One Big Favor Part 2 - Steve Harrington imagine
(Steve Harrington x female reader)
read part 1 here.
Word count: 5,959
Warnings: Mentions of sex. Angst. post-intimacy emotional distance/awkwardness. Steve's a little bitch here (he'll get better eventually...)
A/N: I did not expect so many people to want a part 2 to this but regardless thank you for the support. 😅 there will be another part to this I promise. This was a little rushed so, sorry for the inconsistency.
*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*
Monday already feels wrong as soon as you wake up. Not because of school. Not because of River.
Because of Steve.
You stare at your bedroom ceiling for way too long, tangled in your blankets, replaying everything from Friday night whether you want to or not. Every second of it keeps forcing its way back into your brain in sharp flashes that make your stomach twist inside.
Steve’s hands. Steve’s voice. The way he looked at you after.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
God.
This was supposed to fix things. That was the whole point. You were supposed to walk into school feeling lighter somehow, more confident, more experienced, finally ready to talk to River without feeling insecure or inexperienced all the time. All you wanted was to feel like a normal teenage girl just for once.
Instead, it feels like everything inside you shifted overnight without your permission.
And the worst part?
You finally understand why.
It takes a little too long for the realization to fully settle in, but once it does, there’s no pushing it away anymore. No pretending it’s something else. No burying it like you used to.
Because somewhere along the way—quietly, accidentally, completely against your will—
you fell in love with Steve Harrington.
And that’s what makes this feel like such a disaster. Because Steve was never supposed to become someone you wanted like this. He’s Steve. Your best friend. The person who’s always been there, always constant, always safe. Not someone you were supposed to ache over. Not someone you were supposed to look at and want to keep close forever. Not someone you were ever supposed to have sex with.
You can’t have him like that.
You can’t ruin the one good thing that’s always belonged to both of you even though it feels like you already have.
Which means you need to get over this. Immediately.
Maybe the answer is simple. Space. Just for a little while. Not forever obviously—you physically cannot imagine a version of your life where Steve isn’t in it—but maybe if you put a little distance between you two, everything will settle back down. Maybe your feelings will calm down and your brain will stop acting insane every time you imagine smiling at you.
Maybe if you stop replaying Friday night over and over again, it’ll slowly stop meaning so much. And maybe, if you avoid him long enough, Steve won’t bring it up either. The thought gives you a tiny, pathetic amount of relief. Because if neither of you talks about it, maybe it can stay tucked away somewhere untouched. Safe. Unexamined.
Maybe you can hold onto him a little longer that way.
You’d rather deal with your own miserable feelings in private than risk losing him completely.
So that becomes the plan.
Avoid Steve at school. Stop overthinking every little thing. Act normal. Pretend Friday was just one slightly reckless mistake between friends and nothing more.
Easy enough.
Except the problem with your plan is that Steve Harrington has never once made avoiding him easy.
- -
By the time you get to school, your nerves are so bad you almost turn around in the parking lot. But you can’t—not when you already have way too many unexcused absences and graduation hanging over your head.
It’s incredibly nerve wracking the second you walk through the front doors, your stomach already twisting so hard you might vomit. And it’s all because you already know Steve’s here somewhere, lurking around, waiting to jump up and talk to you.
But you can’t talk to him because things are not normal anymore. It’s all your fault, you are the one who messed it all up.
Well…. Technically, you didn’t know for sure if you had ruined things, but it felt obvious. The way Steve had quietly dropped you off at home, the awkward silence that settled between you after the most intimate moment you’d ever shared. Still, you couldn’t really blame him. Sex complicated things—especially when it was something you still didn’t fully understand.
Maybe that was why the idea of seeing him at school suddenly made you feel sick. Because now every hallway glance would remind you how stupid you’d been for falling for your best friend in the first place. And if Steve regretted it—if he looked at you differently now—you didn’t think you could stand there and watch it happen.
It was supposed to be easy to avoid him but then… you spot him almost immediately. Of course you do. He’s hard not to notice with his thick, luscious hair and that bright, pearly smile he flashes at girls like it’s some kind of weapon.
He’s busy standing by his locker with Tommy and Carol, one shoulder leaned against the metal, basketball jacket hanging loose over a gray sweatshirt. To anyone else, he looks completely fine. Relaxed and casual. Like always.
You immediately think about how in a normal circumstance, you would’ve walked right up to him without thinking. You would’ve slipped into the empty space beside him and started rambling about your weekend or some annoying teacher or whatever dumb thought popped into your head first. Steve would roll his eyes, pretend not to care, but still listen to every word anyway.
That’s how it always was.
But not anymore.
Because you had to go and ruin it. Your gut had practically screamed at you to not sleep with Steve, that it was all a bad idea, and somehow you did it anyway. You just had to cross that line with him, and now everything was different. Now you've gone and fallen for your best friend, turning something easy and familiar into something painfully complicated. To the point where you knew you wouldn’t be able to even look at him without your chest aching.
As you try to avoid his glance, rushing past him as quickly as these tiny hallways allow, you see his eyes flick up. Right at you. And suddenly, it feels like all the air leaves your lungs. The look only lasts a second. Barely enough time to study his face—or at least try to. You can’t tell what’s there. Recognition. Hesitation. Maybe guilt. But there’s something sharper underneath it that makes your stomach twist.
Then Steve looks away first.
And you do too.
Your chest tightens painfully as you keep walking, heart hammering so hard it almost drowns out the noise of the hallway around you. Immediately, your mind starts spiraling.
What if Steve regretted it? What if he thought it was a mistake? What if it really did ruin everything between you?
You understood why you were avoiding him. That part made sense. Looking at Steve now felt unbearable when all you could think about was how badly you’d messed things up.
But why was he avoiding you too?
“You’re not gonna go talk to Steve?” your friend whispers slipping up beside you interrupting your thoughts for a moment, the question laced with obvious suspicion.
Of course she noticed. Talking to Steve every morning was practically a routine at this point. No matter how busy the day got, you always found him before first period. Usually because you knew afterward you’d barely get a chance to see him between classes, basketball practice, and everything else. It was just… normal. Familiar.
So for you to walk right past him without even a hello?
Yeah. People were going to notice.
“I’m just tired,” you mumble quickly, adjusting the strap of your bag so you don’t have to look at her. The excuse sounds weak even to your own ears.
Your friend gives you a look like she doesn’t buy it for a second, but thankfully she doesn’t push.
Still, the damage is already done. Because now your mind immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusions. If your friend caught the weird tension between you and Steve that fast, then who else did? Tommy? Carol? God, what if Steve had already said something to them? What if they were laughing about it right now?
Your stomach twists painfully.
Usually, you were good at reading Steve. Better than anyone, probably. You always knew what his expressions meant, what he was thinking before he even said it out loud. But now? Now every glance felt uncertain. Every second around him felt wrong somehow.
And the what-ifs just kept coming.
What if he regretted everything?
What if he was embarrassed by you?
What if last night meant way more to you than it did to him?
The worst part was not knowing. Normally, you liked certainty. You liked understanding where you stood with people, especially with Steve. But now it felt like the ground beneath you had shifted, leaving you stuck questioning every little thing he did.
But the worst part was that you didn’t even know if Steve was actually avoiding you.
All that had happened was one tiny glance in the hallway. A split second before he looked away. That was it. Still, your brain insisted on turning it into something awful. Because it had to mean something, right? Things didn’t just go back to normal after something like that.
And that’s what made this all so frustrating. You didn’t regret sleeping with him—not really. It was amazing and if anything, that almost made it worse. Normal people shouldn’t think of describing having sex with their best friend as “amazing”. Because of this—despite the awkwardness and panic clawing at your chest, you couldn’t bring yourself to wish it never happened.
But God, the complications afterward?
The overthinking. The distance. Steve. Everything about Steve suddenly felt so painfully complicated and it had only been less than 72 hours.
- -
By third period, you were running on fumes. Life couldn’t really feel worse right now. Well, technically it could, but try explaining that to a confused eighteen-year-old who had just slept with her best friend from childhood and was now actively avoiding him for reasons she couldn’t even fully put into words. It didn’t feel okay. Not even close.
You tell yourself to get it together as you slide into your seat in your art class, pulling your sketchbook out with more force than necessary like you had your own personal vendetta against it.
This is so stupid.
You had sex with your best friend one time.
That’s it.
People survive weirder things.
Probably.
You don't know anything right now.
Your brain continues to explode with thoughts. Nothing had technically changed since the hallway. Steve hadn’t said anything. You hadn’t said anything. There had just been that moment—one glance, one flicker of something you couldn’t read before he looked away—and somehow it had managed to follow you into every thought you had since.
Why did Steve have to take up so much space in your head? It was ridiculous! Yes, he was good-looking, like really hot. So what? That didn’t mean anything. Except it did, because he was also so much more than that. He was funny without trying to be. He was annoyingly kind in ways he pretended not to be. He had this soft side he’d never admit to, like it physically offended him to care too much—
Oh my god. Stop.
While you are spiraling internally in your chair, someone slides into the seat next to you.
You’re so busy fighting your own thoughts that you almost don’t look. Almost. But then you do. And your stomach drops.
River?
Great—because you’ve really built such an impressive track record with hot guys.
“You okay?” he asked softly. Your head snaps up so fast you almost drop your pencil.
River is right there… and he’s talking to you for some reason.
For a second, your brain genuinely short-circuits because River never talks to you first. Not really. Sure, he’s been nice before in that casual-artsy-boy-who’s-nice-to-everyone-but-is-actually-evil kind of way, but this is different. He’s actually looking at you. Smiling a little as he slides into the stool beside yours.
And god, he’s still unfairly pretty. Dark curls falling into his eyes, paint smudged faintly along his fingers, rings glinting under the fluorescent classroom lights.
You stare at him for one second too long. “…Yeah,” you say quickly. “Why?”
He shrugs, resting his elbow against the table. “You just seem distracted.”
“Oh.” Smooth. Really smooth.
River smiles slightly. “You nervous about the project critique today?”
“A little.”
“You’ll be fine,” he says easily. “Your stuff’s good.”
Your stomach flips. Oh. Oh no.
Because this is what you wanted. This is literally exactly what you wanted. River talking to you. River noticing you. River looking at you like he actually wants to keep the conversation going. He’s the reason you ended up in this whole mess in the first place.
But what’s even worse is that… your brain is too preoccupied with Steve to really care at the moment. I mean you do care—sort of but you wish it was Steve for some weird reason. Which feels confusing and horrible and selfish all at once.
“Thanks,” you mumble.
River taps his pencil against the table once before speaking again. “So…” he says casually. “Steve told me about you.”
Your stomach drops instantly, even the slight drop of his name makes you nervous. “What?”
Not to mention what-the-fuck was River talking about? In what scenario would Steve be talking to River about you. Did you even want to know?
He doesn’t notice the shift in your expression. Or maybe he does but he continues anyway. “Steve Harrington?” he clarifies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and you're an idiot for not understanding. “You guys are close, right?”
Every nerve in your body suddenly goes cold. “…Yeah.”
River nods slowly, still weirdly relaxed. “Honestly, I didn’t even know you were into me.”
Your heartbeat stutters. “What?”
Okay now you are fully panicking, if you heard that correctly then well… that would mean Steve had told him something he was never supposed to know about, and suddenly nothing about this conversation feels safe anymore and you just want to curl up into a ball and die.
Now he finally notices something’s wrong. His brows pull together slightly. “Wait—he didn’t tell you he talked to me?”
You stare at him. Your mouth actually goes dry. “Talked to you about what?”
River lets out a small awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh…”
The silence stretches. Too long. It’s painfully quiet.
Then—
“He mentioned you finally lost your v-card,” River says carefully. “And that you were freaking out about seeming inexperienced.”
The world stops. Like it actually stops. You feel it.
That horrible, dizzy drop in your stomach like missing a step in the dark.
Your face drains completely. “…What?”
River’s expression changes immediately.
Confusion first. Then realization.
“Oh shit,” he laughs.
Your ears are ringing now.
No.
No no no.
Steve wouldn’t—
“He said it like… I don’t know, like he was helping you out or something,” River says slowly, now sounding unsure. “I just figured you knew.”
“Helping you out.”
The words hit like a slap across the face.
Suddenly you can hear Steve’s voice from Friday night so clearly it makes your chest hurt.
“I would do anything for you.”
You feel sick because you told him that in confidence. You trusted him. And he told River everything. Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin so fast your eyes sting.
“Hey,” River says quickly, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t mean to make this weird—”
“You should’ve just not said anything,” you cut in quietly.
River freezes. Your hands are now shaking.
It suddenly feels like your world has just collapsed in on itself, and you’re far too shaken to even try and pull yourself back together. That was something you told Steve in private—something soft and vulnerable and completely yours. In total confidence. He had absolutely no right to take that and hand it over to someone else like it meant nothing.
It wasn’t his to tell. It wasn’t his to twist. It wasn’t his to spill.
And now your chest feels too tight, your throat burns, and you have to blink hard because if you don’t, you’re going to cry right there in the middle of class and you don’t think you can handle that on top of everything else.
Steve told him. Steve told him.
You can’t stop hearing it. Every horrible possibility crashes into you all at once.
Did Steve regret it?
Was it funny to him afterward?
Did he tell Tommy too? Carol? Half the damn school?
God.
You suddenly feel stupid.
Stupid for asking.
Stupid for trusting him.
Stupid for thinking maybe the weird feeling in the car meant something to him too.
Stupid for having sex with him.
Because apparently, while you spent the entire weekend spiraling over him he was busy talking about taking your virginity to your crush.
Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you stand, not even caring about the consequences you’ll have to face later for storming out of class.
River blinks up at you. “Wait—where are you going?”
“I have to go.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” you say immediately, even though your throat burns. “No, it’s not you.”
It’s him. It’s Steve.
And that will always hurt so much worse. Steve has never been the person you needed protecting from before. Not once. He’s always been the safe one—the one you trusted without thinking, the one who felt like home in a way you never questioned.
Until now.
Because that trust doesn’t feel steady anymore. It feels cracked. Uncertain. Like it could splinter completely if you press on it the wrong way. He’s no longer the man you trusted enough to let in like that, the one you thought you knew inside and out—no, he… feels like someone else entirely now. Someone you can’t quite recognize, standing on the other side of something you never agreed to cross.
And underneath all of that hurt, sharp and immediate and impossible to ignore, there’s something else rising up fast—hot, messy, and completely irrational.
Because you were going to kill him.
- -
By the time you realize where your feet are taking you, you’re already halfway down Steve’s street. Which is… humiliating, honestly because you didn’t plan this. You didn’t think. You just moved, like your body was faster than the part of your brain that was still trying to process River’s words on repeat.
Steve told him. Steve told him.
Steve told your crush something that wasn’t his to tell. He had no right.
And it’s so painful to even think about because you trusted Steve. Completely. Without hesitation. You would’ve told him anything, anything at all, if you’d had something bigger to confess, something heavier to carry. That’s how safe he was supposed to feel. And now that same trust feels like it’s been handled too roughly, like it’s been dropped and stepped on without even realizing how fragile it was.
The idea that he told someone about the night you shared—something so private, so intimate, so carefully unspoken between just the two of you—turns your stomach.
Not just told. Not just mentioned.
Bragged about it.
The thought makes something sour rise in your throat, sharp and immediate, like you might actually be sick.
Now it’s not an intimate memory between the two of you.
Now it’s exposed, a piece of you taken without permission.
Your hands are still shaking when you turn the corner and see him. He’s in his driveway. Basketball bouncing in a steady rhythm against the pavement, the sound sharp in the quiet suburban air. He’s in athletic shorts and a loose tee, hair messier than usual, like he’s been out here a while already. Focused. Lost in it.
Like nothing in the world is wrong. Like you’re not currently falling apart. You stop at the edge of the driveway.
For a second, you just watch him.
You debate, for a split second, whether you should just march straight up to him and punch his stupid face. You even picture it—clean, satisfying, deserved. But you don’t. Because you couldn’t hurt his face. It’s too familiar. Too infuriatingly pretty. Too Steve—like it’s somehow been carved into something you were never actually meant to damage, no matter how much he might deserve it right now.
The way he moves is automatic—easy, practiced. The ball hits the ground, comes back into his palm, spins, disappears into the hoop with a clean swish.
Of course he’s good at everything, you think bitterly.
Of course.
“Steve,” you call out.
You’ve never felt this courageous in your life, but it turns out an angry teenage girl holds a lot more power than anyone ever gives credit for. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. The ball slips through his hands mid-shot. It clanks off the rim with a harsh metallic thunk and ricochets away down the driveway, bouncing once, twice, then rolling to a stop like even it knows something just shifted.
Steve turns slowly. Not rushed. Not startled. Slowly. Like he already knows this isn’t going to be a normal conversation.
And the second he sees the anger in your face, something shifts.
Not surprise exactly. Something heavier.
“…Hey,” he says cautiously, like he can already sense the storm building behind your eyes—like he knows whatever’s coming isn’t going to be easy to weather.
His tone alone almost makes you snap.
Because hey?
That’s it?
You walk straight into the driveway, stopping a few feet away from him. Your chest is tight, like your lungs don’t want to fully work.
“What the fuck, Steve?”
He blinks. “What?”
“You told River.” The words come out fast, shaking. “You told him about me. About—about what happened. Why would you do that? How could you do that?”
For a second, he just stares at you. Like he’s waiting for you to laugh and say you’re joking. When you don’t, his expression hardens slightly. “Oh,” he says quietly.
That tone. That calm, controlled tone that makes it worse. And now there is even less self-control stopping you from punching his face.
“Oh?” you repeat. “That’s all you have to say?”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s trying to collect himself. “I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think?” your voice cracks a little, and you hate it. You hate that it does that. “Steve, that was private. That was mine. You don’t just go telling people—especially not him.”
At River’s name, something flickers in his face. And now he looks defensive. “Oh, so that’s what this is about?”
Your stomach drops slightly. “What?”
“River.” He gestures vaguely, like the word tastes bad. “This is about him.”
“No, this is about you betraying me,” you snap immediately. “Don’t try to twist this.”
Steve exhales sharply, jaw tightening. “I didn’t betray you.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious?”
He takes a step toward you now, frustration slipping through the cracks. “I did it for you.”
That stops you. For a second, your anger stutters. “What?”
Steve gestures again, more sharply this time. “You told me you liked him. You were freaking out about it, you were overthinking everything, you were—” he stops himself, like he realizes he’s getting worked up, then continues more controlled, “—you weren’t going to do anything about it, I know you.”
Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.
“I was helping you,” he adds.
You stare at him, and there isn’t much room for thought in your head anymore—just a sharp, buzzing mix of anger and disbelief, like your brain can’t decide which one it should feel louder.
“…Helping me?” you repeat slowly.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like this is rational. “I just gave you a push. That’s it.”
Something inside you breaks at that and it suddenly clicks. All of it.
The way he looked at you in the hallway. The silence in the car. The distance afterward. The way he couldn’t meet your eyes. Not guilt. Not regret.
Control.
“You told him I was embarrassed,” you say quietly, and this time your voice doesn’t rise—it just shakes, like you’re holding it together by force alone. You blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall even though your eyes already sting. Because that wasn’t something you could say out loud easily. Not even to yourself. Telling Steve about your insecurities—about being a virgin, about all the thoughts you never let anyone see—was the most private thing you’d ever handed over to another person. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t light. It was trust in its rawest form.
And he went and broke that trust.
Steve hesitates. That hesitation is answer enough.
Your throat tightens. “You told him I was inexperienced,” you continue, voice shaking now, “like it was some joke. Like it was something to fix.”
“That’s not what I said,” Steve snaps immediately.
“It’s what you meant.” A tear falls from your eye this time, it hurts too much now. You were expecting some sympathy at least but you are only met with silence.
The basketball rolls to a stop near your foot.
Neither of you moves.
Steve’s face shifts—something frustrated, something pained, something that looks almost like he’s trying not to say too much.
“I didn’t make fun of you,” he says more quietly.
“But you talked about me,” you whisper. “And that’s not fair.”
That lands differently. Now he doesn’t have a quick answer. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. And for the first time since you got here, he looks unsure. “I thought I was helping you,” he says again, but it sounds less certain now. “You were so worked up about it and I just—River likes you. He already did. I figured if he knew you were overthinking it, he’d—he’d make a move or something. It’s what you wanted. You told me you needed to lose your virginity for him, you got that, and so I told him for you.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” you say, voice trembling harder now.
Steve’s jaw tightens again, but he doesn’t argue.
Which somehow makes it worse because now it feels like you’re the only one who’s panicking. The only one who feels like something important just got handled carelessly. “You don’t get to decide things like that for me,” you continue, stepping back slightly like you need space just to breathe. “You don’t get to tell people personal stuff about me because you think you know what’s best.”
“I was trying to fix it,” he says sharply.
“Fix what?” you ask, louder now. “Me?”
That hits something in him.
You see it.
A flicker. It’s fast, sharp, almost like pain.
“No,” he says immediately. “No, that’s not—”
But you’re already shaking your head. “Do you even hear yourself?” your voice cracks fully now. “You’re acting like I’m some problem you had to solve.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“You basically did!”
The silence after that is brutal. Steve looks at you for a long moment. And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Tighter. “I did it because I didn’t want you getting hurt.”
That makes you freeze.
There it is. The honest part. Something that almost sounds like care. But it doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t erase the betrayal sitting heavy in your chest.
“I didn’t need you to do that,” you say quietly.
Steve’s expression shifts again—something in him breaking through the frustration now.
“You think I didn’t know that?” he says, sharper again, but not cruel. “You think I wanted to mess things up between you and him?”
Your eyes sting. “Then why did you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. And in that pause, you see it again. That thing underneath everything. The thing he keeps trying to bury.
“I thought it would be easier if you just… moved on,” he says finally, voice quieter. “I thought it would make everything less complicated.”
Your laugh is shaky and broken.
“Less complicated for who, Steve?”
That’s when his eyes finally meet yours fully. And for a second—just a second—you see it clearly. The conflict. The restraint. The thing he’s swallowing down so hard it’s making him say all the wrong things.
“For both of us,” he says.
But it doesn’t sound like both of you. It sounds like him. Like he’s the one trying to survive this.
Your chest hurts in a way that feels too big for your body. “You don’t get to decide what’s easier for me,” you say again, softer now, but it lands heavier. “You don’t get to make choices about my life and call it helping.”
Steve flinches slightly. That’s new. You take a step back. Then another.
“I trusted you,” you whisper.
Something shifts in his face—panic, maybe. Or realization that he has just royally fucked up. “Wait—don’t—”
But you’re already shaking your head, tears finally spilling over before you can stop them. “I can’t do this,” you say.
Steve steps forward quickly. “Hey—no, just—talk to me—”
You shake your head harder, wiping your face fast, embarrassed by how much it’s showing. “I’m done, Steve,” you start to back away even more. “I hate you. Just—don’t talk to me ever again. I’ll never forgive you.”
That stops him completely. Like the words physically hit him.
You don’t stay to watch it settle. You turn and walk away fast, vision blurry, heart loud, every step feeling like you’re leaving something behind that you can’t actually pick up again later.
Behind you, you hear him say your name.
Once.
Then again.
But you don’t turn around.
- -
Steve’s perspective.
From the moment you asked him to sleep with you, he knew it would only lead to something bad. Something that would dig deeper under his skin, something that would blur lines he had already been struggling to keep straight. Something that would make it even harder to separate what he felt from what he was supposed to feel.
Because the truth is… he has been in love with you for a long time now. He’s had these thoughts for a while now—romantic ones, intrusive ones, whatever label was least embarrassing to admit. He didn’t even remember when they started exactly. It wasn’t like a switch flipped. It was slower than that. Worse than that.
Just you, existing in his life the way you always had, and somehow becoming the one thing he couldn’t stop noticing.
The way you laughed at things no one else even thought were funny. The way you looked at him like he wasn’t some performance he had to keep up. The way being around you never felt like a chore.
And that was the problem.
Because he wasn’t supposed to want more than that. He wasn’t supposed to be in love with his childhood best friend.
So when you came to him that night—careful, nervous, trusting him in a way that made his chest tighten immediately—he already knew he was standing too close to something he wouldn’t be able to walk away from cleanly.
And then you said it.
“Will you sleep with me?”
You had asked so nicely… so soft. Like it cost you something to ask.
So of course he said yes. Because he couldn’t say no to you. Never. Not when you were looking at him like he was safe. That’s the part that comes back to him now, sharper than anything else. Not just the moment itself. Not even what happened after.
But the fact that you trusted him enough to hand him something that vulnerable—and he still managed to turn around and mess it up anyway.
And now he understands something he didn’t want to admit before:
This was never just about helping you move on.
It was about him trying to move himself out of the picture before he could ruin something he already didn’t know how to stop feeling.
He hated that this was all for some other guy—River.
Oh god, he absolutely hated him. There was nothing interesting about that guy at all. So what he could paint? Boring. Everything about him was boring.
You deserve so much more than him. And he regrets not telling you that part out loud.
Not to mention, River was a player. He was up to no good, his intentions weren’t pure…honest. River would never get to know you as well as he did.
He’s the one you went to have sex. You trusted him. Not River.
But then again… he’s also the one who made you cry and run away. He’s the one that made the stupid awful mistake and betrayed you.
It’s hard to explain why he did it. Why he told River you had a crush on him. Why he said it out loud like it was nothing. Because it wasn’t nothing.
It was panic.
Real, ugly panic.
Because sitting with the knowledge of how much he wanted you—how deeply, how constantly, how unfairly—was starting to feel unbearable.
Sleeping with you only added fuel to the fire. And he knew, with a kind of certainty that scared him, that you couldn’t feel the same way. You just couldn’t. So if that was true—if he was the only one standing there like this, holding something that would never be returned—then he needed it out of his system. Out of his control. Out of his head.
He needed distance. He needed silence. He needed you not to be the center of everything anymore. And River was… easy. Convenient. A way to redirect it. A way to make it feel like there was a direction this could still go that didn’t end with him falling further into something he couldn’t have.
He already knew you had a crush on him—so in his mind, why not say something? The part about “I slept with her” wasn’t something he planned to reveal; it just slipped out in the moment, more out of irritation than intention, like a way to wipe that smug look off River’s face.
He thought that if you could get with River… he could forget about you.
It wasn’t meant with bad intentions—but he knew you well enough to know you probably never would’ve said anything to River on your own. So he told himself it was helping you. That if River stepped in, if things shifted, if you ended up getting what you thought you wanted, then everything would eventually fall back into place.
You’d be okay.
He’d be okay.
Nothing would break in a way that couldn’t be fixed.
That’s what he told himself. That he was doing you a favor. That he was protecting you from something complicated before it could get worse.
But now he can see what it actually was. It was him trying to save himself from the fact that he was already too far gone. And it didn’t save anything.
It just cost him you instead.
“I hate you.”
Your words cut sharper than anything anyone had ever said to him. You had every right to feel it—he knew that—but it didn’t make the impact any less brutal, didn’t soften the way it landed or the way it lingered in his chest after you said it.
He stood there anyway, like if he didn’t move, he could somehow keep the moment from becoming permanent. From becoming the thing that actually ended everything.
Because now all he could think about was how you looked when you said it. How final it sounded. How easily it came out.
And the worst part was the silence after.
How was he supposed to fix this? How was he supposed to make it up to you when it felt like he’d just broken the one person he never meant to hurt in the first place?
*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*
part 3
