear door, opening it and waiting for you to sit on the back seat. You sank down and he glanced around, so you did too. You'd been so enthralled in what you were doing that you literally hadn't even noticed the way he'd pulled up in his own cruiser, mostly blocking yours from view from the road, and when he sunk down to his knees and curled his hands into the waistband of your pants, you just lifted your ass up to let him pull down your uniform pants and your underwear, which were so wet they stuck to you just a little.
“Fuck,” Gator said, eyeing the way your panties were almost soaked through in the crotch. He pushed your legs up a little, looking at you between them where he bent you at the waist. “Get yer boots off, gonna be hard enough t'take care'a ya in the backseat, ferget keepin' anything on.” He pushed your thighs up against your stomach as you reached up to unlace your boots, knowing full well that your wet cunt was on full display for him. You let each shoe fall to the floor of the cruiser, and then together you pulled off your pants and underwear—though Gator plucked those from your fingers. You watched, eyes wide, as he crumpled them up in his hand and then lifted them to his face, breathing in your scent deeply, his own eyes slipping closed.
“Mm,” he hummed absently, and then you watched, speechless, as he parted his lips and let the soaked cotton drag against his tongue. “Fuck, that's real nice.”
You could feel your heartbeat in your fingertips, hear it in your ears; beyond aroused, you watched as he lowered his hand to stuff your dirty underwear into his pants pocket, and then pushed your legs back up so you were open and exposed to him.
“Just a taste ain't enough,” he said, holding your gaze as he lowered his face down to your cunt, already pulsing around nothing, already way too needy.
His tongue dragged over your folds, and the warmth of it against your heated core made you shudder, your hands sliding down to grope at your thighs, holding onto them as he sucked at your slit, your cunt squeezing down as he did, wanting to suck something inside of it, hold it there, get fucked hard and harsh, but he wasn't giving anything to you yet.
No—he just moved up, his lips moving over your clit as he sucked at it, tongue circling it, probing at it beneath the hood, between your lips, teasing it as you moaned, loud and unabashed, feeling it throbbing the more he sucked.
“Gator,” you whined, and he didn't pull away to speak; he just groaned against you, sucking you still, letting his tongue cradle it with gentle pressure until you were reaching for him, his hair, his face—he cut you off with his own hand, letting your fingers move between his as he held your hand. You squeezed it, hard, as you felt yourself let go against his face, your hips rolling up against him as he moved with you, not pulling his mouth off of you even as you pushed at his hand, because it was too much.
He flicked his tongue against you a few more times, then pulled away, licking your arousal off of his lips before he gave your ass a playful little slap and leaned up, hands on the backs of your knees, holding himself over you.
“Whatcha think, princess?” he asked. “Make ya feel any better?”
You shook your head.
“No?” he asked, smirking. “You tryna say she aint satisfied?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying,” you replied.
He laughed, releasing one of your legs—you curled your own hand around your knee, holding it up for him—and dipped two fingers into your cunt, still willing and ready for him. When he did, your eyes slipped half closed and a low, heavy moan fell from your lips.
“Got it,” Gator said. “Feelin' all empty without me in ya, huh?”
“Yeah,” you sighed, and he dug his fingers just a little deeper inside of you, feeling your walls pressing around him as you squeezed down onto them.
“Look at her,” Gator said, twisting his wrist so his palm was facing up, curling his fingers to try to find your g-spot. “She knows, don't she?” He scissored his fingers apart just a little, stretching you, pulling another moan from you. You released your legs—they fell against him just a little, but you needed hands on your tits right fucking now; your nipples were peaked inside your shirt, begging for attention from you, from him, you didn't fucking care.
Gator's fingers slowed to a stop inside of you as he watched you practically tear open the buttons of your uniform shirt, pulling it open and then just yanking your bra up, tits spilling out from beneath the cups as they ended up atop your chest, pebbled nipples hard. You cupped them almost immediately, pinching and rolling the perked buds as Gator watched, almost as dumbstruck as you'd felt when he'd interrupted you.
“Lemme in there,” he said, but you didn't relent, just kept your fingers working over your tits, as he pulled his fingers out of you and moved them to his waist, undoing his own belt, button, and fly and shoving his camo pants down along with his boxer briefs, cock springing out of the waistband. He was pink at the tip, not reddened yet, not like the picture you'd been touching yourself to, but he was getting there and the thought alone made you groan eagerly.
With one hand, he slipped two fingers into a pocket of his tac vest; with the other, he braced himself on the backseat of the cruiser and leaned over you, pushing your left hand away from your tit with his face as he covered your nipple with his mouth, sucking at it and making your back arch up off of the seat.
“Feels so good,” you whined, flexing your hips, like that could get him to move any faster; he couldn't even see you doing it.
“Gonna feel—even better,” Gator said, still groping around in a different pocket, “in a fuckin'—minute. There we fuckin' go.”
He pulled away from you and you saw, now, what he'd been looking for—a condom. He tore the corner of the wrapper with his teeth and then, pushing himself so he was kneeling over you, his slicked-back hair brushing the roof of the cruiser, he pulled it out, rolled it on, and with no warning, no preamble, sank right into you, your position and spread legs giving him the easiest access to your cunt he'd ever had.
“Oh my god,” you half-yelled, at the same moment he grunted out, “Shit, fuck yeah.”
He started a brutal pace instantly, not giving you time to acclimate, not waiting to bottom out before he'd pulled back, instead just going at you right away, fucking you hard and fast and making you squeal beneath him as his hips pistoned against yours.
“Gator—!” Your voice was high and broken as you said his name, the cruiser rocking back and forth as he fucked into you, desperate, your previous orgasm doing nothing to sate you—you just wanted everything he could give you and then some.
“Uh huh,” he uttered, bracing his hands on the seats for a moment as he tucked his knees up a little, giving himself more leverage to drill down into you, his cock reaching so fucking deep inside your pussy as you wrapped your legs around him, squeezing his sides with your thighs as you fought to keep him pounding into you, wanting the residual ache from him inside of you for as long as you could keep it.
“Keep—fuckin'—just like that,” you mewled, then moved your left hand down to your clit, your right hand still tugging at your nipple, switching to rubbing over it at the same pace and rhythm as you moved your hand over your swollen clit.
“Shit,” Gator said through gritted teeth. “So fuckin' tight, can't—can't—”
“Come for me,” you said, and he glanced up at you, meeting your eyes—you'd never asked him that before, never took even a little charge with him. His hips faltered for a second, weakened because of how it felt for you to speak that way to him. “Go on,” you coaxed him, squeezing your cunt down on his length. “Come for me, Gator. Give it all to me—”
You gasped as his hips snapped against you, you echoing what he'd said to you that morning bringing him to the edge.
“Fuckin'—gonna,” he moaned, leaning down further over you, his face right above yours, his nose brushing against your nose as he looked down into your eyes. This, probably, was the most intimate you'd ever been, looking right at each other in the throes of passion; or well—lust, at least.
“Please,” you begged, and then your fingers slipped over your clit just right, his cock driving home into you, and your lower half tensed and then snapped, your hips curling upward and fucking your cunt onto his cock as you came, hard, so hard you had to close your eyes and let your jaw drop in a silent scream, breathy gasps falling from your lips as you rode it out on his cock, his front still slapping against yours, his rhythm becoming sloppy as he got even closer.
“Whose am I?” you asked, voice weak.
“Yer fuckin' mine,” he growled at you, his hips canting into yours as he came. “Yer mine.”
Your heels dug into his back, pulling him against you, your pussy quivering, overstimulated, as you held him inside of you, his arms failing, his front falling flat against yours. “Yeah,” you decided, “but vice fuckin' versa.”
He met your eyes from where his cheek rested on your shoulder, the two of you smirking a little. Then, like he wasn't entirely sure about what he was doing, he rose up just enough off of your body to kiss you for the first time.
Summary: Pulling Javier Peña back from the brink of death was supposed to be just another shift. But as his recovery takes a difficult turn, the lines between doctor and patient begin to blur entirely.
Relationship: Javier Peña x Reader
Notes: Here is the first instalment of this whumpy fic... I'm gonna level with y'all. I am so excited about this.
Series Masterlist
The doors to the ER burst open with a violent slam, the humid Colombian air momentarily rushing in before the sterile chill of the hospital smothered it. You didn't waste a moment running up to the gurney as it rushed through the hall.
"We got a GSW! Man, forty years old," the paramedic shouted at you, his English heavily accented and thick with urgency. "Penetrating trauma... down here, below the vest line!" He finished as he pointed at the area.
Right beside them, practically throwing his weight into the metal frame to keep up, was a blonde man who looked ready to break down in tears. His hands were covered in the patient's blood, and his face covered in a panicked sweat.
"Javi, look at me! Stay with me, goddamnit!" He yelled, his voice cracking.
"He lose a lot of blood at the scene," the paramedic added, breathlessly. "BP was..." He paused to find the words, then looked at you as he said, "Sixty over forty in the ambulance. It very hit and miss, doctor."
"Get him to Trauma Room 1! Now!" You glanced at Javier’s grey face, then down at the packing that was soaked through with dark blood. "Start two large IV lines. Hang the O-negative blood and use the pressure bags to push it in fast! Call the blood bank and tell them we need more blood ready right now!" The other medical professionals nodded and got to work, giving you a moment to question the man out of place in your ER, "Who are you?"
"Steve... Steve Murphy." The man panted. "I'm his partner... we're DEA." He finished, his face morphing to one of a man about to be sick.
His head was spinning. The words buzzed around him like a swarm of angry hornets. GSW... O-negative... pressure bags... It didn't mean anything to him. All he could see was Javier’s limp hand laying beside him on the gurney.
They wheeled Javier into the trauma bay, and you immediately cut away the rest of his stiff shirt. "His blood pressure bottoming out," a nurse called out, her fingers pressed hard against Javier's neck. "His pulse is weak and fast."
"He's going into shock," you muttered, pressing your hands hard over the packing on the wound. You looked up and finally noticed Steve hovering over the bed, looking like a ghost. "You can't be in here. Step outside."
"I'm not leaving him," Steve said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl. He grabbed the edge of the metal guardrail.
"Agent, please, you need to let doctor work. Wait in the hall." Said a nurse as she tried to gently steer him out of the room, but Steve was having none of it.
"I said, I'm not fucking leaving him!" Steve barked, shaking her off, his eyes locked on Javier.
You didn't have time to argue with a stubborn DEA agent. "Fine. Stay in the corner. Don't touch anything, don't get in the way." You turned back to Javier. "Get the sedative and the paralytic ready." You ordered, and then the cardiac monitor beside the bed began to beep in a frantic, erratic rhythm and blaring out a symphony that made Steve's stomach turn. "He’s stopped breathing."
Javier began to choke, blood spilling from his mouth, and Steve felt his knees go weak. This was a living nightmare.
"He's choking..." you yelled. " He's crashing!! Start pumping air into him manually. I need a breathing tube now!" You instructed the nurse, and she placed a mask over the agent's face as you fetched the equipment you'd need next.
Steve watched in utter horror. He had seen men die in the streets, had seen the brutal aftermath of car bombs and cartel executions, but this - this clinical, desperate scramble to save his partner's life - was a different kind of hell.
You grabbed the cold metal laryngoscope to pull back his jaw, stepping to the head of the bed. "Suction! I can't see his throat, there’s too much blood." The suction line gurgled, clearing his throat just enough. Then... With practised ease, you slid the plastic breathing tube down Javier's throat. "Listen for breath sounds."
The nurse pressed her stethoscope to Javier’s chest. "We're in. Hook him up to respirator."
The frantic beeping on the monitor slowly began to level out into a steady, albeit fast, rhythm.
You wiped a streak of sweat from your forehead with your sleeve, your eyes scanning the monitors. "The blood pressure is holding for a second, but he’s bleeding out internally. The bullet likely hit a major artery." You looked up at the team. "We don't have time for X-rays. Prep him for emergency surgery right now. Call upstairs and tell them we are coming up hot!"
The room erupted into a new kind of motion... coordinated, fast, and military-like in its precision.
"Agent Murphy," you said, your voice firm but carrying a sliver of heavy empathy as you looked at Steve. "We are taking him to the operating theatre. I’m going to do everything I can to patch him up, but you need to wait outside those double doors."
Before Steve could even process a response, the brakes on the heavy metal bed were unlocked. You and the nurses surged forward, pushing the gurney out of the trauma bay and down the long, bright hallway toward the surgical suite.
The heavy double doors swung shut behind you, and Steve was left standing completely alone in the trauma room. Staring at the blood smeared all over the floor.
The relentless buzz of the hospital’s fluorescent lights had long since tunnelled into Steve’s skull.
Three hours.
Three hours of staring at the same scuffed blue linoleum, the same beige walls, and the ticking hands of the yellowed clock on the wall that seemed to move through molasses.
He hadn't washed his hands. Javier’s blood had dried into the creases of his knuckles, dark and flaking and a brutal reminder that while the world kept spinning, his partner was lying cut open on a table upstairs.
The silence of the waiting room was suffocating. Unable to take it anymore, Steve stood up, his boots heavy as lead, and walked over to the payphone mounted on the wall. His fingers shook violently as he dropped a coin into the slot and dialled the familiar number.
The line clicked. A couple of rings, and then a soft voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Connie..." Steve choked out. The moment he heard her voice, the dam broke. The stoic, tough DEA agent vanished, and his chest heaved as a ragged sob ripped right out of him. He gripped the plastic receiver so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Steve? Steve, oh my god, what's wrong?" Connie’s voice sharpened instantly. In the background, the faint, soft whimper of the baby stirring drifted through the line. "Steve, talk to me. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"It’s Javi," Steve wept, his voice cracking completely, "Connie, it’s Javi. He got shot... Right below the vest. It’s bad, Connie. It’s really bad."
"Oh Jesus..." she breathed, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Where are you? Is he... is he alive?"
"We're at the hospital.. He's in surgery. They've been in there for hours," Steve choked out, his shoulders shaking as he tried to catch his breath. The horror of the trauma room flashed behind his eyes, vivid and terrifying. "I was in the room with him, Connie. I couldn't leave him. And then... He started choking on blood right in front of me... He stopped breathing, Con."
He swallowed hard, a fresh wave of tears hitting him. "The doctor... they had to force this plastic tube down his throat just to get air into him. They were forcing his jaw open, and there was so much blood... I’ve seen guys get shot in the streets, Connie. I’ve seen it a hundred times. But watching it happen to Javi... I thought he was gone. I thought I watched him die."
On the other end of the line, Connie was quiet for a second, absorbing the unbridled terror in her husband’s voice. She had supported him through one of his partners getting killed. Through witnessing kids getting shot in front of him, but never... Had she heard him like this...
"Steve, listen to me," she said, her voice steadying, anchoring him. "Javier is a fighter. You know how stubborn he is. He is not going to give up easily."
"I can't lose him, Connie," Steve whispered, his voice sounding incredibly small in the empty hospital hallway. "I can't lose another partner."
"You aren't going to," she promised fiercely. "Listen to me. I’m coming down there. I’m going to be right there with you."
"What about the baby?" Steve asked, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.
"I'll figure it out," Connie said instantly, her mind already racing. "I’ll ring the neighbour, or see if one of the embassy wives can watch her for the night. I just need to find a sitter, and then I’m coming straight to the hospital. You hear me? Just hold on, Steve. I’ll be there soon."
"Okay," Steve whispered, closing his eyes. "Okay. I love you."
"I love you too. Hang in there."
The line went dead, leaving Steve alone again in the depressing waiting room. He slowly hung up the receiver and slumped back down into the hard plastic waiting room chair. Then, burying his face in his blood-stained hands, he wept again.
~
Another three hours had bled away by the time the heavy set of double doors at the end of the corridor finally swung open.
Steve didn't even realise he had fallen asleep until Connie had gently shaken his shoulder. She had arrived an hour prior and had immediately pulled him to her. Their elderly neighbour had agreed to stay overnight with Olivia, leaving Connie free to sit in the suffocating quiet of the waiting room and rub slow, soothing circles into her husband's back.
You stepped into the waiting area looking completely frazzled. Your scrubs were creased, your eyes bloodshot, and there was a deep, dark weariness in the slope of your shoulders. It had been an absolute nightmare of a surgery.
Steve snapped to attention the second he heard the doors click, bolting up and out of the hard waiting room chair. Connie stood up with him, her hand instantly gripping his elbow to keep him grounded.
"Doctor," Steve rasped, his voice raw and completely hollow. "Is he...?"
You took a deep breath, looking at the two of them. "He made it through the surgery."
Steve let out a shaky breath, his head dropping into his hands for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to look back at you.
"But I need to be completely honest with you both," you continued, your voice grave. "He is not out of the woods yet. The bullet passed right beneath his vest and did a massive amount of damage. It completely tore open a major artery in his abdomen. He was bleeding out faster than we could give him blood."
Connie’s posture shifted. Her face went pale, but her eyes locked onto yours with a sharp focus. As a nurse, she knew exactly how dangerous that was. "Were you able to patch the artery? Has the bleeding completely stopped?"
"We repaired the vessel, but he lost an incredible amount of blood before we could get it under control," you explained, looking between Connie and Steve. "His body has taken a massive hit. Because his system is in deep shock and his abdomen went through so much trauma, we have him heavily sedated, and we are keeping him on the breathing machine for now."
"For how long?" Connie asked, her voice tight.
"Potentially for the next week," you replied. "We need to let the machine do the breathing for him while his body stabilises and starts to recover from the shock. If we take him off it too soon, his system just won't be strong enough."
Steve just stood there. He didn't ask anything. He didn't move. He just stared at you numbly, his eyes glazed over. All he heard was 'machine keeping him alive'.
You stepped a little closer, looking directly at Steve to ensure he heard the next part. "Agent Murphy, listen to me. Javier is stable right now, but the next 24 to 48 hours are absolutely critical. We’re watching closely for any signs of infection, internal bleeding, or his organs struggling from the blood loss. We are taking it hour by hour."
Connie swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "Can we see him?"
"In a little while," you said softly, offering a faint nod. "He’s being moved to the intensive care unit right now. He’s going to look very pale, and there are a lot of tubes, but he's alive. A nurse will fetch you as soon as he's settled in his room."
"Thank you, Doctor," Connie whispered, her grip tightening on Steve’s arm.
Steve didn't say a word. He just nodded once, a robotic, empty gesture, his gaze drifting back to the floor as he prepared himself to face the machines keeping his partner tethered to the world.
~
The intensive care room was dim and smelled heavily of antiseptic, making the hair on the back of Steve's neck stand on end. The only sounds were the mechanical, rhythmic huff-click of the respirator and the steady, artificial beep of the heart monitor.
When the nurse finally guided Steve and Connie up to Javier’s bedside, Steve froze.
Javier looked like he was dying. His skin was a harrowing, bloodless grey, his lips slightly chapped, and his face was entirely slack beneath the heavy strips of medical tape holding the thick plastic breathing tube in his mouth. Gone was the tanned complexion of his partner... Replaced with what looked like the ghost of him. Every few seconds, the machine forced a breath into him, making his chest rise and fall in a stiff, unnatural motion. He looked small, swallowed up by pea green sheets and a web of clear IV lines pumping fluids and meds into his arms.
Connie let out a small, fractured gasp, quickly burying her face against Steve’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing her eyes shut as she fought back her own tears, trying to stay strong for her husband.
Steve didn't cry. He didn't even blink. He just let Connie hug him, standing completely rigid, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes were locked on the breathing tube jutting out between Javier's straight teeth. A numbness had settled deep into his bones, a protective erected to keep the sheer terror of this reality from destroying him completely.
An hour later, the door to the room opened quietly. You stepped back in, now dressed in your civilian clothes - a light waterproof jacket to shield against the humid Colombian drizzle - but the exhaustion was still etched deep into your face. Your shift was finally over, but you couldn't leave the hospital without checking on your patient one last time.
You walked over to the monitors, checking the readouts, adjusting the IVs, and gently placing a hand on Javier's arm in comfort. For him or for yourself, you weren't quite sure.
Looking up, you saw Steve and Connie standing there like statues.
"His vitals are holding steady," you said softly, your voice quiet so as not to shatter the stillness of the room. You looked directly at Steve, wanting him to feel the weight of your words. "I know how terrifying this looks. But he is resting, and he isn't in any pain right now. I’m handing him over to a fantastic night team, and I’ll be back first thing in the morning. We are going to do absolutely everything we can for him. He's a fighter, Agent Murphy."
Connie offered you a tired, deeply grateful smile. "Thank you, Doctor. Get some rest."
You gave them a reassuring nod, squeezed Connie’s arm gently, and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving the couple alone with the rhythmic humming of the machines.
The silence settled back over the room for a long minute. Connie stayed tucked against Steve's side, watching the mechanical rise and fall of Javier's chest.
"You know," Connie murmured softly, her voice carrying a tiny, fond bittersweetness, "Javier would really like that doctor."
A sudden, unexpected sound broke the quiet. Steve let out a low, rough chuckle. It was a dry, hollow sound, but the ghost of a smile touched his lips as he kept his eyes on his partner’s face.
"Yeah," Steve whispered, his voice thick but lighter than it had been all night. "When he wakes up... he’ll be turning the charm up to eleven. He won't be able to help himself."
The transition from death's door to the slow grind of recovery began on a Tuesday morning, four days after Javier had been wheeled out of the theatre.
The ICU room felt different now. The initial suffocating panic that had filled the air had diminished. Steve had spent the first forty-eight hours practically glued to the wood and vinyl chair beside Javier's bed, but Connie had finally managed to drag him home to see Olivia and get a proper shower, leaving the room uncharacteristically quiet.
You stepped inside, checking the charts. Javier’s vitals had finally levelled out. His blood counts were stabilising, his heart rate was down to a comfortable range, and his lungs were doing more of the work against the mechanical respirator. So you had been easing the sedation over the last day, happy with his progress.
"Alright, Javier," you murmured softly, stepping up to the head of the bed. "Today's the day we see if you can talk back to me."
You checked his pupillary response, then gently tapped his shoulder. "Javier. Can you hear me? Open your eyes for me."
His eyelids fluttered, heavy and resistant, before cracking open. His dark eyes were glassy from the heavy sedatives, rolling around slightly before locking onto your face. He instantly gagged, his throat convulsing against the thick plastic tube and his hand twitched, instinctively trying to rise to rip it out.
"Hey, hey-no. Don't touch it," you said firmly but gently, catching his wrist before he could reach his face. "I know it feels awful, but I'm going to take it out in a moment. I just need you to look at me and breathe. Can you do that?"
Javier blinked slowly, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. He let his hand drop, choosing instead to lean into the steady, calm authority of your voice. You called for assistance and, as they entered, started to instruct them on what you were planning to do.
"Nurse, let's deflate the cuff," you ordered as you snipped the heavy tape securing the tube in place. "Okay, Javier. Take a deep breath in... and a big cough on three. One, two, three-"
With a practised, smooth motion, you pulled the long plastic tube from his throat. Javier threw his head forward, coughing violently. A raw, wet sound that made him instantly wince and clutch his tightly bandaged abdomen. You quickly stepped in with the suction line, clearing his mouth, before placing a comfortable oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.
He then sank back into the pillows, his chest heaving and his face pale from the exertion. He closed his eyes for a long moment, listening to the cool hiss of the oxygen. When he finally opened them again, he looked up at you, his throat clicking as he tried to swallow.
He pulled the mask down just an inch, his voice nothing more than a dry, gravelly scrape. "¿Quién... quién eres?"
You smiled faintly, adjusting his blanket. "I'm your doctor. I'm the one who patched up your spectacular GSW."
Javier stared at you through his long lashes, his gaze tracing the tired lines around your eyes. Even completely exhausted, doped up on morphine, and entirely helpless, a faint, roguish glint flickered in his eyes. He let out a weak, raspy breath that was supposed to be a laugh.
"Lucky... lucky me," he whispered, before his eyelids grew too heavy to hold up, and he drifted back into a much more natural sleep.
~
By the next afternoon, Javier was sitting up. The grey tint to his skin was finally being replaced by a ghost of his usual colour. You walked in during your afternoon rounds to find him staring intensely at a small plastic cup of lime green jelly on his tray.
"Don't look at it like it insulted you," you joked, stepping up to check his surgical drain.
Javier looked up, a dramatic sigh rattling in his chest. "Doc. Please. Tell me you have something real in this hospital. This stuff... it looks like it belongs in a car's engine."
"It's a clear liquid diet, Agent Peña. You had a major artery repaired and your bowels handled; you’re lucky I’m letting you look at the jelly," you replied, as you gently checked his abdomen. "Any sharp pain here?"
"Only when I laugh," he grunted, though his eyes remained fixed on you, watching how carefully you worked. There was an easy, quiet comfort developing between the two of you.
"Steve told me what you did," Javier said softly, his tone shifting into something entirely genuine as you checked his IV line. "In the ER. When I crashed. He said you didn't hesitate."
You paused, looking down at him. "I was just doing my job, Javier."
"I know," he said, his dark eyes holding yours with a heavy weight. "But you also saved my life. I don't forget things like that."
~
The following day, you caught him trying to swing his legs over the edge of the bed entirely unassisted.
"What do you think you're doing?" you scolded, running across the room and catching him by the shoulder before he could rip his stitches open.
"I'm bored, doc," he complained, though he didn't argue as you guided his legs back onto the mattress. He was wearing a standard hospital gown, looking entirely stripped of his usual bravado, yet he still managed to look entirely at ease around you. "The walls are staring at me. Let me walk. Just to the door."
"Absolutely not. If you blow those sutures, I'm the one who has to go back in and fix them, and frankly, I've seen enough of your insides for one month," you shot back, a teasing smirk on your face.
Javier chuckled, a low, warm sound. "You know, you're incredibly bossy."
"It's called quality healthcare. Get used to it." You reached over to check his forehead, checking his temperature with the back of your hand. It was a standard clinical check, but Javier’s eyes softened as your cool skin met his forehead. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into the touch just a fraction of an inch.
"You have nice hands," he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, effortless register Steve had warned Connie about. "Cold. But nice."
You rolled your eyes, pulling your hand back with a grin, though your heart gave a tiny, unexpected jump. "Save the charm for the nurses, Agent Peña. I'm immune."
"We'll see about that," he whispered, a genuine smile spreading across his face as you noted his stats on his chart.
The progress was undeniable. He was healing well, and the easy, comfortable banter between the two of you was quickly becoming the highlight of your gruelling shifts.
The next morning...
You walked into the hospital with a fresh cup of black coffee in your hand, expecting the usual quiet hum of the morning shift change. But as you approached the central desk, you noticed a sudden flurry of movement down the corridor. A massive influx of casualties from a bombing last night had thrown the entire ward into absolute chaos. The night staff were completely overwhelmed. This had left Javier's corner of the unit unnaturally quiet.
A sudden, cold spike of intuition twisted in your gut. You set your coffee down on the desk and hurried down the hallway toward his room, and when you pushed the door open, your breath caught in your throat.
Javier was in a bad way.
He lay flat on his back, his head rolled limply to the side. His skin was back to an alarming shade of grey and coated in a thick, cold sheet of sweat. His breathing was rapid as his teeth chattered.
"Javier?" you called out, throwing your clipboard onto the bedside table and surging forward.
You pressed two fingers against his neck, finding his skin burning hot, and his pulse a faint, chaotic flutter running dangerously fast.
You ripped back the heavy blankets to check his stomach. The moment the sheets moved, the sickening scent of infection hit you. The neat white dressing from yesterday afternoon was stained with a foul, yellowish fluid, and the skin around the wound was swollen and a furious red.
"I need help in here! Now!" you screamed, slamming your hand onto the emergency button on the wall. Instantly, an alarm began to blare, and the monitor above the bed erupted into sound as his blood pressure started to crash.
Right at that exact second, the door opened again.
"Hey, doc, I brought some decent-" Steve stopped dead in his tracks. He was holding a paper bag from a local bakery, and the faint smile on his face instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of pure horror.
Before Steve could even process what he was looking at, Javier’s body suddenly went rigid.
His jaw clamped shut with a sickening click, and his head flew violently back into his pillow. His eyes rolled completely back, exposing the whites, and his arms locked tightly against his chest.
Then, his entire frame began to convulse violently, shaking so hard the heavy metal bed frame banged against the wall.
Javi's cardiac monitor went wild.
"What the hell is happening?!" Steve yelled, dropping the bakery bag onto the floor. He lunged toward the bed, his hands hovering in mid-air, terrified to touch his partner. "What's going on?! He was fine yesterday! We were joking around! What changed?!"
"He's seizing! A fever is cooking his brain!" you yelled back as a nurse finally crashed into the room with the medical cart. "Help me get him on his side before he suffocates!"
Steve didn't hesitate. He grabbed Javier’s hip while you threw your weight forward, gripping Javier's shoulders to carefully turn his convulsing body onto its side. Blood-tinged saliva began to pool at the corner of Javier's mouth.
"Get me five of diazepam into his IV right now!" you ordered the nurse, your voice raw but steady with adrenaline. "Push it fast!"
"Doc, talk to me!" Steve begged, his voice cracking as he held Javier’s trembling hip, watching his partner completely lose control of his own body. "He was okay yesterday! You said he was doing great!"
"A deep infection must've broken loose in his abdomen overnight," you explained rapidly, your hands locked onto Javier's shoulders, feeling every frantic, involuntary jerk of his muscles against your palms. "His body obviously went into shock while he was sleeping. It happens fast, Steve."
The nurse injected the sedative into his line. For a few agonising seconds, the violent tremors kept racking his body. You held onto him tightly, silently begging his heart not to give out under the strain. Then slowly, the medication took hold. The violent shaking began to taper off into smaller, shuddering tremors until finally, Javier went completely limp.
Falling back onto the mattress like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
"Blood pressure still dangerously low," the nurse gasped, her hands shaking as she checked the monitor. "70 over 38."
"Get those fluids into him now... squeeze the bags if you have to!" you ordered, wiping a layer of cold sweat from your own forehead. "And flood his line with the strongest antibiotics we have, immediately!"
The nurses moved at a dead run, hanging bags and adjusting lines. Steve stepped back a single pace, his face pale, his chest heaving as he stared at the flat, unmoving form of his partner.
You leaned over the bed, your hands sliding down to wrap firmly around Javier's limp, burning hand. His fingers were completely unresponsive, slick with sweat, but you squeezed them with everything you had.
"I've got you," you whispered near his ear, dropping all clinical distance as your heart hammered against your ribs. "I'm right here, Javier. The fit is over. You stay with me. Okay?"
Steve watched you from the foot of the bed. He saw the way you held Javier's hand, the raw desperation in your voice, and the fierce protectiveness in your eyes. Even through his own panic, Steve could see it plain as day... this wasn't just a doctor treating a patient anymore.
The storm of motion finally began to settle. The nurses finished hanging the antibiotics and the fluid bags, leaving the room as quickly as they had entered it.
The cardiac monitor was still running dangerously fast, but the frantic, erratic spiking from the seizure had turned into a steady, rapid rhythm.
You let out a long, ragged breath, slowly letting go of Javier's hand to step back and check the IV lines one last time. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs, but your professional facade was firmly back in place as you turned to look at Steve.
The DEA agent was still standing near the foot of the bed, looking like a shell of the man who had arrived not half an hour earlier. His chest was heaving, and his eyes fixed entirely on Javier’s limp, pale face.
"Steve," you said softly, your voice grounded and calm as you stepped around the bed toward him. "Hey. Look at me."
Steve blinked, his head turning slowly toward you as if waking up from a trance. "Is he... is it over?"
"The seizure is over. The medication stopped the storm in his brain," you reassured him, placing a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder. "He’s unconscious right now because of the sedatives and the toll the fit took on his body, but he should start to stabilise now. The fluids are going to push his blood pressure back up, and the antibiotics are already working on the infection."
Steve let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping an inch as he allowed himself to relax just a little. He wiped a hand over his face, his knuckles still white. "I don't get it, doc. Yesterday... yesterday he was complaining about the coffee. He was smiling. How the hell does a man go from cracking jokes to... to that in less than twelve hours?"
"Infections inside the abdomen are a nightmare, Steve," you explained quietly, keeping your tone gentle but honest. "When bacteria get trapped deep under the muscle layers, they can pool without showing any outward signs. No fever, no redness. But the moment it leaks into the bloodstream, the body’s immune system goes into overdrive to fight it. It cooks the body from the inside out." You pause, watching as this information sinks in. "It comes on fast, and it comes out of nowhere."
Steve nodded slowly, staring at Javier’s chest as it rose and fell in shallow, shaky movements. "But you caught it. Right? You got to him in time."
"I’m hopeful that we did," you said, offering him what you hoped was a reassuring smile. "The drugs will buy us time. Once his vitals settle and his blood pressure comes back up, he is going to need another surgery to clean out the infected tissue."
You paused, your eyes drifting back to Javier's grey, sweat-slicked face, and your voice dropped a fraction. "But right now? He’s just too weak for that. His system has taken too much of a beating. If I take him upstairs and cut him open right now, he likely won't survive the surgery. So we wait. We let the medicine do the heavy lifting until he's strong enough to fight."
Steve nodded, his eyes bloodshot and glassy, but they give you a hopeful look. "Okay. We wait. He can do that. He's stubborn."
"He is," you whispered, looking down at Javier, feeling a sudden, fiercely protective ache in your chest. "We just need to give him a few hours-"
A sudden, continuous tone cuts you off.
It wasn't a beep. It was a single, piercing, unbroken wail that filled the small ICU room, instantly turning your blood to ice and your head snapped toward the monitor. The rapid, spiking green line had dissolved.
It was completely flat.
"Doc?" Steve rasped, his voice dropping into a terrified, childlike whisper as the colour entirely vanished from his face. "Doc, what is that? What’s going on?"
Javier’s chest had stopped moving.
Panic flared in your chest as you lunged toward the bed, your fingers flying to Javier's neck. Beneath your fingertips, the skin was still burning... but his pulse was gone.
"He's in cardiac arrest!" you shouted, all the reassurance vanishing from your voice as you slammed your hand back onto the blue emergency button on the wall. "CODE BLUE! I need a crash cart in here right now!" You yelled as loudly as you could, hoping someone could hear you.
You didn't wait for them to arrive. You scrambled onto the bed, straddling Javier and, locking your elbows, you placed the heel of your hand dead centre on Javier's unmoving chest and instantly started compressions.
Crack.
The sound of his breastbone yielding beneath your hands echoed in the small room, but you didn't pause, immediately throwing your weight into the first frantic compression as the alarms screamed a chorus of death into the hallway.
"Come on, Javier!" you breathed... Desperately trying to bring this man, whom you'd come to admire, back. "Don't you dare give up on me."
"JAVI." Steve yelled, and you looked over your shoulder a moment to bark your next order, "Get him out of here." You screamed over the deafening wail of the monitor, your eyes locked on Javier's empty face again as you pumped frantically at his heart. "Get him out of the room! Now!"
Carve your name into my bedpost
'Cause I don't want you like a best friend
Only bought this dress so you could take it off
You and Steve Harrington have been dancing around your feelings for each other for months. You finally decide enough is enough at his birthday party.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 9.5k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with a plot, slight dry humping, fingering, oral (fem receiving), finger sucking, steve is packing, p in v, unprotected penetrative sex, creampie, pet names (baby, sweet girl, pretty girl), friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, idiots in love, mutual yearning, men being awful (not steve though!!), humiliation and embarrassment, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: back at it again with another taylor swift songfic! i've had this one planned for a long time so i was really glad it won the 3k special songfic poll. hope you guys enjoy this one! also the fact i wrote a filthy smut while on my period too? maybe my biggest achievement
to be added to my 18+ taglist | masterlist | requests page
Robin Buckley was losing the will to live.
She didn’t know why she had agreed to go dress shopping with you. Perhaps it was your promise of a greasy hot dog after or perhaps she just wanted to be a good friend. Either way, she wished she hadn’t been so charitable and that she was anywhere in the world that wasn’t the GAP dressing room.
“You know, I think I’m starting to warm to the last dress,” Robin calls out to you through the curtain in the hopes that it would help end the shopping trip. Because after nearly two hours, Robin was beginning to wish she was back in the secret Soviet military base beneath Starcourt being interrogated by evil Russians.
“You said the dress made me look like I was going to church!” You call back, shuffling around in the changing room as you tug off a lime yellow chiffon dress that Robin said made you look like a lemon drop over your head. “I don’t want to look like that!”
Robin is thankful you’re still getting changed behind the curtain so that you don’t see her roll her eyes in exasperation.
“Then what do you want?” Robin asks with an air of impatience. “Because I’m hungry and you promised me hot dogs!”
You sigh and glance at the dresses you still had yet to try on and can’t help but feel a little dejected. Steve’s birthday party was on Saturday and you were struggling to find a dress that felt good enough for the party. If it was anyone else’s party, you would have just worn a nice top and either jeans or a denim skirt. But this was Steve Harrington’s party and you wanted to look good. Really good. Because after months of you and Steve dancing around your feelings for each other, you had finally had enough.
And so, you had come up with a little plan to show up to Steve’s party in a nice dress and hope that he would finally take a hint.
The only problem being—is that you were struggling to find said nice dress. And now you were starting to wonder if it was a stupid plan.
“I don’t know,” you tell Robin miserably, deciding to abandon the dresses you had left to try on in favour of pulling back on your jeans and t-shirt. “I just want something that makes me, you know, stand out to Steve.”
“You always stand out to him,” Robin tells you gently, softening a little at your slightly dejected tone. “But he’s also a guy so he’s also an idiot.”
You laugh a little but your stomach turns a little as you wonder—not for the first time—if Steve really did like you the way everyone told you he did. Robin insisted that Steve liked you, so did Dustin, Max, Lucas and even Nancy. Everyone told you Steve was crazy about you. So why hadn’t he made a move? Why hadn’t he been honest with you about his feelings? What if everyone was wrong? What if he didn’t actually like you and you were making a fool of yourself?
“Are you overthinking again?” Robin asks you when you say nothing.
“No,” you say, the uncertainty in your voice evident as you pull back the curtain to see Robin sitting in the armchair outside of the dressing room. “Maybe? I dunno Robin, I’m starting to doubt the plan.”
Robin sighs, glancing over at the dresses you still had to try on before looking back at you. “You know what I think the problem is?”
“What?”
“I think you’ve been trying to find the wrong type of dress.”
You blink, a little confused by Robin’s words. “What's wrong with the dresses?”
“Nothing! Not really they just—they don’t scream ‘fuck me’, you know?”
“Robin!”
“What?” Robin asks, holding her hands up in surrender. “Do you or do you not want Steve Harrington—christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this—want Steve to fuck you?”
You were aghast, your mouth hanging open in shock at her words. But you don’t deny it because yeah—you did want to him to fuck you.
“I—I um, I mean—”
“—see? You need a ‘fuck me’ dress not a ‘take me to church’ dress,” Robin tells you, stepping into the dressing room to grab the pile of dresses resting on the bench. “Stay right there. I’ll find a dress for you and it’ll make Steve want to fuck your brains out—”
“—Robin!—”
“—kidding! Mostly.”
But the thing is—Robin hadn’t been kidding.
Because the dress she had picked for you was one that didn’t just say ‘fuck me’—it screamed it.
“Are you sure it isn’t too booby?” You ask Robin for perhaps the millionth time as you adjust the strap: of your dress. It was the night of the party and you were getting ready at Robin’s before Steve came to pick you both up and it was only natural that your nervous system was a mess.
“I highly doubt Steve Harrington of all people would think a dress was ‘too booby’,” Robin says with a slight roll of her eyes. “He’ll just see that hint of your cleavage and forget what year it is.”
You smile a little but still, you weren’t entirely convinced. Because now that you were wearing the dress—which was beautiful, the glittering material a mix of black and a deep red that couldn’t help but catch the eye—you were wondering if it was too late to just wear some of Robin’s clothes instead.
But before you could suggest such a thing, the familiar sound of Steve’s car horn came from outside and the words die on your tongue.
“C’mon,” Robin tells you, seeing the slightly panicked look on your face. She gently fixes a piece of stray hair and smiles at you. “You look incredible. Don’t overthink it, okay?”
“Easier said than done,” you mutter as you grab the gift bag with Steve’s present—a watch you knew he had his eye on—in and following Robin out of her bedroom.
You vaguely hear Steve talking animatedly to Robin’s parents in her living room as you make your way down the stairs. Your heart was beating so fast that it felt as though it was attempting to beat its way out of your chest. You felt hot all over, clammy even and you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands because this dress was so far out of your comfort zone that you had the urge to run upstairs and take it off.
As if she had a sixth sense for any thoughts you had of fleeing—Robin grabbed your arm and gave you an encouraging smile when you reached the bottom of the staircase.
“You look great. Stop doubting yourself or I swear to god, I’ll slap you. That four hour shopping trip wasn’t for nothing, you know.”
You blink before a small laugh leaves your lips. “Four hours is an exaggera—”
It was the sound of Steve saying yours and Robin’s name that cuts you off. Your body stills and you turn around and—
Your breath hitches in your throat when you finally see Steve. He looked devastatingly handsome—he always did—but especially in those jeans that hugged his thighs and ass so well that it made your throat feel a little dry. He was also wearing that sage green shirt that you had told him looked nice the other week and you wonder for a moment if he was wearing it for that reason. But before you could think too deeply about it, you finally look at his face and Steve—he was just staring at you, lips parted and seemingly speechless.
Your face feels so hot that you were sure it was noticeable. You could barely hear Robin’s mom gushing about your dress, about how grown up and beautiful you looked because all you could focus on was Steve’s eyes slowly travelling up your body.
It was as though everything else around you had ceased to exist all because Steve Harrington was looking at you.
“Happy Birthday, Steve,” you say finally, your voice higher than usual due to the almost crippling nerves you were feeling.
Steve doesn’t say anything to that and you weren’t sure whether that made you feel better or worse.
“Cleans up well, doesn’t she?” Robin asks Steve with a somewhat smug smile and plainly ignoring the flustered look on your face.
Steve blinks, licking his lips as he tries to formulate a response whilst still looking at you, completely unable to look away.
“I, um—yeah, I mean—she—looks—”
Steve couldn’t string a sentence together and everyone in the room could see it—you, Robin and even her parents.
“She looks—yeah—she looks beautiful.”
Beautiful.
Steve had called you beautiful.
That word now lived somewhere deep in your ribcage and didn’t want to leave.
It was all you could think about as you sat in the passenger seat of Steve’s Beamer. Robin’s voice was almost completely drowned out as you repeated the way he had said it over and over again in your head. The way he had looked at you—
But arriving at Steve’s party felt like a bucket of ice cold water being poured over you.
Because you were painfully overdressed.
And that warmth that the word beautiful had given you almost entirely disappeared.
You felt as though everyone’s eyes were on you, wondering why the fuck you had turned up to Steve’s birthday party in a dress like that. And honestly—you were beginning to wonder the exact same thing.
“C’mon,” Steve says to you and Robin, his hand finding your lower back—just that little bit lower than he usually would—while the other gently pries the gift bag from your hand. “Let’s get you both a drink.”
You let Steve guide you into the kitchen because it was a welcome distraction from the people who were looking at you. Because having one of Steve’s large hands resting on the small of your back meant that you weren’t thinking of anything else.
But he doesn’t keep it there for long, much to your dismay. Steve withdraws his hand as he busies himself with making both you and Robin a vodka cranberry. You don’t even notice how he spills a little bit of the cranberry juice when he chances another glance at you because you were too busy trying to pull down the hem of your dress.
Once Steve had made your drinks, you wasted absolutely no time in taking a generous swig as some sort of liquid confidence.
Steve raises a brow but says nothing.
“I’ll just take this up to my room,” Steve says, holding up your gift bag with a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll open it later when things aren’t so—crazy.”
You nod and force a smile, the uncomfortableness you were beginning to feel seeping into your gut as you watch Steve head upstairs.
“Why the fuck did I do this?” You ask Robin almost as soon as Steve disappears, your knuckles turning wet as you grip the edge of the countertop. “What possessed me to do this, Robin? I look so fucking stupid—”
Robin’s eyes widen as she sees the genuine panic in your eyes—the embarrassment, the worry reflected there. She puts her solo cup down and steps toward you, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“You don’t look stupid, okay? I promise—”
“—everyone else is wearing jeans, Robin. I look so out of place—”
“—so? Did you or did you not see Steve’s reaction to the dress? He nearly crashed into like ten cars on the way here because he kept looking over at you.”
“It wasn’t ten cars—” Your face feels hot as you say it, something tightening in your gut as you remember feeling Steve’s eyes on you in the car, the way Robin had kept yelling at him to keep his eyes on the road.
“—stop deflecting or I will drag you upstairs and lock both you and Steve in his bedroom until you both stop being idiots.”
No matter how much the thought of being locked in a bedroom with Steve Harrington made your core ache with need, you knew it wasn’t the grand declaration of feelings that you had always envisioned for you and Steve.
And so, you try to enjoy yourself despite how uncomfortable you feel. It seems to work—at least for a little while.
You dance with Robin, laugh with a few of Steve’s friends and all the while, you keep catching Steve looking at you. But still—he doesn’t make a move. He doesn’t even ask you to dance when Heaven Is A Place On Earth starts to play like he usually would at a party. You tried not to let doubt creep in, tried not to listen to the small voice in the back of your head telling you that Steve clearly didn’t feel the same. That the months and months of flirting, of lingering touches and almost something moments were simply figments of your imagination. That buying a dress to try and encourage Steve to finally make a move was an act of desperation that Steve—another everyone else around him—pitied.
You were trying not to listen to those voices, instead remembering the way Steve had looked at you, the fact he had called you beautiful and meant it.
But it all came crashing down when you left Steve and Robin to grab yourself a drink.
You still feel eyes on you as you walk into the kitchen. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you just needed to wait it out until the party died down a little. You just needed to wait until then to—
You don’t register the sound of shouting right away. In fact, you were so in your own head that you barely hear it at all.
But you certainly register the warm, sticky liquid suddenly drenching the front of your dress.
“Oh shit,” the guy who had spilled his beer all over you laughs as embarrassment and humiliation stir so deep in your gut that it makes you feel physically sick. “Sorry about that babe, want me to help you clean up?”
The way his friends laugh loudly at the suggestion makes you suspect that the beer spilling had been anything but accidental and that this guy was anything but sorry.
You try to conjure up a quick, self-assured response. Try to conjure up the nerve to call these guys—who you were sure had just stumbled into the party without invitation—a bunch of assholes. But all you could focus on was trying not to burst into tears as shame, embarrassment and humiliation all swirled sickeningly in your gut. You felt it turn into something so all consuming that for a moment, you couldn’t move—didn’t want to move. All you could hear was the guys’ laughter, the beer that soaked your dress beginning to drip down your thigh and a faint ringing in your ears—
“Hey, hey, what happened here?”
You didn’t think that there would ever be a time that your stomach would turn horribly at the sound of Steve’s voice—at his hand on the small of your back, at the concern in his eyes as he looked at you.
You open your mouth to reply but no words come out—because your eyes became glassy and panic began to rise in your chest.
“Little black dress over here spilled her drink,” one of the guys lie easily to Steve as a smug smile tugs on the corner of his lips.
“That—that’s not what h-happened,” you say finally in a shaky voice. “I-I didn’t spill anything, that guy—”
“—clearly she’s had one too many,” the guy who had spilled his drink over you interrupts. “Should probably take that dress off, sweetheart. You’re pretty wet”
You don’t hear Steve’s pissed off response. In fact, you don’t hear anything at all—just the ringing in your ears as you finally look down at the front of your dress. You see how it was soaked through almost entirely, the wet fabric clinging to your skin and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
And that was the moment that the dam finally broke.
You don’t think as you push Steve aside, your body in autopilot as you rush out of the kitchen where you collide into Robin. You barely hear her as she asks you what had happened, why your dress was drenched and stank of beer and why you were crying. You don’t say anything, not even glancing her way as you slip into the crowd gathered in the living room, slipping through the mass of bodies before heading up the stairs. Your hands don’t stop shaking until you stumble into Steve’s large, family bathroom.
You slam the door shut behind you as sobs wracked through your body. Hot tears of shame and embarrassment spill down your cheeks as you sink down to the floor. Your back against the freestanding bath as you tug your knees close to your chest to try and find some semblance of comfort. But none came—all that lived inside you was humiliation and shame.
You wondered why you had even bothered. It was so clear to you now—because if Steve hadn’t made a move on you after months of flirting back and forth, months of touches and glances that felt anything but friendly—then maybe you and everyone else around you had been wrong. That sure—maybe Steve was attracted to you but not enough to risk your friendship, not enough to want you the way you wanted him.
You felt so stupid for hoping that he wanted more and you felt even more stupid for coming up with this plan that was dripping with desperation. Everyone at the party could see it—the way you had dressed up specifically for Steve. They also probably saw the way he had kept you at arms length all evening too and the shame returned in a fresh wave of sobs that you couldn’t hold back even if you had tried.
The sound of a gentle knock on the bathroom door makes you look up just in time to see Steve slipping into the bathroom.
You had the urge to yell at him to leave but instead, you let out another small sob before burying your face into your knees.
“Oh, please don’t cry,” Steve soothes you gently, sinking down onto the bathroom floor beside you and placing a cautious hand on your arm, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “Please don’t cry because of those assholes.”
You wish you were simply crying because of those assholes and not the mix of emotions you were feeling. The humiliation of the past three minutes, the embarrassment of being the girl so desperate for Steve Harrington’s attention that she wore a dress that she could barely afford and the almost crippling fear that Steve didn’t actually feel the same way, that you had made a fool out of yourself for being so certain that he had.
“It—it’s not j-just ab-about those a-assholes, Steve,” you tell him, hiccuping slightly as you force yourself to look at him. You almost wish you hadn’t because those big hazel eyes of his were looking at you with such kindness and concern that it very nearly split you open.
Steve blinks, brows pulled together in slight confusion as he looks back at you, his other hand finding home on your shoulder and squeezing reassuringly.
“What do you mean? What else is this about?”
You knew you should lie. You knew it wasn’t the time nor the place. It was his birthday party and his bathroom should be the very last place to have this conversation. Not only that but you stank of beer, you were incredibly upset and tethering on the edge of tipsy.
But that was also why you couldn’t stop yourself.
“This stupid f-fucking dr-dress,” you sob out, feeling utterly pathetic as tears keep falling down your cheeks with no sign of stopping.
Steve looks perhaps even more confused, eyes shifting down to your dress and the way the glittering material was almost a second skin, the way he had a clear view down your cleavage and the way the tops of your thighs were exposed. Steve swallows, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before he looks back at your face.
“Why?” He asks you gently. “You look fucking beautiful, even if you’re covered in beer.”
It was supposed to make you laugh, you know it from the way the corners of his lips curl upwards in amusement.
But you don’t laugh, instead you shake your head and let out another loud sob.
“Be-because I-I wore it for you and y-you don’t e-even care,” you stutter out, the words falling from your lips before you could even think about stopping them. “I-I feel s-so stupid and n-now it-it’s ruined and—”
“Wait, wait, wait—” Steve hushes you, his fingertips pressing into skin before one hand lifts to gently cup your jaw. “You—you wore it…for me?”
It was only then that you realised what you had told him, that you realised just how honest you had been. You think briefly about lying right to his face, telling him that you were joking and to forget all about it. But it was Steve’s thumb gently rubbing along your jaw that had you nodding before you could stop yourself.
“Yeah,” you admit quietly with a small sniffle. “To—I-I don’t know, impress you or m-make you s-see me di-differently. I told you—it was stupid—”
“Not stupid,” Steve assures with a gentle smile, another gentle caress of your skin that left you feeling a little lightheaded and your stomach tightening in a way you didn’t want to think about. “You just—you don’t need a dress like that to impress me or for me to see you. I already do.”
You blink, tears sticking to your lashes as you look back at Steve with your lips parted.
“B-but—but you’ve never—”
“—I know,” Steve says quickly, his other hand resting on your knee as he shifts that little bit closer to you. “Trust me, I know. I was—I was waiting for the right moment, I guess. Well, that’s what I told myself anyway because there were so many right moments where I should have told but you didn’t because I was—scared, honestly. Scared that I had just imagined that you liked me back, scared that I wouldn’t do it right and then you’d want nothing to do with me.”
You laugh a little at that because the notion of not wanting anything to do with Steve was so ridiculous that you couldn’t help but laugh.
“That’s almost as stupid as me b-buying a dress just for your attention,” you say with a small smile and a quiet sniffle.
Steve smiles and then his eyes shift back down to your dress and you watch as he swallows, his hand on your knee squeezing gently before he seems to force himself to look back at your face.
“Then we can be stupid together,” Steve murmurs affectionately and the way he says it, you can’t help but smile right along with him. There was a moment where you just look at each other. His big, hazel eyes keep yours hostage before they flit down to glance at your lips for a brief, barely there moment.
Steve clears his throat, looking away as he asks, “you uh, you want me to grab you something to wear while you have a shower so you don’t smell like a brewery all night?”
You nod, looking down at your dress and grimacing before looking back up at Steve with a small, grateful smile. “Please.”
Steve smiles back at you before he gives your knee a little final squeeze before getting to his feet and holding out his hand for you to take.
You try not to think about how his hand feels against yours as he pulls you up to your feet. You notice immediately how Steve doesn’t let go of your hand. Instead, he pulls you just that little bit closer and leans down to whisper in your ear. “The dress is incredible by the way, truly. You look so fucking good. I almost got hard right in the middle of Robin’s living room when I first saw you.”
You hadn’t been expecting it, not at all and the words go straight to your core. A current as strong as electricity flowing through you and making your cunt pulse with need for the man in front of you as he pulls away from you with a slightly smug smile.
“Steve!” You choke out, half laughing, half flustered, your face so hot that you wouldn’t be surprised to find steam rising from your skin.
“What?” Steve asks you with an innocent smile. “You said that you wanted my attention and you certainly got it. Why do you think I’ve tried to keep a respectable distance all night? Because I’m trying my best not to embarrass myself at my own party.”
You try to laugh but you’re too busy trying to not think about Steve and what was hiding beneath those fucking jeans. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t allowed yourself a good look at the crotch of his jeans from time to time. Mostly because the imprint of his cock against the denim was near impossible to ignore.
“Couldn’t be more embarrassing than me showing up to your party in a ‘fuck me’ dress when literally everyone else is dressed normal.”
The words came out before you could really think of what you were saying.
Steve chokes out a laugh, the tips of his ears reddening in a way that gives you a fluttery feeling in your stomach and makes you feel warm inside.
“A ‘fuck me’ dress?” Steve repeats with another quick glance down at the dress, at the way the damp fabric was clinging to your breasts. “Pretty accurate description.”
You swallow thickly and you weren’t sure if you could take anymore of his teasing, your panties were dampening at an alarming rate and your heart was surely beating its way out of your chest.
“Let me grab you those clothes, yeah?” Steve suggests before you could embarrass yourself any further. “And I’ll wash that ‘fuck me’ dress for you too.”
Your face warms but you manage to crack a smile.
“That’s funny,” you mutter as you watch him step away from you, your body still thrumming from the proximity to him. You register the distant sounds of the party on the floor beneath you and guilty twists in your gut. You wanted to tell him you were sorry for pulling him away from his own birthday party, sorry for potentially ruining his evening but Steve slips out of the bathroom before you could do so.
Now that you are alone, you try to comprehend the last ten minutes. But it was proven difficult when your heart was beating so fast, when your hands shook as you tried to unzip your beer soaked dress and when there was an intense ache between your legs that made everything else around you feel fuzzy.
You manage to peel off your dress, letting it pool around you at your feet before you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror—at the dark lace panties you had put on in the hopes that Steve would be the one undressing you. You took those off too in case the beer scent also lingered on them, noticing the way your panties stick momentarily to your puffy lips due to how wet you were and something hot pulses through your body at the sight of your slick coating your panties.
A sharp knock on the bathroom door pulls you back into reality.
“You decent?” Steve calls to you through the door as you scramble to find a towel to cover yourself with.
“Yep!” You shout back after wrapping the towel around your bare body, kicking your soaked panties beneath the vanity unit as the bathroom door opens.
Steve walks in with a small pile of clothes in arms but he very nearly drops them at the sight of you wrapped in one of his soft cotton towels.
You watch as for the second time that night, his eyes travel up and down the length of your body, his lips parted and wet as he looks as though he wanted nothing more than to gently tug the towel from your body. There was a large part of you that would have gladly let him do so.
“Here,” Steve finally says, placing the clothes onto the countertop and forcing his eyes to remain on your face. “I got you a t-shirt and those shorts you left here the other week.”
“Thank you,” you say with a small, grateful smile. You can’t help but notice the way Steve’s cheeks had turned red and you find your own face warming.
Steve clears his throat, eyes flickering away from you to your dress and your bra laying on the tiled floor. “I’ll um, wash these in the basement,” Steve tells you, bending down to pick up the discarded clothes and determinedly not looking at your legs as he does so.
You nod, feeling too breathless, too aroused to even form a thought as you watch Steve’s knuckles turn white when he grips the fabric of your dress tightly in his hands.
You look at each other again, Steve looking at you in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to do before he clenches his jaw and he turns to leave.
You nearly stop him. You nearly reach out to grab his arm so he wouldn’t leave you, nearly call out his name and ask him to stay. But you don’t—instead you watch him leave the bathroom with your clothes and you let the ache he leaves behind fill you.
You take your time in the shower, lathering the vanillary body wash that smelt like Steve over you and as the smell of beer washes down the drain. Your muscles relax beneath the hot water and you have to ignore the urge to let your fingers trail between your legs to ease the ache there.
You step out of the shower, water dripping from your body before you glance over at the clothes Steve had brought you. You feel that warmth in your stomach heat up when you imagine yourself wearing Steve’s t-shirt. When you eventually do pull it on over your head after gently drying your body, you’re hit with the smell of him that seems to linger on the material.
It made you feel dizzy with want, the tension that had been building between you and Steve all evening not lessening even in Steve’s absence.
You retrieve your soaked panties from beneath the vanity unit and pull them on, along with your shorts before stepping out of the bathroom.
The party downstairs continues and you find that there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to go and rejoin the party. And so, you head towards Steve’s bedroom, figuring you could just wait out the rest of the party in there.
But as you push open Steve’s bedroom door, you’re greeted by a truly heavenly sight.
Steve was standing near the end of his bed, in the middle of peeling off his shirt. You got a glimpse of his soft stomach, of his happy trail that kept you up at night, of various moles and freckles that were scattered over his skin and—finally the sight of the dark, coarse hair that covered his chest. He was fucking beautiful and you barely register him turning around to look at you.
“Hi,” he says by way of greeting, making zero attempt to cover up but you notice the way his cheeks flush slightly pink.
“Hey,” you say, hating how breathless you already sound.
Steve’s eyes shift down your body again, his gaze washing you in a rush of heat and want that you couldn’t control. You see the way his eyes linger for a moment too long on your hardened nipples that could be seen through the fabric of his t-shirt and you watch as he licks his lips slowly before looking back at your face.
“Good shower?”
You laugh because the tension between you was palpable. You could see the way Steve was trying to be normal and the way he was failing miserably.
“Great shower,” you tell him. “Incredible water pressure.”
Steve snorts lightly with laughter and you take a tentative step closer to him, closing his bedroom door behind you while your heart pounds in your chest.
“Robin kicked those guys out by the way,” he tells you, watching you carefully as you move towards him. “I would have done it but I needed to see if you were okay.”
You smile a little, pausing a foot away from him. “Glad you did.”
“Me too,” Steve says softly. “Made me realise how much of an idiot with the whole—you know, been waiting for the perfect moment to be honest with you when I should have just—I should have just told you.”
Your breath hitches, your eyes flickering over his face so that you didn’t miss a single facial expression. “Told me what?” You ask quietly.
Steve takes a deep breath before he closes the distance between you, lifting both of his large hands to cup your jaw gently between his palms, holding you like you were made of something more precious than gold.
“Told you that—that you’re not only my best friend but you’re my favourite person in the world. The one who I can’t go a day without seeing smile or hearing you laugh. The person who thinks I’m funny when I’m clearly not and the one who seems to know exactly what to say when things get too loud. The one who doesn’t just make me want to be a better man but the person who makes me a better man. The one who has seen my best times and my worst times and still—still sees the best in me even when I don’t. The person who I—who I love. Who I love whether you’re wearing a ‘fuck me’ dress or one of my old t-shirts. The person who I really hope isn’t too mad at me for making you wait while I tried to find a perfect moment.”
You were rendered speechless, words completely failing you as you stare back at Steve with wide eyes, trying to process every word he had just said.
“Was that too much or—”
You don’t let Steve finish his sentence because you decide that you couldn’t wait even a second longer. Because he loved you. He loved you, he loved you, he loved you—
“I love you too,” you tell him breathlessly as your hands plant themselves on his chest before you lean in and finally press your lips against his.
For a moment, Steve does nothing at all. He seems to freeze entirely, his brain short circuiting at the fact you were kissing him. But as your fingers gently brush through the hair that covered his chest, he seemed to finally come to his senses.
Steve groaned—actually groaned—against your lips as one of the hands still cupping your jaw gently threaded into your hair, his fingers curling at the back of your neck as he kisses you back with a sense of urgency he couldn’t seem to control.
The kiss was messy, spit-slick and desparate—months and months of tension finally snapping as Steve used his other hand to tug you closer by your waist, his mouth still moving against yours as though he wouldn’t ever be able to get enough.
Neither of you pulled away—the kiss moving from messy to slow and reverent, your lips gliding wetly against each other in a way that had your pussy throbbing. A small whimper escapes you before you could stop it because your body was thrumming with want.
Steve pulls away only to whisper your name before he dives back in. His hand in your hair titling your head back so that he could deepen the kiss, his tongue gently coaxing your lips apart in a way that had your stomach tightening deliciously as he licks into the wet heat of your mouth.
“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips as his hand in your hair finds home on your waist. The other moves to rest on your hips where Steve squeezes the flesh before tugging you closer until you are flush against him.
You gasp against his lips when you feel just how fucking hard he was through the denim of his jeans and any intelligent thought left you as you moaned against his mouth.
“Shit, baby,” Steve practically whimpers as he pulls away to press a trail of wet kisses down your neck. “You’ve fucking ruining me already.”
You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a moan, your head tilting back as Steve’s tongue glides over the skin of your neck, still a little damp from the shower.
“Did you use my body wash, pretty girl?” Steve whispers against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip the globes of your ass and failing to suppress a groan. “Cause I can smell it on you.”
“Maybe,” you gasp out, your chest heaving as your eyelids flutter shut at Steve’s touch.
Steve hums against your skin before gently sucking on a spot on your neck that had you squirming against him.
“So fucking sensitive,” he murmurs, squeezing your ass again before one hand moves to the hem of his t-shirt that you were wearing—fingers just brushing the skin beneath in a silent question.
You lift your arms in response and Steve waits no time in peeling off the t-shirt.
But the moment he sees the sight of your bare breasts, all bravado he had possessed moments ago seems to leave him.
“Holy fuck—” he breathes out, his own chest heaving as his eyes feast on you. “You’re so—fuck—I can’t believe we’re finally doing this. We’re finally—holy shit—”
“—Steve,” you interrupt him with a faint smile and a finger over his lips. “It’s just me.”
Steve smiles back at you, pressing a kiss to your finger before you pull it away from him. “That’s exactly why this is—why I’m losing my shit right now I mean—fuck, look at you.”
The words go straight through your body like molten lava and you have to squeeze your thighs together to try and ease the tension between your legs.
And Steve—he fucking notices.
“Fuck it—”
Steve’s lips were back on yours and you could barely think straight as the kiss became almost frantic, his hands roaming your body greedily as he sank down onto the bed, pulling you down with him. His hands find your hips before he tugs you down onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his as you straddle him.
The position presses your clothed core against the bulge in his jeans and neither of you could suppress a moan at the contact.
“Please,” Steve asks, eyes half lidded and glazed over with want as he looks up at you. “Please, pretty girl. I need—”
You knew what he needed without him even needing to finish his sentence. You press yourself more firmly against his bulge and you swear you could feel every hard ridge of him through his jeans. The friction was dizzying and you could barely stop yourself from rolling your hips against him. Steve lets out a whimper, fingers squeezing the flesh of your hips before his lips find yours again.
The kiss was messy, little wet sounds filling the space between you as Steve’s hips bucked up instinctively, grinding his hard cock against your core. You were embarrassingly wet at this point as Steve encouraged the movement of your hips with his hands, the wet patch in your panties seeping through your shorts. You were almost sure that Steve could practically smell how aroused you were at this point, but you found that you didn’t care.
You could have come from the friction alone, but both you and Steve knew that wasn’t what you wanted.
“Steve,” you gasp, heat burning through your body as you look down at him. “Touch me, please.”
Who was he to deny you such a request?
You let out a small squeal as Steve wraps his arms around your waist, standing up for a brief moment before he lowers you back down onto his bed.
“Anything for you, baby,” Steve tells you before he tugs both your shorts and your panties down your legs.
“Fuck, baby—”
It was the only intelligent thing Steve could think to say when you were finally laid bare for him. You look back at him and you find that there wasn’t a part of you that felt nervous or self conscious with the confidence his gaze gave you. In fact, you found your thighs widening instinctively as he could see the mess he had caused between your legs—the way your folds were coated with arousal, slick dripping down onto his bedsheets beneath you and how swollen and desperate for attention your clit was.
“—you’re fucking beautiful,” Steve finally tells you as his fingers brush over the skin of your inner thigh, watching in awe as goosebumps erupt over the skin at his touch. “S’fucking beautiful. I could fucking cum just by looking at you, pretty girl.”
Your cunt pulses with need and you swear you see Steve’s cock twitch beneath his jeans.
“But I’m gonna take care of you first, yeah?” Steve murmurs, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your thighs before they glide through your wetness.
That first, direct touch of his fingertips against your slick folds made you whimper from relief.
“S’fucking wet,” Steve murmurs, his lips parting as his eyes filt down to watch how your wetness now coats his fingers. “Drenched for me already, aren’t you sweet girl?”
You nod frantically, eyes squeezing shut as two of Steve’s thick fingers glide through your slick, gathering it and then smearing it over your clit in a circular motion that had your back bowing off his mattress.
“I got you, baby,” Steve murmurs and you jolt as you suddenly feel his breath hot against your inner thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
You nod, parting your lips as you begin to take a deep breath—but you are cut off by your own, loud moan as he dips one thick finger inside of you.
“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh as he begins to pump his finger in and out of you, watching every trace of pleasure flit across your face as he adds a second finger. “That’s it, pretty girl. Look at you, soaking my fingers so well.”
You were a mess already and he had barely even begun. You were so fucking wet that the pump of his fingers in and out of your soaked pussy were causing a schlick-schlick-schlick sound to fill the room, mixing with your moans as liquid heat coursed throughout your entire body.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” Steve tells you, curling his fingers against your front wall as he watched you in utter awe. “S’fucking pretty, baby. I swear.”
Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, a pleasure so intense coursing through your body that you were surely soon to forget your own damn name. Your slick was dripping down his wrist, onto his sheets and Steve couldn’t help but breathe in your heady scent, his nose nudging against your clit as he did so.
“Fucking hell,” he groans out, scissoring his fingers gently inside of you. “Sweet girl, you smell so fucking good. I need to taste you, I need to—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence because one buck upwards of your hips and Steve finally takes the hint. His lips seal themselves over your aching clit while he continues to fuck two of his fingers into your needy hole. And the moan he lets out at that very first taste of you? It was divine.
Steve Harrington wasted no time in giving you exactly what he knew you needed. His lips began to suck your clit gently, his thick fingers continuing to fuck you even as your one of your hands found its way into his hair and tugged at it harshly. If anything, the mix of pain and pleasure spurred Steve on, his fingers curling inside of you again as he started to alternate between giving soft licks to your clit and sucking it between his lips.
It was almost overwhelming, the deep penetration on his fingers and stimulation on your clit was making pleasure build up so intensely you were close to tears.
“C’mon, baby,” Steve murmurs against yours, his own hips rutting against the mattress but his focus remains on you and your pleasure and nothing else. “I got you. I got you.”
Your thighs tremble around his head, your head thrown back against his mattress as you let out a moan so loud that the partygoers downstairs were sure to hear it. Your orgasm was so intense that your entire body seemed to be overtaken by a white hot pleasure that you felt in every damn nerve, your vision whiting out briefly all because Steve Harrington sent you to another universe with his fingers and tongue.
He doesn’t let up, only withdrawing his fingers so he could replace them with his tongue, slurping up every last drop of your arousal and groaning against you as he does so.
You were still shaking, still sensitive and still coming down from the most intense orgasm that a man had ever given you and yet—there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to stop.
The fingers that were still in his hair gently tug him away from your cunt that was dripping with a mix of his saliva and your essence. He groans as you pull him away, eyes half lidded with need as he looks at you. Steve’s lips are swollen, wet and he had never looked so fucking handsome.
“That was—”
You silence him by grabbing his fingers—the ones that had just been inside of you, the ones still glistening with your slick—and raise them to your lips. Steve realises what you were about to do a millisecond before it happens and he could not contain the groan that leaves his lips as you take his fingers into your mouth and suck.
Steve had surely died and gone to heaven. That could be the only explanation as he watches you lick his fingers clean, your eyes not leaving his for even a second until you release them with a wet pop.
“Take your jeans off and fuck me, Harrington,” you tell him.
Steve Harrington did not need telling twice. In his haste to peel off his jeans, he stumbles but manages to catch himself at the edge of the bed.
He turns around when he hears you stifle a laugh.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me, baby,” Steve tells you with flushed cheeks. “That was completely purposeful.”
But you don’t respond, because you were too busy staring at the outline of his hard cock through his boxers. Even though the dark material, you could see how fucking big he was and it made your mouth water.
Steve notices—because of course he was—and he wastes no time in pulling down his boxers to free his cock.
“Oh my—”
You had heard rumours before that Steve was big, that his size sometimes intimated the women he had slept with in the past. But nothing could have prepared you for just how big and how beautiful his cock was. It was so big and heavy that it made a loud, audible slapping sound against his soft stomach as he freed himself. It wasn’t just long but it was thick and slightly curved in a way that made your cunt clench around nothing. The ruddy tip was glistening and already leaking with precum and you watch as a dribble of it slips over his veiny shaft.
Steve, seemingly taking you openly staring at his cock as worry, hesitates before joining you back on the bed, bracing his body over yours with his elbows as he looks carefully at your face. “We can do just the tip if you—”
“—what?” You ask him, slightly confused as you look back up at him, your hands gently rest on his shoulders. “No, no, no—I want all of you, Steve. I was just…looking.”
Steve blinks, his cheeks reddening before he smiles down at you. “Impressed?”
You smile and your heart feels warm at the way, even now, Steve was able to make you laugh. Because no matter how much your relationship had changed over the past twenty minutes and how much it would change after, the foundation of your friendship would always remain standing. That Steve loved and respected you as a person first, that he always would and that intimacy wouldn’t change that.
“Depends if you know what to do with it,” you tell him with a teasing smile.
Steve rolls his eyes a little but you see the way the corners of his mouth twitch as he tries not to smile.
“We’ll see about that,” Steve murmurs, wrapping a hand around his length and stroking himself once before he guides the bulbous head of his cock to your entrance. “You sure?” He asks, despite the fact he was so hard that it was nearly painful, despite the fact his dick was pulsing in his hand from need—he needed one last bit of reassurance that he wouldn’t be too much for you.
You nod, your eyes softening as you look up at him, one of your hands lifting to cup his cheek gently. Steve leans into your touch instinctively and the way he sought out your touch makes you feel almost invincible.
“I’m sure,” you whisper back. “I trust you, I love you and I’m sure.”
Steve’s resolve seemed to crumble at that, his eyes shining as he tells you, “I love you too.”
His lips found yours in a kiss that was surprisingly soft given the position you were in, given what you were about to do. You melt into it, your fingers gliding into his hair as Steve groans against your lips, carefully positioning himself back at your entrance. Your legs widen to accommodate him as you continue to kiss him as though he was your only source of oxygen. Steve’s brows are furrowed as he kisses you back, making sure to go slow as he finally—finally—pushes the fat head of his cock inside of you, slipping into your tight heat inch by inch.
The stretch was overwhelming—it almost felt as though he was splitting you open with his cock but fuck, it was incredible. You couldn’t pull but pull away from Steve’s lips so that you could look at where look your bodies were now joined, the way you were stretched obscenely around him.
“You okay?” Steve asks when he was almost buried to the hilt, his eyes not leaving your face as he searches for even a hint of pain. “Baby, please say you’re—”
“—I’m good,” you say breathlessly, your eyes flickering upwards to meet his. “Really, Steve. I’m good.”
Steve nods and then swallows before he presses forward, until his hips are flush against yours and you feel the tip of his cock hit your cervix.
“Fuuuccck,” Steve exhales, pressing his forehead against yours as the arm that was propping himself over you shakes with the effort of holding himself back. “You feel—fuck—you feel incredible. I swear, you were made for my cock, sweet girl.”
The words make you feel warm and your cunt flutters around his cock, making Steve groan out. You hook one of your legs over his hip and arch your back, trying to encourage him to move.
“Steve, please.”
It was exactly the encouragement he needed. With a groan of your name and sweet kiss to your forehead, Steve starts to move. He moves his hips back until only the bulbous tip of his cock remains inside of you before he pushes himself back home, setting a deep rhythm that has your nails biting into the skin of his shoulders.
The wet sounds from the mix of your juices quickly fill the room, along with both yours and Steve’s moans as Steve grabs your other thigh to hook it over hip. You whimper out his name as his cock nuzzles against your cervix and Steve couldn’t help himself anymore. He pulls out almost entirely before slamming back into you. And again. And again and again and again until his cock was continuously slamming in and out of you, the sound of skin slapping against skin so obscene it made your head spin.
“Fuck, Steve!” You mewl, your breasts bouncing with every deep thrust of Steve’s cock. “You feel so—”
“—I know, baby. I know,” Steve grunts as his balls slap against your skin from the force of his thrusts. “You trust me, yeah?”
You nod frantically, pleasure coursing through every damn nerve in your body as Steve shifts his position. You whimper out in protest before you watch as he gently lifts your thighs to rest over his shoulders.
“Feel good?” Steve asks as he leans over you, his cock now hitting so deep inside of you that you swear you saw stars.
You nod because no words could come out as you felt him in every damn pore in your body. Your body buzzes with anticipation as you expect him to move, but he doesn’t. Not yet.
“Words, pretty girl,” he tells you, two fingers gently gripping your chin. “I need words.”
You whimper out because you were throbbing with need and could barely think straight, let alone form a sentence.
“Steve, please—”
“Baby, no,” Steve murmurs, dipping his head down to brush his lips across your cheek. “Need you to feel me if it’s good. C’mon, sweet girl.”
“Yes,” you manage to gasp. “I feel—I feel really good.”
“Good,” Steve smiles before he rolls his hips forward. The tip of his cock hits that spot inside of you that had you squirming beneath him, clenching around him so hard that Steve’s fingers grips into the flesh of your thigh before he pulls out of you just to slam back in all over again.
“I love you,” Steve tells you as he sets a rhythm that has your toes curling. “I love you so fucking much, baby. I’m so fucking lucky.”
He was babbling nonsense as his cock drilled into you like it was the last time, not the first. You were a mess of moans and whimpers beneath him, your sobbing cunt convulsing around him with each and every thrust. You could hardly think straight because nothing existed beside Steve and the way his cock was pumping in and out of you.
“You look so fucking beautiful,” Steve tells you, eyes heavy from the intense pleasure he was feeling, from the effort of holding back his own release so it wasn’t over before you finished. “Taking my cock so well, baby. Look at you fucking taking it.”
And you do—your eyes shifting down to watch as Steve’s thick cock disappears inside of you, watch the way you suck him back in like you never wanted him to leave.
It was almost too much, every part of your body was singing with pleasure and all you could moan out was Steve’s name and the fact you loved him and—
Your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. It was somehow more intense than the first, nearly earth shattering in the way it left you clinging to Steve as though he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. You clenched tightly around his cock and it was all Steve needed, his release following yours only seconds later. He slams into you a final time and you swear you feel his heavy cock pulsing inside of you before he comes hard. Ropes of thick, hot cum flood your spent pussy, painting your walls with his release as your name fell from his lips like it was the only word he knew.
He doesn’t pull out right away and you don’t want him to, instead—your lips find each other's and the kiss was sweet and tender and everything you had ever wanted and more.
Steve eventually pulls out of you after a few moments to clean the mess between your legs with his boxers. You were tender but he was so gentle and loving that it made your heart thump loud in your chest.
When he returns to the bed, his arms wrap themselves around you and you waste no time in melting into him, the party downstairs entirely forgotten as you lay in Steve’s arms.
“I take it we’re a little more than best friends now?” He asks you quietly with a trace of amusement in his voice.
“I think we’ve always been more than best friends, Steve.”
Steve smiles at that before pressing a gentle but firm to your forehead because you were right—you had always been more than best friends and you always would be.
ughh spotify wouldn’t let me upload ‘blue’ by billie 🙃 but this one def works for vibes 💫
Summary: Gator realizes he’s miserable without you, and he’s willing to grovel to get you back.
WC: 3.5k
Warnings & What to Expect: reader is slightly older than Gator (no specific age gap but maybe roughly 5-10 years), Gator being a jerk and slightly toxic but he’s also a big softie that’s down bad for reader, derogatory names from Roy, explicit language, talks of marriage, 18+ allusions to spice but no smut, angst w/ happy ending.
Masterlist If Interested!
Peach’s Note: this was inspired by this request for older fem reader, and i also just like writing for fiancée reader 🥹
my reqs are currently closed but feel free to still chat with me in my inbox 💌
hope y’all enjoy 💙
If you were asked to describe what it was like being in a relationship with Gator Tillman in one word, it would be wild.
You were initially a little nervous about dating a guy younger than you, but the older you were getting, the more the men your age seemed to not know what they wanted - which was frustrating as hell when you were trying to find someone to spend the rest of your life with.
It’s what initially attracted you to Gator, because from the moment you met him, he made it his personal mission to make it obvious that he wanted you.
You were playing pool at a local dive bar with a bunch of drunks, wallowing in self pity over yet another failed date. The guy had texted much later in the day than you would have liked him too, requesting that you meet here in this crappy town you weren’t even familiar with - then had the nerve to stand you up.
Someone was getting rowdy at the bar, the police were called, and that’s when you met Gator - your world shifting on its axis as you knew it.
“What’s a woman like yah doin’ in this part of town, sweet thing?” He slid up next to you after taking care of the problem he was called in for.
You were about ready to tell whoever it was off, when your eyes landed on him and just about drooled when you realized how attractive he was.
Especially dressed up in that deputy’s uniform - brown cargo pants hugging his thick thighs, black shirt under his tactical gear that was way too small but made his biceps look heavenly.
You liked the way his eyes were trailing you up and down, a smirk plastered to that ridiculously gorgeous face of his.
“Are all the men in your town pigs that stand girls up?” You replied teasingly.
His eyebrows shot up at that, “What kinda prick stands someone like you up?”
“The kind that doesn’t know how to handle me,” you smiled coyly.
“Bet I could handle yah,” he grinned wickedly, definitely way too self assured, but you couldn’t lie and say it didn’t turn you on.
“Oh, you could, could you? Would like to see you try, deputy,” You flirted, flicking your eyes over the corded muscles that ran along his forearms - standing out due to his hands gripping onto the vest he was wearing.
You ended up leaving with him that night - found yourself stupidly falling into bed with him. You expected him to kick you out the next morning, but were thoroughly pleased when he woke you up to a trail of kisses along your neck - asking you to give him a chance to take you out.
Your friends encouraged you to go for it, stating that it was just a fact that younger guys were more confident - which meant more fun, and Gator was one cocky son of a bitch.
What you thought would just be a silly little fling, quickly turned into something more serious, and eventually the ‘L’ word was being thrown around.
Gator adored you - fucking loved that you kept him on his toes, called him out on his bullshit, and thought that your beauty rivaled the moon and stars.
It’s why when you were curled up next to him on the couch one night while watching a movie - crying your eyes out about how sweet the couple in the show was, he went out and bought you a ring the next day.
The rock now sat heavily on your left hand, feeling more like a burden than a gift.
“Ain’t doing’ that,” Gator refuses.
You stare at him in confusion, “You have to.”
“Don’t gotta do nothin’,” he scoffs, turning away from you and walking into the kitchen.
Your lips part in disbelief at his stubbornness, irritation washing over you at the fact that this is now the umpteenth time that your fiancé has refused to participate in your plans for the wedding reception you were working on - near your breaking point over him shutting down each idea you had.
You storm after him, “Why won’t you just do this for me?”
He leans back against the counter, folding his arms defensively, “Shits too girly.”
You swallow hard, willing yourself not to cry, “Dancing with your wife on your wedding day is too girly?”
“Mhmm,” he hums, avoiding eye contact with you.
“What are you going to do instead, Gator? Go smoke a cigar with your lackeys?” You bite out.
“Maybe,” he grumbles under his breath.
You shake your head dejectedly, “Gator, I’ve been to a wedding where the groom ignored the bride the whole evening to hangout with his friends. And you know what everyone was thinking?”
He doesn’t answer, choosing to stay quiet. You wait patiently, hoping for a response, but eventually the ticking of the clock on the wall makes you grow weary of his silence.
“I’ll tell you what I was thinking, ‘why the hell did she marry that asshole’?” You huff out angrily.
Gator laughs sarcastically, “Glad to know that’s what yah think of me.”
You close your eyes briefly, sighing in defeat, “What else am I supposed to think, Gator? You’re acting like this wedding is some big inconvenience to you, and I’m tired of it.”
“Yer makin’ a big deal outta nothin’,” he rolls his eyes.
“Are you afraid of what Roy will think?” You decide to be blunt, because the conversation isn’t going anywhere productive otherwise.
You knew Roy was giving him flack for marrying you - told him settling down with a ‘whore’ like you wouldn’t do him any good.
Gator claimed he didn’t care what Roy thought, but with each passing day that your wedding got closer, he was becoming more edgy and moody than normal. And you couldn’t help but think that it was due to those nasty thoughts his father was putting in his head.
“Not everythin’ is about him,” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.
You frown, “C’mon, Gate. Just be honest with me, please.”
“Dammit, woman! I already told you this ain’t about ‘em!” He spits venomously, voice raising to a yell.
Gator glares at you, and clearly you hit a nerve with the way those pretty hazel eyes of his directs the mean look your way. A gnawing revelation settles over you - making you realize that it’s not his fault that he was raised by a disgusting excuse of a man, but you also can’t fix the damage that’s taken root in his mind.
“I’m done,” you say quietly, brushing past him.
Gator panics, trailing after you and gently grabbing onto your arm, “What do you mean yer done?”
“I love you Gator, but I can’t change you. I’m done trying,” you whisper, pulling away from him and swiftly making your way to your shared bedroom.
He’s hot on your heels, eyes tracking your every move as you dig your suitcase out from under the bed and start to throw your things inside of it.
His jaw tightens, “Where yah gonna go?”
“Don’t know. But I can’t stay here with you anymore,” you mumble.
“Bein’ ridiculous,” he quips flippantly.
It pisses you off how unbothered he’s acting, and the words slip out before you have a chance to think about them.
“Knew dating you was stupid,” you mutter bitterly.
“The hells that suppose’ to mean?” He grits out.
“It means I should’ve known better than wasting my time on a younger guy,” you sniffle, feeling the familiar build up of tears gathering behind your eyelids.
Gator narrows his eyes at you, “Thought you didn’t care ‘bout that age gap shit?”
“I don’t! God, Gator, I’m obsessed with you. But I also want to marry someone and start a family. Maybe for you the timing doesn’t matter, but for me it does. I’m sick of feeling like I’m being strung along when I don’t have all the time in the world to screw around with someone who isn’t ready to commit,” you utter hopelessly.
He roughly starts pulling the clothes you had shoved in the suitcase back out, “Fuck that. ‘M ready to commit.”
“Then tell me what’s wrong. Why are you pushing back so much on everything I ask you to do for this wedding?” You implore, tears finally spilling over.
There’s a flicker of emotion behind that hard expression in his eyes, and for a moment you think he’ll cave - let his guard down and let you in, but it’s erased just as quickly as it showed up.
He shrugs, “Just not my thing.”
“I don’t buy it. There’s something you’re not telling me, and if this is how you’re going to act before we’re married, then I can’t imagine what you’ll be like as a husband,” you reply meekly, hating the hurt that washes over his face at the sharp words.
“Then take that fuckin’ ring off yer finger,” he snaps, tone cold - striking you right in the middle of your tender heart.
You release a shaky breath, “Fine.”
You wiggle it off, half tempted to throw it at him pettily, but instead you place it daintily on the nightstand - turning back to stuff the items that he’d taken out of your baggage back in.
You don’t think you can handle hearing any other words of fire from the man you love, so you remain silent as you continue to pack - hoping he’ll just leave you alone. He watches you for a moment more before exiting the room.
You hear the front door slam, and the steady stream of tears turn into devastating sobs of anguish over losing him - fearing that you might’ve just pushed him away for good.
Gator had never been more miserable in his life than he was without you.
He knew it was his own fault for not fighting for you. Knew that he royally screwed up when he asked for the ring back, the one that he now keeps on him at all times - hidden in the confines of his pockets.
He was keeping tabs on you - discovered you moved in temporarily with a friend, asked to work from home in order to not commute past the sheriff’s office, and his ticket to winning you back; you were planning to go to a wedding as a guest, and his name was still written down as your plus one.
Gator knew you were going to be livid when he showed up, but he was willing to take that risk - willing to set aside his pride because he was in dire need of you to forgive him, even if it meant he had to grovel a bit.
You just about fell out of your seat when Gator dropped onto the chair next to you, dressed up in a black suit jacket with a white shirt snuggly stretched across his chest - matching black dress pants that framed his long legs nicely. Your brain is on the verge of short circuiting at seeing him at all, let alone seeing him looking absolutely divine.
Your jaw nearly unhinges when you see his hair - falling in loose waves outside of that damn hat he normally wears - free of the pomade that he typically keeps it slicked back with. The only other times you get to see it soft and disheveled like it is now is when you wake up before him on slow mornings, or when it dried after a late night shower - letting you run your fingers through the strands lovingly.
The ceremony was being held outside, and the sunlight streaming down bathed him in a soft glow - highlighting the moles and freckles that graced his skin.
“What,” you stutter, “what are you doing here, Gator?”
“Got invited,” he replies, throwing an arm over the back of your chair.
“Yeah by me, and if it wasn’t clear your invitation has been revoked,” you seethe.
“You gonna kick me out?” He tilts his head, lips quirked in a playful pout.
The music cue starts before you can respond, and when you feel his fingers skim along the length of your shoulder, goosebumps blossom along your flesh, and you know you’re about to be tormented from being forced to sit next to him for the next thirty minutes.
You’ve tried to avoid him the whole night, despite the fact that his name card is next to yours. He hasn’t made it easy to ignore him; hands brushing yours when he got you a drink, hovering nearby when you turned to talk to a group of people you knew from college, constantly trying to get your attention.
It’s much later now, and when the bride and groom finish their first dance and open the floor up for couples, Gator stands up, holding out his hand to you - ticks his head in that direction, a silent request for you to dance with him.
“Thought dancing was ‘too girly’,” you snark, mocking his own words.
“Maybe I changed my mind. Now get yer cute butt up and come dance with me,” he commands sternly, hand still extended expectantly.
You glance around nervously at the people watching from your table, not wanting to make a scene or seem like a bitch for turning him down. You sigh, albeit a bit dramatically, and take his hand. The familiar feel of his fingers locking with yours ignites an ache under your ribs - settles weightily in your gut.
He guides you, hands moving yours to wrap around his neck before his own slips down to hold your waist. He starts to lead you, and you feel like you’ve been rocketed into some dream world because there’s no way Gator Tillman is dancing with you after the fit he once pitched to you about it.
“You know how to dance?” You ask, eyebrows pinched in confusion.
He spins you, before pulling you tightly back in, “Been practicin’.”
You startle, “What?”
He smiles wryly, continuing to move with you, thumbs tracing circles against your hipbones, before his hands sneakily glide down to rest against your ass.
“Gator,” you warn, firmly moving his hands back to your waist.
“C’mon, baby girl, you're not being any fun,” he practically whines, the pet name rolling off his lips easily.
You hate the way it still has an effect on you, “Don’t call me that. And stop acting like I’m still yours.”
“You’ll always be mine,” he remarks, pressing his forehead to yours.
Your breath hitches, completely stunned - not knowing who was standing in front of you, but it sure as shit wasn’t the man that was busy breaking your heart just a few weeks ago.
“Wanna marry yah,” he confesses, lips grazing by the shell of your ear.
A wave of dizziness rushes over you, “Where was this attitude a month ago, Gator?”
“You left me. Gave me the biggest fuckin’ wake up call of my life,” he reveals, lips inches from yours.
“I can’t marry a man who’s too afraid to stand up to his daddy,” you blurt, not wanting to upset him, but needing him to know where you stand.
He swallows harshly, shaking his head, “Wasn’ ever about what Roy thought of you, promise. I jus’ freaked out. Don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what? A relationship? Commitment? Because you were doing pretty well with both until you asked me to marry you,” you confide, fiddling with the back of his collar anxiously.
He sighs heavily, “Was worried about messin’ everythin’ up. That I’d be a shit husband who don’ know how to take care of you and what yah need.”
“Gator, I didn’t need you to have it all figured out. I just needed you to choose me,” you admit, hands coming down to rest against his chest.
“Lemme prove ‘m ready now, that ‘m choosin’ you,” he pleads.
Maybe it’s foolish, but god do you miss him, and you relent - yielding to his temptation.
You give a tiny nod, and with that small gesture, Gators drags you out into the dark courtyard - fresh air wafting over the two of you.
He pulls your body against his, leans your back gently against the brick wall, hands reaching up to cup at your face - fingers unexpectedly caressing sweetly along your neck.
You’re longing to kiss him, but want him to know he’s not off the hook for how he treated you.
“You can’t ever act like you did towards me again. You hear me?” You state slowly, wanting it to sink in.
He mouths at the spot below your ear, “I know. Was a real dick to you, baby girl.”
“I mean it, Gator,” you assert.
He hums against you, the sensation causing butterflies to twirl animatedly in your stomach, "And I believe yah, sweet thing.”
Your hands tighten in the fabric of his shirt, “Good.”
“Don’t know what I was thinkin’ lettin’ you go,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the underside of your jaw.
You fight to stay composed, “You weren’t.”
He nuzzles his nose against the column of your throat, plush lips littering marks against your exposed collarbone, “Yer right, baby girl. Wasn’t thinkin’, ‘m sorry.”
You’re sufficiently lightheaded at his touch - own fingers twitching to bring him closer to you.
“How sorry?” You ask breathily.
“So fuckin’ sorry,” he murmurs, lightly biting your exposed skin, tongue soothing the sting and your resolve crumbles - cracking so easily when it comes to him.
You wrench him upwards, eagerly slotting your lips against his. It's messy, desperate, and his lips working with yours is like a balm - soothing the jagged lines that had been stitched across your chest when you left him.
He hooks an arm around your lower back, pulling you flush to him - other hand shooting out to grasp your thigh and hike it up against his. You whimper against his lips when he pushes a knee in between your legs, bringing the two of you impossibly closer.
“You gettin’ needy, baby girl?” He teases, breaking away briefly.
You make a high pitched whine of protest, lips chasing after his - greedily capturing them again before softly sinking your teeth into his lower lip. Gator grunts at the contact, and you take advantage of his mouth parting to ease your tongue against his own, deepening the kiss.
Bursts of white spark behind your closed eyelids when you feel the hand that's wrapped around your bare thigh inching higher.
“Want you,” you tell him, hands slithering down to his belt buckle.
“Hmm, not ‘ere,” he nips at your throat.
“Stop teasing me then,” you hit him lightly in protest.
“Let’s go home, need to get yah out of this tight ass dress,” he palms at your backside.
The way he’s looking at you has your head going fuzzy, desire and lust mixed with something more - an undertone of adoration.
You smile at him, hand coming up to swipe fondly at his chin, “I missed you, Alligator.”
The nickname causes a rare blush to dust over his cheeks - curling up to his ears, but he’d never admit it if you pointed it out.
“Missed you, sweet thing,” he kisses you again, slower this time, a hint of reverence - like he can’t believe he gets to call you his.
When you break apart you pepper his face affectionately with kisses. He complains about you smothering him, but you know he secretly loves it by the weak attempts to get you to stop.
“Take me home,” you conclude with another kiss to the corner of his mouth.
With a swift goodbye to the bride and groom, Gator helps you get settled in his deputy’s truck, promising to get your car for you tomorrow. He opens the passenger door and buckles your seatbelt for you - and he claims you coddle him.
When he pulls to a halt at the next red light, you lean over to press a kiss to his cheek, “Thank you for trying for me.”
Gator drops a hand to your knee, giving it a quick squeeze, “Next time we’re at one of these things, it’ll be ours.”
He fumbles for something in his suit pocket, before pulling out your ring - slipping it back over your finger before pulling your knuckles to his lips.
You thread your hand with his, “And you’ll dance with me?”
“I’ll do anythin’ if it means getting you out of a pretty dress and into my bed at the end of the night,” he says playfully.
“Gator,” you chide.
He snorts, “Just kiddin’ baby girl. Course I’ll dance with yah. Not willin’ to screw this up by bein’ a jackass.”
“Gonna show you just how thankful I am for that,” you tease, delicately palming at the crotch of his pants.
“Fuck me, can’t do that while ‘m drivin’ baby girl,” he groans.
“Technically, you aren’t driving right now,” you smile slyly.
And when Gator pulls the car over to the side of the road because neither of you could wait till you were home, he shows you just how sorry he is - repeatedly begging for your forgiveness. Which you graciously give because while he may have his faults and issues that he needs to work on - he’s the man that you love, and it’s hard to say no to a pretty man when he gets on his knees for you.
Divider credits to @sweetestpeacreates
Taglist: im starting a main masterlist taglist that’s separate from HH, so lmk in the comments or message me if you wanna be added!
summary: your breakup with steve has been rough, and it only gets worse at night without him next to you.
warnings: angst, mentions of arguing, nightmares, steve and reader are both avoidants, cursing,
word count: 5.5k
In a reality where you fought inter-dimensional monsters and befriended a young girl with telekinesis, you would think there’s nothing worse than dealing with that.
But it’s pretty easy to say going through a breakup with Steve Harrington is infinitely worse.
You’re standing behind the counter of Family Video, eyes fixated on a small piece of fuzz swirling around the air. You’re trying really hard to ignore the customer flirting with your ex boyfriend ten feet away from you.
You’re grateful he doesn’t seem to be reciprocating her advances, but its probably because you’re nearby. Steve really grew out of being an asshole and flirting with her in front of you would put him right back at the top of the official asshole list.
It’s been a month since your breakup and just know whenever someone says it gets easier with time, they’re lying. The first week was spent on Nancy’s couch, surrounded by tissues and a family sized tub of ice cream. You called in sick from work the whole week and cried enough tears to fill an entire ocean.
The second week, she forced you to socialize more. She was considerate enough to start small – an invitation to have breakfast with her and Jonathan. The opportunity to take Mike and El to the new skating rink. Max spent some time with you too but she didn’t push you to talk about it, she just sat with you through four different movies. All horror, there was absolutely no room for romance or comedy.
By the third week, you really had to pull it together. There was no word from Steve and it was probably better that way. Eddie, Mike and Lucas did all the work to get your things from Steve’s house and pack it up to bring to Nancy’s. You really didn’t want to move into her apartment but it was a stepping stone after leaving Steve’s.
Looking back on it now, the breakup was .. well, it was stupid. It was a cumulation of arguing and stress and lack of space all in one. Petty arguments over chores and snide remarks about each others habits. It was something that should’ve been solved with one conversation but you were both equally stubborn and when you angrily shouted maybe you needed space, he didn’t argue.
Still, you missed him. You really fucking missed him.
And the worst part is he seemed to be doing perfectly fine.
Dustin swore he wasn’t taking sides but you haven’t seen much of him these past couple weeks. Whenever the kids hung around you, he and Robin were both missing and Mike let it slip they were at Steve’s. It’s not like you blamed them, you were all friends but Steve was their best friend.
Now, it’s day 34 without him and you’re wishing the ground will swallow you whole and save you from hearing this girl drape herself all over him.
“It’s just so good to see you, Steve,” She says. She wears a wide smile on her face, one palm resting on his bicep. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, he just fiddles with the tape in his hand and smiles back.
“Yeah, you too, Stacey,” He responds.
Stacey.
He never mentioned a Stacey when you two were together and now suddenly they’re a pair of good friends who wish they kept up with each other over the years.
You try not to stare but then she grabs his forearm and snags the pen he had clipped to his vest. Your stomach twists when she begins to write on the skin of his arm. Steve watches her, his brows pulled together and when she finishes, she raises his arm to her mouth – she presses her red lipstick covered lips against his skin, flicking her eyes back up to his and leaves a kiss mark.
You physically feel sick.
She removes her mouth, a quiet pop sound fills the store. You can see now she’s written her phone number on him, the kiss mark a cute little signature. Her thumb brushes over the lipstick stain and smiles up at him again.
“Call me tonight,” Her voice is low and sultry. Steve glances at you and when he sees you already looking, he swallows hard.
You can feel your eyes prick with tears and tear your gaze away from him. Your throat feels tight, you clench your jaw to keep yourself from crying.
Thankfully, a different customer approaches the counter with their own tapes to check out. You clear your throat and take a deep breath, then plaster on the best customer service smile you can muster.
“Find everything okay, Mrs. Langston?” You ask, typing in her information as you complete her sale. The older woman is easy to talk to and maybe for a few seconds, you’re able to forget all about Steve and Stacey.
You’re unsure how the conversation ends but when you hand the receipt to her, Stacey’s gone and Steve is carefully approaching the counter opposite of you.
You bid your goodbyes to Mrs. Langston and busy yourself with cleaning up the papers near the register. There’s nobody left in the store except you and him. Tension fills the air quickly and you can feel him looking at you.
You hope he doesn’t try to make conversation about Stacey. Aside from things related to work, you haven’t spoken since the night you broke up. If he tries now, you’re almost certain you’d burst into tears.
If he’s moving on – even though it’s only been 34 days – you won’t stop him, and you definitely won’t beg him not to.
“Hey, uh listen,” Steve’s voice breaks the awkward silence. “About Stacey, I just want you to know -,”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” You cut him off quickly. Your back is still turned to him and you’ve re-piled the same stack of papers four times now to look busy.
“I know, but I want to.”
You freeze then. Steve notices and you hear the sound of his footsteps coming closer. He approaches you carefully, like he knows you’re seconds away from running away, and stops a few steps behind you. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth from his body.
He says your name softly but you still don’t turn. “I’m sorry you saw that,”
Sorry you saw that.
He’s apologizing it for happening in front of you, not that it happened in the first place. Because he’s not sorry. Clearly, the breakup and space has been good for him and while you’ve been a walking zombie, he’s been moving on.
You swallow hard and bite your lip. “It’s fine, Steve.”
He moves again. This time to stand beside you and his head bends to try and catch your eyes. You keep your eyes trained on the stack of papers and pray he’ll drop it.
Before he has a chance to say anything, the bell at the top of the door sings and the door swings up. You’re more than thankful for the distraction and you look up to greet the customer but you’re met with Eddie, Max and El.
Max and El are talking amongst themselves but Eddie’s eyes are stuck on you. You don’t miss the mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks between you and Steve.
“Look at my two favorite Family Video employees,” He sings and approaches the counter. Max and El follow.
“Hey guys,” Steve greets them, but you can feel his eyes still on you. Eddie clearly notices as well and smirks at you.
“We’re here to pick up the tapes Robin put on hold yesterday. Y’know, movie night and all,”
“Right, I’ll go get those,” You say quickly, taking any opportunity to get as far away from Steve as possible. You miss the way his eyes sadden but he doesn’t stop you.
As you scurry to the break room, Max and El trail behind you.
“You’re coming tonight, right?” Max asks suspiciously. You send her a sideways glance as you fish around the room for where Robin hid the tapes.
You already know your answer – no, you will not be going because movie night is always held at Steve’s house and you can’t bear the thought of being there again so soon. But you haven’t told anybody you weren’t going. Honestly, you planned to just skip out on the whole thing without a word. Clearly, Max knows you well enough to know that’s exactly what you intended.
“I don’t think so, Max. I’m not feeling great today,”
She sees right through you. “Bullshit.”
You scowl at her. “Language, Mayfield.”
“You feel fine, you just don’t want to be around Steve,”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You wave her off, and kneel to the ground in front of a crate of old tapes.
“Why don’t you two get back together?” El asks. You look up from where you’re shuffling through tapes. “Max and Lucas break up and get back together all the time. Even me and Mike have done it before. He still likes you,”
Her oblivious nature is cute and you can feel yourself soften. “Steve and I are a little different from you guys, El. And I don’t think he wants to get back together.”
“That’s bullshit again!” Max exclaims.
“Max!” You groan and finally find the tapes Robin hid. Rising to your feet, you head back up to the front. “It’s just movie night, it’s not a big deal, alright?”
You push through the beaded curtain, the girls following suit and nobody misses Max’s sour face.
“It is a big deal! Eddie, will you tell her it’s a big deal?”
Eddie pulls himself away from the conversation with Steve and looks at you three. “What’s a big deal?”
“Nothing.” You say.
“She doesn’t wanna come tonight,” Max says at the same time.
Eddie makes a face. “Why not? It’s the third time you’ve bailed on movie night.”
Max gasps, realization dawning on her. “It is the third time!”
You glare at him. Damn him for keeping count.
“Can you two relax? I just feel sick today,” You grumble, punching in Robin’s phone number into the computer.
“Bull.Shit.”
“Maxine Mayfield, I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap!” You threaten, a finger pointed in her direction. She rolls her eyes but before she can respond, Steve speaks up.
“What’s wrong? Is it your head?” He asks. You look up at him and immediately regret it. He’s looking down at you with those chocolate brown eyes and they’re swirling with concern. “Have you been sleeping okay?”
You still for a moment because no, you haven’t been sleeping okay. Actually, you haven’t been sleeping at all.
“I’m fine,” You say quickly. “Can all of you relax? It’s just movie night,”
Steve ignores you. “But you said you were sick. What’s bothering you?”
“See?” El speaks up. “I told you he still liked -,”
“Okay, I’ll go!” You cut her off. She was one word away from completely embarrassing you. “Can everybody lay off now?”
Max and El look pleased enough, Eddie as well but Steve’s look of concern doesn’t disappear. Still, he doesn’t press you on it and you’re grateful.
The rest of your shift is spent carefully avoiding Steve and taking every opportunity to help a customer or stock shelves. You’re painfully aware of how he keeps an eye on you the whole time but he seems to respect your wishes to not talk.
By the time 8PM rolls around, the store is cleaned and ready to be locked up. Steve waits behind you as you lock the door before you both make your way through the parking lot. Three steps into the same direction, you realize he parked right next to you.
Thick tension surrounds you, and you’re silently wishing the birds chirping will be loud enough to make him not talk.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Steve’s voice is low and hesitant. Your heart pinches at that soft tone he carries – it’s something you got so used to but have been deprived of for the last month.
You nod without looking up at him, and pull the strap of your bag closer to your chest. “Everything’s fine,”
He looks torn between asking again or being quiet completely, and he chooses to be quiet.
This is the most you’ve spoken to him since the breakup and it’s even harder than you thought it would be. It’s taking every ounce of self control not to throw yourself into his arms and beg him to hold you. To come back to you and make everything better.
Your ego wins the battle. He didn’t fight for you to stay and hasn’t fought to bring you back either. If anything, he’s proving he prefers being apart from you.
You’ll get there, with time. Hopefully.
You make it to your car and surprising to you, Steve jogs ahead of you to open your car door. You finally look up at him and see him already looking down at you – he has one hand clutched around the handle and the other resting atop the door.
It’s hard looking at him, especially doing something to gentle like opening your door for no reason. Based on the look in his eyes, you’re sure he can see the pain in your eyes.
“Thanks.” You mumble softly and slide into the seat. He doesn’t shut it right away, so you glance up at him.
He takes a deep breath and moves to stand between the car and the open door. Carefully, he bends down to kneel so he’s eye level with you.
Gently, he says your name. “I don’t want you to miss out on things because of me,” He says and your heart sinks.
“I’m not,” You say instinctively. It was a lie and he sees right through you.
“If you’re uncomfortable being around me, I’ll skip out on tonight,”
You sit up, ready to argue that it’s his house and they’re his friends – he shouldn’t have to worry about your feelings. It’s not his responsibility anymore.
But he continues before you have a chance.
“I can find something else to do, it’s really not a problem.”
You frown at his words and your mind immediately goes back to Stacey.
He didn’t say he’d try to be around you, or that he won’t let it get weird – he was offering to leave completely. Maybe this was his way of finding an excuse to go out with her.
Your eyes flick to his arm and you see the faint trace of her phone number still on his skin. He follows your gaze and drops his arm from where it rests on your door.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He says quickly, almost defensively.
Maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he did.
Truthfully, there was no way for you to know. And it wasn’t like you had the right to know either. He wasn’t yours anymore.
When you look back up at him, your face is blank, eyes void.
“You can do whatever you’d like, I won’t make it awkward.” You say simply and Steve’s eyes sadden.
He can tell exactly what you’re doing – steeling yourself off from him and he hates it.
Before he gets the chance, you turn away from him. After sliding the key into the ignition, your hands curl around the steering wheel and you look straight ahead. “I already promised Max and El. I don’t want to let them down,”
He looks at you while you avoid looking at him again. From beside you, you see him nod before standing upright and shutting your door softly.
You don’t waste a second before you’re peeling out of the lot and making your way home, all without even glancing at him again.
Whatever he chooses to do will be on him and has nothing to do with you.
You want to cry – you can feel it about to happen – but you’re so tired of it. Crying and wallowing hasn’t helped you these past few weeks and it’s not about to start now.
Even then, you’re debating just breaking your promise to the girls and staying home. At least then you wouldn’t know if Steve decides to stay home or go do whatever he has planned with whoever.
But you miss your friends, and you’re tired of sitting on Nancy’s couch alone all night and tormenting yourself with your own thoughts.
When you make it home – Nancy’s home – you drag yourself into her apartment and avoid all her questions about how your day was, how it was seeing Steve, if you’re okay.
You give short and simple answers, making sure to skip over the Stacey incident, and tell her you’re going to shower before you leave. She’s happy you’re at least going tonight.
By the time you finish, you showered and changed into more comfortable clothes. You managed to talk yourself off the metaphorical cliff – you’ll stay for one movie and drive separately so you can make an early escape.
You haven’t figured out a way to feel normal once you step back inside his house and when you park on the curb, that feeling of dread consumes you.
You turn the car off but stay sitting for a few seconds as you stare at the house. A month ago, it was your house – your home. Now you’re knocking for someone to let you in. It’s a saddening difference and it just makes you regret coming even more.
You’re five seconds from starting the car and leaving before Nancy knocks on your window, Jonathan next to her. She urges you to get out and you can see the look on her face – the one that’s reading into your every move and it’s obvious she’s worried.
So you gather your things and pull yourself together.
Robin is the one to let you guys in and you glance behind you to see if Steve’s car was in the driveway.
Relief sits heavy in your chest when you see the maroon car.
You follow behind Nancy wordlessly but when you see El peak her head around the corner, Mike lingering next to her, it’s hard to fight your smile – because you really did miss them.
She rushes to you, practically dragging you further into the house and to where she claimed her spot on the floor.
Max and Lucas have their own setup next to El and Mike’s and they’re completely engrossed in their own conversation. Dustin has taken over the recliner on the other side of the room, and Eddie takes the end of the couch closest to him.
Nancy and Jonathan settle into the longer couch, and Robin sits on the obnoxiously big beanbag chair she begged Steve to buy her for Christmas last year.
You still haven’t seen Steve, and you wonder if he did choose to skip out and hide in his room.
You take the chance to look further around the living room. It almost looks like nothing has changed. The furniture is still set up the same way, the color palette is still warm and full.
The posed family pictures he once had with his parents are still replaced with pictures of the group across the room. But when you continue looking around, your heart sinks.
Because all the pictures he had of just you and him are still there.
A picture of you and him at the beach sits on the coffee table. One of you two hugging at graduation hangs on the wall beside the TV. Another one of just you, smiling up at the camera at your birthday two years ago is sitting front and center on the fireplace.
Your throat burns and you feel it begin to tighten. You never really let yourself think of the possibility that he hasn’t moved on either. Leaving of group photos was one thing, but the ones of you both? The one of only you?
It’s all too much and it’s slowly breaking your resolve. It’s only proving the fact that the breakup was all for nothing and if you weren’t so damn prideful, you could’ve fixed it.
Suddenly, Steve emerges from the kitchen with his hands full. He’s holding three different bowls of popcorn and bags of chips and candy tucked into his arms.
Your eyes meet and for just a second, he halts. He looks surprised you actually showed and you don’t blame him. Still, he gives you a half smile and you try your best to mirror it.
Dustin jumps from his spot on the seat and makes grabby hands at the snacks Steve holds. Eddie leans up and helps pass them out and you watch Steve swat Dustin’s hands away as he tries to steal everything.
Beside you, El talks your ear off and you’re eager to welcome the distraction. Otherwise, you would’ve spent the whole night staring at Steve.
Before long, Robin starts the movie and Mike begins to argue with Dustin about being quiet. There’s bickering, and laughing, and food being thrown but it feels nice. Happy even.
Steve ends up settling almost directly behind you on the couch. His elbow sits on the arm rest to his left and your back is directly against the foot of the couch. His legs are almost touching your shoulder. Neither of you say anything.
But even though you’re having a good time and aren’t completely regretting coming, you’re painfully aware of how close Steve is. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the smell of his cologne is almost all you can focus on. Your hand twitches in your lap – begging you to hold onto his ankle and lean your head onto his thigh.
And as you watch the movie, your eyes keep finding the picture of you two at graduation. Steve has you pulled back into his chest, his arms iron clad around you. He’s resting his chin on your shoulder and you’re holding both your diplomas up at the camera. Your shared smiles gleam back at you and it’s enough to make you smile in real time.
It’s also enough to make you sad all over again.
Because it’s not your reality anymore, and you’re not sure it ever will be.
Somehow you end up staying through three movies. By the time credits roll on the last one, everyone is asleep. Mike’s leaning against the wall, his neck bent in a way that’ll leave him with a cramp in the morning, and El’s head resting in his lap.
Max and Lucas are sprawled along the floor across from them, one of his arms tucked under her head. Dustin has his face smushed into a pillow, one arm and one leg hanging off the side of the chair. Eddie is slumped beside him, drool pooling at his mouth.
Robin is curled into a ball on her beanbag chair, quietly snoring. Nancy and Jonathan are curled into each other on their side of the couch. You’re too scared to turn and look at Steve, but he hasn’t moved a muscle in an hour so you’re sure he’s asleep too.
It’s the perfect time to slip out undetected.
Carefully, you push yourself off the floor. It’s a mess around the room and even in a rush, you feel bad just leaving things the way they are. So you grab the bowls and snacks from the coffee table and move towards the kitchen.
“Let me help,”
Steve’s voice startles you so much that you drop the bags of candy to the floor, your palm covering your mouth to minimize the scream ready to slip out.
His eyes widen and he smiles. “Sorry, sorry,”
You exhale and it’s hard not to smile back.
He doesn’t look like he’d been asleep at all, which means he probably just sat there thinking the same thing you were. His hair is a little messy, a few pieces covering his forehead and you’re itching to fix it.
He leans down to pick up the bags and you go back to picking up the cups and bowls. You’re both careful not to wake anyone else as you carry everything to the kitchen.
It’s domestic – the way you fall back into rhythm of cleaning. Steve takes care of the dirty dishes and you begin putting the snacks back into the pantry.
When everything is cleaned, you’re unsure what to do next. At first, you figured you’d clean and leave without having to talk to anyone but now, you’re left alone with only him and he’s looking at you like that again and it’s hard to think properly.
You stand in the middle of the kitchen, facing each other. He has one hand resting on the counter, tapping his finger on the granite. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth.
“I, uh, I should go,” You finally say.
“You don’t have to,” He replies easily. “It’s late, you shouldn’t be driving right now,”
You glance at the clock on the stove and it reads back 2:19AM.
He was sweet for offering but it wasn’t far and the last thing you wanted was to prolong the inevitable awkwardness that would come in the morning.
Steve notices your apprehension easily. “You can take the guest room and leave first thing in the morning,”
Your head is screaming at you to say no thank you. To bid him a farewell and get home as quickly as possible. Your heart, however, is begging you to accept and take the chance to be close to him – even just for one night.
And you’re sick of sleeping on Nancy’s couch.
“Okay,” You nod.
His face lights up, a smile covering his mouth. “Okay.” He repeats.
Quietly, he shuts off the lights and TV before setting off upstairs. You follow behind him and when you make it down the hall, you both stop in front of his bedroom door. He turns around to face you.
“Uh, guest rooms right there,” He points at the door across the hall. “Bathroom is just down the hall. Second door on the -,”
“I know,” You cut him off and he nods quickly.
“Right, yeah. Of course,”
It’s awkward to say the least, but it’s not unkind. It’s nice to hear him talk again, even if it’s just telling you where things were.
You stare at each other for a moment. The clock in the hall ticks loudly and you wonder if he can hear how loud your heart is beating.
You break first. “Goodnight, Steve.”
He gives you a soft smile. “Goodnight.”
You enter the room and seconds later, hear his bedroom door click shut.
The guest bedroom is dull. There’s no pictures along the wall, only a painting of a red Cadillac from the 70s. There’s beige curtains covering the window and a matching beige bedspread on the mattress. There’s a small lamp on the bedside table and a desk on the opposite wall.
It’s a drastic contrast from Steve’s bedroom – especially after you helped get rid of his matching striped curtains and wallpaper.
It feels cold and lonely.
But you climb into bed anyway and do your best to stop thinking about how much better you’d sleep with him next to you.
On the other side of the wall, Steve lays on his own bed and feels the same way. His room hasn’t felt like his room since the day you left and now that he knows you’re so close, he’s using all his strength not to climb into bed with you.
He’s spent the last month trying to convince himself if he let you have some space, things would get better and you’d come back to him. To him, it was never a breakup – just a stupid stepping stone in your relationship.
But as the days passed, you pulled further away from him, and next thing he knew, the boys were coming over and packing up your things. He wanted to fight them on it, actually he tried – but then Mike said it was your idea and suddenly everything felt too real.
Maybe he fucked up so bad you were fed up. He thought about showing up to Nancy’s, thought about begging you to come home, but he didn’t want you to feel cornered. So he backed off.
But then he saw the way you reacted when you saw him with Stacey.
It’s not like it meant anything – it took her writing her number on him to realize she was flirting with him, all because he couldn’t stop staring at you. After he tried to talk to you about it, he spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to scrub it off his skin. And you saw the remnants stained onto his arm later that night.
He didn’t want you to feel jealous or upset over it, he didn’t plan on ever calling her, but a small part inside of him felt relieved you did feel like that. At least you still felt something for him.
And he knew what you were thinking all night as he watched your eyes filter back to the pictures of you two. He didn’t leave them up to prove something, he just couldn’t stand the thought of taking them down. You would always be his, no matter what.
Still, the argument escalated so quickly because of him and he had to make sure if – when – you came back to him, it was on your terms. He wouldn’t rush you.
So he offered the guest room and hoped that would be the first step into forgiveness.
It’s maybe an hour after he’s climbed into bed when he hears the faint sound of .. crying?
His ears perk up and he leans up on his elbows, turning his head towards the door. He listens for a moment but all he hears is the ticking of the clock.
He thinks he must have imagined it until he hears it again.
It’s still quiet, and easy to miss if he wasn’t already awake, but he can hear it – and it’s familiar.
It’s you.
It’s a cry he’s heard a hundred times over the years. It’s soft, and not the same one that comes from you during a sad movie - it’s fear.
He knows what’s causing it – your nightmares used to be overwhelming but ever since you moved in with him two years ago, they’ve become less frequent. Having him next to you was enough to tether you to reality and comfort you.
But now he hasn’t been there. Have you been dealing with them ever since you left? All the while he’s been making you feel like you should be gone.
His feet are moving before he even has a chance to think – like his body was made with a built in magnetic connected to you. He pulls his door open and pads directly across the hall to your door.
He presses his ear to the door and can hear your crying more clearly. They’re still quiet but they sound more intense now. His hand curls around the handle but then he hesitates.
Should he be the one to comfort you? Should he get Nancy to instead? Would you want him?
When he hears you cry out again, this time louder, he pushes the door open. The light from the hall shines through the doorway and he finds her curled in on yourself, sheets skewed across the bed. He can see you shivering, your brows pulled tight, creasing the beautiful skin of your forehead. He sees your skin is flushed red and your cheeks are stained with tears.
Guilt sits in his chest and without thinking, he’s climbing into bed with you. The mattress dips below his weight and he slides one arm under your head and pulls you from your fetal position so you’re facing him instead. He pulls you into his chest, an arm curled around your shoulders and the other cupping your cheek.
His warmth transfers to you, and as if you were searching for him the entire time, your body instantly relaxes in his hold. Your shaking stops, a soft sigh escapes past your lips, and your hand raises to clutch the fabric of his t-shirt.
You watches the way you bury your face into his chest, the crease between your brows disappears, and he hears the soft melody of your voice.
“Steve..” You don’t say his name as a question – he’s pretty sure you’re still not even awake. It’s relief. Even unconscious, you were given comfort again and you knew with absolute certainty, that comfort was him.
He feels his heart contract in his chest and he tightens his hold on you. “It’s me, baby,” He says softly, lips touching your hairline. “You’re safe, I got you.”
As he holds you in his arms, he knows without an ounce of doubt, he’s never letting go again. Nothing is completely fixed and won’t be overnight but when morning comes, he’s going to tell you exactly this.
He won’t ever let you forget how much he loves you.
When you wake up in the morning, you’re practically shackled to the bed by Steve’s arms. They’re wrapped tightly around your waist and his cheek is resting against the top of your head.
Confusion takes hold of you immediately, but you don’t pull away from his hold. If anything, you burrow yourself deeper into his head but it’s enough to make him stir and groan quietly.
Internally, you’re cursing at yourself for moving even an inch but then his hold tightens around you – if that was even possible. You can feel his head lift from where it rested atop of yours and you hold your breath.
“Hey, you awake?” His morning voice is gruff and it makes your stomach swirl. You hesitate for a second before giving him a timid nod.
“Mhm..”
He pulls his arms apart but only enough to spread his palms over your arms, his thumbs brushing back and forth over your skin.
Silence settles over the room, only the sound of your breathing and the sound of his heart beating in your ear. It feels normal again.
“You were having a nightmare,” Steve says suddenly and your stomach drops. “Last night. That’s why I came in,”
You sigh softly, eyes squeezing shut from embarrassment.
“I’m-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up,”
Steve shakes his head quickly. “No, don’t apologize. Seriously.” His tone leaves no room for arguing.
You’re both blanketed in silence again but for the first time in weeks, it’s not uncomfortable. The feeling of his arms around you again, your body tucked perfectly against his – it feels warm and safe and grounding.
“Thank you,” You say quietly, fingers tracing shapes over his shirt covered chest.
“You don’t need to thank me either, baby,”
The pet name slips out so casually and your heart splits in two, but you grip his shirt even tighter. Steve picks up on your reaction and gently cups your face, encouraging you to look up at him.
You’re more than sure you look disgusting – bags under your eyes, and they’re probably puffy from crying in your sleep, cheeks flushed pink, hair a tousled mess – but he doesn’t look at you like you do, even for a second.
Steve looks down at you like you hung the fucking moon and stars. It’s intense enough to have you nearly shying away but he holds you firmly in place.
“I’m sorry about everything,” He says and you blink up at him. “This past month without you has been fucking hell. And seeing you last night, I don’t ever want you to deal with that alone.”
Tears well in your eyes almost immediately and when one slips down your cheek, he swipes it away gently.
“I love you so much and I don’t want to spend even another second without –.” Steve makes a surprise sound when you cut him off by pressing your lips to his.
He recovers quickly, arms pulling you tighter into his chest and kissing you back just as hard. Every ounce of emotion you’ve kept bottled up are poured into this kiss and as he keeps kissing you, he’s gently wiping away the tears falling from your eyes.
When you finally pull away for air, you don’t go far – you rest your forehead against his and smile.
“I don’t want to be without you either.” You whisper softly.
Steve’s smile is bright and he quickly tosses you onto your back before he hovers over you, sweetly attacking your face with more kisses.
You’re giggling against him as his lips extend down to your neck and there’s not a doubt in your mind that you’ve ever been happier and as long as he’s right next to you, you always will be.
summary: you land back on the Tillman ranch due to your father's job, but you were unaware that this time around, certain events would change everything between you and Gator, the ragged county sheriff you’ve always had a soft spot for.
warnings/tags: reader is female, angst, a little smut (gator is drunk, reader kind of regrets it), cliffhanger, implied age gap, no use of y/n, not much else to say i don’t think.. gator is a little rough.
wc: 4.6k
em’s note: this is my first ever time writing a fic so i hope you guys like it! this is part 1 of 2 that i want to write. the next part being gator opening up to reader and her taking care of him as he navigates his new life. let me know if you guys enjoy this and i’ll definitely follow through with a second part! <3
Gator never had a good sense of what love was. His mother, to his knowledge, had abandoned him when he was a little boy. Left in her wake was his angry father, who Gator knew always had a distaste for him. Gator knew his relationship with his father wasn't one of love but one of use and hard work. Over the years, there were moments in his life where he was sure that whatever he had was truly it, true love. Moments where he'd stumbled upon a girl who threw herself at him and dropped her panties when he needed relief. But, later, he’d realized tight pussy gets loose the more you use it. “Love” for Gator Tillman always ran dry.
Gator had never considered you a possible source for love. Maybe it was because you seemed to be a ghost only ever drifting through his life, or maybe it was because you were utterly untouchable to him. Pure in a way he’d never known himself to be. You were like sunshine cast across white marble in his fucked up mind, full of bloodied bodies and bruises.
With the season, you’d sprinkled your way back into his life again. The season his father needed your own back on the ranch as a pair of extra hands. Your father had indefinitely warned you over the years to stay away from Gator. He was forbidden to you, dangerous, like hot fire burning in a pile of ash that was daring to be touched but felt far too warm to pursue the closer you got.
The second day after you moved back onto the ranch, you ran into him for the first time. You were in the main house's kitchen, prepping ingredients for dinner that night. A traditional girl, you always loved to help. To cook or to clean whenever possible.
“Well, if it ain't the little lady ‘er self. Heard ya might’ve been back ‘round here.” You turned your head to look at him, a stupidly soft smile crossing your lips at the sight, the sleeves of his shirt tightening around his biceps as he crossed his arms. “Gator.” Your voice is unwaveringly sweet as you acknowledge him.
He leaned against the frame of the doorway, the gold flecks in his eyes catching the light as they drifted down your white sundress before moving back up your body. He was looking at you as if you’d hung the moon. Then the expression in his eyes turned like he’d caught himself doing something he knew he shouldn’t. Even with his sudden shift of foreign awkwardness, you could feel your cheeks warm. Then, he was gone as soon as he’d come, leaving your next words to die on your tongue.
Gator ran a hand down his face as he exited the house. Did he seriously just check you out? It’s been a year since he’d seen you, but damn if you hadn’t filled out. Matured. You’ve become a woman, and suddenly his entire body tingles at the thought of getting closer to you. Thoughts of slipping off that pretty white dress and seeing all you had to offer under there infiltrating his brain.
From the kitchen, you heard the door of his patrol car open and close, the sound of tires crunching across gravel as he drove away. You reached up, pressing the backs of your hands to your cheeks, unbelievably warm with blush.
The truth was, you'd always had an eye on Gator. Always wanted to just reach out and wrap your arms around his neck, stand on your tippy toes so your nose brushed with his. He was strong with broad shoulders. He has those eyes that are capable of softening so much that it was a breeze for him to get whatever he wanted. Those moles and freckles that littered his body were always something unforgettable to you. You'd spent many nights thinking about whether you could ever get close enough to try and count them all.
But, under all of that;
You knew what he'd gone through. Your father had told you along with all his other relentless warnings. But to you, Gator was misunderstood. He had been misled his entire life. He knew nothing but what his daddy had taught him, which included nothing but hatred, cold shoulders, a sharp set jaw, and the mindset to do now and just maybe… think later.
It took a minute for you to come back into your own body, to feel grounded again after just a few words from Gator and his sharp eyes directed towards you. That moment, right then, your bare feet against the cool hardwood floor, is when you decided;
You were going to do any and everything you could to make Gator Tillman see how much love you could give him and just how much of it he was worthy of.
You would make him see that he was more than the scoreboard his father placed him on. More than a cold, empty bed or clothes discarded on the floor after a night out at the bar. You were going to give him everything he deserved and more.
That night you helped serve dinner, feeding Roy's staff in complete around the long dinner table. You felt Gator's eyes on you the entire time. A burning gaze from across the room that only ever seized when you looked in his direction. Dinner passed; it was late when you were working on the dishes, cleaning up the mess left behind. Your help, Roy’s wife Karen, had stepped out to put her girls to bed.
You stood at the sink alone, washing a pan, when he came in. He headed straight for the fridge on an important mission to grab a beer. “You left quick this morning...” He turned his head a fraction as he opened the bottle and moved it up to his lips. “Hm?” You dry your hands, turning to him. “I can send you with breakfast in the mornings, you know? Lunch too if you’d like.”
He looked at you like you were something foreign, like he didn't understand why you'd want to do something like that. “Aint gotta do ‘al that darlin’, I'm jus fine.” His voice was stern, but his words and his tone betrayed his actions as he stepped closer to you. Truth was, Gator's brain and heart were in a long, drawn-out battle that he'd been fighting all day. Thoughts of you and that damn dress that still clung to your hips now had plagued him as he sat in his patrol car off the highway.
“It's a shame for you to be working hungry, Gator.” He huffs now at your sugary tone, “Don't you go worryin’ ‘bout me. Don’t need ‘al that. ‘M jus fine. You take care of your job here.” Then he was gone, out of the kitchen door like he hadn't cared a bit. It stung, like a wound that was deep subcutaneous, stung to be rejected so quickly without a second thought by someone you wanted to help. You were just being nice, that's how you wanted him to see it. But it seemed to him like he knew it was more than that, more in a way that he hadn't been accustomed to.
That was the truth, the reason why Gator turned you down with that sharp tone of his so quickly. No one cooked just for him, no one packed him lunches. Shit, that was something a mother does for her child. Packed lunch was full of words that washed up to “I'll take care of you.” No one took care of Gator Tillman; he wasn't a child. He had himself, and he damn well knew what he needed without anyone else's help.
Hours passed after the kitchen was cleaned. The main house had been clearing out for the last hour or so. Now that it was finally empty, except for you, Karen and Roy headed upstairs to their bedroom. You couldn’t help the way your eyes trailed to Gator, the way he was slumped back into the cushions of the couch, one leg crossed over his thigh with his beer bottle held lazily in his hand.
“What ‘cha lookin’ at over there, little lady?” Your cheeks got so warm you could feel the heat radiating off them. You just knew you were incredibly red.
“Nothing, Gate…” He huffed, “Don’t give me that bull. Talk to me, mama.”
“Gator, I think you’re a little drunk.”
“Ain’t, fuckin’ drunk. Tha hell ya talkin’ ‘bout woman?” And then he uncrossed his leg, boot settling flat on the floor. He pat his lap. “C’mere.”
You hesitated.
“Know yer lookin’ at me, you have been since you showed up. So, c’mere.” You could say the same about him.
Your feet were carrying you before you could think a second thought. When you settled in his lap, he immediately moved you so that you were straddling him. You could smell the alcohol on his breath.
God, you knew what this was. He was tipsy. He was pent up. Yet, he had said himself earlier that he didn’t need you. You were just supposed to do your job.
“Pisses me off how damn pretty you are. Ain’t right, me feelin’ this way ‘bout you. Wantin’ you so bad.” His fingers dug into your hips.
“Gator, I-“
Before you could finish, his mouth was on yours, all warm and booze ridden. You couldn’t say no. How could you? You wanted him just as much. So, you kissed him back. Arms slotting around his neck like you’d always dreamt of, your nose brushing his.
He had you laid down within a minute, hands sliding under your dress. Your mind was undoubtedly moving 1000 miles a minute. This isn’t what you had planned for. You wanted to show Gator real love, something more than this, show him that everything he knew wasn’t everything there was to know. But now that you were here, mouth against his and his hands touching your body, you couldn’t stop. You didn’t ever want it to stop.
You pawed at him, feeling his chest and torso. Part of you just wanted to make sure this was real. By the time you both stripped each other of your clothes, your brain had practically melted.
“Fuck- yer gorgeous. Look at ya.” He groped your chest, hands running down your tummy all the way to your thighs, spreading them open. He coated his length in your slick then covered your mouth as he pushed into you. Your hands moving to his biceps, nails digging in.
He felt like nothing you'd ever known before. Just like heaven.
Gator made you come twice before he finally spilled inside of you. His hand was damp from your mewls because he had covered your mouth the entire time. He had to conceal all the moans of pleaure you made, all the times you said his name. Your chest was heaving when he pulled out of you.
He brushed your hair away from your face. Gator Tillman’s eyes in this very moment were the softest they’d ever been. When he recognized this surge, he felt as if it was love, he started to slowly back away.
He grabbed his pants and began redressing himself. When he found his shirt on the floor, he lazily wiped you up. He grabbed your dress, helping to pull it back over your body. Somehow, your panties had miraculously disappeared in his efforts to dress you.
“Get yer pretty ass home. S’late.”
“But, Gate…” He sighed at you. “Go on, be a good girl and listen ta me.”
If you were being truthful, you couldn’t read his expression; his tone was incredibly even after what just happened.
You hesitantly trudged out of the house, going to where you were staying on the farm. When you reached your room and sat down on your bed, the contemplation began.
What you had with Gator was supposed to amount to more than this. You’d never planned to have sex with him. You wanted to show him that you were different, that he could have more than that. Why’d you give in so easily?
You couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing you as just another slut that he could get his dick wet with. You’d fix this tomorrow, get back on track. You’d show him that what you want with him is way more than what just occurred.
The next morning, he never came into the kitchen like you'd been hoping he would. You hoped that he'd come in, kiss your cheek, and say that he’d changed his mind and that he wanted you to make him lunch for work. You wanted to be able to tell him that when he got home later, you wanted to talk. But you heard the front door open and close, the sound of his patrol car start, the tires crunching against gravel, and there you were, left standing alone in the kitchen.
You checked the time; maybe he was running late? No, he was early. Why the hell was he avoiding you? Were you not good enough last night? Had you done something wrong? Maybe he just got called into the station and had to run out… But he still could’ve said something, anything. Did last night mean nothing to him?
That one hurt. You had to quiet your brain before you could spiral any further. If he wanted to avoid you, then you'd just do the work yourself. You’d make him see just how good you could be.
You made your way up the creaky stairs of the old farmhouse, pushing open the door to the room you knew to be Gator's. You knew it was his all because of the one night Roy had sent you up to grab Gator for him; they had had something awfully important to get done for some reason. When you pushed open the door, you were met with the semi-familiar sight.
Not one you loved, truthfully, with the half-naked women plastered on the walls and the handcuffs around the post of his headboard, you just knew what he used them for. The knowledge made a pit whirl in your stomach. You were not stupid. Your heart pounded suddenly, like you were someplace you knew you weren’t supposed to be.
There were beer bottles scattered across his nightstand and clothes thrown around as if he'd rummaged through everything to find something very specific before he'd left. You started like it was instinct, scooping his laundry basket under your arm and beginning to pick up the clothes that were all around his room. Once the basket was full, you made your way downstairs to start washing. You wanted everything to be perfect for Gator when he came home from his shift; a nice, clean, and tidy space for him to decompress.
When Gator came home that afternoon, he avoided you once more as you sat on the couch in the living area. You kept your eyes fixated on the TV as he went straight up to his room. A smile crept onto your lips as his presence drifted through the house, it was stupid really, he was avoiding you yet you were still giddy at his presence. The smile quickly faded when you heard his door slam shut and his boots thump back down the stairs almost as quickly as they had ascended up.
“Who the hell was in my room?” His voice boomed through the living area as he reached the bottom of the stairs. When your eyes landed on his, you couldn’t believe how genuinely furious he looked. Jaw set, shoulders stiff, and eyes dark with unmistakable anger. Before you can open your mouth, he’s already crossed the room. Right in your face.
“I told ya to back the fuck off!” ..Back off? The conversation you’d had yesterday morning? Was he pretending last night never happened?
He raised his voice and you broke. Broke like a glass window pane that had been rattled too harshly by a storm. “Gator… I- a-all I did was your laundry.” Tears trickled down your cheeks now. “I washed it and folded it up and-“
He grabs your chin between his thumb and pointer, forcing your head up so you’d really look at him. “Don’t start tryin’ ta crawl your damn way in ta my life. Ya hear me?” His face is painfully close to yours. So close you can feel his breath fan across your lips. “Y-yes… I’m sorry, Gator.” You’re already hiccuping softly.
When he let go of you, it wasn’t without force, yanking his hand away so hard it pushed your head back at the same time. “Stay tha fuck out.” His boots stomped up the stairs, and after his door slammed closed in finality, the house felt painfully stiff. Quiet. Not a creek or groan from any of the old wood. Not even the mumble of the TV was present in your mind as you sat there on the couch in the aftermath of Gator’s tantrum.
Had you really done something so wrong? He had fresh clothes now that you’d picked up and washed his messy tornado of a room. You were nothing but confused, sniffling on the now gowingly uncomfortable sofa. As you got up and left, going back to the little barn house you were staying in at the ranch with your family, Gator was up in his room huffing resentfully.
Gator was scared; he knew it just like he knew the cold of his gun when his finger wrapped around the metal trigger. He was scared of letting someone in who cared so deeply for him. Someone who wanted to take care of him without any benefit to themself. Gator being taken care of was something so unbelievably foreign that he just couldn't fathom it.
He had been raised his whole life with the idea that he had to be absolutely nothing but strong. His father constantly drilled masculine ideology into his head. He needed to stand his own, conceal his emotions, focus on his work, and serve his community like the good American boy he was. He didn't have time for a relationship that was anything other than a quickie, which relieved the stress that had built up from his work.
Gator always wanted to be good. However, the expectations he had on his shoulders were greater than that. That's why when his dad called him at midnight, he didn't hesitate to push everything down, step into his boots, and grab his gun.
You make it back to the little house your family was staying in and pushed open the door. As soon as your father saw your face, he was up and across the room, examining you. “What happened? Who was it? What’s going on?” You couldn’t do anything but cry, then his grip on your shoulders tightened. “Was it Gator?” His voice was stern as ever.
How’d he even tell?
Before you could answer, he was out the door and making his way towards Roy’s before your mouth even attempted to open. You went after him, god forbid things between you and Gator got worse. When he got to the house, he was met with emptiness. Gator was gone. So was Roy.
And that was that. There was nothing that could be done. You signed a breath of relief, your tears drying and your breath only slightly shaking now. Your father hadn’t gone and ripped everything apart; it was still fixable. What you didn’t know is that “fixable” was out of sight. This was the start of not seeing Gator for a while.
It was odd for you to stand in the main house's kitchen during the morning hours and not hear Gator leave for work. You weren’t really sure what you were even doing. Roy wasn’t around, and Karen had fed her girls. What were you supposed to do?
Overthink.
Had Gator left for work early in an elaborate scheme to avoid you further than before? Did he absolutely hate your guts? Was he disgusted by the thought of you? Is that why he wants you to stay away from him so badly… were you really that terrible?
You spent the whole day spiraling in your own thoughts so much so that by the time it hit dusk and Gator still was nowhere to be seen, you almost didn’t register it.
Didn’t register until Roy came in. He seemed pissed, slamming the door, yanking off his coat. He made his way straight to his office and locked the door. That’s when it hit. Where was Gator?
When Roy came out, he had only acknowledged Karen, informing her he was calling it an early night and that tomorrow would be a big day.
Big day? And what did he mean he was heading to bed? Didn’t he think about where his son may be? What if he was hurt?
“Karen.. um- do you know what he means? Big day?” Your voice is almost tiny; if Roy heard you prying, he’d surely kick you out. She turned to you, and you could tell her words were true by the expression on her face, “He doesn’t tell me things.” She almost scoffed.
“I haven’t seen Gator since yesterday afternoon...” She looked at you, puzzled now. “So?” Oh. “N-nothing, it’s nothing, I’m sure.” Even your own voice wasn’t convincing enough to yourself.
Unbelievable. Did no one care about him?
You couldn’t fall asleep when it came time for you to get some rest that night. All you could do was lie awake and think about Gator. You could only listen for his patrol car to drive across the gravel and announce that he was home.
You got up to get some water from the little kitchen in the little house where your family was staying, searching for anything to calm or distract your mind. Your dad was rounding the corner of the doorway when you were still only just reaching for a glass.
“Can’t sleep, can you?” You jumped a little, even though his voice was hushed so as to not wake your mom. “How can you tell...” He sighs, “You’ve been a nervous wreck all day, honey. What’s going on?”
You mull over your options here, talk to your dad about Gator, and risk a lecture, or talk to your dad about Gator and convince him to actually do something.
“It’s Gator, dad… He’s practically missing, and no one cares.” You sound exasperated. That doesn’t stop his protectiveness and his strict tone. “I just knew it was him you’ve been so upset about. I told you not to be getting involved with him.”
“Dad, I’m not 'involved' with him. God, this is unbelievable.”
“I am just saying, you’re worrying yourself sick, and for what, honey? You should know by now that Gator is unpredictable. He probably found some woman out at a bar and is staying with her. That’s what he does. That's his nature.”
His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You felt sick. Gator blowing up at you, avoiding you to go out with another woman who was most definitely in his pants quicker than he could probably even open his mouth. All while you were here. Waiting for him. “Dad- Don’t-“
“I’ve warned you about what kind of man he is, honey. He doesn’t stick around. And the only person he’s loyal to is his father.”
“Just leave me alone.”
You went out to the porch to sit. You needed fresh air and silence. You sat out there all night. Even when the sun started to rise in the sky, Gator still never showed back up to the ranch.
Your eyes were starting to droop when you heard Roy. He came out of the main house, dressed and ready for the day. You watched as he walked towards the back of the ranch, where the barn and another shack sat. You could’ve sworn you heard the voice of a woman yell when the door opened to the shack. Maybe you were just exhausted.
The day spiraled quicker than anything you'd ever seen before. It all started with one gunshot. After that, the noise was endless. It seemed everyone was scrambling, as if they had a role in what was happening, they knew exactly what to do. But you had no idea what this meant.
Soon enough, you found out. Your dad pulled you inside. He looked frantic, sweat sheened across his forehead. He set his hands on your shoulders.
“Are you listening to me? You need to pack your stuff. We have to go.”
“Dad, what’s going on?”
“Sweetheart, I am so sorry for bringing you here.”
All the color drained from your face, and your body felt numb. “What?” Your voice broke.
“Sweetheart, Roy Tillman is a bad, bad man.” He pauses, then, “I should’ve never stayed for the money.” His voice was quieter, almost like he was talking to himself.
“I don’t understand-“
He said your name to get you to really listen. “Roy’s really messed up this time. I know all these years I have warned you about Gator, but it’s always been so much more than that. Roy, he- he does more shit than the town paper covers. God… he’s kidnapped his ex-wife, Nadine. The FBI is on its way, there have been killings- We have to go.”
Your blood ran cold. Kidnapped? Killings? FBI? …Gator.
“Dad- No.” “Dad, where is Gator? We have to find Gator.” You immediately tried to move away, but he held you tighter. “Honey, no. Don’t you dare. If you go out there, there’s no telling if you’ll come back. There are dangerous people out there.”
“No! Gator is missing! And then you tell me this?!? What if he’s dead, Dad?” The tears start flowing relentlessly. You’re shaking, growing snotty. You’ve never been more terrified in your entire life. You couldn’t bear the thought of Gator dying at the hand of his father, who he’d done his all for his entire life.
“I’m going. I have to find him.” Your hand touched the doorknob, and three shots fired. After you flung open the door, you were met with a strange quietness across the ranch. It almost felt like finality. The end of something that you weren’t even familiar with.
Roy was caught, handcuffed, and shoved into the back of a cop car. After that, the clip of handcuffs never seemed to end. Surely they’d eventually run out of pairs.
You made your way through crowds, and burly men tried their best to get you to stop. You weren’t going to. Not until you found Gator. It wasn’t until you asked an unfamiliar blonde woman about him that you finally got an answer. She pointed to an ambulance; the look on her face was one that ignited a new sense of urgent fear within you.
You practically ran toward the direction of the ambulance, the gravel crunching beneath your feet.
You came to a dead stop when you saw him. White sterile bandage around his eyes, hair messy, shoulders slumped. All alone on the gurney outside the ambulance.
Hurting and alone is how Gator had spent his entire life. Tears immediately trickled down your cheeks. Your body willed your feet forward, though your heart was terrified.
When you reached him, you didn’t even have to open your mouth. Gator whispered your name. He’d somehow known it was you just by your presence. He reached out, wanting to feel you. You took his hand, fingers lacing with his.
Gator Tillman softened like he never had in his entire life. He knew now he needed you more than ever.
Your voice was the sweetest thing he thought he’d ever heard; “Gator… what happened?”
thank you for reading <3 feedback and reposts are appreciated!
Pairing: Joel Miller / f!Reader (reader is a lawyer, minimal physical description).
Story rating: E (+18).
Chapter tags/warnings: No outbreak AU. Fluff.
Chapter word count: 7.9k words.
Joel woke before the sun had fully pushed through the blinds, the bedroom still wrapped in that soft gray light that belonged to early hours. For a moment he didn’t move. Didn’t even open his eyes all the way. He just breathed.
You were still asleep against him. Your back rested against his chest, one of his arms wrapped around your waist the way it almost always ended up during the night. Somewhere in the dark hours you’d shifted until you’d tucked into him without either of you really waking. Your hand rested loosely over his forearm now, fingers curled there like you’d claimed it in your sleep.
Joel stayed still, careful not to wake you. The room was quiet except for the slow rhythm of your breathing.
He hadn’t realized how tightly something had been wound inside him these past few days until this moment; until he woke up and felt… calm. Not the fragile calm of pretending nothing had happened. The real kind. The kind that came after everything had been said out loud.
Joel lowered his head slightly, his nose brushing the back of your hair. It still smelled faintly like the shampoo you liked, something light and clean he could never name.
He pressed a small kiss there without thinking. You shifted a little at the touch but didn’t wake. Just made a soft sound and settled deeper into him. Joel’s hand tightened gently around your waist.
A few days ago he’d been terrified he’d lose this. Lose you. Joel exhaled slowly and looked at the ceiling.
That fight had ripped something open between you. But what came after… had put it back together differently. Better. Nothing was hidden now. Not the fear. Not the love. Not the way you’d looked at him when he said the words he almost never said.
He shifted slightly so he could see your face. Your cheek rested against the pillow, hair half fallen across your face, lips parted slightly in sleep. Peaceful.
Joel studied you for a moment. It still hit him sometimes, sudden and quiet, that you were here. In his bed. In his life. In the middle of the everyday chaos that used to belong just to him and Sarah. And somehow you fit there like you’d always been meant to.
His thumb brushed lightly along your side through the sheet. You stirred again. This time your eyes opened slowly. You blinked once, clearly still halfway asleep. Then you looked up at him.
For a second you just watched him. Then the corner of your mouth lifted.
“Morning,” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
Joel felt something in his chest loosen again.
“Mornin’.”
You stretched a little, shifting closer instead of away, your leg sliding over his like you had no intention of getting up anytime soon.
Joel chuckled quietly.
“You got about thirty minutes before Sarah starts knockin’.”
Juliet groaned softly into his chest.
“Five more minutes.”
Joel smiled against your hair. He could give you five. Hell. He could give you anything.
The rest of Friday unfolded the way most days did in that house. Loud. Busy. And somehow slightly out of control.
Joel drove Sarah to school, the kid talking nearly the entire way there, more than half of it about the elaborate plans you and her had apparently been making for what she had officially declared Girls’ Weekend. By the time he dropped her off she had outlined menus, movie options, sleeping arrangements, and a blanket fort strategy that sounded suspiciously like military logistics. Joel had just nodded through most of it.
By the time he got to the job site Tommy was already there. And if Sarah had been excited about the weekend, Tommy was somehow worse.
Joel had barely stepped out of the truck before his brother started in.
“You seen the pictures I sent you of that place again?” Tommy asked, holding his phone out like Joel hadn’t already looked at them five times the night before.
“Yeah,” Joel said, grabbing his tool belt from the seat.
“Whole damn lake to ourselves,” Tommy continued. “Deck right over the water. Guy says the bass out there are huge.”
Joel slung the belt around his waist.
“You said that yesterday.”
“Yeah but now it’s Friday,” Tommy said like that explained everything.
Joel just shook his head and went to work.
The day passed the way workdays usually did, sawdust, noise, measurements shouted across half-built frames, but Tommy stayed in a mood that hovered somewhere between excitement and barely contained impatience. Like a puppy.
Every couple of hours he’d mention the cabin again. The lake. The boat. The fish. Joel figured if the trip didn’t happen Tommy might actually explode.
By the time they got back to the house a little after lunch the place was already buzzing again. Sarah was home from school and talking at the speed of light.
“…and Juliet said Wendy might bring her dog but only if it doesn’t chew the couch again and we’re gonna make pancakes tomorrow but I’m flipping them this time because last time she burned them and-”
Joel set his keys on the counter.
“Kid.”
She didn’t stop.
“-and we’re ordering pizza tonight and Juliet said maybe we’ll make brownies too-”
“Sarah.”
She inhaled dramatically.
Joel nodded.
“Good. Keep doin’ that.”
Tommy was already laughing.
You were somewhere upstairs finishing a call, your voice drifting faintly through the ceiling while you moved from room to room.
Joel leaned against the counter for a second, watching the scene unfold. It was chaos. But it was the comfortable kind.
After lunch he and Tommy started loading the truck. Or at least they tried to. Sarah insisted on helping, which mostly meant she followed them back and forth across the driveway narrating her weekend plans in increasingly elaborate detail while Joel double-checked the gear.
Fishing rods. Cooler. Tackle box.
Tommy carried things out of the garage two at a time, looking like a kid about to go to summer camp.
Sarah hovered nearby the entire time.
“…and tomorrow we’re making pancakes and then we’re sleeping in dad’s room and Juliet said we can move the table outside if it’s not too cold and-”
Joel tightened the strap over the cooler. Again.
Tommy leaned against the truck watching him.
“You interrogatin’ that thing?”
Joel gave the strap one last tug.
“Making sure it stays put.”
Sarah was still talking.
“-and we’re watching movies but not sad ones because last time with the dog movie everyone cried and-”
Tommy leaned down toward her.
“Important question.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“What.”
“You got snacks?”
She pointed at the house without missing a beat.
“Pizza. And popcorn.”
Tommy nodded approvingly.
“Excellent.”
Joel shut the tailgate with a solid metallic thunk.
And that was about the moment you stepped out of the house. Phone to your ear. Already sounding like someone somewhere had made a very poor decision.
“…No, that’s not what the statute says.”
You crossed the driveway without looking at them. Then you stopped.
“…Oh, you did not just say that.”
Joel leaned back against the truck.
Tommy murmured beside him, “Here we go.”
You tilted your head, listening.
“Did you pay someone to pass the freaking bar, or are you just that stupid?”
Tommy bent over laughing. You didn’t even wait for the reply.
“…Yeah. That’s what I thought.” You sighed. “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”
You slipped the phone into your pocket and finally looked up. Sarah was watching you like she’d just witnessed a magic trick. Then the kid leaned toward Joel with a mischievous grin.
“Well.”
Joel raised an eyebrow. Sarah crossed her arms.
“Now she’s all mine for the whole weekend.”
Joel looked between her and the house.
“Hey,” he said. “Am I a bother for you two or what?”
Sarah considered that very seriously.
“…Maybe.”
Tommy snorted.
“Kid’s honest. Gotta respect that.”
Joel gave him a look.
Tommy shrugged.
“What? I’ve seen how you hover.”
You had reached them by then and glanced between the three of them.
“…Should I be worried about this weekend?”
Tommy grinned.
“Only if you like quiet houses.”
Joel shut the tailgate with a solid thunk.
Then he looked at you.
“So,” you said. “You’re really going.”
Joel nodded once.
“Yeah.”
Tommy leaned against the truck, still smiling. “Look who finally decided to trust the rest of us.” And then he leaned his elbow on the roof of the truck and watched the scene unfold like he’d bought tickets.
Sarah stood next to him, already suspicious.
Joel shifted his weight.
“You sure you two got everything handled?” he asked you.
You tilted your head slightly.
“I managed to survive before you, you know.”
Tommy muttered, “Barely.”
Joel shot him a look.
You stepped closer. Close enough now that Joel automatically rested his hands on your hips, like that was simply where they belonged.
Sarah made a loud gagging noise.
“Oh come on.”
Tommy nodded solemnly.
“Yeah this is getting hard to watch.”
Joel ignored both of them.
“You call if anything comes up,” he said quietly to you.
“Joel.”
“I mean it.”
You smiled faintly.
“We’ll be fine.”
Joel studied your face a moment longer. Then he leaned down and kissed you. Slow. Certain. Not even slightly embarrassed.
Sarah covered her face with both hands.
“OH MY GOD.”
Joel pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You behave,” he murmured.
You raised an eyebrow.
“I think I should be the one saying that to you guys.”
Tommy made another gagging noise over his shoulder.
Sarah peeked between her fingers.
“Are you done yet??”
Joel stepped back toward the truck.
You caught his sleeve briefly before he could turn away. He looked down.
You leaned up and kissed him again, quick this time, but deliberate. Then you released him.
“Drive safe,” you said.
Tommy climbed into the passenger seat and shook his head.
“Disgusting.”
Sarah added helpfully:
“Very.”
Joel just snorted and got behind the wheel. But he was still smiling.
The truck rumbled to life. Joel backed slowly out of the driveway while you and Sarah stood on the porch watching, waving goodbye.
Tommy leaned halfway out the window.
“Don’t burn the house down!” he called.
Sarah shouted back immediately.
“Don’t fall in the lake!”
“Rude,” Tommy muttered, pulling back inside.
Joel turned onto the street, the house disappearing behind them.
For a while, neither of them said anything. Tommy reached over and turned the radio knob. Static. More static. A burst of country music. He left it there.
Joel drove. Hands steady on the wheel.
A few blocks passed before Tommy leaned back in his seat and glanced over at him.
“You know you’re whipped, right?”
Joel didn’t even look at him.
“Shut up.”
Tommy grinned.
“I’m serious.”
Joel kept his eyes on the road.
“You seen the way you look at her?”
Joel snorted quietly.
“You seen the way you run your mouth?”
Tommy shrugged.
“Just making an observation.”
Another stretch of road passed. Then Tommy added, casually:
“That kiss though.”
Joel groaned.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Tommy continued, enjoying himself. “Kid and I nearly lost our lunch.”
Joel shook his head.
“You’re both dramatic.”
Tommy leaned his elbow on the window.
“Nope.”
He got silent for like two seconds and then added:
“That was romantic as hell.”
Joel shot him a look.
“You say that again and I’m turnin’ this truck around.”
Tommy raised both hands in surrender.
“Alright, alright.”
Silence settled again for a moment.
Outside the city started thinning out, houses giving way to wider roads and open stretches of land. Tommy watched the road ahead.
“You did good, you know.”
Joel glanced over.
“With what.”
Tommy nodded vaguely back toward Austin.
“With her.”
Joel didn’t answer right away. He kept driving. But after a second he said:
“…Yeah, I know.”
Tommy leaned back, satisfied.
The truck rolled on toward the highway. And for the first time in a long while, the quiet between the two brothers didn’t feel heavy. It felt easy.
***************
The drive took longer than it should have. Not because of traffic, oh no… Because Tommy wouldn’t stop asking him to pull over.
“Joel. Joel-slow down.”
“I’m not slowin’ down.”
“Just a minute. Look at that.”
Joel glanced over.
“What.”
Tommy was pointing at the horizon like he’d just discovered a new continent.
“The light.”
Joel kept driving.
“It’s the sun.”
“Yeah but look at it.”
Joel sighed and eased the truck onto the gravel shoulder.
Tommy was already halfway out the door.
“Don’t go far,” Joel called, like he did with Sarah.
“I won’t.”
Tommy walked a few yards into the tall grass, phone out, taking pictures like a tourist.
Joel leaned back in his seat and watched him through the windshield. His brother had been out of rehab barely a few weeks. And here he was, standing in the middle of a field, arguing with the sunset. Looking… refreshed. Joel shook his head and smiled.
They got back on the road. Twenty minutes later Tommy asked him to stop again.
“Joel-look at that lake.”
“We’re going to a lake.”
“Yeah but this one’s shiny.”
“Every lake is shiny.”
Tommy grinned.
“Still worth a picture.”
By the third stop Joel didn’t even argue. He just pulled over.
The highway gave way to smaller roads. Then smaller ones. Eventually the pavement disappeared entirely, replaced by a narrow dirt road winding through tall trees.
Tommy sat forward in his seat now.
“This has to be it.”
Joel slowed the truck. The road curved once more and then the trees opened up. And there it was.
The cabin sat right at the edge of the water, half-hidden by tall pines, a wide wooden deck stretching out toward the lake like someone had built it just to watch the sun set.
The water was calm. Glass-smooth.
The only sound was the truck engine rumbling softly as Joel rolled to a stop.
Tommy stared.
“…Well damn.”
Joel killed the engine. Then Tommy opened the door and stepped out slowly, turning in a slow circle like he couldn’t quite believe it.
“You see this?”
Joel climbed out and shut the door.
“Yeah.”
Tommy walked down toward the dock. The boards creaked under his boots.
The lake stretched out in front of them, quiet and wide, the late afternoon light reflecting off the surface.
Tommy looked back at him.
“You realize,” he said, “if the fish here are even half as good as my buddy claims…”
Joel leaned against the truck.
“…we’re never leaving.”
Tommy grinned.
“Exactly.”
A breeze moved across the water. Somewhere deeper in the trees a bird called out. Joel took a slow breath.
The air smelled like pine and lake water. And quiet. Real quiet. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that.
Tommy clapped his hands once.
“Alright.” He turned toward the cabin. “Let’s see the inside.”
Joel grabbed the cooler from the truck bed. Then followed him up the path.
Tommy reached the porch first. The boards creaked under his boots as he pushed the door open. Joel followed him in with the cooler.
The place was bigger than it looked from the outside. High wooden ceiling. A stone fireplace that took up nearly half one wall. Big windows looking straight out over the lake. A worn leather couch that had clearly survived a couple decades of fishermen collapsing into it.
Tommy let out a low whistle.
“…Okay.”
Joel set the cooler down near the kitchen counter and looked around slowly. The place smelled like cedar and lake water. A small kitchen sat to one side, simple but clean. Two bedrooms down a short hallway. A rack by the door already holding a couple fishing rods.
Tommy walked straight to the windows.
“Joel, look at this.”
Joel stepped over beside him. The lake stretched out like a sheet of dark glass, the late sun dipping lower behind the trees.
“…Not bad,” he admitted.
Tommy grinned.
“Not bad?” He gestured dramatically. “This is heaven.”
Joel snorted softly and pulled his phone out of his pocket. No notifications. He slid it back in.
Tommy noticed.
“Relax,” he said. “They’re fine.”
“I know.”
Joel wandered down the hallway, pushing open the bedroom doors. One had two small beds and a dresser. The other had a larger bed, an old quilt folded neatly across it.
“Guess we’re sharin’ a bathroom like civilized people,” Tommy called from the living room.
Joel leaned against the doorframe.
“We survived worse.”
Tommy chuckled.
Joel checked his phone again. Still nothing. He frowned slightly, thumb hovering for a second like he might call. Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Tommy watched him from the couch.
“You’re doin’ it again.”
Joel glanced over.
“Doin’ what.”
“Checkin’ your phone like a teenager with a crush.”
Joel rolled his eyes.
“Shut up.”
Tommy just grinned.
Joel walked back toward the kitchen, opening a cabinet. Plates. Another cabinet. Coffee mugs.
“…They got coffee,” he muttered.
“Well now we’re definitely stayin’.”
Joel’s phone buzzed. Both of them looked down immediately. Joel pulled it out.
It was you. He opened the message.
A photo filled the screen. You and Sarah were sprawled across the living room couch back home, a giant bowl of popcorn between you. Sarah was mid-laugh, clearly saying something ridiculous. You looked relaxed in that way you only did at home. A blanket covered both of them. The TV glow lit the room.
Under the photo you had written:
Movie night. She picked something with dragons. We’ve already eaten half the popcorn. The house is still standing.
A second message followed.
Stop checking your phone and enjoy the lake.
Joel stared at the screen for a second. Then he snorted.
Tommy leaned over.
“What.”
Joel turned the phone so he could see.
Tommy studied the photo.
“…Wow.”
“What.”
“She already figured you out.”
Joel shook his head, smiling despite himself.
“Smart woman.”
He typed back quickly.
Looks like trouble.
A few seconds passed. Then you replied:
Always.
Joel slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Tommy watched him.
“You didn’t call.”
Joel shrugged lightly.
“Nope.”
Tommy nodded once.
“…Good.”
Joel slid the phone back into his pocket.
For a moment neither of them said anything. Then Joel grabbed the cooler again, dug around inside it, and pulled out two cans. He tossed one to Tommy.
Tommy caught it midair. He looked at the label and snorted.
“Root beer.”
Joel shrugged.
Tommy popped it open.
“Thoughtful.”
They stepped out onto the deck. The boards were warm from the afternoon sun. A couple old wooden chairs sat facing the lake like they’d been there for years. Joel dropped into one of them with a quiet grunt.
Tommy leaned on the railing for a moment before sitting in the other chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.
The lake had gone quiet. Completely still. The kind of quiet you only got far away from roads and houses and people.
They both took a sip from their cans. For a while they just sat there.
Then Tommy said, almost to himself,
“Funny.”
Joel glanced over.
“What.”
Tommy looked out over the water.
“How different everything feels.”
Joel didn’t answer right away.
Tommy rolled the cold can slowly between his palms.
“Couple months ago,” he said, “I couldn’t sit still five minutes without thinkin’ about the next drink.” He looked at Joel. “Now I’m sittin’ here drinkin’ root beer in a cabin three hours from home.”
Joel snorted quietly.
“Sounds like you’re finally where you’re supposed to be.”
Tommy smiled.
“Yeah.”
But there was something softer under it. He leaned his elbows on his knees, looking out at the lake.
“…Worth it.”
Joel studied him for a second.
Tommy didn’t look restless. Didn’t look wired or distracted the way he used to. He just looked… present.
Joel took another sip of his soda.
“…You’re doin’ good.”
Tommy nodded slowly.
“Life changes when you finally stop runnin’ from it.”
Joel glanced over at him.
Tommy didn’t look back. He just tipped his chin toward the lake.
“Funny thing is,” he said, “you changed too.”
Joel frowned.
“I did not.”
Tommy chuckled under his breath.
“Yeah you did.”
Joel shifted in his chair.
“Name one thing.”
Tommy thought for a moment.
“…You let people help now.”
Joel opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Tommy grinned faintly.
“See?”
Joel rolled his eyes.
“You been in therapy two months and suddenly you’re a philosopher.”
Tommy laughed.
“Just observin’.”
Joel didn’t answer. But he didn’t argue either.
After a minute Tommy pushed himself up.
“Alright.”
He clapped his hands together once.
“Enough emotional growth for one day.”
Joel smirked.
“Thought you were observing the pretty lake and your life choices.”
“I am.” His brother grabbed a bag from the porch. “But I’m still hungry.”
They moved down toward the fire pit near the edge of the clearing. Tommy stacked a few logs together while Joel struck a lighter.
The flame caught quickly, the dry wood crackling as the fire grew. Soon the smell of smoke drifted through the cool evening air.
Tommy set up the small grill rack over the fire while Joel pulled out a wrapped package from the cooler.
“Steaks?”
“Yep.”
Tommy looked impressed.
“Well damn.”
Joel tossed him a pair of tongs.
“Don’t burn ’em.”
Tommy scoffed.
“Please.”
The meat hit the grill with a sharp hiss. Fat dripping into the flames, sending sparks up into the darkening sky.
They stood there side by side, watching the fire. No rush. No noise except the crackle of wood and the soft lap of the lake against the dock.
Joel glanced toward the water again. Then back at the fire.
“…This was a good idea.”
Tommy didn’t look up from turning the steaks.
“Yeah.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “Told you.”
Later that night, after the fire had burned down to glowing embers and the cabin had gone quiet, Joel pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside.
He dropped his phone on the nightstand, kicked off his boots, and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.
It had been a long day. A good one.
He reached for his phone again out of habit. There was a message waiting. Yours. He opened it.
Sarah fell asleep halfway through the movie.
A second one followed immediately.
Popcorn still in her hand.
Joel smiled faintly.
Sounds about right.
Another message appeared.
I had to carry her to our bed.
He pictured it instantly; Sarah limp with sleep, you struggling with her weight, blanket half falling off.
You’re gonna spoil her, he typed.
Too late.
Then another message came.
I miss you.
Joel stared at that one a moment longer than he meant to.
Been gone half a day.
Still counts.
He leaned back against the headboard, phone in hand.
I’ll make it up to you when I get back.
There was a short pause.
Then:
Oh?
Joel smirked.
Yeah.
You replied:
How exactly do you plan on doing that, Miller?
Joel rubbed a hand across his jaw, already knowing where this was going.
Well… First thing I’ll do is pull you into the bedroom.
Three dots appeared. Stayed there.
Joel…
He ignored the warning.
Clothes off, especially that little lace number you like to wear to tease me. Then… I’d take my time reminding you how much you missed me.
The dots blinked again. Then your message came through.
Stop.
Joel laughed quietly.
What.
You said:
You cannot start that when you’re three hours away.
Then he went:
Why not.
You replied:
Because I am trying very hard to behave.
Joel’s grin widened.
You beggin’ me to stop?
There was a short pause.
Yes.
A second message followed immediately.
Save it for when you get back.
Joel stared at the screen, amused.
You started it…
Goodnight, Joel.
He chuckled softly.
Night, sweetheart.
The read receipt appeared a moment later.
Joel set the phone down on the nightstand and lay back against the pillow, still smiling. Yeah. He’d definitely make it up to you when he got home.
**************
The alarm went off before the sun. Joel reached out blindly and slapped the phone until it stopped buzzing.
For a moment he just lay there, listening. The cabin was quiet except for the faint creak of wood settling in the cold morning air. Somewhere outside, a bird called once.
Then Tommy’s voice came from the other room.
“You awake or dead?”
Joel dragged a hand down his face.
“Regrettin’ this trip.”
Tommy snorted.
“Yeah, right.”
Joel swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching the stiffness out of his back.
By the time he stepped into the kitchen area, Tommy was already there, fumbling with the coffee maker like it had attacked him.
“You break that thing yet?” Joel asked.
“Don’t rush me.”
Joel grabbed two mugs and leaned against the counter.
“You read the instructions?”
Tommy gave him a look.
“There were instructions?”
Joel shook his head.
“Unbelievable.”
Ten minutes later they stepped outside with their coffee. The air was cold enough to bite. A thin layer of mist floated over the lake.
Tommy took a long breath.
“…God, that’s nice.”
Joel grunted agreement.
They loaded the gear in silence for a few minutes. Rods. Tackle box. A small cooler.
Tommy pushed the boat a little farther off the dock while Joel climbed in.
“You remember how to fish,” Joel teased, “or did you forget the instructions for that too?”
Tommy climbed in after him.
“Oh relax.” He grabbed the small motor cord. “If I outfish you today I’m bringing it up every Thanksgiving for the rest of our lives.”
Joel rolled his eyes.
“You’ve been doing that since 98.”
“Because it was historic.”
Joel shoved them away from the dock with his foot. The boat drifted quietly out into the mist.
For a while they didn’t talk. The silence was just broken by the soft hum of the motor and the occasional splash of water against the hull.
The lake slowly woke up around them as the sky brightened. Tommy cut the motor and let the boat drift.
“Alright,” he said, grabbing his rod. “This is the spot.”
Joel cast his line out without comment. They sat there in the quiet. Minutes passed.
Then Tommy said:
“You call her last night?”
Joel didn’t look up.
“Texted.”
Tommy nodded.
“She okay?”
“Yeah.”
Tommy cast again.
“You’re calmer.”
Joel glanced over.
“Am not.”
“You are.”
Joel leaned back slightly in his seat.
“Maybe I’m just enjoying the quiet.”
Tommy smirked.
“That a jab for me to shut it? ‘Cause it ain’t gonna work.”
They fished a while longer. The sun had climbed just above the trees now, burning the last of the mist off the lake. The water stretched wide and calm around them, broken only by the soft ripple of their lines.
Tommy reeled in slowly, checked the lure, cast again.
Then, he said, very casually:
“So.”
Joel didn’t even look up.
“What.”
Tommy watched the float drift.
“You gonna marry her or what?”
Joel stared at the water. Didn’t answer right away.
“…Been thinkin’ about it.”
Tommy turned his head so fast the boat shifted slightly.
“Wait… what?”
Joel shrugged like it wasn’t anything special.
“Been thinkin’ about it.”
Tommy stared at him.
“You’re serious?”
Joel cast again.
“Yeah.”
Tommy leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, studying him like he’d just said the wildest thing he’d ever heard.
“Well I’ll be damned.”
Joel smirked faintly.
Tommy shook his head slowly.
“You’re serious serious.”
Joel nodded once.
“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I figured I’d ask Sarah first.”
Tommy’s eyebrows shot up.
“…You what?”
Joel glanced over.
“She’s part of it.”
Tommy stared at him another second. Then he started laughing under his breath.
“Oh man.”
Joel frowned slightly.
“What.”
Tommy shook his head.
“You realize she’s gonna shriek, right?”
Joel snorted.
“Probably.”
“No, I mean shriek,” Tommy said, grinning now. “Like full volume. Neighbors calling the cops type shriek.”
Joel chuckled quietly.
Tommy kept going, clearly enjoying the image.
“She’s gonna start jumping around the house like a lunatic.”
Joel nodded once.
“Yeah.”
Tommy leaned back again, still smiling to himself.
“…Damn.”
They sat there a moment, lines drifting on the water. Then Tommy said, quieter now,
“She’s good for you. For both of you.”
Joel didn’t answer right away. The words settled somewhere deeper than he expected.
Tommy nudged the side of the boat lightly with his boot.
“You know that, right?”
Joel looked out across the lake.
“…Yeah.”
Tommy waited.
Joel took a breath, like he was deciding how much to say.
“…She makes it easier.”
Tommy glanced over.
Joel shrugged faintly.
“Life, I mean.”
That was it. Just that.
Tommy’s expression softened a little.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She does that.”
Joel looked back at the water again.
Tommy added after a moment,
“And Sarah?”
Joel waited.
Tommy smiled faintly.
“She loves her. So much.”
Joel felt something tighten in his chest at that. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
Tommy saw it anyway. He nodded once, like that answered everything. Then his grin came back.
“Oh, by the way...”
Joel glanced over.
Tommy pointed his rod at him.
“You realize you’re gonna have to ask Bill first.”
Joel frowned.
“What.”
Tommy grinned wider.
“If you don’t, that man’s gonna cut your balls off.”
Joel blinked.
“…Oh fuck.”
Tommy burst out laughing.
“You hadn’t thought about that, had you.”
Joel rubbed his face with one hand.
“…No.”
Tommy leaned back, shaking with laughter.
“Oh man.”
Joel muttered under his breath.
“That’s gonna be awkward.”
Tommy wiped his eye.
“You’re damn right it will.”
Joel sighed, looking back out over the lake.
Tommy grinned.
“... I’d pay to be there.” He then laughed out loud “C’mon… Relax. Bill likes you.”
Joel thought about it.
“…He tolerates me.”
Tommy laughed again.
“Well.” He cast his line back out into the water. “You better bring your best speech.”
Joel shook his head.
“Unbelievable.”
The boat rocked gently in the quiet morning.
Later, Joel adjusted the brim of his cap and leaned back slightly, watching his line drift.
The lake had gone still again. Tommy glanced sideways at him.
“You even got bait on that thing?”
Joel didn’t look up.
“Course I do.”
Tommy squinted suspiciously.
“…Lemme see.”
Joel pulled the rod back a little, keeping it out of reach.
“Mind your business.”
Tommy grinned.
“That’s a no.”
Joel sighed and reeled the line in a few inches.
“Look.”
Tommy leaned over the side of the boat, inspecting the hook.
“…That’s pathetic.”
Joel frowned.
“What?”
Tommy pointed.
“That worm’s barely hanging on.”
Joel rolled his eyes.
“It’s fine.”
Tommy shook his head.
“No wonder you haven’t caught anything.”
Joel snorted.
“You haven’t caught anything either.”
“Because I’m being patient.”
“You’re being useless.”
Tommy grinned.
“Big difference.”
Joel flicked the rod again, sending the lure out farther.
“Watch and learn.”
Tommy crossed his arms.
“Oh I’m watching.”
They sat there another minute.
Then, suddenly… Joel’s line jerked. Both of them froze.
Tommy leaned forward immediately.
“…That a bite?”
Joel slowly lifted the rod. The line pulled again.
Tommy slapped his knee.
“That’s a bite!”
Joel started reeling carefully.
Tommy was already leaning halfway out of the boat.
“Oh man, oh man!”
“Relax,” Joel muttered.
“Don’t lose it!”
“I ain’t gonna lose it.”
“Keep the line tight!”
“I know how to fish!”
Tommy grabbed the net like he was preparing for a shark.
Joel reeled steadily. The fish flashed silver just beneath the surface.
Tommy lost his mind.
“That’s a good one!”
Joel smirked.
“Not bad.”
The fish thrashed near the boat. Tommy scooped with the net and lifted it triumphantly.
“HA!”
Joel leaned back as the fish flopped inside the net.
Tommy held it up like a trophy.
“Well, well, well.”
Joel wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Beginner’s luck.”
Tommy stared at him.
“You caught it.”
Joel shrugged.
Tommy shook his head.
“That counts as my net assist.”
Joel snorted.
“That ain’t how fishing works.”
Tommy pointed the fish at him.
“I did half the work.”
“You held a stick with a net.”
“Team effort.”
Joel leaned back again, clearly pleased with himself.
“Scoreboard says one.”
Tommy narrowed his eyes.
“Oh it’s a scoreboard now?”
Joel nodded.
“Oh yeah.”
Tommy grabbed his rod again with renewed determination.
“Fine.”
He cast the line out with exaggerated force.
“We’re doing this.”
Joel smirked.
“You started it.”
Tommy leaned forward, laser-focused on the water.
“You better enjoy that lead.”
Joel settled comfortably into his seat.
“Oh I will.”
Tommy squinted at the lake.
“…Just wait.”
The boat drifted slowly across the quiet water.
Two grown men glaring at fishing lines like competitive ten-year-olds. And somewhere beneath the surface, another fish tugged at the bait.
**********
By the time they steered the boat back toward the dock, the sun had already started dropping toward the trees.
The cooler was heavy.
Seven fish. Tommy had caught four. Joel had caught three.
Which meant Tommy had been unbearable for the last half hour.
“Four,” Tommy repeated while tying the rope to the dock. “Just saying.”
Joel stepped out of the boat with the cooler.
“You said it the first ten times.”
Tommy followed him up the dock, still grinning like a kid who’d just won a trophy.
“Not my fault you got outclassed.”
Joel snorted.
“You got lucky.”
Tommy scoffed.
“Luck had nothing to do with it.”
They walked back toward the cabin, rods in one hand, cooler in the other. Tommy kept going.
“That second one? Perfect cast.”
Joel pushed the door open with his shoulder.
“You hit the water by accident.”
Tommy ignored him completely.
“And the third one-”
Joel set the cooler on the counter.
“You caught that because my line scared it.”
Tommy pointed at him.
“Excuses.”
Joel grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Reality.”
Tommy opened the cooler again just to admire the fish.
“Scoreboard says four to three.”
Joel leaned against the counter.
“Scoreboard says you’re annoyin’ as fuck.”
Tommy laughed and finally shut the lid. A little later they stepped out onto the porch again.
The lake had gone quiet, the evening light turning the water dark gold. Joel leaned his forearms on the railing. Behind him the cabin smelled faintly of smoke and grilled meat from dinner.
They’d cleaned the fish, eaten two of them, and argued the entire time about whose catch had been better.
At one point Tommy had tried to measure them with a tape measure he found in the tackle box. Joel had accused him of stretching the numbers. Tommy still claimed the biggest one had been ‘a monster’. Joel had called it ‘barely legal’.
They’d nearly knocked over the grill laughing. Now the quiet had settled in again.
Joel pulled his phone from his pocket out of habit. For a second the screen showed nothing. Then the signal bars popped back to life.
A few notifications appeared almost immediately.
Three messages. Yours.
He opened the first one. A picture filled the screen.
Sarah sat at your mom’s kitchen table with her tongue sticking out in concentration, colorful beads spread everywhere. Bracelets half-finished around her wrist.
The caption read:
Jewelry workshop.
Another picture followed.
You and Annie sitting beside Sarah, both laughing while Wendy, your best friend, held up what looked like a wildly uneven necklace.
Sarah says this one is for you. Apparently you’re ‘a man who needs color’.
Joel snorted quietly.
A third message appeared.
She also insists she’s making one for the fish you caught.
Joel leaned his elbows on the porch railing, smiling faintly at the screen.
Then another photo came through.
Sarah holding up two bracelets triumphantly, beads clashing in every possible color. Your arm wrapped around her shoulders. Both of you grinning.
Under it you had written:
Girls’ weekend update: House still standing.
Joel shook his head softly and typed back.
Bracelet better be waterproof.
The reply came a moment later.
You caught fish?
Joel glanced toward the lake.
Three.
You replied:
Sarah says she’s proud of you.
Joel huffed quietly.
Tell her I’m proud of her jewelry empire. It better be worth enough to send her to college.
Three dots appeared.
Then you sent one last message.
We miss you.
Joel stared at the screen a moment. Then slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Tomorrow they’d go back. And somehow, for the first time in a while, that felt just as good as staying.
Tommy stepped out with two sodas and tossed one to him. Joel caught it.
“Tomorrow we head back,” Tommy said, leaning on the railing beside him.
Joel nodded once.
“Yeah.”
Tommy glanced toward the lake again.
“…Good trip though.”
Joel took a sip of the soda.
“Yeah.”
Tommy nudged the railing with his elbow.
“You still lost.”
Joel didn’t even turn.
“You caught one more fish.”
“That’s a victory.”
Joel smirked faintly.
“That’s luck.”
Tommy grinned.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
They stood there a while longer, watching the last light disappear behind the trees.
Joel realized something as the quiet settled in again. He hadn’t thought about work once all day. Hadn’t worried about anything waiting back home. He hadn’t even had service. Which meant he hadn’t called. Hadn’t checked in. Hadn’t hovered.
You had Sarah. And he trusted that. The thought sat in his chest like something solid. Strange how much lighter that felt.
Tommy stretched his arms above his head.
“Man,” he said, “I needed this.”
Joel nodded.
“Yeah.”
Tommy took another drink of his soda and glanced sideways at him.
“You too.”
Joel didn’t argue.
The lake went completely dark.
Tommy finished his soda and tossed the empty can lightly into the trash. Then he glanced sideways at Joel.
“…Still can’t believe it.”
Joel didn’t look over.
“Believe what.”
Tommy leaned his shoulder against the railing.
“You, getting engaged.”
Joel huffed quietly.
“Not engaged yet.”
Tommy nodded thoughtfully.
“Well.” Joel already didn’t like that tone. Tommy went on: “That’s if she says yes.”
Joel turned his head slowly.
“She’s gonna say yes.”
Tommy lifted his hands.
“Probably.”
Joel narrowed his eyes.
“Probably?”
Tommy shrugged, clearly enjoying himself now.
“I mean… we can’t rule out the possibility she laughs in your face.”
Joel stared at him, slightly panicking inside thinking about the possibility.
“She ain’t gonna laugh.”
Tommy nodded again like he was considering it seriously.
“Or maybe she just stares at you for a long time.”
Joel crossed his arms.
“She ain’t gonna stare!”
Tommy kept going.
“Or she goes real quiet.”
Joel groaned.
“Would you shut up?”
Tommy grinned.
“I’m just preparing you for all scenarios.”
Joel shook his head.
“Unbelievable.”
Tommy pointed at him.
“You ever actually asked a woman to marry you before?”
Joel opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“…No.”
Tommy nodded.
“Thought so.”
Joel leaned back against the railing again.
“She’s gonna say yes.”
Tommy studied him for a second. Then his grin softened slightly.
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “She probably will.”
Joel glanced over.
Tommy smiled.
“Just messing with you.”
Joel shook his head.
“You’re an idiot.”
Tommy grinned again.
“But man…” He looked back out at the dark lake. “…I can’t wait to see Sarah when you tell her.”
Joel snorted quietly.
“Yeah.”
Tommy chuckled under his breath.
“She’s gonna explode.”
Joel smirked faintly.
“Yeah.”
And for the first time since the idea had formed in his head, saying it out loud didn’t feel strange anymore. It just felt right.
They stood there another moment, the lake completely dark now, the night settling in around the cabin.
Then Tommy glanced over.
“…You got a ring yet?”
Joel snorted quietly.
“No.”
Tommy nodded slowly.
“Alright.”
Joel frowned.
“What’s ‘alright’ mean.”
Tommy pointed at him.
“It means you better start thinking about it.”
Joel leaned his forearms on the railing.
“Yeah.”
Tommy studied him a second. Then said casually,
“I know a guy.”
Joel turned his head.
“…You know a guy.”
Tommy shrugged.
“Jeweler. Friend of a friend.”
Joel gave him a skeptical look.
“Your ‘friends of friends’ usually end with someone getting arrested.”
Tommy looked offended.
“Man, that was one time.”
“Three times.”
Tommy waved it off.
“Point is, he does good work. And he won’t rob you blind.”
Joel looked back out at the lake.
“Yeah?”
Tommy nodded.
“I’ll talk to him when we get back.”
Joel thought about it a second. Then nodded once.
“Alright.”
Tommy smirked.
“Look at that.”
Joel sighed.
“What.”
Tommy gestured toward him.
“My big brother shoppin’ for engagement rings.”
Joel muttered under his breath.
“Don’t make it weird.”
Tommy chuckled quietly.
“Too late.”
They stood there in the dark a while longer, the lake calm and silent in front of them.
And Joel realized something as he leaned against the railing… The idea of it, of asking Juliet, didn’t feel like a risk anymore. It felt like the most obvious thing in the world.
***************
The truck rolled into the driveway just after noon. Joel killed the engine and sat there a moment, stretching the stiffness out of his shoulders after the long drive.
Tommy grabbed the cooler from the back.
“Home sweet home.”
Joel stepped out and glanced toward the house.
The front door flew open before they even made it halfway up the walk.
“DAD!”
Sarah shot out of the house like a missile.
Joel had half a second to brace before she collided with him, arms wrapping tight around his middle.
“Hey, easy,” he laughed, steadying her.
“You’re back!”
“Looks like it.”
She pulled back just long enough to inspect him like he’d returned from some heroic expedition.
“Juliet said you caught fish!”
Tommy hopped down from the truck bed behind them, dragging the cooler toward the edge.
“Oh we caught fish,” he said proudly.
Sarah leaned over the cooler, curious.
Tommy popped the lid open with a flourish.
“Behold.”
He lifted one of the fish by the tail.
Sarah recoiled instantly.
“EEWWW!”
Tommy laughed.
“What? It’s beautiful.”
“It’s slimy and it stinks!”
“That’s how fish work.”
Sarah took two dramatic steps back like the thing might leap out at her.
“Put it back!”
Joel shook his head.
“Don’t scar the kid.”
“I’m educating her,” Tommy said.
Sarah pointed accusingly.
“You’re disgusting.”
Behind them the screen door creaked open. You stepped out onto the porch. You had clearly heard the chaos already.
Your eyes landed on Joel first. For a moment the noise faded around him.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hey.”
Joel walked toward you without thinking about it. Up the steps. Across the porch. You barely had time to set your mug down before he pulled you into a kiss.
He meant for it to be quick. But it lasted longer than that. Your hands came up to his shoulders automatically. Joel deepened it slightly, instinctively.
Then…
“EWWWW!”
“OH MY GOD!”
Sarah and Tommy’s voices exploded at the same time.
Joel broke the kiss with a sigh.
Tommy was leaning against the truck, shaking his head dramatically.
“Right in front of the children.”
Sarah was making gagging noises.
“So gross!”
Joel turned slowly.
“You two done?”
Tommy smirked.
“Just gettin’ started.”
Sarah covered her eyes theatrically.
“I’m traumatized.”
You laughed quietly against Joel’s shoulder.
Joel shook his head.
“Unbelievable.”
Tommy shut the cooler with a thud.
“Come on, fisherman,” he said. “Let’s get these inside before Sarah calls animal control.”
Sarah pointed at the cooler again.
“I am not touching that!”
Tommy grinned.
“Oh don’t worry.” He lifted it easily. “You’re helping clean them later.”
Sarah shrieked. Joel groaned. You laughed again. And just like that, the quiet of the lake was replaced with the chaos of home.
*********
By the time the house finally went quiet, the evening had settled into that soft kind of calm that only came after a full day.
Tommy had headed home earlier, still talking about the fish and insisting he’d won.
Sarah had crashed soon after, worn out from her ‘peaceful’ girls’ weekend and the excitement of having her father back.
Now the lights downstairs were low. The kitchen smelled faintly of soap and whatever sweetness had been baked earlier. Joel leaned against the counter, drying his hands on a towel when you came down the stairs.
“She out?” he asked quietly.
You nodded.
“Out cold.”
You crossed the kitchen toward him, slipping your arms around his waist.
Joel’s hand settled at the small of your back. For a moment you just stood there, the quiet of the house around you.
Then you tipped your head back slightly.
“Well?” you said.
Joel raised an eyebrow.
“Well what?”
“Was it worth it?” you asked. “Your boys’ weekend.”
Joel thought about the lake. The quiet mornings. Tommy acting like a ten-year-old over fish. Then he looked down at you.
“Yeah,” he said. A small pause. “But I missed you.”
Your mouth curved.
“Good answer.”
Joel leaned down and kissed you.
It started slow. But it didn’t stay that way. Your hands slid into his hair as he pulled you closer, the kiss deepening without either of you quite deciding it would.
Joel’s hands moved to your hips and, with an easy motion, he lifted you onto the edge of the kitchen counter.
You laughed softly under your breath as you settled there.
“You waste no time,” you murmured.
Joel stepped closer, moving right between your knees, his hands resting lightly at your waist.
“Been patient all weekend,” he said.
You tilted your head slightly, giving him a look.
“Oh really?”
Joel leaned in again, but this time his mouth drifted away from yours. His lips brushed just beneath your ear.
You inhaled sharply.
“Joel…”
He smiled faintly against your skin. His mouth moved slowly down the side of your neck, unhurried.
Your fingers curled around his neck.
“Thought you were tired,” you said, though your voice had softened.
Joel’s hand slid lightly along your back, fingertips tracing the line of your spine below the thin fabric of your shirt.
“Not that tired.”
You laughed quietly, though it faded when his hand moved again, resting briefly at your waist before brushing across your stomach. You leaned back slightly against the cabinets, letting out a quiet breath.
“You’re trouble,” you murmured.
Joel lifted his head just enough to look at you.
“Missed you.”
You softened at that. Your hand came up to the side of his face, pulling him into another kiss, slower this time, deeper.
Joel rested his forehead against yours when it broke, both of you breathing a little differently now.
For a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. And the thought that had been sitting in the back of his mind since the lake came back again. Clearer. Steadier. Not a question anymore.
He was going to do it. Soon. The ring. Asking Sarah. Talking to Bill, apparently. All of it.
He didn’t say any of that out loud. But the certainty settled somewhere deep in his chest.
You brushed your thumb lightly along his jaw.
“What are you thinking about?” you asked.
Joel shook his head faintly, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“Nothin’.”
You narrowedyoureyes.
“I know that look.”
Joel leaned in and kissed you again before you could press further.
When he pulled back he took your hand, gently helping you down from the counter.
“Come on,” he murmured.
You glanced toward the stairs.
“Making it up to me now?”
Joel smirked.
“Finally.”
He led you upstairs, the quiet house wrapping around you two… And the bedroom door closed softly behind you.
Author's note: So from now on I'll be doing little sneak peek days for Falling through centuries. So when y'all see this pic, just prepare to see my little medieval time story. Alright, that's it.
Part one - The bend of time
Joel leans against the car, his eyes immediately falling on the circles around different places, the sites big enough to make him realize that this is going to be one of the harder jobs again.
But oh, how he loves these works.
Even when in the end he gets home all dirty and sweaty. Even when the handle of the shovel hurts his hands. Even when they dig all day and don’t find anything interesting or important. Even when the beginners don’t stop bombarding him with questions.
Because in the end all he sees in front of him is that he made it. They made it.
“Hey, Earth to Joel,” Tommy calls out, waving his hand in front of Joel’s face, and that’s when his brother snaps back to reality.
“Yeah?”
“You seem a little distracted,” Tommy says in a suspecting voice, and Joel leans his head to the side.
“What do you mean?”
Tommy smirks and shakes his head as he folds the map again. “Did you finally sleep with someone?” he asks without looking at him.
Joel quickly looks around, making sure that no one hears them before he looks at Tommy with wide eyes. “Hell, no I didn’t. Why would you ask somethin’ like that? And if I would’ve, I probably wouldn’t talk about it with you.”
“Oh, come on. You haven’t been with anyone in years, man,” Tommy tells him, walking towards one of the tables that are set out. Joel follows him closely, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “Wait, are you attracted to men?”
“Now where the hell did that come from? I’d rather go back to the age of executions than sleep with a man,” Joel answers, picking up some important tool from the table while his brother is standing beside him with his arms crossed, studying his every move and expression.
“You know that I wouldn’t judge you if you were gay, right?”
“Oh my God! Can you just drop it already? I’m not gay. I just… Don’t have luck with women. That’s it.”
“If you say so.” Tommy lets it go, shrugging his shoulders as he picks up a shovel too. “Should we start at that little creek that I circled?”
Joel just nods, not really bothered where they would start.
Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @cozymochaa, @eviispunk, @aphroditekillz, @mystickittytaco, @prettylovley, @daniel-bruhhl, @gunnersaurusrex, @norahlolzz, @ijustlovemensm, @mmarysha, @anothergojostan, @xojdmasf, @lovelyandferal, @kunakizen, @my-tearsricochet, @goonersquad101, @johnssherlock221, @mrs-joelmiller, @christinerose380, @laprofesoratinacita, @kokoluwie, @nutbutterjellie, @hazzzy418
Summary: Joel is the person you hate the most, you could swear on oath; Joel could swear the same, but he would rather do that on his knees for you.
Warnings: +18 smut, MDNI, sub!Joel, outbreak, enemies to lovers, wounds, mention of death, handjob, pinning to the wall, a hint of degradation, edging, age gap, use of pet names (darling, big boy, good boy, sweetheart)
Word count: 5.9k
Notes: found myself writing this out of the blue, no planning or anything. Sometimes we just need a little bit of sub!Joel and that’s okay 🩷 lyrics in the title are from “imgonnagetyouback” by Taylor Swift
Dividers credits: @cursed-carmine , @cafekitsune
|| JOEL MILLER FICS || MASTERLIST ||
“We can’t keep getting away with this, at some point it will get us killed.”
But Joel hasn’t feared death in a long time, your words barely scratch the surface.
Always his challenging look on his face, the wrinkles by his eyes shaped by his anger, his killer instincts.
He nonchalantly wipes off the blood from his knife on the sleeve of his jacket, “Don’t act like you don’t like seeing me doing this and doing it by yourself.”
You look at your hands that might be even bloodier than his, the dark fluid staining them, getting on each fingertip, in every line of your palm.
“It’s Fedra, they come after ya. And if it wasn’t for this,” he gestures at the gun in your hand, “you would be the one laying on the ground.”
This is not you, you keep repeating yourself, this is an evil twin, an evil version of you that has taken over. This is not real, if you squeeze your eyes closed all the blood will disappear, the gun will vaporise and even Joel will disappear.
When you open them again the blood still drips from your hands, Joel now kneeled to collect a cloth from his backpack.
“C’mon, you’re alright.”
The cloth is cold when he applies it to your hands, wiping the blood away with a gentleness that seems coming from another man. Maybe even him is an evil version of his true self.
“You’re hurt, let me help ya.”
And suddenly the shot of adrenaline hits your bloodstream, feeling the skin cut open on your arm, letting the gun fall to the ground, its fall echoing on the walls.
“Fuck, fuck, I hadn’t noticed that.”
“I know,” Joel nods, taking a bottle of alcohol, “It happens that you can’t feel a knife going through, only seeing the wound after you finished fighting.”
It stings, Joel holding your hand with his free one, “Yeah I know, I know, gonna go away in a second.”
“Look at me, don’t look down.”
You lock your gaze on his face, his eyes though on your wound, working on it as you take in his peppered hair and beard, thinking that it’s the adrenaline that is making you look a little longer.
“ ‘s alright, ‘s not too deep, you will be alright.”
The shock of it doesn’t even make you realise that he’s already patched up the wound with gauzes and cleaned even your hands from the blood.
It’s when you’re standing on your own again that you look down at the bodies, the blood on your clothes and filling your nostrils with that smell of fear. It clings to you, to your clothes and it’s a smell that you can’t take away.
“Don’t make that face,” he nudges you, “Don’t play innocent,” as he retrieves the gun from the floor.
“This is not who I am Joel.”
Joel shrugs, “This is exactly who you are.”
“I wasn’t like this before you.” You want to take back those words but it’s too late.
His head snaps at you, “Before me? You mean when I found ya covered in blood and with this gun in your hand, that before me? Before I took ya in because you had been wandering like a stray and Fedra was chasing you?”
Your blood boils at him, “You think you saved me, that’s what you think you did?” You push his arm, shovelling him, Joel laughing bitterly.
“We’re part of those people who are beyond salvation,” he takes a step closer, “You needed me to survive.”
“I never needed you. I never asked for your help, I didn’t even want to survive.” You spit, Joel shaking his head.
“You wanted to, and you needed me. You still need me, just like I need ya.”
“We rely on each other.” He contends, now walking side by side, “And what are ya so stubborn about? That you can count on me?”
And this goes under the times you would want to shovel him against the wall. And not in a good way.
“I don’t need you.” You repeat through your gritted teeth.
“Oh sorry, what was that? Who’s gonna mend your wounds then?”
And you really can’t take it anymore, pinning him to the dirty wall of that hallway, a force in you you didn’t even know you had.
He doesn’t oppose when you take both his wrists, bringing them up his head, rather enjoying it.
He can’t take the smile off his face, a light laugh leaving him. If he wanted to, he could very easily get out of your hold, but why ruining the fun for you?
“What’s so funny, Miller? That I can pin you to the wall like this?”
He laughs, “That I’m letting you do it, that’s the fun thing.”
Your hands are already getting tired, he’s much taller than you anyway and the wound on your arm is unforgiving.
“Oh really? And why are you letting me do it, uh?”
Joel shrugs, biting then his bottom lip at the thought of what you could do to him in this position.
“You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.” You mock, pushing more his wrists and Joel has to contain a moan, he’s enjoying the pain so much.
“We’re so proud of ourselves today, darlin’.”
“Isn’t that the truth, that you really want me?” You tease him.
Joel clicks his tongue, “Maybe it’s the other way around, the way you look at me, like you want to be-“
And you can’t stand that anymore.
Your lips clash, kissing him roughly, pinning him even more to the wall.
You bite his bottom lip, Joel parting his lips even more, arching his back towards you, your bodies attached.
“So much for hatin’ me, darlin’.” Devilishly laughing, his lip bitten and marked by a little stain of blood.
“I had to shut you up, Miller.” Your arms begging for mercy, but you just hold that grip even stronger.
He could reverse the situation in a second if he wanted to, he could pin you to the wall and block you like that, but that wouldn’t give him the view he has before him; all he sees is your satisfied look, the darker shadow on your eyes and that drop of evil that you share with him.
“Should I run my mouth more often then?” He wonders, tilting his head to the side, resting it on your forearm. And god, his hair is so soft, how can he manage to keep it like that?
You huff, still tasting his lips on yours, that goddamn sweet taste that you hadn’t savoured in such a long time. Hell, you can’t even remember who was the last person you had kissed.
But well, now it is Joel.
“You can try to do that, fuck around and find out.” You threaten over his lips, leaning onto him, bloodstained clothes colliding, and your lips clashing again.
You hate him, you repeate to yourself, you hate this man so much.
But your body doesn’t, your body loves him like he’s a sweet poison ready to kill you slowly.
You leave his arms, Joel frowning a little, but he switches completely the moment you grip the back of his head, curls between your fingertips, exposing his neck.
“Fuck,” he moans, pulling his hair even more, lapping your tongue onto his neck. There’s sweat, adrenaline and even blood from a little cut, closing your lips onto his skin.
His hands grip the wall behind, not daring to grab you.
“God you’re so pathetic, aren’t you? Giving up all your control for me.” You spit, Joel whining and you might have won the lottery.
“Letting me do all of this to you... wonder what else would you let me do.” You whisper, making him tilt his head towards you.
“Tell me what you want, Miller.”
But Joel’s mind is a puddle, all the adrenaline went down after he killed those people but now has risen up again, poisoning his bloodstream.
Your hands finally leave his curls, only because there is something else on your mind.
“Oh, what? You still wanted me to do that? You wanted to be pinned to the wall again?” You mock his frowning look.
His very dominant presence is going all away, leaving place for a Joel that seems to be in need of guidance, a version of Joel so foreign to you.
“But how would I be able to do this otherwise?”
And Joel flinches at the way you’re palming him through his rough jeans, breathing deeply.
He tries to grab the wall, not wanting to grab your wrist, not trying to stop you.
“All this time...”, you click your tongue, “You play the bold man part so well, but now look at you,” you grab his chin, “You don’t even know what to do with yourself, uh? You’re getting harder and it’s getting you crazy.”
You can tell how hard he is, Joel closing his eyes, he couldn’t disagree on that even if he wanted to.
“What should we do with this, Miller?” You smirk as you cup him, and you nuzzle over his neck, “Should we take down these jeans?”
And Joel nods, as you go back to pulling his hair, “You think you deserve that, big boy? You think you’ve been good enough for that?”
And Joel writhes against your hand, his hand grabbing your forearm in the desperate search for something to hold on.
“Y-yes,” he babbles.
Your hand squeezes him through the jeans, making him whine, “Oh I don’t think so, Miller. You haven’t been a good boy,” you shake your head, “Instead you’ve been very bad, done so many bad things.” You coo with a fake sad tone.
“But-but I can be good, I swear.”
You click your tongue, hovering his neck with your lips, “It’s too late, Miller.”
Joel places his head back on the wall, all his neck exposed for you. And you suck his skin, to the point that your teeth are gracing the tender tissue, Joel at loss for the way you’re not giving him a single break on his jeans, goosebumps all over his skin.
“How long it’s been since someone did this?” You unbutton his jeans, opening the zip painfully slowly.
“L-Long, so long.” He breathes out, lost among all that touch.
“Yeah, I can tell.” You respond as your hand makes its way into his jeans, Joel cannot resisting the urge to grab your arm, to hold onto something.
You keep tracing his length, grabbing him and palming him through the tissue of his boxers, and Joel cannot believe that at his age he’s being brought to his knees by what he could call a half handjob.
But he imagines the full thing, he squeezes his eyes closed to focus on your touch, those fingers seeming to push all the right buttons, imagining how it would be if they wrapped around him as a whole, how it would feel if you were pumping him properly.
He thrusts against you, writhing and a moan escapes his lips.
Your hand would slide over his length so perfectly, he would even lick your hand to help you, god he would do it all.
He feels you gripping him more, to the point that his hardness is becoming painful.
“What do you want, Miller, tell me.” Your tone assertive, which seems to make him even harder if possible.
“Take them off,” he utters, but you don’t like it that way.
“What do we say?” You scold him.
“Please?” He wonders, hope in his voice.
“Too late, they’re gonna stay on,” you mockingly coo at him.
“Arms up again,” you order, taking his wrists into your hand, which is barely covering them but that will do.
“Do you want to come?” You ask him, Joel on the verge of tears and that might be the very first time you see him this vulnerable.
“Y-Yes,” Joel’s brain completely turned off, you could ask him to kneel down and he would probably do it.
“Then beg for it, Miller.” You vigorously order close to his ear, pinning his wrists harder.
Joel whines loudly, and it will be a miracle if all this noise won’t get you both killed.
“Please, please can I come now?” He whines, writhing against the wall, somehow trying to thrust against your touch.
But you smirk at him, Joel tilting his head up to look at you, his flushed cheeks looking so adorable and he’s wasted on your touch, poisoned to the point he could cry.
“Hold it more, do it for me.”
And Joel’s eyes fall closed again, whimpering as he turns his head, closing and opening his fingers, desperately searching for something to hold onto.
“Hold still, be good.” You velvety say, placing chaste kisses on his jaw, that peppered beard under your lips, “You might get a reward.” You whisper over his lips, Joel’s lips gaping at yours, all bitten and vivid.
He holds everything, he tries to steady his breathing and also his thrusts, trying to move his hands but your hold on him is just getting stronger.
Until it vanishes, his arms are set free to go on his sides, searching for your hips to hold, your shirt, anything he can grab.
You lock your look with him, his lucid eyes on you, but he closes them immediately the moment you slip your hand into his boxers; a moan escapes his lips, thinking your touch could set him on fire.
“Fuck, darlin’, fuck,” He desperately cries, and you cannot help but smirk at how much he’s craving it all, how he’s desperate for you to give him some needed relief. Must be hard to go all this time without someone pleasing him when he likes it so much.
“God, you’re beautiful you know? I can’t stand you but you’re fucking beautiful.” You coo, looking down at his length and wrapping your hand around it.
Only that has him screaming internally, his hand is nothing compared to this.
“Please, darlin, I need to come, I will be good.” He pledges, a single tear marking his cheek.
“Yeah?” You urge, twisting your wrist and raising up your speed, “Then fucking come, big boy, fucking come in my hand.”
And he thrusts against your hand obscenely, imagining it was you, writhing desperately and all sorts of swearing words leave his lips messily.
Until all the heat is released from his body, warm white ropes staining your hand as he arches his back and holds his breath, only to moan loudly after.
He trembles in pleasure, his hand now pinned to the wall and he finally opens his eyes, seeing you still pumping him slowly.
“Is that all? Wanna give me more?” You tease him, as you keep stroking him.
He focuses on it, he truly does, until he can release more, panting as if he ran a marathon.
You’re gonna be the death of him, literally.
“Ooh there you go, that’s a good boy.”
You indulge a little more on his shaft, now all sleek in your hand, letting him ride his orgasm.
When you think he really has nothing more to give you, finally you leave him and you wipe your hand onto his jeans.
Joel’s breath is still ragged and all he can do is slowly sitting down on the concrete, following him and tucking him in, Joel flinching for how sensitive he is.
You cup his cheeks, placing a kiss on his forehead, “In case nobody ever told you, you did good, Miller, so good.”
You sit on his side, him letting his head onto your shoulder, as you bring some water to his lips.
“Take your breath, it’s alright,” your hand going to cup his face, Joel leaning more onto your shoulder, sipping on the bottle and then breathing deeply.
Your hand reaches the back of his head, little lines of sweat wetting his peppered hair as you tangle your fingers in those curls; you stroke his hair, letting him sink more onto your shoulder. He weights more than you and soon you have to lay down to sustain him, so that he can still enjoy being cocooned on your shoulder.
The pavement is dirty, the place still smells like blood just like your clothes, but to Joel this is the most peaceful the world has ever felt since the outbreak. It could all end in a second, a clicker, a Fedra bullet to his chest, but right now this is his peace.
He hugs onto you, his leg coming between your thighs, and it’s like having a big koala wrapped around your arm and shoulder, and well the colour of his peppered beard is almost the same.
The thought makes you smile, and you think that you were about to stab him, you’re sure you could have done something drastic if you hadn’t pinned him to the wall and shut him up.
Him and his mouth, look where it led you.
Joel sighs on your skin, knowing you both should really leave that place, but his limbs won’t respond.
“So you really enjoyed that, Miller?” You stroke the back of his head and then his neck, and you could swear you could hear him purring at your fingers.
“Yeah, I don’t know if it’s gonna go in my favour but...” His hand caresses your hip, brushing his nose onto your cheek, “I like to give up control, to let someone do something for me and to me.”
He shakes his head after, kissing your cheek, “I know it sounds weird, you’ve seen me always so cocky, and- and I like doing both, but if I can be vulnerable with someone then I want it to be like this,” his voice trembling in fear, and shame. It’s scary to be vulnerable in a world like this, it’s scary to let his weakness be bare in front of you.
You cup his cheek with your free hand since the other is still trapped by him, “It’s okay, Joel, it’s okay.” Switching to his name, Joel leaning more onto you.
“And I know that you’ve grown to hate me, to hate what we do together but I do hope you didn’t hate this.” He mutters, and you think of how much pain you both carry, a pain that has made you both hateful of everything and everyone, yourselves included.
And God, how can you hate him right now when he’s begging to be hugged, when he’s making himself smaller on your side?
“I didn’t hate it, okay?” You comfort, brushing his curls, letting your fingers through it starting from his forehead, Joel closing his eyes.
“You know I would hate you less if you were always like this.” You whisper over his forehead, Joel being shaken by a genuine laugh.
“We would be both dead by now.” He chuckles, you nodding at what is the truth.
It’s a world that doesn’t allow for softness, a world that has made you hate him even when all he wanted and wants to do is helping you. Hell, you even hated him when he saved you, still not forgiving him for that. He could have left you to bleed out, it would have all ended, but the glimpse of good in him made him do what he felt was right; he didn’t know he was doing something against you, and then you had to cling to him as you waited for your wounds to heal.
You still resent him, resenting what he does, but it’s only a reflection of what you do too.
“You want me to do somethin’ for ya?”
You don’t even know why he’s asking that, until you realise you’ve been involuntarily moving against his thigh, slowly humping on him.
You stop immediately, covering even your face with your palm, “Oh God, I’m sorry-“ you apologise, Joel chuckling a little.
“You don’t hate my body, that’s for sure.” He states, and he’s so right, as you can feel your panties having a wet spot.
“But I hate everything else, keep that in mind.” You tap his forehead, Joel shaking his head and slowly untangling from you.
“I know, I know,” he says, as he’s sitting up and you mimick him, actually standing up before him.
“Need a hand?” You offer, “Are we too old and lazy to be laying on the floor and then getting up, Miller?” Your words not so kind but there is a smile on your lips.
He grabs your hand, levering him and helping him getting up, “Lazy my ass, I’m 56 years old, darlin” he huffs, but he laughs with you right after, a little bit of all the stiffness melting off.
Hell, you just gave him a handjob, you could hate him a little bit less, but he knows that won’t be the case, and that’s alright, until you don’t point your knife at him it’s all good.
He holds onto that thought as you get out of the building, his truck just nearby with some of the last gasoline in it and a tyre he hopes will still make it for a couple of hundred miles.
That was always meant to be a temporary stop, just somewhere where to spend the night that didn’t turn out to be too safe, all before heading to your real destination, Jackson.
-
That night seems to be so far away now.
You really didn’t want to come here, you didn’t want to have a stable place where to stay, you liked at this point roaming and never settling.
But Joel couldn’t sustain all of that anymore, and one day he had told you that if you wanted to you could have parted ways forever and that would be it.
But he knew deep down you would have followed him, you hated him but still it was someone to have by your side, still there was a line tying you to him.
And now you’re here, in this town that has felt so foreign at first. Joel even got a house, a really nice house with two bedrooms, so that you could stay with him but not having to share the bed with him.
You would hate to admit it, but you love the house. It feels like home, even though nothing would feel like the home you had to leave behind, but this is a nice substitute; Joel has worked on keeping it nice and renovating few things, careful even that it would be of your liking.
Doesn’t matter though, there is still that fire pit within you that makes you resent him, and Joel knows that very well. He leaves you your spaces, your time, and some days he doesn’t even cross your way.
Your bones at least don’t hurt anymore from sleeping on the concrete or in the poor old truck.
Everything is so nice, except for the voices going around town: people are betting if you’re a couple or not.
-
It’s almost midnight when you go down the stairs, tiptoeing then until the kitchen; you’re sure Joel is still up, you’ve heard some noises while you were in your room, probably him tinkering with tools and wood even at this hour of the night.
There he is, sitting at the kitchen table where there are all sorts of tools scattered on it.
It’s his way of unwinding, of letting the night be easy on him.
He hears the footsteps, rising up his head from his works, and tilting it towards you.
“Can’t sleep?”
You nod, “Just a few things on my mind,” pacing around the table, back and forth.
Joel gives you a nod, never intruding, having learnt to keep his distance because that’s what you want. Or at least, what he thinks that you want. You’ve shared so much in the past year, now even sharing a house, so he just thinks you deserve your time.
You don’t leave though, now standing by the table, resting your hip against it, the soft light casted on his features.
“Do you know what they say in town?”
Joel’s furrowed eyebrows tell you already the answer.
“No, what do they say?” He goes back to using the scalpel on a rough piece of wood.
“That, well... that we’re a couple.” You let out all in one breath, ripping it off like a bandaid.
He drops the tool on the table, rising his eyebrows, “Is that just because we live together? It’s none of their business,” he wonders more to himself than to you.
“I know,” you ponder, still sometimes thinking about what happened in that old building.
You’ve never talked about it again, Joel deciding that it was up to you if you wanted to bring up the topic.
You bite your bottom lip, Joel reading your body now that you’re not saying anything anymore.
“Is there somethin’ else?” He asks, looking at you and sighing, wishing he could tell what’s going on behind your pensive look.
“I was just thinking...” Your hand smoothing on the surface of the table, Joel following the movement, “What if they’re right? What if there is really something else between us?”
Joel’s little tool ends on the table again with a low thud, giving up on his works for tonight.
“Darlin’,” he cautions, “I don’t think you really mean what you just said.”
You inch a little closer, until you’re able to take his chin, thumb brushing over his bottom lip.
“What if I told you I haven’t stopped thinking about that night? That my brain keeps going there, doesn’t matter how much I try to push it away?”
Just the plain truth, you’ve replayed it to yourself so many times, while strolling around town, while folding your laundry, not daring though to say anything to him; you thought about it even tonight, when just a little before coming down you were touching yourself to the thought of it, thinking it’s just your body that wants him, not your heart.
Joel moves nervously, the chair scratching the floor.
“Sweetheart,” and that’s a new one, he’s never called you like that, his breath itching at the close distance.
Your hand goes through his hair, pulling it a little backwards, Joel’s lips parting in a slight moan. You can remember clear as a day how much he liked it when you pulled his hair that night, how he went pliant in a second.
And you don’t know where this is going to lead you, you have no clue when even just a little touch gets Joel this way.
“Weren’t you dying to do something for me? To show me how good you could be? Don’t you remember that?” You whisper, hoping it’s not too much.
And his pulse quickens at the way you’re rubbing your hand on his crotch, Joel widening his legs instinctively.
“Still dying to do that? I wonder what you were thinking about when I gave you that handjob,” you exhale, kissing the shell of his ear.
Joel doesn’t answer, his heart beating so fast against his ribcage it’s becoming painful, but never like the way you’re pulling his hair and pushing on his sweatpants.
“I- I wasn’t thinking about that anymore.”
And if there is one thing, just one, that Joel can’t do is lying.
“Yeah? It never crossed your mind ever again the way I touched you?” You tease him, and he twitches under those pants, you smirking at that.
So much for not thinking about it.
“So now you’re also lying, Miller? I was told you would be good.” You shake your head, cooing at him but it’s more to mock him.
And all those questions are driving him crazy, his brain not able to process proper responses while you’re giving him no peace on his jeans and on his hair.
His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, being caught lying wasn’t really on his schedule tonight.
“Alright, alright, you win.” He breathes, a hand grabbing your arm, “I’ve thought about it.”
“Oh you have...” you click your tongue, “Perhaps they might be right, we could be more.”
You leave his crotch, grabbing instead his thigh, your thumb stroking his muscle through the tissue, and Joel cannot resist to you anymore.
He tentatively searches for your lips, aching for you.
You back up a little and smirk at him, seeing Joel frowning and already a “sorry” forming on his lips.
But you’re just playing, a sweet smile draping on your lips before diving on him, kissing him like your life depended on it.
His arms swing around your hips, keeping you close as your fingers end run through his hair, cupping then his cheeks, keeping him close in all the ways you can.
And when you part your lips, Joel thinks of how you got here, from hating on each other to be kissing in the middle of the night.
“What did you want to do that night?” Your thumb brushing on his eyebrows, clearing him from all the thoughts crowding his mind.
He chews on his bottom lip, his thumb rubbing on your hip, “Anything that you wanted me to do.” His flushed cheeks telling you he’s not lying.
And you still have to get used to this version of Joel, the one that doesn’t dominate.
You can manage to hate him a little less this way.
“So...” you finger twirls around a curl, “If I asked you to go down on me, you would have done it?”
Joel lowers his head just a little, trying to take that image out of his mind, but your hand brings it up again.
“Talk to me, Miller.”
Joel might have forgotten all words for the way his head is spinning so much.
“Yes, yes I would have done it.”
You smirk at him, fingers tangling in his curls, “Oh that’s the good boy that I know,” you coo.
“You like to be called like that, don’t you?” Still stroking his hair, Joel slow blinking up at you.
He nods, he’s wished all his life to be called like that again. He never thought it would come from the person who’s hated him for the longest time though.
You lean onto him to kiss his forehead, “I could call you like that many times, Miller.”
Joel rests his head on your chest, still your caress going on. And he begins to kiss your skin, the night gown having some transparency and he can feel your soft skin under his lips.
“You know that I was thinking about it earlier?” You reach his ear, whispering, “Can you imagine what I was doing?” You take a curl away from his forehead.
Joel’s chest rises up quickly, and he twitches once again in his jeans. Your body might love him, but his body loves you even more.
“God, darlin,” he exhales, the thought forming in his mind but not daring to voice it, failing to have control over his thoughts. You could order him anything, and he would do it in a second.
“There’s something about you, Joel,” switching to his first name, “I can’t really understand it, I still resent you but I can’t get you out of my head.”
And maybe you’re the one lying right now, you’re becoming the unreliable narrator.
You kiss him, holding your breath and letting his hands go behind your thighs, bringing you closer to him, making you lower more so that you can kiss him better.
“Would you ever forgive me?” He sounds desperate over your lips, voice breaking. He never wanted to hurt you, he just wanted to do something good for you.
And you’re reevaluating what he did, you’ve been rolling this thought in your head. That maybe this was for the best, that you weren’t meant to be left at the mercy of Fedra, or at the mercy of your own wounds that would have killed you, one way or another.
All you wanted back then was for everything to end, to put a full stop to your wandering, to your loss. You had no one, but Joel showed up that night, right time and right place.
He would have left anybody else behind, but all he saw was a helpless girl with so much pain, he wouldn’t even know how to describe it, but it’s a pain that he recognised, it felt like looking in the mirror.
That same look that tasted like surrendering.
He had felt the same, so many times.
“I will, Joel, I will.” You utter, kissing his forehead and then his cheek.
He softly smiles, a bit of his guilt being lifted.
His eyes are glimmering under the soft light of the kitchen, his chest expanding with so much yearning for you.
And he can’t help it, but a single tear leaves the corner of his eye, ending on your arm.
“Hey, it’s alright, Joel, it’s alright.”
You hug him, an instinct telling you that it’s the right thing to do.
Your arms wrap around his shoulders, him hiding on your chest, somehow feeling protected. It’s a dull world outside, but right now it feels like an antidote has been put in his bloodstream, cleaning all the bad poison.
He said you were both beyond salvation, but those words don’t apply anymore, not when he’s holding your hand as you’re going up the stairs, heading for his bedroom.
They don’t matter anymore when he’s letting you in his space, in that room you had just seen when you first got in this house and before choosing the other one, never stepping into it again.
It feels like him, it might be the perfume, or the wooden artefacts around the room, either way it has his name written all over it.
He doesn’t leave your hand even when you reach the bed.
You climb the bedsheets, kneeling on his side the moment he’s sitting at his place.
“Are you sure about this? Don’t you want me to go to my room?”
Joel shakes his head, letting you lean onto him, kissing him briefly.
“I’m sure, darlin’,” his voice so soothing, filling the room and the darkness.
“So the people in town might be right,” he whispers over your lips, cupping your cheek.
You lips creep in a smile during the kiss, “Yeah, they might have seen it all before us.”
And you had imagined the ending to this night very differently, you thought you could have teased him and spend some time with him pleasing you, but this is better, for now.
You’re seeing his true self, there’s no need anymore for the mask of anger and for your constant stubbornness towards him. This house has mended those wounds, it has healed those parts of you both that you didn’t think were possible to heal.
“Come here, ‘s been a long night,” he offers, letting you lay under the bedsheets with him, covering you and it feels like a parallel universe.
And as you’re drifting off, Joel cocooned on your shoulder, a kind of peace washes over you, like a warm blanket.
You glance at Joel and the hate is vanishing away leaving place for something you know you will learn to name.
For now, you will enjoy having this untamed yet soft man by your side.
Everything else is gone, Fedra, the clickers, the outbreak... everything goes away the moment you look at him.
The answer to your turmoil has always been just in front of you, you just had to welcome him in your heart.
Content warning: fluff, first date, first kiss, alcohol and cigarette use, adult language.
Summary: One borrowed cigarette can lead to the best first date you've ever had.
Prompt: Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?
Word count: 5,2K
This story is part of the #2026PPCUWC hosted by @pedroscurls, a bit late, but here it is.
For someone who hates loud noises so much, you’re handling being at a packed bar with your friends for one of their bachelor parties just fine. A lot of men are hitting on you, and you can’t take it anymore.
“I’m going to smoke a cigarette outside, be right back” you whisper to Dana, your friend.
“I thought you had quit” she tilts her head, angry. “I’m really stressed right now”
She sighs and you walk to the door, hoping there’s someone outside who can lend you a cigarette and a lighter. The only detail is that you would never return the favor. Once you step out the door, the hot Florida wind almost suffocates you. Not even your short thin-strapped red dress can make you get rid of the terrible wave of heat.
Your eyes roam around the sidewalk looking for someone smoking who doesn't seem so sketchy. Maybe a woman. And well, that is a hard job. A bar packed with straight guys looking for a hookup.
“Want a cigarette?” you hear a rough voice behind you, making you jump.
The person you turn around to see is a tall and broad man, around his mid to late forties. He has a beard and his hair and face are covered by a cap. He has a pack of cigarettes in his hand, a lighter, and a smile on his face.
“Sorry-I didn’t mean to scare you” he raises his eyebrows.
“Oh-” you swallow and place your hand on your chest.
“If you don’t, I’ll leave” the man says, raising his hands in surrender.
“No” you say a bit too loudly. The man doesn’t seem shady and he is really hot. “I need to smoke, but I have nothing on me”
“A smoker who doesn’t even have a lighter?” he chuckles.
“I quit one month ago” you nod.
“I ain’t giving you one then” he smirks.
“I really need a cigarette and a lot of tequila to stay inside the bar” you roll your eyes.
“I don’t want to be the bad guy who will ruin your sobriety” he steps back.
“No, you won’t, I’ll only smoke one” you can see his eyes now after he fixes his cap, big brown eyes. “If you still want to give me one, of course”
“Here”
The man pulls one cigarette from the pack, hands it to you, and you place it between your lips. He leans down with the lighter, covering the cigarette and lighting it for you. The proximity of your faces makes the air get stuck inside your lungs. You can smell his cologne, and his eyes are glued to yours.
“My name is Francisco” he mutters, straightening his posture and lighting a cigarette for himself. “You can call me Frankie”
“Well, that is intimate already” you smirk, raising one eyebrow and taking a drag, and then you say your name, letting the smoke out.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you” his smile is amazing, the dimples in his cheeks make it even greater. Frankie blows the smoke upward.
“I can say the same, the first decent man who came up to me” you roll your eyes, taking another drag. “Not trying anything”
“I like to go slow” he has a crooked smile on his face. “After the cigarette, can I buy you a drink? Just so we can talk more”
“Are you trying to get me into bed?” you tilt your head and raise one eyebrow.
“No” you feel the nervousness in his voice. “I-I-just”
“Calm down” you giggle, blowing the last cloud of smoke. “I’m just joking, but I should pay, you gave me a cigarette”
“No way” he bites the inside of his cheek. “I’d never let a woman pay for her drink”
Frankie walks by your side, opening the door for you to enter, and then he walks behind you, as if he is trying to make sure no one will touch you. Both of you walk to the bar and sit down.
“Catfish!” the bartender cheers.
“Hey, Danny!” they shake hands excitedly.
“Who is the woman who is making you a lucky man tonight?” Danny, the bartender, looks at you.
“Some half-smoker I found on the sidewalk” he shrugs.
“YOU FOUND?” you raise your eyebrows, smirking. “Two tequilas, Danny! On him”
Frankie smirks too, and you can see that he is thinking the same as you. This is going to end pretty well. How on Earth are you being so laid back with a guy you’ve just met literally ten minutes ago?
Danny brings the first round of tequila, salt, and lemon on a small glass plate. Frankie slides one cup to you and picks up the other one, clicking it against yours. When he is about to chug it all, you place your hand on his arm, the first time your hand meets his warm body. There is a second for both of you to feel the touch.
“You have to follow the ritual!” you smile, trying to hide how nervous you got.
“Oh!” he widens his eyes. “Of course”
“Arriba, abajo, al centro y adentro”
You both say it together, licking the salt, shooting the tequila, and sucking the lemon. Faces contorting. Both hitting the cup on the table afterward. You bite your lip, noticing his face getting flushed from the alcohol.
"Here you are!" Dana screams over the music, not noticing Frankie at first. "O-o-h" she raises her eyebrows.
"Hey, Dana!" you smirk. "This is Francisco"
"Call me Frankie, please" he extends his hand to her.
"Nice meeting you, Frankie" Dana shakes his hand, turning to you afterward. "I was worried about you, but I can see you're just fine! But hey, I'll be right there if you need anything."
"Thank you, love" you nod.
"I've got my eyes on you, Francisco" she narrows her eyes playfully, but you know that it's not entirely playful.
Frankie raises his hands in surrender, just as he did outside when you first saw him.
"Don't worry, if there's one thing I do right in my life besides taking care of my kid, it's treating women well" he winks at you.
Dana knits her eyebrows once more and turns to go back to Raia's - the bride-to-be - table. You stare at his face, noticing that he hasn't taken his eyes off you even once. Before drinking anything else, you have to learn more about him, because the last piece of information caught you off guard.
"A kid, huh?" you raise one eyebrow.
"Yes!" he raises his index finger to Danny. "Is it a problem?"
"How old?" you smile softly, ignoring the other question.
"He’s five" the grin that stretches across his face tells you he understood that there's no problem at all.
"He must be cute" you watch as Danny slides a cup of whiskey to Frankie.
"My bad, I didn't ask if you wanted something to drink" he calls Danny again.
"The same thing he is having" your eyes don't leave his, the intensity of this gaze making you both shiver.
"Married?" you ask. He doesn't have a ring, but you're not one for that either.
"Divorced" he looks down at his cup for the first time. "Are we starting the therapy session now?"
"Not at all" you smirk. "Just want to know the guy I might spend the night with"
Frankie chokes on his drink, coughing. Absolutely not expecting this. Bold. But he is also not a man to spend the night with someone randomly. He chose you because he felt something while you were looking for someone to steal a cigarette from. It has been too long since he laid eyes on someone that beautiful, and now he has an itch inside of him.
"What?" you bite your lower lip. "Don't you?"
"Absolutely" he gets excited and you know it. "Tell me, do you have someone in your life?"
"Nope" you take a sip of the drink Danny hands you.
"That's good" now Frankie is the one getting comfortable, his shoulders no longer tense.
"I knew you were trying to get me into bed, Francisco Frankie Catfish" you smirk, raising one eyebrow.
"Wha-" he notices your mischievous smile. "Ever since the beginning. Tell me, what made you quit smoking?"
"Well, you know it's not good for your health, right?" your tongue pokes your cheek.
"No!" he widens his eyes. "I had no idea! No one has ever told me that" Frankie takes another sip.
"I'm telling you now, you should quit. You have a kid to raise, it would be terrible if you died from lung cancer."
"Agreed! From this second on, I quit" he takes the pack out of his pocket. "Danny, come here!"
Danny comes closer, eyebrows knit.
"Can you throw this in the trash, please?" Frankie's eyes stay on yours as he hands the pack to his friend.
"See, I'm a good influence" you wink. "Tell me, Francisco Frankie Catfish. What do you do for a living? I have to know if you're a good match based on your income."
"I'm a millionaire" he chuckles. "I'm a pilot."
"For real?" you widen your eyes, finishing your whiskey.
"I swear. Not the millionaire part, hope that's not a problem" you roll your eyes.
"Not at all, but only if you take me for a ride"
"I can do that" he nods. "Now, tell me your story."
"Well, I'm not from Florida, actually from Arizona. I came here to study. Ended up dropping out of college, and now I'm a photographer" you stop for a moment. He is looking at you so intently. "And yes, that’s what I do."
"That’s bold"
"Maybe" you smirk. "And how the hell did you become a pilot?"
"I was in the military" he takes a sip of his whiskey. "Delta Force, but now I’m a pilot for smaller contracts."
"Ooooh, a veteran" you wink. "Too much trauma?"
"We never leave without any scars, right?" his finger touches his lower lip and your eyes drop to watch it.
"I bet not" you clear your throat, looking away. "I’m sorry"
Your body reacts before you can think, betraying you when your hand reaches for his shoulder, stroking it. The touch paralyzes both of you. It wasn't like the tequila touch, it felt different. Frankie looks at your fingers as they squeeze him slightly.
"It’s okay" now his hand is over yours. It's so big and warm, a bit rough. "Now, my life is good."
"That’s nice to hear" his thumb strokes the back of your hand, making you shiver. "I bet your five-year-old is responsible for this healing process."
"He is" the proudest smile stretches across his face as your hand slides out from under his.
"What is his name?" Danny brings you another cup of whiskey.
"Bruno" he nods and you smile.
"Beautiful name" you bring the cup slowly to your lips, and Frankie follows the movement.
The conversation flows easily and alternates between deep and fun as the alcohol goes down. Soon you look at your friends’ table and only a few of them are left. Dana is one of them, your ride home. When you look at your wristwatch, you realize you and Frankie have been talking for an hour.
“Time really flies when we’re having a good time, right?” he mutters.
“Yes, it does, and that is terrible” you bite your lower lip.
“Hey girl, we have to go home. Tim is asking for me” she rolls her eyes.
“Of course” you nod. “I’ll just say my goodbyes and pay my really big bill, I’ll be right there”
Dana knows, so she walks out of the bar toward her car. When you look at Frankie’s face, he seems bummed. Neither of you wants this night to end. But it’s still impossible to freeze time.
“You are not paying anything” Frankie clears his throat. “The bill is mine, and I know the owner, he is not letting you pay”
“Frankie, you do-”
“You don’t” he smirks, his voice low and warm.
“Can I take you to her car?” he asks as you stand up.
“Dude, we shared most of our trauma tonight” you hold back a laugh. “Are you really asking me if you can take me to my friend’s car?”
“I don’t want to be a creep”
“I know you’re not” you nod.
Frankie places his hand on the small of your back as you both walk out of the bar. The touch is so warm on your skin, even through the thin fabric of your dress, it feels like it’s burning.
“You know what?” he stops you halfway there, holding your arm gently.
“What?” your eyes meet, and it feels like there is a fire burning inside.
“Do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Frankie’s hand rubs the back of his head and you can see his muscles flexing with the movement and tension. “When both of us are not even a bit drunk?”
“Let me think...” you stop and bite the inside of your cheek. You can see his fingers moving in a way you noticed before, like it is calming him. “Of course I want to”
“Okay, can you give me your number then?” he hands you his phone, and with a smile on your face, you type your number.
“Here, don’t go silent on me, Francisco Frankie Catfish” you raise your eyebrow.
Before he can look at the screen, you step closer and stand on your toes. For a moment your faces stay just inches away, breaths mingling and an intense gaze being held. His brown eyes are deep and addictive. You won’t kiss his lips. Instead, your hand holds his chin and turns his face so your lips press against his cheek.
“See you tomorrow?” you whisper in his ear.
“Absolutely” he smiles gently.
Frankie watches as you walk to Dana’s car, your hips swaying as you walk. He didn’t even look at your body, focusing only on your face for one hour. And you are distracting.
You slide into the passenger seat of Dana’s car and she looks at you, a very mischievous smile on her face. You know. Frankie turns around and walks back into the bar again. He looks amazing, and you can’t even believe you spent the whole night talking to a man you met at a bar.
“You gave him your number, didn’t you?” she smiles.
“I did” you nod. “He wants to take me out tomorrow”
“Wow! Tomorrow? Girl, he is in love” she giggles, turning the engine on. “I thought you were going to kiss him”
“And hand him the whole game on the same night?” you wink. “No way”
When you get to your apartment, after you pet your dog and before you do anything else, there’s a moment to lie on the couch and check your phone. There’s a message from an unknown number, and the biggest grin appears on your face.
“Hottest Bar Girl?” that’s how you saved your number. “I was wondering if you want to go to Records and Burgers?”
The sigh that comes out of your mouth is one of surprise. Frankie listened to you. He heard you. The fact that you love old vinyl records and how you have always loved buying new ones. You stare at your phone in awe.
“Of course I do. Hottest Smoker Pilot.”
“I’ll pick you up at 6”
“You better!”
Like the biggest teenager, you run to your bedroom, take all of your clothes out, and throw yourself onto the bed. Looking at the ceiling, you start kicking your feet. Taking a few minutes to make sense of the night you just had. He is perfect. After the small outburst, you stand up and walk to the bathroom so you can take a shower.
It’s 5:45 when you hear a truck stopping in front of your building. Peeking through the window, you see a truck and the man getting out, phone in hand. Your phone buzzes, and there’s only one option for who is texting you. Frankie leans against his truck and you run to your phone.
“I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m here”
This text catches you off guard. He couldn’t wait to see you? The man you barely know. Is he just trying to get in your pants, or is he really interested? Tonight you’ll get to know his intentions.
“Be down in one minute”
You sigh, feeling like your heart might escape through your mouth, the butterflies in your stomach going wild. Frankie looks good from what you could see from where you were. Not taking too long, you say goodbye to your dog and run down the stairs to the door of your building, hands shaking as you hold the doorknob.
Frankie’s hands are sweating as he pulls up in front of your building. Fifteen minutes early. He should’ve waited. But he wants to see you, needs to, sober now. The way the night before kept replaying in his mind the whole day. Your smile, your laughter, the way your eyes met.
The door opens and both of you lay eyes on each other. It is like something inside of you shifts. Frankie’s face is bright now. Without the cap, he has the most beautiful curls, the beard trimmed, his face clearer than last night. Of course he is wearing just a random T-shirt and jeans. And now, he sees you in normal clothes, your face beautiful under the natural lighting. Both comfortable.
“Good evening, Mr” you say, trying to sound as relaxed as possible. “Waiting for some lucky lady?”
“Wow! Apparently, I’m the lucky guy waiting for the Ms” he comes closer to you.
Standing on your toes, you hug him. His body embraces yours like a blanket. It is warm and comfortable. His arm around your waist pulling you flush against him. His cologne is intoxicating. Your body against his makes him feel safe and sheltered. Your perfume makes his lungs go numb.
“I think we should go” he whispers into your ear, neither of you even noticing that a few minutes have passed.
“Absolutely, I’m excited to eat french fries and listen to vinyl records with a millionaire pilot. Thought you were going to take me to the Grand Millare” you giggle, stepping back.
“They were fully booked for the night” he walks to the passenger door and opens it, picking something up. A lovely but simple bouquet of wildflowers. “But I want to have an intimate night, in a place where I can hear your voice clearly, without being an old man with hearing problems” he hands you the bouquet.
“Is this for me?” you widen your eyes, taking the bouquet. “They’re beautiful, Frankie, thank you so much”
You take a few steps toward him and stand on your toes to kiss his cheek once more, his beard scratching your chin. The touch of your lips makes all the hair on his body stand up. They’re so soft and warm. All Frankie wants to do by the end of the night is taste them.
Stepping back, you slide into his truck, his scent everywhere. On the back seat you see a kid’s chair and a few toys. He enters too and drives off, turning the radio on, a more 80s and 90s-themed station. And Wildflowers by Tom Petty starts playing.
“You know…” he smiles and turns the volume up. “I love Tom Petty”
“You do?” you raise one eyebrow. “You look like someone who likes Tom Petty”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he chuckles, surprised by the statement.
“Take it however you want” you tease.
It isn’t a fancy date, and that is exactly what you expected ever since you met him. Not because of his appearance or anything related to it. But because of the way he treated you, what you both talked about, and how humble and attentive he is. Noticing you are not a fancy girl.
You have always loved the concept of a burger place that sells vinyl records and CDs. Maybe merch. And it’s exactly how you expected: a vintage-looking store, with records scattered all around. It is beautiful. You love music and vintage stuff. That is definitely a great place to have a first date.
“I think we can save the store for last. I want to challenge you” you nod.
“I like challenges” he narrows his eyes.
At the back of the store there is a door that leads to a small restaurant, also vintage-themed, with a few records hanging from the ceiling and album covers on the walls. There is a table reserved for you, and the effort he made to actually reserve a table in a place that isn’t crowded makes your heart flutter. His hand touches the small of your back, and a spark runs up your spine.
Frankie leads you to a small table next to the jukebox, and you wonder why, pulling out the chair for you. Taking the menu from the table, you laugh, and when he finally sits down, your legs actually touch under it. The table is kind of small, so the space is limited. But Frankie is not. He is much taller than you.
“Let me guess what they have on the menu…” you smile teasingly. “Burgers, fries and milkshakes”
“No, you’re wrong!” his face is so serious that you believe him for a second. “It’s actually salmon à la whatever and filet à la what the fuck”
“Don’t they have shitty-ass scallops?” you raise one eyebrow.
“They do actually! How did you know?” he places his hand on his chest.
“They always do! I’m having this one” you nod.
“For real now, choose yours” he chuckles and hands you the menu.
You analyze the burgers. They are named after musicians. The one that sticks out the most is Elvis Presley, even though Jimi Hendrix also seems like a great option. Frankie watches you choose your food. You look so beautiful he just can’t stop staring.
“I’ll have an Elvis Presley” you nod, looking up. “I’ve always wanted to taste him”
“Okay, I’ll try not to have that in my mind” he chuckles.
“There is another person I want to taste” you tease, and you see him blush before lowering his eyes to the menu.
“I know that Jimi Hendrix is a great option. I’m having this” his gaze goes up and finds yours. “What do you think about sharing a strawberry milkshake?”
“I usually don’t share food” you smirk. “But I’m willing to do it with you”
“Wow!” he smiles, and it is an honest one. “I’m honored”
“You should be”
The waiter comes and takes your order. As soon as he leaves, you both just stay there, looking into each other’s eyes. Frankie’s brown eyes are consuming. When he looks at you, it is like you are the Eighth Wonder of the World.
“Tell me, why photography?” his hand gets close to yours, fingers lightly brushing.
“Well… Long story” the corners of your mouth turn down.
“We have” he looks at his watch. “The whole night”
“Okay then, you asked” you smile and lick your lips, happy to be seen. “I’ve always liked photographing everything. My mind works differently, I guess. Always looking at places and thinking about how great a picture they would make. It continued until one day the dream kind of overflowed…”
Frankie’s chin rests on his palm, his elbow on the table. Concentrated. His eyes roam over your whole face, stopping on your lips. He is just there, involved in every movement they make.
“Francisco?” you ask, narrowing your eyes as you search for his, a soft smile on your face. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”
“I’m so sorry, but you’re too beautiful, I can’t-” he chuckles. “It’s not even fair”
You have no words. They get stuck somewhere in your throat or brain.
Food arrives, taking you both away from the moment, unfortunately. It looks so delicious that you almost don’t wait. But you have something to say.
“I can say that you look just as good now that I’m sober” you hold back a shy laugh.
The burgers look too good for either of you to waste, although you really want to talk more about how you both feel about each other. Second date, but it feels like a lifetime.
The french fries are saved for last. Frankie also loves eating them after dipping them in the milkshake.
He feeds you a few and you both drink from the same straw. Not even bothering to ask the waiter for another one. Actually, you want to share. The way he always looks at your lips and slides the straw toward you once he is done. So careful.
After the meal, but before you both head to the store, he always finds a way to keep his hand on you. Your arm. Your back.
In front of one of the shelves, you stop and look at Frankie.
“I told you I wanted a challenge” you lick your lips. “We both secretly pick an album for one another”
“Okay” he tilts his head.
“Let’s see if we paid attention to each other” you smirk.
“Game on!”
Both of you turn your backs and start browsing, looking back occasionally to see what the other is doing. It’s fun to think about him and what he would like. Frankie is not someone difficult or picky. He is easy to be around, relaxed, and always gentle. You know what he would like.
Twenty minutes later, you leave the vinyl records you chose with the clerk and go back to walking around, this time together. Close. Looking around for something you’d like. It is also a chance to know if your gifts are right.
“Do you like Johnny Cash?” you mutter, holding up American IV: The Man Comes Around.
“I do, and that is my favorite song” he nods.
“No way! Mine too!” you clap excitedly. “Even though I love his songs with June. So romantic”
“I sing You Are My Sunshine to Bruno sometimes” he smiles, eyes far away remembering.
“This is so cute” you scrunch your nose.
“He likes it”
“I bet he does. Especially if you’re singing. One day, if this date finishes well, I want to hear you sing”
“No way! It’s terrible!” Frankie shakes his head, going back to the albums.
“You’ll have to sing while you take me for a ride” you tilt your head.
“Only if you photograph me” he mutters, biting his lip.
“You bet I will” you nod, raising one eyebrow. “A lot. You’ll be rolling your eyes at me”
“I think I’ll never do that”
Frankie pulls up in front of your building. The night comes to an end, and neither of you wants it to. That’s something left unsaid but understood by both of you. A few seconds go by before you turn your face toward his and find his eyes already fixed on you. Not in a creepy way, but in a sweet one.
“Let’s exchange them now?” you raise one eyebrow, unbuckling your seatbelt.
“I’m excited for that” he does the same, and your bodies turn to face one another.
Both of you reach for the bags containing the vinyl records you bought and trade them. The biggest grins spread across your faces. Closing your eyes, you open yours first. He helps you, and the way his hand touches yours in the process makes you feel calm in the middle of the anxiety.
“Open it” he mutters and you sigh.
You’re holding an Elvis Presley vinyl. It brings tears to your eyes, but you break into laughter. You wanted to taste Elvis. And he remembered. Frankie watches all the emotions mix across your face, and he knows he chose the right one.
“Did I get it right?” he asks, scared of the answer.
“You are so perfect!” the words leave your mouth before you even think about the effect they will have.
“I am?” he widens his eyes.
“You are” you smile.
Your eyes flicker between his eyes and his lips, just like his do. Slowly, the space between your faces disappears. His hand cups your face so softly, his thumb stroking your skin lightly. Your hands hold the back of his neck. Now your eyes meet and you both smile, breaths mingling.
When your lips meet, it’s like an explosion of feelings. Something you’ve never experienced before. Frankie’s lips are soft and gentle against yours. It starts slowly, and you're the one who asks for permission to deepen it, and he allows it. Tongues sliding against each other in a slow dance.
You run your fingers through his hair, soft and curly. He smiles at the gesture. Both of you are so connected and in sync that the world around you simply stops. He is the one who pulls back, looking into your eyes and giving you another peck.
“I really like you, Hottest Bar Girl” he mutters close to your lips, your foreheads touching.
“Me too, Hottest Smoker Pilot” you bite your lip, resisting the urge to bite his. Your voice is smooth and low. “See? I got what I wanted”
“What?” his thumb is still stroking your cheek. His lips are swollen and flushed.
“To taste you” your lips meet his once again.
Kissing Frankie suddenly became your favorite thing in the world. His tongue against yours, his heartbeat beneath your palm. One of his hands slides to your waist, holding you there, like he never wanted to let you go. And in fact, he didn’t.
“Frankie” you whisper. “I think I should leave now, or else we’ll be here all night”
“I wouldn’t mind” he licks his lips.
“Neither would I, but I have a dog to feed and work tomorrow” now you're the one stroking his face, his beard scraping against your palm. “When will you be back from your work trip?”
“Three days” he sighs.
“Shit” you do the same. Both are heavy sighs. “Now I want to stay here all night”
“Will I see you when I get back?” he places a strand of hair behind your ear. “A second date?”
“We had one and a half” you giggle. “But yes, it’s a deal, Francisco Morales. I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t you dare bail on me”
“Never” he kisses you again, this time deeper.
The kiss lasts for minutes, neither of you pulling away, not even to breathe.
“See you soon, hot pilot” you smile as he unlocks the door.
“See you soon, hot girl” he winks.
You close the door of his truck and walk toward your building. Looking back just to wave, you find his eyes glued to you. He waves back and watches as you enter your building safe and sound. It has only been seconds and he already wants to see you again.
Hottest Smoker Pilot: I forgot to open my gift, but I loved the Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers vinyl.
Hottest Bar Girl: Fuck! I wish I could have seen your face.
Hottest Smoker Pilot: Believe me, I was completely breathless that you remembered. It’s been a while.
Hottest Bar Girl: Bummer!
Hottest Smoker Pilot: And I forgot to tell you something.
Hottest Bar Girl: What?
Hottest Smoker Pilot: You’re even prettier when you talk about something you love.
Summary: Pulling Javier Peña back from the brink of death was supposed to be just another shift. But as his recovery takes a difficult turn, the lines between doctor and patient begin to blur entirely.
Relationship: Javier Peña x Reader
Notes: I was sitting there thinking hmmm... I haven't done a really good whump fic in a while... And as many of you know… That's what I'm metaphorically famous for 😉... So here is the brain child that came out of that thought. Enjoy! ❤️
Summary: Can you and Steve really start over after everything that happened?
Warnings: angst, established relationship, married couple, arguments, marriage issues, pregnancy, infertility issues, maternity, motherhood, emotional distress, smut, dirty talk, nsfw, unprotected p in v
English isn't my first language, so be understandable and gentle, thanks!
Word count: +20k
Author's note: So, here we go... we’ve finally reached the end of this story! 🥺 I honestly can't believe it's over, and I'm definitely feeling a little sad about it because I'm going to miss this couple so much! That being said, maybe I'll write some extra chapters about them in the future. I feel like there are still a few stories left to tell — like their first official date, for example! But for now, that's a wrap on this story. I really want to thank you all for all the love and amazing feedback. It seriously warms my heart knowing that you've loved this story just as much as I loved writing it. I truly hope you will be satisfied with the epilogue I wrote. Let me know what you think with a comment, your feedbacks are really important for me. And if you want to support me even more, reblog it. I'd really appreciate it. Now enjoy it and thanks for reading!
Masterlist
A week later, Steve was finally discharged from the hospital and you went home with him.
But “home” didn’t look exactly like it used to. Not yet.
Steve moved slowly through the house on crutches, his steps careful and uneven. The bandage at his temple remained a constant reminder of how close you had come to losing him.
Sometimes he reached instinctively for the wall or the back of a chair to steady himself, stubbornly trying to do more than he probably should. And every time, you found yourself hovering nearby, close enough to catch him if he slipped but careful not to make him feel like you didn't trust him.
But even though he hated being stuck in the house and feeling useless, he enjoyed having you around, all for himself.
After spending weeks apart, having you back in the house felt like breathing properly again. He seemed to find reassurance in your presence. He loved waking up and finding you beside him. Or hearing you move around the kitchen in the morning. He simply loved the comfort of knowing you were there.
The conversation about children stayed untouched. Not avoided, not denied — just… gently set aside, left somewhere between you, waiting. And while you tried to make peace with it — with your body, with what it meant — Steve stayed close and patient, without pushing or rushing you.
It wasn’t always easy, though.
Because the thought never truly left you, feeling it in small, unexpected moments. A woman passing by with a hand resting on her stomach. A baby crying softly somewhere nearby. A stroller rolling past. Each one was like a quiet reminder of something you couldn’t quite look at directly.
School wasn't any easier. You spent your days surrounded by children—laughing, arguing, running through hallway — and sometimes it hit you so suddenly you had to pause, just for a second, and take a breath before moving on.
But the worst moment was when someone you knew announced they were pregnant. Because before happiness could come, before excitement or congratulations, you felt a sharp drop in your stomach. A flash of jealousy so quick and ugly that it made you feel ashamed. For a split second, thoughts crossed your mind that you immediately wished you could take back. That they didn’t deserve it. That it should’ve been you instead. Then guilt followed just as quickly. You swallowed it all down, forcing a smile onto your lips. You congratulated them, asked questions you didn’t really want the answers to and nodded in all the right places as you listened to nursery plans, baby names and ultrasound stories.
And you got good at that.
But when you got home, where no one was watching, everything came out, quiet at first, then all at once. You cried in the shower where your tears mixed with the water, or laying on the bed with your face buried against the pillow.
But never in front of Steve.
He was still recovering from the accident and you didn’t want him to suffer even more and to make everything worse.
Again.
Sometimes, you caught him watching a father with his child after baseball practice or a family crossing the street together. His gaze lingered just a second too long, his expression almost nostalgic, making your chest tighten. Every time he noticed you looking at him, he smiled or squeezed your hand. Like he knew what you were thinking. Like he wanted to reassure you without saying it out loud. Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn’t, the thought still finding its way in.
Maybe one day he’ll realize it wasn’t enough.
That you weren’t.
And he’ll want more.
He’ll leave.
It crept in at the worst times. At the end of the day, when everything was finally quiet and there was nothing left to distract you. During Steve’s baseball practices. At night, when sleep wouldn’t come. Even when you were in his arms. In those moments, you stayed still, your face tucked into his chest, breathing him in like that alone could keep everything else at bay. Until the thought began to haunt you, waking you up in the morning.
Every day, before you even opened your eyes, your arm would move across the bed, reaching for his side — checking. Making sure he was still there. That the space beside you wasn’t empty. Or too cold. That he hadn’t gotten up and left. Not just the room. Not just the house.
But you.
Most mornings, your hand found him without effort. Sometimes he was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. Other times, he was already awake, looking at you with that soft, familiar smile that made something in your chest ease and forget all your worries. Some days, instead, you didn’t even have to reach for him. You woke up already tucked against him, his arm loosely wrapped around you, like even in his sleep he hadn’t let you drift too far.
Those mornings were easier.
But not all of them were.
Sometimes, when you brushed the sheets slowly, carefully, hoping to find him without having to look, there was nothing. His side of the bed was already cold. You gave it a second. Then another. Your fingers pressed a little more firmly into the mattress, like maybe you had just missed him. Like maybe he was still there and you just hadn’t reached far enough.
But he wasn’t.
You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer, your breath catching as you delayed the reality you already felt settling in. Then you slapped your eyes and saw the sheets already smoothed out, as if no one had slept there.
That was when the panic set in.
You’d sit up too quickly, your breath already unsteady, your thoughts racing ahead of you. And then you’d get out of bed, almost without thinking, your feet carrying you straight to the closet.
It had become a habit before you even realized it.
You’d pull the doors open and scan the space, your eyes moving over his things — his jackets, his shirts — checking, counting as you made sure they were still there. That he hadn’t taken them. But sometimes even that wasn't enough to reassure you. You’d turn and head for the stairs, taking them too fast, your hand brushing the wall to steady yourself as you went down two steps at a time, your chest tight, your pulse loud in your ears. Until you found him sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread open in front of him, a mug of coffee growing cold beside his elbow. Other times, he was stretched out on the couch, half paying attention to whatever was playing on television. His eyes would lift automatically and that familiar smile would appear. Easy. Familiar. Reassuring. Like everything was fine. And you would smile back, pretend you had just come down for something else.
You never told him anything but Steve noticed. Of course he did. He was good at noticing things about you. He just… didn’t say anything.
Until one Sunday morning, when you were standing in front of the closet again, your fingers still wrapped around the edge of the door as you let out a slow, quiet breath. Your eyes slipped closed for a second, your shoulders dropping just slightly as the tension eased out of you.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was close enough to make you flinch. Your eyes flew open. You turned quickly, your heart jumping into your throat, and found him standing in the doorway, staring at you. He must have just come up the stairs. His expression wasn’t accusing or angry. Just… confused, careful. In his hands there was a tray with breakfast.
Shame rushed through you, sudden and sharp. For a second, neither of you moved. You swallowed, your hand still resting against the closet door as if you hadn’t quite decided whether to close it or not.
“I—” you started, then stopped. Your voice caught, the excuse you were about to give dissolving before it could even take shape. You shook your head slightly, a breath leaving you that sounded thinner than you intended. “Nothing. I was just—”
Steve didn’t move. His eyes flicked past you, briefly, to the open closet. Then back to you.
“Checking if I’d left?”
The words cut in cleanly. Your breath caught. For a brief second, you thought — hoped — he might be joking. But there was nothing playful in his expression as his eyes held yours, steady, serious.
“Wha—what?” you stammered, even though the denial sounded weak the moment it left your lips.
Steve let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped forward carefully, crossing the room with slow, uneven steps before setting the tray down on your vanity fair in front of the bed. The porcelain clinked softly against the wood. The sound felt louder than it should have. Then he turned back to you. He hesitated for a fraction of a second — like he was deciding how far to push it.
“You really think I haven’t noticed?” he said, his tone flat, controlled in a way that made it sharper. “The way you reach for my side of the bed every morning before you even open your eyes. The way you practically run downstairs when I’m not there.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Or how relieved you look every time I walk back through the door after work?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your mind scrambled for something — anything — to say, but there was nothing you could say. Because he was right. And the truth — the real reason behind it — felt too ugly, too fragile to put into words.
“I—” you tried again, your voice faltering, but it died there, unfinished.
Steve didn’t wait this time. “You still think I’m going to leave,” he said.
It wasn’t a question but a statement. The certainty in his voice made your chest tighten.
You didn't answer him but your silence did it.
He turned away from you, nodding, in disbelief, his back facing you as his hands settled on his hips. For a moment, he just stood there, looking up toward the ceiling like he was trying to steady himself, like he was holding something in.
You dropped your gaze. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Quieter. But if anything, it felt tired.
“I’ve told you — more than once,” he said slowly, “that I’m staying. That I’m not going anywhere.” A small pause. “I’ve never given you a reason to think I would. Even when I could have. Even when I was at my worst.”
You instantly knew he was talking about Kirsten. About that night. When he could have left and gone to her house. When he could have chosen something simpler. But he still didn’t.
“I didn't even think about it,” he added, almost under his breath.
You believed him.
And that made things even worse.
You swallowed hard.
“And still…” He stopped, exhaling through his nose before turning back to you. His eyes found yours again, something unsettled flickering behind them now. “Still it’s like you don’t believe me. Like you don’t trust me,” he went on, quieter now, but no less direct.
You flinched slightly at that, your fingers curling in on themselves.
“When…” He hesitated, just for a second, like he was debating whether to let it out or keep it in.
You could already feel that it was no good. That it would hurt you.
“When you’re the one who left.”
The words hung between you. Heavy. Painful.
Steve looked away for a moment, shaking his head faintly before letting out a breath that sounded more like frustration than anything else.
“I’m the one who should be checking that closet,” he said, his voice tightening despite himself. “Making sure your things are still there. Making sure you didn’t just—” He stopped, jaw clenching, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere in his throat. Then, more quietly, but still honestly. “I’m the one who should be wondering if you’re going to leave again. Not you.”
He was right. You knew that. But that didn't mean his words hurt any less. Your hands tightened together until your knuckles ached. You bit down on your lip, hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling.
His gaze dropped for a moment, then lifted back to you. “Do you really think I don’t have those thoughts too?” he went on, his voice less controlled, sharper now, stretched thin. “That I don’t wonder if I’m going to come home one day and you just… won’t be here anymore?”
The words hit you straight in the chest like a punch, knocking the air out of you.
“Or walk in and find you halfway down the stairs with your bags again?” he added. “Just like that day.”
You stayed silent.
Steve took a few steps toward you, his shoulders tense. “I’m scared every damn day,” he said, louder now, the frustration breaking through. “All the time.”
Your chest tightened as the words sank in.
“Do you know what I think about when I kiss you goodbye in the morning?” he continued, his voice rough, unsteady in a way that made it worse. “When I leave for work?” A short, humorless breath escaped him. “That it might be the last time.”
Your eyes filled with tears, burning you.
“The last time I get to hold you. The last time I get to kiss you.” He continued, swallowing hard. “And every single time, I just hope… it’s not.”
Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
He turned away again, dragging a hand over his face before lifting both arms briefly, resting them behind his head. He stayed like that for a second, staring ahead, jaw tight.
“But I still choose to trust you,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I choose it. Every single day.” His arms dropped back to his sides as he turned to face you again. “I choose to believe that when I come home, you’ll still be here.”
You couldn’t breathe properly. Your throat was dry, sore.
He looked at you like he wanted to say more — like the words were there, right on the edge — but then something in his expression shifted. He stopped himself. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, his jaw tightening.
The silence stretched.
You pressed your lips together, unable to speak. Because he was right. About all of it.
Even after everything he had said, some stubborn part of your mind kept waiting for the moment he would finally decide he had had enough. Even when… when you had been the one to leave. The one who had packed a bag and walked out, breaking something between you that you were still trying to fix.
What was wrong with you?
The thought came sharp and merciless.Your throat tightened painfully. For a second, you almost felt angry at yourself, enough to want to shake yourself out of it.
Steve cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence.
“I need you to trust me too,” he said, more quietly now. Exhausted.
“Steve, I do trust you, it’s not—”
Your voice was so weak that you almost didn’t recognize it.
“Well, it doesn’t feel like it,” he cut in, not raising his voice, but not letting you finish either. He hesitated, like he wanted to keep going — like there was more sitting behind those words — but then he exhaled slowly and shook his head.
“Forget it. I just… went out to get breakfast,” he added, his tone changing, flattening, like he was forcing the conversation somewhere safer. “I got you those pastries you like. Thought I’d bring you them in bed. I just wanted to… surprise you.” A small pause. “That’s all.”
Your eyes closed for a second, the guilt settling heavier in your chest. When you opened them again, your gaze dropped to the tray on the table. You looked at it better this time — the coffee, still steaming faintly, the pastries neatly arranged like he had taken care choosing them, orange juice, eggs and bacon. There were all the things you loved to eat.
Steve followed your gaze. “You should drink the coffee before it gets cold,” he said. His tone cold, detached that it surprised you.
He turned before you could say anything else, moving toward the door with quick steps, without looking back at you.
For a second, you didn’t understand what was happening. Your body froze, your mind lagging behind as the sound of his steps carried down the stairs.
Then it hit you.
He was leaving.
Your throat tightened as you forced yourself to move, your legs finally responding as you rushed out of the room and down the stairs after him, still in your nightgown, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your chest.
“Steve!” You called his name with everything you had, your voice echoing through the house.
But he didn’t answer. He didn’t slow down either. He just kept going, one hand gripping the railing, as he moved fast, like he needed to get out before he changed his mind.
Panic surged through you.
“Steve, wait—!”
By the time you reached the bottom, he was already in front of the door.
“Wait — please, wait!” Your voice broke as you closed the last bit of distance and grabbed his arm, your fingers tightening around it, forcing him to stop. “Where — where are you going?”
He stilled under your touch, turning around to face you. His eyes were shining. “I need… some air,” he said, his voice low, steady in a way that felt final. “I’m going for a walk.”
You shook your head immediately, your grip tightening, your breath uneven. “No — please, stay. Let’s just — let’s talk, okay? Please.” Your voice trembled, the words stumbling over each other as the tears spilled freely now, warm against your skin. You didn’t even try to hide them.
Steve closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose like he was holding something in. “I already tried,” he said after a second, quieter now. “More than once. But you don't seem to hear me.”
You shook your head again, desperate. “I know. I know, I’m sorry, I just—”
“I don’t know what else to say,” he cut in, not harsh, but firm. Tired. Exasperated. “I don’t know… what else to do to make you believe me.” His jaw tightened and for a moment he looked away. “I’m tired,” he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “And… angry.” He swallowed hard and you saw his throat move. “That’s why I’m leaving. I don’t want to say something I might regret later.”
Or do something he might regret, you thought.
Your chest constricted painfully.
“Please, don’t go,” you whispered, shaking your head, your fingers curling tighter around his arm like you could keep him there if you just held on enough. “Please, don’t leave me.”
For a moment, his expression softened. He hated seeing you like that.
“I’m coming back, okay?” he said, softer now, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. Like he needed to stop it before it spiraled. “I’m… I’m not leaving. I just —” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I just need a minute… to clear my head. Be alone for a bit.”
Your grip loosened, but only slightly.
“I’ll be back,” he repeated, more gently this time. “And we’ll… talk later. Promise.”
Talk about what? You wondered.
Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to your forehead. It lingered just long enough to hurt. Then he pulled away. Carefully, he slipped his arm from your grasp. The loss of contact felt immediate. Cold.
You stood there as he opened the door and stepped outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Silence flooded immediately the space he left behind. Loud. Unbearable.
You didn’t move. You stayed there, right where he had left you, your hands hanging useless at your sides, your vision blurred with tears you didn’t even try to stop anymore. Your heart pounded unevenly as your gaze fixed on the closed door, like you expected it to open again any second. While upstairs, the coffee he had made for you was already growing cold.
His voice replayed in your mind, louder with every passing second.
I’ll be back.
You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your chest aching.
Would he?
-
You were lying on the couch in the living room, curled on your side, facing the TV, even though it was off.
You hadn’t moved from there since Steve left.
The clock was ticking but you didn’t know how much time had passed. Long enough for the sobs to stop and the tears on your cheeks to dry, leaving your skin tight, your body still, your mind heavy and hollow. Your breathing had evened out. The storm had burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but a quiet that felt too big for the room.
Silence settled around you. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then, suddenly you heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Your body reacted before your mind did. You pushed yourself up from the couch, your heart jumping as you turned toward the door just as it opened.
Steve stepped inside. His gaze lifted as he crossed the threshold, and it found yours immediately.
You stayed where you were. Even though every instinct in your body told you to run to him — to close the distance, to hold onto him, to make sure he was really there — you didn’t.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a few steps forward.
“You’re here,” he said, his gaze fixed on yours.
You knew he didn’t mean just now. That you hadn’t left. That he hadn’t come back to an empty house.
You nodded, your throat tight. “And you are back.”
Something in his expression shifted — subtle, but there. He nodded once in return, like he was acknowledging something unspoken between you.
He knew exactly what you meant too.
He moved around the couch, with still his jacket on and sat down, leaving only a small space between you. For a moment, he just sat there. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dragging a hand over his face before pressing his palms briefly against his eyes, like he was trying to steady himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About before. I shouldn’t have… reacted like that.”
You hesitated for a second before sitting down beside him, careful and let out a slow breath.
“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “You — you were right.”
Steve turned his head to look at you.
You swallowed, your hands tightening together in your lap before you forced yourself to keep going. “I am… I am still scared. That you might leave one day.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look away. “And I know I shouldn’t be. That it doesn’t make sense. You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you. Not once.”
A small pause.
“I’m the one who did that,” you added, quieter now. “I’m the one who left. I’m the one who… broke your trust.”
The admission sat between you, raw and unguarded. It hurt you to remind what you had done. But you needed to.
“And I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softer now. “For that. For everything.”
Steve didn’t interrupt and kept listening to you.
“But it’s not true that I don’t trust you,” you went on, shaking your head slightly, like you needed him to understand that part most of all. “It’s… me.”
That was harder to say.
Your gaze dropped for a second before lifting again.
“I don’t trust myself,” you admitted, the words catching slightly on the way out. “Because I don’t feel like I’m enough. Like I’m… lacking something. Like I’m not…” You exhaled shakily. “Not what you deserve.”
Your fingers twisted together again before you stilled them, forcing yourself to continue.
“And I know—” you added quickly, almost defensively, “I know you don’t see it that way. I know that’s not how you think. But I do. And it’s not something I can just switch off, Steve. It doesn’t work like that.”
Your voice softened, losing some of its tension.
“I need time,” you said. “To come to terms with it. With the fact that… it’s not my fault.” You swallowed. “And that it doesn’t make me less. Or… harder to love. I just… need time,” you repeated more quietly.
Then, after a small pause, you reached out, slowly, carefully, and rested your hand on his knee. Steve's gaze immediately dropped to where your hand rested. His eyes lingered there for a second before lifting back to yours.
“But I’m not going anywhere,” you said, meeting his eyes. There was no hesitation now, only quiet certainty. “I’m here. And I’m staying.”
Your fingers pressed slightly against his knee, grounding yourself in the moment.
“I almost lost you,” you went on, your voice softening further. “Twice.” Your throat tightened. “And the second time… I almost didn’t get you back at all. I don’t want that again,” you whispered, your eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
You held his gaze as Steve reached for your hand where it rested on his knee, lacing his fingers through yours and giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m not going anywhere either, okay?” His gaze held yours, steady, intent. “I’ve seen what it’s like… living without you. And I didn’t like it. Not even a little.” A faint, humorless breath left him. “Worst week of my life, actually. And I’m not planning on going through that again.”
Your chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear.
“So yeah,” he went on, softer now, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles, “some mornings you might wake up and not find me in bed. Or downstairs. And some afternoons or nights, I might come home late.” A small pause. “But wherever I am, I’ll be thinking about you. And I’ll always come back.” His voice dipped slightly, more vulnerable now. “As long as you still want me to.”
You didn’t hesitate. “I will,” you said, your voice steady despite everything you were feeling. “And I’ll be here too. Waiting for you.” A small breath. “As long as you want me to be.”
Something softened in his expression. Then he smiled and lifted his free hand to your face, cupping your cheek gently before leaning in.
The kiss started soft. Careful. Like everything else between you had been these past weeks.
But as the seconds passed, some of the distance you had both been carrying seemed to melt away. You shifted closer without even thinking about it, your body moving toward his like it had been waiting for this. Your hands came up to his face as you kissed him back, deeper this time, more certain. The hesitation that had lingered between you began to slip, piece by piece.
You moved onto his lap, straddling him, your lips never quite leaving his. His hands found your waist, holding you there, tightly, like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.
The kiss grew hungrier, faster. His hands moved along your sides, firm, warm, sliding up your back, pulling you closer. Yours slipped into his hair, fingers curling, holding on as if that alone could keep him there. You felt him exhale against your lips, his forehead brushing yours for the briefest second before his mouth found yours again, more urgent this time.
He trailed slowly down your jaw, your neck, until it reached your shoulder. The strap of your nightgown had already slipped down your arm, giving him space, and he took it without hesitation. His lips pressed warm against your skin, lingering, then moving again — slower this time. Each touch sent a quiet shiver through you, your breath catching as he traced a path along your collarbone. You tipped your head back instinctively, giving him more room, your hands settling on his shoulders to steady yourself. For a moment, you just felt the warmth of his mouth, the roughness of his hands against your skin. And the solid presence of him beneath you.
He was already hard.
Your hips shifted almost unconsciously against him, drawn closer, and the contact made his breath hitch for a brief second. His hands tightened at your waist in response, grounding, firm, like he needed to keep you right where you were.
You threaded your fingers into his hair, gripping lightly, guiding him back to your lips. There was nothing hesitant left in the way you kissed him now. It wasn’t careful anymore — it was need, release, everything spilling over at once after being held back for too long.
You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms as your hands moved over him, impatient. He let out a quiet breath against your mouth, helping you shrug it off the rest of the way without breaking the kiss for long.
Your nightgown had ridden up completely, forgotten, as you shifted in his lap, the fabric bunched at your waist. But you barely noticed it, too focused on him — on the way his touch felt after everything. After weeks without intimacy — without sex. The last time had been during that famous weekend that was supposed to be the last. Fortunately, it hadn’t been in the end. How could you have thought you could live without him? Without his touch? Thinking back now, it seemed almost impossible.
His hands slid lower along your thigh, slipping beneath the fabric of your nightgown, hesitating only for a fraction of a second — as if giving you time to pull away, to stop him.
You didn’t.
If anything, you leaned into him more, your hands tightening his face even more, your lips parting against his in a silent answer.
You weren’t pulling away anymore.
His hand started moving over you again, sliding under the hem, caressing the bare skin of your ass, gently, slowly, as if he wanted to savor the moment. Like he was relearning you — like he needed to feel every inch just to remind himself that you were real, that you hadn’t slipped away again.
You pressed closer instinctively, grinding down on his bulge in search of something more, something deeper. It wasn’t enough — none of it felt like enough after everything you had been through. The distance, the fear, the almost losing him.
You needed to feel him. Really feel him.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding on just as tightly, like you were afraid that if you let go, he might disappear.
“Steve… please,” you whispered against his lips as his hand moved closer to where you needed him most. But every time, when he was almost there, he pushed it away, teasing you.
He smirked, amused. “What’s it, babe?” He murmured, voice low. “Tell me what you need.”
You let out a soft, frustrated breath, your forehead resting briefly against his.
“Please,” you begged, desperate, unable to form a complete sentence.
Steve’s grin widened even further. He hesitated a few seconds, his hand tightening on your thigh, the other one on your hip, holding you in place as he watched you for a moment longer than necessary. Then finally, he gave in. His hand began to slide down along your core, feeling the wet spot that had already formed on your panties.
His touch was slow, deliberate, rubbing gentle circles over your clothed clit as heat pooled low in your belly. Your hands found his shoulders again, gripping for balance as you moved against him, hips rolling, chasing his touch. Steve increased the pressure and you moaned into his mouth as you kept grinding your soaked panties.
The other strap of your nightgown slipped from your shoulder, revealing your breasts. Steve groaned. As he kept caressing your core, he ran his other hand up your stomach and squeezed your tits, gently first, then hard. You moaned again, letting your head fall back.
But it still wasn’t enough. You wanted more.
“Steve… I need you… Please,” you begged him, almost crying.
“Yeah, babe? Where do you need me? I’m right here.”
His hand pressed down on you harder, while your fingers curled into his shirt even more, resting your forehead on his shoulder, panting. For a moment, you hesitated, swallowing slowly.
“Inside me.” Your voice lower than a whisper. “I need you inside me, Steve. Please.”
Steve stopped moving, taking his hands off of you. You whined at the loss of contact, missing him already. But before you could say anything, he pulled your nightgown over your head in a single motion and threw it somewhere behind you, leaving you half-naked.
His gaze dropped straight to your bare breasts, his eyes widening, hungry. He swallowed hard.
“God…” he breathed, almost to himself.
After few seconds, you found yourself lying on the couch, on your back with Steve on top of you. He hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging them quickly down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, eager to be free of them.
Steve stood up, pushing his shirt up, revealing the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. Then he took them off and his boxers in one smooth motion, letting them drop to the floor. His length slapped against him.
Both naked, he settled between your thighs, bringing you closer as you raised yourself on your elbows to see him better. His gaze traveled over your body spread open on the couch, lingering on your centre, shiny and swollen already.
“Fucking beautiful,” he said, looking back at you, a little smile on his lips. “And it’s all mine.”
Even though you were married and he had already seen you like that several times, you couldn't help but blush at his words.
He lay down on top of you and kissed you passionately, supporting himself on one arm, as he dragged his other hand through your slick folds, spreading yourself open. His fingers drew slow circles around your clit before dipping inside. Your body responded instantly, arching into him, hips rolling against his fingers. The wet sounds filled the room, mixed with your shaky breaths.
“You’re so wet, babe, and I barely did anything,” he murmured under his breath, holding his glistening fingers up to your lips.
You took them into your mouth and sucked, tasting yourself on them as Steve never took his eyes off you.
“So needy and desperate, aren’t you? And you really think you could live without me?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, a broken moan ripped from your throat as he rubbed his hand all over your entrance, spreading the wetness. Your hips moved towards him, looking for more. Then he grabbed himself and stroked it a few times, lubing himself up with your arousal. Your eyes fixed on him the entire time, biting your lip at the sight of his thick member. Even after so many years together you still hadn't gotten used to its size, capable of leaving you breathless and sore every time.
Steve moved closer to you, guiding his length through your folds, the tip nudging against your clit, teasing you. You threw your head back, a sigh escaped your lips.
Without warning, he drove into you with one, quick thrust, seating himself fully inside you. You gasped at the intrusion, arching your back as he stretched you open with a deep groan.
He started moving immediately, without giving you time to get used to it. You were so wet that he slid perfectly inside you all the way, meeting no resistance. The wet slaps of skin and your desperate moans filled the living room as he kept pounding into you at a brutal pace. Your hands ran down his hairy chest, his arms and then over his back, scratching him, digging your nails into him as he went deeper with each stroke.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in tighter to you. His hand reached your clit, rubbing it as he kept fucking you harder. He thrusted in and out, relentlessly, quickly. His eyes stayed locked downward, fascinated by the sight of himself sliding in and out of you, dragging a creamy ring back and forth along his length.
“How — How can you think I can leave? That I can do without all this? Without you?" he asked after a while, his lips pressed to your ear.
There was no malice or bitterness in his voice, just honesty. You didn't respond, you couldn't. Partly out of shame, partly because Steve's movements prevented you from thinking or speaking clearly. Only half-formed words, moans escaped your mouth.
"Steve, I…"
"Yes, babe? Are you coming? I can feel you squeezing my cock. Come on, cum for me."
And you came, clenching around his cock and crying out his name. Steve followed you right away, coming inside you with a low, guttural groan as his release painted your walls. He gently collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.
-
About ten minutes later, you were lying on the couch, wearing only his shirt, curled slightly on your side with your head resting on Steve’s chest. Your fingers were still loosely intertwined with his, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He lay beside you in nothing but his boxers, one arm draped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm.
Everything felt… lighter now. Not just because of what had just happened between you, but because of everything that had come before it — your argument, the honesty, the way you had finally let yourselves say things out loud instead of carrying them alone.
It hadn’t fixed everything. You knew that. There were still cracks — fears that wouldn’t disappear overnight. Things you —especially you — would have to work through, slowly, patiently. But for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel impossible. It felt like something you could face together.
Steve shifted slightly beneath you, his fingers tightening around yours for a moment before he lifted your hand, turning it gently so your wedding band caught the light of the lamp.
“Give me your ring,” he said after a beat.
You barely noticed at first, still half lost in the quiet haze of the moment. Then you blinked, the words taking a second to fully register. You pushed yourself up slightly, one hand pressing against his chest as you looked down at him, your brows knitting together. “What?”
“Your ring,” he repeated, his voice calm but his gaze intense. “Give it to me, please.”
Confusion flickered across your face as you sat up properly, turning to face him.
“My ring? Why?” There was a trace of unease in your voice now, subtle but there. You instinctively curled your fingers slightly, as if protecting it without even realizing. You didn’t like taking it off. Not even when you had temporarily left Steve you had taken it off.
Steve pushed himself up into a seated position, resting against the couch armrest as he looked at you.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
You knew, instantly, that he wasn’t just talking about the ring. He was asking something bigger.
Did you trust me to stay?
Did you trust me not to leave?
Your throat tightened slightly, but you nodded without hesitation, swallowing. Your fingers hesitated for only a second more before you slipped the ring off and placed it in his hand.
It felt strange the moment it left your finger. Lighter. Wrong, almost.
Steve watched you for a second, then reached up and removed his own. For a brief moment, he held both rings in his palm, staring down at them — silent, thoughtful.
You shifted closer, kneeling on the couch in front of him now, your eyes fixed on his face, trying to understand what was happening but without success.
“What are you doing?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly and placed both rings on the couch between you.
Side by side.
You followed the movement with your eyes, your confusion deepening, your brow furrowing as you looked back up at him.
“Give me your hand,” Steve said softly.
You looked up at him, your confusion still written all over your face.
“Steve… will you tell me what you’re doing? I don’t—”
“We’re renewing our vows.”
You blinked, your eyes widening as you stared at him, even more lost than before.
“What?”
“Didn’t we say this was a new beginning?” he went on, his voice steady, certain. “For you, for me… for us.”
You nodded slowly, still trying to catch up.
“Then we need new promises,” he said. “Ones that actually fit us. Our way.”
Before you could say anything else, he reached for your hands again, holding them gently but firmly between his.
“Trust me,” he added, quieter this time.
There it was again.
That question beneath the words.
You swallowed and nodded. “I do.”
Steve took a slow breath, his thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles as he gathered his thoughts. For a second, he looked almost nervous — but he didn’t look away.
“Do you take me to be yours again,” he began, his voice low but clear, “knowing that we don’t have everything figured out… that things might change, that life might not go the way we planned…”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“To have and to hold anyway,” he continued, “to stay instead of running, to try, even when it’s hard… to not walk away when things get complicated…”
Your eyes burned, but you didn’t blink.
“To love me for as long as we both want this… for as long as we keep choosing each other?”
Silence settled between you the moment he finished.
For a second, you couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. Then you nodded — once, twice, again — your grip tightening around his hands.
“I do,” you said, your voice trembling but certain. “I do.”
Tears blurred your vision as you held onto him.
“Okay,” he murmured, a faint, relieved smile tugging at his lips. “Your turn.”
You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, your heart still racing as you repeated his words — slowly at first, then with more certainty, your voice finding its strength as you went. When you finished, Steve didn’t hesitate.
“I do,” he said immediately, like it was the easiest thing he had ever done. There was no doubt or uncertainty in his voice.
He reached for your ring, holding it carefully between his fingers before looking back up at you.
“Repeat after me,” he said softly.
You nodded.
“With this ring, I choose you.”
“With this ring, I choose you,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I promise to love you, to be honest with you and to let you in, always.”
You repeated each word, your gaze never leaving his.
“I promise I won’t shut you out when I’m scared… to trust you, to stay… and to build whatever life we can — together.”
Your throat tightened, but you kept going, holding onto every word like it mattered more than anything.
“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”
When you finished, his expression softened completely. Slowly—almost reverently— he slid the ring back onto your finger. The weight of it felt different now. Not heavier.
Stronger.
Your eyes dropped briefly to his ring, still resting between you on the couch. You picked it up carefully, turning it between your fingers before looking back at him.
“Your turn now,” you said softly, almost timidly.
He nodded.
“With this ring, I choose you,” you began.
He repeated it without hesitation.
“I promise to love you, to trust you, and to stay when things get hard — not because I have to, but because I want to.”
His voice was firm, certain.
“I promise to stay even when it would be easier to walk away… and to build whatever life we can— together.”
Your chest tightened.
“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”
When he finished repeating, you took his hand and slid the ring back onto his finger, your touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your fingers intertwined.
When you looked up again, he was already staring at you. Smiling. There was something lighter in his expression now. Softer. Hopeful. You smiled back, your eyes still shining.
“And now what?” you asked quietly.
A small, familiar spark returned to his gaze.
“Well,” he murmured, his voice dipping just slightly as his hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing softly along your cheeks, “now I get to kiss my wife.”
A flash of playfulness softened his features — something boyish and bright, as if he’d been counting down the seconds to this very moment. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, fueled by a quiet, steady confidence. Like he wasn’t asking — just finally claiming what had always been his.
And then he kissed you.
The force of it, the sudden pull of his hands, sent you tipping backward onto the couch, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as he followed you down without breaking the kiss, his body settling over yours.
You barely had time to react before your hands found him again — his shoulders, his hair — pulling him closer as if there was still distance left to close.
At first, the kiss was slow, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of care that felt almost reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again. Then it deepened, growing stronger, more urgent, the quiet tenderness giving way to something warmer, fuller, alive with everything you had both held back for too long.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, his grip on you firm but steady, keeping you anchored beneath him as if letting go wasn’t even an option anymore.
It wasn’t just a kiss.
But a promise.
A new beginning.
The first step into something new.
Together.
-
A week later, you started therapy.
It wasn’t an instant fix. Nothing about it was. But slowly — almost without noticing at first —something began to shift.
The mornings were the first to change.
You still reached for him sometimes when you woke up, your hand instinctively searching for the warmth of his side of the bed. But you no longer did it with that same sharp edge of panic or fear. You didn’t brace yourself before opening your eyes. You didn’t lie there, afraid of what you might — or might not — find.
And some mornings… you didn’t even have the chance to.
You woke up already wrapped in his arms, his body warm against yours, his hand resting at your waist like it had been there all night. Other times, you felt him pull you closer in his sleep, like even unconsciously he was making sure you were still there — still his, still within reach.
Those mornings were easier. Quieter. Because they didn’t leave space for doubt to creep in.
And when he wasn’t there, you didn’t rush. You didn’t run to the closet anymore to check if his clothes were still hanging where they belonged. You didn’t scan the house with your heart in your throat, waiting to confirm your worst fear. Instead, you breathed — once, twice. You reminded yourself — quietly, firmly — of everything he had told you. Of everything you had promised each other.
You chose to trust him.
And, slowly, you started trying to trust yourself too. To believe that you were enough. Not just because he said it, or because he loved you. But because you were.
-
Two months later, you came back from a weekend away with Robin and Nancy.
The moment you stepped into the house, you barely had time to set your bag down before Steve reached you, taking the suitcase from your hand and leaning in to kiss you softly.
“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.
“I was gone only for two days,” you replied, smiling anyway.
“I know,” he said. “Two very long days.”
And then you noticed the expression on his face. He looked suspiciously satisfied, like he was waiting for you to figure something out.
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?” you asked, suspicious now. “What did you do?”
He feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. No trust at all?”
You gave him another look.
“Okay, maybe I did something,” he admitted, a grin slipping through.
“Please tell me you didn’t burn the kitchen down while I was gone.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “Firstly, rude. And secondly, it’s a good thing. A surprise. Promise.”
Then he extended his hand toward you.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to see it.”
You hesitated for only a second before taking it, letting him guide you inside and up the stairs.
He left your suitcase by the bedroom door without a second thought and kept going.
And that was when you realized where you were going.
Your steps slowed. Your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.
The further down the hallway you walked, the heavier your chest felt until you stopped, right in front of the door you almost never opened anymore.
Your throat went dry.
You hadn't stepped inside in months. Most days, you barely even looked at it when you passed. Sometimes you wished it wasn’t there at all. That the door could just… disappear.
“Steve… what are we doing?”
He turned back to you immediately, and whatever excitement had been on his face softened the second he saw yours. He stepped closer, taking both your hands this time, holding them gently but firmly.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Trust me. Okay?”
The words settled between you. Familiar now. Your eyes flickered to the door for a brief second, your chest tightening — then back to him. You swallowed hard and nodded.
“Okay.”
He smiled, just a little, then squeezed your hands.
“I need you to close your eyes,” he said. “And don’t open them. No matter what.”
A small flicker of hesitation crossed your face again. But this time, you didn’t let it take over.
“I’m trusting you,” you murmured.
“I know,” he said softly before closing your eyes.
You felt him let go of one of your hands, the other still firmly wrapped around his as he guided you forward. Then you heard the sound of the door opening. Your heartbeat picked up.
“Okay,” he said. “Come on. Just follow my voice.”
You did. Slowly. Carefully.
“Stop,” he said gently after a moment.
You stopped instantly, abruptly.
“Okay… you can open them.”
You inhaled deeply and opened your eyes.
At first, all you saw was him — standing in front of you, watching you carefully, almost nervously. Then your gaze shifted and everything else came into focus. You turned slowly, taking it in piece by piece.
Everything was different. But it wasn't what you had once imagined either.
The boxes were gone. The walls had been repainted in soft, warm colors that made the room feel brighter than you remembered.
There was no crib by the window. No changing table. No carefully planned corners for a life that hadn’t come. Instead, there were large canvases leaned against the far wall, waiting to be used. Shelves lined with paints, brushes, pencils and jars of color.
Your breath caught. Your hand rose instinctively to your mouth as your eyes began to sting.
It wasn’t a reminder of what you had lost anymore. Of what you couldn’t have. Steve had transformed it into something full of possibilities that didn’t hurt to look at. That didn’t whisper what if every time you passed by.
Behind you, Steve shifted slightly. When you didn’t speak right away, uncertainty crept in.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe I should’ve talked to you first,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I just… I thought it was a shame to leave it like that and not using it. And you always said you wished you had a space to paint, so I thought—”
He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure.
“I mean, you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” he added, softer now. “We can —”
You turned to him before he could finish the sentence and closed the distance in two quick steps, kissing him.
He froze for a second, clearly caught off guard — then melted into it, his hands coming up to steady you as he kissed you back. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breath uneven.
“It’s perfect,” you whispered. “I love it. And I love you.”
Your arms slipped around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
He held you just as tightly.
And over the following weeks, that room became yours.
You spent hours in there — painting, sitting, letting your thoughts settle into something quieter. Sometimes, you didn’t even realize how long you’d been there until the light changed. Steve would linger in the doorway now and then, leaning against the frame, watching you with that same soft expression—like he was witnessing something slowly come back to life.
Eventually, you even convinced him to sit for you. He complained about it at first. A lot. But he stayed.
And little by little, that room changed. From something that once held only absence, pain, sadness… to something filled with color.
And hope.
-
A few weeks later, Steve showed up with a camper that looked like it had lived several lives before you ever laid eyes on it. It was old, dented in places, the paint faded and uneven — but there was a spark in Steve’s eyes when he stood in front of it, one hand resting on the hood like he’d just found treasure.
“I know what you’re thinking but it has potential,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “It probably has tetanus.”
He grinned.
With Eddie’s help — and a lot more time, effort, and swearing than either of them would ever admit— they brought it back to life. By the time summer arrived and school let out, it was no longer falling apart.
With no schedules to follow and nowhere you had to be, you left. The road stretched out in front of you, endless and open. It felt… freeing.
You drove for hours with the windows down, music playing too loud, your hands resting somewhere on each other — your arm, your thigh, wherever you could reach — just to feel each other.
You made your way through the Rockies first, the air thinner, cooler, the silence deeper than anything you were used to. You hiked trails that left your legs aching and your lungs burning, but every time you stopped, every time you looked around, it felt worth it.
At night, you slept outside more often than not. Sometimes in the camper, sometimes in a tent, sometimes just wrapped in blankets under a sky so full of stars it didn’t feel real. There were moments when you lay side by side, not speaking, just looking up. And your thoughts didn’t spiral anymore.
At the Grand Canyon, you stood at the edge in silence, your shoulder pressed against his. His hand found yours without looking, fingers threading through yours like it was second nature.
“Hard to believe something like this just… exists,” you murmured.
Steve glanced at you instead of the view. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”
After that, you went to Yellowstone. Beautiful and unpredictable at the same time. One moment you were admiring the scenery, the next you were lost, soaked by unexpected rain, or arguing over a map you both insisted you knew how to read properly.
And then there was California.
Everything seemed to slow down there. The air was warmer, the days felt longer. The ocean stretched out endlessly in front of you, the sound of it constant.
Steve decided he was going to learn how to surf. In reality, he spent most of his time falling off the board while you sat on the beach laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
You played volleyball on the beach with strangers, drank overly sweet cocktails decorated with ridiculous little umbrellas, and watched the sun melt into the ocean more evenings than you could count.
During the day, Steve refused to wear sunscreen, even though you had told him he’d regret it.
And he did.
“This is your fault,” he muttered later, lying on his stomach, his skin flushed red while you tried not to laugh as you applied aloe.
“My fault?” you echoed, incredulous.
“You should’ve insisted harder.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, your fingers gentler than your tone. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But you love me.”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to as you both knew the answer.
Sometimes, you acted like kids — splashing each other in the water, chasing each other along the shore, collapsing into the sand, breathless and laughing.
Other times, things slowed down. Quieted.
You’d sit close together, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting against him, listening to the waves without feeling the need to fill the silence.
One night, long after the beach had emptied, you slipped into the ocean together, only in your underwear.
The cold hit you instantly, sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. You gasped, instinctively reaching for him. His hands found you beneath the surface, firm on your hips, pulling you into him until there was no space left between your bodies. The water moved around you, waves brushing against your skin. You laughed quietly when one hit you harder than expected, your hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, pressing your chest against his, your breath mixing.
You started kissing — your lips touching, hesitant for half a second — and then it deepened instantly.
Hungry.
Your fingers slid into his hair, grabbing, pulling him closer as his hold on you tightened, one hand pressing firmly at your lower back, anchoring you against him while the ocean swayed around you. There was no teasing or slow build. Just want. Desire. Raw and immediate.
“I need you,” he muttered against your mouth.
“Then stop talking,” you shot back softly, breathless, your eyes fixed on his. “And show me how much you need me.”
That was all it took.
The kiss turned rougher, deeper. His hand shifted, gripping your hip harder, pulling a quiet sound from you that you couldn’t hold back. The ocean rocked around you, but neither of you paid attention anymore.
By the time you made it back to shore, you were both breathing harder than you should have been, your skin still wet, cooling in the night air. The moment your feet hit the sand, his mouth was on yours again, stronger this time, more urgent, more demanding. Your hands moved just as quickly, sliding over him, holding, pulling, needing to feel him.
You stumbled back together, barely coordinated, until the sand gave way beneath you and you fell, a soft breath leaving your lips as your back hit the ground. Steve followed immediately, catching himself just enough to not hurt you.
Sand clung to your skin, your legs wrapped around him without thinking, pressing into him like you couldn’t get close enough, like your body refused the idea of space between you.
His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your neck, slower now — but not softer. Each touch leaving something behind, something you could feel spreading under your skin.
“You feel that?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough.
“Yes—”
Your head tipped back, breath catching, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you tighter, like he wasn’t planning to let you slip away again.
“Don’t — don’t stop,” you breathed against his mouth.
A quiet exhale left him, almost like a laugh, but darker.
“Never,” he replied, almost immediately.
When you finally came together, it felt inevitable. Natural. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm before you even found it. Every movement met, answered, matched. Your breath broke into uneven patterns, your fingers tightening, needing something solid as the rest of the world blurred into nothing but the sound of the ocean and the feeling of him.
His name left your lips without thought, barely more than a breath, your body reacting to every shift, every movement that pulled you further into him.
Afterward, you didn’t move. You stayed wrapped around each other, your skin still warm, your breathing slowly evening out as the night settled back around you. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer instinctively, like distance wasn’t something either of you could tolerate. Your fingers traced slow, absent lines over his chest, your cheek pressed there, listening to his heartbeat.
The waves kept coming and going, soft, constant.
And for once, there was nothing chasing you.
No doubt.
No fear.
No voice in the back of your mind asking what if.
-
When you came back from your trip and the new school year began, things felt different between you and Steve. Not all at once. Not in a way that erased everything that had happened. But the tension, the constant weight of fear and doubt — it had softened.
You still talked about children sometimes. About the future. About what you both wanted. But the summer spent together had reminded you of something important: you were happy. With Steve. With the life you had built together, even if it was only the two of you for now. But it was enough for now. So you decided to wait and to give yourselves time.
No deadlines.
No pressure.
No quiet panic about what should come next.
Just the two of you.
Or rather, the three of you.
Because shortly after you got a dog.
A golden retriever puppy, barely a few months old, all oversized paws and endless energy that you named King.
King made his loyalties very clear from the start. He followed you everywhere like your shadow. If you moved, he moved. If you stopped, he sat at your feet. At night, it became a problem. Every time you and Steve went to bed, King would jump up before either of you could stop him and curl up right on Steve’s side.
“You’ve got competition,” you teased one night, already half under the covers as Steve stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the dog sprawled comfortably across his pillow.
Steve scoffed. “Yeah, I can see.”
King didn’t move. If anything, he stretched and it took a solid minute of negotiating — firm voice, light pushing, and eventually bribery — before Steve managed to reclaim his spot. Even then, King would lie at the foot of the bed, eyes on you.
Steve pretended to be annoyed at him, almost jealous. Sometimes he even sounded like it. But you caught the way he looked at the dog when he thought you weren’t paying attention — soft, amused, completely gone. He loved him as much as you did.
Every evening, he took him out for walks, no matter how tired he was. You’d watch from the window sometimes as they crossed the yard — Steve throwing the ball, King sprinting after it like his life depended on it, ears flying, tail wagging wildly.
-
Not long after classes started, a position opened in the art department. A few days later, the principal called you into his office and offered it to you. Your first instinct was to say no.
The thought of being so close to children every day made something in your chest tighten again. Old fears, quieter now, but not completely gone, stirred under the surface.
What if it would hurt?
What if it was too much?
What if you couldn’t handle it after all?
But then you thought about the studio that Steve had set up for you. About the way your hands had found their way back to color, to creation. About the way you had slowly, carefully started building something new out of what you thought you had lost.
So when the principal asked for your answer a few days later, you said yes.
Steve was… impossibly proud.
The surprise party he organized was chaotic, loud, full of people you loved — and entirely overwhelming in the best way.
Your first day in the classroom felt different than you expected.
Not heavy.
Not painful.
Just… new.
There were moments of uncertainty, of course. Small pauses where you caught yourself observing, adjusting, learning where to stand, how to speak.
At one point, while you were leaning over a desk helping a child mix colors, you felt something shift in the room — a subtle change in attention. You looked up. Steve was standing by the door. He hadn’t said anything. Just… watching. A small smile already on his face.
One of the kids noticed him first. Then another. And suddenly the entire class had turned, voices rising all at once.
“Who is that?”
“Coach Harrington!”
“Is that your husband?”
“Are you gonna kiss him?”
Your face flushed instantly.
“Okay — alright — back to —” you tried, but it was too late.
“Ki-ss! Ki-ss! Ki-ss!”
You shot Steve a look — half warning, half embarrassed.
He only grinned and walked over, slow, deliberate, like he was enjoying this far too much. When he reached you, he leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your cheek.
The class erupted.
You covered your face for a second, laughing despite yourself.
“Sorry,” he murmured near your ear, low enough that only you could hear. “Couldn’t help it.” Then, after a beat, softer. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
Your cheeks warmed even more, and you nudged him lightly, trying to regain some composure.
By the time the day ended and the last child had left, the classroom fell quiet. You stood there for a moment, taking it in—the scattered drawings, the faint smell of paint, the soft echo of a day that hadn’t hurt the way you feared it would.
If anything, it had felt… right.
A light knock pulled you from your thoughts.
You followed the sound.
Steve was leaning again against the doorframe, watching you with that same soft expression.
“So?” he asked.
You hesitated only a second.
“It was good,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow.
You smiled a little, shaking your head. “Okay… it was better than good.”
Something in his face eased. He stepped closer, his hand settling lightly at your waist.
“I knew it,” he said quietly.
You let out a small breath, glancing around the room one last time before looking back at him.
“I’m happy. Really happy,” you admitted.
It came out softer than you expected.
Steve’s thumb brushed gently against your side. “And I’m proud of you.”
You held his gaze for a second, then a small, knowing smile curved your lips. “Then maybe we should go home,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough, “so you can show me how proud you are.”
Something shifted in his expression immediately — subtle, but unmistakable.
“Don’t say more,” he murmured, a hint of a grin breaking through.
“Come on,” you said, reaching for your bag.
He took it from you without a word, his other hand finding yours and you walked out together, turning off the lights behind you.
-
One evening, you were already home, waiting for Steve to be back. Dinner was ready, the table perfectly set. The kitchen still carried the warmth of what you had just cooked, and King lingered nearby, pacing in small, hopeful circles, his eyes fixed on the counter in case something might fall.
You glanced at the clock one more time.
Steve was late.
You furrowed your brow. Practice should have ended a while ago and he was rarely off schedule without a reason.
You dried your hands on a dish towel, trying not to let your thoughts drift too far ahead of you. But just as a flicker of concern began to settle in your chest, the sound of the front door opening cut through the silence.
Relief left your lips in a quiet breath before you could stop it. King reacted instantly, tail wagging as he rushed out of the kitchen, nails clicking against the floor as he ran to greet Steve.
“Hey, what happened? The kids wouldn’t let you go?” you called out, stepping out of the kitchen after the dog, still distracted as you wiped your hands.
“Hey,” Steve said.
Something in his tone — slight, uncertain — made you lift your gaze. At first, you didn’t notice anything different. Then your eyes caught it.
A small hand, barely visible, peeking out from behind his leg, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his pants.
You slowed mid-step. Your mouth parted slightly, the words you had been about to say fading before they could form. Your gaze stayed fixed there, on that small hand, and on the hint of a face just barely visible behind him as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. But you couldn’t quite see who it was.
You looked back up at Steve. “Oh,” you said, managing a small smile despite the confusion already building, “I see we have a guest.”
Steve lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly, a nervous habit you knew too well. He smiled back—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was hesitation there. Almost… caution.
He glanced down behind him. Then, after a brief pause, he shifted slightly to the side.
And the child finally came into view.
You blinked. “Charlie?” you said, surprise softening your voice.
He stood half-hidden still, shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes flicked up briefly before dropping again like he wasn’t sure if he should be there at all.
You knew him. He was one of your students. And one of Steve’s athletes too. Quiet. Gentle. Polite. The kind of child who never demanded attention, who was always the last to leave, as if he had no hurry, or worse, nowhere to go.
“Good evening, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, his voice small, careful. His eyes lowered to his worn shoes, toes turned slightly inward.
King, meanwhile, had already approached him, tail wagging enthusiastically as he sniffed at him. Charlie flinched slightly at first but didn’t pull away. He just stood there, still, letting the dog investigate him like he didn’t quite know how to act.
You softened immediately at the sight.
“Hey,” you said gently, your voice shifting without you even thinking about it as you took a few little steps closer. “It’s okay, you don’t need to be afraid. He’s friendly. And… curious.”
Charlie gave a small nod, barely lifting his gaze.
You knew enough about his situation. In a town like Hawkins, people talked and everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. Over the years, you had heard various things about him. No father. A mother who was rarely home. And when she was, she often seemed lost in problems of her own and Charlie ended up spending many evenings alone.
Your attention flicked back to Steve again as he stepped closer to you. A thousand questions sat just behind your lips but you didn’t ask them. Not yet.
Steve cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he began, his voice low. “I should’ve called, but—”
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough to brush his lips near your ear.
“His mom didn’t show up,” he murmured quietly so that only you could hear. “We couldn’t reach her. And I couldn’t leave him there.”
He pulled back, his hand finding yours, fingers wrapping around it as he searched your face. Your eyes flicked briefly to Charlie, then back to Steve. You nodded, a small smile forming as you squeezed his hand lightly, reassuring him that it was all okay. You stepped away from Steve and moved toward Charlie, lowering yourself to his height so you wouldn’t tower over him.
“Hey,” you said softly. “You actually got here at the perfect time.”
He shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back, weight moving from one foot to the other.
“I hope you’re hungry because dinner’s ready,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “And I made way too much food. Honestly, it’s a problem at this point.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Think you could help us with that?”
Charlie nodded after a moment, still not quite meeting your eyes. You nodded back, as if sealing an agreement.
“Perfect,” you said gently. Then, glancing over your shoulder at Steve, “why don’t we go wash our hands while Steve… gets everything ready?”
Your eyes lingered on him just a second longer, enough for him to understand that what you were really giving him was time. He gave a small nod in return before going back to look at Charlie. You reached out carefully, giving him the chance to step back if he wanted to but he didn’t. Your fingers closed gently around his hand—small, a little cold—and you guided him toward the bathroom. Behind you, you heard Steve move, the faint sound of the phone being picked up echoing through the quiet house. As you walked, you could feel the slight tension in Charlie’s grip, the way he stayed close but cautious, like he wasn’t used to this kind of care.
When you stepped back into the kitchen, your eyes found Steve’s immediately. He shook his head, just slightly. Something in your chest dropped, but you didn’t let it show. You forced a small, easy smile for Charlie.
“Here we are,” you said lightly. “Go ahead, Charlie, sit here.”
You gestured to the chair between you and Steve. He moved toward it slowly, almost carefully, like he was afraid of getting something wrong. Steve took the seat across from you, while King had already settled at your side, tail brushing against your leg, eyes fixed on the table with quiet anticipation. He knew you well enough to expect something, even if he’d already eaten.
You looked at Charlie, searching for the right thing to say. Make yourself at home sat on the tip of your tongue — but it didn’t feel right. Not when you didn’t know what home meant for him.
“Take whatever you like, please” you said instead, softer.
He still didn’t move. His mouth was slightly open, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. You followed it.
Dinner wasn’t anything special — just spaghetti with meatballs, fresh salad and warm garlic bread. The portions were the same you cooked every night for you and Steve, the kind that usually left leftovers for the next day. It was normal for you.
But not for him.
His eyes moved slowly from one dish to the next, taking everything in. There was something in his expression — something caught between hesitation and wonder. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real or that it was actually meant for him.
Your chest tightened and a thought slipped in before you could stop it.
When was the last time he ate like this?
Not just ate — but sat down at a table, with other people and warm food in front of him that he didn’t have to earn, or rush, or hide. Maybe he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he was just waiting to understand what was allowed. Waiting for someone to tell him it was okay.
You swallowed hard but didn’t ask questions. Instead, you reached forward and began serving him yourself, adding a bit of everything onto his plate. More than you normally would. More than he probably expected.
“There you go,” you said gently once you were done. “There’s more if you want, okay?”
He nodded faintly, his hands still resting in his lap for a moment longer.
You and Steve served yourselves next, exchanging a brief look across the table before your attention returned to Charlie.
He hadn’t touched the food yet.
Only when you both took your first bites did he finally move. At first, it was tentative. Slow. Careful. He picked at the food like he was testing it, like he wasn’t entirely sure it was really his to eat. Like he expected someone to stop him. But after a few bites, hunger took over and his movements changed — faster now, less careful. He ate quickly, almost urgently, like his body couldn’t afford to wait. A bit of sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth.
You had stopped mid-motion without realizing it, your fork suspended halfway to your mouth as you watched him. Something shifted inside you. It wasn’t discomfort. Or pity. It was something else — warm, but heavier than you expected. Something that settled low in your chest and stayed there, tightening your throat just slightly. You didn’t have a name for it but it made it harder to look away.
You loved your students. All of them. But this felt different. Seeing Charlie like that, so small in that chair, so quiet and guarded one moment and then suddenly… unfiltered. Unaware. There was something vulnerable about it. But also something incredibly real. And it stirred something in you that you didn’t quite recognize. Something close to affection — but deeper, instinctive, almost unfamiliar in its intensity.
You smiled, softly. Charlie caught it out of the corner of his eye and he slowed down almost immediately. The shift was instant — shoulders tightening again, movements becoming smaller, more controlled, like he had just remembered himself or as if he thought he had done something wrong. Your smile faded just enough. You looked down quickly, pretending to focus on your own plate, giving him privacy again.
Dinner moved forward like that. Quiet, mostly. You and Steve tried to make conversation — small questions, light comments, easy conversation — but you didn’t push. When Charlie answered, it was brief. Polite. Careful.
So you let the silence settle instead.
And strangely… it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It felt gentle.
Safe.
The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from anyone. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery, King’s tail occasionally brushing against the floor, and Charlie’s breathing slowly evening out as he ate.
And as you sat there, across from Steve, watching this small, fragile moment take shape at your table, you felt something shift inside you again.
Not sharp.
Not painful.
Just… something opening.
Something that felt, quietly, like the beginning of something you hadn’t planned — but somehow already cared about.
At some point, King started circling the table again, nails clicking softly against the floor as he moved from one chair to the next, hopeful and impatient in the way he always was. Then, without warning, he stopped beside Charlie and rested his chin on the boy’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Charlie froze instantly. His shoulders stiffened, his hand hovering mid-air, his whole body going still.
“It’s okay,” Steve said gently, his tone easy, reassuring. “You don’t have to be scared. It just means that he likes you.”
He reached over, picking up a small piece of leftover meat from his plate and holding it out toward him.
“Here,” he added. “You can give him this if you want. He’ll be your best friend for life after that.”
Charlie hesitated. He looked at Steve first, uncertain — then at you. You gave him a small nod, soft, encouraging. He took the piece of meat slowly, carefully, like even that small gesture required permission. Then he lowered his hand toward King, a little unsure.
King didn’t hesitate. He took it immediately, tail still wagging, clearly thrilled by the interaction and the food. Charlie watched him, something shifting in his expression. Then, almost cautiously, he lifted his other hand and rested it on the top of King’s head. He started petting him, slowly at first, light, almost testing. King leaned into it, happily, before licking his hand in response.
And just like that a small smile appeared on Charlie’s face. Barely there at first, like he didn’t quite know how to hold it. Then a quiet, surprised sound slipped out of him — something between a breath and a laugh.
You realized then that it was the first genuine smile you'd seen since Steve had brought him home.
A real smile.
The sight of it sent a rush of warmth through you so sudden it almost caught you off guard. You looked up, meeting Steve’s gaze across the table.
His expression had softened in exactly the same way.
Neither of you said anything. There was no need. Your smiles said more than a thousand words.
-
Darkness had settled outside the windows. The last traces of daylight had disappeared long ago, replaced by the quiet hum of crickets and the occasional headlights passing on the distant road. The clock in the kitchen kept ticking steadily forward, each passing minute making the silence feel heavier.
Steve had tried calling again. And again. But it had become clear no one was coming.
Hopper had been informed, and after a brief conversation, the three of you had come to the same conclusion. It was late, Charlie was safe where he was, and dragging him somewhere unfamiliar in the middle of the night would only make an already difficult situation worse.
Hopper promised he would start looking into things first thing in the morning. He'd check hospitals, talk to people, ask questions and figure out what had happened. But until then, the best place for Charlie was here. At your house.
You and Steve got the guest room ready together, moving quickly, instinctively falling into rhythm without needing to say anything. Clean sheets, an extra blanket, a small glass of water placed on the nightstand.
You found something for him to sleep in as well. One of the spare pajamas that had been left behind over the years after countless sleepovers. Dustin, Mike, Lucas and the others always seemed to forget something whenever they stayed over. The pajama shirt hung almost to Charlie's thighs and the sleeves fell past his wrists. It was obviously far too big for him, but it was clean, warm, and smelled faintly of laundry detergent.
When it was finally time to put him to bed, something shifted again — a different kind of uncertainty. You were suddenly aware of how unfamiliar this felt — not the presence of a child, not really. You and Steve were surrounded by them every day at school and you had even years of babysitting behind you.
But this was different.
This was your home.
And right now there was a child who was almost a stranger to you. Not one of your little friends, like Dustin, or a friend's kid you found yourself looking after for a night. Sure, he was your student, but you still knew little about him. He was a responsibility that didn’t have a clear boundary. You didn’t know what his routine looked like. Or if he had one at all. You didn’t know if someone usually tucked him in. If he was used to silence, or noise, or being left alone entirely. You didn't know what you could or couldn't do.
He wasn’t your son, after all.
And you weren’t his mother.
The thought made you hesitate. But not for long. Because he needed you, whether you were his mother or not.
You stepped closer to him. He had already slipped under the covers, lying stiffly on his back, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself there either. You reached down and gently pulled the blanket up a little higher, tucking it around him. Your movements were careful, slow. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time.
“I… uh,” you started, your voice quieter now. “Me and Steve — we’re just down the hall. First door on the left.” You offered a small smile. “If you need anything… anything at all, you can come get us. Or call.”
He just nodded.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, searching his expression, hoping he understood — not just the words, but what you meant.
That he wasn’t alone.
“Goodnight, Charlie,” you said gently. “Sweet dreams.”
Still no answer.
You smiled anyway, then turned toward the door. You had just opened it, one foot already out in the hallway, when his voice stopped you.
“Goodnight… Mrs. Harrington.”
You turned back, your eyes met his again. For a second, something caught in your chest. You smiled again at him. Part of you wanted to tell him to use your name. To make it easier, less formal. But you didn’t. It was too soon.
“Goodnight,” you simply said.
Then you stepped out and closed the door gently behind you, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you almost immediately. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping without you even realizing how tense they had been. It felt strange. Like you had just passed some kind of test you didn’t know you were taking.
-
By the time you reached your bedroom, the exhaustion of the evening had finally started catching up to you. You pushed the door open quietly.
Steve was standing beside the bed, halfway through changing out of his clothes. His shirt was already gone, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips while he tugged a clean T-shirt over his head. The moment he saw you, he stopped immediately.
“How is he?” he asked right away, concern already written all over his face. “Did he fall asleep?”
You shook your head as you closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the handle for just a moment before you let it go.
“Not yet,” you said. “But he was fine... and I think he was tired too. After all, it was a busy evening... for all of us. I'm sure he'll fall asleep soon.”
Steve nodded slowly, eyes dropping for a second as he processed that, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. Then his gaze lifted back to yours.
“And you?” he asked more carefully this time, his voice low.
There it was.
The real question.
Are you okay after all of this?
You leaned back lightly against the dresser, crossing your arms loosely over yourself as you thought about it.
“Honestly?” you said after a moment. “Better than I expected.”
“Are you sure?” He said, carefully.
You let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t quite make it.
“I’m not gonna lie. It was… intense,” you admitted. “And a little overwhelming at first.” You paused for a moment before continuing. “When I saw him standing behind you, I think my brain completely stopped working for a second.”
That earned the faintest smile from Steve, though it disappeared quickly again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call first to warn you, but I didn’t really have the time or… a choice,” he said immediately.
You shook your head gently.
“Steve,” you said softly, “you weren’t going to leave him there all alone.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that.
You could still picture it clearly — Charlie patiently waiting at the baseball field long after everyone else had gone home, like he was already used to it. To being forgotten. The thought made something ache inside your chest all over again.
“You did the right thing. I would’ve done the same,” you told him.
“Yeah?” he asked softly.
You nodded.
“Of course.”
Steve looked at you for a long moment after that, something conflicted moving behind his eyes.
“When I showed up with him,” he admitted quietly, “I was scared you’d look at me and think I’d lost my mind.”
You frowned immediately.
“Steve—”
“No, I —” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling softly. “I was really scared… I didn’t know if this would… bring everything back up again.” His voice lowered on the last part.
Even now he hated talking about the pain you both had gone through. But you promised each other you'd be honest and tell each other everything, even when it wasn’t easy. You didn't want to repeat the same mistakes.
Your expression softened instantly. “You thought I was gonna fall apart again.”
He didn’t talk but his silence was answer enough. You pushed yourself away from the dresser and walked toward him slowly.
“I… I was scared, at first,” you admitted.
Steve’s face tightened slightly.
“But not because of Charlie,” you clarified quickly. “More because… I didn’t know how I was supposed to act. What he needed. Or what the right thing was.”
You stopped in front of him.
“But…” your voice softened, “I’m glad you brought him here.”
Steve’s eyes searched yours carefully, like he still wasn’t fully allowing himself to believe that.
“And he can stay as long as he needs to,” you said firmly. “Honestly, I’m more angry that nobody seems to even be looking for him.”
Something dark flickered briefly across Steve’s face at that.
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “Me too.”
Silence settled between you for a moment. Then Steve looked at you again, softer this time.
“You were really good tonight,” he said suddenly.
You blinked.
“With him,” he added. His mouth lifted faintly at one corner. “The second you realized what was happening, you just… took over.” He shook his head a little, almost like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “You made him feel safe in, like, five minutes.”
Warmth spread slowly through your chest.
“So did you,” you replied quietly.
Steve huffed softly. “I mostly panicked internally.”
You laughed under your breath. “No,” you said, stepping closer. “You brought him home. You made sure he wasn’t alone tonight.”
Your eyes softened as you looked at him. “You’re a really good man, Steve Harrington.”
His gaze dropped briefly, almost shy despite all these years.
“And… You’d be an amazing father,” you added, gentler now.
Steve smiled automatically at that—but it faltered almost immediately after. You noticed it instantly. Like the words had caught somewhere inside him. Your head tilted slightly, knowing exactly what had happened.
“You can say it, you know,” you murmured.
His eyes lifted back to yours. For a second, he looked almost hesitant. Then finally, “You’d be an amazing mother too.”
A small smile pulled at your lips as you stepped even closer until your bodies nearly touched.
“Thanks,” you said quietly. “I’ll try to be.”
Your hand slid gently against his chest.
“One day. When we’re ready.”
Steve’s expression softened completely.
Relief.
Love.
Hope.
All at once.
His hands found your waist slowly, carefully, like he still wanted to make sure this was real.
“That sounds nice,” he admitted quietly.
You smiled.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You looked at each other for another moment before Steve finally pulled you fully against him. You melted into his arms immediately, your cheek pressing against his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. His hand slid slowly up and down your back while the other rested protectively at the base of your spine. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear.
After a moment, you tilted your head back just enough to look at him again. “I love you,” you whispered.
Steve smiled. “I love you too.”
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
-
The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen. You blinked slowly against the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in muted shades of blue. For a moment, you stayed still beneath the covers. The house sat wrapped in that quiet kind of silence that only existed in the earliest hours — before alarms, before life began moving again. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach. One arm had somehow ended up stretched across your waist sometime during the night, heavy and warm over the blanket, his face half-buried into the pillow. His hair stuck up messily in every direction, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the world.
You watched him for a few seconds, then your thoughts drifted to Charlie. You carefully slipped out from under Steve’s arm, moving slowly so you wouldn’t wake him. He stirred anyway, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before instinctively reaching toward the warm spot you had left. You smiled to yourself. Then quietly, you pulled something on and stepped into the hallway. Your feet slowed when you reached the guest room. Carefully, you opened the door just enough to peek inside.
Charlie was still asleep, curled under the blankets, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath the pillow, hair messy from sleep.
Relief moved through you instantly.
At some point during the night, he must have kicked the blankets halfway off himself and King had somehow managed to sneak in too, curled at the foot of the bed like some oversized guard dog, completely passed out.
You almost laughed.
Traitor.
You had checked on him more than once during the night. Each time half expecting him to be awake, scared, crying, confused. But every time, you had found him still sleeping.
Charlie’s face looked different asleep. Softer. Younger. Relaxed in a way you didn’t think you had ever seen him at school. He was just a little boy sleeping. Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly. You wondered when he had last slept somewhere without worrying. If he ever had.
You stepped inside just long enough to pull the blanket back over him. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake. King cracked one eye open, lifted his head lazily.
“You’re supposed to sleep in our room,” you whispered.
His tail thumped once against the mattress before he ignored you entirely. You shook your head, smiling faintly, and quietly slipped back out.
Downstairs, the house still smelled faintly of last night’s dinner. You started the coffee machine first. Then breakfast. You decided to make pancakes, hoping Charlie liked them. Without realizing it, you found yourself making more than usual.
By the time you were whisking batter, you heard some familiar footsteps behind you and after a moment, strong arms wrapped around your waist, making you smile immediately.
“Good morning to you too,” you said softly.
Steve leaned down, still half asleep, pressing his face against your shoulder, kissing it lazily.
“It’s Saturday and it’s early,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Come back to bed.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Don’t tempt me, Steve.”
A soft hum vibrated against your skin.
“You know I can’t help myself,” he murmured near your ear. “Especially when I know I can convince you.”
His hands settled against your hips, warm and familiar.
“Steve…”
“Mhm?”
“I’d like to remind you we’re not alone in the house.”
He kissed your shoulder again. “I checked,” he murmured. “He’s still sleeping.”
The admission caught you off guard for a second.
Of course he had checked too.
The thought alone made your chest tighten in the softest way.
You tilted your head back for only a moment, giving him space without even meaning to as his lips brushed your skin again. Then you caught yourself. Turning in his arms, you rested your hands against his chest to stop him.
“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t wake up any second,” you said gently. “And I’d rather avoid traumatizing him any more than life already has.”
Steve let out a quiet sigh — not annoyed. Amused.
His forehead dropped lightly against yours.
“Ok, you’re right. I’ll behave,” he said. “For now,” he added before kissing you. Soft. Slow.
When he pulled back, he exhaled quietly.
“I’m gonna call Hopper,” he said after a moment. “See if there’s any news.”
The mood shifted a little, reality settling back in.
You still nodded. Even though, deep down, you already feared the answer.
While Steve reached for the phone, you turned back toward the counter and started cooking. You needed something to do with your hands, something to stop your mind from spiraling.
You poured the first circle of batter into the pan, watching it spread slowly across the surface as the soft hiss filled the kitchen.
After a few seconds, Hopper answered. You could hear his voice through the receiver — agitated, fast — but none of the actual words reached you. You focused on the pancakes, the smell slowly filling the kitchen.
A small stack of pancakes had already begun to form on the plate beside the stove by the time you glanced over again. Steve’s expression had slowly changed as he listened to Hopper. His eyes met yours, your stomach tightening. You could tell before he even hung up.
“Still nothing?” you asked quietly, swallowing hard.
Steve shook his head. “Hopper checked their caravan,” he said carefully. “Nobody was there. And no one has seen her apparently.”
He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “He said… Charlie can keep staying here, for now. If… we want, of course.”
You looked down at the batter absentmindedly as something twisted painfully in your chest. Not because you minded. God, you didn’t. But because no child should ever be left wondering why no one came. Then there was a part of you — the quiet, selfish one — that felt strangely relieved.
Your eyes slowly lifted to Steve’s.
“Yeah,” you agreed immediately. “Of course he can stay. As long as he needs it.”
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
Steve watched you for a second, like maybe he was still afraid of your answer. Like some part of him worried this would be too much.
“Steve,” you said gently. “I told you. I’m okay, really. And he needs us now. That’s all that matters.”
Something softened in his face. “You’re kinda amazing, you know that?”
You rolled your eyes lightly. “You brought home a child, Harrington. You are.”
“Yeah, and you just took over, making it feel normal.”
“I just made him dinner.”
“You made him feel safe. Welcome.”
You looked at him, your mouth slightly open. But before you could answer, soft footsteps interrupted you.
You both turned.
Charlie stood awkwardly near the kitchen entrance, hair sticking up everywhere. King stood proudly beside him like he had personally escorted him downstairs. Charlie hesitated when he noticed you both looking.
“Morning,” Steve said immediately, casual — gentle enough not to scare him off. “Did you sleep well, buddy?”
Charlie shifted his weight slightly. Then, he nodded, quickly.
“Good,” he said, softer than usual. “You hungry?”
Charlie looked up at you and after a moment, he nodded again.
Your heart nearly cracked open. “Well,” you said, turning back toward the stove, “perfect timing. You pointed toward the bowl on the counter. “Pancakes. They’re almost ready. And before Steve eats all of them, I suggest you sit down.”
Steve looked offended. “What? I didn’t…”
“You ate six last time.”
“Seven,” he corrected proudly. “It's not my fault if your pancakes are the best,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
And for the second time, you saw it. Small. Quick. Gone almost immediately. But there.
Another smile.
And somehow, standing there in your kitchen, with King circling his legs and Steve already pretending to argue over pancake rights, something shifted. You couldn’t explain it yet. Didn’t have words for it. But for the first time in a long while…
The house felt fuller.
Complete.
-
Since school was closed for the weekend, you had the day off and could do whatever you wanted. So after breakfast, Steve disappeared for a moment before returning with two baseball gloves and a ball in hand. He leaned casually against the kitchen counter, looking at Charlie.
“So,” he said, shrugging lightly, like the idea had just come to him, “since you’re here…”
Charlie looked up from where he sat beside King.
“Thought maybe we could get a little practice in.” Steve tossed one ball lightly into the air before catching it again. “Consider it private coaching.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “But don’t tell the others, alright? Can’t have the team thinking I play favorites.”
Charlie hesitated, shoulders tightening slightly.
“You really don’t have to if you don’t feel like it,” you added gently, not wanting him to feel pressured.
Steve nodded immediately. “No pressure,” he said easily. “We can just throw the ball around for a bit. King will probably join and ruin everything anyway.”
As if on cue, King lifted his head and after a second, Charlie nodded.
Steve pointed at him with mock seriousness.
“That’s my guy.”
-
Outside, you settled onto the porch with your sketchbook, intending to draw. At least, that had been the plan. Instead, your pencil barely touched the page as you found yourself watching Steve and Charlie.
Steve crouched down to Charlie’s height, explaining something while the boy listened carefully, shoulders tense. At first, he nodded and answered only when Steve asked him something directly. But little by little, the nervousness began to fade.
And soon, he was laughing quietly when Steve intentionally exaggerated a missed catch, dramatically falling backward into the grass.
“You did that on purpose,” Charlie said before quickly going quiet again, almost surprised by his own voice.
Steve placed a hand over his chest. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Another laugh escaped Charlie, his smile widened despite himself.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Charlie looked… lighter. Like for a few hours, he had forgotten to be scared. And watching him — safe, laughing, free in a way you suspected he rarely got to be — stirred something unfamiliar and quiet inside your chest. And frightening in how natural it felt.
You didn’t quite know what to call it. Not yet. Affection, maybe. Or something dangerously close to love. And that scared you more than you wanted to admit. Because you knew what love could do and how quickly it could turn into grief. How suddenly happiness could become fear and loss. And letting yourself care this much felt dangerous.
But then Charlie laughed again — breathless this time, chasing after King while Steve pretended to complain dramatically about being ignored by his own player — and something inside you softened anyway.
So, just for now, you let yourself enjoy the moment. The sound of laughter drifting through the yard. The warmth of the sun on your skin. Steve’s voice somewhere in the background.
-
By evening, the kitchen smelled like flour, tomato sauce, and melted cheese.
You had decided on homemade pizza.
At first, Charlie hovered near the kitchen doorway again, uncertain, hands half-hidden inside the sleeves of Dustin’s oversized sweatshirt. King sat loyally beside him, tail sweeping lazily against the floor every few seconds like he had already decided Charlie belonged there.
“Come here,” you said gently, patting the stool beside you. “I need help decorating.”
Charlie hesitated, glancing briefly toward Steve like he needed confirmation he wouldn’t be in the way.
“You heard the boss,” Steve said, washing his hands at the sink. “No backing out now.”
Slowly, Charlie climbed onto the stool beside you. You handed him a small handful of shredded mozzarella while you spread tomato sauce over the dough.
“Okay,” you said softly. “You can put the cheese on.”
He watched your hands first, careful and observant, before pinching a small amount between his fingers and sprinkling it over the pizza with extreme concentration. At first he moved slowly, like he was afraid of doing something wrong. Then he paused.
“Like this?” he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
You opened your mouth to answer, but Steve leaned over the counter first.
“That is way too much cheese,” he said with exaggerated seriousness.
Charlie froze immediately and you shot Steve a look.
“Ignore him,” you said, nudging Charlie lightly with your shoulder. “There’s no such thing as too much cheese.”
Steve looked personally offended.
“There absolutely is.”
“There isn’t.”
“There is. You just refuse to acknowledge basic pizza science.”
You rolled your eyes.
Beside you, Charlie let out the smallest laugh.
As the evening went on, Charlie relaxed little by little. He started helping more without asking. Passing ingredients. Carefully arranging pepperoni in uneven little circles. Sneaking extra cheese onto one side of the pizza when he thought Steve wasn’t looking.
King, meanwhile, had become completely and utterly attached to Charlie. The dog barely left his side. Every time Charlie moved, King followed. Every time Charlie sat down, King somehow ended up pressed against his leg like they had known each other forever. At one point, while you were reaching for plates, you noticed Charlie glance around carefully before lowering his hand beneath the counter. The second the piece of cheese slipped onto the floor, the dog appeared like magic and eat it. Charlie looked oddly proud of himself. Across the kitchen, Steve caught your eye just in time to see Charlie carefully slipping another tiny piece of pepperoni. Steve let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms.
“Great,” he said, crossing his arms. “Now he likes you more than me too.”
Charlie startled slightly, cheeks reddening.
“I— sorry,” he mumbled immediately, hand pulling back like he’d done something wrong.
Steve’s expression softened at once. “Kid, I’m kidding,” he said gently.
Charlie glanced up uncertainly. “He switched teams years ago,” Steve continued, nodding toward the dog. “The second she started sneaking him food under the table, I lost all authority in this house.”
“Excuse me?” you said, pretending to sound offended as you slid the pizza onto a cutting board. “You spoil him just as much.”
Charlie looked between the two of you quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, his hand dropped to scratch behind King’s ears. King immediately melted into the floor with complete devotion.
Charlie also started speaking more. Small things at first. How he liked baseball more than math. How he hated peas. How King reminded him of a dog he’d once wanted but never got. Nothing really big or life-changing but every sentence felt important to you. Like trust being handed over in pieces.
“You know,” Steve said eventually, leaning back in his chair after another bite of pizza, “I think this might actually be the best pizza we’ve ever made.”
You looked up from your plate and glanced first at Charlie, then at Steve. You smiled softly. He wasn’t talking about the food.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think so too.” Then, after a beat, your eyes dropped back to Charlie. “I had an amazing helper.”
Steve pointed to himself immediately.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding once like it was obvious.
You looked at him flatly. “I wasn’t talking about you.”
Steve placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow,” he said, feigning heartbreak. “That’s actually cruel.”
You laughed quietly when the doorbell suddenly rang. The noise cut through the room so suddenly that all three of you looked up.
“Were we expecting someone?” Steve asked.
You slowly shook your head but but deep down, somehow, you already knew. You couldn’t explain how or why. Instinct, maybe. The feeling settled heavily in your stomach before either of you even moved.
Steve stood first. And you followed almost immediately, wiping your hands absentmindedly on a kitchen towel while Charlie remained seated at the table, one hand resting unconsciously against King’s fur.
When Steve opened the door, Hopper stood there. And beside him, there was a woman.
Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. There was fading makeup smudged beneath tired eyes and a bruise near her temple, yellowing at the edges. Her clothes smelled faintly of cigarettes and hospital disinfectant. She looked exhausted more than anything else. Worn down by life in a way that made it difficult to tell how old she actually was.
You didn't need an introduction to know who she was.
Charlie’s mother.
Your chest tightened instantly.
The woman swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously past you into the house, searching.
Hopper exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“She got into a car accident yesterday,” he explained quietly, glancing between you and Steve. “Minor injuries but she ended up at the county hospital unconscious most of the night. She didn’t have any documents with her, so they didn’t know who she was.”
“Charlie,” she breathed out.
You turned.
Charlie stood a few feet behind you but he didn’t move. Not immediately. Then, slowly, carefully, he stepped forward. The woman’s eyes were fixed entirely on him. She crouched immediately despite the obvious stiffness in her body, one hand bracing against her knee. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached up.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said quickly, voice cracking as she looked at him. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything.”
Her eyes filled immediately.
And the worst part was that she sounded genuine. Not cruel. Just… incapable. Like someone who loved her child but kept failing him anyway.
The guilt hit you before you could stop it. Because part of you had already judged her and decided what kind of mother she must be. Someone selfish. Someone reckless enough not to notice their child was gone. But now, standing there, seeing the bruising near her temple, the exhaustion written all over her face, she just looked overwhelmed. And broken.
She looked up at you and Steve then, eyes red-rimmed. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For taking care of him.”
“You don’t have to thank us,” Steve said gently. “He’s okay.”
“A little scared,” you admitted quietly. “But… he’s okay.”
The woman nodded like hearing that physically hurt.
Hopper stepped aside eventually, giving them space and quietly pulled Steve aside.
“I already talked to her,” he muttered low enough that Charlie couldn’t hear. “One more screw-up and I’m stepping in. I mean it. And I’ll be checking on her. Frequently.”
Steve simply nodded.
Eventually, Charlie disappeared upstairs to grab his things. When he came back down, King immediately stood, tail wagging, following him toward the door. Charlie wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, while he started licking his face without hesitation.
“You know,” you said softly, crouching beside him, “you can come visit him whenever you want.”
Charlie looked up. “For real?”
“For real,” Steve said. “Pretty sure you’re his favorite now.”
King barked once like he agreed. A tiny smile pulled at Charlie’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
You smiled despite the ache building in your throat. You reached up before thinking, smoothing his messy hair back for a second.
“You’re always welcome here, Charlie”, you said, the words slipping out naturally.
They were already halfway to Hopper's truck when Charlie suddenly turned around. You smile and lifted your hand immediately.
“Bye, Charlie. See you on Monday,” you said, your voice trembling.
He hesitated for a second before raising his own hand in return. Small. Shy. Your arms crossed instinctively over yourself. King moved forward as if ready to follow him but Steve caught his collar gently. “Easy, buddy.”
The dog whined softly.
After closing the door behind you, Steve’s hand found yours silently. Slowly. His fingers threaded through yours and squeezed. Tight. Like he was comforting you. Like maybe he was holding onto something too.
The house felt unbearably quiet.
That night, lying in bed, you broke. You cried silently at first. Trying not to. Trying to be reasonable. After all, you would still see him at school. And Steve would see him at baseball practice. Nothing had changed. And nothing would. Not really.
Except it had.
Because somehow, impossibly, one day had been enough to make the thought of not hearing his quiet voice in the kitchen hurt more than it should.
Behind you, Steve said nothing. He wrapped himself around you, one arm around your waist, the other pulling you closer until your back pressed firmly against his chest, holding you tightly and letting you cry.
After a long while, something warm touched your shoulder. At first, you thought it was your own tears. But then Steve buried his face more firmly against the back of your neck.
And you realized.
He was crying too. Silently. Or at least, he was trying to. The fabric of your nightgown was damp against your shoulder. You turned slowly in his arms. His eyes were red.
“Oh, Steve…”
His laugh came out shaky. “I know,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s stupid.”
“No,” you said immediately. “It isn’t,” you said, cupping his face, your forehead resting against his.
And somewhere in the quiet dark, holding each other like that, you both understood.
Seeing Charlie again at school would never be the same.
-
The next morning, you woke up early as usual but stayed where you were, tucked beneath the blankets while the soft gray light of early morning stretched across the bedroom. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, facing your side of the bed, hair sticking up in every direction, lips slightly parted as the faintest snore escaped him every few breaths.
You smiled despite yourself. Years ago, you probably would have found it annoying. Now, somehow, it had become comforting. Familiar. You turned onto your side, resting your head more comfortably against the pillow as you watched him sleep.
The night before replayed quietly in your mind.
Charlie leaving.
The silence afterward.
And the ache.
You and Steve had barely spoken once the house had gone quiet again. There hadn't really been words for it. Only a strange sense of loss neither of you had expected.
And it made no logical sense.
Because Charlie had only been with you for a day.
One day.
And yet it had been enough to love him as something more than just a student. His absence had settled over the house like something physical.
Eventually exhaustion had taken pity on both of you. But sleep hadn’t come easily. You had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking.
About Charlie.
About Steve.
About the future.
And somewhere between all those thoughts, something inside you had finally settled into place. Something that terrified and gave you hope at the same time. Because you had spent so long convinced that door had closed forever and that maybe some broken part of you would never recover enough to want it again.
But Charlie had changed something.
Beside you, Steve stirred. His nose scrunched slightly before he rolled onto his back, stretching with a groan and blinking against the morning light. Then he noticed you watching him, a sleepy smile pulled at his mouth immediately.
“Well,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”
You laughed softly. “Good morning.”
“Morning, early bird.” He rubbed at his face before glancing toward the clock. “How long have you been awake?”
You hesitated. “A while.”
He studied you for a second and then something in his expression shifted, his smile fading just slightly. Like memory had finally caught up with him. He pushed himself up against the headboard, running a hand through his hair.
“How are you?” he asked carefully. “After… yesterday, I mean.”
You sighed and looked down at the blanket for a moment, considering the answer.
“Sad,” you admitted quietly. “I miss him.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “And… I’m worried.” You exhaled slowly. “I just really hope he’s okay, you know?”
Steve nodded immediately. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.” He looked down for a second. “I know we’ll see him tomorrow. At school. Practice and all that.” He hesitated. “But it doesn’t really feel —”
“The same,” you finished the sentence, your eyes meeting his. “Yeah, it doesn’t.”
For a few seconds neither of you said anything else. You looked at him and suddenly, the words you had been carrying all night felt too important to keep inside anymore.
“You know, yesterday…” you started quietly.
Steve immediately looked up.
You cleared your throat and continued. “Yesterday felt like —” You paused, choosing your words carefully.
His brow furrowed slightly. You looked down at your hands, swallowing.
“It felt like we were a family.”
The words settled softly between you. Steve stayed quiet, letting you continue.
“And I liked it. A lot,” you admitted, a small smile touching your lips. “And it… it made me realize something.”
Steve sat up a little straighter now, more careful. “What… what do you mean?”
You hesitated for a second, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket and then, you finally looked him in the eyes. “I think I’m ready.”
His forehead creased. “Ready for what?”
Your heartbeat quickened. But strangely, you weren’t scared anymore.
“To be a mom,” you said softly.
The room fell completely silent. Steve blinked once, then twice, like he genuinely hadn’t expected those words.
You looked down briefly before continuing. “For a long time, I thought that part of my life was over.” You swallowed. “But taking care of Charlie yesterday felt... so natural. And good.”
A faint smile touched your lips as you remembered the previous day.
“I liked making him breakfast. Checking on him.” You let out a small breath. “Seeing him play baseball in the backyard with you.”
Your eyes found Steve's again.
“And… I want that.”
Steve still hadn’t spoken. You could practically see him trying to process your words.
“I want a family,” you finally admitted. “With you.”
Steve swallowed hard. The shine in his eyes made your chest ache. Slowly, his hand reached across the blankets until his fingers found yours.
“You sure?” he asked gently. “Because we don’t have to rush anything. We can wait if—”
You nodded immediately, squeezing his hand. “I’ve never been more sure.”
You took a deep breath.
“Maybe we can’t be what Charlie needs,” you said quietly. “But there are so many kids out there like him.” Your voice softened. “Kids who just… need someone. And we could be that for one of them. Give them a better life, you know.”
Your fingers tightened around Steve’s. You hesitated for a moment, then finally said it.
“I’d… I’d like to adopt, Steve.”
For a second, he just stared at you, completely still.
Your stomach twisted.
“Say something, please,” you whispered, suddenly nervous. “What… what do you think?”
He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss against your knuckles.
“I think,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “every time I convince myself there’s no possible way I could love you more…” His thumb brushed gently over your hand. “You somehow give me another reason.”
Your eyes stung instantly, your breath caught. “Steve…”
“No, seriously.” He shook his head slightly. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”
He leaned forward without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.
“And you’re going to be an incredible mom,” he whispered against your hair.
A watery laugh escaped you. You lifted your head just enough to look at him, smiling. “And you’re going to be the best dad.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His forehead rested gently against yours as his hand came up to cup your cheek.
“Let's do it. Let’s adopt.”
Tears threatened to spill. “Really?”
Steve let out a quiet laugh.
“Really.”
Steve kissed you, slowly, carefully. Like the moment deserved to be held onto for as long as possible.
-
Two years later
The afternoon sun spilled across the porch, warm against your bare legs as you sat in the wooden chair Steve had built for you the previous summer. A sketchbook rested on your lap, your pencil moving lazily across the page.
You weren't drawing anything in particular, just pieces of the moment unfolding in front of you.
The yard.
The dog.
And the baseball game currently unfolding across the grass.
King barked excitedly as he tore after the ball that had no intention of being caught by a dog. He missed it entirely, skidded through the lawn, and immediately tried again as though nothing had never happened. A boy sprinted after it, nearly tripping over his own feet before recovering at the last second.
You smiled to yourself.
"That one didn't count!" he shouted.
"It absolutely did," Steve called back.
The boy groaned dramatically while Steve looked entirely too pleased with himself. You laughed softly and shook your head.
Some things never changed.
The competitive streak Steve brought to absolutely everything was apparently hereditary. Or contagious. You still hadn't decided which.
Steve tossed the ball into the air before catching it again.
"Ready?"
The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“No. You’re cheating."
“I’m winning,” he said, throwing the ball anyway.
The boy managed to hit it this time, the crack of the bat echoing across the yard. His face lit up immediately.
It still amazed you sometimes.
The first time he had stepped into your house, every word had seemed dragged out of him. He had spoken cautiously, as though every sentence needed permission before leaving his mouth. Now he laughed loudly and argued confidently.
Steve grinned. “There you go! Nice job, buddy."
The kid turned toward the porch. "Mum! Did you see that?”
Mum
The word still caught you off guard sometimes. Not because it felt wrong, it was quite the opposite actually. It felt so natural now that it was hard to remember a time when it hadn't.
Your eyes met his.
Your son.
“I did," you called back. “That was a good hit, well done!”
The boy looked pleased with himself.
Your chest warmed.
You never would have imagined this.
You and steve hadn’t been parents yet.
And Charlie had still been someone else's child.
But then everything had changed.
Charlie had lost his mother only a few months after you and Steve had finally decided to adopt. The grief that followed and the months afterward hadn't been easy. There had been lawyers, court hearings, social workers and many questions. But eventually, after months of waiting, the judge had signed the papers and Charlie had finally come home. This time not as a guest.
But as your son.
And now you were finally a family. Not the one you had imagined years ago but the one that had been waiting for you instead.
A sudden movement pulled you from your thoughts. Your hand settled automatically over the curve of your stomach as you looked down, a smile spreading across your face.
Even now, months after finding out, part of you still couldn't quite believe it. After everything that had happened, after making peace with the possibility that it might never happen, life had found a way to surprise you again.
You felt another kick. This one stronger as if she was demanding attention.
You laughed under your breath. "Well, hello to you too."
A moment later you heard the familiar creak of the porch boards and Steve appeared beside your chair.
"You okay?"
You nodded and reached for his hand, placing it gently against the curve of your stomach. Right on cue, your daughter kicked again.
Steve’s face softened immediately. "There you are, princess,” he murmured, as though he were greeting someone already familiar.
You watched him for a moment. The man who had once brought home a scared little boy because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone. The man who had become a father long before either of you realized it.
Out in the yard, Charlie was already growing impatient.
“Dad!”
The word made Steve glance up instantly. “Yeah?”
“Are we playing again or are you tired already?”
Steve looked back at you, looking deeply offended. “Did you hear that? No respect around here."
You laughed. "Go save your reputation, coach."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading back toward the grass where Charlie was impatiently waiting for him, bat resting on one shoulder and King circling excitedly around both of them. The afternoon sunlight wrapped around the three of them as they disappeared into another argument about baseball. You rested a hand over your stomach and watched.
Your husband.
Your son.
The life and the family you were building together.
Years ago, you had thought some dreams were gone forever. That you would never be a mother. Now, surrounded by the people you loved most, you realized that sometimes life gave you a different ending than the one you had initially imagined.
And sometimes, somehow, it turned out even better.
Summary: It’s one of those many times when trying to keep your secret relationship alive, you meet with Joel in a hotel room.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Warnings: EXPLICIT CONTENT 18+, smut with some plot, unprotected piv, reader is on a pill, multiple orgasms, soft dom Joel, fingering, pussy eating, established relationship (kinda), secret relationship, some angst (because I wouldn’t be myself), age gap (Joel in his 40s and reader is in collage), no outbreak (also no Sarah)
Words: 6009
Notes: This fic was written fully for fun. Just think about Joel Miller giving you multiple orgasms. I apologize for any mistakes, English is not my first language. Please, do not copy my work. Thanks!
Dividers by: @chateaubarnes thank you!
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Joel Miller is a busy man.
With his brother he went from small construction firm to a millions-worth constructing business in less than three years. He knew how to achieve what he wanted. Long hours, sleepless nights, basically no private life.
He always told himself he’s gonna success and he did.
Despite his father’s cruel words, despite everyone saying he won’t achieve anything without school.
And look at him now. Years later.
Sharp suits. Even sharper jawline. The kind of stoicism that keeps people on edge. He’s not unkind. Never. But he is sure of what he wants. His employees listen dutifully in the boardrooms, eating from his hand. He basically built the whole Austin at this point. And constantly gains more clients and deals. The company is growing.
This man has everything under control. Perfectly-structured life and business.
And yet…
He does have one weakness.
The weakness that makes him do stupid things. That draws his attention from the important stuff. This weakness keeps swirling in his mind and has made itself at home there.
This weakness… is you.
And that’s why he flew over three hours to San Francisco — a day before an actual business meeting here — just so he could spend more time with you. That’s exactly why he sits in a luxurious hotel room now, waiting for you to appear.
He’s not sure how this started. It just did. He does business with your mother. She’s a big fish in California’s construction circles. You met in her office. Then again at some gala.
You ended up in bed.
Deals with your mother kept him in San Francisco often, but in fact… it was you. The need to see you.
Just like now.
He waited weeks to see you.
Weeks for a one night stolen from his busy life.
He loosens his tie, anticipation flowing in his veins. He stands up to pour himself some whiskey into the glass. He drinks it in one gulp.
And that’s when he hears it. Knock. Knock.
He stills with the glass mid-air. He sets it on the table and makes his way to the door, way faster than he wishes to admit. With a final inhale, he pulls it open.
„Did you order room service?” You stand there, grinning flirtatiously.
Jesus, you’re breathtaking. He guesses you came here straight from your studying session in the library. Your favorite sweater on you and those tight, sexy jeans… Fuck.
„Hell yeah.” He breathes and tugs you inside, shutting the door closed. You giggle when he wraps both his arms around you, like he couldn’t spend another second without your touch. His lips are on yours now, pouring all the longing and desire into the heated kiss. You don’t even have time to respond properly, before he pushes you onto the nearest wall. A gasp leaves your mouth and only then he leans back, just to get lost in your beautiful eyes.
„Hi, baby.” He rasps, proud when he notices your cheeks are already rosy.
„Hi, handsome. That was quite a welcome.”
„Sorry, just… missed you so much.” His lips find your jaw now, nipping softly at the skin. You smile to yourself, feeling the nice warmth settle in your body. He missed you.
„I missed you, too.”
He pulls away, just to cup your cheek with his large hand. You relish in the feeling of his touch. How someone so gruff and stern can be so gentle behind the closed door?
Joel is like that just for you. He’s sure no one ever saw this side of him, not really. You awoke this protector side of him. This loving part of him. And he starts liking it more and more with every day.
„I’m sorry, I didn’t wear anything more… sexier. I was studying and-”
He cuts you off with a kiss. You feel him smirking against your lips, which makes you confused.
„I figured you’d be studying. And don’t you dare apologizing…” he trails off just to look you up and down. „Those jeans are sexy as hell, baby.”
It’s the way he looks at you… The way his eyes darken. They always do when he sees you after so long. You never felt like this with any man. Joel worships you. Worships the land you step on. When he watches you like that… you’re sure you could wear a potato sack and he’d still get hard at the view.
„But I would much rather have them off.” He whispers and leans in just to inhale your sweet scent. You balance yourself, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. God, it’s been so long. Every time you say goodbye it feels like his heart gets another painful jab. He hates this.
So he always tries to make your meetups unforgettable. He wants to give you something to remember for those weeks you spend apart. No matter if it’s the way he fucks you, or some gift.
Joel’s hand travels downwards your body. For a moment stops in the dip of your waist, squeezing there. But his goal? The zipper of your jeans. Your breathing is already uneven, anticipating what he’ll do to you tonight. With Joel it’s always a surprise. It’s thrilling in a way you never experienced before.
„Hurry.” You whisper and he chuckles.
„Missed me this much? Good.”
His lips find your neck. The kisses he lays on your heated skin remind you of a feast. Joel is having a feast and you are the main fucking dish. It’s like he can’t get enough and you love it. You love the passion he bestows upon you.
He runs his tongue from your shoulder to your jaw, leaving a wet path that makes you shiver. All this while his hand works the button of your jeans. You arch beneath him, the hard wall against your back makes it impossible to seek your desired friction. An uncontrollable, desperate sound leaves your mouth.
„Shh, baby. I got you. I know she missed me, too.” He rasps, slipping his hand beneath the fabric of your jeans in search for your needy pussy. You whimper, so he kisses you again.
Joel can’t wait much more, desperate to hear your sweet moans. His hand barely fits in those tight jeans of yours, tempting him to rip them. But he manages to slip his fingers under the hem of your lingerie. He believes he noticed a glimpse of his favourite black set. You wore it especially for him.
At this point he’s painfully hard, but nothing is more important to him than your pleasure.
„Joel.” You groan when his fingers brush through your slick folds for the first time. You feel so hot already, sweating in your sweater. You want him to free you from your misery, give you the release you waited so long for.
„I’m right here, Darlin’.” He starts circling his fingers, making your clit swell with desire. „Ride those fingers, I know you want to.”
And, oh, how right he is. The pressure of his hand in your jeans makes your head spin. You shift your hips, tasting the delicious feeling of his fingers. Burying your hands in his thick curls, you steady yourself and start moving. His fingers join the movement, at first slow. Relishing in each other.
„Good, baby. Good girl.” His lips brush against yours, but you chase after them, pulling him into a proper kiss. You nip at his lower lip. He groans into your mouth, because goddamn, you feel amazing. His fingers all slippery as he runs them through your folds in these precise strokes he knows that drive you crazy. The way you respond… your shivers, those unsure moans… Jesus Christ, he might come right into his pants.
Right now, neither of you can speak much. Four weeks of tension finally gave way to relief and nothing will stop you. You’re consumed by the enormous lust for each other. Consumed by the longing that only grew. Sure, you text and have long phone calls… But it’s nothing compared to this.
Skin to skin.
Breath to breath.
„Oh yes… Joel!” You gasp, when he slides his two fingers inside. Suddenly you feel so full, so perfect… Your head light, without any worries about your uni, or your life. Just Joel having his way with you.
„You like that, hm? Shit, I can feel you pussy choking them...” He mutters, his breath hot against your skin. You writhe beneath him, but he’s not having it. He pins you firmly to the wall, no space between you. His free hand goes to your wrist, wrapping around it tightly. He pins it beside your head, keeping you right where he wants you to be.
His fingers speed up, hitting deeper into your needy core. Your mind starts getting hazy as the pleasure coils low in your stomach. It’s there. It’s right there within your reach…
You grasp onto anything, digging your nails into his shoulders. Then higher, on his neck… He growls at the sting. He fucking loves this.
„You’re marking me up, baby? Shit, you know how much I like it.”
„I do…” You whimper, because it’s getting harder to think when he fingers you in that perfect pace. „You close, Darlin’? I can feel it. You want it bad, huh?” He mutters pecking your lips.
„Yes… Please.”
„You got it, baby. Come for me.”
His thumb joins his fingers, pressing against your clit. The rhythm is fucking amazing and the circles of his thumb? Unraveling.
Those delicious, soft moans ring in the hotel room. He admires your flushed skin and how your eyelids flutter when he fucks you with his fingers. The tilt of your head backwards, exposing your neck only tells him how good it feels. He knows you’ve been waiting. And, God, doesn’t it make him love you even more.
„Good fucking girl, come on.” He growls pushing you so your back hits the wall once again. The movement makes you clench around him until the pressure is unbearable.
You come with a desperate cry escaping your mouth. Shudders run through your whole body and Joel holds you through it all. God, you’re gorgeous like this. The guard down, skin flushed with how he wore you out. A drop of sweat rolls down your temple and Joel sweeps his tongue over it. You sigh weakly at the sensation.
He stops his hand, pulling it out of your jeans, only to suck his fingers off of your juices. The view almost makes you come again, the way he swirls his tongue over them… Jesus Christ.
When he’s done, he takes a better look at you.
„You good?” He asks, pulling a strand of your hair behind your ear.
„Y-yeah.” You breathe, still overwhelmed with the orgasm he just gave you. But the release only increased your craving for more. You need this man right now. You want to feel his cock stretch you in the best way possible. You think you might go feral, if he doesn’t fuck you this second.
But before you can do anything about it… he just pulls you into his arms. Into a hug that shows just how much he really longed for this moment. For this bitter-sweet reunion that happens every few weeks. You melt, relishing in the moment. In the musky scent of his cologne. The strength he keeps you close with.
Your lips find his neck, kissing him like you wanted since you saw him. You’re glad he holds you, because your legs still feel wobbly. With all you have, you push him, so he stumbles backwards to the bed with you. He smiles, trying to fight you, pushing back, but you’re stubborn.
Stubborn and horny.
„Don’t make it harder.” You say and with a final push his legs hit the edge of the king-sized bed. Joel laughs and before he can fall onto the mattress, he grabs you, spins just enough so it’s you who lands on the sheets. You huff at the smirk that he looks at you with. „Asshole.”
„You love me.”
„I do.”
It’s simple in its difficulty. You shared your feelings long ago. But both of you know that coming out as a relationship… It could end badly. So you just keep it secret. Secret calls, secret nights at the hotels. It works, even if you miss each other like hell.
He pulls your sweater over your head, letting you finally breathe. Your skin glistens with sweat, but his eyes focus on this naughty bra that covers your plump breasts. Your nipples perk through the thin material and he hums in appreciation.
Joel always appreciates art.
„Gosh, baby…” he shakes his head and leans in, bracing one hand on the mattress and pulls you into another hungry kiss. Your legs spread, inviting him closer. He doesn’t want to crush you with his weight, but goddamn you’re so sexy right now… His lips travel to your cheek, then your eyelids, making your breath catch. „How’s college?” He murmurs between kisses. It’s so Joel of him. He wants you as hell, but even then he’ll ask you about your life.
„Good. Passed the last exam for this semester.” You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
„You did?” He grins pecking your lips. „That’s my smart girl.”
He really adores your brain. Well, not everyone could get into Stanford. He really admires how much time you spend on learning. Though, sometimes it worries him that you don’t take enough care of yourself. That’s why he’s glad he can see you. Because he knows, with him you can relax.
You know it, too.
„Hold on tight, I need to take these off.” he smirks tugging at your jeans. You grasp the edge of the bed and with one swift movement he gets rid of them. Finally.
„Missed this gorgeous body.” He smiles and takes off his tie. Then he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. His tall frame stands above you and you feel this throbbing need between your legs.
„Missed yours, too, big man.” You bite your lower lip.
God, just the sight of it.
He undoes his shirt and soon it lands on the floor next to your sweater and jeans. You admire his muscled chest, formed from years of hard work before he became the businessman. He’s still in a good shape, though his stomach softened just a bit. But you love it. You love every single piece of him.
Joel leans in to take off your shoes and socks, as he does you spread your legs wider with a giggle. You see his nostrils move as he takes a deep inhale, your actions frustrating him even more.
„You’re asking for trouble, little lady.” His devilish smirk makes you pause and then shift your gaze to his hands as he unbuckles his belt. It falls to the floor with a thud. You’re watching mesmerized as he meticulously unzips his pants and shrugs them down his thick legs. His socks and boxers follow.
He’s completely bare before you, stroking his hard as rock cock.
„On the middle.” He nods at the mattress and you submissively move to lay there. He slowly follows, kneeling on the bed between your legs. „Do you need me to tell you what to do?”
„Yes.”
It’s a dynamic you worked out pretty quickly in your relationship. Joel likes to take your mind off things. He knows that with him you let go of your guard and eagerly follow the lead. It keeps you balanced. He’s aware that after weeks of studying you tend to be a nervous wreck.
„Then take off this sinful bra for me.”
You do, reaching behind you unclasp it. You don’t look where you throw it, too focused on your boyfriend. But he chuckles when the bra lands on the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it down. „Good aim.”
„Shut up.”
And, oh, he does, because finally there is no barrier between him and your tits. He hovers above you, just to dive in between them. He kisses and licks your breasts and you instantly arch into pleasurable touch. He bites on the sensitive skin, leaving a mark. You tug at his hair at the sensation, not sure if you want him closer or further. Gosh, what he does to you…
„Joel, please… Quit playing.” You breathe.
„Quit playing, huh? You want me to fuck your needy pussy?”
He lays a kiss on the column of your throat. Right where your blood runs.
„Yes… please, baby.” You nod eagerly, the tension is unbearable. Your first orgasm only increased your lust and you physically can’t bear it anymore.
„You’re lucky I’m impatient tonight, too.” He rasps and with one swift movement gets rid of your panties. He thinks he ripped them a bit, but… who the hell cares? His girl is lying here eager and hot.
That’s far more important.
Joel lines himself up with your heated entrance. One strong arm braced next to your head, while other hand has iron grip on your thigh. Definitely a handprint there later.
„Ready, baby? Still on those pills of yours?”
Your nod is all he needs to push inside. He’s not slow, not when he waited so long. He’s actually surprised he hasn’t came already in his boxers. But the wet heat of your pussy is enough of a reward for those weeks apart.
Joel groans when your soft walls envelope him. „Fuckin’ hell.”
You grasp the sheets, bracing yourself as he starts thrusting into you with that intense pace. You feel every vein, every throb deep inside you. The slick sound of you two is enough to make your head spin. He’s right here. With you. In you.
„Joel… Oh, so good.” You moan, reaching to hold onto his shoulders, he pulls you closer by your thigh. Your pelvis meeting his in the sensual movement. You try to remember to breathe when his lips again find your breasts, he sucks on them with enough pressure, making you tug him closer. „Like that…”
He exactly knows what you like, knows when to bite, when to kiss. When to speed up, or slow down. It’s like he’s got his personal playbook on how to make you see stars.
„You feel amazing. So tight…” He groans, leaning back as he fucks into you. „Put your legs on my shoulders, baby.”
His command sends a shiver down your spine. The way he says that, all firm and with this depth of his eyes… You obey, but are thankful when he helps you settle them just right.
The new angle is definitely what you both needed. Joel gives you a moment to adjust. But when you’re ready? He has no mercy.
His thrusts turn deep, almost punishing. He holds your legs in place, against his chest as he pushes hard. Your moans get louder as his cock hits that sweet spot deep inside of you. Over and over.
„Shit, keep those moans loud. Wanna hear my girl…” he growls. „How good I make her feel-”
Joel can’t stop admiring you. Your hair messily splayed over the mattress and those lips parted in pleasure… You are a fucking work of art. Same view makes him pound faster, chasing the inevitable, crashing release.
„Joel!”
He squeezes your thighs at this precious gasp.
Your hands now clutching the sheets beneath you. You’re writhing in pleasure, hips jointing his movement. The sensations make you confused, your mind too hazy, too overwhelmed. God, you love this state.
You love how he keeps hitting that spot.
You feel the orgasm coming.
It’s right fucking there.
Right…
„Not so fast.” Joel pulls out. He puts your legs down, flipping you onto your stomach. You whine pathetically, but your body is like jello — at this point you let Joel do anything. He positions you, lifting your hips just enough to dive into your slick pussy again.
The groan that leaves his mouth is so filthy. It rings in your ears, makes you clench around his cock. Joel feels it.
„Fuckin’ hell… So good to me tonight, aren’t you, baby?”
He presses his palm flat against your back, keeping your chest pinned to the bed. You feel so good when he takes what he wants. You relish in being good for him. It feels freeing.
It’s in the scent of sex filling the hotel room.
In the sounds of skin slapping as he pounds into you.
„Good fuckin’ girl.”
You’re gasping for air, his cock filling you to the hilt. You feel your desire running down your thigh. The power of his thrusts is so unraveling, you would collapse if he wasn’t holding your hip. He guides your movements by the waist, his large hand splayed out over your skin. Strong and solid.
„Joel… Gonna come…” You cry out.
„Then do. Come for your man, baby.” He raps, you can hear he’s barely holding on with how your pussy’s clenching around him. „Shit-”
You don’t know if it’s the way he keeps you in place, forcing you to stay pressed to the bed. Or if it’s the way he’s panting and groaning… Or maybe it’s the way his dick is filling you so perfectly…
All you know is that another orgasm rips you open, having you almost scream into the sheets, biting onto it as the shudders run through your body. He holds your shaking form, but he is not fucking stopping.
Instead, he follows you, unable to hold back when he hears those sweet cries of pleasure. He spills into you, his cum drips out of your overstimulated core. You whine, clearly having too much of sensations, but he rides out your orgasms until he collapses onto your back, covering you with his big frame. Just enough not to crush you, but enough for you to feel his warmth and his rapid heartbeat.
„Holy fuck…” he sighs exhausted and all you can do is trying to catch your breath. It’s been a lot, he knows. He knows you tend to stay quiet afterwards. So he presses a kiss to your shoulder blade. Then another. And then to the nape of your neck. All this to say he’s here.
He’s got you.
„You did good, Darlin’. So good for me.”
You tilt your head to glance at him and smile.
Gosh, that smile. It’s all he ever needs.
„Think you can give me another one?” He whispers, already sneaking his hand around to your front, and then between your legs.
Oh, fuck, of course you can.
You don’t feel your limbs, you barely steadied your breathing, but God knows you can.
„Thought you’d never ask.” You smirk tiredly.
Joel pecks your nose gently. His fingers find your clit. You wince slightly, but he eases it with another kiss. „She’s sensitive, huh? Don’t worry, it’ll feel good.”
You’re not worrying.
With Joel you’re never worrying.
He’s still resting above you. His chest to your back. This weight is keeping you grounded, though. What you’re doing now is much more intimate. Delicate.
That’s how it is with Joel. He can be both. Wild and calm. Rough and then sweet. You love every face of him.
You hum in pleasure as his finger rubs you. His softened cock is still buried deep inside of you, which just doubles the experience. You shift beneath him, just to create a small friction.
Joel peppers your back and shoulder with kisses. His lips get everywhere he can reach. Even to the corner of your lips. You smile to yourself.
It’s not about dirty talk now, or passion. This is pure about your pleasure. About making you feel all boneless and happy.
„Joel…”
„I’m right here.” He rasps gently, still supporting himself on his forearm not to crush you. He loves watching you like this, flushed and soft. Moaning quietly at his touch. „You’re so wet for me, baby…”
He speeds up just enough to get those overwhelmed sounds out of you. You just can’t keep them inside. Not when he’s leading you to a third orgasm. You’re already spasming with the sensation.
When he notices your breathing turn into panting again, he moves his hips, just one thrust of his, now half-hard, cock into your pussy. She clenches involuntarily and you gasp.
„You feel it, Darlin’? Getting me hard again? It’s all your doing.” He breathes against your skin. „Yes…” you squeeze the sheet in your hand.
Your third orgasm hits with another wave of shivers and that overwhelmed, weak whine he loves so much. He holds you through it, never stopping on kissing your skin. His fingers work long enough to make you completely oversensitive and spent. Until you have nothing in you.
You drop your forehead on the bed, trying to catch your breath. Joel pulls out from your tender pussy, as well taking away his hand from your clit. He rubs your back now in soothing rhythm, letting you calm down after the high.
„You alright?” He asks, always mindful of your wellbeing.
„Yes… that was just… a lot. I needed that.”
„I saw it the moment you stepped in here… Those eyebags… Bet you studied till late.” He rests a lingering kiss on your shoulder blade. He is not saying it to make you feel bad, he’s just concerned. You close your eyes, already sleepy after all this sex.
„Fortunately you are here, so I can unwind.” You mumble.
„Meeting me every few weeks shouldn’t be your only source of relaxation, baby.” He says, and you sense a hint of vulnerability in his voice. You know he’s worried. And it melts your heart, but also… What the hell does he know? He is never actually here to see what you’re doing.
No. You shouldn’t think like this.
You instantly cut off those thoughts.
He sighs softly when you don’t respond and finally leans back. That is not a good moment for any of this type conversations.
„I’ll prep us some bath, hm? Sounds good?”
„Yes. The best.”
„Okay. Don’t fall asleep on me here.” One more time he kisses you, this time on the head. And then he stands up, walking to the bathroom to fill the tub.
The next hour you spend soaking in the hot water. Joel’s arms around you, his lips on your neck. You catch up on everything, finally there’s a moment for both of you to talk. And how good does it feel to be in his arms again. No pressure, no outside world. Just the two of you in your bubble.
Afterwards, Joel wraps you in one of those fluffy hotel’s robes and carries you to bed. You giggle when he does it, making you feel so light and happy. He just knows your legs are still like jelly after what he did to you.
And when he lays you on the mattress, you believe you’ll just have a quick nap together. But no.
Not with Joel Miller who missed you so fucking much.
You look at him confused when he lays on his stomach before you, just a towel wrapped around his waist. Then… he spreads your legs.
„Joel. No.” You shake your had, trying to close them, but his grip is strong. „Joel… I’m sensitive.”
„Just one more, baby.” He whispers, leaving a feather-like kiss on the inside of your ankle. He breathes in a fresh scent of your skin. He scoots even closer, lips trailing up to your knee and thigh. Your resolve crumbles with every kiss he presses.
„But we already…”
„I haven’t seen you for four weeks, so now you’ll come at least four times, got it?” He looks at you from between your legs. His eyes have this decisive glint in them. His grip on you is tight just enough to make you squirm beneath it. And those wet curls on his head…
You can’t say no. Especially not when you feel another wave of wetness flood your pussy.
„Yes.” You whisper, biting your lip when he buries his head between your thighs.
Fucking hell.
You tilt your head backwards until it hits the pillow. You never had wild rounds like this with other partners before Joel. Four orgasms and it’s not even your record.
But it’s inevitable when your man looks like Joel. Acts like Joel.
Is Joel.
He brings the best out of you.
Just like now. With the licks of his tongue on your swollen clit. It’s too damn sensitive. You moan weakly, grasping his hair, seeking some balance as he unravels you with his tongue.
„Goddamnit.” You breathe, guiding his face just like you want it. Oh, he knows you like it.
He flicks just perfectly through your slick folds. Up and down. Then circling. Then pressing. „Oh, God.” You can’t help it, your back arches off of the mattress. You think you might cry. The desire is enormous as well as the need to push him away. It’s confusing. It’s too much…
It’s the best fucking feeling in the world.
„Joel, baby…” you moan. „I can’t…”
He pulls away, just enough to speak. „You can. Just look at me when I eat this sweet pussy.”
His velvet words force you to lift your head, just enough to watch how he savors your taste. He looks wrecked form just this. It’s like you’re undoing him just with your taste. With the sounds that he gets out of you. You close your thighs around his head when he hits a good spot with his tongue. This is unbearable.
You writhe beneath him, matching the pace of his tongue as he eats you. It’s too much. Too fucking much. You feel like you might implode.
„Joel… J-Joel!”
Your moans turn into weak cries and as the pressure grows…
You hit your peak with a strangled groan. Your heart beats so fast, like it might burst out of your chest. Your body trembles and he keeps eating. Rubbing his nose against your clit until few tears roll down your cheeks. You make an overwhelmed noise, tugging him away from your pussy.
He looks at you wide-eyed, with that boyish, proud smirk. You wish you could kiss it away, but you’re too damn shocked from what you’ve just experienced. Joel kisses the inside of your thigh and props himself to hover above you.
„Now, I can say I’m done. For a while.”
You chuckle, but the tears keep flowing. His expression softens and he leans in to kiss every single one of them. He got you to a point when your body is fully relaxed, so now he can also relax. Taking care of you in an emotional way, beyond just the physical one.
„I love you, baby.” He whispers.
„I love you, too.” You breathe, reaching your shaky hand to cup his cheek.
With that, he rolls onto his side of the bed and tugs you with him. Snuggling and safe. Completely spent and happy. Just like he planned.
You rest your head on his chest and he slides his hand beneath your robe, just to gently stroke your back. You close your eyes, enjoying his warmth and presence. He’s the only person who sees you like this. Guard off, responsibilities aside.
And you’re the same to him.
Because no one would ever assume that Joel Miller is capable of being such a softie. But he is for his girl. For you.
With you he is the guy to kiss away the tears. He’s the guy to hold until you fall asleep. He’s the guy to wake you up with breakfast and a peck on the forehead. Even he didn’t suspect himself of being like that.
And when he first felt this need to take care of you? He was terrified.
But now? Now, it’s the only right way to live his life. Even if usually there are miles between you.
It’s those stolen moments that matter.
From your routine, your problems… you’re your escapes. No matter if it’s pleasure, or emotional matters.
He’s there for you and you’re there for him.
You don’t know how long you sleep. You dozed off just few minutes after he gave you your fourth orgasm. But when you lift your head from his chest it’s already dark outside the window. Your legs tangled together, Joel’s eyes still closed.
You let yourself watch him for a while. He looks softer like this. Younger. Not like this serious constructing businessman. He looks like the man who makes love to you and then holds you until your breathing evens. You trace with your finger the few age spots he has on his chest. You lay a kiss right where his heart beats.
That’s when he opens his eyes.
„What time is it?” He asks, raspy from sleep. You smile. „I dunno.”
His hand gently rubs your arm, eyes checking if you’re still okay.
„Tea?” He asks, already sitting up.
„Yeah. But I can make it.” You say, ready to stand up, but he pins you back to the mattress. „Nah uh. You rest. I make the tea.”
With that he gets up. Puts on some sweats he had ready on the armchair and heads to the small kitchenette there is in the hotel room. You prop on your elbow, admiring his sexy back.
„You’re so handsome, you know?”
Joel chuckles.
The room is filled with the quiet hum of the kettle and him searching through cupboards for some mugs. Soon, he walks up to you holding to steaming mugs of green tea. He never liked drinking it, but… You make him do a lot of different things he never liked and yet with you… they seem bearable.
Together you sit against the headboard and sip the tea. Joel’s hand absent-mindedly strokes your leg that you threw over his lap. It’s comfortable. Peaceful.
„You have a meeting with my mom tomorrow?” You ask.
„Yeah… 10 A.M.” he sighs. „You’d be there?”
His question makes you pause. Usually you’re there, because your mom wants you to learn the business.
„No… I have a project to make with Simon.”
„Simon?” He glances at you. „Yeah, the guy from my year.”
„Hm.” Joel hums.
„Oh, you can’t be jealous.” You sip your tea, not wanting to get annoyed at him. Joel is perfect for you, but… just sometimes it gets hard when you’re doing long-distance.
„I’m not. Just sad that my girlfriend chooses a project with some guy, knowing I’m leaving in the evening.”
You look at him, eyes widening slightly in pain. He sees it. He sees it and he fucking hates himself.
„Shit, I’m sorry.” Joel sets his mug on the nightstand to focus just on you. He grabs your free hand. „I didn’t mean it...”
You look away, trying to hold back a sniffle. „You know, it’s hard for me too.” You say.
„I know. I do, I’m sorry, Darlin’… It wasn’t fair.”
He presses a kiss to your knuckles. You glance at him, seeing the guilty crease forming between his brows.
The situation you are in is difficult for both of you. The distance… The jealousy is normal. Especially when you don’t see each other every day. You try to somehow manage through that. Expressing your feelings and all. But despite it, the moment like this one do sometimes happen.
„I don’t want to fight.” You whisper. „Then let’s don’t…” he says, reaching for your mug to set is aside too. He envelopes you in his arms. You let him, resting your head on his shoulder. „I love you.” He mutters against your temple. You relax in the embrace. The slow raise and fall of his chest, soothing your nerves. You’re both aware those difficult moments are effects of the strong love that’s bonding you two.
And you’re not gonna waste your precious time together on fighting.
Especially not after the passionate moments you’ve just shared.
It’s hard, but you manage. You have each other.
Even if just for a night.
A/N: Thank you all for reading. I appreciate every comment or reblog. I hope you enjoyed it. Cheers❤️
*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story. (part four)
The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
join the TAGLIST. / SERIES masterlist. / PREVIOUS chapter.
You spend the two hour drive wondering if anyone would miss you if you swerved into the oncoming lane.
warnings: the basics (werewolf!joel, age gap, no outbreak), attempted suicide, small town shenanigans, slut shaming, alcohol & weed consumption, mentions of food/eating, everyone is queer bc i said so, more werewolf lore, technically cannibal!joel, vomiting (i think reader throws up like three different times in this SORRY), girlie is drunk and concussed, kinda frenemies with reader's best friend, they're lowkey shitty friends to each other, drunk driving and its consequences, bathroom make out (not w joel sorry!!), gore & body horror, angst.
word count: 7.3k.
fox says: hello friends! thank you so much for reading! this was nearing the 10k words threshold so i ended up splitting this chapter into two which means we don't get smutty until part five :( but i promise i'll make it worth the wait, and it also means we get an extra chapter since the next one was supposed to be the last. as always pls let me know how we feel!
also available on archiveofourown.
You spend the two hour drive wondering if anyone would miss you if you swerved onto the oncoming lane. People would notice you gone, of course. Céline would be the first one, since she’s the only one expecting you home. Your grandmother would probably notice it by Sunday, when you didn’t make it to church in time. And Joel—
You don’t want to think about Joel. But those two hours you spend behind the wheel of the car you stole from him give you nothing but time to think. Think about how you took everything he said at face value because you wanted it to be true. Think about how, apart from the time he basically hijacked your body, there’s a reasonable and non-supernatural answer to every odd thing that has happened since you met him: He’s been stalking you everywhere, he could’ve easily overheard you speaking to the wolf. You never actually saw him shift from wolf to human. The night he was injured — allegedly — and slept at your place, you went to sleep with a wolf in your living room and woke up to him; he could’ve easily swapped places with the animal while you slept and the real wolf was probably dead somewhere in the woods.
And sure, you don’t have a proper explanation to the calming purring and the way your body forced you to obey his command but… Well, maybe those are on you. Maybe you wanted it so badly to be true that your brain tricked itself into thinking those things were actually happening.
The real, more plausible truth is that Joel is a weird, obsessive killer that murdered his own wife and is now targeting you. His brother is clearly in on it, and you think that maybe Joel told him about it after he stalked you through the woods and saw the second wolf: It’s the perfect excuse to make you believe, really— A witness and an accomplice.
You, more than ever, consider throwing the car straight into a lightpost. You feel like a fucking idiot, like the biggest moron on the planet and you wonder how much the Millers have laughed at your expanse. How far they are willing to go with this charade just because you gave it to them on a silver platter.
You’re not crying by the time you park the truck in front of Céline’s expensive condo, not really, but your cheeks are clammy and your eyes are burning— You don’t think you blinked more than three times since entering city limits, you don’t even remember stopping at a single red light ever since leaving the interstate and you hope you’ve gathered a shitload of traffic violations.
Céline pulls you into a hug that feels more like mourning than welcoming, her twiggy arms encasing around you for a long moment before she finally pulls away.
“New car?” She asks when you hike up your backpack over your shoulder, one of her well manicured brows raising.
“Borrowed from a friend.”
“Right.” Céline nods and you’re not sure if she doesn’t believe the car is borrowed or that you have a friend that isn’t her. But then her demeanor changes, a wide smile blooming on her pretty face. “Let’s get you upstairs, Oli’s making margaritas.”
Céline’s apartment is on the tenth floor of a newly renovated building with floor to ceiling windows and so much space you don’t even know how she managed to furnish it all. Oliver, her fiancé, is in the kitchen, standing behind a deep navy blue island and marble counters with a pitch of margarita and tiny, fancy-looking tacos.
“I just threw something together really quick.” They say, an apologetic smile even though the colorful tray is fancier and more elaborate than anything you ever could’ve done. “I did a pollo and a veggie version too, in case you’re vegan.”
“Pollo is chicken.” Céline adds, shuffling through the cabinets for the glasses. You drop your backpack by your feet, shuffling your dirty converse shoes on the expensive hardwood flooring. Your entire existence feels dirty somehow, like you’re tainting this perfectly tailored reality by simply stepping foot in it.
“I know.” You tell her with a little bit more bite than intended before turning back to Oliver. “This is perfect, thank you.”
Oliver is only around for two glasses of margarita before they excuse themself out of the room, giving Cél a soft kiss— Work calls, they say with a wave before ducking out of the apartment; there’s something funny about a big-time lawyer going to work slightly buzzed, something grounding in seeing a reflection of yourself in them— a tiny detail that makes Oliver a bit more of a real human and less of the rich and fancy soulmate your best friend found.
You and Céline end up in the terrace with the margarita pitcher, the tray of tacos that Céline barely touches and a blunt— Higher quality than any weed you’ve smoked in the past couple of years, tasting fresh and a little citrusy, earthy in a way that makes you instantly relax.
It’s easy to fall back into your dynamic with Céline even if the two of you haven’t seen each other in years— The booze and the weed help break the stiffness in your shoulders and you don’t even find yourself hurting over her outlandish stories, no jealousy tightening your stomach when she goes on and on about her new friends or the hot professor she hooked up with a couple of summers ago, your smile genuine when she speaks excitedly about how the universe ‘conspired’ for her to be accepted into residency at the hospital of her dreams.
Of course things have always been easy for Céline— She’s pretty, she’s charming, she’s rich. She never had to struggle the way you had, never had to be told she’d be kicked out if her grades didn’t improve or berated about the hardships of raising a child. She still has both of her parents, a safety net to fall back to if she needs it and a hefty trust fund that allows her to pick and choose her residency.
You’ve always hated her a little, no matter how much you love her, and you’re fairly certain the feeling is mutual.
“How’s work?” She asks eventually, like you knew she would. You’re almost surprised she hasn’t asked about Joel first but you’re glad for it too— You’re not certain you can talk about him without breaking down.
“It’s fine. Good.” You shrug, taking a final hit from the blunt before you hand it back; Céline puts it out on the ashtray between the two of you, her long legs drawn up to her chest. “Not sure I’ll stay there for long, though. Genevieve’s unbearable.”
“She always was. I remember she’d yell at everyone when she made captain of the soccer team. But we both know she’s gonna rot in a menial job using her power trip to abuse her subordinates.”
You wince, thinking about how you, too, will most likely rot in some menial job until you die. Céline seems to understand the weight of her words as soon as they’re out of her mouth because she reaches between the two of you, her hand grasping yours.
“That job is temporary for you, anyway.” She says, in that calming and warm tone that would’ve sounded condescending from anyone else. “You’ll be able to tell her to suck it as soon as you start to sell your paintings.”
You shove a taco in your mouth. It’s already a little soggy, the lettuce starting to wilt under the warmth of the pollo, but it’s better than to admit to her that, apart from that stupid doodle of the wolf on the back of a receipt, you haven’t drawn or painted for the better part of the year.
It started because you ran out of paint and didn’t have the cash to buy more— You switched to charcoal then, which has never been your favorite but it was better than nothing. But then you started to draw less and less, too busy or too tired or too unmotivated.
You’re not even sure where your supplies are, anymore.
“Ooh, you should make TikToks!” She says, squeezing your hand once before she lets it go, an almost childlike smile on her face. “You could record yourself painting and then sell them once they’re done! I follow a girl that does macramê and she has like a bazillion followers.”
“I’ll think about it.” You say, though you have no intention of following through with it. “Tell me about Oli’s friends, again. They’re meeting us at the thing, right?”
The three of you make it to the bar about half past midnight— You’re three energy drinks and way too many tequila shots in already, needing the alcohol and the caffeine to stay up so late. It’s funny how you’d most likely be wide awake, panicking and crying, if you were still at home. But in the big city, with your best friend and all the twinkling lights, your eyelids droop while she peppers them with so much glitter you think it’ll never wipe off entirely. You’re in a red dress, short and sparkly just like your eyes, the sort of pretty clothing you haven’t worn in way too many years. It smells a little like the back of your closet but Céline sprays her perfume on you and hands you a pair of her heels and, when you look at yourself in the mirror, you don’t feel like a falsified copy of yourself like you thought you would.
You look pretty, and that is a word you haven’t used to talk about yourself since you were a teenager.
The Wilde, the bar that Céline has been raving about since she moved to Jackson, is almost forty minutes away from her apartment— The drive is tense after Cél asks way too many questions about the baby car seat in the back that you didn’t even notice was there until her eyes are bugging out of her head. And then it goes very quiet when you finally admit that Joel is the one that lent you the car. Poor Oliver keeps trying to lighten the mood, telling you about their job and singing along to the music on the radio a little bit too loud, like a child trying to take the attention away from two arguing parents. They jump out of the truck even before you can properly park it, clearly wanting to get away from the bad thing brewing between you and Céline as fast as possible.
Cél grabs your wrist just before you can hop out of the car too and you take a deep breath, turning back to her with your shoulders squared and fully prepared to be yelled at but she simply smiles.
“I don’t want to spend the whole weekend fighting.” She says, her voice a little wobbly from the liquor. “I missed us.”
“I miss us too.”
And you do. Things have never been easy or smooth between you and Céline, but they were good. You’d fight and make up almost every week, giggling in the dark of her bedroom at night, trading secrets and life stories until you knew more about her than you know of yourself. But this, the girl with pink eyeshadow and sixty dollar french tip manicure, feels like a stranger. A stranger that knows too much, that has seen too much and doesn’t love you enough to not judge you for it. She brings your hand to her lips, pressing a sticky kiss to the back of your hand, and everything is fine. It’s fine. She’s your best friend and her bright pink gloss is now smeared all over the back of your hand and she knows too much and not enough about you. It’s fine.
The bar is crowded. So crowded that you barely see Oliver waving from a table, both of their hands in the air before either of you notice it. There’s two more people there already, a woman with dark braids so long they hit the swell of her ass, the golden rings weaved into her hair shining against the strobing pink and blue lights that swirl around the room. The other woman is taller, her blond hair gelled and spiked up in a way that makes you think of a pop star from the 90s. The girl with the spiky bun is named Ripley, the one with the braids is Bri, and they both attend the same college as Céline. It’s a mismatched, odd group of people that don’t seem to fit together but clearly do, all of them talking over each other and cackling with jokes that fly right over your head but, unlike when it’d been with just Céline and Oliver, you don’t feel left out— Bri sits next to you and rolls her eyes or explains a joke or two, talking fast and waving her hands a lot, blowing raspberries or booing Céline whenever she says something a little too pretentious.
Sitting between Ripley and Bri, you feel at home. Like these girls could actually be your friends, welcoming you with honesty and a lot more warmth than your own best friend did. There’s no competition, no baggage with them, just laughing and drinking and trying to hold Ripley’s legs when she decides to dance on top of the table.
You’re way past drunk when you go into the bathroom stall with Bri. You don’t even know who started it, who pulled who into it but you think she’s way too drunk too, her hands a little sloppy when they sneak under the hem of your dress, her kisses leaving a wet trail down your neck. You lean into it, your hands roaming her shoulders and her sides, but it doesn’t feel right. Your entire body screams at you to get away, to walk from the bar and get in the car and drive back home.
Home. Not Céline’s apartment, not your house, not your grandmother’s house but that little cabin in the middle of nowhere that has children’s toys scattered everywhere, two pairs of muddy boots by the front door and the strong scent of pine everywhere.
“I uhm, I—” Whatever you’re about to say is cut off by Bri’s kiss, her soft lips pressing lazily against yours, her kiss tasting of Jack and Coke. Her body fits nicely against yours, her perfume is soft and feminine and her slightly taller height is perfect enough that you don’t need to bend too far backwards to slot your mouth against hers, your shoulders pressing against the bathroom stall when she pulls at your hips, her thigh dragging up between yours.
Still, everything feels wrong. Not because she’s a stranger, not because you’re way past a reasonable amount of drunk in a dirty bathroom stall miles and miles away from your hometown, not because you’re out of a job and still spending almost thirty dollars for one cocktail with a stolen truck in the parking lot.
It’s wrong because she’s not Joel. It’s wrong because you’re wearing someone else’s perfume, with someone else between your legs, in a place that you don’t belong with people that you don’t belong to.
You’re out of the bar before you can even notice. You push Bri away, apologies tumbling out of your mouth that you don’t listen to as you scramble out of the stall and out of the bathroom, wobbling your way out of the bar.
Céline is the one that follows you outside and holds your hair while you retch into the gutter.
“What happened?” She asks as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, shaking as you lean against Joel’s truck. She’s just as drunk as you are, face flushed and eyes bloodshot. “You pushed Bri so hard she slipped and hit her head on the toilet.”
You don’t even remember pushing the other woman, all you could think about was getting out.
“I don—” The words are cut out by a rancid hiccup. “I couldn’t do that— Joel— I can’t do that to him.”
“Joel?” She says the name like it’s rotten in her mouth. “The stalker that you think killed a bunch of people? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
And suddenly Céline’s concern for you twists into something else, something with teeth. You laugh, short and watery before it turns into tears.
“Oh, I know he killed people. Every one of ‘em.” You sob, shaking your head. You shouldn’t say it, you know you shouldn’t, but the secret that has been bubbling inside of you spills out before you can consider holding back. “Killed his fucking wife too. I ran.” You wave your hand towards the truck, wobbling to the side before you regain a little stability. “Stole his fucking truck and ran. But I miss him. I fuckin’— Fuck. I love him.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Oliver pokes their head through the door but Céline waves them back inside without taking her eyes off of you.
“You don’t love him.” She shakes her head. The drunken flush is gone from her face, replaced with a sickly paleness. “You’re just desperate.”
“I love him.” You whine, your breath coming in ragged between the tears. “I do, Cél, I fucking love him so—”
“No, you don’t! You think you do because he’s the first person to look at you twice. I mean, c’mon sweetheart, we both know you’d fuck a horse if it gave you enough attention.”
You can tell she regrets the words as soon as they come out, her breath stuttering as she says your name as if she’s shocked with herself for saying it but you’re not listening anymore. You climb into the truck through the passenger seat, sliding to the driver’s side as Céline begs you not to drive. She’s sorry and you’re both drunk and she doesn’t mean it but you don’t listen. You just rev the engine and speed out of the parking lot.
You don’t go back to Céline’s apartment even though all of your things are still there. The truck swerves dangerously on the highway but you don’t even notice it and, by the seventh time she calls, you throw your phone out of the window— You’re going to fucking regret that in the morning but, right now, you don’t really have a plan of making it to the morning. Your foot is lead on the gas, the motor rattling and shaking as you cut other cars; you turn on the windshield wipers before you realize it’s not raining and that the watery distortion of everything is coming from the tears welling up your eyes. You laugh at yourself and then you cry a little more, your headlights coming dangerously close to the car on your left. The driver honks, loud and long, but you don’t even notice it’s aimed at you.
You make almost all of the way home. You’re about forty miles from the welcome sign that designates the border of your town when your heel gets stuck underneath the brake pedal— The truck is close to 90mph, the old thing barely hanging on, but the pointer only climbs up in your panic: You floor the gas pedal as you try to pull your other foot from the brake pedal; you look down, trying to figure out what is happening underneath the dashboard, the car swerving harshly to the left, into the woods.
You barely manage to avoid the first tree, your hands turning the steering wheel this and that way in a blind panic as the car flies off the highway— The front of the truck slams into a large willow tree and the last thing you feel is your face slamming into the dashboard before everything goes dark.
There’s something wet on your face. Soft, wet and warm, running over the side of your face in steady strokes; you try to push it away, even if the feeling isn’t entirely unpleasant, but all your trembling hand finds is soft fur. Something whines and you’re not sure if the noise came from you or not— Your body feels like it’s floating, feverish but cold to the bone at the same time, pain burning everywhere with the sort of intensity that almost makes you numb to it. Your eyes flutter close as you struggle to keep them open, head lolling to the side. You think there’s a grey and brown snout licking at your cheek, but your brain is already giving back into the emptiness.
The next time you wake up, you’re moving. You’re being dragged across the forest ground to be precise, dead leaves and pointy sticks getting stuck to your skin; you flail, panicking at the teeth that cradle on the back of your neck— the pressure is very soft, just enough to hold without hurting, but they’re still there, warm and sharp, spit dribbling down to the front of your neck and down your chest as the thing that is holding you by the back of your neck — the wolf, you know without having to look — drags you through the forest as if you were a misbehaving puppy.
The jaw around your neck tightens ever so slightly when you flail, just enough to send you spiraling even more, before it drops you down on the ground. You roll, trying to scamper away, but the movement makes you dizzy. The wolf stares at you with blood — your blood — staining all over its mouth and face, from its jaw up to its forehead. It steps forward when you crawl backwards, your pretty dress now ruined, your stomach twisting.
“Stay the fuck back.” You tell him, scootching backwards until you hit a particularly large tree root. The wolf whines, a pitiful noise that breaks your heart but not your resolve.
You’ve lost Céline’s borrowed heels at some point and, although it’s not funny, you laugh when you think about how pissed she will be. You stand up slowly, fingers digging into the moss that covers the tree trunk next to you, not even considering all of the creepy crawlies that could be walking all over you— It’s so dark you can barely see, the wolf sitting next to you bathed in moonlight and then oppressing darkness from the forest behind it.
You stumble and then fall to your knees just two steps away from the wolf, both from the head injury and the alcohol; the animal is on you in a second, big nose insistent and stubborn as it sniffs your face and neck. “Go away.” You say, trying and failing to push him away. “You can’t— No. Go.”
You barely have time to pull your hair out of the way before you puke. Your head is starting to hurt more than it did before, a consistent throbbing behind your eyelids that only gets worse when the wolf sits on his hind legs and howls.
You’ve seen videos of wolves howling before. You’ve seen it in movies and you’ve read about it and you probably have seen way too many wolf-related TikToks at this point but nothing could prepare you for just how loud the noise is in real life. It’s loud and painful and if you weren’t already crawling on the ground you’d probably would’ve fallen to your knees; the howl reverberates through your core, squeezing your stomach into a tight little ball, goosebumps erupting on your skin. Something feels very, very wrong.
You wipe your hands on the hem of your dress before bringing them to your face, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. The already smeared makeup goes inside your eyes and it only makes everything worse, vision blurry and burning as you try and fail not to cry. The wolf pads close to you, slowly and carefully as if he is approaching a wild animal — which, at this point, you might as well be — before curling its big, warm body around yours.
The wolf smells of Joel and blood, his strong legs pulling you close until you’re enveloped in soft fur and the rumbling underneath his ribcages. You don’t want to, you want to fight and walk away and tell him to fuck off but you lean against his sturdy form anyway, fingers digging into the long fur, your head dropping against his neck.
Céline is right. Céline is wrong. You’re not certain anymore. Maybe both, maybe neither. You can’t figure out what’s real or what isn’t and maybe you’re still somewhere inside that car, trapped in twisted hot metal as the whole thing goes into flames. Or maybe your brain is swelling and bleeding inside of your head and you’re going to die either way, but this time with a magical wolfman wrapped around you like a pelt.
You blink and perhaps your eyes stay closed for longer than you anticipated because, when they finally open, Tommy is staring at you. He’s crouched about three feet away from you, a flashlight in one hand, the other empty and outstretched towards you.
The wolf underneath you growls when Tommy’s hand moves closer.
“Yer the one that fuckin’ called me. I can’t help her if I can’t touch her.” He argues back, clearly unfazed by the long and threatening noise your wolf is still emitting. “What happened, sugar?”
“Crashed the truck.” You say, pushing yourself into a sitting position. The wolf moves along, his side still glued to your back. “I think.”
Tommy pushes the hair away from your face, humming when he brings the flashlight to your forehead.
“Drinkin’?”
“No.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I can smell the tequila from a mile away.”
“Then you shouldn’t have asked.”
Tommy grumbles under his breath but doesn’t say anything else, instead choosing to help you to your feet and then flipping Joel off when the wolf gets in his face about it.
“You can’t carry her like a damn pup. Just gon’ hurt her more.” Tommy says, hands on his hips. The wolf is taller than him but not by much— The height doesn’t matter, though, because the hulking shape of the wolf should be enough to scare anyone away; not Tommy, it seems, because he rolls his eyes and pushes Joel’s face away like a diver does with a shark. “If you didn’t want my help you shouldn’t have called me.”
“I don’t think I called you.” You say, closing your eyes. Your head is fully pounding now, the migraine settling deep behind your teeth. “I threw my phone out the window a few miles back.”
“Not you. Him. Howlin’ like a hurt puppy to drag me here. Why—” Tommy shook his head. “You know what? Don’t tell me. Let’s just get you home… And maybe to a hospital.”
The wolf growls, still flanking the both of you, his teeth shimmering in the moonlight.
“No hospital?” You ask, tongue feeling like lead. Nothing about the interaction feels real— The world around you doesn’t feel real, like everything is immaterial, like you’re just floating inside of your head. Like Joel and Tommy and the wolf and the past forty-eight hours aren’t true and have never been.
You hobble and stumble your way back to the cabin because the wolf refuses to let Tommy carry you and you throw up again while trying to climb onto the animal’s back before giving up and walking on your own. You do the thing Tommy did with the hand to the snout when it tries to grab you by the nape of the neck, pushing his nose away gently. You think you might’ve told him that you’d rather die than get dragged around by the neck but you’re not certain you managed to get the words out.
You’ve never had a concussion before, but there’s a small part of you that thinks this is what it feels like.
In the end, the wolf doesn’t let you inside the cabin. It stalks around you and sits in your way and actually tries to bite Tommy when he begins to maneuver you out of the wolf’s way; Tommy on his part cusses him out and complains the entire time about how Joel’s a fucking maniac and a possessive son of a bitch and a goddamn stubborn bastard, but he heeds with caution when he tells you to wait outside, coming around to the back of the cabin with a cardboard box of blankets, a water bottle and a Tylenol, throwing you a ‘good fuckin’ luck’ before he stomps back inside. The wolf noses at your stomach until you plop down on the stairs, leaning against the staircase railing and downing the water while you watch it work.
You can’t lie to yourself anymore and pretend that this is anything other than a man. He sniffs through the cardboard box before tipping it over and pulling its contents out— It’s not nearly as neat and well made as the nest Joel had made in your living room but you can see it has the same structure, the heavy blankets underneath and the fluffy ones on top. The animal growls, frustrated with himself when his paws and nose don’t seem to work to get it just right and you eventually pad down closer to him, using your opposable thumbs — which you make sure to flex in his face — to fix it into something similar to what you’ve seen before.
He forces you to lie down, big forehead headbutting you until you fall onto the covers, his warm and fluffy body climbing over yours; there’s a brief moment of panic where you think he’s trying to mount you but then he rolls over, big paws wrapping around you, belly up. You go down far too willingly, Céline’s words replaying in your head as you fist the wolf’s fur, burying your face against his neck.
You hate yourself for how fucking right she is.
There’s something heavy on your face. You’re laying somewhere too comfortable, warmth surrounding you everywhere, the thing on your face completely covering your eyes— The wolf’s head, you belatedly realize, his jaw shielding your eyes from the morning sun while leaving just enough space for you to breathe; which you can’t do anyway because of the heavy paw weighing down on your chest. You grumble, pushing him away, the sun immediately burning behind your eyelids.
Tommy is sitting on the staircase, still in his pajamas, a steaming mug in hands and a far too gleeful smile on his face. The wolf is asleep next to you, head rolling to the side when you push him away, dead to the world. You’re not sure how you got here, your memory from the night before fuzzy and painful. You remember the bar, Bri, and Céline— Not much else.
“Did I—” You shake your head, unwilling to let the words come out of your mouth; it’s not like you can ask Joel’s brother if you committed bestiality in his backyard the night before. Instead, you change course. “What the fuck happened?”
“Don’t think so, I woulda heard if you did.” He answers anyway, his voice lacking any judgement. “How much do you remember? Reckon you got a concussion but there’s only so much medicine I know how to practice.”
“I—” You lick your lips, your mouth dry as cotton. “I got into a fight with my friend. Went to her place in Jackson for the weekend.”
“You crashed the truck. I didn’t see it but I think it was bad, car was on fire by the time I got to it.”
Your hand comes up to touch the side of your face— It throbs a little, but no more than a proper hangover; still, you’re certain he’s right. You’re still in last night's clothes, covered in leaves, mud and dried up blood, and you can already see a particularly dark bruise forming on your shin. Your entire body feels sore, particularly your stomach, and his words bring forth the faint memory of tires screeching and the painful sound of metal twisting into a different, wrong shape.
You eye the mug in his hands, which Tommy promptly hands you.
“Coffee. Fresh off the pot. I’d invite you in but I reckon he ain’t lettin’ you out of his sight.”
“Huh.” You say, voice dripping with sarcasm as you stretch towards the coffee. It’s bitter and way too strong for your taste, but it helps settle the nausea. “Wouldn’t it be a nice little party trick if he could just switch back into human form and walk inside his own damn house?”
“That ain’t happening until you’re healed.” Tommy leans on his knees, seriousness thundering over his face. “Your lil’ disappearing act did a number on him. Hasn’t shifted back since he realized you were gone.”
You go silent for a moment, sipping the coffee as you take in Joel’s sleeping form.
“I assume that’s not normal?”
“Nope. We don’t usually spend that much time in wolf form. Dad warned us not to, said it was dangerous stayin’ as a wild animal for that long. But you could never be sure if the old man was tellin’ the truth about anything.”
You instantly feel a migraine coming through.
“That’s just fucking great.” Still, despite the bitterness of your words, you can’t help but bring a hand to rub his stomach. The wolf gives a little woof in his sleep, mouth still closed, the sound reverberating from his chest. It’s fucking cute, which is not a word you think should be used to describe a giant killing machine that is still covered in dried blood. “What am I supposed to do? Stay outside until he decides to shift back?”
Tommy shrugs. “I can bring you some of Sarah’s coloring books.”
You have to bite down on your tongue to resist the urge of barking at him.
As much as it pains you to admit, Sarah’s coloring books do help to distract you. Tommy brings you food and drinks periodically, complaining about having to care for someone that ‘ain’t even his damn mate’, but he also brings you clothes and a coat when it gets a little chilly— The wolf sleeps for most of the day, whining whenever you pull away for too long, and you wonder if he slept at all while you were gone.
You tell yourself that you stick around mainly because you need to see the moment Joel shifts back. You need proof, irrefutable evidence that you can’t explain away with any ounce of logic other than him truly, absolutely, being a werewolf.
You get your evidence in the middle of the afternoon. The wolf whines and stir, his paws wiggling a little in his sleep as if he’s dreaming of running; you turn around absentmindedly to scratch his neck when you realize something is wrong. A clump of fur falls off on your hand, sticking to your hand when you try to shake it off— And he’s warm. You’ve noticed he runs hot but this is too much, so hot it makes him a little uncomfortable to the touch.
You think he’s growling in his sleep at first, lips pulled back as if he’s baring his teeth before you realize that his skin is, in fact, pulling back— Receding into the fur that seems to shed more and more every time you blink, his paws and back twisting and spasming as if he’s about to break. The fur goes away first, some chunks disappearing into his skin, others falling clean off like a young deer shedding its antlers, skin and all; you can see muscles and tendons and veins before the skin grows back, tan and smooth and human.
There’s a moment in which he looks like a mixture of a Xoloitzcuintle dog and a wolf, as tall and big as human Joel is but still dog-shaped, smooth skin covered in a peach fuzz that sheds every time he spasms. And then the muscles twist and bend and suddenly the wolf is entirely gone, replaced with just Joel, laying on a pile of his own gore.
It’s stupid, but the first thing you think about is how he somehow got rid of the werewolf chunks from your living room that night. And you’re grateful for it too, because you’re about to either puke or pass out. Maybe both.
It’s grotesque, and beautiful, and so otherworldly that you can’t do anything other than sit there and stare as Joel’s eyes finally open, hazy at first before consciousness fully sets in. He rolls over, chest heaving, and you pull the corner of the blanket to throw over his very naked waist— You don’t know where Sarah is but you’re fairly certain she’s still inside the house and you think that accidentally seeing her naked bloodied father might not be for the best.
“Morning.” You say even though it’s well past noon, dropping the electric blue pencil you’d been using to doodle on the margins of the coloring book. Joel raises a hand, nails and cuticles caked with deep red blood, and touches the side of your face; it’s still a little tender but it doesn’t pound anymore and you’re desperately curious to know what you look like.
And you’re also in desperate need of a shower and a toothbrush.
“That’s gonna scar.” He says, frowning as he pushes himself onto his elbow. “I’m sorry. There’s only so much I could fix.”
“Do I look badass or do I look hideous?”
“Beautiful.” Joel says, his voice just a little soft. His hand is warm and clammy, falling from your cheek to your clavicle. “Shoulder healin’ okay?”
You roll your shoulders absentmindedly before shrugging. “I wasn’t even aware it was injured, so I’d say yes.”
Joel nods once, reaching for the half empty water bottle next to you. His hands shake. “You should go inside. I’ll clean up and be right there.”
You eye the mess he’s sitting in wearily. “Do you… Uh. Need help or something?”
“No, you can go.” He gives you a wobbly smile, face a little paler than usual and you’re not sure if it’s from shifting back or just exhaustion. Either way, you’re incredibly relieved at not having to mop pieces of werewolf off of the ground.
Whatever you had been expecting, the state of the woman looking back at you in the bathroom mirror is worse than you thought it would be. Your hair is a rat’s nest of loose leaves, knots and dried blood— You pluck a tiny shard of glass when you try to untangle it dry before giving up entirely. The left side of your face is a constellation of tiny scars, light colored freckles that look just a bit irritated, coming from your temple all the way to your chin; it doesn’t look badass or hideous but it surely doesn’t look beautiful. You want to cry over it, but all you can truly do is be grateful that the glass shards that embedded into your skin on impact didn’t hit your eyes.
Your body is a collection of bruises, scraps and cuts that look a lot older than the sixteen hours they truly are, just as you’re expecting them to be. Your head and shoulders seems to have taken the brunt of it, but there are long and angry scraps on your stomach that mix along with old, faded stretchmarks; you decide to ask Joel if he knows what happened later, but you’re fairly certain you flew through the windshield and it’s a fucking miracle you didn’t break your neck or split your skull open.
Your mother didn’t have the same luck twenty-something years ago. You can see her wrecked car behind your eyelids as you step into the too-hot shower as if the accident had just happened, the blood on the broken windshield where her body had been, the hood bent upwards— She’d gone halfway through the windshield before a particularly sharp glass shard embedded deep enough to tear her gut open, the top of her head smashed into the hood that had popped open and then flown backwards. You were six years old, and while you hadn’t understood it back then, you know for sure that your grandmother should’ve spared you from the details.
She never spared you from anything, had shown no mercy when you were kept up from nightmares of your mother with her organs falling from the open wound on her torso, the gruesome picture of her neck bent and her brains pouring out whenever you closed your eyes.
Your legs give under you as you wash the blood away, rivulets trailing down your body and into the drain; you sit there, shampoo on your hair and tears and blood washing down your chest, until the water runs cold. You think the werewolves in the house can hear your sobs even through the spray of the shower, know Joel hears better than most even with his busted eardrum, but nobody knocks on the door or tries to hurry you. You’re alone with your misery for forty-something minutes, knees to your chest and nails digging into your thighs, until the cold water becomes too much to bear on your sore muscles.
Joel is inside by the time you’ve showered, gore rinsed off as he scarves down a giant plate of eggs and bacon; Sarah sits next to him, babbling away, stealing bacon bits from his plate that Joel pretends not to notice. She smiles brightly when you walk in, clad in a pair of Joel’s boxer shorts and a sweatshirt, waving you a slice of bacon.
“Hi, kiddo.” You say, avoiding the spit-soaked bacon she’s offering you by kissing the top of her head and then moving to the couch.
“How are you feeling?” Joel asks, eyeing you carefully.
“Hungover.” You lean back on the couch, bringing your legs up. “And like I flew straight through a windshield.”
“Glad you think this is funny.”
You curl in on yourself, turning to stare back at the TV— An episode of Clifford is on, muted.
“I’m sorry about your truck. Is it salvageable?”
“Fuck the truck.” Joel barks, his eyes wild and burning with anger. “You could’ve died. You would have died if I wasn’t there.”
Your eyes whip back to Sarah, who offers you another toothy smile before she pipes up with something that sounds remarkably like ‘fuck the truck!’.
“I don’t think we should be having this conversation in front of her.” Your voice wobbles, breaking a little before you swallow it down. You feel like an exposed nerve, like your entire body is made out of open wires and you’re really, really not in the mood for a scolding from a crazed murderer.
Joel turns back to his meal but his shoulders are tense, hiked up all the way to his ears as he leans forward, elbows on the table and head hanging low. Sarah pats his bicep twice before she shimmies from her chair, padding towards you and climbing onto the couch without a single word. Her lips are greasy when they touch your cheek, and you don’t even notice you’re crying until the action smears your own tears all over your face.
“You’re sad.” She says, big brown eyes staring at you with a severity that is far too old for her chubby little face. You press a kiss to her forehead, arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. You risk a glance at Joel who is now sitting with his back ramrod straight, still turned away, not eating anymore.
“I’m okay, pup.” You tell her with a tiny smile. “Just tired.”
And it’s true— You’re tired of running, tired of fighting back and pretending that this isn’t exactly what you want.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining
c/w: some fluff at the beginning. but then more tension. mutual pining. angst. violence description. wounds description. injuries description. alcohol use. smut (+18). dirty talk. p in v. orgasm (i think nothing else omg i'm so bad at this)
words: 27k
summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining.
between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid.
turns out, it isn't.
a/n: HEY. hi... so... a few things. first of all, i know, i've created a monster. i sat down to write and by the time i realized how long the chapter had gotten it didn't make much sense to split it in half, so here we are. i'm sorry (not really).
i'm also leaving you with a longer chapter cause my exams are coming up, and there's a good chance i won't be updating next week.
and finally, i have to admit i'm so bad at writing smut, but i promise i'll try to get better at it.
again, thank u so much for all the lovely interactions and support. it really means a lot to me. now, enjoy !!
chapter six: everybody wants to rule the world
The silence of the downtown public library is only punctuated by the occasional, rhythmic ticking of the grand clock on the far wall and the soft, agonizing sound of pages turning.
On Wednesday afternoon, you have finally hit your breaking point. You have practically begged Roy for the rest of the week off, your voice bordering on desperate as you explained that the week of midterms is actively draining the life force out of your body.
Roy, surprisingly sympathetic for once, waved you off with a grunt, muttering something about the youth being unable to handle a little stress. You didn't care what he thought; you just knew that if you had spent one more hour staring at the shelves instead of your notes, you were going to lose your mind.
But now, sitting in the dimly lit corner of the library’s second floor, you aren’t sure this is any better.
Of all your career electives you could have chosen to take this semester, you have somehow managed to pick the absolute worst, most notoriously unforgiving class in the entire syllabus. The one that sounds impressive on paper, but in reality, it’s a walking nightmare.
You are currently barricaded behind a fortress of heavy, dust-smelling textbooks, surrounded by endless sheets of loose-leaf paper covered in frantic, barely legible diagrams of connections, frequency response charts, signal flow paths, and God knows what else.
The harsh, fluorescent lighting above is doing nothing to help the throbbing headache building behind your eyes.
The information simply isn’t entering your brain anymore. The black text on the glossy pages blurred together, looking more like an army of disorganized ants than actual words. You are acutely aware that if you tried to force your exhausted neurons to process one more paragraph about impedance matching or balanced audio cables, your brain is going to literally short-circuit and explode.
Thankfully, you aren’t suffering in complete isolation.
It’s midterm season for everyone, a collective misery that hangs over the student body like a dark cloud, so Robin is sitting directly across from you. Her side of the table is in a similar state of chaotic disarray, though hers is covered in massive, daunting anthologies of literature rather than technical manuals.
Earlier that morning, after spending the entire day cooped up in your cramped, stuffy apartment — breathing in recycled air and driving each other crazy with nervous pacing — the two of you reached a mutual agreement: you needed a change of scenery; and the downtown library, with its high ceilings, stained-glass windows, and strict noise policies, seemed like the perfect sanctuary.
Robin also had to pull strings to get the afternoon off, though her situation is slightly different, because Stella is calling her from the library's front desk every half hour to ask her how to reboot the computer system or how to find a specific French novel in the foreign section.
You let out a long, heavy sigh that ruffles the edges of your notebook paper. Defeated, you close your eyes, letting your heavy head drop forward until your forehead rests against your crossed arms on the cool wood of the table.
"It's impossible," you mumble into your sleeves, your voice muffled but dripping with absolute exhaustion. "I'm going to fail. I'm going to fail, and I'll have to drop out, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box behind the diner."
Across the table, the sharp thud of a heavy book snapping shut echoes slightly in the quiet room. Robin stretches her arms high above her head, leaning back in her wooden chair until it groans in protest.
"Tell me about it," she groans, rubbing her tired eyes. "I am in my senior year. My senior year, and I still cannot, for the life of me, tell you the fundamental differences between the literary epochs. Classical, Romanticism, Modernism… don’t get it”
You lift your head just enough to peek at her with one eye.
"At least your dead people speak in English. My book is trying to convince me that electricity has a personality, and I'm supposed to know how to fix its mood swings."
Robin snorts, a sharp, ungraceful sound that earns a harsh "Shh!" from a student three tables away. She waves an apologetic hand in the girl’s direction before leaning in over her literary anthologies, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper.
"Look, we just need to survive until Friday. Once Friday at four p.m. hits, we are officially on Spring Break, and I’m not looking at a single word printed on a page for a solid week. I might even forget how to read."
Before you can agree with her brilliant plan, a sudden, heavy thud makes you jump in your seat.
A worn, olive-green canvas backpack has just been dropped onto the empty space at the end of your table. You startle, sitting up straight, your heart doing a quick, nervous stutter in your chest. Your eyes snap up to meet the newcomers.
Nancy and Jonathan are standing there. Nancy’s offering a sympathetic, knowing smile, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, while Jonathan gives a tired but friendly wave.
They promised to come by and keep you both company during the grueling final hours of your study session, bringing the promise of moral support and, hopefully, caffeine.
But your breath catches in your throat, and your stomach plummets into a cold, terrifying free-fall.
You hadn't expected to see him.
Following closely behind Jonathan, stepping out from behind the towering bookshelf, is Steve.
Your heart does a violent, painful flip against your ribcage. The air in your lungs suddenly feels too thick to breathe.
You haven’t seen him properly since that weekend.
You can’t stop the memory hit you like a physical blow, flashing behind your eyes with terrifying clarity: the warmth of his room, the way the moonlight spilled across his bedsheets, the feeling of being entirely, completely wrapped up in him, believing that maybe, finally, things were shifting between you two.
But then he left.
And although you have seen him here and there since then — the times he left the store, or hearing his voice while he talks with Robin in your apartment — you have to admit you have been spending the last four days actively avoiding him, ignoring his attempts to start a conversation, dodging his smiles and gazes, trying to build your walls back up.
Yet, looking at him now — standing in the middle of the dusty library, wearing a simple gray sweater that hugs his shoulders perfectly, his hair effortlessly brushed — something inside you involuntarily softens.
Despite the hurt, despite the messy, unresolved chaos swirling in your head, seeing him here feels... good. Dangerously comforting. It’s a twisted, pathetic realization of just how much power he holds over you with just his presence.
Jonathan and Nancy pull out chairs, their quiet laughter blending into the hushed atmosphere as they begin whispering with Robin. Jonathan asks about her thesis, and Nancy immediately starts organizing her own pristine, color-coded notes.
Steve steps closer to the table. He moves toward Robin first. Resting a hand on the back of her chair, he leans down and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to the crown of her head. Robin instantly scrunches up her face in feigned disgust, aggressively rubbing the top of her head as if to wipe the kiss away.
"Ew, germs. Get away from me, dingus," she hisses playfully.
Steve just rolls his eyes, a fond smirk playing on his lips, and gives the back of her head a gentle, teasing smack. "Show some respect to your elders, Buckley."
Then, he turns. And he starts walking toward you.
Every instinct in your body screams at you to look down. To stare at the intricate diagram of a mixing console until your eyes bleed. To look anywhere but at him. But you are paralyzed. You can’t tear your gaze away from the way his eyes lock onto yours, pinning you in place.
He pulls out the wooden chair directly to your right. It scraps loudly against the floor, and he winces apologetically, murmuring a quick "sorry" to the glaring student before sinking into the seat next to you.
He’s close. Too close. You can feel the subtle, radiating heat of his body cutting through the drafty chill of the library.
He turns his head to look at you, his expression softening into a gentle, slightly tentative smile. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the heavy, unspoken tension lingering between you since… God knows how long.
"Hey," he whispers. His voice is low, a smooth rasp that sends a traitorous shiver down your spine.
You swallow hard, forcing your throat to work, fighting desperately to keep your tone completely neutral. "Hi."
It comes out in the exact same quiet register, cautious and guarded.
Steve doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts in his seat, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. He points with his chin toward the massive, intimidating textbook open in front of you.
"Looks intense," he notes quietly. "Too difficult?"
You let out a shaky sigh, the exhaustion of the day momentarily overriding the complicated knot of feelings in your chest. You slowly shake your head, staring down at the pages.
"It's killing me," you admit, the frustration bleeding into your voice. "I feel like I'm trying to read ancient Greek. None of these signal flow paths make any logical sense."
"Let me see," Steve murmurs.
Before you can react, he shifts his weight, sliding his chair an inch closer to yours and leaning his upper body into your space. He angles his head to look down at your textbook, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. The contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, freezing you in place.
He’s staring at the complex diagrams of audio interfaces and transducer mechanisms with an expression of intense concentration, as if Steve Harrington — a guy who barely survived high school chemistry — could suddenly decipher senior-year sound engineering acoustics.
But you aren’t looking at the book anymore. You’re completely overwhelmed by his proximity. His cologne completely floods your senses. It’s the same scent that had been buried in the pillows you woke up alone in that morning.
Your breath hitches, and you find your eyes fixed on the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheekbones under the harsh overhead lights.
You are so entirely, hopelessly absorbed in his profile that you completely tune out the world around you. You don’t even register that someone has been calling your name until a hand suddenly waves wildly in front of your face, breaking your trance.
"Hello? Earth to whoever is there?"
You blink rapidly, startled, snapping your head up and pulling back from Steve slightly.
You look across the table. Robin is staring at you, her eyebrows raised so high they are practically disappearing into her messy bangs. She has a distinctly unimpressed, knowing look on her face.
"Mmh?" you manage to hum intelligently, your cheeks burning with a sudden, fiery flush. You pray the dim library lighting hides your blush. "What?"
Robin sighs, leaning her chin on her hand.
"I asked, are you going to the party this weekend?"
You blink, trying to force your brain to reboot and switch from “panicking over Steve's proximity” to “casual social conversation.”
"Oh. Mmh. I don't know..." you trail off, genuinely unsure. You haven’t even thought about the weekend. You are barely surviving Wednesday.
Next to Robin, Nancy rolls her eyes playfully, tapping her neat pile of flashcards on the table to align them perfectly.
"Oh, come on. You have to go. If you don't go, you're going to leave Jonathan and me alone with this crazy person," she says, gesturing to Robin with a fond smile. "You know how she gets at these things. She'll spend the whole night over-analyzing interactions and trying to psychoanalyze the frat boys."
"If I wasn't so deeply intimidated by your terrifying competence, Wheeler, I would kick you under this table right now," Robin shoots back without missing a beat.
You can’t help but laugh softly at their dynamic. The tension in your shoulders eases just a fraction.
"I really don't know, guys. It depends on how I feel that day. If this exam actually destroys my soul on Friday, I might just hibernate until Monday."
Robin isn’t having it. She immediately launches into a rapid-fire spiral of conversation, passionately detailing exactly why this party is going to be the event of the semester. She explains how several guys from the university's upper-level art and business departments have pooled their funds to rent out a massive warehouse to kick off the break. She talks about the bands they have booked, the supposed elaborate lighting setup, and how it’s mandatory for their mental health to attend and just let loose for one night.
You try to concentrate on what she’s saying. You really, genuinely try to nod along and offer the appropriate reactions. But it’s an impossible task.
Steve's body is still pressed agonizingly close to yours. While the girls talk, he hasn’t moved away. In fact, he seems to have settled into the position, his arm brushing yours every time he breathes.
He hasn’t stopped staring at your textbook, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The sheer, magnetic pull of his presence right beside you is so distracting, so entirely disconcerting, that Robin's words begin to sound like they’re coming from underwater.
Suddenly, Steve sits up a little straighter.
"I think I get it," he announces, his voice slicing through Robin’s monologue and immediately capturing your full attention.
You turn your head slowly, staring at him in disbelief. "Get what?"
He turns to look at you, and that signature, devastatingly confident smile spreads across his face. It’s the smile that usually means trouble.
"This," he says, tapping a long finger against a particularly complex schematic of a multi-band compressor. "I think I actually understand it."
You furrow your brow, a skeptical, incredulous laugh bubbling up in your throat. "Excuse me? You, out of nowhere, just casually understand a senior-year acoustic engineering module just by looking at the pictures?"
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and leans even closer to you, closing the meager distance you have tried to put between yourselves. The scent of him envelopes you again, making your pulse race.
"Maybe it's just not as difficult as you're making it out to be," he teases, his eyes dancing with mischief.
If it were literally any other person sitting in that chair — some arrogant frat boy or a condescending classmate who had the absolute audacity to question your intelligence and belittle your major — you would have been furious. You would have slammed the book shut, stood up, delivered a blistering lecture on misogyny and likely stormed out of the library, but not before giving them a piece of your mind.
But it’s Steve.
And as he looks at you, that soft, teasing smile playing on his lips, the affection in his eyes completely neutralizing the arrogance of his words, anger is the furthest thing from your mind. All you can focus on is the way the library lights caught the amber flecks in his eyes.
You cross your arms over your chest, leaning back slightly and raising an eyebrow, accepting the challenge. "Is that right? Alright, Harrington. Enlighten me, then. Explain the mechanism."
Steve doesn’t back down. To your absolute shock, he clears his throat, points at the page, and actually begins to explain the mechanism.
"Okay, so look. The audio signal comes in here, right?" he starts, tracing the input line with his finger. "And it hits this... this splitter thing. The crossover network. And that divides the frequencies into your lows, mids, and highs."
You blink, genuinely taken aback.
"Then, each of those separate bands goes into its own independent compression circuit," he continues, his tone turning surprisingly earnest. He stumbles slightly over the technical jargon, but he’s pushing through. "So, you can, like, squash the bass without affecting the vocals in the mid-range. And then this part here," he taps the output stage, "sums it all back together at the end."
He keeps going, elaborating on the attack and release times, using clumsy but surprisingly accurate metaphors about water flowing through pipes to explain the electrical current.
Of course, you don’t stop him. You don’t interrupt to tell him that you already know exactly how a multi-band compressor works. You don’t confess that you have spent four hours the previous nights memorizing every single component of this exact diagram until you could draw it in your sleep. You haven’t been trying to learn it today; you were just exhaustedly reviewing it.
But you can’t bring yourself to shut him down.
Listening to him explain it to you — hearing those heavy, technical terms slipping past his lips, watching the way his brow furrows in deep, genuine concentration as he searches for the right words to make it easier to understand — leaves you completely captivated. You are utterly entranced.
If any other guy tried to “mansplain” your own degree to you, you would have slapped him. But watching Steve try so hard, just to engage with you, just to share this moment, melts the icy walls you have spent the past days building.
Your eyes wander freely over his face, tracking the movement of his lips as he speaks, counting the freckles across his nose, noting the moles on his cheek. You watch the way his expressions shift, the earnest desire to help you radiating from him.
Suddenly, Steve stops talking. He turns his head to look at you, catching you staring intently at his lips.
"Right?" he asks, his voice suddenly much softer, lacking the bravado from a moment ago.
You blink, dragging your eyes up to meet his. You can’t stop the fond, genuine smile from breaking across your face. You nod slowly.
"Right," you whisper.
He watches your face carefully, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile widens, transforming into something entirely knowing and slightly wicked.
"You're laughing at me," he accuses gently, dropping his voice to a whisper so only you can hear.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head.
"No, I'm not. Not at all. Why would you think that?"
Steve tilts his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes the rest of the library completely fade away. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin — they’re all gone. It’s just the two of you, suspended in this tiny, electrified bubble.
"You already know all of this, don't you?" he asks quietly.
You bite your lower lip, fighting a grin, and slowly nod your head.
Steve lets out a dramatic, frustrated huff, though the smile never leaves his eyes. He leans back in his chair, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.
"Then why did you let me keep going?! I was sitting here sweating, trying to remember what a transducer is!"
"Because," you reply softly, leaning in just a fraction of an inch, "I wanted to see how far you would take it."
The air between you instantly changes. The playful banter vanishes, replaced by something incredibly heavy and thick with the unspoken tension.
"Did I take it too far?" he asks.
His voice is barely a rasp now, incredibly low and intimate. As he speaks, his eyes dart down to your lips for just a fraction of a second — a millisecond, barely perceptible, but you catch it. It sends a wild flutter of panic and desire straight to your stomach.
You hold his gaze, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You think about the way he held your hand that night. But you also think about the empty bed. The confusion. The sting of his absence.
"You always take everything too far," you whisper back.
Your voice is trembling slightly, fragile. You speak the words as if they’re made of glass, terrified that if you say them too loudly, they would shatter. Terrified that he won’t understand the double meaning, the underlying accusation, and the desperate plea hidden within them.
Steve doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He absorbs the weight of your words, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he clenches his teeth.
"Is that a bad thing?" he asks, matching your hushed, fragile tone.
The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. He’s asking about the textbook, yes, but he’s asking about so much more.
He’s asking about boundaries, about pushing lines, about the shared but unfinished moments that happened between you two in the shadows and what they mean in the harsh light of day.
You open your mouth to answer, to finally address the elephant in the room, to tell him that you don’t know if it is a bad thing, but that it terrifies you—
SLAM.
The violently loud sound of a thick book slamming shut echoes like a gunshot through the silent library.
You and Steve both jump, violently ripped from your private bubble. You spin your head around.
Robin has closed her book with unnecessary, aggressive force. She’s already pushing her chair back and standing up, her posture rigid.
"Well, I think that is more than enough studying for one day," Robin announces, her voice entirely too loud for the setting. Her tone is sharp, clear, and undeniably pointed. "My brain is fried. We should probably get out of here, shouldn't we?"
She looks directly at you, her eyes wide and commanding. It isn’t a suggestion. It is a rescue mission. Or an intervention. You can hear the underlying accusation in her voice. She has been watching. She has seen the whispering, the leaning in, the tension. And her interruption is entirely, unapologetically on purpose.
You clear your throat softly, suddenly painfully aware of how hot your face feels and how close Steve still is to you. The spell is broken.
"Yeah," you stammer, awkwardly pushing your chair back and breaking the physical proximity to Steve. "Yeah, sure. I'm... I'm done."
You stand up on shaky legs and immediately begin gathering your scattered papers, shoving the acoustic diagrams into your folders with far less care than they deserve. As you zip your pencil case and reach for your heavy textbook, you pause.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can’t help but notice the silent, intense exchange happening beside you.
Robin is staring down at Steve. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and her expression is fiercely protective, almost glaring at him. It’s a look of pure accusation. What are you doing? her eyes seem to scream. Don't mess with her.
Steve is looking back up at her. He doesn’t look angry, just caught. He offers a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head — a silent denial, a plea for her to back off, an insistence that he isn’t doing what she thinks he is doing.
You can’t decipher exactly what the silent argument is about, but you know it’s about you. The weight of the unspoken, of Robin's fierce loyalty to you and her complicated best-friendship with Steve, all hangs heavily in the air.
Feeling like an intruder in your own life, you quickly tear your eyes away from them. You grab your heavy textbook, shoving it roughly into your backpack. You pull the zipper shut with a sharp, final zip, slinging the bag over your shoulder, leaving the heavy tension completely unresolved as you prepare to walk out into the cool air. Spring has arrived already, but the cold afternoons still hang around.
After hours trapped in the stagnant, paper-scented purgatory of the study halls, the crisp breeze is an absolute salvation. You take a deep, shaky breath, letting the chill settle into your lungs, hoping it would somehow cool the frantic, nervous heat still radiating just beneath your skin.
The transition from the suffocating silence of the library to the ambient noise of the city streets is jarring. Cars rumble past, their headlights cutting through the fading twilight, and the distant hum of evening commuters create a steady backdrop of white noise.
The sky above is bruising into deep shades of purple and indigo, the streetlights flickering one by one in a cascade of hazy yellow glows.
The five of you huddle on the concrete steps for a brief, somewhat awkward moment as everyone adjusts their bags and jackets. The tension from the table has followed you outside, clinging to the group like a heavy, invisible fog.
Robin is standing rigidly closest to you, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her oversized corduroy jacket. She’s still shooting subtle, sharp glares at Steve out of the corner of her eye, practically vibrating with the urge to say something. But Nancy, blessedly oblivious to the radioactive energy crackling between the three of you — or perhaps highly aware of it and tactfully choosing to diffuse it — steps right into the middle of the dynamic.
"So," Nancy begins, adjusting the collar of her neat cardigan and turning her bright, focused gaze onto Robin. "About this party. Are they actually bringing in proper sound equipment, or is it going to be another disaster where they just hook up a blown-out speaker to a cassette deck? Because if it's the latter, I'm bringing my own earplugs."
Robin blinks, torn away from her staring contest with Steve. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, glancing back at you as if to check if it is safe to leave your side, before her natural enthusiasm for complaining about frat-boy incompetence takes over.
"Oh, it's supposedly a full setup," Robin scoffs, falling into step beside Nancy as they begin walking down the wide pavement. "But you know how these business majors are, Nance. They think throwing money at a problem fixes the fact that they don't know how to plug in an amp."
Jonathan chuckles softly, falling in quietly beside Nancy. He offers you a brief, polite smile over his shoulder before turning his attention to the girls’ conversation, occasionally chiming in with a dry, sarcastic comment that makes Robin snort with laughter.
And just like that, the natural rhythm of the sidewalk forces the group to split. Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan take the lead, their shoulders brushing as they navigate the evening foot traffic.
Which leaves you trailing a few paces behind.
With Steve.
You keep your eyes fixed firmly on the worn heels of Robin’s boots, walking at a brisk pace in a desperate attempt to close the gap between you and the trio ahead. But your apartment is still five blocks away, and Steve’s long legs easily match your frantic, nervous stride.
He walks on your right, positioned between you and the street. It’s a subtle, protective gesture that you have noticed he always does without thinking, and realizing he’s doing it now sends a fresh, sharp ache straight through your chest.
For the first block, neither of you say a word. The silence between you is agonizingly loud, thick with the weight of the library, the unresolved questions, and the terrifying words you have exchanged just minutes prior.
“You always take everything too far.”
“ Is that a bad thing?”
The words echo in your mind with every step you take. You hug your arms across your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed despite your heavy sweater.
“How is your project going?” Steve’s voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, deep and resonant in the chilly night air. He breaks the silence like the hull of a massive ship breaking through a frozen sea, sudden but oddly comforting.
You instinctively wrap your arms tighter around your torso, burying your chin into the thick wool of your scarf. It’s a defensive gesture, a way of protecting yourself — though from the freezing wind or from the sudden warmth of his attention, you aren’t entirely sure.
“Good. It’s going really great, actually,” you reply, your voice muffled at first before you lower the scarf. “This week I already managed to interview two people. My professor told me that with two more solid interviews, I’d be completely set. So, the radio show is going to end up being a three-episode mini-series, which is honestly pretty good for a final project.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. A spark of genuine surprise flares in your chest. You hadn't expected him to remember your radio project. But lately, you are beginning to realize a quiet truth about Steve Harrington: he pays far more attention to the small details than you ever gave him credit for.
“That sounds awesome,” Steve says, slowing his pace just a fraction so he walks shoulder-to-shoulder with you. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, turning his head to look at you. The amber glow of a passing streetlight catches the rich, brown tones of his eyes. “What kind of interesting story did you get told this time?”
A soft, irrepressible smile touches your lips as you think back to the afternoon you spent in the dusty, vinyl-scented backroom of the record store. You remember the makeshift interview you conducted with Roy. He told you all about what it was like growing up in New York. How he scraped together every penny he had to found the record store, the crazy gigs he worked, and how he literally had to carve out a place for himself in the music industry just to get the right contacts.
It’s a story built on so much blood, sweat, and tears. There were some really dark moments he shared, times when he almost lost everything. It walks this perfect line between being deeply interesting and incredibly inspiring
“It was incredible, honestly,” you say, your voice brightening with sudden passion. “But I can’t share it with you yet”
Steve watches your face intently as you speak, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on his own lips.
“What? Not even the highlights?"
“Nope, sorry,” you tease, a playful lilt entering your tone. You look up and meet his gaze, feeling a sudden rush of boldness. “You’ll just have to wait until the episodes are edited and done, just like everyone else.”
He laughs softly, a warm, rich sound that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. He looks down at his boots, shaking his head slightly before his eyes find yours again, crinkling at the corners.
“Alright, alright. I’ll be waiting patiently, then,” he concedes, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost like a promise.
You both continue walking in silence, but the atmosphere has shifted entirely. The heavy, suffocating tension has melted away, leaving behind a comfortable, shared quiet. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a warm blanket, safe and familiar.
After crossing another block, Steve’s pace slows even further. He clears his throat, a sudden nervous energy radiating from him.
“You know… I’ve been meaning to tell you something—”
His words hang in the air, fragile and full of weight, but before he can finish the sentence, a voice calls out from across the street.
“Hey! We’re heading out!”
You both flinch slightly, the spell broken instantly. Nancy and Jonathan are standing by the corner, shivering under the awning of a closed bakery.
“Jonathan has a shift in the darkroom, so we have to go,” Nancy explains, pulling her coat tighter around her slender frame. She offers a polite, albeit strained, smile.
“Yeah, nice seeing you guys,” Jonathan mumbles, offering a brief wave, his hands immediately returning to his pockets to fight off the chill.
“Get home safe!” Steve calls out, stepping back into his usual, easy-going persona so quickly it almost gives you whiplash.
You offer a quiet wave as Nancy and Jonathan turn the corner, their figures disappearing into the dark of the night. Their departure leaves you alone with Steve — and, of course, Robin.
Robin drops back to join the two of you. She doesn't waste a single second reading the room. Instead, she immediately launches into a rapid-fire monologue about her upcoming exams.
“I swear to God, Steve, if Professor Walton asks me to analyze one more piece of post-modern French drivel, I am going to throw myself off the campus library roof,” Robin groans, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “It’s impossible. It’s literally designed to make us fail. I was staring at my notes for three hours today and the words literally started rearranging themselves into a mocking, demonic language.”
You watch as Steve seamlessly redirects his attention to her. He listens patiently, nodding at all the right moments, interjecting with a sympathetic hum or a quiet laugh.
A wave of complicated emotions washes over you. On one hand, a profound sense of tenderness swells in your chest as you witness the care he gives her. The platonic affection they share is beautiful, a deep-rooted bond that they try to mask with sarcasm and bickering.
You know Robin well enough by now to understand her. You know she cares deeply for both of you. You know exactly why she sometimes gets abrasive or blunt with the things she says, or how she says them — it’s her defense mechanism, her way of fiercely protecting the few people she has allowed into her inner circle. She is incredibly careful with you and Steve, even if her delivery is a bit rough around the edges.
But despite knowing all of this, despite loving Robin in your own way, you can’t completely suppress the tiny flare of annoyance that sparks in your chest.
Every time Steve gets close, every time the conversation between you two brushes against something real and raw, an interruption occurs. Usually, it’s Robin. But what can you realistically do about it? You can’t fault her for caring about you, and you certainly can’t fault Steve for caring about his best friend.
As they continue to bicker about French literature, your steps naturally fall a little slower, letting you trail slightly behind them. You use the distance to simply admire them under the glow of the streetlamps.
Robin says something wildly exaggerated, throwing her hands in the air, and Steve bursts into genuine laughter. He reaches out, wrapping a heavy, affectionate arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walk. Robin swats at him, but she leans into the embrace anyway.
The sight of it makes you smile.
It’s a pure, unadulterated display of love. But as Steve’s eyes briefly flick back over his shoulder to check on you, catching your gaze, you feel a sudden, intense rush of heat flood your cheeks.
You quickly bury your face back into the thick wool of your scarf, pretending that the sudden wind has made you colder than you actually are, hoping the darkness hides your blush.
When the three of you finally reach the old brick apartment building, the blast of the lobby’s forced-air heating hits you like a physical wall.
Steve walks in first, shaking the evening chill from his shoulders. He throws a casual wave toward the front desk.
“Evening, Arthur.”
Arthur gives Steve a curt nod — of course. However, as you and Robin step through the doors behind him, Arthur’s eyes instantly narrow, and he actively looks away, blatantly ignoring the two of you.
Robin rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath about Arthur’s lack of manners, while you just sigh, used to the routine.
You walk past the front desk and head down the poorly lit hallway toward the elevator. Miraculously, the heavy doors are opened, and the light is illuminated. For the first time in what feels like weeks, the piece of shit is actually working.
Steve hits the call button, and the doors slide open with a terrifying, metallic screech. The three of you step inside the small, wood-paneled box. It’s meant to fit four people, but with heavy winter coats, it feels suffocatingly intimate.
Steve reaches up and pulls his beanie off his head, shaking out his thick hair. The movement releases the faint familiar and specific brand of cologne into the enclosed space, making your heart skip a beat.
Trying to distract yourself, you begin to unwind the heavy scarf from your neck, sighing in relief as the stifling heat of the elevator begins to get to you. You reach up, attempting to smooth down the static mess your hair has become from the wind and the scarf.
Before you can fix it, Steve reaches over. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he intentionally ruffles his hand through your hair, messing it up far worse than it was before.
“Hey!” you gasp, laughing as you playfully smack his arm.
He chuckles, a low, breathy sound, and doesn't pull his hand away immediately. For a fraction of a second, his knuckles graze the side of your cold cheek. The air in the elevator suddenly feels ten degrees hotter.
You both turn your heads at the exact same time, only to find Robin staring at the two of you. Her eyebrows are raised high, her expression a mix of knowing amusement and exhausted exasperation. She doesn't say a word, but her face screams, “Really?”
Caught in the spotlight of Robin’s piercing gaze, Steve quickly clears his throat. To deflect, he reaches out and aggressively ruffles Robin’s hair too, trying to mask the thick tension with chaotic sibling energy.
“Don't touch the hair, Harrington!” Robin yelps, slapping his hand away and desperately trying to smooth down her messy bob.
The elevator shudders to a violent halt, the bell dinging as the doors slide open to your floor.
Robin doesn't waste a second. She storms out of the elevator, but not before turning around and delivering a swift, precise flick to the center of Steve’s forehead.
“Ow!” Steve complains, rubbing his brow.
“That’s for the hair,” Robin calls out over her shoulder, already marching down the hallway toward the apartment. “See you tomorrow, weirdo.”
And just like that, she’s gone, leaving you and Steve alone in the elevator once more. You step out into the hallway, your boots quiet against the old floor. Steve holds the door open with his hand, standing right on the threshold between the elevator and the hall.
You hesitate. You stand a few feet away, fiddling with the fringe of your scarf, your eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw. The silence returns, but the comfortable warmth from the street is gone, replaced by a nervous, fluttering anticipation.
“Do you… want to come in?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “We have some leftovers from lunch. We could heat it up.”
Steve’s lips curve into a soft, tired smile. He leans against the doorframe, looking at you with an expression that is painfully gentle.
“Tempting,” he murmurs.
He steps just a fraction closer. He reaches out, and this time there is no teasing, no playful ruffling. His fingers are careful, incredibly gentle, as he tucks a stray strand of your hair securely behind your ear. His fingertips linger against your skin for a heartbeat too long, tracing the curve of your earlobe before pulling back.
“But I can’t,” he says, his voice dropping, carrying a heavy note of regret. “I have things to do.”
You swallow hard, nodding your head slowly. Things to do.
It’s always the same vague excuse, the same sudden departures into the night. Weeks ago, hearing those words would tie your stomach into painful knots of anxiety and suspicion.
But now? Now the knots are gone. The doubt still quietly gnaws at the back of your mind, a persistent ache, but… you are slowly beginning to accept that this is simply who Steve Harrington is. You are beginning to accept his secrets. You are learning to live with the shadows that constantly seem to pull at his heels, the mysterious bruises, the exhaustion he can’t explain.
You realize, as you look up into his sad, beautiful eyes, that if this complex, guarded version of him is the one who is willing to look at you the way he does, if he’s willing to risk his own guarded heart for you in whatever broken way he can… you are willing to accept the shadows. You are willing to take all of him, secrets included.
But you don’t know if he’s willing to let you in.
“Bye, then,” you say softly, forcing a small smile to reassure him.
His shoulders relax slightly, relieved that you aren’t pushing for answers he can’t give. He smiles back, a genuine, blinding thing that makes your breath catch.
“Bye.”
He steps back into the elevator, letting his hand drop from the door. The heavy panels begin to slowly slide shut.
Panic suddenly seizes you. The realization that he is leaving, that the moment is slipping through your fingers, overrides your common sense.
You spin around.
“Steve, wait!”
He immediately throws his arm out, catching the heavy door before it can close, forcing it back open. He looks at you, surprised, his chest heaving slightly.
“Yeah?”
You take a tentative step forward, closing the distance between you until you are standing just inches from the elevator threshold. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“You… you were going to tell me something,” you stammer, the confidence fleeing you the moment the words leave your mouth. “Earlier. While we were walking back, right before Robin and the others interrupted us. You said you’d been meaning to tell me something...”
Steve blinks, staring at you for a long moment. Then, realization dawns on his face. He lets out a short, breathy exhale, running a hand nervously through his hair.
“Oh. Right,” he says, his voice suddenly thick. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a rare display of true awkwardness from him. “I was going to say… my shirt—”
Your heart drops into your stomach, plummeting so fast it makes you dizzy.
The shirt.
That next morning, you had worn the shirt he gave to sleep under your sweater, taking it home with you without a second thought. You had sworn to yourself that you would wash it and return it immediately. But the truth was, you hadn't. The shirt was still sitting, perfectly folded, hidden away in the very back of your bottom dresser drawer. It still smelled faintly of him. You hadn't even worked up the courage to pull it out and look at it, terrified that admitting how much comfort it brought you would make the reality of your feelings undeniable.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you rush out, the words tumbling over each other in your panic. Your face is burning hot now, an absolute inferno of embarrassment. “I swear I was going to give it back! I literally meant to bring it today, but between the radio project and studying for midterms, it completely slipped my mind, and—”
“Keep it.”
His voice cuts through your frantic rambling. It isn't loud, but it is steady and incredibly firm.
You freeze, the words dying in your throat. The silence stretches out between you, heavy and thick. You stare at him, your brain short-circuiting as it tries to process what he just said.
“What?” you whisper, entirely sure you must have misheard him.
Steve smiles. It’s not his usual cocky grin, and it’s not the tired, gentle smile from earlier. It’s a slow, devastatingly fond smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners. He steps right up to the edge of the elevator, bridging the gap so completely you can feel the heat radiating off his chest.
“I said, keep it,” he repeats softly, his voice a low, raspy murmur. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again, intensely locked onto yours. “You looked really cute in it.”
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. You can’t stop the furious blush from spreading across your cheeks, down your neck, burning hot under your collar.
You quickly drop your gaze to the tips of your boots, desperately trying to hide the sheer, overwhelming joy and embarrassment washing over you. But it’s a useless effort. A massive, foolish smile breaks across your face, ruining any chance of playing it cool.
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to compose yourself as you slowly lift your head to look at him. He’s still watching you, his expression open and incredibly soft, waiting for your reaction.
You take a deep breath, the scent of him and the old hallway air filling your lungs.
“Goodnight, Steve,” you whisper, the words practically glowing with unspoken affection.
Steve’s eyes soften even further. He doesn’t look away.
“Goodnight…” he murmurs, his voice wrapping around your name like a physical caress, gentle and deeply intimate.
You take a single, slow step back into the hallway, yielding the space. Steve lets his hand drop from the door frame. Slowly, with an agonizing finality, the heavy doors of the elevator begin to slide closed. You stand rooted to the spot, watching his face until the very last second, until the doors finally meet with a loud, echoing clack, leaving you alone in the quiet hallway with a racing heart and a secret tucked safely in your bottom drawer.
—
When the clock on the wall finally clicks to the top of the hour and the professor’s gruff voice announces that it’s time to hand in the final exam, a profound, almost intoxicating wave of relief washes over you. It is the kind of relief that sinks deep into your bones, loosening muscles you didn’t even realize you were clenching.
At this exact moment, you genuinely couldn’t care less if your exam went perfectly or if it was an absolute disaster. If you confused the impedance of Cable A with the frequency output of Cable B? So be it.
To hell with sound engineering.
To hell with acoustic physics, mixing consoles, and late-night study sessions fueled by terrible, lukewarm coffee.
Even if it is just for one short, fleeting week of spring break, you can finally just lie on your bed, stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling, and do absolutely nothing.
Well, perhaps nothing is an exaggeration.
Ever since you and Robin first bumped into each other — literally colliding in the campus dining hall and sending a tray of questionable macaroni flying — she has been relentless.
For years, she has been begging, pleading, and using every weapon in her chaotic arsenal of persuasion to get you to visit Hawkins with her. And because it’s your last spring break together before graduation scatters everyone to the winds, you finally caved. You promised her you would go.
Now, sitting in the hard wooden chair of the lecture hall, you are feeling a healthy mix of deep regret and undeniable, gnawing curiosity.
Hawkins. The way Robin talks about it, it sounds less like a town and more like a myth.
You’ve heard endless stories about its dense, sprawling woods, the eerily quiet lake, the small-town diner, and the video store where she and Steve used to work. You want to see the exact places where this bizarre, fiercely loyal makeshift family first collided. You want to meet "the kids" they are always endlessly complaining about yet fiercely protecting.
But mostly, if you are being entirely honest with yourself in the quiet confines of your own mind, you want to see where Steve grew up.
A sudden, sharp jolt of electricity courses through your veins just at the thought of his name.
It always happens.
The prospect of finally putting real, physical images to all the stories they’ve told you is thrilling. But the idea of seeing Steve in his natural habitat? Of peeling back another layer of the former high school "King" that you haven't yet been privy to? It is both incredibly exciting and terrifying at the same time.
You know the city version of Steve — the one who is surprisingly tender, fiercely protective, and hides a startling amount of emotional depth and secrets behind his perfectly styled hair and a cocky smirk.
But the Hawkins version of him? That is uncharted territory.
Shaking the thoughts from your head, you gather your things. You sling the strap of your backpack over your shoulder, the weight of your textbooks serving as a final reminder of the half semester you are leaving behind.
Pushing open the heavy double doors of the engineering building, you step out onto the campus grounds. The crisp spring air hits your face, a welcome contrast to the stuffy lecture hall.
You start the familiar, tedious trek toward the bus stop, keeping your eyes on the cracked pavement.
"HEY! OVER HERE! HEY!"
You flinch, your train of thought completely derailed. You frown, blinking against the afternoon sun. Even through the ambient noise of hundreds of students leaving class, you can instantly decipher that loud, chaotic, and entirely un-self-conscious voice.
It’s undeniably Robin. But what on earth is she doing on this side of campus at this hour?
You scan the busy street, your eyes finally catching a flurry of frantic movement. There she is, standing on the opposite sidewalk, aggressively waving both of her arms in the air like she's trying to flag down a rescue helicopter.
As your eyes adjust and focus past Robin's flailing limbs, your breath catches slightly in your throat. She isn't standing at the bus stop. She’s standing next to a vintage burgundy BMW. And leaning casually against the hood of that car, looking like he just stepped out of an achingly cool 1980s catalog, is Steve.
He’s wearing his favorite worn-in Levi’s, a blue t-shirt that fits him entirely too well, and his signature sunglasses. One arm is crossed over his body, while his other hand holds a cigarette, and even from across the street, you can see the cocky, fond smile playing on his lips as he watches Robin make a fool of herself to get your attention.
Confusion battling with sudden, sharp intrigue, you check for traffic and walk across the street.
"Uhm... hi?" you say as you approach, fixing your backpack. You point your chin toward the gleaming vehicle. "And what exactly is this?"
Steve’s smile widens into something incredibly genuine and overwhelmingly boyish. He turns slightly, giving the rich burgundy hood of the car two affectionate, rhythmic pats.
"Do you like it?" he asks, his voice carrying that familiar, warm rasp that always seems to settle directly in your stomach. "I brought my baby up the time I went back to Hawkins. I haven't wanted to use her until now, because honestly? I don't trust the absolute maniac taxi drivers in this city not to sideswipe her. But…" he pauses, pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to look you directly in the eyes, "considering we are heading out to the outskirts of the city tonight to celebrate a little bit, I figured it was finally time to take her out for a proper spin."
You try — and completely fail — to hide the complicated expression on your face. It’s a ridiculous mixture of mild disgust at how dramatically he talks about a piece of machinery, and undeniable admiration for how ridiculously good he looks leaning against it.
"Right. Of course," you say, a dry, sarcastic edge to your voice that you know he loves. "Your baby."
Steve chuckles, a low, rumbling sound.
"Come on, get in. Your chariot awaits."
Robin, vibrating with her usual excess of caffeine and nervous energy, immediately sprints around to the passenger side. "Shotgun!" she yells, throwing the door open.
You roll your eyes affectionately, opening the heavy, solid back door, you toss your bag onto the leather seats and slide in after it.
The drive from the campus back to the apartment building isn't incredibly long — certainly much shorter and infinitely more pleasant than the cramped, sweaty city bus.
The interior of Steve's car smells like old leather, a hint of expensive cologne, and something distinctly him. You have to admit, begrudgingly, that it’s a beautiful car. The engine purrs smoothly, gliding over the city streets with an effortless grace.
And then there is the driver.
Good Lord. Seeing Steve drive shouldn't be a spiritual experience, but somehow, it is. You hadn't realized that watching him casually steer with one hand resting lightly on the bottom of the wheel, the other arm propped casually on the window sill, was something you needed to witness in your lifetime. The muscles in his forearm shift under his skin every time he takes a turn.
You try to look out the window.
You try to focus on the blur of passing coffee shops and brick buildings. But time and time again, as if pulled by some inescapable magnetic force, your eyes drift back to his reflection in the rearview mirror.
You watch the way his brow furrows slightly in deep concentration as he navigates a tricky intersection.
You watch the way the corner of his eyes crinkle when Robin launches into a rapid-fire, breathless rant about a pretentious guy in her class.
For a few blissful minutes, you think you are getting away with your secret staring. Until suddenly, the car idles at a red light. Steve shifts his gaze up to the rearview mirror, and his dark eyes lock perfectly, undeniably, with yours.
The air in the car seems to instantly evaporate. Steve’s lips part slightly, the teasing smirk completely melting away into something much softer, much more intense. He holds your gaze, unapologetically, for three agonizingly long seconds. Your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Panic setting in, you violently snap your head to the side, staring intently out the passenger window at a perfectly unremarkable fire hydrant, pretending that you had been looking at it the whole time.
You can hear Steve let out a soft, knowing exhale from the front seat, but he mercifully says nothing.
A few hours later, the apartment is a scene of absolute, concentrated chaos. The air is thick with the suffocating scent of aerosol hairspray, floral perfumes, and the faint smell of a curling iron that has been left on just a minute too long.
You and Robin are darting back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom, tossing clothes over chairs and stepping over discarded shoes. Vickie and Nancy are here too. Even though they came over already "ready" for the party, they have somehow been sucked into the vortex of anxiety, entirely second-guessing their carefully curated outfits and hastily attempting new, elaborate hairstyles in the cramped bathroom mirror.
"Do these earrings say “I’m fun and approachable” or “I will aggressively critique your music taste”?" Robin yells, holding up two massive geometric shapes against her ears.
"The second one, definitely," Vickie laughs, standing behind her and gently adjusting the collar of Robin’s jacket. "But I think that’s why I like them."
Meanwhile, amidst the hurricane of female preparation, Steve and Jonathan are the eye of the storm. They are both slouched low on the worn-out living room sofa. Their arms are crossed defensively over their chests, staring blankly at the dark screen of the television, clearly having dissociated from reality at least forty-five minutes ago in complete silence.
Finally, miraculously, consensus is reached. Clothes are chosen. Eyeliner is applied perfectly.
"Alright," Nancy announces, clapping her hands together with her usual authoritative efficiency. "We’re ready. Let's move out before someone changes their mind about their shoes again."
Everyone practically herds toward the front door, grabbing keys and jackets. As you step out into the hallway of the apartment building, the group naturally stretches out into a line heading toward the stairwell.
Without anyone saying a word, as if bound by some unspoken, gravitational pact, you and Steve simultaneously slow your pace. Within seconds, you naturally fall into a rhythm, walking side-by-side, lingering just a few feet behind the chaotic, chattering mass of the rest of the group.
The hallway is quiet, the only sound the muffled thud of footsteps on the old floor. Steve walks with a lazy, athletic grace. He turns his head to look at you, really look at you, taking in the outfit you spent entirely too long agonizing over.
His eyes slowly drag from the hem of your clothes up to your face. He looks away for a split second to ensure the rest of the group is out of earshot, and then leans his tall frame slightly toward you, invading your personal space just enough to make your pulse spike.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant strictly for your ears.
The heat is instantaneous. A furious blush violently invades your cheeks, burning hot against your skin. You swallow hard, forcing your legs to keep moving, willing yourself not to stumble over your own feet or fall completely behind.
You glance up at him through your eyelashes, deciding to fight fire with fire.
"You don't look too bad yourself, Harrington."
Steve smiles. It isn't his usual, practiced charm. It’s the genuine, slightly shy smile that he usually reserves for moments when he’s completely caught off guard. He bites down hard on his lower lip, turning his head to look straight down the hallway again, clearly trying to suppress his grin.
But you can't let him win that easily. You decide to pluck the string.
"So," you start, your voice feigning casual indifference. "Are you meeting up with Gabriela there tonight?"
You know exactly what you are doing. You know that simply putting that girl's name on your lips is going to drive him absolutely insane.
Steve’s step falters for a fraction of a second. He turns to look at you, his jaw clenching slightly. He shakes his head, his eyes darkening with a sudden, fierce intensity.
"No," he says, his voice completely stripped of its previous playfulness. "No Gabriela tonight." He holds your gaze, making sure you understand the subtext,
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a victorious smile. You don't want to be too mean, but the rush of adrenaline is intoxicating. You simply give a small, nonchalant nod.
"Good to know."
When the group finally spills out of the stairwell and into the cool night air of the parking lot, the brief bubble of intimacy shatters. Chaos reigns once more as the battle for car seats commences.
"I'm riding with Vickie!" Robin shouts, immediately grabbing her girlfriend's hand. She practically drags Vickie toward the car, aggressively claiming the back seat by throwing herself into it.
"There is absolutely no chance in hell I’m riding in the trunk again," Jonathan deadpans, moving with surprising speed. "You guys pull this on me every single time, and my knees can't take it." Without waiting for an argument, he wedges his way into the back, unceremoniously pushing Robin and Vickie flush against the far door so that Nancy has enough room to slide in beside him.
You stand on the pavement, watching the ridiculous clown-car routine with a mix of amusement and exasperation. You feel a presence beside you.
You turn your head to see Steve standing by the passenger door. He has it pulled wide open. He offers you a slow, devastatingly charming smile, gesturing with his free hand toward the empty leather seat.
"I guess you'll be my co-pilot this time," he says softly.
You press your lips together tightly, trying desperately to hide the massive smile threatening to break across your face. You nod, stepping past him. As you slide into the low seat, his chest brushes briefly against your shoulder. The scent of him is dizzying.
"Thank you, Harrington," you whisper.
He shuts the heavy door behind you with a solid thud, and within seconds, he’s sliding into the driver's seat next to you.
The drive to the party is pure, unadulterated chaos. Steve cranks the radio up loud, the heavy, synth-driven baseline of “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears for Fears vibrates through the floorboards.
Nobody in the car stops talking for a single second. Robin is shouting an unfinished story from the back, Jonathan is arguing with her about a movie director, Nancy is trying to organize the timeline of the night, and Vickie is laughing at all of them. They are constantly talking over each other, voices rising and falling in a cacophony of overlapping jokes and sudden bursts of loud, uninhibited laughter.
But sitting there in the passenger seat, surrounded by the deafening noise, you feel a profound, settling wave of tranquility.
You rest your hands on your lap, feeling Steve’s eyes on you from time to time. In the midst of all this noise, you are exactly where you are supposed to be. You are with your people. You are safe, you are grounded, and the crushing weight of the semester feels a million miles away.
When Steve finally navigates the BMW down a dark, winding road on the edge of the city, the destination comes into view. You sit up straighter, peering through the windshield.
It looks like an entirely abandoned industrial building. The brickwork is crumbling, the massive windows are either boarded up or shattered, and there is a rusty chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter. However, it’s immediately clear that the post-apocalyptic exterior is merely a facade for tonight. The place is glowing with lights spilling from the cracks in the doors, and the deep, rhythmic thumping of heavy bass is literally shaking the gravel beneath the tires. It’s thoroughly equipped to host a massive, unsanctioned college rager.
As Steve parks the car in a muddy makeshift lot, you look at the massive crowds of people filtering through the heavy doors. At least from the outside, it seems Robin wasn't exaggerating. The senior class had clearly pooled a ridiculous amount of money and pulled every string they had to secure a professional sound system and a live band.
You all pile out of the car, the chill of the night air immediately replaced by the radiating heat of hundreds of bodies. The group begins to slowly carve a path toward the entrance, pushing through a sea of people. It’s a wild, eclectic mix — frat guys in polos, art students in ripped denim, townies who clearly don't go to the university, all blending together under the flashing lights.
The sheer volume of people is overwhelming. You are suddenly pushed hard by a guy stumbling backward with a plastic cup in his hand. You lose your balance slightly on the uneven gravel.
Before you can even attempt to catch yourself, you feel it.
A large, incredibly warm hand settles firmly, immovably, onto the small of your back. The touch burns right through the fabric of your shirt. The long, strong fingers grip your waist just tight enough to steady you, pulling you slightly backward against a solid chest. You don't even have to turn around. You don't have to guess. You would know the weight and the warmth of that hand anywhere.
Steve guides you forward, acting as a physical shield between you and the crushing tide of drunk college students. The tension that has been simmering between you in the car suddenly boils over, the physical contact sending sparks shooting up your spine.
"I’m going to look around the warzone and get us some drinks!" Jonathan screams at the top of his lungs, barely audible over the roaring bass of the band that is currently shredding on the makeshift stage inside. Without waiting for a response, Jonathan grips Nancy’s hand like a lifeline and physically drags her into the crowd.
You feel Steve lean down, the side of his face pressing so close to yours that his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck.
"I'll be right back," he talks directly into your ear. His voice is a low, raspy rumble that sends a shiver down your entire body. "Don't move."
You turn to nod, but before you can even formulate a response, the crowd surges. The pressure of his hand vanishes from your lower back, leaving a cold, empty space in its wake. You watch his broad shoulders disappear into the suffocating mass of jumping, sweating bodies.
You stand on your tiptoes, trying to keep track of him, but it's useless. You let out a breath, turning back to where Robin and Vickie were just standing.
"Hey! Robin!"
A tall guy with a shaggy mop of hair suddenly materializes from the crowd, throwing a heavy, friendly arm around Robin’s shoulders, pulling her into a brief, aggressive hug. You recognize him instantly. It’s a guy from one of your seminars. He’s usually the one hauling amps and managing the mixing boards at these parties.
"I haven't seen you in forever!" He yells, grinning widely. "Hey, I heard through the grapevine that you guys are heading back to Hawkins this week. That's awesome." He pauses, taking a swig from his red cup. "Hey, do me a favor? Tell that absolute bastard Eddie to make a trip out here to the city someday, huh? Tell him we actually miss his crazy ass."
Because the music is vibrating so violently through the floorboards, you can't hear a single word of Robin’s response. Just then, two girls giggling hysterically shove past you, forcing you to step sideways and turn your back to the conversation. Slightly irritated, you adjust your jacket and turn back around.
In the five seconds you were distracted, the music guy has completely vanished into the ether.
You step closer to Robin, having to practically shout over the wailing guitar solo tearing through the speakers.
"Who is Eddie?" you ask, your curiosity genuinely piqued. You know almost all the names in their Hawkins lore, but that one is entirely new.
Robin freezes. It’s subtle, but you catch it. Her eyes widen fractionally, a flash of something unreadable — surprise? panic? grief? — flickering across her features. But almost instantly, the mask slams down. She aggressively furrows her brow, leaning in close and cupping her hand over her ear, playing the oldest trick in the book.
"WHAT?!" she screams, looking at you with exaggerated confusion.
"I SAID, WHO IS EDDIE?!" you yell louder, annoyed by her sudden theatricality.
You can literally see Robin’s mouth open. You can see her brain scrambling, trying to formulate a lie or an explanation. But before a single syllable leaves her lips, a hand reaches out from the crowd, grabbing her wrist. One of her many chaotic college friends pulls her backward, and with a helpless shrug that looks entirely too practiced, she lets herself be dragged away onto the makeshift dance floor.
You let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. You cross your arms securely over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the cold air drifting in from the broken windows.
You look around. The flashing lights illuminate hundreds of faces, none of them familiar. Steve is gone. Jonathan and Nancy are swallowed by the crowd. Robin has fled the scene of an uncomfortable question.
You are entirely alone in the very center of a deafening, throbbing party, armed with a brand new, glaringly obvious secret about the town you are about to visit. Another one to the list.
You look toward the dark corners of the warehouse, waiting for one of your friends to reemerge.
It’s going to be a very, very long night.
—
After half an hour of standing practically rooted to the exact same sticky spot on the floor, waiting for your friends to finally show up, you are on the verge of completely losing your mind.
They have vanished entirely into the ether of the college party, swallowed whole by the pulsating sea of bodies. With every passing minute, it feels like the walls are inching closer together. More and more people keep pouring through the front door of the warehouse, laughing loudly, spilling cheap beer, and crowding the already suffocating space.
Even though the place is massive you can’t help but calculate the structural integrity of the floorboards. How much weight can this place actually take? You look up at the ceiling, already telling that the top floor is full of people as well.
The bass from the oversized speakers vibrates up through your sneakers, rattling right into your ribcage. The thought of a crowd crush, of a sudden panic where people trample each other to reach the single visible exit, begins to spiral in your mind, painting a terrifying picture of catastrophe.
No, stop it. Enough. You mentally scold yourself, taking a sharp breath of the stifling air. Don't be ridiculous. You're just spiraling.
Desperate for a distraction and a change of scenery, you slowly begin to murmur apologies, gently but firmly pushing your way through the dense throng of sweaty college students.
You navigate the maze of dancing bodies and drunken conversations until you finally reach the drinks island, or at least, the sticky wooden surface that is currently serving as a makeshift bar. Behind it stands a guy wearing a backward baseball cap and a stained fraternity shirt, haphazardly pouring liquids into red plastic cups. College parties are always exactly like this: everyone casually adopts whatever role seems fun in the moment, only to completely shed it and become someone else by the next weekend’s blowout.
You ask him for a drink, pointing vaguely at a bottle of clear liquor. He slides a generously filled cup across the counter. Offering him an appreciative, exhausted smile, you take a long, desperate sip of the cold beverage. The liquid burns slightly on its way down your throat, but almost immediately, you can feel the warmth of the alcohol begin to spread through your tense muscles. The loud thumping of your anxious heart slows down just a fraction. You lean against the edge of the counter, closing your eyes for a brief second to just exist in the noise without letting it overwhelm you.
“Of all the places in the world, I never thought I’d find you here.”
The sudden, familiar voice cuts through the booming bass and the chaotic chatter, startling you so badly that you physically jump. You spin around so quickly that a splash of your drink sloshes over the plastic rim, landing with a wet splat on your shoes and the grimy floor.
But the spilled drink instantly vanishes from your mind. When your eyes travel upward and connect with those striking, unmistakable green eyes, you swear you can feel your soul violently detach and leave your body. Your fingers go numb. The red plastic cup almost slips entirely from your weakened grasp, plummeting to the floor and spilling the rest of its contents over there.
“D-Dylan…”
Your voice breaks. It’s barely a whisper, a fragile sound entirely swallowed by the loud music, but he reads your lips. You can't help the stutter; your brain has completely short-circuited.
He smiles. It’s that same, perfectly crafted, devastating smile that used to completely disarm you. Deep dimples form on both sides of his cheeks, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. He tilts his head down slightly, and that familiar, messy lock of brown hair falls perfectly into his eyes. Just like he always used to do, he casually sweeps it back with his fingers, his gaze never once leaving yours.
“It’s like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he says, his voice a smooth, melodic hum that instantly transports you back to cramped dorm rooms and late-night acoustic guitar sessions.
Well, in a way, I have, you think to yourself, your mind racing, but you force the words down, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“Sorry, it’s just… I didn’t expect…” You stumble over your words, desperately trying to regain your composure. You wipe your damp palms on your jeans. “When did you get back to the city?”
You can feel the heat slowly creeping back into your cheeks, the color returning to your pale face, even though your heart is still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribcage. It’s not a panic attack anymore; it’s the sheer shock of confronting unresolved history.
He shakes his head lightly, the smile turning a bit more wistful.
“It’s just for a couple of days. My band and I are doing a mini-tour of the state.” He nods his head toward the far corner of the massive living room, right next to the makeshift stage where instruments are set up. You follow his gaze and spot several guys — his bandmates — laughing loudly, drinking, and flirting with a group of girls.
“I didn’t know you were back together with the band.” You say, genuinely surprised.
His smile widens into something incredibly proud, and his green eyes hyper-fixate on you, glowing with an eager, boyish excitement.
“We finally signed the contract.”
Your eyes widen in genuine shock. All the bitterness, all the complicated feelings temporarily take a back seat to the monumental news.
“Dylan! That’s incredible!”
He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, suddenly looking a bit shy despite his rockstar aura.
“Yeah, well, it’s with a small indie label for now, but it’s exactly what we needed. It gets our foot in the door. We’re playing a couple of venue shows in different cities, and since we were passing through town anyway, I figured I’d do a favor for the guys at the university. You know how it is.”
You nod slowly, lowering your head as a wave of heavy nostalgia washes over you. Dylan and his band had always been the staple entertainment at these university parties. That was exactly how you met him. He was the charming lead singer with the raspy voice; you were the girl who spilled beer on his setlist. That was the spark that ignited the intensely complicated, emotionally draining relationship that followed — a relationship defined by incredibly high highs and agonizingly lonely lows.
Suddenly, the space between you evaporates. His hand reaches out, his warm fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture sends a jolt through your system. His index finger lightly hooks under your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction. You feel a sudden, intense heat flush across your cheeks, and your eyes lock onto his once more.
In a fraction of a second, thousands of memories crash into you. Memories you had spent the last eight grueling months actively trying to bury, repress, and forget since the day he packed up his guitar and left town without saying goodbye. They hit you now like a train crashing everything in its path: the way he smelled like leather and cigarette smoke, the sound of his laughter against your neck, the crushing disappointment of waiting for him at dinners he never showed up to, the realization that he was always too cowardly to fully commit.
But as you stand there, physically close enough to feel his body heat, a strange revelation washes over you.
It doesn’t feel the same.
It feels intensely nostalgic, yes, but almost like watching a movie of someone else's life. It feels like an old, worn-out sweater that no longer fits. It just doesn't make sense anymore. Because while Dylan's fingers are on your skin, in the deepest, most guarded corners of your mind, another name is echoing.
Your skin silently protests, craving the heavier, more demanding touch of someone else. Your lips, pressed in a thin line, are quietly yearning for another pair of lips — a pair you know are infinitely more dangerous, and a pair you know you absolutely cannot have.
“It’s really good to see you again,” Dylan says softly, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with an unspoken question, a lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, you might still be waiting for him.
But your eyes betray him. Instead of staying focused on his perfectly green eyes, your gaze instinctively drifts away, drawn by an invisible, magnetic pull toward the front door of the building.
And there he is.
Steve.
He’s standing by the open doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe, smoking. One hand is tucked deep into the pocket of his perfectly fitted denim jeans, while the other holds a cigarette with an effortless, almost arrogant professionalism.
You watch, utterly transfixed, as he takes a drag, the glowing amber tip illuminating the sharp contours of his face in the dim light. He nods at someone standing just out of your line of sight, exchanging a few brief words with a person you can't identify. He looks entirely aloof, dangerously handsome, and entirely untouchable.
“I gotta let you go, we’re up next.”
Dylan’s voice breaks your trance. He casually slips his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, forcing your attention back to him. You blink, suddenly feeling guilty for getting caught looking away.
“We’re only going to play a couple of songs tonight, so don’t miss them, okay?” Dylan adds, flashing you a hopeful, familiar wink that used to make your knees weak.
You offer him a polite, practiced nod and a smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your lips press together into a thin, tight line.
“I wouldn't miss it.”
As Dylan turns and weaves his way through the cheering crowd toward the stage, you take a deep, shaky breath. You tell yourself to stay put. You tell yourself to go to the bar, get another drink, and watch your ex-situationship perform the songs he probably wrote about you. You try to suppress the burning, clawing curiosity in your chest. You really, genuinely try.
Over the heads of the crowd, you manage to watch Dylan hop onto the stage. You see him grab the microphone stand, confidently introducing himself and the band to the roaring crowd. You hear the drummer tap the sticks — one, two, three, four — and the first familiar, melancholy chords of their opening song ring out through the massive speakers.
But before your rational mind can fully process what is happening, you are already moving. You leave the remnants of your spilled drink by the bar, and your feet begin taking autonomous, unconscious steps forward.
You are weaving through the crowd, your eyes locked on the front door, pushing past dancing couples and shouting frat boys, making a beeline for the exit.
When you finally push through the heavy wooden door, the biting chill of the night air smacks you right in the face. The sudden drop in temperature makes you curse under your breath but it doesn’t even slow you down. You wrap your bare arms around your chest, shivering violently in your thin top, and frantically scan your surroundings.
There are plenty of people out here on the massive front lawn, too. Groups are huddled around the entrance, sitting on the hoods of parked cars, smoking, chatting, and laughing loudly into the dark night.
But as your eyes dart from face to face, your stomach plummets. There is absolutely no trace of the person your eyes are so desperately searching for.
Steve is gone.
Behind you, muffled by the heavy walls of the house, the band’s song hits its first chorus. You can hear the crowd cheering, the collective joy vibrating through the air. You should be in there. You shouldn't be out here freezing, chasing a ghost of a man who barely acknowledges your existence outside of the strange, domestic moments you’ve shared in private.
But you swear you saw him turn to the right as he flicked his cigarette away.
Without giving yourself a second to think, to talk yourself out of this incredibly stupid idea, your feet start moving. You step off the entrance and begin to walk down the side of the building, your steps determined and fast.
Where are you going? your brain screams at you. What are you going to say if you find him?
You don't have an answer. You just know you need to see him.
You push past a group of guys shotgunning beers, navigating around tightly parked cars sitting on the overgrown grass. Slowly, you approach the dark corner of the massive warehouse. The front is bathed in the warm, yellow light of the streetlamps, but as you near the side alley, the light cuts off sharply, swallowed by thick, impenetrable shadows.
Your feet come to a sudden halt at the edge of the darkness.
No, you tell yourself, staring into the almost pitch-black pathway that leads behind the building. It’s way too dark down there. There’s absolutely no way he went this way. Why would he?
You try to rationalize. He probably walked back inside through the side door, and you just missed him in the chaos. Or maybe he walked down the street to his car, heading in the opposite direction, and you simply didn't notice.
Yes, that makes sense.
You should just turn around. You are entirely certain he went to the right, but you are also certain that if you had crossed paths out here, you would have seen him.
It is physically impossible to not notice Steve Harrington. His presence demands attention; it shifts the gravity in a room.
You let out a heavy, defeated sigh. You turn around, looking back toward the brightly lit front where a group of people are laughing at a joke you can't hear. You take a step back toward the light, toward safety, toward the loud, uncomplicated college party.
But there is something — a primal, inexplicable tug in your gut, an instinct you can’t quite name or understand — that screams at you to turn back around and keep walking into the dark.
From inside the house, the muffled music shifts. The tempo slows down.
Dylan had told you they were only playing a "couple" of songs, which means this melancholic ballad is probably their last one before they pack up and leave town, before you lose the chance to see him again for who knows how many more months or years.
You stand frozen in the freezing night air, listening to the muffled sound of Dylan's voice.
You realize, with a striking sense of clarity, that you genuinely don't care.
Perhaps two months ago, you would have traded your own life just for a chance to look back into those bright green eyes that used to keep you awake until 4:00 AM. You would have given anything for him to play you those songs, to whisper sweet, empty promises against your collarbone. But the harsh reality was that the bond was never official. He was always, inherently, too cowardly to call you his girlfriend. He loved the idea of you, but he loved his freedom more. You realize now that you shouldn't have spent so much of your life waiting for his leftover crumbs of affection.
Besides, it’s not his green eyes that keep you tossing and turning in your bed at night anymore. It’s not Dylan's acoustic songs that make your heart hammer against your ribs, and it’s certainly not his whispers that make the hair on your arms stand up.
It’s the dark, brooding, impossible mystery of Steve. It’s the way Steve cooks pasta for you and your friends on a Friday night. Is the way you can be around each other in complete, comfortable silence. It's the heavy, intense way Steve looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention.
Taking a deep, resolute breath, you turn your back to the party. Before you can fully process the danger of your own curiosity, you are turning the corner, stepping fully into the oppressive darkness of the alleyway behind the building.
And then, you stop dead in your tracks.
You brake so hard your sneakers squeak faintly against the damp concrete. You instinctively press your back flat against the cold, rough brick wall of the building, shrinking into the shadows as if your body knows, long before your brain does, that you are absolutely not supposed to be witnessing the scene unfolding in front of you.
The alley is dimly lit by a single, flickering security bulb hanging over a rusted back door.
You immediately recognize Steve. He’s standing with his back rigid, his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, his posture radiating an intimidating, coiled tension.
Standing right beside him is a figure that makes the blood in your veins run ice-cold. Your skin instantly erupts in goosebumps. It’s him. The absolute scumbag who had aggressively stopped you and Steve on the street a few weeks ago. The guy who had harassed Steve, getting up in his face, while Steve had aggressively pushed you behind him, refusing to tell you who the guy was or what he wanted.
And standing directly across from Steve and the thug is a younger guy. You don’t recognize him at all. He doesn’t look like he belongs on campus; he looks young, terrified, wearing a cheap, oversized hoodie. He’s probably just a random kid from town who heard about the college party through friends of friends and wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
Your heart pounds furiously in your ears, making it difficult to hear over the distant thumping of the bass from the party inside. You strain your ears, holding your breath, but you can’t quite make out the exact words being exchanged. The voices are low, sharp, and aggressive.
But you don't need to hear the words to understand the severity of the situation.
You watch, eyes wide with mounting horror, as the terrified guy reaches into the front pocket of his hoodie with trembling hands. He pulls out a thick, brown paper package. He extends it toward Steve, his hands shaking so violently you can see it from where you are hiding.
Steve doesn't even uncross his arms. He merely tilts his head, and the scumbag beside him — the thug from the street— steps forward and snatches the package from the boy's hands. The guy rips the top of the paper open, pulling back the flap. Even in the dim, flickering amber light, the contents are unmistakable.
It’s a massive stack of cash.
The man who seems to be Steve’s associate, or friend, or muscle, or whoever the hell he is — you are so incredibly sick and tired of constantly guessing who the people in Steve’s life are — flips through the bills with his thumb. After a few seconds, he stops. He looks up at Steve, his face twisting into a nasty scowl, and shakes his head sharply.
Steve lets out a heavy, visible sigh. He uncrosses his arms, running a single, frustrated hand down his face, tilting his head back to look up at the starless night sky.
It’s a deeply cinematic image, one that, in a completely different context, would have probably made your heart skip a beat with pure attraction. His sharp, prominent jawline is highlighted by the flickering bulb. The dark jacket stretches tight across his shoulders and biceps as he moves. The collar of his shirt shifts, revealing the familiar, delicate smattering of moles on the side of his neck that you had caught yourself staring at over too many times to count.
But right now, standing in the cold, oppressive darkness of this isolated alleyway, surrounded by the stench of garbage and impending violence, that same image doesn't make your heart flutter. Instead, it sends a jagged shard of ice dragging slowly down your spine.
You have absolutely no idea what is happening, but every survival instinct in your body is screaming at you to run.
The low murmur of voices suddenly spikes into a loud, vicious argument. You still can't decipher the exact words — the thumping bass from the frat house and the distant roar of a passing car muffle the dialogue — but the tone is unmistakably violent.
Suddenly, Steve takes a slow, deliberate step to the side, allowing the other guy — the thug — to step directly into the younger's personal space.
The young guy immediately crumbles into a state of complete, pathetic vulnerability. He drops to his knees, raising both of his hands in a desperate gesture of begging. He’s pleading for his life. The sheer terror in the boy's posture hits you like a physical punch to the gut, tying your stomach into a nauseating knot.
Do something, Steve, you plead in your mind. Stop him. Tell him to back off.
Inside the house, Dylan’s song reaches its dramatic climax. The muffled sound of a heavy, distorted guitar chord rings out loudly through the walls.
And at that exact, horrible second, the thug pulls his arm back and unleashes a brutal, full-force punch directly into the kneeling guy’s face.
The sickening CRACK of knuckles hitting bone echoes sharply against the brick walls of the alley. The poor guy is sent sprawling backward, his head snapping to the side as he hits the dirty asphalt with a heavy thud.
You violently flinch. Both of your hands fly up to clamp over your mouth, stifling the scream that tries to rip its way out of your throat. Your eyes are wide, unblinking, brimming with shock, profound anguish, and an all-consuming, paralyzing fear. You are trembling so hard your knees threaten to buckle.
“Please! Please, man, I swear to God I’ll have the rest of the cut by next week—” the guy begs, spitting blood onto the pavement as he scrambles to push himself up on his elbows.
His desperate sentence is viciously cut short by a second, even harder kick to the ribs from the thug. The younger guy groans in agony, collapsing back onto the ground, curling into a tight fetal position.
“We already gave you an extra week, you little prick! Did you just magically forget the terms of the deal when we made it in the first place?!” The thug’s voice is a venomous snarl. He raises his heavy boot, preparing to stomp down on the boy’s head.
“Enough.”
Steve’s voice cuts through the alleyway like a blade. It isn’t a yell. It isn’t a scream. It’s a low, quiet, profoundly cold command that carries an incredible amount of authority.
The thug freezes mid-motion, his boot hovering in the air.
Steve steps forward, positioning himself directly in front of the bleeding, trembling guy. He looks down at him, his face completely devoid of any emotion. It’s an expression you have never seen on his face before, an expression you never, in your wildest dreams, believed he was capable of making. It’s absolute, chilling apathy.
“One week,” Steve says, his voice devoid of any warmth, cutting sharply through the cold air.
The thug behind him scoffs, dropping his foot and glaring at Steve with frustrated disbelief.
“Come on, Harrington! Are you kidding me? Your father is going to completely lose his mind and kill us both! You heard what he said, he said that we—”
In a flash of movement so fast it makes you blink, Steve pivots and shoves the thug squarely in the chest with one arm. The force of the push is massive, sending the guy stumbling backward until his back slams hard against a metal dumpster with a loud crash.
“Shut your damn mouth, Tommy,” Steve snarls, his voice dripping with lethal warning.
He doesn't even wait to see Tommy's reaction. He slowly turns his attention back to the younger guy, who is currently trembling violently and wiping a thick smear of dark blood from his split lip.
“Get up,” Steve commands quietly.
The boy hesitates, letting out a whimper of pain, but the sheer terror in Steve's presence forces his body to obey. Slowly, painfully, he drags himself up from the asphalt until he is standing, hunched over and favoring his ribs.
When they are standing face-to-face once again, Steve looks at him. And the look in Steve’s eyes — even from twenty feet away in the shadows — radiates a profound, terrifying darkness that is utterly impossible to hide.
“One. Week.” Steve repeats, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision.
Before the guy can even nod in terrified agreement, before he can even open his mouth to gasp out a 'thank you', Steve's leg snaps out. With brutal, calculated efficiency, he delivers a devastating kick directly to the side of the boy's kneecap.
The sickening sound of the joint popping echoes off the brick walls. The boy lets out a blood-curdling shriek of pure agony, instantly collapsing back onto the pavement, clutching his ruined leg and sobbing hysterically.
This time, it is physically impossible for you to contain the reaction. A sharp, loud gasp escapes your throat, a sound of pure horror that cuts through the night air. You clamp your hands over your mouth a second too late.
Steve freezes.
Slowly, terrifyingly, he turns his head toward the entrance of the alley.
For one agonizing, suspended millisecond, his dark, dead eyes lock onto yours through the shadows.
The man staring back at you is not the Steve you know.
It’s not the sweet, goofy Steve who makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. It’s not the Steve who slow danced with you some nights ago. It’s not the Steve that stands in the kitchen and annoys you and Robin about which movie to rent next.
It’s not even the Steve you had only ever caught fleeting glimpses of in your worst, most paranoid imaginations. It’s not even the Steve that Robin had sometimes — very rarely, and always after a few too many drinks — alluded to in hushed, frightened tones when she spoke about the dark side of Hawkins.
No. Your mind races, rejecting the comparison entirely. Not even close.
This Steve is so much worse than anything Robin had ever implied. This Steve is a monster, a ruthless, violent enforcer capable of shattering a guy’s leg without batting an eye. This Steve is entirely unimaginable, even in the absolute darkest depths of your worst nightmares.
Before he can utter a single word, before the shock can fully register on his handsome, terrifying face, your survival instinct entirely overrides your paralyzed brain.
You spin on your heels, your sneakers slipping for a frantic second on the damp floor, and you launch yourself forward. You are running blindly, sprinting away from the alley, tearing back toward the noise and the lights of the party as if the devil himself is chasing you.
Your chest heaves, your lungs burning as you drag in desperate gulps of the freezing air. Behind you, over the thumping rhythm of your own panicked heartbeat, you think you hear his voice shout your name.
Or maybe it was just the wind. Maybe your terrified mind just imagined his voice calling out to you in the dark. You don't look back to find out. You don't dare. If you turn around and see him chasing you with that same dead, violent look in his eyes, you know your heart might actually stop beating.
You round the corner of the building, practically throwing yourself back into the crowded front entrance. You push violently through a group of bewildered students, ignoring their angry shouts of protest as you blindly stumble toward the street. Your vision is entirely blurred by unshed tears of sheer terror and catastrophic heartbreak.
Suddenly, your body slams hard against something solid.
You let out a cry of panic, stumbling backward. Two strong, familiar arms shoot out and wrap securely around your waist, catching you firmly before you can hit the ground.
“Woah, hey! Careful there!”
Your breath catches in your throat. You flinch aggressively, expecting the smell of his perfume, cigarette smoke, and violence. But instead, the scent of cheap cologne and old leather fills your senses.
You quickly tilt your head up, your wide, tear-filled eyes scanning the face of the person holding you. An overwhelming, pathetic wave of relief crashes over you, and it actually makes you angry to admit how glad you are to see who it is.
Dylan has his guitar case strapped to his back, looking bewildered and slightly alarmed by your erratic state.
“Take me home,” you gasp out instantly, the words tumbling from your lips in a desperate, breathless rush.
Dylan furrows his eyebrows, his hands still resting lightly on your waist. He looks down at you, clearly confused by the sheer panic radiating from your trembling body.
“What? Are you okay? What happened—”
You don't let him finish. You reach out, your cold, shaking hands desperately grabbing onto his forearm. Your grip is painfully tight, your knuckles turning white.
“Please.” Your voice breaks into a pathetic, terrified sob that you can't suppress. “Please, Dylan. Just take me home. Right now.”
Dylan’s casual, laid-back demeanor evaporates instantly. He looks at your tear-streaked face, sees the raw, unadulterated terror swimming in your eyes, and his jaw sets. He glances up, his green eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the house, looking toward the shadows you just emerged from. For a second, he looks like he wants to go investigate, to fight whatever it is that put this look on your face.
But you yank on his arm again, snapping his attention back to you. The desperation in your gaze is all the answer he needs.
“Come on. Let's go,” he says firmly.
He shifts his grip, wrapping his large, warm hand securely around yours, squeezing it tight. Without asking another question, he quickly leads you away from the house, guiding you swiftly down the street toward where his battered sedan is parked.
You don't look back. You keep your eyes fixed on the pavement, letting Dylan pull you toward safety, leaving the thumping music, the crowded party, and the terrifying, shattered reality of Steve Harrington far, far behind you in the dark.
—
The sharp, metallic slam of the car door shatters the heavy, suffocating silence of the night. It is a violent sound that echoes down the empty street, yet it barely registers over the ringing in your ears.
Silence is all that had accompanied you during the agonizingly long drive from the blinding lights of the party to the shadowed entrance of your apartment building. Not a single song on the radio. Not a single whispered word.
Dylan walks beside you, his footsteps a steady, grounded rhythm against the concrete, a stark contrast to the chaotic, erratic thumping of your own heart. You walk until you reach the main glass doors of the building, the cool glow of the streetlamp casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement.
You turn around. Your arms are wrapped tightly around your own torso, hands gripping your elbows in a desperate, physical need to keep yourself from falling apart. At the very least, the tears had stopped flowing a few miles back, leaving your face tight and your eyes burning with a dry, exhausted ache.
And thank God — thank whatever merciful force exists — that Dylan hasn't asked a single question. He hasn’t pushed. He hasn’t demanded to know why you came running out of that party looking like you’d just seen a ghost.
You stand there, turned away from the glass doors, your posture screaming defense. Your arms wrap your body like a protective shield against the biting chill of the night air, and your eyes are stubbornly glued to the cracked pavement beneath your feet.
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing the lump in your throat, and finally gather the courage to look up at him.
"Thank you," your voice is barely more than a raspy whisper, fragile in the cold air. "For bringing me back, I mean."
Dylan nods slowly. His posture is relaxed but guarded, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He looks at you with a mixture of pity and lingering affection that makes your stomach twist with guilt.
"It's no problem," he says softly.
A few heavy seconds of silence stretch between you, filled only by the distant hum of city traffic. He shifts his weight, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Are you sure you're—"
"I'm fine," you cut him off quickly, the words tumbling out of your mouth before he can finish the question. You can't let him dig. If he digs, the dam will break again. "I'm fine, I swear. I'm just... I'm so tired. Midterm week completely ran me over."
You force a smile. It feels completely unnatural, a tight, plastic stretching of your lips, but you offer it up anyway, praying it’s enough of a mask to make him believe the lie.
He nods, his jaw setting. He’s clearly not convinced. His eyes search yours, looking for the cracks in your facade, but he is kind enough — or perhaps just tired enough — not to press the issue.
"Right," he murmurs, clearing his throat. The awkwardness hangs in the space between you, thick and palpable. "Do you think I could..." He gestures toward the brightly lit lobby of your building with his chin, a silent request to come up. To come in.
You instantly understand what he is asking. And for a fleeting, desperate second, a loud, rational voice in your head screams at you to say yes. Let him in, it whispers. Have a quiet, normal night with him, just like you used to. Let him hold you. Let him erase the nightmare you witnessed in that alleyway barely an hour ago.
It would be so easy to fall back into the comfort of Dylan. It would be safe.
But as you look at his hopeful face, something visceral and absolute stops you. It feels wrong. The very idea of pretending everything is okay, of letting him touch you when your skin still feels branded by the ghost of someone else, makes you feel physically ill.
You shake your head slowly, keeping your focus locked on his eyes, offering him the most genuine apology you can muster without words.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Dylan."
He nods, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as he presses his lips together in a tight, disappointed line.
"Right..." he sighs, looking down at his boots before meeting your gaze again. "Listen, the band is coming back to town to wrap up the tour here. I'd really like to see you, yeah? Maybe we could actually talk? Even just for a coffee?"
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, the sharp sting grounding you in the present moment. You nod your head, a jerky, automatic motion, not even truly processing the implications of agreeing to see him. You just want to be alone. You just want to escape.
A soft, relieved smile touches his lips. He steps closer, closing the distance between you, and slowly leans in.
You freeze as his face nears yours, his lips brushing softly against your cheek. Your stomach does a sudden, violent flip, but it isn't butterflies. It's a harsh, immediate rejection from your own body, because the lips pressing against your skin don't feel right. They aren't the ones you actually, desperately want kissing you.
"Dream of me, yeah?" he murmurs, pulling away and taking a step backward into the shadows of the street.
You can't even manage to fake another smile. You simply turn on your heel, pushing through the heavy doors and rushing into the empty, fluorescent-lit lobby.
Your feet hit the stairs with frantic urgency, taking them two at a time. You don't wait for the elevator; you need the physical exertion, you need to burn the adrenaline that is suddenly spiking through your veins.
You reach your floor breathless, your hands trembling violently as you fumble with your keys. You jam the metal into the lock, twist, and shove the door open, slipping inside and slamming it shut behind you with a deafening bang.
You lean your back against the solid wood of the door, chest heaving, gasping for air as if you’ve been drowning. You don't give yourself a second to think. You can't think. If you stop moving, the images will catch up to you.
You violently shrug off your jacket, tossing it onto the floor. You march straight into the kitchen, the hardwood cold through your feet. Your arms reach up, blindly yanking open the cabinet above the fridge — the designated spot for the liquor you and Robin save for house parties, or for those rare, quiet nights when you just want to sit on the counter and talk about life until the sun comes up.
You aren't even fully conscious of your own movements. Your hands grab the first bottle they find. You don't bother with a glass. You uncap it and bring it directly to your lips, tipping your head back and swallowing the burning liquid in large, desperate gulps. You drink as if the alcohol possesses some magical, corrosive property that can burn away your memories.
You want to erase the desperate, visceral need you have for Steve. You want to scrub away the phantom sensation of his large, calloused hands on your body. You want to obliterate the memory of his crooked, intoxicating smile that has somehow embedded itself permanently in your mind.
But no matter how much it burns going down, it isn't working. The scent of him seems to cling to the very air of your apartment, wrapping around you even when he is miles away.
You slam the bottle down onto the granite counter, the loud clink echoing in the empty kitchen. You brace your forearms on the edge of the counter and drop your head down, burying your face in your arms. You close your eyes, desperately trying to stabilize your ragged breathing and force your racing heart to slow its frantic, terrified rhythm.
Deep breaths, you tell yourself. He's not here. You're safe. It's over.
Suddenly, three sharp, authoritative knocks rap against your front door.
You physically jump, a startled gasp escaping your lips. You spin around, your eyes locking onto the door.
You let out a frustrated, angry sigh. A sudden, hot flare of irritation ignites in your chest. You are instantly annoyed that Dylan, even after you explicitly told him no, has the nerve to come upstairs and insist. Who does he think he is?
He was the one who left the city first, wasn't he? He packed up and went away without even giving you a proper chance to say goodbye. He left you stranded, standing in the emotional wreckage of your “relationship”, holding all your stupid, unrequited feelings in the palms of your hands. Why the hell does he think he can just waltz back into your life tonight and demand your time?
These angry, bitter thoughts swarm in your head like angry hornets as you stomp down the short hallway. You reach the door and rip it wide open, a rejection already locked and loaded on your tongue.
"Dylan, I said—"
The words die instantly in your throat. You freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as your eyes meet a pair of deep, frantic brown ones.
It isn't Dylan.
Without a single second of conscious thought, survival instinct takes over. Your hand grips the edge of the door, and you violently shove it forward to slam it in his face.
But Steve is faster.
His large hand shoots out, his forearm hitting the wood with a heavy thud, effortlessly stopping the door's momentum.
"Steve, leave." Your voice is trembling, betraying the sheer panic bubbling up inside you.
"Please..." he breathes out.
He says your name so softly, with such raw, unadulterated desperation, that it makes your chest ache. You look at his face. His hair is a wild, disheveled mess. His lips are bleeding a little bit but you're sure it is because he has been nervously biting it for the past hour.
But his expression... his expression is completely shattered. It looks absolutely nothing like the cold, terrifyingly violent mask you saw him wearing in that dark alleyway just an hour ago.
"Steve..." your voice cracks, the tough exterior crumbling instantly. Tears immediately well up in your eyes again, blurring your vision. "Steve, leave. Please, just go."
"Please," he whispers again, his voice breaking.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he lowers his arm from the door. But instead of backing away, he steps over the threshold. He takes one slow, deliberate step into your apartment, the sheer presence of him forcing you to stumble backward in retreat.
You can feel a massive, suffocating knot forming in your throat. It’s a sickening mixture of profound heartbreak, sheer terror, and the harsh burn of the alcohol threatening to come back up.
He takes another step, crossing fully into the entryway, and uses his free hand to gently push the door shut behind him. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. He looks at you, his eyes silently pleading, and slowly shakes his head.
"Don't be afraid of me," he begs, his voice cracking. "Please. Not you."
A sound rips its way out of your throat. You couldn't describe it if you tried — it is a horrific, broken noise, somewhere between a bitter laugh and a strangled sob.
You shake your head wildly, backing up until you are standing dead in the center of your living room, putting as much distance between you as the space allows.
"I can explain—" he starts, taking a half-step toward you, his hands raised in surrender.
"No!" You shake your head violently, throwing your hands up to stop him. "I don't want to hear it, Steve! I don't want to listen to you!"
Steve stops. He looks up at the ceiling, jaw clenching tight as he rests his hands on his hips, letting out a long, ragged sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world.
The sensations invading your body are entirely contradictory, and it terrifies you. You should be afraid. You just saw him beat a guy as if it was usual business. You should be running for the fire escape. You should be locking yourself in your bedroom and dialing the police. You should be screaming for help until your lungs give out.
And yet... the sight of him, standing and broken in the middle of your living room, brings an inexplicable wave of calm over you. His presence floods your system with a bizarre, twisted sense of safety that is completely devoid of logic and entirely removed from fear.
You hate yourself for it.
He drops his head, dragging a heavy, shaking hand down his face.
"You shouldn't have seen that," he mutters, his voice thick with shame.
You let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. The sound is sharp and biting.
"Oh, really?" you snap, the anger finally overriding the shock. "Yeah. Sure. I shouldn't have seen that. Just like I shouldn't have seen anything else, right? Just like I shouldn't have seen you completely battered and bleeding out on my doorstep that night two months ago! Just like I shouldn't have ever met that other guy — what's his name? Oh, right, Tommy! The one who looked at me like I was a whore! Just like I shouldn't have heard every single person in my life whispering behind my back that I shouldn't get close to you!"
You step forward, closing the distance you just created, driven by a furious, blinding need for answers. You can feel the heat flushing your cheeks, your blood boiling beneath your skin.
All the agonizing questions, all the crippling insecurities, all the silent doubts you have swallowed down and choked on for months are suddenly erupting from your throat like a volcanic release. You couldn't stop the words now even if you tried.
"Tell me, Steve! What are you?" you scream, your voice bouncing off the walls. "Are you a thug? Is that what you are? A grown man who spends his time harassing college kids? Bullying people for money in dark alleys? Extorting people? Is that it?!"
Steve’s jaw ticks. The muscles in his neck jump as he grits his teeth, his eyes darting away from yours, unable to hold your furious gaze. He stares at the wall, his chest heaving.
"I can't... I can't tell you everything—"
"Then get out!" you shriek, launching yourself at him. You cross the room in two strides, closing the gap completely. "Get out! Leave me alone!"
You raise your hands and shove him hard against his chest. It’s like pushing a brick wall; he barely stumbles back an inch, but you keep going, fueled by pure, unadulterated heartbreak.
"Stop pulling me toward you!" you cry out, hitting his chest again. "Stop confusing me! Stop saying all the beautiful, perfect things you say to me! Stop looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters, stop touching me the way you touch me, just to violently push me away and shut me out the next second!"
You grab handfuls of his shirt, shaking him, demanding he look at you.
"Stop ruining my life without even letting me see half of the person you truly are!"
You let go of him, taking a step back and raking your trembling hands through your hair, pulling at the roots in absolute desperation. You are hyperventilating, the tears finally spilling over your lashes and streaming hot and fast down your cheeks.
"You know what you are?" you spit, stepping forward to push him again. "You're a coward."
You shove him harder this time, putting your entire body weight into it.
"You are a fucking coward, Harrington!"
The words tear out of your mouth without a filter, meant to wound, meant to make him feel a fraction of the agony tearing you apart inside.
You raise your hands to shove him a third time, but as your palms hit his chest, his hands shoot up. His large, warm fingers wrap securely around your wrists, stopping your momentum instantly. His grip is firm, inescapable, but surprisingly gentle.
"Stop," he pleads, his voice low and urgent. "Stop, you're going to hurt yourself."
"I don't care!" You thrash against his hold, trying desperately to yank your wrists free. "Why would I care, Steve?! Nothing I do to myself will ever hurt me more than you do! My God, I've only known you for a few months, and I already feel like you have completely and utterly ruined my life! Don't you understand that?!"
A violent sob rips through your chest, breaking your voice into a pathetic whimper. You stop fighting him, your body suddenly going entirely limp as the fight drains out of you. He doesn't let go of your wrists; instead, he pulls you a fraction of an inch closer, supporting your weight as your knees threaten to buckle.
"I have never felt like this with anyone," you sob, looking up into his tortured eyes, letting all your vulnerability bleed out onto the floor between you. "I have never yearned so deeply just to know a person. It's making me crazy! There are days when you won't even look in my direction, when you walk right past me like I'm a stranger, and then... then there are moments where you look at me like you would give me the entire world."
"I would give you the world."
His voice is sudden. It isn’t a whisper; it is a firm, heavy, absolute declaration that rings through the quiet apartment like a vow.
The absolute certainty in his tone makes you freeze. You stop crying. You stop breathing. Your eyes snap up to his, wide and searching, desperately trying to comprehend the magnitude of his words.
"What—"
Before you can formulate a sentence, he moves. He lets go of your left wrist. His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, and his long fingers tangle deep into the hair at the nape of your neck. He grips you firmly, holding you in place, making it impossible for you to look away from him.
"Whatever you saw in that alley tonight," he speaks in a low, vibrating whisper, stepping so close that his chest brushes against yours. "Whatever you heard people saying about me. Whatever you saw that night I showed up bleeding..."
He ducks his head, closing the final inch of space between you, and rests his forehead heavily against yours.
The contact is electric. It sends a blinding shockwave through your entire nervous system. The warmth of his skin, the frantic, jagged rhythm of his breathing mingling with yours, the heavy, intoxicating scent of him — it entirely short-circuits your brain.
For a terrifying, beautiful second, you completely forget everything. You forget the violence. You forget the secrets. You forget the rumors, your fears, and your crushing anxiety. You forget that the foundation of whatever this is between you is built entirely on secrets rather than answers. All that exists is the pressure of his forehead against yours, and the thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"None of it changes anything," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "I would give my life for you."
You let out a broken gasp. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head, rubbing your forehead against his as you make a monumental, agonizing effort to stop the fresh wave of tears from falling.
"Don't say that," you whisper back, your voice cracking with heartbreak. "Don't say that to me when you can't even tell me half of the things that have happened in your life. Don't say you'd die for me when every single day you become more of a complete stranger to me."
Slowly, tenderly, he turns his head. The tip of his nose brushes softly along the curve of your cheek, a ghost of a touch that makes your breath hitch in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, digging your nails into your own palms, desperately trying to maintain whatever tiny shred of willpower remains inside you.
"That guy... out there," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine. "That's not me."
"It clearly was," you whisper back, a tear escaping and tracking a hot path down your face. "The man I saw standing there, watching someone get beaten into the pavement... that was you, Steve."
He shakes his head against your cheek. His hand tightens slightly in your hair, holding you closer, like he is terrified you will evaporate into thin air if he lets go.
"You don't understand."
You shake your head, stepping back just an inch, breaking the contact of your heads so you can look at him. Your chest heaves. Another tear falls, then another, a silent cascade of absolute defeat.
"No," you say, your voice hollow and completely devoid of hope. "Sadly, I don't understand at all."
He stares down at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your tear-stained face. He looks wrecked. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the jagged rocks below, knowing he has to jump.
Slowly, he leans in again. This time, his lips don't brush your ear. They graze lightly, agonizingly slowly, across the tear-streaked skin of your cheek. He kisses the salt away, a gesture so impossibly tender it makes your knees weak.
You let out a long, trembling sigh, your hands coming up instinctively to rest flat against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm that matches your own.
"Please..." he breathes against the corner of your mouth.
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You don’t need to ask what he wants, or what he’s begging for. You understand it with perfect, terrifying clarity, because the ache in your own chest is identical to the one in his. You need exactly the same thing. You need to bridge the gap. You need to feel him, to know that beneath the secrets and the violence, the guy who looks at you like you hung the moon is still there.
Slowly, you tilt your head up. You open your eyes, and his are already waiting. You lock gazes, the remaining inches between your faces charged with a static electricity that makes the air crackle.
It’s a silent, profound surrender. In that single, drawn-out look, souls connect, communicating a desperate, undeniable truth that words could never capture.
You don't know if it is the alcohol buzzing warmly in your veins, the sheer adrenaline crash of the night, or the overwhelming, suffocating tension that has been building between the two of you for months. But suddenly, your mind goes completely, blessedly blank.
The world drops away.
The next conscious sensation you register is the impossibly soft, warm press of his lips against yours.
The kiss starts slow. It’s tentative, a fragile, trembling question. He presses his lips to yours with a reverence that breaks your heart all over again, testing the waters, deciphering just how much you want this. His free hand drops down, coming to rest with warm, solid possession flush against the curve of your waist. His other hand remains buried in the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers tightening slightly, tilting your head to the perfect, agonizing angle to deepen the connection.
You let out a soft, involuntary whimper against his mouth.
That tiny sound is the spark that ignites the powder keg.
When he realizes you aren't pulling away — when he feels your hands slide up from his chest to wrap tightly around his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt to pull him flush against you — the hesitation shatters.
The kiss explodes.
It surges from a tender question into a desperate, hungry demand. Steve groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and his mouth opens over yours, urgent and commanding. You gasp, welcoming the slide of his tongue, meeting his fierce passion with a desperate hunger of your own. The taste of him is intoxicating. It acts like a drug, instantly addicting, making you crave more, making you pull him closer until there isn't a millimeter of space left between your bodies.
His arm tightens like a vice around your waist, lifting you slightly onto your toes, completely enveloping you in his warmth. His mouth is everywhere, devouring yours, angling his head to deepen the kiss until you are entirely breathless. It’s no longer just a kiss; it is a battle for dominance, a physical manifestation of all the unsaid words, the anger, the longing, and the profound, terrifying yearning that has been festering in the dark.
Your hands move frantically, sliding up into his messy hair, gripping the thick strands tightly to anchor yourself in the storm. You kiss him back with a ferocity that matches his own, pouring every ounce of your frustration and desire into the collision of your mouths.
He takes a sudden, staggering step forward, forcing you to step backward to keep your balance. The momentum is unstoppable. He walks you backward through the living room, neither of you breaking the kiss for even a fraction of a second. You stumble together, a tangle of limbs and desperate, gasping breaths.
Your leg violently clips the edge of the wooden coffee table. You don't even feel the bruise blooming; you don't care. Steve's hand immediately drops from your waist, his arm wrapping around your lower back to catch you, his grip bruising and possessive as he hoists you up, preventing you from falling.
He spins you, the world blurring in a chaotic swirl of colors, and the backs of your knees hit the edge of the couch.
With a breathless, ragged gasp, you tumble backward onto the soft cushions, pulling him down with you. He follows you instantly, seamlessly, his heavy body caging you in, pressing you deep into it. He catches his weight on his forearms, hovering just inches above you, his chest heaving against yours.
He breaks the kiss, but only to drag his mouth roughly down your jawline, his hot breath ghosting over your skin before his lips press open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of your neck. You let out a breathless, shattered sigh, your head falling back against the armrest, arching into his touch.
"Steve..." you pant, your hands sliding down his back, feeling the hard shift of his muscles beneath his jacket.
"Tell me to stop," he mutters fiercely against your skin, his teeth lightly grazing your collarbone, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. "Tell me to get out. Tell me to leave right now, and I will."
His voice is entirely devoid of its usual arrogant confidence. It’s raw, shaking with a violent restraint. He lifts his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his dark eyes blazing with an unholy mixture of lust and desperate adoration as he stares down at you, waiting for your verdict.
You look up at him. You see the guy who hides in the shadows, the guy who is terrified of his own darkness, the guy who just confessed he would die for you.
You reach up, cupping his jaw, your thumb gently brushing over his cheekbone.
"Don't you dare stop," you whisper.
A ragged breath tears from his lungs. The last thread of his control snaps completely. He crushes his mouth to yours again, hotter, harder, and infinitely more passionate than before, consuming you entirely as the rest of the world fades into absolute nothingness.
In this exact moment, you can’t think of a single rational thing. You don’t even have a fraction of a second to catch your breath, let alone process the sheer magnitude of what is happening.
The realization of just how agonizingly long you have been waiting for this exact moment — months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between you — is entirely lost in the haze of the present.
It’s finally happening.
After all the near-misses and all the quiet moments where you both pretended not to stare at each other, it is happening right here, right now, in the dimly lit living room of your apartment.
Your hands, moving entirely on their own volition, slide frantically beneath the heavy fabric of his jacket. Your fingers grip the material, desperate to pull it off, to eliminate any barrier between the two of you.
Steve senses your urgency. He breaks the kiss for just a few agonizing seconds — seconds that leave your lips feeling cold and needy — just long enough to shrug the jacket off his shoulders. He tosses it blindly, not caring where it lands, the fabric hitting some unseen piece of furniture in the shadows of the living room. Before you can even open your eyes, his hands are framing your face again, pulling you back in, and his lips crash against yours with a renewed, desperate hunger.
Your fingers find their way into his hair. You tangle them in the thick strand, messing it even more. You tug at the roots, a little harder than you intended, pulling his head closer to yours. The sudden friction draws a low, rough sound of deep satisfaction from the back of his throat. The vibration of that groan travels directly from his chest into yours, sending a wild, electric thrill straight down your spine.
Suddenly, as if communicating through some silent, primal frequency, you both pull apart just enough to kick off your shoes. They hit the hardwood floor with heavy thuds that echo briefly in the quiet apartment. Steve’s hands move to the waistband of your jeans, gripping the denim tightly. With a firm, decisive pull, he drives you backward until your shoulders hit the back of the sofa again with a soft, muffled thud. He follows you down instantly, slotting himself firmly between your thighs, pinning you in place with a weight that feels both grounding and intoxicating.
His hands, large and gentle, slip beneath the hem of your shirt. His palms are warm, rough with calluses, yet as they slide upward over your ribs, they leave a trailing path of undeniable goosebumps in their wake. Your breath hitches, the sensation so sharp it borders on painful.
His lips abandon your mouth, tracing a hot, wet path along the edge of your jawline before diving into the crook of your neck. If your mind wasn’t so entirely clouded by the intoxicating scent of him you might have the presence of mind to warn him. You might playfully tell him to be careful, to watch out for leaving marks that you’ll inevitably have to hide tomorrow. But you can’t think. You really, truly cannot form a coherent thought.
It’s utterly impossible for either of you to ignore the fundamental, magnetic need to press your bodies together, seeking friction even through the thick layers of your clothes.
Steve shifts his weight, his hands gripping your waist to tilt your hips upward, aligning yours perfectly with his. When he presses down, a sound escapes your mouth — a soft, breathy whine that instantly makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You want to swallow it back, but you can’t stop it. The sound only seems to encourage him, his breath ghosting hot against your collarbone as his grip on your hips tightens and he grinds down again.
Seeking out that same skin-on-skin contact, your hands begin to blindly map his chest through his shirt. You grab the hem of it, intending to pull it up and off, to finally feel the bare heat of him against you.
But instantly, the atmosphere shifts.
Steve’s hands shoot down, his reflexes terrifyingly fast, and his fingers wrap around your wrists like iron bands. He stops you dead in your tracks.
The abrupt halt sends a jolt of confusion through you. He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy and falling over his forehead. He looks down at you, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the sudden, intense vulnerability swimming in his dark brown eyes.
You look up at him, the fog of desire clearing just enough for understanding to dawn.
You know exactly why he stopped you.
You understand that he doesn’t want you to see his torso. He doesn’t want you to see the scars. It doesn’t matter that he’s already shown them to you once before. In this context, in the intimacy of a dimly lit room where the air is thick with desire, exposing them makes him feel bare. It makes him feel entirely vulnerable, and he has spent the last years building walls so high and so thick that vulnerability terrifies him more than anything could.
And looking at the hesitation in his eyes, a sudden, intrusive thought pierces your mind. You can’t help but wonder if the other girls have seen them. The other girls in Hawkins. The girls he has been with briefly in the city as he tries to run away from his past. Gabriela.
There’s a selfish, possessive part of you that desperately hopes they haven't. A part of you that prays he kept the lights off, that he kept his shirt on, that he never let them see the true, broken extent of what he has survived. You want to be the only one who gets to see all of him.
But there is another, much larger part of you — the part that feels for him entirely — that absolutely breaks at the thought of Steve walking through the world feeling so incredibly exposed and ashamed. It shatters your heart to think of him feeling like he can’t trust anyone enough to just be himself, to show the roadmap of his survival etched into his skin. To show the scars on his body, and by extension, the deep, jagged scars on his soul.
The silence between you stretches, heavy and thick with unspoken fears. He’s waiting for you to pull away. He’s waiting for you to decide if it’s too much work, too much baggage.
"Steve..." you whisper into the quiet space between you.
"I…" he mutters, his voice thick, his gaze dropping.
"Look at me," you say gently, refusing to let him hide. When he finally drags his eyes back to yours, you hold his gaze steadily. "Please..." you whisper softly.
Slowly, deliberately, you test his grip. Your hands turn slightly within his grasp, and your fingertips brush against the skin of his forearms.
Steve lets out a long, shaky sigh. It sounds like a physical surrender. The iron grip on your wrists loosens, his fingers uncurling, letting you go.
Your hands immediately resume their upward journey. You slide your palms under the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up slowly. As your hands travel upward, your fingertips brush over the raised, uneven textures of his skin. You feel the jagged lines into his sides, the marks, every scar tells a story of him bleeding God-knows-why.
But while your hands read the braille of his past, your eyes never leave his face. You stay completely locked onto his deep brown eyes, watching the emotions flicker across them: fear, anticipation, and an overwhelming, desperate relief.
You push the shirt all the way up to his chest. Steve swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His jaw clenches so tightly you can see a muscle feathering beneath his skin.
Then, with a sudden, fluid movement that speaks of a sudden burst of courage, he grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks it over his head, tossing it aside to join his jacket on the floor.
He sits back on his heels, entirely exposed to you.
Finally, you allow your eyes to drop down to his torso. It doesn’t matter that you have seen it before. The sight of it still makes your chest ache with a profound, twisting tenderness. Your heart physically squeezes at the sight of every silver line of scar tissue, some old and faded, others still terrifyingly pink and recent.
He looks like a battlefield.
He looks like a boy who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and taken the hits so no one else had to.
You raise your hand, intending to press your palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his racing heart, to ground him. But before you can make contact, his hand shoots out again. This time, however, he doesn't push you away. He catches your wrists gently, his large hands encompassing your delicate bones.
You look up at him, questioning.
Without ever breaking eye contact, Steve brings your wrists to his mouth. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your left wrist, right over your pulse point. Then your right. He maps his way up your forearms, his lips soft and warm, leaving a trail of reverent kisses along your skin. He moves closer, his face hovering just inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours once again.
For a split second, you see his lips part. You see a terrifying sincerity in his eyes, and you think he’s going to say it. You think he is going to say something profound, something that will shatter the fragile glass house you’ve both been living in, maybe even a confession.
But just as quickly as the moment arrives, you see him swallow the words down. He stops himself, the walls coming back up just a fraction of an inch.
Instead, he leans his forehead against yours.
"Can I...?" he whispers against your lips, his voice barely a breath. As he asks, his hands drop from your wrists and catch the bottom edge of your t-shirt, giving it a gentle, questioning tug. He’s asking for permission. He’s giving you the choice to stop, to keep your own armor on.
You nod, not trusting your voice. You begin to sit up, lifting your back off the cushions to give him more room to maneuver the shirt over your head.
But suddenly, something shifts inside you. A sudden, inexplicable surge of confidence — a fierce, burning need to take back control, to show him that he isn’t the only one who wants this with an overwhelming desperation — possesses your body.
Instead of just sitting up, you push your hands firmly against his shoulders. You use his surprise to shift your weight, sliding forward until you are straddling his lap entirely. You drop your knees onto the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, towering over him slightly.
Steve lets out a sharp intake of breath, clearly startled by the sudden change in dynamics. But the surprise quickly melts into a dark, heated gaze of approval. He accepts the new position instantly. His large hands immediately drop from the hem of your shirt down to your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above your waistband. He grips you firmly, pulling you downward, pressing you flush against him so that your bodies meet again in that exquisite, maddening friction.
You bite your lower lip hard. Usually, when you do it around him, it’s a nervous habit — a telltale sign that he has flustered you. But this time, it’s purely instinctual. You bite down to keep from crying out because you honestly have no idea how to react to the sheer sensory overload of straddling him, of feeling the hard planes of his body beneath yours.
Determined, your hands find the hem of your own shirt. In one swift, fluid motion, you pull it up and over your head, tossing it over your shoulder.
The cool air of the apartment hits your bare skin. Your shirt had been so tight, almost like a second skin, that you had made the bold decision not to wear a bra to the party tonight, knowing the underwire would just dig into you uncomfortably all evening. When you had looked in the mirror hours ago, you wondered if it was a terrible idea. But right now, seeing the way Steve is looking at you? It might have been the best idea you’ve ever had.
For Steve, it is unequivocally the best idea in the history of the world. He stops breathing. His hands freeze on your hips. His brown eyes go impossibly wide, filled with a mixture of absolute awe and raw, unfiltered hunger. His gaze drops, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your chest, and slowly, deliberately tracking back up to your flushed face. He looks at you as if you are something divine, something he has no right to touch but can’t possibly stay away from.
"Christ," he breathes out, his voice hoarse, sounding like he’s in physical pain. "You can't be... you can't be this fucking beautiful. It's not fair."
Your cheeks instantly flood with heat. You blush a deep, dark red — a reaction that is completely, annoyingly inevitable whenever Steve Harrington looks at you like that, let alone when he speaks to you with such profound, undisguised adoration.
Before you can formulate a response, Steve drops his head back against the backrest of the couch. One of his hands leaves your hip, traveling up your back to tangle deeply into the hair at the nape of your neck. With a gentle but unyielding pressure, he pulls your face down to his.
The kiss is different this time. It’s no longer just frantic; it’s deep, consuming, and territorial. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, his tongue tracing your bottom lip before slipping inside.
Unconsciously, your hips lift just a fraction of an inch, seeking relief from the building tension.
Steve groans into your mouth. His free hand immediately snaps back to your hip, his fingers digging into your skin as he forces you back down, flush against him.
"Keep going, please..." he whispers frantically against your lips between open-mouthed kisses. "Don't stop."
This time, the sensation of his hard bulge pressing against the seam of his jeans is much more prominent beneath you. Driven by your own escalating need, you begin to move your hips, grinding down against him in a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. It’s a delicious, mind-melting friction, but with every passing second, the barrier of your denim jeans turns the pleasure into a torturous ache.
Steve lets out a ragged, stuttering breath.
"God, I need you so much," he gasps, breaking the kiss to look up at you. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so much there is barely any brown left. He looks at you with absolute, puppy-dog desperation.
He leans forward. His lips pressing wet kisses over your left chest, while his thumb softly brushes over your right nipple. You can’t stop the moan that leaves your mouth.
But suddenly, loud noise from the hallway outside your apartment door cuts through the heavy air like a knife.
You jump violently, a squeak of absolute panic escaping your throat. It’s as if your soul has instantly slammed back into your body. The haze of lust vanishes in a heartbeat. You scramble backward, instantly crossing your arms over your bare chest to cover yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"Oh my God," you gasp, staring wide-eyed at the apartment door. "Robin is—"
Steve is faster. He doesn’t even flinch at the noise. He reaches up, his large hand gently but firmly gripping your jaw, forcing you to look away from the door and back down at him.
"Hey," he says, his voice remarkably steady, though his chest is still heaving. "Hey, relax. Look at me."
You blink down at him, still vibrating with adrenaline.
"Robin is not out there," he assures you, a small, amused glint returning to his eyes. "She told me she was crashing at Vickie's tonight. It's just a neighbor."
You let out a massive, shaky sigh of relief, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. Your arms, however, remain crossed tightly over your chest, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washing over you now that the immediate spell has been broken.
"Are you sure?" you mumble into his skin.
Steve bites his lower lip, trying to suppress a smile, though you can see the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
"I'm sure," he says softly.
He uncrosses your arms gently, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. Then, his arms wrap entirely around your waist. With a sudden shift and a display of strength that seems to require zero effort on his part, he stands up from the couch, lifting you entirely off it.
You let out a loud noise of surprise, your legs instinctively flying up and wrapping tightly around his waist to keep from falling. Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping his bare skin tightly.
"Steve!" you yelp, your heart skipping a beat.
"What?" he chuckles, his voice rumbling against your cheek. He adjusts his grip, holding your thighs securely as he walks effortlessly down the short hallway toward your bedroom. "I figure you'll be a little more relaxed in a room with a door we can lock, right?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He kicks your bedroom door open with his foot and, once you are both inside, kicks it shut behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place feels incredibly definitive.
Instead of just dropping you onto the mattress, he walks right up to the edge of the bed and lets himself fall forward, taking you down with him. You bounce against the mattress, a gasp escaping you. Steve hovers over you, catching his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you, slotting his legs perfectly between yours once again.
He wastes no time. He leans down, reconnecting his lips with yours, swallowing your laughter. The kiss is slower this time, sweeter, lacking the frantic panic from the living room but replacing it with a deep, simmering intent.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy. His hands move to the button of your jeans. He pops it open with practiced ease, slowly pulling down the zipper. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and begins to pull them down your hips.
There is something utterly indescribable in his gaze. It’s intense, focused, and completely reverent. Usually, being looked at like this would make you want to crawl out of your own skin with discomfort. You've never liked being perceived so intensely. But with Steve, nothing about this makes you feel uncomfortable. It’s strange, the absolute safety you feel under his heavy, heated stare.
As he pulls your pants completely off, discarding them onto the floor beside the bed, he doesn't immediately move back up to your lips. Instead, he ducks his head down. He begins to leave a slow, agonizingly soft trail of kisses starting from your knee, moving up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, stopping just agonizingly short of the edge of your underwear.
Your breath stutters violently in your chest. Your hands grip the bedsheets on either side of your body, your knuckles turning white. You look down at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your entire body trembling with anticipation.
Before he can make his next move, before his lips can go any deeper, reality crashes over you again. You reach down, your fingers tangling in his messy hair, and gently but firmly pull his head up.
"Wait..." you pant, your voice breathless.
He stops immediately, looking up at you with slightly glassy eyes.
"What is it? Are you okay?"
"I..." you swallow hard, a flush creeping up your neck. "I don't have any condoms."
Steve freezes for a singular, terrifying second. Then, slowly, a devastatingly arrogant, deeply amused smile spreads across his handsome face. He shifts his weight, reaching down into the pocket of his jeans for a moment before bringing his hand back up, holding a small, square, metallic blue packet between his index and middle finger.
He holds it up like a trophy.
The realization hits you like a physical weight in your stomach. Your eyebrows knit together, a sudden flare of indignation cutting through the haze of lust.
"Do you always carry a condom with you?" you ask, your tone a mixture of disbelief and irritation.
His smile only widens.
"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.”
There’s something about his words that, although playful, unsettles you for a second, and there’s a voice in the back of your head suddenly telling you how wrong it is to be doing this with him after what you saw tonight.
But you roll your eyes shoving the feeling away, so hard they almost hurt.
"You are absolutely impossible, Harrington."
Steve lets out a soft, breathy laugh. His head is still positioned low, and the puff of air from him hits your underwear directly. The hot breath sends an involuntary shudder wracking violently through your entire frame.
Before he can take advantage of your distraction and lean down to replace that breath with his lips, you grab his chin firmly. You pull him up, dragging his body back up the mattress until he is face-to-face with you again. The sudden spike of irritation has vanished, replaced entirely by the all-consuming, desperate need to simply have him. You cannot wait another second. You need him.
He reads the urgency in your eyes instantly. The playful arrogance drops from his face, replaced by a dark, serious hunger. He moves with startling speed, pulling down his jeans and boxers at the same time and kicking them away, not giving your brain a single second to catch up or overthink the reality of what is about to happen.
The sight of his prominent length twitching against the air of the room sends a shiver through your entire body. But when he tears open the small packet, you instinctively turn your head away, staring at the ceiling. A sudden wave of intense shyness washes over you, making you feel as though you are intruding on something incredibly private, something you shouldn't be watching.
Then, you feel his hands. They wrap around your waist, large and warm, pulling you physically closer to him on the center of the mattress. His thumbs press into your skin, a silent demand for your attention. He makes you look at him again.
Steve moves over you, a shadow blocking out the dim bedroom light. He lowers himself, his lips returning to your skin. He leaves soft, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, lingering over your ribs, trailing up between your breasts, tracing the line of your collarbone, and finally pressing a tender kiss against the pulse beating frantically in your neck.
He moves up, his face hovering right above yours. His lips are swollen and red from kissing you, slightly parted as he breathes heavily into your mouth. His brow is slightly furrowed with concentration and restraint, and a thick lock of brown hair has fallen across his forehead, clinging to a sheen of sweat.
He looks into your eyes, searching them deeply.
His hand wraps around himself, brushing the head of his throbbing cock against your folds, testing the waters. He bites his lips noticing how ready your body is for him.
"Tell me if this is okay, alright?" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Tell me to stop if you need me to."
You nod frantically. You bite your bottom lip, your hands reaching up to grip his broad shoulders. You are anxious, yes, but you are absolutely desperate to feel him, to finally cross this line that has been drawn in the sand between you for months.
Steve lifts his hand. His thumb gently brushes over your lower lip, coaxing it out from between your teeth. He leans down, connecting his lips with yours in a deep, slow kiss.
And then, before you can even brace yourself, before your mind can catch up with the physical reality, he’s pressing forward, sliding inside of you.
It’s impossible to hold back the sound that tears from your throat. A loud, shocked gasp that quickly turns into a deep, sustained moan. The sensation is entirely overwhelming — a feeling of being stretched and filled completely. You have to break the kiss, turning your head sharply to the side to bury your face in his shoulder, biting down on his skin to muffle the groan vibrating through your chest.
Steve freezes instantly. His muscles lock up, his arms trembling as he holds himself perfectly still above you.
"Shh, shh, hey," he whispers frantically into your hair, his voice laced with sudden panic. "Are you okay? I can pull out if—"
You silence him instantly, shaking your head vigorously against his shoulder. You pull back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are wide, glassy, and filled with a profound, aching longing.
"No," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "Don't stop. Please, Steve. Keep going."
He exhales a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he slowly begins to move.
His movements, at first, are agonizingly slow. They are deliberate, firm, and incredibly careful, giving your body the time it needs to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of him.
But you realize he isn’t completely in yet, so you wrap your legs around his hips, sinking him deeper, showing him you can take him all.
“Oh, f—,” your curse gets stuck on your throat. It isn't just the physical reality that it has been months since you were last intimate with anyone. It is the startling, profound realization that Steve seems to fit you in a way no one else ever has. He seems to fill not just the physical space, but an emotional void you didn't even know you were carrying. It feels terribly, wonderfully right.
Before you even realize the shift, the slow, agonizing pace changes. His restraint finally snaps. His hips begin to move faster, the gentle rhythm replaced by deeper, more urgent thrusts. His body collides against yours with a heavy, rhythmic sound that echoes in the quiet room.
One of his hands drops from your waist, gripping your hip bone with a bruised, desperate strength to anchor you to him. His other hand reaches up, tangling fiercely in the bedsheets right beside your head, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.
"Fuck... God..." The words are torn from his throat, soft but strained with intense effort.
His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, his brow furrowed so deeply it looks painful. Watching his face contort, a sudden, fleeting stab of insecurity pieces through your haze of pleasure.
You find yourself wondering, in the back of your dizzy mind, if there is some part of him that is regretting this. If, through the haze of adrenaline and lust, the reality of the situation is settling in and he's wishing he was somewhere else, with someone else. Someone less complicated. Someone who didn't know all his ghosts.
But every single one of your doubts is violently shattered by the low, guttural growl that rips from his chest.
The hand that was tangled in the sheets beside your head drops down, sliding down the back of your thigh. He grips the back of your knee, lifting your leg higher, hooking it over his forearm to open you up even further, pulling you flush against him so he can sink impossibly deeper.
"You feel so fucking good, God..." he grits out, throwing his head back toward the ceiling, the cords in his neck straining. His thrusts become rapid, completely uncontrolled. He looks back down at you, his eyes blazing. "Are you okay?" he demands again, needing reassurance.
You can't form words. The sheer sensory overload has short-circuited your brain. You can only nod your head frantically against the pillow, letting out small, broken gasps with every thrust.
The sensation is too much to process coherently. You act entirely on instinct. Your hands slide down from his shoulders, tracing the hard, sweat-slicked muscles of his back. You let your fingertips glide over the raised skin of his scars, tracing the lines of his trauma.
In the back of your mind, a quiet, desperate prayer forms: you hope that somehow, through this profound union of your bodies, you can offer him some measure of healing. You want to absorb his pain. You want to love the broken pieces of him until they don't hurt anymore.
Your hands continue their exploration, moving over his arms, feeling the coiled tension in every single muscle of his body. He’s wound tight as a spring, but you know, with a thrilling sense of power, that this tension is born entirely of pleasure, of a desperate need to hold on for just a little longer.
"God, I’m gonna..." Steve gasps out, his voice cracking, his rhythm stuttering as he loses the battle against his own body.
You look up at him, your vision blurred with tears of overwhelming pleasure, and you understand perfectly. You understand because, for the last several minutes, every time he thrusts forward, he has been hitting a spot deep inside you that sends electric, blinding shockwaves through your entire nervous system. It has been building and building, rising higher and higher like a tidal wave, and it’s entirely impossible to stop it from crashing.
Steve's hand moves from your leg, sliding up your chest until his fingers gently wrap around the front of your throat. It's not tight, just a firm, possessive grounding pressure. He leans down, crashing his lips against yours once more, swallowing your moans. Your hand immediately flies to the back of his head, your fingers burying into his thick hair, pulling him flush against you as you brace yourself for the edge.
For one long, suspended minute, the only sounds existing in the universe are the wet, obscene sounds of your desperate kisses, the heavy, rhythmic slap of your sweat-slicked bodies colliding, and the ragged sound of your shared breathing. In this suspended bubble of time, it feels as though the act is systematically burning away the rest of the world. It incinerates the fears, the deeply rooted insecurities, the anxiety of tomorrow. There is nothing left but him, you, and the heat.
"F-fuck."
The curse breaks from his lips against yours. He doesn't need to say another word; his body telegraphs everything.
Suddenly, every single muscle in Steve’s back goes rigid under your hands. He lets out a loud, breathless groan, a sound of absolute defeat and profound release, and thrusts forward one final, deep time. He holds himself there, trembling violently.
The sheer intensity of his release is the final push you need. The tension inside you snaps violently, sending wave after blinding wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy crashing through your body. You cry out into his mouth, your back arching off the mattress as you follow him over the edge, entirely consumed by the sensation.
Slowly, as the shockwaves begin to subside, his strength gives out. He collapses forward, his heavy, damp weight pressing you deep into the mattress.
You lie there, tangled together in the messy sheets. Both of your bodies are violently trembling, your chests heaving in perfect synchronization as you fight to pull oxygen back into your lungs. His face is buried deep in the crook of your neck, his hot, ragged breaths fanning across your damp skin.
You squeeze your eyes shut, your arms wrapped tightly around his back, trying desperately to process what has just happened, how entirely your world has shifted on its axis.
After a few seconds, when his breathing finally begins to slow to a somewhat normal rhythm, Steve shifts. He presses his hands into the mattress on either side of your head, slowly pushing himself up on his arms to look down at you.
He looks exhausted, thoroughly wrecked, and breathtakingly handsome. He has a soft, incredibly goofy, completely unguarded smile plastered across his face. He lifts one hand, gently brushing a damp piece of hair off your forehead, his thumb lingering on your temple.
You look up at him and can't help the soft, breathless laugh that escapes your lips.
"God..." you whisper, your voice hoarse.
"Yeah..." Steve replies, his voice equally rough, filled with a quiet kind of awe. He stares at you for a moment longer before asking, softly, "Are you okay?"
You hesitate. You don’t even know why. But you nod, a genuine smile breaking across your face.
"Never better."
His smile widens, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. His thumb drops from your temple, tracing the curve of your cheek down to your lips. He leans in and presses a soft, incredibly tender kiss to your mouth. It’s the polar opposite of the frantic, teeth-clashing kisses from the living room, but somehow, the gentle reverence of it makes your heart hammer even harder, making you blush all over again.
Reluctantly, he pulls away. He pushes himself up onto his knees, carefully pulling out of you. The sudden emptiness makes you whine in protest, a soft sound you try to bite back too late.
Steve just smirks at you, tossing the used condom into the small trashcan beside your nightstand with a terrifyingly accurate throw that you don't even have the energy to roll your eyes at.
You are utterly drained. Your limbs feel like lead. You simply lay there, spread out on your mattress, staring blankly up at the ceiling above you. You don't move a muscle until you feel the soft weight of a blanket being pulled up over your bare chest.
A second later, the mattress dips, and you feel the solid, radiating heat of Steve’s body as he slides under the covers and lays down flat on his back right next to you.
You turn your head to look at him. He’s staring up as well, his hands resting on his stomach.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely different. The adrenaline has faded, the lust has been satiated, and what remains in its wake is a heavy, complicated silence. It’s as if, in this quiet aftermath, you have both simultaneously crashed back down to reality.
You both realize the massive, irrevocable implications of what you have just done, of the line you have crossed, but neither of you has the slightest idea what the consequences will be.
Slowly, seeking comfort, you roll onto your side. You slide across the mattress and rest your head flat against his bare chest, right over his patch of hair, where you can listen to his heartbeat.
Steve reacts instantly. He lifts his arm, wrapping it securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. His hand rests on your bare back, his fingers lazily tracing idle circles against your skin. It’s comforting. It’s intimate. But neither of you speaks a single word.
It’s as though you both know the truth without having to vocalize it. You both know that even though you have finally satiated this massive, consuming need that has been chasing you for months; even though the physical act managed to completely obliterate the rest of the world and silence the demons for a few fleeting minutes; it didn’t cure anything.
There’s still something fundamentally, deeply broken inside him. And you still have absolutely no idea how to fix it.
As your eyes begin to droop shut, the exhaustion finally claiming you, you find yourself being lulled to sleep by the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the strong, comforting sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Ironically, it feels like the safest place in the world.
But deep, very deep down in the recesses of your tired mind, as the darkness of sleep begins to pull you under, a flash of memory violently intrudes.
You see the dark alleyway behind the building. You see the terror in that guy's eyes.
And you see Steve.
His jaw tense while he saw the guy getting beat up, his face unreadable as the younger one begged for mercy. You see him kick on the guy’s knee until he could stand up again.
You squeeze your eyes tighter, burrowing closer to his warmth, desperate to chase the memory away.
But as you drift off to sleep in the arms of the guy that has you completely wrapped around his finger, you realize with a cold — sinking dread — that perhaps you will never be able to forget it all.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
"In the land of Gods and Monsters / I was an angel / living in the garden of evil."
— Lana Del Rey / "Gods and Monsters"
summary: They call it EDEN, like the garden—neon lights that burn if you stare too long, watered-down liquor, and angels dressed in gaudy wings and itchy lace. But there's no heaven here.
Only poor decisions, bad men with wandering hands, and women too burdened with worry and regret to grant anyone their earthly desires. You've fallen from grace—taken a bite of the poisoned apple, only to lose your way.
Then you meet him.
Joel Miller doesn't make you any promises. Doesn't hold your hand and whisper comforts you don't think you deserve. He doesn't offer you salvation—but somewhere along the way, it finds you both.
lips divider by me ♡ / lace divider and photos are from Pinterest ♡
⟢ pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
⟢ warnings: smut (18+, mdni), pre-outbreak Joel Miller, strip-club setting, private dances, age gap, sex work, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, stripper!reader, lonely people finding each other, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst, soft Joel Miller, affection-starved reader, Joel Miler falls first agenda, acts of service, emotional repression, no outbreak AU, self-esteem issues, exploitative work environment, yearning, gnawing at the bars of my enclosure
☆ ACT I — East of Eden
☆ ACT II — Grace (TBD)
☆ ACT III — The Fall (TBD)
☆ ACT IV — Salvation (TBD)
a/n: unsure if dropping the masterlist post a week before the first act has been released is wise, but Main Attraction will be dropping on my bday because i am nothing if not a giver ♥️💋 i wanted to mention that this fic is not indicative of how this occupation is for everyone, so please be mindful that this is an act of fiction, and sex work IS work and can be both safe and fulfilling. okay mwah, ilysm!!!
tag list: @untamedheart81 @joelsarchive @maxverslover3 @strawberrystarfruit8
i'll be making a separate post regarding my tag list, but if you'd like to be added before the release, feel free to let me know ♥️
I have no idea @mystickittytaco - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
