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If Only You Could See Yourself Through My Eyes

♡ Sometimes the people we claim to hate are the ones who see us most clearly

Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • Enemies (ish) to lovers, smut (unprotected, semi-public (at work)), themes of trauma and insecurities, angst, hurt/ comfort and touches of fluff.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 5k

Summary: A reluctant fascination becomes something raw and unguarded — and forces you both to confront what’s been buried under years of bite, bark, and bruises.

Author’s Note: Look, I’m not saying this is a glasses kink fic... but I’m also not not saying that. I’m also not not saying there might be more — if people want it. (Or even if they don’t. Honestly, I’ve already started.)

Steve hated his glasses. Hated the way they slid down his nose when he leaned over to rewind tapes. Hated the constant pressure behind his ears and he especially hated way they reminded him—always—of the headaches that never really went away.

Worse than the irritation was the message they carried: a silent broadcast of his weaknesses. The King Steve armour, once polished to perfection, had been swapped for wire frames and corrective glass.

You, however, loved his glasses. You did however hate the fact you loved them.

Hated the traitorous flutter in your stomach every time Steve shoved them back up his nose with that familiar, frustrated groan.

Hated how the lenses caught the fluorescent lights of Family Video, turning his eyes into deep, liquid pools you wanted to dive into.

Most of all, you hated how they softened him. How they revealed the vulnerable, bruised kid beneath the hair and bravado—a glimpse you weren’t supposed to find SO appealing.

Not after years of mutual disdain, barbs traded like currency from the halls of Hawkins High to the dark of the Upside Down.

Steve caught you staring again. Not the sharp glare you usually threw his way – this was different. Lingering a fraction too long near the wire frames perched on his cheekbones. His jaw tightened, a defensive reflex he had honed to perfection after meeting you.

"What?" he snapped. Sharper than he intended, echoing slightly in the quiet store. He instantly regretted the edge but he didn’t rush to correct it.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, jerking your gaze away. But the damage was done — heat was already crawling up your cheeks. You turned back to the stack of VHS returns, suddenly fascinated by the cracked plastic covers.

However, Steve wasn’t done with you. “You were staring,” he pressed, not letting it go. “Again.”

“I wasn’t,” you muttered, too defensive, too fast.

“You were. And I know I look stupid in them, so can we just mo—”

“You don’t,” you blurted, then immediately wished you could snatch the words back out of the air.

He blinked. “What?”

You swallowed. “I said… you don’t look stupid.”

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “You literally called me Four Eyes non stop last week when I told you I had to get them.”

“That was before,” you said, quieter now. “Before I realised you would—” You shook your head. “Never mind.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of unsaid things and years of bite and bark. Steve didn’t move. His eyes searched yours behind the glare of his lenses.

“Before you realised what?” he asked. His voice had dropped a little, that cocky sharpness fading into something softer and scarier than any threat you had faced.

Your heart thudded like it wanted to punch its way out of your ribcage. You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. Not much—just enough to close the gap, just enough for you to notice how his cologne clung to his vest. It smelled clean, warm, stupidly safe, and you hated how much you noticed.

“You like them,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing—not smug, just surprised. “You like them.” His voice took on a teasing twang the second time.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, though your voice came out breathless, traitorously weak. Your eye roll not nearly as dismissive as you intended it to be.

“Too late,” he said, stepping into your space now.

You took a step back. He took another forward. A standoff now, until your back hit the counter. You pushed out your chest—aiming for a look of defiance, maybe even indifference—but instead all you achieved was giving him a better view.

His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the rise and fall of your breathing, and when they flicked back up, something in them had changed. Darkened.

"Real intimidating," he said, but his voice had dipped lower now, rougher. “Almost had me.”

You hated how your body responded to that tone. How the heat pooled low and steady beneath your skin. How you couldn't look away from the way his lips curved—not into a smirk, not quite—but something unreadable. Curious. Dangerous.

“I mean it,” you said, even though you didn’t sound convinced yourself. “I don’t like them and I don’t like you-”

His fingers brushed the counter beside your hip. “Sure. That’s why you can’t stop starting at them. Even now.”

You wanted to deny it. Should’ve. But the truth was obvious. Your breath had gone shallow. Your skin was hot. And Steve fucking Harrington was standing close enough for you to see the faint freckle beneath his jaw and the tiny smudge on his glasses.

You swallowed hard. “You’re really full of yourself, you know that?”

“And you’re not?” he said, smiling now—slow, wolfish. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to bite.”

Your face flamed. “I do, actually. Just not the way you're hoping.”

He leaned in, just a breath from your ear. “I’m hoping for all kinds of things.”

Silence fell between you again. You didn’t realise how close you’d leaned until your lips almost brushed his cheek when you turned your head.

And then you did something stupid. Or brave. Or long overdue.

But definitely stupid.

You kissed him.

Not soft. Not gentle.

Hungry.

His hand slammed against the counter beside your hip, steadying himself — or maybe anchoring you. For half a second he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe this was happening, then he kissed you back hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

The kiss hit like static—sharp, startling, inevitable. You’d meant it to be brief. Just enough to shut him up. But then his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there, and it stopped being a kiss you started.

It became a kiss you couldn’t stop.

His mouth was hot, insistent. Yours answered, traitorous. His glasses bumped your cheek, cool against the flush of your skin, and the ridiculous detail made you gasp. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss.

You broke away just long enough to mutter, “This is a mistake.”

“Big one,” he agreed, breathless—before dragging you back in.

The edge of the counter dug into your spine, sharp but grounding. His hands bracketed your hips, warm and solid, keeping you caged.

You should’ve ended it. Should’ve walked away. Instead, your fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to get to the heat beneath.

You froze for half a second—both of you did—just staring. Breathing hard. His lips wet, your heart hammering, the air sharp with everything unsaid.

Then you were on him again, fiercer this time, like that pause had only poured gasoline on the fire.

His laugh vibrated against your throat as he found your pulse with his mouth, his tongue tracing fire along its rhythm.

The gasp had his grip tightening. His knee nudged between yours. His mouth trailed lower, over the curve of your collarbone, and for the first time you heard him—really heard him—groan. Low. Unsteady.

It shouldn’t have thrilled you. But it did.

The glasses should’ve been in the way, to be honest they were, but you didn’t care. You gripped the front of his vest and yanked, dragging him impossibly closer.

He groaned into your mouth, low and gravelly, and fuck, you’d never heard a sound more desperate. Your fingers went straight for the frames, not to pull them off, but to hold them steady, pushing them up the bridge of his nose as your lips broke apart for a gasp.

“Don’t,” he muttered, breath hot against your jaw. “Don’t take them off.”

You froze for a second. Then smirked: “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown wide behind those damn lenses “Good,” he paused, “I like when you look at me like that.”

God, he had no idea what he was doing to you. Your hands slid up his chest, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the edges of his shirt's collar until they met bare skin just beneath. He was warm. Solid. Real.

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” he said, mouth dragging down your neck, finding the spot just below your jaw that made your knees buckle.

“You always kiss the people you hate like that?” Your laugh turned into a gasp as he hoisted you onto the counter with startling ease, your thighs parting instinctively to let him fit between them. The cool laminate kissed your skin, but the heat radiating from Steve more than made up for it.

His hands were now on your thighs below the hem of your skirt, thumbs dragging slow circles over your bare skin-making your brain combust.

“Thought you hated me, too,” you said, breath catching as he slipped your shirt out of your skirt and coasted his fingers across the bare skin of your waist.

“I do,” he murmured, lips ghosting down your collarbone. “That’s what makes this so fun.”

And then he bit. Not hard, just enough to make you gasp and arch into him.

Suddenly it was all heat and hands and desperation. You yanked his silly little green vest off, the one you refused to wear, and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt like they were actively responsible for keeping you apart.

“Jesus,” he hissed, your nails scraping lightly down his chest. “Not into taking it slow, huh? Good to know.”

“Years of pent-up rage, Harrington. I’m just getting started.”

“Good,” he growled, finally slipping his hand under your skirt. “Let’s see what all that anger tastes like.”

You didn’t have time to come up with a smart-ass response because his hands were all over you—hot, deliberate, confident in a way that made your stomach flip.

His fingers curled around the collar of your top, and when his eyes met yours, he hesitated. “Okay?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You nodded, throat dry. “Yeah.”

That was all he needed.

He pulled the collar of your top down roughly, exposing your breasts. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples tighten instantly.

Steve’s gaze dropped, dark and hungry. He didn’t speak—didn’t need to. The way he looked at you said it all. His eyes dark and lips parted like he’d just seen something sacred.

He didn’t touch you yet—just stared, his breath catching audibly. “Fuck.”

His teeth grazed skin—not gentle—before his tongue soothed the sting. You arched against him, fingers tangling in his hair, knocking his glasses askew. He then pulled down the cups of your bra. His thumb brushed over one nipple, feather-light at first, then circled it slowly, deliberately.

A sharp gasp escaped you, and he smiled—a wicked, knowing curve of his lips. “Fuck,” he breathed, leaning down to take your nipple into his mouth. Hot. Wet. Perfect.

His tongue flicked against you, and you arched off the counter, fingers twisting in his hair. He groaned against your skin, the vibration sending shocks straight to your core. You didn’t know what to say—couldn’t speak—so you just pulled him closer, grinding against the hard ridge of his jeans.

He hissed, biting down gently on your nipple before lifting his head to kiss you again, deep and messy. “Tell me,” he demanded against your lips. “Tell me you hate me.”

“I hate you,” you gasped, hips arching into his touch. And maybe you did.

You hated how he knew exactly where to touch.

Hated the press of his glasses against your skin as he kissed lower.

Hated how his groan echoed through you when you tugged his hair just right. But most of all, you hated how much you didn’t hate any of it.

“Liar,” he whispered, placing featherlight kisses across your collarbones.

You arched into him without meaning to.

“Someone’s impatient,” he muttered against your skin, his tongue tracing a teasing line along the swell of your breast. The sound it pulled from you was sharp, your hips shifting toward him on instinct

“You’re one to talk,” you managed, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt. You made quick work of the buttons, dragging the fabric down his arms until you could finally touch the skin beneath.

And god, he felt like heaven. Warm, solid, every inch of him thrumming with tension and restraint. Your palms skimmed over his chest, down the trail of hair leading below his waistband. He caught your hand just before it went lower. Not to stop you—just to look at you.

“You sure?” he asked again, quieter this time. Like he needed to hear it once more, just to be safe.

You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Steve,” you whispered, “shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He surged forward, lips crashing into yours, and everything after that blurred. Hands everywhere. Teeth. Tongues. Breathless moans swallowed between kisses. He shoved your skirt up over your hips, growling low in his throat when he felt just how ready you were through the damp fabric of your underwear.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he muttered, dragging the cotton aside and slipping two fingers between your thighs. You gasped, head falling back as he found your rhythm instantly—like he already knew what would undo you.

“Still hate me?” he asked, smug, voice rasping against your neck as he curled his fingers just right.

“More than ever,” you gasped, thighs trembling. “Fuck. Don’t stop.”

He chuckled—low, wrecked—and kissed you hard. Then he dropped to his knees in front of you like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

His glasses were still on—slightly fogged now, barely hanging on—but you didn’t care. You didn’t want him to take them off. You wanted to see his eyes, every flicker of hunger and reverence as he looked up at you from between your legs.

He kissed the inside of your thigh slowly, deliberately. “Say it,” he murmured, breath hot. “Say you want this.”

You met his gaze, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

“I want you.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Everything else—coherent thought, old grudges, Family Video—ceased to exist. It was just Steve.

His hands pinning your hips to the edge of the counter. His tongue dragging slow, devastating circles until you were clawing at his hair, sobbing out broken sounds you didn’t know you were capable of making.

When he finally stood back up, mouth slick, eyes wild, you pulled him in and kissed him like you were starving. Because you were. For him. For this.

You fumbled with his belt, unzipping his jeans as he pressed you down against the counter, your thighs still parted around his hips. He lined himself up, and for one suspended second, he just looked at you—face flushed, jaw tight, glasses still crooked on his face.

“Last chance,” he murmured, voice shaking now - his restraint fraying. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. You reached up and pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, lips brushing his as you whispered:

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The stretch of him filled you fast, deep, perfect. You cried out, clutching at his shoulders as he moved inside you with a pace that bordered on feral—like he was trying to make up for every year you hated each other. Like he was trying to fuck the tension out of both of you.

“God, you feel…” he breathed, lips pressed to your neck. “Fuck. I’ve wanted this—”

“Shut up,” you gasped, digging your nails into his back, the tenderness in his tone scaring you. “Just—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. When you came, it was with a broken cry and your body shaking, stars behind your eyelids. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck as he groaned through clenched teeth, hips stuttering against yours.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved. Just the sounds of panting, trembling limbs, and the buzz of the store’s shitty fluorescent lights.

Your hands slid down his chest, greedy for every inch of him, that’s when you felt it—the raised ridge of another scar cutting across his ribs. Your breath caught. Before you could stop yourself, you leaned in and pressed your mouth to it.

Steve froze, mid-breath, like no one had ever touched him there before. Not like that. Not like it meant something.

He let out a shaky laugh, almost disbelieving. “You’re… kissing my scars now?”

You didn’t answer. You kissed another, higher on his shoulder, then another along his forearm where the skin was rough. Each touch was softer than anything you’d given him before. Each one an apology and a promise.

His hand came up to cup the back of your head, not to stop you, but to steady himself. “No one’s ever…” he started, then trailed off, his throat working around the words.

You lifted your face, just enough to meet his eyes, and whispered:

“Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Steve didn’t pull away. He wrapped his arms around you instead, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You laughed—a real one this time. “Better than okay.”

You were still catching your breath when the silence settled. Not quite awkward—just quiet, dense with everything that hadn't been said - that should’ve been said - before you tore each other apart.

Steve’s hands hadn’t moved from your waist after he pulled your skirt back down and your top back up. His thumbs stroked small, absent-minded circles against your skin like he hadn’t realised he was still touching you.

Then, gently, he reached up and swept some of your hair off your shoulder—an absent-minded motion, almost tender, reverent in a way that startled you. His knuckles skimmed the edge of your collarbone, a touch so light it barely felt real.

That’s when he saw it.

The way your top had shifted left the scar just barely visible, curved and pale against your skin.

His gaze lingered. Not startled. Not invasive. Just… stilled, as though the world had narrowed to that one mark.

“When did this happen?” he asked softly, fingers hovering inches away, the way someone might reach for a flame—both drawn and afraid to touch.

You froze for half a second. Considered lying. Then answered, low and careful. “Tunnels. Before we found Dart. I slipped. Landed on some rebar.”

Steve didn’t speak right away. Just reached out—slow, deliberate—and traced the line with one knuckle, featherlight. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned down and pressed his lips to it.

A kiss so soft it barely registered, but it stole the air from your lungs.

“You always made it seem like nothing ever touched you,” he said. “Like you didn’t come out marked.”

You let out a quiet breath. “I didn’t want to give anyone another reason to think I was weak.”

He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “No one ever thought you were weak.” He paused, “I never thought you were weak. ”

You glanced up at him, and that’s when you noticed it—the shift. The slackened jaw. The way his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know how. His glasses had slid down his nose, hair mussed, a faint flush still painted across his cheeks.

And his eyes… God. His eyes were searching. Not your body this time - it felt like they were searching for something more.

“I know this isn’t how things usually go between us—y’know, honest, earnest,” he said, barely above a whisper. He paused, swallowed, then—softer, like it cost him something—added, “but… I do like how you look at me.”

Your chest ached. Not in the dizzying, lust-drunk way it had ten minutes ago—but in that terrifying, irreversible I might actually care about you way.

“Steve,” you started, but he shook his head, a humourless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just… I didn’t think anyone would ever look at me like that again. Not after…” he gestured vaguely, but you knew what he meant. The Upside Down. The blood. The trauma. The scars you both stopped counting.

Your gaze softened. You reached up and gently adjusted the glasses on his face, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your other hand drifted over the faint line slashed across his neck.

“I’m not looking at you despite anything,” you said quietly. “I’m looking at you because of it. Because you’re still standing. Because you kept standing.”

He stared at you for a long time. Then, for the first time since this whole messy thing started, Steve Harrington looked shy.

“I still hate you, you know,” you teased, nudging your knee against his to try and break the tension.

“Sure,” he said, voice a little hoarse now. “But maybe you don’t just hate me anymore.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let your fingers trail lightly along his forearm, feeling the faint ridges of another scar that was usually hidden by a sleeve.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“That one was from a demodog,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Tore through my arm when we were trying to get out of the tunnels.”

You glanced up, brows drawn.

“Didn’t you say it was just a ‘scratch’?”

He gave a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah. That’s the kind of thing you say when you’re trying to keep a bunch of terrified kids from losing their shit.”

His hand tightened slightly on your thigh. Not possessive — steadying.

You nodded slowly, then shifted, nudging him to sit beside you on the counter. He did, reluctantly, legs dangling off the edge like a kid who didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“We’re a matched set, huh?” he said quietly, turning his hand to show you the one across his knuckles. “You’ve got one on your arm, I’ve got one on mine.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Twisted kind of romantic.” A pause.

“I didn’t know it messed you up this bad,” you admitted softly. “The headaches. The vision.”

He tapped the side of his glasses with one finger. “Yeah. Surprise. Steve Harrington’s human.”

You studied his face — the faint bruising still lingering beneath one eye, the pale pink scar at his temple, the curve of his nose where it looked like it might’ve once been broken.

“You always were,” you murmured.

He turned to look at you then — really look — like he was waiting for you to flinch, to look away, to take it all back.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your hand slid across his abdomen, following the edge of his shirt where it hung open after he had thrown it back on. That’s when you felt it — something deeper. A scar, long and rough, ridged like it had once split him wide open.

You moved the hem carefully, revealing the line carved just above his hip.

He stilled beneath your touch. “That one…” he started, voice low, “that was from a demobat. Tore through my side.”

You glanced up, jaw clenched. “Didn’t you say that was just a scratch, too?”

He laughed again, quietly. “Yeah. Had a whole playbook of bullshit lines back then.”

Your thumb traced the scar, reverent. “You didn’t want them to worry.”

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “sometimes I look in the mirror and I barely recognise myself. Feels like I left a part of me in that other world and came back with... this.”

He motioned to himself — not just the glasses, but all of it. The quieter voice. The edge behind his eyes. The exhaustion.

You reached out and gently touched the frame of his glasses again, pushing them back into place.

“You came back with a version of yourself you had to fight to become,” you said. “That’s not weakness, Steve. That’s survival.”

He blinked. Swallowed hard.

“You really like the glasses, huh?” He chuckles, nudging your shoulder softly.

You smirked. “I mean, they make you look smarter. Less like a cocky asshole.”

“Wow. Almost a compliment.”

You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth — softer this time. Lingering.

“I don’t just like the glasses,” you whispered against his skin. “I like you. This version. The one who made it out.”

His breath hitched.

And then — slowly, carefully, tentatively — he rested his forehead against yours. Not because he was trying to kiss you again, but because it was the only way to get close enough without falling apart completely.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I do,” you whispered.

He blinked — like the words had winded him.

“That’s funny,” he said. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

His forehead stayed pressed against yours for a few heartbeats—neither of you daring to break the quiet. It wasn’t empty; it was full. Full of everything left unsaid, of scars and hope tangled together.

You could feel the steady rhythm of his breath against your skin, the way his pulse fluttered beneath your fingers. For once, the noise of the world faded into the background—just you, him, and this fragile, trembling space between you.

Steve let out a slow breath, then shifted, sliding off the counter. His sneakers hit the tile with a soft thud. For a second he just stood there, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Then he reached out. Not cocky, not commanding — hesitant. His fingers hovered in the space between you, palm up.

“C’mon,” he said quietly.

You blinked at him. “C’mon where?”

He gave a half-shrug, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “Just… out of here. My place. Or, uh— yours”

He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, a smile threatening to be released. “We don’t have to. I just… don’t wanna pretend like nothing happened.”

You stared at his hand. Big, warm, a faint scar running across one knuckle. You weren’t used to seeing Steve Harrington like this — stripped of swagger, waiting patiently… for you.

Slowly, you slid off the counter too, your shoes touching down right in front of him. His hand was still there, patient.

You took it.

His thumb brushed across your knuckles — a nervous tell he probably didn’t even realise he had.

“Okay,” you said softly.

He exhaled, shoulders loosening just a fraction, and for the first time since the Upside Down, you saw something on his face you hadn’t seen since. Not the mask. Not the armour. Relief.

It was barely perceptible—an almost imperceptible shift in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes softened. But it was there. And it made something inside you shift, too.

You swallowed, the air between you suddenly thicker, full of words that hadn't been said yet. “You... you really meant it all, didn’t you?”

He blinked, caught off guard by the question, but then nodded, slow, deliberate. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough. “I did.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Just your breathing. The faint hum of the world outside. But the space between you pulsed with something different now.

No longer just banter or jokes or that lightness you used to hide behind. This... this was real.

You could feel your heart pounding, too loudly in the quiet. The weight of what was unspoken—the way this had cracked open something between you both, something neither of you were quite sure how to patch up or fix.

“So,” you whispered, fingers still tangled with his, but now with a new kind of steadiness, “what now?”

Steve tilted his head, eyes dark but softer than you’d ever seen. He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

You closed your eyes at the tender touch, your pulse thumping in your chest as if the world had paused, just for this.

The soft pressure of his forehead against yours, the way his thumb brushed lightly over your hand again, felt more grounding than anything you’d felt in weeks. Years. Ever.

“Now?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “We go home and figure this out.”

It was simple. Quiet. But it was everything.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, your chest full but not quite heavy. He wasn’t running. You weren’t either.

And then he grinned, that familiar, slightly goofy smile tugging at his lips. “We’re really doing this, huh?” he muttered, half-awkward, half-relieved.

You chuckled softly, the tension slipping away with the sound. "Guess so. You good with that?"

“I mean, I’m still getting used to the fact that you’re not running for the hills,” he said with a quiet laugh, almost to himself, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “But yeah. I think I’m good. You?”

You studied him for a second, then shrugged with a small smile. “Yeah I’m good,” you paused, your soft tone taking on a teasing edge. “Didn’t think we’d over get here though, if I’m being honest.”

Steve’s eyes softened, and that usually guarded expression he wore around you slipped away, leaving something far more vulnerable. “Me neither.” His voice was quieter now, as if admitting it out loud made it more real. “But... here we are.”

His lips brushed the top of your forehead, lingering just a moment too long, like a quiet promise without words. And though your chest tightened with the weight of everything unspoken, the touch settled something deep inside you.

A simple promise without words.

There were no more words, no more need for them. His thumb, absentmindedly tracing circles over your knuckles, was more than enough.

You didn’t need him to say it. You didn’t need him to promise anything. You could feel it, in the way he was holding you, in the way his breath mixed with yours.

And somehow, you knew that for now, that was enough.

P.S. Requests are open 🫶🏼

P.P.S. This was purely inspired by the fact I love Joe's glasses and there will be more where this came from...