seen from China
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seen from Canada
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
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seen from United Kingdom
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Happy Mallow Monday!
On this Monday, Mallow went on a trip with his good friends Gaz and Junior to the Barrel Volcano. With no stopping in sight the group Blaze ahead deep into the volcano. While fiery with passion, the group must be careful and watch their step…
Music cover by Purple1222119 Music - Barrel Volcano.
wild how much I am just trusted to do stuff as a grad student?
it’s nice. it’s kinda scary but it’s nice.
Earth to Dingus
Steve Harrington x fem!reader who has suffered a head injury [1.9k words]
summary: Of course Steve leaves you under Robin’s supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up after suffering a head injury unable to recall that you’re dating the biggest dingus from high school in your severely concussed state.
CW: hospital fic, brief mention of a fall and injury, Robin's POV so it's a little spirally, mostly fluff
Robin honest to God feels really, really bad and wishes she could take back her internal moaning and groaning about how she wished you would just wake up already and save her from this boredom because this is much, much worse.
Really, she should have just relaxed and been grateful that you’re still kicking it at all; head injuries are no joke. Still, unconscious people make terrible company.
But now she wishes she was merely bored again.
You see, a good friend – an average friend, even – might’ve responded to you waking up for the first time in over fifteen hours after suffering a head injury by saying things like oh, thank god you’re awake! Or, are you okay? How are you feeling? Do you want some water? Let me go get a nurse.
But maybe Robin isn’t a good friend because her immediate response to the sound of you shifting in your bed before blinking blearily up at her is “oh my god, thank god you’re awake. I’m so bored. Also, Max said something really funny to Mike earlier and I’ve been dying to tell you.”
You blink at her – not unlike a frog, if she’s being completely honest, one eye closing before the other – with furrowed brows before your eyes flit towards the stark whiteness of your surroundings.
“Hospital.” She explains at your confused expression. “You fell. Big time. We thought you were dead at first. Steve was hysterical and wouldn’t let anyone touch you until Nancy called an ambulance. He’s going to be so pissed that you woke up while he was gone.” Robin recounts with a nervous chuckle. You really did scare the shit out of her; out of all of them.
“Steve?”
Robin misinterprets the confusion in your tone as she shifts her chair closer to you. “Yeah, he’s been here the whole time; the nurses were not impressed, but he wouldn’t leave. Dustin finally managed to convince him to leave long enough to shower and change at least. We had to tell him he was starting to smell bad. He didn’t, mind you, but don’t tell him that.”
You blink at her again, this one less amphibian in nature. “Steve?”
“Yes…Steve,” she parrots, wondering how long the two of you might sit here volleying the man's name back and forth.
“As in Harrington?”
“No, as in Steve Guttenburg from Police Academy,” she deadpans. “Yes, Steve Harrington.”
“Why on Earth would Steve Harrington care if I was in the hospital?” And Robin can’t even take the time to be proud of you for getting all of those words out together in a row when reality crashes down on her.
Now, Robin will admit that it’s a little shameful how long it takes her to realize something isn’t quite right. She probably could have – should have – assumed, seeing as you are currently laying in a hospital bed; nothing is quite right about a person hooked up to a heart monitor.
Of course, of course Steve leaves you under Robin’s supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up in your severely concussed state unable to recall that you’re dating the biggest dingus from high school, and have been for a while.
Why did Robin insist Steve leave? Why would she tell him she could handle this? Why does anyone ever trust her with anything ever?
Fortunately, she’s saved from needing to find answers to those burning questions at Dustin and Steve’s return. Unfortunately, she has no time to answer your burning question (or warn a certain Steve of the current predicament) either.
“The coconut ruins it,” Robin hears Steve argue with his mouth full as the two boys materialize in the doorway, both too wrapped up in whatever argument they’re having to see the two occupants staring at them in bemusement and horror.
“The coconut rui- the coconut ruins it!? Steve, the bar is coconut. Coconut is the fundamental component of it,” Dustin sputters.
“I just think it’d be better if it was, like, peanut butter or something.”
Dustin scoffs incredulously. “Then you buy Reese’s or a Bopper! Why would you buy an Almond Joy if you don’t like coconut?”
“I didn’t say I don’t like coconut,” Steve argues, looking at the teen as though he was an idiot. “I just meant it would be better if it wasn’t coconut.”
“You’re insane.”
Robin’s inclined to agree.
She clears her throat. “Hey, so-”
“Whoa! Look who’s up!” Dustin interrupts with a smile, Steve’s head whipping to the side to see you staring at them with wide eyes.
“Whoa, hey! Hey, hey hey hey, wow. Holy shit, hi baby. How long have you been up?”
“Uh, not long,” Robin interjects, voice steadily rising in both volume and pitch. “Listen, we-”
“How are you feeling?” Steve continues as he abandons his coconut monstrosity on a rolling table and makes for your bedside, ignoring Robin and the pointed looks she’s shooting at him. “Are you hurting? Are you thirsty?”
You go to respond but Robin beats you to it. “Steve, I-”
“Have you had any water yet? Robin, where’s her water?” Steve continues, fussing with the blankets that have been untucked from your legs as his eyes flit around the room for the bottle of water he’d set aside for when you needed it. “Why haven’t you given her water yet?”
“We haven’t exactly had time, Steve. Listen-”
“Have you called the nurse?” Steve asks, shaking his head before even waiting for a response. “Dustin, go get a nurse.”
Dustin doesn’t hesitate before he’s jogging out of the room in search of a nurse.
“What’s Robin doin’ to ya, huh?” Steve coos at you as he perches on the edge of your bed and presses a careful kiss to your temple, flagrantly ignoring the way Robin is frantically waving at him and mentally screaming Earth to dingus!! “She’s got terrible bedside manners, can’t even take care of my girl properly.”
You turn your horrified gaze to Robin as though you dating Steve the Hair Harrington is somehow her fault (it is a little bit; she’s the one who re-introduced you two, insisting he was a changed man since high school).
“Steve!” Robin finally shrieks, missing the way you wince at the volume as Steve turns to look at her like she’s grown three heads.
“Well, it’s true! You didn’t even get her water, never flagged a nurse-”
“We didn’t exactly have a lot of time before you two showed up,” Robin counters as Dustin returns.
“The nurses are just doing a shift change, said someone will be with her shortly.” Dustin reports as he hands Steve a new, cold bottle of water for you.
“Okay, alright. That’s alright, yeah?” Steve confirms with you as he cracks it open. “Are you in pain? If you’re in pain, I can go tell them you need help now.”
Robin watches as you take stock of yourself before side-eyeing her. “I…don’t think so.”
“You don’t think you’re in any pain?” Steve asks gently, bending over slightly in an attempt to regain your attention. Robin finds her heart squeezing at how soft he’s being with you.
Your heart seems to do the same, eyes flooding with tears as all three occupants in the room tense at the sight.
“Hey, hey hey hey, what’s the matter, huh? What’s with the tears?”
Robin stands. “Steve, I really-”
“Are you in pain? What hurts?”
“Steve-”
“What, Robin?” Steve finally snaps, turning towards her like she’s a fly that finally landed on a lampshade after spending the entire afternoon bothering the shit out of him.
“She woke up a little…” Robin pauses, looking towards your teary form as she considers how to explain this gently, “confused.”
“Confused?” Steve parrots before turning back to you. “Confused how?”
“Confused as in she didn’t understand why Steve Harrington has been haunting her hospital room.”
Steve’s brows furrow as he considers you before realization dawns on his face.
“Awe, sweetheart,” he sighs. “Okay, I’m sorry you’re confused, baby. You’ll feel better soon, alright?”
The sound that escapes you in response borders a sob. Robin feels a little bit like doing the same.
“Don’t cry, honey,” Steve all but begs as he scooches closer towards you on the bed, one hand grasping yours and leaning his weight on the other as he rests it against the bed by your opposite hip. “Hey, did Robin tell you about the wicked burn Max delivered to Mike earlier?”
Dustin perks up. “Oh man, he got so red; worse when El started repeating it afterwards.”
“Mike accused Max of purposefully turning El against him.” Steve agrees.
“Again. Hey, when they get here, make sure to call Mike a-”
“I don’t want anyone else in here,” you interrupt Dustin quickly, wiping roughly at your face with the hand not currently occupied by Steve’s. “I don’t- it’s…they’re too loud.”
Robin laughs. “Yeah, they are too loud. You comin’ around?”
You suck in a deep, shuddering breath and let out a noncommittal hum in response.
“Okay, no one else will come in here,” Steve agrees, gaze locked onto your face as he rubs his thumb along the back of your knuckles, cautious of the IV taped to the back of your hand. “Do you want any of us to leave?”
The question is innocent enough, though Robin knows he’s mostly asking you if you’d like him to leave.
You shake your head no, though, and give his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Okay,” he whispers, leaning forward to press another kiss to your head and humming at you in question when you lift your chin, obviously asking for a real one.
Steve hesitates, clearly concerned he’s not reading your queues right and wondering if you’re feeling at all more cognizant. Apparently, though, rushing your unconscious girlfriend to the hospital and being without kisses for nearly sixteen hours makes a man a little desperate, finding him ultimately pressing a cautious kiss to your lips anyways.
“You’re okay, hm?” Steve murmurs into the corner of your mouth, dotting a few more kisses to your face before sitting up. “Scared the shit out of me.”
“M’sorry,” your whisper back.
“Yeah, you should be. He’s been insufferable,” Dustin comments, earning him a glare from Steve and a half-smile from you.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, that’s enough out of you, wise guy. What the hell are you two still doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you guys go alert the others that she’s awake?”
“Alright, dingus. Say less,” Robin sighs as she stands, Dustin playfully muttering about how he knows when he’s not wanted.
You pay them no mind, looking up at Steve shyly; it reminds Robin of when the two of you first started hanging out. Awkward, tentative, careful. Steve looks like he’s shielding you from the entire world with the way he’s leaning over your form, you’re looking at him like he might disappear if you blink for too long.
The two of you are disgusting; she loves you both so much.
Robin pauses at the door to take one last look at two of her favourite people, you bite your lip as you ask Steve a question that Robin can’t hear, he chuckles before replying, a little louder, “’course, sweetheart. You can have as many kisses as you want.”
© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.
SUPREME BABYSITTER
Summary: After nearly getting killed by Russians, interdimensional dogs, and one particularly pissed off telekinetic child, you and Steve are supposed to be taking a break. A normal, monster free break.
Warnings: spoiler-free!, based amidst season 2 and 3, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn romance, cuddling, domestic chaos, babysitting kids, mild language, humor, sweet tension, late-night conversations, sleep deprivation, protective behavior, playful teasing, mentions of nightmares, didn’t add Will because Joyce is one protective mother :)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!reader
Words: 12.1k
The thing about surviving the end of the world, multiple times, is that nobody really talks about the after part.
Not the big, dramatic after. Not the hospital visits or the government cover-ups or the NDAs you had to sign while still picking interdimensional goo out of your hair. Not the way the news reported it as a “mall fire” and everyone just… went along with it, because what else were they supposed to do?
No, it’s the small after that gets you.
The way you can’t sleep in your own bed anymore because it’s too quiet, too still, and your brain keeps insisting something’s about to crawl out of your closet. The way the Fourth of July fireworks made you hit the ground in the middle of the street, hands over your ears, while everyone around you cheered and you tried not to throw up. The way grocery stores feel too bright and too loud, and you have to leave your cart in the middle of the cereal aisle because some kid popped a balloon three rows over, and suddenly you’re back in Starcourt, back in the tunnels, back in…
Yeah.
That after.
Hawkins looks normal.
Hawkins is not normal.
It hasn’t been normal since Will Byers came back from the dead in ‘83, and it sure as hell isn’t normal now.
But everyone pretends. That’s what you do here. You pretend the mall fire was just a mall fire. You pretend the town curfew is just a precaution. You pretend you’re fine.
You’re all so good at pretending.
So when Steve Harrington, in all his exhausted, bat-wielding, self-appointed babysitter glory, suggested that maybe you guys should stick together for a while, just until things felt less weird, you’d said yes.
Not because you needed him.
Obviously not.
But because the kids needed supervision, and Steve’s house was bigger than yours, and his parents were never around anyway, and it made logical sense.
That’s what you told yourself.
That’s what you’d been telling yourself for three weeks now.
Three weeks of falling asleep on his couch, of midnight conversations that felt too honest and too raw, of Steve circling the house with a flashlight at 2 AM like some kind of paranoid guard dog. Three weeks of pretending this was temporary, that you’d go back to your normal life any day now.
Any day.
Just… not today.
You woke up on Steve’s couch on a Saturday morning in mid-September, and your first thought was that your neck was going to hurt for the rest of your life.
Your second thought was that you really, really needed to invest in a chiropractor.
Your third thought, the one that actually got you to open your eyes, was that the house was too quiet.
The living room looked like a tornado had torn through a nerd convention. Blankets everywhere, tangled and bunched up in weird formations. Empty Coke cans forming a small, sticky pyramid on the coffee table that you were definitely going to make the kids clean up later. A half-finished bag of Doritos spilled across the floor. Someone’s jacket, Mike’s probably, crumpled in the corner.
And the kids.
God, the kids.
Dustin was drooling on a Dragon’s Lair manual, one arm flung dramatically over his face as if he’d died in a Shakespeare play. His hat had fallen off at some point in the night, and his curls were plastered to his forehead. Max was half inside a sleeping bag, only her mess of red hair visible, one pale hand hanging out and resting on Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas had somehow wedged himself between the couch and the wall, which looked deeply uncomfortable, but he was snoring anyway, so apparently it was fine.
Mike was flat on his back in the middle of the floor, mouth hanging open, looking literally dead. You’d checked on him twice last night just to make sure he was still breathing because he slept like a corpse.
And El—El was the only one who looked peaceful. She was curled up in the armchair, her head resting on a pillow, still wearing Mike’s jacket over her shoulders like a blanket. Her face was relaxed in a way it so rarely was when she was awake, and something about that made your chest hurt a little.
These kids.
These stupid, brave, impossible kids who’d saved the world and were now just sleeping in a pile on Steve Harrington’s living room floor like this was a completely normal slumber party.
You rubbed your eyes, trying to orient yourself.
The VCR clock on the TV said 6:47 AM, the red numbers glowing faintly in the dim room. The curtains were still drawn, but you could see daylight starting to creep in around the edges, that soft grey early-morning light that meant the sun was thinking about rising but hadn’t committed yet.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
That’s what had woken you up, you realized. Not a noise—the absence of noise.
Because Steve was always awake before you. Always. And usually, you could hear him moving around. The coffee pot gurgling in the kitchen. The creak of floorboards as he did his rounds. The soft click of locks being checked, windows being tested, doors being rattled just to make absolutely sure they were secure.
But right now?
Nothing.
You sat up slowly, your spine crackling in protest, and looked around.
That’s when you saw him.
Steve was in the other armchair, the one directly facing the front door, and he was awake. Completely, utterly awake. Still wearing the same clothes from yesterday: jeans that had seen better days, his old Hawkins High sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, white socks with a hole forming near the toe that he kept meaning to throw out but never did.
His hair was a disaster, sticking up in about seven different directions, and there were dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises.
But that’s not what made you freeze.
It was the way he was sitting.
Perched on the edge of the chair, spine rigid, shoulders tense. His hands were gripping his knees, knuckles white. And his eyes—his eyes were locked on the front door with the kind of intensity usually reserved for horror movie protagonists who know something’s coming but don’t know when.
The bat was propped against his knee.
The bat.
That nail-studded baseball bat that had become Steve’s security blanket, his weapon of choice, the thing he kept within arm’s reach at all times now. You’d tried to get him to put it away last week, said it was making the kids nervous, but he’d just looked at you with those hollow eyes and said, “What if something happens and I don’t have it?”
And you hadn’t brought it up again.
Because you got it.
You really, really got it.
“Steve,” you whispered, your voice rough with sleep.
He flinched. Like, actually flinched, his whole body jerking before his head snapped toward you. For just a second—less than a second—you saw something wild in his face. Something cornered and afraid.
Then it smoothed out.
Like a mask sliding into place.
“Oh,” he said quietly, and his voice sounded like gravel, like he’d been awake for hours and hadn’t said a single word until now. “Hey. Didn’t know you were up.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“Steve,” you said again, softer this time. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just…” He gestured vaguely at the door, then seemed to realize how that looked and dropped his hand. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d just, you know. Keep watch.”
“Keep watch,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
“For what?”
His jaw tightened. “Just… in case.”
“In case of what?”
“I don’t know, okay?” It came out sharper than he probably meant it to, and he winced, dragging a hand through his hair and making it even worse. “I just—I thought I heard something. Earlier. Like three hours ago. And I checked, and it was nothing, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about what if it wasn’t nothing, what if I missed something, what if—”
He cut himself off.
Took a breath.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
But his hand was shaking where it rested on his knee, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against denim, and his leg was bouncing in that way it did when he was trying really hard to hold it together and failing.
You knew that feeling.
God, did you know that feeling.
“Steve,” you said, and you pushed yourself up off the couch, careful not to step on anyone as you crossed the living room. Your legs were stiff, protesting the movement, but you made it to his chair and crouched down in front of him so you were eye level. “You didn’t hear anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. Because I was awake too.”
His eyes snapped to yours, and you saw the moment he processed that. The guilt that flashed across his face.
“You were awake?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because you need to sleep, Steve.”
“So do you.”
“Well, neither of us are very good at it, so.” You shrugged, trying for lightness and probably missing by a mile. “Guess we’re both disasters.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess so.”
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. The way his shoulders were hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. The white-knuckle grip he still had on his knees, like if he let go he’d just float away.
This was the guy who’d fought a Demogorgon with a nail bat and won. Who’d taken a beating from Billy Hargrove and kept getting back up. Who’d been tortured by actual Russian soldiers and still managed to crack jokes while his face was still bleeding.
Steve Harrington, Hawkins High’s former king, the guy who threw parties and broke hearts and made it look easy.
Except none of that was who he actually was.
Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.
“Come on,” you said, standing up and holding out your hand. “If you’re not gonna sleep, you might as well make yourself useful.”
He blinked at you. “Useful how?”
“Coffee. You’re making coffee.”
“It’s six in the morning.”
“Yeah, and we’re both awake, so we might as well commit to the bit.”
He stared at your outstretched hand for a long moment, and you could practically see him thinking about arguing. About insisting he was fine, he’d just sit here and keep watching the door, just in case.
But then he sighed.
And took your hand.
His palm was warm and calloused and steady, and for just a second, you let yourself hold on tighter than necessary before pulling him to his feet.
He grabbed the bat automatically, his other hand still wrapped around yours, and you didn’t comment on it.
You just led him into the kitchen.
Steve’s kitchen was weirdly homey in the early morning light.
It was something you’d noticed over the past few weeks, spending so much time here. During the day, with the kids running around and the TV blaring and chaos in every corner, it was easy to see this place as just Steve’s house. Big and empty and a little cold, the kind of house that was built to impress people at dinner parties, not to actually live in.
But in the mornings, when it was just the two of you and the sun was barely up and everything was quiet?
It felt different.
Softer.
The counters were clean. Steve was weirdly meticulous about that, always wiping things down, putting dishes away immediately, like he was trying to maintain some sense of control in a life that had spun completely out of it. There was a little stack of mail by the toaster, bills and flyers that he’d sorted through, and a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet that said “Hawkins Hardware.”
And the Polaroids.
God, the Polaroids.
They were scattered across the fridge door, held up with magnets, a collage of moments from the past few months. Dustin in his Thinking Cap, grinning like he’d just solved world peace. Max mid-skateboard trick, red hair flying, mouth open in a laugh. Lucas and Mike arguing over something, probably D&D. El holding up a waffle like it was a trophy, her face so serious it was adorable.
There was one of you and Robin at Benny’s Burgers, both of you mid-laugh, and you didn’t remember Steve taking it but there it was.
And then, tucked in the corner, half-hidden behind a pizza coupon, there was one of all of you.
You, Steve, Robin, and the kids, crammed into a booth that was way too small, all grinning at the camera. Dustin had taken it. You remembered because he’d been so proud of himself, insisting it was “for posterity” and that one day you’d all look back on this and be grateful he documented it.
At the time, you’d rolled your eyes.
Now, looking at it, you felt something twist in your chest.
Because you all looked happy.
Tired, sure. A little roughed up. Steve had a fading bruise on his jaw in that photo, and your arm was still in a sling from where you’d dislocated your shoulder in the tunnels.
But you were smiling.
All of you.
And Steve had kept the photo.
He’d put it on his fridge.
“You gonna stare at my fridge all morning, or are we doing this coffee thing?”
You jumped, spinning around to find Steve leaning against the counter, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. The bat was propped in the corner now, within reach but not in his hands, which felt like progress.
“I wasn’t staring,” you said.
“You were definitely staring.”
“I was observing.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
His mouth twitched again, that almost-smile that you were starting to recognize as Steve’s version of actually smiling when he was too tired to commit to it fully.
“Okay,” he said, pushing off the counter and moving toward the coffee maker. “Observing what, exactly?”
You shrugged, trying to look casual and probably failing. “Just… you have a lot of pictures.”
“Yeah, well.” He pulled the coffee tin down from the cupboard, popping the lid off and scooping grounds into the filter with the kind of precise focus usually reserved for disarming bombs. “Turns out when you almost die a bunch of times, you start wanting to remember the times you didn’t.”
He said it so simply.
Like it was obvious.
Like it wasn’t the most devastating thing you’d heard all week.
“Steve…”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand, not looking at you, still focused on the coffee like it was the most important task in the world. “Seriously, don’t. It’s too early for… whatever that face is.”
“What face?”
“The face you’re making right now. The ‘oh no, Steve has feelings’ face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You’re absolutely making a face.”
“You’re not even looking at me.”
“I can feel you making the face.”
You bit back a laugh, and he must’ve heard it because his shoulders relaxed a little.
The coffee maker started gurgling and hissing, filling the kitchen with that rich, bitter smell that was starting to feel like home.
When had that happened?
When had Steve’s kitchen started feeling like home?
“So,” Steve said, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms again. He looked more settled now, less like he was going to bolt at any second. “You wanna talk about why you were awake at three in the morning?”
“Not particularly.”
“Cool. Me neither.”
“Great.”
“Awesome.”
You stared at each other.
“Nightmares?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “You?”
“Yeah.”
Of course. Of course he had nightmares. You all did. How could you not, after everything?
The coffee pot beeped, and Steve turned to pour two mugs, handing one to you without asking if you wanted any. You wrapped your hands around it, letting the warmth seep into your palms, and took a sip.
It was perfect.
Of course it was.
Steve made annoyingly perfect coffee, which was unfair because he was already good at too many things and he didn’t need this too.
“Your coffee’s better than mine,” you said.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to sound so smug about it.”
“I’m not smug, I’m just correct.”
“That’s literally the same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, and so was he—an actual smile this time, small but real.
And for just a moment, standing in Steve Harrington’s kitchen at 6 AM on a Saturday morning, holding a mug of coffee that was too hot and probably too strong, you felt something that almost resembled peace.
Almost.
Then Dustin’s voice came from the living room, loud and sleep-rough and way too energetic for this hour: “IS THAT COFFEE? ARE YOU MAKING COFFEE WITHOUT ME?”
Steve’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit…”
“BETRAYAL!” Dustin shrieked. “TREASON!”
“It’s six in the morning!” Steve called back.
“I DON’T CARE! COFFEE IS COFFEE!”
“You’re fourteen, you can’t have coffee!”
“THAT’S AGEISM!”
You were laughing now, actually laughing, and Steve looked at you like you were insane.
“This is your fault,” he said.
“How is this my fault?”
“You made me make coffee! Now he’s awake!”
“Pretty sure Dustin was going to wake up anyway.”
“He sleeps like the dead!”
“Not anymore, apparently.”
Dustin stumbled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in every direction, one sock missing, looking like he’d been recently electrocuted. “Coffee,” he demanded, making grabby hands.
“Absolutely not,” Steve said.
“Steve. Buddy. Pal. Friend of mine.”
“You’re not getting coffee.”
“I saved the world.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I saved the world multiple times.”
“Dustin—”
“I was tortured by Russians.”
Steve’s face did something complicated. “That’s… you can’t just… that’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Coffee. Now.”
You snorted into your mug, and Steve shot you a betrayed look.
“You’re not helping,” he said.
“I’m not trying to help.”
“Clearly.”
He sighed, dragged a hand down his face, and poured Dustin half a mug of coffee, which Dustin accepted like he’d just won the lottery.
“You’re the best babysitter ever,” Dustin said, taking a sip and immediately making a face. “Oh my god, this is disgusting.”
“Then don’t drink it!” Steve said.
“No, no, I’m committed now.” Another sip. Another face. “This is like… bitter sadness in a cup.”
“That’s what coffee is, dude.”
“How do adults drink this?”
“Very tiredly,” you said.
Dustin looked at you, then at Steve, then back at you, and something shifted in his expression. Something calculating.
Oh no.
“So,” he said slowly, that dangerous tone creeping into his voice. “You two are up early.”
“Yeah,” Steve said warily. “So?”
“Together.”
“We’re in the same house, Henderson. Kind of hard to be up separately.”
“In the kitchen. Alone. Drinking coffee.”
“Again, same house.”
“It’s very domestic.”
“I’m going to pour your coffee down the sink.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Steve reached for the mug.
Dustin yelped and danced backward, clutching it to his chest. “This is abuse! This is babysitter abuse!”
“You’re not even supposed to have coffee!”
“And yet here we are!”
The commotion must’ve woken the others because suddenly Max appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Why are you all yelling?”
“Steve’s trying to steal my coffee,” Dustin said.
“Steve made you coffee?” Max looked genuinely surprised.
“No!” Steve said. “I mean—yes, but—he guilted me into it!”
“I used facts and logic.”
“You used emotional manipulation!”
“Same thing.”
Max looked at you. “Is it too early to go back to sleep?”
“Probably,” you said.
“Damn.”
Lucas appeared next, then Mike, both of them looking disoriented and confused. El was the last one up, still wrapped in Mike’s jacket, her hair a mess around her face.
And just like that, the kitchen was full.
Full of kids and noise and chaos and life, and Steve immediately shifted into crisis management mode—telling Mike to stop leaning on the fridge, asking Lucas if he wanted toast, reminding Max that there was orange juice if she wanted it.
He was good at this.
Really good at this.
The whole mom-friend thing that everyone gave him shit for, it wasn’t a joke. It was just who he was. Who he’d become, maybe, after everything.
Someone who kept people safe.
Someone who made sure everyone ate breakfast.
Someone who put pictures on his fridge and made coffee at 6 AM and checked the locks twice because he couldn’t stand the thought of missing something, of failing, of losing anyone else.
You watched him move around the kitchen, handing out food and drinks, and felt that thing in your chest again.
That dangerous, terrifying thing that you’d been trying really hard not to think about.
“Hey.”
You blinked.
El was standing next to you, looking up with those big, serious eyes.
“Hi,” you said.
“You okay?”
The question caught you off guard. Coming from El, who’d been through more than any of them, who’d lost more than any of them, it felt heavier somehow.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’m okay. You?”
She considered this, tilting her head slightly. Then nodded.
“Better now,” she said simply.
And something about that, the simplicity of it, the honesty, made you want to cry.
Because yeah.
You were better now too.
Not fixed. Not healed. Probably not even okay, not really.
But better.
And maybe that was enough.
Breakfast devolved into the usual chaos—Dustin and Mike arguing about whether Empire Strikes Back or Return of the Jedi was better (a debate that had been raging for weeks now with no end in sight), Max trying to convince Lucas that skateboarding was a legitimate sport, El quietly eating her Eggos and watching everyone with that small smile she got sometimes.
Steve made toast.
You helped.
Well, you tried to help, but mostly you just stood next to him at the counter and stole bites of his toast when he wasn’t looking, which made him swat at you with the butter knife.
“You have your own toast,” he said.
“Yeah, but yours tastes better.”
“It’s literally the same toast.”
“No, see, yours has that special Steve Harrington magic.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s absolutely a thing.”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and when you stole another bite he didn’t stop you.
This was nice.
God, this was so nice.
Just… normal. Easy. The kind of morning that felt like it belonged in someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t seen the things you’d seen, someone who got to just exist without checking over their shoulder every five seconds.
But you’d take it.
You’d take every single moment of this, for as long as it lasted.
Which, apparently, was about another ten minutes.
Because that’s when Dustin stood up on his chair—because of course he did—and announced: “Okay. Everyone shut up. I have an idea.”
The room went quiet.
Well, relatively quiet. Mike was still mid-sentence about Ewoks, but Max elbowed him, and he shut up.
“This better be good, Henderson,” Steve said, crossing his arms.
“Oh, it’s good. It’s so good.” Dustin’s grin was absolutely diabolical. “We’ve been here for three weeks, right? And it’s been fine. Great, even. But—”
“Oh no,” Lucas muttered.
“We’re bored.”
“We’re not bored,” Mike said.
“We’re extremely bored,” Max corrected.
“Thank you, Max. We’re extremely bored. And you know what bored teenagers need?”
“Therapy?” you suggested.
Dustin ignored you. “A competition.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of competition?”
“A babysitter competition.”
Silence.
Then Steve laughed. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it though?” Dustin said. “Is it really? Because I think what’s dumb is that we’ve been sitting around pretending that you”—he pointed at Steve—“are the best babysitter, when clearly she”—he pointed at you—“has been pulling equal weight.”
“I never said I was the best babysitter,” Steve protested.
“You literally call yourself the babysitter,” Mike said.
“That’s different!”
“How?”
“It just is!”
You were trying not to laugh. You were failing.
“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Dustin continued, really getting into it now, pacing back and forth like he was presenting a thesis. “We come up with challenges. You both compete. We judge. And at the end, we crown the Supreme Babysitter.”
“Supreme Babysitter,” Steve repeated flatly.
“We’ll make a crown and everything.”
“A crown.”
“Out of pizza boxes, probably.”
Steve looked at you.
You looked at Steve.
“This is insane,” you said.
“Completely insane,” he agreed.
Dustin was practically vibrating with glee. “Oh my god. This is happening. This is actually happening.”
Max high-fived Lucas.
Mike looked at El. “This is going to be hilarious.”
El nodded seriously. “Good.”
And just like that, you were committed.
You and Steve, staring at each other across his kitchen, both of you too competitive for your own good, both of you absolutely not backing down.
“Hope you’re ready to lose, Harrington,” you said.
His grin was sharp and bright and absolutely infuriating. “Hope you’re ready to get destroyed.”
“Bring it.”
“Oh, I’ll bring it.”
“Cool.”
“Great.”
“Awesome.”
Dustin clapped his hands together. “Okay! First challenge starts in twenty minutes. Everyone to the living room. This is going to be legendary.”
The kids scattered immediately, already whispering and planning and scheming, and you were left standing in the kitchen with Steve.
Still staring at each other.
Still grinning like idiots.
“This is so stupid,” you said.
“The stupidest,” he agreed.
“We’re gonna do it anyway, aren’t we?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
You shook your head, laughing, and started to head toward the living room.
But then Steve’s voice stopped you.
“Hey.”
You turned back.
He was standing there, backlit by the morning sun coming through the window, his hair a disaster and his smile soft and real and so, so dangerous to your carefully maintained emotional distance.
“Yeah?” you said.
“Just so you know,” he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re here. Like… here. Not just for this weekend. For all of it.”
Your chest did something complicated.
Something warm and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
“Yeah,” you managed. “Me too.”
He nodded.
You nodded.
And then Dustin yelled, “ARE YOU TWO COMING OR WHAT?” and the moment shattered, but you held onto it anyway.
Twenty minutes later, the living room had been transformed.
And by “transformed,” you meant it looked like a game show had exploded.
The kids had pushed all the furniture to the walls, creating an open space in the center. Someone, probably Max, had strung up a bedsheet between two lamps like a makeshift curtain. El had made a sign using notebook paper and way too many markers that said “SUPREME BABYSITTER CHALLENGE” in big, slightly wobbly letters, and she’d decorated it with little drawings of what you thought were supposed to be crowns but looked more like deformed triangles.
It was chaotic and ridiculous and kind of perfect.
Dustin stood in the middle of the room, holding a clipboard.
A clipboard.
“Where did you even get that?” Steve asked.
“I came prepared,” Dustin said ominously.
“You’ve been planning this.”
“I’ve been planning this since Tuesday.”
“That’s—actually, you know what, I’m not even surprised.”
“You shouldn’t be.” Dustin clicked his pen, because of course he had a pen too, and looked down at his clipboard with the seriousness of a judge presiding over a murder trial. “Okay. Let’s go over the rules.”
“There are rules?” you asked.
“Obviously, there are rules. What kind of competition doesn’t have rules?”
“The fun kind?” Steve tried.
“Wrong. The fun kind has rules, structure, and a clear points system.” Dustin adjusted his hat. “Over the whole day—”
“The whole day?” Steve interrupted.
“Did I stutter?”
“I just—it seems like a lot.”
“Steve. Buddy. We have been cooped up in this house with nothing to do but watch you two make weird eyes at each other for three weeks. We’ve earned a day of entertainment.”
Your face went hot. “We don’t make weird eyes.”
“You absolutely make weird eyes,” Max said from her spot on the couch.
“Like, constantly,” Lucas added.
“It’s honestly painful to watch,” Mike muttered.
El just nodded.
Steve’s ears were bright red. “Can we please just—can we focus on the competition?”
“Great idea,” Dustin said, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “As I was saying. One day. Multiple challenges. Each challenge is worth points. Whoever has the most points at the end wins the title of Supreme Babysitter, plus this.” He gestured dramatically at the crown El was holding.
It was made of pipe cleaners twisted together, covered in aluminum foil, with what looked like bottle caps glued to it as jewels.
It was hideous.
You wanted it immediately.
“I love it, El,” Steve said desperately. “It’s perfect. I’m going to treasure it forever when I win.”
“When you win?” you repeated.
“Yeah. When.”
“You mean if.”
“I meant what I said.”
Dustin cleared his throat loudly. “Are we done? Can I continue explaining the rules that I worked very hard on?”
“Please do,” Max said, looking way too entertained by all of this.
“Thank you, Max. You’re my favorite.” Dustin consulted his clipboard. “Challenge categories include: crisis management, snack preparation, emotional support, creative problem-solving, and, this is important, general vibes.”
“General vibes?” Steve repeated.
“Yeah, like, who has better babysitter energy.”
“That’s completely subjective!”
“All of this is subjective, Steve. We’re the judges. That’s how judging works.”
Lucas raised his hand. “I have a question.”
“Yes, Lucas.”
“Are we allowed to sabotage them?”
“No!” you and Steve said in unison.
Dustin considered this. “Mild sabotage is acceptable.”
“Dustin!”
“What? It makes it more interesting!”
“It makes it unfair!”
“Life is unfair. Also, you both literally saved the world multiple times. I think you can handle some fourteen-year-olds messing with you.”
He had a point.
You hated that he had a point.
“Fine,” you said. “But if anyone tries to sabotage me, I’m sabotaging back.”
“Same,” Steve said.
“That’s the spirit!” Dustin made a note on his clipboard. “Okay, any other questions before we begin?”
Mike raised his hand.
“Yes, Mike.”
“What do we get if we help the winner win?”
Dustin’s eyes lit up. “I’m so glad you asked. We’re splitting into teams. Team Steve—” Max, Lucas, and Mike immediately groaned. “—and Team, uh…” He looked at you. “Do you have a cool nickname?”
“No.”
“You should get a cool nickname.”
“I’m not getting a cool nickname in the next thirty seconds, Dustin.”
“Fine. Team Her. We’ll workshop it. Anyway, winning team gets to pick the movie for the next three movie nights AND gets out of dish duty for a week.”
“Sold,” Max said immediately, standing up and walking over to you. “I’m Team Her.”
“Traitor!” Steve gasped.
“You made me do the dishes last night even though it was Mike’s turn.”
“Because Mike was asleep!”
“Not my problem.”
Lucas stood up too, hesitating for a second before joining Max. “Sorry, Steve. But she’s right. You’re weird about dishes.”
“I’m not weird about dishes! I’m responsible about dishes! There’s a difference!”
Mike looked between you and Steve, clearly torn. Then El tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear.
He sighed. “El says we should be on your team.”
“Yes!” Steve pumped his fist.
“But I’m only doing this because El asked,” Mike added quickly. “Not because I think you’re going to win.”
“I’ll take it.”
Dustin checked his clipboard. “Okay, so teams are set. Max and Lucas are Team Her—we’re still workshopping the name—and Mike and El are Team Steve. I’ll be the neutral judge and scorekeeper because I’m the only one with organizational skills.”
“You literally lost your retainer twice last week,” Lucas pointed out.
“That’s different. That’s an object. This is a system.” Dustin clicked his pen again. “Now. Let’s begin with Challenge One: The Snack Preparation Challenge.”
He said it with such gravity that you almost laughed.
“You have twenty minutes,” Dustin continued, pulling out an actual timer from his pocket—because of course he had a timer—“to prepare the best after-school snack you can manage with the ingredients available in Steve’s kitchen. You’ll be judged on taste, presentation, creativity, and whether or not anyone gets food poisoning.”
“That last one seems important,” you said.
“It’s happened before,” Dustin said darkly.
Steve’s head whipped toward him. “When?!”
“Summer of ‘84. We don’t talk about it.”
“You can’t just say that and not explain!”
“No time! The challenge starts…” He held up the timer dramatically. “Now!”
And then chaos erupted.
You and Steve both bolted for the kitchen at the same time, nearly colliding in the doorway.
“Move!” Steve said.
“You move!” you shot back.
“I live here!”
“That doesn’t give you special kitchen privileges during a competition!”
You hip-checked him out of the way and made it to the fridge first, yanking it open and scanning the contents. Okay. Okay, you could work with this. There was cheese, some deli meat, apples, peanut butter, jelly, bread—standard stuff.
Behind you, you could hear Steve rummaging through the cabinets, muttering under his breath.
Max appeared in the doorway. “Need any help?”
“Aren’t you supposed to stay out of this?” you asked, pulling out the peanut butter and apples.
“Dustin said mild sabotage was allowed. He didn’t say anything about mild assistance.”
You grinned. “What’s Steve making?”
Max peered around the corner. “Looks like… sandwiches? Really boring sandwiches.”
“Perfect.”
Your mind was already racing. Okay, if Steve was going traditional, you needed to go creative. Something that looked impressive but was still actually edible, because knowing these kids, they’d revolt if you made anything too healthy or weird.
Apples. Peanut butter. You could work with that.
You started slicing apples quickly, arranging them on a plate in a fan pattern. Then you grabbed the peanut butter and a spoon, creating a small bowl in the center for dipping. That was too simple, though. You needed more.
“Max, what else is in the pantry?”
“Uh… pretzels, chocolate chips, some granola—”
“Grab the chocolate chips and pretzels.”
She darted off and returned thirty seconds later with both. You scattered them around the plate artfully, creating a little dessert charcuterie situation. It looked good. Really good, actually.
“Shit,” you heard Steve mutter from the other side of the kitchen.
You glanced over. He was making what looked like fancy grilled cheese—not a bad choice, actually. The bread was already in the pan, butter sizzling, and he was layering cheese with the focused intensity of a surgeon.
Competitive Steve was kind of hot.
No. Nope. Not thinking about that right now.
You turned back to your plate, adding a few more touches—some granola for texture, a strategic drizzle of honey you found in the back of the cabinet.
“Thirty seconds!” Dustin called from the living room.
“Shit!” Steve flipped his sandwiches frantically.
You stepped back, surveying your work. It looked like something out of a Pinterest board. The apples were arranged in a perfect circle, the peanut butter bowl was centered, the chocolate chips and pretzels created visual interest—
“Time!” Dustin yelled.
You grabbed your plate.
Steve grabbed his—and immediately dropped it because it was too hot.
“Fuck!” He juggled the plate, nearly sending sandwiches flying, before managing to secure them. His face was red. “I’m fine! It’s fine! Everything’s fine!”
“Real professional, Harrington,” you said sweetly.
“Shut up.”
You both carried your creations into the living room, where the kids had arranged themselves on the couch like judges on a reality show. Dustin had his clipboard. El had produced a notebook from somewhere and was holding a crayon, ready to take notes.
This was absurd.
This was the most absurd thing you’d done in weeks.
You were having so much fun.
“Present your snacks,” Dustin announced.
Steve went first, setting down his plate with a flourish. “Grilled cheese sandwiches. But not just any grilled cheese sandwiches. These are made with three types of cheese—cheddar, swiss, and mozzarella—on sourdough bread with butter. They’re golden brown, perfectly crispy, and scientifically proven to be delicious.”
“Scientifically proven?” Lucas repeated skeptically.
“I watched a cooking show once.”
“That’s not how science works.”
“It’s food science!”
Mike picked up a sandwich and took a bite. His eyes widened. “Oh shit. That’s actually really good.”
“Language,” Steve said automatically.
“You literally just said ‘fuck’ in the kitchen.”
“That was different. That was a crisis situation.”
El tried a bite next, chewing thoughtfully. Then she nodded. “Good,” she said simply, which from El was high praise.
Your turn.
You set down your plate, and there was an immediate reaction.
“Whoa,” Max said.
“That looks fancy,” Lucas added.
“It’s not fancy,” you said. “It’s an apple snack plate. You’ve got sliced apples for dipping in peanut butter, chocolate chips and pretzels for variety, and a little granola and honey for extra flavor. It’s healthy-ish but still fun, and nobody has to turn on the stove.”
“The stove is not a problem!” Steve protested.
“You literally burned yourself just now.”
“On the plate! Not the stove!”
Max grabbed an apple slice, dragged it through the peanut butter, added a chocolate chip, and took a bite. “Oh my god.”
“Good?” you asked hopefully.
“Really good. Like, really, really good.”
Lucas tried it next, then made the same face. “Steve, I’m sorry, but she’s winning this round.”
“What?! My grilled cheese is perfect!”
“Your grilled cheese is great,” Mike said diplomatically. “But this is like… I don’t know, it feels less like babysitter food and more like mom friend food.”
“That’s the same thing!”
“It’s really not.”
Dustin was scribbling notes furiously. “Okay, scores. For taste: Steve gets an 8, she gets a 9. For presentation: Steve gets a 7, she gets a 10. For creativity: Steve gets a 6, she gets a 9. For avoiding food poisoning: both get a 10 because nobody’s dying yet.”
“Yet?” Steve repeated.
“It’s only been two minutes. Give it time.” Dustin tallied up the scores. “Final score for Challenge One: Steve, 31 points. Her, 38 points. She wins!”
“Yes!” You pumped your fist while Max and Lucas cheered.
Steve stared at his grilled cheese like it had personally betrayed him. “I can’t believe I lost to apples.”
“Not just apples,” you said smugly. “Apples with presentation.”
“I hate this. I hate this competition.”
“You’re just mad because you’re losing.”
“I’m not mad, I’m motivated. There’s a difference.”
“Sure there is.”
He pointed at you with a spatula that he was still holding for some reason. “Next challenge. I’m coming for you.”
“Bring it, Harrington.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
Dustin interrupted your stare-down by clearing his throat. “Okay, lovebirds, save it for the next challenge. We’re moving on to Challenge Two: Crisis Management.”
“Lovebirds?” you and Steve said simultaneously.
“Did I stutter?” Dustin checked his clipboard. “This one’s going to be fun. Here’s the scenario: Mike just called from the Wheeler house. He’s locked himself in the bathroom, there’s a spider the size of a dinner plate, and he’s crying. What do you do?”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “I would never—”
“It’s hypothetical, Mike.”
“It’s character assassination!”
“Do you want to be on Steve’s team or not?”
Mike crossed his arms and slumped back on the couch, muttering something about defamation.
Dustin continued: “You have five minutes to talk through your crisis management approach. Judges will score based on practicality, speed, empathy, and overall effectiveness. Steve, you’re up first.”
Steve set down his spatula—finally—and crossed his arms, getting into what you were starting to recognize as his Problem-Solving Stance. “Okay. First, I’d call him back and tell him to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
“He’s crying,” Dustin interjected. “He can’t calm down.”
“Then I’d tell him to breathe anyway. Slowly.”
“The spider is moving toward him.”
“Then I’d tell him to throw a towel over it.”
“He’s in the bathroom. He can’t reach the towels without getting closer to the spider.”
“Then…” Steve paused, thinking. “Then I’d tell him to use toilet paper. Bunch it up, trap the spider, flush it.”
“Interesting approach,” Dustin made a note. “Pros: practical, uses available materials. Cons: requires Mike to get very close to the spider, which given his current panic state seems unlikely. Also, possible plumbing issues.”
“Okay, fine. Then I’d get in my car and drive to his house.”
“It’s a fifteen-minute drive.”
“Then I’d drive really fast.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Hopper’s not going to pull me over for saving Mike from a spider!”
“Hopper absolutely would pull you over.”
Steve dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. “Fine. Then I’d call Mrs. Wheeler and ask her to help.”
“She’s not home. No one’s home except Mike.”
“This is an impossible scenario!”
“That’s the point. It’s crisis management.” Dustin turned to you, grinning. “Your turn.”
You thought about it for a second. “Okay, first, I’d stay on the phone with him the whole time. Keep him talking, keep him distracted.”
“Good start,” Dustin said.
“Then I’d ask him what the spider’s doing. Is it moving? Is it just sitting there?”
“It’s sitting there,” Mike supplied, now invested. “On the wall. Above the door.”
“Perfect. So it’s not an immediate threat. I’d tell him that most spiders are more scared of us than we are of them, and this one probably just wants to be left alone.”
“He’s still crying,” Dustin said.
“Then I’d tell him a joke. Or ask him about the campaign he’s working on. Something to get his mind off it.”
“While he’s trapped in a bathroom?”
“He’s not trapped. He can leave anytime. The spider’s above the door, not blocking it. So I’d walk him through it—count to three, open the door fast, duck under where the spider is, and get out.”
Max nodded. “That’s actually pretty smart.”
“And if the spider moves?” Dustin pressed.
You shrugged. “Then I tell him it’s okay if he needs to wait until someone gets home. I’d stay on the phone with him. Put on a movie at the same time so we’re watching together. Make it feel less scary.”
Dustin scribbled more notes, nodding slowly. “Okay. Scores. Steve: practicality 7, speed 6, empathy 5, overall effectiveness 6. Total: 24.”
“A five on empathy?” Steve protested.
“You told him to calm down while he was crying. That’s literally what not to do.”
“I—okay, fair.”
“Her turn.” Dustin tallied the numbers. “Practicality 8, speed 7, empathy 10, overall effectiveness 9. Total: 34. She wins again!”
“Yes!” Max and Lucas high-fived.
Steve looked genuinely stunned. “How are you winning everything?”
“Because I’m better at this than you.”
“You are not.”
“Scoreboard says otherwise, Harrington.”
He stepped closer, that competitive fire sparking in his eyes again. “This isn’t over.”
“It really isn’t,” you agreed. “Because you’re still losing.”
“Challenge Three!” Dustin announced. “Starting in ten minutes. This one’s going to be good.”
The third challenge was “Emotional Support,” which sounded ominous and was somehow worse than it sounded.
“Scenario,” Dustin said, reading from his clipboard with way too much glee. “Lucas and Max just had a fight. They’re not talking to each other. Lucas is sulking in the basement, Max is rage-skateboarding in the driveway, and the rest of us are stuck in the middle. How do you fix it?”
Lucas and Max immediately started protesting.
“We don’t fight that much!” Lucas said.
“Yes we do,” Max said.
“Okay, yes we do, but we don’t need a scenario about it!”
“It’s for educational purposes,” Dustin said primly.
“It’s for humiliation purposes,” Max muttered, but she was smiling a little.
Steve went first again, and you could tell he was taking this one more seriously. He sat down on the coffee table, hands clasped, and actually thought about it.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “First, I’d talk to them separately. Give them space to vent without making it worse.”
“Good start,” Dustin said.
“I’d ask Lucas what happened from his perspective. Let him explain. Not take sides, just listen.”
“And then?”
“Then I’d do the same with Max. Hear her side.”
“And if their stories completely contradict each other?”
Steve hesitated. “Then… then I’d point out that they’re both probably right, from their own perspectives. And that it’s okay to see things differently.”
Mike was nodding. “That’s actually decent advice.”
“Then I’d—” Steve paused, looking uncomfortable. “I’d probably tell them that fighting happens. It sucks, but it’s normal. And that they’re both too stubborn to stay mad at each other for long anyway.”
“Would you make them apologize?” Dustin asked.
“Not right away. I’d let them cool off first. Maybe put on a movie, order pizza, let them sit on opposite sides of the couch until they naturally gravitate back together.” He shrugged. “They always do.”
It was sweet.
It was genuinely sweet, and from the look on Max and Lucas’s faces, it was also accurate.
Dustin made notes. “Okay. Solid approach. Your turn.”
You took a breath, thinking about all the times you’d played mediator with the kids over the past few weeks. “I’d start the same way—talk to them separately. But I’d also ask them what they think would help. Like, what do they need from each other right now? An apology? Space? A do-over of the conversation?”
“Giving them agency,” Dustin said. “Interesting.”
“Yeah. Because sometimes people don’t want you to fix it, they just want to be heard. So I’d validate their feelings—tell Lucas it’s okay to be hurt, tell Max it’s okay to be angry. And then I’d ask if they want help talking it out, or if they’d rather work through it on their own.”
“And if they want help?”
“Then I’d sit with both of them and let them talk. Keep it from escalating. Remind them that they care about each other when they start forgetting that.”
El was watching you with those intense eyes of hers. “That’s what you did. When Mike and I fought.”
You blinked. “When—oh. Yeah. I guess I did.”
“It helped,” she said simply.
Your chest did that warm, tight thing again.
Dustin was tallying scores. “Steve: 28 points. Her: 35 points. She’s still winning!”
Steve dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it,” you said, trying not to sound too smug and definitely failing.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m enjoying it exactly the right amount.”
He looked up, and despite the competitive frustration written all over his face, he was smiling. Really smiling. “Okay. Okay, fine. You’re good at this.”
“I know.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
“Challenge Four!” Dustin interrupted. “And this one’s the big one. The tiebreaker, if you will.”
“It’s not a tiebreaker if she’s winning,” Steve pointed out.
“It’s a dramatic reveal. Work with me here.” Dustin straightened his shoulders. “Challenge Four: General Vibes. Also known as the popularity contest.”
“Oh no,” you said.
“Oh yes. Each team gets to explain why their babysitter is the best. You two can’t say anything in your own defense. This is all about what we think.” He looked at Max and Lucas. “Team Her—we’re still workshopping the name—you’re up first.”
Max stood up like she was about to give a speech at the UN. “Okay, here’s the thing about her.” She gestured at you. “She doesn’t try too hard. Like, Steve’s great—”
“Thanks?” Steve said.
“—but he’s always in Dad Mode. Always worrying, always checking on us, always acting like we’re going to die if we’re out of his sight for five minutes.”
“Because you might!” Steve protested.
“Let her finish,” Dustin said.
Max continued: “But she’s different. She worries too, but she also treats us like actual people. She asks our opinions. She doesn’t freak out when we want to do something slightly dangerous—”
“Define ‘slightly dangerous,’” you interrupted nervously.
“—and she’s funny. Like, genuinely funny, not just dad-joke funny.”
“My jokes are funny!” Steve said.
“Your jokes are painful,” Lucas said, standing up to join Max. “But yeah, she’s cool. She doesn’t make a big deal out of stuff. And she’s not always trying to be the hero, you know? She just… is.”
Your face was hot. You hadn’t expected this to feel so sincere.
“Also,” Max added, “she always takes my side when I’m arguing with the boys.”
“That’s blatant favoritism!” Mike called out.
“It’s called having good taste!” Max shot back.
Dustin made notes, nodding. “Compelling arguments. Team Steve, your turn.”
Mike stood up reluctantly, dragging El with him. “Okay, look. Steve’s annoying.”
“Great start, Mike,” Steve said flatly.
“But he cares. Like, really cares. He’s driven into literal hell multiple times to save us. He’s taken beatings for us. He’s—” Mike’s voice cracked slightly. “He’s always there. Even when we’re being annoying or ungrateful or whatever. He doesn’t give up on us.”
Steve’s expression softened.
El spoke up next, her voice quiet but steady. “Steve makes me feel safe. When things are scary, he’s there. He protects us.” She looked at Steve directly. “You’re a good friend.”
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Dustin cleared his throat, looking suspiciously emotional. “Okay. Scores for Challenge Four…” He scribbled some numbers. “This one’s close. Really close.”
“How close?” Steve asked.
“She’s still winning overall, but you pulled ahead in this round.” Dustin looked up. “Final scores: Steve, 95 points. Her, 107 points. She’s the Supreme Babysitter!”
The room erupted.
Max and Lucas were cheering, shouting about their victory. Mike was arguing that the scoring system was flawed. El was watching everything with that small smile. And Steve—
Steve was looking at you with this expression you couldn’t quite read. Pride, maybe? Amusement? Something softer underneath it all?
“Congratulations,” he said, holding out his hand.
You shook it, his palm warm and solid against yours. “Thanks. You put up a good fight.”
“Not good enough, apparently.”
“Hey, you got ‘good friend’ from El. That’s basically worth more than any crown.”
His smile went crooked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Dustin thrust the hideous pipe cleaner crown at you. “Your prize, Supreme Babysitter!”
You took it, turning it over in your hands. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
You loved it.
After dinner, after the kids had been wrangled into cleaning up (with minimal complaining because you’d invoked your Supreme Babysitter privileges), after the dishwasher was loaded and the counters were wiped down and someone had spilled juice on the floor and cleaned it up, everyone migrated back to the living room.
Movie night was a sacred tradition now.
It took twenty minutes to agree on a movie—The Goonies, finally, because it was the only thing that didn’t have someone vetoing it—and then another ten minutes to get everyone settled with blankets and pillows and optimal seating arrangements.
You ended up on the couch next to Steve, because of course you did.
The kids were sprawled on the floor in their usual nest formation, already yelling at the TV even though the movie had barely started.
“This is the best part!” Dustin announced as the opening credits rolled.
“The movie just started,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, and it’s already the best part!”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
“You don’t make any sense!”
Steve leaned over, his shoulder pressing against yours. “They’re gonna argue through the whole movie, aren’t they?”
“Absolutely,” you whispered back.
“And we’re just gonna let them.”
“Obviously.”
His smile was soft in the flickering TV light. “Good.”
You should’ve moved away. Put some distance between you. The couch was big enough that you didn’t need to be sitting this close, your thighs touching, his arm warm against yours.
But you didn’t move.
And neither did he.
The movie played on, and gradually, the kids started to settle down. The arguments faded into occasional commentary, then into sleepy silence. One by one, they started to doze off—Dustin first, always the first to fall asleep during movies, then Lucas, then Mike.
Max lasted longer, fighting it, but eventually her head drooped onto Lucas’s shoulder.
El was the last one awake, but even she was fading, curled up against Mike.
“Out like lights,” Steve murmured.
“Every time.”
“You’d think they’d learn to pace themselves.”
“They never do.”
You were both whispering now, careful not to wake anyone. The movie was still playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore.
“So,” Steve said quietly. “Supreme Babysitter.”
“I know. It’s a lot of responsibility.”
“How are you handling the power?”
“With grace and humility.”
He snorted softly. “Right. That’s exactly what I’d call you. Humble.”
“I’m humble! I’m the most humble person you’ve ever met.”
“That’s not how humility works.”
“Sounds like something a sore loser would say.”
He turned to look at you, and suddenly he was very close. Close enough that you could count his eyelashes, see the little flecks of gold in his brown eyes, notice the tiny scar on his chin from god knows what fight or accident or brush with death.
“I’m not a sore loser,” he said.
“You kind of are.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
Your breath caught. “Steve—”
“You were really good today,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “With the kids. You’re always good with them.”
“So are you.”
“It’s different. You make it look easy.”
“It’s not easy. Nothing about this is easy.”
“I know. But you make it look like it is. And that’s—” He stopped, swallowed. “That’s really something.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
The TV cast blue-grey light across his face, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. How easy it would be to just lean in a little more. Close that gap.
How much you wanted to.
“Steve,” you said again, softer this time.
He was looking at your mouth.
You were definitely looking at his.
This was happening. This was really happening. After weeks of dancing around it, of pretending you weren’t feeling what you were feeling, of late night conversations and shared looks and moments that felt too big to fit in your chest—
Dustin snored. Loud and sudden and completely momentum-killing.
You both jumped apart like you’d been electrocuted.
Steve cleared his throat. “I should—we should probably get them to bed.”
“Right. Yeah. Definitely.”
“Before they wake up with neck injuries.”
“Good thinking.”
But neither of you moved for a long moment, just sitting there in the TV light, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Then Steve stood up, running a hand through his hair, and started the process of waking up kids and herding them toward sleeping bags and blankets and whatever makeshift beds they’d claimed.
You helped, of course.
And if your hands brushed when you were both tucking a blanket around El, neither of you mentioned it.
You woke up on the couch again the next morning, the pipe cleaner crown somehow still on your head, digging into your scalp at an uncomfortable angle.
The house was quiet. Properly quiet this time, the kind that meant everyone was actually still asleep and it was genuinely early.
You sat up slowly, your neck protesting, and squinted at the VCR clock. 6:23 AM.
Great. Your body had apparently decided that six-something in the morning was just your wake-up time now, regardless of how late you’d stayed up or how little sleep you’d gotten.
You pulled the crown off, setting it carefully on the coffee table—you’d won that thing fair and square, you weren’t about to crush it—and looked around.
The living room was a disaster zone. Again. Blankets everywhere, empty popcorn bowls, someone’s shoes in the middle of the floor. Dustin was drooling on Mike’s shoulder. Max was somehow upside down in her sleeping bag. Lucas had migrated halfway under the couch, which seemed both uncomfortable and structurally impressive.
El was sitting up in the armchair, wide awake, watching you.
You jumped about a foot in the air, pressing a hand to your chest. “Jesus—El. How long have you been awake?”
“A while,” she said simply.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
She shrugged. “You looked tired.”
That was… actually really sweet.
You rubbed your eyes, trying to force your brain into something resembling consciousness. “Can’t sleep?”
“Bad dreams,” El said quietly.
Your heart clenched. “You want to talk about it?”
She considered this, tilting her head in that way she did when she was thinking hard about something. Then she shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Okay. But if you do want to talk, I’m here. You know that, right?”
“I know.” She paused. “You’re good at that. Listening.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“That’s why you won yesterday.”
You smiled. “I don’t know about that. I think I just got lucky.”
“No.” El was very serious now, looking at you with those intense eyes that always felt like they were seeing more than they should. “You won because you care. And you don’t try to fix everything. You just… stay.”
Something about that hit harder than it should have.
“Yeah, well,” you said, your voice coming out rougher than intended. “You guys make it pretty easy to stay.”
El smiled—small and genuine—and then turned her attention back to the sleeping pile of kids. “Steve was awake too. Earlier.”
“Was he?”
“He checked the doors. Three times.”
Of course he did.
“Is he asleep now?” you asked.
El nodded. “In the kitchen. At the table.”
You sighed. That sounded about right. Steve probably couldn’t make it back to his actual bedroom, so he’d just… passed out at the kitchen table like some kind of exhausted dad who fell asleep doing the bills.
“I’m gonna go check on him,” you said, standing up and stretching. Your spine made concerning cracking sounds. “You good here?”
“Yes.”
El was right.
Steve was slumped over the kitchen table, one arm pillowed under his head, the other hanging limply at his side. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes—jeans and that Hawkins High sweatshirt, now even more rumpled than before. His hair was a complete disaster, sticking up in every possible direction.
The nail bat was leaning against his chair.
Of course it was.
For a moment, you just stood there, looking at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, visible even in sleep. At the tension that never quite left his shoulders. At the way his hand was curled into a loose fist, like even unconscious he was ready to fight something.
Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ reluctant hero, currently drooling slightly on his own kitchen table at six thirty in the morning.
Your heart did that stupid fluttering thing again.
You were so screwed.
“Steve,” you said softly, walking over and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”
He jerked awake with a sharp inhale, his hand immediately going for the bat before his eyes were even fully open.
“Whoa, whoa!” You stepped back, hands up. “It’s just me!”
Steve blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself, his chest heaving. Then recognition dawned, and his whole body sagged. “Shit. Sorry. I—sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I could’ve hit you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could’ve—”
“Steve.” You moved closer again, keeping your voice gentle. “It’s okay. You didn’t. I’m fine.”
He dragged a hand down his face, and when he looked up at you, he looked so tired. Bone-deep, exhausted tired. “What time is it?”
“Early. Six thirty-ish.”
“Why are you awake?”
“Why are you asleep at the kitchen table?”
He looked around like he was just now realizing where he was. “I was… I was checking the perimeter. Must’ve sat down for a second.”
“Steve, you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” You gestured at him, at the bat, at the whole situation. “Not sleeping. Staying up all night checking doors and windows. Running yourself into the ground.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You just tried to hit me with a bat.”
“I didn’t actually—”
“Steve.”
He went quiet, jaw working like he was trying to find the right words and coming up empty.
You pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “When’s the last time you actually slept? Like, really slept. More than a couple hours.”
“I sleep.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I sleep enough.”
“Also not an answer.”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands on the table. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t sleep. Not really. I try, and I just…” He made a frustrated gesture. “I see it all again. The tunnels, the Russians, the—everything. And then I’m awake and I can’t stop thinking about what if something happens while I’m sleeping? What if something gets in and I don’t wake up in time? What if—”
He cut himself off, his hand curling into a fist on the table.
You reached out slowly, carefully, and put your hand over his. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But Steve—you can’t protect everyone all the time. You can’t stay awake forever.”
“I can try.”
“You’re going to kill yourself trying.”
The words came out harsher than you meant them to, but they were true and you both knew it.
Steve’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going to—”
“You fell asleep at the kitchen table. With a nail bat. After checking the doors three times.” You squeezed his hand. “Steve, that’s not sustainable. That’s not… you can’t live like this.”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Let someone else help. Let me help.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were so raw it hurt. “You’re already helping. You’re here. That’s—that’s more than—”
His voice cracked, and he looked away quickly, like he was embarrassed.
“Hey.” You waited until he looked back. “You don’t have to do this alone. You know that, right? You’re not—we’re in this together. All of us. Me, Robin, the kids. You’re not the only one who’s responsible for keeping everyone safe.”
“Feels like I am sometimes.”
“Well, you’re not. And I’m not gonna let you burn out because you think you have to be some kind of solo superhero.” You stood up, tugging on his hand. “Come on.”
“What—where are we going?”
“You’re going to bed. Your actual bed. Not the couch, not the kitchen table. Your bed.”
“I can’t just—”
“You absolutely can. The kids are asleep. I’m awake. I’ll keep watch.”
He started to protest, then stopped, something shifting in his expression. “You’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay.”
“And if something—”
“Then I’ll wake you up. But nothing’s going to happen, Steve. It’s Sunday morning in Hawkins. The most dangerous thing happening right now is Dustin’s snoring.”
That got a small smile out of him. Tiny, but there.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay, but just for a couple hours.”
“However long you need.”
“A couple hours,” he insisted.
“Sure, Steve. A couple hours.”
You both knew that was a lie, but he let you pull him to his feet anyway.
Steve’s bedroom was on the second floor, down a hallway lined with family photos that looked staged and impersonal. His room was surprisingly normal—a double bed with navy blue sheets that were actually made, a desk with homework he’d probably never finished scattered across it, a dresser with cologne and loose change on top. Posters on the walls: a couple of bands, a sports car, a Risky Business poster that made you snort.
“Don’t,” Steve said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it really loud.”
“I’m just thinking that you have very interesting taste in movies.”
“Everyone loves that movie.”
“Everyone loves that scene from that movie. There’s a difference.”
He was too tired to argue, which was probably for the best. He just kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, face-first into the pillow.
“You’re not even going to get under the covers?” you asked.
“Too much effort,” came his muffled response.
You rolled your eyes, grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, and threw it over him. He made a sound that might’ve been “thanks” or might’ve been just general exhaustion.
“I’m setting an alarm,” he mumbled. “Two hours.”
“You’re not setting an alarm.”
“Yes I am.”
“Steve, you can barely move.”
“’M fine…” His words were already slurring. “Just… couple hours…”
You sat down on the edge of the bed, and his hand found yours in that automatic way that was becoming familiar. His fingers threaded through yours, holding on even as his breathing started to even out.
“Stay?” he asked, barely conscious now.
“I’m staying.”
“Good. That’s… that’s good…”
And then he was out.
Like actually, completely unconscious in the way only truly exhausted people can be. His face relaxed, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders, his hand still holding yours but looser now.
You should’ve left. Should’ve gone back downstairs, kept an eye on the kids, let Steve sleep without you sitting here like some kind of creepy sentinel.
But you stayed.
Because he’d asked you to. Because he looked so peaceful like this, more peaceful than you’d seen him in weeks. Because some part of you needed to make sure he was okay, even though you knew that was ridiculous.
So you sat on the edge of Steve Harrington’s bed, holding his hand, watching the morning light creep through his window, and thought about how completely and utterly screwed you were.
You meant to stay for just a few minutes.
You really did.
But Steve’s bed was comfortable, and his hand was warm in yours, and you were so tired, and it had been such a long few weeks, and before you knew it you were listing sideways, then lying down on top of the covers next to him, and then—
You woke up to whispering.
Very loud, very obvious whispering that was clearly meant to be quiet but was failing spectacularly.
“Oh my god.”
“Dustin, shut up—”
“Are they—they’re totally—”
“If you wake them up, I’m going to kill you.”
“Max, we need photographic evidence—”
Your eyes flew open.
Five kids were standing in Steve’s bedroom doorway, various expressions of delight, shock, and smugness on their faces. Dustin had a camera. Max was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Lucas looked vaguely uncomfortable. Mike seemed caught between amusement and horror. El just looked pleased.
It took you a second to remember where you were.
Steve’s bed. You were in Steve’s bed. Still on top of the covers, still fully clothed, but definitely, undeniably in Steve’s bed.
And Steve—
Steve was pressed against your back, one arm slung over your waist, his face buried in your hair, still completely dead to the world.
You’d fallen asleep.
You’d both fallen asleep.
Cuddling.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
The camera flashed.
“DUSTIN!”
Steve jerked awake with a startled “What—” and immediately tried to sit up, which just resulted in him rolling off the bed and landing on the floor with a solid thud.
“Ow. Fuck. What—” He was blinking rapidly, hair sticking up in every direction, looking completely disoriented. Then he saw the kids. “What the hell are you all doing in my room?”
“Bearing witness,” Dustin said solemnly.
“Witnessing what?”
“Your feelings,” Max said, like it was obvious.
Steve looked at you, still lying on his bed. You looked back at Steve, currently on his floor. Both of you were blushing so hard you probably looked sunburned.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Steve tried.
“It looks like you two were cuddling,” Lucas said.
“We weren’t—we were just—she was—”
“I was making sure he slept,” you said, finally finding your voice and sitting up. “That’s it. He hasn’t been sleeping, so I made sure he actually slept for once.”
“By cuddling,” Dustin said.
“By staying in the room—”
“While cuddling.”
“We weren’t cuddling!”
“You literally had your arm around her, Steve,” Mike pointed out.
Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I was asleep! I didn’t know—I wasn’t consciously—”
“So you unconsciously cuddled,” Max said. “That’s actually even better. That means it’s instinct.”
“Oh my god,” you said, dropping your face into your hands.
“Oh my god,” Steve echoed, still on the floor.
El stepped forward from the group, and everyone went quiet. When El wanted to say something, people listened.
She looked at Steve, then at you, then back at Steve.
“It’s okay,” she said simply. “We already knew.”
“Knew what?” Steve asked warily.
“That you like each other.”
“We don’t—” you started.
“You do,” El said, with the kind of certainty only El could have. “It’s obvious. You’re always together. You look at each other a lot. Steve makes you coffee the way you like it without asking. You fixed his jacket collar on Tuesday. Mike does the same thing with me.”
Mike’s face went red. “El—”
“It’s nice,” El continued, ignoring him. “You should just tell each other.”
The room went silent.
You were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing.
Steve was staring at El like she’d just announced she could read minds—which, honestly, maybe she could. You wouldn’t put it past her at this point.
“I—” Steve started, then seemed to lose all his words.
You weren’t doing much better. Your brain had just completely shut down. Blue-screened. Error 404, thoughts not found.
Dustin cleared his throat. “So, uh, just to confirm for the records: are you two dating or…?”
“No!” you and Steve said simultaneously.
“But you want to be,” Max said. It wasn’t a question.
More silence.
Lucas whispered to Dustin: “I think we broke them.”
“Okay!” you said, suddenly finding the ability to move again and standing up from the bed. “Okay, this has been a delightful morning ambush, but I think it’s time for everyone to go back downstairs. Now.”
“But—” Dustin started.
“Now, Henderson.”
“Fine, but this conversation isn’t over!” he said as Max physically dragged him out of the room.
Lucas and Mike followed, Mike still looking embarrassed but unable to hide his smile. El was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway to look back at both of you.
“It’s okay to be happy,” she said quietly. “You both deserve that.”
And then she was gone, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Leaving you and Steve alone.
In his bedroom.
After you’d been caught cuddling.
After El had basically announced to everyone that you had feelings for each other.
“So,” Steve said from the floor.
“So,” you echoed.
“That happened.”
“Yep.”
“El might be psychic.”
“That would explain a lot, actually.”
He laughed—sharp and surprised—and then pushed himself to his feet, running a hand through his already disastrous hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I was asleep, I didn’t know I—”
“Steve, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, you were just trying to help and I made it weird—”
“You didn’t make it weird.”
“I literally cuddled you in my sleep!”
“Unconscious cuddling doesn’t count!”
“How does unconscious cuddling not count?!”
“Because—” You stopped, took a breath. This was ridiculous. This whole thing was ridiculous. “Because I didn’t mind.”
Steve froze. “You… didn’t?”
“No. I didn’t.” Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Mind. Would you have minded? If you’d been awake?”
He stared at you for a long moment, and you watched his expression shift through about seven different emotions before landing on something that looked like determination.
“No,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Okay,” you said.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
You were standing in the middle of Steve’s bedroom, the morning sun streaming through the window, kids probably eavesdropping on the other side of the door, having the most awkward conversation of your entire life.
And somehow, it was perfect.
“So,” Steve said, taking a step closer. “El thinks we like each other.”
“Apparently.”
“And that we should tell each other.”
“That’s what she said.”
“And you didn’t disagree with her.”
Your mouth went dry. “Neither did you.”
He took another step closer, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that you could see the flecks of green in his eyes again, close enough that you could count the moles on his neck, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“I really want to kiss you right now,” he said, voice low and rough and honest.
Your breath caught. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I also really don’t want our first kiss to happen right after I fell off a bed and got ambushed by teenagers, so—”
You kissed him.
Just leaned up and closed the distance and pressed your mouth to his, cutting off his rambling in the best possible way.
For half a second, he froze, surprised. Then he made this small sound in the back of his throat and kissed you back, his hands coming up to cup your face, gentle and sure and perfect.
It was soft. Careful. A little bit awkward because all first kisses were a little bit awkward, but also somehow exactly right.
When you pulled back, Steve’s eyes were still closed, his lips curved into a smile.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, that was—”
“Yeah.”
“We should probably—”
“Yeah.”
“But later, right? We can talk about this later?”
“Definitely later.”
His smile widened, and then he kissed you again, quick and sweet, before stepping back. “Okay. Okay, cool. That happened.”
“It did.”
“And you’re—you’re okay with that?”
“Steve, I literally just kissed you. Yes, I’m okay with that.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He was grinning like an idiot now, and it was possibly the cutest thing you’d ever seen. “We should probably go deal with the kids before they break something.”
“Probably.”
overcompensating
alpha!jack abbot x omega!fem!reader. a/b/o au and dynamics, references to omega discrimination, scenting, instincts, penetrative sex, fingering, sex at work, power imbalance, brat taming, praise, possessiveness, unprotected sex.
word count: 2.4k
a/n: I dont feel great about this one tbh... i dont think i captured the dynamic quite as well as i'd hoped to. but hopefully ya'll enjoy :')
Jack’s really not sure what your problem is.
You’re stubborn, headstrong, overly ambitious, and oftentimes just shy of rude. All of which are things Jack has come to expect from omegas after years of working with them in such a high-stakes environment— most take on an overly-harsh exterior to counteract the stigma they face. It’s a survival mechanism, a necessary precaution in order to be taken seriously and have any chance of success in a profession that’s dominated by alphas and deals with countless assholes day in and day out.
Jack doesn’t begrudge them. He knows that working in the Pitt— or in emergency medicine, or in any medical setting, for that matter— isn’t easy for omegas. He tries to keep that in mind and act accordingly. He works hard to foster a good work environment for everyone on his crew.
He likes to think he does a halfway decent job. And, seemingly, most of the omegas that have passed through his supervision over the years would agree. Once they see how he runs things they usually start to let their guards down a bit. They stop entering every situation with their teeth bared and hackles raised. They speak their minds with confidence rather than nervous aggression. They accept his teaching without assuming he’s trying to undermine them.
They even start to give in to their instincts a bit, without fear that he’ll think of them as weak or take advantage of their vulnerability. They allow themselves to preen under his praise, submit under his command, and settle under his comfort.
Not you. You’ve been here for 3 months now and he can still feel your eyes tracking him through every room like you’re waiting for him to pounce. You still respond to everything he asks through clenched teeth, like you’re bracing for backlash that never comes. You still roll your eyes at every one of his jokes and question every one of his orders.
Tonight is no different. If Jack took a shot every time you rolled your eyes, scowled, or talked back to him, his name would be up on the patient board.
He should find it infuriating. Part of him— the most basic, primitive part— does. You give him the urge to snap his teeth and growl, make you show him some respect.
The rest of Jack finds you… interesting. Exciting. Jack loves a challenge, and you pose a very fun one. He’s determined to figure you out.
Jack tracks you down after shift change. He finds you in the empty room of the last patient you discharged. You’re hunched over your rolling computer cart, finishing up some charting.
When he walks in you look startled, then cornered, then extremely irritated.
“You know, I came in here for some peace and quiet.”
“Do you have some kind of problem with me?” Jack asks, choosing to ignore your snide greeting. You eye him for a moment, like you’re deciding whether you want to tell the truth or not. He raises a brow and waits.
“You clearly don’t trust me with the patients.” You eventually say, stony. Not true. “You’re always— hovering. Like you’re waiting for me to slip up. But I’m not gonna slip up”
Anxiety and vulnerability roll off you in waves, souring your scent. When Jack smells it he desperately aches to soften. To gather you in his arms and rumble out assurances. I know you won’t, little omega. You do such a good job. You’re so good. It takes everything in him to stifle the urge.
“I’m your attending,” he says calmly, careful to keep his voice even. “It’s kinda my job to keep an eye on you. Y’know, to attend.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re not my attending.” You grind out the words, and maybe Jack’s reading into it, but you sound… bitter? Jealous? “You and Shen are the attendings. Supervising me isn’t your personal little pet project.”
“You want it to be?”
You look taken aback. Just for a second. Jack can’t help but revel in it– you’re not easy to shake.
“I just want you to fuck off and stop breathing down my neck so I can actually do my job!”
Jack doesn’t respond for a moment. He barely manages to stifle his surprise at the fact that an omega just, essentially, cursed him out and spat in his face. He stares down his nose at you, intentionally allowing the silence to feel thick. Studying you.
He sees you catch on. You straighten up, even puff out your chest a bit, trying to look strong and sure and unbothered.
It’s a good attempt, he’ll give you that. You’d have plenty of alphas fooled.
But Jack catches the way your head tilts back for just an instant like you’re about to bare your throat. Sees the flash of doubt in your eyes, like your instincts are begging you to just give this up already, roll over, and show him your belly. Oh. That’s new. He feels his cock swell.
“Yeah? You want me to fuck off?” He lets his voice drop an octave. You make a choked, barely-there sound that he’d like to call a whimper. Your scent shifts sweeter.
Jack steps towards you, big and slow and imposing, and is surprised again when you don’t back up. Ballsy little thing.
“You know what I think?” His voice is smooth, low, almost a purr. Dripping with alpha condescension.
Jack sees your throat bob as you swallow. You just glare up at him without a word, and he knows it's because you don’t trust your voice not to waver. He smirks.
“I’ll tell you, sweetheart.” He watches you shiver. He’s so close now that he’s almost touching you. “I think you know that I’m good at what I do. I think you respect me. Maybe even like me a little. And all this attitude you give me…” he raises a brow and leans down, letting his breath fan over your face, “Is you trying to overcompensate for the fact that what you really want is to be bent over and put in your place.”
It’s bold, Jack realizes. Might be too much. Could make you turn tail, but he doubts it. You’re braver than that.
He watches you stiffen. There’s a flash of blatant hunger in your eyes— bingo— but it’s quickly snuffed out by stubborn defiance.
“I’m not just some needy ommie who’ll give it up to any alpha with a pulse.” Your voice only wavers a little.
“Oh, I know.” Jack nods. He feels, looks, and smells painfully smug. His voice is like velvet. “But you’ll give it up to me, won’t you?”
That breaks you. You practically collapse in on yourself, all small, and breathe out an involuntary “alpha.”
“There it is.” Jack coos. The praise makes you preen, and you extend your neck, baring your throat for Jack to brush his lips against. You smell fucking delicious. “Sweet little omega. You don’t have to fight it.”
“You’re such a douchebag.” You bite out. Sure, it’s weak and shaky, but it impresses Jack regardless. He has his nose pressed against your gland and you’re still talking back.
“Ooh, you don’t quit.” He rumbles. He pulls back slightly, his big hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. His eyes rake shamelessly down your body, not even trying to hide his desire. He’s sure you can smell it on him anyway. “What’s it gonna take, baby? Do you need my cock inside you to finally start behaving yourself?”
“You tell me, Abbot.” You sneer. “What’s it gonna take, in your professional opinion?”
Jack smiles, challenging and predatory in a way that would make most omegas wither. But not you. Your lip curls up, showing off cute little canines. He can’t help but groan and grind down against your abdomen.
“Fuck, baby.” Jack growls. “So cute when you act all tough.” He grips around your hip with a big hand and backs you up against the hospital bed while the other works hastily at the waistband of your scrubs. Once he has them loosened, he shoves his hand right down the front of your panties.
The second he gets his fingers inside you, you melt. Slick practically pours onto his hand. The strong, heady scent of it is overwhelming. It makes his nostrils flare.
If the way you’re squirming around on the bed and whining incoherently tells him anything, it’s that he’s not gonna need to get his cock involved to make you behave. The realization hits him like a truck, right through to his ego.
“There you go, little omega. You like that?” He taunts.
You nod, finally eager and obedient. It’s like a victory after all the fight you’ve given him. Jack didn’t know that submission from an omega could feel quite this good. It usually comes too easy.
“Yeah. Good girl. I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
“D-Dr. Abbot— alpha— please.”
You sound fucking broken and Jack can’t stand it. His instincts whir— make her happy, make her feel good, fill her up.
“I’ve got you.” He repeats in the low, steady voice he reserves for omegas in distress. He pulls his fingers out of you, and it’s only so he can free his cock from his scrubs, but you whine anyway.
“Fuck— hurry up.”
“Shh. Easy.” Jack murmurs. His free hand reaches up, intending to stroke soothingly across your cheek— but he has to yank it away when you turn your head and nip at his fingers like a kitten. Fucking brat.
“Settle down.” He growls. The tone squeezes you tight, wrings out any fight you have left. You’re left lax on the bed below him– boneless, pliant, willing. Good, his alpha purrs. “That’s better. Just take what I give you.”
Jack slides his hard cock through your slit once, coating it in your slick, before he pushes into you.
You feel like heaven— the hottest, wettest, tightest fucking pussy he’s ever had. And the sound you make when he stretches you. That high pitched, keening moan of pleasure. Jack wants to bottle that sound.
“Good omega.” He purrs, leaning down to press hot kisses along the column of your neck. He’s possessed by the need to ensure you smell like him for days.
You arch into it, exposing your throat further, pushing your hips down on his cock.
“You feel so fucking good. You were made for this.”
You whine at that, and Jack can see your mind wrestling with the sentiment despite the way it makes your pussy gush and your instincts sing.
Jack hushes you. “It’s okay.” He holds you still by your hip and litters more wet, soothing kisses across your jaw. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it, sweet girl. Let yourself enjoy this.”
“Abbot—“ when you say it, Jack can’t stifle his choked laugh— “feels so good.”
“Call me Jack, baby, my fuckin’ dick’s inside you.” He shakes his head before he briefly connects his lips with yours. “Jesus. I woulda done this ages ago if I knew you wanted it this bad.”
His cock sponges over your g-spot and his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust. He can feel you getting close— your pussy’s clenching, you’re whimpering louder, slick is dripping down your thighs and onto the bed below. Your hands grapple desperately at his freckled sides, arms, and shoulders, nails leaving indented crescents in their wake.
“Come on, sweet omega.” Jack purrs in your ear. His hand finds your breast so he can thumb circles on your nipple as further encouragement. He fucks into you relentlessly. “I want you to cum for me. Milk my cock.”
“Jack— Alpha— fuck.” You sound broken as your orgasm washes over you. You shake below him on the table— lips parted, brows furrowed, eyes locked on his. Jack growls.
“There you go, that’s it. You’re so good.” He means it more than he’s ever meant anything. You’re so fucking good. You look good, you smell good, you feel good, you sound good. Jack’s not gonna last much longer. “You’re such a good omega.”
“Yours,” You keen— and fuck, you’re still cumming. “Your omega.”
“Mine.” Jack nods. His hips falter. “My good girl. Doing so well for your alpha.”
Jack lets his teeth ghost over your mating bond, grazing the tender, unbroken skin there.
The whimpery sound you let out sends him over the edge. His hips snap forward one more time and he spills inside you with a long, low groan. It takes everything in him to hold back and not bite you right then.
“Babygirl,” Jack grits out once he can speak, breathless. Your walls are still fluttering around his softening cock. “You’re fucking incredible.”
You don’t say anything. He lifts his head from the crook of your neck. “Hey. Look at me. You okay?”
“Jack…” you murmur. You’re looking at him like he hung the moon and the stars, and he feels like he could start glowing. Still, your scent sours with uncertainty. “Jesus, this is— we shouldn’t have—“
“Why not?”
“This is completely unprofessional—“
Jack scoffs. “Yeah, doll, we’re well past that.”
“This is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid!” Your voice is raised. “And you make it very difficult!”
You’re clearly dismayed, and Jack shouldn’t grin, but he does.
“Do I?” Jack leans down to nose against the gland on your neck again. He smells only himself there, mingling with your scent, and goddamn he could get hard again. His tongue darts out to soothe over the area, and you melt. “Do I make it hard for you to conduct yourself?” He lets a mocking lilt bleed into his tone. “Is that why you insist on being such a pain in my ass all the time?”
“Don’t be mean.” You grumble. You're trying, and failing, to maintain your contempt. The words come out far too pleading.
“Attagirl. Now you’re getting it.” Jack coos. He leans down and gives you a kiss. “If you want me to be sweet on you then all you have to do is ask.”
You scowl at him. You still smell anxious, and that won't do at all.
Jack's expression softens. He deepens his scent to match, radiating protective reassurance. "Everything's gonna be okay, doll. I'll make sure of it."
♪ Baby, I can't hurt you, sure, but I'm the jealous type 1OP boys batlling a recurrent disease... jealousy
before all else, ace's part is suggestive lol. I haven't written hcs in a while so enjoy! lowercase intended.
ACE is as fiery as his devil fruit. in battle and passion. so when a stranger walks up to you in the bar, eyes swooning over you and voice smooth for you, he loses it. his body accidentally bursts into flames, that grow larger and larger with every meter he closes in. he sees the way you awkwardly decline the advances, and he knows very well it's out of your control. so he grabs the extra drink meant for you, chugs it down and slams it in front of the stranger. "we're leaving." he'd mutter, pulling you along out the small bar. and, hey, he knows you couldn't do anything. but he needs to let that steam out. so he'll ignore your apologies. not out of spite. but because you shouldn't be the one to do so. he'll make it up to you by becoming your personal heater in the evening, don't worry. i'd say be prepared for a bunch of manhandling, but i think you'd like that. freak.
"I'm hotter than him, though, right?" he's mutter, a pout on his lips as he presses soft kisses along your collarbones.
"whatever makes you sleep at night."
"oh, that's easy!" hands slither down to where you're waistband meets your skin and he starts pulling on the fabric off.
"ace!"
LAW is such a fake idgaf'er. he acts like he doesn't care when you're holding conversations with strangers in random islands you dock in, but his crew knows otherwise. how? oh, simple. he starts avoiding the problem at hand. questions left unanswered, doors locked, and gazes averted. it'll take a whole day to maybe even three before he'll start apologizing through his actions. he'll leave his long furry coats out on the open when you get cold, place his hat on your head for supervision when he's on a fight (when you so clearly are too), even going as far as using his powers to teleport you from one room to another when you unintentionally mention it.
"so, will you finally tell me why you won't even look at me yesterday?" you'd cock your head to the side, trying to get a glimpse of his hat-covered face.
"they were too persistent." he'd mutter. "I don't like other people pestering you."
"aww, you were jealous." you'd coo, making the surgeon push your face away. "look at us, we're practically married." you laugh softly, moving from in front of him to sit beside him, placing a hand atop his, resting on his thigh.
"we should hold the ceremony soon then."
"eh?"
ZORO doesn't get why you'd want to test your new weapon upgrades with a nami instead of him. what, is she suddenly stronger than he is? but he'd observe your movement, new actions, how smoother you are compared last time. and as much as he hates it, he'll start criticizing your flaws. too sloppy. didn't duck quick enough. missed an opportunity to strike back. and he'll tell you when you're done. he's petty about it. and he knows it'll piss you off. but hey, if he can't have you while training, he'll get your attention one way or another.
"not bad." his breathing's heavier, matching yours.
he's down on the wooden planks of the sunny's deck; one arm behind him, pinned down by you and your weapon aimed at his back. true to his nature, zoro did tell you about your mistakes during your little spar. tell is an understatement, he practically mocked you.
"take it back now." you grit your teeth, pushing the blunt end of your weapon against his marred back.
"take what back? you are sloppy." you give up, letting him go and letting him get up while you stood above him.
"see, you're letting your enemy off too easily."
brat.
SANJI's a soft soul. he's known to be a sweetheart, most especially when it comes to women. oh, but this girl's not giving up, is she? she's been clinging to you all day since you helped her tie her dress' bow. he'd tail you, just a few feet behind. and he can sense how tense you are when the girl links your arms, talking non stop about anything she can think of. "so, when's your butler going to stop following us?" a pout would form on her lips, almost as if begging you to shoo him away. and before he speaks, you tell her off. finally. he's been patient far too long. you wave the girl off, pulling sanji along and you're sure she's on the verge of tears even though she smiles back at you.
"ma chère. she called me your butler." he'd whine, linking your arms.
"I know, sanji."
"don't get me wrong, I'd love to serve you for the rest of our lives—"
"I know, sanji."
"but couldn't she tell I'm your husband?"
"sanji—"
"I know we aren't married yet, but we will be, and it's important to me that people know off the bat we're both accounted for, even before the formalities—" you cut him off with a quick peck on the lips and start pulling him towards the merry with a deadpan as he swoons over the simple gesture.
LUFFY doesn't radiate jealousy often. in fact, anyone who comes near you is befriended when he's around in a 3 meter radius. but today's different. today, even after luffy has repeatedly dragged this guy away (both subtly and intentionally), he just won't let up. but luffy has full trust you can handle your situations until you call for him. so he just sits idly by, waiting for you to act. and as much as he gets pouty and upset, he waits it out. when you come back, without the baggage of the guy tailing you around, he lights up like the sun itself.
"he's a bit weird, huh?" he'd laugh, your intertwined hands swinging as he skips beside you.
"he's a lot weird." you add and he laughs even more.
"I knew you could deal with him though, you're really cool!" he grins, squeezing your hand
SABO, as active and reckless as he is in the field, seems to have as much patience as his father figure. surprisingly enough, even with koala's constant nagging and hack's 'philosophical advices', sabo's gained enough patience to deal with them. mostly to let everything they say pass from one ear to another. so it's no surprise he deals with your admirers pretty well. in fact, he's really proud. not only did he take you off the market, he also gets to flaunt around that you took him. oh, but best believe he has boundaries set about your little sea of suitors. when a trio walks up to, no gifts in hand, just sly grins and malicious gazes, he's quick to step in before they try anything.
"sabo?"
"yes, my love?"
"hack says there's supposed to be three new recruits that need orientation."
"uh huh?" he hums, not even looking up from his newspapers.
"any chance you ran into them?" Your tone shifts, something between suspicion and tease, and he finally looks up to greet your smirk with one of his.
"no clue, deputy chief."
"don't throw that title around." he'd chuckle, lifting the papers back to his face.
"it's upside down." you'd say before leaving his office and he's quick to flip his papers around with a flush on his cheeks. "check the back field!" he'll add, a slight yell because he knows you're not far.
𝒫𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔫𝔬 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔢𝔩𝔰𝔢 Leon Kennedy x male reader
Summary: What's worse? Once-human monsters caked in blood and hungry for flesh… a towering doctor who kept you locked inside Rhodes Hill Care Center since you first began remembering things… or the man willing to do anything to have you all for himself?
Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. Dark Leon S Kennedy: dangerous, lethal and charming. Flirting. Possessive behavior. Overprotectiveness. Gore. Protective Leon Kennedy.
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 - gif - 𝒩ℯ𝓍𝓉 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉
Words count: 6000
Rhodes Hill Care Center had never felt like a place built for healing.
Even before you understood what hospitals were supposed to be or learned from overheard staff conversations and the fragmented mutterings of other patients that normal places did not keep people behind reinforced glass and keycard doors.
Something about Rhodes Hill was wrong.
Its corridors were too bright in some places and too dim in others, fluorescent panels humming overhead with a nervous, air carrying the layered scent of antiseptic, old mop water, latex gloves, metal trays, stale coffee gone bitter on nursing desks, along the colder smell you could never quite name as a child but knew now as medicine.
Your ‘room’ sat in the lower level, one of the smaller observation units set behind thick glass panels framed in dull institutional steel, walls painted an almost-friendly off-white that yellowed under artificial light, a color someone had once selected believing it would soothe unstable minds.
Not that it worked.
Thin seams ran between wall panels and in the corners you could see where years of repeated cleaning had worn the finish down to a smoother, shinier sheen.
A small vent high above the bed exhaled a steady stream of cold air that smelled faintly of bleach and dust. Every few minutes it clicked as the system cycled, a sound so familiar it had become part of your pulse.
The bed was narrow, white and too firm, made with military precision by nurses who tucked the sheets so tightly that slipping beneath them felt like being packaged.
Pillow thin enough to flatten beneath your cheek in seconds, a rolling metal stand stood near the wall for IV bags even on the days you were not hooked up to anything and there was a monitor mounted outside the room behind the glass, its dark screen sometimes reflecting your own shape back at you at night when the hall lights dimmed.
The door was not really a door in the way doors should be, more a controlled access panel with a magnetic lock and a detector, meant to be opened from the outside, except on the rare days someone remembered or decided that a supervised walk would keep you cooperative.
Tonight the room seemed smaller than usual.
You sat on top of the bed, knees bent, bare feet against the stiff sheet, listening.
The routine had stretched too far.
Usually by this point someone would have come, a nurse to check your vitals with clipped efficiency.
Another to ask the same useless questions in the same practiced voice.
Then maybe, if the day had gone the way Dr. Gideon liked and if whatever numbers or samples he wanted from you had satisfied him, you would be granted a little freedom, a reward dressed up as treatment with few supervised laps through Rhodes Hill’s inner corridors or, on especially rare evenings, time in one of the common areas where the long-term patients drifted around bolted furniture and muted televisions.
No one had come today.
Hours had passed, ache in your back from sitting too long, growl of your stomach and constant creeping shift of thunder somewhere far above the buried concrete levels of the facility.
A same routine had ruled your life for as long as memory could hold.
Wake, needles, questions, testing, silence and observation.
Another tray of food slid to you with as little conversation as possible, another evening listening to footsteps beyond glass.
Ever since the first days you could remember clearly, Rhodes Hill had been your world. The basement units had been your house before you knew houses belonged above ground.
The other patients, unstable and unpredictable in ways that could turn frightening without warning, had still become the closest thing to family you had. Not because you understood the true meaning of family, but because you understood presence and the way some people looked for you when they were frightened.
Understood the woman who enjoyed attention and sang beautifully, enjoying hearing her talk profoundly of anything she wanted as you learned progressively everything about life.
Understood the man with bandages around his eyes and offered yourself to be his own eyes while he moved inside the place with that medical auctions for drip and grumbly whined to you about everything.
Although he was easily irascible, deep down he seemed to like your presence whenever you had the opportunity to step out of your ‘room’
Dr. Gideon liked to phrase it differently.
Therapeutic social exposure, he called it when he allowed you out.
Baseline interaction opportunities.
He liked making cages sound clinical.
Sometimes he had you brought to one of the exam rooms where the counters shone under surgical light and the tray instruments lay arranged in exact rows. There he would take always more blood, tapping a gloved finger against your vein with a patient sort of fascination before the needle did it’s thing.
On his kinder days, or the days he wanted something from you that cooperation would get faster than restraint, he would let the suggestions of the others sway him. A nurse would mention fresh air in the atrium levels, doctors chiming in would say increased privilege might produce better behavioral outcomes.
And then you would be allowed out.
Never alone but always with eyes on you, by it from a nurse, an orderly or security.
Even then, those walks had meant everything. The polished corridors, sharp turns where one department bled into another and glimpses through reinforced windows into rooms that smelled of chlorine or medicine.
Would it really hurt to go out and take a look around?
Maybe you could check in on your friends if they weren’t already in bed.
Sliding off the bed soundlessly and dropping to your knees, feeling the cool change from contact with smooth floor even through the thin fabric of your white pants. Lower yourself all the way to flatten yourself and reach beneath the frame into the shadows where dust gathered in gray ribbons and forgotten things sometimes hid, fingers finding the taped underside of the support bar exactly where you had left it.
Peeling the tape free and drawing out the bracelet you had kept and constantly used throughout the years.
White plastic, slightly yellowed with time, with the embedded amber yellow chip still intact under its smooth surface. An ID bracelet from a newcomer girl who had arrived disoriented and terrified.
You had stolen the bracelet in the confusion of her first week as she came to check on your vitals, quick hands and quicker panic, afterward she had vanished from your orbit as so many people in Rhodes Hill did.
Moved, perhaps, or taken elsewhere.
You had felt bad in your own way, a small sour knot of guilt that never fully dissolved, but guilt had not stopped you from hiding the bracelet or using it.
Thanks to her, you had slipped out on late nights when the lower ward ran thin on staff and half the building seemed to doze under storm-heavy skies, wandered the sleeping corridors and traded whispers with the few patients still awake.
Shared contraband snacks, laughed quietly in laundry alcoves and sat under the emergency stairwell lights listening to stories from people whose memories came in cracked pieces.
That was as close to belonging as you had ever gotten.
You crouched by the door and pressed the bracelet against the outside-detection point built into the panel seam. It took a few seconds of stubborn pressure and angle adjustment before the reader acknowledged it, followed by the tiny mechanical click, one of the most beautiful sounds you knew.
The lock disengaged and you backed away instinctively as the door slid open with a muted hydraulic whisper, breath catching in your throat from the thrill of it even after all these years.
The basement was so claustrophobic at times, floor polished linoleum and walls lined with occasional observation windows and storage closets.
Thunder grumbled above the concrete earth as you moved quickly.
You knew where to place your feet to keep them quiet, knew where the camera blind spots curved near the corners or which stairwell door on this level complained if opened too fast. In a few moments you were climbing from the basement, hand gliding over the cool rail, pulse ticking faster as you emerged upward into the broader heart of the facility.
The main lobby looked different at night, large enough to suggest the illusion of openness, furnished just well enough to make visitors believe in Rhodes Hill’s polished mission statement if any real visitors still came. You had memorized its shape over years of stolen glances and supervised crossings.
“Excuse me.”
The voice struck surprised and immediate across the lobby.
“What exactly are you doing out here?”
You turned toward the irritating noise with instant annoyance and found a nurse marching toward you, shoes clicking briskly on tile, expression already pinched into reprimand. You still couldn’t remember her name, she had not worked here long enough to sink into your internal map of the place.
She carried a medical record tablet tucked tight in her hands as the irritation on her face came in small precise shifts, flattening of her mouth first, then the slight draw of her brows inward followed by an exhale through the nose that lifted her upper lip just enough to make her look disgusted before she’d even finished hearing your answer.
“No one came to check on me,” you said, already defensive. “This is usually when Dr. Gideon lets me go out.”
She sighed heavily in annoyance, dramatic enough to make sure you heard it. Her shoulders dropped with the breath and her eyes rolled very slightly toward the ceiling before settling back on you. “You are going to put me in trouble with this attitude,” she said, voice tight with that fake patience staff used when they had already decided you were the problem.
“Honestly, I would expect more discipline from someone who has been here as long as you have.”
Something shifted at the edge of your vision and both of you looked.
A man had just stepped through the front entrance, tall, broad-shouldered and dark jacket still damp from the storm outside, leather catching the lobby light in worn matte streaks.
Blond hair, a little longer than severe professionalism would allow, falling in a loose lock near the side of his cheek.
Face with the kind of rough, worn handsomeness that didn’t need help from expression, though there was plenty of it buried under the restraint if you looked close enough.
Tiredness lived around the mouth and at the edges of the eyes, experience sat in the line of his shoulders and the way he moved, balanced and watchful even in stillness.
Dull blue eyes that settled on you immediately.
The nurse straightened instantly.
“Mr. Kennedy, welcome. Dr. Gideon has been expecting you.”
His gaze rested on you for a beat longer before moving to her with maddening calm.
“Funny,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting just a little. “I don’t remember getting an invitation.”
The flicker of his gaze came back to yours as if he couldn’t help it.
“Well, he’s waiting for you,” the nurse said, already turning, then shot you a look from the side and muttered “you come along”
“Can’t have that, can we?” he replied smoothly, and the ghost of a smile remained at his lips as he fell into step behind the two of you.
His eyes cooled when they rested on the nurse after the tone she had used with you, a faint tightening near his jaw that suggested he was filing away details he didn’t like.
The hallway beyond the lobby stretched long and clinical, lined with offices on one side and internal windows on the other where blinds were partly drawn, your footsteps and the nurse’s clicks and the heavy, controlled cadence of Mr. Kennedy’s boots created a strange little rhythm through the corridor.
“So how long have you been working for… uh, Dr. Gideon?” he asked.
“Not long,” the nurse said quickly. “I just recently joined the team.”
Lightning flashed beyond the distant windows, bright enough to bleach the hall for a heartbeat. Your shadows leapt onto the wall to your right in stretched black forms and, for that instant, you saw all three of you projected there.
What caught in your chest was how close his shadow ran behind yours, broad and looming and near enough to seem almost joined.
“We care for quite a few long-term patients here,” the nurse continued, smoothing her tone into strict professionalism. “All undergoing experimental therapies developed by Dr. Gideon.”
“Experimental therapies?” he repeated.
“Yes. It’s all very cutting edge. The facility keeps a low profile due to the sensitive nature of the research.”
He nodded once, slowly, but you could still feel his attention on you. It was absurd how aware you had become of it in such a short time.
Not because he was the first attractive man you had ever seen, though the sheer difference of his presence in this place gave his attractiveness a sharper edge, but because he didn’t looked at you like data or a case file.
Every time you glanced behind and found his eyes already on you, something small and hot tightened under your ribs.
Swallowing turned difficult, air seeming to drag a little thicker in your throat, hated that he could do that with so little effort.
The nurse stopped at a pair of large double doors and ushered him inside a private office, larger than the basement rooms by a humiliating margin, lined with bookshelves, framed credentials, locked filing cabinets and a heavy desk of dark wood polished enough to gleam under the lamp with a fake skeleton nearby.
She turned back to you. “Wait here with him. I’m going to call for Dr. Gideon.”
Then she was gone, large doors closing behind her with a padded thud.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Mr. Kennedy moved first, taking in the office with the clipped efficiency, gaze skimming the shelves, the corners, the window, the desk. He picked up a framed photograph from one corner of Gideon with his team, all of them posed in lab coats under bright sunlight. He studied it briefly, then set it back down and turned his attention to you.
“So,” he said. “How long have you been here?”
Leaning against the large door frame behind, careful not to put enough weight on it to lose your balance and crash into the hallway like an idiot. “Forever,” you muttered. “Since I could remember things.”
His eyes lifted to yours fully then. Serious, yes, but there was something gentler tucked into the severity and under all that roughness. The lines in his face made him look harder than he sounded, lock of blond hair falling loose near his forehead and softening the stoic cut of him.
“Anybody from outside ever come to visit you?”
His gaze moved over you again, quiet and unashamed, tracing the shape of your face, pause on your mouth, take in the fragile tension in your shoulders. Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it.
“No one I know of.” Then, because the words had lived in you too long not to come out when asked plainly, you added, “I was probably abandoned here.”
It had become the explanation that made the most sense after years of listening to others and collecting fragments of their histories. Parents who signed forms, guardians stopping visits, people left behind by those who could not or would not deal with what they had become.
He tilted his head slightly, the loose strand of hair shifting from said motion. His blue gaze stayed heavy on yours and this time the smile that touched his mouth was a little more visible, though no less strange for how soft it was.
“Hard to imagine,” he said, voice low. “I’d really like to know who’d leave someone like you here alone.”
The word hit you like a spark to dry tinder, heat exploded into your chest.
He watched the result with the faintest widening of that smile into a real grin, small but unmistakable, like he was entertained by how quickly he’d unraveled your system.
“Announcement: Code Six. Code Six. All staff, initiate emergency protocol.”
The words ripped straight through the charged bubble formed between you and the handsome stranger.
The doors banged open, nurses hurrying back in, visibly agitated now, composure fraying at the edges. “Mr. Kennedy, we need to leave immediately.”
“What’s happening?” You moved toward her on instinct and caught her shoulder.
Her head snapped toward you, eyes too wide now, breath coming quicker. “We all need to get out of here. Now.”
She turned toward the hall just as another figure lurched into view behind her.
At first your brain tried to place him as one of Gideon’s doctors because of the ruined remains of a lab coat hanging off his body.
His skin had the sick, waterlogged pallor of flesh gone wrong, gray-white stretched over features that no longer moved properly except in jerks, lips receding from the teeth in a permanent grimace while grayish-towards-the-black tears ran down his face.
His dead fingers twitched on the grip of a chainsaw he had as it was yanked alive and the engine roared.
A large hand seized your arm so fast you barely felt the movement until you were already being dragged back and crashed against a broad chest made of solid muscle.
Mr. Kennedy’s bicep locked across your frame to hold you close, hand on your arm calloused and strong even through the glove.
The chainsaw punched out of the nurse’s back and burst through her stomach in an obscene spray, her mouth dropping open in a soundless cry before the real scream came too late, cut short when the blade tore sideways through tissue and bone. Blood hit the floor in a red fan as her body dropped in a boneless collapse and the saw’s scream filled the office, chewing air and flesh alike.
Leon guided you behind him with astonishing gentleness for the violence of the moment, a firm push at your shoulder that placed his body between you and the thing wearing a doctor’s face before kicking a nearby metal-legged office chair that skidded hard across the floor and slammed into the zombie’s knees, opening its stance just enough.
He moved instantly cutting behind the arc of the chainsaw with a grip still tight on your arm to keep you moving with him.
“I think I want a second opinion,” he muttered while extracting a huge handgun.
He closed the distance on the chainsaw-wielding corpse with insane speed for someone his age. One step, pivot, boot driving into the back of the thing’s leg at the joint. It buckled and hit the floor hard, still trying to turn the screaming saw toward him. The magnum came level with the back of the doctor’s skull and fired.
Shot detonating the room at the revolver’s bark and the zombie’s head burst apart in a spray of bone fragments, blood and gray matter that painted the wall behind it. The body spasmed once and collapsed, chainsaw clattering loose from dead hands and skittering across the floor in a wild grinding spin until it finally choked out.
Your ears rang, too much had happened but fate kept firing more catastrophe towards you as snarling came from behind.
The office side door shuddered as more nurses and doctors in the same state as the chainsaw welding one was, shoved through with jaws working and hands clawing.
Mr. Kennedy stooped, caught the fallen chainsaw by the handle once the chain stopped whipping and hauled it up with caution, the engine coughed as he yanked and it came alive with a vicious buzzing roar.
He stepped forward, face nearly unchanged and set into an hard and stoic calm that somehow looked even colder with a blood-slick chainsaw in hand.
Before fully engaging the oncoming dead, he looked back at you quickly, eyes sweeping over you head to toe, checking for injuries.
When he found little more than shock, something in his features eased by a fraction.
“Stay behind me,” he said, voice rough. “Wouldn’t want that handsome face getting hurt.”
It should not have landed in the middle of all this.
Then he turned and met the first zombie, chainsaw carving upward into its torso with wet violence that drowned the creature’s snarl under the engine scream. Flesh split and blood sprayed hot across the desk and rug.
He drove through it without hesitation, letting the dead body open like a book fall to the ground in a puddle of infected blood before he wrenched the blade free and swung sideways into the next one.
The second corpse lost an arm at the shoulder in a spinning burst of black-red droplets and staggered, still advancing on blind instinct, only for Leon to step in and bury the chain deep across its middle. The body opened with gruesome resistance, then gave way. He shoved it off the blade with a jerk of his arms and pivoted around the third as it lunged, using its own momentum against it.
Blood sheeted over the floor by the time the last corpse dropped in two collapsing halves, the office looked less like a workplace than a butchered shrine.
You had ended up on the floor without remembering the moment you sat down, legs who had simply given up while staring at the ruin all around while your mind lagged painfully behind your eyes, trying and failing to fit what you had just seen into anything a human nervous system should be expected to accept.
Leon crossed the ruined office and lowered himself to one knee.
Blood speckled his jacket, fine spray dotted one cheek, hard planes of his face were still there, still stern and almost intimidating, but his hand when it came down on your shoulder was careful, voice scraping at an effort toward gentleness.
“You alright?”
You nodded, but the motion broke something in your throat when a sob tried to come with it, swallowing it down badly, hands shaking.
Getting back to full height he offered you one of his hands which you took.
Even hauling you upright while the other hand still controlled the heavy chainsaw, he made it look easy and when you stumbled the slightest bit, his body automatically adjusted to steady you.
“One hell of a first night together,” he muttered, mouth pulling into another dry and crooked almost-smile again.
Leon’s blood-flecked hand was still wrapped around yours when he moved towards the heavy emergency doors locked down by a lattice of metal braces.
Leon stepped forward, eyes narrowing once at the obstruction, then down at the chainsaw in his hand as if measuring one problem against another.
“Stay close,” he muttered, voice low and rough before bringing the chainsaw up.
The engine snarled back to full life in his grip with a vicious mechanical scream. He set the spinning chain against the middle brace, both hands steady on the weapon as the teeth bit into steel and orange tongues of fire spat from the point of contact in molten bursts, a storm of sparks showering outward and ricocheting against the walls in blistering little comets that showered over him in sheets, catching for an instant in his hair, hissing against the leather of his gloves, spitting harmlessly off his jacket and the hard line of his jaw.
He shifted to force the chain deeper, teeth chewing through another brace as orange spray intensified near the center seam.
A harsh metallic crack came from inside the housing, a jolt that kicked through Leon’s arms and then the front half of the tool split, blade assembly sheared away in a blur of smoke and slammed into the floor several feet off.
By then his other hand was already moving, Requiem drawn with smoothness together a compact flashlight snapped up in his off hand.
With a kick the metal keeping the door closed disintegrated completely.
The beam of light punched forward and tore a pale path through the darkness beyond the parted doors.
He barely turned his head enough for you to catch the hard edge of his profile and the blond strand hanging near his temple.
“Stay close,” he said again.
“Alright,” you swallowed and managed, though it came out smaller than you meant it to, more breath than voice.
You kept so near behind him that every step made you aware of his size, eyes snagging lower where there was a hatchet secured against the lower side of his back.
Its edge was darkened by fresh blood near the tip, sitting against the tight grey fabric stretched over his hips and thighs, making the contrast almost unfair. His pants fit too well not to notice, hugging the powerful build of his lower body in a way that made every shift of his bulky frame the more eye-catching.
He kept moving, gun raised and light steady.
“So,” he murmured after a few silent steps, his whisper pitched dry with sarcasm, “this one of your doctor’s therapy side effects?”
You stared at the line of his shoulders under the tight shirt and stuttered a little when you answered. “I—I don’t know anything. I swear. They never told me anything.”
He made a quiet noise that might have been acknowledgment.
“You can keep going?” he asked without looking back.
Terror had your heart in a fist, hands still shaking and the shard of broken bottle you’d picked up downstairs now dug cold and awkward against your palm.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I can do it.”
A tiny chuckle, more vibration than voice, nearly lost under the hum of the flashlight and the far-off alarms.
Due to him having his back to you, you caught only the edge of it.
“Good,” he said. “Lucky for you, you’re cute. Makes you easier to trust.”
Heat flooded up your neck and into your cheeks so fast it almost hurt. In the dark you were grateful he couldn’t fully see it, though part of you suspected he knew anyway.
“Are you a cop?” In a hushed voice, because your brain had found the first thing it could grasp.
His shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly and then a short laugh escaped him, dry and worn.
You remembered one of the patients on your floor with bandages around his eyes after an incident the staff always retold with too much relish.
He had attacked a police officer during some uncontrollable episode years ago and afterward, before they sedated him, had rambled to you about what cops looked like after asking him what they were and he had laughed so hard he cried.
“Used to be,” he whispered back, missing the way his face tightened briefly at that.
Nothing in his tone invited more questions and you understood that clearly enough.
Farther ahead, the corridor opened near an alcove where one of the wall switches or breaker panels had malfunctioned. The overhead lights there flickered on and off in erratic rhythm.
In the center of that broken strobe stood a figure wearing elegant clothes, skin the same dead, water-swollen gray as the others.
“Turn them off,” he rasped.
Click.
“Too bright...”
Click.
“Turn them off turn them off turnthemoff.”
Each flicker constantly made his frame twitch.
Leon’s arm shot out across your chest without looking, a silent bar of muscle halting you instantly.
Stay.
The message came through even before the slight angle of his hand reinforced it.
He slipped forward silently, flashlight beam dropping enough to keep from flashing directly across the zombie’s ruined face.
The hatchet came free from his lower back in one smooth pull while the zombie kept clicking the switch before Leon drove the weapon into the side of its neck.
Not a clean chop but a brutal sinking bite that buried steel into stiff tissue and half through the vertebrae. The zombie convulsed, fingers spasming on the switch so the lights flashed madly and Leon planted his weight, bicep swelling hard beneath the fabric as he forced the wound wider, using leverage and pressure as a tearing crack came, then the head came off.
It separated in a nauseating burst of blood and ruptured tissue, a geyser of dark arterial spray blasted upward from the stump in a violent fountain, pattering the wall, switch panel and floor. The body remained standing for the smallest impossible fraction of a second, pumping blood into the air from a neck attached to nothing, then folded and crashed sideways into the wall before sliding to the ground in a twitching heap.
Leon flicked the hatchet down to shake some of the blood free, then gave a tiny curl of two fingers without even really looking back at you, absurdly casual for a man who had just decapitated a once-human being with one arm.
Hurrying after him, carefully stepping around the corpse. Even on the floor the body still twitched, muscles spasming in ugly little aftershocks as trapped chemical energy and dying nervous discharge rippled through tissue that had not yet accepted it was finished.
“Do you know where Gideon’s office is?” he asked, not turning around, pistol staying raised and flashlight beam drifted with every measured step.
The tight shirt clung to his back in darkened patches where rain and blood had soaked in, shoulders broad enough to block half the hall. Each time he extended the gun, the muscles in his arm and chest shifted under the fabric with dense, heavy definition, bicep flexing as he adjusted his grip, large enough that the pistol in his hand looked almost secondary.
Nothing about him looked soft and yet he had checked your injuries twice already and kept placing himself between you and every horror in this building.
“Do you think Dr. Gideon is involved in this?” Asked after a moment of hesitation.
He turned his head just enough for you to catch part of his profile, lock of blond hair falling down the side of his face, brushing the stubble at his cheek with the motion.
“How about,” he murmured, thick with sarcasm, “for now I ask the questions and you answer them?”
That shut you up immediately, focusing instead on remembering on the times you had been brought through upper levels under escort or the few escape attempts that had made it farther than they should have.
“Top floor,” you said at last. “I saw him there before. Near the upper offices.”
Leon gave a quick nod and kept going, flashlight carving a narrow visible path through the suffocating dark.
After another stretch of hall, he tilted his head slightly and touched something at his ear.
“Sherry,” he said. “I’m getting close to Gideon’s office. Maybe I find something there.”
A woman’s voice answered in your earless emptiness, crisp and controlled, carrying the faint backdrop chatter of keys tapping quickly somewhere far away. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to find it for you.”
No speaker on the wall or person in sight, just the small device in Leon’s ear.
Leon glanced sideways and found you already staring at him with open curiosity, mouth of his edging up a fraction.
“Managed to find someone to help me out,” he said.
“You found someone in that facility who isn’t infected?” Sherry asked with genuine confusion.
Leon grunted approval. “Got there in time.” His side glance flicked over you once, warm and wicked in a way that made your stomach jump. “Saved the most handsome one, too. Honestly, if he’d turned, I probably wouldn’t have minded him jumping on me.”
Your gaze dropped so fast it almost hurt your neck, heat slamming across your face again while staring very intently at the floor as you followed him, gripping your pathetic glass shard harder than necessary.
Over the comm, Sherry made a quiet sound of disgust that still somehow carried amusement under it. “That is absolutely not the update I was looking for.”
You could practically hear the small scoff and the headshake behind her words, somehow even you could tell she was smiling despite herself.
“Contact me if you find anything,” she said and the line clicked dead.
The stairwell entrance came into view ahead, its push-bar door half open and emergency lights bleeding thin red along the frame.
Leon stepped toward it first, then a huge hand shot out from the darkness behind and lifted you clean off the ground.
One moment your feet were on the floor, the next your body was dragged backward against a mass of strength so overwhelming it made panic white-hot and immediate. The shard of glass nearly fell from your hand as fingers clamped around your upper torso and pinned your arms awkwardly as you kicked uselessly in empty air.
Dr. Gideon didn’t change into one of the mindless dead exactly, there seemed to be the same sight of the infection on his whole body but retrained his intelligence. He had always been tall, now the corruption seemed to exaggerate it, making him loom with grotesque emphasis.
Veins dark as spilled ink climbed the side of his neck and vanished beneath the collar of that torn coat, skin gone ashen and uneven, split at the temple, drawn tight over sharper bones.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked you first, rotten breath still carrying the dry, educated cadence you knew, only now threaded with something spoiled.
Then his eyes cut to Leon.
“And Mr. Kennedy,” he said, almost pleasantly. “You shouldn’t take other people’s things without asking first.”
Your whole body flooded with adrenaline so hard your vision narrowed, without thinking, you drove the sharp broken bottle neck backward into his arm.
It punched into the flesh above his wrist with a wet crunch and sank deeper than you expected. Gideon hissed, but not in pain, more annoyance, grip barely loosening.
Leon’s magnum shot cracked through the hall with force as the round hit Gideon in the head and snapped it violently backward, the impact so brutal you heard it before you fully understood it. Blood burst outward in a thick arc, droplets and heavier spatters painting the wall. Gideon’s hold failed all at once and you dropped hard to the floor, catching yourself badly on one arm, pain flaring hot from wrist to elbow as your shoulder jarred.
Scrambling up immediately and ran straight to Leon’s side as he was already sighting the gun again, stance squared, expression gone glacial.
The barrel smoked faintly in the flashlight beam.
"Sorry, doc. Guess that answers the custody question."
Said doctor answered with a roar, wound on his head knitted not perfectly but unfairly fast. Torn flesh shivered and pulled together, cratered ruin of bone sealed beneath a fresh spill of blood that cascaded down his face in dark streams.
Leon fired again.
The second shot from the magnum punched Gideon back a step, chest twisting with the force.
Then Leon turned his head sharply toward you.
“Run,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Running out of the hallway and into the bright white spill of the main lobby higher floor abruptly after the corridor’s suffocating dark, polished floors flashed beneath your feet.
Then metal bars dropped behind over the path you had taken in a thunderous sequence.
You spun just in time to see the hallway begin to close off even further as a reinforced wall panel descended from above.
Leon was still on the other side.
He had turned at the sound, Gideon somewhere beyond him in the dark passage. For one sliver of a moment, before the closing barrier cut him away, his gaze found yours through the narrowing gap, tension hardening around his eyes in concern before the wall sealed shut.
Suddenly, completely, you were alone.
Note: This was originally planned as a oneshot, but this first part alone ended up much longer than expected ✌︎.
Not Here
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 14, 962
Summary: Jack Abbot is too old for clubs, too tired for Santos’s birthday plans, and absolutely old enough to know better than to stare at the woman in the red top across the room. Unfortunately, knowing better does not help him at all.
Warnings: 18+ only, age gap, club setting, alcohol, sexual tension, heavy making out, public-ish tension, Jack’s restraint being the hottest thing in the room, reader is confident and knows exactly what she’s doing, Robby/Liv side chaos, implied smut.
Author’s Note: Jack Abbot, one black t-shirt, one bad decision, and the unbearable eroticism of a grown man trying to behave. That’s it. That’s the fic.
Xoxo, Del
Jack Abbot was too old for this.
The thought arrived somewhere between the third pulse of purple light across the ceiling and the moment Santos threw both hands over her head on the dance floor like she had personally invented birthdays.
Beside him in the booth, Robby sat with one arm stretched along the backrest, drink in hand, expression fixed in the grim neutrality of a man enduring a hostage situation with decent whiskey.
Jack looked out over the crowd.
Santos had somehow convinced half the department to dance under flashing lights. Mel was laughing with her, bright and easy, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass. Cassie stood near the edge of the floor, amused and observant, watching Whitaker attempt to clap on beat with the same tense concentration he brought to difficult procedures. Javadi was near him, awkward but committed, moving like someone had explained dancing to her from a textbook. Dana hovered near the bar, pretending to supervise while absolutely failing to hide the fact that she was enjoying herself.
Jack took a slow drink.
Robby watched Santos spin in a circle and said, “You know, this is nice.”
Jack turned his head just enough to look at him.
Robby stared at the dance floor for another beat, then amended, “For them.”
Jack looked back toward the crowd. “I’m too old for this.”
Robby lifted his glass. “I’m older than you.”
Jack said, “That wasn’t an invitation to compete.”
Robby took a sip, unimpressed. “You’re here because I’m here.”
Jack looked at him. “I’m here because you lied about the volume.”
Robby glanced at the speakers as if they had betrayed him personally. “I said there would be drinks.”
Jack raised his glass slightly. “There are lights on the ceiling.”
Robby nodded once. “That was not in the briefing.”
Jack huffed and turned back toward the dance floor, trying to settle into the kind of resignation that could get him through another hour. Maybe forty-five minutes, if Santos stayed distracted. Thirty, if Robby remembered how friendship worked and developed a convincing emergency.
It was his night off. That was the worst part. Jack did not get many of those, and somehow he had spent this one in a club with music loud enough to rearrange his organs, watching his coworkers behave like people with functional knees and no sense of self-preservation. He should have been home. He should have been on his couch, showered, clean, half-asleep with a game on low and his prosthetic off.
Instead, he was here, trapped in a booth, wearing a black T-shirt Robby had looked at earlier and called “acceptable,” which Jack had understood to mean, You look less like you were dragged here against your will.
Robby leaned slightly closer and said, “You could try looking less miserable.”
Jack kept his gaze forward. “I could also leave.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “You won’t.”
Jack looked at him. “Watch me.”
Robby nodded toward Santos, who had just caught sight of Jack and waved at him with both hands, delighted and entirely too sincere. Jack stared back at her. Santos pointed at him, then at the dance floor, then made an exaggerated come here motion. Jack lifted his drink in a flat salute. Santos booed him from across the room.
Robby smiled into his glass. “She likes you.”
Jack said, “She has poor judgment.”
Robby’s laugh got lost beneath the bass. Jack looked away from Santos before she decided to physically drag him out of the booth.
That was when he saw you.
At first, it was not even a whole thought.
Just red.
The color of your top caught under the lights as you leaned close to the woman beside you, laughing at something she said. You had one hand wrapped around a drink and the other resting briefly on your friend’s arm, your head tilted to hear her over the music. The club moved around you in a blur of bodies and noise, but you looked like you belonged to the night in a way Jack absolutely did not. Warm. Confident. Bright.
Then you smiled, and the thought landed before he could stop it. Beautiful.
Jack’s grip tightened around his glass. No. The correction came fast and hard. No.
He looked away. He did the smart thing. The grown thing. The decent thing. He looked at Robby. He looked at the table. He looked at the condensation sliding down the side of his glass like it had suddenly become the most important thing in the room.
Too young, Jack thought. Not for you. Absolutely not for you. He told himself.
Robby said something beside him. Jack did not hear it. Because your laugh rose through the music again, bright and easy, and his eyes went back before he gave them permission. You were still near the bar, half-turned toward your friend now. Your red top caught the light every time you moved, the fabric clinging just enough in the room’s heat. Your jeans fit like they had been made to ruin men who were trying very hard to mind their own business. The club lights skimmed over your throat, your collarbone, the line of your top, and Jack’s mind, usually so good at triage, chose that moment to abandon him entirely.
His gaze dropped. Only for a second, not even that. Too long.
He looked back up, and you caught him. Dead-on. Across the room, your smile faded by degrees. Not gone or nervous. Just focused. Your eyes met his through the moving lights, and Jack felt the hit of it low in his ribs. Caught.
You had seen him. Worse, you looked like you liked knowing he was looking.
Jack should have looked away immediately. He did not. Neither did you. The room went strange around the edges. The music kept pounding. Santos kept laughing somewhere near the dance floor. Dana was probably still pretending she had not lost control of the night. Robby was probably still talking.
None of it reached Jack for one full, dangerous second.
There was only you. Your eyes. Your mouth. The faint curve of your lips when you realized he was not recovering as quickly as he should have been.
Then Jack forced himself to look down at his drink. Robby stopped mid-sentence. Jack felt it happen. He did not have to look over to know Robby had followed his gaze.
Robby said, “No.”
Jack stared at his glass. “I didn’t say anything.”
Robby’s voice went dry. “Your face did.”
Jack lifted his drink and took a slow swallow. “Shut up.”
Robby looked across the room again. “She saw you.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “I know.”
The admission came out rougher than he liked. Robby turned back to him, and Jack could feel the amusement sharpening beside him.
Robby asked, “And?”
Jack kept his eyes on the table. “And nothing.”
Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Convincing.”
Jack looked at him then. “Don’t start.”
Robby lifted one hand. “I’m not starting anything.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
Robby looked toward you again and added, “Looks like she might, though.”
Across the room, you were still watching him. Not openly enough to be obvious to anyone else, but obvious to him. That was worse.
Liv leaned into your shoulder, saying something near your ear, but your eyes stayed on Jack for half a second longer.
Then your mouth curved, slow and knowing.
Jack looked away before he forgot himself completely.
Beside you, Liv followed your gaze.
She had been mid-sentence, one hand tucked into the pocket of her oversized leather jacket, the black fabric of her dress catching the light beneath it. Her boots made her look taller than she was, sharper somehow, like trouble with good posture.
She looked across the room. First, the man in the black T-shirt. Then at the man beside him.
Her eyebrows lifted. Liv leaned into your shoulder and asked, “What?”
You took a sip of your drink to give yourself a second. It did not help. The man in the booth looked down at his glass like that could save him. Black T-shirt. Broad shoulders. Forearms bare below the sleeves, one hand wrapped around his drink with enough tension in his fingers to make your stomach flip.
You should not have been so pleased. You were.
Liv followed your gaze again, slower this time. Her mouth curved. “Oh.”
You did not look away from the booth. The man in black lifted his glass to his mouth again, controlled and tense and visibly trying not to look at you. He failed, and his eyes found yours over the rim.
Your pulse kicked hard.
Liv watched that happen and made a quiet sound of appreciation. “That one?”
You let your gaze drop to his arms, then back to his face. “That one,” you said.
Liv’s eyes flicked to the man beside him, older, dark-eyed, tired-looking in a way that should not have been attractive and unfortunately was. He was holding his drink like he was mad at the concept of music and half a second away from saying something cutting.
Liv smiled. “Good.”
You glanced at her. She kept her eyes on Robby and said, “I’ll take the other one.”
You looked back across the room. The man in black was listening to the other one now, his body angled away from the chaos, but his attention kept betraying him. Every few seconds, his gaze returned to you like he hated that it had somewhere to go.
You said, “Forearms.”
Liv blinked, then looked at him again. The nickname landed. Liv laughed under her breath. “Accurate.”
You nodded toward the other man. “And him?”
Liv tilted her head, studying the man beside him.
The man with dark eyes said something to the man in the black shirt, and his mouth curved faintly when he shot him a look. The lights caught on his face just enough for Liv to see the dark depth of his eyes, the exhaustion, the amusement, the quiet, handsome irritation of a man who had been through too much and still knew exactly what he was doing.
Liv said, “Brown Eyes.”
You looked at her. “Really?”
Liv lifted one shoulder. “Look at him.”
You did. Brown Eyes was watching Liv now. Not the way Forearms was watching you. Forearms looked like he was fighting a losing battle with himself. Brown Eyes looked like he had just noticed the night might be worth his time after all.
Liv smiled slowly. You laughed. “Oh, you’re already gone.”
Liv glanced at you. “Says the woman eye-fucking Forearms from across a club.”
Your face warmed. “I am not.”
Liv gave you a look. You took a sip of your drink. Liv’s grin widened.
Across the room, Jack watched you laugh, and the sight did something unreasonable to him. It should not have. He did not know you. He had not heard your voice. Not really. Not over the music. He did not know your name, your age, whether you were here with someone, whether you were trouble, whether you were the kind of woman who smiled like that because she knew exactly what men thought when they looked at her.
Actually, Jack thought, jaw tightening, he was starting to suspect the answer to that last one.
You turned toward Liv, still smiling, and the movement shifted the line of your body. Your hips moved with the bass, easy even though you were not on the dance floor yet, and Jack’s mind supplied a thought so vivid and inappropriate it almost made him set his drink down.
What would they feel like under his hands? His eyes closed briefly. Fuck.
Robby noticed immediately, “You all right?”
Jack opened his eyes. “Fine.”
Robby looked at Jack’s glass. “You’re gripping that like it owes you money.”
Jack loosened his hand on purpose. That somehow made him feel more ridiculous.
Robby glanced back toward you and Liv. “They’re looking over here.”
Jack did not follow his gaze. “I’m aware.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “The one in red keeps looking at you.”
Jack stared forward. “Also aware.”
Robby took a slow drink. “The one in black keeps looking at me.”
Jack looked at him. “My condolences.”
Robby’s smile sharpened. “Don’t be jealous.”
Jack snorted. “Of what? A midlife crisis?”
Robby leaned back. “I prefer opportunity.”
Jack muttered, “Of course you do.”
Before Robby could answer, Santos appeared at the end of the booth like a glittering, determined storm system. Her cheeks were warm from dancing, her eyes bright, and she was holding a drink Jack was certain Dana had not approved.
Santos planted one hand on the table and said, “You two are depressing.”
Jack looked up at her. “Happy birthday.”
Santos pointed at him. “Do not weaponize politeness.”
Robby lifted his glass toward her. “We’re celebrating from here.”
Santos looked between them, unimpressed. “You’re sitting in the dark like divorced vampires.”
Jack said, “That’s very specific.”
Santos ignored him and looked toward the bar. Her whole face lit up. “Oh! New friends.”
Jack followed her gaze before he could stop himself.
You and Liv were at the bar now, closer than before. That was his first mistake. Because closer was worse. Jack could see more of you now. The red top. The curve of your waist when you shifted your weight. The way your jeans hugged your body. The way you smiled at the bartender, warm and easy, and then turned slightly like you could feel him looking.
Your eyes found his again. Jack’s stomach tightened. You smiled. Not big, not sweet. Just enough.
Robby made a quiet sound beside him. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
Santos looked at Jack, then across the room, then back at Jack. Her eyes widened.
Jack said, “No.”
Santos’s smile appeared all at once. “Interesting.”
Jack pointed one finger at her. “No.”
Santos was already backing away. “I’m getting birthday shots.”
Robby called after her, “Dana said one.”
Santos turned around, walking backward toward the bar. “Dana says a lot of things.”
Jack watched her go with dread settling over him.
Robby leaned closer. “She’s going to bring them over.”
Jack said, “I know.”
Robby looked at you again. “You could leave.”
Jack took another drink. “So could you.”
Robby’s eyes stayed on Liv. “I’m reevaluating.”
Jack looked at him with disgust. “Pathetic.”
Robby smiled faintly. “Flexible.”
At the bar, someone slid between you and Liv with the immediate familiarity of a woman who had decided the night needed more people in it.
She smiled at your red top and said, “Okay, you look incredible.”
You blinked, then laughed. “Thank you.”
Liv glanced at the woman’s birthday sash, crown, or whatever the club lights had turned into glitter on her outfit, and smiled. “Birthday girl?”
She put one hand to her chest. “Trinity Santos. Officially twenty-eight, spiritually twenty-one, emotionally somewhere around seventy-eight.”
You laughed harder. Liv lifted her glass. “Liv.”
You gave Trinity your name.
She looked between you both, then toward the booth. Her smile changed. You followed her gaze even though you already knew where it would land.
Forearms was watching. Again. This time, he did not look away fast enough.
Trinity looked back at you with delighted suspicion. You tried to look innocent. Liv did not bother.
Santos asked, “Do you two want to do birthday shots with us?”
Liv looked at you. You looked at the booth. The man in black had gone very still.
You smiled into your drink. “Sure.”
Santos lit up. “Perfect.”
Liv leaned closer to you as Santos turned toward the bartender. Liv murmured, “Subtle.”
You kept your eyes on Forearms. He kept his eyes on you.
You said, “I’m not trying to be subtle.”
Liv laughed softly. “Thank God.”
Santos collected the shots with the triumphant focus of someone completing an important medical intervention. Then she looked at the number of glasses on the bar and paused.
“Okay,” Santos said. “I need hands.”
Liv reached for two without being asked. “I’ve got these.”
You picked up another two. “Lead the way, birthday girl.”
Santos looked between you and Liv like you had just passed some private test. “Oh, I like you.”
Liv smiled. “Eventually.”
You glanced across the room. The man in the black T-shirt was watching. Again. This time, he did not look away fast enough.
Santos’s smile widened. “Interesting.”
“Shots,” you reminded her.
“Right,” Santos said, turning toward the booth. “Shots first. Bad choices later.”
Liv leaned close to your ear as the three of you started across the club. “You heard her.”
You kept your eyes ahead. “I’m being helpful.”
Liv looked toward the booth, where the man in the black T-shirt had gone very still. “You’re being something.”
You smiled into the noise. “Helpful.”
Across the room, Jack saw the exact moment Santos recruited you and your friend into her birthday operation. His shoulders sank by half an inch. Robby noticed and smiled like a bastard.
Jack said, “Don’t.”
Robby lifted his glass. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jack watched you walk closer, a shot glass balanced carefully in each hand, Liv at your side, Santos leading the way as if she had personally engineered the collision.
Every step made it worse.
You were smiling, amused by Santos, your shoulder brushing your friend’s as you moved through the club. The lights moved over your face, your throat, the red of your top. Your eyes stayed on Jack just long enough to make it clear you knew exactly where you were headed. Jack set his glass down. Robby leaned back in the booth, looking far too entertained for a man in imminent danger himself. Santos reached the table first.
“Birthday shots,” Santos announced.
Dana appeared beside her immediately, eyes narrowing. “Santos.”
Santos handed her a shot. “Dana.”
Dana looked at the glass, then at Santos. “You think saying my name back to me helps your case?”
Santos smiled. “I think it creates rapport.”
Dana took the shot with a sigh. “That is not what that does.”
Santos turned to you and Liv with unnecessary ceremony. “This is Dana. She’s in charge.”
Dana said, “Against my will.”
Santos pointed toward the others. “That’s Cassie, Mel, Whitaker, and Javadi.”
Cassie lifted her glass in greeting. “Hi.”
Mel smiled warmly. “Hi, random club friends.”
Whitaker accepted the shot you handed him carefully. “Thank you.”
Javadi took hers a beat late, then smiled like she was relieved to have caught the rhythm of the interaction. “Thanks.”
Santos leaned closer to you and Liv, lowering her voice with absolutely no subtlety. “We’re doctors. They’re less weird at work.”
Dana said, “I’m a nurse, and no, they’re not.”
Javadi blinked. “I think I’m slightly less weird at work.”
Whitaker glanced at her. “I don’t know if I am.”
Mel patted his arm. “You’re doing great.”
Santos turned back toward the booth like she had saved the most dangerous introductions for last.
“This is Robby,” Santos said, pointing to the man beside Jack.
Robby looked at Liv. Liv looked him over once, slow and cool. Robby’s mouth curved like he appreciated being assessed.
Santos pointed at the man in black. “And that’s Jack.”
Your eyes returned to him. Jack. The name fit him. Unfortunately. It made him real in a way Forearms had not. Forearms had been safe across the club. Forearms had been a joke you could murmur into Liv’s ear, something low and private and ridiculous enough to make her laugh into her drink. Jack was not safe. Jack was close. Jack had a voice. Jack had hands. Jack was looking at you like he had already tried to talk himself out of wanting you and was furious that wanting you had won anyway.
Santos smiled, entirely too pleased with herself. “And this is Liv.”
Liv lifted her glass slightly. “Hi.”
Robby’s eyes stayed on her face. “Liv.”
Liv tilted her head. “Robby.”
His mouth curved. “You say that like you’re deciding whether it fits.”
Liv looked him over once more, slower this time. “I am.”
Robby huffed a quiet laugh. Santos turned toward you next and gave Jack your name. Jack looked at you when she said it. Not like he was hearing it. Like he was keeping it.
Your pulse kicked hard. You said his name before you could decide whether that was a bad idea. A slow murmur, testing the syllables. “Jack.”
His jaw flexed. It was small, barely anything, but you saw it. The reaction moved through you like heat. Jack took one slow breath through his nose, and for one wild second, you wondered what he would look like if you said his name somewhere quieter. Somewhere darker. Somewhere with his body pressed closer and his mouth near your ear.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Jack said your name. His voice was worse than you imagined. Lower than you expected, rougher.
The kind of voice that made you wonder how it would sound against your skin. Against your throat, or lower.
You hated him a little for that. You hated him more for standing there like he had no idea what he had just done to you. Santos shoved a shot into Jack’s hand, then into Robby’s, then lifted her own.
Jack knew he should look away. He knew it with the same grim certainty he had carried from the moment he first saw you near the bar. It had been difficult from across the room. It was worse now. Up close, there was nowhere for his attention to go that did not make him feel like a worse man.
Your mouth. Your neck. The red of your top beneath the moving lights. The way your eyes had dropped to his arms before snapping back up, like you had been caught somewhere you did not regret going.
He had seen it.
And now his mind was doing things it had no business doing in the middle of Santos’s birthday party. He thought about your hands in his shirt. His hands at your waist. Your hips under his palms. Your body close enough that he would not have to imagine the heat of you anymore.
Jack’s fingers tightened around his glass. Fuck. He needed to stop. Immediately.
You were standing two feet away from him in a red top and jeans, looking at his mouth like you had already imagined what it could do to you, and Jack was trying very hard not to imagine anything back.
Robby leaned slightly toward him, voice low enough that only Jack could hear. “You look calm.”
Jack did not take his eyes off you. “Shut up.”
Robby hummed into his drink. “Noted.”
“To me,” Santos said, delighted, raising her glass.
Dana sighed somewhere beside her. “Of course.”
Everyone drank.
The shot burned warm and sharp, and for one brief second, everyone made the same face.
Santos recovered first.
“Perfect,” she said, setting her empty glass down with the satisfaction of someone who had made several excellent decisions in a row.
Dana looked at her. “That is not the word I would use.”
Cassie smiled into her drink. “It’s her birthday. Let her have delusion.”
Mel leaned toward Santos, already bright with the next idea. “They’re playing your song.”
Santos’s head snapped toward the dance floor. “Oh, absolutely not without me.”
Whitaker looked alarmed when Santos grabbed his wrist. Santos tugged him toward the music. “Come on, Huckleberry.”
Whitaker went with her, careful and resigned. “I don’t think I know this one.”
Javadi followed a beat later, clutching her drink with both hands. “I can learn by watching.”
Dana sighed and looked at Cassie. “We’re keeping them alive?”
Cassie lifted her brows. “Apparently.”
Mel smiled warmly at you and Liv as she backed toward the dance floor. “You should come dance too.”
Liv’s mouth curved. “We might.”
Santos pointed back at you from the edge of the crowd. “Don’t disappear. I just found you.”
You laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then the crew slipped back into the crush of the dance floor, taking the birthday noise with them and leaving the booth suddenly, horribly, wonderfully less crowded.
Robby looked at Liv.
Liv looked at Robby.
You looked at Jack.
Jack looked at you.
For a moment, the four of you stood there with empty shot glasses, warm mouths, and absolutely nowhere safe to put your eyes.
Jack set his glass on the table first. “You friends with Santos now?”
You glanced toward the dance floor, where Santos had already pulled Whitaker into another doomed attempt at rhythm. You looked back at Jack. “Apparently.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours.
“She moves fast,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for one devastating second. Then he looked back up. “I noticed.”
The words were innocent, his voice was not.
Your pulse kicked hard as you tilted your head, letting your smile curve just enough to make his eyes narrow. “You notice a lot?”
Robby made a quiet sound into his drink. Liv’s smile sharpened.
Jack held your gaze. “When it’s worth noticing.”
The bass hit low through the floor, and the room kept moving around you.
Jack’s mouth barely curved.
You felt the answer in your stomach. Across from you, Liv turned her attention to Robby like she had finally decided to stop being polite about it.
“So,” Liv said, lifting her empty shot glass slightly. “Robby.”
Robby looked at her. “Liv.”
Liv’s eyes moved over his face. “You always this cheerful at birthdays?”
Robby glanced toward Santos, then back at Liv. “This is me being festive.”
Liv smiled. “Tragic.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “You judging me already?”
Liv took one small step closer to the table. “Efficiently.”
Robby looked at her as if he were deciding whether to be annoyed or interested. It appeared to be both.
“That working for you?” Robby asked.
Liv’s smile turned slower. “So far.”
Jack heard Robby’s quiet laugh and looked briefly pained. You noticed. Jack noticed you noticing.
His eyes came back to yours.
You looked at his mouth before you could stop yourself. Barely. Just once, but Jack saw it. His expression did not change much, but his gaze sharpened, and your pulse kicked. Jack leaned back a fraction, still watching you like he was deciding whether to let you get away with that.
“You do that on purpose?” he asked.
Your smile came slowly. “Do what?”
Your eyes dropped to his mouth. This time, you let him see it. Heat opened low in your body, slow and dangerous.
Jack’s voice dropped. “That.”
Before you could answer, Santos’s voice cut through the music from the dance floor. “New friends!”
You looked over. Santos had both hands cupped around her mouth and absolutely no shame. She pointed at you and Liv, then stabbed one finger toward the dance floor. “Dance floor! Now!”
Dana, standing near her with her arms crossed, said something you could not hear.
Santos yelled, “Dana says please!”
Dana’s expression clearly said she had said no such thing. Mel waved brightly from beside them. Cassie lifted her drink in invitation. Whitaker gave a small, helpless shrug like he had already accepted his fate. Javadi smiled gently.
Liv looked from the dance floor back to Robby and Jack. Her eyes gleamed.
“Do either of you dance?” Liv asked.
Robby looked at the crowd like it had personally disappointed him. “Not voluntarily.”
Jack did not even look away from you. “No.”
You lifted your brows. “Just no?”
Jack’s eyes stayed steady on yours. “Just no.”
You smiled like that answer had not bothered you at all.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack’s gaze narrowed. That was worse than if you had argued.
Liv looped her arm through yours. “Their loss.”
Robby’s eyes followed the movement before he could stop himself. Liv noticed, and her mouth curved as she turned away. You let her pull you toward the dance floor, aware of Jack behind you with every step. You did not look back right away.
You gave him time to wonder if you would.
The music changed as you and Liv found space in the crowd, something heavier now, slower through the bass. Bodies moved around you, warm and close, the lights cutting over the floor in flashes of purple and blue.
Liv leaned toward your ear. “He said no like he thought that was going to help him.”
You laughed, letting the beat settle into your body. “He’s optimistic.”
Liv’s eyes flicked past your shoulder. “He’s watching.”
Your stomach tightened. You did not turn yet. “Already?”
Liv smiled. “He never stopped.”
That should not have done what it did to you. It did anyway. You let your eyes close for half a second, your body finding the music as Liv moved with you. The club was loud enough to blur the edges of everything, but somehow you could still feel Jack across the room like a hand at the back of your neck.
You turned with the beat, slowly. Not too much. Just enough.
Your eyes found him over the moving bodies. Jack was still in the booth, still trying to look like a disciplined man. But his jaw was tight, his glass untouched, his gaze fixed on you like looking away had stopped being an option.
Good.
You wanted him to look. You wanted him to regret saying no. You wanted that careful mouth to go rough and that controlled hand to finally find your waist.
Jack watched you turn away from him again. His hand tightened around his glass. He told himself not to look lower. He did. Your hips moved with the music, easy and unhurried, the denim hugging you just right when you shifted closer to Liv. You laughed at something she said, tipping your head toward her, and now the heat of the room had touched you properly, a thin shine catching at your throat, your collarbone, the line of your chest beneath the red top.
Jack swallowed. Fuck. This was worse. Across the room had been bad. Up close had been worse.
But this, watching you dance after he had refused you, watching you move like you knew exactly what he had denied himself, was going to kill him.
His mind went right back where it had no business going.
Your hips under his hands. His fingers digging into denim. Your body pulled back against his. Your breath catching when he pressed his mouth to your neck and fucked you from behind, slow enough to make you impatient, hard enough to make that confident little smile disappear.
He wondered what sounds you would make. Whether you would try to be quiet. Whether you would moan his name like you had tested it earlier, only softer, messier, ruined.
Jack’s jaw clenched.
He looked down at his drink like a better man might be hiding at the bottom of it.
Beside him, Robby had gone quiet. That was never a good sign.
Jack did not look over. “Don’t.”
Robby exhaled through his nose. “Brother.”
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “No.”
Robby was staring at Liv. Liv danced like she knew she was being watched and had no intention of rewarding him too quickly for it. She moved with cool, sharp confidence, black dress skimming her thighs, leather jacket slipping off one shoulder as she leaned toward you with a smile.
Robby dragged a hand over his mouth.
Jack said, “No.”
Robby picked up his drink. “Don’t hate me.”
Jack’s expression flattened. “Fuck no.”
Robby downed the rest of his drink.
Jack sat up slightly. “Robby.”
Robby set the empty glass down and stood. “I’m weak.”
Jack looked at him like he had betrayed the country. “You’re pathetic.”
Robby smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt. “Both can be true.”
Jack watched him step away from the booth with open disgust.
On the dance floor, Liv’s eyes lifted over your shoulder. Her mouth curved.
“Brown Eyes is moving,” Liv said.
You turned just enough to look. Robby was making his way through the crowd, focused on Liv like the rest of the club had become background noise. Your gaze slid past him.
Jack was still in the booth, still watching you. Still pretending he was not dying there. Your eyes met his across the room. You raised one brow. Barely. But Jack saw it.
Your look said, Really?
Jack looked down at his drink. Robby had already abandoned him. You were still watching. Your brow remained lifted, your mouth curved with the kind of challenge that made every responsible thought in his head take one careful step back.
Jack muttered, “Fuck.”
Then he downed his drink.
He set the glass on the table with more control than he felt and pushed to his feet. Across the room, your smile changed. Smaller. Hotter. Victorious. Jack saw that too. His eyes narrowed.
Then he pointed one finger at you as he started toward the dance floor.
A warning. A reprimand. A promise.
You smiled wider.
Jack’s mouth tightened like that had not helped him at all. It had not. He kept walking.
You did not move toward him. You made him come all the way to you. The crowd shifted around him, bodies moving between you in flashes, but Jack’s eyes stayed locked on yours like the rest of the room had become an inconvenience.
Robby reached Liv first. He slid into her space with the confidence of a man who had decided shame was not useful to him. Liv did not stop dancing. She looked up at him, mouth curved, eyes bright beneath the shifting lights.
Robby stopped in front of her. “Changed my mind.”
Liv’s eyebrows lifted. “That was quick.”
Robby’s gaze moved over her face, then dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “You looked persuasive.”
Liv smiled. “And here I thought you didn’t dance.”
Robby stepped closer, close enough that his voice lowered for her alone. “I’m versatile.”
Liv laughed once, low and pleased, and let him put a hand on her hip.
You barely caught it.
Because Jack had reached you, and the air changed.
That was the only way you knew how to name it. The club was still loud. The bass still moved through the floor. Santos was somewhere behind you, yelling over the music, and Liv was beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the consequences of her own actions.
But Jack stopped in front of you, and the noise thinned. He did not say anything. Neither did you. He stood close enough for you to see the heat in his eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of whiskey and clean soap underneath the club air. His hand was empty now, his glass abandoned at the booth, his fingers flexing once at his side before going still.
That should not have made your stomach flip. It did. You let your hips move with the next beat, slower than before, your eyes still on his. Jack’s jaw tightened. And there it was. The answer.
He had not come over because he wanted to dance. He had come over because sitting still had finally become impossible.
You smiled, and Jack’s eyes narrowed. His gaze moved over your face, then lower for one brief, controlled second before coming back up.
The look was not innocent.
You shifted closer by half a step. Jack did not back away. The music dragged warm and heavy around you.
A few feet away, Robby bent his head toward Liv’s ear. Whatever he said made her grin and shake her head, as if she were refusing him and enjoying it at the same time. Liv’s fingers touched the front of his shirt once, light and warning. Robby looked down at her hand. Then back at her. His mouth curved.
Bad decisions were forming quickly over there.
Jack noticed too, just barely. His eyes cut toward Robby and Liv for half a second, then came back to you with something dry and resigned in his face.
You tilted your head.
Jack shook his head softly. “Of course.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound caught him. You saw it land. His expression shifted by a fraction, like your laugh had done something even worse to him than your body had.
You moved with the music again, and Jack’s eyes dropped to your waist. This time, he let them stay. Heat moved through you so fast it almost made you miss the beat. His gaze lifted, and you looked at his hands. Then back up at his face.
Jack saw that too. His voice came low beneath the music. “You want something?”
Your pulse kicked. You could have played innocent, but you did not. You let your eyes drop to his hands again, then lifted them slowly. Jack’s jaw flexed. His attention sharpened until it felt like his focus had become a physical thing, warm and heavy against your skin.
You said, “You came all the way over here to keep your hands to yourself?”
Jack stared at you. For one second, he looked almost offended by how well that landed. Then his mouth curved. Barely. Dangerously.
“No,” Jack said.
Your breath caught.
His hand came to your hip. Just one. Careful at first, warm and solid. Heavy enough to make every thought in your head trip over itself. His palm settled against the side of your jeans, fingers spread just above the curve of your hip, respectful enough to be infuriating and intimate enough to make your body go hot from the inside out.
You felt every inch of his hand. Jack felt your reaction. His eyes sharpened. You hated him for noticing. You loved him for noticing.
The song shifted lower, bass pulsing through your feet, and you let your body move into the shape of his hand. Jack’s fingers tightened once. Not much, but enough.
Your breath changed, and his eyes dropped to your mouth. You smiled like you were handling this better than you were. Jack looked like he knew better.
“That all you’ve got?” you asked.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your hip, and your stomach tightened.
His mouth barely curved. “You in a hurry?”
You held his gaze. “You took a while getting over here.”
Jack leaned in just enough for his voice to reach you beneath the music. Not close enough to touch anywhere else. Not close enough to give you what you wanted. Close enough to ruin the air between you.
“I was making a bad decision,” Jack said.
Your pulse stumbled. You looked at his mouth before you could stop yourself. Jack saw it. His hand stayed at your hip. Only there. Nowhere else.
That almost made it worse.
“You always take that long?” you asked.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Depends on the decision.”
You smiled slowly. “And this one?”
His gaze moved over your face. Slow. Controlled. Hot enough to make your skin feel too tight.
“This one,” Jack said, “got complicated.”
You breathed out a laugh. “Because of the dancing?”
Jack glanced down at your body. Then his eyes came back to yours.
“No,” Jack said.
Your mouth went dry. Jack’s hand flexed at your hip again, still the only place he was touching you, still careful enough to make you want to scream.
“Because I’m old enough to know better,” Jack said.
You should have stepped back, but you didn’t. Instead, you moved a little closer, not touching his chest, not pressing into him, just taking one more inch of space until his hand had to settle more fully at your hip. His jaw tightened.
You looked up at him. “That working for you?”
Jack stared at you for one beat. Then another.
“No,” Jack said. The answer hit low.
A few feet away, Liv laughed. You looked past Jack’s shoulder. Liv had her back pressed to Robby’s chest now, her leather jacket loose off one shoulder, her head tipped slightly to the side as he leaned down to say something near her ear.
No. Not say.
His mouth brushed her neck. Just once. Light enough to pass for a whisper if anyone wanted to lie about it. Liv’s smile went slow. Robby’s hand settled at her hip, and she moved back against him with the beat like she had already decided exactly where the night was going.
You huffed a soft laugh. Jack followed your gaze. His expression went flat immediately.
You looked back at him, amused. “They’re leaving together.”
Jack’s eyes returned to yours. “You know that from one look?”
You glanced over again. Liv had turned her face just enough for Robby to speak against her ear, and Robby looked entirely too pleased with the angle he had been given. His fingers flexed at her hip. Liv’s hand came up, sliding briefly into his hair before dropping again like she had remembered there were people around.
You looked at Jack. “I know her.”
Jack’s eyes flicked toward them again. Robby’s mouth brushed Liv’s neck a second time. Jack sighed through his nose. “Unfortunately, I know him.”
Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Jack looked at you when you laughed. Not at your mouth this time. At your whole face. The attention landed differently. Warmer. Still dangerous, but warmer. You felt your smile soften. Jack noticed that too. His hand at your hip gentled for half a second before settling again.
Then Liv appeared beside you, cheeks warm from dancing, lipstick still perfect, expression entirely too calm for someone who had just had Robby’s mouth at her neck. Robby came with her, one step behind, his hand resting at the small of her back like he had earned the privilege recently and intended to keep it until told otherwise.
Jack looked at him. Robby looked back. Neither of them said anything for half a second.
Then Jack’s mouth flattened. “Really?”
Robby lifted one shoulder. “Apparently.”
Liv turned to you and smiled brightly. “We’re leaving.”
You looked at her. “Shocking.”
Liv’s smile widened. “I know. No one could have predicted this.”
Robby glanced at Jack. “I was blindsided.”
Jack stared at him. “Were you?”
Robby’s mouth curved. “No.”
Liv squeezed your hand once. “I’ll text you when we get there.”
You held her gaze. “And location stays on.”
Liv nodded. “Already is.”
You looked at Robby. Robby’s brows lifted slightly, but he did not look offended. Good.
You smiled sweetly. “Bring her back alive, Brown Eyes.”
Robby’s grin came slow. Jack’s eyes flicked to you. Liv laughed.
Robby looked between you and Liv. “Brown Eyes?”
Liv patted his chest. “Before I knew your name.”
Robby looked pleased with himself. “And now?”
Liv looked him over once. “Still accurate.”
Robby’s grin widened.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. “Jesus Christ.”
Liv leaned in and kissed your cheek. “Be smart.”
You said, “You too.”
Liv’s eyes flicked toward Jack. Then her smile turned evil.
“Make Forearms work for it,” Liv said.
You froze. Jack’s gaze sharpened. Robby’s grin appeared immediately. “Forearms?”
Liv tugged him toward the edge of the dance floor before you could stop her. “Goodnight.”
Robby followed her, still laughing. Jack did not say anything. You did not look at him. That felt safer.
Behind you, Robby called, “Good luck, brother.”
Jack’s voice came flat and dry beside you. “Fuck off.”
Robby’s reply came without missing a beat. “That’s the plan.”
Liv’s laughter disappeared into the crowd with Robby’s.
For a second, you did not move. The music filled the space they left behind, bass low and heavy, lights cutting over the dance floor in deep blue flashes. Jack stood beside you. Too quiet. Too close. You did not look at him. That felt safer.
His voice came low near your ear. “Forearms?”
Your eyes closed. “Don’t.”
Jack stepped closer. Not touching. Not yet.
“No,” Jack said. “I think I’m going to need to hear about that.”
You turned your head and found him watching you with the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. It was not a full smile. That would have been easier. This was worse. This was Jack, knowing he had caught you and deciding to enjoy it.
“It was before I knew your name,” you said.
His gaze held yours. “And now?”
Your eyes dropped before you could stop them. Down his shoulder. His arm. The bare forearm below the sleeve of his black T-shirt. Jack saw it. His mouth barely moved.
“Still?” Jack asked.
You looked back up at him, but the damage was done. Jack’s eyes were darker now, amused and heated in a way that made your stomach tighten. You could have made a joke. You could have lied.
Instead, your hand moved. Your fingers found his forearm. Jack went still. Not completely. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you felt it beneath your fingertips, the faint lock of muscle under warm skin as your touch settled over him. You traced one finger slowly down the inside of his forearm, following the raised line of a vein toward his wrist.
Jack’s hand flexed at his side. Your pulse kicked. His voice came lower. “That an answer?”
You kept your eyes on your finger because looking at him felt like a mistake.
“Maybe,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Maybe?”
Your fingertip paused over his pulse. It jumped. Barely. But you felt it. Your eyes lifted to his. His control looked different now. Thinner. Hotter.
You said, “You heard the nickname.”
Jack stepped closer, and the heat of him cut through the club air. “I heard it.”
Your finger was still resting against his wrist. His pulse beat beneath your touch. Steady. Not as steady as he looked. You smiled. His eyes narrowed slightly, but his mouth curved.
“Careful,” Jack said.
Your hand stayed on his arm. “You keep saying that.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. This time, he did not pretend it was an accident.
“You keep needing to hear it,” Jack said.
The music shifted into something slower. Heavier. The kind of song that gave people permission to make bad choices and call it dancing. Jack looked at you. You looked back.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you lifted your brows. “I thought you didn’t dance.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “I changed my mind.”
Your stomach dipped. You should have said something smart. You should have made him work for it. Instead, you stepped closer. Jack’s hand found your hip again. This time, when your body moved with the beat, his moved with yours.
Barely at first. A shift. A sway. A controlled little give that should not have felt as intimate as it did. But then your chest brushed his. Just once. Your breath caught. Jack’s hand tightened. The contact disappeared with the next beat, then came back again, slow and warm and impossible to ignore.
Your body against his.
His body answering yours.
The space between you narrowed until dancing stopped feeling like the right word for it.
Jack looked down at you, and the heat in his eyes made your skin feel too tight.
You wondered what it would feel like if there were nothing between you. No denim. No shirt. No careful inch of public restraint. Just his skin against yours, sweat slicking between your bodies, his hands dragging you closer instead of holding himself back, his mouth rough at your neck while you moved together with nothing left to pretend.
Jack’s thumb pressed into your hip like he had followed the thought somehow.
Like he knew exactly where your mind had gone.
Your eyes lifted to his. His jaw was tight. His control looked thinner now. More fragile. You were not the only one imagining it.
Jack was trying not to think about your body under his.
Trying not to think about your thighs spread around him, your back arching off his bed, your voice breaking because careful had finally become impossible. He was trying not to picture your hands in his hair, your mouth near his ear, telling him exactly how you liked to be fucked.
Harder. Slower. There.
Jack’s jaw clenched. Fuck. He wanted to know. He wanted to hear it in your voice. He wanted to feel the exact second your confidence turned into begging, wanted your body pinned beneath his while you asked for more like he had not already lost his mind giving it to you.
Your hand moved over his forearm again. Slow. Deliberate. You traced the raised line of that vein toward his wrist and felt his pulse jump under your finger. Jack’s eyes darkened.
You smiled softly. “You okay?”
Jack stared at you. “No.”
The answer went straight through you. Your smile faded. Not because you were scared. Because you felt it too. Because the careful press of his hand at your hip had turned into something impossible, something that made you wonder what he would feel like inside you. Whether he would go still at first, jaw tight, eyes fixed on yours while he tried to let you set the pace. Whether he would let you climb on top of him and take what you wanted.
Whether he would last.
You pictured it too clearly. Your knees on either side of his hips. Your hands braced on his chest. Jack beneath you, watching you like restraint had become a physical ache, letting you move until his patience snapped and his hands found your hips. Guiding you. Moving you. Taking over because watching you ride him had finally broken whatever discipline he had left.
Your breath changed.
Jack heard it.
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, still decent enough for the dance floor, still controlled enough to count as restraint. But it brought you closer. Fully this time. Your body pressed against his, and Jack inhaled once, sharp and quiet.
There. There it was. The thing both of you had been circling all night.
The heat. The shape. The fit.
The terrible, perfect knowledge that this would be worse without clothes.
Better. Worse. Impossible.
Jack leaned down until his mouth was near your ear. His voice came rough beneath the music.
“If I stop being careful,” Jack said, “I’m not stopping here.”
The words moved through you like heat. Your fingers tightened around his forearm. Jack felt it. His hand spread wider against your back, not forcing, not taking, just holding you close enough that your next breath had nowhere to go except against him.
You turned your face slightly toward his. Your cheek almost brushed his. Almost.
“Who said I wanted you to stop?” you asked.
Jack went still. You felt the question land in his body. His control did not disappear. Not yet. But something in it shifted. Something low and dangerous unlocked behind his eyes. He drew back just enough to look at you. The lights moved over his face, cutting along the hard line of his jaw, catching on the heat in his eyes.
“You know what you’re asking for?” Jack asked.
Your pulse kicked. You did not know all of it. Not really. Not the exact weight of him. Not the sound of his voice in a quiet room. Not how his hands would feel when he stopped using restraint like armor. But you knew enough. You knew you wanted him closer. You knew you wanted his mouth. You knew you wanted to hear him lose that careful tone and find something rougher underneath it.
You looked at him. “I’m asking you to dance.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. It should have looked amused. It looked hungry.
“That what we’re calling this?” Jack asked.
Your body moved with his again, slow and close, the friction of fabric and heat making your thoughts blur around the edges. Your hand slid from his forearm to his wrist, your fingers curling lightly there. His pulse beat hard beneath your touch.
“For now,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. The space between you changed again. Thinner now. Hotter. His hand at your back pressed once, just enough to guide you with the beat, and your body followed before your mind could catch up.
You saw him notice that. The way you gave. The way you let him move you. The way your breath went shallow when he took even that much control. Jack’s gaze lifted back to yours.
“There it is,” Jack said.
Your stomach tightened. “What?”
His thumb moved once against your back. Slow. Deliberate.
“The part of you that likes being told what to do,” Jack said.
Your breath caught so sharply you could not hide it. Jack’s eyes darkened. You should have denied it. You should have laughed. You should have done anything except stand there with your hand wrapped around his wrist, and your body pressed to his, letting him feel the truth of it.
But Jack already knew. His mouth came closer to your ear again.
“You can argue if you want,” Jack said. “I’ll still know.”
Your eyes fluttered. “Cocky,” you said.
Jack’s hand tightened at your back. “Observant.”
The word dragged over your skin. Your body moved with his again, and this time, Jack guided it. Not much. Nothing anyone else would notice. Just a subtle pressure at your back, a shift of his weight, a controlled movement that made you follow.
It should not have made you think of his bed. It did. It made you think of his hands on your hips again. Of him watching you from underneath, letting you think you were in charge until your rhythm started to falter. Until your thighs shook. Until you got too needy and impatient and he finally sat up, pulled you down hard, and did the work himself.
Your hand tightened on his wrist.
Jack’s voice lowered. “Where did you just go?”
Your eyes snapped to his. He was watching you too closely. Too carefully. Too well.
“Nowhere,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Liar.”
The word should not have done anything to you. It did. You looked at his mouth. Jack looked at yours. The dance slowed until it was barely a dance at all. Just bodies close together. His hand at your back. Your fingers at his wrist. Your breaths tangling in the narrow space between you. The club was too loud. Too crowded. Too public.
And somehow none of that felt like enough to stop this.
Jack’s gaze dropped again, slower this time, to your mouth. Then your throat. Then back up.
When he spoke, his voice was rough. “You keep looking at my mouth.”
Your lips parted. Jack’s eyes tracked the movement.
“You keep noticing,” you murmured.
His thumb pressed into your back. “Hard not to,” Jack said.
Your body swayed into his. His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he might kiss you right there, in the middle of the dance floor, with Santos and Dana and everyone else somewhere in the crush of bodies around you.
For a second, you wanted him to.
Then Jack looked past you. Not away. Just enough to remember where you were. His restraint came back visibly, and you hated it. You hated how much you liked it too. Because it was not rejection. It was control. It was him wanting you badly enough to need it. Jack looked back at you. His hand slid from your back to your hip again, slower than necessary, like he needed one more second of you before he made himself behave.
“Not here,” Jack said.
Your stomach dropped. For one sick second, you thought he meant no. Then his thumb moved once against your hip, and his eyes dropped to your mouth like leaving it alone was hurting him.
Oh. Not here. Not no. You swallowed.
“Then where?” you asked.
Jack went very still. His gaze lifted to yours. The heat there made the answer unnecessary. He gave it anyway.
“My place,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. The music kept moving around you, heavy and careless, but Jack had gone still in front of you. Waiting. Not assuming. Not taking the answer from the look on your face, even though you knew he could read it.
You held his gaze. “Only if you’re sure.”
Jack looked at you like that was the last decent thought either of you had left.
“I’m sure,” Jack said.
His eyes moved over your face, focused and sober enough to make your pulse trip for an entirely different reason.
“You drive here?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “Liv and I Ubered.”
Jack nodded once. Decided. Simple. “I’ll drive.”
Your stomach dipped. It should not have sounded like that. Practical. Certain. Like he had already made room for you in the rest of his night.
“Okay,” you said.
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back. Steady. Warm. Guiding, not pulling.
“Come on,” Jack said.
You went with him. The walk out of the club felt longer than it should have. Jack stayed close at your side, his hand at your back as he guided you through the moving bodies, through the pulse of music and spilled neon light, past the bar where Dana glanced over and immediately looked like she had made a very informed decision not to ask.
Santos saw you, and her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. Dana caught her by the arm and said something sharply into her ear. Santos shut her mouth. Barely. Jack did not look over. You did. Santos lifted both thumbs with the subtlety of a fire alarm. You pressed your lips together and faced forward again before you laughed.
Jack leaned closer without slowing down. “Do I want to know?”
“No,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Figured.”
Then the door opened, and the night air hit your skin. Cool. Sharp. A shock after the heat of the club. The music dulled behind you as the door fell shut, becoming nothing more than a low thump through the walls. The parking lot was dimmer, quieter, broken by streetlights and the distant hum of traffic. Your skin felt too warm. Your lips felt too empty. Every place Jack had touched you seemed to remember the shape of his hand.
He kept his palm at your back as he walked you toward his truck. Not low. Not wandering. Still careful. Still Jack. That somehow made it worse. The truck sat near the edge of the lot, dark and solid beneath the yellow wash of a streetlight. Jack stopped beside the passenger door and finally let his hand fall away from your back.
Careful again.
You turned to face him. He had his keys in one hand, his jaw tight, his eyes on you like the walk outside had not cooled him down at all. If anything, the quiet made it worse. There was no music to hide behind now. No crowd. No Liv and Robby. No Santos yelling from the dance floor.
Just Jack. Just you. Just the space between you, shrinking by the second.
You swallowed. “Still think this is a bad decision?”
Jack looked at you for a long moment. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then lifted.
“Worse than I’d like,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped. You smiled before you could stop yourself. “That didn’t answer the question.”
“No,” Jack said.
He stepped closer. Your back met the truck door. The metal was cool through your top, and Jack was warm everywhere he came near you. He did not crowd you all at once. He gave you one last breath of space, one last chance to step away, one last second to pretend either of you was going to make a different choice.
You did not move.
Jack’s hand came to your jaw. Firm. Certain.
Then his mouth was on yours.
Not polite. Not careful. Not like the man who had spent all night pretending he knew better.
He kissed you like restraint had been a punishment and this was the first second of relief.
Your hand caught his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric as your body arched into him. Jack made a rough sound against your mouth and pressed closer, one hand braced beside your head against the truck, the other sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck.
His thumb angled under your chin.
He tilted your face exactly where he wanted it.
The thought should not have made you weak.
It did.
You opened for him, and Jack took the invitation with a low sound that went straight through you. His mouth turned hotter, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours until your grip tightened in his shirt and your knees threatened to become a problem.
Jack pressed you more firmly into the door.
Not hard enough to hurt.
Hard enough to make sure you felt him.
His body lined up with yours, solid and warm, one thigh shifting between yours just enough to make your breath break against his mouth.
You felt him smile. Barely.
The bastard.
You nipped his lower lip.
Jack’s hand tightened at your neck.
“There she is,” Jack murmured against your mouth.
Heat rushed through you.
You pulled him back in.
He came willingly.
Too willingly.
His hand left the truck and found your waist, then your hip, then the curve of you like he had been trying not to touch you all night and had finally run out of reasons. His palm dragged over denim, fingers spreading, gripping once when you rocked into him without meaning to.
Jack broke the kiss on a sharp breath.
His forehead hovered near yours. “Careful.”
You were beginning to hate that word. You were beginning to love it.
Your hand slid up his chest, over his shoulder, then down his arm until your fingers found his forearm again.
Jack went still.
You traced the vein there, slower this time.
Meaner.
His eyes darkened.
You looked up at him. “You first.”
Jack stared at you.
Then he kissed you again.
Harder.
Hungrier.
His hand slid to the small of your back and dragged you closer until there was no polite space left between you, no careful inch, no pretending this was anything other than what it was. Your body pressed into his, and the sound he made into your mouth was so rough you felt it in your stomach.
You wanted him inside you.
The thought arrived fully formed, sharp and desperate.
You wanted his control turned loose.
You wanted his hands on your hips, moving you, guiding you, taking over.
You wanted to hear that careful voice go ruined.
Jack’s mouth moved to the corner of yours, then your jaw, then just beneath it.
Your head tipped back against the truck before you could stop it.
Jack froze for half a second.
Then his mouth touched your throat.
Once.
Open and hot.
Your breath caught so sharply it almost sounded like his name.
Jack heard it.
His hand tightened at your waist, and his mouth brushed your neck again, slower this time, like he wanted to learn exactly where the sound had come from.
“Jack,” you breathed.
He pulled back like the name had hit him in the chest. His eyes were dark. His mouth was wet. His breathing was no longer even.
Good.
You wanted him like that. You wanted him worse.
Jack looked down at you, pinned between his body and the truck, and something in his face shifted.
Not regret. Not hesitation. Control. Barely. Painfully.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
“Fuck,” Jack said.
You tried to catch your breath. “What?”
Jack opened his eyes. His hand was still at your waist. His body was still too close. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then dragged back to your eyes like the movement cost him something.
“We need to go,” Jack said.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “We are going.”
His mouth twitched, but it did not become a smile.
“No,” Jack said, voice rough. “We need to go now.”
Your pulse kicked. Jack leaned in until his mouth brushed your ear.
“Because I’m trying to do this properly,” Jack said. “And if you keep making those sounds, I’m going to fuck you in the back seat.”
Your entire body went hot.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you.
His jaw was tight. His restraint was hanging by a thread, and you could see every inch of it.
“Understood?” Jack asked.
You swallowed. Then, because apparently you had no survival instinct left, you looked toward the back seat.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
Your mouth curved.
Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. His voice dropped. “Get in the truck.”
You looked back at him. “Bossy.”
Jack opened the passenger door behind you. His gaze stayed on yours.
“You have no idea,” Jack said.
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