‧₊˚✧𝄞 Just One Dance 𝄞✧˚₊‧
Pairing: Steve Kemp x f!reader
Warnings/Tags: dark romance, psychological tension & manipulation, slow-burn intimacy, implied past captivity, morally ambiguous dynamics, dark undertones masked by romantic softness, implied intimacy/sex
Word Count: 2.1K
Author Note: Good afternoon or morning of whatever for you guys! This is an experimental one-shot for me and it won't be going onto the masterlist unless I decide that it does well enough to post another few :) BUT, for those of you that are reading my stories for the first time, please go check out my Bucky Barnes fics cuz I'm really proud of them. Thank you!
Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!
The music plays softly from the old record player in the corner of the room- something jazzy, low, warm like honey. Steve hums along under his breath, eyes cast downward as he arranges the last few bites of dinner on your plate. The air smells like butter and seared meat, rosemary wafting from the skillet like a comfort you no longer trust.
You sit at the table, fingers curled around the wine glass he poured for you, watching him move with precise ease. He's barefoot. His sleeves are rolled. His lips twitch upward, like he knows you're watching.
You hate how good he looks like this. Like a man. Not a monster.
"Do you like it?" He asks, gesturing to the food he plated for you.
You nod. "It's good."
"You always say that." He chuckles and leans on the back of the chair across from you. "But you barely eat."
You glance down at the plate, then back at him. "Still working on trust."
His smile falters. Just for a second. Then it's back, polished and gentle. "Fair enough."
He walks over to the record player and adjusts the volume slightly. The room seems smaller now. Softer. You take another sip of wine just to try and keep your hands busy.
Then, unexpectedly, he turns and reaches out a hand.
"Dance with me."
Your eyes flick to his. "What?"
He shrugs. "Just one dance."
You stare at him for a moment, stunned by how calm he sounds. As if asking you to slow dance in his kitchen isn't completely deranged. As if he didn't once keep you locked in a place with no windows and bring you meals like he was a lover instead of a captor.
He doesn't retract his hand.
"Steve..."
"One song," he says. "I won't touch you again after. Unless you ask."
There's something so sincere in his face that it unsettles you more than any knife ever could.
You set your glass down and slowly stand. Your hand slips into his.
His palm is warm, large, fingers gentle as they curve around yours. He brings you close, but not too close. His other hand rests lightly on your waist, not gripping, just there. Like he's testing his own restraint.
You sway together in the kitchen's dim lighting. The record crackles. He's humming again- quiet, tuneful, careful.
The silence between you stretches, filled only with the music and the soft shift of your breath. He's looking at you like you're fragile. Or precious. You can't decide which one scares you more.
"I used to dream about this," he murmurs.
You tilt your head. "Dancing with someone in your kitchen?"
He chuckles. "No. I mean... being seen. Being known. And still being wanted."
You don't reply. Your stomach twists. But you don't stop dancing.
His thumb brushes against the back of your hand. "I know I'm not... forgiven," he starts. "But I like to think I could be something else now. For you."
The words slide under your skin like silk, leaving something sticky behind.
"Why me?" You ask quietly.
Steve's gaze lowers, his smile wistful. "Because you stayed."
You feel the weight of that. The implication. The truth: you could've left. He let you. A long time ago.
But something kept you here. Some part of you wanted to understand him. Wanted to know the shape of that monster- and what was left underneath it.
The song fades to its last few notes. Steve releases your hand just as he had promised.
But you don't step back.
He watches you, cautious hope flickering in his expression like the last light before dusk.
You rest your palm against his chest, where you can feel his heart thudding- fast, anxious.
His hand rises to cover yours, fingers trembling just barely.
"I don't know what this is," you whisper.
"Me neither," he says.
The record starts another song. A softer one. Slower.
You close your eyes and rest your forehead against his shoulder.
And this time, he doesn't ask. He just pulls you close.
~~~~~
The second song begins. Slower, older- something soulful that sounds like it was meant for this exact moment, vinyl and dim lighting.
Steve holds you like he's afraid to break something. One hand at the small of your back, the other gently cradling your wrist where it rests against his chest. His body is tense, but his touch is reverent. Worshipful. Like he can't believe you're still here.
Neither can you.
His breath stirs the hair near your ear. "You smell like jasmine."
You blink. "It's the soap."
"I like it," he murmurs. "It suits you."
His voice has that low, soothing lilt he uses when he wants to disarm you. You know it well. You also know you've let him. Again. You let him pull you into this- this almost-romance. This illusion of safety that only works because you stopped asking what was real.
His fingers slide up your back, slowly, until they rest between your shoulder blades.
"I've changed," he whispers.
You laugh softly- too softly to sound bitter. "You say that a lot."
He leans back slightly to look at you. His eyes are clear. Open. The kind of look he gives you when he's not trying to seduce you, but reach you.
"I'm not asking you to forget," he says. "Just... to see me now."
"I do," you murmur. "That's the problem."
The music pulses, low and rhythmic. You're too close now. His body is warm against yours. Familiar.
You feel the moment shift- when the air thickens and something unspoken hums beneath your skin.
He leans in just slightly, his nose brushing against your temple, down to your cheek. "You want me to stop?"
Your breath hitches. "Do you want me to say yes?"
He smiles- but it's not smug. It's soft. Like a secret. "No," he admits. "But I will."
He doesn't move. He doesn't kiss you. He just waits.
And that's what breaks you.
Because this man- who once stole everything from you- is giving you the choice now.
And you hate that part of you that wants to give in.
So you do.
You lean in and press your lips to his- tentative, searching, unsure.
He exhales shakily, like he's been holding his breath for years, His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb caressing your cheek, and he kisses you back like he's starved- but careful. Like he doesn't want to scare you. Like this moment is sacred.
When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his.
"I'm still mad at you," you whisper.
"I know," he breathes. "I'm mad at me too."
Silence. His chest rises and falls beneath your palm. The music fades into the background, barely audible now.
"I don't forgive you," you add.
He nods. "I'm not asking you to."
Another beat.
"But you're staying with me tonight, aren't you?"
You close your eyes. "Yes," you whisper. "I am."
~~~~~
The house is quiet when he leads you upstairs.
He doesn't rush. Doesn't touch you unless you offer it. His presence is magnetic, his gaze stealing glances every few steps like he's afraid you'll vanish. You feel it too- that edge, that thrill beneath your skin. This shouldn't be happening. And yet here you are, trailing after a man who once broke you open, now wanting him to put his hands on your skin like it would fix something.
You stop in the doorway to his bedroom.
It's tidy. Warm-toned. The bed is made with crisp white sheets, blankets pulled tight like he's trying to convince himself he's a clean man now. There's a single lamp lit by the nightstand, casting golden light across the room.
Steve turns to you. His eyes sweep over your face like he's memorizing it.
"You can sleep here," he says quietly. "I'll take the couch if you want."
You don't answer. Instead, you take a step forward. Then another.
You're in front of him now, close enough to smell the cologne on his collarbone again and the ghost of wine on his breath. He still hasn't touched you.
You slide your fingers up his chest, slowly, until your hands cup the sides of his neck where it meets his jawbone.
His throat works around a swallow. "Are you sure?"
You nod. "Don't make me ask again."
And then he kisses you- this time with heat.
His hands move to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers knot in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, greedier than you expected to be. It's dizzying, how easily your body remembers him. How quickly you crave the warmth of him, the safety he imitates so well.
He walks you back towards the bed, kissing you like he's half-drunk on it, like you're the first taste of something he doesn't deserve. When your knees hit the mattress, he pauses.
"I need to take care of you," he murmurs, eyes searching yours. "Let me."
You nod, breathless.
He helps you onto the bed like you're fragile, like the intimacy is an offering instead of a right. His hands slide under your shirt, slow and reverent. Every inch of skin he uncovers is met with his mouth, his tongue, his breath- worship instead of lust. He traces over old marks- marks he's left from the precision of a scalpel- with something that feels like regret and kisses your collarbone like he's trying to rewrite the memory of every hurting you.
And you- god- you let him.
You arch into him, your body aching with a hunger that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with being seen. Desired. Chosen in a way that's almost too gentle for the past you share.
His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, and you whisper his name against his lips like a warning.
"Steve."
He stills, forehead resting against yours. "Say the word and I'll stop."
You search his eyes. He means it. You could break this spell. You could walk away.
But you don't.
You take his hand and guide it back to your skin. "Don't stop."
~~~~~
The room is quiet.
The kind of quiet that only happens when both bodies are spent- when nothing else needs to be said, at least for the moment. The lamp still glows dimly, casting soft light across tangled sheets and bare skin. Your breath is finally evening out, and Steve is beside you, laying on his side, head propped on one hand as he watches you like you'll disappear if he blinks.
He reaches over slowly and brushes a thumb across your cheekbone, knuckles grazing your temple. "You okay?"
His voice is gentle. Careful. You can hear the fear under it- fear of the answer, fear of how far he pushed without knowing. Because even now, after everything, he still doesn't trust himself.
You nod. "Yeah."
He studies you for a long moment. "You sure?"
You turn your head to face him. The way he's looking at you- it's too soft for someone like him. Too human. It makes your chest ache in a way you don't want to admit.
"I wouldn't have stayed if I wasn't," you say quietly.
That seems to settle something in him. His hand falls to the mattress between you. You think he might try to pull you closer, but he doesn't. He stays right there, like he's giving you space even though every part of him is leaning toward you.
You roll to your side and mirror his position. The silence stretches. This kind of silence used to terrify you- with him, especially. But now it just... feels. Heavy. Unspoken.
"You still think about it?" You ask, voice barely above a whisper.
His jaw clenches. "Every day."
You look at him, searching for the lie- but it's not there. His eyes are clear and quiet and full of that raw honesty that only seems to come out after midnight.
"I hated you," you admit, throat tightening. "For a long time."
"I know."
"I wanted to forget your name."
"I wanted to forget it too."
The confession hangs in the air between you. You're not sure who reaches first, but eventually your fingers find his beneath the sheets. He laces them together without hesitation.
"I don't know what this is," you say.
He nods. A silent agreement before speaking. "I think I'd like to find out."
You glance down at his hand in yours. "Even if it's not clean?"
His voice is rough when he answers. "Especially then."
You close your eyes. Let yourself breathe. Let yourself feel. His warmth, The steadiness of his hand. The crackling, tentative thing that might be healing- or might be burning everything down all over again.
But for now, it's quiet. And you're here. And so is he.
And that's enough.
