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Apr 27

✴︎ in the summer sun ✴︎

coach!steve harrington x single mom!reader (18+; MDNI; 13.5k words)

And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.” (Your five year old daughter wanted to sign up for the newly established Hawkins Little League Softball team. To your surprise, the coach is your old high school fling, Steve Harrington.)

cw: pregnancy/shitty exes/custody; mentions of family death in a vague way; masturbation; p-in-v sex; sort of unprotected sex (reader has an IUD); tit worship; body worship; creampies; pussy eating; porn with plot!!!; reader has stretch marks from pregnancy; soft!steve; big dick!steve; yearning; reader and steve graduated high school together are both 25 masterlist || divider by @/saradika-graphics || ao3 link

Your life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.

Not that you would necessarily complain, but when you were eighteen and fresh faced, ready to take on the world, you’d had a very clear plan in your mind of how life was supposed to go.

College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.

(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)

Then the car crash happened.

You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you thought hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.

You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion.

Your family did not.

You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained (it wasn’t as though dorm halls were exactly wheelchair accessible) and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.

You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.

Different, maybe, but stronger.

And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.

Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you recovered.

But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.

The two of you went long distance, with the onus on you to make the hour and a half drive to Lafayette to visit.

And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.

Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?

It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.

Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.

He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.

Alone.

And it was fine. It was fine.

It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.

And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”

You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.

Mark, clearly, did not care.

In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.

He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything.

So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.

The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made.

She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.

And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.

(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)

Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.

A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.

Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.

(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)

You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.

And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.

You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span.

It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.

The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated give year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.

You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”

“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.

Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.

Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?

“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”

You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.

“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”

“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”

A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.

“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”

Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”

You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”

She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.

“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”

“Long story,” you offer.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”

You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.

If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark.

“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.

But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”

“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”

“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”

Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin.

As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.

(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)

And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”

“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”

She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.

Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.

There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base.

And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit.

You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”

“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”

If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”

Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”

She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.

You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.

It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.

(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)

(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)

After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”

She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.

“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes.

Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.

Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”

“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”

“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.

You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”

The smile Steve sends you is blinding.

He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”

Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”

“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.

Steve coughs.

You freeze, face burning.

“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”

“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”

And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”

“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”

(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)

“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.

“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.

“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”

Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.

He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”

You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.

And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.

As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”

You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”

Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?

(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)

The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what.

And for a moment—

For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.

But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.

Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.

Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.

It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones.

Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.

(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)

And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s food, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”

You think that you could cry.

Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”

He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan.

It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.

But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.

(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)

“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”

Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”

“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”

Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.

“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”

You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”

“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”

You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.

“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”

“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”

“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”

Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.

“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”

“I do.”

You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”

A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”

“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”

“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”

Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.

A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.

“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”

This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school.

“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?

She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”

You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”

Something in your gut curdles.

And here’s the crux of the issue:

You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.

(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)

You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”

You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”

“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies.

“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”

“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”

“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re down there and send me the copies.”

“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”

That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”

And the line goes dead.

You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.

Adrift.

You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast.

Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.

Who are you when you aren’t that?

You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.

The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.

What did you do for fun before you were a mother?

You genuinely can’t remember.

Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register.

For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.

If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.

So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.

Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.

Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”

You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.

“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”

The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?

But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”

Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”

He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”

There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”

You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”

“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.

“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.”

An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right?

“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”

His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.

“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”

“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”

“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”

“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”

He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”

You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.

But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”

“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”

“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”

You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you splutter out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”

“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”

You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”

Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.

“Am I?” he asks.

For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”

And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.

You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.

Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed.

There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in years.

While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers.

You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.

It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.

You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.

It’s intense, and your orgasm builds faster than you’ve ever felt before. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.

You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.

If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.

The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.

(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)

Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”

“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”

“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”

“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”

“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”

You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”

It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.

Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.

Fuck.

You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.

And for once, luck is on your side.

His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”

There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”

“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”

“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”

Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”

“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.

“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”

“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew back then. ”

“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”

Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”

“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”

“See you then,” you promise.

The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.

Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.

You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.

(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)

It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”

You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”

With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.

“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.

You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.

For you.

“You look handsome,” you say shyly.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”

You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”

“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”

It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.

It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.

It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve.

Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.

You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.

“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”

“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”

Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”

You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage.

“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.

“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”

“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”

(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)

Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.

She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pull Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.

You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”

There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”

“The town was in lock down,” he argues.

You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”

The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.

You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.

(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)

Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you.

Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.

You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”

“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says.

A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”

A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”

“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test showed that he was the father.”

“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”

“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”

“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”

“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”

A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body.

It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you feel half the time when interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.

The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.

And dinner is…

It’s nice.

It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.

He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.

“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”

“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”

He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it.

“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”

“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”

He beams, but shrugs bashfully, anyway. “It’s no big deal.”

“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”

“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”

“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”

“Not everything has to be,” he says.

And that’s all the assurance you need.

He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.

You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.

You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted.

You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”

He nods. “Yeah?”

“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”

“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”

Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.

And his lips crash into yours.

Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.

It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.

His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in.

It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.

“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”

You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.

It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”

“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.

“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”

“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”

A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”

“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”

“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”

Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.

The reaction is immediate.

It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”

He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.

That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.

You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.

He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school.

The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.

You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.

It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation.

Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.

He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”

“You’re cheesy,” you say.

“Only for you,” he replies.

A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.

“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.

He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.

It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.

“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”

He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes.

Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”

“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”

“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”

Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.

You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.

“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.

The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.

Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—

“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”

And you do.

Loudly.

A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.

You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.

“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”

“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”

You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”

He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.

It’s perfect.

You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”

“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”

His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.

His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”

“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”

His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations.

“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”

“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturouslyslow—he pushes in.

Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.

He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.

And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.

He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”

Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin.

It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust.

It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”

“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”

He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.

“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”

“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.

He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.

It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”

You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.

He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin,

He also, in the years apart, had lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.

It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.

Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric.

The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.

“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”

“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.

He nods, his hair ticking the soft ski of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”

Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”

His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”

“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”

“Yes?”

“Mia was born in ’87.”

“I know,” he says.

“No, no, you don’t—”

A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”

“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”

“Honey?”

“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”

“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”

There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.

And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.

Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.

It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.

“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”

You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.

He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back.

“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me. I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”

But he doesn’t need to explain.

You understand, and you know that he does, too.

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