summary: You and Steve crash on the couch after a long night of babysitting the kids, and when you wake up, the two of you are cuddled up together.
word count: 10.1k+
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
notes: friends to lovers that don't even realize they're in love with each other because they're idiots???? yes please i'll take ten
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, friends to lovers, oblivious idiots, fluff, unintentional cuddling, thunderstorm, the kids are done with you and steve, robin trying to meddle, uhhhh idk what else
The Wheeler living room is already loud by the time you and Steve step through the door, the kind of loud that rattles the picture frames and probably traumatizes the furniture. Will and Eleven sit cross-legged on the floor sorting pieces, Mike and Lucas are arguing over the rule book, Max lounges sideways in an armchair like she owns the place, and Dustin—Dustin is the one who spots you first, eyes bright with relief because backup has arrived. He practically launches himself across the carpet. “Finally! Reinforcements! Do you know how long I’ve been trying to stop them from killing each other? Mike insists the rules don’t apply to him—”
“That’s not what I said!” Mike shoots back from the floor without looking up. “I said they don’t apply in this version.”
“That’s even worse,” Lucas mutters, flipping a game card toward him.
Steve nudges your shoulder with his, a soft laugh slipping out. “You sure we signed up for this voluntarily?”
Dustin answers for you both. “Yes. Absolutely. Because you love me.” He wags his eyebrows with a confidence that deserves its own award.
Steve groans but ruffles Dustin’s curls anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t start any fires.”
You follow the chaos toward the couch, thinking you might sit at one end while Steve stays somewhere in the middle. The kids, however, have other plans. Eleven immediately takes the armchair beside Max and pats the cushion pointedly as if to say, these seats are taken, adult or not. Will sits closer to the coffee table, lost in arranging tiny tokens, and Dustin drops straight into the last open chair like he’s claiming territory.
That leaves the single space on the couch, a narrow sliver between two throw pillows. Steve glances at it, then at you, then back at it. “Guess we’re getting cozy,” he says under his breath, trying for casual but landing somewhere near hesitant.
You sit first, tucking your legs to one side to make room. Steve squeezes in beside you, his knee brushing yours, warm even through denim. The couch dips under his weight, pulling you closer than you meant to be, but the moment feels harmless—comfortable, even. The kids’ bickering rises again, filling the room with a familiar, buzzing energy that makes the closeness feel almost necessary, like the two of you are sharing the last quiet corner in a storm.
Mike slams the rule book shut. “We’re just going to play it how we played last time.”
Max rolls her eyes. “Last time you cried.”
“I did not cry,” he snaps, cheeks reddening.
“You absolutely cried,” Lucas insists. “You—”
You let your head fall lightly against the back of the couch, exhaustion settling through you like sand. Steve notices immediately. “You okay?” he murmurs.
“Just tired,” you admit, half-smiling. “Didn’t know babysitting involved this much diplomacy.”
“Diplomacy?” Steve scoffs. “These gremlins haven't known peace since third grade.”
Their argument grows more animated, and the low warmth in the room lulls your brain into a haze. You feel yourself drifting, not fully asleep but hovering right beneath it. The kids fade into background noise, their voices blending with the lamp hum and the whisper of cards shuffling.
That’s when you feel it—light pressure over your shoulders, the soft weight of a blanket being eased around you. The movement is gentle, almost instinctive. Steve doesn’t make a show of it; he doesn’t even look at you while he tucks the corner behind your arm. He just settles back beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours again.
The warmth mixes with your drowsiness, and you lean just a little into his side without thinking. He doesn’t move away. You’re not sure how long the peaceful moment lasts, because a sudden knock at the front door jolts the entire room. Mike groans. “If that’s another pizza flyer—”
But it isn’t a flyer. A familiar voice calls out, “your favorite coworker is here to liberate you!”
Robin strides into the living room like she lives there, hands on her hips, eyebrows already raised. She takes in the scene—Dustin mid-rant, Max smothering a grin, Eleven’s serious concentration, Steve tucked against you under a shared blanket—and something playful sparks behind her eyes.
She doesn’t comment. Not out loud. But she absolutely smirks, slow and knowing, like she’s mentally taking notes for future teasing ammunition. Steve stiffens at her expression, shooting her a warning look that only makes her smirk widen. Robin plops onto the floor beside Eleven. “So. Who’s winning?”
“No one,” Will sighs softly. “We haven’t even started.”
“That’s because someone won’t read the rules correctly,” Dustin says pointedly.
Mike glares. “Everybody shut up and let me—”
Their voices climb again, and Robin leans back on her hands, glancing between you and Steve with the quiet satisfaction of someone who just walked into a scene she fully intended to gossip about later.
Steve shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket so it covers both of you more evenly, pretending not to notice his best friend’s smug stare. His arm brushes yours again, warm and steady. You can feel him fighting the urge to explain himself—explain the blanket, explain the closeness—but Robin doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to.
You settle deeper into the cushion, the room bright with noise and energy, and Steve’s presence at your side grounding you in a way you don’t question. Not yet.
By the time the last game piece clatters into its box, the kids have moved past the argument stage and straight into the collapse phase. Max is the first to fold, grabbing a pillow from the couch arm and dropping onto a sleeping bag like she’s been waiting hours for gravity to win. Mike mutters something about unfair rules before he flops down beside Will, whose eyes are already half-closed. Lucas arranges his blanket with unnecessary precision, as if he’s preparing for a military inspection. Eleven curls up beside him, and Dustin, in true Dustin fashion, declares he isn’t tired a single second before he faceplants into his pillow.
The room finally settles into something quieter, soft breaths replacing chaotic chatter. Empty cups sit on the coffee table. The lamp glows low. The chicken-shaped kitchen clock ticks faintly in the background. For the first time all night, you and Steve aren’t being pulled in ten different directions.
You stretch your legs out on the couch, your back sinking into the cushions. Steve slumps beside you, shoulders dropping, head falling back as he exhales a long, weary breath that sounds suspiciously like relief. His knee bumps your thigh again, though this time he doesn’t bother to shift away. You feel the warmth of him, steady and familiar in a way you didn’t expect. “You think they’ll actually stay asleep?” he asks quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.
“They better,” you murmur. “If I hear one more debate about whether Mike was cheating—”
“He was cheating.”
“You can’t cheat a game that doesn’t have real rules.”
Steve snorts a tired laugh, head tipping toward you. The sound pulls a smile from you before you can stop it.
For a while neither of you speaks. There’s no reason to. The silence feels earned, warm, comfortable. The kids breathe softly on the floor, the kind of peaceful that only comes after burning off every last ounce of energy. The blanket Steve offered earlier still rests over your lap, and you tug it higher, letting your fingers graze the fabric.
Your eyelids feel heavier than you want to admit. You didn’t plan on staying much longer. You definitely didn’t plan on falling asleep here. But the mix of exhaustion and the steady presence beside you makes it hard to keep your thoughts sharp.
You feel your head tip slightly toward Steve before you realize you’re moving at all. He doesn’t startle. He doesn’t shift away. Instead he leans just a little nearer, enough that your shoulders brush again, enough that it feels intentional even if neither of you says anything. He whispers, “you okay?”
“Mmhmm,” you breathe, already sinking. “Just tired.”
“You can sleep if you want.”
“You first.”
“I’m not falling asleep,” he says, which is bold considering his voice sounds like he’s half unconscious already. “I’m just resting my eyes.”
“Sure you are.”
He gives a sleepy huff of a laugh, and then the quiet wraps around you both again. His arm settles along the back of the couch, close enough that the warmth radiates through you. You try to stay awake, you really do, but the mix of his closeness, the blanket, and the leftover warmth from the room finally pulls you under.
The last thing you feel is Steve’s shoulder steady beneath your cheek.
The next thing you know, sunlight is leaking through the Wheeler curtains, pale morning gold painting stripes across the room. Your eyes blink open slowly, vision fuzzy, mind slow to piece together where you are and how you ended up with an arm snugly wrapped around your waist.
His arm.
You freeze for a second, breath held. Steve is still asleep beside you, his chest rising and falling in soft, even patterns. His nose is tucked near your hair, lips ghosting warm against the top of your ear. One of his knees slots gently against yours like you two figured out puzzle-piece positions sometime in the night and just… stayed there.
You’re wrapped in him. Entirely. And it feels impossibly natural.
Then Steve stirs. His breathing changes, body tensing slightly as he shifts. You feel the moment realization hits him—a small, startled inhale, followed by stillness. His arm tightens once in a reflexive squeeze, then he jerks it back like the couch suddenly caught fire. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t—uh—” he mutters, scrambling upright so fast he nearly elbows a pillow off the couch. His hair sticks up wildly, his face flushed.
You push yourself upright too, clutching the blanket like it might hide how warm your face is. “I must’ve… I didn’t mean to—uh—lean on you all night.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” he says quickly. “Totally fine. Couch is small. Happens all the time. Not all the time. I mean—whatever. It’s cool.”
“Yeah. Cool.” You each sit there for an awkward heartbeat too long, both pretending you didn’t almost cuddle through the entire night.
A voice rises from the floor. “Oh my god,” Dustin groans dramatically, sitting up with all the energy of someone three seconds from combusting. He rubs his eyes as he peers toward the couch. “Did you guys seriously fall asleep together again?”
“Again?” Steve chokes.
Lucas rolls over, hair a mess. “They were basically on top of each other after the Snow Ball. Remember?”
Max sits up and smirks. “This is honestly not surprising.”
Mike points at both of you like he’s solving a mystery. “You always gravitate toward each other. It’s, like, magnetic or something.”
Eleven blinks sleepily at the scene, then nods once in agreement. “Yes. Always.”
You stare at the group, then at Steve, whose ears are turning a shade of red no human should naturally be capable of. Dustin flops back onto his pillow with the world’s heaviest sigh. “Unbelievable. I’m going to pull a muscle from how hard I’m rolling my eyes.”
You grab the blanket, suddenly too warm, while Steve runs a hand through his hair like he wants to hide inside it. The kids start packing up their sleeping bags with varying degrees of chaos, and you and Steve sit stiffly on the couch, avoiding each other’s eyes because neither of you knows how to handle the truth that, yes, you had gravitated toward each other—without even realizing it.
And somewhere in the middle of the mess, Dustin mutters, “I swear, one day you two are going to give me an aneurysm.”
A week passes, but the memory of waking tangled against Steve doesn’t fade as easily as you hoped. Every time you pass each other in the halls of Family Video, every time he hands you a VHS or brushes by you to reach the rewind station, there’s a flicker of that morning—sunlight on his face, his arm still wrapped around your waist like he belonged there. You keep pretending it’s no big deal. He keeps pretending he’s not thinking about it at all. Robin, on the other hand, has turned pretending into an Olympic sport.
Which is how you end up outside Family Video on a chilly Saturday morning, helping them haul in overstock boxes because Keith “accidentally” ordered three months of inventory at once. The air is colder than you expected, autumn biting a little sharper than last week. You try to hide the way you rub your arms for warmth, but Steve notices instantly.
He’s halfway to the door with a box when he glances over and blurts, “here.” Before you can respond, he shrugs off his jacket in one smooth motion and drapes it over your shoulders like it was already decided.
You blink at him, surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. I’m not cold,” he says too fast.
“You’re definitely cold.”
“Nah, I run hot,” he insists, though the goosebumps on his arms say otherwise.
Robin freezes mid-step, one eyebrow lifting with the kind of slow, deliberate judgment she usually saves for customers who return tapes that smell like cigarettes. She watches Steve for a long, amused second before speaking. “Smooth,” she drawls, lips twitching. “Very subtle.”
Steve glares at her, which only makes her grin wider.
You’re still adjusting the jacket on your shoulders, and the moment you settle into it, you feel Steve go very still. His eyes drag over the sight of you in his jacket—soft from wear, smelling faintly of piney cologne and Family-Video-cleaner—and something in his expression falters. It’s a full-body stutter: shoulders stopping mid-breath, hands freezing around the box he’s holding, mouth parted like words abandoned him.
Robin’s eyebrows climb so high they might actually leave her face. “You good?” she asks, deadpan.
Steve jerks back into motion. “Yep. Totally. Fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
“Right,” she says, but the sarcasm drips enough to fill a swimming pool.
Inside, the store is a battlefield of cardboard towers. You help them stack boxes in the back, all while Steve keeps glancing at you like he’s trying not to, always looking away a second too late. Robin catches every single slip.
At one point, as you’re helping sort new releases, a customer wanders in—a woman in her thirties, cheerful, the type who probably owns matching holiday sweaters for her dog. She points at Steve, then at you. “You two are adorable,” she says warmly. “How long have you been together?”
You nearly drop the stack of VHS cases you’re holding. Steve goes rigid beside you. “We’re not—uh—we’re not together,” he stammers, waving his hands in front of him so wildly he nearly smacks a cardboard cutout of Tom Hanks.
The woman blinks. “Oh! Sorry, you just look like—well, you know. A couple.”
“No, yeah, totally fine,” Steve rambles. “We’re just, you know, coworkers. Friends. Normal friends. Nothing weird. Nothing romantic. Not that romance is weird or—I’m gonna stop talking now.”
The woman gives you a sympathetic smile before heading toward the rom-com aisle. Robin doesn’t even wait until she’s out of earshot. “Romance isn’t weird,” she mimics under her breath. “Wow. He’s really killing it today.”
Steve shoots her a glare so sharp it could slice through VHS plastic. “Can you not?”
“I can’t not,” she whispers, smug as ever. “This is better than cable.”
You try to keep your focus on stacking movies, but your cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. And the worst part? You don’t hate the assumption. You don’t hate the idea of being seen with Steve like you’re something more than coworkers and accidental couch cuddlers. But you don’t let yourself think too hard about it. You’re not sure your heart is ready for that.
The day goes on like that—little moments that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow do. Another customer asks if you and Steve are “movie-night regulars.” A teenager asks if you’re trying to “impress your boyfriend” with your horror recommendations. Steve denies it every time, and every time he gets a little pinker.
At one point, you’re shelving tapes near the back, Steve standing so close beside you that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the top shelf. You swear he hesitates before pulling his hand back. “You sure you’re warm enough?” he asks softly, looking at his jacket wrapped around you.
“I’m warm,” you say, and you mean it. His smile is small but real.
From the counter, Robin mutters, “un. Be. Lievable.” You glance over to see her shaking her head, chin resting on her palm, smirk carved into her face like she’s witnessing the world’s slowest love story unfold in real time.
“What?” Steve snaps defensively.
“Nothing,” she says, sing-song and utterly unconvinced. “Just enjoying the show.”
Steve groans into his hands. You focus very hard on straightening a stack of VHS cases that absolutely do not need straightening. And yet despite the embarrassment, despite Robin’s commentary, despite customers assuming something neither of you have dared to name, you don’t take off Steve’s jacket.
Not even once.
Movie nights at the Wheeler house always start the same way: spilled popcorn, someone arguing about who gets the couch spot closest to the snacks, and Dustin insisting on an unnecessarily complicated projector setup that takes twice as long as it should. Tonight is no different. The kids have claimed most of the blankets, the lights are low, and Steve is fiddling with the VCR like it personally offended him.
You settle onto the couch, Steve’s jacket still wrapped around you from earlier that afternoon. You told yourself you’d give it back when the temperature evened out. You told yourself you’d hand it over once you got inside. You told yourself you’d return it when he asked.
He never asked.
And now, curled into the corner of the sofa, you can’t bring yourself to shrug it off. It’s warm. It’s soft. It smells like him in a way you absolutely refuse to think about too hard.
Lucas is the first one to notice. He stops dead in front of you, a bowl of pretzels in hand, eyes narrowing like a detective who’s just discovered a clue. “Whoa, whoa, hold on.” He points dramatically. “Why are you wearing Steve’s jacket?” You don’t even get a chance to answer. Lucas raises his voice—not a little, not gently—but with the subtlety of someone announcing the end of the world. “Are you two, like, dating now?”
The room goes still for exactly half a second before exploding. “What?!” Steve blurts, spinning around so fast he nearly pulls the VCR out of the wall. His face goes beet red immediately. “No. No! We’re not—there’s nothing—we’re not dating!”
“Sure,” Max says from the armchair, her tone so dry it could start a brushfire. “That’s why you keep staring every time the jacket moves.”
You choke on your own breath. “He’s not—”
“He absolutely is,” she cuts in. “Do you see his face right now?”
Steve, now floundering, tries to regain control. “Guys, it’s just a jacket. She was cold. I gave it to her. That’s it.”
Lucas doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but she never took it off. She’s still wearing it, man.”
“I’m going to,” you say quickly, even though you definitely don’t plan to. “Just… later.”
Max snorts and leans back. “Yeah, later. Sure.”
Dustin appears beside the couch, popcorn bowl tucked under his arm, shaking his head like he’s watching a soap opera he’s far too invested in. He leans toward Mike, who’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet. “This is painful to watch,” he whispers loudly enough for all of you to hear.
Mike nods solemnly. “Agreed.”
You want the couch to swallow you whole. Steve looks like he wants the entire house to collapse around him. He gestures vaguely toward your shoulder. “If it’s weird, I can take it back. Or you can—uh—give it back. If you want. Unless you don’t. I mean—whatever. No pressure.”
You stare at him, then at the collar he’s now fidgeting with between his fingers, picking at a loose thread like it’s a lifeline. “Steve,” you say slowly, “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“Right,” he says, smoothing the fabric a little too carefully. “Okay. Cool.”
Max watches the whole exchange with narrowed eyes, elbow resting on the arm of the chair like she’s collecting data for a thesis. Lucas takes a handful of pretzels and throws himself into a beanbag with a dramatic sigh, muttering to Dustin, “they’re totally dating.”
Dustin doesn’t miss a beat. “No, they’re something, and it’s driving me insane.”
Eleven, sitting beside Mike, studies you with that serene, thoughtful look she gets when she knows more than she says. “Friends can share clothes,” she offers gently. You smile at her, grateful—until she adds in a quieter, almost conspiratorial voice, “but you both look happy.” Steve nearly drops the remote.
Mike groans. “Can we just watch the movie before this turns into a group therapy session?”
Everyone grumbles in agreement, and the chaos shifts as the kids rearrange themselves for the opening credits. But even as the room settles, the teasing dies down, and the screen flickers to life, Steve stays close beside you on the couch. His arm rests along the back, just near enough for your shoulder to brush his if either of you shifts even slightly.
And every once in a while, he glances over—not long enough to get caught again, but long enough to make your heart beat faster. You pretend you don’t notice. But you really, really do.
Domestic moments sneak in the way sunlight creeps through blinds—quiet at first, barely noticeable, then suddenly you’re surrounded by them, warmed before you even realize what’s happening.
It starts with something small. You’re at Melvald’s picking up snacks for the kids’ weekend hangout when you bump into Steve in the cereal aisle. He’s holding a box of Lucky Charms, looking deeply conflicted, like the fate of the universe depends on marshmallow distribution. You tease him about it, he complains about Dustin’s “freakishly specific snack expectations,” and before either of you know it, you’re pushing your carts side by side, arguing over which brand of chips is superior. He ends up tossing an extra pack into your cart with a casual shrug that is anything but casual, and you don’t point out the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.
The next time, it’s laundry. Your washer breaks spectacularly—a bit of flooding, awful noises, the works—and you’re left holding a basket of clothes with nowhere to put them. Steve just happens to call that afternoon, checking if you’re joining a movie night later. You mention the washer situation without thinking.
He shows up twenty minutes later with the trunk of his car popped open, leaning against it like he’s posing for a magazine cover called Accidental Heroics. “Laundry day?” he asks, totally nonchalant, except his voice is a little too bright with excitement.
“Are you offering your washer?”
“I’m offering my whole laundry room,” he says, then winces. “That sounded weird. Ignore that. Just—I don’t mind. Seriously.” You don’t ignore it. You smile instead, because of course he doesn’t mind.
Inside the Harrington house, you watch him gather detergent, fuss about water temperature, and act like this isn’t the domestic equivalent of a date. At one point, he stands beside you, arms folded, leaning on the counter while the washer rumbles softly behind you both. You talk about nothing in particular—movies you haven’t seen yet, the way Robin accidentally told a customer to “have a tolerable day,” Mike’s latest dramatic meltdown over homework—and you’re too aware of how close he is.
He’s comfortable. Relaxed. A little messy-haired from the humidity. Familiar in a way you’ve learned to accept but not examine too closely. His house echoes less when he’s speaking, less still when you laugh. You find yourself wondering how often he’s lonely in this big place, and the thought lingers longer than it should.
A few days later, he beats you to the familiar routine. You stop by Family Video on your way to the arcade with Max, planning on grabbing a few tapes. Steve spots you before you even make it past the counter. “Hey,” he says lightly, but then he’s already moving toward the break room. “Do you want coffee?”
“What? I didn’t even ask.”
He shrugs, awkwardly endearing. “You sort of have a look. Like a ‘please save me with caffeine’ look.”
Robin snorts from behind the counter. “Translation: he makes one pot and pretends it was my idea.”
Steve glares. “It was your idea!”
“I didn’t even want coffee.”
“Details,” he mutters.
But he hands you a mug anyway, warm and freshly poured, and the moment your fingers brush his, something in him softens. His eyes linger a second too long. The mug smells like vanilla creamer. His smile is small but real, the kind that sneaks up on you. “You make it good,” you admit.
He lights up more at that than at anything he probably should.
You catch him holding open doors for you without thinking. You find him saving the last bag of your favorite candy on movie nights. You realize he’s started keeping an extra soda in the fridge at Family Video “just in case.” You catch yourself smoothing the collar of his jacket before he leaves for his shift. You watch him wash dishes with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, humming off-key like he’s completely unaware of how easy he is to fall into step with.
Robin sees everything, of course. She sees the way Steve leans closer when you talk. She sees the way your hand rests near his without moving away. She sees the way you say his name a little softer lately, and how he straightens slightly every time you do. “You two are a disaster,” she mutters during a quiet shift, shaking her head like she’s dealing with toddlers. “A cute disaster, sure, but still a disaster.”
You pretend you don’t hear her. Steve pretends he isn’t listening. But the way he glances at you afterward, shy and hopeful, tells you both that she’s right. And little by little, something between you and Steve begins to settle too—warm, gentle, and too natural to be ignored forever.
Max and Eleven aren’t subtle when they ask for help with a school project. In fact, they aren’t asking at all—Max shows up at Family Video with a binder the size of a phone book, Eleven trailing behind her with glitter glue stuck to her sleeve. They plant themselves in front of the counter like a two-person intervention. “We need an adult,” Max announces.
Steve looks offended. “I’m an adult.”
“You’re barely an adult,” she counters.
Eleven nods, solemn. “You need supervision.”
You’re standing beside the display of horror tapes, trying not to laugh. Max turns to you next. “You’re the reasonable one,” she says. “We need help building this model of the solar system. It’s due Monday. It’s almost Monday.”
“It’s Saturday,” Steve mutters.
“Almost Monday,” Max repeats, giving the kind of look that says she will absolutely guilt you into this if she has to.
So the four of you end up at the Harrington house, the dining table buried under poster board, foam balls, paint cups, and construction paper. It’s the kind of chaos that looks innocent but will absolutely destroy the floor if left unattended. You settle into a chair, Steve drops into the one beside you, and Max drags over a lamp like she’s setting up a crime scene investigation.
For the first half hour, everything goes surprisingly well. Eleven carefully paints Saturn’s rings, Max supervises the glitter application with the authority of a seasoned general, and Steve handles the hot glue gun with far more confidence than he deserves.
But then Mars rolls off the table. The glitter gets everywhere. Steve burns his finger a little. Max shouts, “why is Jupiter bigger than the sun?!” and Eleven insists the sun looks lonely without a smiley face. The whole project devolves into laughter, complaints, and paint smudges across the poster board. And somehow, despite the mess, you end up enjoying yourself more than you expected.
By the time the solar system finally looks like a solar system—and not an arts-and-crafts explosion—the clock reads well past midnight. Max and Eleven are exhausted, the kind of slow-blinking tired that makes them stretch out on the floor with blankets and mutter about “five minutes” that quickly turn into sleep.
Steve runs a hand through his paint-flecked hair, sighing with the kind of relief that comes after surviving mild chaos. “I’m too tired to drive anyone home,” he admits quietly.
“They’ll be fine here,” you say, watching the girls curl closer under their blankets. “They did great.”
“You did great,” he counters, and the warmth in his voice catches you off guard.
The house feels different at night—quieter, softer, full of pockets of shadow and the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The dining table is a disaster zone of art supplies. Max mumbles something in her sleep. Eleven shifts, tucking her hands under her cheek. The girls look peaceful, and the sight makes something inside you settle too.
You and Steve drift toward the living room, neither of you saying it aloud, but both heading there like it’s the only place your bodies want to go. He collapses onto the couch with a groan, sliding down until his head touches the back cushion. You drop beside him, fully intending to stay awake, to keep some distance, to not repeat history. The moment your head brushes the cushion, your whole body sighs in surrender. Steve notices immediately. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft around the edges. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”
“You sound like you’re already asleep.”
“Not true. I’m extremely awake.”
You turn your head just enough to see his eyes half-lidded, his lips curled in a sleepy smile. He tries to sit up straighter, fails, and ends up leaning slightly toward you in a way that feels familiar. Natural. Like some quiet part of him gravitates to you without hesitation. You let your shoulder rest lightly against his. It’s not planned. Not something you think through. It just happens, the same way breathing does. And he doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts a little closer. “You comfy?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
“Maybe.”
“That’s good,” he says, and the softness in his tone makes your heart stutter.
The hum of the house fades into a warm nothingness. You feel the rise and fall of Steve’s breathing beside you. His head drops slightly until it rests against yours. You think about pushing yourself upright, about creating some polite distance so history doesn’t repeat itself… but the thought dissolves before it finishes forming. You’re tired. You’re warm. You’re comfortable. And Steve’s presence feels like a blanket all on its own.
The couch dips gently as he shifts again, and before you know it, you’re leaning into each other. His shoulder fits beneath your cheek. His arm settles near your side. His breath slows. Yours matches it without trying. You don’t plan to fall asleep. He definitely doesn’t plan to fall asleep. But the quiet wraps around you both like a spell, and somewhere between one blink and the next, your eyes close.
When you wake, it’s to soft morning light filtering through the curtains and the warmth of an arm around you—his arm, draped over your waist in a way that feels far too right. His nose brushes your hair. Your body is half against his. You’re wrapped in each other again, held by an instinct neither of you meant to let slip out.
You inhale sharply, and that’s what stirs him. Steve shifts, groggy, confused, then suddenly alert as he realizes exactly where—and how—you ended up. His hand flinches at your waist, and he sits up too fast, eyes wide, hair a spectacular disaster. “I—I didn’t mean—” he stammers. “I wasn’t—I didn’t know I—”
You sit up too, heat crawling up your neck. “It’s okay. We were just tired.”
“Right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tired. Long night. Glue fumes, glitter poison. Makes sense.”
You’re both doing the thing where you avoid each other’s eyes, talking too quickly, pretending your heart isn’t still racing. It would almost work—if not for the two quiet figures who suddenly stir on the floor. Max lifts her head from her blanket, squinting. “Are you kidding me?” she croaks.
Eleven blinks awake, following Max’s gaze. “Again?” she asks, perfectly calm.
You feel your soul disintegrate. Steve covers his face with both hands. “Oh my god.”
Max sits up fully, pointing at the couch like she’s presenting evidence. “This is a pattern. A weird one. A very obvious one.”
Eleven nods, rubbing her eyes. “You always sleep close.”
Max snorts. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ cuddle twice.” Steve makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea for the universe to swallow him whole. You can’t tell if you want to laugh or hide under a cushion. Max lies back down, pulling her blanket over her face. “Whatever. Just admit you’re into each other so I can sleep in peace next time.”
Steve chokes. You stare at the ceiling. Eleven simply closes her eyes again, satisfied that she has spoken truth into the world. And despite the embarrassment, despite the chaos, despite every reason you should deny it—you can’t help the small, traitorous flutter in your chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, they see something you’ve been too scared to name.
The shift doesn’t happen all at once. It creeps in quietly, disguised as small, awkward moments that pile up until pretending nothing is wrong takes more effort than admitting something is.
Steve is the first to spiral. You notice it at Family Video before you really understand it. He stops leaning against the counter when you talk. He keeps a careful half-step of distance between you in the aisles. When you laugh at something dumb he says, his smile falters, eyes flicking away like he’s afraid he’ll give something away if he holds your gaze for even a second too long.
He starts overthinking everything. If your hand brushes his while passing a tape, he freezes like he’s done something wrong. If you smile at him, he smiles back a second too late. If you linger near the counter after your shift ends, he finds something else to do—restocking shelves that absolutely don’t need it, rewinding tapes that were already done.
Robin notices in approximately five minutes. She corners him behind the counter during a slow afternoon, arms crossed, expression sharp with concern and zero patience. “Okay. Explain.”
“Explain what?” he says too quickly, eyes on the register.
“Why you look like you’re one thought away from short-circuiting every time she breathes near you.”
“I don’t—”
“Steve.”
He exhales, shoulders slumping. “I just don’t want to mess things up.”
Robin blinks. “Mess what up?”
“Everything,” he mutters. “What if she didn’t mean to fall asleep like that? What if I crossed some invisible line? What if I make it weird and she stops wanting to hang out?”
Robin stares at him, unimpressed. “Buddy. You are already making it weird.” He winces. She sighs, softer now. “You like her. A lot. That’s not a crime.” He opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it again. His hands curl into the edge of the counter, knuckles pale. Robin leans closer. “You don’t panic this hard over people you don’t care about.”
The words hit deeper than he wants them to. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
Meanwhile, you’re spiraling in your own way. You’re sitting on the front steps of the Wheeler house with Max one afternoon, watching clouds roll lazily across the sky. She kicks at the concrete with the heel of her shoe, quiet for a moment longer than usual. “So,” she says eventually, glancing sideways. “How long are you and Steve planning on pretending you’re not together?”
You choke on air. “We’re not—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts. “That’s what he says too.”
You groan, dropping your head back against the railing. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because everyone thinks that,” she replies simply. “You act like a couple. You fall asleep like one. You fight like one without actually fighting. It’s kind of obvious.”
You stare at the sky, heart thudding. “What if I’m reading it wrong?”
Max shrugs. “Then you’ll survive. But I don’t think you are.”
Her honesty sits heavy in your chest long after she goes inside. From there, things only get worse. You and Steve start orbiting each other like nervous planets, always close but never colliding. Conversations turn stilted. Touch becomes something you both overthink instead of instinctively reach for. You miss the easy closeness more than you’re ready to admit.
He hands you coffee without meeting your eyes. You thank him too brightly. He smiles and looks away. Robin watches from the counter like she’s witnessing a slow-motion train wreck. At one point, you both reach for the same VHS tape and jerk back at the same time, muttering apologies in perfect sync. It would be funny if it didn’t hurt a little.
The kids notice too. Of course they do. Dustin squints at you across the table during lunch one day. “Why are you both acting like divorced parents at Thanksgiving?”
Mike nods. “It’s uncomfortable.”
Lucas frowns. “Did you fight?”
“No,” you say quickly.
Steve says, “no,” at the same time.
Max sighs loudly. “That’s worse.”
Every interaction feels charged now. Every glance you don’t hold lingers longer than it should. Every step back feels heavier than stepping forward ever did. At night, you lie awake thinking about the way Steve’s arm felt around you. About how natural it was. About how careful he is now, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he touches you the wrong way. Across town, Steve lies awake doing the exact same thing—only instead of wondering if he should reach for you, he’s convinced himself that wanting you at all might be the problem.
The weather turns without warning. One minute you’re at Steve’s place helping him reorganize the basement—because somehow that’s become a normal thing now—and the next, the sky outside cracks open with a sharp boom of thunder that rattles the windows. Rain slams down hard enough to sound angry, like it’s taking something personally. You pause mid-step, box balanced in your hands, heart jumping even though you tell yourself it’s just a storm.
Steve notices immediately. He always does. “Hey,” he says, too quick, already moving closer. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you lie, shifting the box onto a shelf. “Just surprised.”
Another crack of thunder answers you, louder this time. The lights flicker once, twice—then the entire house drops into darkness. “Shit,” Steve mutters at the same time you gasp.
The sudden quiet is heavy, broken only by the rain and the distant rumble of thunder. The basement feels smaller without the lights, shadows pressing in around you. Steve swears softly again and reaches out, his hand brushing your arm as he fumbles for the flashlight he definitely meant to put batteries in weeks ago.
Before either of you can say anything else, the wind howls outside, a violent rush that rattles the door at the top of the stairs. Something bangs against the side of the house—maybe a branch, maybe something worse—and your nerves snap all at once.
You don’t even think about it when you let out a gasp. Steve turns toward the sound, instinct kicking in, and you step into him at the exact same moment. His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you tight against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You grab onto his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, breath shaky as thunder crashes again overhead. “It’s okay,” he murmurs immediately, voice low and steady near your ear. “It’s just the storm. I’ve got you.”
The words undo you more than the thunder ever could. You cling to him, forehead pressed into his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat thudding strong and fast beneath your ear. He holds you without hesitation, one hand firm at your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the world itself.
The rain pounds harder as the wind screams. The house creaks and groans, but inside Steve’s arms, everything feels quieter, safer. You don’t realize how long you stay like that until the thunder fades into a distant rumble and the rain softens into something steady instead of violent. The moment stretches, then stretches some more—and you still don’t let go. Neither does he.
His grip loosens eventually, not pulling away but easing, like he’s checking if you’re okay before daring to move. You breathe him in, familiar and grounding, and realize with a sudden, aching clarity that this is exactly where you want to be.
You pull back first, just enough to look up at him. He looks wrecked. Not scared—focused. Protective. His hands linger at your sides like they’re reluctant to leave, his thumb brushing your hip once without meaning to. His eyes search your face, worried, intense, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “You okay?” he asks again, quieter now.
You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Of course,” he says quickly, stepping back like the space between you is suddenly dangerous. “Anytime. I mean—I didn’t even think. I just—”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt, though your voice comes out thinner than you want. “I didn’t mind.”
He nods, running a hand through his hair, clearly overthinking it already. “Right. Good. I just… yeah.”
Another silence settles between you, thick and awkward and heavy with everything you didn’t say while his arms were around you. The storm keeps raging outside, but inside, neither of you knows how to move forward from the way you just fit together so easily. A few minutes later, the lights flicker back on, the sudden brightness feels almost intrusive. Steve clears his throat. “Power’s back.”
“Yeah,” you say, though you haven’t moved.
He steps away fully this time, grabbing the flashlight like he needs something to do with his hands. You hug your arms around yourself, already missing the warmth you’d been wrapped in seconds ago. The storm keeps going, but the moment is gone. And neither of you knows how to bring it back—or how to pretend it didn’t mean something at all.
The storm drifts farther away, thunder fading into something distant and dull, like it’s finally run out of things to say. The house settles with it, creaks softening, the air feeling heavy but calm. Steve turns off the overhead light and leaves only the lamp in the corner on, dim and warm, like the room is exhaling after holding its breath too long.
Neither of you suggests sitting on the couch again. Instead, you end up on the floor without really deciding it, backs against the couch, legs stretched out in front of you. Steve grabs his jacket from where he tossed it earlier and drapes it over your shoulders before you can object. This time, you don’t even try.
You tug it closer around yourself, fingers curling into the fabric. It smells like him and comfort and something steady you didn’t realize you’d been craving all night. Steve sits close—close enough that your knees brush, close enough that the warmth of his body seeps through the space between you.
The house is quiet. No voices. No teasing. No interruptions. Just the soft tick of the clock on the wall and the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. It feels different without an audience. You rest your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “That was… intense,” you say softly.
“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “Didn’t realize storms could still get to me like that.”
“Me neither.”
Another pause stretches between you, but it isn’t awkward this time. It’s thoughtful. Careful. Like both of you are finally letting the moment exist instead of trying to rush past it. Steve shifts beside you, slow and deliberate. You feel the movement before you see it—the way his shoulder nudges yours, the way he hesitates, then leans just enough for his head to rest lightly against your shoulder. Not heavy. Not demanding. Just there.
Your breath catches for half a second. Then you lean into him. It’s instinctive, the way your shoulder angles slightly to support his weight, the way your head tips toward his without thinking. You fit together easily, like you’ve done this a hundred times already and only now stopped pretending it was an accident.
Steve exhales softly, tension leaving him in a way that feels almost tangible. His hand rests near yours on the floor, close but not touching, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the urge. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly, almost unsure. “If you’re uncomfortable, I mean.”
“I’m not,” you answer just as softly. “I’m… comfortable.”
The word feels important. Real. He hums under his breath, something like relief. His head settles more fully against your shoulder, and you feel the warmth of him seep deeper into you. The jacket slips a little, and he reaches out to tug it back into place, careful and gentle, like he’s afraid to break the moment.
You let your eyes close. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time feels strange in the quiet, stretched thin and soft around you both. The rain becomes background noise, steady and harmless now. Steve’s breathing evens out, slow and calm, and you realize with a flutter in your chest that he trusts you enough to relax like this.
It makes something ache behind your ribs. You shift just enough to rest your head against his, temple to temple, and he responds by sliding his hand a fraction closer, your pinkies brushing.
Neither of you moves away. If anyone walked in right now, there would be no excuses. No scrambling. No pretending this is just another accident. But no one does. The house stays quiet. The moment stays yours. And for the first time in a while, you’re not overthinking it. You’re just there, wrapped in his jacket, his presence steady and warm beside you, leaning into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because maybe, finally, it is.
A few days pass, and the tension doesn’t fade the way you half-expect it to. It doesn’t explode either. It just… sits there. Quiet. Heavy. Following you through grocery aisles and movie shelves and half-finished conversations like a shadow neither of you knows how to outrun.
So when Steve asks if you can come over to help him reorganize the basement—again—you say yes without thinking about it too hard. His basement smells faintly like dust and cardboard and the lemon cleaner he used upstairs, the combination oddly comforting. Old boxes line the walls, some half-open, some still taped shut, relics of a life that keeps trying to move forward while dragging pieces of the past along with it. Steve hands you a stack of things to sort, apologizing like it’s a personal failing that he owns so much stuff. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, already tugging open another box. “I can finish it later.”
“You’ve been saying ‘later’ for months,” you point out, kneeling beside him. “I’m here. It’s fine.”
He smiles at that, small and grateful, and it makes your chest feel tight in a way you don’t bother fighting anymore.
You work for a while in companionable quiet. Dust clings to your hands. Your legs get tired from crouching. At some point, you give up and lay flat on the carpet, stretching your arms over your head with a soft groan. “I forgot how exhausting cleaning is,” you mutter.
Steve laughs and drops down beside you, back hitting the carpet with a thump. “Yeah. It’s a scam. Someone should warn people.”
You turn your head toward him, smiling, and for a moment you just look at each other. He looks tired. Comfortable. Real. There’s a faint smudge of dust on his cheek you fight the urge to wipe away.
You don’t lie down together at first. Not really. There’s a careful space between you, enough distance to pretend you’re not thinking about how easily it would disappear. You talk instead—about stupid things, important things, everything in between. He tells you about his latest nightmare of showing up to work in roller skates. You tell him about the song you can’t get out of your head. You talk about how strange it feels when life is quiet after everything you’ve all been through.
The words get slower as time passes. Sentences trail off and thoughts drift. At some point, you realize your eyes have been closed for longer than a blink. That your breathing has synced with his. That the space between you has shrunk without permission being asked. You don’t mean to fall asleep. Neither does he.
When you wake, it’s gradual. Warmth first. Pressure second. Awareness last. You’re curled against him, your face tucked into his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you like it’s been there forever. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. Your hand is fisted in his shirt, knuckles pressing into fabric like you anchored yourself there in your sleep. You don’t pull away.
Steve stirs a second later, breath hitching slightly when he realizes you’re awake. You feel the moment he becomes aware of the position you’re in, the way his arm tightens just a fraction instead of loosening. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough and low.
“Hey,” you answer.
Neither of you moves. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. It’s fragile. Honest.
Steve’s fingers shift, brushing your knuckles gently, like he’s testing whether the moment will break if he acknowledges it. When it doesn’t, he threads his fingers through yours, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know when this started,” he admits quietly, staring at your joined hands like they might give him answers. “I don’t know when I started… wanting this. These moments. Being close to you like this.”
Your heart beats hard against his chest.
“I just know,” he continues, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soft, nervous rhythm, “that I don’t want it to stop. And I’m scared to say that out loud because I don’t want to mess things up. But I think pretending nothing’s happening is worse.”
You lift your head enough to look at him, really look at him. His eyes are open and vulnerable, fixed on you like this matters more than anything else in the room. “I’ve been wanting this too,” you say quietly. “For a while now. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to.”
His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale, relief softening his features instantly. His hand tightens around yours, grounding, certain. “You are,” he says immediately. “You always have been.”
You smile, small and real, and lean back into him like you belong there. This time, there’s no pretending it’s an accident. No excuses. No scrambling away when the moment settles. He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours, and you let yourself stay.
Because this time, when you fall asleep tangled together again, it isn’t a mistake.
It’s a choice.
Movie night at the Wheeler house should come with a hazard warning. There are pillows everywhere, blankets in increasingly questionable piles, and snacks disappearing at rates that defy the laws of physics. You and Steve barely sit down before the chorus begins.
“We’re out of pretzels!” Lucas announces like an alarm.
“Popcorn’s gone,” Mike adds, peering into the bowl like it betrayed him.
Max holds up an empty chip bag. “Tragic.”
Dustin clasps his hands together. “If someone doesn’t refill the snacks in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to pass away dramatically on this carpet.”
Eleven nods in agreement. “More chocolate.”
You and Steve exchange a look—one of those looks you’ve been trading far more often lately, the kind that’s half can you believe them? and half come on, let’s just do it. You both reach for the empty bowls at the same time and stand in perfect sync.
Mike gestures at the two of you heading toward the kitchen. “See? I told you. They’re like… a domestic relay team.”
Dustin nods solemnly. “It’s disturbing how coordinated they are.”
You don’t hear any of this because Steve holds the swinging kitchen door open for you, hand grazing the small of your back in a way that still sends a warm spark up your spine no matter how many times he does it now.
Inside, the kitchen is quiet, lit only by the overhead fixture. Bowls line the counter, the chip bags waiting to be opened. Steve sets his bowl down beside yours, fingers brushing yours in a way that feels far too intentional to be chalked up to coincidence anymore.
He doesn’t pull his hand away this time. Instead, he lets his fingers trail lightly along your wrist, soft and slow. You inhale, surprised by how bold he’s suddenly become, though the warm flush in his cheeks says he’s feeling the moment just as intensely as you are. “You good?” he asks softly, trying for casual but sounding like he cares a little too much.
You smile up at him, leaning slightly closer without thinking. “I’m good.”
“Good,” he says, relieved. His thumb brushes your wrist again, and he steps into your space just enough that you feel the heat of him… not touching you yet, but close. Very close.
There’s a small pause, and then he reaches up and brushes your cheek, fingers lingering a moment too long—just long enough to make your breath catch. You don’t look away, and he doesn’t either.
The room goes still around you, the storm from a few days ago replaced with something quieter, warmer, but just as electric. His gaze flicks down toward your lips, then back up to your eyes, and you know—know—that he’s seconds from leaning in.
You’re seconds from meeting him halfway. Which is, of course, the exact moment the kitchen door slams open so hard it hits the wall.
“What the hell is taking so long?” Max demands, then freezes the second she actually sees you and Steve standing way too close, hands basically touching, faces definitely not far enough apart to be innocent. Behind her, the rest of the Party piles up like a traffic jam.
Dustin’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “I knew it!”
Lucas points dramatically at both of you. “This! This is exactly what I’ve been saying!”
Mike claps a hand over his face. “Oh my god, you were about to kiss. You were—oh my god.”
Eleven tilts her head, serene as ever. “They like each other,” she says simply, like she’s announcing the weather.
Will tries valiantly to stay neutral but fails, biting back a grin. “This is kind of adorable.”
You and Steve jump apart—or try to. He bumps the counter, you bump him, and the pretzel bowl nearly takes a dive before he catches it with reflexes that would impress even Hopper. Your face burns. Steve looks like he wants to crawl under the table and live there permanently. “We—we were just—snacks,” he stammers, holding up the bowl like proof in a trial.
“Yeah,” you add weakly, grabbing a bag of chips with shaking hands. “Just snacks.”
Dustin folds his arms, unimpressed. “If that’s what you call that, then I’ve been misusing the word ‘snacks’ my entire life.”
Max squints at Steve. “Are you seriously blushing? You’re blushing.”
“I’m not,” he lies terribly.
Eleven steps forward and gently pats your shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says sweetly. “We won’t tell Robin.”
“Oh my god,” Mike groans. “Please, please tell Robin. She’ll have a field day.”
Steve shoots him a murderous look. “Don’t you dare.”
But the damage is done. The kids are buzzing like they just discovered national treasure. They herd you and Steve back into the living room with far too much glee, and when you sit down on the couch, Steve hesitates for exactly one second before sitting close—closer than before, shoulder pressed to yours in a way that feels like a decision.
Max leans toward Lucas. “Told you. They were definitely a thing.”
Lucas smirks. “I’m just glad we got to witness it.”
Dustin sighs dreamily. “I’m so proud of them.”
Steve groans into his hands and you hide your smile in the popcorn bowl. And despite the chaos, despite the embarrassment, despite the kids narrating your love life like a nature documentary, Steve’s fingers find yours under the blanket, brushing softly before settling into a gentle, certain hold. This time, you hold on without hesitation.
The first time you realize everything has shifted for good, it’s over something stupid. You’re standing outside Family Video on a quiet evening, the sky soft with fading light, waiting for Steve to lock up. You’re wearing his jacket again—same one, same familiar weight on your shoulders—but this time no one’s questioning it. No teasing. No deflecting. No internal monologue about whether you’re allowed to want this.
It just is.
Steve finishes with the door, turns, and catches sight of you leaning against the railing, jacket collar pulled up against the breeze. His mouth curves into that easy, fond smile that still makes your chest tighten, like your body hasn’t quite gotten used to how good this feels yet. “You stealing my clothes again?” he asks, but there’s no edge to it. Only warmth.
“You keep offering them,” you reply. “Sounds like a you problem.”
He laughs and steps closer, fingers catching the lapel of the jacket without hesitation. He tugs you gently into his space, close enough that you can feel his warmth through the fabric, close enough that the answer to everything feels obvious.
Robin clears her throat loudly from the doorway. “If you two are about to do something nauseating, I want at least ten seconds’ warning.”
Steve doesn’t even look at her. He tips your chin up just a little and kisses you—slow and unhurried—right there in front of her. It’s soft and familiar and so easy it almost makes you laugh into it.
Robin makes a gagging noise so dramatic it echoes. “I hate this. I waited years for this and I still hate it.”
Steve pulls back just enough to grin. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re both disgusting,” she mutters, but she’s smiling when she turns the lights off inside.
Later, it’s movie night again. Same couch. Same blankets. Same pile of bowls that somehow always ends up empty too fast. The difference now is that there’s no pretending you don’t gravitate toward each other. You sit together on purpose. His arm goes around you without hesitation. Your legs tangle with his because you want them to.
The kids complain briefly—about the movie choice, about snacks, about literally everything—then settle in, the room filling with familiar noise and warmth. Steve drapes the blanket over both of you, tugging it snug around your shoulders, and presses a kiss into your hair like it’s instinct.
Halfway through the movie, you’re curled fully against him, cheek resting on his chest, his arm firm and secure around your waist. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the gentle rise and fall beneath your ear. His fingers trace absent patterns on your arm, slow and soothing, like he’s memorizing you. “You comfy?” he murmurs.
“Very,” you whisper back.
“Good,” he says, and the word carries more weight than it should.
You fall asleep like that. Not by accident. Not because you’re too tired to move. But because you want to. Tangled up under a shared blanket, surrounded by quiet laughter and the soft glow of the TV, the world finally feels calm in a way you didn’t know you were missing.
Steve presses his forehead to yours when he feels your breathing slow, his hold tightening just slightly, protective and sure. Everything feels easy now; warm, real. And for the first time in a long while, you’re not bracing for something to go wrong.
Summary: When parents start complaining that the sex ed teacher’s dating life is ‘too casual’ to set a good example, Steve has no choice but to enlist the math teacher to play his ‘official’ girlfriend…at least for appearances.
Words: 12,8k. (I went crazy, sorryyy)
Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. temporarily located several years after the upside down. fake dating. childhood friends?. love confession. first kiss. suggestive themes. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: I almost wrote an entire book because I got so excited about this dynamic, so expect more fics with this reader (probably…or not, idk).
The sex ed teacher was promiscuous.
That was the sentence that bloomed in the wake of the last parents’ meeting, ugly and persistent, repeated so often it stopped sounding like an accusation and started passing for truth. It slithered through the school in fragments, half-whispered in the front office, murmured over stacked papers in the staff room, exchanged in knowing looks during lunch duty. By the end of the week, it lived in every corner of the building, as familiar as the peeling paint on the lockers or the hum of the fluorescent lights.
It wasn’t said outright at first. It never was. Instead, it came wrapped in concern, in carefully chosen words meant to sound reasonable. Is he really the right influence? Don’t you think it sends the wrong message? Teenagers are so impressionable. The implication was always the same, though: a man who dated too freely—who didn’t settle, didn’t commit, didn’t conform—had no business standing in front of a classroom preaching responsibility, consent, and care.
According to Hawkins, his relationships were too short, too casual, too visible. Someone always seemed to know someone who had seen him out with a different woman. A new face at the grocery store. Another hand resting at his lower back at the bar. Proof, apparently, that he lacked the moral stability required to teach adolescents how to respect themselves and others. No one asked him. No one considered that a private life could remain just that, private. In a town like Hawkins, privacy was a myth people pretended to believe in until it became inconvenient.
Parents talked. They always did. Over coffee in spotless kitchens, in tight circles after church, leaning against car doors during pickup, voices dropping just low enough to feel conspiratorial. Mothers exchanged looks heavy with judgment. Fathers frowned as if disappointment were a civic duty. Each retelling sharpened the story, trimming away nuance until all that remained was a caricature: irresponsible, inappropriate, unfit.
By the time the whispers reached the students, they had already hardened into something crueler. A joke here. A comment there. A raised eyebrow when he passed in the hall. The irony, that the man teaching them about boundaries and safety was being stripped of both, was lost on everyone.
In Hawkins, reputation was a fragile thing. Once cracked, it didn’t shatter loudly; it eroded quietly, day by day, until there was nothing left but the version people preferred to believe. And Steve was beginning to understand that it didn’t matter how good he was at his job, how careful his lessons were, how much he actually cared.
The town had already made up its mind.
Steve realized it could cost him his job on a Tuesday afternoon, sometime between fourth period and the last bell.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no official warning, no meeting with the principal, no letter slipped into his mailbox. Just a pause, a too-long silence, when he stepped into the front office to drop off attendance sheets. The secretary’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. The vice principal stopped talking mid-sentence when he appeared, lowering his voice as if Steve himself were the problem being discussed. Someone cleared their throat. Someone else looked away.
That was when it hit him.
Hawkins didn’t fire people loudly. It didn’t need to. It squeezed, until you either fell in line or disappeared. Funding could be “reconsidered.” Contracts could quietly fail to renew. All it would take was enough parents deciding they were uncomfortable, and suddenly Steve wouldn’t be the sex ed teacher anymore. He’d just be another cautionary tale about what happened to people who didn’t fit.
The thought sat heavy in his chest for the rest of the day. Through lectures, through half-hearted jokes that didn’t land, through the familiar rhythm of teaching that suddenly felt fragile. He caught himself looking at his classroom as if it might be taken away from him, at the posters, the battered textbooks, the notes scribbled in the margins of his lesson plans. He liked this job. He cared about it. He cared about doing it right. And the idea that it could all be undone by rumors and assumptions made his stomach twist.
By the time school let out, he was desperate.
That was how he ended up outside the math classroom, hovering in the doorway like a bad idea he hadn’t quite committed to yet. One hand rested on the frame, knuckles whitening as he debated, turning around and pretending he’d never come down this hallway at all. He could still leave. He should probably leave. But the faint scrape of pen against paper from inside the room rooted him there.
You were inside, seated behind the teacher’s desk with a red pen poised like a weapon in your hand, surrounded by meticulous stacks of exams aligned with almost aggressive neatness. Afternoon light slanted in through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air and casting pale gold across the chalkboard behind you, still half-covered in equations from the last class. The room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers, paper, and that slightly metallic tang of old textbooks. You didn’t look up when he knocked. Just lifted one finger—wait—eyes moving swiftly across a page, brow furrowed with sharp concentration.
Steve waited.
Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Tugged at the hem of his jacket. Ran a hand through his hair, flattening it only for it to spring back into place, because of course it did. Each passing second made his chest feel tighter, like he’d waited too long and now the moment had turned on him.
“Okay,” you said finally, exhaling as you set one exam aside and reached for the next without looking at him. “If this is about borrowing markers again, the answer is still no.”
“It’s not,” he blurted, far too fast, like the words had been clawing at his throat.
That did it.
You paused, pen hovering midair, then looked up at him properly. Your brows drew together as you took him in, and Steve had the sudden, mortifying thought that he must look worse than he felt. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight. Shoulders held too stiff. The kind of restless, frayed energy he’d carried since the first week of school, since the first time you’d seen him again after all those years. Since being seventeen, sitting two rows over from you, leaning back in his chair and whispering for answers during exams with that same crooked grin he no longer quite knew how to use.
“I need a favor,” he said quickly, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him as if someone might overhear. “Like…a big one. A weird one. A possibly career-saving one.”
You stared at him.
“No.”
“I haven’t even asked yet.”
“You don’t need to,” you replied flatly, already turning back to the exams. “I’m grading. Go spiral somewhere else.”
Steve panicked.
He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped into the chair opposite your desk without asking, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles went pale, like he was about to pray, or confess to something criminal. His foot bounced uncontrollably. His jaw worked as he swallowed.
“Please,” he said, voice low and earnest in that way that always betrayed him. “Just—just hear me out. Five minutes. Four. Two. I’ll owe you. Forever.”
You didn’t look at him, but your sigh was heavy, resigned. You’d heard that promise a thousand times. In high school. After graduation. Even now.
“Steve,” you said, tone warning, eyes still fixed on the test in front of you, “if this is about parents complaining again, that is not my problem.”
“That’s the thing,” he said, voice cracking just enough to give him away. “It kind of is. Or—it could be. If I lose my job.”
Your pen stilled.
The red ink bled into the paper where you’d paused too long, and something unpleasant twisted in your stomach. You looked up slowly, really looked at him this time. At the way his shoulders slumped like he was already bracing for impact. At the nervous way his fingers worried at each other. You knew how much this job meant to him, how hard he’d fought to keep his life steady, how proud he was to finally be good at something that mattered.
“What?” you asked quietly.
“They think I’m a bad influence,” he rushed on, words tumbling over each other now that the dam had broken. “Because I date too much. Or—whatever they think I do. And it’s getting bad. Like non-renewal bad. Like we need someone more…stable bad.”
You leaned back in your chair, the old wood creaking softly beneath your weight, and studied him in a way that made Steve’s skin prickle, like he’d just stepped under a microscope.
“And what exactly does that have to do with me?” you asked.
Steve swallowed. Hard. His throat felt dry, like he’d been running, or falling.
“I need to look stable,” he said, the words stiff at first, something he’d practiced in his head the whole walk here. Then his shoulders sagged, just a little, and his voice softened despite himself. “I need to look…taken.”
Your expression didn’t change. Not a flicker of surprise. Not even amusement. You just waited, patient in the way that made him feel twelve years old and about to confess something he really shouldn’t.
“I need,” he tried again, breath hitching as he corrected himself, “a girlfriend.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You blinked once. Then twice. “You came into my classroom,” you said carefully, “while I am grading finals—”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry—”
“—to ask me to pretend to date you?”
“Yes,” he said immediately. Then, wincing, “Temporarily.”
You laughed and shook your head, already pushing your chair forward again.
“Absolutely not.”
“Please,” Steve said, leaning forward again, elbows on his knees now, voice dropping. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. You’re respected. You’re private. Parents like you. They trust you. If they think I’m with you, seriously with you, they’ll back off. Just long enough for this to die down.”
Your gaze drifted past him then, to the neat stacks of exams, the clock ticking steadily above the board, the reality of the room pressing back in. Then back to him.
“Steve—”
“I’ll do anything,” he interrupted, panic flaring again. “Cover duties. Tutor kids who hate math. Help you correct exams. Take the worst lunch shifts. I’ll even stop flirting.” He swallowed, eyes wide. “Completely. Cold turkey.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Now I know you’re lying.”
“I’m begging,” he said, and the word came out raw, unguarded. “Just…help me. Please.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
The only sound was the soft click as you capped your pen and set it carefully on the desk, red ink finally stilled. You leaned back again, fingers lacing together, eyes lifting to meet his once more.
“…Explain exactly what you mean by pretend.”
Steve exhaled, relief crashing into him so hard it left him dizzy. A laugh bubbled up before he could stop it, and he dragged a hand down his face.
“You’re an angel,” he said, sincere to the point of absurdity. “Seriously.”
And as you held his gaze, you knew, with terrible clarity, that you were absolutely insane.
The plan began on a Monday, which Steve took as a good omen and you took as a warning.
Monday mornings at Hawkins High always felt heavy, like the building itself was reluctant to wake up. Teachers arrived in uneven waves, clutching coffee cups like flotation devices, shoulders hunched beneath cardigans, blazers, and the quiet resignation of people who already knew the week would ask too much of them. The halls smelled faintly of floor cleaner and old paper, the air thick with exhaustion that hadn’t quite burned off yet. It was, objectively, the worst possible day to debut a lie this large. But Steve had insisted. It looks serious, he’d said, nodding with the kind of confidence that was suspicious on him. Committed. Very adult.
He’d delivered that line while fixing his hair in the reflection of his car window, angling his head this way and that, fluffing, smoothing, undoing the work and starting again. He’d spent the entire weekend like this, restless and over-prepared. There had been a plan. Not a good one, but a detailed one, sketched out in looping pencil on a half-torn sheet from your notebook. He’d walked you through it at least four times, pacing, gesturing, backtracking, changing details mid-sentence. Where to stand. Who to greet first. How close was close but not weird. What to do if someone asked how long you’d been together. What to do if someone asked how you’d met. He’d thought of everything, except how to look calm while doing it.
“You ready?” he asked now, turning toward you with a grin that was a little too sharp, like he’d practiced it in the mirror and hated how fake it looked but didn’t know what else to do.
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, your gaze fixed on the front doors of the school. They loomed ahead, so familiar. “We are walking into the teachers’ room,” you said evenly. “I do that almost every day.”
“Right,” he said quickly, nodding. “But this time we do it together.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Like…normal couple stuff.”
You didn’t correct him that you were not, in fact, a couple. You didn’t point out that normal was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence. You just took a breath, already bracing yourself for the looks, the questions, the quiet recalculations that would follow.
Steve, meanwhile, was already moving. Too fast. Too eager. He took a step forward, then slowed, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, clearly caught between following the rules you’d laid out and the growing fear that they wouldn’t be enough. Minimal contact, you’d said. Only when necessary. No kissing. No overdoing it. Sensible rules. Logical ones.
But as he hovered there, close enough that you could feel his nervous energy buzzing like static, he wondered whether it was time to renegotiate. Holding hands wouldn’t be weird, right? Couples held hands all the time. It was simple. Convincing. Easy. He flexed his fingers once, glancing down at the space between your hands like it might decide for him.
Instead, he cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, and took another breath.
Monday, after all, was about first impressions.
He waited for you before opening the door. That alone felt strange.
Steve Harrington did not wait. He barreled forward, talked his way through silence, smiled until doors opened for him. He was momentum and noise and charm, a force that usually dragged everyone else along in his wake. Today, though, he lingered at the threshold, one hand on the handle, glancing at you like the room on the other side required both of you to enter it. Like he couldn’t cross that invisible line without you beside him.
When you stepped forward, he followed immediately, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his shoulder without actually touching it.
The teachers’ room greeted you with the familiar scent of burnt coffee and printer ink. A radio murmured softly from someone’s desk, an old pop song distorted by static. A handful of teachers were already inside, scattered in loose clusters, some laughing under their breath, some complaining about students by name, others hunched over stacks of papers, grading with the quiet, efficient resignation of people who had been doing this for far too long.
The door closed behind you.
No one stopped talking.
But almost everyone looked.
It wasn’t dramatic, no gasps, no dropped mugs, but it was immediate. Heads lifted. Eyes flicked up and lingered just a second too long. Brows rose, then smoothed back down. A few people glanced between you and Steve once, then again, slower this time, like they were rereading a sentence they hadn’t expected to see and didn’t quite like.
Steve felt it. You saw it in the way his spine straightened, the way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for impact.
“Morning.” he said, voice bright, too bright, cutting clean through the room.
A few replies drifted back. Muted. Polite. Someone nodded without smiling. Someone else hummed noncommittally and turned back to the coffee pot, suddenly very interested in the machine’s progress.
You walked in like nothing was wrong.
Your movements were smooth, practiced. You crossed the room and set your bag down where you always did, the same chair, the same corner of the table. You didn’t look around to see who was watching. You didn’t need to. You could feel it, the weight of eyes lingering too long, expressions tightening just slightly when they landed on you, recalculating.
Steve hovered at your side for half a second, clearly unsure where to put himself, then decided on close. Not touching. Just present. Close enough to imply familiarity without inviting scrutiny. He moved toward the counter like he belonged there, reached for two mugs without asking, like this was already routine.
“You take cream,” he said confidently, loud enough for the room to hear.
You paused.
“…Sometimes.”
“Today feels like a cream day,” he said, already pouring, nodding to himself like this was an intimate detail instead of a gamble.
From the corner of your eye, you caught Mrs. Kelley’s reaction.
She didn’t look surprised.
She looked disappointed.
Her gaze swept over you slowly, clinically. Your posture. Your clothes. The way you stood beside him without clinging, without apologizing, without flinching away or looking embarrassed. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, lips pursing as if she’d already formed an opinion and found it wanting.
She said nothing.
And somehow, that felt worse than if she had.
Steve leaned in toward you, careful not to draw attention, his voice dropping into a whisper that slid out of the corner of his mouth like a secret passed in class. “Okay,” he murmured, eyes flicking briefly across the room. “So far? Neutral energy.”
“They’re assessing,” you murmured back, your gaze fixed on the surface of your coffee, fingers curled tight around the mug like it was the only solid thing in the room. “Me.”
He blinked, turning to you with genuine confusion creasing his brow. “You?”
Before he could ask why—before you could explain that he wasn’t the variable being examined here, that he never had been—Mr. Alderson from science cleared his throat loudly. The sound cut cleanly through the low hum of the teachers’ room, like the snap of a ruler against a desk.
“Harrington,” he said, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, his gaze moving openly between the two of you with no attempt at subtlety. “You’re in early.”
Steve snapped upright like he’d been called on in class. “Yeah! Uh—walking buddy,” he said, gesturing vaguely at you like you were a prop he hadn’t named yet
Your jaw tightened. “No.”
He winced. “Right. Sorry. Girlfriend.”
And suddenly, the room wasn’t just a teachers’ lounge.
It was a classroom again.
The word didn’t echo, didn’t provoke whispers, but it moved through the space all the same. Conversations didn’t stop; they adjusted. Voices dropped half an octave. Laughter softened. You saw it in the way shoulders shifted, in the way one teacher’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction too high before smoothing back down. In the glance exchanged between two colleagues that carried a whole sentence without sound: Really? followed quickly by Her?
Because you had never been that girl.
You had never been the girl Steve Harrington dated, not in high school, not in anyone’s expectations. You were the girl teachers sat him next to when he wouldn’t stop talking. The girl whose name appeared beside his on seating charts like a quiet plea, good influence, keep him focused, maybe she’ll help. You remembered the way they’d smiled at you when they did it, like they were outsourcing discipline to your silence and your grades.
You remembered the scrape of his chair as he dropped into the desk beside yours, tapping his pencil against your notebook while you tried to work. What’d you get for number six? he’d whispered, like answers were just another thing to borrow. You’d pushed your paper a little farther away, corrected his mistakes only when a teacher hovered nearby. You were never the girl he flirted with, never the one he leaned close to just to be seen. You were useful. You were safe. You were invisible in the ways that mattered.
And now, standing here, you could feel those old labels snapping back into place.
Steve Harrington was still Steve Harrington to them. Former golden boy, charming liability, a project they’d never quite finished fixing. But you were the disappointment. The good student who had deviated. The quiet girl who had, inexplicably, chosen chaos. You could almost hear the unspoken correction forming in their minds: She should know better.
Mrs. Kelley finally turned toward you, recognition sharpening her expression in a way that made your stomach tighten. She had taught you once. She had written comments in the margins of your tests in neat red ink. She remembered exactly who you were supposed to be.
“Oh,” she said, smiling politely, thinly. “I didn’t realize you two were together.”
You met her gaze steadily, spine straight, posture controlled, the same posture you’d held at sixteen under her scrutiny. “We keep our personal lives private.”
Her lips pressed together, smile thinning further. “Mm. Admirable.”
Steve, painfully oblivious to the undercurrent slicing through the room, grinned like he’d just received approval. “Yeah! We’re very—uh—low-key.”
The silence stretched.
Then Mrs. Kelley nodded once. “Well,” she said, eyes flicking back to Steve, then lingering on you again, “that’s…a choice.”
Then she turned away, conversation closed.
Steve exhaled slowly, relief loosening his shoulders like he’d survived something dangerous. “Okay,” he whispered, leaning closer to you again. “That wasn’t bad.”
You wrapped your fingers tighter around your mug, grounding yourself in its warmth, staring straight ahead like if you didn’t move, didn’t react, the moment might pass without leaving a mark. “That,” you said quietly, “was not good.”
The door opened again, and the room stilled, just enough to register the change. The principal stepped inside, presence carrying its own weight the way authority always did. Conversations softened. Chairs shifted. He greeted a few teachers by name, nodded at someone near the copier, then glanced toward Steve with a polite, distant familiarity.
And then his eyes landed on you.
He paused.
It was brief, barely a second, but it was enough. Something unreadable crossed his face, a flicker of recognition layered with reassessment, like a file being pulled from memory and reopened. His gaze moved from you to Steve. Then back again.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Morning!” Steve replied, too fast.
The principal’s eyes lingered another beat longer than necessary. He said nothing else. No comment. No question. Just a small nod before moving on.
You wondered if he remembered.
The time you’d both ended up in his office at fifteen, Steve sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck while you dabbed at your nose with a tissue, the faint sting still lingering. Somehow—somehow—the basketball Steve had been playing with during lunch had landed twice in your notebook and once squarely on your face. The explanation had been chaotic, full of gesturing and apologies and I swear I didn’t mean to, while you sat quietly, mortified, your neatly written notes ruined by dirt and an orange smear.
And the other times. Because there had been other times.
Steve’s basketball had always seemed magnetized to you. It rolled into your space, thudded against your desk, bounced into your books, like trouble instinctively seeking the nearest stable surface.
The principal had frowned. Teachers had shaken their heads. And somewhere along the way, without anyone ever saying it out loud, you had been labeled collateral damage.
Long before you ever agreed to this arrangement.
Long before anyone imagined you might choose him.
Somehow, Steve Harrington had always been there, complicating your life simply by existing near it.
By the end of the week, Steve had turned the plan into a routine so carefully orchestrated it could have been a military operation…except with more hair gel and far more unnecessary charm.
He lingered at your side whenever he could, even in the quiet moments when no one was watching, moving like a shadow that refused to leave. Mornings had become a ritual: he pulled up to your house in his beaten-up car with the engine humming low and steady, the smell of leather and old fries faint but comforting, waiting with a grin that was simultaneously smug and tentative. You made him coffee exactly how he liked it—too strong, just a little sweet—and he made yours with that exaggerated precision, measuring the beans like he was defusing a bomb. He carried all your folders into your classroom every morning, arranging them alphabetically, sometimes adding little sticky notes you hadn’t asked for but secretly loved. At lunch, he would buy the dessert he didn’t like, the one that made his face twist in mild disgust but that you had mentioned wanting once, so that he would hand it over with a flourish like a knight presenting a trophy.
He was making sure to be the perfect boyfriend, the kind of boyfriend he imagined in movies but that you had never actually wanted, or needed.
You realized just how much effort this all required when there was a knock at your classroom door mid-lesson. You were halfway through a problem on the board, chalk dust smudged faintly on your fingers and smearing across your palm as you gestured through the equation.
“Hold on,” you said absently, still focused, then turned.
Steve was there. Of course he was. Standing in the doorway like a man who believed the world existed solely to accommodate him. The school-issued jacket hung loose over broad shoulders, whistle swinging carelessly around his neck. One hand held a paper cup like a peace offering, like he’d crossed enemy lines to deliver it. His stance was confident, too relaxed, completely unconcerned with the fact that he was interrupting your class.
“Hey,” he said, smiling. “Sorry to interrupt.”
He was not sorry.
Twenty-five heads snapped toward him at once. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, cheeks that had barely left the normal warmth of being in front of the class.
“Mrs. Harrington. I’m teaching,” you said, voice clipped, tone flat but unable to mask the slight tremor of embarrassment.
“I know,” he said quickly, lowering his voice just enough to sound conspiratorial as he stepped fully inside the doorway. “I won’t take long. Just…coffee delivery.”
A low ripple of sound spread through the room. Chairs shifted. A few students stifled laughter. Someone craned their neck to get a better look, eyebrows raised, amusement plain in their expressions.
“You didn’t need to bring me coffee,” you said, walking toward him anyway, brushing your hair behind your ear in a reflexive gesture.
“I did,” he replied, earnest as ever, handing it to you with an exaggerated bow of presentation. “You forget to eat when you’re focused. That’s bad. Hydration and caffeine are important.”
“That is not your job,” you said firmly, though the corner of your mouth twitched.
“I’m a coach,” he said, leaning closer, grin widening into something boyish and far too pleased with itself. “Wellness is literally my thing. Especially when it comes to my girlfriend.”
The word landed again, softer this time, but heavier. The front row reacted first, followed by a ripple of laughter that spread through the room like static. Students exchanged looks that were equal parts delight and disbelief, eyebrows lifting as they took in the sight of Steve Harrington standing in your doorway like he belonged there, like this was normal, like it hadn’t once been unthinkable.
Steve noticed the way your cheeks warmed instantly, the way you squared your shoulders like bracing against impact, and his grin shifted. It slowed. Smoothed out. He lifted the cup slightly, mock-serious, as if issuing a public service announcement.
“Don’t worry, guys,” he said easily. “She’s way scarier without caffeine.”
The room erupted, real laughter now, unrestrained. Desks rattled as students leaned forward, someone whispered oh my god just loudly enough to be heard, another outright clapped before catching themselves. It was chaos, the kind you usually shut down in seconds.
You closed your eyes.
Just for a breath. Then another. You focused on the warmth of the cup in your hands, on not saying something sharp, something cutting. Like pointing out the extra gel in his hair, or the faint but very noticeable new cologne he’d started wearing since the plan began. You opened your eyes again, spine straight, voice level.
“Enough,” you said, controlled. “This is not a spectator sport.”
Steve’s hands went up immediately in surrender, palms out. “Sorry. My bad. Didn’t mean to derail.” He stepped closer, just enough that no one else could hear, and leaned in, his voice dropping into something private. “It’s decaf after noon,” he murmured. “Like you said.”
You paused.
It was such a small thing. An unnecessary thing. A detail he hadn’t needed to remember…except he had. You looked at him, at the way his eyes searched your face for approval.
“Thank you,” you admitted quietly.
For half a second, his smile changed. It softened, lost its performative edge, became something warm and unguarded, something that didn’t feel like part of the plan at all. Then he straightened, like he’d caught himself, clapping his hands once as he shifted back into familiar territory.
“Alright,” he said to the class, fully in coach mode now. “Eyes up, kids. Math is important. Use it. Respect it.”
A few students laughed again, but it was quieter now, more affectionate than amused.
You turned back to the board, chalk already in hand. “Page fifty-two,” you said, steady once more. “Now.”
Behind you, Steve lingered for a moment longer than necessary, watching the way you reclaimed the room with effortless authority, before finally stepping back into the hall, the echo of his presence lingering like the warmth of decaf in your hands.
By the next week, his presence wasn’t surprising anymore. It was anticipated, woven so neatly into the rhythm of your days that its absence felt louder than the bell.
Ten minutes into class, students began checking the clock with theatrical subtlety. Someone in the back whispered, “Coach Harrington’s late,” like he was a scheduled segment instead of a grown man with a whistle and too much confidence. Another student hummed a little countdown under their breath.
When he finally appeared—same jacket, different cup—the reaction was immediate and entirely unashamed.
“Yesss,” someone whispered, like they’d just won a bet.
Steve didn’t interrupt this time. He slipped in quietly, crossing the room with long, easy strides, and set the coffee down on your desk with the precision of someone who’d done it enough times to know exactly where it belonged. His fingers brushed the edge of your papers as he straightened them, unasked, but correct. He gave you a small nod, like a relay handoff in a race only the two of you understood.
“Big test today,” he said. “You got this.”
You looked up at him, one eyebrow lifting despite yourself. “You are not my motivational speaker.”
“Too late,” he said. “I already am.”
The corner of your mouth twitched before you could stop it.
As he turned to leave, a voice called out from the middle row, bold and curious. “Mrs Harrington! Do you bring coffee to all the teachers?”
Steve paused, grinning. “Only the important ones.”
You shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood.
He winked anyway and disappeared into the hall.
That was when you started noticing the difference. Not just the glances, but the tone of them. In the hallway, students didn’t just look at you with curiosity anymore; there was amusement now, teasing smiles, whispers that carried a warmth instead of suspicion. A new familiarity had settled in, as if Steve’s presence had cracked something open, softened the edges of how they saw you. You weren’t just the strict math teacher anymore. You were Mrs Harrington’s person. The realization was…strange. Not unwelcome. Just unexpected.
In the teachers’ room, it was subtler.
“Every day?” someone asked lightly one morning as Steve passed through with another cup, eyebrow raised but mouth smiling.
“Consistency builds trust,” he replied easily, pouring sugar into his own mug. “Same with students. Same with relationships.”
A pause.
You caught the look then, the way a few teachers glanced between the two of you. Not judging. Not disapproving. Almost…tender. Like they were watching something unfold and weren’t entirely sure when it had started.
Steve didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t think it mattered.
One afternoon, after practice, you found him leaning against the lockers outside your classroom, jacket half-zipped, whistle tapping lightly against his chest with every shift of his weight. He looked comfortable there, like he’d been waiting without counting the minutes.
“Walk you to your car?” he asked.
“I can walk,” you replied automatically, stacking your papers.
“I know,” he said easily, pushing off the lockers and falling into step beside you anyway. “But I like doing it.”
A group of students passed by, one nudging another with their elbow. “See?” someone whispered, not even bothering to lower their voice. “The math teacher and the sex ed teacher are dating.”
Steve lifted his hand in a cheerful wave.
You sighed, tired and fond all at once, but you didn’t tell him to stop.
The next day, as you packed up your bag and straightened the edge of your desk, a student lingered after handing in her homework. She didn’t rush off like the others. She hovered, fingers worrying the strap of her backpack, eyes flicking between you and the hallway.
“He’s nice,” she said finally, careful, like she was testing the words before letting them go.
You glanced up. “Who?”
She smiled, small and knowing. “Mr. Harrington. Your…boyfriend.”
The title still landed oddly, like a borrowed coat you hadn’t quite decided whether to return.
You followed her gaze out into the hallway, where Steve stood with a couple of players, laughing too loudly, one arm slung around a kid’s shoulders as he teased him about missing a shot. He looked completely at home there, entirely himself in a way that felt effortless. He caught your eye through the glass and lifted a hand in a casual wave, grin softening when it found you.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “He is.”
The student tilted her head, studying him, then you. “And he looks in love,” she added, like it was an observation, not a verdict.
In love? No. That was ridiculous. This was a plan. A performance. Carefully constructed, temporary.
You didn’t say any of that.
“You’re my favorite couple,” she continued, brightening. “And I promise I’m not saying that to get better grades, miss.”
You laughed then, shaking your head as she grinned and finally headed for the door.
When the room emptied and the noise faded, you stood there for a moment longer, chalk dust on your sleeves, the echo of her words lingering where logic should have been.
You watched Steve laugh again in the hallway, saw the way his eyes kept drifting back toward your classroom like he was checking in without realizing he was doing it.
And for the first time, you wondered when this stopped being just a plan, and when it had quietly become a habit neither of you seemed to know how to break.
Steve Harrington helping you grade finals had sounded reasonable in theory.
In practice, it looked like him occupying the too-small table in the corner of your classroom long after the last bell had faded into memory, the building settling into that hollow, echoing quiet that only existed after hours. The sun had dipped low enough to spill gold through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air and painting the whiteboard in soft amber streaks. Steve had rolled his sleeves up like he was about to perform a delicate operation, forearms resting on the scarred tabletop, posture stiff with an intensity that felt wildly misplaced given the task at hand. His brow was furrowed in deep, earnest concentration as he stared down at a stack of exams he very clearly did not understand at all. Like if he just looked hard enough, the answers might reveal themselves out of sheer respect.
Next to him sat the real evidence of his involvement: a bright pink donut box, already opened, the sugary smell cutting through the chalk dust and paper. He’d bought it “for morale,” he’d said, like this was a team effort and not you doing the actual work while he tried not to drown.
“Okay,” he said slowly, tapping his pen against the paper in a careful rhythm, each click timed to his thinking. “So. Walk me through this again.”
You didn’t look up from the exam you were grading, red pen moving steadily, precise in a way that had nothing to do with kindness and everything to do with fairness. “It’s basic algebra.”
“Right. Sure. Totally.” He nodded like that meant something, lips pursed as if he were committing this information to long-term memory. “I just…when you say solve for X, I need to know which vibe X has. Because sometimes X feels like it wants to be alone, and sometimes—”
You glanced up then, one brow lifting just enough to be devastating.
He froze mid-thought, eyes flicking to your face. Cleared his throat. Sat up straighter. “I mean,” he corrected quickly, gesturing vaguely at the paper, “mathematically.”
You sighed, but there was no sharpness to it, just the tired, familiar sound of someone who had explained this concept more times than she could count. You slid his paper closer to you, fingers brushing the edge of the desk as you leaned in. “You isolate the variable,” you said, pointing decisively. “Everything else moves to the other side. Same rule, every time.”
“Okay,” he repeated, nodding again, more serious now. “Isolate.”
He stared at the page for a beat, then added, quietly thoughtful, “X is an introvert.”
You pressed your lips together, a smile threatening at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts, and went back to grading.
Steve watched you for a moment after that, eyes drifting from the neat stacks of exams to the way your hand moved with practiced confidence, marking answers, pausing when something deserved a second look. The room felt smaller with him in it, warmer somehow, filled with the soft scratch of pen on paper and the occasional crinkle of the donut box as he reached in without looking, offering you one by nudging it across the table with a hopeful expression.
“You know,” he said after a while, voice lower now, less performative, “I don’t think I ever stayed this late in a classroom in my life.”
You hummed noncommittally.
“I mean it,” he went on, gesturing around. “Back then, the second the bell rang, I was gone. Didn’t matter what class it was. Math especially.” He grimaced at the paper again. “Guess some things don’t change.”
You glanced up at him again, softer this time. The sunset had shifted, light dimming into deeper orange, casting shadows across his face that made him look younger. Less adult, less teacher, more like the boy he’d once been. Steve Harrington, trying and failing and still showing up anyway.
“Well,” you said lightly, “at least now you’re trying.”
He smiled at that, not the big, cocky grin he wore in hallways, but something smaller, almost shy. “Yeah,” he said. “Turns out that counts for something.”
Outside, the janitor’s cart rattled down the hallway, metal wheels clanking softly against tile, the sound passing by like a reminder that the rest of the world was still moving. Inside your classroom, time had slowed to something gentler. Finals were spread across the table in uneven stacks, the last of the daylight fading from honey-gold to dusky blue, shadows stretching long across the floor.
You realized you hadn’t checked the clock in a long time.
“Can I…ask a question?” Steve spoke again eventually, his voice quieter now, like he was testing the space between you.
You didn’t look up. “You’ve asked twelve.”
“This one’s different.”
That made you pause. You capped your pen and leaned back slightly. “Go ahead.”
He leaned back in his chair too, tipping it just enough to stare up at the ceiling tiles, hands folded over his stomach. For a moment, he looked less like a teacher and more like a former student killing time after class.
“How do you do this every day?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“All of it,” he said, lowering the chair back onto all four legs. “Grading. Explaining. Caring this much.” He gestured to the exams. “You teach math. You watch kids panic over numbers that feel like life-or-death to them.”
You tilted your head. “You teach sex ed,” you reminded him. “You answer questions about condoms from sixteen-year-olds.”
“That’s different,” he said immediately, serious as anything. “They’re confused, sure…but they’re confident about it.” He waved a hand vaguely. “These kids?” He nodded toward the papers. “They’re confused and sad. And you have to be the one to tell them they got it wrong.”
You laughed then, surprised by it.
Steve smiled at the sound without thinking, eyes flicking to you automatically. Then he caught himself, posture shifting, shoulders squaring like he’d remembered he was supposed to be cool about this. He cleared his throat and leaned forward again, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping as if someone might overhear.
“Am I…helping?” he asked. “Like actually helping. Or am I just here eating donuts and stressing you out?”
You looked down at the papers in front of him. At the careful little checkmarks he’d made. At the notes in the margins where he’d tried to match your phrasing, even when he wasn’t fully sure why the answer was wrong. He’d taken it seriously. More seriously than he probably took most things.
“Yes,” you said, without hesitation. “You are.”
The effect was immediate. His shoulders relaxed, tension draining out of him all at once. A slow, pleased grin spread across his face, pride blooming there like he’d just been handed a trophy he hadn’t known he was competing for.
“Okay,” he said, nodding to himself. “Cool. Good.” He paused, then added, quieter, more honest, “Because I really want you to think I’m…you know. Smart.”
You met his eyes across the table. “You are smart.”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, almost tripping over the words. “But like—” He gestured vaguely between you and the exams. “Your smart.”
Oh.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It didn’t rush to fill itself. It just settled there, wrapping around the two of you like the dimming light and the shared space and the quiet understanding of being seen. Your heart gave a small, unmistakable jump, and for the first time that evening, you were painfully aware of how close he was. How easily this moment could tip into something else if either of you moved wrong.
“So,” he said, voice softer now, “do I get extra credit for trying?”
You smiled just for a moment.
Steve swallowed, fingers tapping once against the edge of the table.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You didn’t look up right away. The red pen in your hand dragged a careful checkmark across the page. You finished the mark, straightened the paper, stacked it neatly, and only then lifted your eyes to him, composed in that way that always made him feel like he was standing slightly off-balance.
“If that one’s wrong, it’s not on you,” you said evenly. “Half the class missed it.”
“No,” he murmured.
He leaned back in his chair, slow this time, like sudden movement might crack something open. The chair legs scraped softly against the linoleum, an ugly sound. He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling tiles, counting them without meaning to, jaw tightening as if he were bracing for a hit he could already see coming.
“It’s not that,” he said. “The principal talked to me today.”
Your hand stilled. Just barely. A fraction of a second, so small anyone else might’ve missed it. But Steve didn’t. He caught it immediately, the way your fingers paused before tightening slightly around the pen again.
“About the dance?” you asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.” A breathy, almost disbelieving laugh slipped out of him, thin and hollow, like he was trying to convince himself this was funny. “He wants me to chaperone. Officially.” He shook his head. “Tie. Clipboard. Standing around pretending I don’t see kids trying to spike the punch.”
You nodded once, already knowing where this was going. “I know.”
Steve turned to you then, confusion knitting his brows together, his whole body angling toward you without him even realizing it. “You know?”
“He always asks me first,” you said, eyes dropping back to the exam in front of you. You traced a small note in the margin, buying yourself a second. “I suggested you.”
The silence that followed settled slowly, like dust in late afternoon light. Steve didn’t speak. He just watched you, the way his expression shifted almost imperceptibly. From surprise, to understanding, to something quieter and harder to name.
“Why?” he asked at last.
The word came out softer than he meant it to. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just…honest.
You exhaled through your nose, the sound barely there. “So parents can see you,” you said, tone even, almost clinical. “Standing there. Doing your job. Being steady. Responsible.” Then, despite yourself, your voice softened. “So this can end.”
Oh.
The word echoed in his head, louder than it had any right to be.
End.
“End,” Steve repeated, tasting it, turning it over like it might change shape if he did.
“The plan,” you added quickly, lifting your head now, offering him a small smile that felt practiced. “Once they see you trusted like that, they’ll back off. You won’t need a fake girlfriend hanging off your arm to prove anything.”
He nodded. Slowly. Too slowly. Like someone agreeing to something they hadn’t known they were dreading.
“Right,” he said. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
Inside, something twisted tight in his chest, sharp and uncomfortable. He pushed it down immediately, like he always did.
You capped your pen and leaned back in your chair, folding your arms across your chest like armor. “And hey,” you added, forcing a lighter tone, “this means you can go back to dating properly. Girls who actually want to date you. The kind who don’t have rules about no touching and no kissing.”
A corner of his mouth twitched, his body responding on instinct even if his heart lagged behind. “Yeah,” he said. “Lucky them.”
But he didn’t feel lucky. Not even close.
He felt stupid, for how much he’d started looking forward to late afternoons in your classroom, to bad coffee and stolen donuts and grading papers he barely understood just so he could sit across from you a little longer. For how good it had felt to be seen as competent, as thoughtful, as someone worth trusting with quiet things.
For how easily he’d forgotten this was temporary.
The classroom felt different after that. The hum of the lights grew sharper. Somewhere outside, someone laughed in the hallway, probably a student staying late with friends, carefree and loud, the sound drifting in and out like it belonged to a world Steve wasn’t quite part of anymore.
He picked up his pen again, marking the paper in front of him with more force than necessary, like he needed the distraction. Like if he kept his hands busy, maybe his chest wouldn’t betray him.
“Guess Friday’s kind of the finish line,” he said, eyes fixed firmly on the exam.
You nodded, subtle. Controlled. “Looks like it.”
Neither of you smiled.
And for the first time since this whole ridiculous plan had started, Steve Harrington wished that it hadn’t worked at all.
The gym looked so different at night it almost felt like stepping into a memory instead of a place.
The overhead lights had been dimmed until they cast a soft glow, nothing like the harsh fluorescence that usually hummed through basketball practice and assemblies. The floor had been cleared and polished to a mirror-bright shine, reflecting the strings of warm bulbs looped carefully around the walls and draped from basketball hoops like borrowed constellations. Paper stars—slightly crooked, clearly handmade—hung from the ceiling on thin strings, swaying lazily every time someone opened a door. Even the air smelled different. The usual mix of sweat, rubber, and varnish had been replaced by perfume and cologne and the cloying sweetness of punch that students were already lining up for.
You arrived early, as you always did.
The clipboard was tucked against your side like an extension of yourself, the familiar weight grounding. Sensible shoes echoed lightly against the floor as you stepped inside and paused just past the doorway, eyes already moving. Exits, clear. Corners, visible. The DJ table was still being set up, wires trailing across the floor like nervous veins. Teachers gathered in loose clusters near the bleachers, coats draped over metal backs, cups in hand, their voices low and conversational in that way that only happened outside of class hours.
This was still a job. You reminded yourself of that.
“Miss,” someone called from across the floor. “Everything set?”
“Almost,” you replied, already scanning the room.
“Funny seeing this place dressed up,” Mrs. Kelley said from behind you.
You turned. She looked different outside the classroom, softer somehow, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, a cup of punch warming her hands. Her eyes flicked briefly toward the entrance, then back to you.
“I have to admit,” she said, lowering her voice, “I never thought I’d see the day.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “Which day is that?”
She smiled, a little incredulous. “You and Steve Harrington. Together.” She shook her head slowly. “If you’d told me that ten years ago, I would’ve sent you straight to the counselor.”
You let out a small laugh, surprised by how easily it came. “You and half the staff.”
“Oh, I remember,” Mrs. Kelley went on, warming to the subject. “You were the quiet one. Always prepared. Always sitting three seats away from him because I thought proximity might…rub off.” She chuckled. “And he was…well. Steve.”
“Disruptive,” you supplied.
“Chaotic,” she corrected fondly. “And now look at him.” Her gaze drifted toward the doors again, lingering there. “Responsible. On time. Volunteering to chaperone a dance.”
She noticed immediately. “You’re good for him,” she said gently. “You always were. Even back then. You grounded him without even trying.”
Something tight and complicated settled in your chest at that, a mix of nostalgia and unease. You opened your mouth to respond—
The gym doors opened.
Steve stepped inside.
For a split second, it felt like the entire room shifted on its axis, like the night had tilted just to make space for him. He looked different, not in a way that screamed for attention, but in a way that quietly demanded it. The tie at his throat was neatly knotted, careful in a way that spoke of effort. His sleeves were rolled just enough to look intentional, forearms exposed like he’d done it twice to get it right. The whistle rested against his chest, catching the soft glow of the lights when he moved, hanging there like a badge of honor he wasn’t pretending not to care about.
He walked in with easy confidence, shoulders back, posture open, eyes scanning the gym with a practiced awareness that hadn’t always belonged to him. Tonight, it wasn’t instinct or habit, it was responsibility. This was his space to manage, his students to watch over, his name on the list of people trusted to keep things running smoothly.
And he took that seriously.
Parents greeted him with approving nods as he crossed the floor. A few teachers smiled openly, their expressions warm instead of wary. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, laughing as they said something he didn’t quite catch, and Steve laughed back without thinking. He looked like he belonged here, not as the boy everyone remembered, but as the man he’d become.
And then, inevitably, his eyes found you.
The noise of the room dulled around him, the laughter and music and chatter fading into a distant hum. His expression softened instantly, something unguarded flickering across his face before he caught himself and straightened, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex.
Mrs. Kelley followed your gaze. Her smile shifted from curiosity to surprise, then into something openly pleased. “Well,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “I suppose people do grow.”
You nodded, though your throat felt tight.
Steve spotted you almost immediately and headed your way, stopping just close enough to respect the rules you’d set. “Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“All good,” you replied, clipboard tucked neatly against your side.
Mrs. Kelley glanced between the two of you, her eyes shining with something like satisfaction. “I’m glad you found each other,” she said simply. “It makes sense now.”
Steve blinked, thrown. “It does?”
She patted his arm, affectionate and firm all at once. “Behave tonight, Mr. Harrington.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said automatically, the words slipping out of muscle memory.
As she walked away, Steve leaned in just enough to whisper, “She always scared me.”
You smiled, small and private. “She always liked you.”
He scoffed. “That’s a lie.”
You laughed.
And in that moment, Steve’s eyes traced you properly for the first time that night.
The dress you’d chosen wasn’t flashy or dramatic, nothing that demanded attention. It fit you the way everything you owned seemed to, so thoughtful, and quietly perfect. The soft lighting caught the lines of your face, the curve of your shoulders, the way you held yourself with a confidence that didn’t need permission. You looked beautiful in a way that made his chest ache.
Steve forgot to breathe.
It hit him all at once. You weren’t just attractive. You were devastating. Not in a way that asked for anything from him, but in a way that made him want to give anyway. Like something precious. Like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. Like something he’d been pretending not to notice for weeks and was suddenly, painfully aware of.
He laughed under his breath before he could stop himself, like he was caught off guard by his own feelings.
You noticed immediately. Your eyes found him across the gym, brows lifting slightly in question. You crossed the floor toward him, heels clicking softly against the polished wood.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head, lips still curved in that fond, amused way that always betrayed him. “Nothing. Just…wow.”
You frowned. “Wow what?”
“You clean up,” he said lightly, like it was nothing, like his chest didn’t feel tight and full all at once. “Didn’t realize the plan included making me look bad.”
You rolled your eyes, but color bloomed high on your cheeks anyway. “Focus, Harrington. You’re here to look responsible.”
“I am,” he said. “Responsibly distracted.”
You huffed, but your mouth betrayed you, curving into a small, reluctant smile. “You look…presentable,” you offered. “Congratulations.”
“High praise,” he said, grin widening, eyes never leaving your face. “I’ll treasure it.”
And as the music swelled and the gym filled with laughter and movement, Steve Harrington stood there thinking one dangerously simple thought:
This was supposed to be pretend.
By the time the dance began to thin out, the gym had softened into something more intimate. Students left in loose clusters, shoes slung over shoulders, jackets half-on, voices hoarse from shouting over music. The lights had dimmed even further now, the overheads mostly off, leaving only the warm string bulbs flickering lazily around the room. They reflected off the polished floor in long, wavering streaks, like the gym was holding onto the night for just a little longer.
The punch bowl was mostly empty, its surface sticky and ringed with melting ice. The air smelled faintly of spilled soda, cheap cologne, hairspray, and the lingering sweetness of something almost finished.
You stood near the edge of the dance floor, clipboard tucked under your arm, posture composed even though your shoulders ached from holding yourself together all night. Your eyes tracked students automatically, two lingering too close to the exit, one pair arguing in low voices, a group laughing too loudly near the bleachers. Old habits. Responsibility first.
Steve was close, leaning back against the bleachers, arms folded loosely over his chest. He looked relaxed, but his eyes never stopped moving, sweeping the room with quiet vigilance. Every so often, they came back to you, lingering just a beat too long before he caught himself and looked away.
He nudged you gently with his elbow, careful not to draw attention. “You know,” he said under his breath, “this is usually the part where everyone pretends not to notice the slow song.”
You didn’t look at him. “I’m not dancing.”
He turned his head, studying your profile. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I don’t need to,” you replied. “I’m supervising. So are you. We’re adults.”
Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Harsh.”
You finally glanced at him. “Accurate.”
He tilted his head, expression shifting, still playful, but softer now, less showy. “Just one,” he said. “No spotlight. No spectacle. People already think we’re—” He hesitated, then waved a hand vaguely. “Together. It’d look…normal.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” you said.
He smiled anyway, undeterred. “It’s tradition.”
You arched an eyebrow. “According to who?”
“According to every dance ever,” he said. “There’s always one last slow song.”
You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he agreed easily. Then, more sincere, “But I’ve been good tonight.”
You turned to face him fully now, unimpressed. “You did your job.”
“I did it well,” he insisted. “I broke up three near-fights, confiscated two flasks, and didn’t say a single sarcastic thing to a parent. That’s growth.”
You sighed, shifting the clipboard under your arm. “Steve—”
He held out his hand then. Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just open, palm up, waiting.
“Just one,” he said quietly. “For appearances. And then we go back to pretending we don’t exist outside of professional boundaries.”
You stared at his hand longer than necessary. At the familiar shape of it. At how gentle he was being about it.
“Fine,” you said at last. “One.”
Relief crossed his face so quickly it was almost imperceptible, there and gone in the space of a breath, but you caught it anyway. It softened the line of his jaw, loosened something in his shoulders. He took your hand with careful intention, his grip warm and steady, as if he were holding something fragile, something he didn’t quite trust himself not to break. He led you toward the center of the floor at an unhurried pace, guiding rather than pulling, giving you every chance to change your mind even as he hoped you wouldn’t.
The DJ, mercifully oblivious to the quiet shift happening between the two of you, had chosen something slow and vaguely romantic. Nothing too earnest, nothing too obvious. The beat was softened into something steady, a song that didn’t ask much of you beyond moving together. The lights overhead were low now, string bulbs casting a warm, flickering glow that reflected off the polished floor in hazy ribbons of gold.
Steve hesitated once you reached the open space, his hand hovering for a moment before settling at your waist. He touched you lightly at first, almost cautiously, waiting for a line to be drawn. You didn’t say yes. You didn’t say no. You simply rested your hand on his shoulder, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his jacket. He felt the shift immediately, his breath stuttering just a fraction at the contact, like his body had registered something his mind was still catching up to.
“This feels illegal,” he murmured, the words pitched low, meant only for you.
“You’re the one who suggested it,” you replied, your voice steady even as awareness pooled warm in your chest.
“Yeah,” he said, huffing out a quiet laugh, “but I didn’t think I’d be this nervous.”
You glanced up at him then, genuinely surprised. “You?”
He nodded once, sheepish, the corner of his mouth tilting in a way that felt painfully familiar. “Believe it or not.”
He moved carefully, like he was afraid sudden confidence might send him crashing through the moment. You felt him counting under his breath—barely audible, but there—numbers grounding him as he guided you into a gentle sway. You followed easily, your steps measured and instinctive, the two of you moving more than dancing. There was no flair, no showmanship.
Just quiet.
“Am I stepping on your feet?” he asked after a moment, his voice tinged with genuine concern.
“Not yet,” you murmured.
The music carried you both forward, soft teasing slipping out in low murmurs, the occasional breath of laughter barely rising above the song. Steve leaned a little closer than strictly necessary, not enough to break any rules you’d set, not enough to draw comment, but just enough to make your chest feel tight, like something was slowly winding itself around your ribs.
He glanced around the room then, cataloging faces out of habit. Parents talking near the doors, teachers lingering in clusters, the last of the students swaying near the edges. And then his attention came back to you, focused and intent in a way that made the rest of the gym blur.
“You look really beautiful,” he whispered.
You froze, not because it was the first time he’d said it. He’d been saying things like that for weeks now, always with an audience, always with the understanding that it was part of the act. But tonight it landed differently. There was no performance in his voice, no wink, no charm layered over it.
It was bittersweet. Unplanned. Not written anywhere in the rules you’d both been following so carefully.
“I—thank you,” you said softly, the words smaller than you meant them to be.
He shrugged, a practiced attempt at nonchalance, but his hand at your waist told the truth. It stayed, like he was anchoring himself there.
“For the record,” he muttered, eyes dropping to somewhere just over your shoulder, “I am being extremely respectful right now.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” he said under his breath. “It’s taking everything I’ve got.”
You swayed together, small movements at first, adjusting to each other’s rhythm like you were learning a language neither of you had spoken out loud before. Steve relaxed as the seconds passed, his shoulders loosening, his grip growing surer as muscle memory quietly took over. He guided you with an ease that surprised you both, like his body remembered something his mind had long buried, like he’d done this a hundred times before even though he hadn’t danced like this since he was seventeen and convinced the world ended at graduation.
“This is weird,” he said suddenly.
You blinked, lifting your head slightly. “Good weird or bad weird?”
He shrugged, lips tilting into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good. Just…weird.” He exhaled through his nose. “Kinda feels like high school again.”
You frowned faintly. “It doesn’t,” you said. “We never danced in high school.”
“I know,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not—” He stopped, searching, his gaze drifting around the room as if the words were written somewhere on the walls. “I just mean…being here. The lights. The music. Watching kids think this is the most important night of their lives.”
Your eyes followed his.
A couple of teenagers stood a few feet away, swaying awkwardly out of sync. She had her head tucked beneath his chin like it was the safest place in the world; his arms were wrapped around her too tight, like he was afraid she might disappear if he loosened his grip. They weren’t talking. They didn’t need to. They were smiling, utterly convinced that this moment was permanent.
Steve watched them longer than necessary.
“They look…” he started, then stopped. He cleared his throat, jaw tightening. “Yeah.”
“In love?” you offered gently.
He nodded. “Yeah. Like that.”
His hands shifted just slightly at your waist, thumbs pressing in as if he needed the grounding, as if staying present required effort.
“I remember that feeling,” he said quietly. “Thinking if you didn’t ask someone to the dance, you’d miss your chance forever. Like life only handed you one shot at certain things.”
You glanced up at him. “You asked a lot of people to dances, Steve.”
He snorted softly. “Yeah. I did.” Then his voice dropped, honesty slipping in before he could stop it. “Not the ones I wanted to.”
That made you still.
He didn’t look at you. He kept his eyes on the couple, shoulders squared like he was bracing for impact.
“I always thought,” he continued, slow and careful, “that I’d get around to it. You know? Like—there’d be a right time. When I wasn’t such an idiot. When I could actually…say something without sounding dumb.”
Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “Say what?”
He finally looked down at you.
“I wanted to ask you,” he said. “To a dance. Back then.”
Your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt. “Me?”
He nodded, embarrassment creeping up his neck, pink blooming beneath his collar. “Yeah. You.”
You stared at him, stunned, old memories rearranging themselves in your head like puzzle pieces you’d never thought to flip over. “Steve, we barely talked.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “That’s the thing.” He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You were always…untouchable. Smart. Focused. Always had your notes color-coded, always raised your hand like you already knew the answer.”
You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You threw basketballs at my head.”
“I was nervous,” he said immediately, then winced. “Okay, no, that sounds bad. But I didn’t know how to talk to you. So I just…existed near you. Loudly. Poorly.”
Images flickered through your mind: Steve slouched in the back row, sneakers hooked around chair legs; Steve getting shushed for talking too much; Steve laughing too loudly, like he needed everyone to hear him. And you, three seats away, just like Mrs. Kelley had said. Always watching without meaning to.
“You had a crush on me,” you said quietly.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “I did.”
The music swelled around you, filling the space neither of you seemed able to step out of. His hands stayed steady at your waist, like moving them would break something fragile.
“I never asked you out,” he continued, voice low and confessional, “because I figured you’d say no. Or worse—you’d say yes out of pity.” He shook his head. “And I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be a joke to you.”
Your throat tightened. “So you just…let it go?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Or I thought I did.”
He glanced around the room again. At the lights, the couples, the night slowly winding down like it was reluctant to end.
“What do you mean?” you asked, frowning, pulling back just enough to look at him properly.
He hesitated, then met your eyes fully. “I mean,” he said, voice rough now, “I would be thinking about kissing you right now if we weren’t in our workplace. Surrounded by teenagers.”
“Steve…” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, fragile as glass.
“No—please don’t reject me now,” he said quickly, words tumbling out. His voice cracked just slightly, like he was holding something back. “I already know the answer. I’ve known the answer for ten years.”
You stepped back just enough to break the bubble you’d been standing in, the warmth of his hands still ghosting over your skin as they fell away. The sudden absence felt louder than the music ever had. You lifted your chin, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I was going to say,” you continued, quieter now, honest in a way that scared you, “that I would let you do it.”
His breath stuttered.
“…If we weren’t here,” you added. “I mean.”
The gym lights brightened slowly, flooding the space with fluorescent reality. The kind of light that erased shadows and magic alike. The music cut off mid-beat, leaving behind an awkward echo before half-hearted applause broke out, students clapping because that was what you did when something ended. Chairs scraped loudly against the floor. Teachers clapped their hands and raised their voices, shepherding teenagers toward the exits with tired smiles and rehearsed reminders about rides and curfews and waiting parents.
Just like that, the moment shattered.
You stepped away from Steve first.
Not abruptly, nothing about it could be called rude, but with the kind of careful distance that suggested control. You reached for your clipboard again, tucking it under your arm like armor, eyes already scanning the room, posture straightening into something professional and distant. Back to normal. Back to safe.
“Well,” you said lightly, too lightly, “that’s that. No major incidents. I’d call it a success.”
Steve stared at you.
Not because of what you said, but because of how easily you said it. How neatly you folded everything away. The confession. The almost-kiss. The weight of ten years he’d just laid bare between bleachers and string lights and a song that had almost been yours.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “A success.”
But his voice didn’t quite cooperate. It lagged behind the words, like it hadn’t agreed to the lie yet.
You thanked the DJ, complimented the setup, exchanged a few quiet words with Mrs. Kelley, laughed softly when a parent praised your organization skills. You were very good at this, at compartmentalizing, at turning emotion into something manageable and neat. You moved through the final minutes of the night like nothing inside you was splintering, like your heart wasn’t still racing, like Steve Harrington hadn’t just admitted he’d been carrying you with him since high school.
And he watched you do it all.
Outside, the night air was sharp and clean, a relief after the stifling warmth of the gym. Your breath fogged faintly as you stepped into the parking lot. Cars lined the asphalt, headlights flicking on one by one, engines rumbling low as parents pulled away. The glow from the gym spilled out behind you, pale and distant, like an afterimage burned into your vision.
You walked briskly toward your car, heels clicking with purpose, keys already clenched in your hand.
Steve followed.
“Hey,” he called, catching up easily, his longer strides eating up the distance you were trying to put between you. “You’re…you’re walking kind of fast.”
You didn’t stop. “I’m tired.”
“Okay, but—” He faltered, then pushed through it, frustration finally bleeding through the restraint. “You can’t just do that.”
You reached your car and unlocked it with a sharp beep, the sound echoing too loudly in the near-empty lot. You opened the door and set your bag on the seat with deliberate calm, taking your time before finally turning to face him. Your expression was composed, almost painfully so.
“Do what?”
“Pretend nothing happened,” he said, frustration bleeding through now. “In there.”
You rested a hand on the car door, grounding yourself. “Steve, it was an emotional night. Nostalgia does that. We talked about the past, got a little carried away—”
“No,” he cut in.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm. It stopped you cold.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t shrink it.”
You froze.
He stepped closer, stopping just short of invading your space, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Nothing about that was pretend to me,” he said, each word careful and deliberate. “Not the dance. Not what I said. Not how I feel.”
You swallowed, eyes flicking away. “Steve—”
The parking lot had gone quieter than you realized.
Most of the cars were gone now, taillights disappearing down the road, the hum of engines fading into the distance. The cold settled in properly, slipping beneath your sleeves, raising goosebumps along your arms. The gym lights behind you buzzed faintly, too bright, too distant, illuminating the space where you stood like a stage you hadn’t agreed to perform on.
Steve exhaled slowly, deeply, like he was steadying himself for whatever came next.
And you knew that this was the moment you’d been trying to outrun all night.
“I never lied to you,” he said again, softer this time. “About any of this.”
You hugged your clipboard to your chest out of habit, then frowned and lowered it, realizing how ridiculous it felt to hold onto rules when everything else had already blurred.
“I know,” you whispered. “That’s what scares me.”
He nodded, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. Me too.”
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Steve reached out and brushed his thumb against the edge of the clipboard still tucked under your arm. A stupid little excuse to touch you. When you didn’t pull away, his hand slid up, fingers curling gently at your wrist.
“I keep thinking,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours, “that this was all supposed to be pretend. Like I was just playing the part. Good boyfriend. Responsible teacher. Harrington, reformed.”
You swallowed.
“But then,” he went on, voice dropping, “you helped me with grading. You sat there explaining algebra like it actually mattered whether I understood it or not.” He let out a breathy laugh. “And now I know more math than I ever did in high school. Which is, honestly, kind of insane.”
Despite yourself, a smile tugged at your mouth. “That’s your big confession?”
He shook his head slowly, thumb pressing just a little more firmly against your skin. “No,” he said, gentle but sure. “That’s me saying you changed me. You always did.”
The words landed hard and soft all at once.
“I didn’t fake any of this,” he said. “Not the plan. Not the dance. Not how I feel when you look at me like I’m…worth taking seriously.”
Your breath hitched.
You reached up before you could overthink it, fingers brushing his tie, the knot still perfectly in place from a night of being watched. Steve sucked in a quiet breath, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again, like he was asking without words.
“Steve,” you murmured, barely audible, your forehead nearly touching his now, “we’re still in the school parking lot.”
“I know,” he whispered immediately. “I swear, if anyone opens a door, I will stop. I just—” He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, closing his eyes like he needed the contact. “I don’t want to miss this again.”
That was it.
You closed the distance.
The kiss was slow, reverent, like time had softened around you to allow it. His lips were warm despite the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t urgent or clumsy, it was careful, deliberate, as if he were memorizing the shape of you. One hand slid to your waist, steady and sure now, holding you like he finally knew exactly where he belonged.
You melted into him before you realized you were doing it, the world narrowing down to the warmth of his hands, the quiet hum of the night, the way his mouth curved against yours like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.
Steve smiled into the kiss, a soft, almost disbelieving sound leaving him as he deepened it just enough to make your knees go weak. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours again, laughing quietly under his breath.
“Wow,” he murmured, voice awed. “Okay. Yeah. That was definitely not fake.” He huffed softly, shaking his head. “Unless I’m hallucinating and actually kissing an angel.”
You laughed softly, heart racing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he said, brushing his nose against yours, still impossibly close. “But I’m also a guy who’s completely, stupidly in love with the math teacher.”
Your smile softened.
“Careful,” you whispered. “That almost sounded serious.”
His answer came without hesitation, sincere and devastatingly gentle.
“It is.”
And when he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like a promise…you didn’t stop him.
the swan part two: opening night inches closer and y/n doesn't realize just how close she's growing to harry until others notice.
wordcount: 12.4k+
—————
"... Just, thank you to everyone. It's been so fun getting to retry this production with such an awesome team. This time tomorrow, we'll be bringing the story to life." Ms. Ariel raised her champagne flute in a toast, the rest of the long banquet table full of the cast and members of production doing the same. "To Tchaikovsky—for giving us something to dance to."
Quiet laughter filtered through the space, accompanied by the clicking of glasses.
It took real effort for (Y/N) to direct her attention to the faces of her friends sitting around her, and not at Harry who was quietly sitting among the rest of the more senior members of the production. Not once, at any of the few other productions (Y/N) has been a part of has he ever shown up to one of these family dinners. From the sneaking looks being shot in his direction, she had a feeling this was a surprising sight for everyone.
"Now, let's eat!"
With that, Ms Ariel, dramatically raised her arms with a flourish as if presenting the rest of the night before them. It didn't take long before the dancers taking over over the second half of the table to rush towards the open sushi bar. Tonight was the last night of fun, eating and drinking being encouraged amongst the cast before tomorrow night begins the chaos schedule of the new production.
With little resistance, (Y/N) was pulled along behind Kingston and Siobhan to the sushi bar. The dancers, swans and alike, had taken over the bar first, the rest of the department heads hanging back with their smoky drinks and amused glances. It felt silly, (Y/N) though, as she loaded up with the different rolls with various cups of the offered sauces. While there was an option of having a specialty roll made specifically for her, she steered towards the more simple options.
Making it back to her seat, the second half of the dining table was full of everyone's options. It was clear the offer of free food and drinks was being taken full advantage of. Mini dishes of soy sauce and sriracha were being shared around with shots of sake being taken between the bubbly conversation erupting through the room.
Listening in while the more experienced members of the cast shared stories about previous productions—about family dinners like these—(Y/N) was happy to become a wallflower. While this wasn't the first ballet company she had joined, this was one that she could see herself calling her home until she retired from the dance.
She wanted to take in every moment, seeing all of these people that were integral parts of realizing one of her biggest dreams in becoming Odette. She wanted to memorize the sound of Siobhan's snorting laughter, Lydia's chittering, and Kingston's urging of more shots to be remembered for as long as she lived.
With a quiet smile on her lips, she cast her gaze around the room, memorizing every detail.
Especially so, when she grazed over the opposite end of the table where Ms. Ariel was holding court, Harry was stealing his own glance right at her.
Cheeks pink, he quickly looked away, dropping his gaze to the avocado roll on his plate.
(Y/N)'s smile only grew.
—————
"I'm going to get another drink," (Y/M) murmured to Kingston, standing from her spot when he gave her an absent nod. Sasha was currently sharing stories from her visit back home to Russia and the supposed "ruffians" she found herself tangled with.
(If her memory served her well, (Y/N) was ninety-eight percent sure that the last time Sasha had been plastered off of Long Island Iced Teas, she had spilled that these Russia stories were full of it. She only visited to see her grandmother for a week before heading back home—a trek she hadn't made in a handful of years anyway).
The bar was clear of a waiting line as (Y/N) approached, though the bartender was busy with a different guest.
One with mussed brown curls and broad shoulders huddled down as if attempting not to take up too much space. Despite having the whole length of the makeshift bar to himself.
There was a pattering in her chest when she realized it was Harry. The chambers of her heart fluttered like a butterfly's wings against the ladder of her ribs.
Coming up to the space at his side, (Y/N) hoped the quiet smile on her lips hid just how suddenly giddy she was at the sight of him. Once close enough, she could feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from his skin, the smoky sweet scent she caught in the theater now wafting over her. From over his shoulder, she caught the whiskey drink being poured in a short glass for him. He moved swiftly as he grabbed the drink, making a movement to turn away from the bar before he stopped short of bumping right into (Y/N).
He started where he stood, rearing back to keep from spilling the alcohol all over her mini dress.
"Sorry," he breathed, "I didn't realize y'were there."
"It's okay," she smiled, suddenly feeling warm under her skin now that his eyes were grazing over her. "I should have said something, maybe."
"No, no," Harry immediately brushed off, "it was m'fault."
He wasn't going to let her win, she realized. He was far too sweet, too sheepish to give away any responsibility for something he decided was his fault. Even something as small as not watching where he was going.
"What can I get for you?" the bartender piped up, looking across the top with a pleasant smile in (Y/N)'s direction .
"Um," she sounded, having forgotten what drink she was wanting to try. Instead, she was aware of the way Harry had no reason to stick around and keep talking with her unless she said something more to him. She glanced at the small chalkboard sign with the different cocktail options, zeroing in on one. "The Yuzu Martini, please."
The bartender muttered a promise of the drink being up quickly before he turned to collect the ingredients and start mixing. By the time she turned to look at Harry, he was obviously beginning to awkwardly edge away.
"Are you having fun?" she blurted out, the shock of her voice much louder than she anticipated.
Harry stopped in his tracks, though. Exactly as she hoped.
"Yeah, yeah," Harry responded, a pleasant smile molding his features. "A little bit more rowdy than I was expecting, but very fun."
At that moment, they both glanced to the back half of the room, where the stark difference between the department heads and the cast was marked with the boisterous laughter and Lydia standing over the table to recreate some moment from a story she was telling. On the other end, Ms. Ariel was holding court over the other heads, including the direction and head of production, their faces turned towards her as if the sun.
"Definitely," (Y/N) laughed, suddenly feeling a bit silly now, wondering if he considered her to be rowdy. If that was a bad thing to be to someone as reserved as him.
Though, she reminded herself, it didn't really matter much what he liked. Whether or not he liked her outside of believing her to be a competent dancer.
"Are you?" Harry questioned, taking a sip from the slim black cocktail straw in his glass. "Having fun, I mean."
"Oh yeah," she breathed out a laugh, reaching for her martini as soon as it touched the bartop. "It's helping me forget how nervous I am."
It was posed as a joke, some throwaway comment to fill the air while she fished out a tip for the bartender. Though Harry didn't seem to think of it in the same way, his brows knitting into a furrow, his head tilting with a swirl of his hair dropping down his forehead.
"What do y'mean?"
"Just everything with tomorrow and all." She flipped her hand through her hair nonchalantly, hoping he doesn't pick up the granules of truth sprinkled through the words.
His expression softened then. "I understand," he shared, a solemn nod of his head being given, "But, I hope you know how amazing y'are. There's nothing to be nervous about—you've worked hard, and I know 's going to be perfect."
She felt that warmth again, bubbling under her skin. She dropped her eyes from him with a flutter of her lashes, watching the yuzu peel float along the top of her cocktail instead of counting the flecks of gold in his eyes.
"Thank you," she muttered, less immune to his praises than that of anyone else, "I've never been a lead before—especially not for what's technically two roles. I don't want to forget anything, and freeze or cry or something."
Ending on an airy laugh, her words hung between them as Harry met her eyes with sincerity swimming through his irises.
"Even if something does go wrong, I know you'll know how to handle it. I've got no doubts in what you'll be able to do up there."
A shy smile softened her face, looking at him from through the fan of her lashes. She wondered if he could also feel the warmth radiating from her skin, her blood simmering through her veins. "Thank you," she muttered, taking a sip of her martini before shifting gears, "Did you get to see our last rehearsal this morning, with all the lights and makeup and everything?"
"No," he shook his head, sipping his own smokey drink, "I was a bit busy at the office today, but I think it'll make for a fun surprise for tomorrow."
"I hope so," she smiled, "I think it turned out really nice from where I was standing."
Harry, with his mouth open and ready to answer, was cut off by the sound of Siobhan's slurred shout from the table, "(Y/N), are you done yet?"
It was the gloss covering her eyes and the red flush that was creeping its way up her neck and into her hairline, that had (Y/N) far from feeling offended at the interruption. Siobhan usually forgot the notion of inside volume after a few good drinks and the knowledge of knowing she didn't have the responsibility of driving or walking home.
She only shook her head with a bubbly laugh before looking to Harry once more. He had his eyes on Siobhan and the rest of dancers for a lingering moment, sweeping across the faces that he barely had a chance to know. Something gloomy passed over the planes of his face. There was a pinch that appeared between his brows, one that was quickly swept away before he caught her looking at him.
(Y/N) couldn't say why she felt this way, what exactly she saw in his features that made her think he was sad, but she did. It was a split decision, one she made before her better sense could catch up with her mouth.
"Do you want to come sit with us?" (Y/N) asked, quick to shove her straw to her lips as a distraction.
Harry hesitated, his eyes widening just barely before he dropped his gaze to the whiskey in his hand. "I—uh—I don't know. I don't want to make any of them uncomfortable or anything. I know I don't really hang out much with you all."
"It's okay," (Y/N) bubbled, surprised by her own level of enthusiasm as she pushed back against that sullen demeanor he shared, "I'll introduce you to everyone. Just the last thing you need to do before opening night, right?"
Her giddiness only rose when Harry finally gave a small nod of his head, already sheepish before they'd even approached the cast. Instinctively, she reached out her hand to tug him along with her. Luckily, the martini and the previous sips of sake hadn't gone to her head just yet, leaving her to stop short of grabbing for him. Instead, she reached for the skirt of her dress instead, fingers pushing against the stitching.
She muttered a quiet C'mon, smiling when Harry started following without a second thought. The others at the table didn't seem to notice who (Y/N) was bringing along as they drew away from the bar, only Kingston's eyes seemed to recognize what had caught her up.
Sliding into her seat, Harry took the empty one on her other side silently. Sasha stalled on her words, lingering a bit too long on a syllable that signaled to anyone else that something was different around the table. It was then that some eyes started wandering around, spotting Harry with unconcealed surprise. Lashes fluttered, eyes widened, lips thinned.
(Y/N) hoped he didn't notice those reactions, sure that those looks were part of the reason he didn't interact much with majority of the company.
Sasha continued her story, leaving (Y/N) grateful for her keeping the party swept up and their attention off of Harry. Glancing at her lap as she adjusted her skirt, she could see the way his free hand fiddled in his lap, his rings being twisted around his fingers. He was far from comfortable at the moment, but he was trying.
Leaning toward him, she murmured, "Sasha likes to pretend she goes to Russia every summer for a week, but I think she just goes to the Hamptons with her sister."
"Yeah?" Harry questioned, a light flitting through his eyes as he let out a small laugh, "She is really Russian though, right?"
(Y/N) shrugged, sharing a smile with him like they had their own inside joke. "Who knows?"
The smile he gave her was broad, with dimples denting his cheeks. She could feel her heart fluttering at the base of her throat at the sight. He was always so carefully reserved, never giving too much away if you weren't paying attention. Let alone such a bright smile—all while he was looking right to her.
Before she could do anything stupid, she tucked the straw of her drink between her lips and took a big sip as she turned back towards Sasha. Though she had her eyes forward, her attention was still stationed at her back.
She took another gulp of her drink.
Suddenly, interrupting her attempt to focus ahead, Harry's voice piped up:
"You're from Belgorod?"
Sasha blinked. Soibhan and Kingston both turned around just the way (Y/N) did to look at Harry. He didn't pay the extra eyes any mind, keeping forward on Sasha, though (Y/N) could still spot the way his rings were being twisted around his fingers. He was trying. Even if his pronunciation wasn't as smooth as Sasha's, and everyone looked at him with such prying eyes, he was trying.
Sasha nodded after a beat, the motion wooden. "Yeah," she answered, "I moved here when I was ten."
Harry gave a small smile, eyes flicking to (Y/N)'s for a fleeting moment. Talking to Sasha, he said something in Russian with that slight disjointed accent. Though Sasha's face still lit up.
"I love that place! You've been?"
Taking the last vestiges of her martini, (Y/N) could only smile around the rim of her glass. Sasha's face lit up over getting the chance to talk to someone who knew her hometown, with the rest of the table visibly relaxing now that they realized that they weren't sitting at the lunch table with the teacher. Kingston knocked her foot from under the table, a sly smile on his lips.
Harry was trying, even if it scared him.
—————
The streetlights blurred outside the Uber windows. (Y/N) stitched her eyes to the moon, following its journey over the buildings as it followed her home.
Next to her, Lydia knocked her shoulder. Tearing her eyes from the moon, (Y/N) turned to face her with a sluggish movement. The alcohol had definitely made its way through her system and had settled in her muscles. Lydia was in the same boat it seemed, with glossy eyes and mussed hair.
"I didn't know you were like that with Harry," she murmured, her words holding a slur. In the back row of the car, the rest of the group sharing the Uber—Siobhan, Sasha, and Kingston—were too busy with their own conversation to listen in.
"What do you mean?" (Y/N) pressed, canting her head.
Lydia knocked her shoulder again. "You know," she drawled, giving her a pointed look, "sitting with him and all. I saw you guys whispering, too."
"Oh," she sounded, giving a half-hearted shrug, "I mean, we talk sometimes. But, I wouldn't say we're like that."
Dipping her head conspiratorially, Lydia gave a raise of her brows. "Has he ever talked about that... stuff that Siobhan told you about?"
(Y/N) blinked. "Um," she started, unsure of what Lydia was wanting to hear, "No. I've never really asked or anything either, so."
"Well after talking to him then, do you think—oh, bye Siobhan!"
Whirling towards the seats in front of them, (Y/N) saw Siobhan climbing out of the car for the first drop off of the night. Rounds of goodbyes were shared as Siobhan trundled up to her apartment, looking back more than once to wave at the remainders in the car.
It was a relief to have an interruption to the impromptu questioning. With any luck, Lydia would forget what she was trying to get at.
Settling back into her spot, (Y/N) was already looking out the window as the car pulled away from the curb. The moon, full and bright, was now being blocked by a string of thin clouds.
"(Y/N), are you asleep?"
Before she could think better of it, (Y/N) whirled around with a laugh at Lydia's whispered question. "No," she smiled, "I'm just looking outside."
"Oh," Lydia sounded, looking a bit confused at her own assumption, "I think I'm drunk."
"A little."
Lydia let out a loud laugh at (Y/N)'s teasing, leaning into her side. She sighed, laying her head on (Y/N)'s shoulder as she herself began to fall asleep.
"Do you like Harry, though? Even with all the stuff Siobhan said?" Lydia asked, words stringing together in a drawl.
(Y/N) stalled, mouth open like a guppy. If only she'd have pretended to be asleep when Lydia asked.
"He's really nice, yeah. I like him—he's fun to talk to."
"So you don't think any of it's true?"
"No," (Y/N) responded instantly, "I really don't. I don't think Ms. Ariel would let him around us if there was anything true about it. He's too... gentle, I think."
A beat passed. No response from Lydia.
Looking at where Lydia's head was resting on her shoulder, (Y/N) saw her slack jawed with her eyes closed.
A small smile bloomed on (Y/N)'s features as she turned towards the window once more. She watched as the clouds before the moon floated on.
—————
Through the walls of her dressing room, (Y/N) could hear the prerecorded prologue playing out on stage. The theater was silent as the orchestra played the lilting notes alongside the projection. With the amount of times she had practiced the scene, watched the recording, listened to the music while she worked, she knew exactly what moments were playing out for the audience.
While they were watching her fall away under Rothbart's spell only to have her return as a swan, she saw her own transformation in the mirror. After having one of the girls from the costume department help her into her corset, her hair slicked back, and feathers sewn into the ribbons of her pointe shoes, she had become Odette. In the reflection of the mirror, she could see the black shadow of the Odile costume—matching every layer of tulle and sparkling bead of the white swan, only bathed in black. Just looking at the costume had her out of breath, anticipating the fouettés that had her core aching every day after rehearsal.
Out on stage, she could hear the flow of the music changing. The prologue was coming to an end now, with Kingston surely waiting in the wings to start the real show.
Soon it would be her turn. Opening night for her dream ballet.
Taking a step back from the mirror, (Y/N) gave herself one last look. The white set against her skin looked like a halo, drawing in the light until she shone like the moon she followed the night before. The beading and crystals danced under the light. Rainbows were going to be thrown over the audience when she stepped out on stage. She could already feel the fluff of the feathers draped over her bodice, the quills crowning her head, tickling her skin.
She met her own bright eyes in the reflection. Long false lashes grazed her brow bone, fluttering with every blink. Heavy blush painted her cheeks, though there was a real warmth bubbling under her skin. A soft shimmer was dusted over her chest and shoulders, matching that on her eyelids.
She was the swan princess. Finally.
Outside of her dressing room, she could hear the transition into the first real scene of the ballet. Kingston and the dancer playing the queen were no doubt already on the stage.
Underneath her bodice, her heart rate rose to a flutter at the base of her throat. With a deep breath, she left her dressing room behind. She was welcomed backstage to the bustle of the production team. Ms. Ariel was there, dressed in all black with her chignon, razor eyed on the stage. Costume and set designers were there, ready for the next moment that the scene would need to change. Dancers with half on tights, dangling pointe shoes and loose feathers were halted in the wings, watching the stage.
Inaudible under the sound of the music, (Y/N) padded on the flat of her pointe shoes to Ms. Ariel's side.
On the boards was Kingston, sitting in a throne as strings of dancers performed for him. He placed the part of disinterested prince, unconcerned with the people before him, setting the perfect stage for the swan that he would later be entranced by.
Every dancer moved in perfect unison. They mirrored one another, costumes shining under the lights. Every detail—from the set, to the point of the toes, to every hair laid in place—was just as (Y/N) envisioned. From the look on Ms. Ariel's face, it was just as she pictured as well.
"Are you ready?" Ms. Ariel's voice sounded right next to (Y/N)'s ear.
Unable to tear her eyes off the stage, the draw of the spotlight that would soon be shining on her, (Y/N) felt her heart beat hard against her chest.
"I think so."
"You'll be perfect," Ms. Ariel encouraged, "If anything goes wrong, I know you'll be able to handle it."
Her words rang in her head, reminding her of the similar sentiment Harry shared with her only the night before.
The thought had her gaze drifting from the stage and to the audience. The faces were bathed in a haze, barely visible from where she was standing through the stage lights.
Just where she had reserved were the familiar faces of the few friends she had from outside of the company. A small smile cracked her features. Casting her gaze high, on one of the balconies on the side of the stage, in an isolated box, was Harry.
As usual, a suit was fitted to his body, hair pushed away from his face in curling waves. A light shadow covered his jawline. As he peered down at the stage, he held his body in softened shapes, losing the rigidity he walked around the studio with. (Y/N) couldn't remember if she'd ever seen him so relaxed before.
She didn't want to think about how the sight of Harry had the small smile on her lips cracking into a full grin. Bubbling excitement filled her stomach.
A hand landing on the small of her back brought her down to the boards once more. Ms. Ariel dipped her head until she was level with (Y/N)'s ear.
"Go," she muttered, pushing her forward.
(Y/N) didn't think before she swept onto the stage for her first counts. The toes of her shoes tapped against the boards, the thuds hidden under the music. Her tutu bounced over her hips, following every pose she cast. She felt like the feathers adorning her costume, light and pliable despite the strong forms of her legs and the stiff set in her core.
Just as expected, she could see the small prisms of color being reflected across the audience. She couldn't help but to follow the light to the familiar balcony.
There, she saw a smile on Harry's face. It was a serene expression, complete with the dimples she was growing fond of.
She'd definitely never seen him like this before.
—————
The curtain dropped as (Y/N) clutched Kingston, Siegfried and Odette in the afterlife. The orchestra buckled under the ethereal crescendo, falling silent just as the velvet curtain touched the boards.
The tears of her character became her own then. She melted against Kingston, dropping to the flat of her feet as she buried her face into his shoulder. Tears fell down her cheeks, streaking through her makeup.
Kingston held her as she had her meltdown, squeezing her as the rest of the production came to halt for the moment.
"Alright?" he muttered, untangling from her hold to show that he had his own tear stained cheeks to match hers.
"Yeah," she nodded, a wide grin on her lips, "I'm good. Are you?"
He reciprocated her bright smile. "We did it."
(Y/N) couldn't help the boisterous laugh that fell from her. They really did it.
Ms. Ariel approached them, her heel clicking over the boards. Though she held her always serene expression, (Y/N) could see the emotion welling in her eyes.
"Ready for curtain call, guys?" she asked, voice low as the rest of the members of production brought in the lake set for the final stage moments.
"Yeah, yeah," (Y/N) sighed, carefully wiping her fingers under her eyes. "I'm ready."
It felt like a whirlwind after Kingston muttered his own agreement. The set was changed in a matter of moments, the cast herded together in a big lump of feathers, tutus, and tights. Murmured congratulations were shared alongside the hugs and kisses. More than one face had running mascara and flushed cheeks. (Y/N) wasn't the only one that had worked hard to learn the techniques and fall into the story.
Scuttling out to the wings, Kingston and (Y/N) stuck together as curtain call began. Groups of performers walked out together, pausing for the applause and flowers that were tossed onto the boards. She held onto Kingston's hand as it was finally their turn, prancing out with him as the applause rose in decibels.
Kingston took his bows first, bathing in the attention with a beaming smile before he stepped back. With a flourish, he presented (Y/N) to the crowd.
(Y/N) swore her heart just about beat out of her chest as the applause directed at her reached new heights. Her bottom lip trembled as she attempted to keep the smile on her face. She bowed in hopes of keeping the emotion swelling out of her from being so clear for the audience to see. Roses landed at her feet, a glowing red against the pristine white of her pointe shoes.
Standing up straight, she found the familiar faces in the audience clapping for her. She couldn't help herself as she directed her gaze upwards, right towards that balcony.
Except, now the seat was empty.
Before she could dwell on the missing patron, (Y/N) stepped back and joined Kingston once more. Ms. Ariel and the other department heads were called on stage for their own rounds of applause, leaving she and Kingston to step back and see the audience as a whole.
(Y/N) made a point to keep her eyes from that balcony until the curtain dropped for the final time that night.
—————
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fast. I'll just leave my makeup on, so I'll be out in a second."
The other swans took (Y/N)'s rushed answer before she disappeared into her dressing room. Closing the door behind her, she was sealed away from the bustle of backstage and the muffled sound of the audience shuffling out of the theater.
She slumped against the door, her eyes falling closed as she took in the quiet after the storm.
She did it. She made it through her first show as Odette without a single mistake.
Every move came on instinct for her, muscle memory to the point of just the notes of the song or the look on another performer's face told her what was coming next. Her muscles were burning, sore in places she didn't even know existed until tonight. Even her hair hurt, as if she'd never had it slicked back like this before.
It was all perfect. The sore muscles and bruised hips were a testament to a wonderful show.
Taking in a deep breath, she pushed off of the door and began the process of unlacing her costume. Maybe after the next shows she might start asking for help, but tonight she wanted this moment for herself.
Her fingers stalled in the lacing of her bodice when she realized there was a large bouquet sitting on her vanity table, complete with an iridescent crystal vase. The roses were black and white, interspersed with feathers in matching hues. The petals were velvet soft, shimmering the closer (Y/N) got to the flora. Now that she was paying attention, every breath she took was scented with the rosy scent of fresh flowers.
Tucked right in the middle was a card, her name written across in curling calligraphy. Inside was a message written in blocky marker script, different from the professional lettering on the front.
Congratulations, Odette.
In the same marker was a rudimentary drawing of a smiling swan. She let out an airy laugh at the drawing, endeared by the wonky lines.
But, there was no signature.
There was a tucked away idea in the back of her mind, one that made her feel a bit delusional, but couldn't be completely silenced.
None of the other performers would have left them, Ms. Ariel already handed out bouquets before the show even started, and she wasn't established enough to be garnering any kind of admirers.
But there was one person. Who knew how nervous she was about this night. Who would have been able to sneak away for a moment to drop off these flowers.
A knock on her door interrupted her speculating.
Siobhan's voice rang through, "Do you need help, (Y/N)? I think Kingston's going to order the Uber in a minute."
Glancing at the note once more, she made a hasty decision to tuck the card into her purse.
"No, I'm alright," (Y/N) called, hustling out of her costume, "Tell Kingston to order it, I'll be right out."
"Okay," Siobhan responded after a beat, "We'll be out back."
It didn't take long before (Y/N) had her costumes returned to the wardrobe department, and her flowers tucked safely away for her to take home with her tomorrow.
With the note still in her purse.
—————
"Oh, thank you!" (Y/N) chirped, a beaming smile on her face. She was quickly brought into the arms of one of the alternate swans, the cold glass of her cocktail hanging over the girl's back.
"You're welcome—I can't wait to see the show again tomorrow," the swan laughed, releasing (Y/N) from her hug.
Before anything else could be shared between them, (Y/N) was floated off to another round of chatter. She had parroted her gratitude over and over again since walking into the bar, her skin only growing warmer and smile growing bigger with every line of praise and cocktail shoved her way.
Catching sight of herself in the mirror lining the back of the bar, (Y/N) couldn't help the grin on her face. Feathers were still pinned to her slicked back hair, shimmer covering her chest and neck. Even though she had shed her feathery bodice and bouncy tutu, she hadn't quite shed the feeling of the lights bathing her skin and the flowers that had been poured over her feet at the end of the show. Hearing all of the kind words from members of the company, friends of her costars, and audience members that had found themselves at the same bar afterwards was enough to keep her light as a feather through the rest of the evening.
Earlier in the night, Ms. Ariel and the director and department heads had come by and shared their own praises. It was clear each of them were exhausted in their own way—the backstage production hands particularly—though they still took the time to let (Y/N) and the rest of her costars know just how spectacular this first showing was.
Though, even while talking to one of the production hands, (Y/N) couldn't help but to notice the one person she hadn't seen make an appearance for the night.
Harry had never come by. Even with the rest of the more executive members of the team.
All she had was the note she was assuming had come from him.
"Yes, thank you—I'll see you tomorrow!" (Y/N) bubbled, tuning back into reality as the production hand gave their goodnights for the evening.
(Y/N) gave one last wave before turning back to the remainder of her costars. It was easy to spot Kingston's head of long dreads amongst the stragglers, the view a beacon as she crossed the room towards him and the swans.
"Hey, you," Kingston smiled as (Y/N) slinked her way into the circle, laying her head on her shoulder with his arm circling her waist. The conversation between Siobhan and Lydia was loud enough that neither them or Sasha noticed his muffled voice. "Tired?"
"Oh yeah," (Y/N) sighed, leaning against him until he was supporting half of her weight, "Aren't you?"
"Yeah," he agreed, yawning as he nodded his head, "After this drink, I'm getting my Uber and going home. Do you want to come with?"
"Probably," she mirrored his yawn, infected by the sight. "Especially if we're supposed to do this again tomorrow."
"Don't remind me—"
Before Kingston could say much more, the girls' faces changed. Lydia's voice skipped as she cast her gaze over (Y/N)'s shoulder, her recovery taking a second before she was back to her story—though decidedly distracted.
A furrow perched in between her brows, the crease only deepening when both Sasha and Siobhan have similar reactions when glancing in the same direction as Lydia. Kingston shared her confusion as he muttered What? under his breath.
As if on cue, an accented voice sounded from behind her. Just where the girls had peeked over her shoulder.
"(Y/N)?"
Her breath stuttered in her chest. She could feel eyes on her as she straightened up, looking over her shoulder to find Harry standing there with folded hands behind his back and a reserved smile on his face. His hair sat in a loping waves over his head, a rogue strand having separated from the pack and was now balancing precariously on the top of his head. The dusty shadow she had sworn she had seen from the wings was confirmed to be a layer of stubble across his cheeks.
Harry's eyes dropped from hers to Kingston's arm slipping from around (Y/N)'s waist, the corners of his lips wavering before flicking back up to match her eyes.
"Harry, hi," she smiled, stepping away from her costars as she met him halfway.
"Hi," he breathed, ducking his head under the weight of her attention, "Sorry I'm late—I wasn't sure you'd still be here. I figured it'd be an early night for you."
"I think we're just about to call it a night actually," she said, glancing back to Kingston and the rest of the cast as they pretended that they were straining to hear every word, "You made it just in time. I kind of figured you weren't going to make it at all tonight when I didn't see you with Ms. Ariel and everyone."
He pinched his shoulder in a shrug, surely aware of how everyone was more than aware that he typically didn't come to these opening night get togethers. At least for as long as (Y/N) had been here, this was the first he'd ever met the cast after the first performance.
"I got a little caught up with a few last minute things," he played off, offering a dim smile before dropping his eyes to his feet for a moment. He met her gaze with intensity as he spoke, keeping her just where she was as if she ever had any other choice. "I—uh—I jus' wanted to congratulate you. Y'were amazing up there. I think this is going to become a really special run."
A warmth spread throughout her system, loosening her even further than what the one and a half cocktails have done for her. She didn't think before she reached out, placing her hand on his arm and giving a squeeze.
The fine fabric of his suit jacket conformed to the muscles corded around his arm. (Y/N) blinked back at the feel, wondering what exactly he was hiding under all of his tailored suits and buttoned up pieces.
"Thank you," she murmured, recovering from the glimpse of Harry under his reserved nature, "That really means a lot."
A blush worked its way over the apples of his cheeks and dusted the bridge of his nose, warm and rosy as he dropped his gaze from hers. "Of course."
She reluctantly dropped her hand from his arm, though she could still feel the ghost of his warmth against her palm and see the imprint of her grip in the folds of his jacket.
Harry wasn't particularly talkative anyway, but was decidedly even less so now that it felt like the whole company was around them. She didn't want him to leave just yet, especially when he made what looked like a sidelong glance towards the door.
"Did you want a drink or something? I think there's still appetizers and stuff at the booth if you were hungry." She couldn't help the way the words tumbled out of her, though she hoped Harry didn't catch the desperate edge she could hear in her voice.
"I can't stay, unfortunately," he said, an apologetic smile on his face, "I've got an early morning tomorrow, I jus' wanted to—um—see you. Thank you for the offer, though."
That desperation melted out of her at that moment. Despite him rejecting her offer to stick around, she figured there was no reason to be desperate for his company when he just said he'd come all this way through the city just to see her.
I jus' want to see you.
A vision of a clumsily drawn swan came to the forefront of her mind.
She could feel the bright grin on her face stretching her cheeks. "Thank you, Harry. Are you coming to the show tomorrow?"
(Y/N) wanted to cringe as soon as she heard her own words. Harry, as far as she knew, never saw the same production more than once. Opening night he was always there, then he would disappear until the closing performance if he had the time to make it. He had fulfilled his patronage just by showing up tonight, there was no reason for him to return again when his own life needed tending to.
She watched as a smile bloomed on his features, shy with the way he bit into his bottom lip. "Well, of course," he said, "It's what I paid for, isn't it?"
A bubbling laugh escaped from her, surprised at the response she had garnered. He was supposed to have politely declined any more viewings of the show, not look at her with his smiling raspberry lips and promise to see her the following night. "I guess so, huh?"
"It's an expensive ticket, but well worth it," he shared, his features warm and rounded. She watched as he glanced over her shoulder, surely finding the faces of her friends and cast who were far from discreet as they listened in.
She followed his gaze just for Kingston to match her eyes, widening just so to let her know there were plenty of questions he was going to share with her as soon as he had a chance. Siobhan and Lydia were stuck looking right at Harry, though Sasha tried her best to act nonchalant about it all. The other swans, feathers pinned in their hair with shimmer draped over their chests, busied themselves with the appetizers (Y/N) had just offered up to Harry.
"Congratulations everyone. You put on a beautiful show—thank you for your hard work," Harry offered, decidedly distanced from the way he had offered her praise. "I look forward to tomorrow night's performance."
Appreciation for his kind words were shared amongst the cast, everyone jut a bit too chipper to be natural. (Y/N) didn't blame them; many of the more seasoned dancers could hardly conceal their shock that he was here at all, let alone getting involved with the cast.
"I'll see you tomorrow night, (Y/N)," he murmured once the rest of the company settled. "Get home safe tonight."
"I'll try," she smiled, unconsciously shifting her weight as he began inching towards the door, "You'll be in the balcony again?"
Dimples dented his cheeks, his skin flushing a warm pink as he nodded. "You'll be on stage?"
"Fingers crossed," she teased, giving him one last wave goodbye as he left for the night.
Once again she was left to watch his retreating from, broad shoulders and back concealed under his suit.
"What was that?" Kingston whispered, stepping into (Y/N)'s space only a beat later.
She felt almost dazed when she looked back to him, rejoining the rest of the bar.
"I don't know."
—————
(Y/N), on her stomach with her feet in the air and crossed at the ankles, was just short of squealing like a teenager as she read the review on her phone.
Just like this any show, she was aware that there was going to be a few critics in the audience, but it wasn't something she wanted to focus on. Whatever any of them said was going to be their opinion, good or bad. She didn't want to waste her time as Odette worrying about what any of their articles would say.
Though, that didn't mean that if something positive came through that she wouldn't eat it all up.
Ms. Ariel had texted the link to both she and Kingston in a shared group chat. She hadn't offered any of her own commentary, just the link itself for them to look at as they pleased.
The article, published by a critic who had never come to any of their previous shows, was complete with photos of the performance, influencer videos of an experience of the night, and a quote from Ms. Ariel and the show's director.
The review itself was glowing. Commending the use of the pre-recorded prologue, the costuming, and the slight variations that defined the company's unique perspective on the tale.
And the casting.
The principle casting was deemed perfect. Kingston and (Y/N) described as feathers dancing along on a fluid breeze. The swans were in perfect sync, never out of beat with one another, even when a poorly secured feather dripped from one of the girl's costumes.
The double role of Odette/Odile was labeled as stunning. A video was attached to this section, provided by the company, of (Y/N) performing the thirty-two fouettés in her shadowed Odile costume. The spotlight stayed perfectly still on her, every gem and sparkle dancing over her as if she were a dewy swan.
Beautiful, she was called. A perfect fit. A well earned standing ovation.
(Y/N) didn't stop the video as it replayed. Of course there was always room for improvement, but it was something magical to see herself during her first performance.
It was during the third play that she saw the rest of the scene around her. With the angle of the video, there were some audience faces that could be seen with their features in awe.
Including a familiar face in the balcony.
There, with his chin propped up on his chin, elbow on his armrest, was Harry with his dimpled smile and waving hair. Alone in his balcony seat, he watched her with sparkling eyes.
Seeing him now, her face broke out into a wide smile. Her chest warmed, toes curling from where her feet were kicked up behind her. She was lucky she hadn't seen him during the performance, otherwise she would have broken the severe presentation of Odile with a sparkly smile and moony eyes.
It was that shot alone that had (Y/N) dismissing every single rumor that had been passed her way, the probing questions that were concluded with the declaration that everyone around her just wanted her to be safe. Safe from what, they couldn't detail out, but it was intense enough to warrant more than one conversation.
She was well aware that she hadn't been with the company during the breakdown that happened with Harry and the dancer. She never met the woman and didn't see the effects of whatever it was that had gone on behind the scenes. She didn't know anything other than rumors about that time frame.
But, she liked to think she knew Harry.
As much as she tried, she couldn't reconcile those rumors with the man she knew now. Not when Harry was so obviously shy—painfully at times. He had taken the time to come see her after opening night, sat with her and the cast at family dinner. He'd never been anything but incredibly kind, even though she was sure that he was more than aware of all of the titterings about him through the years.
It's been special getting to know him these few times she'd had a chance to talk with him. It made everything negative that much harder to believe.
—————
"I'm pulling in right now—Tell her I'm pulling in right now. I don't know what happened, I'm so sorry."
Kingston let out a string of reassurances, the sound of the backstage workings sounding in the background. "I'll see you in a second, it's okay. Bye."
Finding a space, (Y/N) didn't even have time to cringe at her sloppy parking job before she was rushing into the theater with her tote bag banging against her side. This day had been her worst in a while, complete with missed alarms, a forgotten deadline on a manuscript, and her car deciding to shit the bed when she was already running five minutes late to call time. That left her with frantic calls from Ms. Ariel and the rest of the cast, wondering if she was on her way (yes, when the engine finally stopped sputtering and stayed ignited for longer than ten seconds), if they would need to call in for the alternate (no, it was only the sixth performance, she wasn't missing anything), or how quickly an Uber could be called to her place (quick but not quick enough).
Walking through the backstage door was enough to have (Y/N) breathing out a sigh of relief. She was still going to need to hustle to get into costume and warm up and everything that the others already had time to do, but at least she was here.
"There you are! I was getting so worried," Ms Ariel called, crossing the boards until she was in step with (Y/N)'s hustling gait. "Is your car okay?"
"I don't know," (Y/N) sighed, "I just got it a couple of years ago, I don't know what's happening."
A furrow was perched on Ms. Ariel's dark brow. "If anything else happens, let me know and we'll work something out if we need to. I know you're feeling rushed, but warm up and stretch first, then we'll get you into makeup. If we miss show time by a few minutes, we'll make it work."
A tight smile molded (Y/N)'s features as she nodded to Ms. Ariel, beelining it straight to her dressing room.
There was no way she was going to be putting the show behind, even by a few minutes. She just would have to cut a couple of stretches, she thought. And warm up wasn't that important, not when her heartbeat was already skyrocketing and her limbs restless. Maybe, if she started slicking her hair back herself, that could cut some time off the costuming department.
Yes, that is what she'll do. She wasn't going to ruin anyone's night because she couldn't keep herself together for the evening.
(Y/N) was like a tornado ripping through her dressing room until she sat at the vanity, determined to get a start on her hair and makeup.
There, above the trifold mirror, was a bouquet of flowers hung upside down to dry. The black and white florets had already dimmed to shades of gray and cream, leaving the feathers to shine bright amongst the petals. The tightest buds still clung to life as much as they could, velvet softness lingering.
The flowers that Harry hadn't claimed, but (Y/N) refused to believe could have come from anyone else. Not when every other person in her life had directly given her bouquets or signed notes with their name.
His faith in her echoed in her head.
Even if something goes wrong, she would be able to handle it, he'd said. He didn't doubt her for a second.
It felt so lame, but just the reminder that Harry believed in her and would soon be sitting in the audience on his balcony seat, calmed her.
She was going to give a performance that earned her another set of flowers she decided. There was no point in cutting stretches or warm ups when she was the only one so flustered.
When she seemed to be the only one lacking faith in how the night would turn out.
Everything was going to be just fine.
—————
(Y/N)'s tutu flopped against her thighs as she hopped over the stage, the music bobbing in time with the sound of her pointe shoes tapping the boards. The swans at her side danced in unison, flowing like a single unit across the boards.
She twirled and spun, moving like the feathers decorating her costume. She and the swans performed a bourree across the stage, their arms extended high like swan wings, chins tipped up high in elegant form as they looked across the audience.
It happened on instinct, the way she cast her gaze up to the balcony.
Just as she pictured was Harry. Three weeks into the production with three performances each week, and he hadn't missed a single one.
The details were blurry as the stage lights shown in her eyes, but she was getting used to spotting his smile.
Only when she turned her back on the crowd, did she mirror him with her own grin.
—————
"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow. Text me when you get home."
Siobhan smiled and waved goodbye as she headed towards the exit while (Y/N) went for her dressing room. That was something she envied about the swans. They were clear to start cleaning up and getting unready as soon as the final bows were shared and the curtains had dropped to the floor. She, Kingston, and Kaleb—playing Rothbart—were always corralled to talk with the director and the orchestra and Ms. Ariel about the night's performance. All while they were still in their pointes.
She fell into her chair in front of her vanity as soon as she was free from her costume and pointes. All that was left was dealing with the pile of stage makeup on her face and the gel taming her hair back. At least this was easier than the quick wash of the Odile in between the acts.
Once her vanity was littered with soiled makeup wipes and false lashes, (Y/N) started on her hair. Only to be interrupted by a knock on the door.
Much of the production team was still with her to break down sets, alongside the other principals as they also washed off the performance. But, usually, they didn't bother one another until she and Kingston were planning on heading home together—something that was decidedly not a part of the agenda considering no one wanted to ride in her car for the time being.
Nonetheless, she hurried to the door. She pulled it open only to reveal Harry.
With a bouquet of flowers and sparkling eyes that widened when he saw her. As if he couldn't believe she actually answered the door to her dressing room.
"Harry," she smiled, leaning against the door now that the idea of Ms. Ariel coming back for more debriefing had been blown away. "What are you doing here?"
"Sorry to bother you," he started, "I know you're getting ready to go home, but I just wanted to drop these off for you before I leave for the night."
He offered the flowers in her direction, the bouquet one of spring wildflowers, opposite to the greyscale flowers that were now sitting in a vase at her home. These were vibrant and lackadaisical in the way they were presented in the wax paper, though the branding on the parchment was the exact same as the bouquet she received the first night.
"Wow, thank you," she beamed, graciously taking them into her hands. A whiff of lilac wafted up to her nose, perfuming her whole dressing room despite there only being a couple of bubbles to do the job. "These are beautiful, gosh."
"Of course, you're welcome," he smiled, looking genuinely pleased with himself over her reaction. "I jus' wanted you to know that y'looked amazing tonight—did amazing. 'S only getting better and better every night. I hope you know that."
"Oh, Harry," she sighed, just a beat away from melting into the floor, "Thank you. It really means a lot that you've been coming to all of the shows. I know you're busy, so thank you for being there with us every night."
"I mean," he started, looking rather with that teasing edge to his smile, "I've been reading all these reviews, and there's no way I could miss the best show in the city, right?"
She felt a warmth creeping up her skin at the reminder of the outpouring of positive reviews that keep coming in about the show. Her being named as one of the most spectacular parts of the production in each article definitely didn't hurt either.
"One of these days, I'll have to go see it," (Y/N) joking, attempting to play along despite suddenly feeling sheepish. She hoped Harry agreed with those praises he read. She hoped he was proud of her. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she did her best to keep her voice steady as she said, "I'm actually heading out in a second too. If you're alright with waiting, we could walk out together, if you want."
This felt loaded, the simple question. A purposeful moment together, not just running into one another when they were in the same place. When there was something to be done with the ballet.
He didn't even hesitate when he answered.
"I can wait for you."
—————
"Good night, guys!" (Y/N) shouted to the members of the production team still breaking down and organizing the set pieces. The costume department was still rushing racks around, ensuring all outfits were sealed away until the next show.
Various hands reached up to wave goodbye to her, others even popping their heads around to see just who she was leaving with for the night. Though nothing more than a few good nights and promises to see her next week were shared among the bunch.
"Thanks for waiting," she smiled up at him, free of the feathers and shimmer she had greeted him with. "I hope I didn't keep you from whatever your plans were."
He shook his head as he opened the stage door for her. "Jus' some work things I've been pushing off for a little too long."
(Y/N) hummed, stepping out into the cold spring night. The moon hung high in the sky, carving out a sliver in the deep blue of the night. A chilled breeze swept over the city, rustling the paper wrapping her flowers and lifting the strands of hair framing her face. "I don't think I've ever actually asked what you do for work."
The streetlamps left yellow spotlights across the car lot. Only a handful of cars were still parked across the pavement. Including one with the sloppiest parking job that (Y/N) hoped Harry didn't notice.
"I own a few galleries in the city," he shared, absently following her as she started in the direction of her car, "So, lots of paperwork and things."
"Like art galleries?" she pressed, looking up at him as they fell into step.
A smile touched his features as he nodded. "I try to get some archival clothes in there too when they're available, but, yeah, mostly paintings and sculptures."
"That's really cool," (Y/N) awed. She could barely handle her own deadlines, let alone manage multiple galleries and all of the paperwork involved. "No wonder you're so busy."
"I make time. M'schedule's up to me unless anyone needs me."
"You've earned it, I'm sure," she said, slowing as they approached her car. She turned to face him with the driver's door at her back. "Thanks for walking with me."
"Of course," he said, a reserved smile on his features. Another sweeping breeze caressed over them, lifting curls of Harry's hair. The light from the lamps and the sliver of the moon reflected around him like a dusky halo shining through his hair. "Get home safe, yeah?"
Blinking, (Y/N) tore her eyes away from him, looking for her keys in a needed distraction to get her head back on straight. "You too. I'll see you next week?"
Harry took a step back as she pulled open her door, dropping his gaze with a small nod. "Definitely. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," she smiled, slipping into the driver's seat as he started for his own car across the lot. He had parked much better than she had—backed in, even.
Her chest loosened now that she was alone, no longer on the edge of drowning in the layers of attention he gave her. With her flowers safe in her passenger seat, she attempted to start her car only for the nightmare from earlier in the evening to make an ugly comeback.
The engine sputtered, a horrendous grinding noise rearing just before completely dying.
She heaved a sigh as she closed her eyes. How could she have forgotten the mess that had transpired before she even made it to the theater?
Her hands began to shake as she twisted the key again. She perked up when the engine actually caught this time, her car humming a little louder than normal, but working.
The relief only lasted long enough for her to attempt to put the car in drive when the engine died once more.
This was a real problem now, she thought. Much more so than it had been earlier in the day when she was outside her building and there was still daylight. If her car wouldn't start, she was going to be stuck in this parking lot. Even calling an Uber felt a little more risky considering she was here in the dark without anyone to account for her whereabouts.
And she was going to have to take her car in.
At least the show had gone well.
She tried a few more times, the engine never turning long enough for her to go anywhere. Acceptance started to sink in, leaving her to reach for her phone and see if any of her costars might still be in the area to pick her up. Kingston didn't live by her, but he could still be close enough to pick her up and she could crash at his place if he didn't want to go too far out of his way. Or even, Siobhan—she was probably home by now, but she didn't live too far from her, so it would be too far out of her way maybe. Unless she had plans or—
A tapping on her window shocked her out of her skin.
Whipping her head around, she saw Harry, an apologetic smile on his lips as he crouched to be level with her.
"Sorry," he mouthed through the glass.
Fuck. She had hoped he had already left before this embarrassing mess started.
She could feel the blood under her cheeks beginning to simmer, warming down her neck and chest. It took a reminder to keep her breathing as she rolled down her window.
"Hi, Harry," she shyly greeted, "You scared me."
"Sorry," he parroted, concern marking his features, "Is everything okay?"
"Oh yeah," she lied, voice pitched a bit too high, "I've been having some problems with it today, but I'll be fine. I got the battery replaced like a year ago, so I should be okay in a second—just needs to warm up." She could feel herself rambling, offering more information than he asked for with every syllable.
Harry nodded thoughtfully as he peered around to the bonnet of her car. "Okay. Have y'been having problems for a while now?"
"No, just today," she sighed, shaking her head with her hands tightening around the wheel as if she could go anywhere. "I barely got it to start long enough for me to make it here today."
His lips thinned at her admittance. "Do you have any other way to get home?"
"Um," she sounded, rolling her lips between her teeth, "I don't know. I was thinking about asking Kingston or someone if they were still nearby—or I could wait for one of the production girls to finish up. I don't really want to call an Uber since it's a little late to be by myself, but I might have to if I don't want to wait forever."
She went for lighthearted with an airy laugh and a lilt to her voice, but she doubted it came off that way. Not when she was restless with her fingers hovering over her phone screen, a million ideas fluttering through her mind that she couldn't act on a single one before moving onto the next.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the way Harry bit down on his bottom lip, a furrow pinching his brow as he looked out to the empty parking lot. The production crew worked much later than any of the other cast; (Y/N) didn't expect to see any of their faces exit for at least the next hour.
"I-I could take y'home, if y'wanted," Harry mused, looking to her with softened eyes, "If not, that's fine, I jus'... I don't want y'to be waiting out here by yourself for someone to pick y'up."
There was clear worry on his face in the way his eyes flicked to the hood of her car and back to her. His hands folded at his middle were restless, fingers curling together before unfurling only to do the same thing a moment later.
His proposition held room to decline with no repercussions, but she wasn't blind to how sincere he was in the offer.
Nonetheless, she hadn't forgotten the fact that he had shared the plans he had to take care of tonight. The paperwork he had been putting off when coming here tonight.
"I don't want to make you go out of your way," she started, "I know you said you have things to take care of.
He didn't hesitate before he answered: "They can wait."
All it took was a glance in his eyes, meeting the lilypads of his irises head on, feeling the genuine concern swimming in his gaze before she was nodding her head.
"As long as you don't mind," she started, a short smile touching her lips, "That would be really nice actually. Thank you."
It didn't take long before she was retracing her steps through the lot, heading towards the sparkling SUV tucked under the branches of a flowering tree. Harry had her tote on his shoulder this time after he insisted on carrying it for her, leaving her own arms to wrap around her middle against the breeze of the night.
He held the door open for her, letting her slide into the leather interior with her tote at her feet. (Y/N) sunk into the luxurious spot, feeling the leather glide against the back of her legs through her tights. Without it even being on, the car felt warm. The fragrance that clung to Harry was now soaked around her, even smokier than normal with the vanilla notes reaching a rich amber undertone. Everything was so clean, immaculately so, as if there hadn't been a single rider within the vehicle.
Though, the harder she looked, there was a grey sweatshirt tucked in the backseat, and a tiny frog figurine tacked to the dashboard behind the wheel.
A small smile had snuck onto her lips by the time Harry took his spot on the driver's side. Shutting the door behind him, he sealed away the chill of the outside and left them alone together.
"Do y'mind putting your address in my phone? Jus' so I can get it mapped out," he said once the engine was turned on. While (Y/N) knew his car was much nicer than hers—Mr. "I own a few galleries" here—it was almost jarring to hear just how quiet his was compared to the mess of grinding gears and sputtering pistons that made up hers. If not for the fact that the headlights turned on, she could have been fooled into assuming he hadn't turned the ignition yet.
"Of course," she muttered, taking his offered phone.
He didn't start pulling out of the space until she had her apartment building mapped in his phone, the GPS immediately translating to the vivid screen that took up a large chunk of his dashboard.
"I hope this isn't too far out of your way," (Y/N) said, breaking the silence. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, resisting the urge to reach for her phone. It didn't feel right to start up the bright screen in the middle of the low light.
Harry only glanced at the final destination of her apartment. "Don't worry about it. It'll only add a few minutes to m'drive."
"Oh, really? I didn't know you lived that close to me. I would have called you earlier if I had known."
He shrugged, a small smile illuminated by the light of the screens. "Jus' a couple a streets down, but 'm rarely home, I feel like. I spend a lot of time going back and forth between all of the galleries and everything."
Angling her body towards him, she laid the full of her attention on Harry as he spoke. "Do you like taking care of the galleries, though? Or is it busy, and lame?"
He let out a laugh at her joking. "I do like it, yeah. I'd say busy and cool, if anything."
"That's good," she said, "It's good that you like what you do. Not a lot of people can say that."
The city passed by the windows as the theater became only an outline behind them. The mess with her car being left behind now that there was something much more fun to concentrate on—something heart-fluttering.
"When I was younger, I thought I would be the one making the art instead of managing it," he shared, his voice a low rumble rivaling that of the engine.
She perked up at the tidbit of information, remembering the sketchy swan drawn on her card from opening night. Interesting how everyone shared all of these rumors about him instead of something like this.
"Really? What did you want to make?"
"Well, I thought of m'self as a painter—doing portraits and landscapes and that kind of thing. Until m'sister had a bad day and was the first person to be honest about everything."
"What happened?"
"Helped me realize I can't draw for shit. She pointed out this drawing I did of my mum's cat, and it was... horrendous. It was cute in the way that I love my mum and her cat, but not good by any artist's standard. Especially since I was going for realism." Harry told the story with a broad grin on his face, as if recalling the time his dream came to a halt was nothing more than a fond memory.
"It couldn't have been that bad," (Y/N) laughed. Truthfully, if she was able to deduce his drawing was that of a swan, she couldn't imagine the cat portrait was as horrendous as he said.
"It was, trust me. Besides, I've found 'm much better at taking care of the business side of things than my original plan." He paused as she turned down the block before hers, his hands sliding over the circumference of the steering wheel. "Have you always wanted to be a dancer?"
"Pretty much, yeah," she shared. "I had different little ideas here and there—like a fairy, a vet, and a mermaid briefly. But I came back to ballerina every time."
"Jus' like Barbie," he teased, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
"Something like that," she smiled, feeling a bit more flattered than she should being compared to a doll, "I still have a day job, which I don't think Barbie has, but close enough."
"Yeah? What else do you do?"
"One of my other brief dreams was being an author. I found I didn't have the patience for all of the drafting, and editing, and the fact that publishing a book means people will read it. But, I did find I actually enjoyed editing other people's work, so I do some freelance editing for different authors and publishing houses."
Harry raised his brows as he turned down to her street, the estimated arrival time ticking closer to the time on the clock. "Wow. And I was complaining about m'paperwork."
She laughed at his teasing. "I don't know, I'm sure it's easier than the kind of stuff you have to go through. All I do is read books all day and then go and dance—I don't think it can get much easier than that."
Pulling up to the curb outside her building, Harry idled the car as he turned to look at her. The dim light from the dash cut shadows across his face, showing off the line of his jaw and edge of his nose. The length of his lashes left curling shadows reaching over his cheekbones, the reflection of the blue screen bringing out the golden flecks in his green eyes.
"I wouldn't say that," he mused, "I know y'work hard—harder than a lot of other people, 'm sure. Y'wouldn't be the star of the city if y'hadn't worked hard to get there."
(Y/N) felt her cheeks heat at his praises. It became harder and harder every day attempting to contend with that first impression she gained about him with all of the rumors.
"Thank you," she smiled, looking over his shoulder to the front door of her building. "I should probably go—let you get to your boring paperwork while I go finish mine."
"Probably," he mused, following her eyes to her building before looking back to her, "Do y'have a plan for your car?"
"Not yet," she sighed, reaching down to collect her tote, "But I'll have to get something figured out until it's fixed at least. If it's another battery though, I might have to sue my last mechanic or something."
Harry laughed at her words. "It might be the only way. But, um,"—he grew a bit tongue tied then, his dimples slipping from his face—"if y'need help getting to the studio or the theater, jus' let me know. Now that know we're not too far from one another, we could work something out if y'need."
It was another one of those forgiving propositions. She could reject him and she only saw Harry as being understanding. Besides, it was endearing to be able to see the pink bluish on his nose even in the dark like this.
"That would be really nice, Harry. Thank you," she smiled, reaching for her phone in her bag, "If it's alright, you can put your number in my phone and I'll text you?"
She had to keep herself from giggling when he looked to her with wide eyes for a beat, as if he couldn't believe she had heard his offer and was taking him up on it.
"Oh—um—yeah. Sounds good."
He reached for her phone clumsily, bumping her own fingers before getting a solid grip. She sat in the warmth of his car as he input his number with shaky thumbs before handing it back.
"Thank you again, Harry," she murmured, dropping her phone back into her bag. "This was definitely a lot better than hiding in the parking lot for someone from production to finish up."
She watched as he nodded thoughtfully, not quite playing along to the teasing joke she made. "'M happy you're safe, (Y/N). I'll see y'at the next show, but if y'need anything before then, jus' text me. I'll be there."
She didn't doubt that for a second.
—————
the white cat is a character in the classic ballet, sleeping beauty.
:))))) thank u sm for reading! sososos sorry for any mistakes but please feel free to let me know what youre excited about for the next part!
the swan part one: y/n is the new prima for the season, but the real tragedy unfolded in the rumors surrounding the company's patron, harry.
wordcount: 12.4k+
—————
The sunlight streaming in behind Ms. Ariel glanced off of glossy strands of the slick chignon tied on the back of her head; natural backlight, as if she were still on stage, dancing under the spotlight. Even if directing and choreographing, spending more time reviewing than doing any dancing herself, had softened the tight lines of her muscles and relieved the callouses on her body, she still had all of the hallmarks of a dancer. Even her posture alone—straight spine, jutting chin, barred shoulders—gave away the prima position she held for years in the Turkish State Opera.
The usual serene smile she held on her face now had a giddy purse to her lips. She was holding something back, (Y/N)'s nerves stacking as she realized as much.
It wasn't in a ballerina to be restless with fidgety hands and shuffling feet, but she felt the urge rise. In her year with Ms. Ariel and the company, there was very, very few times dancers were brought into her office with a closed door.
"Thank you for staying back a little bit today," Ms. Ariel started, bringing her folded hands to rest on top of the glossy cherry desk. "I know you have some work you need to get to at home, so I'll be quick."
She paused, theatrics growing in the silence.
"You are going to be our Odette in the spring production."
(Y/N)'s breath fell short.
Not even a month ago had the spring production been announced to be Swan Lake. Auditions had been so long and tedious—especially for the leads. Truthfully, she had only thrown her name in the ring just for the opportunity to try, there was no real expectation that she was going to beat out the more established dancers she was up against.
But, here she was. Odette in the company's spring production of Swan Lake.
"I—" she breathed, shifting in her seat as if her posture was anything but perfect, "I didn't think announcements were being made until tomorrow."
Ms. Ariel shrugged. "Yes, the rest of the cast will be officially notified tomorrow along with the call sheet, but I wanted to talk with you myself beforehand."
"Wow," she murmured to herself, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Ms. Ariel smiled, "I'm sure you understand the kind of work that goes into being Odette—and Odile, to that fact. It is a daunting task, but I want you to know that I have seen you working and excelling in the short time you've been with us. You've been a gift given to our company and I want to see what you can do with the role."
A warmth bloomed behind her eyes. "Thank you. I will take care of her, I promise."
"I know you will. Please, if you need guidance, don't hesitate to reach out. Everyone is a resource here."
(Y/N) didn't know what to say. "Thank you," she muttered, though it felt far from enough for the kind words shared from her mentor. "Really—this is... a dream."
Ms. Ariel nodded, her smile spreading into a true grin. She stood from behind her desk, reaching a manicured hand out. "Celebrate tonight; the hard work will begin next week."
Grateful for the amount of grace drilled into her body, (Y/N) scrambled to match the motion. She took Ms. Ariel's hand in a light shake. "Of course. Thank you."
A huff of laughter fell from Ms. Ariel. "You're welcome, (Y/N)."
Hiking her bag up her shoulder, (Y/N) make quick strides towards the door of the office. In the hallway, Siobhan was where (Y/N) had left her waiting. She pocketed her phone, perking up once (Y/N) clicked the door shut behind her.
Whatever Siobhan found on her friend's face was enough to have her jaw dropping, eyes down turning into concern. "What happened?"
Realizing the sheen coating her eyes, (Y/N) fluttered her eyes in a blink to wipe away the moisture. She kept her voice low as she said, "I got the part."
Siobhan's expression went from concerned to confused in a breath, brows furrowing as the news processed.
"Wait. For the production?"
(Y/N) nodded.
"For Odette?"
(Y/N) nodded once more.
It was with that silent response that Siobhan let out a giddy squeal. She brought her fists to her chest with her feet quietly marching against the floor, a beaming grin on her lips.
"You're joking! Are you serious right now?!"
"Shhh, be quiet," (Y/N) laughed, reaching for Siobhan's wrist to start leading her away from Ms. Ariel's door. Once she brought them far enough away from the door and the studio hosting the after school ballet lessons, (Y/N) allowed herself to let out a laugh—the sound almost delirious.
"I got the part—Odette."
She joined in on a quiet celebration with Siobhan then, right in the entryway of the studio. (Y/N) could only imagine what a sight they were, hair falling out of their buns from the previous lesson, leg warmers scrunched at their ankles, Siobhan's backpack bouncing against her back and (Y/N)'s tote bag dropped to her elbow.
"I'm so happy for you," Siobhan shared, pulling her friend into a warming hug. "I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you," (Y/N) whispered back, hugging her back just as tight before pulling away just enough to face her. "Really—I wouldn't have even come to this city without you, so thank you."
Siobhan waved off her gratitude with a small smile and a shrug of her shoulders. "I'm just happy you're here, too."
"Well," (Y/N) started, leading Siobhan out into the city with their flats padding gently against the pavement, "Ms. Ariel said we should celebrate tonight while we can. Everything starts next week."
"Tonight?"
A small smile bloomed on (Y/N)'s features. "Are you busy or something?"
She knew good and well the plan for the evening was for the both of them to pick up takeaway on the way home before rotting away in bed.
"I can clear my plans," Siobhan laughed.
(Y/N) felt herself just short of skipping along the concrete. She hadn't realized just how much something like this role could mean to her.
She had been a professional ballerina for five years now, settling here only a year or so prior, though she had never been a principal before. She was content doing those side roles and learning ensemble dances, as long as she was on stage. There were so many more established and experienced dancers in the industry, but here she was. The spring's prima. Odette and Odile.
Maybe it was the fact that the sun no longer set at four in the afternoon, or the pending plans with her friend, but (Y/N) had never felt lighter.
She was a swan, now. The swan.
—————
(Y/N)'s skin felt flushed as she wiggled on her bar seat. It was hard to stay still at the moment, so different from the dancer's poise that was drilled into her. The atmosphere of the upscale, too-expensive bar was perfect—the exact kind of place she pictured herself grabbing a lavender scented drink when she first moved to the city. The girls—other dancers from the company she'd grown close enough to—had joined her and Siobhan for the night, leaving the table filled with bubbly chatter and restless feet.
"Do you know what ending Ms. Ariel wants to go with?" Sasha, one of the others, asked. The red of her second Negroni was beginning to stain the center of her lips to match the flush on her pale cheeks.
(Y/N) shrugged, the straw of her own drink tucked between her lips. "We only really talked about my part—I don't think we talked for more than, like, ten minutes. I do hope it's one of the good endings, though, like the original one or something."
"Yeah, I think I would cry if we had to watch you die or something," Siobhan said, an exaggerated frown on her lips as (Y/N) laughed.
"I don't know if I could make that jump off the cliff, anyway."
"I'm sure we'll find out soon with everything starting next week," Lydia, the fourth of their little girls' night group, suggested. She paused to take a long drink of her margarita before training her gaze to flick between Siobhan and Sasha. "Do you think Harry’s going to be a part of the production?"
A furrow pinched (Y/N)'s brow. That name brought up a twinge of familiarity, though the context eluded her.
Siobhan's eyes widened, spitting her straw out from between her lips. "Oh my god, probably! It's the spring show that he's always all over, right?"
Sasha and Lydia both nodded conspiratorially while (Y/N) looked on bemused.
Siobhan turned her attention to (Y/N). "Did she say anything about him during your meeting?"
(Y/N) shook her head. "We didn't talk about anyone, though."
Sasha made a face, looking to both Lydia and Siobhan with raised brows. "Do you think he finally let it go?"
"Maybe," Lydia shrugged, pursing her lips around her small straw. "Doubt it, though."
Leaning over the table, (Y/N) flicked her confused gaze across each of the ballerinas at the table. "What are you guys talking about?"
Siobhan looked at her with her brows knitted. "Did you never meet him?"
"I don't think so?"
"I guess you started in the middle of the spring season, so you probably never actually met him," Siobhan mused, taking one more sip of her drink until her straw bubbled against the ice on the bottom. Her skin was especially flushed, eyes a bit glassy when she turned to face (Y/N) with a story on her mind. "He's a... patron, I guess. For the company. He donates year round but is usually really hands off. Until the spring production."
"Oh," (Y/N) sounded. Hearing some details, she remembered hearing chatters about a patron of the company. In those overheard conversations, there was never anything specific she could glean, only small chitters and jokes she didn't understand. "Why only the spring shows?"
There was a short silence between the three, eyes flicking to one another as if waiting to see who would be the one to share the next lines of the story. (Y/N) only waited, straw tucked between her lips though she only bit at the tube instead of taking down any more of her drink.
"Um," Lydia started, tipping her head as if rolling her next words around her brain, "I mean, no one really knows for sure, but there's... rumors. Most of the company who was around when everything was happening have left, so no one's really completely sure anymore."
"Okay," (Y/N) said, drawing out the word with furrowed brows. They were starting to scare her, honestly. "Rumors about what?"
"Okay," Siobhan piped up suddenly, taking in a deep breath, "I joined right after she left, so I never actually knew her, but people talked a lot. From what I know, he—Harry—used to be engaged to one of the dancers at the company after they met during one of the shows. Like, he was always a minor patron, but when they started dating, he was just always around and everything. But, something happened, and they broke up, like, months before they were supposed to get married. No one really knows why for sure, but I remember hearing from some of the girls back then, that it was pretty bad."
"Things got intense, apparently," Lydia interjected, eyes wide as they met (Y/N)’s, "Like, really intense."
(Y/N) blinked. "Like... Did someone get hurt?" she pressed, dancing around the implication of her question.
Siobhan shrugged, her mouth making an uncertain line. "I don't know, honestly. From what I remember hearing, she left him. Some of the girls said that he was, like, crazy or something—like, there was something really big that happened. I don't think she even dances anymore, from what I've heard. And she was really talented if you ever look her up."
"Oh, wow," (Y/N) murmured, biting at her bottom lip, "But no one knows what the big thing was that made them break up?"
"Not as far as I know," Siobhan shook her head, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder, "I remember one of the girls just saying that she had been super erratic before they officially broke up. She did not want to be around him, like she made a scene every time he came to pick her up from rehearsal and things. Like she was worried, or scared, or something, I guess. And, then she just left. One day she told everyone they had broken up and then, like, a week after, she was gone. No one even knew where she went until almost a month later. And, I don't know if this is real or just something people started saying when everything came out with the break up, but there were people who said he was really scary during the whole thing—to be careful around him, really."
(Y/N) didn't know what to say as the story seemingly came to a close. This was far from the kind of insight she thought she would gain tonight.
"So... he only does the spring show now?"
"As far as I've been here, yeah. I think because he donates so much this time of year, he ends up being more involved."
"Um," (Y/N) started, shifting in her spot with her eyes dropping to the salted rim of her friend's glass. "Does he... Does he have a say in casting?"
"Oh no!" It was Sasha that spoke up this time, saying her first words since listening like a captivated audience to the same story. "He's not involved like that—Ms. Ariel makes all of those choices. He just gets a little more say in what show is put on, I know that for sure. Otherwise, I think he just does more with the business side of everything—it's like he's a producer almost."
"Oh, okay," (Y/N) murmured, nodding her head as she took a small sip from her drink, "Do you guys think I need to be... worried?"
Siobhan let out a loud laugh. "God, no! It's all just rumors. You probably won't even see him that much, honestly."
(Y/N) got a quiet "Oh" out before the topic was drifting away with Sasha's help, something about her girlfriend's family being brought up instead. (Y/N) listened on as closely as she could, though she was far from being involved. Much of her mind was still stuck on these so-called "rumors" about this season's producer.
While the idea that the implications of the rumors could be true was something that worried her, she had to trust that Ms. Ariel wouldn't have someone involved with the show that could be a threat to the dancers.
Even though a very skeptical part of her found it hard to believe that rumors so intense, funneled through a group as close knit as one of ballerina's, didn't hold at least a grain of truth.
—————
(Y/N) huffed as her tote slipped down her shoulder again. Even the ribbed texture of her knitted cardigan couldn't keep it from slipping down to her elbow. Hiking it up once more, she pushed the front door to the studio open, a gust of warm air blowing the early morning chill off of her form.
Her wrap skirt fluttered around her hips as she closed the door behind her, ensuring she heard the click of the door shutting before she started deeper into the studio. Production rehearsals didn't officially commence for another few days, but she wanted to stop by one more time before then to get her own time in before everything would be committed to being a swan princess. The next months of her life were going to be consumed by the same handful of dances, the same moves, the same techniques—she needed a chance to do something as herself before then, doubting any other opportunities would arise between now and the rest of the production.
Trailing down the halls, she got a peek into each of the different rooms through the large windows spanning the corridor. Some parents were waiting before the windows, watching as the children's lessons were conducted. Their own spring production—a rendition of Margot Robbie’s Barbie—was set to take the stage in less than two weeks, leaving the costume room in varying shades of pink with glitter and stars all over the place. The amount of times (Y/N) had seen these dances through the windows, heard these songs through the walls, she figured she could join the stage at any time without incident.
Meandering down to the very last open room, (Y/N) signed herself in. The room was much smaller than the others for the lessons, with only a small window available for viewing. The floor was a warm hardwood, reflected back in the mirror lining the wall opposite the door. A golden barre bisected the mirror, gleaming in the light. Her footsteps echoed in the quiet room as she crossed towards the sound system tucked in the corner.
She took her time setting up all of her things, glancing up at the mirror. The reflection used to scare her when she was a child. It used to be so nerve wracking seeing each of her movements, especially when she couldn't be sure if she was doing it right until she saw the rest of her class at that same moment. (She was a child with anxiety as she later learned in her adult life—big surprise). Though it took time, she learned to appreciate having that mirror on her when she danced.
There was something exciting about seeing the lines made by her body. The kind of lines she had only seen in films or on stages. It was those movements and shapes that had inspired her to become a ballerina instead of just dreaming of dancing. The mirror let her see herself as the ballerina in those dreams.
Just as she began shedding her cardigan and sitting down to get her pointe shoes on, she realized there was something missing. She had her phone connected to the sound system, an instrumental song queued up, and her bag with extra hair ties, a couple of snacks for later, and her water bottle—
That's what she was missing. No water bottle.
Throwing her head back with a heavy sigh, (Y/N) rolled her eyes at herself. Of course she left it in her car.
At least she hadn't been able to lace up her pointes yet. Pulling on her regular shoes, (Y/N) resigned herself to trek all the way back to her car one more time. She could take it as a warm up, maybe, instead of a time waster.
She left her cardigan on the floor as she started back through the studio. The same parents and instructors she had just passed were just where she left them, some barely even glancing up as she brushed shoulders while scooting past.
As soon as she retrieved her water bottle from the cup holder of her car, she immediately doubled back. Without her cardigan, everything was much colder outside than she remembered. At least she still had her leg warmers and skirt on.
Speeding up to a jogging pace, (Y/N) just began pulling open the door when the weight of the pull drastically changed. Someone on the other side was pushing, she gathered, just a hair too late. The strength she had put into opening the heavy door was now overpowered, throwing her off balance as she stumbled back. A gasp left her mouth as her arms fluttered out beside her, eyes flicking behind her shoulder.
In the same moment, a strong hand sharply took her arm. The grip steadied her back on her feet before her skirt and thighs could be marred by a fall on the pavement. Once flat on her feet—and feeling much less graceful than any ballerina should—(Y/N) looked up at the owner of the saving hand.
A man she didn't recognize as a fellow dancer, a parent she had passed in the hallway, or a production member for the upcoming show stood before her. A warm brown suit was tailored to his form, tie knotted tight around his neck in a matching hue. The warmth traveled up to the dappled chocolate shades on his hair, everything pushed out of his face though the curling texture could still be seen framing his temples. All of the brown framing him left the green of his eyes to pop against his creamy skin, varying shades flecking his irises. A handful of freckles were spread across the bridge of his nose, faint even under the lowering golden sun. Shadows were cast across his face, emphasizing the straight lines of his features.
Regaining her breath, she felt her skin warm as his hand slipped off from her arm. "Sorry, I didn't—I wasn't paying attention. Thanks for... stopping me."
A slight smile touched the man's raspberry lips. Faint dimples thumbed into his cheeks for a fleeting moment. (Y/N) swore, if even for a second, his eyes glazed over the planes of her face.
"No worries," he assured, voice accented and warm as he took steps to hedge around her, "Jus' be careful."
"Right," (Y/N) breathed out with a laugh.
She took lingering steps back towards the building. Only for one second did she allow herself to look over her shoulder, following his retreating form towards a sparkling car in the lot.
His shoulders...
Blinking herself back to real life, (Y/N) reminded herself there was a whole rehearsal room waiting for her.
—————
(Y/N) curled up in her seat, extensively grateful to have been able to stop home before coming to the evening's meeting. If she had been forced to sit through this in her jeans, she worried she would have lost her mind.
"I know we do these later so everyone has a chance to make it after work and all, but I really don't want to be here past nine," Siobhan muttered at her side, voice joining the quiet chitter that was filling the theater.
(Y/N) hummed in agreement. As nice as it was to see the theater again—especially now that she was able to picture herself twirling in the spotlight right in the center—she would much rather have attended through video. At least this gave her an excuse to pick up dinner on her way home instead of cooking anything.
Ms. Ariel is heard before she is seen, the click of her shoes echoing across the stage. In a line, she was followed by her assisting choreographers, the orchestra conductor, alongside the musical and production directors. She didn't hesitate as she took center stage over the directors, hands clasped at her middle with a beaming smile on her lips.
"Thank you all for coming tonight—I know it's late so we'll make this quick for everyone," Ms. Ariel started, sweeping her gaze across the rows of filled seats. "We'll all be working very closely together these next months, so I want to make sure we are all on the same page going forward."
The theater fell silent save for Ms. Ariel at center stage as she listed off her cohorts for the production, the timeline coming after. The show's opening weekend would come at the end of April, celebrating the peak of spring. Rehearsals, both individual for the principals and ensembles, would be starting on Monday; the schedule should already be in everyone's inbox.
(Y/N) listened intently, feeling the pressure of being this season's lead. She didn't want to miss a single word. This spring was going to be her moment—her chance at hopefully making a real name for herself in this city. Opportunities like this didn't come to many dancers, especially not after she moved companies mid-way through her career. If she were to be lucky enough, she wouldn't even need to hold a day job, ballerina becoming her sole title.
The anticipation built a fire in her chest, the kind that urged her to get started right now. She didn't need to sleep, she needed to get into a rehearsal space and practice her thirty-two fouettés. She wanted to try on her tutus and practice slicking her hair back. Tchaikovsky was about to be her top artist for the next few months.
"I would also like to introduce this season's patron. We don't usually do this, but our spring patron has a special role. I realize a few of you have already met him, but for everyone who has not,"—she looked to stage right just as heavy steps began to descend upon the stage—"this is Harry Styles. He will be very present through this season, and has already helped a lot, so if you have any questions, you can always ask him as well."
(Y/N) blinked as she took in the man now standing at Ms. Ariel's side. Clad in a navy blue suit, matching tie wrapped around his neck, was the man that had kept her from stumbling back onto her rear just the other day. The man with the green eyes and the warm brown hair, the one with the sprinkled freckles on his nose. His shoulders were just as broad as she remembered.
His eyes swept over the rows of dancers; (Y/N) swore he snagged on her for an extra second. A small smile touched her lips. "Hello," he quietly muttered at Ms. Ariel's side, his voice graveled from disuse.
He was quiet then as Ms. Ariel continued speaking, clarifying his role and the role of the others on stage. He had his hand clasped behind him, entirely reserved as if he didn't realize he was as tall and broad as he was.
This was not at all the kind of man she pictured when the girls had talked about Scary Harry. he was so reserved, so put together. He almost seemed shy with the way he kept twisting and untwisting his fingers at his back, the view only given when he swiveled enough for her to see his back.
She had pictured leering eyes, gnarled hands that had grabbed and pushed and reached over the heads of others. While she couldn't say that this man wasn't intimidating, it just wasn't in the way she had thought. He was almost too pretty to look at, she thought; long lashes, flushed cheeks, freckled nose. The lines of his face had softened in her memory, leaving her to be struck again by the straight set of his nose and cut of his jaw.
While looks could be deceiving, she hoped she wasn't wrong about the soft set of his eyes.
"Was there anything anyone wanted to add before we adjourned for the night?" Ms. Ariel asked, taking a step back as she looked at her colleagues. A pause of silence sounded among the stage.
"Um," Harry finally piped up, cheeks gaining a flush (Y/N) couldn't be sure was there just moments before, "I wanted to say thank you to Ms. Ariel and the rest of the directing team for allowing me to be a part of another production. I realize I haven't had a chance to meet many of you,"—he looked at the dancers now, eyes dancing to each face—"but I look forward to working with each of you. I can't wait to see how this show comes together."
He ended with a thin smile on his face, lips pressed together with a nod of his head. Ms. Ariel led the team in a round of applause before calling for the end of the meeting. As the dancers around (Y/N) stood to collect their things, she lingered for just a moment. Eyes on the stage, she saw as Harry watched the flood of dancers, almost looking just as relieved as everyone else set free from this meeting. Even from here, she could see that color that had painted his cheeks draining back to the peaches and cream of his regular complexion.
"Are you coming or did your legs fall asleep?" Siobhan asked beside her, stretching with her arms above her head.
"Oh yeah," (Y/N) sighed, falling back to herself as she took her eyes from Harry. "Sorry, I think I'm more tired than I thought."
"Same," Siobhan laughed, "I'm already exhausted from the rehearsal schedule and it hasn't even started."
"Exactly," (Y/N) agreed with a small smile, collecting her things before starting to follow the rest of the company out of the theater.
Even when she heard the low rumble of Harry's voice meld with the rest of the executive team, she made a point to keep her eyes forward. Siobhan didn't need to notice this sparking curiosity just yet.
—————
(Y/N) idly twirled as the Swan Theme played through her rehearsal space, mesh skirt flaring out around her hips. She could imagine the scene playing out like a film in her head: the first moment she is introduced as Odette, as she hides from Prince Siegfried aiming a crossbow in her direction. Though they were far out from donning costumes, she couldn't help but to imagine herself in that traditional pristine white, feathered tutu with a gleaming bodice.
Ms. Ariel entered the studio, fanning her hands out. "Sorry, sorry—Rima wanted help with the ensemble blocking. Did you see the video I left up on the iPad?"
(Y/N) smiled, "It’s alright. I did watch it, yeah. Is that the version we're going with?"
"A little," Ms. Ariel shrugged, lips pursed, "I wanted to do a prologue like that, but I wanted to see if you had any thoughts on doing the epilogue instead."
The solid toes of her pointe shoes tapped across the floor as she blocked herself out through the swelling music. "Is there a way we can do both?" (Y/N) asked, a bit sheepish at her request. More stage time meant more money, more production, more time.
Ms. Ariel paused, head tilted as she scrolled through on the tablet. "A prerecorded epilogue? We could project it into the curtain right before."
"That might be fun," (Y/N) offered, unable to help herself as she twirled along to the music. The crescendos and dips had her pirouetting and sweeping through the room. The sound of her pointe shoes tapping against the hardwood was especially satisfying alongside Tchaikovsky. "We could make the transformation to the swan look extra special if we can edit it right."
The choreographer brightened at the thought. "And for Rothbart."
(Y/N) smiled at the light in Ms. Ariel's tone. She doubted there was any more convincing needed.
The sound of Ms. Ariel's mind working practically joined the soundtrack, all of the gears and cogs spinning like a sewing machine as the production began to thread together. While (Y/N) was sure this first rehearsal between them was supposed to help her get into the character of Odette, and the counterpart of Odile, she wasn't going to interrupt Ms. Ariel after getting her say in for the progression of the story.
Instead, (Y/N) twirled and jumped, playing along with the music filtering through the space. From her periphery, she could see some of the ensemble dancers coasting past the peekaboo window into the studio. Some of the girls stopped, lingering in front of the window as they watched the impromptu moves (Y/N) performed. She smiled when she caught their gazes, offering a small wave as she twirled through the room.
"(Y/N), come look at this," Ms. Ariel called over the orchestra, gesturing her over to the sound system.
Giving one last beaming smile to her fellow dancers, (Y/N) whirled around to make her way across the room. She picked up her water bottle on the way.
With the way the media cart stood and Ms. Ariel had positioned herself, the mirror before them showed off everything at (Y/N)'s back. Including the large open window for spectators.
Though she gave her attention to the examples Ms. Ariel was going over for the prologue, deciding just how extensive they wanted to get with the prerecording, it was hard to ignore the flutter of movement showcased in the mirror. She glanced up to find some of the girls—Sasha and Lydia included—flitting past during their own break from ensemble work. A small smile touched (Y/N)'s lips as she made eye contact with the group that will be making up her wedge of swans.
That curl stilled when she spotted the quiet figure standing behind the shifting crowd, arms crossed with lips in a thin line.
Harry Styles was there. Watching her rehearse for who knows how long.
There was a definitive space between the window and where he stood against the other side of the hallway. The rest of the dancers made their way through the gap, minding his personal space specifically. (Y/N) wondered how many of them had also just heard the plethora of rumors about their spring patron.
(Y/N) met the intensity of his gaze for no longer than a split second before she flicked away, her skin growing warm. Her brain glitched, throwing the last few words from Ms. Ariel right out of her head.
She had heard him say that he was going to be more involved. Siobhan had even warned her that he typically was seen much more through the studio during the spring. And yet, (Y/N) hadn't been expecting to see him. Not on her first day as the swan.
Especially not looking at her the way he was. Furrowed brows and green gaze intense enough to make her blood simmer under her skin.
"I think we could do something with that, right?"
(Y/N) blinked. "Yeah, definitely. It looks fun."
She spared one more glance to the mirror only to find that corner no longer occupied. A familiar back was now retreating down the hall.
—————
"That was good, (Y/N). You did good. How do you feel?"
Out of breath, she nodded her head, "Good—Really good." Despite the sweat beading down the back of her neck and the sore muscles in her stomach, she held a beaming smile on her face.
This week had been all about strength training in between rehearsing the numbers, working up her core in preparation for the thirty-two fouettés for Odile. They were far from done in that department, but everyday (Y/N) grew more and more steady. After this weekend, she would begin rehearsing with Kingston as Prince Siegfried, and start working with the ensemble of swans.
Ms. Ariel matched her smile, her own skin shining with a sheen of sweat from working alongside (Y/N). "You'll sleep hard tonight, that's for sure," she laughed, settling her hands on her arms, "Rest up this weekend, but keep up with your stretching. If you need anything just text me."
"I will," (Y/N) heaved, catching her breath, "Thank you."
With a squeeze of her arms, Ms. Ariel bid her a goodnight before leaving for her office for the remainder of the evening. (Y/N) took her time collecting her things, chugging down the final dredges of her water before reaching for her phone. It didn't take long before she was scrolling through a food delivery app, eager to pick out her dinner for the night. She deserved something greasy and salty after the workout this practice was.
The spectator's window was empty tonight, the ensemble heard next door as they practiced their own numbers. (Y/N) was growing so used to the audience, that it felt weird to not have any watching eyes tracking her moves.
Though there was still a specific pair of eyes that still threw her off balance whenever she caught sight of them.
Harry hadn't bumped into her again or shared any more words past a good morning or good night depending on when they happened to pass in the hallway. Their interactions now lived mainly on opposite sides of the glass, (Y/N) dancing and breaking in her pointe shoes with Harry watching the moves like a television judge.
Though it didn't appear he even stopped by her studio this evening.
Exiting the space with her tote on her shoulder, (Y/N) double checked the pick up time for her dinner. Another twenty minutes of waiting before the three minute drive she'd make to the restaurant.
Now it was her turn to be a spectator, she thought. Taking a seat on the love seat offered before the glass, she was going to watch the swans dance.
The ensemble tonight consisted of Siobhan, Lydia, Sasha, and two other dancers. Their backs were to her as they faced the mirror. Through the pane, (Y/N) could hear the Dance of the Cygnets playing, the baseline becoming the thumps of the pointe shoes hitting the ground.
As hard as she knew she was working, she couldn't imagine being tasked with this number. The techniques were famously hard to get down. But here the girls were, more in sync than she would imagine a group of dancers who had only been practicing together for a week.
From her view, she could see the small smile on her as she watched the move.
She could also see the shadow of another person edging into the space next to her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar broad form, clad in a traditional black suit, watching the dancers with her. (Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth.
Was she supposed to say hi? It wasn't much of a secret that Harry wasn't particularly talkative when it came to interacting with the dancers. The only person he was regularly conversing with tended to be Ms. Ariel or the rest of the department heads. For the ballerinas, he reserved subdued smiles and quiet greetings.
It felt... rude, though. To not say anything to him. They were all dancing on his dime this season, anyway.
Besides, (Y/N) had to wonder if his reserved persona came from the fact that there was a rumor mill churning out stories in his name. She doubted anyone had come to him personally with any of these stories, but it was hard to believe that in the last few years of production that he hadn't heard something.
Before she could think too hard about it, she tipped her head towards him, face angled upwards to where he was standing at the other end of the loveseat. His brows were set in that signature furrow, intense gaze just short of burning a hole through the glass.
"What do you think?" she asked quietly, just audible over the orchestral music and thumping pointe shoes.
From where she sat, she could see the way his hands, hidden under his folded arms, curled into fists, his lashes fluttering as he blinked. His throat bobbed as he turned to match her gaze, the pinch in his brows smoothing out.
"Um," he started, flitting his gaze to the window for a lingering moment, "They're really good already. Everyone's doing really well. Very talented."
A warm smile molded (Y/N)'s features. That was a high honor coming from him, someone who had to have seen countless ballets by this point in his life.
"It's crazy how they can only get better from here," (Y/N) said, an airy laugh threaded through the words.
"It is," he answered simply, a barely there twitch touching the corner of his mouth.
A silence settled between them, the music inside the studio starting up again as the ladies reblocked themselves to start the number over. Glancing at the time, (Y/N) was two minutes past when she should have left to pick up her dinner.
Standing up from where she had made her home on the loveseat, she hiked her bag up her shoulder before turning to face Harry.
"Thank you for everything you're doing for this production, by the way. I don't think I really understand what a patron is able to do, but I'm sure it's hard work," (Y/N) laughed at her attempt at a joke. Hopefully, he thought it was funny and not that she was some kind of silly ballerina with ribbons for brains.
When he finally turned to look at her, that initial twitch of his lips she'd seen before hard turned into a slight curl. A ghost of a dimple touched his cheek.
"Of course. It's worth it."
(Y/N) matched his smile with her own beaming one. "I'll see you around, Harry. Have a nice night."
The last she saw of him was the small nod he gave in her direction, with his hands hidden under his folded arms flexing into fists.
"You as well, (Y/N)."
—————
(Y/N) rolled her neck as she turned the page on the lengthy manuscript in her hands. This author definitely loved a long, descriptive, adverb heavy sentences.
As grateful as she was to be a real life ballerina—the prima for the season, even—as a little girl, (Y/N) didn't picture her life consisting of playing in tutus and pointe shoes in the evening with a day job. But, the money for her apartment has to come from somewhere until she could be a real principal dancer for more than a passing production.
All she needed to do was get through this chapter, make her suggested edits, and then she'll let herself take a break.
Harshly blinking, (Y/N) directed her attention solely on the typed pages in her hands.
His palms flexed around nothing, tattoos dancing over the golden skin, leading her eye to the hem of his sleeve. Rebekah eyed him as he hesitated, tongue thick in the back of his throat. The Adam's apple adorning the front of his throat bobbed like the apple of eden, forbidden for anything more than her eyes.
Archer was never this nervous, she realized. Never tongue tied, never hesitant. his entire life—career, bedroom persona, spot as the captain of his hatchet-throwing league—was built on him being certain of every move.
This couldn't be good, she decided. Not when he looked at her with his glittering eyes, long lashes, the corners pinching just enough to show creases that weren't typically there. He was going to tell her something she wasn't ready to hear. Something she didn't want to hear from his rosy lips.
"Bek, I... I can't keep doing this," he choked out, his voice a rumbly mix of gravel and gemstones, "We have to stop."
Rebekah blinked, tipping her head with pouty mouth agape. "What do you mean?"
Those hands flexed once more, hardening into immoveable fists.
"Because I love you," he stumbled out, "I love you, and I wasn't ever supposed to.I love you too much to keep doing this when I know you don't feel the same. Not when you—
(Y/N) blinked back to real life then, startled by the film playing out in conjunction with the written words in front of her.
This man, the character Archer, had evolved into a version of Harry. The long lashes and pinched corners turned into golden flecks dancing through green irises and a furrowed brow. That golden skin went creamy with freckles on the bridge of his nose. The tattoo on his skin was now an inked cross between his pointer and thumb. (Y/N) recalled the timber of his voice and lilt of his accent when it came to the dialogue.
That wasn't right. There was no reason to be thinking of Harry Styles—the patron of her ballet company—at the moment. Not when she was reading a manuscript about a couple engaged in a BDSM arrangement that went too far in the feelings department.
(With the main male character also being a hatchet throwing captain? That was a detail (Y/N) couldn't remember hearing, but she hoped she marked that as needing a revision).
Her break was going to have to start now, she decided. Having a two minute conversation with him almost a week ago was not supposed to linger in her mind like this.
(Y/N) folded the manuscript closed, determined to take that vision with it.
—————
"You're alright locking up?"
Ms. Ariel looked at (Y/N) with her handbag in the crook of her elbow, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Though she tried to be discreet about it, (Y/N) still caught the nervous glance she shot at the clock above the window. 8:34pm.
"Yes, I'll be fine," (Y/N) insisted. For the third time. "I'll be right behind you, anyway. Don't worry."
"Okay, okay," Ms. Ariel finally relented, shooting off a text as she edged out of the door. "If you need anything, just call and I'll turn around."
(Y/N) nodded her head, knowing that no matter what she isn't going to call Ms. Ariel for anything. Not after she had already arranged a rehearsal time to work around (Y/N)'s editing deadline.
(She had a hard time getting back into the headspace to finish that manuscript. Every time she opened it up, Harry's face somehow made its way onto the male love interest's body. Very confusing).
Just as (Y/N) began collecting her things, silence filling the darkened building, a set of pounding footsteps clicked through the space once more. She jumped at the sound, her spine stiffening to go ramrod straight with her eyes on the door.
Was there another late lesson going on? Another group rehearsing that she's missed?
Ms. Ariel popped her head in once more, phone pressed to her ear. "I gave you a key, right? Or did I give it to Harry?"
Her brow pinched to a furrow at her choreographer's question. "I have a key," she offered, hoping her unasked question received an answer anyway.
She watched as Ms. Ariel deflated in relief. "Okay, great. I'll see you Monday—Keep stretching! If you want extra time, just call me!"
This time, (Y/N) waited until she heard Ms. Ariel's footsteps retreat through the building, bookended by the resounding click of the front door closing. Then she felt clear to pack up and clean up the space. Trading out her shoes, she held onto her discarded pointes by the ribbons. The shoes dangled at her side as she cruised through the building, glancing through the window of each rehearsal space to ensure all lights were off with doors pulled shut.
Making it to the front door, she pulled out the key passed on by Ms. Ariel. According to the directions given, the door needed to be locked up before she stepped outside; when (Y/N) asked why she couldn't lock everything from the outside as normal, Ms. Ariel just gave a flapped hand and a promise of "it's a long story!".
Sticking the weathered key into the lock, she twisted her wrist only for the lock itself to halt the motion. Her brows knitted together, eyes on her hand as she attempted once more to break whatever blocked the twist.
She wasn't sure how long she stood there attempting to push through the block. She pulled out the key and reslotted it, attempted to brute force her way against the block, twisted the knob along with the key. At some point she even took a breath and checked her phone, pretending as if she didn't desperately need this key to do its job. She couldn't call Ms. Ariel, not when she was already almost late to her stepdaughter's graduation dinner.
But, she also can't just leave the studio unlocked.
Her palm grew slick with panic sweat. Okay, if she doesn't get it in the next three tries, she has no choice but to call Ms. Ariel. She will grovel and beg for forgiveness later, but the door needed to be locked now.
"Is it sticking, again?"
At the sound of another voice, (Y/N) almost jumped out of her skin. Whirling around, hand to her throat, she saw Harry standing just beside her. His clothing was much the same as usual, though he was missing the tie and the first buttons of his shirt were let loose. He looked to her with raised brows, apology on his lips.
"Oh my god, you scared me."
"Sorry," he breathed, a bit sheepish in the way he dropped his gaze to her hand, "I thought y'heard me. Sorry."
With her heart rate settling, (Y/N) calmed enough to give a small smile at the sound of the apologies just flooding from Harry. How those rumors could hold up against everything that she saw in front of her, she couldn't understand.
Her imagination did not compare to the real thing, that was for sure.
"It's okay," she offered, "I didn't know anyone else was here."
Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. "Yeah. Ariel gave me some plans for set pieces to look over and approve before Monday, so 'm jus' finishing that up. I didn't know y'practiced this late?"
"Sometimes," (Y/N) chirped, "It depends on my work schedule. But I don't think I'll ever leave before Ms. Ariel ever again—especially since I apparently broke the lock."
Harry let out an airy laugh at her words. "'S tricky," he murmured, "It sticks all the time. I don't know why Ariel wants everything to be locked from the inside when it barely works."
"Oh," (Y/N) sounded, taking the key out of the lock with suddenly tired limbs. Now, without panic fueling her, she felt particularly fatigued. "Okay."
"Sorry I didn't catch y'earlier."
"It's okay," she shook her head, "You're still working?"
Harry nodded, matching her gaze tentatively. "I can lock up if y'want."
"That would be really nice, I think," she said on a breathy peel of laughter, "Do you need the key?"
"I've got one," he said, a slight curl to his lips. There was that ghost of a dimple denting his cheek, gone before she had a real chance to admire it.
"Cool, thank you," she responded lamely, feeling a bit silly now that she realized just how much that panic had caused her to stress sweat. She didn't particularly feel like a pretty ballerina when this heady sheen of sweat and sticky underarms. "I'll see you next week?"
"At some point, I'm sure," Harry smiled, this time showing two barely there dips in his cheeks. "Get home safe, (Y/N)."
Edging out the door, a small smile bloomed over her lips. "You too, Harry."
With that, (Y/N) was out the door before she had any more material to replace characters with in her manuscripts.
Though, as she pulled away, she couldn't help the look into the rearview mirror. Right at the glass door of the studio, where she swore she could see Harry turning back into the building.
He waited for her.
—————
(Y/N) twisted in the mirror, pristine white tutu fluffing around her hips. Feathers were carefully laid along much of the bodice and layered over the very top of the tutu. The thin straps of her top were pinned with down feathers, more being pinned across the back to give the look of feathered wings sprouting between her shoulder blades. On the top layer of the tutu the collection of feathers thinned until they were nothing but small puffs over the tulle. Throughout, there were crystals beaded on the costume, gilding the feathers and looking like dew drops as they rained down to set along the fluffy layers of her tutu. Everything was made costume to her measurements, acting like a second skin as she moved and stretched. On a hanger behind her was the black version of the same outfit, reserved for her numbers as Odile.
"(Y/N), that is so pretty!" Siobhan's excited squeal broke over the noise in the studio. She, also clad in her swan's costume, bounced up to where (Y/N) was standing on an apple box while the head of the costume department did her own analysis of the outfit. "Do you love it?"
"I do," (Y/N) smiled, shooting a look to the costumer through the mirror. "It's perfect."
Lea, the costume head, reciprocated her smile in quiet thanks, though her critical eye continued looking over the tutu. With only a month until opening weekend, any last minute changes to these outfits were going to have to happen as quickly as possible.
The other principals—Prince Siegfried and Rothbart—were being sized alongside her, though their own garments weren’t quite as elaborate as her own. Other dancers—swans—were fluttered through the space, followed by others in the costume department to mark alterations. There was a level of chaos filling the room, but there was something special seeing all of the flickering crystals. The rainbows of light danced over the walls, trails of glitter falling in the wake of the rotating swans, the specks now forever a part of the flooring.
Even without everyone cast in their makeup, their hair pasted and gelled to perfection, there was still a magic to this cast. This was the Swan Lake.
She was Odette.
"Ready to try on Odile?"
(Y/N) blinked back to her own body, meeting Lea's eyes in the mirror. "Sure, yeah!"
"I can grab it!" Siobhan bubbled, trundling away towards the rack holding the Swan Princess collection of costumes.
Beginning to untie the back of her bodice with the help of Lea, (Y/N)'s eyes followed Siobhan's journey to the rack. The black crystals caught her eye, the light glancing off of the facets like starlight. She admired the points of light dotted along the walls.
Her breath caught when she looked through the window.
Through the glass was Ms. Ariel, huddled with another. Her eyes skimmed across the whole space, while the others' were trained in one spot: right on (Y/N).
Harry gave her a lingering look. His gaze touched on the details of her costume, following the flow of the feathers and the dripping crystals. He wasn't aware he had been caught, that much was clear.
Especially when his lingering eyes finally worked their way back up to her face. Even though the glass, (Y/N) could see the flush that painted his cheeks, his eyes quickly flitting away.
A small smile curled (Y/N)'s lips, her own skin warming just as Siobhan returned with the black swan regalia.
"What?" Siobhan prodded, huddling closer to her friend in conspiracy. "Did I miss something?"
(Y/N) was quick to shake her head, "No—just watching the swans run around. I think Lea's team is going to lose their minds."
At that, Siobhan and Lea both blurt out in laughter.
Through the mirror, (Y/N) could see Ms. Ariel and Harry departing from the viewing window. Her smile fell the smallest bit.
—————
"Has anyone said where the dinner next week is booked?"
A shiver ran down (Y/N)'s spine as she gulped down the shot that Kingston—her counterpart as Prince Siegfried—had already muscled through. She couldn't even process his question for another three seconds, eyes shut closed as she attempted to look tougher than she actually was when it came to shots. They were supposed to be grabbing drinks and snacks for the entire table of other dancers—post rehearsal bonding—before Kingston had egged her into taking a shot with him while they waited on the chips and guac.
"No," she finally coughed out. "I haven't heard anything. I don't think anyone's actually decided yet."
"Well, we only have, like, less than a week before opening night, and I won't go on without a family dinner the night before." Kingston looked at her with a raised brow in defiance.
"As if we'd put on the show without you," (Y/N) smiled, bumping her hip against her friend's.
"I don't know," he drawled, tipping his head in her direction. Kingston looked at her through his lashes, his dreads falling over his shoulder as he leaned in conspiratorially towards her. "I think you'd replace me if you could."
(Y/N) blanched at the accusation. That wasn't the kind of thing she thought he had in mind when he leaned into her like they were sharing an inside joke.
"Why would you say that? I would never replace you!"
Kingston let out a boisterous laugh. He threw his head back, unperturbed by (Y/N)'s blatant shock.
"You didn't think I would notice?" he pressed, huddling close to her once more. "You know I always know what's going on around the company."
When (Y/N) only looked at him with her furrowed brows, nothing leaving her lips, he let out another laugh. This one coming out airy and a bit more private.
The volume of his voice dropped to match as he inclined his head in her direction. "How's Harry?"
Her knee-jerk reaction came in the dropping of her jaw and a mumbled Um. This question shouldn't elicit any kind of reaction from her, that was something she knew. If he was asking her seriously, how Harry was, she wouldn't even have an answer. They've exchanged maybe twenty words, at most.
Yet, there was still a warmth simmering under her skin. She felt like she'd been caught.
"What do you mean?" she finally settled on. Hopefully, the least conspicuous of responses.
Kingston was not at all fooled. "You think he came to watch Kaleb be fitted into the monster costume? Especially when there was the Swan right there? The same one that always looks all giggly every time he's around?"
(Y/N) dropped her eyes to the bar top. How long could a bowl of guacamole take?
"It's okay, you know," Kingston relented, bumping (Y/N)'s hip. "I'm just playing around. He's cute—I don't blame you."
Maybe it was the shot working its magic in her system, maybe it was the fact that no one else had seemed to share this kind of fascination with him. But, (Y/N) nodded, rolling her lips between her teeth.
"Really cute."
"See, I knew it," Kingston declared, looking triumphant before casting his eyes down the bar. "You know, though, right?"
She paused. "About the... rumors, or?"
"Mhm," he hummed, "Or am I going to have to be the one to burst your bubble?"
(Y/N) felt her bubble burst anyway then. She thought Kingston was on the same page as her. He hadn't been around the company much longer than she had, neither of them being present when the whole ordeal had gone down. He was supposed to be as naively open as she was.
"No. I know."
"Good," he said, looking at her with a serious set in his gaze, "The only reason I bring it up is because I want you to be careful. I know you can take care of yourself, but if any of what people have said is true, that's a situation none of us need to get into. If it does go further than the studio, just let someone know—just in case."
"I—Wait—" (Y/N) floundered, unsure of what front to attack first. "It's—No, it's not like that. We've barely ever talked, there's nothing to go further with."
Kingston lifted his hands as if in surrender, only missing the white flag. "I had to say it, just in case."
(Y/N) shook her head. "It's not like that at all," she swallowed, "And... I don't think any of that stuff is true anyway. What people have said. Ms. Ariel wouldn't let him work with us if she thought he was... bad."
He gave her a half shrug. "You never know, babe. Just be safe and aware, that's all."
Before much more could be offered in her defense, the bartender returned with a tray of chips and guacamole, fresh from the tiny kitchen in the back.
"I'm so sorry about that wait!" she chattered, "We're training back there. Thank you for being so patient!"
Kingston offered assurances that there was nothing to be sorry for before collecting all of their drinks and snacks upon the newly gifted tray. (Y/N) kept her mouth shut, helping to carry all of the drinks and everything else they ordered.
"It's okay, (Y/N)," Kingston murmured, a kind smile on his face, "Let me know if you ever need anything, that's all I'm saying. Your secret is safe with me."
(Y/N) gave a small smile in response. She understood where Kingston was coming from; if one of her friends told her they were interested in someone who had even a whiff of a possibility of being harmful to an ex in the past, she would be staking out the house at all times. Just because she didn't believe Harry fell into that category didn’t mean no one else could worry about her.
And it wasn't like she was interested in him anyway. Not when she'd barely spoken to him.
—————
(Y/N), arms extended at her sides, thighs tight as she held her legs in straight pointed lines, soared above the stage. Kingston, dressed as Prince Siegfried, lifted her over the boards in time with the swelling music. She hoped the light caught her tears just right, letting them sparkle just like the crystals on her costume.
Odette and Siegfried were in the afterlife, free from the wrath of Rothbart and the swan curse. The goal was to be as ethereally blissful as she could achieve, overjoyed with the eternity that stretched before her with the love of her life. The one who sacrificed himself to be with her, no matter that the sacrifice was his life.
If she would be able to achieve these same tears, the same clutching fingers that clung to Kingston, the recentering of her gravity as she revolved around him—all while she performed as the prima she had been named, perfect in technique and timing—(Y/N) wasn't sure. Especially when a theater full of eyes would be trained right on her.
She supposed that was what practice was for, anyway. Now was the time to find herself in these moments, in the halves of the swan, so she wouldn't have a problem giving the performance of a lifetime when it came to opening night.
Besides, if her feet and legs hurt then as much as they did now, she doubted it would be very hard to summon tears to her eyes.
(No one had warned her the fouettes were going to make her toes go numb, especially being performed over and over again every week. Any pedicures were going to have to wait until they wrapped, it appeared).
The song came to an end, the finale upon her as Kingston lowered her to the ground, twirling her into him. Pressing his forehead to hers, they shared a moment in the dreamscape that would be projected over them during the show. Her eyes fluttered closed as they caught their breaths together, skin slick with sweat.
As soon as the music flourished to a feathery end, (Y/N) pulled him in for a real hug.
"We did it!" she bubbled, jumping up and down on the flat of her pointe shoes. Their first full run of the show was complete, costumes and all.
"I think I'm going to fall over," Kingston laughed, holding her just as hard. Though it wasn't his first time as a principal, he still glowed like never before. Perfect evidence as to why he was cast as the Prince Charming of Odette's story.
"Let's go sit before Ms. Ariel makes us go again," (Y/N) laughed, still greatly out of breath.
Though she took Kingston's hand, ready to lead him to the edge of the stage to take a breather, where he could easily access his inhaler should he not regain his breath, they both stilled, awaiting their proper dismissal. Out in the aisle of the theater, standing a few rows from the front was Ms. Ariel and the director of the production.
And Harry.
They had all watched the tail end of the run, staying silent. Looking out to the trio of faces, (Y/N) couldn't help but to snag on Harry's.
Gone was the pinched brow, the crossed arms, the intense eyes. The lines of his face were left to soften in the shadows of the theater. His eyes gleamed in the low light as he gazed up at her. If she didn't know any better, she would have liked to think of his gaze as admiring with the way he looked at her.
Like she was something to revere, complete with overheated skin, a sheen of sweat, and trembling limbs.
It was Ms. Ariel's voice that threw her back into the rest of the world.
"That was beautiful, you two. Almost perfect," she smiled, this time taking on Harry's previously critical stance with crossed arms and squinted eyes. "There's a couple of blocking changes we need to make, and I want you two to rehearse as much as you can together for the next week, even if I'm not there. But, you have it. I believe it."
That was the biggest relief (Y/N) could have been given. She could perfect her technique, she could learn the steps and refine her shapes, but if no one believed the story she was selling, it would all become a moot point.
"Thank you," she murmured, Kingston doing the same with his hand held in hers.
"Take a break, okay? I'll call you when I'm ready to block."
They didn't need to be told twice before both Kingston and (Y/N) were rushing from the stage, Kingston being dragged behind the swan.
Before exiting into the backstage and disappearing from the front of the theater, (Y/N) stole a glance in the direction she knew she shouldn't.
Nonetheless, she felt a heat bubble behind her cheeks when she met a pair of green, gleaming eyes.
Kingston had to tear her away, leading them backstage.
—————
Adjusting her leg warmers, (Y/N) curled into her theater seat, eyes fixed on the stage.
Just days from now, she was going to be up there, these seats filled to the brim with spectators. Opening night was officially sold out as of yesterday morning.
Tonight was the tech run of the show. This was (Y/N)'s first look at the set up of the show, complete with set pieces and the proper lighting. The orchestra had already had their own run earlier in the evening, though (Y/N) could still peek at the pit before the stage filled with seats and sheet music. For now, a track was faintly playing through the speakers of the theater to make up for the lack of band, letting the notes be the cue for the lighting and the different effects set forth from the tech booth.
The director, Ms. Ariel, and majority of the production team was present for the run. (Y/N) was the only person sitting in one of the plush red theater seats, having come here right after leaving the studio.
Tomorrow was the final rehearsal, set with the entire cast and ensemble , even the understudies and alternates. After that, a day of rest would be given, including a night out for a family dinner amongst the cast before they would be swinging for the fences, multiple shows every week for the next eight weeks.
Tonight was her last moment of peace here in the theater, she thought. Before she would be slotted in as Odette every night, feeling the weight of the story and the pressure of the technique until each movement came as easy as breathing.
The spotlight glided over the stage, following an invisible dancer. The production lead shouted corrections from the wings, ensuring everything would be perfectly in line with the stage directions Ms. Ariel gave at the beginning of the night.
For a moment, just seeing the spotlight, something in (Y/N) shimmered, warming her chest.
In days, it would be her shining under the light. The beads on her costume would cast rainbows over the audience. She was going to be clad in feathers, moving just like one over the stage. She would be captivating the theater as she told a story she'd held so close to her heart since she was a girl. Seeing that spotlight, she was only reminded of the gravity of what she had signed up for.
(Y/N) was a ballerina. A prima for the first time in her life. She was Odette and Odile, two of the most famous characters in ballet history.
This was her dream.
Absorbed in the phantom show going on in front of her, (Y/N) didn't notice she was no longer alone until the static prick of the air shifting her took her attention. At the end of the aisle, she saw Harry.
He stood with the grays of his suit blending into the shadows of the theater, his hands folded behind him. He looked taken aback when she spotted him, his mouth opened like a guppy, the barely there light pointing out the quiet flush on his cheeks. She couldn't help the small smile that molded her features at his expression.
"Harry?" she asked, voice just over the sound of Tchaikovsky
"I—Sorry," he said, dropping his gaze to land on one of the seats surrounding her, "Do y'mind if I sit with you?"
"Of course not," she beamed, making room for him as she removed her jacket and tote bag off the seat next to her.
Harry side steps his way into the aisle, taking the plush seat at her side. He carried a warmth with him as he sunk into the spot, wafting around her. She felt his presence like a static at her side, taking up weighty space. The stagnant scent of the theater now replaced with something warm and charred, flicks of something sweet threaded through. He definitely smelled much better than she did after dating through the entire morning.
Moments passed as they both looked ahead, watching as the show came together. Projections danced around the stage, showing a wintery blue sky while snowflakes fell in puffs down to the boards. Somewhere off stage, a gentle breeze blew through to sweep the flakes askew, the effect meant to coincide with the swans that would decorate the stage in two days' time.
"It's so pretty," (Y/N) murmured, "seeing everything come together like this."
From the corner of her eye, she spotted a small smile touching Harry's lips. "'S amazing," he said, voice melodic and low like the baseline of the music.
Tipping her head, she chanced a small look in his fraction. "Does it ever get old? Seeing this all the time?"
A look passed over his features, fleeting and quick, as if he were surprised that she was acknowledging that there was ever a production before this. Like he couldn't believe she was broaching any form of the past.
She could imagine he was much more used to others tiptoeing around him. Especially when it came to this place.
Recovered, he shook his head, eyes still forward on the stage. "Never. Some shows aren't always my favorite," he smiled, "but 's never takes away from this."
"Yeah?" she perked up, forgoing her sight of the stage to give her attention to him with her chin propped up on her folded knee, "What is your favorite?"
Harry cocked his head, turning to look at her with pursed lips. "I've always liked The Rite of Spring and La Sylphide, or anything that fits the springtime." He paused, hesitating some as their eyes met. "This year's is really growing on me, though."
A bright smile bloomed on (Y/N)'s face. Though she was more than sure that it was nothing else but the light shining from the stage, the faux snowflakes reflected in his eyes, but she swore there was a twinkle in his irises. Something almost glowing as he gazed at her.
"Swan Lake is my favorite," she shared, unconsciously moving closer to him within the plush of her seat, "You've probably never seen it but there was this, like, animated kind of movie I watched when I was younger that was a version of Swan Lake and it's been my favorite ever since. It's become a lot more special to me now, though."
(Y/N) blinked, her lashes fluttering as she realized just how close she now was to Harry. Through the interaction, she had slightly shuffled until her legs were flush to the armrest, Harry's body turned straight towards her with his eyes fixed on the planes of her face.
Something pricking like static passed in the air between them.
From here, she was able to see the way his lashes tangled at the corners of his eyes. His freckles had warmed around the center of his face, the sun adding more color to the spots. The raspberry color of his lips were deepened in the shadows of the theater, berry rich.
"You're... You're an incredible dancer. I hope you know that." His voice wavered, unsure as the words slipped out.
"Thank you," she smiled, partially aware of the scene change on stage with the music lifting and the light filling through the theater. Off stage, Ms. Ariel's voice could be heard with the muffled director's. None of it was enough to steal her attention away from Harry. "I don't really understand what a patron does yet, but it seems like you do a lot for everyone—Ms. Ariel especially. Thank you for being kind and... wanting to be a part of all of this."
Harry dropped his head, breaking the intensity. "Um," he sounded, something low in the drawl of his voice, "of course. Thank you."
Mouth open, ready to ask what happened, (Y/N) was cut off by the sound of Ms. Ariel's booming voice.
"(Y/N), are you still here? Can you come up here for a second?"
That prickling static was severed at the sound of her voice. She snapped away from Harry, feeling caught red-handed. Harry watched with attentive eyes.
"Yeah, I'm here," she shouted back, giving him an apologetic smile as she rose from her spot, "Sorry. It was nice talking with you, Harry."
"'S alright. Thank you, (Y/N)."
He stayed there as she collected her things and went towards the stage. The warmth that had radiated from his presence was left behind, a flash of goosebumps erupting over her skin.
The only bit of warmth that lingered fell on her back, right where she hoped he was watching her.
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the swan is a central figure in the classic ballet, swan lake
ahhhhhhh thank you sm for reading! its been a long time since ive posted anything so im super excited to get something out there! so sorry for any mistakes ! I would love to hear everyone's thoughts or predictions so feel free to send them in!
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