Ranged • 02: Home
Finally, a day off. You're prepping for your best friend's barbecue when your partner starts pounding on your front door with news that brings you unease.
Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader
Wordcount: 5074
Warnings: very slowburn, this fic is episodic, coworkers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore, weapons, fighting, murder, viruses, decay, monsters *This chapter contains mentions of death, cremation, scars, autopsies, etc.
This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!
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Moodboard • 01: Firetower • 03: Bayou [Coming soon]
The pounding at your door nearly startled the wrapped gift from your hand.
“Be right there!” You shouted and carefully tucked the card beneath crossed ribbon.
With a huff, you made your way to the door. It was a challenge nowadays, hobbling on one foot, bracing yourself on the back of your couch and the buffet near the front door. The staircase was by-far the worst of it, especially when you were still on crutches.
The pounding continued, a bit incessant and impatient, and you groaned. “Hold on! I’m in a boot!”
The little cover over your peephole swung beneath your fingertips, and you strained to see your partner. His broad shoulders took up most of the frame, and his hair wagged as he checked both sides of your hallway.
You unlocked the deadbolt and inched the door open. “Steve?”
“Les Joplin is dead.” Worry creased his brow.
You sighed and hobbled aside to let him in. Owens had called you with the bad news this morning. It was just a part of the gig. You can’t save everyone. You noticed Steve took these things harder than you’d been trained to.
Steve barreled past you, and until you saw the look of curiosity cross his features, you’d forgotten he’d never been to your apartment before. Suddenly, you felt self-conscious about the lace trimmed window treatments your mom had set up and the Pig-shaped cookie jar on the countertop. His fingertips grazed the couch upholstery and he took in your massive entertainment shelves before turning to size you up.
“I’m sorry, were you going somewhere?”
You tugged your cardigan a little closer, hem of your dress brushing your knee over your hideous boot. “It is our day off.”
He nodded, and you took a moment to survey his own outfit. An oversized sweater was emblazoned with red, white, and blue embroidery. Navy blue shorts barely covered the breadth of his hairy thighs. The way his hair stuck to his temples denoted he’d been out on a Sunday morning jog.
“How’d you find out about Les?” You asked, hobbling back to the kitchen to pour him a glass of water.
Steve met you there, tutting about your bum leg as he reached over your head for a glass from the cabinet to fill for himself. “Owens left me a voicemail.”
You watched the steady rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he drank. A droplet fell from the corner of his lips and slid down the length of his jaw until he reached to wipe it up.
“Joplin makes six in six months.” He frowned, turning the faucet on to rinse.
You frowned, nodded. It was true, nearly all of the people you’d managed to life-flight out of Hell seemed to have died through some infection or surgical complications.
“Joplin had a broken leg.” Steve tapped at your boot with his toe. “You’re still alive.”
You rolled your eyes. “He’d also been exposed to the elements for two days before we reached him. Vines had wrapped themselves around him. He could have been infected with the Blight and we just didn’t know.”
“He was coherent!” Steve argued, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t find any of this fishy?”
The vulnerability in his gaze was rare, a softness that kicked something up within you, reminded you that this grumpy exterior cared and had compassion.
You chewed on your bottom lip and shrugged. “What do you want to do about it?”
His shoulders seem to relax a little, and he leaned against your counter, crossing his ankles over one another. “I have someone looking into the autopsy of the Garcia brothers.”
You swallowed, remembering the smiling faces of the two boys as they held each other’s hand in the back of the ambulance. They’d died hours after pick-up. You shook your head. “They were cremated, remember? We can’t exhume any bodies.”
Steve nodded. “I know. They’ve all been cremated. Les is being torched as we speak.”
“Steve,” you groaned at his crudity, imaging the frail man with kind eyes being locked in an incinerator.
“Like I said, someone’s looking into it. I’m meeting them tonight.”
You broached your next question with caution. “Have you… spoken to Owens about this?”
Steve watched you, like a caged animal deciding whether or not it could trust the hand that feeds it.
You understood the roots of his mistrust. You barely knew what he’d gone through, how complicated his tangles were with these government entities, but what little you did know seemed reason enough to question everything.
He cleared his throat, shook his head. “No, I want to have more solid evidence before I bring it to his attention.”
You nodded and opened your mouth to commend him when the antique cuckoo clock on your wall chimed 11. “Shit!”
Steve leapt back onto his feet, just as startled as you, and he side-stepped you as you grappled for the gift and wine bottle on the counter behind him.
“Steve, I’m so sorry, but I’m late.” You said as you hobbled to your denim jacket and purse hanging near the front door.
“You’re not driving, right?” He frowned.
You cursed again, reaching into your purse to procure your cell phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“A cab,” you argued, shoving him out your door with full hands. The phone rang, wedged between your cheek and shoulder, and you fumbled in your bag for some keys. “Hold these,” you dumped the gifts into his outstretched hands.
“Hang up. I’ll drive you.” He sighed.
“Capital Cab Company, how can we help you today?”
“What?” You struggled with the key in the lock, and gaped at your partner when he gently removed your phone from your ear and ended the call.
“Let me drive you.”
—
A jagged scar sliced through toned and tanned thigh meat, deep, purple, fresh enough to thrust you back into that cold cave. You taste his blood in the air, feel his pulse slow against your chest.
“So at what point were you going to tell me your partner was this scrumptious?” Your childhood best friend’s voice shook you back to reality.
Steve stood about a hundred feet away, thighs at eye-level and on-show in those tiny running shorts. His white tube socks were stained with flecks of mud and grass. He hugged one hand into his armpit, the other held a beer he’d barely drank since you all stepped into the backyard an hour earlier.
“Or was that confidential information?” Sadie snickered, poking at your side.
You shushed her with a waved hand, trying not to let her see the way you warmed at the idea. You leaned forward in your lawn chair for another handful of potato chips from the card table teetering in front of you. “He is not… scrumptious.”
Steve Harrington wasn’t a hunk. You’d seen him with toothpaste stuck to the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his sleep shirt. You watched him trip over his own shoelaces once.
Sure, he took great care of his body. It was kind of in the job description. Neither of you could climb mountains or fight monsters if you’d let yourself go. And yeah, he possessed handsome features. He had a nice hairline and thick, full hair, rare for a man his age. The handful of times you’d seen his stubble grow in hadn’t made him look haggard.
You could admit there was a kindness in his eyes too, saved for incredibly special occasions.
“I honestly don’t know how you get any work done,” Michelle agreed, pouring herself another glass from the wine bottle you’d brought.
“I’d be taking every opportunity to climb him like a tree.” Tammie played with the pendant on her necklace, perched on her chair like she was waiting for him to look her direction.
You coughed, salty chip wedged somewhere in your esophagus.
Sadie saw your struggle and laughed, slipping your wine glass into a salty hand for relief.
“So tell us,” Rhonda leaned in, covering her mouth with her hand, “have you two ever…?” She waggled her eyebrows.
You sputtered wine back into your glass, and Sadie threw her head back in delight.
You wiped the dribble from your chin and glared at your best friend. “Is this why you invited him in? So you and the girls could torment me?”
“Oh Pigeon, don’t be so dramatic,” Sadie pinched the flab under your arm and grinned. “I invited him in because I wanted to stare at those thighs. Think he’ll play volleyball if we put the net up?”
“Your husband is right there.” You gestured to poor, sweet Jeff, receding hairline and beer gut stretching his cotton polo. He drank his beer and flipped burgers and stared at Steve like he was just at smitten as his wife.
“He can join,” Sadie shrugged.
This sent the other women in a fit of giggles and hoots.
Steve met your gaze. Someone behind you must have waggled their fingers, because the corners of his lips quirked into a confused smile, and he extended a timid wave.
You chewed on your cheeks to avoid laughing with them.
“I know we’ve been talking about those legs, but have you seen the size of his hands?” Tammie whispered into her wine glass.
“Oh I know, I’d like him to - “
“Alright,” you hoisted yourself from your lawn chair and hobbled away from the cackling women. The grass wasn’t ideal for your wobbly boot, but anywhere was better than the warmth radiating from your collar and the call of your best friend for you to return.
Halfway across the yard, you stumbled on a rogue gopher hole, wine splashing from your glass and all over the front of the man who was conveniently there to catch you. Two large hands held you upright at your ribs.
“Why is it difficult for you to just sit and stay there?” Steve asked, chin and throat glistening with white wine. It soaked the top half of his sweatshirt.
Before you could apologize, the crew was on you, a flurry of mom’s pinching and doting, patting you both with paper towels.
Steve waved them off so he could limp you back to your seat, pointing a warning finger your direction. “Stay there.”
“Steve, honey, let me throw that in the wash for you. I’m sure Jeff has something you can borrow.” Sadie shot you a salacious look before beckoning your partner in through the sliding glass door at the back of her house.
“Think they need help?” Rhonda snorted, and the rest of them started to holler again.
—
A summer thunderstorm forced the party indoors. Husbands toted drunk wives out the front door. The kids were hauled into the basement with popsicles and VHS rentals. Only a handful of party-goers remained, indulging in quiet conversation around Sadie’s immaculately floral living room. Her favorite record spun in the corner.
“I’m worried about you, Pigeon,” she tapped at your knee above your boot and offered a glass of water.
You accepted it and shrugged. “Hazards of the job. I survived, didn’t I?” You kneed her back.
She glanced around the room before she lowered her voice. “When Steve changed earlier, I saw those… scars. What exactly are you two fighting out there?” Her eyes were wide, full of worry, of fear.
You felt it, too, sometimes. You thought about her a lot, about a life in a perfect suburban home with a picket fence. You wondered if you’d ever achieve that, too.
“Steve went through a lot before we recruited him.” It was the only explanation you could manage.
You glanced at your partner. He stood in the kitchen, arms crossed over a too-small polo of Jeff’s in a horrid khaki green that still, somehow suited him. You wondered if he’d ever wanted the American Dream. You could imagine him hunched beneath a kitchen sink or flipping burgers outside. You could imagine him coming home after a long day’s work, dumping his briefcase in the hall closet, smelling the air for a home-cooked dinner. You imagined kids and a dog running to greet him.
“I just need you to be careful,” Sadie warned.
You blinked back into focus, and turned to see the look in her eye had changed.
She nodded toward the kitchen, a knowing smirk playing at full lips.
“Sadie, thank you so much for inviting me. Are you sure it’s alright if Wyatt stays here tonight?” A voice from behind you pulled your best friend from her seat on the couch.
“Michelle, of course! Wyatt’s welcome anytime. Just call if you can’t pick him up tomorrow, I’ll have Jeff drive him home.” Sadie kissed her acquaintance on the cheek, bangles on her wrists jingling.
Michelle said your name, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “It was really good to see you again.”
“Yeah,” you smiled. “You, too.”
She turned from you both and took a few steps before pausing and turning back to face you. “Okay, I know this is going to sound a bit… I dunno.” She waved off her words, insecurity oozing from a typically-poised frame.
Michelle was such a sweet woman, confident, beautiful. She worked with Jeff in radio advertising. She was a single mom. You’d never seen a hair of hers out of place, nor a pearled button.
You glanced at Sadie, whose demeanor had gone rigid beside you.
“I just um… is there anything going on between you and Steve?”
You blinked back at her, your mouth going a little dry.
“I only ask because he and I had a really nice conversation earlier, and I wanted to give him my number, but I obviously would never step on your toes. I think the world of you. Also like, if it’d be weird at all, that’s totally understandable.” She was rambling now, her pale features tinged a bright red.
Sadie was holding her breath beside you.
You blinked a few more times, processing the word vomit, and eventually your head shook itself. “No. Nope, no, huh uh. No. Um… no.” For God sake, anything else, say anything else.
Sadie elbowed you.
You laughed. “Sorry, just um… Steve? Harrington?”
Michelle ducked her head and smiled, tucking a black curl behind her ear. “Yeah. Is that okay?”
“Chyeah, of course it is. That’s great, Michelle! That’s really great! I’ll put in a good word for you.” The words came out of you like they were flowing from someone else’s mouth. You felt paralyzed in your seat. Sadie’s claws were digging into the meat of your thigh.
“Oh really? Oh that’d be amazing. Thanks so much. Well, wish me luck, I guess, then…” She let out a little eep like a school girl and waggled her fingers your direction before she turned to make a b-line to the kitchen.
“You’ll put in a good word?”
“Shut up,” you hissed, smacking your friend’s hand away.
Steve stood up straight at Michelle’s approach, that stiff kindness meeting his eyes. He struck you a bit like Frankenstein’s monster, a man learning to be human again, movements stilted and face stuck in a scowl.
Michelle took something from her purse and placed it into his large hand, her own fingers lingering softly against his.
His throat turned a bit pink, and his ears, and it looked like he was fighting off a smile like it might hurt him. He nodded and said something back, and they ended their exchange with an awkward half-hug. Her curls caught on the bridge of his nose, his lashes. He met your gaze from across the room.
Then he jumped, apologized as the distinct bell of his cell phone chimed in his pocket.
Michelle left with one last excited wave to you girls, but you were already snapping your fingers for Sadie to grab you your purse from the coffee table.
You dug for your phone, but by the time you flipped it open and dialed into voicemail, Steve was walking your direction.
“Sadie, mind if I grab my sweatshirt?” He shot you a look and said, “We have to go.”
—
The rain thunked heavy on Steve’s windshield, wipers pulsing at a steady rhythm. The warmth of a far-off streetlamp cast reds and yellows across his silhouette and splashed across a bare kneecap.
You sat in a park parking lot. A swing set swayed in the wind a hundred or so yards to your left. A large hill jetted upwards at your center. Trees scattered the area.
Steve’s car idled. The heater puffed warmth that smelled of leather and him, and the faintest sweet of white wine that Sadie’s natural detergent hadn’t managed to squeeze out of his sweatshirt.
“Where are we?” You asked, glancing around the empty lot.
The sun had dipped west an hour ago, just as you reversed out of Sadie’s driveway beside Jeff’s station wagon.
“I don’t know,” Steve grumbled. His leg bounced, shaking the entire car with nervous energy.
You had half a mind to slow his movements, the heat and the sway churning your motion-sick stomach, but the idea of clamping down on his muscled and hairy thigh had you thinking of the girls at the barbecue. You imagined each of them in the backseat of his car, oohing and chanting for you to quit being a baby and just do it.
So you sucked your cheeks between your teeth and stared directly ahead at the beading water on the windshield.
“So…” You breathed. “What did you think of Michelle?”
“Who?” Steve stopped his quake.
You sighed and looked back at him. “Michelle, from the party? Black hair, freckles, drop-dead gorgeous. She gave you her number at the end of the night?”
“Oh right,” he said, like that was the only indication he’d met this woman.
You blinked back at him, waiting for more elaboration. You should have known better. With another deep breath, you pushed a little further. “She wanted me to put in a good word.”
“Okay,” and now he waited expectedly.
“What?” You frowned.
“Tell me something good about her.”
For the life of you, all you could muster was, “She’s a really good mom?”
Steve snorted, though his expression remained unamused. “Great, I’ll ask her to cut the crust off my sandwiches.”
“No, that’s not…” You huffed, adjusting your sweating back against the leather seat. You grumbled and flicked off the heat, suddenly feeling the space around you void of air.
You sat in silence for a moment, trying to organize your thoughts, frustrated that the only image coming to mind was Michelle’s perfectly manicured nails clinging to Jeff’s polo collar. Steve’s hands held her close, sliding down to the seat of her jeans.
Steve cleared his throat, and you blinked back to reality.
“I’m sure I can think of nicer things to say,” you managed to squeak out.
“I’m not going to date Michelle,” Steve spoke low and slow beside you, his voice warming you more than the heater had.
You glanced up at him, strong jaw and defined nose cut through warm lamplight. You pondered his tone, wondered how final it had felt, how far you could press. Maybe it’d be best to leave it there.
“This job doesn’t lend well to… a life.” His voice startled you again, information given before it was asked.
You didn’t dare respond, lips sealed, breath held.
He scratched at the stubble overgrown on his chin. “Doesn’t feel fair to get someone’s hopes up when I could be killed the next day.”
His name fell from your lips in a sigh, and he caught you gaze, lips quirked upward in a wry smile as he waved his words from the space between you.
“That’s just me though. I’m not like… putting that on you. Date a bunch of guys, if you want! Or one guy! Or one gal. I don’t care, I just um…” He coughed into his hand.
You snorted and glanced back out the windshield at the lamplight and the rain.
A shadow moved straight ahead, emerging from the hill top, bowed shoulders and a wide-brimmed hat.
“Steve,” you nodded, reaching your hand into your bag for your concealed weapon.
He adjusted himself upright, his own hand stopping your wrist.
“Is that your guy?” You asked, heart thundering a little louder in your ear.
“I hope so,” he answered, and you both just waited.
The figure seemed to sway down the hillside, walking at too slow a pace, darting through the tree line to be covered in shadow when he could. Finally, as he stepped into the warmth of lamplight and tilted his head to expose round cheeks, Steve released your wrist and dropped his shoulders in relief.
The door creaked and the pitter of rain against the asphalt deafened you for a moment as Steve stepped out to scold the contact. Both men spoke in hushed tones, gesturing wildly to you before admitting defeat and retreating to the safety of the car’s interior. The whole vehicle shook under their combined weight, and they brought with them the sweet smell of ozone.
You eyed Steve, tendrils of his hair dripping onto scruffy cheekbones.
He grimaced and pushed his hair from his eyes, gesturing from you to the man in the seat behind him. “This is Dustin Henderson, Henderson, this is my partner.” He introduced you.
“My real name, Steve? Really?” Dustin snapped, pulling the fedora from wild curls.
Steve shrugged. “She didn’t know it was your real name until you just confirmed it, dipshit.”
Dustin rolled his eyes.
You blinked back at a the two of them. There was no family resemblance, but they bickered like siblings, and you realized this was the largest glimpse you’d gained into Steve’s private life in the year you’d known him. You knew his parents’ names, that he grew up in Indiana. You knew he was captain of the swim team. You knew he enjoyed sports. You knew he knew far too much about the movie Labyrinth. You knew his go-to sit-in diner order (a cheeseburger with no onions and a strawberry shake). But somehow this connection, with this strange young man, was the greatest insight you had into who your partner really was.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you extended a hand.
Dustin Henderson smiled at that, a big, warm, round smile. His hand was cold and clammy from the rain, but the handshake was strong and firm. “Likewise,” he nodded. “Steve was right, you are a beautiful woman.”
“Hello? Can we talk about the autopsy reports?” Steve snapped his fingers to get you both back on track.
“Okay, Jesus Christ,” Dustin hissed like a scolded middle schooler. He reached into the inside pocket of his oversized trench coat and pulled out a few pieces of paper. He handed half the pile to Steve and half to you.
You squinted down at a handful of coroner’s reports, the names of the deceased all familiar to you. Les Joplin sat at the top of the pile. Cause of death: prolonged exposure. You swallowed and handed the paper over for Steve to read.
He shook his head. “So could you find anything?”
Dustin tapped his fingers on the bottom of the pages. “All of these autopsy’s were done by the same man. No matter what part of the country these people were in, they brought in the same guy. George Humbolt.”
You thumbed through the remaining papers to find the signature he’d indicated.
“George Humbolt no longer works for the United States government. He actually recently retired and bought a very large mansion in Key Largo. He was a very difficult man to track down, and when I called him earlier to ask him about the Garcia brothers, his phone line was disconnected.” Dustin explained through grit teeth.
You glanced up at the young man, peach fuzz barely cresting his upper lip. You wondered what got him into this life, if he’d been thrust into conspiracy theories chasing his older brother-figure. You wondered if he’d seen as many horrible things as Steve had, as you had. You hoped not. You hoped nothing would come of this snooping. You hoped he was being safe.
“Humbolt didn’t do Joplin’s,” Steve exchanged you papers again. In script, you could barely make out the name of a woman, Caroline Something. “Maybe we can track down the new person?”
“I did some digging into her too.” Dustin nodded. “Her supervisor is one Samuel Owens.”
You watched Steve’s expression shift, harden. You watched him watch you. You watched the trust fall from his eyes, wariness making his shoulders and jaw rigid.
He swallowed, nodded, folded the papers in his hands. “Well, Henderson, thanks for this, man. I think maybe it’d be wise to lay low for a little while.”
“Sure, man. You know I’m always careful though.” Dustin could sense the shift in his friend. His face seemed to screw up, too, in concern. He offered you a sad smile.
Steve nodded, solemn, and cranked the heat again. The noise from the fan cut through the tension. “Do you need a ride home? How the Hell did you get out here?”
“Walked.” Dustin sighed and folded himself back into his seat, reaching for the seat belt.
—
The rain calmed to a soft sprinkle that dotted your cheeks. Droplets caught on your eyelashes and cast stardust in your vision under streetlights and the entrance to your apartment building. You blinked them away, keys jingling at your side as you let yourself in.
Steve held the door to let you hobble past, and he followed you in quiet silence onto the elevator.
You pressed the button to your floor and relaxed into the handrail, taking some weight off your aching foot in its boot.
Dustin had made sweet small talk on his way home, asking about your life and your interests. You’d learned he was a computer programmer. He had a pet turtle, and Steve was his best friend.
When he exited the car, the two exchanged a cute handshake that Steve seemed nonplussed to reenact, despite both of them being silhouetted in the headlights.
Steve didn’t speak a word to you the rest of the way home.
“Thanks again for sticking with me at Sadie’s today. You really didn’t have to stay.” You said, voice hoarse, as you stepped off the elevator and onto your floor.
Your partner shrugged, rubbed at the back of his neck. “I had fun. Sorry about Henderson, by the way. He can be a bit…”
“Endearing? Wholesome? Adorable?” You smiled.
Steve snorted. “I was going to say obnoxious, but I’ll tell him you said that. He’ll probably buy you flowers.”
You hummed. “Flowers are nice, and so was he.”
You put your keys into your lock and twisted. Steve was warm behind you, a towering presence of protection and safety. You thought of Sadie’s warning. Be careful. Never had you doubted where you stood with Steve. Even though he’d been a stranger to you, you never felt threatened, never felt afraid.
You turned to look at him.
He swallowed, glanced down the hall. “Listen, I’m really sorry about today. Sometimes I can’t handle that I can’t save everyone, and I get a bit carried away.”
Your heart sunk, and you tilted your head to catch his gaze. His brown eyes were nervous. You shook your head. “No, you were right. Something weird is going on, and we’re going to figure it out. We can’t save everyone, but we can save someone.”
He took a few beats, searching for a falter in your certainty, searching for that trust in you, before he nodded.
A soft meow startled you apart, and your front door clicked open. Mrs. Song’s cat began rubbing his black and white butt against Steve’s ankle, purring loudly.
You both chuckled, clutching at startled chests before Steve leaned down to give the cat some much-needed pets.
Your heart pittered a little in your chest, and you found your face warming once again at the thought of Steve returning home after a long day’s work to greet his pets.
You cleared your throat and backed into your apartment, tossing your purse on the nearby hook and shrugging out of your jacket. “Well, goodnight. Thanks again for the ride.”
Steve stood up straight, all thick thighs and broad shoulders, cheeks pinched pink. He nodded. “Sure, no problem. Do you uh… do you need a ride to the office tomorrow?”
You tucked a hair behind your ear and shrugged. “Sure, um… sure, thanks.”
He nodded again. “Alright, pick you up at 7:45?”
You nodded. You felt paralyzed in this moment.
Steve stood in the precipice of your doorway, the green of your wallpaper bringing out the green in his eyes. You thought back to the teasing words of the women at the barbecue. If any of them had a man like this in their doorway, they’d invite him in, offer him a drink, do anything but stand and stare and wonder what could be, hearts racing.
He wrapped his knuckles against the doorframe and pushed off, a smile quirking at the corner of his lips. “Alright, then. Night.”
“Night.” You managed.
He stumbled a bit around the cat during his turnaround and bent to give her one last little pat.
“Steve!”
He stopped and stood back up to look at you over his shoulder.
“Don’t let the job discourage you,” you released a shaky exhale.
He frowned, confused.
“From having a life,” you explained.
Realization flooded his features, but the two of you remained rooted to the spot. You thought of Dustin and his turtle, and of Sadie and Jeff and their sweet little home. You thought of kids screaming on the trampoline. You thought of all of these things you never thought you’d have, unsure if you wanted them, unsure where Steve stood, if you’d be dragging him down, stealing his happiness by dying on the field. Maybe that’s what happened to Robin…
You cleared your throat, smiled, nodded. “You should really call Michelle. She’s a really sweet person. She’s funny. She’s very intelligent. She makes excellent brownies. Her son, Wyatt, is a really cool kid, too. I think he’s in karate.”
Steve nodded, taking another step backwards into the hallway, spell-broken. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” You smiled. “Night.”
“Night.”
The peephole carved a divot into your forehead once the door was closed.
---
Moodboard • 01: Firetower • 03: Bayou [Coming soon]