Insomnia steven grant
warnings: TW night terrors/nightmares/insomnia, fluff, comfort oneshot, M4F, female!reader, boyfriend!steven
Of all the things that came with dating Steven Grant—soft smiles, awkward jokes, museum facts whispered at the worst possible times, the way he held your hand like it was something precious he might drop—there was only one thing that ever truly scared you.
His insomnia.
Being with Steven was easy in the way breathing was easy. He was kind without trying, gentle without expecting praise for it. He remembered how you liked your tea, always warmed his hands before touching your face, apologized when he bumped into furniture that very clearly attacked him first. Almost perfect, really.
Almost.
Because when the lights went out and the city quieted, Steven’s mind didn’t follow. It stayed awake, pacing, gnawing at itself. Some nights it felt less like sleeplessness and more like something cruel he did to himself—eyes rimmed red, fingers twitching, body exhausted but refusing rest. As if sleep were a door he no longer trusted enough to open.
Tonight was one of those nights.
You woke to a soft, repetitive click-clack sound, faint but persistent. Not loud enough to be alarming—just irritating enough to pull you out of a half-dream.
Click. Twist. Click.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Steven sat on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly, elbows resting on his knees. A Rubik’s cube turned in his hands, movements quick but unfocused, like he wasn’t actually trying to solve it—just keep his hands busy.
“Stevie…” your voice was thick with sleep, a quiet mumble against the pillow. “D’you know what time it is?”
He flinched like he’d been caught doing something wrong, shoulders jumping a little. The cube paused mid-turn.
“Oh—! I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He twisted around to look at you, eyes wide and apologetic. “I’ll stop, I swear.”
You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you pushed yourself up on one elbow. “You already woke me,” you said, not unkindly. “What’s the matter?”
Steven hesitated. That was always the tell. He pressed his lips together, gaze dropping to the cube in his hands. When he looked back up, he wore it—that expression that made your chest ache every time.
The abandoned puppy face.
“I… couldn’t sleep,” he admitted softly. “Haven’t been able to for a while now. Thought I might, you know, distract myself a bit. Didn’t think it was that loud.”
You felt your annoyance melt instantly, replaced by something warmer and sadder. You reached out, fingers brushing his arm. “Steven,” you murmured. “You look exhausted.”
He gave a small, self-deprecating huff of a laugh. “Yeah, well. That’s sort of the theme lately.”
You sat up fully now, sheets pooling around your waist. “I can make you some hot chocolate,” you offered gently. “Help you relax a bit.”
He shook his head immediately. “No, no, that’s alright. Don’t want to put you through all that trouble.”
“It’s hot chocolate, Steven.”
“I know, but still.”
“What if I add marshmallows?” you tried, arching a brow.
He cracked the tiniest smile, then shook his head again. “Tempting. Very tempting. But no.”
You studied him for a moment, really looked. The tightness around his eyes, the way his leg bounced restlessly. “Did you take your pills?” you asked quietly.
His smile vanished.
“No,” he said, just as quietly. “Didn’t want to.”
You didn’t push. You never did—not right away. Instead, you shifted closer and gently took the Rubik’s cube from his hands, setting it aside on the nightstand. Then you opened your arms.
Steven hesitated only a second before leaning into you, allowing you to pull him back against your chest. You wrapped yourself around him, chin resting against his hair, arms snug and warm. He let out a shaky breath, tension melting as he sank into your hold.
“They make it worse,” he confessed, voice muffled against you. “The nightmares. The night terrors. I wake up feeling like I’ve been running for hours. I just… didn’t want that tonight.”
You pressed a kiss to his temple, thumb rubbing slow circles over his arm. “I know,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”
He relaxed a little more, fingers curling into your sleeve like he was afraid you might disappear. You held him tighter.
“Tell me, then,” you murmured softly, voice heavy with care. “What do you need, Stevie…?”
There was a pause. You felt him think about it—really consider it. Then, almost sheepishly:
“…I think,” he said, clearing his throat, “I want the hot chocolate. With marshmallows.”
You smiled into his hair, heart swelling. “Good choice.”
You shifted carefully, keeping one arm around him even as you reached for the blanket. “Stay right here. I’ll be back in two minutes.”
He nodded, finally letting himself sink back against the pillows, eyes already a little heavier as you moved away.
And when you returned—mug warm, marshmallows floating happily on top—you found Steven waiting for you, Rubik’s cube untouched, gaze soft and grateful.
Some nights, love wasn’t fixing the problem.
Some nights, it was hot chocolate, marshmallows, and holding him until sleep felt safe again.
So Steven accepted the mug with both hands like it was something fragile, something important. The warmth seeped into his palms immediately, shoulders dropping a fraction as he lifted it to his lips. He took a careful sip.
“…That’s really good,” he murmured, surprised every time, like you hadn’t made it for him a hundred times before. “Perfect temperature.”
You smiled softly and shifted back against the headboard. After a second, you patted your lap.
Steven didn’t need to be told twice. He moved closer, curling into you sideways, his shoulder pressing into your stomach, one knee tucked up as he settled. You waited until he’d taken another sip before lifting your hand to his hair.
His curls were a little tangled—sleep-ruffled, fingers having worried at them earlier without him noticing. You slid your fingers in gently, slowly untangling them, smoothing and separating each curl with careful patience.
Steven melted.
His breath stuttered softly, tension leaving him all at once as his head tipped back just enough to give you better access. “Oh,” he breathed. “That’s… that’s really nice.”
You continued, unhurried, nails grazing lightly over his scalp. “You okay?”
“Mmhmm,” he hummed, voice already slower. Lifting his head a bit to not spill, he took another sip of the hot chocolate, marshmallow brushing his lip. You laughed quietly and wiped it away with your thumb, and he smiled—sleepy and fond.
For a moment, there was only the quiet of the room and the steady rhythm of your fingers in his hair. Then Steven spoke again, voice drifting.
“Did you know,” he started softly, “the ancient Egyptians believed dreams were messages from the gods? Proper messages. Like… you were meant to listen to them.”
You made a small, encouraging sound, fingers continuing their slow, grounding path through his curls.
“They even had dream temples,” he went on, words stretching out lazily now. “People would sleep there on purpose. Try to invite certain dreams. Always thought that was brave. Letting yourself be that open.”
His grip on the mug loosened, so you gently took it from him and set it aside. He didn’t protest—just shifted closer, cheek resting against your chest, breath warm through your shirt.
“There’s this god,” he continued, barely above a whisper, “Bes. Little guy. Protector of homes. Children. Scared nightmares away.” A faint smile curved his lips. “People kept him near their beds. Thought he’d guard them while they slept.”
Your fingers slowed, cradling his head more than combing now.
“I like that,” you whispered.
“Me too,” Steven murmured, already halfway gone. “Feels… comforting. Like someone’s watching over you.”
His breathing evened out gradually, words dissolving into silence. You kept playing with his curls, smoothing them back, grounding him the way you always somehow managed to do.
“…You’re better than the pills,” he mumbled sleepily. “You don’t give me bad dreams.”
Your chest ached at that.
You kissed the crown of his head, arms tightening around him just enough to remind him you were still there. “Sleep, Stevie,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
And this time, he let himself rest.
Steven fell asleep curled against you, curls loose beneath your fingers, mind quieted by warmth, soft touches, and stories of gods who chased nightmares away. The night stayed calm. The Rubik’s cube remained forgotten on the nightstand.
And for once, sleep felt safe.
look at this lil hands bro 😭 i cant write a smut of this man, he way too cute
