Hawkins’ Hottest Manny.
♡ A Stranger Things Limited Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library. ☾⋆ ALL EPISODES & Series File -> click here
EP 13 | Season 5 (Undertow) 📺 -> EP.1 (The Pilot) -> EP.2 & EP.3 -> EP. 4 / EP. 5 / EP. 6 📺 -> EP. 7 & Ep.8 -> EP.9 - S4 Finale -> EP.10 - S5 📺 -> EP.11 - S5 -> EP.12 - S5
Nanny!Steve Harrington x baby girl Prior King Steve turned unpaid babysitter turned full-time nanny to a newborn baby girl. Playboy turned protector, eventual love story when Steve meets someone who finally helps him move on from Nancy. But the real love story is the paternal love he shares with little Mia Browne. 18+
🍼 SUMMARY: Sometimes the end of the world comes in one crash. But other times, it gives people visions first... just so people know it's always lurking in the shadows, ready to strike when it's least expected, so that it catches unsuspecting humans offguard and can feed on their fears.
Steve Harrington's nightmares have always known where his deepest fears lie, and exactly how to break him in half before he wakes up and wonders whether or not it happened.
This time, he's just not in the nursery with ten months of innocence safely cradled in his arms to rock him through them. Instead, he's in a stranger's bed and ten blocks away from the precious little life that's changed him for the better... and he realizes that a life of normalcy might not be possible for him anymore.
Good thing his one night stand ended up being with the warmest sunkissed girl on spring break, and he's newly befriended some of the nicer out-of-towners that don't need him to explain why he's woken up in cold sweats, crying out a little girl's name.
🍼 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not gonna spoil too much more here. Just know, these were some really gemstone chapters that I enjoyed writing far more than I thought I would. We'll explore more in the next "episode."
Hope you all enjoy :)
Xx, misha
S5 | Ep. 13 Undertow
Steve wakes up already breathing hard.
At first he doesn’t know why.
The ceiling above him seems unfamiliar. Wide beams of pale wood catching faint moonlight through the balcony doors. The ocean breeze pushes the curtains slowly inward, lifting them like ghostly hands before letting them fall again.
For a few seconds everything is quiet except the ocean.
The steady hush of waves rolling against the shore.
The distant creak of the beach house settling.
Then he realizes something…
Margot isn’t in the bed.
His hand drifts across the sheets beside him.
Cold.
Empty.
Steve pushes himself up slowly, his heart thumping harder now. The room is dark enough that shapes blur into shadows. He’s still wearing boxers — the rest of his clothes scattered somewhere on the floor. And he feels a sudden chill now creeping up his spine as he watches the open balcony doors sway gently on their hinges.
The ocean breeze is cooler than it was earlier.
And the air smells… wrong.
Not salty.
Stale.
He rubs his face with one hand and swings his legs over the side of the bed, still half convinced this is nothing. Maybe she went to the bathroom. Maybe she went downstairs for water.
But something about the silence makes his stomach tighten.
There should be music downstairs.
Someone laughing.
A door slamming.
Something.
Instead the whole house feels dead.
Steve stands and walks toward the balcony. The wood floor is cold beneath his bare feet. The curtains brush against his arms as he steps outside… and at first, it looks normal. The beach stretches pale beneath the moonlight. The water gleams silver where the waves break. The sky is clear.
…but then he realizes something that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
The tide isn’t moving.
The water is completely still.
He grips the railing slowly, leaning forward to look closer… The ocean should be breathing. Even on calm nights there’s always movement. But right now, the water just looks thick.
Black.
Oily.
…and then, without warning, the tide begins to pull back.
Not gradually.
Not naturally.
It retreats all at once.
WHOOSH… Miles of wet sand emerge as the ocean drains away from the shore like someone has pulled a plug at the bottom of the sea.
Steve’s breath catches in his throat.
“What the fuck…”
The exposed seabed glistens beneath the moonlight.
Dead fish.
Broken shells.
Seaweed tangled like rotting hair.
And out where the ocean should be…
There are vines.
Black.
Endless.
Supernatural.
Those same vines that choked him up against the wall, last fall, back at the Creel House with Nancy and Robin — now stretch across the seabed in thick twisting webs, pulsing faintly like veins beneath skin.
Something massive moves beneath them.
The entire network shifts.
Slow.
Breathing.
Steve’s fingers tighten around the railing, his chest beginning to rise and fall faster now. This isn’t possible, he tells himself. This isn’t happening.
This isn’t real.
…except…
Except it feels real.
The wind is chilly against his skin. The wood beneath his hands is solid. So he leans farther over the railing, scanning the beach. The moonlight paints everything in an eerie shade of a pale midnight sky.
Empty sand.
Dark dunes.
And then comes a sound.
The realest sound of all.
Soft…
Broken…
Crying…
Infant.
Steve freezes in place.
A baby crying.
“No,” he whispers, his stomach dropping straight through the floor. He leans farther over the railing, heart slamming against his ribs.
And there — there.
Down near the waterline, a small shape sits in the sand.
Tiny.
Helpless.
Scared.
“Mia.”
The name tears out of Steve’s throat.
She’s sitting alone on the beach. Her tiny hands press into the sand as she looks around, confused and frightened. Her ivory pajamas are smeared with dirt, her little sun hat all tangled by the wind.
And she’s crying for him.
Mia is crying for him.
“Mia!” Steve shouts. His voice cracks. “Hey— hey, baby!— it’s okay—”
But she can’t see him.
She keeps looking around, crying harder now.
“MIA, I’M RIGHT HERE— HOLD ON.”
Steve turns and runs for the stairs.
Or tries to.
Something yanks him backward. He stumbles violently, choking on a startled breath. Dark vines have wrapped around his arms.
His chest.
His waist.
They coil from the balcony railing like living ropes, tightening around him as he struggles.
“No—” Steve jerks forward, muscles straining as he tries to rip free. But the vines only tighten instantly. “NO—”
Sharp pain bites into his ribs.
“Mia!” he shouts again, voice breaking.
She hears something.
Her crying softens as she looks around the beach.
Searching.
Hearing his voice.
Steve’s vision blurs.
“I’m right here!” he cries. He strains against the vines with everything he has. They don’t budge. “Baby— hey— look at me—”
But she doesn’t.
His voice cracks into a desperate rasp. “Mia— look at me—”
She turns slowly…
But not toward him.
Toward the ocean. Toward the dead seabed. Toward the vines beneath the sand begin to move… now sliding across the wet surface like snakes.
Reaching…
“Mia—”
Steve jerks forward again.
The vines slam him against the railing.
His lungs empty in a choking gasp.
“MIA!” he screams.
She stops crying. Her big brown eyes blink as she watches the moving vines with quiet curiosity and naïve wonder.
Eight months old.
Too young to understand danger.
Too young to be afraid.
Steve feels hot tears spill down his face. “Baby—please—” His voice breaks completely now. “I’m right here—”
He tries to scream again.
But this time, no sound comes out.
Because the vines are back around his throat — twisting, forbidding him any chance to save the innocent soul he’s vowed to protect since before she was even born last June.
The air around him thickens.
Heavy.
Like tar.
The sand beneath Mia shifts as dark vines curl slowly around her tiny legs… and the whole time, she just watches them. Confused. The way that babies watch everything without knowing any better.
Steve sobs.
“Look at me!” he screams against the vines. “I’m here— please— Mia—”
Mia can’t hear him.
Because even though the vine loosens, the wind now swallows every word… no matter how loudly he shrieks and cries out.
The vines around her tighten. And they begin pulling her down into the sand.
Steve loses his mind. “MIA!”
He thrashes violently against the vines binding him to the balcony. They cut into his skin. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care.
“PLEASE!” His voice shatters into raw, uncontrollable sobbing. “I’m coming— baby I’m coming—”
The beach goes silent.
And somewhere in the distance…
Music begins to play.
Old.
Warbling.
Distorted.
Russian.
That same horrible song echoing faintly through the darkness like a memory rotting in the air. The one that played back at the mall. Back at Starcourt. The little coin-operated mechanical pony that helped him, Robin and Dustin crack the code… back when Mia was just barely a month old…
Steve’s soul snaps clean in half as he stares in horror.
The sand turns black beneath Mia. The vines drag her downward. Only her tiny hands remain visible.
…then nothing.
Nothing.
Steve screams.
And then wakes up choking. He bolts upright in the bed with a violent gasp, clawing at his chest as if something is still wrapped around him.
Air.
He needs air.
His lungs drag in sharp, broken breaths.
The room spins.
His heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
“Hey hey—”
A delicate hand touches his arm.
Steve jerks violently.
But then he looks up and finds Margot is sitting beside him in bed. Her hair is messy, eyes wide with deep concern.
“Hey,” she says softly, though urgently. “Steve, you’re okay.”
Steve stares at her.
He still doesn’t trust where he is.
The room.
The bed.
The balcony doors.
Everything feels wrong.
His breathing gets worse.
“Hey,” Margot says again, voice gentle. “Look at me.”
He can’t.
His brown eyes dart toward the balcony, pupils blown wide, wild with fear. He watched the curtains sway. And he sees the ocean… now glowing its natural shade of silver beneath the moonlight.
Normal.
Everything looks normal.
But his chest still feels like it’s collapsing.
“She—” Steve chokes.
His voice breaks.
“She—”
Margot shifts closer. “Hey. Slow down.” She gently places a hand against his back. “Breathe.”
Steve tries.
It just comes out ragged
“Mia,” he gasps.
Margot’s brow furrows. “Mia?”
Steve nods desperately, dragging both hands through his hair. “She— Mia— she was—”
He can’t finish the sentence.
His hands shake violently.
Margot studies him for a moment.
But then something visibly clicks.
“Mia,” she repeats quietly. “Is that the baby?”
Steve nods again.
His eyes are wet now.
“She—”
His voice cracks again.
Margot’s expression softens. “Oh.” She reaches out and cups his arm gently. “You were dreaming. It’s okay, Steve—you were just dreaming.”
Steve shakes his head hard. “It felt—” His breath stutters. “Felt real.”
Margot nods slowly. “I know.”
She doesn’t sound dismissive.
Just calm.
Patient.
Empathic.
“You were saying her name.”
Steve blinks. “What?”
“In your sleep,” Margot admits quietly. “You kept saying ‘Mia.’”
Steve stares at her.
The embarrassment hits him like a punch to the gut.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shoulders slumping forward while he roughly drags both hands over his face. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“This,” he says hoarsely.
Margot just shrugs gently, eyes kind. “Nightmares happen.”
Steve shakes his head again. “Not like that.”
He glances toward the balcony.
Still half expecting to see the ocean drained away.
But the tide moves normally now.
Silver waves breaking softly on the sand.
Margot follows his gaze, clocking the way he still looks like he’s in fight mode — like whatever nightmare he just endured, he’s still not mentally escaped it, even though he’s awake now.
“…do you wanna check on her?” she asks him timidly.
Steve turns toward her instantly.
“Yeah.”
The word comes out rough.
Almost desperate.
Margot nods once. “Okay.”
She swings her legs out of the bed and starts pulling on her shorts, then gets her cardigan off the dresser.
Steve watches her for a second. “You don’t have to—”
“Too late,” she says, now slipping on her canvas Sanuks as she peeks up at him through her long lashes. “Not letting you go alone.”
That actually makes him blink for a moment.
Then Steve exhales shakily. “Thank you.”
Margot glances up and winks. “Let’s go make sure your girl’s okay.”
They slip quietly through the sleeping beach house. Someone is snoring on the couch, one arm hanging off the cushions with a Solo cup still dangling loosely from his fingers. Another guy is sprawled half on the woven rug and half under the coffee table with a throw blanket now only covering one leg, definitely knocked flat by the booze and whatever bullshit bravado came with it. Neither of them stir once.
The front door creaks softly as they step outside.
The air is cooler now, but also sticky with the threat of rain. Humid in that pre-storm way that makes everything feel too close to your skin. The ocean is still breathing somewhere in the dark, but the sound of it doesn’t soothe Steve the way it had earlier. Right now, it just sounds too deep. Too endless.
Lightning flashes far out over the water.
A low rumble of thunder follows, distant enough to still be called a warning… but not by much.
Steve’s stomach twists.
Margot loops her arm through his casually, gripping him reassuringly without making a production out of it. “C’mon,” she says quietly. “They’re just down the way, yeah?”
He nods dazedly, tearing his gaze away from the lightning he can’t help but stare at — checking, even now, to see if it’ll turn red. Or split open wrong. Or show him something that shouldn’t be there.
But it doesn’t.
It’s just white.
Just storm light.
“Yeah,” he says, voice still rough around the edges. “About eight blocks.”
She nods. “Lead the way.”
They turn to start walking down the street toward the Brownes’ beach house. Barefoot-rich coastal houses sit quiet on either side of them, all weathered shingles and white railings and hydrangea bushes gone dark in the night. The whole street smells faintly of salt and wet wood and old money.
Eight blocks, Steve tells himself. That’s all.
They haven’t taken three steps before a voice whisper-shouts out.
“Psssst—hey!”
They both turn fast.
Luke is jogging toward them from the porch, one hand braced against the railing as he takes the steps down too fast and damn near wipes out in the sand below the boardwalk. He pinwheels for half a second, catches himself at the last possible moment, then straightens like no one saw a thing.
“Shit—” he mutters under his breath, clearing his throat as he keeps coming.
Even in the midst of everything, Margot snorts softly. Steve almost does too, but the laugh dies somewhere in his chest because his pulse is still too high, still trying to outrun whatever that nightmare did to him.
Luke reaches them slightly out of breath, pushing windblown hair off his forehead. He’s thrown a college sweatshirt over whatever he was sleeping in earlier, one sleeve inside out.
“You guys okay?” he asks, looking between them. Not nosy. Not suspicious. Just genuinely checking.
Steve hesitates automatically. His first instinct is to wave it off. Downplay it. Tell him it’s nothing. Tell him he’s fine.
But Margot answers easily before he can say anything. “He just wants to go check on Mia. Thunderstorms freak her out.”
Steve looks at her.
Surprised.
Because he never said that. Not exactly. But it’s true enough to land cleanly. More importantly, it spares him from standing here at almost four in the morning admitting to a guy he barely knows that he had a nightmare so bad it ripped him right out of bed like a psych ward patient who’s off his meds.
Luke nods immediately — no weird look, no hesitation. “Oh yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”
Steve’s brow furrows as Luke glances toward the sky, right as another one of those jagged flashes of lightning splits somewhere out over the water.
“Hold on,” he says. “Lemme grab my shoes.”
He starts backing up, already turning, then points at Steve with the sort of practical seriousness that feels weirdly older than twenty-three. “Don’t leave without me. If you pass out on somebody’s hydrangeas, I’m not explaining that to anyone.”
Margot smiles. “Move your ass, Campbell.”
Luke lifts a hand in acknowledgment and jogs back toward the porch.
Steve watches him go, then looks at Margot again. His eyes are still glassy and red-rimmed, his chest still too tight, but there’s something quieter in his face now too. Something like stunned gratitude.
“I’m sorry about all this,” he says softly.
Margot’s arm stays looped through his. She rubs his sleeve once with her thumb, easy and absent like it costs her nothing. “For what? Caring about a baby girl you nanny, even while off the clock?”
He stares at her almost shyly, eyes glancing at the ground awkwardly before his gaze meets hers again.
She shuffles her feet, smiling at him sleepily. “That’s not something you need to apologize for.”
The faintest crooked smile finds the corner of his lips. “Thanks.”
Margot winks. “Don’t make it weird.”
That gets the tiniest huff of laughter out of him. “Too late.”
“Mm,” she hums warmly. “Fair.”
Steve drags a hand through his bedhead and looks down the street toward the Browne house. “I just…”
He trails off.
Margo watches him. “I know,” she says, still not making him spell it out.
And God, that almost gets him more than if she’d asked a million questions.
Because Steve isn’t used to this.
He’s used to Robin. Used to the kids. Used to people back home who know enough of the truth to understand why he sometimes wakes up in cold sweats, why loud noises can still make his whole body lock up, why certain silences feel worse than screaming. But strangers — or people who should still feel like strangers — aren’t supposed to be this gentle with the ugliest parts of you.
He doesn’t know what to do with it.
And maybe that’s why it means so much that neither of them is making him explain himself.
Luke comes back down the porch a second later, jamming his feet into a pair of weathered dock shoes he must’ve left by the steps. “Okay,” he says, still tugging the heel into place. “Now we can go.”
Margot arches a brow. “You needed shoes that badly?”
“Unlike you degenerates, I’m not trying to step on glass or a dead crab in the dark.”
“That’s so brave of you,” she deadpans.
He stretches, yawns. “It’s called self-preservation.”
Steve shakes his head once, the corner of his mouth twitching up… despite everything.
“Also told the lady not to wait up or think I took off like some frat boy in the night,” Luke adds.
That makes Steve blink, and suddenly he feels awful.
Because right. Allison. Luke's girlfriend.
But all Luke does is yawn with a sleepy smile as he walks forward, not letting Steve apologize. “She gets the whole bed to herself now. She's thrilled.”
Within seconds the three of them are walking down the road together.
At first, nobody says much.
The night does enough talking for all of them. Wind moving through dune grass. The distant hiss of waves. The occasional flutter of palm fronds and sea oats bending hard beneath the weather. The road is dim, lit only by a few scattered exterior lanterns and the strange silver wash of lightning every now and then.
Steve keeps his eyes forward.
Every time the sky flashes, his shoulders tense.
Every low roll of thunder makes his heartbeat kick up again.
He hates it.
Hates how obvious it must be. Hates how much his whole body is betraying him, how keyed up he still is from that nightmare, how impossible it feels to separate that nightmare from the night around him. The ocean had looked wrong in the dream, but so much of this still feels close enough to it that his body can’t let go.
He hasn’t slept like a normal person in a long fucking time.
That’s the thing he doesn’t say out loud.
He hadn’t even fully admitted it to himself until recently, not with any real honesty. But nannying Mia, being in the same house as her, hearing her little noises through walls, rocking her in the nursery until his own eyes drooped shut — had done something to him. She steadied him. He slept deeper when she was nearby. Safer. Less hunted.
Which is probably not healthy.
Definitely not normal.
And absolutely not something he wants to unpack while speed-walking down a beach road with two very cool college kids who hooked up with and drank with him not even a few hours ago.
But the thought needles him anyway.
Because now he knows exactly how bad it still is when he’s away from her.
Luke either senses the silence getting too heavy or decides to lighten it on purpose. Probably both.
“Sooo,” he says, adjusting his pace to keep up as Steve starts walking faster. “For the record, storms still freak me out too.”
Steve glances at him.
Luke shrugs. “I’m serious. I don’t care how old I get. Thunder’s dramatic as hell.”
Margot nods immediately. “Same. When I was little? If it got bad enough, I used to drag my pillow into the hallway outside my parents’ room.”
Luke snorts. “That’s nothing. I used to put on a bike helmet.”
Steve blinks. “You did not.”
“I absolutely fucking did.”
Margot laughs. “Oh my God, you’re admitting that out loud?”
“I was six and committed to survival.”
“That’s one word for it,” she mutters fondly.
Luke points at Steve. “Tell me you never did anything weird during storms.”
Steve almost says no.
But then another pulse of thunder moves through the sky, closer now, and the truth comes out on a tired half-laugh.
“I used to count between lightning and thunder,” he says. “Thought if I did it right, it’d somehow stop it from hitting my house.”
Margot smiles softly. “See? Weird kid behavior. Universally humbling.”
Steve huffs out a breath.
The conversation drifts from there, not forced, not overly bright, just enough to keep the air from going dead around them. Luke talks about a summer storm that knocked power out at his grandparents’ place in Maine for two straight days. Margot says her little sister still sleeps with a fan on because silence during bad weather creeps her out more than the storm itself. Steve contributes here and there, mostly shorter answers, but they never push him when he goes quiet again. They just adjust, let the silence breathe, then fill it when it starts to feel too sharp.
And every so often, Luke and Margot exchange a look.
Not pity.
Never that.
Just awareness.
They both know Steve is still moving faster than either of them. They both know he’s trying not to break into a full-on run. They both know he’s clocking every flicker in the sky and every swell of thunder like it personally means something.
So they keep up.
No complaints.
No jokes about him pacing them into the ground.
They just keep up.
Which, somehow, means more than if either of them had tried to reassure him again.
At one point, Margot bumps his arm gently with hers. “She’s probably dead asleep,” she says kindly. “Dreaming about fairies.”
Steve nods once. “Yeah.”
He’d like to believe that.
“And if she’s not,” Luke chimes in, “she’s got like… three adults in that house minimum, right?”
“Yeah,” Steve says again, although his voice sounds distant to his own ears. “Yeah, well two. Sharon and Kenneth.”
“See?” Margot says. “Worst case scenario, she’s awake and annoyed.”
Steve actually smiles at that. Barely, but enough.
“She gets so offended when she’s tired,” he murmurs.
Luke glances at him slyly. “That so?”
Steve nods, and because the image is so immediate in his head, because he can see it so clearly, his voice warms without his permission. “She just gets this look on her face. Sorta like the whole world’s personally inconvenienced her.”
Margot laughs softly. “I love her already.”
“She’s a lot,” Steve huffs, and there’s so much helpless affection in that that neither of them misses it.
“The best ones are,” Luke smiles.
That actually earns a warm smile from Steve.
Lightning flashes again, much brighter this time.
The thunder that follows is louder too, deep enough that Steve’s whole body tenses on instinct.
He walks faster.
Not by much.
Just enough.
Luke and Margot don’t comment.
They just match his pace.
By the time the Brownes’ beach house comes into view, the thunderstorm is definitely moving closer in. The ocean, just off to their left, is darker now — the horizon gone almost pitch black. Palm shadows bend and twitch across the street. Somewhere down the block, a gate bangs in the wind.
Steve takes the porch steps two at a time.
His fingers are already fumbling for the keys before he fully reaches the door.
He can feel the adrenaline again now. The return of it. Hotter, uglier, needier.
Behind him, Luke and Margot come up onto the porch just as another low growl of thunder rolls overhead.
Steve drops the keys once.
“Shit.”
He stoops fast, snatching them back up before awkwardly glancing back at them for all of a second. “You guys really don’t have to do this,” he says, not turning back around. “Seriously.”
Luke leans one shoulder against the porch column. “And miss the thrilling conclusion to Nanny 911?”
Steve glances back despite himself.
Margot is already smirking. “Please. Like we’re gonna let you dramatic-walk into this alone.”
“It wasn’t a dramatic walk.”
“Oh it absolutely was,” Luke shrugs with the utmost nonchalance. “You were one lightning strike away from sprinting.”
Steve exhales through his nose, shoulders still tight but mouth threatening to curve. He hesitates to twist the knob, glancing between the two of them and the ground.
Margot nudges his arm lightly. “Open the door, King.”
There’s something so easy in the way she says it. So unceremonious. Like they aren’t doing him some huge favor. Like this is just what you do when somebody needs to check on an eight-month-old baby at four in the morning because something ugly got into their head.
That’s what gets him.
Not the kindness itself, but the lack of spectacle around it.
They aren’t asking for anything.
Aren’t making him thank them again.
Aren’t acting like this is some intimate unveiling of his most broken parts.
They’re just here.
They’re here, and Steve feels gratitude hit him low and hard, deep enough to almost hurt.
He finally gets the key in the lock.
The tumblers click.
He pushes the door open slowly.
And when the three of them slip quietly inside the house, the beach house is eerily quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind of quiet that feels hollow or wrong or like it’s foreshadowing danger.
This quiet is the peaceful kind.
The kind that only exists around four o’clock in the morning, when the entire world seems to hold its breath for the last hour before dawn begins creeping up from the horizon.
Steve enters first.
He moves carefully through the house, instinctively avoiding the spots in the foyer where the old floorboards creak. The place smells faintly like saltwater and polished wood, the lingering scent of expensive candles and beach air that always seems to settle into these coastal houses.
Behind him, Luke and Margot follow with the same quiet awareness.
Luke knows this house well enough to navigate the hallway without bumping into anything. His parents have been friends with the Brownes for years — summers and holidays and vacations that blurred together across decades.
But still.
It’s almost four in the damn morning.
So he steps carefully.
Margot does, too.
Steve is the only one whose nerves feel tight under his skin. Not outwardly. If someone glanced at him from across the room, they’d probably just see a nineteen-year-old guy walking down a hallway toward the nursery.
But inside his chest, that godforsaken nightmare is still echoing.
The image of vines.
The sound of Mia’s cry.
The feeling of not being able to reach her.
⚡️ZAP!
Lightning suddenly explodes across the sky outside. A violent flash that turns every window in the hallway white, making all three of them freeze. Thunder detonates almost immediately after the strike. A cracking, concussive boom that rattles the glass in the windows and sends a sharp vibration through the wooden beams of the house.
For a second, the ringing sound lingers in Steve’s ears.
…and then, right on cue, a baby’s cry breaks the silence.
Soft at first.
Almost hesitant.
The sort of tiny cry that sounds almost confused at first.
Then startled.
And then frightened.
Steve moves immediately. Not running, but his stride lengthens instantly as he heads down the hallway toward Mia’s room while Luke and Margot follow right behind him.
Another quiet cry spills through the crack of the nursery door.
Steve tries to push it open as gently as he can, even though he’s too anxious to be wary. The door had been left slightly ajar — clearly on purpose. Sharon and Kenneth must have cracked it open earlier in case Mia woke up during the night.
And now she has.
Inside the nursery, the soft glow of a small nightlight illuminates the room in a halo of warm golden light… dim but hopeful.
And there she is.
Mia is sitting up in her crib, her tiny fingers curled around the railing while her other hand is clutching Cuppy — her little stuffed bunny rabbit that she’s had ever since she was born. The old companion she drags everywhere with her. Her face is scrunched in pure baby agony as she cries, eyes squeezed shut, squishy cheeks damp with tears.
Steve’s heart shatters and soars all at once.
“Hey—hey, sweet girl,” he murmurs immediately, his voice tender and warm as he crosses the room. “Hey… shh, shh. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
Mia’s crying stutters.
Her eyes open.
Big brown irises blink up at him through wet lashes.
She makes one more sad little hiccup sound as Steve makes his way over… and then her arms reach for him, still clutching the bunny.
Steve scoops her up instantly.
And the relief that crashes through him is almost dizzying.
“Yeah, there she is,” he breathes into her hair, pressing gentle kisses to the top of her head. “Hi, sweet girl.”
Mia’s tiny fingers grab a fistful of his shirt.
The crying dissolves almost immediately.
Just like that.
Steve rocks her slowly in his arms, brushing the sweet tears from her cheeks with his thumb. “You’re okay,” he whispers. “Just a little thunder s’all. Nothing scary about thunder, right?”
Behind him, Luke quietly pushes the nursery door closed.
But he doesn’t take his eyes off the scene in front of him.
Margot stands a few steps inside the room, arms folded loosely across her chest. And for a moment…she just stares. Because a few hours ago she had been kissing this guy under dim lights on a dance floor. A few hours ago she had been tangled up in sheets with him in a beach house bedroom after they explored every inch of each others’ bodies, naked in the dark.
And now?
Now, he’s standing here holding a crying baby girl — like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Talking to her softly.
Nuzzling her little bunny rabbit.
Brushing tears from her kissable cheeks.
Margot feels something strange tighten behind her ribs. Something she can’t quite name. Something domestic that’s ingrained in women from the jump… no matter who they grow up to be, whether or not they ever want children, or marriage, or any sort of traditional lifestyle.
Steve doesn’t notice.
As far as he’s concerned, no one else exists right now.
“Did that big boom wake you up?” he murmurs to Mia.
She stares up at him with wide, glassy eyes.
She’s still gripping his shirt like a lifeline, hiccuping a few times. So he makes a silly exaggerated face. Her bottom lip wobbles for a second… and then she makes a tiny, bewildered baby sound.
Steve grins. “Yeah, I know. That thunder was pretty rude, huh?”
Mia blinks slowly.
Her little breathing hiccups settle.
Her fingers tighten around Cuppy.
Steve gently nuzzles the stuffed bunny. “Oh wow,” he whispers dramatically. “Cuppy heard it too.”
That gets a tiny baby gurgle.
Luke quietly watches all of this like he’s witnessing some very bizarre wildlife documentary that he can’t help but feel captivated by as he watches…
The way Steve talks to her.
The way Mia immediately calms.
The way they clearly understand each other without words.
Eventually Steve glances up and notices his audience. He freezes up for a second. Then clears his throat awkwardly.
“Alright, well,” he sighs sheepishly, adjusting Mia on his hip. “That was um… a pretty strong opening act.”
Margot immediately laughs behind her palm.
Luke snorts.
Mia blinks between them curiously.
Luke steps closer to them. “Well,” he says softly, crouching a little. “I guess I should properly introduce myself.”
Mia studies him.
Luke lifts a hand. “Hi, Mia.”
She stares.
Then suddenly, she smiles.
A big gummy baby grin with two teeny-tiny bottom teeth that are just starting to form, peeking out just a little more at a time.
Luke lights up like he just won the Powerball.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he whispers. “The child approves.”
Margot groans quietly. “You’re unbearable already.”
“I’m her favorite now,” Luke whispers proudly.
Steve rolls his eyes, crookedly grinning. “Relax, she smiles at lamps.”
Luke looks mildly offended.
Lightning flashes again outside.
Another boom of thunder rolls through the sky.
But before Mia can cry again, Margot gasps theatrically.
“BOOOOOM,” she whispers theatrically, wiggling her fingers dramatically like jazz hands.
Mia now stares at her with wide-eyed fascination.
Margot tiptoes closer. “Did you…hear that, Mia?” she stage-whispers. “Those were the thunder monsters.”
The baby blinks, totally entranced…
But Margot just keeps beaming at her with exaggerated delight. “And they’ve come from a land far… far… far away… where evil brussel sprouts reign the kingdom, and princesses must play tic-tac-toe for hours on end until a prince comes to save them…”
Steve almost laughs.
Luke watches with growing delight.
“Sometimes thunder monsters,” Margot adds, wiggling her fingers again, “are just really loud sky puppies.”
Mia giggles as Margot tickles her cheeks.
A tinker of a baby giggle.
And when Margot quietly giggles with her, Mia interprets that as a sign to just giggle more. Brighter. Louder. Almost squealed.
All three of them freeze.
Then urgently shush her while trying not to laugh at themselves.
Luke presses a fist to his mouth. “Shoot,” he mumbles, glancing back at the door briefly. “We’re a bad influence.”
Mia just keeps beaming up at Margot, making a little hynnng sound while she chews Cuppy’s floppy ear.
Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “Okay, she's enthralled.”
The brunette smiles slyly at him. “I’m actually a master storyteller,” she hums proudly, all warm and teasing. Playful. “Ask my sister. I was the unpaid court jester for her growing up.”
That makes Steve tilt his head at her playfully. “Is that right?”
Margot hums, smiling down at the baby. “Guess she’ll let us know.”
Mia stares between all three of them while chewing on Cuppy’s floppy ear… even as the lightning and thunder continues. Because now, she’s enchanted. She’s absolutely enchanted, delighted and safely held by her favorite person.
Margot collapses onto the floor dramatically. “Okay,” she whispers with faux exasperation. “Operation Distract The Baby is officially underway.”
She keeps the act.
And somehow, without planning it, they all lean into it.
Luke helps Steve build a little pillow and blanket teepee on the floor like he’s been drafted into the world’s quietest emergency construction crew.
“Okay,” he whispers, stacking two decorative pillows and then immediately rethinking one of them. “No, this one’s useless. This is a fake pillow.”
Margot glances over from where she’s stretched out on her stomach near Steve’s feet, chin propped on her hand while she wiggles her fingers at Mia. “What the hell is a fake pillow?”
Luke holds it up between two fingers. “This? This is a rich-people pillow.” The cushion flops pathetically. “It serves zero structural purpose. It’s decorative propaganda.”
Even Steve, who’s still rocking Mia gently against his chest, snorts under his breath. “Now you see what I have to work with.”
“Well you’d know,” Luke says mock-sagely, eyes grim. “We are the only sons of tasteless chaps.”
“I’m an only child,” Steve counters, mirroring his tone. “You’ve got a younger brother. You’re one of two. And your parents actually sound decent.”
“What, and yours aren’t?”
Steve coyly shrugs, adjusting Mia on his lap. “They’ve at least got somewhat decent taste in pillows.”
Luke gestures confidently. “My point.”
That only makes Steve snort harder. “What point, man?”
Mia hears that sound and looks up at him immediately.
There it is again — that little invisible thread between them at all times. She doesn’t need to understand words. She simply knows his voice. Knows his laugh. Knows when his chest vibrates with amusement and when it tightens with worry. And now that he’s sitting cross-legged on the rug with her tucked against him, she seems perfectly content to let the thunderstorm become background noise.
Outside, the storm rolls over the beach in long, theatrical waves. Rain taps and hisses at the windows. Wind throws itself against the side of the house hard enough to make the old glass tremble in its frames. But inside of the nursery, there’s a weird kind of sanctuary taking shape — three college kids hunched on the floor, whispering like they’re in church, entertaining a baby like it’s the highest calling any of them have ever received.
Margot drags the back of one finger lightly over Cuppy’s floppy ear.
“And then,” she stage-whispers to Mia, eyes widening dramatically, “the giant thunder monsters realized they’d forgotten their ding…dang…darn…taxes.”
Luke snorts loud enough to startle himself.
Steve just bows his head, shoulders shaking, trying not to laugh loud enough to wreck the whole thing.
Mia’s mouth falls open in a silent little O.
But the second thunder claps again, and Margot dramatically collapses onto her back so that it will distract her… Mia lets out a delighted baby squeak.
All three of them instantly shush her in the gentlest panic imaginable.
“Hey, hey—quiet riot,” Steve whispers, grinning so hard it hurts.
Luke points accusingly at Margot. “You’re winding her up.”
“She’s a queen,” Margot whispers back. “She demands my best work.”
“She’s eight months old.”
“She is regal.”
Mia gnaws harder on Cuppy’s ear, as if this proves Margot right.
The lightning flashes again — turning the curtains pale blue-white for a split second before darkness settles back in. The thunder that follows is lower this time, longer. More of a growl than a crack. But no one reacts to it like they did earlier. Not really. Not now.
Because now there’s a game to the whole thing.
Now the thunder gets a stupid face attached to it.
Now it gets called rude and tax delinquent and emotionally needy.
Steve realizes, with a flicker of startled gratitude, that neither Margot nor Like are playing at being cool. There’s no edge to them. No ego, no performative distance. They aren’t too proud to crouch on a nursery floor at four in the morning and make complete asses of themselves for a baby.
And the weirder part is…?
They’re good at it.
Luke leans forward and lowers his voice to an ominous whisper. “Mia, dear? I regret to inform you that those thunder monsters are also extremely bad at hide-and-seek.”
Margot gasps. “No.”
Luke nods gravely. “Terrible. Fat cheaters. Also, just fat.”
Steve finally gives in and laughs — quietly, but fully. “This might actually be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Margot glances up at him, twinkly-eyed. “And yet? She’s riveted.”
Mia is, in fact, riveted.
She keeps looking between the two of them with these big, round, wondering eyes, floppy bunny ear hanging damp from her mouth while she gurgles little comments of her own. Every now and then she leans back against Steve’s chest and cranes her head up at him, as though checking whether he’s still in on the bit.
He always is.
“Yeah,” he murmurs to her, smoothing one thumb over her tiny wrist. “I know. They sound made up.”
Luke shifts onto his side now, propping his head on the fake pillow like he’s just accepted his fate. “I really did have a fear of storms when I was little. Not the cute kind either. The kind that requires possible medication.”
Margot glances over. “You did not.”
“I did too. Got diagnosed and everything.”
Steve’s brows shoot up, smirk forming as he looks at Luke. “Daaaaaamn…”
“Don’t worry,” Luke waves a hand. “No cool phobia drugs for me. Turns out, I was just a giant fraidy-cat.”
Margot stares at him, deadpan. “You literally surf in weather advisories.”
“Now I do,” he whispers. “When I was six, I thought thunder meant God was dragging furniture around—just to prove a point.”
She reels. “What point?”
“I don’t know,” he hisses back, “Mom made a whole lotta bull-caca up when I was a kid. She told Connor if he didn’t wash his hands, they’d turn black.”
Margot grunts. “Julie’s crazy.”
“Julie—” Luke points at her like he’s about to land the final blow in the court of law. “—is racist.”
That sends Steve into another silent fit of snickers.
He drops his forehead briefly against Mia’s hair, trying to muffle it.
Margot presses both hands over her mouth, eyes watering from the effort not to lose it right along with him while Luke just looks proud of himself. But even he’s snickering.
Mia, naturally, interprets all of this as excellent and lets out a little cackle.
Too loud.
Again, the three of them freeze.
There’s a beat of terrible silence while all four stare toward the door.
Nothing happens.
Then Steve exhales so softly it almost sounds like a prayer.
“Okay,” he whispers. “We’re all either incredibly lucky or no one in this house loves her enough to hear that.”
The words come out before he can stop them.
No one says anything.
Not because it’s offensive.
Because it lands.
And because Steve clearly didn’t mean to say it out loud.
He feels it immediately — that little flash of regret and truth mixed together, bitter on the back of his tongue. But before the silence can turn awkward, Margot reaches out and taps one finger against Mia’s nose.
“Well,” she murmurs lightly, rescuing all of them at once, “that’s their loss.”
Steve looks at her.
She doesn’t make a big deal of it. Doesn’t search his face too hard. Doesn’t turn it into an opening for pity. Margot just says it like a fact.
And somehow that makes it worse, in the best way.
“Just the facts,” Steve hears Erica saying in his head.
That girl never has a filter, nor does she care who takes offense to whatever it is she has to say. He sometimes wonders if that’s why he doesn’t ever get onto her. Like maybe he just admires the shit out of her for it. Because in all his life, Steve has never once been able to be as unfiltered as Erica Sinclair. No matter how angry, or fed up, or disastrously upset he gets — no crash out of his ever frees him with the ability to just be brutally honest.
Maybe one day it’ll be different.
Maybe one day, Steve Harrington can be a little more like Erica Sinclair: the fourth amigo to Scoops Troops. The little soldier that could, can and does.
“Yeah,” he finally murmurs, winking at Margot. “Their loss.”
Luke nods slowly, his mind elsewhere. As if he knows just how much gravity, how much unfortunate truth, there is behind that statement.
For a while longer they stay there in Mia’s orbit.
Luke and Steve add more pillows to the floor. Not because they need them, really — but because it gives them something to do with their hands while Margot keeps the baby captivated. Steve tosses a folded blanket down near the crib. Luke straightens it like he’s making a tiny campsite.
“Are we moving in?” Steve whispers.
Luke shrugs. “I’m a planner.”
“You’re nesting.”
“I’m adapting.”
Margot grins. “He’s nesting.”
Luke squints at her. “You got emotionally attached to a stranger’s little stuffed rabbit in under ten minutes.”
She pouts instantly. “It’s a vewwy good wabbit.”
Mia hugs Cuppy tighter as if to confirm this.
Steve looks between them. “You two always like that?”
“She’s basically our annoying cousin,” Luke deadpans.
Margot hums sagely. “I don’t even get the sister card. It’s too affectionate.”
Luke whispers in Mia’s ear. “She’s a parasite.”
Her eyes light up with innocent glee as he smirks smugly over at Margot then grins up at Steve with genuine delight. The three of them look little three little devils as they all fix their mischievous gazes on Margot — who’s now failing beautifully at pretending she’s annoyed.
Another ten or fifteen minutes slip by that way — in soft nonsense and baby babble and the low, restless weather outside. The thunder gets a little farther away, then closer again, then farther. One of those ugly coastal pop-ups that feels biblical for twenty minutes and then forgets why it was angry in the first place.
Mia’s eyelids start to droop.
Her bunny chewing slows.
Of course, Steve notices before anyone else.
His entire posture changes subtly — all that loose laughter now settling into something quieter, more tender. He rubs her back in slow circles while she leans heavier into him immediately.
Margot notices that too.
Notices everything, actually.
The way he shifts her weight without thinking.
The way his voice always drops a register lower when she’s getting sleepy.
The way even his pretty face softens, like every sharp edge in him knows it’s no longer needed.
…and then the nursery door creaks open.
Kenneth stands in the doorway.
Hair messy. Beard ruffled. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes half-open.
The man looks like someone who rolled out of bed, found his footing halfway through the hallway, and still isn’t entirely convinced he’s awake.
He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
At the sight of three college-aged people sitting on the nursery floor with his daughter and her nanny.
Steve feels his stomach drop like a fucking stone.
Because suddenly every single thing about this is weird. Weird that he’s here at now five o’clock in the morning after being out drinking. Weird that there are two people in the room Kenneth definitely did not invite. Weird that Margot is still barefoot and wearing his cardigan over her tank top and shorts because she’d grabbed it on the way out of the other house without asking and he hadn’t even noticed until just now.
He opens his mouth.
But Luke beats him to it.
“Hey, Mr. Browne.”
Kenneth squints harder. “…Luke?”
“Yeah,” Luke says easily, like this is the most reasonable thing in the world. “Connor locked us out of the house.”
Kenneth doesn’t even pause before sighing. “Of course he did.”
That almost sends Steve over the edge.
Margot, bless her, sits up a little straighter and slides right into the bit without missing a beat.
“We took a separate cab back,” she says quietly, polite as anything. “And all the doors were locked, the windows too, so Steve let us come here when the storm started getting worse.”
Luke gestures like, see?
Steve just sits there holding the baby, trying not to look like he’s been struck stupid.
“And now we’ve made two friends,” Luke adds, winking at Mia.
Friend.
Margot had said we.
Luke had said us, then friends.
Somewhere in there, without making a show of it, they’d folded him into their side of the story so naturally that Steve doesn’t even know how to process it yet.
Kenneth rubs a hand over his face, yawning. “That boy’s gonna lock himself out of his own damn life one of these days.”
Luke smirks. “That’s basically the family motto.”
Kenneth huffs a dry sound that might almost be a laugh.
Then his attention shifts to Mia.
She’s staring back at him now with sleepy, solemn interest, one little fist still twisted in Steve’s shirt.
“She alright?” Kenneth asks.
“Yeah,” Steve says, finally finding his voice. “Thunder woke her up.”
Kenneth nods once. “Figured.” He glances toward the windows as another distant rumble moves over the ocean. “Nasty little storm.”
Steve has to physically stop himself from saying she was already crying for a while before you fucking got here. Instead, he just tightens his hold on Mia a fraction and forces a neutral expression.
Kenneth glances between Luke and Margot again. “Well, you two don’t have to camp out in here.”
Luke lifts both hands. “We’re not exactly roughing it.”
“There’s an open guest room jus’down the hall,” Kenneth says. “And a couch downstairs if one of you snores like an asshole.”
“Connor does,” Luke says. “I’m an angel.”
Kenneth nods as if this confirms his earlier thesis.
Margot smiles politely. “Thank you for letting us stay, sir.”
Kenneth barely grants her a nod before he glances at Steve. And this part — somehow — is the worst of it. Because he’s not mean. Not dismissive. Not even annoyed.
Just out of touch in that maddening way only he can be.
“Just came to check she was fine,” he says, like this should be self-evident. “Didn’t think you’d beat me to it.”
Steve has to smile.
He has to.
A tight-lipped, perfectly employee-safe little smile.
“Yeah,” he says lightly. “She’s okay now.”
Kenneth nods at Mia, then at Steve. “Good. Shoulda known a lil booze’n fun wouldn’t be enough to wipe you out.”
Something in that almost sounds like praise.
Or maybe Steve is just too tired to tell the difference.
Luke and Margot both quietly clock the tension anyway. Anyone with eyes could. And on top of that, Kenneth isn’t clueless. He’s just… habitually late to his own life. And if there’s anyone who’s seen that time after time over all the years? It's Luke. His family’s been friends with the Brownes since before his brother was even born. Margot doesn’t know them all that well, but she also knows the type of privilege they come from.
It’s a very different type of wealth.
Luke’s parents are close to it. Thankfully, his dad’s just well rounded and kind and loves his sons, along with their friends. Julie’s an annoying basketcase of white privilege, but she has her moments. Mostly because she married an actually decent man who loves his family. Margot’s parents are well off, too… just not quite as much as the Campbell’s, or the Harrington’s.
And certainly not as much as the Browne’s.
Luke and Margot are both incredibly self-aware — and humbly attuned to the world around them. But even so, they don’t overstep. Don’t exchange any meaningful looks. Don’t rescue Steve out loud.
They just let him handle it.
Which, weirdly, is another kind of kindness.
Steve clears his throat. “You can go back to bed. I’ve got her.”
Kenneth looks like he might say something else.
But then just yawns again, rubs his jaw, and mutters, “Alright,” before turning toward the door.
No ceremony.
No sudden father-of-the-year moment.
Just Kenneth being Kenneth: half-absent. Half-there. Human enough to care, but never quite enough to get there first.
The door shuts behind him.
Silence.
Then Steve exhales through his nose.
Luke grins. “Well. That worked disturbingly well.”
Margot snickers.
Mia yawns so wide her whole tiny face wrinkles.
Steve looks down at her and sighs deeply… all the adrenaline and unspoken gratitude and leftover nightmare exhaustion crashing together at once.
“Okay,” he murmurs, feeling her newly saggy bottom. “Diaper change. Then bed.”
Luke coughs, suddenly faux-formal. “So. If it’s cool, we actually will take one of those guest rooms. Since uhhh… that’ll look suspicious if we leave.”
Steve blinks.
Then laughs.
Open-mouthed, a little incredulous, finally catching up.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Because of the lie.”
“The noble cover story,” Margot corrects.
Luke puts a hand over his heart. “We’re committed to the bit.”
That gets Steve again.
He shakes his head, smiling down at the floor. “Jesus. Okay. Yeah. You can take mine,” he says to Margot, nodding toward the hallway. “Luke, there’s um —another room a little farther down. Left side.” He nods at Margot again, his expression fond. A little timid. “Might crash in here tonight, if that’s alright. So you can actually get some rest without my uh—” He waves hand, biting at his lip. “—ruining our sleep.”
Margot’s smile softens.
There’s something in her face now that wasn’t there earlier at the bar or even the beach house. Something more open. Less flirtation for the sake of play and more actual affection — or the start of it, anyway.
Which is deeply inconvenient, because Steve can feel himself liking her too.
Not in the big, life-altering way.
Not in the way that terrifies him yet.
But in the warm, easy, dangerous sort of way that sneaks up on you when somebody turns out to be far kinder than you expected.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” she murmurs softly, almost shyly. “But I’ll take you up on the princess treatment. Maybe a rain check.”
Steve’s grin only deepens, exhaustion be damned. “Definitely a rain check.”
Luke silently witnesses the look between them and, to his eternal credit, says absolutely nothing. He just smirks to himself with morbid, boyish glee — then he clears his throat and claps his hands once against his knees like an old man before pushing himself up off the floor.
“Welp,” he quietly chirps. “I’m gonna go pass out in some rich chap’s linens.”
He crouches beside Mia one last time and tips an imaginary hat. “Goodnight, your majesty.”
Mia blinks at him sleepily.
Steve smirks deeply.
Luke claps Steve on the shoulder. “See you sometime around noon. Or one. Depends how committed I am to the mystery of consciousness.”
Steve huffs a laugh. “Sounds about right. I’ll make coffee.”
Then Luke glances at Margot. “Night, trouble.”
“Night, grandpa.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
The room gets quieter.
Not empty.
Just softer.
Margot lingers by the changing table while Steve tenderly gets Mia settled there on the cushy pad. She’s too sleepy to protest much, only kicking once with mild indignation while still gripping Cuppy with one hand.
“Sorry,” Steve murmurs to her. “I know. Invasive. Horrible. We’re all upset.”
Margot smiles and, without really thinking about it, hands him a clean diaper from the stack.
Steve glances up at her.
She shrugs. “I’m an excellent assistant.”
“Apparently,” he smiles charmingly. “That—and an excellent storyteller…” He steals a sly look at her before getting to work. “Might have to get you put on the payroll here with me.”
Margot softly giggles at that, butterflies dancing in her stomach while quietly watching Steve go through the motions.
He wipes Mia down, talks her through every second of it like he always does, and Margot watches with the kind of fascinated tenderness she’s trying very hard not to overanalyze.
“So, hey,” Steve says quietly, fastening one side of the diaper, “I just realized I’m a total self-absorbed chap.”
She blinks at him, puzzled. “How so?”
“You asked me all sorts of questions about my life,” he continues, applying a puff of powder to Mia’s thighs while looking at Margot. “And I just rambled on without asking you the same thing.” He nods at her. “What’s your major?”
Margot looks pleasantly surprised.
Like she wasn’t expecting him to ask.
“Architecture,” she says.
Steve glances up again. “Seriously?”
She nods, smiling wider now. “Historic preservation, eventually. That’s, uhm —the dream.”
“…huh.”
“What?”
“That’s just… cool.”
She laughs softly. “That was such a dad response.”
Steve grins. “No, I mean it. That’s actually really cool.” He takes a beat, gaze flicking over her face… her lips. “Also hot.”
That makes her blush.
Margot leans a hip against the dresser, doing everything to not lunge across the short distance and make out with him on the spot in front of the baby. “I like old buildings. I like when people think something’s falling apart and the answer isn’t to bulldoze it — it’s to understand how it was built in the first place.”
Steve pauses for a second.
Because that hits somewhere deeper than either of them meant it to.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I get that.”
Mia gives a sleepy little squeak when he lifts her back into his arms.
Margot reaches out automatically and smooths down the soft fabric of Mia’s pajamas at her shoulder.
And the baby watches both of them with drooping eyelids, as if trying to stay awake for this conversation and losing the fight inch by inch.
“See?” Steve murmurs to Mia. “You’re hanging out with tasteful people.”
Margot rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling so hard it almost hurts. “Still think it’s hotter you’re going into nursing school.” She gestures to Mia. “Guessing she might have a little something to do with that?”
He nods, his chest blooming with warmth.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, glancing down at Mia. “Yeah, definitely.”
Margot wordlessly beams at him, still listening.
“One year at Ivywood, then nursing school if I don’t combust before then.”
“You won’t.”
He tilts his head playfully. “You sound weirdly confident.”
She just looks at him for a second. Then says, simply and sincerely, “You’re built for it.”
That lands harder than she probably intended.
Steve glances down at Mia again to conceal how much.
Margot watches him do that too.
And suddenly she can see it — some version of him a few years from now in scrubs, exhausted and sharp and steady-handed, talking someone down off a ledge in that same low voice he uses on the baby.
It does something unfair to her bloodstream.
Mia yawns again.
Margot bends and kisses her little cheek. “Goodnight, pretty girl.”
The baby’s eyes flutter closed.
Steve shifts her higher against his shoulder and feels her go limp with sleep. And for a second neither of them says anything.
Then Margot looks up and meets his eyes.
And there it is again — this quiet pull between them. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just warm. Easy. Real.
Steve’s expression softens.
He leans in and brushes a kiss to her cheek.
Then, because neither of them moves away, her lips.
Tender.
Unhurried.
Just enough to say you’re beautiful and I’m glad you came.
Margot’s cheeks flush instantly. She smiles down at the floor, then back up at him through her lashes.
“Sleep, Harrington,” she murmurs.
He gives her a tired little half-smile. “Yeah. You too.”
She hesitates one beat longer. Then she slips out into the hallway toward his room, cheeks still flushed, her mouth still tingling from the kiss.
Steve watches her go.
Then looks down at Mia… fast asleep in his arms, still clutching the bunny… no longer out of his reach, taken by some supernatural force that knows his deepest fears better than he knows his own mind.
“Never letting you go,” he inaudibly whispers into the fine wisps of hair at her crown, already beginning to grow out and show that she’ll have dark locks in a halo of unruly beauty… just like his.
He carefully settles into the rocking chair with her, the storm now fading into something far softer outside as he hums My Favorite Things. And for the first time all night… Steve finally feels calm.
He doesn’t even make it to the chorus before his eyes close.
And this time, the nightmares don’t return.
END OF CHAPTER
TAGLIST: @slutforpumpkins @mersaoba @msliz @pinkpantheris @finniewolfsoft @tangledluver @midnights-19 @thegoldengirl2006 @yikesmama3 @thecreelhouse @raspberry-sunshinee
eternally dedicated to @moonlightdreamer 🤍
