[Off Campus x fem!reader] [Eventual Garrett Graham x fem!reader]
Summary: Y/N Y/L/N was considered the best goalie in all of college hockey. However, she knew that if anyone, whether it be her teammates, the media, or the fans, were to find out that she was actually a woman behind the mask, her reputation would be screwed and her dreams of getting drafted into the NHL would go down the drain. So, she did would anyone would do if they were trying to be perceived as a man while actually being a woman: She went by her first initial and her last name, she rarely took off her mask, and she did not interact with her teammates off the ice. Y/N was a ghost, a phantom, who came to life only on the ice. The only person that knew of her true identity was Coach Jensen, who was willing to overlook her flaws (being a woman) because of her talent.
After transferring to Briar from Harvard, Y/N finds herself desperately trying to avoid her new teammates, who are keen on getting to know their goalie better, and keep her identity hidden from the world.
Chapter 1: She's The Man
Chapter 2: How to disappear
Summary: Somehow you find yourself co-parenting with the biggest manwhore in all of Briar U.
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Somehow every time I try to write something for Dean I end up not getting anything done but here's a new series that are probably going to be updated very randomly, feel free to send in some ideas of scenarios you'd like to see. Also I'm experimenting with a new format for this story and I think I like it because it's very non comital, hope you like it too.
This is a little intro/ masterlist for the story!
taglist is open now.
Off campus masterlist
Getting pregnant during your freshman year of college had not been the plan. Getting pregnant with the biggest manwhore in your year and probably the whole school even though he was only a freshman too had been even less of your plan. But Dean Di Laurentis wasn't one to back out of a challenge, ever. So when you showed up at his hockey practice and shattered his world with two words, he didn't crumble. Instead, he nodded, asked what your plans were and assured you that whatever it was he'd be there for it.
When you decided you wanted to keep the baby and told him you didn't expect anything from him he hit you with the most outraged defense about how that was his child you were carrying and how he was going to do everything in his power to make sure you were both okay.
You were never together officially, Dean continued hooking up with other girls, now being extra careful, but still made sure he was always showing up for you. One night you called him crying at 2AM when you were five months pregnant because you were hungry but had ran out of the specific mango sorbet you had loved for months now and your back hurt and your feet were too swollen. He'd been in the middle of round two with a blonde from a sorority but as soon as he heard you crying he was already putting on his pants and rushing out the door.
You were way too pregnant by summer, so instead of heading to St.Barts, the entire Di Laurentis family huddled close in New York, your family having decided not to support you, to help you and Dean. His parents gifting you a unit right next to theirs so you could have your own space.
Sadly, the baby had decided to hold on until classes had started again. Dean moved in with the hockey guys into an off campus house, you had found an apartment not too far away that he had insisted on paying for , you'd fought him against it but ended up accepting an 80-20 split for the time being until you could go back to work, Dean hadn't even batted an eye at the money he had spent.
You decided to take the semester off to focus on the baby for the first months swearing up and down that you would be back to start your sophomore year, how? You were still not sure but you knew you'd figure it out.
Dean's friends had been surprisingly supporting through it all. The guys constantly checking up on you while Dean was in class and making sure to always bring something for you. When your water broke you had been at their house with Tucker and Garrett because Dean had insisted you stayed there as you were past your due date and he wanted to keep an eye on you.
You were on your way to the kitchen to get a snack when you felt the liquid splash down on your feet and stopped in your tracks. Garret looked up from the game they were playing and gasped "Did you pee yourself?" "I think my water just broke" Tucker looked at you then with wide eyes "What?" "I think my water just broke" You repeated looking down at the mess you'd made, then looked at the guys and with the calmest look ever you said "Someone needs to drive me to the hospital"
The next 20 minutes had happened in double speed, both boys helping you out to Garrett's jeep, Tucker with your hospital bag clutched all the way to the hospital, where Garrett yelled like a madman for help and it wasn't until the nurse looked at him with the kindest most understanding smile and said "We've got her daddy don't worry" That you all realized no one had called Dean yet.
15 minutes later you were in a room with Garrett and Logan when Dean rushed through the door with Logan hot on his trail. He stayed by your side for the entire 17 hours and 36 minutes the birth took and the moment he held his son he swore his whole world shifted in its axis.
The first week of Sebastian's life Dean refused to leave both of your side's, he missed lectures and practice and hangouts. By the beginning of the second week you called Garrett and begged him to come and take him away because he was driving you insane. The next four weeks were a constant revolving door of Dean's roommates plus Jules (Logan's sibling who had just started at Briar as a freshman) constantly checking up on you and the baby.
At six weeks you and Dean decided you were comfortable enough to take little Seb out, his first trip was straight to the hockey house.
A soft, slow-burn romcom about a girl who makes everything feel alive, a boy who fixes things because it is easier than saying how he feels, and the cherry-red Chevy that started it all.
The Deal With The Devil | John Logan x Fem! Reader
Summary: Y/n is tired of her friends keep assuming she has a crush on Garrett Graham, her best friend's boyfriend. Her best solution? Make everyone believe she’s dating John Logan.
pairings: John Logan x Fem! Reader
warnings: Sexual themes implied. John Logan and the reader can’t stand each other. Some spoilers ahead. English isn’t my main language so excuse any mistake.
authors note: haven’t seen lots of x reader for off campus so i decided to write a little john logan imagine in honor of off campus eve.
Y/n wished things could be simple. She liked to consider herself a simple girl. But life didn’t want to hand her anything on a silver platter. Her love life couldn’t be a silly love story. She was cursed with the worst love trope known to man kind, unrequited love.
God, did it suck. Twenty guys in the Briar U Hockey team, yet she only had eyes for one. She wished she would’ve fallen for her best friend’s brother, that would have been easier than whatever she was feeling now. But no, here you were with a “crush” on your best friend’s boyfriend, Garrett Graham.
Y/n L/n had known Hannah Wells since freshman year. Both of them got assigned to the same dorm and after that, they instantly became friends after Hannah spotted Y/n’s One Direction posters covering her side of the dorm. Y/n and Hannah were tight so imagine Y/n’s surprise when she dropped the bomb that she didn’t like Justin Kohl anymore and that she was dating Garrett Graham.
At first, Y/n didn’t trust Garrett. He was a player. Word around Briar U got around quick and Hockey players didn’t have the best reputation when it came to relationships. You wanted a one night stand? The hockey boys were your guys. You wanted a serious commitment relationship? maybe check in the history department.
But after Hannah begged Y/n to hang out more with the couple, she started to enjoy his presence. She knew Garrett was attractive, at this point it was a requirement for the hockey team to be jacked, hot and have luscious hair. But Garrett wasn’t her type, at all. Maybe it was how Hannah spoke so highly of him or how she would see them together cuddle up by the common room couch wishing it was her that she picked up on the fact that she had a little crush on Garrett Graham.
She felt so guilty. Hannah was her best friend. Why did she have a crush of her best friend’s boyfriend? Yes, he was attractive but so were his roommates. Why couldn’t she have a crush on Dean, Tucker or even Logan.
She thought she had everything under control. One night after hearing them have their second round of sex, Y/n pulled up her notes app to come up with a plan to shake off her feelings. First, avoid one on one time with Garrett and Hannah. Second, try not to gawk when Garrett is around. Third, don’t daydream about watching a movie with Garrett. Don’t daydream about Garrett in general.
For Y/n, her crush on Garrett wasn’t obvious. But for everyone around her it was as clear as day. When she saw them together she would sprint the other way. Which made Dean comment and on the regular that maybe Y/n should consider joining the track team with how fast she would sprint out of that situation. She would also avoid eye contact with Garrett, rambling random excuses to not speak with him. Everyone knew about her little crush, even Hannah and Garrett, themselves.
So after much discussion with Hannah. She had convinced Allie Hayes to speak to you.
“Y/n, come on. I won’t judge. But the first step to overcoming this is admitting you have a problem.” Allie says sitting on the small twin size bed. Y/n forcefully laugh her eyes still glued on the computer in front of her, her physiology midterm essay glaring back at her.
“Allie, are you reciting an addict intervention script? I don’t need to overcome anything, like I said before, you are insane. Why would I have a crush on Garrett? First, he’s Hannah’s boyfriend. Second, he’s not my type? Third… I can’t think of a third because of how ridiculous this sounds.”
“You can’t think of a third because you are clearly lying and are in denial. Look, I won’t judge you Y/n. Garrett’s an attractive guy. But you need to accept that he’s in love with Hannah, so you can move on this pathetic little crush you have. You can’t avoid spending time with all of us forever.”
“I can since I'm here to get my degree. I’m not here to get shit wasted at a stupid frat party or to get accused about liking some guy by my friend. I’m not going, not because I'm avoiding Garrett and Hannah, I'm actually busy doing things?” Y/n replies shutting her computer. Allie scrunches up her face thinking of ways to deescalate the situation.
“You are starting to sound like Logan”
It was ironic. While Y/n was crushing badly on Garrett. John Logan, Garrett’s best friend, was crushing on Hannah. A full soap opera moment if you will. Y/n picked up on Logan’s crush, not because he told her, but because it was pretty fucking obvious with the way he acted around her. Then Y/n would wonder if she was also that obvious, but she would shake it off.
There were two possible options for Logan and Y/n. They could continue with their sad high school crush and avoidance, it would eventually work on the couple making them break up and date the two. or they could date each other to end each other's suffering. When the thought passes through her head Y/n doesn’t think about it twice. That’s how she found herself in John Logan’s room on a Friday night at 10:30pm.
“You told Allie what! No scratch that. How the hell did Allie believe you? You barely even speak to me.” Logan said looking down at Y/n with a stressed look on his face.
“I’m speaking to you right now, Logan.” Y/n claps back as she reads one of Logan’s notes from an Econ class.
There was a small problem with the little white lie Y/n had told Allie. Y/n L/n and John Logan, don’t get along at all. John Logan got along with loads of people, but Y/n was one of the girls that didn’t stick for him. One time she had insulted his form after a game in front of the guys and that was the start of his dislike towards her. They would constantly bicker and to the blind eye, people would consider that there was pent up sexual tension between the two, even if they both denied it.
“You know what I mean. We barely talk to each other and when we do it’s to fight about something stupid.” John replied back clearly annoyed at your comments.
“So, you admit that the things you usually say are stupid? See we are starting to get along already.” Y/n force a smile as she turns to look at the man pacing in front of her.
“How the hell would you tell her that we are together. She has to know you're lying. You clearly aren’t my type.” Logan sat in the chair in front of you tugging his hair frustrated.
“Gee thanks. Don’t worry I don’t go for condescending assholes. She always says we have this pent up sexual tension and that we should work on it. So my best bet was to say I was dating you for it to make some logic. I was helping you out because Tucker has been calling you out on your crush on Hannah and…”
“I don’t have a crush on Hannah.” Logan cuts you off. Slapping his hand on the table in front of him.
“ and I don’t have a crush on Garrett but if we work together we could put those fake rumors to rest.” Y/n replies in the same tone as him. John Logan stands up and leans toward you.
“Fine, it’s a deal. I’m not going to enjoy this. We are doing this under my rules” Logan’s hand rests between your knees pushing them apart.
“Fine.”
“First rule. If they are going to think we are together they need to hear us hooking up” Y/n feeezes, she starts nervously rambling but he chuckles. “ I don’t mean actual sex. We can fake it. Like I said, you aren’t my type.”
“Oh, really? I thought you fucked everything that has a skirt on.” Y/n replied sarcastically.
“I have my exceptions.”
Logan grabs the bottom of the bed and pushes it against the wall. He pushes it again, doing the same action repeatedly as the headboard hits the wall.
“They aren’t going to believe it if you don’t moan. Come on, I know you’re a screamer” Logan says making Y/n glare at him.
“You are a pig. That’s what you tell all your hook up’s to fake their moans?”
“Actually, I work for it. I have an impressive form when it comes to sex.”
“Just like your impressive form in hockey”
“L/n. I wasn’t the one that lied to our friends. If you want to keep this act up and make our friends believe it. No scratch if you so desperately wanted to be in a fake relationship with me, you need to put in the work. Now let me hear you.” He whispered in her ear, still continuing the moments with the bed. His arm would occasionally bump with your knee.
“Why would I be the only one moaning. You need to moan too!”
“I don’t moan.”
“Bullshit. I’ve heard you and you are pretty vocal. Come one John. Hannah and Garrett are next door. You want them to stop bothering with the crush? you better start moaning.” Logan let out a fake but impressive loud moan.
“Damn. Y/n” He let out a breathy moan. You hold in your laugh trying to take the situation as seriously as possible.
“Do I need to go down on you to hear you moan? Because I like a challenge, L/n.”
Summary: In which Garrett Graham’s older sister (22) comes back into his life, in hopes of mending their broken relationship.
A little help from Dean Di Laurentis has you lowering your highly built walls of defence. Brick by brick he shows you exactly how you can depend on someone.
Summary: In March of 1994, Robin and Steve are living in Chicago when they receive the invitation to Nancy and Jonathan's wedding which will take place in Hawkins. Of course, Steve is terrified of going back and seeing how everyone still considers him a childish loser. Robin proposed the idea of Steve pretending to have a stable romantic life to prove he'd changed and Y/N got cast for the role of fake girlfriend; it's just bad irony that she likes Steve Harrington.
Pairings: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader.
Rating: General.
Warnings: there would be characters from the TV show ER (John Carter, Mark Greene and Doug Ross), mentions of typical-period diseases and issues, fake dating, slow-burn, all up until the end of season 4 had happened (Eddie's dead and Max's blind, sadly).
Note: Steve was born in 1966, so he's 28 here. Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan were born in 1967, so they're 27. Dustin and the other kids were born in 1971, so they're 23. As for Y/N, she's 24 here, so she might've been born in 1970 to keep with the story.
Chapter One.
Chapter Two.
Chapter Three.
Chapter Four.
Chapter Five.
Chapter Six.
Chapter Seven.
COMPLETE
Now also aviable on AO3 although I've changed the Reader for an Original Female Character and I've rewritten some parts. It's a 'Nancy's Wedding' 2.0 fic.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
series summary: steve harrington used to be your other half. practically bonded at the hip since you were both in diapers, but when he starts high school the steve you once knew no longer seems to exist. instead he's been replaced by an ass who only seems to care about sports, parties, girls, and his popularity. when steve starts seeing your best friend nancy you're forced to face the one thing you've been running from — how you actually feel about steve. but with the disappearance of will byers and your other best friend barbara holland, you come to find out that things are not what they seem in hawkins and steve and you are forced to face more than just how you feel about each other.
warnings/includes: cursing, alcohol use, smoking, graphic depictions of death, bad childhoods, mental health issues, survivors guilt, 18+ sex scenes, ptsd, miscommunication x100, friends to strangers to lovers, the slowest of slow burns, angst, and the idea that love prevails all.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
season one:
⟡ chapter one
⟡ chapter two
⟡ chapter three
⟡ chapter four
⟡ chapter five
season two:
⟡ chapter six
⟡ chapter seven
⟡ chapter eight
⟡ chapter nine
⟡ chapter ten
"come home to me, okay?"
"always," steve promises.
in between saving will, then hawkins, then somehow the world, you fall in love with steve harrington.
PAIRINGS: steve harrington x henderson!reader, slight jonathan byers x reader
CONTAINS: fem!reader, slow burn, slight enemies to lovers (reader more just pities steve), cursing, miscommunication, unrequited love, angst, protective older sister chaos, violence in the later seasons.
Summary: “You really haven’t changed much, Hughes.” – or the one where luke meets you after three years apart, and he can't figure out what he did to make you hate him.
Pairing: luke hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 17.6k
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ smut in the second part. unstable family relationships, arguments, both petty and serious. reader has divorced parents, a dead grandma, and two brothers who are assholes. overconsumption of alcohol. so much cursing. hints at suggestive things.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
A/N: This fic belongs to this universe. You can still read this fic without having read the prior Quinn fic, but characters from that fic are heavily mentioned in this one. It's Quinn's girlfriend who is nicknamed Bubbles and their six moth old daughter Lilith/Lily.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Luke loved evenings like these—early summer ones, when no one had yet grown tired or annoyed from living together.
The Hughes lake house sat embedded in the overgrown landscape at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, shaded by tall hickory trees and flowering dogwood. White wood panels with pale blue shutters, the big porch sticking out of the greenery.
Luke had lost count of how many summers he’d spent here, but it was nearly as many as he’d been alive. The lakeside community felt like its own sealed-off world, a place where time stood still. The same woman tended the grocery store year after year. The same old man trimmed the greens at the golf course. Even the same stray cat stretched itself across the asphalt each afternoon, forcing cars to slow on the warm road.
At this hour, the lake lay almost flat, a darkening sheet of glass reflecting the pinks and oranges of the setting sun. The heat of the day lingered in everything. It clung to the deck boards, the wicker chairs, and the skin at the back of Luke’s neck.
Barbecue smoke still hung faintly in the air, mingling with citronella and lake damp. Quinn had left the grill lid open, and it ticked softly as it cooled, a small mechanical sound beneath the steady whirr of cicadas starting up in the trees.
They sat around the table like they always had—shoes kicked off, sleeves rolled, the table pulled just close enough that knees knocked when someone shifted. The same group of friends that just always had been there.
Luke didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. He didn’t need to. He felt like he already knew the shape of it—the inside jokes, the same old stories, the easy laughter. He let it wash over him until someone addressed him directly or until something else distracted him.
Lately, that something was Lilith.
Quinn’s six-month-old daughter was, in Luke’s completely unbiased opinion, the most perfect little being to ever exist. Even when she cried—sharp and loud enough for everyone in the house to hear—he wouldn’t have changed a thing.
He wouldn’t have said that a year ago. Not when Quinn had first told him and Jack that he was going to be a dad. That he’d gotten a woman he barely knew pregnant, and that somehow they were trying to make it work.
Luke would’ve said it couldn’t work. He probably even did. Until he met the woman, and then met Lilith, of course. Until he realized that his brother was the most in love he’d ever seen him, and that this wasn’t just some awful, drunken mistake that he’d made.
So, when Lilith started crying now, cradled in her mother’s arms, every head at the table turned instinctively, as if they might collectively solve it.
Her face had gone red, small fists clenched, her body stiff with the effort of it. Luke felt the familiar pull in his chest as he watched her, the strange mix of tenderness and helplessness she always seemed to bring out in him.
“I should put her to bed,” Quinn’s girlfriend murmured, as though she were interrupting. She pressed a lingering kiss into the soft curls at the top of Lilith’s head, rocking back and forth in her chair. “It’s getting late for her.”
A low chorus of agreement hummed around the table, understanding passed without needing explanation. The evening had slipped forward while they weren’t looking.
Quinn leaned toward them, one hand already braced on the table as if he might stand. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, you should stay,” she assured him, stroking his shoulder as she stood from the table.
She lingered a moment longer, adjusting Lilith’s blanket, settling her against her hip. As she turned to walk toward the house, she gently said, “Good night, boys,” waving Lilith’s chubby little hand for her.
“Night, Bub. Night, Lils,” Luke said as they passed him. He reached out without thinking, his fingers closing briefly around Lilith’s sock-clad foot.
By the time Luke let go, they were already moving toward the warm glow of the house, the screen door creaking softly as it opened and shut behind them.
Conversation at the table picked back up, though in a lower cadence. Luke heard it without really listening. He stayed where he was, caught in a pleasant, sleepy haze, drifting along rather than participating. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he’d eaten too much. Maybe it was just one of those evenings that asked nothing of him at all.
Still at the table were him, Jack, and Quinn, along with two other brothers—Dylan and Devin. Devin had gone to school with Quinn, while Dylan was a couple years older. Luke wasn’t sure when or why they’d become a permanent fixture of these summers. It just was the way things always had been.
He could still picture all five of them out on the lake, their dads shouting instructions as they dragged them behind the boat on wakeboards, arms burning, laughter swallowed by wind and water. He remembered tents pitched in the yard, flashlight-lit sleepovers, the kind of small, sacred summer moments that only felt magical in retrospect.
He also remembered being jealous. The way Dylan had started pulling Quinn and Devin along to house parties long before Luke was allowed. Sometimes even Jack had been invited, but Luke was always deemed too young.
Luke suspected he was still a little bitter about that.
Dylan and Devin were different from most of the guys they’d grown up around. Mainly because they weren’t hockey players. Devin had gone to the University of Michigan on a football scholarship and now worked for their dad’s construction company. Dylan had followed a more expected path—finance degree, real estate license, steady and respectable.
Now, Luke knew he was privileged. His whole family was. Three professional athletes didn’t just happen on talent alone. Four if he counted their mom. He liked to believe some of it was skill and dedication, but he knew his name opened doors too.
Still, the Hughes weren’t privileged in the same way Dylan and Devin were. Not even close. You could see that just by looking across the lake.
Their summer house rose older and grander than the rest, perched on a gentle hill above the water. Shingle-style, white-trimmed, with a wraparound porch detailed in intricate woodwork. It had belonged to their family for generations. Luke had been inside it hundreds of times and was fairly certain there were still rooms he’d never seen.
The massive property had been subdivided sometime in the eighties, but the garden was still the most impressive part. A weeping willow dipped into the lake. Pink and white flowers filled every corner. A greenhouse sat tucked back from the shore, home to the best strawberries Luke had ever tasted.
Their grandmother had ruled that garden with an iron hand and impossibly green fingers.
Luke had lost count of how many times she’d scolded him for stepping off the path, for cutting across the lawn, or for slipping on morning dew and leaving muddy tracks toward the lake trail that curved all the way back to their house. He’d complained at the time. Now, the memories felt strangely tender.
She’d passed away early last year, and the garden showed it. Still beautiful, but no longer as precise. Greenhouse windows clouded with dirt. Flower beds grown wild. The cherry tree he’d once climbed as a kid now stretched unchecked, branches reaching dangerously close to the glass below. One good storm and they’d shatter the greenhouse.
As Luke sat there, thinking about that cherry tree, he noticed movement across the water.
A woman was crossing the lawn.
From this distance she looked small, but he could make out the ladder balanced against her shoulder, shears held confidently in her other hand. She moved with purpose, heading straight for the cherry tree.
Luke frowned. That was strange.
Dylan and Devin’s parents had divorced not long after their grandmother died. They’d been separated for years and maybe that was the last straw. Luke guessed there’d been nothing left for their mom in Michigan. It was their dad’s mother, but she’d always liked their mom best.
And sometimes their sister.
But the woman by the tree wasn’t their mom. And their sister hadn’t been back to Michigan since, well… since Luke got called up to play for the Devils. So, three years? Not that there was any correlation to those things. He’d just noticed it around the same time.
Luke watched the woman steady the ladder against the cherry tree. She tested it once with her foot before climbing, careful but unafraid, as though she’d done it a hundred times before.
The words left him before he’d fully thought them through, cutting across whatever conversation the rest of the boys had been having.
“Did your dad already move on from the divorce?”
He felt it land wrong immediately. Or at least it sounded very wrong.
Quinn turned toward him, his expression sharp. “Luke, don’t be insensitive.”
Luke shifted in his chair, hands gesturing at the lake. “I’m just wondering who the woman climbing your cherry tree is,” he said, defensively. “That’s all.”
That made all five of them turn their heads in the woman’s direction. Dylan laughed, the sound breaking cleanly through the quickly built tension. Devin followed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe Luke was serious.
“Calling Baby a woman is a little bit of a stretch, Luke,” Dylan said.
Baby. Oh. Oh no.
His eyesight had to be playing tricks on him—distance, twilight, memory filling in gaps. There was no way the woman in the tree was you. Dylan and Devin’s little sister, nicknamed Baby for reasons Luke had never fully understood and no one had ever bothered to explain. But the name just stuck. Everyone called you that.
You didn’t look like you used to. Or maybe that was the point. Luke hadn’t seen you in over three years. Of course you wouldn’t look the same. Of course you wouldn’t still exist exactly as he remembered.
“That’s what Baby looks like now?” Jack said, leaning forward, squinting across the water.
“The nickname might be a little outdated,” Devin laughed.
“She’s only twenty-two,” Dylan countered. “Still a baby.”
Quinn snorted into his drink. “Luke is also twenty-two,” he said, glancing at him. “And the tallest one here.”
“I am closer to being twenty-three,” Luke muttered automatically. He’d been correcting his age around them for as long as he could remember.
“Still babies,” Dylan joked. “Practically the same age as Lilith.”
Luke barely heard them.
His eyes had gone back to the lake, to the hill beyond it, up the cherry tree, and to the woman climbing it. You reached up, snipped a branch cleanly, and let it fall into the grass below.
This was how he remembered you best. From a distance. Always just outside the center of things. Sitting on the dock with your feet in the water while they roughhoused behind you. Handing out towels. Rolling your eyes when they got too loud.
You’d always been there. At every bonfire, every lake day, every half-forgotten summer memory. Until you weren’t.
And then there were the memories that came closer. When you’d both started college at the same time. You two against the world. Just kids pretending not to be lost.
What he couldn’t remember was where it had gone wrong.
“W–what is she doing here?” Luke asked, the words catching slightly on the way out.
Dylan stared at him. “What is our sister doing in our summer house? During the summer?”
“No, I just—” Luke stopped, recalibrating. “I mean, she hasn’t been here in years.”
Not since things had changed. Not since Luke had stopped being just another boy you grew up with.
“I guess she got tired of going to St. Barths with Mom or something,” Devin said with a shrug. “I gave up trying to understand either of them. They talk in riddles.”
“She looks… different,” Jack said slowly, still leaning to see. “Older.”
Quinn nodded. “Yeah. All grown up.”
The word settled uncomfortably in Luke’s chest.
He’d known, logically, that you wouldn’t still be nineteen. Time hadn’t paused just because he hadn’t been around to witness it. Grown-up meant you weren’t the girl who used to steal his hoodie when the nights got cold. It meant you weren’t the one sitting on the dock, pretending not to watch him jump into the lake, shirtless.
It meant you weren’t frozen in the version of you he’d left behind during sophomore year of college when hockey had pulled him away.
But logic had very little to do with the way his stomach tightened as he watched you climb down the ladder, brush your hands against your shorts, and tilt your face up toward the tree, assessing your work.
Luke looked down at the table, at the rings of condensation left behind by empty bottles. He tried to remember the last thing he’d said to you.
He couldn’t.
Luke didn’t say anything else. Not that anyone noticed. The conversation drifted on to something new, while his thoughts began to spiral around the simple, unsettling truth that you were here.
And he was not ready for that at all.
Across the table, Quinn kept glancing toward the house, his attention pulled tight and thin like a string stretched too far. Luke knew he couldn’t be relaxed unless he knew his girlfriend and Lilith were safe and asleep. He’d seen the same twisting emotion on his brother’s face countless times.
Dylan followed his gaze and snorted. “Jesus Christ, Quinn. Just go check on them. You look like you’re being held hostage.”
Quinn huffed, pushing his chair back slightly. “I’ll be back. I just wanna make sure they’re asleep.”
“Yeah,” Devin said dryly. “Sure.”
Quinn didn’t bother responding. He stood, already halfway gone, his footsteps fading toward the house and the soft glow spilling out onto the porch.
The space he left behind shifted—something subtle tightening around the table. Maybe it was because Dylan and Devin had always been Quinn’s friends first. Or maybe Luke was just more aware of small changes than usual.
“So,” Dylan said after a beat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “How serious is this thing between Quinn and his girlfriend, anyway?”
Jack lifted his glass, a little unimpressed. “How serious? They have a kid together.”
Luke couldn’t help but laugh a little. Yeah, that pretty much explained the situation fully.
“No, no, I get that,” Dylan said, waving a hand. “But is it anything more than that?”
“He doesn’t argue when we make marriage jokes anymore,” Jack said with a shrug. “That doesn’t mean he has the balls to actually propose. I guess they’ve only officially been together for, like, a year.”
Devin shook his head slowly. “When did this happen? When did we all grow up? Like, we’re actually grown-ass adults now.”
“Adults?” Jack scoffed, eyes flicking to him. “Luke hasn’t even had a girlfriend.”
“Well, at least I get some,” Luke cut in, surprised by how quickly the words came. “Jack, you haven’t talked to a girl in years.”
Jack rolled his eyes and tossed a paper napkin at him. “Shut up, dumbass.”
Laughter rippled around the table, easy and familiar. Luke smiled faintly at the sound, but his thoughts were already drifting back across the lake. Everyone else seemed perfectly content to joke their way forward.
Luke kept on having the sinking feeling that this summer was going to be a mess.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Your mom had taught you not to stare. It was apparently rude and not very ladylike. But you’d never been very good at listening to other people. Especially not the ones who told you what to do.
So when something was worth staring at, you stared. Even if you told yourself you weren’t.
A black BMW rolling slowly up your street was worth staring at.
Cars mattered to the men in this little lakeside community. Polished Ford Broncos lined the driveways like colorful trophies. Pickup trucks rumbled past, each one louder and more polluting than the last. Every now and then, there would even be a new sports car pulling up to the country club valet. It was a dick-measuring contest laced with envy, and you had no interest in it.
Or at least you thought so. But you’d never seen a BMW like this around here. Not sleek and black and out of place. Not an SUV that looked like it could be driven by a housewife in Beverly Hills.
You knew you had been staring when you heard Kayla crash to the pavement again, just a couple of feet in front of you. You were almost sure this girl would never learn how to ride a bike. Not with you and your scatterbrain as a teacher.
“I’m giving up!” she announced loudly, her legs tangled hopelessly in the bike frame as she tried, and failed, to stand.
You quit your staring, jogging the few steps over and steadying the bike with one hand while helping her up with the other.
“No, no, you’re actually doing really well,” you said, scanning her quickly for injuries. “You are. I swear.”
It wasn’t worse than before. A scraped knee. Pebble-shaped indents in her palms where she’d caught herself on the asphalt. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that didn’t come naturally when learning how to ride a bike.
Kayla’s cheeks were flushed pink, big freckles standing out sharply against her skin. Her pink helmet had shifted crookedly, and even through it you could tell her Dutch braids were coming undone beneath it. So much for fixing them this morning.
“But it’s boring,” she pouted, though her expression betrayed her almost immediately. Her gapped-tooth smile slipped through, no matter how hard she tried to look miserable. “And I’m bleeding through the band-aid.”
You crouched in front of her knee, inspecting the Hello Kitty band-aid you’d put on earlier. It had slid halfway off and was sticking to itself more than her skin. She wasn’t bleeding, but it was close enough for a ten-year-old to think she was bleeding.
“You wanna take a break?” you asked, looking up at her.
Kayla nodded far too quickly. You knew she wasn’t as upset as she acted. “There are popsicles in the freezer,” she added, hopeful.
You huffed out a laugh through your nose. Of course there were. “I’ll grab two, and you can put the bike in the garage.”
Kayla darted ahead of you like she’d been waiting for permission all along, her helmet bobbing as she dragged the bike behind her. You watched her disappear into the garage before heading inside yourself.
You walked through the house with your sneakers still on, out of habit more than anything else. Kayla’s mom never minded. The house was cool and dim after the sun. You crossed the kitchen and pulled the freezer open with one hand.
The bright popsicle wrappers jumped out immediately. You grabbed two without really looking—one red, one orange—the cold biting sharply into your fingers.
You leaned against the counter for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the muffled sounds of summer through the door left open behind you. Birdsong, the breeze rattling the trees, and the hollow thunk of a car door closing somewhere nearby.
The black BMW.
Your jaw tightened. You shook your head at yourself, as if that might shake the thought out too, then tore off a paper towel and wrapped it around the popsicles before heading back out.
The front door creaked as you stepped onto the porch. You sat down on the steps and immediately looked straight at the street. You didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t staring.
Luke Hughes.
Of course it was him. You didn’t know why you’d bothered entertaining any other possibility. As if a mysterious luxury car had driven onto your street for any reason other than to personally inconvenience you.
What the fuck was he doing on this side of the lake?
Couldn’t he have stayed on his own cul-de-sac? Couldn’t he have given you that much—one summer in Michigan where you didn’t have to see him unexpectedly, unprepared, and already furious at yourself for even caring?
Then you saw where the BMW was parked. Next to a pale blue sports car, right outside Simon’s house. Of course. You guessed Luke was allowed to park by his childhood friend’s house. He always had places he belonged.
He was unloading the trunk now—cases of beer, bags of groceries—stacking them neatly on the curb, waiting for Simon to come help him. It irritated you how reasonable it suddenly seemed that he’d driven the car instead of walking the two minutes around the lake. You hated that you understood him.
As if sensing your stare, Luke glanced up.
Your stomach dropped. Your expression didn’t change—not because you were composed, but because you were actively frozen in annoyance. Across the street, Luke’s face lit up anyway. He raised a hand in an easy wave, smiling like this was a completely normal thing to stumble into.
You did not wave back. And you did not stop staring.
You felt twelve again. And nineteen. And twenty-two. All at once.
You were vaguely aware of Kayla climbing the porch steps beside you, her helmet knocking lightly against the railing as she hopped up. You had to stop staring at him.
“Oh,” she said, following your gaze. “That’s a nice car.”
You startled, immediately focusing on her instead. “Here,” you said too quickly, handing her the red popsicle. “Careful. Before it drips.”
Kayla’s little gingham shorts fanned out as she sat down next to you, already peeling the wrapper back with her teeth. “Is that Luke?” she asked, her words muffled.
“I think so,” you mumbled, pretending to focus on unwrapping your own popsicle even as your attention kept drifting.
Across the street, Luke moved again, lifting another case from the trunk. He laughed at something Simon said from the driveway—an eerily familiar sound that carried farther than it had any right to. You didn’t want to hear it.
He glanced your way again, still smiling, still completely missing the fact that you were one bad thought away from snapping your popsicle stick in half with the pure force of your fingers gripping it.
Then Simon clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder and jerked his head toward the house. Luke followed, disappearing up the steps and through the front door without looking back again.
Just like that, the tension loosened.
The street went quiet in the way summer afternoons always did, like the world had exhaled. Leaves rustled in the trees. A lawn sprinkler clicked on somewhere down the block. The lake shimmered faintly through the gaps between houses.
Kayla took a dramatic bite of her popsicle and immediately winced. “Ow. Brain freeze.”
You laughed, soft and automatic. “Told you to be careful.”
She squinted at you suspiciously, then laughed too, sticky and pink-mouthed and entirely unbothered by anything bigger than the moment she was in. Entirely unbothered by Luke as well.
You’d known Kayla all her life. Almost literally—save for a day or two. You and your grandma had shown up with a casserole the afternoon her parents brought her home from the hospital. You remembered thinking she looked like a doll then. Big brown eyes and blonde hair shaping into ringlets.
Somehow, she’d turned into this.
She sat beside you on the porch steps, legs swinging, helmet abandoned at her feet, freckles dark against sunburned cheeks. She was too old to be little and too young to be anything else. Always hovering in that in-between space you knew all too well.
“Music!” Kayla announced suddenly, like the thought had struck her out of nowhere. “I wanna listen to your music.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at the way she said it and her clever little face.
Your music didn’t mean music you made. It meant whatever lived on your phone. Whatever was the latest half-finished playlist you’d put together. Kayla understood that, even if she didn’t have the words for it. She still called it your music because it sounded different from what she heard on the radio or what her mom played. It sounded like you. And she liked it better than the rest.
You pulled your phone from your pocket and untangled the corded headphones you still carried everywhere. Because AirPods couldn’t be trusted. Because the universe had a vendetta against you and the tiny white slippery objects. Because you’d already lost two pairs to subway grates in New York—watched them slip straight through the metal slats and vanish while commuters stepped around you like a tragedy hadn’t just happened.
Kayla grinned when she saw the cord. “Can I have one?”
You handed it over, looping the other bud into your own ear. You bumped shoulders as you settled closer, knees touching.
“Well?” you asked, looking through your phone. “What should I play?”
“The Matilda song,” Kayla said, almost proudly, like she’d been waiting for the right moment to suggest it.
You tilted your head at her. “That’s a pretty sad one, Kayla.”
She shrugged, unbothered. “But I like it. I like the movie.”
That tracked. Kayla loved Matilda. The movie and the musical. You’d watched both with her more times than you could count, though only once so far this summer. A rainy afternoon, the two of you curled up on the couch while the lake disappeared into fog outside. Kayla had narrated half the scenes before they happened, indignant on Matilda’s behalf every time her parents brushed her off.
And the song—the one Harry Styles wrote inspired by the movie—made sense too.
You liked Harry because you’d been a tween when One Direction was everywhere, because his voice was threaded through your own coming-of-age in ways that still felt nostalgic. Kayla liked Harry because he wore colorful clothes and danced a lot on stage. You’d caught her once mimicking one of his concert videos in the living room, spinning with her arms out, utterly unselfconscious.
You hit play. The opening notes sounded almost metallic through the shared headphones, like the song was playing from inside a can. Kayla listened with her whole body—chin tipped up, feet swinging, popsicle forgotten for a moment.
You guessed you liked Matilda too. Maybe the song more than the movie. There was always a weird disconnect when watching children’s movies as an adult. Especially the ones that had surprisingly disturbing plot lines. That Matilda was straight up abused and neglected had flown right over your head when you were a child.
When the lyrics came in—about a girl, about growing up lonely, about her celebrating her birthday without wanting her family there—Kayla went quiet. Then she asked, right on cue, exactly what the song asked first.
“Why would she have a party without inviting her family?”
She looked up at you with her big eyes, probably thinking the question was simple. That it had a finite answer. That you, an adult, would be able to tell her exactly the right thing.
You chewed your lip. “Not everyone likes their family,” you said. “Matilda gets adopted by her teacher in the movie, right?”
“Yeah,” Kayla said. Her voice had gone smaller. “I always thought that was sad.”
“I guess it could be,” you said. “But I think the point is that you should choose to be around the people that make you happy, and that they in turn are happy by having you around.”
Kayla nodded slowly like she understood.
“Matilda’s parents weren’t too happy with her, were they?” you added, gently explaining.
“No, they didn’t understand her.”
Kayla hummed, thinking. She was so small here, so present, and you felt the sting of all the recent summers you hadn’t been here. The ones you’d spent holed up in New York, pretending your anger at Michigan was reason enough.
“But I guess that’s good,” she continued, not noticing your gaze drifting. “If I were having a party, I’d want to invite you. And we’re not family.”
Your throat tightened. “I’d come. No question.”
Her freckled cheeks lifted in a soft smile, and for a moment the space between your guilt and the present shrank.
“Is it like why you left Michigan?” she asked carefully.
The word carefully mattered. Kayla had a tendency to be blunt. She didn’t yet know how to polish her words to land softly, even though she probably knew she was asking difficult questions. But she asked that one with a soft voice, leading you into answering instead of stumping you with a frank question.
It was unsettling sometimes—how much she picked up on when you’d never actually told her anything. You’d never sat her down and explained your family in neat, understandable pieces. You’d never said to her that your brothers weren’t the kindest of people to you. Or that Michigan stopped feeling safe after your grandma died. Or that you didn’t know how to come back once you’d made such a big deal out of leaving.
And yet.
You stiffened at the question, because even though she couldn’t fully know, the answer lurked right under your teeth, sharp and waiting.
“To get away from your stupid brothers,” she added matter-of-factly, “because they don’t make you happy?”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Kids weren’t supposed to be this perceptive. They were supposed to miss things. Kayla never seemed to.
“It’s… kinda like that, I guess,” you said, putting down your popsicle in its wrapper, your fingers immediately going to rip at the loose pieces of cuticle next to your thumbnail.
Your brothers still treated this place like it belonged to them. Maybe because they lived just an hour or two away in Detroit most of the year. Maybe because they felt entitled to it.
They treated it like nothing had changed. Like your grandma hadn’t died alone in the living room with the windows open and the lake breeze coming in. Like your parents hadn’t signed the divorce papers at the kitchen table the same day as her funeral, while you packed your things to fly straight back to New York.
You hated that you hadn’t been here. That you hadn’t spent her last summers helping her carry trays out to the porch, listening to her gentle scoldings about the garden or the lake level or the way everyone drove too fast these days. You’d been too stubborn, too angry, and too caught up in things that felt wrong that you couldn’t step foot here longer than a weekend at a time.
Michigan felt different without her. The house did too. It was quieter. Less forgiving. And you hated that your brothers didn’t seem to notice—or worse, that they noticed and didn’t care.
Kayla nudged your arm, pulling you out of your thoughts. “I don’t think I’ll ever want to leave this place.”
You looked at her and softened. “That’s okay,” you said. “But if you ever do, you should feel like you can. That’s what’s important.”
“I really like Michigan,” she insisted.
You smiled, grateful for the pivot. Grateful for the chance to make the subject light again, to tuck everything sharp and heavy back where it belonged.
“You might really like Paris, too,” you suggested. “Or Tokyo. You could buy the biggest Totoro plushie you’ve ever seen.”
Her eyes lit up instantly, like you’d flipped a switch.
“Or New York!” she said. “Like you. We could see Matilda on Broadway. And go shopping!”
You laughed at her enthusiasm, easy and real. You could already picture it—her craning her neck at tall buildings, dragging you into stores with too much excitement, insisting on window seats at every café.
Kayla gasped suddenly, like the thought had just landed fully formed. “Do you think I could get pink Converses like yours in New York? Because Mom still hasn’t found any in my size here.”
She pointed down at your shoes. A fresh pair you’d bought before the summer—light pink canvas with glittery shoelaces catching the sun. You’d lost count of how many variations of pink shoes you owned by now.
You knew people called them childish. Too girly. Your brothers had always made fun of you for your stereotypical love of the color pink. You liked to think they just didn’t understand the concept of having a signature style.
“You know what?” you said. “When I go back at the end of summer, I’ll send you a pair. Customized with your name and everything.”
“Oh my god, really?” She bounced once on the step, then paused, looking up at you. “I know you don’t like Michigan,” she said softly, “but I think Michigan really likes you.”
And for the first time in three summers, sitting here on this porch with her, sharing corded headphones tangled between your ears, you let yourself think that maybe Michigan did like you. Or at least Kayla did.
You just weren’t ready to like Michigan back yet.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
You’d cried on your first day back here.
Devin had picked you up from the airport, but only after you’d made countless jokes about how terrible of a driver you were. It wasn’t true to you, but he had always believed it. And if that was what it took to get him to come get you, then it was a sacrifice you were willing to make. Dumb yourself down so he could feel useful.
Like he was helping because he had to. Otherwise you’d die in a ditch.
When you’d seen the big house at the end of the street, you’d immediately gotten teary-eyed. It was some weird mix of nostalgia and guilt at first. But as you walked through the house, hauled your bags into your old bedroom, and took stock of what had changed since the funeral, that feeling curdled into something uglier.
You were angry. Because the place was decaying.
Maybe not literally. Not the house, at least. Your dad still paid someone to clean it. The floors gleamed. The windows were spotless. Your brothers’ ridiculously clean cars still lined the driveway.
But the garden was decaying. The lawn was neatly cut, the surface-level greenery bright and deceptive, but everything underneath had been left to fend for itself. The flower beds were choked with weeds. The greenhouse plants had gone feral or brittle. And the big cherry tree and your grandma’s rosebush—her rose—had been abandoned entirely.
Your brothers had been here. Your dad had been here. They’d walked through this garden again and again, probably with beers in their hands, probably talking over each other, and not one of them had thought—maybe we should take care of this. Maybe we should protect the things she loved.
No. They just got to live in her house and not care.
You’d tackled the cherry tree a couple of evenings ago while Dylan and Devin were gone. You hadn’t known what they were doing, and you hadn’t cared to ask. Your dad wasn’t around much since he was working in Detroit, so you hadn’t had to worry about his questioning gaze either as you’d climbed that tree.
Today’s project was the rose.
A rambling rose, nearly a century old. Planted by your great-grandmother when the house was first finished. It still bloomed in beautiful shades of pink. You loved the color. Your grandma had always called it Dorothy. When you were little, you thought it was from The Wizard of Oz. It took you years to learn it was just the botanical name for it.
Every spring, like clockwork, it had been carefully pruned. First by your great-grandmother. Then by your grandma. And when your grandma’s hands got too stiff, she’d stood on the porch and instructed your mom instead.
Now it had been left alone to die. Or to swallow the house whole. You weren’t sure what would happen first if someone didn’t take care of it.
The rosebush was no longer a bush. It was an entity. A sprawling, thorny beast that had swallowed the corner of the wraparound porch whole, thick vines clawing their way up the railing, bound to leave the wood under it slowly rotting from moisture. Pink blooms still burst through the chaos, beautiful and suffocating, strangled by dead branches and weeds that had no business being there.
The pruning shears felt wrong in your hands. Too big and bulky. You had no idea what you were doing. It probably wasn’t even the right time of year to cut it back. But you felt like you had to. Otherwise your grandma might haunt you. And frankly, you wouldn’t blame her.
Your pink rain boots sank slightly into the soft earth as you neared it, damp from last night’s rain. Your grandma would’ve hated that part—don’t trample the soil, sweetheart—and the thought alone made you want to cry again.
You crouched beside the bush and blew out a sharp breath. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, shoving a thorny branch aside with your gloved hand. “Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”
You snipped at a dead stem with more force than necessary. The shears snapped shut with a satisfying bite.
A thorn caught your arm as you reached again, scratching a thin, angry line across your skin.
“Hey,” you said, jerking back. “Don’t attack me.”
As soon as you tried to move, you got snagged again, leaving another long scratch, quickly prickling red with the faint tint of blood.
You glared at the rosebush like it could see you. Like it was doing this on purpose. Like it knew exactly how precarious you already felt standing there.
“Okay,” you said, voice tight. “I’m trying to help. I’m trying to fucking fix things.”
You tugged your glove higher, squared your shoulders, and went back in anyway.
The afternoon had settled into that quiet lull your grandma used to love—the cicadas loud enough to be comforting, the air thick and warm, the lake barely visible through the trees. You could almost imagine her watching from the porch, hands on her hips, telling you not to rush, not to hack at it like that, sweetheart.
Roses needed patience. Care. They are just like women, she used to say.
You were about to laugh out loud at yourself at the thought—that maybe Grandma had been right all along. Thorny, angry, half-dead, and wearing pink. Maybe this rosebush was just like you.
But a shout came from inside the house, sharp and sudden enough to make you flinch.
“Baby! Come in here!”
You closed your eyes for half a second, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. The word and Devin’s voice echoed in your head, unwelcome and familiar, sliding straight down the back of your neck like a chill.
No one in New York called you Baby. Not your friends, not your mom, not coworkers or baristas or men who thought shouting at you from across the street was flirting. You’d carefully outgrown it. Shed it like a skin you’d decided no longer fit.
Here, though, it still clung to you.
You’d joked once—okay, more than once—that if the boys had known the word bitch when they were kids, that would’ve been your nickname instead. Because Baby had never meant sweetheart. It wasn’t a term of endearment. It meant crybaby. It meant too loud, too emotional, too much. It meant whiny little bitch.
You set the shears down harder than necessary and trudged toward the house, pink rain boots caked with mud, arms scratched and stinging, patience already so fucking thin it felt translucent.
The kitchen was bright when you walked in from the porch, sunlight bouncing off clean countertops and white cabinets. Devin stood near the island, unpacking a grocery bag like he hadn’t just yelled at you as if you were a dog.
He looked up.
And you stalled mid-step, frozen in the doorway.
Part of it was shock. Part of it was the fact that you were wearing muddy boots and could practically feel your grandma’s ghost hovering behind you, arms crossed, ready to scold you for daring to track dirt onto her fragile marble floors.
You didn’t move. You just stared.
“You’re wearing pink?” you blurted.
Devin glanced down at himself, confused. A pink linen button-up, crisp and unmistakably expensive. The kind of shirt he would’ve mocked mercilessly if it had been hanging in your closet instead of on his back.
“It’s Ralph Lauren,” he said, like that explained everything.
You kept on staring. “You’ve made fun of me for wearing pink my entire life.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, already turning back to the groceries, “this is different.”
You scoffed. Of course it was.
His attention flicked back to you then, side-eyeing you as he opened the fridge, doing a slow assessing sweep. Your denim dungarees were smudged with dirt, the cuffs darkened where they’d soaked up mud. Your pink rain boots left faint tracks on the tile. Your hair was shoved up and back like you’d lost a fight with it and given up halfway through.
“And why do you look like a farmer?” he asked.
You threw your hands out, immediately regretting it when a fleck of dried dirt flaked off your glove. “Because someone needs to save Dorothy before she fucking dies.”
Devin blinked. “Who?”
“Grandma’s rose,” you snapped. “Never mind. I know you don’t care.”
He didn’t argue. Just turned back to the fridge, like that was proof enough. “Whatever,” he said, reorganizing things in the fridge to fit more. “I need you to bake Grandma’s cherry pie for tonight.”
You froze all over again. “What?”
“We’re having people over tonight,” Devin explained, casual, like he hadn’t just asked you to exhume a memory and serve it on a plate.
“Who is we? And why does that automatically mean I have to bake?”
“Because you’re the only one who knows how,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t loaded. Like it wasn’t painfully, unmistakably clear why your grandma had only ever shown you how to make it. “And it’s just the normal bunch.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t know who belongs to the normal bunch anymore.”
“All three Hughes,” Devin said easily. “Simon and Josh. Small gathering.”
Fuck. There it was.
Your chest went hollow in a way that felt practiced, like your body had rehearsed this reaction just in case. You kept your face neutral through sheer force of will, even as your thoughts skidded wildly.
Luke. Of course, Luke.
You’d known, logically, that if Dylan and Devin were hosting something, he’d be invited. That he belonged here in a way you hadn’t for years. Still, the confirmation landed like a punch to your stomach.
“And you expect me to stay here,” you said slowly, “while this house fills up with testosterone?”
“Quinn is probably bringing his girlfriend,” Devin said, still not looking at you. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “And his daughter, so you won’t be the only girl.”
You couldn’t really comprehend what he was saying, your response coming out hurried and stuttered. “Wait, hold up—Quinn has a daughter? Since when?”
“Since New Year’s,” he said, finally turning from the fridge to look at you. He made you feel even dumber than you probably were. “Do you live under a rock?”
“No, I just—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “You know I don’t keep up with hockey.”
You hadn’t, not really. The last version of Quinn you remembered was awkward and sweet and incapable of flirting without turning red. The idea of him with a girlfriend—with a child—felt disorienting in the same way seeing Luke had. Like time had continued without your permission.
You had to Google this later.
“This isn’t really about hockey, Baby,” Devin said, softer now, but no less firm. “This is about people you would’ve considered close friends before you moved to New York and turned stupid.”
You looked at him, something like a smile tugging at your mouth. “So you thought I was smart before I moved?”
“Oh, shut up,” he said, rolling his eyes as he shut the fridge with a solid thud. He gathered the empty grocery bags and headed down the hall. “And bake the pie, please.”
“Fine!” you yelled after him. “But if I poison it, that’s on you.”
His laugh echoed faintly from somewhere deeper in the house, and you stood there alone in the kitchen, muddy boots and all, wondering when exactly your quiet return to Michigan had turned into this.
—
You couldn’t go open the door when the bell rang because your hands were covered in flour. Even as Dylan yelled at you to get it, you couldn’t. Because your hands were covered in flour.
By the time the door opened and the house began to fill with voices—shoes squeaking on the tile, laughter too loud for a closed space—you stayed where you were at the kitchen counter, back turned to everything. You listened as Dylan herded them through the house and out into the garden, toward the greenhouse and the grill, the sound thinning as they moved farther away.
You still didn’t turn around. Because of the flour.
You were also a terrible, terrible liar.
But if your brothers wanted this damned cherry pie, they were getting it. Lattice crust. Braided edges. Handpicked cherries from the tree, pitted one by one until your fingers ached. Soaked in amaretto for hours before you even thought about turning on the oven. Just like Grandma used to do.
You hadn’t gotten drunk on the rest of the almond liqueur during the waiting time like she had, though. No. Instead, you’d paced the length of your bedroom, changing outfits twice, then a third time, spiraling over what to wear and how the hell you were supposed to act tonight.
You couldn’t be mean, even if part of you wanted to be. Creating a hostile environment felt worse than disappearing altogether. Silence, maybe, was your safest option. You couldn’t really be nice either. Not genuinely. Not to your brothers, or Luke, or Simon. You’d never liked Simon. He had always talked like he expected you to laugh.
Maybe talking to Quinn and Jack would be easier. And Quinn’s girlfriend. You hoped she wasn’t awful. Or dull. Or painfully quiet in that way that made conversation feel like hard work.
Before you’d even started in the kitchen, you’d googled Quinn.
You’d known about the massive trade to Minnesota—somehow that had broken into your orbit—but you’d completely missed the part where he’d gone and acquired an entire child. Maybe hockey players got married and had kids so young that it all blurred together. It wasn’t even newsworthy. Maybe your algorithm had decided that wasn’t your business. The trade, though, had even been on your usual newsfeed.
The pictures you’d seen of the kid were adorable. So was his girlfriend.
You didn’t really have any other thoughts about it. You didn’t know Quinn well enough to feel entitled to opinions. He’d always been kind to you, in a quiet, unassuming way, and you liked to think you’d returned the favor. If this—Minnesota, a girlfriend, a child—was his dream life, then good for him. Truly.
So, when a woman’s voice drifted in from the entryway now—warm, easy, unmistakably kind—it was the only thing keeping you from melting down completely. A lifeline, really. All thanks to Quinn.
“Oh, hi! It smells lovely in here.”
You turned from the counter, flour dusting your hands and forearms, the half-built lattice crust paused mid-weave. Quinn’s girlfriend stood just inside the kitchen, hovering politely at the threshold like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to cross it yet. A baby balanced on her hip, round-cheeked and alert, big eyes already tracking your movement with unsettling focus.
Relief loosened something tight in your chest.
“You must be Quinn’s girlfriend,” you said, automatically softening as you looked at the baby. That part of you—the one in school to be a teacher, the one who loved children almost painfully—slid into place without effort. “And who’s this little sweetheart?”
“This is Lilith,” she said, her expression easing when she saw your reaction. “Lily, for short. And—” she hesitated, then smiled. “Most people call me Bubbles.”
That got a laugh out of you, surprised and genuine. “I’m Y/N,” you said. “Or Baby. Depends who you ask.”
Bubbles tilted her head, curiosity bright but gentle. “I was curious about that. Is it from Dirty Dancing?”
You snorted. “Oh, no. I wish.” You shrugged, suddenly hyperaware of how vulnerable the answer felt. “I was just always the youngest and shortest and, uh—” you waved a floury hand vaguely. “The biggest crybaby around here when we were growing up.”
She grimaced sympathetically. “Then I think I’ll call you Y/N.”
You smiled at her. “I’d appreciate that.”
As if encouraged, she took a few tentative steps farther into the kitchen, Lilith shifting against her as she moved. After a moment, she leaned the baby gently against the counter’s edge, one hand still secure around her middle.
Lilith seemed perfectly content, fingers knotting curiously into the neckline of her mother’s dress, pulling gently at her pendant necklace. She was utterly unfazed by being in a new place and the chaos of voices drifting in from outside.
“I was a little hesitant to come,” Bubbles admitted. “I’m very new in these circles. Quinn convinced me by saying there’d finally be another girl around.”
You huffed softly. “I would’ve been hesitant too. I grew up with them, and it’s still a testosterone overdose most days.”
She let out a breathy laugh. “Tell me about it.”
You clocked it then—the way she kept glancing toward the doorway, the careful way she positioned herself so Lily was always between her and the noise. The nerves tucked neatly beneath politeness. You knew that feeling too well. Being the only girl in this group of guys who weren’t that great at including people. Being new, or just young. Always being watched and evaluated.
“But you—” she started, then stopped herself, readjusting Lily again. “You moved away from Michigan, right?”
“I did,” you said. “Transferred to NYU. I’m still there, finishing my master’s. I have a job lined up at a special education school in Brooklyn.”
Her face lit up immediately. “Wow, that’s really cool.”
It wasn’t performative. You could tell. “I’ve only briefly been to New York,” she added. “We visited Jack and Luke once.”
“Are you from Vancouver, then?” you asked. You tried to go back to your lattice weaving, but you couldn’t really do two things at once.
“Yeah,” she said. “Well, now we’re in Minnesota. But we met in Vancouver.”
“Right, fuck—” You winced, clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. Even I heard about that trade.”
She laughed, easy and unbothered, even as Lily blinked up at you like she’d just been introduced to a fascinating new sound. “You’re fine.”
“So, how did you meet Quinn?” you asked after a beat. “I kinda lost track of people once I moved.” You hesitated. “I was… surprised to learn he has a daughter now.”
That was putting it mildly. Your Googling session hadn’t actually been that successful. There was no curated announcement, no glossy maternity photoshoot. Just one blurry picture of Bubbles, heavily pregnant, slipping out of an arena beside Quinn like they’d been caught. Not secret, exactly. Just not for public consumption.
The photos from after Lilith’s birth were just as scarce. Just one of her asleep in her stroller, hidden in a photo dump on Quinn’s Instagram. You weren’t sure why you’d unfollowed him, but for some reason you had and maybe that was why you’d missed this entire thing too.
“Ellen always used to say Luke would be the first to do… everything like that,” you added lightly.
Luke had always been the youngest, but somehow still the one everyone expected things from. He just had that personality. Comfortable and someone people clung to. You’d believed it too, once—when you were small enough that loving him felt like something inevitable.
Bubbles smiled, crooked and fond. “I think Quinn thought so too. The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, so we kind of had to deal with it by, uh…” She shrugged. “Falling in love, I guess.”
Your eyes widened. “Seriously? That must’ve been terrifying.”
“Oh, it was,” she said easily. “Rocky at times. But we’re great now.”
You looked at Lily again, at the way her tiny fingers flexed, the way her gaze followed your movements, looking at the pie and the bright red cherry filling.
“You’re an adorable little family,” you said softly. “She looks exactly like they all did when they were kids.”
“So I’ve been told,” Bubbles laughed. “It’s like my genes didn’t even try.”
“Noo,” you argued immediately. “She has your eyes. Quinn’s nose, but definitely your eyes.”
Bubbles glanced down at Lily like she was seeing her anew, her smile lingering.
“I brought ingredients to make Palomas,” she said after a moment, shifting her weight. “Do you want me to make you one while you keep going?”
Your hands paused mid-motion over the latticed dough.
“Is Paloma the one with grapefruit?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah. Grapefruit, lime, tequila,” she said, grimacing a little. “I can’t drink much, but I’ve been craving citrus since Lily was born. She wouldn’t let me stomach it earlier.”
You hesitated, your next words arranging themselves cautiously. Grapefruit wasn’t something you ran into often. Who did, really? The one time you’d had to explain it—at a rooftop party in New York, drink already in hand—you’d danced around the truth until the glass was quietly replaced and no one asked questions. You didn’t love revisiting it.
“I’m sort of…” You trailed off, then exhaled. “Allergic to grapefruit. But there should be other things in the fridge. A tequila soda would be perfect.”
“Oh. Oh,” she said. Then immediately, warmly, “I get it. Absolutely.”
She didn’t make an unnecessary pause. No weird look. No further questions.
“Where do you keep your glasses?” she asked instead, already shifting Lily up on her hip.
“Top cabinet, left of the sink,” you said, nodding with your elbow. “There’s a knife right here for the limes.”
She moved easily through the kitchen, opening the cabinet with her free hand, letting Lily lean briefly against the counter while she grabbed a glass. She washed a lime at the sink, slicing it carefully on the cutting board you’d pitted cherries on.
Moms were always good at multitasking.
“I used to be allergic too,” she added casually, twisting open the soda as she spoke. “For a short period, just before I met Quinn.” She smiled over her shoulder at you. “It sucked. Not being able to drink Palomas, I mean. The other effects were definitely necessary.”
Something inside you unclenched. You hadn’t even known her five minutes, but you still quickly decided that you trusted her. You felt the ease of it rush through you. The way she’d said it without apology or explanation, without making it a thing. Just a fact of life. That sometimes medication was necessary. That sometimes the medication meant you couldn’t eat grapefruit.
You’d spent years learning how to say it sideways, how to soften it so people wouldn’t look at you differently, so they wouldn’t ask what you took or why. Bubbles hadn’t asked. She’d just adjusted, like it was normal. Like you were normal.
A moment later, she slid the glass onto the counter beside you—cold, fizzy, a wedge of lime perched neatly on the rim. Condensation immediately bloomed against the glass.
“Thank you, Bubbles,” you said, meaning more than just the drink. Then, glancing at Lily, “And you too.”
“We should probably go say hello to the rest of them,” she said. “But you can always shout if you need help. Or a cute baby to hold.”
You looked down at your flour-covered hands and laughed softly. “I might take you up on that once I’m not covered in flour.”
—
Dinner happened the way it always did here—too loud, too much food, and everyone acting like things were picture perfect. You tried to not think too much of the looks you got when you finally exited the kitchen, Devin yelling at you that the food was done.
You just politely nodded and said hi—to everyone all at once and to no one in particular.
The boys didn’t look too different even though you hadn’t seen most of them in three years. Everyone a little older, a little broader, and with more solid attempts at growing facial hair.
Jack was already mid-conversation with Josh, Simon, and your brothers. Leaning back in his chair, easy and very familiar. He’d always been the most talkative.
Quinn sat beside him, quieter than the others. Lily balanced expertly against Bubbles’ side, his hand resting at her back. You saw immediately how they fit together. They just made sense.
And then Luke. Slightly apart. He seemed taller, maybe prouder, and you didn’t know how his hair had gotten so curly. Unmistakably Luke in the way he listened more than he spoke. He wasn’t like that in every circumstance. You’d seen him be the life of the party in college when he lived with all of his hockey teammates. But in this group, he was still the youngest brother. Still the least confident.
His eyes darted quickly to you as you walked down the garden path. You weren’t sure if you were smiling, but you thought you tried to. Even if you were angry. Maybe more disappointed. Or just embarrassed to even have to be here.
Luke broke eye contact first. He always did, or maybe you were just shameless when it came to staring.
The table had been dragged out onto the grass in the shade of the greenhouse. It was one of those long folding ones that wobbled no matter how many coasters someone shoved under its legs. Paper plates, mismatched cutlery. Smoke from the grill curled lazily through the air, carrying the smell of charred meat and barbecue sauce and corn that had been forgotten and then rescued at the last second.
That usually happened when Devin was in charge, but he also refused to let anyone else help him.
You’d taken the seat farthest from the center of it all. Not on purpose. You just… ended up there. Close enough to participate if required, far enough that you could fade in and out without anyone making a fuss. Maybe even slip back inside without anyone caring.
Your brothers did most of the talking. They always did.
Dylan told a story you’d heard at least four times before, something about a road trip that got worse every time he retold it. Devin interrupted him constantly, correcting details that didn’t matter, arguing for the sake of it. Simon laughed too loud. Josh chimed in when he felt like it.
The boys spoke over one another, forks clinking against plates, beer bottles sweating onto the table. You also wondered when the fuck those white nicotine pouches had become so popular. They looked gross clinging to their gums as they spoke.
You focused on eating.
On cutting your food into careful pieces. On chewing slowly. On not rolling your eyes when Devin said something stupid or when Dylan got that condescending tone that made your shoulders tense without you even realizing it. He used it on everyone, even the people he considered friends. You’d never understood the purpose of that.
You could do this. You had done harder things than sit at a table and be quiet.
Across from you, Bubbles shifted Lily higher up on her lap, murmuring softly when the baby fussed. Lily’s attention snagged on everything—the flicker of the citronella candle, the way your fork moved, the bright pink of your nails when you reached for your drink. At some point, she locked eyes with you and smiled, wide, semi-toothless, and delighted, like she’d discovered something wonderful.
You smiled back before you could stop yourself.
“Do you want to hold her for a minute?” Bubbles asked quietly, leaning toward you so her voice didn’t get swallowed by the noise.
Your heart stuttered. “Yeah,” you said, just as softly. “If you want a break.”
She laughed under her breath. “I’d love one.”
Bubbles lifted Lily across the table to you and you supported her with your hands, cradling her body in your arms. Lily fit against you easily, warm and solid and surprisingly heavy. She curled her fingers into the fabric of your shirt and rested her forehead against your collarbone. You were almost sure you heard her exhale, relaxing in your hold. You smiled at the sensation.
“You’re really good with her,” Bubbles said.
You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “I like kids. Studying to be a teacher and all.”
That got Quinn’s attention, and you internally cursed yourself for even speaking in the first place.
“Yeah?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “That’s awesome. Where at?”
“I’m in New York with our mom,” you said. Short. Safe.
Luke looked up then.
It was subtle, but you caught it—the way his head turned a beat too fast, like he’d been waiting for an opening without knowing how to take it. His brows knit together slightly, confusion flickering across his face when you didn’t elaborate.
“New York?” he echoed, tentative. “What are you, uhm— What are you doing there?”
You felt it immediately. The invisible line. The way any real answer would sound like showing off, like throwing your life in their faces. You could already hear Dylan’s voice in your head, the teasing that wasn’t really teasing at all.
“Gettin a Master’s,” you said, pursing your lips into a thin line. “In special education.”
Luke’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s—”
“—practically babysitting,” Dylan cut in. “Long hours, not much pay. Makes sense for you though, Baby.”
You nodded once, like that was fine. Like it didn’t matter. But you felt it land somewhere deep and dark in your stomach. You felt the old, familiar burn rise up your throat—the urge to correct him, to say something sharp back, to remind him that teaching wasn’t babysitting, that it was work, that it mattered.
You just swallowed it all down instead.
“Yeah,” you said calmly. “I know.”
Anyone with ears could’ve heard how unfair it was. The way he’d reduced years of effort into something worthless. Bubbles stiffened in front of you. Quinn shot Dylan a look. But no one said anything.
Luke looked a little confused at how Dylan had interrupted him. His jaw tightened, something unsettling flickering across his face. He glanced at Dylan, then back at you, clearly debating something. Whatever he decided against saying, he swallowed it, taking a long drink instead. He didn’t look annoyed—just lost. Like he’d missed a step and didn’t know how.
Conversation surged around you soon again, carrying on without you. Someone argued about football. Someone else brought up their golf plans for the summer. Your brothers were in their element—comfortable, loud, unchanged.
You sat there with Lily in your arms, listening, breathing, counting the moments until you could politely disappear back into the house.
Every so often, Luke looked at you. Not staring, though you were pretty sure you stared at him. He seemed to just be checking. Like he was trying to figure out when exactly things had shifted.
You kept your eyes on the table. On Lily’s tiny hand gripping your thumb. On the steady, fragile calm you were trying so hard not to break.
—
You lasted through dessert. That had to count for something.
The cherry pie disappeared faster than you’d expected. Plates were passed back and forth, forks scraping against paper, compliments tossed your way that you acknowledged with small nods and noncommittal hums. Devin managed to take partial credit somehow—“it’s only Grandma’s recipe”—and you swallowed the urge to correct him, because correcting him would turn into defending yourself, and defending yourself would turn into an argument.
When the plates were mostly empty and the boys had settled deeper into their chairs, beers in hand, conversation dissolving into drunk half-thoughts and overlapping laughter, you seized your opportunity.
“I’ll get these,” you said, already collecting empty bottles and dirty dishes before anyone could argue.
No one did.
The kitchen felt mercifully quiet after the backyard. The door closed behind you with a soft click that felt like permission to breathe again. You set the dishes down in the sink with more force than necessary, the clatter echoing briefly before fading. You turned on the tap, let the water run hot, grounded yourself in the simple mechanics of it—scrub, rinse, stack.
You didn’t care that the water stung your hands. You didn’t care that it hurt. It distracted you from paying attention to the pressure behind your eyes.
You were not going to cry. Not here. Not over this. Not because Dylan had that tone again when you mentioned New York, or because Devin hadn’t noticed at all. Not because you were tired of shrinking yourself to make things easier for them.
Halfway through the pile, you heard the kitchen door creak open. You sensed it immediately, that prickle between your shoulders. The feeling of being watched.
You didn’t turn around when Luke stepped into the doorway. You could see it was him though your periphery, wearing some stupid striped button-up shirt. You just kept looking at the sink. At how the water was tinted pink from the cherry stains. At how the dish soap floated on top of it like bubbly little islands.
“Hey,” Luke said quietly.
Your hands stayed submerged. The heat had gone from sharp to numb, skin raw and tingling, but you didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to be here,” you said, voice flat.
“I just wanted to talk.”
You hated how small he sounded, reminding you of when you two were young. When Ellen would force apologies out of him after he’d pushed you into the lake or ditched you halfway home on his bike.
You didn’t want an apology now. Not for anything that had happened tonight. And you didn’t trust that he’d understand what you actually wanted, even if he tried.
He was just going to ask the wrong thing and make you want to cry all over again. You could feel it coming.
“Why did you transfer from Michigan?” he asked.
Right. A stupid question.
Because you applied together. Because he left. Because the friends you had here were really his first. Because going home every weekend felt worse than staying. Because your mom moved to New York. Because you were tired of being alone in places that were supposed to feel like home.
You could’t say any of that to him.
Your throat tightened. You scrubbed at a spoon that had been clean for a while now, jaw trembling as you tried to breathe through the sting of tears in your eyes.
“Why are you even talking to me?” you managed.
Luke hesitated. You could hear it in the silence. When he spoke again, he sounded genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”
You let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Don’t act like you don’t know, Luke.”
He shifted his weight. The floor creaked softly beneath him. “Why New York?”
You shut the tap off with a sharp twist. The silence that followed felt too loud. Then you turned around to look at him. You hated the look on his face. You hated how big he looked standing there, how grown, how put together, while you felt stripped down to something raw and childish and embarrassingly sensitive. You hated that you couldn’t just handle this.
“Why do you care?” you asked. The words came out harsher than you maybe meant to, but you couldn’t take them back now.
Luke blinked, expression empty like a blank piece of paper. Just flat. You weren’t sure if he was thinking too hard or not at all.
“It’s not too far from Jersey, y’know,” he said with a shrug.
He couldn’t have been thinking at all. You didn’t even try to untangle what he might’ve meant by that. Whether he thought you’d moved for him. Whether he thought you owed him something because you’d only been a bridge and a train ride away. Whether he’d ever once considered reaching out himself.
“Oh my god,” you snapped, shaking the thought away. “Shut the fuck up.”
Luke looked stunned. Genuinely. “What?”
“There’s not a single cell in my body,” you said, voice shaking now, tears burning hot on your waterline, “that wants to deal with you again, Luke.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t.” You cut him off, heat rushing up your neck, your chest tight and aching. “Don’t stand there acting like this is some casual catch-up. Like you didn’t just—” You stopped yourself, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. If you kept going, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop talking. Or crying.
Luke didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure he could. Words weren’t going to fix this.
“Have a night,” you muttered, quickly drying your hands on a dish towel, already moving out of the kitchen.
You didn’t wait for a response and you didn’t look back.
You took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, the noise from the backyard growing louder and then suddenly very far away. You shut your bedroom door behind you and leaned against it, breath coming too fast, too shallow.
You hated that he could still do this to you. Hated that he didn’t even know why.
And worst of all, you hated the small, traitorous part of you that had been relieved—stupidly, painfully relieved—that he’d followed you inside at all.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Summer in Michigan wasn’t too bad when you were left on your own.
When Dylan had to be at his real estate office, or when Devin drove into Detroit to help your dad at the company. When all three of them disappeared for eight hours at the golf course, or had dinner at the country club, or took the boat out on the lake and came back tired and sunburned, smelling like fish and beer.
That was when Michigan almost felt like it used to.
Because you had the house to yourself.
You baked sourdough for breakfast, letting it rise slowly on the counter the way your grandma used to. You ate thick slices with butter and marmalade, and drank tea in the greenhouse—its windows finally clean again, thanks to you. You invited Kayla over on the days you babysat her, pushed her on the tire swing until she shrieked with laughter and let herself drop into the lake. You watched her swim back to shore over and over again with the same joy every time.
She still didn’t really know how to ride a bike, but she was getting better. One afternoon, the two of you made it all the way down the block to the weekly farmers market. You bought her fresh strawberries and yourself a bouquet of pink dahlias. She didn’t fall once.
You were playing house by yourself, cooped up in your grandmother’s massive old home, and you liked it—even if the thought came with a sharp, double-edged guilt. Liking it because no one else was there felt cruel in a way you didn’t quite know how to name.
On evenings when no one came home, you cooked dinner just for yourself and ate it on the porch. You played music through a small speaker and didn’t care if it was too loud or too sad or too girly. You went down to the dock sometimes and swam before bed, the lake cool and dark around you.
There were no rowdy boys trying to push you in. No wandering gazes lingering too long on your body. The absence of that alone felt calming in a way you hadn’t known to expect—like peace had been possible here all along, just at the cost of being alone.
And then there was sleep.
Your old room sat at the end of the long upstairs hallway. It had been your grandmother’s once, too. White wooden panels lined the walls, oak floors that creaked no matter how carefully you walked. The bed had an iron frame and the linens were hand-sewn. Even your pillowcases had your initials embroidered in pale pink silk thread—your grandmother’s careful stitching, still intact.
You loved it in there. And you hated it.
The room was beautiful, heavy with memory, its four walls holding too many versions of you at once. You tried to soften it with new things—fresh clothes in the wardrobe, new books on the shelves. A little suitcase record player. A few favorite records hauled from New York; others bought from a friendly old collector at the farmers market.
It just… didn’t quite work.
You couldn’t outrun the feeling that you’d outgrown the space. That you’d left a little girl behind here who wasn’t you anymore. The person who stared back from the vanity mirror looked more polished, more careful than that little girl had ever been.
The vanity was your grandma’s too. You remembered sitting on the edge of the bed as a child, watching her get ready—hair rollers clipped in place, floral perfume hanging thick in the air, sheer pink lipstick always the final step. You’d asked questions about everything.
Now, you sat there yourself, glossing your lips, brushing black mascara through your lashes, and the resemblance caught you off guard.
Summer wasn’t supposed to look like this.
Summer was supposed to have scraped knees and blistered feet and bug bites you couldn’t stop scratching. She wasn’t supposed to be wearing a short dress and jewelry, wasn’t supposed to be putting on makeup before joining the other kids at some party.
Well, the kids were all grown up now. And apparently, so were you.
Simon was throwing a house party, and you’d told yourself it was okay to go. Dylan and Devin were both in Detroit for the day—you were sure of it—and you still had old friends in this town, even if you rarely let yourself think about them. You could show up. You wouldn’t make it weird. You wouldn’t let it become weird.
So with your pink Converse tied and your summer dress zipped carefully up your back, you headed downstairs feeling—if not confident—at least steady. Lightly buzzed from a pre-drink of lemonade and vodka. Loose enough to breathe.
Halfway down the stairs, you stopped.
Outside, car doors slammed shut. Dylan and Devin. Their voices floated up faintly through the open windows.
Through the kitchen opening you could see your dad sitting at the island. He was looking at something on his phone, reading glasses perched low on his nose. Only the pendant above the island was turned on, casting a warm, narrow pool of light, catching the silver hair at his temples and the ever-growing frown line on his forehead.
Your knees locked with how quick you froze, but it was too late for you to retreat now.
For a second, the sight of him like that felt strangely intimate. Domestic. Like a photograph you hadn’t looked at in years.
He had been such a girl dad when you were born. Obnoxiously proud. The kind who kept your kindergarten drawings in his briefcase and showed them off at work like they were blueprints. He used to call you his Baby like it was a title, not an insult.
The divorce had hollowed him out. Well, the separation at first, but since the divorce, you truly couldn’t recognize him. It had taken his softness and folded it inward, where it curdled into bitterness and control. Love that didn’t know where to go anymore.
Your dad didn’t look up at first, but you saw his jaw tighten slightly, like he’d heard your footsteps down the stairs anyway. When you finally managed to reach the bottom step, he looked up, and surprisingly, he smiled.
“Well,” your dad said, eyes flicking over you, “look at you.”
You paused, one hand still on the banister.
“Where are you headed all dressed up, Baby?” he asked.
“Simon’s having a party,” you said. “I don’t know. I thought I’d go for a bit.”
You were twenty-two years old. You’d gotten blackout drunk before. You’d had sex. You were a college graduate. You did not need to ask for permission from your father to go to a party down the street. Yet this felt an awful lot like you were doing exactly that.
“Blue house?” he asked mildly. “Dad with the Porsche 911 Turbo?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t know what car he drives. But yes. It’s across the street. Simon was quarterback on Devin’s team. You know him, Dad.”
“Right,” he said, pleased to have placed it. “I think your brothers might be heading there too.”
“Yeah, well,” you said quickly, shifting your weight toward the door, “I’m gonna go—”
“Hang on,” he said gently. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even stern. Just tired, like he was asking you to sit with something he’d been carrying around all day. He quickly turned his phone toward you. “Have you seen these?”
Your stomach sank before the screen even fully came into view.
It was open on your mother’s Instagram. A photo mid-scroll on a beach in St. Barths. Sunlit and smiling, bikini straps thin against her shoulders. Jared stood beside her, tan and broad, his arm slung around her waist with an ease that felt almost too intimate for a public account.
“She always posts vacation photos, Dad,” you said evenly.
“She doesn’t always post them like this,” he replied, just as calm. “Wearing next to nothing. With some man none of us know.”
“I know Jared,” you said. “Dylan’s met him too. When he had that work trip to New York.”
You didn’t add anything else. Didn’t say that you couldn’t stand him. That he was a personal trainer that had slid into your mother’s life with protein shakes and “clean eating” and comments about calories that made your skin crawl. That he’d convinced her she needed to optimize herself, like she was a project instead of a person.
You weren’t handing your dad that win. On Instagram, Jared looked like the perfect rebound. And you refused to be the one to puncture that illusion for him.
Your dad let out a quiet, humorless snort. “Is he as much of an airhead as he looks?”
“I think they have fun together,” you said. “That’s kind of the point.”
He leaned back against the counter, exhaling through his nose. “So, what? I’m not allowed to be concerned now?”
“I didn’t say that.” You kept your voice low and measured. “I just don’t think this is something I need to weigh in on.”
“You already did,” he said. “When you moved to New York.”
There it was. Slipped in gently, like it hadn’t been rehearsed.
He’d never liked New York. Even less now that you and your mom were there. He hadn’t visited you once. Devin liked coming when the Red Wings were playing some team in the city. And even Dylan had once made time for you during a work trip.
You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. You couldn’t say what you wanted to say, so instead, you said what felt reasonable.
“I’m not going to badmouth Mom just so you can feel better about yourself,” you said. “That’s not happening.”
“I just want what’s best for her,” he insisted. “Dating some thirty-five-year-old isn’t healthy.”
“And being this bitter is?” you shot back, the words leaving your mouth before you could soften them.
He didn’t respond. Just looked away, jaw set.
“You took down the family photos,” you continued. “The ones she was in.”
His fingers tightened around his phone. It almost looked like it hurt.
“And don’t get me started on the garden,” you continued, voice steady despite the ache creeping up your throat. “You had two things to take care of after Grandma. Two things that mattered to her and Mom. And you did neither.”
“Well,” he said after a beat, “you weren’t even here, Baby. Isn’t that worse?”
That time Baby landed like an insult. Like you were too young to handle this. Too young to understand what had happened here because you’d taken the first chance you got to get out of here, watching the chaos unfold safely from three states away.
“Did you ever stop to wonder why?” you slowly asked. “Why I don’t feel like this is home anymore?”
His expression hardened, just slightly. “You’ve got an attitude problem,” he said. “You know that.”
You laughed, short and breathless, anger and hurt tangling in your chest. “Who do you think I got it from?” you asked. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t Mom.”
Silence stretched long between you.
Outside, you could hear laughter drifting from the street. Music starting up somewhere nearby. You grabbed your keys from the counter, hands shaking, and didn’t wait for him to say anything else.
—
Simon’s family home was already loud when you got there.
It wasn’t later than nine o’clock, but people were crowding the porch and the lawn. You could spot some moving inside through the windows. Music spilled out in uneven waves, bass thudding through your chest as you pushed past the open gate of the white picket fence.
Someone (it had to be Simon’s sister) had strung fairy lights along the porch and into the backyard, the glow warm and hazy against the deepening dusk. Red cups littered every available surface—railings, window sills, the hood of someone’s parked truck. Laughter rose and fell in bursts, familiar voices layered with people you only half-recognized now.
You didn’t slow down.
You made a beeline to the backyard, where you knew there’d be a drink table. It was muscle memory at this point. You’d gotten drunk at Simon’s parties before.
You were acting out of pure emotion, heart still racing from the argument, adrenaline buzzing hot under your skin. You poured vodka into a cup without measuring, topped it with whatever mixer was closest, and drank like you were trying to outrun something. Or drown it. The burn was grounding. Good.
You told yourself you were fine. You told yourself this was exactly what you needed.
The crowd was a blur—some old classmates, neighbors’ kids who’d grown into strangers, people who still saw you as part of a set you’d quietly stepped out of.
“Hey there, Baby.”
You turned from the table and nearly ran straight into Jack Hughes.
You hadn’t talked much to Jack during the barbecue a couple of nights ago. So, staring at his face now felt a little odd. He looked exactly like he always had and nothing like you remembered all at once.
“Fuck—” You almost spilled your drink over your hand. “Hi Jack.”
Jack laughed gently, steadying your hand with his own. You didn’t know why you were surprised that he was touching you, let alone talking to you. You didn’t know Jack. Not like you knew Luke. But he was always kind. A little too outgoing for you, maybe. But that didn’t matter now. You just needed someone kind.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, grinning. Then, almost immediately, the grin flattened. “No offense. I just assumed you’d escaped Michigan again.”
You huffed out a laugh. “I fear you’re stuck with me until August.”
“Same with me,” he said, glancing around the party with open skepticism. “I arrived here and suddenly felt ninety years old.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, shrugging. “I think I hate this.”
You snorted despite yourself, the sound surprised out of you. “Really?”
“I think I’m going through something,” he said. You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “It’s a whole thing.”
For some reason, that helped. That he was kind of grumpy. The way he didn’t try to sell the night as anything other than what it was. A reason to get drunk. A reason to act like you were a teenager again.
Before either of you could say more, someone clapped loudly from the backdoor.
“Okay!” a voice shouted. “Never have I ever—everyone inside! Drinks up!”
You hesitated, and then you looked over at Jack. Which turned out to be a mistake. Because in mere seconds, he’d hooked his arm through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world and started dragging you toward the living room, drink sloshing dangerously in his free hand.
“Come on,” he said. “If we’re doing this thing, we’re doing it properly.”
“If nothing else,” you muttered, stumbling a little as you were pulled along, “I’m already kind of drunk.”
“Perfect,” Jack replied. “That’s the spirit.”
A circle had already formed in the living room by the time you got there—people sprawled on the floor, leaning against couches, some sitting cross-legged with their backs to the walls. Someone shoved a bottle of vodka into your hand as you sat down beside Jack in a corner, knees brushing. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in like he was bracing for impact.
You topped off your drink before you handed him the bottle.
The rules were shouted over one another, only half-serious. You didn’t even know if this game had proper rules. You just drank when you’d done the thing, right? You took a sip before the first question was even asked, mostly to have something to do.
You looked around at the people participating. It took a while to place some of them. It was a lot of younger siblings who were now full-grown adults. Someone you remembered being twelve years old who suddenly was old enough to have a full beard. Some had to be strangers. Invited friends and partners, just here for the summer.
You spotted Devin too. Already laughing too loudly, and sat in Josh’s lap for some reason. The floor was empty beside him. He looked drunk and really happy.
A girl you recognized as Jessie started by calling out the first prompt. She’d sold you the dahlias at the farmers market. You liked her solely for that reason.
“Okay, I’ll start,” she almost shouted. “Never have I ever had car sex!”
A groan rippled through the room. Several people drank immediately. Jack drank without hesitation, then glanced sideways at you.
You shook your head at him, putting your hand over your cup as a clear indication that you weren’t drinking.
Jack grinned. “Not a backseat romantic, Baby?”
“I live in New York. People don’t have cars.”
Laughter broke out around you, and you realized that more people had heard you than intended. Maybe that came from sitting next to Jack. People listened to Jack. You guessed it wasn’t too horrible—to have people know something you had not done.
Next up was the guy beside Jessie. He’d played on Devin’s football team in high school. That was about all you knew. He still looked like a jock, even in his mid-twenties.
“Never have I ever kissed someone of the same gender!” he called out.
Ooh. Wasn’t that predictable? The loud laughter coming from the crowd told you so, at least. This time you drank without thinking. So did Jack. You caught his eye mid-sip.
“Huh,” he said thoughtfully. “Look at us.”
“New York is also very liberal,” you said, swallowing down a big gulp.
A few rounds passed like that—questions blurring together, drinks getting stronger, your cheeks warm and buzzing. You felt lighter than you had all evening, like the sharp edges had been sanded down just enough to breathe.
You’d almost forgotten why you hated Michigan so much. Almost.
Because then you spotted Luke across the room, coming up from the basement.
He stood with a group you vaguely remembered, mostly people you’d seen at their house through the years. Beside him stood a girl with beautiful strawberry blonde hair. When she turned so you could see her face, you noticed that it was Simon’s sister. Emma? If you remembered correctly. She was supposed to be, like, fifteen at most, in your head. But now she looked like a woman. Pretty in a way that felt very intentional.
Her hand rested easily on Luke’s bicep as she laughed at something he said. He laughed too, head tipped back, mouth open, unguarded.
He laughed like he’d never been lonely. Like he’d never been hurt. Like there was still hope around him. Adolescence still burning brightly somewhere inside of him. Like everything was still allowed to be a game.
Your stomach burned from the alcohol. You told yourself it was the alcohol.
“Y/N!” It was Jessie who yelled at you. “It’s your turn.”
“What? Okay,” you startled, feeling everyone’s eyes on you again. “Never have I ever… sucked on someone’s toe.”
You felt your cheeks burn. How was that your first thought?
But the people playing still laughed. A handful of people drank, some groaning out of disgust. You looked over at Jack to see what he was doing. To your surprise, he gently sipped his drink.
“You’re kinkier than I thought!” you chuckled, having to point at him so that people would see him drink.
“I lost a bet, okay?” Jack said defensively. “It was the opposite of sexy.”
Then came his turn to shout out a prompt. You almost felt the room slow down because people paid so much attention to him. You didn’t look at Jack, though. Something else caught your eye.
Luke was scanning the circle of people, his eyes firstly landing on Jack as he spoke and then directly on you.
“Never have I ever… masturbated with someone else in the room.”
People drank. More than you expected. Enough that someone laughed in surprise, someone else groaned like they’d been exposed against their will. Maybe it was one of those gross challenges boys did to see if they could get away with it.
But it wasn’t that to you.
The memory rose up warm and uninvited, surprisingly gentle around the edges. And across the room, you watched recognition dawn on Luke’s face at the exact same time it did in your own mind—his mouth parting slightly, eyes widening just a fraction.
It was almost funny in hindsight.
How nervous you’d both been. How carefully you’d avoided looking directly at each other. How awkward it had felt, hip to hip on your narrow dorm bed, both of you pretending this was normal, that you knew what you were doing. You’d thought then that actual sex would be so much worse—more embarrassing, more exposed.
Which was ironic, because a month later you’d slept together, and it hadn’t been awkward at all.
But that first time—your first anything—had been that night. Just exploring. Just hands beneath underwear, and the quiet, shared relief of figuring something out together.
You’d cornered him into confessing he was still a virgin after overhearing some of the hockey guys talking shit at a frat party. He’d nodded along back then, pretending he understood, and you’d known immediately that he didn’t.
And that he was adamant to learn.
One thing led to another, and somehow you’d ended up making yourselves come in the presence of each other. It was exactly as awkward as it sounded.
You laughed softly now as you lifted your cup and drank. Across the circle, Luke hadn’t moved. His eyes were still on you.
“Nope,” Jack said immediately, turning toward you like he’d been personally victimized. “Absolutely not. I refuse to process this.”
You shot him a look. “What? I’m not a child, Jack.”
“That doesn’t mean I wanted that information,” he said, genuinely pained.
You laughed again—louder this time, a little unsteady. And somewhere between that laugh and the next sip, Luke disappeared from the living room. You scanned the space once, then again. He was gone.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” you nudged Jack with your knee. “You need more to drink?”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “No, I just—” He gestured vaguely at the room. The cups. The laughter. Then he whispered, “Don’t you think this is all a little juvenile?”
You considered that. The way everyone seemed to be reaching backward at the same time. The way it felt safer to joke about the past than to talk about the present.
“I fear that’s the point,” you said finally. “This group gets together like twice a year. They might as well reminisce on the good old days by acting like they’re still fifteen.”
Jack snorted. “Well, then I guess I don’t like it being the point.”
You clinked your cup against his anyway. “Cheers to being bitter.”
You drank what was left of your mostly full cup. And if you got very drunk very quickly after that—well. At least you weren’t alone.
—
The night stopped being linear at some point.
Not in a bad way at first. It just… melted and became blurry. Like someone had smeared Vaseline over your field of vision, and time loosened its grip, stretched thin like warm taffy. Everything felt both too fast and impossibly slow. The game dissolved into side conversations and music you didn’t recognize, bodies shifting, people standing and sitting and standing again for no real reason. Laughter spiked and faded in waves, like you were standing knee-deep in it.
You stayed where you were. Jack stayed too, for some reason.
Which was nice, actually. People drifted over to him constantly—old teammates, friends of friends, people who clearly hadn’t seen him in years but acted like they had. A bunch of girls that Jack seemed to have absolutely no interest in.
His bitterness would’ve been concerning if you didn’t know that he’d already hooked up with his fair share of girls in his life. He could use a break.
Jack annoyingly was likable. He talked easily, laughed easily, that same extroverted ease carrying him from one conversation to the next. Yet, every time, he came back. Plopped down beside you again like you were his home base.
You drank.
You drank because your cup was empty, and that felt wrong. You drank because someone asked if you wanted another, and waiting to answer felt like too much effort. You drank because your chest felt too tight and your head felt too full, and alcohol promised—falsely—to smooth the edges.
Jack refilled your cup. Then it was someone else. You weren’t sure whose hand it was anymore, just that the cup kept finding its way back to you, red plastic sticky against your palm.
You didn’t know when your thoughts had started looping.
Your dad’s face at the kitchen island. The way he’d said Baby like a compliment and then like an insult in the span of maybe two minutes. Dylan’s voice. Devin’s laugh. The stupid cherry tree scraping the greenhouse glass. Your grandma’s hands in the dirt, nails always a little stained, rings clinking softly when she worked. Michigan in the summer. Michigan during Christmas. Michigan when it felt like home and Michigan when it didn’t.
You were so fucking tired of being sad about the same things in different rooms.
At some point, you laughed too hard at something that wasn’t funny. At some point, Jack asked if you were okay, and you’d eagerly nodded and said yes, because that was easier than explaining anything at all.
At some point, you became very aware of your bladder.
“I need a bathroom,” you announced, standing too quickly and immediately regretting it.
Jack looked at you, amused, steadying you by your elbow. “You good?”
“Never been better,” you said, which felt true in that deeply unscientific way drunk people believe lies. You pointed with your whole arm toward the ceiling, finger wobbling. “Upstairs bathrooms are usually less… haunted.”
“Haunted?” Jack repeated.
“By men missing the bowl,” you clarified.
He snorted and nudged you toward the stairs. “Go. Godspeed.”
The stairs were steeper than you remembered. Or maybe you were just swaying. Probably the swaying. You held onto the railing, counting steps like that might help, and when you made it to the top without eating shit, you felt absurdly accomplished.
The hallway upstairs was quieter. Cooler. Like you’d crossed into a different climate zone. The music dulled, laughter muffled behind closed doors, and for a second you felt almost calm. Almost safe.
You spotted the first door on the right, a tiny handmade WC sign crookedly nailed into the wood. It looked like something Simon had made in middle school art class—uneven lettering, questionable paint choice. Ugly as fuck.
Huh. The door was unlocked.
You actually smiled to yourself. A small, proud smile. “See?” you whispered to no one. “The universe provides.”
You pushed the door open, and the universe immediately took it back.
Luke was there. Your Luke.
Luke, unmistakably Luke, backed up against the bathroom counter like he’d been placed there on purpose for you to see. Simon’s sister stood between him and the door, close enough that there was no space left to misunderstand. Her hands were in his shirt, her mouth on his, the moment private and careless and very, very not meant for an audience.
They should’ve locked the fucking door.
The lighting was soft in that way bathrooms always are at parties—too warm, almost pretty. The mirror behind them reflected the scene at an angle that made it worse, somehow. Doubling it, like the universe wanted to be thorough.
Your brain did something strange. It supplied thoughts you didn’t ask for.
That’s definitely not the bathroom you’re supposed to use.
Bold choice fucking Simon’s sister, Luke. Bold.
Because he looked happy. Loose. Like someone who hadn’t been carrying around a stone in his chest for years. Through the mirror you watched her kiss down his neck, watched the way his head tipped back without thinking, watched how familiar his face still was to you in moments like that. Her hands slid lower, purposeful, and Luke made a soft sound you wished you could unhear.
Of course.
Of course this was how you found him. Laughing earlier. Untouched by whatever rot had taken up residence in you. Still playing the same games. Still winning them.
You laughed once, breathy and brittle. It startled all three of you.
“Wow,” you said, voice bright in a way that felt almost impressive given how hard your heart was breaking. “You really haven’t changed much, Hughes.”
Luke pushed away from her. She almost toppled over, her balance wobbly on her way down to kneel in front of him. His eyes were wide and slightly bloodshot, his mouth already opening around your name.
You didn’t stay to hear it.
If he had called you Baby in that moment, you would’ve punched him in the face.
You backed out, pulled the door shut like this was a normal mistake, like you hadn’t just watched a guy you used to be in love with almost get blown by some… girl. Simon’s sister wasn’t even that bad of a person. You couldn’t put this on her.
You moved on autopilot—stumbling down the hall, down the stairs, through the noise and the music and the laughter that suddenly felt obscene, and straight out the front door into the night.
When the cold air hit your face, you no longer hindered the tears from falling.
—
By the time Luke made it outside, you were already halfway up the street.
Streetlights smeared into long yellow blurs as he stumbled down the front steps, heart thudding too fast, stomach twisting like he’d swallowed something bad. The music from inside thumped on without him, laughter spilling out the open door like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just watched your heart break in real time.
He’d been watching you all night.
He hated admitting that to himself, but it was true. From the second you walked in—dress soft and stupidly pretty, hair done, that look on your face like you were scared of something—his attention had snagged and refused to let go. He’d told himself it was nothing. Habit. Familiarity. Michigan doing weird things to his brain.
He told himself he couldn’t feel that way when you didn’t feel it back. When you were angry at him for something he still didn’t understand.
Then you’d sat next to Jack.
You’d laughed too loud at his jokes. Leaned into him like that was natural. You didn’t even know Jack. Luke told himself not to read into it, but something small and ugly curled in his chest anyway. Jack was safe. Jack was easy. Jack had absolutely no history with you.
And yeah—he’d seen the way you drank. Fast. Determined. Like you were trying to outrun something.
He hadn’t known how to step in. Hadn’t known if he even could.
So when Simon’s sister had shown up—bright smile, open availability, uncomplicated—Luke had let himself be pulled along. It wasn’t about wanting her. It was about not wanting to think about you laughing with someone else like it didn’t hurt.
Then you’d opened the fucking bathroom door.
So, now he was sprinting down the street after you, cursing under his breath. “Baby!” he shouted before he could stop himself. Too loud. Too drunk himself to measure the volume.
You flinched like he’d thrown something at you.
“Hey—hey,” he said, slowing when he caught up, breathless now. “What the fuck—what did I do to upset you?”
You didn’t answer. Just kept walking, shoulders hunched, arms tight around yourself like you were holding something in. He could tell that you were crying even from behind.
“Can you just—” His voice cracked unexpectedly, and it pissed him off. “Can you please tell me?”
You spun on him so suddenly he almost ran into you.
“You know damn well what you did, Luke,” you almost yelled. Your eyes were red, furious, and wet, mascara smudged beneath them. “Don’t act stupid.”
His brain stalled. Fully stalled.
“I’m not acting,” he said, too fast. “I swear. I don’t—” He searched your face like there was a clue he’d missed, something obvious written there. “I don’t get it, Baby.”
The word slipped out automatically. It was what everyone called you. But your reaction was immediate.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” you snapped. “And leave me the fuck alone!”
Luke recoiled, just a step. “I—what? No. You don’t get to say that and then not explain.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration starting to bleed through his confusion. “You knew I’d be here. You didn’t come back to Michigan thinking I wouldn’t be here.”
You laughed, short and broken. “You think I’m here because I want to be?”
Luke didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.
He froze for a half-second, hands lifting instinctively, unsure what to do with them. You were messy, stumbling slightly, leaning against nothing to find balance. He had to step closer, but carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.
“Is this fucking funny to you?” you went on, words tumbling faster now. “You think it’s something to fucking brag about?”
He shook his head. “I don’t—”
“That you can have sex with someone,” you said, voice cracking wide open, “and then walk away feeling absolutely nothing about it?”
Something ugly and cold dropped into his gut as the memory snapped into place—not the bathroom, not Simon’s sister—but a narrow dorm bed. Not the first time, when all you’d used were hands. Not the time you’d drank to in that stupid game. No. The second time. Nervous laughter. Your naked body pressed against his. How careful he’d been. How scared. How young.
How nothing more ever happened afterwards.
“Oh,” Luke breathed, barely audible.
Your laugh broke completely then, dissolving into something closer to a sob. “It’s not normal, Luke. You’re not normal.”
Luke’s hands twitched. He reached out to grab you, steady you, but you were still angry, still stumbling. He didn’t know if you’d hit him or just yell louder. “I didn’t—Baby, I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” you said immediately, backing away. “Don’t fucking touch me. You probably haven’t even washed your hands.”
The words were cruel. Mostly defensive, but still cruel.
“You should go back in and finish what you started,” you added bitterly, wiping at your cheeks with shaking fingers. “Hope you’ve learned how to make a girl come by now.”
He stood there as you turned and walked away again, shoulders shaking, steps uneven but determined. He wanted to follow. To say something that would fix this. To apologize for things he hadn’t even realized he’d broken.
He’d never seen you be mean before. He didn’t think you could be.
You didn’t look back. Luke watched until you disappeared into your house. You left him standing there with the full weight of it, and an entire house of people watching behind him.
He’d left you without saying goodbye. He’d let you believe it meant nothing.
Luke felt like he was about to be sick.
thank you for reading ★
please tell me what you think
my ask box is always open!
Summary: You’re Jim Hopper’s, Chief of Police, daughter. After a rough few years and a fresh start in Hawkins, your dad barely lets you out. Too scared to lose you. You’re homeschooled and the last time you stepped foot into a classroom was when you were 13. You somehow finally convince him to enroll you into Hawkins High but his worst nightmare comes true when you get involved with fighting Demogorgans, entering different dimensions, hiding a russian girl with super powers and more. Oh, and worst of all? You fall in love with a prick who has perfect hair.
Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!hopper!reader
Warnings: angst, fluff, steve is in his king steve era for season 1, slowburn like slow slow SLOW burn, overprotective hopper, mentions of cancer, mentions of death, mentions of blood, smut, cuss words, maybe more idk?
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
ELEVATOR MISTLETOE GOT ME ACTIN' LIKE A FREAK HOE !
⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: TOJI X ACCOUNTANT!READER X SUKUNA
⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐯𝐨𝐝: You just caught your boyfriend, Naoya, cheating on you at the office Christmas party. After a royal crashout, you've buried yourself in work until nearly midnight—only to find you're not the only one staying late. When the elevator doors open, you're met with the two most intimidating consultants at your firm. No big deal, right? Just a quick ride down…So why does the elevator suddenly stop? And more importantly—why is there mistletoe hanging above you?!
⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: elevator sex, threesomes, p in v, anal, fingering, dual blow jobs, spanking, salads being tossed, double penetration, squirting, dirty talk, a bit of angst for the mentions of toxic and manipulative relationships, mentions of bullying, naoya snakes reader and cheats, reader is pet named Bambi in lieu of y/n (the birth of bambi!reader mayhaps?), affectionate teasing, inexperienced non-virgin reader, brief mentions of other jjk men.
⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 9.3k out of ?
⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐚/𝐧: think of this as a 'how y/n got her groove back fic!' dedicated to all my lovely bbs who had to put up with a loser of an ex, or if you are going through a breakup now, I hope this helps! <3 also sorry had to break this up, once a fic hits 10k the walls start closing in lol. i already know theres mistakes i didnt catch in my edits
𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 | 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 | 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
“You’re so lucky to have a man like Naoya, sweetie.”
Scanning the room for said man, your mother’s words haunt your thoughts like some ghost of Christmas past.
Lucky?
Sure, you did feel that way at one point, but now? You can’t even find him!
And judging by all the concerned stares you're getting, you must look as lost as you feel—frantically weaving through the party like someone who clearly doesn’t belong at an elite consulting firm’s Christmas gala.
Both you and Naoya work at Six Vision, one of the most prestigious firms in the industry—infamous for its over-the-top displays of wealth. Tonight’s party being no exception.
The company’s private ballroom (because of course they have a whole-ass ballroom) is dripping in gaudy opulence: cascading garlands, glittering ice sculptures and paid actors dressed in full Santa’s-Workshop regalia.
There’s even a professional photographer taking festive couple portraits. You booked a slot for you and Naoya as soon as you arrived—he promised he’d be back in time, just needed to 'make a quick call'.
But that was nearly an hour ago.
Just where the hell is he?!
Sighing, your mom’s words getting to you more than you’d ever like to admit. You now she doesn’t mean any harm, she never does.
Regardless, her projected hopes for your relationship with Naoya always weigh heavy on you, especially during the holidays.
Makes sense though considering it’s been a whopping five years since you and Naoya have been together.
You’re not getting any younger—so of course she expects a proposal.
Or a baby.
Something to validate all this time.
The truth of the matter is you’re not certain you’ll ever make it down the aisle with him. Yet you’ve always sugar-coated that truth, swallowing any bubbling frustrations about not feeling like a priority to him.
For your peace of mind just as much as you spared your mother. It’s so much easier to pretend everything is okay, that it will all work itself out in the end.
Like earlier this month: when you broke the news you’d both be missing your annual family ski trip.
You told your mom it was due to Naoya being slammed with work.
It's a lie though. Naoya just didn’t want to go.
Not after last year’s debacle—when he horribly embarrassed himself trying to keep up with your younger cousins on the slopes. Predictably, his overconfidence backfired. On a run well beyond Naoya’s skill level, he snapped his bindings and broke his ankle, rolling halfway down the mountain before colliding with a tree.
Naoya spent the rest of the trip sulking while you played nursemaid to a man who is utterly insufferable once his already fragile ego had been wounded.
So this year when Naoya flat-out told you that Christmas would be spent at the Zenin estate with his family?
You didn’t protest.
Hell, if anything, you were relieved.
A welcome shield of protection from your family’s prying inquiries about wedding rings or dates.
More importantly though, you’d never spent a holiday with Naoya’s family—or met them at all for that matter.
For that reason alone your mother couldn't be happier with the turn of events. Despite the fact she’d miss you, in her eyes, an invitation to an intimate family gathering with the ultra-traditional and elite Zenin clan practically guaranteed that a marriage proposal would soon follow.
‘He wouldn’t be introducing you otherwise, dear.’
You scoffed at her words, knowing his pride must still be in shambles if he’d rather suffer through time with his family—whom he can barely stand unless he’s draining their trust funds—than face yours.
Well… that TikTok they posted of him flopping went viral so it’s understandable.
Still, maybe your mom’s right.
Maybe meeting Naoya’s family is the final step to a proposal.
Maybe this is the moment everything finally clicks.
…if so, then exactly where the fuck is he?!
Leaving the noise and glitter behind, you slip into a corridor lined with smaller, one-off meeting rooms. The music dulls to a distant jingle, replaced by quiet shuffling of papers and murmured voices. It’s mostly empty—just the occasional employee who by necessity chooses work over revelry, ducking out to make late calls or answer emails.
If Naoya didn’t head back to his floor, then this would be the most logical place he’d gone.
You peek into one conference room.
Then another and another. Nada.
With a frustrated sigh, you’re about to turn back when a giggle catches your ear. High-pitched and unmistakably flirtatious, it’s coming from the very last room at the end of the hall.
You roll your eyes.
Of course people are fucking.
Your company’s holiday parties are also infamous for turning into legal’s worst nightmare.
Although inter-office hookups are officially discouraged, with so much booze and decadence and in an industry where power plays are the norm?
These types of seasonal indiscretions are unofficially inevitable.
With a shake of your head, ready to write it off completely until you hear a man’s voice, low and familiar, hushing his partner.
You freeze.
…No.
It couldn’t be.
You’re tired, anxious and frankly, already spiraling, all things considered.
Your brain must be filling in blanks—merely compensating for Naoya’s sudden disappearance.
That’s all.
Except your stomach is already in your ass as a cold weight sinks heavy inside you, stirring up an urge so deep it rattles in your bones.
You know you’re probably mistaken.
Still—you need to know.
Even if it means humiliating yourself by walking in on two random coworkers.
You creep forward, heart pounding as you zero in on the door being is slightly ajar.
Perfect, just a glance. That’s all you need.
A quick peek. Then you’ll leave.
But the second your eyes register what’s inside, your body moves before your brain catches up—bursting into the room, you practically trip over yourself.
Because there he is.
Your boyfriend of five years.
Naoya Zenin.
Shamelessly getting his dick sucked by the collagen-filled lips of the marketing department's new whore assistant.
“N-N-Naoya?!”
Drink in hand, Noaya downs the last of it as he groans—a cocktail of annoyance and pleasure as his half-lidded eyes meet yours.
The worst part isn’t even the betrayal.
It’s that Naoya doesn’t stop.
Not even when he sees you.
The bastard doesn’t even seem to care that his girlfriend just caught him cheating, clearly, by the way he leaves the whore’s mouth attached to his cock like some obscene charm.
The whore in question freezes for a split second, panic flashing across her face—until she notices Naoya’s complete indifference to being caught.
Attitude now more emboldened, the marketing assistant shoots you a haughty once-over before resuming her brazen actions.
Like she’s daring you to do something—fully knowing that you won't.
Seconds stretch into suffocating silence before Naoya even acknowledges you.
“C’mon, don’t look so shocked, babe…”
You fumble with your glasses as they slip down your nose, clumsy hands betraying just how small and exposed his detached tone makes you feel.
“...you always hated giving blowjobs anyways—not that they were any good.”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
This cannot be real life right now.
“Now babe, listen—”
Naoya cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, turning his attention back to the thot still enthusiastically whoring herself between his legs.
“Oww, f-f-uck…ease up a lil’ will ya? Damn…”
Her affirmative giggle is only slightly muffled by Naoya’s shitty, just-about-average sized, cock.
No, seriously, this had to be some fucked up twilight zone time-warp, not real life.
Your throat constricts as your eyes sting with tears—not just from heartbreak, but the crushing shame of so many years wasted on a man who, quite apparently, never respected you.
“Listen...don’t start the waterworks, toots.” Naoya continues casually, “I’m still planning on proposing to you—that’s what you've been waiting for so desperately all this time, right?—Mmm, fuck…”
His fingers knot deeper in the marketing slut’s hair as he forces her down more, his lids drooping at the sensation.
“We still have to do Christmas dinner with my family. They’ll need to approve of you—but they will, because I picked you, rest assured.”
Rest assured?!
“Give me ten minutes,” Naoya adds, thrusting his hips forward, barely making the slut beneath him gag. “Wait outside. Then we’ll take those silly pictures. I suppose they’re fitting for a holiday engagement announcement though, good thinking. For once…”
“I-I…I..”
You stutter as your brain is still struggling to process your life crashing down around you.
“Or you can stay and watch.” Naoya cracks open an eye, glancing over at you. “Maybe pick up some pointers.”
The fuck?!
You were never much of a fighter, in any sense of the word—you’d always bent to the desires of others.
Especially Naoya’s.
But if this man thought for even a second you were going to let things slide—that you were still together, let alone getting married—then he had you more twisted than the mess you just walked in on.
You have a choice to make now though and a million and one scenarios present themselves to you all at once. The most prominent are ones that include you yanking that bitch off him so hard she bites a chuck off his dick and chokes to death.
… but no, not like Naoya was big enough for him to bleed out and the whore certainly wasn’t choking on his crayola cock....
Churning and broiling, a torrent of emotions surges as the both of them continue like you aren’t even in the room.
Surprisingly, after everything, the feeling that rises above the rest is... apathy.
Rage and retribution are strong contenders—especially as savage, violent fantasies storm your brain. Alas, none of them undo the last five wasted years, which at the end of the day, is what just has you ready to throw in the towel.
God, you are so exhausted of this relationship.
This isn’t even worth catching a twenty-to-life case over if you did go ‘Snapped’ on them both.
Steeling yourself, you attempt to keep your vitriol purely verbal.
“If you think for a second I’m still marrying your slimy ass—” you snap with a fury you didn’t know you had in you, “—then you’re dizzier than the bitch dumb enough to get on her knees for a worm like you. Fuck you, fuck her—and fuck your family! I’m done.”
Your heels snap against the floor as you flee the room, heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything—except his laughter. Cold and mocking, it chases you down the hall, saying everything you already feared was true.
Although the biggest irony of all?
It’s you, who is actually the dumbest bitch in the building—hell, maybe in all of Tokyo—for staying with Naoya this long.
Your vision bleary, the walls themselves feel like they’re closing in fast.
Stumbling back into the ballroom, the chaotic celebrations are overloading your senses.
Numb from the emotional wreckage of the last five years, you slip into autopilot, focused on one thing: escape.
Yet the party itself has other plans and the ballroom swirls like a living labyrinth—bodies shift, blocking your path and throwing off your sense of direction.
Each step forward feels like wading through sand. A stark contrast to your frantic thoughts.
In complete dissociation to your body, you don’t even notice the hot angry tears streaming down your face until a shrill, cruel voice yanks you back to reality.
“Not her boo-hooing in front of the whole company—so embarrassing!”
You swallow hard, unwilling to deal with the source of the voice—or the chorus of giggles bubbling up behind Brianna, Head of Marketing.
Better known on your floor as Big Bitchy Brie.
Her girl gang flanks her like a bargain-bin version of The Plastics from Mean Girls—the marketing whores only respect people they either report to or sleep with. To them, this firm is one big sorority, and you—a mid-level compliance manager—might as well be the janitor.
“Sooo... I guess this means you finally found your boyfriend, Naoya?”
Brianna’s smile drips pure venom.
She knew.
It’s her assistant. Of course the bitch knew where he was—and of course she sat back, watching you make a fool out of yourself.
“Ex-boyfriend.”
Your voice comes out icy as you shove your glasses back up your tear-streaked cheeks. You do your best to keep your head high—despite it being one of the lowest moments of your existence.
God, this is the worst possible time.
You don’t have the mental energy—let alone the emotional bandwidth—to deal with Brianna right now. Your pulse spikes, pounding in your ears. A wave of anger rushes through you, colliding with everything else into a hot, nauseating mess.
“Ex?! Oh no, how tragic! I hope my new assistant isn’t the reason—”
If you were in your right mind, maybe you would’ve walked away.
You’ve done it before—bit your tongue, smiled through all her bullshit.
But not this time.
Brianna has no idea she just yanked the pin out of a grenade.
The rage burning in you isn’t just heartbreak—it’s five years of humiliation pressure-cooking under a lid that just blew the hell off.
“—because he’s been fucking my last three assistants. Oh, a coordinator and two interns. Almost got caught by Yaga in HR too, fucking during lunch in the supply closet. But I thought you knew! Naoya’s never been one for discretion though, right?”
The collective gasp that follows is the trigger and in that moment you black out.
You don’t warn her.
You don’t give her a second to dodge.
Your hand closes around the nearest carafe, and with the eerie calm of a woman fully snapped as you lift—and pour.
Mulled wine spills over Brianna’s flawless updo and gaudy designer dress, drenching her in sticky rouge liquid from crown to cleavage. Her mascara runs in black streaks while the scent of cinnamon and clove hangs thick in the air around her. Really, she looked like Carrie at prom—and she should be counting her lucky stars that it was only wine and there wasn’t pig’s blood anywhere in your reach.
Phones go up as mouths drop, a crowd is building around you from a new type of ‘festive’ chaos erupting.
“Do you have cum in your ears, whore?” You hear the lethal words leave your mouth before you even register saying them, it’s so unlike you to be this fired up—but it feels so good. “Or are you just a stupid cunt?”
You take a step closer and Brianna instinctively takes a step back.
“I said ex. Why would I give a single fuck what he does with your department full of Backpage thots?”
There's a thick crowd around you now, murmurs spreading like wildfire. Nothing like juicy coworker drama at a work event to grab attention.
Brianna opens her mouth—probably to scream or hiss—but you’re not done yet, ready to read her and her whole department to filth.
"If selling your coochies like branded assets counted as marketing, you’d all be CMOs by now. But this ain’t a brothel in Chiang Mai—we consult for actual companies."
You pause, watching the blood drain from her face.
“Maybe if you spent half as much time doing your actual job as you do fucking on it, my department wouldn’t have to save your sorry asses every quarter, Brianna.”
Humiliated, Brianna lets out a raw shriek as she lunges at you.
You barely touch her. Just a subtle nudge on her shoulder, and she’s gone—stilettos sliding in the wine like ice skates. Her minions leap to catch her, only to topple after her, a symphony of shrieks and flailing limbs crashing across the gleaming marble.
Only in the aftermath do your senses catch up. Your eyes go wide, suddenly aware of the chaos you’ve just unleashed.
Despite your usual pacifist nature, you just publicly assaulted a department head.
At your company’s Christmas party.
In front of dozens of witnesses.
You’re not just getting a write-up for this.
You’re getting fired. Maybe even sued.
Oh God—could you go to jail for throwing a drink on someone?
What if they hurt themselves in the fall?!
Shit, now you really need to get the fuck up out of here!
Backpedaling like a felon making a getaway, the stunned crowd parts around you. No one cares to stop you as the commotion Brianna is making is far more entertaining.
You bolt forward as soon as the elevators are in sight—jumping in and practically slamming your whole body against the ‘close door’ button, jamming it repeatedly like your life depends on it.
By the time the elevator reaches your floor, it’s almost 9 pm.
The floor is a graveyard with everyone either already on holiday or still partying. The overhead lights are dimmed to nighttime settings, and the skyline glows beyond the windows.
In the dark, your office feels so much smaller than usual. Thankfully, an old legal-sized storage box is easy to find—it’s practically a staple in every accountant’s workspace.
Flipping on your desk lamp, you start tossing your personal belongings inside one by one.
If nothing else, you're a realist.
There’s no way you’re waiting until Monday just to get marched out by security in front of everyone. You’ll save them the trouble and yourself the humiliation.
You exhale sharply.
Well, any more of it at the very least. All that’s left is typing your resignation and—
“—Oh, fuck.”
You rub your temples as a fresh throb blooms behind your eyes—the reminder hitting you like a brick: the company’s biggest transaction of the year is still open and it’s sitting on your desk.
You can’t just walk away. Not without screwing over the one person who doesn’t deserve it—your new associate.
He’s fresh out of grad school with barely two weeks into the job. Bright and eager but very terrified of the big leagues. To make matters worse, he’s your first direct report since you clawed your way up to Senior Manager over the past five years.
If you walked now, he’d be left holding an account no one else would touch—and without your guidance, he’d tank it and get blackballed before his career even started.
He doesn’t deserve that.
Not because of Naoya.
And certainly not because you had to go and knuck when Brianna decided to fuck around and buck at the wrong damn time. As much as you want to scorch earth and leave this place in flames—it's Naoya and the marketing whores you hate—not your own department.
You slump into your chair with a sigh, tapping your mouse as the monitor flickers to life—review folder in one tab, resignation letter in the other.
You’ll finish this clean. If you’re going down, you’re going down tidy.
Typing away diligently at your tasks, your thoughts drift—clawing through every memory, every decision, every red flag you ignored with Naoya until now.
How could he do this to you?
Worse—how could you be so fucking blind?
Well, it's not like you had any prior experience. Naoya was your first serious relationship.
Ever.
In college, while everyone else juggled dating apps and frat house flings, you were neck-deep in accounting and finance textbooks. Not exactly by choice—your double major didn’t leave time for much else. Even if it had, you never genuinely felt like you belonged in those spaces. Loud parties made you feel like a spare part. You preferred small groups, quiet corners, the monotony of routine over unpredictable risks.
You weren’t shy necessarily. Just... invisible in a crowd.
You knew your wallflower tendencies were the main reason for your lack of boyfriends. Besides, you doubted most people—let alone the opposite sex—gave you a second glance, even on the rare occasions you actually went out.
Too scared to ever try and stand out.
Which is why you were completely dumbstruck when, on your first day at the firm as a mere Accounting Compliance Associate, he noticed you.
Naoya Zenin, Senior Manager of Analytics.
Attractive and fit with trendy blonde, shaggy-yet-styled, hair and piercings. The sleek designer suits he wore only added more flair to his edgy, yet polished corporate image.
Naoya’s entire vibe gave him an almost untouchable, albeit arrogant, air in the office—the kind of snobby rich boy, 'Boys Over Flowers, F4' vibes that K-drama-obsessed high-school self would have died for.
You fell fast and in just three months, you were official. HR paperwork and all.
It all felt surreal at first—like you actually were the luckiest girl alive.
There was a thrill in dating someone who thrived in the spotlight, while you stayed comfortably in the wings. No pressure. No expectations.
But now? You see it for what it was.
Naoya never wanted a girlfriend. He wanted a fan club president.
He didn’t love your quiet nature, he exploited it.
You were too easy to mold. No strong opinions, little resistance and just enough self-doubt to mistake your own absolute compliance for a love language.
When he called you “low-maintenance” or praised you for being “chill”?
You beamed like it meant something. That there was something special about you not being like “most girls.”
Urgh. You’d ask yourself how you could’ve been such a bird, but the truth is—Naoya made it easy.
Took control of everything. Paid for everything, upgraded you from a modest apartment to a penthouse condo. Not to mention lavished you in things you didn’t even know you wanted until he provided them.
But all of that came with invisible strings.
The result was that you ate where he liked, wore the clothes he preferred—and at his whims, drove for over twenty minutes out of your way every week to a specialty grocery store for his overpriced, gluten-free oat milk.
Naoya gave you the world, sure—but only the version he designed, with him at the center and you in his orbit.
Years of retroactive ick hits you hard, bubbling in your stomach.
Because now you’re the one disgraced and ashamed. You're packing up while he’s still upstairs—smug, untouched, and probably flirting with whatever marketing thot is next on his list.
The resentment flares hot in your chest.
Even if you hadn’t crashed out on Brianna and written your own pink slip, how could you have even held your head high facing everyone once the rumors about Naoya and—practically the entire marketing department—inevitably spread come Monday?
You don’t even know if they’re all true. But that hardly mattered at this point.
He did it once. Once is more than enough for every rumor told by the espresso station to become gospel.
Enough for your name to forever become a punchline and a warning to those who didn't know their social place in the company hierarchy for years to come.
Now you’re just the girl who got cheated on by the guy everyone thought was out of her league anyway.
Not the Senior Compliance Manager who clawed her way up from associate in five years, or the ‘rockstar’ who flagged the vendor fraud that saved the company millions.
Sure, the vendor scandal got you a promotion and a bonus—but it also earned Brianna a formal write-up, since she’d signed off on them.
The bitch had it out for you ever since.
Not that Naoya needed much convincing to cheat, but you wouldn’t put it past her to send him a few of her assistants as incentive.
And now? She gets her win.
They all do.
Naoya, Brianna and her evil ass marketing coven had tainted every memory of this place for you.
Everything you’d built now feels like it's been slowly rotting under the surface the entire time.
As much as it hurts, you cannot wait to get the fuck up outta here.
Taking a quick breather, you march over to Naoya’s department—the next one over—and waltz straight into his private office. He always kept a bottle of aged Nikka Nine Decades whiskey in the bottom drawer for “celebrations.”
It costs way more than your monthly paycheck, even half-finished.
Well, fuck him. Now it’s yours.
Call it a small down payment on the massive reparations you’re owed for dating such a narcissistic worm of a man.
Back at your desk, you pour a generous splash into your coffee mug, crack your knuckles, and resume your work.
Your eyes are straining at the screen by the time you’ve tied up loose ends, submitted your resignation, and drained the last of the whiskey.
It’s well past midnight now.
A few tasks are still pending—things that need coordination with other departments—but you’ve drafted a detailed guide for your associate to wrap things up nicely.
Standing with a stretch, you sway slightly, the whiskey making itself known in warm, sluggish waves that blur your equilibrium. You grab your coat, purse, and the storage box filled with your life in trinkets and post-it notes.
Your final walk through the office is somber but the whiskey has done wonders for helping you make your peace with everything.
But once you step into the elevator and the sleek chrome doors close behind you... it hits.
You live with Naoya.
Yuck. Just the thought of being anywhere near the sleezeball makes you want to spew back up every drop of whiskey you just guzzled down.
Chewing on your lip, you shuffle the box in your hands, unsure where to go. Making Naoya your priority for so long you’d let things slip, let the distance between you and your friends stretch too far without ever reaching back.
Still, if you called, you knew Shoko and Utahime would pick up.
Probably yell at you first for being a dumbass… then welcome you over with snacks, hugs, and a bottle of wine like no time had passed at all. They let you stay as long as you needed to.
But you can’t reach out to them. Not yet at least.
Unlike Naoya, you actually possess the propensity for shame.
You won’t reach out to them until you can offer a real apology—one that isn’t tangled up in immediately needing a favor from them.
Sigh.
Resigned, your only option is to find a hotel for the night. Even paying last minute holiday rates would be better than going back to Naoya’s.
You start scrolling on your phone for options when—
Wait.
The elevator’s moving—up?!
You swore you hit ‘Lobby’
Did you enter the wrong floor? Were you that distracted?!
You glance at the digital screen on the console.
Floor 8. 9. 10. Quickly progresses to ...12...14...17...
Shit. Floor 19?!
That’s where the company Christmas party was.
You really don’t want to run into anyone right now—especially not the marketing girls and their “afterparty.”
They’re always the ones spearheading the late-night nightcaps.
Or worse... What if Naoya’s still up there?!
As if things couldn’t get worse, it does.
Your dread deepens because you soon realize it would have been better if the elevator had stopped at 19.
But it keeps going.
Floor 21...22...23...25.
Shit!
Floors 25-31 are executive levels.
Your badge doesn’t even work past Floor 20. If the elevator’s headed this high, someone on that floor must have called it from above.
Which means you’re about to run into someone very important.
Maybe the CEO himself?!
Double shit.
He may run the top consulting firm in the world but your CEO is an infamous party boy—not to mention a notorious gossip.
The white-haired menace always had active boots on the ground to give him the latest tea and there’s no doubt he’s not only heard but seen the videos of the ‘wine incident’ by now—along with the rest of the viral social web.
Is getting out of this building with even a sliver of dignity really too much to ask?!
You steel yourself as the elevator glides to a smooth stop, the stark digital letters reading ‘Floor 31’.
But when the doors slide open, it’s not Gojo Satoru, your nosy, blue-eyed CEO waiting on the other side—
Much worse—it’s the two most formidable men in the entire firm:
Toji Fushiguro and Ryomen Sukuna, Senior Consultants.
They may not hold executive titles, but Toji and Sukuna might as well run the damn place.
Between the two of them, they’re responsible for over 60% of the firm’s global revenue. Entire departments are employed solely off the deals they broker.
Their reputation is lethal. Like sharks scenting blood, they close contracts with surgical efficiency, exploit legal loopholes without blinking, and devastate competitors like it’s a sport.
Plenty assumed their personalities would clash, but instead, they complement one another with unnerving synergy.
Toji Fushiguro is blunt, brash, and unapologetically aggressive—a human battering ram when it comes to deals, all pressure and force. But outside the boardroom, he’s more interested in backroom parleys and gambling schemes than anything involving quarterly reports. Often leaving negotiations until the last possible minute.
Ryomen Sukuna, by contrast, is razor-edged control. Despite the striking tattoos, he’s calculated, charismatic, and quietly terrifying. He doesn’t negotiate—he orchestrates. Every polished word he speaks feels like a velvet-gloved threat. Exploiting the weakness of the competition, he seizes opportunity by the reigns.
Thus, Toji’s lazy charm luls people into complacency. Leaving Sukuna to strike before the competition even realizes they’re bleeding out.
Some say it’s safer to bargain with the yakuza than sit across a table from them.
Naturally, companies fall over themselves to hire them. Better to have them on your side than against you.
The duo are so in-demand, they’re rarely even at headquarters. So when they do show up they don't actually have offices, only camping on the executive floors when absolutely necessary.
In five years, you’ve only caught fleeting glimpses of them.
Until now.
Now they’re standing right in front of you—a mere mid-level compliance officer who’s about a few dozen sips past tipsy, holding a box of sad desk knick-knacks in her arms like a corporate Scarlet Letter.
You have no business being on the 31st floor.
Just stepping off the elevator without clearance is grounds for termination. Which, granted, you’ve already earned—but now you’re wondering if this qualifies as trespassing since you’re basically a non-employee now.
Girl, you do not need more criminal charges tonight!
A hiccup escapes before you can stop it. Oh no!
Whiskey sloshes in your skull as you stumble, white-knuckling the box with one hand, awkwardly shoving your glasses up with the other.
You look like shit.
Your hair’s a frizzy halo of stress, your blouse half-untucked, and you’re pretty sure your stockings are more run than fabric at this point.
Spectacular.
What a fitting end to the worst fucking day of your adult life.
For all your worries though, neither man so much as glances your way once they step inside.
Toji and Sukuna stand in the center of the elevator like statues—massive, unmoving, their presence swallowing the space whole.
It’s as if you don’t even exist.
Shrinking back, your spine hits the wall and the jolt sparks a flicker of irritation in your chest.
Typical. Your invisibility nerf kicking in like clockwork—chameleon mode engaged.
But this time… it actually stings a bit.
Maybe it’s the whiskey, but you’re actually a little offended they don’t acknowledge you.
For once, you kind of wanted to be seen.
Then again—why would they?
Toji and Sukuna are built like gods, and the moment they stepped inside, the elevator felt too small—like it was meant for mere mortals and not the two titans that had just wandered in from Olympus.
Compared to them, you’re just a tiny house gnat, harmless and utterly insignificant.
Not even a blip on the radar.
Although…there is a rather unique kind of benefit in their indifference.
Because if they don’t see you—well, that means you’re free to look at them.
And oh, do you look.
Toji and Sukuna’s bodies are genetic perfection. Like Spartan warriors in custom-tailored suits that only highlight their broad backs, the fabric rippling over thick, corded arms.
You’d bet your entire 401K and IRA fund that the time they’re not spending dominating negotiations, they’re dominating weights—probably at a high-end gym that reeks of eucalyptus and exclusivity.
If they ever get tired of consulting they would surely have a career in the MMA world.
And then your eyes wander even lower.
Big mistake.
A slow, aching heat coils in your core, thick with whiskey and want. You lick your lips, eyes glued to how their tailored trousers hug every sculpted curve of their asses—firm and perfectly perched, on display for your perverse pleasure.
Why are they both so disrespectfully double-cheeked up at work, of all places?!
Thankfully there's a box in your hands—and you take care to remind yourself of that by gripping the sides a little tighter. If there wasn’t, well then in your buzzed, newly single, recently unemployed and completely unhinged state—you might have done something truly reckless.
Like reaching out to grab two respective handfuls of temptingly sexy man-butt.
Sheesh, girl get a grip!
You have to physically shake your head to scatter the pervy thoughts. The last thing you need is to add sexual harassment to the potential assault lawsuit the firm—likely at the behest of Big Bitchy Brianna—would undoubtedly slap you with.
Besides, men like them? They wouldn’t just let it slide.
They’d snatch you up and snap you like a pencil!
You repress a small giggle as your intoxicated brain is having scandalous dalliances with the different implications of all the many ways they are capable of breaking you.
None of which involve clothes.
It's a given that you are still emotional about the sudden breakup with Naoya and your life of the last five years crashing down around you—but you’re still above all things a woman with needs, damnit!
Needs that hadn’t been met in a very long time.
If someone gave you a survey on your sex life with Naoya, you’d have checked the most depressing little box:
‘Neither satisfactory nor unsatisfactory.’
You’d get close—so close—pleasure simmering just beneath the surface… but Naoya’s painfully consistent two-minute-and-forty-one-second average (yes, you timed it) always slammed the brakes on your orgasmic potential. Slipping a hand between your thighs afterward gave you something—just enough to ease the ache and help you sleep.
But without meaningful intimacy or release, the whole routine left you feeling more hollow than satisfied.
So now you’re indulging guilt-free in gluttonous fantasies of how Toji and Sukuna would fuck you—and based where your thoughts had landed, “like feral beasts” feels pretty on-the-nose.
You don’t know their exact stamina, but you’re pretty sure it’s the kind that leaves you walking funny for days. The thought alone has your mouth going dry as every drop of moisture rushes south to leak out onto your panties.
You can already see it: spit and tears streaked across your cheeks, your voice hoarse from begging, both of them fisting their thick, calloused hands in your hair as they use you—tugging your scalp, holding your waist, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises shaped like their fingers as they ruthlessly fuck you stupid.
“Hnnng…”
A small whimper escapes you—airy and aching with need.
But in the confines of the elevator, it just as well could have been a scream.
Your heart lurches into your throat.
Did that just happen?!
Did you seriously just let your drunk, lecherous thoughts bubble over so loudly you moaned out loud?
Toji and Sukuna are mid-conversation but you hear a low scoff followed by a sharp snort.
They definitely heard you.
Please, kill me now.
You’re praying for any entity listening to smite you on the spot.
Your only consolation is the fact that you were now past the 22nd floor.
You’re almost out.
Just 21 more to go. 60 seconds tops.
Because just then, the elevator lurches violently, jerking to a halt with a groan of tortured metal. The lights cut out, plunging you into sudden darkness, and a beat later, the emergency lighting kicks in—flickering, harsh, stuttering like a dying heartbeat.
Toji and Sukuna don’t flinch. They stand steady, unmoved—like statues carved from stone, towering and silent in the pale light.
You, however, are much less composed.
Still wobbly from whiskey, flushed from your mortifying fantasies, and awkwardly balancing a cardboard box of your sad little work trinkets—you stumble forward.
“GAAH!”
Wailing, your glasses fall off and the box slips out of your grasp. You squeeze your eyes shut, hearing the telltale crack of shattering glass and fully expect a crash landing as well.
To your surprise though, the fall never comes.
Your body jerks to a stop midair, suspended before being pulled back.
Dazed, you blink through your lashes, confused at the lack of pain—until you realize exactly where you are: held firm in a single, iron-wrapped arm, your body cocooned by Sukuna’s towering frame. Your world narrows to focus only on the feeling of him and how effortlessly he holds you in place, with one arm, like you weigh nothing.
But the sound of crunching glass pulls your gaze to the floor.
Toji crouches nearby, holding your now half-spilled box. Most of the contents survived—except your crystal photo frame, the broken glass lies scattered across the elevator tiles like a crime scene.
By some miracle, your glasses are still intact—resting safely at your feet.
You squirm against Sukuna, desperate to reach your things. But his grip is like an anchor, pinning you in place, making any escape attempts utterly futile.
“Quit fidgeting, brat. Unless you’re that eager to slice yourself open on all this shit you spilled?”
Sukuna’s voice scrapes like gravel across your skin, sending a dark, tingle straight to your gut.
Momentarily distracted, by the time you snap out of your daze Toji already has your glasses in hand and is now flipping over the shattered picture frame.
The cracked frame with the photo of you and Naoya on a lover’s bridge in Italy where you went for his birthday last year.
Oh, this can’t be happening.
While you are pretty positive Toji and Sukuna had no idea who you are. Naoya, on the other hand, did everything short of setting himself on fire to get noticed at the company. By now, word of his infidelities—and his "crazy-ass ex" who assaulted a department head—had probably spread like wildfire through the ranks.
“Heh…”
Toji stays crouched, his eyes locking onto yours with a predatory gleam that sharpens with his widening grin. Instinctively, you try to backpedal, to put space between you—but Sukuna’s body is a cage and with glass everywhere there’s nowhere else to go.
“So y’er the one that’s had to put up with my cuck of a cousin?” Toji’s grin widens into something downright feral. “Ha! Ya sure stirred up some shit tonight, mamas.”
Pause. Come again!?
Cousins!?
Like a shorted circuit board, your mental gears grind to a halt. Your jaw drops wide enough to catch flies. Thankfully, some dignity kicks in, and you snap it shut.
“Cousins… like real-life, actually related, blood cousins!?”
Toji rises smoothly, tossing what’s left of the shattered frame into your box with a careless clink.
“Heh, s’there any other kind, ma?”
Glass crunches beneath Toji’s feet, underscoring his confirmation.
Damn.
Well, now that you think about it, Naoya always got especially prickly whenever Toji’s name came up around the office. He’d deflect, changing the subject or get weirdly tense before walking away entirely.
Like a puzzle suddenly clicking into place, everything becomes clear.
Naoya was a consultant once. Years before you joined the company—but that much you knew. Still, you never pressed. He didn’t like talking about it and you knew better enough than to press the issue.
Still, rumors had always swirled: that he’d been quietly shuffled out. Too arrogant for client relations. Too slippery to inspire trust. The kind of guy who knew his shit—but couldn’t sell it.
So, they moved him into analytics—where he could thrive behind a spreadsheet instead of across a conference table. Technically, it was a lateral move. But in consulting, where prestige is everything, it might as well have been exile.
Now, you get why it burned him so badly.
No matter how much success Naoya scraped together, he’d always live in his older cousin’s shadow. Every accolade Toji collects must’ve felt like a personal failure to Naoya.
Of course, none of this excuses the years of gaslighting, cheating, or general dickwad behavior towards you.
Still, trying to compete with thee Toji Fushiguro?
That could give anyone an inferiority complex, not to mention personality disorder manifested in Naoya’s extreme narcissism.
Funny—you never put it together before. Most likely because Naoya didn’t want you to.
The names didn’t even match.
“Fushiguro…,” you murmur, eyes widening when you realize you said it aloud.
Toji snorts.
“Don’t hurt yourself overthinkin’, ma. Fushiguro’s the ex-wife’s name.” He cocks a brow. “Y’mean y’er still not convinced by the family resemblance?”
Toji’s voice is thick with amusement as he rejoins you and Sukuna in the only part of the elevator not littered with glass shards.
You feel his breath ghost along your neck as he looms behind you. Still tucked into Sukuna’s hold, you instinctively tilt your head back—your crown bumping into Toji’s chest: broad, hard, and just as immovable as the man in front of you.
His scarred smirk hovers above you, carved from mischief.
Even upside down, tipsy as hell and without your glasses, you can still tell how stupidly hot Toji is—definitely a level above his asshole, lizard-faced cousin.
“Uh-huh,” you hiccup. “Y-you sure Naoya’s not adopted?”
Both men chuckle, and you—helplessly wedged between them—feel their deep, rumbling laughter vibrate through the elevator… and through every single cell in your entire body.
Your giddy response bubbles out before you can stop it—your laughter is light, breathy, and entirely too revealing of what they’re doing to you.
There’s a glint in Toji’s eye, and the glance he shares with Sukuna speaks volumes.
Returning their interest to you, their stares crawl across your skin like static.
You scramble to straighten yourself, using Sukuna’s arm for leverage.
You wanted their attention?
Well, congratulations, miss ma’am.
You’ve got it now.
You’re not even sure what you were hoping—but this?
This might be too much.
With the tension crackling in the tight space, you grasp for something—anything—to fill the silence.
Well...say something, girl—damn!
But your mind goes blank.
Nothing clever nor casual come to mind. Just pure panic as you blurt out the painfully obvious:
“S-So… I, uh, erm… think we’re stuck?”
Crickets.
If deadpan stares could kill, you’d be 6 feet under now.
Smooth, sis.
Real smooth.
You wince, but thinking straight is impossible when Sukuna's scent hits your nostrils. His cologne—sandalwood and palo santo—mixed with his natural scent is dangerously dark and smokey, like some fuckable forest fire.
You’re fighting a losing battle against the urge to bury your face in his chest and breathe him in. Your gaze dips to the sculpted lines of his pecs—just as Sukuna’s grip tightens, making your pulse stutter.
When your eyes flick back up, his are already waiting—locked on yours.
His expression is unreadable, but there's something ruthless simmering beneath the surface.
Then, abruptly, he releases you.
Not expecting to be let go, you immediately have to grab onto the metal railing beside you not to fall over.
Sukuna chuckles like he just wanted to watch you squirm.
And you absolutely do.
“You sure are a bright one, aren’t you, Bambi?”
Bambi?!
The pet name rolls off Sukuna’s tongue in a deep, silky baritone—meant as an insult, but it still sends a shiver down your spine. Your thighs immediately clench, as if there's an active threat of his voice alone slipping up under your skirt to ruin you.
Edging away from Sukuna you bump directly into Toji’s stone-hard chest, forgetting just how close he is behind you.
“Yo, careful lil’ Bambi. Best not t’be so jumpy—it’s dangerous in here, yeah?”
Toji's voice, equally as panty-wetting is dripping with casual seduction—one that definitely didn’t sound like he was talking about the glass on the floor.
Nevertheless, all things considered—you really are like Bambi.
Naive, all trembling legs and wide eyes, caught between two predatory wolves.
Are they actually flirting with you?!
No. That couldn’t be.
You’re buzzed.
Wholly delusional and probably just imagining things.
Because, deranged elevator sex fantasies aside—you’re not that girl.
You don’t know how to handle this kind of heat.
You’re not built for this.
Not with Sukuna’s gaze slicing through you like a blade to the throat, and Toji’s warmth curling over your back—thick and smoky, like it wants to seep into your skin.
The air feels too thin. The moment stretched too tight. And just when it feels like you might actually break—Toji pulls back and Sukuna looks away.
Finally, a reprieve but it’s enough to allow you breathe, barely.
“Heh. Might as well see how fucked we are.”
Approaching the elevator panel, Toji inspects it with bored detachment. It’s locked.
Completely rebooted, an access card is needed to enter the menu.
“Eh, ya got a keycard ‘Kuna? Might be stuck in here f’er a while if ya can’t unlock this damned thing. Security doesn't seem to be responding either.”
You blink—but before panic can set in, Sukuna growls, already snapping.
“Do I look like I carry a fuckin’ purse, Fushiguro? It’s with Uraume, obviously.”
Uraume. That must be his assistant.
“Tsk, why are you even asking me? Where’s your keycard, ya bum?” Sukuna barks.
But Toji just shrugs nonchalantly as he twirls your glasses in his hand—he still hadn’t given them back. But even more shamefully in your horndog state, even half blind, you’d forgotten to even ask for them.
“Fuck if I know, Kuna. Don’t ever carry that bullshit either. Guess we’re stuck until y’er lil’ servant or security shows up.”
Toji grins at Sukuna’s deepening scowl. Now you understand how people are left wondering exactly how these two manage to pull it together in the boardroom if all they do is bicker at each other constantly.
“Tch, I suppose we are. Sent a text to Uraume then Kamo in IT but there’s no bars. Likely signal interference from the party.”
Sukuna rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t seem too upset.
Quite frankly, neither of them do.
Odd, as you sure they have better places to be then stuck here with you.
Wait—you don’t remember not ever getting service in the elevators before.
But you’re so flustered in the moment, your clouded mind can’t be too sure—they would have no reason to lie about that, right?
“Nah, fuck ‘em,” Toji says decisively, his attention directed towards you again. “Pretty sure the three of us can find some way to pass the time… maybe have our own party—right, Bambi?”
Briefly choking on your own spit, all suspicions vanish—swept aside by the not-so-subtle innuendo.
Flirting was never your strong suit, and after years in a lackluster relationship, you’re rusty as hell. Still, something’s shifting in the air. The elevator hums with tension, your senses sparking alive, warning of what's to come, all coiling tight around the flimsy excuse of being just stuck.
But this time, the moment that realization hits—so does the heat. Any lingering regrets or hesitations seem insignificant to the intensity of your whiskey-warmed pussy fluttering so hard you swear you might be ovulating early this month.
Your panties are already uncomfortably glued to your core from the soppy heat filling them. All, of course, while being locked in a small box with two men who radiated sex like it was a bioweapon.
Sorry but…Naoya, who?
The culmination of years worth of late-night, dog-eared smut novels flash before your eyes. In every filthy fantasy you’ve ever read, the setup always starts with something like this.
Every teasing remark, a test.
Every lingering glance, a challenge.
Every second that ticks by feels less like an accident, and more like a game you don’t understand the rules to.
And yet—
God help you, you want to play.
The thought both excites and terrifies you in equal measure, leaving you torn between trying to pry the elevator doors open yourself and staying put just to see how far they’d take this.
“Ah—um, I… I have my keycard?” you offer weakly, testing the waters. “I could try restarting it….maybe, if I had my glasses back. I—I could check.”
“I doubt that shit even works up here.” Sukuna scoffs, dismissing you. “Unless you also stole the keycard of the executive you mollywhopped?”
Executive? Mollywhopped?!
Your brain screeches to a halt.
Brianna wasn’t an executive—and you definitely didn’t actually fight her!
There is no way the rumor mill already spiraled this far out of control when half the company witnessed the actual events in real time.
“Heh,” Toji snickers, arm pressed on the wall over you. “Nah, heard ya put hands on the entire marketing department over my worm-ass cousin.”
AN ENTIRE DEPARTMENT!?
Okay. That’s it.
You’re actually cooked. You’d never work again.
You’ll be blacklisted from the industry, every single one for that matter.
You’ll end up doing taxes out of a storage unit for the yakuza.
“A-Are… are people really saying that?” you whisper, voice barely audible.
There’s a tremble in your words, your wide doe eyes glassy with tears, your bottom lip quivering—your distress laced with an unintentional, delicate coquette charm you don’t even realize you’re giving off.
If you were even a little more sober, you might’ve caught the way Toji and Sukuna just tensed. Might’ve noticed how hard they’re trying to restrain themselves—to fight off the primal, prey-driven instinct to devour you whole, right here, right now.
You catch Toji’s scent, a rich amber drenched in heavy rum—and you’re caught in the gravity of him before you realize it.
And really, that’s all the invitation Toji needs.
Wrapping his arms around you, Toji pulls you in possessively—like he's been waiting for his turn all night.
Sukuna merely rolls his eyes at how you easily melt into the brute behind you.
“Word of advice, Bambi? Don’t pay any mind to that asshole—he’s notorious for doing the most.”
Irritation bleeds through Sukuna’s words—Toji had ripped you away from him and he isn't hiding his displeasure at that.
Yet Sukuna is the least of Toji’s concerns as his bulky fingers dance down your curves.
Toji’s hands slip beneath your skirt at your waist, fingers finding the edge of your sweater vest where it’s snugly tucked in. With maddening slowness, he pulls it free—like he’s unwrapping the first layer of a present.
“Heh, maybe so. But y’know, ‘Kuna…” Toji murmurs, voice low with amusement. In one swift motion, he pushes the wool up past your tits, yanking it clean over your head. “…they never tell me to stop.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, failing miserably to smother the whimper that slips out.
One layer down—and yet the conservative silk blouse beneath, buttoned neatly to the collar, somehow makes you feel even more exposed.
The outfit that once screamed competent and compliant now feels laughably out of place.
Pencil skirt. Sweater vest. Pure accountant-core. You hadn’t even changed after work for the party.
“Um, I—I—”
Sukuna cuts you off, the lust already etched in his throat.
“You think we didn’t see that little wine stunt, Brat? Fucking ruthless. Got me hard as hell.”
You don't need time to process Sukuna admitting that you got him hard because he shows you in real-time, grabbing a hold of one of your wrists and guiding it to lay over the unmistakably thick, pulsing weight straining his slacks.
Simultaneously, Toji grinds into you from behind, his cock, equally stiff and eager, nudges against the base of your spine.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The heat radiating from them is almost scalding, both of their massive lengths pulsing with a ripe vitality that makes your head spin.
Your fingers twitch reflexively against Sukuna’s length, and his cock answers with a slow, deliberate throb. He smirks down at you, tongue sweeping over his lips as your palm splays across him—your eyes going wide as the sheer size registers.
But before you can fully let the weight of that discovery sink in, a low chuckle sends goosebumps across your shoulders. Toji leans in, his breath tickling skin and voice dripping with rough amusement—refusing to be outdone by Sukuna.
“Feelin’ a lil’ crowded, Bambi?”
Completely sandwiched between two walls of pure muscle, the situation accelerates faster.
“Bet that bitch was jus’ mad ya saved our asses with that vendor,” Toji adds, grinning as the scar on his lip brushes your cheek, his face pressing into yours.
“Y-You… you knew that was me too?!”
You squeak the words, reeling from the night’s revelations—but none of that compares to Sukuna’s large hands kneading your thighs possessively as they rummage up your skirt. His fingers push past your gartered stockings, hovering just shy of your soaked core.
“We make it our business,” Sukuna says coolly, “to know who’s valuable to the company.”
A flurry of questions rise and are squashed just as easily by Toji yanking the your blouse out of your skirt as well.
“Y’er still valuable to this company and to us, ma.” Toji muses “…in more ways than one.”
Toji’s hands roam underneath the silky fabric, right until they reach the swell of your breasts—pausing there despite you unconsciously arching forward to anticipate his touch.
“But not after Naoy—”
“Fuck that insignificant pissant,” Sukuna snaps, your eyes meeting his again. “You’re not going to let him toy with you like that anymore, are you?”
The frank no-bullshit nature of his question stirs something dormant.
Not just arousal this time but defiance.
A spark you thought long extinguished flares back to life—the same one you already tapped into earlier tonight, proving to yourself that it wasn't just a fluke or lapse of sanity.
You never imagined you’d like the feeling of power humming through your veins this much and the energy radiating off of you now is palatable.
“Good,” Toji says deviously. “Cause I know a way t’get y’er lick back in tenfold, ma.”
Grasping your jaw, face still pressed to yours, Toji tilts your gaze upward. His thumb grazes your bottom lip before slipping inside, coaxing your mouth open to tease your tongue.
“Perfect excuse, right?” Toji murmurs. “Holiday tradition and all…”
The first thing you notice is mirrored ceiling above—where a pristine reflection of you, caught between two imposing men, stares back.
But then, something else catches your eye. Green, tied with red string and holly, right there, dangling above the three of you: mistletoe.
Huh?! Who the hell even approved that? You swear that wasn’t here earlier in the day or even when you rode up earlier.
Definitely an HR violation—though, considering your current state, you're already drowning in those.
Come Monday, you won’t even have an HR file to violate.
Good thing you aren't an employee anymore!
You're too distracted to notice Sukuna’s touch—until his hands slide over your ass, gripping your plush curves with commanding force. Keeping up the game of tug-of-war over you, he thrusts you against the hard line of his cock, staking his claim as he drags you away from Toji.
Toji’s brow twitches at that—just slightly.
“Drop the innocent act, Brat,” Sukuna growls, voice low and edged with heat. “You don’t think we noticed you eye-fucking us? Whimpering like a bitch in heat?”
Toji presses in again, reclaiming his space behind you. His hand curls beneath your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. His thumb pushes deeper into your mouth, forcing it wider this time—examining you like he’s appraising something he already owns.
“Don’t play dumb. I know when I’m bein’ eye-fucked, Bambi,” Toji’s words sizzle in your brain. “That little cuck never touched you right, did he? Not like I would. Jus’ admit it.”
The air leaves your lungs in one breathless shudder.
Screw it.
Fate’s already tanked your life harder than a botched acquisition.
Might as well let Toji and Sukuna finish the job—they’re more than qualified.
⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐚/𝐧: comments and reblogs appreciated! this is my first threesum attempt and trying to keep track of body parts is making my head spin ubsdfjhbvsjhdf. sorry for any errors, i do need to re-read. i tried to delete duplicate lines but there might be multiple versions of some lines until i can edit again.
also lol, i feel bad now since i wrote this last year when i still hated naoya, i made him such a fucking prick 😭😭 my snakey 3rd rate king WILL get redemption soon in another fic im cooking tho!
accepting tags for p2 below. if you are on my gen. list or kinkmas list you will be tagged automatically.
fics currently being worked on— PT2 of this fic, Invisible!Man Gojo, Freddy!Sukuna, The Nursery Pt.4, Incel!Naoya, Plug!Reader—posting P1 of plug!reader tn or tomorrow at latest. otherwise, what i come out with first depends on my adhd (as always lol).
cause i loved you, i swear i loved you till my dying day!
summary: a guilt ridden steve harrington realises vecna has cursed you 18 months after the last; he has to find you, and he has to find you fast. while steve hurries to search for you, hopefully alive, nancy and jonathan discover that vecna doesn't want to take you to the other kids... he wants to kill you.
warnings: angst, vecna's curse, mentions of death, st level violence, this is lowk just plot i’m sorry, a lot of action and attempts of writing it, mentions of comas, lots of scene jumps, s5 spoilers, blends into 'the bridge' episode, more parts to come!
(the way i might extend this series and make it to the end of the show bc we deserve an epilogue on these two lowkey ALSOOO any objections to a lucas sinclair fic named 'so high school!')
word count: 5.5K
part one,, part three,, part four
steve harrington x fem!reader
(STRANGER THINGS S5 VOLUME 2 SPOILERS)
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐎 idea how long you had been walking for. You had grown accustomed to the sound of your own breathing, the soft puffs of air a pitiful attempt to ignore the throbbing pain behind your skull. Your tear stained cheeks worsened your headache and the sound of your own sniffling bothered you to no end; to say you were overstimulated was an understatement.
Your home had never called your name more. The thought of curling up on the couch with a blanket thrown over your figure, the television becoming a background sound as your eyelids grew heavy; you wished the Upside Down installed multiple exits.
But being a dystopian world where monsters hunt you down every other minute, it was expected that whatever force created it wasn’t kind enough to help someone out.
As much as you tried to ignore it, your mind replayed the conversation-- or argument with Steve.
You’ve fought interdimensional monsters, practically went hand-to-hand combat with them, gotten beaten up by Russian underneath Starcourt Mall, been cursed by a force that targeted you for no apparent reason and lost one of your closest friends. But somehow, Steve Harrington confirming your worst fears trumped all of the above.
The ringing in your head got louder with each passing second. The sound of your footsteps inside the lab became muffled as you groaned at the painful sensation burning between your temples.
With the pain becoming all-consuming, you almost missed the shout of your name and hurried footsteps rounding the corner.
You furrowed your brows and picked up the pace, quickly walking to the familiar voice as it reeked of concern and immense worry, the yells of your name getting louder the closer you got.
Just as you turned the corner, your body collided with someone’s chest, their hands shooting out to steady your frame.
You looked up at the person, “Steve?” Your voice shook slightly.
Steve looked back at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read, his eyes almost hollow. “I was looking for you.” He said simply, his grip on your sides tightening.
You didn’t know how to respond. Did you have to respond? Steve was acting as he had never said those words moments earlier, as if he hadn’t ripped your heart out and made you swallow all the guilt you kept at bay for 18 months. As if he didn’t break your heart in the process.
You mustered up your courage to hum in response, slowly shuffling your feet to indicate that you two should get a move on and find the others. Clearing your throat, you shook his hand off your side and started to walk away, expecting him to follow a respectable distance behind.
A strong hand grabbing your wrist made you stop in your tracks. You whipped your head around and watched as the hand you had traced in the past grip tight, your skin turning red under his finger tips.
“The fox got away.” Steve whispered to himself. You blinked, what was he talking about?
You opened your mouth to question Steve, but he yanked you back to stand in front of him. “You were right.” He mumbled.
“What?” You said, barely above a whisper.
Steve looked different. His hair wasn’t as voluminous as you knew it to be and his skin was sickly pale, dark circles forming underneath his eyes. You would’ve raised concern at his appearance any other day, but the pain growing on your wrist resisted the temptation.
“It should’ve been you.” Steve said, his eyes locking on your own.
Your breath hitched at his words, eyes widening and biting the inside of your cheeks to suppress the tears that were inevitable.
You tried to yank yourself out of his hold, “Steve, you’re hurting me.” You said under your breath, terrified of raising your voice as he stared daggers into your face.
“It should’ve been you.” Steve repeated, his voice slightly slurred this time, the fingers wrapped around your wrist shaking.
Your breath got caught in the back of your throat as you watched the familiar flesh like hand worm around your wrist, the red being travelling up his arm and removing any essence of Steve Harrington.
“No.” You whispered as your eyes travelled further up his figure, revealing the face that taunted you 18 months ago, the one who made your life living hell and forced you to conform to its consequences.
Tears blurred your vision as Steve’s face transformed into Vecna’s, his haunting face staring into your own. “It’s time.”
Your chest tightened and a sob escaped your mouth. As fear took over your body, you lifted your leg to kick into Vecna’s stomach, forcing him to loosen his grip on you enough you could stumble backwards.
Falling over your own feet, your back collided with the lab wall. The contact caused the wall to crumble under your spine, your figure falling into the hole it created. The world spun as you fell backwards, your hands reaching out to grab onto anything.
The wind was knocked out of you as you landed on your back, the back of your head slamming into the floor. You scrambled to sit on your knees as you peered around your surroundings, breathing heavily as you searched for Vecna, already planning to run in the opposite direction.
The palm of your hand carried your weight on the floor. Your fingers twitched and you heard the scrunch of grass, contradicting the lab flooring you previously walked miles on.
Swallowing hard, you looked down to see grass poking out between your fingers. You furrowed your brows and lifted your head and you felt your heart stop.
Gravestones suffocated your kneeling figure as they were scattered around the grass roots, the surroundings identical to the cemetery Max had been cursed at 18 months ago.
Your eyes scanned every name etched into the stone, looking for anything new and out of place, something that could guide you out of Vecna’s mind as the lab was out of reach, completely out of your vision.
One gravestone was smudged with dirt. You slowly crept towards it, feeling a gravitational pull towards the one that looked out of place.
You pulled the sleeve of your sweater over your hand and wiped the dirt off of the gravestone, the name carved into it punching you straight in the gut.
“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself.
There in front of you laid your own gravestone.
Your name was marked permanently into the stone with dead flowers in front of you.
That wasn’t the part that concerned you though.
The date of your supposed death was marked underneath:
November 6th.
𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄. His chest felt too tight and his palms were clamming. Sweat stuck to his forehead, keeping loose strands of his hair uncomfortably attached to his skin. His heart beat out of his chest every time he hurriedly pushed open a door, his voice raw from shouting your name but he refused to let himself rest for even a second if he knew you were still in danger.
“Jesus, Steve!” Dustin panted as he retraced his friend’s footsteps, “Slow down!” He placed his palm against the wall, stopping to catch his breath as Steve sped up.
Steve shook his head and stayed looking ahead, “I’m not stopping until I find her!” He shouted from over his shoulder, pushing open any door he passed in hopes of finding you standing there, safe from any threat.
Steve's actions were fuelled by immense regret. He couldn’t believe it was his own words that drove you to where you were now; alone and with a monster lurking over your shoulder, waiting to strike.
He should’ve noticed you were off from the second you stepped into the lab. He knew you; coming from being friends for years and holding your hand as the pair of you sprinted away from interdimensional creates-- multiple times.
Dustin sighed and pushed himself upright, his feet guiding him towards Steve’s tense shoulders, placing a hand on them. Steve flinched at the contact and whipped his head around to face the shorter boy, “What?”
“What is going on with you, dude?” Dustin furrowed his brows and Steve scoffed, “What’s going on is our friend is missing and a Demo could be dragging her through a damn opening right now!”
Dustin widened his eyes at Steve’s harsh tone, “And it’s all my fault because I haven’t forgiven myself for what happened 18 months ago!”
“Forgiven yourself?” Dustin mumbled under his breath, brows knitted together as Steve’s chest rose and fell in anguish.
Before Dustin could press the matter more, a static sound from their walkie had Steve snatching the device out of the backpack, “Talk to me.”
“You guys need to find her right now.” Nancy’s voice crackled from the other side of the walkie. Steve and Dustin shared a concerned look and the younger boy plucked it out of Steve’s hands, “What happened?”
They heard Jonathan sigh through the walkie, “We were wrong.” Nancy said, concerned laced in her voice, “So unbelievably wrong.”
"𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐎 fucked.” You whispered to yourself as you stumbled away from the date that was glaring at you. Your own name was mocking you as it was engraved on the stone, as if it was a certainty you couldn’t control, something that had already been decided for you and you had to conform to it.
Death was relatively certain, and it was staring straight at you.
Your breath hitched as you looked past the stone, the fog in the distance interrupted by a figure that stood still. You knew it was him. He was probably holding in a laugh at the scene he whipped up for you, enjoying the terror that flooded your body.
Without thinking, you rose to your feet and turned the other way. Putting one foot in front of the other, you sprinted away from Vecna’s figure, one that was growing uncomfortably closer.
You refused to turn your head and look back, the sooner you could get out of your designed hellhole, the better off you would be.
Your back burned as you picked up the pace, pain shooting up and down your spine from landing in the graveyard. Your throat dried up as you heaved out tired breaths, your legs beginning to feel like jelly as you could only will yourself to keep going.
You had no idea where you were heading to. You could only hope your friends would find you soon enough and by chance had a walkman on them, there to place those familiar headphones over your ears and hum to the tunes of the artist you’d bore them all with.
Without an exit in sight, you kept running and prayed that luck would be on your side.
Apparently it wasn’t as the toe of your shoe got caught on a stray wire on the floor, causing your body to fly forwards and land heavily on your front.
You braced yourself with your hands, feeling the heels graze underneath new surroundings. You groaned as you hauled yourself back onto your feet, eyes casting downwards to the wire you had tripped on.
The floor was now white with a black wire along with others scattered on the floor. Your eyes travelled the length of the wire and gasped when you saw it was hooked up to a heart monitor.
No longer in the graveyard with grass underneath your feet, you found yourself in the hospital you knew too well.
You have visited this place so many times. You knew exactly what room this was and who was in it.
Your hands shook at your sides as you reluctantly looked at the person who was laid in the bed in the centre of the room, their red hair an instant give-away.
Max Mayfield was tucked underneath the thin hospital bed sheets, her soft hair plaited away from her face, making the pale skin and dark under eyes painfully obvious to the one who blamed herself for Max’s current state.
“The fox.” Vecna’s voice made you flinch away from Max, slotting yourself in the corner of the room as you watched his figure stand beside the bed.
He looked down at Max before glancing at you, “It should’ve been you.”
Your chest tightened at his words and felt bile rise in your throat, “All your friends know it.” He continued, “She knows it.”
You shook your head and suppressed a sob, “No they don’t.” Vecna slowly walked towards you, causing you to press your back further into the wall as if it could create some distance between you.
Vecna tilted his head, “Are you trying to convince them or yourself?”
All the words died on the tip of your tongue as your eyes flickered between the man standing in front of you and the teenager who laid in the hospital bed. She should’ve been in school, surrounded by her friends; but by some disgusting twist of fate, she was hooked up to a heart monitor and assumed to be in a coma.
“She will die today.” Your head snapped to look at Vecna, your eyes flooded with tears from fear and guilt, “What?”
“The Demodogs will kill her physical form.” Vecna explained, “And it’ll be your fault. Again.”
“No!” You sobbed, eyes squeezed shut to block out the vision. “All because you weren’t there.” He said.
“But that wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Would it?” Vecna said, his words piercing your straight in the heart.
You took deep breaths, your chest suddenly feeling impossibly tighter that it did earlier. Your shaking hands supported your body, reaching out to grasp at the tables either side of you.
Your hand connected with a sharp object which made you flinch away from it, a spot of blood drawn from the tip of your finger. A scalpel was delicately placed on the table, draped over a blue sheet.
Your brain slowly worked together, blocking out Vecna’s words as he continued berating you, attempting to make you weak which was exactly what he needed.
You looked back at him, eyes locked onto his own as your hands subtly felt around the table to grasp the handle of the scalpel. You slid it under the sleeve of your sweater so Vecna wouldn’t see your intentions.
Vecna slowly lifted a hand over your face, “It’s time.” Before he slowly closed his eyes.
You took this as your opportunity to jab the scalpel into the side of his neck, causing him to drop his hand and fly backwards, hunching over and clutching the wound.
Pushing his body out of the way in his vulnerable state, you headed straight for the door on the other side of the room. Pulling it open, you were met with a red abyss, a place familiar from 18 months ago.
You were close to getting out. You just hoped everyone else was close to finding you.
𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 the walkie unbelievably tight, sweat beginning to form in the palm of her hand. After losing sight of her sister, Jonathan guided her back inside and caught sight of Steve and Dustin retreating, screaming over their shoulders that Vecna was going for you and that finding you was the top priority.
Jonathan squatted beside her as she sat defeated on the floor, “This doesn’t make sense.” He muttered.
Nancy looked up at him, “What doesn’t?” Jonathan ran his hand down his face, “Why would he go for her?” He said, gesturing to where Steve had fled to search for you.
“Because…” Nancy started but her reasoning trailed off. Jonathan was right; Why would Vecna target you? Again?
“She’s not a kid. Vecna goes for weak minds and she doesn’t have that.” Jonathan furrowed his brows, “Also, Holly’s gone again. He wouldn’t have a backup.”
Nancy blinked rapidly, her brain quickly piecing together the story, “Vecna sent the Demos after Holly. That’s how he took her.”
Nancy rose to her feet, “He doesn't want to take her like he did with the kids.” Her eyes widened, “He didn’t succeed when he cursed her 18 months ago.”
“He’s cleaning up any loose ends.” Jonathan said, his voice trembling. Nancy nodded, her face expressing pure fear, “And the Demos?”
Jonathan’s breath hitched, “He wants to kill her.”
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Nancy cursed and pressed on the walkie, “You guys need to find her right now.” She shouted to Dustin and Steve on the other end.
She heard them question her sudden fear, “We were wrong. So unbelievably wrong.”
Steve’s face paled and he snatched the walkie out of Dustin’s hand, continuing his search for you, now breaking out into a sprint while screaming questions to Nancy and Jonathan.
“What are you talking about?” Steve said, turning the corner and going down another flight of stairs. “We don’t have time to explain. Just get her out of here!” Nancy’s voice crackled through the walkie.
Steve heard shuffling on the other side of the walkie, “The Demos,” Jonathan’s voice startled him, “They’re on their way to kill her.”
A chill ran down Steve’s spine and he tossed the walkie into Dustin’s arms, ignoring his protests as he sprinted down another empty corridor. His throat burned from how constant and how loud he was screaming for your whereabouts, fear controlling his rationality and the overwhelming concern for your safety was teetering on unexplainable.
He was living a real life fear that losing you could become a possibility, and one he’s lived through before.
He begged that when he turned that fortunate corner that your feet would still be on the floor, your eyes weren’t rolled into the back of your head and your bones were very much still intact. He longed for the ever present fear that struck him 18 months ago had gone, but as he had failed you and you still had a target on your back, no promises could be made.
Steve groaned as his shoulder collided with the wall, his pace causing his steps to become erratic and body to crash into his surroundings. As he winced and rubbed his shoulder with his hand, he looked up.
At the end of the hallway stood a figure, their arms hanging loosely at the side of their body with their fingers twitching, like they were willing their body to move but their mind wouldn’t cooperate. Their eyes were rolled into the back of their head and their face was void of any human emotion, just their uneven breathing giving away how they reeked of fear.
Steve felt like he could throw up as he took slow steps towards the figure, his eyes trained on how the person was fighting a war they knew they couldn’t win alone.
Except it wasn’t just a person, it was you. And Steve Harrington was face to face with his worst nightmare.
Your name rolled off the tip of his tongue as he placed his hands on your shoulders, shaking your body lightly, “No, no, no.” Steve panicked, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his fingers shaking as he rubbed his thumb up and down your cheekbone.
“Stay with me, come on.” He begged, placing his forehead against your own. He refused to let his hands leave you because he couldn’t risk you floating out of his grip.
Steve heard footsteps approaching the scene and knew who was behind him from the hitch of their breath, “Dustin, do you have her walkman?” He said, keeping his eyes trained on you.
Dustin ran to stand next to your frozen figure, his hand gripping your forearm, “Why the hell would I have her walkman, dude?”
“I don’t know! You carry a lot of shit!” Steve shouted back, his consuming fear for you causing him to lash out.
Dustin sighed and struggled to look at your pale face for any longer, “Why don’t you just sing or something?”
Steve snapped his head to face his friend, his eyes squinted and brows pinched together in an exasperated expression, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Dustin opened his mouth to retort back a smart comment but Jonathan’s voice rang out in Steve’s mind, making him interrupt the younger boy, “We don’t have time for this.” He grunted and looked back at you.
Without hesitation, Steve scooped your body into his arms, resting your head against his chest as he carried you bridal style. He whispered reassurances to you as he lifted you, knowing that you couldn’t hear it but the idea comforted himself more than anything.
“We’ve gotta get her out of here.” Steve nodded at Dustin and handed him his flashlight, allowing himself to devote his entire attention to you.
Steve swallowed his nerves and looked down at your face, feeling his heart lurch in his chest as your eyes were void of familiarity, “You’re gonna be okay.” His voice shook as he readjusted you in his arms, “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
Tightening his grip on you, his feet began moving in the direction he had just come from, retracing his steps to carry you out of the Upside Down.
Dustin jogged ahead of you, pushing the doors open for Steve to walk through with ease. A stretching sound made both of their bodies tense up and Steve to tug your figure closer against his chest.
They tilted their heads to look over their shoulder, their hearts pounding in their chest as they saw the familiar shadow of a Demogorgon growing closer, inches away from turning the corner and finding their helpless faces.
Steve took a deep breath and pressed his back against the wall beside the door, blocking you and him out of the vision of the monster lurking. Dustin leaned forwards and reached to slowly shut the door but Steve slapped his hand, “Don’t.”
“They can’t get us if it’s shut.” Dustin whispered back, gesturing to the thick door standing between you and the Demogorgon. Dustin was right. If he successfully shut the door without the Demo noticing, no matter how much body strength they had, nothing could break the opening down.
Steve shook his head rapidly, “You’ll get us caught.” Dustin offered him a sympathetic look, “It’ll work. Trust me.”
Steve looked down at your unconscious body, fingers reaching up to brush a stray hair out of your face, “I can’t lose her.” His voice broke, a thin layer of tears burning his eyes as he yearned to keep you as close and safe as possible.
Dustin sighed and felt his emotions brewing as he watched Steve’s hands gently caress your face. “It’ll work.” He repeated.
Steve swallowed his nerves, “I trust you.” He nodded at Dustin and cupped the back of your head, hiding your face in his chest.
Dustin wiped the sweat off his palms and slowly crawled forwards, blocking out the screeches of the Demogorgon as it knocked down objects in its way, frantically searching for you. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle and took a deep breath before pulling it an inch closer, underestimating how heavy it was as the metal glided against the ragged flooring, causing a loud sound to ring out the lab.
Steve and Dustin’s eyes widened as they watched the Demogorgon’s head whip around to face the three of you. It stood up on its back feet and lunged towards the open door.
“Shit!” Dustin yelled and stood up, grabbing the other handle of the door and using his entire body weight to yank it closed.
The doors groaned against the floor and the Demogorgon’s pounding steps grew closer, “Come on, man!” Steve shouted at his friend, “I’m trying!” He yelled back.
Dustin yelled as he threw his body backwards as he was still latched onto the door, the force enough to slam the doors closed. The Demogorgon’s body collided with the other side of the door, causing the hinges to rattle and drown out the sighs of relief from Steve and Dustin.
“Jesus Christ!” Dustin laughed, hunching over and placing his hands on his knees. Steve laughed in disbelief slightly before standing up on his feet, hoisting you further into his body and pressed a soft kiss on the crown of your head.
“Let's get you out of here.” He whispered into your hair and ignored the single tear slip out his eye, he couldn’t determine whether it was from the emotional stress of the situation or losing you.
After taking a quick detour out of the lab, Steve and Dustin joined the others outside, smiles gracing their faces as they made eye contact with Hopper and the crew. Mike pulled Dustin into a tight hug and looked over his friend's shoulder, seeing you looking lifeless in Steve’s arms.
“Steve--” “Where’s the gate?” Steve cut Mike’s questioning off, passing everyone with hurried footsteps as he charged forwards. The group all looked between each other and raised immediate concerns for you, “What the hell happened to her?”
“Where is the goddamn gate?” Steve shouted and turned around to face everyone. Their jaws unclenched as they saw Steve was distraught, clinging onto his lifeline in his arms as if he would sacrifice the world to bring her back.
Eleven stepped forwards, “This way.” Steve followed in her footsteps and Eleven looked over her shoulder occasionally, unable to ignore the way Steve mumbled endless apologies and promises to your pale face, her eyes softening at the moment.
Eleven gestured to the gate as it appeared in their sight, “Right there.” Before she could even finish her statement, Steve was running towards it.
He kicked the rubble out of the way and shoved his arm into the orange and red gate, clearing the path to hoist you through. A figure flinched on the other side of the gate before their head popped into vision, their face blurred from the division of worlds.
“Holy shit!” Lucas cursed as he watched Steve fumble with your unconscious figure, “Take her to the WSQK.” Steve demanded.
Lucas reached his hands through the gate and placed them under your armpits, pulling you back into the real world as Steve pushed you through with his hands tight around your waist.
As Lucas hauled you into the real world, the redhead perched in a wheel-chair gasped and clasped her hands over her mouth.
“Oh, my God!” Max’s voice was muffled by her hands. Her throat closed up as she watched your eyes roll into the back of your head and your arms limp beside you. She knew that feeling before, she had lived it multiple times.
But seeing the person who did everything in their power to protect you and watched them live their life in guilt, whimpering as she watched you cradle her hand in the hospital almost every night, went through the same thing she did. Max Mayfield was terrified and for once, it was out of her control.
Lucas dragged you away from the gate, his fingers reaching for your pulse and his breath quickened. Steve quickly followed after you, pushing himself through the gate and scooping you into his arms once again.
Ignoring the questions from Lucas, Steve took off towards the WSQK. Dustin stumbled out of the gate, “Steve, what are you doing?” He shouted after his friend.
“I’m finding her music!” Steve shouted back and kicked open the door to the radio station.
Max widened her eyes as Steve barged into the station, “No…” She whispered under her breath, “That’ll only waste time.” She shook her head and headed towards where Steve had carried you, ignoring the burning in her palms as she hurriedly wheeled herself to stop Steve.
As she entered the WSQK, Max’s breath hitched as she saw you delicately placed on the couch. Your face was twitching with fear and Max understood that you were fighting, and fighting hard. For him.
She heard records being tossed in another room and Steve’s curses, “It’s not here.” He groaned and Max raised her voice, “Steve, stop!”
“He’s got her! I just need to find this stupid song!” Steve shouted and barged through each room, shoving any objects that were in his way as he rushed to get back to you.
“It’s not the music!” Max tried to voice her statement over Steve’s ruckus. “It’s here somewhere. I swear to God--”
“It’s you, Steve!” Max shouted and threw her hands up in frustration.
Steve stopped abruptly, “What?” He squinted his eyes at the redhead. She sighed and gestured over at you, “She doesn’t need music.”
Steve looked over at you, “She needs something that connects her to the real world,” Max inhaled shakily, “To home.”
Tears prickled at Steve’s eyes as he dropped the multiple records, taking slow steps towards you and crouching down next to the couch. “Something powerful. Meaningful.” Max continued.
“That’s you, Steve. She needs you.” Max said to him, swallowing her emotions as she watched a tear cascade down his face. “Tell her everything. That’s how you can reach her.”
Steve’s bottom lip wobbled and he reached up to caress your face with the back of his hand. He couldn’t fathom how you could always look so beautiful as the darkness of his terrors consumed his every being, you were the light of everyone's life that had been snuffed out 18 months ago; and Steve Harrington had the matches to reignite you.
Max slowly backed out of the room to give you and Steve space. If he needed to pull you back in, his vulnerability had to guide him.
Steve sniffled and wiped his tears away, “Alright,” He took a deep breath, “I’m gonna do this.” He reassured himself before sliding his hand into your own.
“I didn’t mean it. Not one word.” He laced his fingers with your own, “I don’t even know why I said it. I was pissed off and I took it out on the wrong person, and I couldn’t be more sorry, you have to know that.”
Steve sighed and lifted your hand so he could press a feather light kiss on the back of it, “I pushed you away just as much as you did to me. 18 months ago, I was mortified. I was mortified that I couldn’t protect you and I had become just another person who had failed you. I couldn’t defend you and you were left alone, so alone.” Steve sobbed.
“And it turns out I’m doing a pretty shitty job this time around if you ended up alone once again.” Steve’s other hand raised to brush your hair line, “Then you told me that you blamed yourself and God, I resented you for that.”
“I couldn’t fathom that after everything you still found a way to take the fall. So, I did what I do best. I became someone that I wasn’t.” He licked his chapped lips and held his emotions together, resisting the extreme urge to break down completely as your eyes stayed in the back of your head.
“You know that I’d sacrifice the world for you, right?” Steve laughed weakly, “I went into every single crawl knowing that I would happily take the risk of losing myself if it meant that you got to walk away unscathed. That you got to live a life outside Hawkins and live out the dream you always used to tell me. The one where you become a teacher because you can’t help looking out for other people.”
Steve sniffled and smiled weakly, “Those kids made you soft over the years. God, I’m pretending as if they didn’t do the same to me.”
Wiping his tears on the back of his hand, Steve continued, “I don’t understand how someone who’s dealt with endless grief can remain so beautiful in the darkest times. I used to look for your face every-time we went into battle so I could be reminded of the beauty in this world.”
“But in true Harrington style, I self-sabotaged. If I knew I could make you hate me, or anything remotely similar, you wouldn’t have to deal with the grief that would come from me playing hero and protecting you. Because until this is all over, I will continue to do so. I refuse to live in a life where I don’t risk everything in this world to keep you safe.”
Silence suffocated the room, interrupted by Steve’s choked sobs, “So, I need you to come back to me. I still need to tell you about the dream I told you, with the Winnebago, seeing the country with my six little nuggets… You’re there. You’ve always been there.”
Steve closed his eyes and rested his forehead against your own, allowing his tears to slip off his face and etch onto your own. His fingers gripping your hand like a vice, as if he were to let go would mean the world would end. Steve could only hope that Max was right, but doubts lingered in his mind.
What if he said the wrong words? What if he didn’t say enough? Did he say too much? Was any of it relevant if you still remained elsewhere, your mind being tormented as Steve could do nothing but talk to a lifeless figure.
But sometimes, hopes are answered. And Steve Harrington’s was as your hand clenched around his own and your body lurched forwards with a gasp.
max after telling steve to reach the reader and his ass starts yapping about six little nuggets
taglist (holy moly over 100 of u... i'll cry don't even):
Summary: You’re in love with Steve and Robin says he feels the same way back. So why does Steve keep on choosing Nancy Wheeler over you? Why is he trying so hard to impress her?
Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Warnings: ANGST, heartbreak, cuss words, a little rude Steve, maybe more idkk SET IN SEASON 5 SO SPOILERS
CHAPTERS:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5 (coming soon)
still ongoing…
(lissa)(she/her)(19) @r0nnsblog - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
