VERO

[spacejjunk]

Can i have a slice of Chicago deep dish with bacon pineapple and chicken with fries (“Hey, hey, don't apologize. You don't need to explain.”) on the side

id apologize for bleeding on your shirt

pairing: steve harrington x reader

w/c: 7.2k+

warnings/tags: angst, abusive parents, secret keeping, fluff, so much cuteness, girl dad! steve harrington

masterlist // pizza party

The highway signs blurred into one long smear of green and white as you drove east. Your old sedan hummed beneath you, the engine a steady drone that almost drowned out the thoughts screaming in your head. Almost.

In the backseat, Lila kicked her little sneakers against the base of her car seat and sang along to the low volume of some kids’ song on the radio. Four years old. Four years of secrets, of half-truths, of nights you’d cried so hard in the bathroom with the shower running that you’d made yourself sick. She had his hair—those soft, unruly brown waves that never stayed brushed for long—and when she smiled wide enough, the dimple in her left cheek was all Steve Harrington.

You swallowed hard and tightened your grip on the wheel until your knuckles ached.

Hawkins was only twenty minutes away now. The town that had raised you, broken you, and spit you out without a second thought. The town where you’d fallen stupidly, completely in love with a boy who kissed like he was trying to memorize you and held you like the world might end tomorrow.

Because back then, in Hawkins, it always felt like it might.

You remembered the night it happened like it was yesterday. The quarry. Steve’s BMW parked half-hidden behind the trees. His mouth on your neck, your fingers in his hair, both of you breathless and laughing and terrified and alive. You’d been careful—mostly—but the universe had other plans. Two pink lines on a drugstore test three weeks later, and everything changed.

Then your parents found the test.

The screaming still echoed in your bones some nights. Your mother’s face twisted with disgust. Your father’s cold, final tone: “You’re not throwing your life away on that Harrington boy. Pack your things. We’re leaving tonight.” No discussion. No goodbye. Just a suitcase, a one-way ticket to your aunt’s place three states away, and the quiet understanding that if you tried to contact Steve, they’d make sure you regretted it.

You never even got to tell him you were pregnant. Never got to explain why you vanished. One day you were his, and the next you were gone.

Four years later, they were the ones who vanished. A drunk driver on a rain-slicked road. The call had come on a Tuesday morning while Lila was eating cereal and watching cartoons. You’d stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear, and felt… nothing at first. Then everything. Grief, rage, relief, guilt so thick it choked you.

The house in Hawkins was yours now. The money. The silence. And the truth you’d carried like a stone in your chest since the day Lila was born.

You were going back.

Not for them. For her. For the little girl who sometimes asked why she didn’t have a daddy like the kids on her shows. For the boy you’d loved so much it still hurt to say his name out loud.

You hoped he was still there.

The “Welcome to Hawkins” sign appeared like a punch to the gut. Everything looked smaller. The arcade where he’d taught you how to beat his high score on Dig Dug. The movie theater where you’d made out in the back row during a terrible slasher flick, his hand warm on your thigh. The quarry road you turned onto without thinking, just to feel the ghost of that night one more time.

Your chest felt too tight. Your eyes burned.

Lila stirred in the back. “Mommy? Are we there yet?”

“Almost, baby,” you said, voice rough. You caught her eye in the rearview mirror and forced a smile. “Almost home.”

But it didn’t feel like home. It felt like walking back into a burning building with your heart in your hands.

You drove through town on autopilot, past the old spots, until you found yourself slowing in front of Family Video. The neon sign still flickered. Through the big front window, you could see someone moving behind the counter—tall, broad shoulders, that familiar swoop of hair catching the light just right.

Steve.

Your breath left you in a shaky rush. He was still here. Still in Hawkins. Still working the same stupid job like the world hadn’t ended the day you disappeared.

He looked up for a second, like he felt someone watching, and your heart stopped. Even from a distance, even after four years, you knew that face. The one you’d traced with your fingers in the dark. The one you’d kissed until your lips were swollen and your chest ached with how much you loved him.

You pulled into a spot a half block away from Family Video and killed the engine with trembling hands. Lila was quiet now, sensing the shift in the air the way kids do.

This was it.

You had to tell him. About the pregnancy. About your parents. About the daughter in the backseat who had his smile and his stubborn streak and his entire heart without ever having met him.

You had no idea if he’d hate you. If he’d slam the door in your face. If he’d already moved on to someone who didn’t vanish in the middle of the night and take his child with her.

But you were here.

For Lila. For the truth. For the stupid, reckless, beautiful chance that maybe—maybe—some part of Steve Harrington still belonged to the girl who’d loved him enough to break her own heart to protect him.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, took one last steadying breath, and reached for the door handle.

You couldn't do it.

Instead you let the engine roar back to life and told yourself you'd see him soon.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The house looked smaller than you remembered.

You stood on the front porch of the house that had once been your prison. The key felt heavy in your palm. Lila clung to your leg, wide-eyed and quiet for once, sensing the weight in the air.

“You ready, baby?” you asked softly.

She nodded, curls bouncing.

You unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The smell hit you first—stale air, old wood polish, and the faint ghost of your mother’s perfume. Dust motes floated in the late afternoon light slanting through the half-drawn curtains. Everything was exactly as you’d left it the night they dragged you out: the same floral couch, the same family photos on the mantel, the same heavy silence that had always pressed down on your chest like a hand.

Your feet carried you inside on autopilot.

And then the memory slammed into you like a car crash.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“You’re not keeping it.”

Your mother’s voice had been ice and venom, slicing through the kitchen like a blade. You’d been standing there in your pajamas, the positive test still clutched in your shaking hand, when they cornered you. Your father blocked the doorway. Your mother advanced on you like you were something dirty she needed to scrub out of her house.

“I won’t have a Harrington bastard in this family. Do you understand me? That boy is trash. A disappointment to his family. You think he’s going to stay? You think he’s going to raise some knocked-up teenager’s mistake? You’re delusional.”

You’d cried. God, you’d sobbed so hard your throat felt shredded. “Mom, please—I love him. We can figure it out—”

“Love?” She’d laughed, ugly and sharp. “You’re seventeen years old and pregnant. There is no ‘figuring it out.’ You’re going to your aunt’s. Tonight. You’ll have the baby there and give it up for adoption like any sensible girl would. And if you try to contact that boy, if you even think about keeping it, you’re on your own. No money. No home. Nothing.”

You’d dropped to your knees right there on the linoleum, begging. Your father hadn’t said a word—just watched with that cold, disappointed stare that had always made you feel small. Your mother had grabbed your arm hard enough to bruise and hauled you toward the stairs.

“Pack. Now. We leave in an hour.”

You’d screamed. You’d fought. You’d called Steve’s name like he could hear you from across town. But they’d shoved clothes into a suitcase, taken your phone, and dragged you out the front door while you cried so violently you threw up in the driveway. The last thing you saw of Hawkins was Steve’s street sign disappearing in the rearview mirror as your father drove like the devil was chasing him.

You never got to say goodbye.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You blinked hard, the present rushing back in a dizzying wave. Your chest heaved like you’d just run a mile. Lila was tugging on your hand, her small voice cutting through the roar in your ears.

“Mommy? You okay? You look sad.”

You crouched down fast, pulling her into a tight hug so she wouldn’t see the tears threatening to spill. “I’m okay, baby. Just… remembering some stuff. Grown-up stuff.”

She patted your back with her little hand like she was the one comforting you. “We can make new memories. Right?”

You pulled back, cupped her face, and forced a smile that felt like it might crack your ribs. “Yeah, Lila. That’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”

You stood up, looked around the living room with fresh eyes, and made the decision right then and there.

This house was going to be gutted.

Every ugly memory, every echo of screaming and control and shame—you were going to rip it out. New paint. New furniture. New everything. You were going to make it a home for you and your daughter. A place where she could run and laugh and never, ever feel like she had to disappear to be loved.

“Lila,” you said, voice steadier now. “Why don’t you go pick your room? Any room you want. We’re gonna make this our house. You can have the biggest one if you like.”

Her eyes lit up like Christmas. “Really?!”

“Really. Go explore. I’ll be right here bringing stuff in from the car.”

She squealed and took off running, little sneakers pounding up the stairs. You heard doors opening and closing, her excited chatter to herself as she claimed territory like a tiny queen. The sound filled the hollow spaces in a way that made your throat tight all over again—but this time it was something warmer. Something like hope.

You stepped back outside into the cooling evening air and popped the trunk. There wasn’t much. Two suitcases, a couple of boxes of Lila’s toys and books, a portable crib you’d barely used anymore, and the few framed photos you’d managed to keep hidden from your parents all those years. The rest—your whole life, what little of it existed—was coming tomorrow with the movers. A fresh start in more ways than one.

As you grabbed the first suitcase and hauled it toward the porch, your mind drifted.

You remembered sneaking Steve in through the back door on nights your parents were out of town. The way he’d pressed you against the hallway wall, laughing quietly against your mouth because the floorboards creaked too loud.

You remembered the way he’d held you the night before everything exploded—arms wrapped around you from behind while you stood at your bedroom window, both of you staring at the stars like you knew something awful was about to happen.

And then the memory of that last night crashed back in again—the screaming, the way your mother’s nails had dug into your arm, the way you’d fought and cried and still lost everything.

You set the suitcase down harder than you meant to in the foyer, the thud echoing through the empty house.

Lila’s laughter drifted down from upstairs. She’d found a room. Probably your old room with the big window that overlooked the backyard. You could already picture her in there—pink walls, fairy lights, her drawings taped everywhere. A space that had never known the weight of your parents’ disappointment.

You went back for another box, arms full, and let the memories keep coming while your body moved on autopilot.

Steve’s smile the first time he saw you in that stupid Scoops Ahoy uniform. The way his hands shook the night he told you he loved you for the first time, like he was terrified you wouldn’t say it back. The quiet mornings after, tangled in his sheets, when the world outside Hawkins felt far away and possible.

You were going to tell him. Soon.

But first… this. This house. This fresh start. This life you were building for the little girl who deserved every good thing you could give her.

You carried the last box inside just as the sun dipped low, painting the walls in gold. Lila came barreling down the stairs, cheeks flushed, pointing excitedly toward the room she’d chosen.

“Mommy! Come see! It’s perfect!”

You set the box down, wiped your hands on your jeans, and followed her up.

The house still felt heavy with ghosts.

But for the first time in four years, you weren’t running from them.

You were going to burn them out and build something new in the ashes.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The weeks blurred into a strange, quiet rhythm.

You and Lila stayed inside the house like it was a fortress while the outside world kept spinning. Contractors came and went—crews from Indianapolis and Chicago, people who didn’t know your name, didn’t know the Harrington boy you’d loved, didn’t know anything except that you were paying cash and wanted the place gutted fast. They ripped out the old carpet, the dated tile, the wallpaper your mother had picked when you were ten. The walls got fresh coats of soft sage and warm cream. New hardwood went down. The kitchen was torn apart and rebuilt with white cabinets and a big island where Lila could sit and color while you cooked.

Every morning you woke up to the sound of hammers and saws. Every evening you walked through rooms that no longer felt like they belonged to ghosts. Lila claimed your old room at the top of the stairs as hers—now painted a soft lavender with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and a little reading nook by the window. She ran through the hallways like she owned them, laughing when her voice echoed off the new walls. You watched her and felt something tight in your chest loosen, just a little, every single day.

The money helped. A lot.

Your aunt had never told your parents the truth. She’d let them believe you’d given the baby up, let them keep you in the will out of some twisted sense of family obligation or guilt. When the lawyers called a week after your parents passing, you’d sat on your old couch in stunned silence while they explained that everything— the house, the accounts, the investments your parents had built over decades— was now yours.

Millions.

You hadn’t touched most of it yet. But it was there. A safety net you never expected. Enough to give Lila the life your parents had tried to steal from both of you.

Enough that there wasn't even a dent in it after finishing the house renovations in record time.

You had no excuse to hide in your house anymore— using contractors and painters to tether you in place.

You knew you had to tell him. Every night you lay in your new bed and stared at the ceiling, rehearsing the words in your head. I had our daughter. I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. She has your smile. The longer you waited, the heavier it got. Summer had rolled in hot and loud—kids home from college, the old crew drifting back to Hawkins for a few months the way they always did.

You lived down the block from the Hendersons now. Close enough that on warm afternoons you could hear the distant sound of a basketball hitting pavement or kids shouting. Close enough that movement at your house wouldn’t stay secret for long.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It happened on a Thursday.

Lila was upstairs in her room, singing to herself while she arranged her stuffed animals on the new bed. You were in the kitchen, barefoot, rinsing dishes in the sink when the doorbell rang.

You froze.

No one ever came to the door. You had no more work being done to the house.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, heart already climbing into your throat, and walked to the front door.

When you opened it, three familiar faces stared back at you like they’d seen a ghost.

Dustin Henderson’s mouth actually fell open. Lucas Sinclair’s eyes went wide, his hand halfway to knocking again. Max Mayfield stood a step behind them, red hair brighter than you remembered, her expression shifting from curiosity to pure shock in half a second.

“Holy shit,” Dustin breathed.

Lucas blinked hard, like he was trying to clear his vision. “You’re… you’re supposed to be gone. Like, gone gone. Your parents said—”

Max cut in, voice sharp but not unkind. “We thought you died or something. Or ran away for real. What the hell are you doing back here?”

Dustin was still staring, wheels turning so fast you could almost see them spinning behind his eyes. “Does Steve know? Oh my god, does Steve know you’re here? Because if he doesn’t—”

You stood there in the doorway of your brand-new house, heart hammering so loud you were sure they could hear it, and felt four years of carefully built walls start to crack.

They were older. Taller. But the way they looked at you—like you were a puzzle piece that had just slammed back into a picture they thought was finished—hit you harder than you expected.

Lila’s little voice drifted down from upstairs, sweet and oblivious. “Mommy? Who’s at the door?”

All three of them went completely still.

Dustin’s eyes flicked past you into the house, then back to your face. His voice came out quieter this time, almost careful.

“…Mommy?”

You didn’t even think. You just stepped back and held the door wider, voice low and urgent.

“Inside. All of you. Now. Before the whole neighborhood sees.”

They moved like they were in a trance—Dustin first, then Lucas, Max trailing behind. You shut the door behind them and the click of the lock sounded way too loud.

Lila’s little footsteps pattered down the stairs before you could even turn around.

“Mommy? Who’s here?” She appeared at the bottom step in her purple shorts and a t-shirt with a glittery butterfly on it, curls messy from playing. She tilted her head, curious and completely unafraid, staring at the three strangers in her brand-new living room.

Dustin’s eyes went straight to her and stayed there. Lucas made a soft, stunned sound in the back of his throat. Max’s eyebrows shot up so high they almost disappeared into her hairline.

“Holy shit,” Dustin whispered again, but this time it was softer. Almost reverent. “She looks… she looks just like him. The hair. The eyes. The—” He swallowed hard. “She’s Steve’s, isn’t she?”

You froze.

Every muscle in your body locked up. Your hand found Lila’s shoulder on instinct, pulling her gently against your leg. She leaned into you without hesitation, still blinking up at the new people with open interest.

Max was the one who spoke next, voice flat but not unkind. “Dustin. Breathe. You’re gonna pass out.”

Dustin ignored her, eyes locked on you now. “Does he know? Steve. Does he know about her?”

Your throat felt like sandpaper. “No.” The word came out quieter than you meant. “Not yet.”

Lucas let out a disbelieving laugh that had no humor in it. “How the hell have you not seen him yet? It looks like you’ve been back for weeks. He’s literally down the street half the time. He still works at Family Video. He still drives that same stupid car. What, you’ve just been… hiding in here redecorating while he has no idea he has a kid?”

“Lucas,” Max muttered, but she didn’t disagree.

Lila tugged on your hand, completely oblivious to the tension cracking through the room. “Mommy, they’re new. Can they play? The girl one is pretty. I like her hair.”

Max’s mouth twitched despite everything. She crouched down a little so she was closer to Lila’s eye level. “Hey, kiddo. I’m Max. These two idiots are Dustin and Lucas. What’s your name?”

“Lila Harrington!” she said proudly, then looked back up at you. “Can they stay and play? Please?”

You exhaled shakily, one hand still on her shoulder, the other pressing against your sternum like you could physically hold your heart inside your chest. The new house suddenly felt too bright, too open. All the walls you’d torn down and rebuilt didn’t feel like enough protection anymore.

Dustin was still staring at you, eyes wide and frantic. “You have to tell him. Like… soon. Like, yesterday soon. He’s been—” He stopped himself, jaw working. “He’s been different since you left. Not broken exactly, but… not the same. And if he finds out from someone else—”

“I know,” you cut in, voice tight. Max gave you a look that said she was already calculating how long Dustin could keep his mouth shut. You caught it and almost smiled despite the panic. “I know he’s bad at secrets. I remember.”

Max snorted softly. “Understatement of the century.”

Lucas ran a hand over his face. “Jesus. This is insane. You just… disappeared. Your parents said you were gone for good. And now you’re here with a whole-ass kid who’s basically a tiny Steve Harrington and you haven’t told him?”

“I was going to,” you said. The words felt weak even to you. “I am going to. I just… needed to get us settled first. Make this place ours before I dropped a bomb on his entire life.”

Lila was still looking between all of you, picking up on the heavy energy even if she didn’t understand it. She reached up and patted your arm with her small hand. “It’s okay, Mommy. You tell Steve whatever you want! Mommy? Who is Steve?”

That almost broke you.

You crouched down so you were eye-level with her, brushing a curl out of her face. “Steve's the nice boy in the pictures that Mommy kept in her room back in the old house.”

When you stood back up, the three of them were watching you—Dustin with barely contained urgency, Lucas with something like sympathy under the shock, Max with that sharp, knowing look that said she understood more than she was saying.

You met their eyes one by one.

“I’ll tell him,” you said again, quieter but steady. “I promise. Just… give me a little more time. Please.”

Dustin opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but Max elbowed him before he could. Lucas just nodded once, slow and serious.

The silence that followed was thick.

Lila, blissfully unaware, tugged on Max’s sleeve. “Do you wanna see my new room? It has stars on the ceiling.”

Max glanced at you, then back down at her. “Yeah, kid. I’d like that.”

You watched them head toward the stairs—Lila chattering happily, Max following with surprising gentleness—and felt the weight in your chest shift, just a little.

The secret was out to three more people.

And you had just promised, out loud, that you would finally face Steve.

The clock was officially ticking.

Another week slipped by in a haze of anxiety and anticipation.

The kids—Dustin, Lucas, and Max—came by a few more times. They never stayed long, but they came. Dustin brought over old comic books for Lila and spent half an hour on the floor explaining the plots in detail while she sat cross-legged in her new room, completely enraptured. Lucas helped you carry in a heavy bookshelf the contractors had left in the garage. Max mostly hovered near Lila, letting the four-year-old do her hair with colorful clips while they watched cartoons. None of them brought up Steve again after that first day, but you could feel the question hanging in the air every time they looked at you.

You still hadn’t left the house much. The place finally felt like it belonged to you and Lila instead of the ghosts of your parents. But the longer you stayed hidden, the heavier the secret grew.

Then one afternoon everything finally cracked.

Lila was sitting on the new couch in her pajamas, eating apple slices and watching TV while you folded laundry nearby. A commercial came on—bright, loud, the kind made for kids. A new family movie that had just hit VHS. Talking animals, a little girl hero, adventure, magic. The kind of thing that would’ve made your younger self lose her mind.

Lila went very still.

Then she turned to you with huge, watery eyes and her bottom lip already trembling.

“Mommy,” she said, voice small and desperate. “I need that movie. Please. I need it right now.”

You tried to reason with her. You told her maybe next week, maybe you could rent it soon. But she was four, and the meltdown hit like a summer storm—full volume, tears, little fists, the works. She wanted it today. She needed it today. The world would end if she didn’t have that movie in her hands before bedtime.

You stood there in the middle of your brand-new living room, watching your daughter cry like her heart was breaking, and something inside you finally snapped into place.

Enough hiding.

You put on your big girl pants.

You called Max. She showed up fifteen minutes later with a skateboard under one arm and a knowing look on her face. You didn’t have to explain much. She just nodded, took one look at Lila’s blotchy face, and said, “Go. I got her. We’ll watch cartoons until you get back.”

You kissed Lila’s forehead, promised you’d come home with the movie, and drove to Family Video for the first time in four years.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bell above the door jingled the same way it always had. The smell of plastic cases and old carpet hit you like a memory. You kept your head down at first, scanning the new releases wall, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

Then a familiar voice from behind the counter made you look up.

“Oh my god.”

Robin Buckley was staring at you like you’d just walked out of a grave. Her mouth opened and closed a few times. She dropped the tape she’d been holding. It clattered to the floor.

“You’re—holy shit. You’re here. You’re alive. What the—how—when did you—Steve doesn’t know, does he? Oh my god, Steve is going to freak—”

“Robin,” you said quietly, stepping closer to the counter. Your hands were shaking. “Breathe.”

She didn’t. She came around the counter instead, eyes wide and shining, and stopped just short of hugging you like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “Or in witness protection or something. Your parents said you were gone for good. Steve—he looked for you. For a while. Then he just… stopped talking about it. But he never stopped looking like he was waiting for you to walk through that door.”

Your chest ached so bad you had to grip the edge of the counter.

“Is he here?” you asked.

Robin shook her head. “Off today. He’s at his place doing… I don’t know, Steve things. Fixing something. He’s—” She stopped herself. “He’s not here.”

You nodded. Took a shaky breath.

“Can you give him a message for me?”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Me? You want me to—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked a little. “Just… tell him to meet at the quarry tonight. Six o’clock. And don’t tell him it’s from me. Just say it’s important. Someone from the past who needs to talk.”

Robin stared at you for a long second. Then she exhaled, long and slow, and ran a hand through her hair.

“You’re really doing this,” she said, not a question.

“I have to.”

She nodded once, sharp. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll tell him. Six at the quarry. No name. Got it.”

You swallowed hard. “Thank you, Robin.”

She gave you a small, sad smile—the kind that said she understood more than she was saying. “Just… don’t break his heart again, okay? He’s been through enough.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Instead you grabbed the movie Lila wanted, paid, and walked back out into the summer heat with your pulse still racing.

Tonight.

The quarry at six.

You were finally going to tell him.

And you had no idea if he would ever forgive you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The house felt too small. Too quiet. Too full of everything you still hadn’t said.

You couldn’t sit still another second.

By 4:45 you were in your room, hands shaking as you pulled on the nicest thing you owned that still felt like you—a soft black sundress that hit just above the knee, the one you’d bought on a whim last month and never worn. You did your hair the way you used to when you were seventeen and trying to impress him. A little mascara. The necklace he’d given you the summer before everything fell apart, the one you’d kept hidden in a drawer at your aunt’s house for four years like a secret prayer.

You left Lila with Max and Lucas. They’d shown up without being asked, like they already knew tonight was the night. Max had just nodded when you handed her the spare key. Lucas had given you a quiet, steady look and said, “Go. We got her.”

You kissed Lila’s curls, told her you loved her, and drove out to the quarry with your heart trying to climb out of your throat the entire way.

You got there at 5:30.

Too early. Way too early. But the thought of pacing the new floors of the house for another half hour had felt impossible. So you parked in the same spot you always used to, killed the engine, and climbed up onto the hood of your car to wait.

The quarry looked exactly the same. The water dark and still below, the cliffs rising up on either side, the sky starting to bleed orange and pink as the sun dipped lower. You could almost hear the ghost of your own laughter from years ago—Steve’s arms around you, his mouth on your neck, both of you pretending the world outside this place didn’t exist.

Your hands twisted in your lap. You checked the time on the dashboard clock every thirty seconds.

Then headlights cut across the dirt road.

Your stomach dropped.

A familiar BMW pulled up beside your car and parked. The engine cut off. For a second there was nothing but the sound of crickets and your own pulse roaring in your ears.

The driver’s door opened.

Steve Harrington stepped out.

He looked older. Broader in the shoulders, a little more tired around the eyes, but still him. The same hair, the same walk, the same way he held himself like he was ready to throw himself between the world and the people he loved. He was wearing a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, like he’d come straight from whatever he’d been doing at home.

He didn’t see you at first.

Then his eyes landed on the car. On you.

Sitting on the hood in your black dress, waiting for him like you’d never left.

He went completely still.

The color drained from his face so fast you thought he might actually pass out. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Because in a way, he had.

“…You,” he breathed. The word cracked right down the middle. “You’re—fuck. You’re real.”

You slid off the hood on shaky legs. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Hi, Steve.”

He took one step forward, then stopped like he wasn’t sure if you’d disappear if he got too close. His eyes were wide, shining with something between shock and fury and desperate, aching relief.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “Robin said someone from the past needed to talk. I thought maybe it was— I don’t know what I thought. But you’re here. You’re standing right in front of me and I—” His voice broke. “Where the hell have you been?”

The tears came before you could stop them. You didn’t wipe them away.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so, so sorry, Steve.”

He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Sorry? You disappeared. Your parents said you were gone for good. I looked for you. I—” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps before turning back to you. “I thought you were dead, for a while. Or that you just… didn’t want me anymore. And now you’re here and you look—” His eyes dragged over you, the dress, the way you were shaking. “You look beautiful. And I’m so fucking mad at you I can barely see straight, but I also want to—” He stopped himself, voice rough. “What the hell is going on?”

You took a breath that felt like it might shatter your ribs.

“I was pregnant,” you said.

The words hung in the warm evening air between you.

Steve went very, very still again.

You kept going before you lost your nerve.

“My parents found out. They made me leave that same night. Drove me across state lines, told me if I tried to contact you they’d cut me off completely. I had her at my aunt’s. I named her Lila. She’s four now. She has your hair. Your smile. Your everything.” Your voice cracked. “They never knew I kept her. My aunt never told them. When they died, the house and everything else came to me. I came back because… because she deserves to know where she came from. And because I couldn’t keep lying to myself anymore.”

You looked at him through blurry eyes.

“She’s yours, Steve. Lila is your daughter.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind moving through the trees and the distant call of a bird over the water.

Steve stared at you like the world had just tilted sideways.

And then, very quietly, he said your name like a prayer he’d been holding onto for four years.

The words hung between you like smoke.

Steve’s chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. His eyes were glassy, locked on yours like he was afraid you’d vanish again if he blinked.

“Where is she?” he asked, voice rough and low.

You wiped at your face with shaking hands, but the tears kept coming. “Back at the house. With Max and Lucas. They’re watching her.”

His jaw tightened for a second. You saw the flash of hurt there—sharp and quick.

“They knew?” he said quietly. “Before me?”

You nodded, fresh tears spilling over. “They showed up at the door last week. Ms.Henderson must have seen my car in the driveway and knew my parents died and maybe thought there were new neighbors moving in? I don't know. I didn’t plan it. They saw Lila and… they figured it out.”

Steve let out a short, bitter laugh and dragged a hand down his face. “Of course they did. Those little shits.” He shook his head, exhaling hard. “I’m pissed. But… I get it. They were protecting you. And her.” He looked at you again, softer this time. “How long have you been back?”

You swallowed. Your voice cracked when you answered.

“Almost a month. The house… my parents left it to me. I’ve been fixing it up. Trying to make it ours. I kept telling myself I’d come find you soon, but every time I tried I—” A sob tore out of you before you could stop it. “I was so scared you’d hate me. That you’d look at me the way my parents did. I couldn’t—”

You were crying in earnest now, shoulders shaking, the words tumbling out between gasps.

“I never stopped loving you,” you choked out. “Not for one single day. I thought about you every night. I kept every picture, every stupid little thing you gave me. And I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I still love you. I know I don’t have the right. I know I hurt you. I know I should’ve found a way to tell you sooner but I was a coward and I—”

“Hey.”

Steve’s voice cut through the spiral, gentle but firm.

He took one step closer, then another, until he was right in front of you. Close enough that you could see the tears clinging to his own lashes.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, eyes searching yours. “You don’t need to explain loving me. That part… that part I get.”

You shook your head hard, tears dripping off your chin. “But I do. I need you to understand why I left. Why I didn’t fight harder. Why I let them take me. I should’ve called. I should’ve written. I should’ve—”

He reached out and caught your face between his hands, thumbs brushing away the fresh tears even as more fell. His touch was warm and familiar and it broke something open in your chest all over again.

“Stop,” he whispered. His voice was shaking now too. “Just… stop for a second.”

You tried. You really tried. But the words kept coming, ragged and desperate.

“I’m so sorry, Steve. I’m so sorry I kept her from you. I’m so sorry I still love you like this. I know it’s selfish. I know I don’t deserve—”

He cut you off again, this time by pulling you into his chest.

One strong arm wrapped around your back, the other cradling the back of your head as you sobbed into his shirt. He smelled like laundry detergent and the faint trace of his old cologne and home.

“I never stopped loving you either,” he said against your hair, voice thick and cracking. “Not once. I tried. God, I tried so hard to move on. But every time I thought I was getting close, I’d see something that reminded me of you and it was like starting over. I hated you for leaving. I hated your parents. I hated myself for not finding you. And I’m still pissed. I’m so fucking pissed that you were here for a month and I had to get some cryptic message from Robin. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

You clung to him, crying harder, the four years of silence and fear and guilt pouring out of you in shaking sobs against his chest.

Steve just held you there by the quarry as the sun dipped lower, one hand stroking your hair while the other stayed firm on your back.

“I’m still upset,” he murmured eventually, lips brushing your temple. “I’m not gonna lie about that. But you’re here. And we have a daughter. And I don’t know what the hell we do next, but… I’m not letting you disappear on me again. Okay?”

You nodded against him, unable to speak through the tears.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The drive back to the house was quiet, but not the heavy kind.

Steve followed behind your car the whole way, his headlights steady in your rearview mirror like he was afraid you’d vanish again if he looked away. You kept glancing back at him, wiping the last of your tears with the back of your hand. Your chest still ached, but something had shifted at the quarry. The truth was out. The worst part was over.

When you pulled into the driveway, the porch light was on. Max and Lucas were already standing in the open doorway like they’d been watching for you.

Steve parked beside you and got out slowly. He looked at the house—the new paint, the fresh flowers you’d planted by the steps, the warm glow coming from inside—and something soft and wondering crossed his face.

Max gave you a small nod as you walked up. Lucas clapped Steve on the shoulder once, quiet and solid.

“She’s upstairs,” Max said gently. “We told her you were coming home soon. She’s excited.”

Steve swallowed hard. “Thanks. For… everything.”

Lucas shrugged, but his smile was real. “Just don’t screw it up, Harrington. She's a cool kid. A lot cooler than you.”

Max elbowed him. “We’re gonna head out. Call us if you need anything.” She looked at you, then at Steve, and her voice softened. “Take care of each other.”

They left quietly, the sound of Lucas’s car fading down the block until it was just the two of you standing on the porch.

Steve looked at you. “Ready?”

You nodded, even though your heart was hammering again.

You pushed the door open.

Lila came running down the stairs the second she heard voices—barefoot, curls bouncing, still in her favorite pajamas. She stopped at the bottom step when she saw Steve, eyes wide and curious.

For a second, nobody moved.

Then she tilted her head, studying him with that serious little-kid intensity.

“Hey,” she said, voice bright and matter-of-fact. “You look like the guy in the pictures with Mommy.”

Steve’s breath caught.

Lila stepped closer, unafraid the way only four year olds can be. She reached up without hesitation and gently touched a strand of his hair, the same soft brown waves she had.

“You also look like me,” she announced, pleased. Her small fingers stayed in his hair for a moment, just feeling it. “Your hair’s the same.”

Steve didn’t move. He just let her touch him, his eyes shining as he slowly crouched down so he was closer to her level. His voice was thick when he finally spoke.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think we do look alike, huh?”

Lila nodded, satisfied. Then she grinned, that crooked little smile that was pure Steve Harrington.

“I’m Lila Robin Harrington. Are you gonna stay for a while? Mommy made cookies earlier. They’re not burned this time.”

A wet laugh escaped Steve. He glanced up at you, eyes glassy, then back at your daughter—his daughter.

“I’d really like that,” he said. “If it’s okay with you.”

Lila grabbed his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and started tugging him toward the kitchen.

“Come on. I’ll show you my room too. It has stars on the ceiling. Mommy let me pick the color and everything.”

Steve let her lead him, glancing back at you over his shoulder with a look so full of wonder and love and leftover hurt that it made your chest ache all over again.

You closed the front door behind you and leaned against it for a second, just breathing.

You didn’t know what came next.

You didn’t know if Steve would want to try again, or how you’d explain everything to Lila, or what the future looked like now that the secret was finally out. There was still so much to talk about. So much to heal.

But he was here.

In your house.

Holding your daughter’s hand like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

And for the first time in four years, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter.

He knew.

He knew everything.

And he was still here.

[hugonin-lorne]

3000 "I love you"s per cm²

There are about 3,000 touch receptors on each fingertip.

soft!Gator Tillman x fem!reader

Summary: You just wanted to make a joke, but you got carried away and didn't think that it might hurt Gator and make him doubt himself.

Tags/warnings: reader is a menace, Gator is a bit insecure, light angst, hurt/comfort, mention of sex without details, abusive Roy Tillman.

W/C: 3,4k

A/n: To be honest, I love writing arguments and misunderstandings between characters. I have a lot of ideas for different character variations of Gator, because he can be vulnerable, seeking refuge and comfort, thinking a lot about how he is never enough, but he can also be selfish, rude, trying to protect himself, pretending to be what others want him to be. It's a real pleasure for me to explore his character under different circumstances, so you know what to do – requests are open! Or you can also just ask questions about anything, I love talking!

Finally, it's Friday after a long and exhausting week. You've already washed off your makeup and are getting ready for bed. You're brushing your teeth, leaning over the sink to rinse your face, when suddenly you feel Gator come up behind you. His hands, resting on your waist, slide lower and lower, and you feel him leave a few wet kisses on your neck. You straighten up, water streaming down your cheeks to your chin and dripping onto your t-shirt. You give Gator a deliberately stern look in the mirror, then splash him with water to get him to stop rubbing against you before it becomes a problem.

"Hey! I'm not a dog!" Gator exclaims, wiping his face with his palm. Oh, now he's going to do that defenceless expression, the one you find so hard to resist. Those big brown eyes drive you crazy, and he looks like innocence personified.

"Then puppy dog eyes definitely won't help you. I'm really tired. Not tonight, okay?" You pat his back and head toward the bedroom. You change into a clean oversized t-shirt and finally get into bed. A few minutes later, Gator comes in, huffing adorably, not angrily, and you stifle a laugh. Of course, he turns his back to you. Sometimes Gator acts like a child, but he just wants the love he was so deprived of before you came into his life. And if you're talking about love languages, it's always easier for him to show than to say, so physical intimacy is his universal way of expressing his feelings. He cares about your pleasure and never pressures you into anything you don't like. Actually, you were even surprised at how quickly he changed his habits when you brought something up, and you always try to find a compromise.

A funny thought crosses your mind. Maybe...

"Goodnight." Gator mutters. He spoke first, which means he's starting to worry that he might have offended you with his persistence. How can you leave him without a reward? He tries so hard.

"Do you want me to scratch your head?" You ask and immediately hear the rustle of sheets. Gator lays his head on your chest, and you kiss the top of his head several times, then stroke his hair, enjoying the softness of his locks without several layers of gel.

You like this arrangement of things. But for variety, it's not a crime to have some fun sometimes, right?

And you decide to start small.

After breakfast, you plan to drive to the store so you can cook a proper dinner later, since you've been ordering takeout almost all week: you were swamped at work, and Gator had too many night shifts. While Gator is getting ready, you grab the car keys from the shelf and put on your shoes. When Gator comes downstairs, he looks confused.

"So you've always been able to get dressed faster or is this a one-time thing?" Gator comments, searching the shelves for the keys and even checking under his caps.

"Is that what you're looking for?" You twirl the keys on your finger, then close your fist around them when he reaches for them. "Nope, I'm driving today."

"Alright. But something's definitely off." You leave the house, and Gator, like a true gentleman, opens the door for you. You sit proudly in the driver's seat, waiting for Gator. You want to laugh because it's so absurd, but you hold it together, and with a serious face, you turn to Gator.

"Don't forget to buckle up, princess." You cough into your fist, hiding a smile.

"First you steal my keys, and now my lines? Am I even needed here?" Gator looks even more bewildered, but he fastens his seatbelt, and you start the car. Gator turns on the radio, and you chat about something unimportant. When his guard is down again, you make your next move. You pretend to switch the radio station, then place your hand on his thigh near the knee.

"So what did he say?" You ask in a completely nonchalant voice, continuing the conversation.

"And then he says... Damn, I've completely stopped understanding anything!"

"What are you talking about?" You slow down at a traffic light and look at Gator, batting your eyelashes.

"All of this... This!" He makes a vague gesture in the air and moves his leg, nodding toward your hand.

"What, you don't like it?" You slide your hand along the inside of his thigh, moving higher until he stops your hand. "You wanted it yesterday."

"Not here!"

"We already had sex in the car before." You remind him with a chuckle.

"But that was on an empty parking lot, at night, not in broad daylight near a shopping mall with crowds of families with kids!" Now the sheriff in him has kicked in.

"Okay, okay, I keep my hands to myself. In crowded places." You remove your hand, giving his thigh one last pat. Of course, you weren't actually going to do anything. At least, not now. And you can't wait to get home to continue your little game.

But Gator, as it seems, is already melting. Every time your fingers linger on his palm a moment longer than necessary, when you hand him a chocolate bar, or when his shoulder brushes yours in a narrow aisle, he swallows and looks away. His usually confident, calm demeanor gives way to a slight awkwardness. There he is, studying a yogurt label too intently, though he's clearly not reading a single word. You hand him some bread, and he follows your hand, leaning forward, inhaling the scent of fresh pastry. Then he pauses for a moment, and you feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. He silently places the bread in the basket.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" He asks, struggling to keep his tone indifferent, but you can see how genuinely pleased he is, even if he doesn't know exactly why. Gator shoves his hand into his jacket pocket. He's anticipating...

"Maybe." You shrug and continue walking down the aisles. You're looking at the cookie shelves when you feel him creep up behind you to kiss the back of your head, then rest his chin on your crown. You raise your hand to stroke his cheek. Gator loves your hands. And now he reflexively tilts his head, pressing his cheek into your palm, and closes his eyes. Just for a moment. That's enough for you to understand that he's allowing himself to be vulnerable.

Actually, Gator's tactility was a revelation to you.

It's his language when words seem unnecessary. He can be silent all evening, but his fingers, threading through your hair, or his knee, accidentally pressing against yours under the table, will tell you more than any words.

And the most dangerous part is that he doesn't realize how transparent he is. His habit of slightly tilting his head when you touch his chin, guiding your fingers to slide to his neck – this isn't a game for him. It's pure truth that he doesn't know how to hide.

It's his confession: three thousand "I love you"s per square centimeter.

He treats you like something incredibly precious. He carries the heavy bags to the car and only lets you open the trunk. You even forget that you wanted to drive, but you hand him the keys when you get into the passenger seat without any objection.

At home, Gator continues to follow you everywhere, asking for affection. He slips into the room while you're changing into your home clothes and pulls you onto the bed so you're on top of him.

"Gator, dinner first." You kiss him, and he doesn't want to break the kiss, so he follows you when you stand up. He smiles at you, kisses your knuckles while you stand between his legs. Gator waits, he's incredibly patient. He'll wait as long as you want, because for him, every touch from you is already a promise fulfilled in the future.

"Whatever you say, baby. I'll roast the meat, okay?"

"Yeah. I'll chop the vegetables."

You head to the kitchen and you two work smoothly as a team. He sharpens the knives while you wash the vegetables to cook them for the side dish. You choose the right pan for him, and he passes you the salt and pepper after marinating the meat. You put the vegetables in the oven, and Gator stays to roast the steaks while you take care of other things around the house: dusting, gathering dirty laundry to start a load, wiping smudged mirrors.

When you're done, you decide to catch Gator off guard one more time.

You quietly approach from behind, hoping he won't hear you coming, because you're more cautious than a tigress in ambush. At first, you just want to slap his butt, but then you change your mind, wanting to play for high stakes.

"Well, what do we have here that's so tasty?.." You whisper passionately. Gator opens his mouth, probably about to boast about how well he's cooking the steaks, and at that moment you wrap your arms around his ass and squeeze, just like he does when you're washing dishes or cooking. "I bet this is the finest ass in all of Dakota, am I right?" You have to stand on your tiptoes to speak directly into his ear, and you tease him by running your nose along the curve of his neck. He swallows hard and holds his breath for a second, and you'd swear you felt him shiver from the wave of goosebumps.

"What are you..." He trails off and lowers his head slightly to hide the blush creeping up. You manage to make him blush quite often, even from the simplest and sweetest compliments. And you squeeze him a couple more times, then wrap your arms around his waist, swaying from side to side.

"Cat got your tongue, Tillman?" You smirk. "It really does look appetizing. And I'm not talking about the steaks." You quickly kiss his jaw and walk away. And if you had looked down just a little, you would have seen that he had a boner.

Gator likes to play like this sometimes, breaking up the routine with simmering desire, stoking the interest so you can love each other until your knees tremble and he's in that pleasant state of exhaustion, then fall asleep happily, with tangled limbs, breathing steadily into your collarbone where he's left his marks.

All of this is his way of showing you how much he needs you.

It takes Gator a few minutes to calm down and start setting the table. His father would look at him like he was worthless if he knew his son was doing "woman's work". But Gator doesn't care, because he can cook and set the table for you. You split the household chores, because you both work and get equally tired. It's fair. It's convenient. That's what a family does.

You two sit down to dinner, and you occasionally tease Gator, touching his ankles under the table to make him smile from the tickling, until he traps your leg between his, and you both laugh.

Half an hour later, you're in the living room on the couch, watching some movie that's playing on TV. A bottle of beer, covered in condensation, pleasantly cools your insides after the hearty dinner, and the bubbles slowly go to your head. Gator sits on the edge of the couch while you lie sprawled across the rest of it. You finish your beer and set the bottle on the coffee table.

The alcohol has emboldened you a little. You've been playing pretend all day and have settled into the role well. Dominant, commanding, in charge. Warmth spreads through your body. You glance at Gator: he's sitting with one leg tucked under him, and his profile is clearly outlined in the dim light of the TV.

Relaxed. Soft. Yours.

Suddenly, you kick him in the thigh with your toe, lazily, without warning. You didn't mean for it to be rough, you just miscalculated the force and straightened your leg too abruptly. Your heel digs into the bony prominence of his hip, and you immediately realize – that's too much.

Gator flinches. His face twists in unexpected pain for a moment, which he quickly hides by clenching his teeth, but you notice. How he freezes, waiting for something else to happen, how his shoulders tense, how his palm reflexively presses to the spot where the impact has been, and he rubs the bruised area, looking at you from under his brows with a questioning look.

Something warm, a familiar apology, gets stuck in your throat. But for some reason, you don't let yourself say it. Instead, you just pull your leg back, and your gaze darts back to the TV screen. Your face remains impassive, and you remember what you originally wanted to ask.

"Bring me one more beer."

"Yeah, sure." His Adam's apple bobs. Gator rubs his side again as he stands up, thinking you can't see, and his movements are slower than usual. He returns a minute later with one bottle. Not two. He walks around the couch to approach you from the other side and hands you the open bottle. Always polite and courteous. You know how much he loves to please you, even at his own expense, which you try not to allow.

You sit up, pulling him closer, gripping the collar of his t-shirt in your fist. He's pliable under your touch, but he neither leans into you, nor pulls away. You fool him and don't kiss him. You just lick his dry lips and let go.

"Good boy." You take a sip.

Gator sits back down, but can't last more than ten minutes before he stands up.

"Where are you going?" You ask, tilting your head.

"Going to take a shower, I guess." He replies without even turning around.

Gator goes into the bathroom and leans his back against the door. This is stupid. All of this is stupid.

But why does it bother him so much?

And a voice in his head answers in his father's voice: "Because you're a wuss and you let her do whatever she wants with you, and then you whine. It's your own fault.

Your own.

Gator steps under the cold shower, hoping it will wash away the anxiety, but it only surges stronger, and a hundred more questions race through his mind that he can't find answers to.

You didn't do it on purpose, right? But then why didn't you apologise? You always apologise. He always apologises. Why did you play cat and mouse with him all day? Just teasing for laughs? It's not funny to him.

Water streams down his face, mixing with what he doesn't want to admit. He's not crying. It's just... wet.

A door click pulls him from his thoughts. You playfully tap your fingers on the frosted glass of the shower door and open it, but Gator slams it shut again, holding it in place. The last thing he wants right now is for you to see him like this: vulnerable, pathetic, naked.

"Gator?" You ask, surprised by his reaction.

"Please leave." He doesn't like how his voice trembles, betraying him.

"Are you okay?" The remaining alcohol evaporates in seconds. Is he really this shaken because of you?

"Just get out, okay?" Gator sits down. For a few minutes, he just watches the water swirl down the drain.

He comes out of the bathroom. The TV is no longer flickering. You're gone too. You're waiting for him in the bedroom, but he deliberately avoids you. Gator sits on the couch, pulling his knees up to hug them. He hasn't even turned on the light. And it reminds him of those evenings when his father was displeased with something and sent Gator to his room to think about his behavior. Maybe he should think now too.

You quietly walk across the soft carpet, stopping in the doorway. You look at him. The light from the hallway falls on the couch, illuminating his figure: huddled, almost childlike in this pose of hugged knees. Your heart clenches at the sight you never wanted to see. You dare to come closer, sitting half a meter away from him, watching carefully so as not to miss permission to speak or touch. But he doesn't move, as if frozen in this pose of despair and confusion.

"I didn't mean to..." You say quietly, and it seems like the darkness swallows the words before they can reach Gator.

"I didn't like it." Gator looks up at you, and his eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "I thought it was going to be like usual. You know, our foreplay. But when you... nudged me, and then you... my whole mood just..." He curls up even more, as if afraid to admit that something could hurt him, because he was taught to be thick-skinned, unapproachable. And now he thinks he looks like he's upset over a game. But you always had a rule: it should be enjoyable for both.

"I wanted to joke, I thought it'd be funny, you know, to mirror how you treat me sometimes." You want to touch him, stroke his back, take his hands in yours, comfort him, but he probably doesn't want that.

"You always tell me: let's talk about it. If I hurt you, tell me, don't try to teach me a lesson." Gator thinks something's wrong with him, that you decided to show it in such a way, that you can do everything he can yourself, so what's the point of him? Why do you even need him? He's told you many times that he's happy in calm relationships with you, without dominance games, without tests of patience and strength. You're the quiet harbour he comes to after rough work, where he might get beaten, where his father yells at him. He comes to you for tenderness and understanding. And neither of you two lashes out, you don't take your anger out on each other. Just a warm reheated dinner, a shared shower without hints because you're both too tired but want to be together, a bed with a few chocolate cookie crumbs under you, and lazy kisses that feel like mere lip touches.

"You didn't do anything wrong." You lean in to look into his eyes, and he sees a plea in them. "Everything was going well at first, right?"

"Yeah. Everything was good until dinner. I thought you were..." Gator pauses, as if embarrassed to say he was naively expecting something from you. "I don't know, preparing a surprise for me or something nice, I don't know..." He shakes his head and looks away.

"Gator, I'm sorry." You slide your hand across the couch, and your palm touches his pinky.

"It reminded me of my father. The way he always..." Gator squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips together. "I wouldn't want that to happen between us. I don't want to doubt you or your feelings for me, because too often everything around me turned out to be an illusion."

"We'll do better. I'll... I'll be better." You wipe a tear from your cheek, trying to smile at Gator. "From now on, I'll make sure we're both enjoying and understanding each other. No matter what it's about."

"I don't want to constantly live in anticipation of a pitfall either. You know I trust you completely. And I... I forgive you, if I haven't said that yet. It wasn't so much the physical pain as it was a trigger for the anxiety and everything else." He looks at you, and you're about to cry. He can't stand your tears. "Don't cry, come here." Gator lowers his legs, and you climb into his lap.

You just sit there like that, hugging, and he lets you stay in his arms as long as you need, so you soak up his warmth and tenderness.

And you understand that nothing in the world is worth losing him.

[hanwritesthings]

omg can I request soft!gator who, for what feels like the first time ever, actually sits down to watch a reality show with reader. he’s always shrugging it off or turning his nose up and calling nothing but drama, but 20 minutes in, he’s asking for just one more episode because he has to know how Sam is going to react to the note Jwoww and Snooki left in her dresser or something. (I’ve been on a reality show kick lately, so apologies in advance)

reality check

pairing: gator tillman x reader

word count: 855

han’s notes: i love reality tv so this is right up my alley. enjoy!

reality tv was your guilty pleasure. scratch that. it was your non guilty pleasure. there was nothing you loved more that coming home from a long day and just burrowing on the couch watching either unhinged competitions, making comments about how you could totally survive in the jungle (you couldn’t) or relishing in the crazy drama of dance teachers throwing chair.

your boyfriend, gator, on the other hand, could not for the life of him understand why you consumed so much of these “shitty shows”. he’d groan whenever he’d come home and find you laying on the couch watching one of your shows.

your current reality tv hyper fixation is jersey shore. you watched it when you were younger, probably way too young, but it was one of your favorites. so you were doing a rewatch of it.

like any other night after dinner, gator is sat in his usual spot on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table as he scrolls through his phone absentmindedly. your laying on the opposite end, feet resting in his lap beneath a blanket.

remote in hand, you navigate to the streaming service and hit play on the next episode. gator barely glances up through his lashes before he’s grunting and rolling his eyes.

“don’t be so grouchy. i know you secretly love my shows.” you tease, poking his thigh with your foot.

gator scoffs, shaking his head. “i don’t like this dumb shit. i dunno how you fuckin’ watch it.”

you roll your eyes, smiling as you settle into your blanket. “when you have a better tv suggestion, we can talk.”

gator mumbles under his breath and you drown him out by turn up the volume a couple of notches.

every once in awhile, you steal a glance or two at gator and find his thumb had paused where it hovered over his screen and his eyes were cast towards the tv screen. you hide your smirk behind the blanket, filing away that bit of information.

another thing you notice was how gator who scoff quietly every time rob would be on the screen. eventually, you brought it up.

“what’s your problem?” you tease and gator looks up at you from his phone.

“guy’s a douche. dunno how you can stand watchin’ this.”

it made you laugh because gator was right and it surprised you that he paid attention enough to know that rob was an ass.

“it’s entertaining, gate. c’mon, you can’t tell me that you don’t find the drama at least a little entertaining.” gator just shakes his head.

he keeps his eyes on his phone for a while longer, until you let out a soft gasp and reach for the remote. his gaze lifted up curiously as he watches snooki and jwoww walk into a cyber cafe on the screen.

“this part is so good.” you say, mostly to yourself, as you turn the volume up a few notches.

“what’re they doin’?” gator mumbles, trying to sound disinterested.

“they’re about to make shit hit the fan.” you say with a grin.

gator’s phone sits forgotten in his lap, screen locked from inactivity, as he watches snooki and jwoww write a letter to sam about rob’s behaviors at the club.

“they just gonna give that to ‘er? in a letter? why can’t they just tell ‘er?”

“just wait.”

gator grumbles. then he watches as they don’t, in fact, hand deliver the letter to sam, but leave it in her dresser anonymously.

“wait, so they’re just gonna put that shit there not signed and she don’t even know who it’s from?”

“yup.” you reply, popping the ‘p’.

“but ain’t they her friends? why would they not just tell her?”

“because they don’t want to be targeted by rob, baby.”

gator is bewildered. and then the episode ends. you sigh and reach for the remote again, turning off the tv. you swing your legs off of gator’s lap as you sit up and stretch. gator doesn’t move.

“wait, what’re you doin’?”

“going to lay in bed. it’s late and i wanna cuddle. get your ass up.” you say like it was obvious.

“so we’re just gonna stop there? we ain’t gonna watch the next episode?”

you make a face. “i was watching. you were on your phone.”

“but wouldn’t you rather go to bed not on a cliffhanger?” gator scoffs nonchalantly. but you know him too well. he doesn’t convince you one bit.

“i already know what happens.” you shrug, collecting your water cup and phone from the coffee table.

“yeah, well i don’t and it’s gonna piss me off not knowing. so sit your ass back down and play the next episode.”

you gaze down at gator, fighting the amused smile on your face as you cross your arms.

“admit that you like jersey shore then we can watch one more.”

“i don’t like this fucking shit. i just wanna know what happens. ‘s different.” gator crosses his arms, avoiding your gaze. something he does when he is lying. you roll your eyes and set your things back down.

“fine, but we’re laying down and cuddling.”

gator scoffs and rolls his eyes but immediately moves to lay down, tossing his phone next to yours on the table.

“well c’mon then, get your ass over here.”

[professional-ficsmith]

There's my Home

Jack Abbot x Paramedic Reader

Synopsis: Paramedic Y/N and emergency physician Jack Abbot have spent years crossing paths in Pittsburgh's emergency department, but a string of shared shifts turns casual familiarity into late-night calls, coffee dates, and undeniable feelings. As their connection grows, they learn that loving someone in emergency medicine means accepting the risks that come with the job. When Y/N is seriously injured in the line of duty, Jack is forced to face the one thing he can't fix, proving that sometimes love is found not in the chaos, but in the quiet moments afterward.

-----

Jack sighed as he opened his front door and let his bags hit the floor. He stepped out of his shoes, pulled his shirt over his head, and headed straight for the shower. After a long, exhausting shift, he felt like he needed to wash the entire night off of him.

By the time he finally started settling in, he found himself standing in front of his fridge, staring blankly at the contents while trying to figure out what he could throw together for breakfast.

Before he could start cooking, his eyes drifted toward his phone sitting on the counter.

He hesitated for a moment before picking it up and opening your contact.

The last message from you sat at the bottom of the screen.

*I’ll be off in a while. I’ll call you when I get home.*

You had sent it three hours ago.

He hadn’t answered because a trauma had rolled through the emergency department moments after your message came in, and the rest of the shift had disappeared into controlled chaos.

Jack smiled slightly as he tapped a heart reaction on the message.

Almost immediately, his phone lit up.

You were calling.

“Were you thinking about me, Jack Abbott?” you teased the second he answered.

He rolled his eyes, even though you couldn’t see him. “I never responded, so I figured some sort of response was warranted.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, clearly amused.

Jack smiled as he grabbed a pan and started pulling ingredients from the fridge.

“How was your shift?”

You let out a tired sigh. “It was long. Like, really long. I think it was because it started so slow, and then all of a sudden everything happened at once. We went from sitting around for hours to being everywhere at the same time.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said.

“You mean like every shift in the ER?”

“Exactly.”

You laughed quietly. “I had some guy propose in the back of my ambulance tonight.”

Jack stopped what he was doing. “No way.”

“Yes way,” you said, laughing. “He hurt his wrist doing something stupid and ruined his actual proposal plan, so apparently the back of my ambulance was the next best option.”

Jack shook his head, laughing as he stirred the food in the pan. “Did she say yes?”

“She did.”

“Honestly? Kind of romantic.”

“Romantic?” you questioned. “Jack, he was holding an ice pack to his hand while asking her to marry him.”

“Still counts.”

You laughed again, and Jack found himself smiling at the sound. It was one of his favorite things about talking to you. After years of knowing each other, you still had a way of making even the worst nights feel lighter.

The two of you had known each other for years, long before either of you realized how often your paths would cross. You had always been the paramedic who somehow ended up bringing the most complicated patients into his emergency department, and Jack had always been the physician who recognized your voice before he even looked up from the chart.

Then, one week, it seemed like every call you took somehow ended up at his hospital.

At first, you joked it was because the universe was trying to annoy both of you. But after the third night in a row of seeing each other during absolute chaos, it started feeling less like coincidence.

The two of you had ended up talking in the hallway after a particularly brutal shift. Both exhausted, both running on caffeine and adrenaline, neither of you wanting to go home just yet.

You had laughed about how ridiculous it was that you spent years barely seeing each other, only for one week to make you unavoidable.

That conversation turned into coffee.

Coffee turned into late-night phone calls.

Late-night phone calls turned into something neither of you really had a name for yet. And somewhere along the way, Jack realized he had started looking forward to seeing your name light up his phone more than he wanted to admit.

“So,” you said, pulling him out of his thoughts, “how was your night?”

Jack leaned against the counter. “Busy.”

“That’s a very Jack Abbott answer.”

He smiled. “Fine. It was terrible.”

“Better.”

“Multiple traumas. A kid with a broken arm who was more worried about his video game than his injury. A guy who thought he could walk off chest pain because he was ‘too busy.’”

“Classic.”

“Exactly.”

You were quiet for a moment. “You sound tired.”

Jack looked down at the breakfast he had barely touched. “I am.”

“Did you eat?”

He glanced at the pan. “Currently making something.”

“That means no.”

He laughed softly. “You’re starting to sound like my nurses.”

“No, your nurses probably tell you because they have to. I’m telling you because I care.”

The words were simple, but they stayed with him.

Jack looked down at his phone, smiling. “You know you’re kind of bossy, right?”

“And yet you keep answering my calls.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

There was a pause. A comfortable one. The kind that had slowly become normal between the two of you.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad all my calls ended up at your hospital.”

He smiled, looking around his quiet apartment. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned against the counter, his exhaustion feeling a little less heavy than it had a few minutes ago. “Me too.”

Neither of you said anything after that.

You didn’t need to.

Because somewhere between ambulance bays, emergency room hallways, and conversations after impossible shifts, something had changed.

And neither of you wanted to go back.

----

The next two weeks were strangely quiet.

Not bad quiet. Not the kind of quiet that meant something terrible was waiting around the corner. Just… quiet. The kind where Jack would finish a shift, stare at his phone, and think about calling you before deciding you were probably exhausted and needed sleep.

And you did the same.

Both of you were caught up in your own rotations, your own chaos, your own lives. You had traded a few texts here and there, but nothing like the late-night calls that had become routine.

Jack told himself it was fine. That it was normal. That two people who worked opposite sides of emergency medicine couldn’t always find time to talk.

But he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss it.

Missed hearing your voice after a long night.

Missed your sarcastic comments.

Missed the way you somehow managed to make a terrible shift feel less terrible.

So when his phone buzzed in the middle of another busy night, he glanced down expecting a message from one of the residents.

Instead, your name appeared. A smile immediately pulled at his face.

*See ya in a bit, cutie!*

Jack shook his head, unable to stop himself from smiling. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.

Before he could respond, the sound of an ambulance pulling into the bay caught his attention.

And then he heard you.

“BP is 90 over 60, heart rate 130, GCS is 12. Patient was involved in a rollover accident. Possible chest trauma, decreased breath sounds on the left side.”

Jack looked up immediately. Even before he saw you, he knew it was you. Your voice carried through the ambulance bay the same way it always did, confident, focused, completely different from the person who teased him over the phone.

The trauma came in fast. For the next several minutes, there was no flirting, no jokes, no catching up.

Just medicine.

Just teamwork.

Jack moved through the trauma like he always did, focused on the patient in front of him. But every so often, he caught a glimpse of you across the room, working alongside the nurses and residents before stepping back once the patient was stabilized.

Eventually, the chaos settled.

The patient was moved upstairs, the room was cleaned, and the emergency department returned to its usual rhythm.

Jack glanced toward the ambulance bay.

Your ambulance was still there.

Which meant you were still there.

He found himself walking outside before he could talk himself out of it. The cool night air hit him as he stepped into the bay, and that's when he saw you.

You were sitting on one of the benches near the entrance, your arms crossed over your chest and your eyes closed.

For a second, Jack just watched you.

You looked exhausted.

Not hurt. Not upset. Just tired.

The kind of tired only someone who worked nights in emergency medicine could understand.

He walked closer. “So you don’t call me for two weeks,” he said, crossing his arms, “and then what? You just show up at my ED?”

Your eyes opened slowly. You looked over at him and immediately rolled your eyes.

“Phone works both ways, old man.”

Jack scoffed. “Old man?”

“Yes.”

“You’re aware I’m only-”

“Older than me.”

“That is not an insult.”

“It is when I’m trying to annoy you.”

He laughed quietly, sitting down beside you. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

You leaned your head back against the wall. “I was going to call you.”

“Sure you were.”

“I was.”

“When?”

You looked at him. “Eventually.”

Jack smiled. “Exactly.”

You nudged his shoulder. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you missed me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Jack noticed.

And for once, he didn’t tease you about it. “I missed you too.”

Your expression softened slightly.

The teasing faded.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked down at his hands, a little quieter now. “Honestly? After a shift, I started getting excited to call you.”

You watched him carefully. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’d get home exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open, and somehow I’d still want to hear about your night. Hear what ridiculous thing happened. Listen to you make fun of me.”

You smiled. “That’s a very specific thing to miss.”

“I like it.”

The admission hung between you.

Jack looked over at you. “And I know it was only two weeks.”

Your smile faded into something softer.

“But I noticed.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I noticed not having you there.”

For once, you didn’t have a sarcastic response ready.

You just looked at him. “Jack Abbott,” you said quietly, “are you telling me you missed me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You absolutely missed me.”

“I literally just said that.”

“You admitted it.”

“I did.”

You smiled. “And you’re not taking it back?”

“No.”

That surprised you.

Jack leaned back against the bench, looking out toward the empty ambulance bay.

“I like talking to you.”

Your expression softened. “I like talking to you too.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. The kind that didn’t need filling.

Then you glanced at him. “So… are you going to ask for my number again?”

Jack looked offended. “I already have your number.”

“Then why haven’t you used it?”

He laughed. “Okay, that was fair.”

You smiled. “Thought so.”

Jack stood up, offering you his hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Coffee.”

You looked at the hospital behind him. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Jack, it’s two in the morning.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed as you took his hand. “Only emergency medicine people think that’s a normal time for coffee.”

“Exactly.”

And just like that, after two weeks of silence, you were back where you had started.

Late nights.

Bad coffee.

And finding each other somewhere in the middle of the chaos.

-----

The emergency department was already drowning before Jack Abbot’s night got worse.

As a SWAT physician and medic for the Pittsburgh Police Department, he was used to chaos. He was used to stepping into situations most people ran from. He was used to being the person others looked toward when things went wrong.

But even he knew there was a difference between controlled chaos and a situation that went sideways. A call had come in. A situation that required his team. And somewhere between treating officers and moving through the scene, a bullet had caught him.

Not a direct hit.

A graze.

But enough to leave a cut along his back and enough for his adrenaline to finally catch up with him. By the time he got back to the hospital, he was already irritated. Not because he was hurt. Because he knew exactly what everyone was going to say.

You should have someone look at that.

You should sit down.

You shouldn’t be treating yourself.

Which was exactly why he was currently standing in an empty room in the emergency department, trying to clean his own wound.

His phone buzzed. He glanced down. A message from you.

*You better not be ignoring me again.*

Despite everything, he smiled. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before he typed back.

*Got grazed.*

The response came almost immediately.

*What?*

He looked at the message. Then typed.

*I’m fine.*

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

*Jack Abbot.*

He laughed quietly.

*I’m fine.*

Your response was immediate.

*Where are you?*

He sighed.

Because somehow, even through a text message, you sounded exactly like you did when you were annoyed with him.

*ED.*

Another pause.

Then.

*Of course you are.*

Before he could answer, the familiar sound of an ambulance pulling into the bay caught his attention. And then he heard you.

“Patient involved in a high-speed collision. Possible internal injuries. BP is dropping, heart rate 140, altered mental status. We need trauma activation.”

Jack smiled despite himself.

Of course. Of course your team was already bringing someone in. Of course you were here.

He watched from a distance as you moved through the department, completely focused. You handed off the patient, gave report, and immediately started helping the trauma team.

Professional.

Focused.

The exact reason he respected you so much. But the second the patient was stabilized, your eyes started searching. And Jack knew he was in trouble.

He barely had time to step back into the small treatment room before the curtain opened.

You walked in. Closed it behind you. And stared at him.

“Are you serious?”

Jack looked up from where he was attempting to clean his own wound. And the smile that immediately appeared on his face gave him away. “There she is.”

You scoffed. “Oh, don’t ‘there she is’ me.”

You grabbed gloves from the counter and pulled them on. “You get shot at and your first thought is to text me that you’re fine?”

“I got grazed.”

“Jack.”

“It’s barely anything.”

“Jack.”

He stopped. Because that tone meant there was no arguing. You pointed toward the chair.

“Sit.”

He smiled. “You missed bossing me around.”

“I missed you being annoying less than five minutes ago.”

“Sure.” He sat.

You stepped between his knees and carefully started cleaning the wound.

The room went quiet.

Not awkward.

Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that only existed between the two of you. Jack watched you carefully.

The concentration on your face. The way your brows pulled together when you were worried but trying not to show it.

“You’re mad.”

You didn’t look up. “Yes.”

“Because I got hurt?”

“Because you got hurt and acted like it was nothing.”

“I knew I was okay.”

“That’s not the point.” Your voice softened. “You don’t always have to be the person who handles everything, Jack.”

That caught him. Because coming from anyone else, he probably would have brushed it off.

But from you? He listened.

You finished cleaning the wound and started applying the dressing. “You scared me.”

The words were quiet. And suddenly, the teasing disappeared.

Jack looked at you. “You were worried?”

You looked up. “Obviously.”

There it was. The thing neither of you had said out loud yet. The reason your coworkers had started noticing. The reason his nurses smiled every time your ambulance pulled into the bay. The reason your crew always seemed to know when Jack was working before you did.

You cared.

A lot.

When you finished patching him up, you didn’t immediately step away.

Neither of you moved.

Jack’s hands found your hips slowly. Not pulling. Not forcing.

Just a quiet question.

Stay.

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

“You know,” he whispered, “for someone who claims we’re just friends, you seem pretty invested in keeping me alive.”

You smiled slightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…”

“And yet.”

The space between you disappeared. Almost. You were close enough that neither of you could pretend anymore.

Close enough that you both knew what was about to happen.

And then-

The curtain flew open.

“Dr. Abbott, we need—”

The person stopped. You and Jack didn’t move. Not even slightly. There was a long pause.

Then both of you sighed.

The interruption was painfully obvious.

You stepped back first, shaking your head. “Of course.”

Jack smiled. “Bad timing.”

“Terrible timing.”

You pulled your gloves off and tossed them away. Then you looked back at him. The teasing returned, but softer now. “I’ll see you later, Abbot.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “We have a bunch to talk about after we get off.”

And then you walked away. Leaving Jack sitting there with a stupid smile on his face.

A smile that did not go unnoticed by the nurse standing nearby. “Who was that?”

Jack looked toward the curtain where you disappeared. And for once, he didn’t even try to hide it. “Someone important.”

The nurse smiled. “Yeah. We figured that out.”

-----

By the time you got home, the sun was already beginning to peek over the Pittsburgh skyline.

You kicked off your boots by the front door with a sigh, every muscle in your body reminding you just how long the shift had been. The hot shower did little to wash away the adrenaline that still lingered beneath your skin, but it helped.

After throwing together something quick to eat, you curled up on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt, letting the quiet of your apartment settle around you.

Your phone sat on the coffee table.

You picked it up, stared at Jack's contact for a second, and smiled to yourself.

After everything that had happened tonight...There was no way a text conversation was going to cut it.

You typed three simple words. *Call me please.*

You barely had time to lock your phone before it started vibrating in your hand.

Jack.

You answered with a grin. "That was fast."

"I was already reaching for my phone," he admitted.

You laughed softly. "Were you really?"

"Yeah." His voice was quieter than usual. "I've been thinking about tonight."

You tucked your legs underneath you. "So have I."

There was a comfortable silence between you. The kind the two of you had somehow mastered. Neither of you felt the need to rush into filling it.

Finally, you spoke. "You scared me."

Jack sighed. "I know."

"No." You rubbed your forehead. "I don't think you do."

He didn't interrupt.

"When you texted me that you'd been grazed..." You shook your head even though he couldn't see you. "My stomach dropped. I knew you were probably downplaying it because that's what you do, but all I could think was, 'What if this time it isn't just a graze?'"

Jack leaned back on his own couch, closing his eyes. "I didn't think about it like that."

"I know."

"I'm sorry." The apology came so easily that it caught you off guard.

"You don't have to apologize for getting hurt."

"I'm apologizing for making you worry."

Your shoulders relaxed. "Thank you."

Another quiet settled between you.

Jack broke it this time. "You looked good."

You blinked. "What?"

"When you walked into that room."

A laugh escaped you. "I was lecturing you."

"I know."

"I was annoyed."

"I know."

"I threatened to make you sit still."

"You definitely did."

"And somehow that's the part you remember?"

Jack smiled to himself. "No."

"What do you remember?"

He hesitated just long enough that you wondered if he'd answer. "I remember you closing the curtain."

Your heart skipped.

"I remember thinking..." He exhaled slowly. "Good. She's here."

You swallowed. "Jack..."

"I know it sounds ridiculous."

"It doesn't."

"I've spent years patching people up." He chuckled quietly. "I'm terrible at letting anyone do the same for me."

"You are."

"I know."

"But tonight..." He paused. "When you walked in and took over... I didn't mind."

You smiled to yourself. "Really?"

"No."

"No?"

"I liked it."

The confession hung between you.

Jack's voice softened even more. "I liked how close you were."

Your breath caught.

"You were standing between my knees, fussing over a scratch that I kept insisting wasn't a big deal."

"It wasn't just a scratch."

"I know." He smiled.

"But you kept looking at me like I mattered more than the paperwork waiting outside that curtain."

"You do matter more."

"I know. And..." He stopped again.

"What?"

"I don't know how to explain it."

"Try."

Jack stared out the window of his house as the early morning light crept across the room.

"When you're that close..." he said quietly, "everything else disappears."

You didn't say anything.

"I stop thinking about the department. The patients. The paperwork. The next disaster." He laughed under his breath. "I stop thinking."

Your heart was pounding now.

"And all I can think is..." He hesitated. "...this feels like home."

The words settled over you.

You closed your eyes. "Home?"

"Yeah."

He sounded almost embarrassed.

"I know that's probably too much."

"It isn't."

"You don't think so?"

"No." You smiled as you traced absentminded circles on the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "Want to know what I was thinking?"

"What?"

"When you put your hands on my hips."

Jack laughed nervously. "I wasn't exactly subtle."

"No."

"I almost moved them."

"I'm glad you didn't." He was quiet. "I didn't want to."

You smiled. "I know."

"I just..." He sighed. "I wanted you to stay there for another minute."

"So did I."

Neither of you spoke.

The memory replayed in both of your minds, the tiny treatment room, the curtain drawn, your hands finishing the bandage while his rested lightly against your hips.

"So..." Jack said after a moment.

"So?"

"We almost kissed."

You buried your face in one of the couch cushions, laughing despite yourself. "We absolutely almost kissed."

"And then someone walked in."

"Terrible timing."

"The worst."

You smiled into the phone. "You know..."

"Hm?"

"I meant what I said."

"About what?"

"When I left."

Jack could hear the smile in your voice.

"We really do have a lot to talk about."

He smiled too. "I know."

A beat passed.

"So..."

"So?"

"Can I see you tomorrow?"

You didn't answer right away. Not because you had to think about it. Because hearing him ask made your heart flutter. "I'd like that."

"Good."

"What?"

"I missed you for two weeks."

"I know."

"I'm not waiting another two."

You smiled, your eyes growing heavy as the exhaustion of the night finally began to catch up with you. "Neither am I."

Neither of you hung up.

You stayed on the phone as sleep slowly crept in, talking about everything and nothing, the conversation drifting effortlessly from stories about work to favorite diners, bad coffee, and plans that neither of you had realized you were already making together.

For the first time in a long time, the silence at the end of a shift didn't feel lonely.

It felt shared.

---- 

A few more shifts came and went.

Some were quiet enough that Jack could steal five minutes to meet you in the ambulance bay with two terrible vending machine coffees. Others were complete disasters where the only interaction you managed was a wave as your crew rolled another patient through the doors.

Somehow, despite the chaos, the two of you had settled into a rhythm.

Texting after shifts.

Calling on the drive home.

Checking in before bed.

It became... normal.

Normal enough that when the rare day came where both of you were off after a stretch of nights, Jack sent a text before either of you could fall asleep.

*Lunch?*

Your response came seconds later.

*Only if you're buying.*

---

The diner was nearly empty.

It was just after one in the afternoon, an odd hour where the lunch crowd had already left and dinner hadn't started yet.

The waitress smiled the moment she recognized the two of you. "The usual?"

Jack nodded. "Please."

You smiled. "I think we've been here too much if she already knows our orders."

Jack shrugged. "I don't see a problem."

"Of course you don't."

Once the food arrived, the conversation came as easily as it always did. You laughed about one of your EMTs somehow locking the ambulance keys inside the rig.

Jack countered with a story about one of his residents accidentally calling him "Dad" in front of an entire trauma team.

"I would've paid money to see that."

"They'll never live it down."

"I certainly won't let them."

The laughter faded into something quieter. Comfortable. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. Neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave.

Jack traced the rim of his coffee mug absentmindedly. "I've been thinking."

You smiled. "That sounds dangerous."

"It usually is."

"What've you been thinking about?"

He looked at you. "Us."

Your smile faltered just enough for him to notice. "...Us?"

"Yeah."

You sat back in the booth. "Okay."

Jack exhaled slowly. "I don't really know how to say this."

"That's new."

"I know."

You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. "You don't have to have the perfect words."

He looked down at your hand before meeting your eyes again. "I look for you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Every shift." His thumb brushed lightly against yours. "When I walk into the emergency department, I check the board to see if your unit's working."

Your heart skipped.

"If I hear an ambulance coming in, I hope it's yours." He laughed quietly. "I've gotten pretty good at recognizing your voice before I even see you."

You couldn't help but smile. "I've noticed."

"I look forward to talking to you after work." He hesitated. "I think about telling you things before I tell anyone else."

Your chest tightened.

Jack smiled nervously. "And I think... somewhere along the way..." He looked directly at you. "I fell for you."

The words settled between you.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you looked away.

A slow smile spread across your face. "You know..."

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"I had this whole speech planned."

"You did?"

"Mhm."

"I was going to tell you that I think you're one of the kindest people I've ever met."

He laughed softly.

"I was going to tell you that watching you work made me understand why everyone in your department respects you."

His cheeks turned pink.

"I was going to tell you that you're infuriating."

"There it is."

"And stubborn."

"Fair."

"And entirely too willing to skip meals."

"I feel attacked."

"You should."

You squeezed his hand. "But mostly..." Your voice became quiet. "I was going to tell you that somewhere between trauma activations, late-night phone calls, and you letting me patch you up after getting grazed..."

You smiled. "I fell for you too."

Jack stared at you. "You did?"

"I did."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "So..."

"So..."

He smiled. "What exactly does this mean?"

You laughed. "I don't know."

"I was hoping you'd know."

"I was hoping *you'd* know."

He shook his head. "So we're both clueless."

"Looks that way."

Jack smiled wider. "I guess I should probably ask if-"

His phone rang. Both of you looked at it. The screen lit up with the hospital's caller ID.

Jack sighed. "No."

You laughed. "Don't tell me."

He answered. "Abbot."

His expression shifted immediately. You could tell before he even spoke again.

Trauma.

Of course.

He listened for another few seconds before hanging up.

"They need me."

You nodded. "I figured."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Neither of you moved.

Jack reached across the table, taking your hand again. "We're not done with this conversation."

You smiled. "No."

"We're finishing it."

"We better."

He stood, tossing a few bills onto the table. "I'll call you after shift."

You raised an eyebrow. "You'd better."

He leaned down, close enough that your foreheads almost touched. "I've waited too long already."

For a split second, you thought he was going to kiss you.

He thought so too. Instead, the shrill tone of your own radio crackled to life from where it sat clipped to your belt.

*"Medic 14, respond..."*

You both froze. Then, almost simultaneously, laughed.

"You've got to be kidding me," you muttered.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. "I think the universe hates us."

"No," you said, standing and grabbing your jacket. "It just has really bad timing."

You walked out of the diner together, stopping beside your cars.

For a moment, neither of you got in.

Jack smiled. "So..."

"So..."

"We're finishing this later."

You smiled back. "It's a date."

Neither of you realized it.

But that was the first time either of you had called it one.

----

The emergency department was already overflowing when the trauma pager sounded.

"Level One Trauma. ETA three minutes."

Jack glanced up from the chart in his hands. "Who's bringing them?"

One of the nurses looked toward the board. "Medic 14."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Your unit.

Of course.

He slipped a pair of gloves on as the trauma team assembled. "Alright, people. Let's move."

The ambulance backed into the bay moments later. The rear doors flew open. Jack's eyes immediately searched for you. Instead, one of your EMTs jumped out.

He looked... shaken.

Jack frowned.

That wasn't like him.

The stretcher rolled into the trauma bay.

"Thirty-eight-year-old male, trapped in a partial building collapse," your partner reported. "Prolonged extrication, unstable pelvis, diminished breath sounds on the left, hypotensive despite fluids. We initiated blood en route."

Jack listened, but something wasn't right. Your partner was giving report.

Not you.

His eyes flicked toward the ambulance. "Where's Y/N?"

Your EMT hesitated.

Jack's stomach tightened. "Where's Y/N?"

Before anyone answered, another set of ambulance doors slammed shut outside. The entire room seemed to pause. A second stretcher came barreling through the doors.

"Move!"

"Clear the hallway!"

Jack turned instinctively.

Then froze.

You.

You were on the stretcher.

Your uniform shirt had been cut open, blood soaking through the gauze packed against your right side. One side of your face was streaked with dried blood and dust, your oxygen mask fogging with each shallow breath.

For one split second...The room disappeared.

All he saw was you.

Someone beside him started talking. "Medic injured during secondary collapse-"

Jack didn't hear another word.

He was already moving. "What happened?" he demanded, reaching your stretcher.

Your partner answered while keeping pressure on your side. "We got the patient out, and part of the structure gave way. She pushed the patient and me clear."

Jack's jaw clenched. "She took the hit."

"Yeah."

His eyes swept over you in seconds.

Rapid assessment.

Pale.

Diaphoretic.

Labored breathing.

Blood pressure cycling.

Heart rate climbing.

The physician in him took over. "Trauma Two is mine," he said sharply.

Dr. Ellis hesitated. "Dr. Abbot-"

"I said she's mine."

There wasn't a person in the department willing to argue with him. The team wheeled you into the next trauma bay.

"On my count. One, two, three."

You were transferred onto the hospital bed.

Jack was already at your side. "Y/N."

Your eyelids fluttered. "Hey..."

Your voice was barely audible.

He leaned closer. "Stay with me."

You managed the tiniest smile. "Told you..."

He looked down at you.

"...we'd finish..." Your breathing hitched. "...our date."

His heart broke. "You can yell at me later," he said, keeping his voice steady as he examined your injuries. "Right now, I need you to stay with me."

You gave a weak nod. "Can... do."

"Ninety over fifty," a nurse called out.

"Heart rate one-thirty-eight."

"FAST exam ready."

Jack didn't look away from you. "You with me?"

"Mhm."

"Where does it hurt?"

You let out a shaky laugh. "Everywhere."

"I'll take that."

His hands moved with practiced precision as he examined your chest and abdomen.

"Decreased breath sounds on the right."

"Prep for a chest tube."

Your eyes found his. "You look..."

He glanced down.

"...mad."

"I'm focused."

"You look..." Another breath. "...really mad."

Jack looked directly at you. "I'm terrified."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. The room went silent for the briefest moment.

You stared at him through tired eyes. "...Jack..."

He took your hand for exactly one second before getting back to work.

"Not now." He squeezed once. "Later."

His voice hardened-not at you, but at the room. "I need blood in here now."

The trauma team sprang back into motion.

"Portable chest X-ray."

"OR has been notified."

"Type and cross sent."

Jack never left your side. Not once. Even as surgeons arrived. Even as nurses moved around him. Even as the room filled with controlled chaos.

His attention never wavered from you. "Look at me," he said quietly.

You did.

"You remember what you told me after I got grazed?"

A faint smile crossed your lips. "...Shut up..." A weak breath. "...and let me......clean you up."

Jack smiled despite the fear clawing at his chest. "That's right."

"So that's exactly what we're going to do."

You blinked slowly.

"You trust me?"

Even through the pain...Even through the exhaustion...You nodded without hesitation.

"Always."

Your fingers curled weakly around his.

And Jack silently promised himself one thing.

He was going to do everything in his power to make sure the conversation you'd started over lunch wasn't the last one the two of you ever had.

---

The decision was made in seconds.

"Positive FAST."

"She's bleeding."

"OR is ready."

Jack looked from the ultrasound screen back to you. There wasn't another option. You needed surgery. Now.

The trauma surgeon stepped beside him. "We've got her."

Jack's jaw tightened. "I know."

"We've got her."

It was meant to reassure him. It barely registered. The bed began rolling toward the operating room.

Jack walked with you.

One hand never leaving the side rail.

"Hey."

Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice.

"I'm here."

You looked at him through heavy eyelids, trying to smile despite the oxygen mask.

"...Still..." You swallowed. "...our date?"

He let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to breaking. "Yeah."

"You still owe me dessert."

A weak chuckle escaped you before pain flashed across your face.

Jack immediately squeezed your hand. "No more talking."

"...Bossy."

"You started it."

The automatic doors to the operating suite came into view. This was as far as he could go.

A nurse reached for the stretcher. "We've got it from here, Dr. Abbot."

Jack didn't move. His hand stayed wrapped around yours.

You squeezed weakly. "Jack."

His eyes met yours.

"I'm okay."

He almost laughed.

It was such a ridiculous thing to say while being wheeled into emergency surgery.

"You don't have to lie to me."

"I'm not." Your breathing was shallow. "I'm scared..."

The admission hit him harder than anything else had that night. Because you never admitted when you were scared. You were the calm one. The one reassuring everyone else.

The one telling frightened patients they were going to be okay. Now it was your turn.

Jack stepped closer until he was the only thing in your line of sight. "Look at me."

You did.

"You are going to wake up."

His voice never wavered.

"We're going to finish lunch."

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye.

"We're going to argue over who pays."

A tiny smile.

"You'll lose."

"I probably will."

He brushed a strand of hair away from your forehead. "And then..." He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. "...then we're going to finish the conversation we started."

You nodded slowly. "...Promise?"

"I promise."

The nurse gently touched his arm. "Doctor..."

He knew.

He had to let go.

Jack leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours for the briefest moment. "I'll be here."

Then...He let your hand go.

The stretcher disappeared through the operating room doors.

The doors closed.

And just like that...

Jack had nothing left to do.

---

He hated waiting.

He always had.

Waiting meant someone else was in control. Waiting meant trusting someone else's hands.

Usually, he was on the other side of those doors. Usually, he was the one families looked at for answers.

Tonight...He understood exactly why they looked so terrified.

Jack paced. Sat down. Stood back up. Paced again.

The nurses in the emergency department had never seen him like this.

Usually, he was the calmest person in the room.

Nothing rattled him. Not mass casualties. Not impossible traumas. Not pediatric arrests.

Nothing.

Tonight, he couldn't stay still.

Dr. Ellis cautiously approached him. "Dr. Abbott?"

Jack looked up.

"Your patient's asking for you in Trauma Three."

For a split second, Jack just stared. Then guilt washed over him.

Right.

He still had patients. The emergency department hadn't stopped because his world had.

"I'll be there."

He wasn't. Not immediately. Instead, he walked to the operating room doors again.

Just...Just in case someone came out.

No one did.

---

Three hours.

Three hours felt like three days.

He checked the surgery board every few minutes. No updates.

He refreshed it again. Nothing.

He tried to read a chart. Couldn't focus. Tried eating the sandwich someone had left beside him. It sat unopened.

One of the nurses walked past. "You should eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't sat down in an hour."

"I'm fine."

She smiled sadly. "So this is what everyone else's families deal with."

Jack looked at her. "What?"

"You always tell them surgery takes time." She folded her arms. "You always tell them no news is good news."

Jack looked back toward the operating rooms. "I know."

"But it's different."

She nodded. "I figured."

---

Eventually, Robby walked over, two cups of coffee in his hands.

Without asking, he handed one to Jack. "You look awful."

"I feel worse."

Robby leaned against the wall beside him. "How bad?"

Jack didn't answer right away. Finally, he admitted quietly, "I've watched people I love get hurt before."

Robby glanced over.

"But this..." Jack stared at the closed doors. "...I've never been on this side."

His voice cracked just enough for Robby to notice. "I can't fix it." He laughed bitterly.

"I don't even know what's happening in there." He rubbed both hands over his face. "I don't know if she's okay."

The words finally escaped him.

Raw.

Honest.

"I don't know if she's awake. I don't know if she's scared. I don't know if she's hurting."

He looked down at the untouched coffee. "And it is driving me absolutely insane."

Robby was quiet for a moment. Then he said softly, "You love her."

Jack closed his eyes. There wasn't any point denying it anymore. "...Yeah."

The single word barely made it above a whisper.

"I do."

As if on cue...The operating room doors finally opened.

Every muscle in Jack's body tensed.

He was already halfway across the hallway before the surgeon had even taken off his mask.

"How is she?"

The surgeon smiled. "The surgery went well."

Jack felt his knees nearly give out with relief.

"We controlled the bleeding. No major vascular injury. She's going to be sore for a while, and she'll have a long recovery, but..." He smiled again. "She's going to be okay."

Jack closed his eyes.

For the first time all night...He could finally breathe.

The surgeon put a hand on his shoulder.

"They're taking her to recovery now."

Jack nodded once. "When can I see her?"

The surgeon smiled knowingly. "I had a feeling you'd ask that. A little while."

Jack looked through the small window in the OR doors as your bed was wheeled toward recovery.

He rested one hand against the glass. "Take your time," he whispered, knowing you couldn't hear him. "I'll still be here."

Because for the first time in his life...

There wasn't anywhere else he'd rather be.

---- 

Recovery was quiet.

The frantic pace of the emergency department couldn't reach this part of the hospital.

No trauma pagers.

No ambulance radios.

Just the steady rhythm of cardiac monitors and the occasional murmur of nurses moving from room to room. Jack had changed out of his blood-stained scrub top hours ago, but he still looked like he'd been through the collapse himself.

His hair was a mess from running his hands through it all night.

His coffee had long since gone cold.

He hadn't noticed.

A PACU nurse stepped out into the hallway. "Dr. Abbot?"

Jack was on his feet before she'd finished saying his name.

"She's asking for you."

He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until that moment. "Can I-"

The nurse smiled knowingly. "You've got about five minutes before I come kick you out."

"Thank you."

He didn't walk.

He practically sprinted.

---

The room was dimly lit.

You looked... different.

Paler.

An IV hung beside the bed. A monitor quietly tracked your heart rate. There was oxygen tubing resting beneath your nose, and a thick blanket covered you up to your chest.

But you were awake.

Your eyes drifted toward the door as it opened.

They landed on Jack. A sleepy smile spread across your face. "...Hey."

Jack stopped just inside the room. For a moment...He couldn't move.

Seeing you unconscious had been terrifying. Seeing you awake somehow made everything he'd been holding in hit him all at once.

"You scared the hell out of me."

Your smile faltered. "I know."

He crossed the room slowly until he reached your bedside. "You weren't supposed to be the patient."

You let out a weak laugh. "I wasn't planning on it."

"No?"

"No."

He shook his head. "I liked you a lot better when you were bossing me around."

"You like being bossed around."

"I tolerate it."

"You secretly love it."

"I'll never admit that."

A small laugh escaped you before you winced.

Jack immediately leaned forward. "Easy."

"I'm okay."

"You literally just had surgery."

"I know."

"So maybe don't laugh."

"I'll do my best."

Silence settled between you. Jack reached for the chair beside your bed but didn't sit. Instead, he gently took your hand. Carefully.

As though he was afraid you might disappear if he held on too tightly.

Your fingers curled around his automatically. "You stayed."

He looked at you like the question didn't even make sense. "Of course I stayed."

"You've probably been here all day."

"I have."

"You should've gone home."

He almost laughed. "And leave?"

You shrugged as much as your sore body would allow. "You had patients."

"I took care of them."

"You had charts."

"I finished them."

"You probably haven't slept."

"No."

"Eaten?"

"..."

You smiled knowingly. "Jack."

"I had half a granola bar."

"That doesn't count."

"It counted enough."

You squeezed his hand. "You always tell your patients to take care of themselves."

"I know."

"You should listen to yourself sometime."

"I know."

"But..." He looked down at your intertwined hands. "I couldn't leave."

The room fell quiet again.

His thumb absentmindedly brushed across your knuckles. "I kept thinking..." He hesitated. "What if the last thing I ever said to you was that we'd finish lunch later?"

Your expression softened. "Jack..."

"What if we'd never finished that conversation?"

His voice cracked.

Barely.

But you heard it.

"I didn't get to tell you..." He stopped.

You waited.

"I didn't get to tell you that I was going to kiss you."

Your breath caught.

He finally looked up. "At the diner."

You blinked.

"When your radio went off."

"I know."

"I'd already decided."

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

Jack frowned. "Hey..."

"I thought..." You swallowed hard. "When everything happened..." Your voice trembled. "I thought I wasn't going to get to see you again."

"You are."

"I know."

"But I was scared."

"I know."

"No." You shook your head carefully. "I was terrified."

Jack moved closer. "So was I."

The admission hung in the room.

"I've never been that scared before." You looked into his eyes. "I saw you."

He frowned slightly. "What?"

"Before they took me upstairs." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "You were trying so hard to stay calm."

A sad smile crossed his face. "I wasn't doing a very good job."

"You were."

"I was falling apart."

"You hid it."

"Barely."

You reached up with your free hand. It took more effort than it normally would. Jack met you halfway, letting your fingertips rest against his cheek.

His eyes closed instinctively.

"You know what I thought?" you whispered.

"What?"

"I thought..." A tired smile spread across your face. "...there's my home."

Jack opened his eyes. Every wall he'd built over years in emergency medicine, every bit of emotional distance he'd learned to survive with, crumbled in an instant.

He leaned down until your foreheads rested together. "I love you."

The words came so quietly they were almost lost in the hum of the monitor.

No hesitation.

No overthinking.

Just the truth.

"I love you too." You smiled through the tears. "I think I've loved you for longer than I realized."

A soft laugh escaped him. "Me too."

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. There was nothing left to say. Jack slowly lifted his head, giving you every opportunity to stop him.

You didn't.

Instead, you smiled.

"So..."

"So?"

"Are you finally going to kiss me?"

A grin spread across his face. "I thought you'd never ask."

He leaned in slowly. Carefully.

As though he was afraid even now that he might somehow hurt you. His lips met yours in the gentlest kiss either of you had ever shared.

It wasn't dramatic.

It wasn't rushed.

It was quiet.

Warm.

Certain.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again. "That was worth waiting for."

You smiled sleepily. "It was."

A knock sounded softly on the open door. Neither of you moved.

The nurse standing outside smiled to herself. "I hate to interrupt..."

Jack laughed quietly. "You've got to stop doing that."

The nurse grinned. "I'll give you two another minute."

She disappeared back into the hallway.

You looked at Jack. "Think everyone knows now?"

He smiled. "I'm pretty sure they figured it out before we did."

You laughed softly. "I think you're right."

Outside the room, two PACU nurses exchanged amused looks.

"Took them long enough," one whispered.

The other nodded. "I've never seen Dr. Abbot sit still for eight hours."

"Neither have I." She glanced through the window at the two of you, still holding hands. "I don't think he's letting go anytime soon."

She wasn't wrong.

Jack had spent the entire day terrified of losing you.

Now that you were awake, he had no intention of letting your hand leave his.

[pieintheskylight]

some kind of magic

or: grumpy!music teacher steve and sunshine! art teacher reader

tw: cursing

steve is the music teacher and wears glasses in this, i don’t make the rules

The second time steve hears an out of tune kazoo badly play Jingle Bells (In May, which is a crime itself) he figures fine he'll finally check the room next to him.

Look, he has one sided beef with the last art teacher, who constantly plastered children's photo's against the walls, overlapping posters for jazz club and marching band (both of which are severely understaffed and more of punchline of joke but that's neither here nor there, he guesses) so sure, he still has one sided beef.

And look, he's heard good of you. Of this new teacher who's changing things up, the kids aren't skipping the class anymore, less fights and more figuring it out-how kids are practically dying to be in your class

And that's fine. Really, it's fine. He's happy, even. Less fights to break up in hallways and if it means he has to look at a shitty picture that a kid insists is abstract again, sure-he'll go through it.

And then there's you.

There you fucking are.

It's hard to hide the smile on his face, even if he's trying to hide it as he wraps his cardigan closer around him, uses his knuckle to push his too large glasses up his face-

you're in the room, alone, in the middle of a large room-your overalls are broken, one strap is over the shoulder, a tie dye shirt under-and your hair is in high space buns-two dirty paintbrushes are shoved through them, and there's fucking paint all over your face, on your cheeks and your neck-he thinks about brushing it off of you before shaking that idea from his head-fucking stupid.

"I can feel someone watching."

Your voice comes back light, even if you're back is to them, kazoo still in your mouth.

You turn, expecting a kid to be there, backpack on their back and a large smile on their face-

"Oh," You're smiling, shoving the kazoo in the front bib over the overalls, "You aren't a kid."

He rolls his eyes:

"Excellent observation, can tell nothing gets past you."

And while most people would be put off by this, something radiates off of him-the hard ass exterior he's putting on is obviously a defense mechanism, something he put up as a young, second year teacher.

"Nice to meet you!" You're at his side, all smiles offering your hand, "You must be the music teacher, Harrington, right? The second graders redemption of hot cross buns on the recorder is getting better by the day."

A smile threatens to pull on the curve of his lips for a second, before he's shaking his head.

"I just have to ask," He sighs, "Jingle Bells? In May?"

You bite your lip, rocking back and forth on your heels.

"Yep!"

steve rubs his forehead at the headache that's threatening to form behind his eyes; your brick walls are painted a bright yellow, a rainbow on the opposing wall, the other has different colored handprints from children that come through your class.

"I heard good about you," You smile widely, going to your desk and grabbing a paper off of it, holding it up to him, "The kids love you."

If steve squints, he guesses he can see what might be a portrait of him as a teacher, his large glasses on his face, a mop of unruly hair and a guitar on his lap.

"Don't lie to me."

He accept the photo, and a smile threatens to form in the corner of his lips as he rubs his finger over the hard edges of the paper.

He goes to hand it back and you wave it off, "Keep it for a rainy day."

The smile never leaves your face and steve doesn't know if it's annoying or endearing yet.

Face red, he goes to turn around and leave before he can make an ass of himself, when you stop him instead.

"Hey," You say, taking the kazoo out of your pocket again as he turns to leave, "If you want, I'm free for lunch. Beats sitting alone in your room."

It takes everything in him to not stop at that. Have you seen him during lunch? When he walks up and down the halls, a crumbled brown paper bag in his hands-at first, he was searching for a friend, a friendly face someone to welcome him in, but slowly it evolved to going to the cafeteria as quickly as he can before retreating to the safety of his room, shoved in the corner, lights out-it's a lot like how he spent his own elementary school experience.

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. harrington!" You call back, your voice is light and sincere, he knows your smiling without saying anything back. "Come back anytime."

And that's how the rivalry starts.

Or, that's what he'll tell himself, at least.

[fullofdelusionx]

Fix You

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

W/C:

Summary: When Steve thinks proposing fixes months of fighting and arguments, he couldn't be more wrong.

The fighting started small. A forgotten dinner reservation, a misplaced set of keys, the way Steve threw his jacket on the back of every chair instead of hanging it up. The way you sighed, that particular sigh, when he talked about his day. Small things that shouldn't have mattered, except they did. Except somewhere along the way, those small things became bigger with things neither of you knew how to name.

By month three, you were exhausted.

You'd wake up in the morning and feel the tension before you even opened your eyes, dreading the day before it even started. Steve's breathing beside you now somehow both familiar and foreign. You'd see him when he eventually made it to bed instead of the sofa, or when you told him dinners on the table, but not much else. This was the man who'd fought demogorgons and saved the world multiple times yet couldn't figure out how to fight fair with you. And you, who'd stood beside him through the end of everything couldn't figure out how to tell him you were drowning all alone.

"I'm trying" he'd say with his hands in his hair, pacing the kitchen after another argument about nothing.

"I know" you'd reply, and you did know. You could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, the way his eyes looked tired, "But I'm trying too".

But trying wasn't enough when neither of you knew what you were trying to fix.

You started thinking about it seriously in month four. Not breaking up, you couldn't even form those words in your mind, but maybe taking a break. Some space to breathe, think and figure out what the hell had gone wrong between I love you and I can't do this anymore.

You were going to suggest it. You'd planned the conversation in your head a dozen times, rehearsed the words until they felt almost right. We need to talk Steve, like really talk. Maybe we need some time apart to figure out what we actually need.

But Steve proposed first.

It was a Tuesday. You remember that detail with confidence, a Tuesday evening in October, the kind where the sun sets too early and everything feels unfinished before you'd achieved anything. You'd just gotten home from work, hadn't even taken off your jacket, when Steve appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. He looked nervous and his hands were shaking.

"Hey" he said, and his voice cracked.

Something in your chest tightened, like he was announcing something bad, "Steve? What's wrong?".

"Nothing's wrong. Nothing, I just, I've been thinking about us, about everything"

Your heart started pounding. This was it, he was going to be the one to say it first. He was going to suggest the break, the space you needed but instead, Steve dropped to one knee.

"I know things have been hard" he said, the words tumbling out too fast. "I know we've been fighting and I hate it, I hate fighting with you, and I just, I thought maybe if we..." He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, hands trembling so badly he almost dropped it. "If we made it official, if we really committed. Maybe that would help us remember why we're doing this and why we're together".

The box opened. A ring caught the light from the ceiling, it was simple, beautiful and exactly what you would have chosen because he knew you so well. Your throat closed up entirely.

"Will you marry me?" Steve said, and he was smiling now, that hopeful smile that had gotten you through the end of the world. "Marry me and let's fix this, together. We can fix this".

The silence hung heavy between the two of you.

"Steve" you whispered.

His smile faltered because he knew where this was going, "I know it's not perfect timing, but"

"Steve, stop"

He stopped. The box stayed open in his hand, the ring looking up at you like a promise but you couldn't accept.

"You think a ring is going to fix us?" The words came out sharper than you intended, but you couldn't stop them. Months of exhaustion and hurt were rising up through you. "You think that's what we need? A wedding to plan while we can't even have dinner without fighting?".

"No, I, that's not" Steve's face crumpled. "I just thought if we had something to look forward to, something to work toward-".

"We need to work on us, Steve. Not a wedding. Not a ring. Us." Your voice broke. "And the fact that you don't see that, the fact that you think you can just slap a band aid on this and call it fixed-". You couldn't finish, you couldn't watch the hope drain from his eyes as he slowly closed the ring box and stood up.

"I'm trying to save us" he said quietly.

"I know you are baby" And that was the worst part. You could see it in every emotion and line of his body that he genuinely thought this would help. He'd probably been planning it for weeks thinking he'd found the solution, "But this isn't how you save us".

The ring box disappeared back into his pocket, "Then what do we do?" he asked.

You took a shaky breath, "I think we need a break".

Two weeks you agreed. Two weeks apart to clear your heads and figure out what you actually wanted.

Two weeks turned into three when neither of you could bring yourself to make the first call. Three turned into four. Four turned into five.

You stayed with your friend Sarah, sleeping on her couch and pretending you were fine when you were far from it. She didn't push, just made extra coffee in the mornings and gave you space when you needed it. Sometimes you'd catch her looking at you with that look, but she never asked questions you weren't ready to answer.

The house felt wrong everytime you entered it. You'd go back occasionally to pick up some fresh clothes or check the mail, and every time it hurt more and more. His jacket still on the back of the kitchen chair, the indent in the couch cushion where he always sat, your shoes still piled neatly next to the door.

By week five, you started dreaming about him. Not the fights, but the good parts. The way he'd pull you close in the morning when he made it to bed, still half asleep, and mumble something romantic into your hair. The way he'd dance with you in the kitchen while dinner cooked on the nights he was home and you wasn't arguing. You missed him. God, you missed him so much it physically hurt but you also remembered the fighting. The exhaustion of it all and the feeling of drowning while standing right next to each other.

Week six arrived with the first real snow of the season. December had crept up while you weren't paying attention, and suddenly Christmas was a week away. The thought of spending it apart from Steve made something in your chest crack open.

You picked up the phone before you could talk yourself out of it. When he answered, "Hey, it's me. Can we talk? Really talk this time?".

"Hey babe... Yeah, when's good for you?"

"Tomorrow? At the house?"

"I'll be there"

Steve was already there when you arrived, sitting on the front steps waiting for you despite the cold. He stood up when he saw you, shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn't know what else to do with them.

"Hi" he said.

"Hi"

"Should we?" Steve gestured toward the door.

"Yeah"

Inside, the house was clean. Cleaner than you'd ever seen it, actually. Steve had clearly been stress cleaning. You both gravitated toward the living room, but neither of you sat down right away. Standing felt safer.

"I don't know where to start" Steve admitted.

"Me neither"

He laughed, but it was hollow. "We're really bad at this"

"Yeah" You wrapped your arms around yourself. "We are, not like it happens all the time".

Silence fell for a while before Steve spoke first. "I'm sorry. About the proposal, about thinking I could just fix everything with a ring. That was stupid of me".

"It wasn't stupid" you said quietly. "It was just... not what we needed right now"

"I was scared" The admission came. "I'm still scared. I didn't know how to fix us, and I thought if I could just make you see that I was serious, that I wanted forever with you, maybe that would be enough. But it wasn't about that, was it?"

You shook your head. "We stopped talking to each other, Steve. We were just... going through the motions and fighting about stupid shit instead of dealing with the real problems".

"What are the real problems?" He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you could see the fear in his eyes. "Because I still don't know. I don't know what I did wrong".

Your throat tightened. "You didn't do anything wrong. Neither of us did. We just, after everything that happened, I think we both expected things to just be... easy, like we'd earned our happy ending".

"But life doesn't work like that, not after what happened" Steve finished.

"No. It doesn't" You took a shaky breath. "And I think we both got scared when it wasn't perfect and we had to actually work at being together instead of just surviving together. We didn't know how to do that".

Steve was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, "I don't want to lose you baby".

"I don't want to lose you either" The words came out choked. "But I can't go back to how things were. I can't keep fighting with you about nothing because we're too scared to fight about something".

"So what do we do?"

You finally moved, standing directly in front of him. Close enough to touch, but not touching. "We talk" you said. "We actually talk to each other. About the hard stuff, about what we need and what we're scared of and what we want this to look like".

"Okay" Steve's eyes were bright. "Okay. I can do that. I want to do that".

"I need you to tell me when you're struggling" you continued. "Not just with us, but with everything. The nightmares, the memories, all of it. You shut me out, Steve. You stopped letting me in".

He flinched, "I didn't want to burden you".

"That's not how this works. We're supposed to carry things together" You reached out and took his hand. His fingers immediately laced through yours. "And I need to do better too. I need to stop expecting you to read my mind. I need to actually tell you when something's bothering me instead of letting it build up until I explode".

"I'd like that" Steve said softly. "I'd really like that".

You talked for hours after that. Really talked, the way you hadn't in months. About the nightmares that still woke you both up sometimes, the pressure Steve felt to be okay, to be the guy who had it all together, when inside he was still terrified. About your own fears too, of not being enough, of losing him. You talked about the small things too. The dishes and the jackets and the sighs.

By the time the sun started setting, you were both sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, Steve's arm around your shoulders. It felt right in a way nothing had felt right in months.

"I love you" Steve said into the growing darkness. "I never stopped loving you. Not for a second".

"I love you too" You turned to look at him, his hair was longer than he usually kept it, falling into his eyes and there were new lines around his mouth from stress. But he was still Steve. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes".

"Yeah?" His lips quirked up in a small smile.

"Yeah"

"So we're doing this? We're trying again?"

You nodded. "We're trying again. For real this time".

Steve pulled you closer, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm going to do better. I promise".

"We both are" you whispered, "Together".

You moved back in over the next two days, Sarah helping you pack up your things from her couch with a knowing smile. "He's good for you" she said, folding one of your sweaters. "You're good for each other. You just needed to remember that".

"Yeah" you agreed. "We did".

The house felt different when you came back with your belongings. Lighter somehow. Steve had put fresh sheets on the bed, bought your favourite coffee, fresh flowers for the kitchen and made your favourite dinner. The first night back, you laid in bed together, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder. "I missed this" he murmured, "I missed you here".

"I was only across town"

"Felt like another dimension"

You tilted your head up to look at him, "No more dimensions. We're done with those".

He laughed, the sound was beautiful, "Deal".

You fell asleep tangled together, and for the first time in months neither of you had nightmares.

Christmas morning arrived soon after with fresh snow and the smell of coffee. You woke up to Steve already awake, watching you with a huge grin. "Merry Christmas baby" he said.

"Merry Christmas" You stretched, "What time is it?"

"Early, think around 7 but I couldn't sleep" He brushed a strand of hair from your face. "I kept thinking about last Christmas. How different things were".

Last Christmas, you'd been at the Wheelers' house with everyone, still riding the high of survival. It had been loud, chaotic and wonderful, but also overwhelming. This year you both agreed to keep it simple with just the two of you.

"Different good or different bad?" you asked.

"Different good" Steve leaned down and kissed you, "Definitely good".

You spent the morning in pyjamas, exchanging gifts by the tree Steve had insisted on getting, a slightly lopsided pine that leaned a little to the left but was perfect to you. He'd gotten you a first edition of your favourite book, something you'd mentioned wanting months ago, before everything fell apart. The fact that he'd remembered made your eyes fill with tears.

"Steve, this is-"

"I ordered it before" he admitted. "Before everything went to shit. I almost returned it, but I couldn't. I kept hoping I'd get to give it to you".

You kissed him and whispered "Thank you".

Your gift to him was simpler, a new watch to replace the one that had broken. You'd had it engraved on the back We have all the time in the world now.

Steve's eyes went bright when he read it, "Jesus" he muttered, voice thick and full of emotion. "You're trying to make me cry on purpose".

"Is it working?"

"Yeah" He pulled you into his lap, the watch clutched in one hand, "Yeah, it is".

You cooked together that afternoon, Steve's terrible singing filling the kitchen as you worked. He'd never been able to carry a tune, but he sang anyway, spinning you around between stirring the sauce and checking the roast. You danced in your socks on the kitchen floor, laughing when he dipped you dramatically and nearly dropped you.

"Smooth Harrington"

"I'm out of practice okay?" he protested, pulling you back up. "You've been depriving me of my dance partner".

"My sincerest apologies"

"You should be sorry" But he was grinning, that smile you'd fallen in love with, "I've got six weeks of dancing to make up for".

You opened a bottle of the good wine with dinner, the kind you saved for special occasions. The food was perfect, or maybe it just tasted perfect because you were eating it together, because you were both actually present and enjoying it.

"To us" Steve said, raising his glass.

"To us" you echoed, "To loving each other and figuring it out"

"To loving each other and figuring it out"

The wine made you both loose and giggly, and after dinner you ended up back in the living room, Christmas music playing softly while you laid on the couch together. Steve's hands were on your waist, your fingers in his hair, and when he kissed you it felt like the first time all over again.

"I love you so much" he murmured against your lips.

"I love you too"

"No, I mean" He pulled back slightly, his eyes serious. "I really love you. Like, scary amounts. Like, I don't know what I'd do without you amounts".

Your heart melted, "Steve..."

"I know we're still figuring things out. I know we're still rebuilding but I need you to know that. I need you to know that you're it for me. You're everything and more".

You kissed him again, deeper this time, trying to pour everything you felt into it. All the love and hope you feel. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.

"Bedroom?" Steve asked, voice rough.

"Bedroom" you agreed.

You made love that night like you were rediscovering each other all over again. It had been too long and you were both starving for it.

After, lying tangled in sheets that smelled like both of you, Steve pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Best Christmas ever" he murmured, already half asleep.

You smiled into the darkness, "Yeah. It really is".

New Year's Eve came faster than you expected. Robin had insisted on hosting a party, A proper celebration of surviving another year and not dying horribly, as she'd put it, and you'd both agreed to go.

"You sure you're ready for this?" Steve asked as you got ready, watching you from where he sat on the bed.

"Are you? Bombarded with questions" you countered, applying lipstick in the mirror.

He stood up, coming to stand behind you, his hands settling on your hips, "We can leave whenever you want. Just say the word".

You leaned back against him, "I'll be asleep by 11pm likely".

The party was already in full swing when you arrived, music thumping through Robin's house, people spilling out of every room. You recognised some of them, but most were just neighbours her parents had invited.

"There they are!" Robin appeared out of nowhere, pulling you both into a hug. "The lovebirds return!"

"Hi Robin" you laughed, hugging her back.

"You guys look good" she said, pulling back to examine you both. "Like, actually good. Not that fake we're fine good you were doing before".

"We are good" Steve said, and he sounded like he meant it. "We're really good" pulling you closer to him by your waist.

Robin's smile softened. "Good, because I was about to stage an intervention. I had so much prepared to get this sorted".

"Of course you did" Steve rolled his eyes.

The night unfolded in a blur of conversation and laughter. You stayed close to Steve, his hand finding yours or settling on your lower back. You'd both agreed to only have one drink each, wanting to stay present, to remember every moment of ringing in the new year together.

"You having fun?" Steve asked at one point, pulling you close as someone turned up the music.

"Yeah" you said, and meant it for real. "I really am".

"Good" He kissed your temple. "Because I can't keep my hands off you and I need to know if that's okay or if I'm being too much".

You laughed. "You're not being too much. I can't seem to keep my hands off you either" as you pinched his bum, "Six weeks was too long".

"Way too long" he agreed, pulling you closer. "Never doing that again".

You danced together in Robin's living room, Steve's arms around you, swaying to music that was too fast for slow dancing but doing it anyway. Other people moved around you but you were in your own bubble.

As the night wore on, you found yourself checking the time more frequently. Not because you wanted to leave but because you were excited. Excited to ring in the new year with Steve and to start fresh properly.

At 11:55pm, Robin started herding everyone towards the garden where she'd set up a viewing area for the fireworks. "Five minutes!" she announced. "Everyone get your drinks! Get your people! Get ready to kiss someone at midnight or forever hold your peace!".

Steve's hand tightened on yours. "Hey" he said quietly, leaning down so only you could hear him. "Come with me for a second?".

You looked up at him, "Now? It's almost midnight".

"I know. Trust me?"

He led you through the crowd moving towards the garden and down a hallway to a spare room at the back of the house. It was quieter here, away from the party noise, and when Steve opened the door, you saw why he'd chosen it. The room had a massive window overlooking the town, the perfect view of the fireworks. You could see the crowd gathered in the garden and hear the sound of music and celebration through the wall.

"Steve, why are we here and not there" you breathed.

"I wanted a minute" he said, closing the door behind you. "Just us before everything gets crazy. I want to ring in the new year, just us".

You turned to face him, "That's sweet of you".

Steve took a deep breath, his hands finding yours. "This year was really hard" he started. "Like, probably the hardest year of my life and that's saying something considering I've fought monsters".

You laughed, "Steve-"

"Let me finish" he said gently, "Please". So you nodded.

"This year was hard" he continued, "but we got through it. Together. Even when we were apart, even when we were fighting, we were still together in the ways that mattered. And I know I messed up before. I know I tried to fix things the wrong way but these past few weeks, getting to actually work on us, getting to rebuild what we have-" His voice cracked. "I wouldn't trade this life for anything. Not for an easier one, because this life has you in it".

Tears were streaming down your face now. "Steve..."

"I love you" he said. "I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes. I love your strength and your stubbornness and the way you call me out when I'm being an idiot. I love how you make me want to be better and I love that you didn't give up on us even when it would have been easier to walk away".

From outside, you could hear the crowd starting to count down. Steve let go of one of your hands to reach into his pocket. The same velvet box from months ago appeared in his hands.

"I know I asked you this before" he said, his voice shaking. "And I know I asked for the wrong reasons but I'm asking again now, and this time I'm asking because I know, I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you and working on us. Building with you, growing with you, fighting with you when we need to and making up after. All of it. Every messy, beautiful, terrifying part of it".

He opened the box. The same ring, but this time it looked different. This time it looked right.

"Marry me" Steve said. "Not because it'll fix anything but because I want to choose you every single day for the rest of my life. You're my home, my future, the mother of my children and my everything. Marry me because I love you and you love me and that's enough".

You sobbed, hard. "Yes, yes...yes!"

Steve's face broke into the biggest smile you'd ever seen. His hands were shaking as he pulled the ring from the box, sliding it onto your finger where it fit like a glove.

Twenty seconds.

"Yes?" he asked, like he couldn't quite believe it.

"Yes you idiot" you laughed through your tears, "I'll marry you".

Ten seconds.

Steve pulled you into his arms, lifting you off your feet, spinning you around in the small room while you both laughed and cried. You could hear the countdown happening outside.

Five

Four

Three

Two

One

"Happy New Year!"

The words exploded from outside. Fireworks burst across the sky, lighting up the room you were in but you barely noticed. You were too busy kissing Steve, his hands cupped around your face and your fingers tangled in his hair.

When you finally broke apart, both breathless and grinning, Steve pressed his forehead against yours.

"Happy New Year to my fiancee" he whispered.

"Happy New Year fiance" you whispered back.

More fireworks exploded outside, the colours reflecting in Steve's eyes as he looked at you. From down the hall, you could hear people cheering, celebrating, ringing in the new year as they filtered between outside and inside. But in this room, it was just the two of you. Two people who'd fought monsters and each other, who'd fallen apart and found their way back together and who were choosing each other again and again and again.

Steve kissed you once more, full of promise. "I love you" he murmured against your lips.

"I love you" you said, "So much".

Outside, the fireworks continued, and inside you held each other close, starting a new year, a new chapter, a new life together. It felt like everything you wanted and more.

[swtnerry]

travis 'teacake' meacham x reader

summary: a joke question during a rainy night shift turns real when travis says yes and fucks you against a metal door

warnings: explicit sexual content, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, praise kink, dirty talk, workplace sex, storm setting, recent breakup mention

the rain hammered against the metal roof of the storage facility like it was trying to cave the whole place in. it was one of those downpours that turned the parking lot into a shallow lake and made the idea of walking to your car feel like a punishment.

inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, while the endless rows of corrugated metal doors stretched into the dim distance.

shift work here was mind-numbing at the best of times. tonight, with the storm raging outside and only the two of you on duty, it felt like the world had narrowed down to this one quiet corner of the office.

you leaned against the counter, orange t-shirt sticking slightly to your skin from the humidity. travis was a few feet away, fiddling with a clipboard even though nothing needed checking. his grey t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the sleeves rode up every time he moved, revealing the edges of tattoos that snaked down his forearms.

you’d been here a couple of weeks, long enough to get used to him. at first, he came off a little awkward, but you got used to the constant yapping, and, if you were being honest, you found it kind of cute. he always had some dumb story ready whenever things got quiet, and somehow they never stopped making you laugh.

unfortunately, you’d spent more time than you’d like to admit ranting about your ex. travis would just sit there, listen, then hit you with, “dude sounds like a walking red flag,” like it explained everything. he never understood why you stayed with him when every story you told ended with your boyfriend doing something that annoyed you.

after sitting with it for a couple of days, you finally decided to end the relationship.

“i finally did it,” you said suddenly, voice cutting through the rain. “broke up with him a couple days ago.”

travis’s head snapped up so fast the clipboard nearly slipped from his hands. his eyes widened, that soft hazel color catching the light. “wait—seriously? like, done done?” he set the clipboard down, then immediately picked it back up, nerves making him fidget.

“i mean, that’s… shit, that’s good. not good like ‘haha your relationship exploded,’ but from what you told me-yeah, he was kind of an asshole. not that breakups aren’t rough. if you’re sad or whatever, i get it. i’ve been there. well, not exactly there, but close enough. you okay? you don’t look okay. or you look okay, but like, quiet -okay? fuck, i’m talking too much.”

you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “i’m not sad. i’m just… kinda numb, i don’t know. it feels like it should hurt more, but it doesn’t.”

he nodded a little too quickly, his hair falling into his face again. “numb makes sense. totally valid.”

you almost laughed. travis was always a little awkward, but you’d noticed how flustered he got whenever you stood too close or paid him a compliment. it wasn’t exactly hard to figure out he had a thing for you. and, if you were being honest, he was really attractive. maybe it was the conversation, or maybe it was just the way he was looking at you, but that night, something between you felt… different.

travis gave you a sideways look. “so… was there anything about him that was actually worth sticking around for?”

you opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. you thought about it for a second, then huffed a laugh.

“honestly?”

he raised an eyebrow.

then, almost without meaning to, you found yourself saying it.

“he wasn’t even good in bed. that was probably one of the biggest reasons. always felt like i was just… there.”

travis froze mid-reach for his water bottle. his ears went pink. he opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “damn. that’s— i mean, yeah, no wonder you were annoyed by him. you deserve way better than that. i mean you’re too—” he cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck, tattoos flexing with the movement. “you’re too fucking sexy to be dealing with half-assed shit like that. someone should be making you feel it, you know?”

the words hung in the air, heavier than either of you expected. your pulse kicked up, heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it.

you met his eyes, a playful challenge slipping into your voice even as heat pooled low in your stomach. “you wanna fuck me, travis?”

you asked it teasingly, more as a joke than anything else. even as the words left your mouth, you couldn’t believe you’d been bold enough to say them.

he didn’t laugh. didn’t deflect with another nervous ramble. his gaze darkened, dropping to your mouth for a beat before coming back up.

“yes” he said, voice low and steady. the silence that followed crackled. you could hear your own heartbeat over the rain.

“i’m gonna go check the alarms downstairs,” he muttered after a moment, clearing his throat. it sounded more like an excuse than anything else, a way to escape the confession before he had to hear your answer. but he didn’t move right away, like he was giving you an out. or an invitation.

before you even realized it, you were following him.

the stairwell was colder, the metal steps echoing under your shoes. the lower level was all shadows and rows of locked units, the big roll-up doors gleaming dully under emergency lights.

travis stopped in front of one, pretending to check the panel, big hands hovering uselessly. you stepped close, close enough to smell the faint scent of his soap and the fabric of his green shirt.

he turned. you didn’t give either of you time to overthink it. you kissed him first, rising up on your toes and pressing your mouth to his. he made a surprised sound that melted into a low groan, and then his hands were on you, those big, warm palms sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

the metal door was cool at your back as he walked you into it, the contrast making you shiver. his long hair brushed your cheek when he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, tongue teasing yours with a confidence that made your knees feel unsteady.

“fuck,” he breathed against your lips, voice rougher now. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this.”

his hands moved down, gripping your hips, then sliding under the hem of your t-shirt. his warm fingertips traced your skin like he was memorizing it.

you tugged at his shirt in return, feeling the hard lines of muscle. he was still talking, breathless compliments between kisses along your jaw and down your neck. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, with his lips brushing your ear.

you arched into him as his hand slipped beneath your leggings, fingers finding you already wet. he groaned at the discovery, pressing two thick fingers inside with a slow, deliberate curl that made your breath hitch.

the metal door rattled faintly behind you with every shift of your bodies. rain pounded overhead like white noise, drowning out everything except the sounds you were making for each other.

travis dropped to his knees just long enough to yank your leggings and underwear down your thighs, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before standing again. he freed himself from his orange work pants, hard and heavy in his hand, and lifted one of your legs around his hip.

the first push inside stretched you perfectly. slow enough to feel every inch, deep enough to make your head fall back against the cold metal with a quiet thud.

“shit—travis…” your fingers tangled in his blonde hair, gripping tight.

he rocked into you with steady, deep thrusts, one hand braced on the door beside your head, the other holding your thigh higher. his shirt was rucked up, skin hot and slightly damp against yours. every time he bottomed out, a low and satisfied sound escaped him.

“you feel so good,” he rasped, with his forehead pressed to yours. “so damn perfect. look at you—taking me like this. fucking gorgeous.”

the angle hit just right with every thrust, building that sharp, coiling pleasure fast. his free hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit with surprising precision. the contrast was dizzying, this sweet, silly guy who rambled about everything suddenly fucking you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, whispering filthy, sweet praise against your mouth.

when you came, it hit hard, legs shaking, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, a broken moan swallowed by another deep kiss.

he followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name like it was the only word he remembered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

for a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the relentless rain.

travis pressed a softer kiss to your temple, still inside you. his arms wrapped around your waist like he didn’t want to let you go yet. “you okay?” he asked quietly, that familiar nervous edge creeping back into his voice.

you smiled against his neck,“yeah. im ok.”

he tilted his head, listening for a moment. “it stopped raining.”

you let out a quiet hum, your fingers absentmindedly tracing his arm. “i don’t wanna leave now.”

he smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

[jinxispunk]

i would LOVE something where the reader is comforting Joe! Maybe him feeling insecure or upset about something and just fully leans on the reader for support. Just fluffy needy Joe and maybe some intimacy/smut to wrap it up! You’re the best!!

thank you so much for sending this one in!!

i absolutely adored this request. the idea of joe getting home from a long press run, feeling exhausted and overworked and like he has to perform for people to like him, then getting home to reader and just... letting himself be held for a while 😭

i really hope i did your idea justice. thank you for trusting me with such a lovely prompt 🫶

get back to your heart

Joe Keery x reader

Summary: After weeks of performing for everyone else, Joe finally comes home to the one place he never has to perform at all.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise (lmk if i missed anything)

W/C: 10k (my longest fic yet, i had a lot of fun with this one lol)

Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]

If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!

The engine idles, a low vibration through the steering wheel that you'd stopped feeling twenty minutes ago. The arrivals board has blinked through three flight status changes - landed, taxiing, arrived - and now the automatic doors cycle open and closed, open and closed, each time spitting out travellers you don't recognise. Your hands rest at ten and two, though you've relaxed your grip somewhere around the thirty-minute mark. The heating fights the cold pressing against the windscreen, and you've cracked the driver's side window an inch just to feel the January air against your cheek.

A family rolls past with matching suitcases. A man in a suit talks loudly into his phone. A woman with a toddler balanced on her hip scans the crowd, face lit with recognition, and breaks into a smile. You watch her run toward someone, watch the hug, watch the way the toddler squirms between them. You look back at the doors.

He comes through them alone.

You know his walk before you can make out his face - the slight forward lean, the way his shoulders curve in like he's trying to take up less space than he needs. His duffel hangs from one hand, dragging his arm low, and the other hand is shoved into his jacket pocket. He isn't looking at the crowd. He's looking at his feet, at the concrete, at the striped zebra crossing - anywhere but at the people who might recognise him.

A woman glances his way. Does a double take. Opens her mouth.

Joe keeps walking.

Your hand moves before you decide to move it - you reach across and push the passenger door open, a small act, a crack in the silence. The console light clicks on. His head lifts.

Your eyes meet through the windscreen.

Something in his face softens. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to see the man beneath the exhaustion, the one you haven't seen in weeks. He doesn't smile yet. But his pace quickens, just slightly, and that small acceleration tells you more than any word could have.

You watch him cross the last stretch of concrete. Watch the way his free hand comes up to push his hair off his forehead - a nervous gesture, one he does before shows, before interviews, before anything that requires him to be someone else. He does it now, in front of you, and you understand: he's still shedding the performance. Still finding his way back into his own skin.

He reaches the car and bends to toss his duffel into the backseat. It lands with a heavy thud - clothes, probably, and a laptop, and the thousand small things he's carried through airports and hotel rooms and green rooms for weeks. He straightens, meets your eyes again, and this time his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close.

"Hey," you say. Soft. Simple. Just your voice, no pressure behind it.

"Hey." His voice cracks on the single syllable, and he clears his throat, looking away. He pulls the door closed, and the overhead light dies, plunging you both into the dim glow of the dashboard. The seatbelt clicks into place. The silence settles around you like something physical, something you both have to adjust to.

You don't ask how the flight was. Don't ask if he's hungry, if he needs anything, if the press tour had been brutal, if the fans at the gate had been overwhelming.

Not yet.

You just put the car in drive and pull away from the curb, merging into the airport traffic with the ease of someone who's done this route a hundred times.

Beside you, Joe lets out a breath. Long. Slow. Like he's been holding it since he stepped off the plane.

The motorway unfurls in front of you, a ribbon of wet asphalt reflecting the red taillights of the cars ahead. Streetlights pass in rhythm, casting shadows that move across his face - illuminating, then hiding, then illuminating again. His profile. The slope of his nose. The dark circles under his eyes that you can see even in the fractured light. The way his fingers rest on his thigh, motionless, not tapping, not restless - just still in a way that feels wrong on him. Joe's hands are never still. They move when he talks, when he thinks, when he breathes. These hands are dead weight.

You glance at him. Look back at the road. Say nothing.

You pass an exit for a roadside restaurant you'd been to together once, months ago, before the tour had swallowed him whole. You remember him laughing at something you'd said, remember the way his knee had pressed against yours under the table. That version of him feels distant now, like a photograph of a person you used to know.

But you don't reach for the old version. You don't try to pull him back to a memory. You just drive, letting the silence be what it is - not empty, not heavy, just a space you can both exist in without performing.

Fifteen minutes pass. Maybe twenty. The motorway gives way to residential streets, familiar turns, the oak tree with the twisted branch, the corner shop with the flickering sign. Home territory. The last mile.

Joe shifts in his seat. You feel him looking at you before you see it- the weight of his gaze on your profile, studying you the way you'd studied him.

"You're not going to ask," he says. Not accusatory. Just observant, like he's testing a theory.

"I'm not going to ask," you agree.

A pause. The heating hums.

"Why?"

You consider the question. Take the last turn onto your street, the tyres crunching over gravel and fallen leaves. The headlights sweep across your garage door - closed, waiting, familiar.

"Because you'll tell me when you want to," you say. "And right now you look like you need to not talk more than you need to explain anything."

He doesn't respond. But you hear him breathe again - that same long exhale, like you've given him permission for something he didn't know he was asking for.

The garage door creaks open as you pull into the driveway, the automatic light clicking on, illuminating the cluttered space - your bike leaning against the wall, a stack of boxes you still haven't unpacked from when he'd moved in, the dusty shelf of tools he'd promised to organise. You pull in and cut the engine.

The silence changes. The absence of the road noise, the absence of movement - just the two of you, sitting in the dark garage, the engine ticking as it cools. The garage light hums overhead, fluorescent and unflattering, casting everything in a pale, washed-out glow.

Joe doesn't move to get out.

You don't prompt him. You sit, your hands still on the wheel, your gaze fixed on the wall ahead. You can feel him beside you - the heat of him, the weight of his presence, the small sounds of his breathing. You wait.

His hand moves. You see it in your peripheral vision - his fingers uncurling from his thigh, reaching across the centre console, finding your arm. His touch lands light, his palm resting just below your elbow, his thumb brushing a slow arc across the fabric of your jumper.

You turn your hand over, palm up, an invitation.

He takes it. His fingers intertwine with yours, cold from the airport, from the hours of holding nothing. His grip tightens. Holds.

"I missed this," he says, so quiet you almost miss it. "I missed-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again. "I missed being able to just... sit. And not have to be anything."

You squeeze his hand. Your thumb finds the inside of his wrist, the place where his pulse beats steadily against your skin. "You don't have to be anything here."

He nods. A single jerky motion. His jaw is tight; you can see it now - the muscle jumping along the line of his cheek, the way he's holding himself together by sheer force of will. You don't call attention to it. You just hold his hand, letting the silence do what conversation can't.

Two more minutes pass. The garage light clicks off, sensing no movement, plunging you into darkness for a beat before clicking back on. The cycle of it. The patience of it.

Finally, you hear him unbuckle his seatbelt. The sound is loud in the quiet - a sharp metallic click that signals a shift. But he doesn't move to get out. He just sits there, his hand still in yours, his gaze fixed on the garage wall.

"I'm glad you were the one picking me up," he says. His voice is rough. Tired. Real. "I don't think I could have done the small talk. The smile-for-the-camera routine. Not tonight."

"I know."

He turns to look at you, then - really look, his hazel eyes finding yours in the dim light. There is something raw in them, something unguarded, like he's forgotten to put the mask back on. You meet his gaze and hold it, letting him see that you see it, letting him know that you aren't afraid of what he's showing you.

"Come on," you say softly. "Let's go inside."

He nods. His hand slips from yours, and the absence of his touch feels like a small loss, a thread cut. He reaches for the door handle. Pauses.

"Hey."

You wait.

"Thanks. For not-" He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the car, the drive, the silence, the whole evening. "For this."

You smile. Small. Warm. "Always."

He pushes the door open, and the cold air rushes in, sharp and clean, carrying the smell of wet leaves and winter. You watch him step out, watch him walk to the back of the car to grab his duffel, watch the way his shoulders straighten as he stands - not in performance, but in preparation. The small gathering of himself before the next threshold.

You unbuckle your own seatbelt and follow.

The cold hits you the moment you step out - a January bite that finds the exposed skin at your wrists and the back of your neck. You pull your jumper tighter around yourself, the wool scratchy against your palms, and round the front of the car. Joe stands at the back, his duffel slung over one shoulder, his other hand resting on the open boot as if he needs something to anchor himself to.

The garage light hums above you, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Your bike leans against the wall, a spiderweb glistening in the corner, the stack of boxes still waiting to be unpacked. You'd meant to organise them while he was gone. Hadn't found the energy. Now you're glad - the familiar clutter feels like proof that life has continued here, ordinary and unglamorous, waiting for him to return to it.

You walk towards him, your feet silent on the cold concrete. He doesn't look up until you're close enough to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his stubble has grown past careful into something rougher, less tended to. He'd stopped shaving mid-tour, probably. You've seen the photos - the carefully curated scruff that looks good under studio lights. This is different. This is neglect. This is a man who's stopped bothering with the small rituals of upkeep because he's too exhausted.

"You want me to grab anything?" you ask, nodding at the duffel.

He shakes his head. "Got it."

You don't argue. You step back, giving him room, and watch as he closes the boot with his free hand. The sound echoes in the garage - metal meeting metal, final and dull. He stands there for a moment, hand still resting on the closed boot, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. You see the crease between his brows, the one that appears when he's thinking too hard, when he's trying to solve a problem that doesn't have a solution. It's deeper than she remember. More permanent.

You wait.

His hand drops from the boot. He turns towards you, and for a second, something passes across his face - a flicker of uncertainty, as if he isn't sure what comes next, as if the script he's been following for weeks has run out of pages. You know that look. Have seen it before, in the early days, when he'd first started staying over and didn't know the rhythm of your place yet. He's learning a new space again. The space of being home.

"The light," he says, gesturing with his chin toward the automatic sensor. "It keeps turning off."

You glance up at the fixture. "Yeah. The sensor's been acting up. I keep meaning to replace it."

"I can do that."

"You don't have to."

"I know." He shifts the duffel on his shoulder. "I want to."

It's such a small thing - replacing a light sensor. But you hear what he isn't saying: he wants to do something useful. Wants to feel like he belongs here again, like he has a role to fill beyond the one he's just left. You understand. You feel it yourself, after long trips, the need to reassert your place in your own home by touching things, fixing things, making them yours again.

"Okay," you say. "We'll drive to the hardware store tomorrow."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. There and gone. But you see it.

The garage light clicks off, plunging you into darkness for a moment before the sensor catches your movement and clicks back on. You think about how many times you've stood here alone, waiting for the light to come back, and how different it feels with him beside you.

"Ready?" you ask.

He takes a breath. Lets it out. Nods.

"Yeah."

You turn towards the door that leads into the house - the familiar wood with the scratched paint near the handle, the one you've been meaning to repaint for a year now. You read for the knob, and behind you, you hear Joe's footsteps on the concrete, following.

The key turns in the lock. The door swings open, revealing the dark hallway beyond, the faint outline of the coat hooks, the pile of mail you'd left on the entry table. Home. Waiting.

You step inside and hold the door open for him.

The door clicks shut behind him, the latch settling into the frame with a sound you've heard a thousand times but never noticed until now. The hallway light is off - you hadn't switched it on, relying on the spill from the garage through the small window near the top of the door. It casts a thin, bluish rectangle across the floorboards, illuminating the dust motes that drift in the still air.

Joe stands just inside the threshold, his duffel still slung over one shoulder, his free hand resting on the doorframe as if he needs to brace himself against the act of crossing. The garage light flickers behind him, the faulty sensor cycling through its familiar rhythm - on, off, on - before finally settling into a steady hum.

You toe your shoes off and let your keys fall into the ceramic dish on the entry table. The sound is small, ordinary, the kind of noise that belongs to this house and this life. The pile of mail you'd left there - a utility bill, a flyer for a new pizza place, a postcard from a friend travelling in Portugal - shifts slightly under the weight. You don't look at it. You look at him.

His eyes are on the floor, on the worn boards near his feet, on the spot where the finish has worn thin from years of footsteps. His chest rises and falls with a breath that seems to cost him something. The duffel's strap cuts into his shoulder, pulling his shirt collar askew, revealing the edge of a collarbone you want to touch but don't.

You turn to face him fully. The movement is unhurried, a rotation that brings your shoulders square to his, your feet planted on the cold floor. Your socks make no sound against the wood. The house is quiet around you - the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, the distant tick of the wall clock in the living room, the small settling sounds of a building adjusting to the winter night.

You open your arms.

No words. No explanation. No "come here" or "it's okay" or "let me hold you." Just your palms turning upward, your elbows bending, your chest opening in an invitation that asks for nothing in return. The gesture is simple, almost casual - the same way you might reach for him on the couch or in bed - but there is a stillness in it that makes it something else. Something deliberate. Something offered.

He stares at your hands.

For a long moment, he doesn't move. His gaze travels from your palms to your face, and you see the question in his eyes - the wariness of someone who's been performing so long he's forgotten how to accept something genuine. His jaw works. The muscle along his cheek jumps once, twice. His hand tightens on the doorframe.

You don't lower your arms. You don't fill the silence with reassurance. You just stand there, your palms open, your breath steady, your body saying the only thing that matters: I'm here. I see you. You don't have to earn this.

The duffel slides off his shoulder.

It hits the floor with a heavy thud - the sound of clothes and a laptop and the accumulated weight of weeks on the road landing in a heap on the entryway floorboards. He doesn't look at it. Doesn't reach for it. He just lets it lie there, a discarded shell, and takes a step towards you.

The distance between you closes in increments you can measure in heartbeats. One step. His hand leaves the doorframe. Another step. His shoulders curve forwards, the posture you'd seen in the airport, the one that says he's trying to take up less space than he needs. Another step. His breath hitches - just once, a small catch in the rhythm of his breathing, the kind of sound a person makes when they're trying very hard not to fall apart.

You hold your ground. Your arms stay open. Your palms stay turned towards him, empty and waiting.

He crosses the last inch of air between you.

His body meets yours with a force that surprises you - not impact, but surrender. The full weight of him falling forward, his chest pressing against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist with an almost desperate grip, his face burying into the curve of your neck. His knees buckle slightly, and you feel him sag against you, all the tension he's been carrying for weeks finally finding somewhere to land.

Your arms close around him.

The fit is familiar - the width of his back, the slope of his shoulders, the way his head fits perfectly into the hollow of your throat. You've held him a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, but this is different. This is a homecoming. This is him trusting you with the part of himself he shows no one else.

His hands press flat against your lower back, fingers spreading, gripping the fabric of your jumper as if he's afraid you might disappear. His breath is warm against your neck, uneven, coming in jagged fragments that you feel more than hear. He isn't crying - not yet - but there is a tremble in his body, a fine vibration that runs through his muscles like a current, the aftermath of holding himself together for too long.

You rest your cheek against the side of his head. His hair is soft against your skin, still carrying the faint smell of airport air - recirculated oxygen and jet fuel and the synthetic freshness of a plane cabin. But underneath it, there is him. The familiar scent of his skin, the one you've missed in the weeks he's been gone, the one you've caught yourself searching for on his pillow when you can't sleep.

Joe's forehead finds your shoulder. The gesture is instinctiv - a seeking, a settling, a final surrender of the last defences he's been holding. His nose presses into the fabric of your jumper, and you feel the warmth of his breath through the wool, a rhythmic pulse that begins to slow as the seconds pass.

Your hand moves up his spine, fingers trailing over the ridges of his vertebrae, counting them the way you've done a hundred times before. You reach the nape of his neck, where his hair grows softer, and the skin is warm, and let your palm rest there. A grounding point. An anchor.

He makes a sound against your shoulder. Not a word. A small, broken thing, half exhalation and half sob, muffled by the wool of your jumper. You feel it more than hear it - the tremor that passes through his chest, the way his arms tighten around your waist, the way his body presses closer, as if he's trying to climb inside your ribcage and live there.

You don't say anything. Don't shush him. Don't tell him it's okay. You just hold him, your palm warm against his neck, your other hand resting flat on his back, feeling the rhythm of his breathing against your palm. Letting him take what he needs.

A minute passes. Maybe two. Time loses its edges in the dim hallway, the only light the pale rectangle from the garage window, the only sound the soft rustle of his breathing and the distant hum of the fridge. The duffel lies at your feet, a dark lump on the floor, forgotten. The pile of mail remains untouched on the entry table. The coat hooks cast a long shadow against the wall, and somewhere in the living room, the clock ticks forward, measuring time you aren't paying attention to.

Joe's grip loosens. Just slightly. His hands relax from fists into flat palms, the tension draining out of his fingers in stages. His forehead stays pressed against your shoulder, but his breathing has steadied, the jagged edges smoothing into something closer to sleep than distress.

You turn your head, just enough to press your lips to his hair. The kiss is light, barely there, a brush of warmth against the crown of his head. You let your mouth linger for a moment, breathing him in, before pulling back to rest your cheek against him again.

His hand moves. The one that had been gripping the small of your back slides around your hip, his fingers finding the hem of your jumper, slipping underneath to touch the bare skin of your waist. His palm is cold - the cold of the airport, of the car, of the walk from the garage - but it warms quickly against your body, his fingers pressing into your skin with a gentleness that feels like a question.

You answer by pressing closer. By letting your hand slide from his neck to his jaw, your fingertips tracing the line of his stubble, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the soft skin beneath his eye. He closes his eyes at the touch - you feel the flutter of his lashes against your fingertips - and lets out a breath that seems to carry the last of the tension from his shoulders.

The duffel lies on the floor. The door is closed. The garage light has clicked off, finding no movement, and the hallway is dark except for the thin seam of light beneath the door. You stand in the shadow, two bodies learning each other again, the silence between you filled with everything you haven't said and don't need to.

His thumb traces a slow arc across the skin of your waist. A single motion, repeated once, twice, three times. A pattern. A reassurance. A way of saying I'm here without using words he doesn't have.

You let your fingers drift into his hair, combing through the tangled strands, working out a small knot near the base of his skull. He leans into the touch, his weight shifting further into you, and you feel the last of the resistance leave his body - the final surrender of a man who has finally, fully, come home.

His forehead is warm against your shoulder. His breath is slow and even, warming the fabric of your jumper. His arms are loose around your waist, no longer gripping, just resting, just holding.

You hold him back.

The duffel waits on the floor. The mail waits on the table. The rest of the house stretches out behind you - the kitchen with its unwashed dishes, the living room with the blanket still draped over the couch where you'd slept some nights, the bedroom with the bed you'd made that morning, not knowing when he'd be in it. All of it waiting. All of it patient.

But here, in this dim hallway, with his weight against you and his breath in your hair, nothing else exists. Just this. Just you. Just the slow, steady rhythm of two people breathing together, the silence holding you like a room with no walls.

His voice comes finally - rough, barely above a whisper, muffled against your shoulder.

"Can we stay like this?"

Your arms tighten around him once - a squeeze, a confirmation, a promise sealed without words. Then you pull back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding from his back to his shoulders, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone before coming to rest on his chest. His eyes are still closed, his forehead still pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against the column of your throat. You let your gaze travel over him - the dark crescents beneath his lashes, the slight part of his lips, the way his features have softened into something almost childlike in their surrender.

"Yes," you say. The word is quiet, barely more than a breath, but it lands in the space between you like a stone dropping into still water. "We can stay like this."

Joe's hand presses flat against your lower back, a small acknowledgement, a thank-you spoken through his palm.

You let the silence hold you for another moment - one more breath, one more heartbeat, one more second of the world reduced to the warmth of his body against yours. Then your hand moves. Slides from his chest to his shoulder, down his arm, your fingers trailing over the fabric of his jacket until you reach his wrist. You wrap your hand around it - not gripping, just holding, your thumb resting in the hollow where his pulse beats steady and slow.

"Come with me," you say.

He opens his eyes. Lifts his head. Looks at you with that raw, unguarded gaze that makes your chest ache. There's no question in his expression, no hesitation - just a quiet trust, the kind that comes from knowing he doesn't have to understand where you're going, only that you're leading.

You tug gently. A small pull, an invitation. His feet move, following your lead, his hand turning beneath yours so his fingers can intertwine with yours. The duffel lies forgotten on the floor behind you, a dark lump in the dim light. You don't look back. Neither does he.

You step past him, turning towards the living room, your fingers still laced with his. The hallway is narrow - familiar, worn, the walls close enough that your shoulder brushes against the textured wallpaper as you pass. A photograph hangs crooked on the wall, a candid shot of you at a farm shop last summer, his arm around your waist, your head thrown back in laughter. You meant to straighten it. Never have. Now it feels right, that small imperfection, that proof of a life lived without posing.

Joe's footsteps follow yours, unhurried, the soft scuff of his sneakers against the floorboards. His grip on your hand is loose but present - a connection, not a restraint. You can feel his gaze on the back of your head, on your shoulders, on the curve of your spine as you lead him forwards. You don't turn around. You let him look. Let him find his way back into this space through the shape of you.

The hallway opens into the living room, and you feel the shift in the air - the change from the narrow corridor to the broader space, the warmth of the radiator clicking in the corner, the faint smell of the candle you'd burned earlier that evening. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in the pale glow of the streetlight, casting long rectangles of gold across the hardwood floor. The room is quiet in the way only a room that has been empty for weeks could be - a stillness that feels like waiting, like the furniture has been holding its breath for Joe's return.

The couch sits against the far wall, the same one you'd bought together at a thrift store two years ago, its faded blue upholstery worn soft from use. The blanket you've been using is draped over one arm, a cream-colored throw that has pooled on the cushions when you'd gotten up for water and never folded. A mug sits on the side table, cold now, a ring of coffee staining the wood. You'd left your book face-down on the armrest, spine cracked, page marked, a life paused in the middle of a sentence.

You stop at the edge of the rug - the threadbare Persian one you'd found at a car boot sale, the one with the faded medallion pattern that Joe always says looks like a target. He'd laughed the first time he saw it. You remember the sound. Remember wanting to bottle it.

You turn to face him.

He stands a step behind you, still holding your hand, his shoulders curved in that posture you've come to recognise as his default after long days. The streetlight catches the side of his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the way his hair falls across his forehead in tangled strands. His eyes are on you, soft and dark and full of something he isn't saying.

You lift your joined hands and press a kiss to his knuckles. The gesture is small, almost unconscious, but you feel his breath catch - a tiny hitch, a moment of surprise at being touched so gently, at being treated like something precious.

"Sit down," you say. "I'll get you some water."

He shakes his head. "Don't-" His voice cracks again, and he clears his throat, looking down at your hands. "Don't leave."

The words hang in the air between you. Simple. Bare. A confession of need dressed as a request.

You let go of his hand and reach up, your palms finding his cheeks, cradling his face with a tenderness that makes his eyes flutter closed. His stubble is rough against your skin, unfamiliar after weeks without touching it, but his warmth is the same, the fit of his face in your hands as natural as breathing.

"I'm not going anywhere," you say.

He leans into your touch, his hands coming up to cover yours, pressing your palms more firmly against his cheeks. A long exhale escapes him, carrying the last of the tension from his shoulders, and you watch him soften - watch the rigid lines of his posture melt into something pliant and trusting.

"Okay," he says. The word is quiet. Resigned in the best way, the resignation of someone who has finally stopped fighting.

You guide him backwards, your hands still on his face, your steps slow and deliberate, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch. He drops onto the cushions without resistance, his hands falling from yours, his body sinking into the familiar dip of the seat you've spent hundreds of evenings on. The blanket pools against his hip, and he reaches for it instinctively, his fingers finding the edge of the fabric and holding it like an anchor.

You stand in front of him, looking down at the way the streetlight paints shadows across his features. He looks smaller here, in this room, in the context of your shared life - not diminished, but relieved of the weight of performance. The couch is too soft, the cushions too worn, and he's wearing the same band t-shirt he'd worn on the flight, the collar stretched, a small stain near the hem. He looks like he belongs here. Like he'd never left.

You move around the coffee table, your feet silent on the rug, and settle onto the couch beside him. Not too close - you give him space, let him decide how much contact he needs. But close enough that your knee brushes his, a point of connection he can choose to deepen or ignore.

He chooses to deepen.

He shifts, turning towards you, his hand finding your thigh and resting there with a weight that feels deliberate. His palm is warm through the fabric of your joggers, his fingers curling slightly, gripping the softness of your leg as if you're a fixed point in a world that has been spinning too fast.

"Can I-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again. "Can I put my head in your lap?"

The question is small, almost shy, and it undoes you in a way you don't expect. This is the same man who commands stages, who holds the attention of thousands, who has been photographed and interviewed and analysed from every angle. And here he is, asking permission to rest his head in your lap like a child seeking comfort from a nightmare.

"Yes," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you'd intended, thick with an emotion you don't try to name.

He moves slowly, the way a man moves when he's running on empty, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He shifts his weight, twists his torso, and lowers himself onto his side, his head finding your thigh with an accuracy that speaks of practice. He'd done this before - in the early days, when you'd spend whole Sundays on this couch, reading and talking and falling asleep in the afternoon light. His body remembers the shape of this position, the way his shoulders fit against the cushion edge, the way his spine curves to accommodate the length of the seat.

His head settles in your lap, the weight of it familiar and grounding. His hair spills across your thigh, dark against the cream fabric of your joggers, and you watch his eyes close as he lets out a breath that seems to carry the last of the day's defences with it.

Your hand finds his hair before you consciously decide to move it. Your fingers comb through the tangled strands, working through a knot near his temple with a patience that feels like a prayer. His hair is longer than it had been when he left - he hadn't gotten his usual trim before the tour, and it shows in the way it curls at the ends, brushing against his collar and falling across his forehead in waves you have to push back to see his face.

He makes a sound. A small, hummed note of contentment, the kind of sound a person makes when they're finally, truly comfortable. His hand finds your knee, his palm resting against the joint, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on the fabric.

"I forgot what this felt like," he says, his voice muffled against your thigh. "Being cared about by someone who-" He pauses, searching for words. "Someone who isn't getting paid to do it."

You don't laugh. Don't brush it off with a joke. You just keep your fingers moving through his hair, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a rhythm you've learned from trial and error, from the nights he'd come home wired and unable to sleep, from the mornings he'd woken up with his head in your lap and asked you to stay there a little longer.

"I thought about you," he says. The words come out fragmented, like he's testing them as he speaks. "On the road. In the hotels. Between interviews. I'd lie in bed and try to remember what it felt like to just-" He gestured vaguely, his hand waving near his chest. "To just be held. Without the performance. Without having to give anything back."

"And?"

He's quiet for a long moment. His thumb stops moving on your knee. His breath evens out, slowing, deepening into something that sounds almost like sleep.

"I couldn't," he says finally. "I couldn't remember. I knew it existed. I knew I'd felt it before. But I couldn't-" His voice cracks, and he stops, pressing his face harder against your thigh. "I couldn't feel it."

You feel the wetness before you understand it - the warmth of a tear soaking through the fabric of your joggers, spreading against your skin. You don't look down. Don't call attention to it. You just keep your hand moving through his hair, your fingers steady, your touch soft.

"I'm here now," you say. "You don't have to remember. You can just feel it."

His hand finds yours, pulling it from his hair, pressing your palm against his chest. You feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt - steady, strong, alive. His fingers curl around your hand, holding it there, keeping you anchored to the rhythm of him.

"I love you," he says. The words come out raw, scraped clean of performance, bare in a way that makes the air in the room change. "I don't say it enough. I don't- I don't show it enough. But I love you. And I-" He takes a shaky breath. "I don't know how to be the person who deserves the way you love me."

You lower your head, pressing your lips to his hair, letting the kiss linger. Your thumb traces the line of his collarbone, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric.

"You don't have to deserve it," you say. "You just have to let yourself have it."

His hand tightens on yours, and you feel the shudder that runs through him - a release, a surrender, a letting go of something he's been carrying for longer than you could know. You hold him through it, your body a container for his grief, your presence a promise that he doesn't have to carry it alone.

The clock ticks on the wall, measuring time in increments that feel both infinite and irrelevant. The streetlight shifts as a cloud passes overhead, dimming the room for a moment before brightening again. Somewhere outside, a car passes, its headlights sweeping across the curtains before fading into the night.

Joe's breathing slows. Deepens. His hand relaxes around yours, his grip loosening into something more like resting than holding. His body settles against you, his weight becoming heavier, more trusting, as the tension of the last weeks slowly bleeds out of him and into the cushions beneath you.

You watch his face in the dim light - the way his features soften in sleep, the way the lines around his eyes smooth out, the way his lips part slightly as his breath evens into the rhythm of rest. He looks younger like this. Lighter. Like the version of himself that existed before the cameras and the crowds and the constant pressure to be someone other than who he is.

Your hand continues its slow path through his hair, your fingers mapping the familiar territory of his scalp, the curve of his ear, the soft skin behind it. You don't stop. Don't slow. You keep touching him, keep proving that he's here, that he's home, that the world hadn't ended while he was gone.

Minutes pass. The clock ticks. The radiator clicks and hums. The streetlight throws its steady beam across the floor, and the dust drifts in the pale light, suspended and unhurried.

His hand moves. Not much - just his fingers curling around the hem of your joggers, holding the fabric like a child holding a blanket. A small gesture. An unconscious seeking of comfort.

You cover his hand with yours, threading your fingers together over your thigh, and let your eyes close. You don't sleep - not quite - but you let yourself drift in the warm, quiet space of having him back. The weight of his head. The warmth of his hand. The slow rhythm of his breathing, syncing with yours in a cadence that feels older than words.

The book on the armrest waits to be finished. The cold mug of coffee on the side table waits to be washed. The unpacked boxes in the garage wait for another day. None of it matters. None of it exists beyond the boundaries of this room, this couch, this man sleeping in yur lap.

You press another kiss to his hair, letting your lips linger, and feel his hand tighten around yours in response - a reflex, an acknowledgement, a small confirmation that even in sleep, he knows you're there.

"Welcome home," you whisper against his hair.

You feel the shift before you hear it - a change in the weight of him, a small tension returning to muscles that had been slack with sleep. His fingers curl against your thigh, not quite gripping, just moving, a subconscious return to awareness. His breath changes, deepens, and you feel the precise moment he surfaces from sleep into the grey space between dreaming and waking.

You don't stop the motion of her fingers through his hair. Keep the rhythm steady, your nails grazing his scalp in the same slow pattern, letting him find his way back at his own pace. The streetlight has shifted, the rectangle of gold on the floor now stretching towards the wall, and the room has grown cooler, the radiator's heat fading into the winter night.

Joe's hand moves from your knee to your shin, his palm sliding down the curve of your calf, his fingers wrapping around your ankle like he's checking that you're still there, still solid, still real. His thumb presses into the bone, a small pressure, an anchor.

You look down at him. His eyes are still closed, but there's a wakefulness in his face now, a subtle shift in the set of his jaw. His lips part, close, part again, as if he's testing whether he has words ready.

"Hey," you say. Your voice is quiet, a thread of sound in the dark room.

His eyes open.

They find yours immediately, as if he'd known exactly where you would be. His gaze is soft, still blurred with sleep, but there's something else in it now - a warmth that had been buried under exhaustion, surfacing like light through receding water. He looks at you for a long moment, his hand still wrapped around your ankle, his head heavy in your lap.

"Hey," he says back. His voice is rough, sleep still clinging to the edges of it.

You smile. Small. Just for him.

He doesn't smile back. But his hand moves - sliding from your ankle up your calf, over your knee, coming to rest on your thigh. His palm is warm through the fabric, and his fingers press into the softness of your leg with a weight that feels like intention.

You watch his hand. Watch the way his fingers spread, gripping your thigh with a new possessiveness that hadn't been there in the sleepy vulnerability of the past hour. His thumb traces a slow arc on the inside of your leg, the pressure firm enough to feel through the joggers.

You look at his face. His eyes are on your mouth.

Something shifts in the air between you. The room doesn't change - the same streetlight, the same dust motes, the same ticking clock - but the quality of the silence alters, thickens, becomes something you can lean into.

Joe's hand tightens on your thigh. A small pull, a request.

You lower your head towards him, your hair falling forwards, brushing against his cheek. You pause an inch from his mouth, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to see the slight part of his lips, the way his eyes are dropped half-closed, waiting.

"Tell me what you want," you say.

His hand slides up your thigh, over your hip, finding your waist. He tugs, a gentle but insistent pull, drawing you down towards him. You let yourself be moved, your body bending over his, your hands finding the cushions on either side of his head.

His hand comes up to your face. His palm presses against your cheek, his fingers threading into your hair, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. He looks at you like he's memorising you, like the light in this room is the only light he trusts.

"I want to kiss you," he says. "I want to feel you. I want to remember what it's like to want someone without performing it."

You hold his gaze. Let the words settle.

Then you close the distance.

The kiss starts soft - a brush of lips, a question asked through pressure rather than sound. Joe's mouth is warm, slightly chapped from the dry air of planes and hotels, and he tastes like the faint residue of coffee and exhaustion. You keep it gentle, your lips moving against his with a slowness that feels like reverence, your hand finding his jaw and cradling it the way you'd done earlier, in the hallway.

He makes a sound. Small. Lost. A noise that starts in his chest and escapes through his nose, a vibration against your mouth that you feel in your own ribs.

His hand tightens in your hair. Not pulling, just holding, like you're something precious he's afraid of dropping. His other hand finds your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your jumper, bunching it in his fist.

You deepen the kiss. Press harder. Your tongue traces the seam of his lips, and he opens for you without hesitation, a surrender so complete it makes your breath catch. His mouth is warm and familiar and new all at once, a taste you'd been missing without knowing how much.

His hand slides under your jumper. His palm presses flat against the small of your back, his fingers spreading, pulling you closer. The contact is skin on skin, his hand warm against your spine, and you feel the shudder that runs through him at the touch.

You break the kiss. Just far enough to look at him. His lips are slightly swollen, his eyes dark and open, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that's faster than before.

"Come to bed," you say.

It isn't a question.

Joe's answer is in the way he moves - sitting up, his hand finding yours, his body turning towards the hallway without letting go of you. The blanket falls away from his lap, pooling on the cushion, forgotten. His hair is a mess, tousled from sleep and your fingers, and the streetlight catches the hollow of his throat as he swallows.

You stand, and he stands with you. His hand stays wrapped around yours, and you lead him through the living room, past the coffee table with the cold mug, past the book face-down on the armrest, past the photograph hanging crooked on the wall. The hallway opens in front of you, narrow and familiar, and you feel his gaze on the back of your head, on the curve of your spine, on the way your hips move as you walk.

The bedroom door is open. The room beyond is dark except for the thin seam of light from the hallway, cutting across the foot of the bed, illuminating the corner of the dresser and the edge of the frame holding a photograph you can't quite make out. The bed is made - you'd done it that morning, a small ritual, a gesture of hope that he would be in it tonight.

You step inside, pulling him with you. The door clicks shut behind you, and the darkness deepens, the only light the faint glow from the window where the curtains haven't been fully drawn. The streetlight filters through, casting long shadows across the floor, painting the room in shades of silver and grey.

You turn to face him.

He stands in the dark room, a silhouette against the pale light from the window. You can see the outline of his shoulders, the way his hands hang at his sides, the slight forward tilt of his posture. He's waiting. Not for permission - for direction. For you to tell him this was real.

You reach for the hem of your jumper. Pull it over your head in one motion, letting it fall to the floor. The air is cool against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, and you stand before him in just your bra, your skin warm in the dim light.

Joe's breath catches. Audible. A sharp intake that he doesn't try to hide.

He steps forward. His hands find your waist, his palms sliding up your ribs, his thumbs tracing the underwire of your bra. He doesn't unhook it - just touches you, his fingers mapping the curve of your breasts through the fabric, his gaze fixed on the place where his hands meet your skin.

"You're so beautiful," he says. The words are quiet, almost to himself, as if he's surprised by the truth of them.

You reach for his shirt. The hem is worn, the fabric soft from a hundred washes. You lift it, and he raises his arms, letting you pull it over his head. It joins your jumper on the floor, a pile of dark fabric in the shadowed room.

His chest is pale in the dim light. Lean, the muscles defined but not exaggerated, the kind of body that comes from movement rather than the gym. A scar you remember from a childhood accident, a thin white line near his collarbone. A scatter of freckles across his shoulders. The hollow at the base of his throat, where his pulse beats visibly against his skin.

You press your palm to his chest. Feel his heartbeat beneath your hand, strong and quick. His skin is warm, warmer than the air, and you let your hand slide down, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his jeans.

His hand covers yours. His fingers intertwine with yours, pressing your palm against the button of his jeans.

"I want to feel you," he says. His voice is rough, the words scraping past something raw in his throat. "I want to feel all of you. I want to-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again, his hand tightening around yours. "I want to be close to you. As close as I can get."

You unfasten his jeans. The button gives easily, the zipper sliding down with a sound that cuts through the silence. You push the denim down his hips, and he steps out of them, kicking them aside, standing in just his boxers in the pale silver light.

Joe's hands find your waist again. This time, he doesn't stop at your bra. His fingers find the clasp at your back, unhook it with a practised ease that makes you smile in the dark, and the straps slide down your shoulders. You let it fall, let it join the pile on the floor, and stand before him bare from the waist up.

His hands come up to cup your breasts. His thumbs brush across your nipples, once, twice, a touch so light it makes you shiver. He watches his own hands, watches the way your breath hitches at his touch, and you see something shift in his expression - a hunger surfacing, raw and honest and unguarded.

"I missed your hands," you say. The words come out before you can stop them, a confession you hadn't meant to make.

He looks up at you. His eyes are dark, the pupils wide, the hazel nearly swallowed by black. He doesn't say anything. He just pulls you closer, his mouth finding yours, and the kiss is different this time - harder, needier, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperation that borders on bruising.

His hands slide down your back, over your ass, gripping you through your joggers. He pulls you against him, and you feel him - hard, pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of his boxers. The evidence of his desire, unguarded, unmistakable.

You break the kiss. Step back. Your hands find the waistband of your joggers, push them down along with your underwear, and step out of them. You're naked now, standing in the dark room with the streetlight painting your body in silver, and you watch his gaze travel over you - your thighs, your hips, the curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs.

Joe's boxers follow. He pushes them down, kicks them aside, and stands before you in the same silver light, his cock hard and waiting, the tip glistening in the dim glow.

You reach out. Your fingers wrap around him, light at first, just a touch, a greeting. He's warm in your hand, solid, and you feel the tremor that runs through his body at the contact. His head falls back, his eyes closing, his hand finding your shoulder for balance.

"I want you inside me," you say.

The words hang in the air, simple and direct, and you feel the effect they have on him - the way his breath catches, the way his cock twitches in your hand, the way his hand tightens on your shoulder.

You lead him backwards to the bed. Your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and you climb onto it; the sheets cool against your skin. You lay back, your hair spreading across the pillow, your legs parting in an invitation that needs no words.

He follows you onto the bed, his body covering yours, his weight a familiar pressure. His elbows bracket your head, his forearms taking his weight, his chest brushing against yours with every breath. He looks down at you, his face inches from yours, his eyes searching your expression for something you can't name.

"Are you sure?" he asks. The question is quiet, almost fragile, the vulnerability from earlier resurfacing.

You reach up. Your hand finds his cheek, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

"I've never been more sure of anything," you say.

Joe lowers his head, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes close. He breathes you in - a long, slow inhale that seems to fill him with something he'd been missing. When he opens his eyes, they're soft, full of a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

He shifts his weight. His hand moves between you, guiding himself, and you feel the head of his cock press against you - not inside yet, just resting at your entrance, a question waiting for an answer.

You lift your hips. A small motion, a yes.

He pushes inside you.

The stretch is familiar and new at once, the way your body opens for him, the way he fills you. He moves slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You feel every increment of his entry, every ridge and vein, the heat of him spreading through you like warmth through cold glass.

When he's fully inside you, he stops. Just stops, his body still, his eyes closed, his breath shivering against your lips.

"I forgot what this felt like," he whispers. "Being this close to someone. Being-" His voice cracks. "Being wanted like this."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Your hands find his back, your nails tracing light patterns across his skin, feeling the muscles shift beneath.

"You are wanted," you say. "You're needed. You're mine."

Joe makes a sound - a low, broken groan that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest — and begins to move.

The rhythm starts slow, a gentle rocking that feels more like grinding than thrusting, a back-and-forth that lets you both find the pace. His mouth finds your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your throat, and you feel the vibration of his moans against your skin. His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with his movements.

You arch into his touch, your fingers gripping his shoulders, your breath coming in gasps that match the rhythm of his hips. The pressure builds slowly, a warmth spreading from your core through your limbs, and you feel the familiar coil tightening in your belly.

He lifts his head. Looks at you. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and wet.

"Look at me," he says. His voice is rough, a command wrapped in a plea. "Please. Look at me when you come."

You hold his gaze. Feel the weight of him above you, inside you, the heat of his body and the depth of his need. The coil tightens, tightens, and then breaks - a wave that crashes through you, your body clenching around him, your mouth falling open in a sound you can't contain.

He watches you. His eyes never leave yours, not even as his own climax builds, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, less controlled. He follows you over the edge, his body shuddering above you, his face buried in your neck as he comes with a sound that's half groan, half sob.

His weight settles on you. His breathing is ragged, his heart pounding against your ribs, his cock still inside you, softening. You wrap your arms around him, your hands cradling the back of his head, your fingers threading through his damp hair.

You both lay still, the only sound your breathing, the only movement the rise and fall of your chests. The streetlight casts its steady beam across the bed, illuminating the tangle of sheets, the curve of his spine, the way your hand rests on the back of his neck.

Joe lifts his head. Looks at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, not from crying but from the proximity of it, the closeness of the tears he's already shed and the ones still waiting.

"I love you," he says. The words are simple, stripped of everything but their truth.

You press your lips to his forehead. A kiss, soft and lingering.

"I love you too."

He lowers his head again, his cheek resting on your chest, his ear over your heart. His hand finds yours, your fingers interlocking, and you feel the last of the tension drain from his body - a long, slow exhale that seems to carry the weeks away with it.

The clock ticks in the living room. The radiator clicks. Somewhere outside, a dog barks, distant and irrelevant. The streetlight holds its steady watch, and the dust drifts in the silver light, suspended and unhurried.

Joe's breathing slows into the rhythm of sleep, his hand still holding yours, his body curled around you like you're the only safe harbour in a world that has demanded too much of him.

You press another kiss to his hair, let your eyes close, and hold him through the night.

dividers: saradika-graphics

new taglist: @whispersoflost, @teheblue, @mr-joel-keeny, @je33123, @eller41, @bluehexagon8, @n4ina-07, @prettyfortucker, @leahfaith, @keerymylove, @sexyvixen7, @writingforuandme, @oohlillie, @lacywithdrawal, @stoneyggirl2, @kurtsw7rld96

[thecruxchronicles]

Was wondering if you could do something with Steve based on Olivia Rodrigos song “Less”? Angst to fluff bc i cant deal with unresolved angst lol. Like reader doesn’t know anything about the upside down stuff and its started to eat at her. Steve notices this and thinks its best to end things because he wants to protect her and she gets frustrated wishing he wasn’t such a good guy by ending things due to something he refuses to explain because he is scared for her if she gets involved. Love your work!!:))

Nothing.

steve harrington x fem!reader

“I wish you loved me less.”

summary: Loving Steve Harrington had never been difficult. Understanding him was. When the boy who never let go of your hand starts slipping through your fingers, you’re left trying to figure out what could possibly be worth losing each other over.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, protective!steve, miscommunication, happy ending (eventually), reader doesn’t know about the upside down

a/n: Thank you Anon for this idea, inspired by Olivia Rodrigo’s "Less". This story has a happy ending. I promise. Please don’t yell at me until Part Three. ♡

Part one — nothing.

Steve Harrington had always been the first one to reach for your hand.

Crossing the street.

Walking through the Family Video parking lot after closing.

Waiting in line at the movie theater on Friday nights.

It didn’t matter.

Somewhere between point A and point B, his fingers always found yours.

The first time it happened, you’d looked down at your joined hands before glancing back up at him with a teasing smile.

“You know I can cross the street by myself, right?”

Steve had blinked, following your gaze like he’d only just realized what he’d done.

“Oh.”

His ears turned pink.

“Yeah.”

For a second, you’d thought he’d let go.

Instead, his fingers curled around yours just a little tighter.

“…Humor me?”

You laughed.

“I guess I can do that.”

After that, neither of you ever mentioned it again.

You didn’t have to.

It became one of those quiet things that simply belonged to the two of you.

As natural as Steve opening every door before you had the chance.

As predictable as you stealing fries off his plate because they somehow tasted better than yours.

As familiar as the kiss he’d press against your forehead whenever one of you had to leave, no matter how short the goodbye.

Loving Steve had never felt like work.

It had felt easy.

Comfortable.

Safe.

The kind of love you stopped noticing because it had quietly become part of your everyday life.

Maybe that was why one Friday night felt so ordinary.

A movie neither of you had been paying attention to played quietly in the background, the living room lit only by the flickering television and the lamp tucked into the corner beside the couch.

Steve had insisted on stopping for ice cream on the way over.

“Movie nights require dessert,” he’d said with complete confidence, as though it were some universally accepted law.

Now he was standing in front of your freezer, staring inside with a seriousness usually reserved for life-changing decisions.

“You want chocolate or vanilla?”

You looked up from where you’d been fluffing the throw pillows.

“Steve.”

“What?”

“You’ve asked me that three times.”

He frowned.

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I asked once.”

“Three.”

He reached in anyway, pulling out both cartons before shutting the freezer with his hip.

“I still think chocolate.”

“I always pick vanilla.”

“Exactly.”

He carried both over to the couch before handing you the vanilla with a dramatic sigh.

“Which is why every once in a while I have to make sure you haven’t come to your senses.”

You laughed.

“I like vanilla.”

“You tolerate vanilla.”

“I love vanilla.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“And what makes you the expert?”

“Because…” He pointed his spoon at you. “…you always steal mine.”

You opened your mouth to argue.

Then closed it again.

“…I hate that you’re right.”

“I know.”

His grin was impossibly smug.

By the end of the movie, your spoon had somehow wandered into his carton more than once.

Steve caught you the third time.

“I’m just saying…”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“…if someone likes chocolate ice cream…”

“I don’t.”

“…they probably shouldn’t eat half of mine.”

“I’m quality testing.”

“For an hour?”

“Mhm.”

“So what’s the verdict?”

You took another bite before answering.

“…Needs more testing.”

Steve laughed.

Really laughed.

The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his shoulders shake.

“I can’t believe you.”

“You love me.”

“I do love you..” 

Steve froze.

For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was the television neither of you had been watching.

His cheeks turned pink.

“I…”

He blinked.

“I mean… I just said that out loud didn’t I?”

“You did.”

You couldn’t stop smiling.

“So…”

“So…”

“You gonna take it back?”

His expression softened.

He reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before letting his hand rest gently against your cheek.

“Not a chance.”

His thumb brushed softly across your skin.

“I love you.”

Your heart melted.

“I love you too.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Steve’s smile turned suspicious.

“…You know.”

“Oh no.”

“I think this calls for a celebration.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“It absolutely does.”

Before you could stop him, he scooped a small spoonful of chocolate ice cream.

“Steve.”

“What?”

“I know that look.”

“You don’t know any look.”

“I absolutely know that look.”

“You should be worried.”

“I’m already—”

Cold ice cream landed right on the tip of your nose.

You gasped.

Steve doubled over laughing.

“Steve Harrington!”

“What?”

“You did not just—”

Another tiny dab.

This time on your cheek.

You shrieked, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and smacking him with it as he laughed harder than you’d seen in weeks.

“You brat!”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“You have chocolate ice cream all over my face!”

“I noticed.”

“You put it there!”

“Allegedly.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Then slowly reached for your own spoon.

Steve’s laughter immediately stopped.

“…Don’t.”

“Oh?”

“I know that look.”

“You don’t know any look.”

Vanilla landed squarely on his chin.

He blinked.

You blinked.

Then both of you dissolved into laughter so hard neither of you could breathe.

By the time the ice cream had somehow ended up on your noses, your cheeks, and even the sleeve of Steve’s sweatshirt, neither of you could remember who’d started it.

Still smiling, Steve reached toward you.

“You missed one.”

“I did?”

“Mhm.”

He brushed his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth.

Instead of wiping it away… He leaned forward and kissed your cheek.

Then your nose.

Your forehead.

The other cheek.

Every tiny spot he’d gotten ice cream on.

Each kiss lingered just long enough to make you laugh again.

“There.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“All better.”

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling.

“I can’t believe that’s your solution.”

“It worked.”

“It did not.”

“No?”

“No.”

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours.

“You still have ice cream on your face?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

He kissed you before you could.

When he finally pulled away, his smile was softer than before.

“…Now it’s all better.”

Sometimes you wondered if loving Steve Harrington had always been this easy or if you’d simply gotten lucky.

People talked about relationships like they were hard work.

Compromise.

Patience.

Choosing each other over and over again.

But with Steve…loving him felt as natural as breathing.

You never questioned whether he loved you.

Not once.

Not until he gave you a reason to.

Looking back, maybe that was why it took you so long to realize something had changed.

It wasn’t sudden.

There wasn’t one fight.

No forgotten anniversary.

No whispered phone calls or lipstick stains.

No single moment you could point to and say, There. That’s when everything started falling apart.

Instead…

It happened in pieces.

So small they hardly felt worth noticing.

Steve stopped finishing movies.

The first few times, you blamed Keith.

“He keep you late again?” you asked one Tuesday evening after realizing Steve hadn’t looked at the television in nearly twenty minutes.

He blinked, his attention snapping back to the living room as though he’d only just remembered where he was.

“Hm?”

“You’ve been staring at the wall.”

His eyes drifted toward the blank stretch of paint behind the television before a sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh.”

A quiet laugh escaped him.

“Guess I have.”

You nudged his shoulder.

“Long day?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t ask him to.

Instead, you curled a little closer beneath his arm, smiling when he instinctively kissed the top of your head.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“Zoning out.”

“You missed the entire second act.”

“I did?”

“Mhm.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Think you could catch me up?”

You laughed.

“I suppose.”

So you spent the next ten minutes explaining every scene he’d missed while he listened with his chin resting on top of your head, occasionally asking questions that proved he’d been paying even less attention than you’d originally thought.

By the time you finished, he looked almost… embarrassed.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I did.”

“No, I mean earlier.”

You smiled.

“I figured you were just tired.”

Steve’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

“Yeah.”

His voice was quiet.

“Just tired.”

The excuses came easily after that.

Steve was tired.

Work had been busy.

Robin had mentioned inventory week more than once.

Keith was probably being impossible.

Everyone got overwhelmed sometimes.

Everyone had off weeks.

So when Steve canceled dinner the following Friday with nothing more than an apologetic, “Something came up,” you simply smiled into the phone and told him not to worry about it.

When he showed up the next afternoon carrying your favorite candy from Family Video because he’d “felt bad,” you kissed his cheek and let it go.

When he disappeared halfway through a conversation because something outside your apartment window had caught his attention, you gently called his name until he looked back at you.

Each time…he smiled.

Each time…you believed him.

Because this was Steve.

The same Steve who reached for your hand without thinking.

The same Steve who kissed chocolate ice cream off your nose.

The same Steve who looked at you like you were the easiest decision he’d ever made.

People didn’t change overnight.

They just… got tired sometimes.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Until one Friday evening, nearly a month after your impromptu ice cream war, a knock sounded at your apartment door almost forty minutes later than you’d been expecting.

You opened it ready to tease him.

“You know, Harrington, most people call when they’re—”

The words caught in your throat.

There was a fresh cut just beneath his hairline.

Another disappeared beneath the collar of his sweater.

His knuckles were scraped raw, tiny scabs crossing over bruised skin.

And he looked…

Exhausted.

Not sleepy.

Not overworked.

Just… worn down in a way that made something deep in your chest twist painfully.

The smile he gave you was familiar.

The boy behind it wasn’t.

“Hey.”

Your eyes never left the cut above his eyebrow.

“What happened?”

His hand lifted instinctively, fingertips brushing the edge of the bandage before dropping back to his side.

“Oh.”

He offered a shrug that was far too casual.

“Nothing.”

You stared at him.

The word hung between you.

Nothing.

Lately…

Everything seemed to be nothing.

You stepped aside without another word.

Steve hesitated for only a second before stepping into your apartment.

The familiar scent of butter and garlic still lingered in the air from the pasta you’d pulled out of the oven nearly half an hour earlier. 

Two plates sat waiting on the small kitchen table.

Two glasses.

Two candles you’d lit more because Steve liked them than because either of you needed the extra light.

His eyes found the table almost immediately.

“Gonna guess…” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “…that wasn’t for one?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“No, really.”

“I know, Steve.”

He looked down at the grocery bag in his hand like he’d forgotten he was carrying it.

“I brought dessert.”

You glanced inside.

Your favorite cookies.

The little bakery across town that always sold out before noon on Saturdays.

“You drove all the way over there?”

“They had one box left.”

“You hate driving across town.”

“I know.”

“You waited forty minutes to apologize with cookies?”

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“…Maybe.”

You couldn’t help it.

You smiled back.

“You’re lucky you’re cute Harrington.”

“I’ve been told.”

“You’ve been told by yourself.”

He laughed softly.

“Guilty.”

For a moment…it felt normal.

Like the last month had only existed inside your imagination.

You ate dinner at the kitchen table.

Steve asked about your day.

You asked how Robin was.

He complained about Keith with enough dramatic storytelling to make you laugh so hard you nearly spilled your drink.

It was…easy.

So wonderfully, painfully easy…until it wasn’t.

Halfway through telling you about a customer who’d insisted The Terminator belonged in the romance section, Steve stopped talking.

Mid-sentence.

His fork hovered halfway to his mouth.

His eyes shifted toward your apartment window.

Not looking through it.

Listening.

Every muscle in his body went still.

You followed his gaze instinctively.

There was nothing there.

Just darkness.

The occasional passing car.

A porch light flickering across the street.

“Steve?”

Nothing.

“Steve.”

This time his shoulders jerked.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

He blinked.

Then looked at you as though he’d forgotten you were sitting across from him.

“Yeah.”

“You just…”

You searched for the right words.

“…left.”

Confusion crossed his face.

“I did?”

“You’ve been staring out the window for almost a minute.”

His expression tightened so briefly you almost thought you’d imagined it.

Then… it disappeared behind a smile.

“Sorry.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

You nodded slowly.

“Maybe.”

Silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just…heavier than usual.

Steve reached across the table a moment later, his fingers brushing against yours.

“I’m okay.”

You turned your hand over, intertwining your fingers with his.

“I know.”

It wasn’t a lie.

You believed him.

Or maybe…you wanted to.

Later that night, after the dishes had been washed and the movie credits rolled across the television for the second time, Steve stretched his arms over his head with a tired groan.

“I think I’m officially eighty years old.”

You laughed.

“You’re twenty.”

“My back disagrees. My back has seen things.”

He froze.

The words slipped out so casually you almost missed them.

Almost.

His smile vanished.

Just for a second.

Long enough for regret to flash across his face.

“…Playing sports,” he corrected quickly. “Basketball. You know.”

You frowned.

“You haven’t played basketball in years.”

“I know.”

The answer came too fast.

Too rehearsed.

He stood abruptly, gathering empty popcorn bowls before you had the chance.

“I’ll take these.”

“Steve—”

“I got it.”

You watched him disappear into the kitchen.

The faucet turned on.

Cabinet doors opened.

Anything to stay busy.

Anything to avoid the conversation that had almost happened.

Standing in the doorway, you watched his shoulders rise and fall with one slow breath.

He didn’t know you were there.

For just a moment…

He looked tired enough to fall apart.

Then he heard your footsteps.

And just like that…

The smile was back.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey...you should probably get some sleep.”

You studied him for another second before he offered a small nod.

“…Yeah.”

You watched him rinse the last plate before setting it carefully in the drying rack.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The apartment felt strangely quiet.

Steve dried his hands on the dish towel before reaching for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

“I should probably get going.”

You frowned.

“It’s getting late.” he said quietly.

You glanced toward the clock.

It wasn’t.

Not for the two of you.

Steve had stayed over more nights than either of you could count.

Sometimes because the weather was bad.

Sometimes because one movie turned into three.

Sometimes for no reason at all except that waking up next to each other felt better than saying goodbye.

“You don’t have to.”

He hesitated.

You caught it.

Barely.

“I mean…” you continued, trying to sound casual despite the knot growing in your stomach. “You can stay if you want.”

His eyes met yours.

For just a second… You saw it.

The hesitation.

The debate happening entirely behind his eyes.

Like staying wasn’t as easy a decision as it used to be.

Your heart sank before he’d even answered.

Then… a small smile.

“I’d like that.”

The relief that washed over you was immediate.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You smiled back.

“I’ll grab you one of your shirts.”

“You know…” Steve laughed quietly. “At this point I think half my wardrobe lives here anyway.”

“Probably because you keep leaving it.”

“I keep forgetting it.”

“You’ve forgotten three hoodies.”

“They look better on you.”

Your cheeks warmed.

“You flirt. You used to be smoother.”

“I peaked in high school.”

You laughed.

“There he is.”

Steve tilted his head.

“Who?”

“My Steve.”

The words left your mouth before you thought about them.

His smile faltered.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then it returned.

Smaller this time.

“…Yeah.”

He disappeared down the hallway to change while you busied yourself straightening blankets that didn’t need straightening.

Fluffing pillows that were already perfectly fine.

Anything to ignore the tiny voice in the back of your mind whispering that something about tonight still felt…off. 

Later, the room settled into darkness.

The only light came from the moon spilling softly through the curtains.

Steve lay beside you on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head.

You rested against his shoulder, absentmindedly tracing circles across his forearm.

Neither of you spoke.

You’d always loved nights like this.

No television.

No music.

Just existing together.

“You awake?” you whispered.

“Mhm.”

“I like when you stay.”

His breathing caught so quietly you almost missed it.

“…Yeah?”

“Makes the apartment feel less empty.”

Silence.

Then Steve turned his head just enough to press a kiss against your hair.

“I like staying too.”

You smiled into his shoulder.

“Good.”

Within minutes, his breathing finally evened out.

For the first time in weeks…

He looked peaceful.

You watched him for another minute before closing your own eyes.

You never saw the moment his expression changed.

The way his brow pulled tight.

The way his breathing became uneven.

The nightmare had already begun.

You weren’t sure what woke you.

For a moment, you lay perfectly still, blinking up at the ceiling as your eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The apartment was silent.

The clock beside the bed blinked 2:17 a.m.

Rain tapped softly against the bedroom window.

You almost rolled over and went back to sleep.

“No…”

The whisper was so quiet you weren’t even sure you’d heard it.

Your head turned toward Steve.

Moonlight spilled across his face.

His brow was pulled tight.

His breathing had changed.

Uneven.

Too fast.

“…No…”

Your stomach tightened.

“Steve?”

He didn’t answer.

His fingers twitched against the blanket between you.

Another whisper.

“So… sorry…”

You pushed yourself onto one elbow.

“Steve.”

Nothing.

His breathing hitched.

Like he was trying to outrun something only he could see.

“Run.”

The word was barely louder than a breath.

Your heart lurched.

“…Steve?”

His head turned sharply against the pillow.

“No…”

Another breath.

“Get away from—”

His voice cracked.

You reached for his arm.

“Steve, wake up.”

He didn’t move.

His jaw clenched.

“…Robin.”

The name came out broken.

Almost pleading.

“Steve.”

You squeezed his arm a little harder.

“Wake up.”

His breathing turned frantic.

His whole body tensed beneath the blankets.

“No!”

This time it came out loud.

His eyes flew open.

He bolted upright so quickly the blankets slipped to his waist.

For one terrifying second…

He wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking through you.

Scanning the room.

The windows.

The doorway.

His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

“Steve.”

His eyes snapped toward your voice.

Recognition didn’t come immediately.

It happened slowly.

Like someone surfacing from underwater.

Then…

Without warning…

He grabbed both of your shoulders.

Not hard.

Just…desperate.

His hands shook.

His eyes searched your face with an urgency that stole the breath from your lungs.

Your forehead.

Your cheeks.

Your neck.

Like he was making sure every part of you was still there.

“…You’re okay.”

His voice was barely audible.

You frowned.

“…Yeah.”

He kept looking.

Still checking.

Still searching.

“You… you’re okay?”

“I’m okay.”

The words finally seemed to reach him.

The tension left his shoulders all at once.

Before you could ask another question…

Steve pulled you into him.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly you could barely breathe.

You froze for only a second before hugging him back.

His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

Fast.

Far too fast.

You rubbed slow circles against his back.

“It’s okay Steve….its okay I’m here. I'm here and I'm okay.”

You weren’t sure whether you were comforting him…

Or trying to convince yourself.

After what felt like forever, Steve finally pulled back.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I woke you.”

“You had a nightmare.”

He looked away.

“…Yeah.”

“You’ve been having them a lot?”

Silence.

“Steve?”

“Sometimes.”

You studied him.

“You said Robin’s name.”

Steve’s expression changed so quickly it almost hurt to watch.

The walls came back up.

Brick by brick.

“It’s nothing.”

There it was again.

Nothing.

The same word he’d used for the bruises.

The same word he’d used for the cuts.

The same word he’d used for every question you were beginning to ask.

Nothing.

You nodded slowly.

“…Okay.”

Steve looked relieved.

You weren’t.

Not anymore.

When you woke again, sunlight was spilling through the curtains.

For one blissfully disoriented moment…

Everything felt normal.

The other side of the bed was empty.

You frowned.

“…Steve?”

Your apartment answered with the quiet clatter of pans from the kitchen.

A smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it.

You padded down the hallway wearing one of Steve’s old Hawkins High t-shirts, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

The smell of coffee met you first.

Then butter.

Steve stood at the stove with his back to you, one hand balancing a spatula while the other reached for the coffee pot.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the doorway, “I was starting to think you’d finally burned my apartment down.”

Without turning around, he smiled.

“I’ve only almost done that once.”

“It was twice.”

“The smoke detector was being dramatic.”

“You set a dish towel on fire.”

“It was a very small fire.”

“It was a fire.”

He laughed.

You crossed the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind.

He relaxed instantly.

One hand found yours where they rested against his stomach.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You simply stood there while pancakes sizzled quietly in the pan.

The nightmare from a few hours ago felt impossibly far away.

Like maybe daylight had chased it off.

“I made pancakes.”

“I can see that.”

“I even remembered the blueberries.”

“You forgot them last time. You put chocolate chips in instead.”

“I thought it was a good recovery.”

“It was.”

He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder.

“You weren’t mad.”

“I wasn’t.”

You laughed.

"I think you married me in that moment.” he said smirking.

You snorted.

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“You definitely looked at me like you were considering it.”

“Oh, I was considering whether I’d have to teach you how to follow a recipe.”

“I follow recipes.”

“You do not!”

“I… interpret them.”

You laughed, resting your forehead lightly against his back.

The sound echoed through the quiet apartment.

Steve closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Like he was memorizing it.

“You laugh less lately.”

His shoulders stilled beneath your arms.

“So do you.”

Your smile faded.

“I guess.” He flipped the pancake.

“You should.”

“What?”

“Laugh more.” you say gently.

Silence settled again.

You squeezed him a little tighter.

“You know…”

“Hm?”

“I miss you.”

Steve’s hand tightened around yours.

“I’m right here.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

He never turned around.

Never looked at you.

You felt his chest rise beneath your cheek.

Then fall.

“I’m trying.”

The words were so quiet you almost didn’t hear them.

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

You let the conversation end there.

Not because you wanted it to.

Because neither of you seemed to know what came after.

The pancakes cooled between you as the morning drifted on. Eventually, Steve insisted on washing the dishes despite your half-hearted protests, and before long the apartment settled back into the familiar rhythm the two of you had always shared.

For a little while, it almost felt normal again.

Almost.

The next couple of weeks slipped by in pieces.

Some days were good.

Really good.

He still kissed your forehead before he left.

Still pulled your chair out when the two of you grabbed dinner.

Still remembered exactly how much cream you liked in your coffee.

The Steve you knew was still there.

You saw him in flashes.

Little moments that reminded you everything hadn’t disappeared.

Only…those moments never seemed to last.

You started noticing things you hadn’t before.

How his eyes always found the nearest exit whenever the two of you walked into a restaurant.

How conversations sometimes stopped halfway through because he’d gone quiet, listening to something you couldn’t hear.

How he’d apologize for little things that didn’t need apologies.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“I’m sorry I forgot.”

“I’m sorry.”

As if he were constantly making up for something you didn’t understand.

You stopped asking about the bruises.

Not because you stopped noticing them.

Because every answer was the same.

Nothing.

One afternoon, the two of you wandered through downtown Hawkins. 

The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sidewalks gold as people drifted between storefronts with shopping bags swinging gently at their sides.

You were halfway through telling Steve about a little girl you’d seen earlier that day who’d been absolutely convinced a pigeon had been following her for three blocks.

“…She finally spun around, pointed at it, and yelled, ‘I know it’s you again!’”

Steve let out a quiet laugh.

“The pigeon?”

“The pigeon.”

“It was a repeat offender?”

“According to her? Absolutely.”

“What’d it do?”

“It looked at her… and kept walking.”

A real smile spread across Steve’s face.

“I think I’m on the pigeon’s side.”

You gasped dramatically.

“Steve Harrington.”

“I’m just saying, maybe it had somewhere to be.”

“It was stalking a six-year-old.”

“It was minding its business.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself.

“For the record, you’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

For a moment…there he was.

Your Steve.

You smiled to yourself as the two of you reached the crosswalk.

Without thinking, you reached your hand toward his.

It had become second nature.

Something neither of you had ever needed to think about.

Your fingertips brushed empty air.

Steve stepped off the curb, already halfway across the street.

His attention wasn’t on the traffic.

It wasn’t on you.

His eyes swept across the rooftops.

Then the alley to your left.

Then the line of parked cars.

His shoulders were tense.

Waiting.

Watching.

You slowly lowered your hand.

The light changed.

People moved around you.

Steve had made it halfway across before he realized you weren’t beside him.

He stopped so suddenly someone nearly bumped into his shoulder.

When he turned and saw you still standing on the sidewalk, confusion flickered across his face.

Then…realization.

His expression crumpled.

He crossed back toward you immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked down at the space between you before lifting your eyes to his.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m—I don’t know where my head was.”

He hesitated before reaching for your hand.

His fingers intertwined with yours so naturally that anyone watching would’ve thought nothing had happened.

But you noticed.

Because for the first time since you’d known Steve Harrington…

He hadn’t been the one to reach for you.

The walk home was quiet.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full of things neither of you seemed able to say.

When you reached your apartment building, Steve leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You smiled.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I love you.”

The words came easily.

Automatically.

Like they always had.

“I love you too.”

You watched him walk away.

He turned once at the end of the block and lifted a hand.

You waved back.

Then he disappeared around the corner.

You let yourself inside.

Locked the door.

Set your keys in the little ceramic bowl by the entryway.

The apartment was still.

Too still.

You leaned back against the door and closed your eyes.

For weeks, you’d told yourself he was just tired.

That work had been stressful.

That everyone went through difficult seasons.

That tomorrow would feel more like yesterday.

Tomorrow.

You’d been holding onto that word for weeks.

Tomorrow he’d laugh more.

Tomorrow he’d sleep through the night.

Tomorrow he’d tell you what was wrong.

Tomorrow he’d come back to you.

A tear slipped quietly down your cheek.

Then another.

You covered your mouth before the first sob could escape.

Not because you thought Steve had stopped loving you.

That somehow would’ve been easier.

No.

The truth hurt far more than that.

He still loved you.

You knew he did.

And maybe that was what made it hurt so much. You took a shaky breath. For weeks, you’d been waiting for things to go back to the way they were.

Now… you weren’t sure they ever would.

Thanks again Anon and thanks for reading! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist 🖤

[yailology]

Can u make a fanfic with Joe and he is proposing to the reader on stage at the end of a concert

May forever begin

joe keery x female!reader

summary — after 3 years of being in love, falling for each other day by day, joe has been preparing to take your relationship to the next step. the problem is he didn’t know where, until he was feeling so overwhelmed on stage seeing you in the vip section so beautiful and supportive, he had to get on one knee right there.

warnings — use of Y/N once! tooth rooting fluff, proposal, public established relationship, shorter fic ! tell me if I missed something, english is not my first language, possible grammatical mistakes, not proofread

author’s note — well hello! let the little wedding story begin!

ask me anything & requests currently closed !!

masterlist | taglist

It had been three whole beautiful days since Joe asked you to be his girlfriend, and every day you two just fell in love more and more.

But of course like every couple, you two also had fights, and problems that had to be solved. But when two people love each other and need each other like the tree needs the sun, everything can be solved.

That’s how Joe knew from the first week that he wanted to marry you. He wanted to spend his whole life knowing you, taking care of you and of course love you with every strength he had. Not even till death do you two apart, even after that, whatever the after life could hold.

He knew after three years it was time, he was sure, and that’s all his sisters could hear from him, he wanted to marry you.

Watch you walk down the aisle in your dream wedding dress, see your smile as you walked up to him, walked up to the new chapter of you two’s life.

He wanted to stand there, waiting for you, trying to hold back his tears from seeing his girl deciding to choose him.

Celebrate that night with the loved ones and show you off, have you because you were perfection for him.

He was yours, you were his.

He always listened and knew what you want, whatever your dream engagement ring was, and he made it come true.

The first time he saw it in person after custom designing it, he couldn’t stop himself from the emotions.

The way he had to go home to you making dinner, without being able to tell you, oh how much he wanted to propose to you in the kitchen right there.

But he knew you, he knew how much it meant to you when he showed you off, made you less insecure and made you more sure about his love towards you.

So after some thinking he planned on proposing after one of his shows in the town you two met in.

He had you in the crowd, close to the stage, at the side of the stage, you were there, dressed in his merch looking like everything he could dream of. He knew you could be his forever, if you said yes. God he was praying every night you would say yes.

You in the other hand had no idea about what he was planning. You were too focused on loving him to notice he has been acting more clingy, more excited and more nervous that night.

You were just happy for his success.

And with every single song he sang he was starring at you. Knowing that that night will change his whole life, that it was more than a show.

As his last song ended he watched the crowd cheering for him and screaming. But the only thing in his mind was the way you were there. You were always there for him. So suddenly an idea occurred to him.

“Thank you for this night! Your support means so much to me! But there is one person whose support is the reason I always have to energy to keep going.” The crowd cheered before going more quiet as Joe met your eyes, you were side of the stage smiling up at him, melting right there.

“Baby, could you come up to me?” He asked into the microphone as his fans started cheering for you. You looked at him confused laughing while slowly stepping up the stage, security helping you.

While that Joe ran to the side of the stage, to get the box out of his bag.

He ran back to you as you were standing in front of him.

“What are you doing?” You furrowed your eyebrows while giggling.

He just smirked at you before pulling you closer to the microphone.

“This women right here, is the reason I breath. She gives me the power to create and love every single day. This past three years have been the best years of my entire life, and I want more, I want all of it.” He started bringing his hand that was behind his back the whole time forward.

“I want to live the rest of my life with you.” He slowly started lowering himself, kneeling down in one knee.

“And I just hope you do want that too. Cause honey you leave those stupid lights on for me.” The crowd screamed, getting the reference of his own song that he wrote before meeting you. He even himself giggled.

You were just standing there shocked, not believing your whole life at the moment.

“Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me and make me the happiest man on earth?” He finally asked the big question slowly pulling out the box and opening it towards you.

Your hands flew to your mouth, feeling dizzy in the best way possible. His band already went to the side of the stage, waiting for your answer, everyone was silent waiting for it.

But neither you or Joe recognized the attention. Because even in a big venue with thousands of people, you two always found each other and made you forget about the world.

Tears started running down your cheeks as you saw the way Joe was looking at you, scared from your answer, his own eyes turning shinier.

“Yes Joe, I will marry you! A thousand times yes!” You finally got the big words out as he let the big breath he was holding in out and quickly got the ring out of the box before reaching for your left hands and putting it on your ring finger.

Perfect size. Of course it was. He measured your finger when you were in deep sleep next to him, not knowing what the future brings.

The crowd and his crew all started cheering and congratulating, as he just went up to you and picked you up, pulling you into a kiss as your hands with the ring on wrapped around his neck.

Once again, no matter how many people were around. When you two were together, you two were in peace. And that’s exactly what that ring promised you forever.

That ring represented a life together, that you two can hang out till death do you two apart, and can find each other after, because you two were soulmates, and in every lifetime, you two needed each other, needed to love each other.

Because that’s what human souls are for. Our souls search for love since the moment we are born, and every single one of them has a pair. And you two were lucky enough to get them together again. And from now on, you two won’t let each other go.

Whatever was the future holding, you two were gonna go against it together, to be able to fall asleep next to each other and feel the love linger in the air whenever you two were together.

May forever of you and Joe’s story begin after stepping off that stage.

divider by — @cursed-carmine

tag — @xoxocelestial @unclejeezysblog

[joekeerylova]

baby, come back!

Steve Harrington x fem!ex!reader

Synopsis: After a rough day at your diner job, what seems like the worst thing to happen, might actually turn into the best.

Content: situationship final bosses, in between season three and season four (but lumax is still together suck it), fluff, use of y/n, swearing, steve sounding like an ass, reader is described as being clumsy, idk this is my first time doing this

WC: ~2k

A/N: BEAR WITH ME BEAR WITH ME guys this is my first fic i’m posting on tumblr and im nervous… i made this account a literal year ago and am just now growing the balls to start posting omg help

Now Playing: Baby Come Back by Player

Quite frankly, today sucked.

The diner you worked at had implemented a new rule: every waiter had to wear roller skates.

Personally, you thought this idea was stupid. It was already difficult enough to take care of eight tables at a time, but now, you additionally had to carry around trays while learning how to stop and trying your hardest not to fall flat on your face.

You understood the idea. To be more “retro” and “vintage”. But it just made you look more stupid and clumsy.

For what felt like the billionth time today, you slammed into the bar stool, falling into the stool and putting your head down on the bar.

“This is the dumbest, most dangerous, worst idea in the history of ideas,” you looked up to your best friend, Lucy, who worked with you at the diner, “How are you so good at this?”

“I figure skated in high school,” she bragged.

You groaned and dropped your head back to the table.

“At least we close in an hour,” Lucy shrugged, “Maybe you’ll leave with all of your bones still intact.”

“Don’t even joke about that. It would be a miracle if I broke my ankle. Then they would get rid of this idiotic rule and go back to the Keds. Keep it classy.”

Your words get cut off with the bell above the door ringing, causing a groan to leave your mouth and a gasp to leave Lucy’s.

“Oh my god.” Lucy whispered.

“What? What could possible happen to make today worse?”

You swung around on the stool just to see Steve Harrington and Dustin Henderson walk through the door, with a trail of other teenagers following them.

“Oh fuck me.” You fling back around and cover your face. “Please tell me they sat anywhere other than table 12. Please Lucy.”

Lucy pulled your hands away from your face, an apologetic expression crossing her face.

You whimpered, “Of course they didn’t.”

“Maybe he won’t recognize you. I mean it’s hard to notice anything other than the dress and now the roller skates.”

“Y/N?”

Your eyes widened as you heard the voice that you used to hear first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

Your relationship with Steve Harrington hadn’t even begun before it ended.

You kissed, you did a little more than just kissing, you went on dates, you laughed, you fell asleep tangled in each other.

But then the mall fire happened.

Steve lost his job at Scoops Ahoy, and you lost yours at Orange Julius.

But what really stuck out to you were the injuries that Steve had on him. A mysterious black eye and new bruises that he blamed on bumping into things.

When you tried to ask what happened, he closed down. Avoiding questions and changing the subject. Eventually, he turned avoidant all around. Never reaching out or planning other dates.

You missed him. God, how you missed him.

But his ghosting held you back from reaching out. You were afraid to admit it, but you were more afraid that it would happen again.

Maybe he did just consider it a summer fling, even though you wanted so much more.

So you vowed to stop thinking about Steve Harrington and his stupid face.

But now, seven months later, that same stupid face is standing behind you.

You pushed off the bar, turning your stool around to finally see his eyes.

He looked the same. I mean it had only been a couple months. His hair was a little bit longer. A little more scruff on his face. But overall, the same as the last day you saw him.

“Hi, Steve.”

He took a moment, scanning your face from his position, where it looked like he was just about to sit down in the round booth.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” He started to walk a little closer to you.

“Yeah, I just started two months ago. Moved to be with Lucy after the whole fire thing.”

Steve looked at his hands, where he was fiddling with his car keys, “Right. The fire thing.”

The warm smile you had on your face slowly fell, accompanied by a small silence. Despite telling yourself not to, you felt pity for Steve, so you started the conversation back up.

“What about you?” Steve looked back up at you, “Did you end up finding anything after Scoops? Or was it too difficult to find a uniform that was as flattering as that one?”

He let out a chuckle at your attempt at a joke, nodding while shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I actually work at the Family Video now. Still with Robin. We both just kind of transferred together as a two for one deal.”

“The movie place? I don’t think I would classify you as a movie guy.”

“I’m learning,” He shrugged, “And I usually just steal recommendations from the ‘things you may like’ page on the computer.”

“Oh yeah?” You raised an eyebrow, “Give me a suggestion.”

Steve grinned, a stupid smile that took up most of his face as he looked at you, “All the Right Moves.”

You barked out a laugh, remembering the time that you tried to get Steve to watch it with you.

That night had been spent doing everything except watching the screen, in fact, Steve had barely made it past the title screen before he was kissing down your neck.

“And what exactly is it about?”

Steve smirked, “I think you remember.”

“I remember you couldn’t even focus on ten minutes of the movie.”

“I had something much better to focus on.”

Steve’s smirk had softened into a calm smile, your face mirroring his own.

In this moment, you seemed to forget all about the lack of calls. It felt like you were back at the summer before you became an adult. But just as quickly as the feeling appeared, it melted into a pool of remembrance, collecting at the base of your stomach.

“Steve, I-“

“Steve, we need you to settle a debate!”

“Shit, I should probably-“

“Yeah, yeah, get back to your friends.”

You swiveled around to grab your note pad and a pen, “In fact, I’m your waitress so I will follow you.”

You stood up, but unfortunately forgot the state of your shoes.

Before you could fall flat on your face, you felt two hands reach out and steady you.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, looking down at your skates.

“I’m so sorry,” You said, moving your hands from his biceps to the wall beside you. “It’s a new rule just made today. All waitresses must wear roller skates.”

“You can’t even ride a bike. How are you expected to roll around?”

“Don’t you think I know that?” You gripped onto the start of the booths, pulling yourself closer to the table his friends occupied, Steve following every step with his hand hovering behind you.

Finally, you arrived at the table, just to hear the teenagers yelling at each other across the table, pointing fingers and spitting accusations at each other.

“It’s basically an army! A couple of them sweep and a couple of them bite, the bitch is down!” Lucas yells.

“Are you underestimating how strong he is? One stomp and half of your motherfuckers would be dead!” Dustin fights back, pointing a finger straight in Lucas’ face.

“Oh come on, you really believe that? I think you’re realizing your argument is shit, but it’s too late now.”

“This whole argument is shit.” Max rolled her eyes, slouching down in the booth.

Dustin finally realized that Steve was standing beside the booth, immediately turning to him grabbing his sleeve.

“Steve, thank God, Steve. Who would win in a fight, okay? 1 horse sized duck, or 100 little ducks?”

“Are you serious right now?” Steve asked.

“100 little ducks, for sure.” You answered from beside him.

Lucas pointed at you, “That’s what I’ve been saying!”

Dustin groaned slamming his back against the booth cushion, “Whatever, it was a stupid concept anyway.”

“You came up with it dingus.”

“Okay enough,” Steve slipped into the booth beside Dustin, “Give your orders to Y/N, please.”

The kids went around the table, all giving some sort of speciality milkshake that the diner was known for.

“Is that everything for you guys today?”

“Yeah, we’re good. Thanks, Y/N.”

“Of course,” You started to try to turn yourself around to get back to the bar, “We will have that right out for you.”

“Are you going to be able to make it back there okay?”

“I’ll survive,” You smiled, “Hopefully.”

You did survive, and turned around giving Steve a thumbs up before handing the order back to the kitchen.

Lucy skated up next to you, carefully skidding to a stop that you were insanely jealous of.

“Just saying,” Lucy handed in another order to the cooks, “Steve is totally making goo goo eyes right now.”

“No he’s not,” You said through your teeth, “He’s the one that stopped reaching out to me, remember?”

“Of course I remember. All I’m saying is maybe there was a reason. I know a man that doesn’t want to talk to you, doesn’t look at you like that.

“Like what?” You asked, despite your brain telling you not to.

“Like a sad little puppy that is helplessly awaiting adoption.”

“And who am I in this scenario? The adoptee?”

“I guess, I didn’t really think that much into it.”

You bit your lip, twiddling with your pen and replaying the past couple minutes in your head.

“Listen, we close in forty five minutes. Maybe by then you can come up with a way to ask him to talk.” The kitchen sends out some glasses of water on a tray for Lucy to deliver to her table, “Just a suggestion.”

Before you could blink Lucy was off to her table, leaving you with your thoughts.

By the time their milkshakes had come out it was forty minutes until close, and twenty five when you delivered the check to their table.

Twenty when you took the check back, seventeen when you returned it to them with their change.

Ten when you started sweeping the floor.

Nine when you cleaned off the other tables.

Eight when you wiped the seats.

Seven when a mom and daughter came in asking for to go milkshakes.

Four when you handed those milkshakes out.

Three when Steve started to round the kids up.

Two when he finally got them to stand up.

One when he stood by the door, holding it for the kids to go through.

And forty five seconds when he went to leave himself.

“Wait!”

He turned back around just in time to catch you from where you came flying toward him on your skates.

“You have to stop coming towards me like this.”

“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye.”

Steve’s eyes softened, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“For what?”

“For leaving without saying goodbye.”

You stood there, his hands on your waist. Yours on his biceps again.

“Why did you then?” You whispered.

“Do you have any plans tonight?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ll come over.”

“Steve-“

“I have to explain everything to you. No, I want to explain everything to you.”

You took a moment, looking into his eyes, across his face, trying to tell if you should trust him again.

“Please.” He whispered in a voice that sounded so small.

You nodded, “Okay. I get home around eight thirty.”

“I’ll be there at nine.”

Steve took you in, similar to how you just traced his face, he followed the same route, going from your eyes across your face.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Steve.”

As he walked to his car where the teenagers had gathered, you realized that this goodbye didn’t feel like it was forever. In a way, it felt like a see you later. A promise that this wouldn’t be the last time you would see Steve Harrington.

And for the first time in months, the thought of seeing him again wasn’t scary or intimidating. It was welcome and exciting.

A foreign feeling that you decided wasn’t the worst thing ever.

[qtxoxox]

Important to me

Requested

summary: gentle aftercare with joe

cw: so much fluff, pet names, mentions of sex,

wc: 1.1k

it had just gone midnight, but you and joe were yet to settle down for the night.

you'd been non stop for over an hour, joe bringing you orgasm after orgasm in so many different ways before you eventually tapped out after you'd lost count.

laying on your stomach, a pillow under your hips, the duvet was all bunched up around where you were gripping it.

sweat slicked your skin, making your hair that had fallen half out of it's original bun stick to the back of your neck.

your head was pleasantly fuzzy, limbs heavy and eyes tired as you turned your head to press your cheek into the pillow.

joe collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing you in a deliciously comforting way.

"fuck you did so good for me baby"

you felt his lips on the back of your neck, his hand coming up to move some stray hairs out the way.

"you okay doll? talk to me" joe breathed against your shoulder.

"mm yeah" you smiled, turning your head even more to look at joe.

"there she is"

his hand found your jaw as he kissed you, heat still simmering beneath it, fading slowly into something softer.

"you’re so fucking hot" you hummed with a seductive tone, still drunk on the aftertaste of him.

"why thank you" he laughed against your mouth. "let's get you sat up"

carefully and slowly, he separated himself from you, holding your hips as he did, thumbs rubbing over the skin tenderly.

he rolled you over, propping up pillows behind you as he did before reaching over to the bedside to fetch a bottle of water.

"drink baby"

you wrapped your lips around the straw of the bottle that he was holding, looking at him dead in the eyes.

"stop looking at me like that" he shook his head smiling, taking back the bottle.

"you love it" you leaned up to kiss joe again, starting to shift over onto him.

"mhmm, wait there"

"no joe-"

"baby i'll only be a second"

he left the bed, pulling the duvet over your legs as he did before padding into the en-suite bathroom, pulling on a pair of shorts as he did.

you heard the faint humming of the bath starting, then the sink taps, then joe reappeared holding a small, damp towel.

knowing what he was coming to do, you laid down slightly, kicking the sheets back.

"you know you don't have to do all of this?"

"yes i do"

he kissed your temple as his hand made its way between your legs, gently cleaning up any hard evidence of the evening.

"yeah but-"

"i want to, it's important to me"

he wiped the insides of your thighs and up over your lower stomach before throwing the towel blindly in the direction of the bathroom.

he sat back on the bad properly, back against the headboard as he pulled your body into his lap, arms locking around you.

"i started the bath"

"i heard, thank you"

"should go pee in a second doll"

you grumbled into his neck, beginning to press open mouthed kisses there.

"princess"

pulling back to look up at joe with all intention of saying something teasing, the words got caught in your throat as a yawn teared through you.

"what was that hmm?" joe said with amusement.

"shut up"

joe chucked under his breath as he cupped your cheek with his whole palm, leaning forward to kiss you again.

you got lost in his lips, only breaking the kiss when joe gasped, remembering the bath was still running.

scooping you up effortlessly, joe lifted you out the bed and carried you across the bedroom to the bathroom, setting you on the toilet to turn off the bath taps after pausing halfway to flip the record that had been forgotten about hours ago.

whilst testing the water temperature, and adding more bubble bath, you joined him, wrapping your arms around his body from behind.

you moved with him as he leant over the tub, lighter in hand to light the collection of candles that decorated the side.

pressing your cheek into his shoulder, your hands roamed his upper body, finger tips brushing through the hair on his chest, following it down to his lower stomach past his bellybutton.

"it's ready princess"

he turned in your hold, pressing a kiss to your forehead before holding your arm as you stepped into the tub.

he helped lower you down, the warm water lapping around your body as you sat, bubbles settling over you, the heat seeping into your skin.

stepping back, joe removed his shorts as you rested your arms on the edge of the tub, watching him with wide eyes, smirking when he finally dropped the shorts.

"stop that" he warned, stepping closer to the tub.

"but you look so good" you hummed.

he shook his head as you leant forward to make room for him to step in behind you.

once he was sat, resting against the back of the tub, his hands found your sides, pulling you back to rest against him.

the water rippled around you, eventually settling over you like a heavy warm blanket as your heartbeat began to calm at the feeling of joes skin against yours.

"it smells nice" you observed.

"used the new stuff that you got from that fancy brand"

"i really like it"

"same, smells like you" he nuzzled into your shoulder, lips absentmindedly kissing your damp skin.

his hands rubbed soapy bubbles into your skin, massaging your shoulders, bringing the warmth down your arms and back up over your chest.

as he grazes over your boobs you arch into his touch, dropping your head back onto joes shoulder.

kissing your head, temples and anywhere over the side of your face that he can reach, joe continued to feel all over your body, each muscle relaxing under his touch.

you fell into a comfortable silence, the faint music of the record playing at the doorway just reaching round the corner to where you and joe lay, entangled in each other.

before you could stop it, your eyes fell shut and your body was pulled under into sleep, safe, content and warm in joes arms.

when you opened your eyes again, thinking it had only been a few minutes since closing them, you found yourself in bed, the duvet being pulled over you.

"joe?"

"shh princess" he whispers as he knelt down by your face. "go back to sleep"

"but when did-?"

"it's alright, i'm just going to get water okay?"

he stroked your hair, fingers brushing your forehead as he spoke so softly, your eyes threatening to fall shut once again.

joe was back before you knew it, slipping into bed behind you, wrapping his arms tight around you and pulling you into his warmth.

"all good baby?"

"so good, i love you"

"i love you"

[snoopyharrington]

all i can think about in this heatwave is reader having thick thighs and suffering from chafing (im so not talking about myself this is so not self-indulgent) and husband!gator being eager to help wether to rub some cream/ lotion on ya or do whatever you need to feel better. and maybe he’s a bit too eager *side eye*

you sent this in weeks ago and i apologize for not getting to it sooner, bc every time i saw it in my inbox i literally felt like my eyes were gonna pop out of my head. here's a little baby blurb!

"I feel like I'm melting."

Beside you, your husband scoffs, and you tilt your head to send him a dirty look. It's Sunday morning, but instead of greeting the day with slow, love drunk morning sex or breakfast at the diner in town, you're both currently sprawled across your bed, the window unit A/C on full blast.

It's only 10 a.m. and it's already 87 degrees in Stark County. You think that's grounds to sue.

"'s just a heat wave, you big grump," Gator says, flipping onto his side. Despite his nonchalant comment, he's fully taking advantage of the near-boiling temperature by wearing minimal clothing, opting for just a black pair of boxer briefs. It makes you want to scream, and not in a good way.

"Shut up," you mutter, tossing an arm over your eyes. "Your thighs don't get all sweaty and rub together when it's this hot. It's awful."

"Don't talk bad about your body like that." he scolds.

"'m not," you mumble, "Just saying. At least you don't have to deal with that."

"Well, can you do anything to help it?"

You shrug, peeking out from underneath your arm. "Sometimes I put lotion there."

"Yeah?" Gator asks, moving onto his stomach, chin flat against his hands.

"Yeah, but that's usually after I'm in pain."

"I can still do it now, though," he offers, already sitting up. "Which lotion do you use? Is it in your nightstand drawer or in the bathroom?"

A gentle smile curls at your lips. "Bathroom. It's the green bottle."

Gator quickly returns with the lotion in hand, kneeling down on the bed and shuffling between your legs. He taps your right thigh and uses the other hand to pop the cap open.

"Open up, pretty thing," he instructs with a small smirk, and you roll your eyes. "Lemme get between these gorgeous thighs of yours, yeah?"

"Should've known where this was going." you mutter, nevertheless following his directive and bending your legs at the knee, allowing him to apply the lotion to the insides of each of your thighs.

"No idea what you're talkin' about," Gator replies easily. He tosses the bottle somewhere on the bed, then takes your left leg into his hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. "Just wanna show you why I love these precious legs so much."

[covered-in-you-now]

Until you choose me - Gator Tillman

TW for the whole story : reader is kinda bat shit crazy, age gap (23 / 43), smut (not in this chapter), obsession, jealousy, stalking, issues, failure in college life, revenge, violence, complicated relationship with parents

Words : 3.5k

A/N : ok so yesterday I started writing this story and kinda got lost in it and wrote 3k words lol. I'm putting it out, not sure if anyone will like it bc it's not what I usually write, if so I'll keep going lmk bc everything's already planned in my head so it could be a quick story idk

When you turned eighteen, the first thing you did was leaving Lehigh without looking back. It wasn’t so much for the fact that you didn’t like this town, Lehigh had never been the problem, it was everything waiting for you every time you walked through your parents' front door. The constant tension, the silence that was sometimes louder than the shouting, the feeling that no matter what you did, it would never be enough. 

So, the second you graduated high school, you packed two suitcases into your old car and drove to the nearest city big enough to have a university worth attending, Minneapolis. Compared to Lehigh, it felt enormous with its busy streets, people everywhere and buildings taller than anything you had ever seen growing up. Here, no one knew your name, your parents and nobody cared where you came from, you loved that.

At first, the plan had been simple. Finish your degree, find a job and never move back. Life, unfortunately, had other ideas. Your first two years at university had gone well enough, then you had met someone. Looking back, you weren't even sure when things had started going wrong, it was just one bad decision followed by another and a relationship that slowly became impossible to recognize. Somewhere along the way, lectures turned into skipped classes, skipped classes turned into failed exams and eventually, you stopped going altogether. Before you even realized it, your university life ended.

At 23 years old, you had found yourself driving back to Lehigh with the same two suitcases you had left with five years earlier. Your parents hadn't exactly welcomed you home because to them, your return was proof that you had failed, and the conversations around the dinner table became even shorter than before. You spent months sleeping too late, sending out applications you never heard back from and pretending not to notice the disappointed looks every time your father asked if you had "heard anything yet."

Then, one evening, he walked into the kitchen holding his phone. “I might've found something for you.” As it turned out, your father had known Sheriff Tillman for years, long before he even became sheriff, and long before either of them had gone gray. They weren't best friends by any means, but they had crossed paths enough over the years that asking for a favor didn’t feel completely out of place. 

The Stark County Sheriff's Office happened to be looking for someone to work reception, and you happened to need a job, that was all there was to it.

Today was only your second day. Yesterday was spent shadowing one of the deputies, learning how to answer calls, transfer them to the right people, schedule appointments and somehow make sense of the endless paperwork flowing through the station every damn hour. There had been so much information that half of it had blurred together before lunch. But today, you were on your own. 

You pulled into the parking lot a little earlier than necessary, if there was one thing you still believed, it was that being early was better than apologizing for being late. The morning air made you shiver as you climbed the front steps, unlocked the glass entrance and stepped inside. The station was already awake, a couple of deputies were talking near the bullpen and someone was laughing somewhere down the hallway. The coffee machine was already working overtime.

“Morning.” You smiled as you walked past, a few people greeted you back without looking up from whatever reports they were reading. The atmosphere felt surprisingly... normal, not nearly as intimidating as you'd expected a sheriff's office to be. You hung your jacket over the back of your chair, set your bag beneath the reception desk and switched your computer on.

Your inbox was already fuller than you'd hoped. Taking a slow breath, you wrapped both hands around your mug, watched the computer finish loading, then settled into your chair. Second day, you could do this.

By the time the clock on your computer read 10:54AM, the morning rush had finally started to slow down. The phone hadn't stopped ringing for the better part of two hours, appointments, questions, people walking in and out of the station. You were just filing away the last incident report when the front door opened again. Your eyes lifted automatically as Sheriff Gator Tillman stepped inside. For a second, everything else seemed to disappear, it was the first time you had seen him in years.

He definitely had changed, there were a few more lines around his eyes than you remembered. His shoulders looked broader somehow, years of carrying a badge and responsibilities settling into the way he carried himself. His hair was a little shorter, but still with two little lines shaved on the side of his head, his jaw rough with the beginning of an afternoon beard. He had gotten older, there was no denying that. And somehow, he had only gotten more handsome.

You used to have the biggest crush on him growing up. Every time he would show up at your parents' house to see your dad, your heart had insisted on doing that stupid little flip teenagers always swore was normal. You assumed you would grow out of it, but apparently, you hadn’t. Before he even made it halfway across the lobby, one of the deputies intercepted him. “Sheriff.” Gator barely had time to take his jacket off.

“What ?”

“We've got an issue with the Wilson report. The prosecutor called again.” He closed his eyes for a second.

“For Christ’s sake…” You watched him rub a tired hand across his face. “I've been here thirty seconds.”

“I know.”

“You couldn't have waited thirty-one ?” The deputy laughed.

“Nope, sorry sheriff.” Gator let out a long sigh before shaking his head.

“Fine.” He gestured for the deputy to follow him. “Show me.” You watched him disappear down the hallway toward his office. God, even watching him complain was attractive. You immediately looked back down at your paperwork, shaking your head, get a grip seriously.  You shifted in your chair, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your cheeks. Sheriff, the title still sounded strange attached to his name. It had only been a few years since Roy Tillman had died, you were still away at university when it happened, your father had been the one to tell you.

“Guess Gator's sheriff now.” He said, just like everyone had always expected of him. Growing up in Lehigh meant growing up around rumors, and there had never been a shortage of rumors about the Tillmans. The one everyone seemed to agree on though, was his marriage. People said Roy had picked the woman himself, good family, good reputation, exactly the kind of wife a future sheriff was supposed to have.

Whether Gator had wanted any of it apparently hadn't mattered. Roy had made the decision and Gator had simply... obeyed, just like he always had. The years passed, he and his wife had two children, Roy eventually died and the sheriff's badge landed exactly where everyone knew it would : on Gator Tillman's chest. Meanwhile, you were apparently still carrying around the same ridiculous crush you had as a teenager. You honestly thought adulthood would've fixed that.

You stacked a few folders together before standing up, these needed his signature anyway. You might as well stop acting like seeing him was some life changing event, it was work, nothing more. You knocked lightly on his office door.

“Come in.” You pushed it open, Gator was standing behind his desk, reading through a report. He looked up and for a brief moment, his expression turned blank, almost confused, as if he couldn't quite place you. Then something clicked. “Oh.” His eyebrows lifted. “You’re Jack's daughter.” You smiled.

“That's me.” He leaned back slightly, studying your face for another second.

“I barely recognized you.”

“Well…” You shrugged with a small grin as he tilted his head.

“You've changed.”

“I certainly hope I have.” You placed the folders on his desk. “I'm a woman now.” The corner of his mouth lifted into a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, I suppose you are. What are you now, twenty-two ?”

“Twenty-three actually.” He whistled to show he was surprised so much time had passed, and your heart decided to forget how to function. He picked up the folders.

“What can I do for you ?”

“I just need your signature on those.” He glanced through the first page.

“I'll go over them after this.” He tapped the stack lightly. “I'll bring them back out this afternoon, thank you.”

“You're welcome, sheriff.” You turned and walked back toward the door. As soon as it clicked shut behind you, you let out the breath you were holding. Your heart was beating much faster than it had any business doing. “Get it together bitch.” You muttered under your breath as you shook your head once, trying to clear it. He was your boss, married, almost twenty years older than you, and somehow he was still the most attractive men you had ever seen. 

By the time you finished sorting the last of the paperwork, the station had grown quiet, most of the deputies had already clocked out for the day. The bullpen that had been buzzing with conversations all afternoon now echoed with little more than the occasional ringing phone from somewhere deeper in the building. You staring at your computer when a shadow stopped beside your desk. You looked up and Gator was there, was holding the stack of folders you had left on his desk that morning. “Sorry.” He set them down in front of you. “I completely lost track of time.” You smiled, probably a little brighter than necessary.

“It's okay.” You pulled the folders closer. “I had plenty of other things to do anyway.” He nodded.

“I appreciate it.” As you slid the signed paperwork into the outgoing tray, he rested one hand on the reception counter. “How's your dad doing ?” You looked back up.

“He's doing good.”

“He still complaining about his back ?” You laughed.

“Every single day.”

“That sounds about right.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Tell him I'll stop by soon, I’ve been meaning to for weeks.”

“He'll be happy to hear that.” Gator glanced around the station, the lights over the empty desks were already switching to night mode and only one deputy remained, finishing paperwork at the far end of the room. He looked back at you.

“You should head home, you’ve been here long enough.” You looked at the clock, and he was right, you hadn't even noticed how late it had gotten.

“Yes, Sheriff.” You stood, grabbed your bag from beneath the desk and slipped your jacket on. By the time you reached the entrance, Gator was already holding the door open, so you stepped outside beside him.

“Well… Goodnight, Sheriff.” You smiled, and he looked over at you, shaking his head. 

“You don't have to call me Sheriff.” He smiled, just enough to soften the tiredness on his face. “You've known me since you were a kid.” He tucked his keys into the pocket of his jacket. “And we're working together now, so just call me Gator.” Something warm settled deep in your chest, it was ridiculous, it was his goddamn name, the one you had been calling him in your head for years. But still, hearing him give you permission felt quite intimate. You smiled again.

“Okay. Goodnight... Gator.” His smile widened just a fraction.

“Drive safe.”

“You too.” You watched him walk across the parking lot toward his cruiser. He climbed inside but didn't start the engine immediately. Instead, he picked up his phone, the glow from the screen lit his face for a few quiet seconds before he slipped it back into his pocket, started the engine and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. You stood there just long enough to watch his taillights disappear onto the road, only then did you unlock your own car.

Dinner was already on the table by the time you got home. Your mother barely looked up from her plate, but your father did. “So ?” He pointed his fork toward you. “How was your day ?” You shrugged as you sat down.

“Good.”

“That all ?”

“Pretty much.” He raised an eyebrow.

“No disasters ?”

“Not yet.” A quiet laugh escaped him.

“I'll take that as a good sign.” You picked at your food for a moment before adding “Oh, Gator said he's going to stop by sometime soon.” Your father's face immediately brightened.

“Did he ? He's been saying that for months.” He thought for a second. “Actually… if you see him tomorrow, ask if he'd like to come over for dinner.”

“Tomorrow ?”

“It's Wednesday, we used to have dinner together every Wednesday back in the day.” You had never heard that story before. He took another bite before adding casually “It'd be nice to start that again. Him and his wife are both welcome, of course.” Your grip tightened ever so slightly around your fork, his wife, you felt something twist inside your gut, but forced yourself to keep your expression neutral.

“Yeah. I'll ask him ” You looked back down at your plate, barely finished your plate before heading to bed. 

The next morning at the station started exactly like the last one, with phones ringing, deputies walking in and out and coffee brewing somewhere in the background. You had barely finished organizing the reception desk when the front doors opened and Gator stepped inside. He looked exhausted, not just tired, exhausted. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes, and his jaw was already clenched before he'd even made it three steps into the station. “Sheriff.” One deputy hurried toward him. “We've got a problem with the Jenkins warrant.” Another one appeared before the first had even finished speaking.

“And the county prosecutor called twice already.” A third voice came from somewhere behind them.

“Sheriff, have you got a minute ?” He stopped walking.

“For fuck’s sake, can you let me breathe ?” His tone wasn't loud, just worn thin. Nobody answered, they simply waited. He pinched the bridge of his nose before letting out a slow breath. “Okay. One at a time.” His voice had that edge to it now, sharper than yesterday. “You.” He pointed toward the deputy with the warrant. “Office. The rest of you can survive five damn minutes.” You quietly looked back down at your computer, probably not the best moment to ask him about dinner.

It wasn't until nearly noon that the station finally settled down. The deputies had disappeared one by one for lunch and you saw Gator leave his office, shrugging on his jacket while checking his watch. It was now or never. You stood and walked over before you could overthink it. “Gator ?” He looked up immediately and his expression softened the moment he recognized you. “You heading out ?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I need food before I start arresting innocent people.” A laugh escaped you.

“That bad ?”

“I've had six people ask me six different questions before eleven.”

“You are so dramatic.” The corner of his mouth lifted.

“What can I do for you ?”

“Oh.” You remembered why you had stopped him. “My dad wanted me to ask you something. He said... if you're free tonight... he'd love it if you came over for dinner.” For the first time that morning, he looked genuinely happy.

“Jack said that ?” You nodded.

“He said that's what you used to do every Wednesday.” A little smile settled on Gator's face.

“It's been a long time. Tell him I'd love to.” Relief immediately spread across your face and he hesitated for a second before adding “I'll probably come by myself, though.” You tried your best not to react.

“Okay.” He glanced toward the front door.

“You eating ?”

“I was just going to grab something.”

“What were you thinking ?” He asked, and you shrugged.

“Probably whatever's closest.” He jingled his truck keys in his hand.

“I'm heading to Miller’s. You're welcome to come if you want.” Your heart was suddenly beating much faster than it should have.

“I'd like that.”

“Good. Let's go.”

The drive only took a few minutes, most of it passed in comfortable silence. Gator drove with one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, occasionally greeting people who waved as they passed. Apparently everyone in Stark County knew the sheriff.

The waitress greeted him by name before either of you had even reached a booth. “You're late today.”

“Busy morning.” She smiled knowingly.

“Aren't they all ?” She handed you both menus. “You know what you want ?” Gator closed his menu right away.

“Cheeseburger.”

“Fries ?”

“Always.” She nodded and looked at you.

“And for you, sweetheart ?” You ordered the same thing, and once she disappeared toward the kitchen, the silence returned. Gator rested his forearms on the table.

“So, how’d you like college ?” You laughed quietly.

“That's a complicated question.”

“I've got time.” You looked out the window for a moment.

“The first couple of years were actually great. I loved being away from Lehigh.” He nodded.

“I can understand that.”

“I thought I'd finish my degree, get a job and never come back here.”

“What happened ?” You smiled without much humor.

“I met someone. At first it was good, until it wasn’t.” You traced the edge of your napkin with one finger. “I stopped going to class as much and everything kind of... snowballed. Eventually I dropped out, and now I'm back here.” He watched you for a second.

“I'm sorry.”

“It is what it is.”

“It still sucks.” You hadn't expected that answer, most people simply told you that you'd made bad choices. He just acknowledged that it hurt. The waitress returned with your drinks before either of you spoke again. Once she left, you smiled.

“My turn.” He chuckled.

“Fair enough.”

“How old are your kids now ?”

“My son's twenty and my daughter's eighteen.”

“They're basically adults.” You replied, grinning. 

“They like that description more than I do.” You laughed.

“I imagine.”

“They're good kids.” His expression softened in a way you hadn't seen before. “They make me proud.” You couldn't help smiling back.

“They must take after their dad.” You said, and he snorted.

“I hope not. I was an idiot at twenty.” The waitress set your food down and you thanked her before looking back at him.

“So…” You tried to sound as casual as possible. “Your wife…” He looked up, shoving a few fries in his mouth. 

“What about her ?” He asked, and you chose your words more carefully.

“I don't know, I’ve never actually met her. You've been married a long time, right ?” He nodded once.

“Twenty years.”

“Wow. She must've been around before you became sheriff.”

“She was. She knew me before any of this.” He looked down at his plate for a brief moment. “She put up with a lot.” There was something about the way he said it, like it was heavy, as if those twenty years weighed more than they should. You were thinking about what your dad told you, that he was forced into marriage by his father. You also wondered why you cared so much. But despite your best efforts to hide it, a small, ugly feeling settled quietly in your chest. He still went home to her every night.

By the time the clock above the reception desk read 4PM, the station had started emptying out again. One by one, deputies wished each other a good evening before disappearing through the front doors. You finished answering one last phone call, closed your inbox and finally shut your computer down. You were reaching for your jacket when Gator's office door opened. He stepped out, rolling his shoulders as though trying to work the stiffness out of them. He looked up and the second he saw you, he smiled, not the polite smile he worn since you started working there, a real one. You smiled back before you could stop yourself. “See you tonight.” He stopped beside your desk.

“I've been looking forward to it all day.” He let out a quiet breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “It's been one thing after another since this morning.” He glanced around the nearly empty station before looking back at you. “It'll be nice. It'll do me some good and give me a damn break.” His eyes stayed on yours for another second, then he smiled again, the kind of smile that reached all the way to the corners of his eyes. Your heart lurched so hard it almost hurt.It was ridiculous, it was only dinner at your parent’s house, nothing about tonight was special. And yet, the fact that he was looking forward to seeing you all day made your chest warm up.

“Drive safe.” He said softly, giving you one last nod before heading toward the parking lot. You stood there for another moment, watching him leave. Your pulse still hadn't slowed by the time you climbed into your own car. You rested both hands on the steering wheel without starting the engine as one thought kept circling through your mind. He had smiled like that because he was happy to see you. And with it came another thought, uglier this time. You wanted that smile to belong to you and only you.

general taglist : @proooof @maaaachiii @us3r4682 @delphinemix

[amorieile]

OH, HOW THE MIGHTY FALL! ⸝⸝ oneshot

summary: You only meant to write an article about the fall of King Steve Harrington. Somewhere between the interviews, the experiments, and the late-night drives, you forgot he was supposed to be your story — not the boy you fell for. ⟡ LOOSELY INSPIRED BY "HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS (2003)"

pairing: steve harrington x reader

w/c: 13k (I lost the plot)

a/n: i literally fever dreamed this so im hoping it comes across good because i totally blanked out writing this haha 😭. this is all brain and vibes. thank u for reading, and reblogs are appreciated!! enjoy <3

content warnings: angst, slow burn-ish tension, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet longing, (one bed trope kind of), observant/highly sensitive reader, mentions of nancy wheeler, miscommunication, interrupted kisses, public confessions, steve harrington being sad and soft (yay!), reader being a stubborn high school journalist, hopeful ending, etc

By the time the final bell rang, the newsroom already smelled of hot dust, old paper, and somebody’s disgusting coffee of choice.

It was not really a newsroom, not in the way you truly wanted it to be. It was a converted classroom at the end of the English hall with two long tables shoved together, a crooked bulletin board covered in deadlines, and a mimeograph machine that coughed ink onto everyone’s fingers. The overhead lights hummed with a flat, yellow patience.

Outside the narrow windows, Hawkins High School settled into its usual afternoon disorder; lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and boys yelling too loudly because silence made them feel small. Typical behaviors.

You had spent three nights on your article.

Three nights with your notes spread across your desk, your pencil worn down to a nub, and your mother calling from downstairs that dinner was getting cold. Three nights reading through library clippings about school funding, college acceptance rates, and the way girls in Hawkins were politely encouraged toward “practical” futures while boys with half of your grades were told they had potential. You had interviewed four seniors, two teachers, one guidance counselor who had smiled at you with the concerned tenderness adults reserved for girls they planned to ignore. 

It was practically perfect.

You had written it carefully. Not angrily, though you had to admit that anger had lived under every line you wrote, warming the words from dpwn below. You had made it clean, sharp, and correctly sourced. You had imagined your byline on the front page. You had victoriously imagined holding the paper in your hands and seeing proof that all the hours you spent noticing things nobody asked you to notice had finally become something real.

The reaction to it, unfortunately, had left much to be desired.

Mr. Walsh held the pages in one hand and adjusted his glasses with the other. His voice was polite enough, but it held that familiar detachment.

“It’s very thorough,” he noted with a faint nod of his head towards the article.

You knew you were absolutely dead, or rather, any hopes of seeing a cover page was.

Across the table, Mark Ellison leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. His article was a soft little thing about “school spirit making a comeback,” built around three quotes from basketball players and one sweeping paragraph about how Hawkins High had ‘survived difficult years by pulling together’. He had written it during study hall. You had watched him do it while eating chips from a vending machine. You had also watched him pay more attention to his stupid Walkman than his article.

Mr. Walsh then gave Mark’s pages a fond pat from beside you. You had to physically stop yourself from letting the steam errupt from your expression, and curled your fingers into your palm. You didn't, however, hide the scoff when the teacher told the boy his next words.

“I think this is what we need above the fold this week. Something upbeat. The town’s had enough heaviness, don’t you think?”

The room moved on. You couldn't even get another word in before everything decided it was time to start up again. That only served further in building up your irritation. 

Someone asked about the sports column, someone else complained that the typewriter ribbon was fading again, and most annoyingly, Mark grinned without trying to look too pleased, which made him only look worse. You sat very still with your hands folded over your notebook, your nails continuing to press little moons into your palms.

“Maybe we can run yours inside,” Mr. Walsh added, almost kindly. You hated how he made it seem like it was somehow charitable of him to do so. After all, his excuses were always relatively  the same. “It’s strong work. Just a bit… intense for the front page.”

Intense.

You looked down at your notes until the letters blurred into a block of black.

That was what they always called girls who didn't make unfairness easier to swallow for others. Intense. Difficult. Ambitious in a tone that meant unattractive. Boys were driven. Boys were promising. Boys were leaders, even when they had to borrow a pencil to write a paragraph about pep rallies. Even when half of them couldn't even write clean enough for legitimacy on papers of loose leaf.

You smiled promptly then because you knew how to make adults comfortable. You weren't so sure your face was able to hide your growing annoyance, though. It was practically humiliating in its steady routine, but you'd learned over the years Mr. Walsh was as stubborn as the donkey he was named after.

“Sure,” you gave a small exhale alongside your smile, your tone was too light to be breezy and far too sweet to be real. “Inside is fine.”

Inside was not fine.

At lunch, you stabbed your fork into a pile of cafeteria mashed potatoes until they lost their shape entirely. With a cheek resting in hand, the sight of the sullen plate reflected your own inner turmoil. Conversational chatter flattered about around you.

“He said it was intense?” One friend asked, sitting across from you with a carton of milk she had not opened. “Everything's intense to that guy. Mr. Walsh wears the same brown sweater every day and once called Pat Benatar ‘too confrontational.’”

“He didn’t say Mark’s article was intense,” you muttered with poorly disguised disgust. Your brows twitched together and your eyes flicked up in a roll. The moment replayed in your head, Mark getting far too much praise for something he spent the better half of an hour listening to Olivia John-Newton, though he'd refuse the accusation vehemently if questioned.

“That’s because Mark’s article has the emotional range of a gym sock,” your friend Stacey said from beside you. She had bright blue eyeliner, a talent for gossip, and the terrifying confidence of someone who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space. You admired her for that.  “You need something undeniable.”

“I had something undeniable.” the response came almost petulant, and if you were still holding onto the leverage that you had a shoe-in for an article, you'd have refrained from saying it.

“No,” Stacey clicked her tongue, pointing her plastic spoon at you. “You had something true. That’s different. Truth makes people sleepy unless there’s blood on it.”

Leah made a face, looking down at the strawberry jam on her cake slice, and promptly pushed it forward. “Please never go into medicine.”

You tried not to laugh and failed halfway, the sound catching in your throat before it could become anything that felt good. For a moment, there was something besides that sense of annoyed displacement. 

The cafeteria around you churned with noise. Trays clattered, and somebody at the far end started chanting for reasons that probably involved a dare and milk coming out of someone’s nose. You let the spark of clear judgement light through your expression as you looked over to  the basketball table occupied its usual territory near the windows.

They were loud enough to own the room without having to ask, a result of years of indulged arrogance,  you could only assume. Tommy H. was telling a story with both hands, his laugh sharp and performative. A few juniors watched him the way freshmen used to watch Steve Harrington.

Steve did not sit with them anymore, that was something practically everyone noticed since last year.

He sat two tables away from the old crowd, alone with a slice of pizza gone stiff at the edges. His hair was still perfect in the way that seemed less accidental the longer you looked at it, all careful lift and feathered brown shine.

His shoulders filled out his yellow polo, but they were rounded inward today, one hand pressed against his temple while he stared at a textbook he did not seem to be reading. There was a bruise near his jaw, faded yellow at the edges. His eyes kept moving toward the basketball table and then away before anyone caught him looking.

King Steve, deposed but still dressed for court.

Stacey followed your gaze. Her mouth curved before you could shove it away off of her.

“If you want the front page,” she brightened up with a revived vigor, “you have to write about the biggest tragedy in Hawkins.”

Leah, unfortunately, looked too.

“Oh Stace’, I don't think that's a good—” she was swiftly cut off by your mutual friends voice dipped in delight

“The fall of King Steve,” Stacey finished and you gasped at her.

You snorted without ceremony promptly, her words did less to entice you and more to amuse you. If there was anything you couldn't find yourself caring less to write about, it would be about anything involving Steve Harrington. “That’s not an article.”

“It is absolutely an article! It’s got everything. Popularity. Masculine fragility. Hair products.”

Leah leaned forward then, lowering her voice. She looked besides you two with a more hesitant approach, her eyes flicked to the table a few feet away from you. “Also maybe just leave him alone? He looks one spilled pudding cup away from a complete collapse.”

“That’s the point,” Stacey had taken to promptly ignoring the two of you. “What happens when a guy builds his whole identity on being wanted, and then people stop wanting him?”

The words landed before the joke did.

You looked at Steve again. He dragged a hand through his hair, then immediately seemed to regret it, patting the front back into place with a reflex so automatic it made your chest pinch in spite of yourself. If you were to compare it to anything, it would be akin to a kid being filmed for a birthday party. It held the familiar awareness of being all too stiff, even in the singular companionship of just himself.

A whole identity built on being wanted.

The cafeteria lights flashed across the windows as usual. Outside, October had pulled Hawkins into a cold, colorless stretch of afternoon. The trees beyond the parking lot shivered with half-bare branches, leaves gathered wetly along the curb. It was a domestic background that you've memorized in routine these past four years. 

You pulled your notebook from your bag suddenly. Stacy's words had flicked on a small lightbulb in your brain.

Leah's  brown eyes blinked wearily on you as the next few minutes were received in silence from your side, only the sound of pen to paper filling your ears. “Oh, God. Stacey, you broke her.”

You rolled your eyes at that.

“I inspired her.” Stacey gave a self assured correction, her fingers going up as if it would further solidify her point.

There was no real attention paid to your friends for the next whirlwind of time, and you clicked your pen every so often in an attempt to soften the strokes of ink.

At the top of a previous blank page, you had written:

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

Stacey leaned over your shoulder and let out a delighted gasp.

“That is disgusting,” Leah immediately. Her eyes widened and she threw you a look that your promptly avoided. 

“It’s not, it's anonymous… and a work in progress,” you murmured in weak retaliation, already thinking faster than you could write. “Stacy's  right, it'd be a good article. How we make gods out of boys and then act shocked when they don’t know how to be human.”

Leah’s expression softened in a way you did not want to look at too closely. Realistically, you realized this might be a bit too cruel. But you were already on your verge, and no matter how absurd the idea had seemed before – you could admit held strong potential. 

“And Harrington?”

You watched him push his tray away untouched, and your gaze was less detached than you had been before.

“Steve is the case study.”

You told yourself that made it cleaner, and you also told yourself a lot of things that week. Things that in hindsight, might’ve been necessary to proceed with caution.

—

You approached him after basketball practice on a Wednesday, when the hallway outside the gym smelled most strongly of rubber, sweat, and floor wax. Most of the team members had already spilled toward the locker room, their voices echoing against the cinderblock walls. Steve came out last, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and damp hair falling looser than usual around his forehead.

He looked tired enough that the sight of him made your plan wobble. It was one thing to think this out carefully and assume control, and it was another to actually act it out. 

Then, finally, he glanced up and saw you waiting by his locker.

You pushed off the wall before you could think better of it. Any further delay would only serve in faltering you more. 

“Harrington,” you called out firmly, letting your voice carry the boldness you had practiced in your mirror. Though, you weren't entirely sure you properly hid the wince that came with addressing him like that. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His eyebrows lifted then, that was what you'd noticed first. His face seemed to twitch in a complicated way, his face didn't hold a smirk, not right away at least. Surprise was there first. Real surprise, open and unguarded enough to make you feel briefly cruel. Your tried not to ponder on him for too long.

“For me?” his voice held a sincere curiosity that had you irritated at repeating yourself.

“No, the other guy with gravity-defying hair and a tragic aura.”

That got him.

A breath left him, almost a laugh, you saw the movement happen in real time. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, trying to recover his balance by looking casual. His thumb hooked into his belt loop. His shining eyes flicked over your face, landed on your mouth for half a second too long, then jumped back up.

You really had to refrain from the scoff that wished to escape you. 

“Tragic aura,” he repeated, his eyes twisted in a regained stability. His voice was more awkward than you remembered it being,  strangely that'd been your first true thought of him. “Wow. That’s, uh… that’s new.”

You gave a low hum in response.  “I’m a journalist. We notice things.”

“Is that why you’re here? To notice me?”

The line should have been smooth. You could actively hear him reaching for an older version of himself, the one who would have tilted his head and let girls do the work of melting. But his voice caught on the last word. Not much, but it was just slightly enough that you felt something in you feel successful.

You smiled, the formation stretched across your face as you cleared your throat softly. “I need help.”

Now, he seemed a bit confused,  his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded you of the neighborhood poodle. You let a smile turn slightly genuine at the semblance found between the two. 

“With?”

You stepped closer finally, and you stepped close enough to see the faint line where his tan had started to fade at his throat, and certainly close enough to catch the smell of clean soap beneath sweat and cologne.

“Understanding someone.” the words came out a bit hesitant, not at all like the suaveness you had practiced by standing in front of your bathroom mirror.

His gaze sharpened a little. Instinct took over him well. “Someone?”

“A boy,” you said quickly. Whatever it was that appeared in your face seemed to have gotten to him.

You saw the ghost of King Steve ever so slightly stir in movement in him. His mouth curved, one corner first, then another. It was almost unfair how quickly he could change expressions, and even worse so, that each expression of his seemed to cause your nerves to fray.

“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert.”

Your eyes flickered to his, though not before you let your gaze find the small details of his face that were only exposed up close. “You do?”

“Former expert,” he amended, and something dry entered his voice. “My credentials are under review.”

You laughed before you meant to. You couldn't help it at the moment. It came out too genuine and his face changed with it. Not entirely dramatic, though. He just went still, the way people did when a sound touched some starved part of them. His own pools of hazel seemed to be too flittery for someone you were sure had done this plenty of time before. Still, against your better judgment, you kept staring into his eyeline.

You should have written that down later, a faint voice echoed through your head. Not the eyes part, you quickly denied and even got upset at yourself for supplying the image. You really should have been memorizing any small part he'd exposed, even more of the behavior you were out to conquer.

Instead, you remembered the exact angle of his shoulder against the locker, the wet curl slipping toward his eyebrow, the way he looked at you with confusion and cautious interest and a kind of bruised hope that had no place in your article.

You tilted your chin, chewing on the bottom of your lip by pure instinct. By now, you were close enough to have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You blinked, breaking whatever power he seemed to have had momentarily to have you swept up and cleared your throat.

Your voice was back to being confident again, since practice made perfect. “Pick me up Friday?”

His mouth caught in a faint sputter, you could tell you had caught him completely off guard. Faintly, as if it were a bodily response, you softened your smile into something smaller, tilting up at him for the silent moment.

“Friday,” he said after a beat. Steve’s voice seemed to have taken a breathless edge now. It did something all weird and wonky to you. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”

“Seven.”

“Seven,” he repeated, and appearing to remember he wasn't an apparition, Steve's body seemed to lean toward yours as he continued. “Where are we going?”

You hadn't thought that far. Instead of deciding on the spot, you bit the inside flesh of your cheek as an amused exhale escaped your lips.

“You’re the expert, Harrington. Impress me.”

You walked away before your nerve gave out. You could feel him watching you down the hall, could feel the whole plan beginning to take shape behind your ribs. You had even taken to looking through your sosters old magazines for inspiration. Hot and cold. Interest and withdrawal. Private sincerity, public disruption. All those where supposed to be tactics to reuse interest in relationships,  but you figured that the same could also be said for an indirect character study. 

Observe the subject under changing social conditions. Note responses. Analyze, that had been your plan split up into groups.

You were very good at making terrible ideas sound academic.

—

On Friday, his Beamer waited by the curb under a sky the color of sad, wet cement.

He got out when he saw you, which you hated because it was exactly the kind of performative gentleman routine you had expected, and also because he did it without checking if anyone was watching. That complicated your observations, causing a flutter to go through you. He wore a brown leather jacket over a striped shirt, jeans that fit him too well, and that expensive cologne that seemed built into the mythology of him.

Ralph Lauren, Stacey had said with the authority of a girl who knew these things and lived vicariously through others. It mixed with the leather and the faint sweet smell of cherry chapstick when he opened the passenger door.

"Aren't you going to get in,” Steve gave you a wounded look. His head was tilted down slightly towards you and it seemed like he was more offended you had even made an attempt to reach for the door. 

You looked at the open door in his hand, feeling less like a mastermind and more like a nervous girl.  “Do you do that for all your dates?”

Steve's hand went up to run the back of his neck as he let out a weak exhale,  the ghost of a smile on his face. “Only the intimidating ones.”

You slid into the car after that, tucking your notebook deep inside your bag where he would not see it. The seats were cold through your skirt. The dashboard glowed amber when he turned the key, washing his face in soft light as the engine rumbled awake.

He didn't take you to Enzo’s, where everyone went to be seen. He drove past the diner, past the arcade, past the bright places where Hawkins pretended it had a pulse. The town fell away into dark stretches of road bordered by skeletal trees and damp fields. Eventually he pulled into a small overlook above the park, where the swings moved gently in the wind below and the streetlamps made small gold circles on the path.

“This is your idea of impressive?” you couldn't help the baffled tone that took over as you asked, but your voice had taken a softer lift.

He shrugged, fingers resting on the steering wheel. “You said you wanted to understand someone. Hard to do that while watching someone like Tommy try to fit an entire breadstick in his mouth.”

“You’re not friends with him anymore?” you didn't really need the answer, everyone practically knew the answer by now. But still, it's different to have someone tell you something by choice than admit knowledge by association.

His thumb moved along the stitching of the wheel. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Not really.”

“Why?”

He gave you a sideways look. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I told you. Inquisitive.”

“Right.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite laughing. The smile on his face was soft in its hesitancy. “I don’t know. Stuff happened. I got tired. He got meaner. Or maybe he was like that, and I just stopped thinking it was funny.”

The words fell between the two of you in a hush.

You watched him in the dashboard light. Away from school, he seemed younger and older at once. Without the noise around him, without the audience, the space he occupied seemed to changed shape. He rubbed a hand over his face, then caught himself before he ruined his hair and dropped it to his lap. He did that a lot.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your trance. You quickly gave a few hard blinks to refocus, you seriously had to stop doing that around him.

“What?”

“You’re shivering.”

Were you? You hadn't noticed much besides him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not fine.”

Before you could answer, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, warm from his body, lined with the smell of him so completely that your next breath came slower than the last.

“You’ll get cold,” you said, a frown finding its way on to your face. It was a cold evening in Hawkins, the chill more prominent than usual. Your worry was quickly shoved down by him.

Steve seemed to just fidget by habit now. The muscle in his forearms tensed and gained your attention as his arms crossed against his chest. He gave a slight shove and his smile was all teeth and unintentional charm.“I’m tough.”

Now, you didn’t even bother to hide your scoff. A challenging twist of your brow appeared and you pointed out the faults in his words. “You just complained about the heater not working.”

“I’m selectively tough,” his grin stayed and was backed up by a small chuckle. 

You looked at him, and he looked back, and something quiet opened in the car.

The conversation shift quickly after that. You asked questions you had meant to use later. What did he want after graduation? He did not know. Where did he want to go? Away, maybe. Or nowhere. What was he afraid of? He made a joke at first, something about being left unsupervised with fireworks, and then he went quiet long enough for the windows to begin fogging at the edges.

“I don’t think I’m good at anything,” Steve told you after that. He said it plainly, almost casually, which made it worse. It was easier to dissect him clinically when he didn't wear that expression that caused you faltering to gain back control. 

You shifted toward him, eyes dragging over him.  They seemed darker with the setting say, but somehow they had something stored away that made you want to push back on his words.  “That’s not true.”

He gave you a look that unnerved you. “You don’t know that.”

You didn't let it get to you. You pushed through because for some reason, you felt like you couldn't stay silent. “I know you noticed I was cold before I did.”

The words had you faltering from the truth it held.

Steve gave a wry exhale, his head tilted back against his seat with his eyes on you. “That’s not a skill.”

Your voice felt firmer now. “It is, actually.”

He stared out through the windshield. Below, the park sat empty and silvered by frost. You couldn't really focus on that, not when Steve sat besides you looking less like the king you knew and more like a boy you wanted to know. You couldn't even process the words before Steve continued in. “Nancy used to say I had good instincts when I got out of my own way.”

Nancy.

There it was. The bruise beneath the bruise. It wasn't  one you were exactly shocked to hear, the whole sum of Hawkins new about the romance between the Wheeler daughter and him. Still, you weren't going deny the tinge of discomfort you felt at the mention.

What? Why were you uncomfortable? You immediately shut down the thought. A hard clearing of your throat helped stabilize yourself. You had to remind yourself that you weren't here for whatever reason that your body seemed to mistake. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, or at least tried to. You should have leaned in then when his head bowed slightly. You should have gathered the quote, traced the wound back to its social function, and built your thesis brick by brick.

You settled on something else, because strangely, anything else seemed harsh. “She sounds smart.”

“She is.”

The words carried no bitterness. That threw you off. You'd have known guys to turn completely hostile after break-ups, and you couldn't even remember a time where someone from Steve’s circle stayed genuine for the moment. You'd completely expected him to talk badly about her, about the situation, and frankly just about anything and everything that came up. To place blame in everything that never warranted it. 

You'd have felt more comfortable if he reacted like that. He didn't notice your turmoil.

“She’s also right,” he added, turning back to you. His hazel eyes mesmerizing in its softness. “I get in my own way a lot.”

You wanted to ask how. You wanted to ask why. What came out was a stupid joke about how his hair probably counted as a separate obstacle. “How, by looking in the mirror and not finding your face under all that hair?”

His laugh wasn’t loud, it certainly was not the cafeteria laugh you'd have known, not the old one that announced him from across the room. It was small and startled and breathless, given to you without polish. It didn't help you when he leaned back against the seat, smiling at the roof of the car, and your pulse betrayed you completely.

What happened next made you feel less like you were playing him and more like he was playing you. When he reached over to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear, he did it slowly enough that you could have stopped him.

You didn't. You didn't stop him.

You told yourself it was because you were playing an act.

His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, working in breaking you out of your mind. Steve’s hand lingered there, his thumb moving once over your skin, it barely had any pressure. He watched the place he touched instead of your eyes, and the careful uncertainty of it burned through you harder than confidence would have.

For one long second, you wanted him to kiss you so badly that you forgot why you were there.

Then a car passed on the road behind you, headlights cutting through the windows, and both of you shifted apart.

Steve cleared his throat, his head turning to look out the driver's side.  He seemed to have looked aware of just how vulnerable the moment was,  and didn't know how to navigate it.  “So. Did I help?”

You looked down at his jacket wrapped around you. It made feel warm in ways you almost wished it didn't. 

“Yes,” your voice came out all wrong,  small and breathless. “You did.”

You wrote three pages that night and hated all of them. It was as frustrating as it was complicated.  The problem was not that Steve failed your test. You found that out quickly. 

The true problem was that he kept passing in the wrong direction.

—

In public, you performed coldness with the sharp dread of a person setting a match to her own sleeve. Or at least, you truly hoped it looked like that. 

Monday morning, Steve found you near your locker with a bright, almost boyish smile that made you glance away before it could hit directly.

“Hey,” he leaned besides you near the locker. “I was thinking maybe after school we could—”

You shut your locker too hard.

“Can we not do this right now?”

His hand, halfway extended toward yours, stopped in the air. He dropped it quickly, trying to make the movement look natural.

“Do what?” his voice had you wanting to falter. God, since when were you this weak?

“This.” You gestured between you, impatient and vague. “The whole thing.”

People moved around you in the hallway, a current of denim jackets and textbooks and perfume. Someone bumped your shoulder. Before you could stumble, Steve stepped closer, placing himself between you and the rush of bodies. It was an unconscious movement. Protective without announcement.

Your stomach turned. You bowed your head to ignore looking into his enrapturing eyes. A warmth came instinctive in your stomach standing in such close proximity with the boy in front of you. You tried to push it down.  

Keyword, tried.

His voice dropped, his head leaning down to yours in an attempt to meet your gaze. “Hey. What did I do?”

His voice had you feeling weak already. “Nothing.”

“Okay, well, I’m getting a pretty strong not-nothing feeling here.”

You looked past him toward Stacey at the end of the hall. She watched with wide eyes, silently mouthing something that might have been commitment or abort. Her hands moved in front of her in a weaving gesture. You weren't sure what she'd been trying to convey, so you only assume she wanted to to keep going.

You crossed your arms, forcing your tone to turn cold and far away. No words really landed cleanly in your head for inspiration, so you took the first ones that would stick. “Maybe you don’t have to be so… much.”

Steve blinked.

His jaw tensed with movement,  your eyes drew to the action by unfortunate reflex now. He glanced down, then back up, searching your face with a focus that made your skin feel too thin and your act feel too hesitant. 

“I’ll fix it,” the words came quietly. You were sure your expression was dumbfounded, sure you had been acting like this on purpose – but what did he gain from doing that? You were so rapidly expecting a textbook fit. Instead, you got patient murmurings. That was worse than any possible anger.

“I don’t need you to fix it.”

“Then tell me what you need.”

His breath warmed your forehead. His hazel eyes showed no sign of any true hostility. They were worried and confused, and there was something heartbreakingly earnest in the way he tried to solve the version of the problem you had invented. You liked that. You liked that he seemed to act like that by instinct.

And so, because of that, you almost reached for him.

You willed yourself to iron quickly. Wetting your bottom lip, you finally looked up at him. eyes. The action had you remembering just why you were so hesitant to meet his gaze, having a look that could melt anything in them. Instead, you stepped around him and walked to class with your throat tight enough to hurt.

At lunch later, you made notes that took up new space in your writing notebook.

He responded to social rejection not with aggression but accommodation. Attempts repair. Shows confusion when expected script fails. Public status seems less motivating than personal connection.

You underlined personal connection so hard the paper tore.

Even detached on paper didn't feel right.

— 

The next test, as the girls had dubbed it, was supposed to be funny. You were sure it was meant to be, but it still held an underlying issue. It was Stacey’s idea, though you were the one foolish enough to do it.

The party was at some fellow senior’s house on Maple Street, loud enough to rattle the windows from the street. Steve picked you up with his hair arranged into what could only be called architecture. He seemed nervous about the party in a way he tried to bury under commentary about the radio, the road, and the fact that you were late even though you had been ready for ten minutes and had simply stood in your room wondering when exactly you had become the villain in your own story.

It was a rough start to say the least.

When you got there, he came around to open your door.

You stood and tried not to let the deep inhale of breathe be heard. The last thing you needed was to look as nervous as you felt. And quickly after that, you took one look at his carefully styled hair, and before you could lose courage, reached up and ran both hands through it. A smile found its way on your face, practiced and teasing, mirroring the girl in the catalogue of your People magazine.

The brush through his hair wasn't gentle, although his hair certainly was. Seriously, you had to ask later on what his secret was. 

The structure of its volume collapsed instantly, and Steve froze. His head still remained in its bowed position from where he leaned down from the passenger seat door of his car. His brows twitched together as your hands ran along his temple. You froze too, fingers still threaded into his hair.

For one second, you waited for the familiar snap. For the old King Steve to step forward with wounded pride and a cruel mouth. The porch light hummed above you. Inside, someone shrieked with laughter. His friends, or former friends, or whatever they were now, could see you from the living room window.

Steve looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the car. He let out a small sigh, and the familiar heart fluttering charming grin appeared on his face. Steve's eyes shut for a moment but his expression didn't falter, even as a series of laughter escaped him. The sound felt warm to you, and your body responded in turn.

“Better?” Steve then fluttered his pretty eyes back open, his head tilting with curiosity. “It was exhausting keeping that up anyway.”

Your hands fell quickly, your finger tips missing the way his hair felt against your skin instantly. The joke died so completely that you could almost hear it hit the pavement.

He glanced at you, the ruined hair falling soft around his face only enhancing him.  “Does it look terrible?”

“No,” you denied, and it came out too quickly. You winced at that, a small noise escaped Steve. 

His mouth twitched. “That was very convincing.”

“I mean it.” you did. 

He looked younger again. Not smaller, exactly. Just less fully arranged. Another strand fell over his forehead, and you had the sudden, awful urge to smooth it back with care instead of strategy.

The party behind you roared alive, and Steve heard. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn toward them like you thought. He looked at you instead, waiting for your reaction, which somehow made you responsible for the whole fragile moment.

You reached up and fixed one piece of hair near his temple. Something in you liked doing that. 

“There,” your voice was stronger now, and your smile had turned real moments ago. “Better.”

The smile he gave you was crooked and private. It really was nothing in comparison to the rest of the party, but it lingered. You spent the next few hours trying to get him to smile like that again.

You didn't take notes that night, or any of the other future nights.

You just remembered things instead.

You remembered the blue flicker of a movie screen across his face two nights later, when he sat beside you in the theater and kept his arm over your shoulders for the first half hour because that was what Steve Harrington knew how to do. Smooth. Easy. Practiced. Then, sometime after the second reel started rolling, his fingers stopped drumming against your sleeve and settled there with a hesitant weight, not claiming, only asking.

You remembered the way he drove with one hand when he was showing off, then switched to both hands when he told you about the time he forgot about his gym clothes and his coach made him wear an extra one two sizes too small. You remembered that he kept cherry chapstick in his glove box beside a flashlight, two old cassette tapes, and a receipt from a gas station outside Indianapolis. You remembered him stealing fries from your plate at the nearby diner and pretending to be wounded when you kicked his shin under the booth.

And in the next important memory, you remembered rain.

It came hard one random Thursday night, turning Hawkins into a blur of headlights and slick black roads. Steve’s house was empty in the way large houses could be empty even before you stepped inside. It was too clean, and far too quiet. The kind of place where expensive furniture sat untouched, waiting for adults who came home late and left early.

You ended up in his bedroom because the living room felt too much like a showroom for you.

His room was warmer than you expected, messier in an unapologetically human way. A baseball glove rested comfortably on the nearby dresser. Records stacked crookedly near the stereo. A half-open drawer with socks spilling out. Hair products lined along the bathroom counter with an intensity that might have been funny if it did not now seem faintly sad. Still, you had gotten a few quips out in hopes of cracking a smile from him.

The storm rattled the windows deeper into that even when conversations died down. You sat on the floor with your backs against the thick wooden frame of his bed, sharing a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and his cologne. It was a familiar scent to your mind now. His knee pressed against yours beneath the fabric. 

Neither of you moved away. 

“I used to think this place was cool,” Steve had mentioned offhandedly after a moment, looking around the space of his room.

You didn't quite follow why his tone seemed far away, to you, his words were still holding up. “It is cool.”

“It’s big.”

Your head turned to face him, a hum on your lips. “That’s usually part of cool.”

He shook his head, the slight shake of his hair reminded you of how you missed touching it. You shook your head and focused once more when he spoke again. “No, I mean… it’s just big.”

You understood what he meant.

Near his large bedroom window, thunder rolled low over the town. The room flashed pale for a second, then settled back into the lamplight.

You rested your cheek against the edge of the mattress, warm eyes pouring into yours as he mimicked your actions. “Are your parents gone a lot?”

“Yeah.” Steve then picked at a loose thread in the blanket. His next words came out short and detached, so unlike the guy you've known. “Dad travels. Mom goes with him when she’s tired of pretending she likes Hawkins.”

You didn't like how his eyes dimmed.  “And you?”

“I stay.”

The word sat between you.

He laughed once, it was without humor, and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. His voice held that rasped edge that sent tingles down your spine.  “God, that sounded pathetic.”

“It didn’t.” The reassurance came so quick it shocked you. You attempted to play it cool, repeating the words slower. 

“It did.” He looked down at his hands, the same ones you found yourself wanting to hold without the premise of a lie. “I just… I don’t know what happens when this is over. School. All of it. Everybody keeps acting like we’re supposed to know.” You didn't know what to say, it was the first time you've seen him so visibly wrecked.  “College, jobs, whatever. And I’m sitting there thinking—what if this was it? What if being King Steve was the only thing I was ever good at, and I wasn’t even good enough to keep it?”

Your chest tightened, it seemed like the world was laughing at you. Her he was, sitting on his bedroom floor besides talking about his insecurities all while you were actively trying to back on them. 

The article was in your bag downstairs. A draft. A title. A guillotine made of clever sentences.

“Steve,” the name came of gentle from your lips. 

He would not look at you, he kept staring at a spot on the floor. 

“Nancy figured it out before I did,” he went on, his voice lower now. His shoulders carried his tension clear as day. “That all the stuff people liked about me was just… noise. Parties, basketball, the car, the hair. The Harrington house. I thought that meant something. Then it didn’t, and it was—”

He stopped and didn't continue any further. You knew the signs before it came, and the room quieted down. 

His throat moved, a small, forcefully restrained noise finding its way out. The rain that thudded against his window filled the silence for him. And for you. 

You reached for his hand quickly.

He looked at your fingers covering his, then turned his palm upward and held on. You opened your mouth to speak, but not much came out. His grip was still foreign to you,  but it was different right now. It wasn't smooth, and it didn't feel like it held any kind of plan. His grip tightened once, almost too much to be soft, but then he quickly loosened it.

You shifted closer.

That was all it took.

He pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that stole your breath, then seemed to realize what he had done a second after doing it. His hands hovered at your waist.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

You settled there instead of moving away. Your own eyes were blown wide and mirroring his. You tried to speak but it came out all airy. “It’s okay.”

His breathing changed when yours did. Steve's eyes seemed to track your face, and the air seemed to turn into something deeper. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke up again. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder,then to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The response that you gave was instantaneous, a rapid rising and falling of your chest went through the warmth of your body. His hands gripped your waist through the blanket, not possessive necessarily, you thought it felt more like clinging. Tethering.  The storm made the windows tremble. His hair brushed your jaw.

You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. The return of the welcome feeling was pleasant in your grasp.

He went still under your touch, and for a moment. Then he exhaled, deep and unsteady, and held you closer. Your faces were breaths away now, the bridge of his nose softly touched yours.

“Hey,” your voice came out weak. It was too soft to be teasing like you'd hoped. 

Steve’s eyes softened instantly. You saw it happen. You saw the moment the small, genuine grin stretched across his face. His voice came back whispered, as if scared to break the moment. “Hi there.”

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched your face with an openness that made lying feel entirely  impossible. You knew he was about to kiss you. You knew that you really should stop him. You knew the truth should come out before his mouth touches yours, before this became another thing you had stolen under false pretenses.

But you'd been stupid, and so you didn't stop him.

The kiss began softly, almost carefully. His lips were brushing yours once before returning with more certainty. He tasted faintly sweet from the chapstick he pretended not to use. The kiss felt like it was bewitching your body whole. His hand rose to your hair, fingers sinking in with a restraint that kept breaking and returning. You gave a slight laugh against his lips before calming down. You felt him trying not to rush, trying not to take more than you gave, and the effort undid you more thoroughly than any practiced confidence could have. Because it was just so him.

You kissed him back.

Not for the article. Not for the headline. Not because Stacey would demand details or because Mr. Walsh would have to admit you knew how to find a story

You wanted to, you truly wanted to..

You kissed him because his hand was warm against your back and his breath caught when you touched his face. Because the room smelled of rain and leather and laundry soap. Because his mouth moved against yours with need and care tangled together, and your whole body answered before your conscience could organize a defense.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. The faint flush from his skin felt nice against yours

He smiled, small and dazed. You added that of the list of expressions you liked to see on him.

“Does this mean I’m helping with your boy problem?”

A laugh broke out of you, shaky and real. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide it. With a lightness in you chest you lifted your head up as you rolled your eyes. Your hand moved on its own account now. It slid up to grasp the side of his face, your fingers sliding against the shape of his jaw.

“Shut up, Steve.”

His arms tightened around you, and his lips found yours once again. His own lightness expressed through the laughter that filled the echoing bedroom. "Ouch, you wound me."

For a few minutes, the world narrowed to the storm, his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the terrible knowledge that you had done something you could not write your way out of.

—

The article sat unfinished for two days.

You told yourself you would kill it. You also told yourself that you had time. Then you told yourself you would revise it.

So you sat in the newsroom after school, staring at the draft title until the faniliar letters turned cruel.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

It sounded brilliant in the cafeteria. You distinctly remember thinking that. But now? Now it sounded mean. 

No, mean was too light of a word. It felt cruel.

You pulled the pages from the typewriter, folded them once, and shoved them into your folder. You would tell Mr. Walsh you had changed direction. You would write something else. Anything else. A review of the cafeteria pizza. A profile on the marching band. A blank page with sorry written in the center.

The front page spot didn't seem so enticing anymore when the cost came so harsh.

You were reaching for your bag when Mark appeared in the doorway, looking over at you. You didn't bother to hide the deep exhale you gave, you whole body tensing on on instinct.

“Working late?”

You stiffened and corrected him. “Leaving, actually.”

His eyes dropped to the folder in your hand. You immediately shut the folder, not liking the look in his gaze. “Is that the mystery column everyone’s whispering about?”

“No.”

“So yes.”

You tucked it against your chest. You had truly no paitence for the boy. You had been feeling horrible all last night yesterday, well, even more so last night than usual. “Move, Mark.”

He held up both hands, smiling. You didn't like his smile. It was nothing like the comforting presence of Steve's. The thought only made your mood worsened. “Relax. I just wanted to see what was so important that Walsh was considering bumping my school spirit piece.”

“He wasn’t.” You wished you sounded as steady as you needed to, but the flicker in your voice betrayed you.

Mark noticed. Boys like Mark always noticed weakness when it benefited them. And Mark himself no doubt would revel in any chance of taking an empty shot at you.

“Come on,” he clicked his tongue in a way that made your blood boil from its condescension. “We’re all on the same staff.”

“No, we’re not.” You pushed past him quickly. 

You did not know, however, that then one folded carbon copy had slipped from your folder and landed beneath the table, half-hidden by the trash can. You did not know Mark found it ten minutes later. You did not know he read it standing under the buzzing lights with his mouth slowly opening into the delighted shape of opportunity.

If you knew, you certainly wouldn't have lived through the reoccurring nightmare you've been having for the past few weeks.

You found out the next morning when Hawkins High came alive with your words.

Not the final version of your words, for it surely would've had a different result. It wasn't even the whole draft.

It was the worst version, the sharpest version.

The version written before you knew the way Steve looked when he gave away his jacket and pretended not to be cold.

Copies appeared on lockers before first period. Someone had run them fast and dirty, the ink uneven, the margins crooked. The title screamed from the top in bold type.

By second period, everyone had read it. By lunch, they were reading it aloud. You pushed through the hallway with your heart hammering so hard your vision pulsed at the edges.

A boy near the trophy case laughed. “Listen to this part—”

You snatched the page from his hand and you were sure the rhythm of your heart could be heard from miles away.

There it was.

Your article.

Your voice, sharpened into a blade that you couldn't even begin to imagine dulling.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king

Every high school builds a throne, though no one admits to carrying the wood to make it. We vote with our eyes, our invitations, and our laughter at jokes that are not funny enough to deserve it. We create a boy and call him a king because it is easier than admitting we are the kingdom that is faulty.

The high school god is rarely born exceptional. He is assembled meticulously. A good car. A good face. The right jacket. The right table. Enough people saying his name in the right tone until even he begins to believe there is something sacred in being wanted. These continue to enforce how sincerity rarely makes the cut.

But worship is not love. Anyone will tell you that, and those who disagree would be dumb enough to face the consequences. Popularity feeds on performance, and performance rots whatever is underneath the layer given. A boy taught to survive by being admired will eventually mistake attention for affection, control for confidence, and loneliness for proof that everyone else has failed him

When a crown falls, what remains is often not a villain, but something more ordinary and more frightening: a boy with no language for himself beyond what other people once applauded and now isolate.

Hawkins High should ask why we keep making kings out of boys who do not know how to be human — and why we act surprised when the weight of a crown crushes them to dust.

You had written every word. It would have been easier to say that Mark embellished over your words, and exaggerated for journalist effect. But he didn't,  you were the one to do that. It was the worst part of the draft he could have chosen, simply because of the fact that you had left out everything you saw after.

You had also left out every human thing that would have saved him.

You found Steve in the print room a few hours later. And before you could assume any sort of hope of a clean explanation, it was shot and dead in front of you. You almost wished he hadn't gone there.

But of course he would have gone there, and of course the place where your betrayal had been made public still smelled of ink and metal and hot paper. It was proof of the now posted article that you didn't even want out. Faintly, you could hear something loud with the clacking press that someone had forgotten to turn off. Steve stood near the long table, one of the copies in his hand, the page trembling slightly between his fingers.

He looked up when you entered and you almost wished he hadn't. 

His eyes were red.

Not crying, not exactly. Worse. It made your heart drop and panic spike up into you. It seemed he intended to hold back so hard that the effort had hollowed out his face.

“Steve–” you didn't recognize your voice. It was so desperate and and pleading. You opened your mouth and tried to stammer out any explanation that came into your head, but there was nothing you found coming to mind. 

“Steve, please! Just listen, I–” He interrupted you and laughed, but it shook you. It wasn't like the laughter you had come to live,  this one had no warmth in it. It was so unlike him and you hated it. You hated causing that. 

“Was any of it real?”

You stopped short, any explanation does quickly in the tip of your tongue. 

He held up the article for you to see. As if you needed to be reminded of what you'd have done, a small breath part of you mouthed off bitterly. 

“When you looked at me like that. When you stayed with me. When you—” His voice caught, and he looked away, jaw tight. You immediately took to shaking your head, the implication of his words just. Because they were true.  And because they weren't. “Was that just material for your front page?”

“No!”

“No?”

“It started—” You hated yourself before the words finished forming. “It started as an article, but—”

His face changed and your heart seemed perpetually lodged into your ribcage. There were some truths that did not deserve the dignity of a full explanation. Steve just exhaled out sharply, his head finally facing you. The reaction wasn't what you wanted, you wanted–no, needed to explain yourself.

He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. Steve didn't give the you the chance to continue. “Right.”

“Steve, I was going to stop it. I didn't even turn it in! I swear, I wasn't going to hand it over. Mark found an old draft, and he—”

“Don’t.” He looked at you then, and the quiet in his voice hurt more than shouting would have. The word held so much that you froze on instinct. Your eyes stung viciously as you opened your mouth but nothing came out. “Don’t make this about him.”

Your mouth closed then. You felt utterly helpless, which might have been deserved. You desperately wanted to tell him everything,  wanting him to understand that it was real – is real. But your eyes, wide and frantic, just froze. He stepped closer, the paper crumpling in his fist.

“Everyone else wanted to see me for my status,” Steve began with a sharp inhale. You felt the stinging turn more prominent in your eyes, you tried to take a step forward but that was rejected when he almost flinched back two steps himself.. “The car, the parties, the game. Whatever. I got that. I was stupid, but I got it.” His breath shook. Steve’s voice cracked  nearing the end, and that was the last thing you heard before your vision blurred into spots. “I thought you were the only one who didn’t care about it.”

“I did! No, I mean–I do, you have to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was surely pathetically small. Everything else seemed to turn into static silence in the empty printing room and you desperately needed to fix it. You wanted to, but you felt so utterly unsure of your next steps. You reached for him on instinct.

Steve flinched back.

The movement was small. Instinctive. As if his body no longer registered you as a comfort, and that split something open in you. You felt the first few tears fall from your lashes, each blink dropping tiny little pearls. Steve made a noise you couldn't properly translate, his eyes were on yours but they held a thousand words and emotions in a single look. His own hand twitched open and shut before being brought up to bury itself in his hair, Steve then forced his eyes shut and his head turned to the side. He couldn't decide what hurt more, being hurt by you, or seeing you hurt.

He was the one that came back sharp and strained.

“Turns out,” Steve’s voice was so rough, it could have been unrecognizable. You opened your mouth immediately to shut down whatever he would say, but he beat you to it.  “you just used me for a headline.”

The press clattered behind him. A sheet slid loose and fluttered to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking and stinging from feeling utterly defeated. Because he was right, you did. You did get to know him for a chance at a headline, so that was why you could only apologize. But you wanted nothing to do with that stupid article, and regret washed over you at the thought of him thinking none of it was real. Because yes, it was messy, but it was real for you. “But–fuck, Steve... please you have to understand that–” you were cut off before you could even continue. 

He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see the part of him that wanted to believe you fighting with the part that had learned too many times what wanting cost.

Then he turned and walked out.

The room didn't become empty when he left, there was no relief that came with him leaving. And the room didn't become calmer in his disappearance; instead, it filled with him.

The absence of his cologne. The missing warmth of his jacket. The ghost of his hand at your cheek, careful and uncertain, before you had earned any of it. All of the little things that were so present just a moment ago were gone and let the physical trail of what happened.

You were left alone with the faint clacking of the room's machinery. And for a moment, you were so ready to run out to try and plead. To explain, to tell him every complete thing he was missing in hopes of him understanding. But you couldn't do that, not when you were already reason enough that he was hurting all over again.

With a loud curse, you found yourself feeling completely lost in a room that you've only ever compared with a haven. 

— 

For two days, Steve Harrington became visible to you in a way he had never been as king.

You saw him at his locker the next Friday morning, hollow-eyed and quiet, pretending not to hear the whispers. You saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with a younger boy you didn't know for exactly six minutes before the younger boy said something animated enough to make Steve almost smile. Then Steve caught sight of you across the room and the almost vanished.

That hurt like a stab to the heart. 

Then came the other little things that made you feel significantly worse.  He stopped coming to the parking lot after school until the buses had left. He stopped looking down your hallway. He stopped being available to your guilt.

You tried to corner Mark. He denied leaking it with the loose, oily confidence of someone who knew proof mattered more than truth. Mr. Walsh gave a speech to the staff about journalistic ethics while refusing to meet your eyes. Stacey apologized three times, then stopped because the apologies had nowhere to land when she held you while your sobs filled your bedroom. Leah sat beside you at lunch without talking much. That was the kindest thing anyone did.

By Friday afternoon, the newsroom felt smaller than it ever had for you. More suffocating. 

The printing press sat under the window, still and waiting. Dust turned in the late sun. Your original ambition lay around you in stacks of paper and headline sketches and discarded layouts.

You looked at the front page proof with Mark’s article on school spirit and felt nothing.

Not disappointment. Not anger.

Nothing.

That truly scared you more than pain did.

You had thought giving up the article would be enough. You had thought killing the story would count as a moral act. But the story was already alive, crawling through Hawkins High with your fingerprints around its throat. You didn't know what to do, the words were already there for everyone that listened. 

You sat at the typewriter.

For a long moment, you did not move. Shortly after a fit of tense silence, you finally rolled in a clean sheet. The keys struck hard enough to ache in your fingers.

This time, you did not write anonymously because you were clever. Or because you were trying to be witty or cruel. You wrote anonymously because the confession was not meant to redeem your name. It was meant to give him back his.

By the final bell, the flyer was everywhere, curtesy of your desperate and frantic efforts. 

It wasn't approved, it certainly also wasn't polished. Id didn't become formatted with Mr. Walsh’s careful little rules. It was just a single page copied until the machine jammed twice and your hands were black with ink that you couldn't scrub off

Students grabbed them from the tables, from the lockers, from the floor where they skidded under shoes. After all, no one loved potential hidden stories more than Hawkins High

You didn't wait to watch them read. That had been the least of your priorities. There was more important things that you cared about than who read a piece of your work now, and he had been gone from your sight long enough.

So, you ran.

The hallways exploded around you with the annual end-of-week chaos of Hawkins High School. Lockers slammed open, someone yelled about a shared ride, and a freshman dropped an entire stack of books and cursed with such feeling that a teacher shouted his name from twenty feet away. The sun poured through the front doors in a white-gold sheet, way too bright after the fluorescent dimness of the hall.

Steve was not at his locker. He was not outside the gym. He wasn't by the trophy case or the pay phones or even the side entrance near the band room. Your lungs burned by the time you shoved through the heavy double doors and stumbled into the afternoon.

The parking lot sprawled ahead of you, shining under the cold sun. Cars backed out in crooked lines. Girls shouted through open windows. The air smelled of gasoline, damp leaves, and somebody’s cigarette. It was all nothing that you cared about. The one thing you did seemed to be missing from the scene. Your eyes squinted in the light as it traveled across the parking spaces of the lot, failing to find what your heart desperately wanted to see.

At the far end, the BMW’s engine roared to life.

“No,” you breathed with pure adrenaline rushing through your veins. Steve sat behind the wheel, one hand on the gearshift, his profile hard through the windshield. 

Before you even knew it, you started running. 

It was stupid, rushed, and entirely filled with desperation. Your shoes slapped the asphalt. You heard Leah faintly calling your name, but you didn't turn back. The wind tore at your hair. Your bag bounced painfully against your hip but you paid it no mind. You cut between two parked cars and nearly slipped on loose gravel.

“Steve!”

He did not hear you, or pretended not to. You gave a groan of loud annoyance, but it still did little to deter you.

You reached the car just as the reverse lights flashed.

Without thinking, without dignity, and definitely without any plan beyond the awful certainty that if he drove away now something inside you would never forgive you, you threw yourself in front of the driver’s side door.

The car jerked to a stop and Steve froze behind the wheel.

Through the glass, his beautifully bright eyes  widened. Hurt, shock, and stubborn pride moved across his face so quickly you could barely separate them. Then his mouth tightened. You could tell he wasn't expecting your actions, and you couldn't exactly say you were the most sane person now.

The window rolled down slowly, the crank turning under his hand with mechanical, agonizing patience.

“What are you doing?” his words came loud and filled with unresolved frustration. Steve’s voice was rough. Thick in its tension. He wouldn't look straight at you. You refused to settle for that, the days spent with the familiar feeling practically left you numb and empty. 

“Go back inside,” Steve’s eyes and words seemed to contradict each other. He shifted back into looking into his dashboard instead of you. “Go celebrate your front page.”

You shoved the crumpled paper through the open window. It landed in his lap.

“I don’t care about the stupid article, ” you said, breathless enough that the words broke apart. “I don’t care about the front page. Just–read it. Please.”

His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he would throw it back at you. Then Steve looked down at the copy of printed words.

You watched his eyes move over the page.

Correcting mistakes:

There was an article circulating this week about a king. It was clever in the cruel way people mistake for intelligence when they are too afraid to admit they have been wrong.

The girl who wrote it thought she was exposing a system. She thought it clever and brilliant. She told herself the boy at the center of it was an idea, a symbol, a lesson with good hair. She thought distance made her fair and judicial. She thought observation made her honest.

Then the boy gave her his jacket when she was cold.

Then he admitted he was afraid of being forgotten, and the girl realized she had been so busy studying the crown of his that she had ignored the weight of it on his own head.

The first article was right about one thing: Hawkins High School makes kings out of boys and then punishes them for not knowing how to be anything else. That wasn't the mistake here. But it was wrong to confuse a boy’s damage with his character. It was wrong to turn trust into evidence. And it was wrong to take the softest things he offered and sharpen them for public consumption.

This is not an apology meant to earn forgiveness. This is meant, instead to fix the record.

The boy was never a god. 

He was kinder than any story allowed him to be, and he was kinder than she deserved. 

Steve stared at the paper.

His chest rose and fell under his yellow polo. His rings glinted where his fingers gripped the page. Around you, students slowed. A few openly stared. You could feel the parking lot turning toward you with the appetite of a place that loved spectacle.

For once, you really, truly, couldn't care.  

Steve’s eyes lifted to yours,  and you could weep just from that alone. “Why should I believe you?” he asked.

The question was quiet enough that no one else could hear. You stepped closer, hands gripping the edge of the open window. Your own voice want any better, it was loud and messy, and undeniably real. A breathless bount of laughter escaped you “Because I was playing a game and I lost, Steve.”

“I lost.”

His throat moved but you hadn't seen it.

“And I lost you,” you sighed with your head hanging low in shame near the open window, voice shaking now, “and I regret it. I was supposed to push you away, but every time you held my hand, every time you looked at me like I actually mattered, I—”

Your breath caught, and you forced it down in order to continue.

“I don’t care about King Steve. I don’t care about the crown or the table or the stupid front page. I want the guy who gets cold in his own car because he gave me his jacket. I want the guy who pretends he doesn’t use cherry chapstick. I want the guy who worries too much and fixes his hair when he’s nervous and acts tough until somebody he cares about needs him to be gentle.”

The words were embarrassing in their vulnerability, and it didn't help that Steve just stared at you. But even small battle wins were tremendous to those who were cautious.  The defensive hardness in his face trembled.

You leaned closer, not touching him. Though God knew you wanted too. But you wouldn't take what he had not offered.

“I just want you,” you said and the words hung there in the bright afternoon.

For a second, nothing happened. That scared you.  Because if even though all of this, he didn't believe you, you were sure that would break you entirely. You didn't understand how looking at him now, with his beautifully enrupturing genuine gaze and constellations of freckles so faint kissing his skin with blessings, you could have been so stupid.

Your panicking monologue was cut off when Steve let out a breath that broke halfway into a laugh.

It made you falter momentarily. You wouldn't exactly describe it as fully happy or clean. Instead, it was more ragged. Disbelieving. Full of relief that came so sudden it seemed to knock the strength out of him. He looked down at the crumpled printed again, then back at you. You saw the exact moment when whatever he had been holding together for two days came apart in his hands.

“You’re insane,” Steve held his head in his hands. The heels of his palms dragged to his eyes, and that when you noticed the concealed redness there. Your panic was a quick guest arrival as your hand hesitantly went over the threshold of the open window and found its spot tangling through his hair at his temple.

Your voice came out soft. “I know.”

“You ran in front of my car.” Steve's was returned in a disbelieving laugh. The sound on instinct made you smile.

“I know.”

“I could’ve hit you.”

You weren't quite so sure you believed that. And it seemed like neither did he fully either. The both of you stared through the air between you “You're not exactly driving donuts with your Beamer in a school parking lot, Harrington. You were going four miles an hour, max.”

His mouth twitched and your heart found its comfort. There he was. That was the boy you wanted to see, the one who was sincere and silly and all of the words in between.

The moment didn't truly feel fixed all the way, and it didn't feel so easily forgiven so neatly that the hurt could be vanished beneath a kiss. But there, beneath the bruised pride and the red eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw, was the boy from the park. The boy from the rainstorm. The boy who had laughed quietly when nobody asked him to perform.

He shoved the car door open.

You barely had time to step back before he was out, hands catching your waist. Steve lifted you clean off the pavement, and a startled sound escaped you as your hands grabbed his shoulders.

“Steve—”

“Shut up,” he rasped, but his voice broke around the smile. Then kiss that came next didn't surprise you. But it certainly didn't prepare you for it either.

It was not exactly graceful, but it was completely and utterly impassioned.

Someone in the parking lot whooped. Someone else yelled something that sounded suspiciously like “Harrington!” A horn blared because a car was stuck behind his open door. The reminder of just how crazy this whole situation was roared in your ears. 

Steve didn't seem to hear any of it. You had a feeling that he did, but just pretended he didn't. That made you smile on reflex against him.

His hands held your waist with desperate certainty, then slid up your back, pulling you close enough that the cold afternoon disappeared between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, ruining it again, and he made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half relief. He tasted the same sweet cherry chapstick you started buying for yourself and breathless warmth. The kiss carried every unsaid thing neither of you knew how to organize yet. Anger. Want. Hurt. Forgiveness beginning somewhere far off and walking slowly toward you.

When your feet touched the ground again, you were dizzy. It was a good dizzy, and the pounding in your side was a welcome pleasure now. 

Steve rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His hands stayed anchored at your hips, refusing to let you drift away. Up close, you could see the faint details scattered along his neck, the tiredness under his eyes, and the careful hope he was trying not to show too quickly.

“You really printed that?” The question broke you out of your stupor. You were still so dazed from his touch that you distantly found yourself nodding. Your hands refused to leave their spot in reaching for him now that there wasn't a lie justifying it.

“Over Mark’s stupid school spirit thing?”

Your words came mechanical,  as if offended he'd even question it. “Technically under it. Around it. On top of some of it.”

“I made a stupid amount of copies.” The confession came paired with you momentarily dropping your hands where they were wrapped around him to hold up the black ink stains on your fingers.

His smile spread, crooked and real enough to hurt. And you swore that it was the most beautiful sight in the world.

“Good.”

You laughed weakly, your hands finding their way back into sliding to the back of his nape. “That’s what you took from the public confession?”

“I’m processing.” His thumb moved along your jaw, slow and familiar. “Also, I liked the cherry chapstick line.”

“I hoped you would,” you felt like a cat relishing in caresses. The smile that mirrored his came quick and teasing on your mouth.  His eyes stayed on yours, and his smile softened at the edges.

“You’re a terrible writer.”

Your brows lifted in instinctive defensiveness of your craft. “Excuse me?”

He brushed his thumb beneath your chin, eyes bright with that old Harrington charm, gentler now, and clearly worn in rather than performed.

“You didn’t even come close to losing me.”

The ache in your chest loosened all at once.

It would not be so easy for you to say it was gone, you would still have to apologize without speeches. He would still have to decide what trust looked like after being turned into copy. 

But Steve was standing in front of you with his hair wrecked by your hands and your confession folded against his car seat. He was looking at you, really looking, not the way a king looked over a crowd, but the way a boy looked at the girl he was still willing to let close enough to hurt him.

You rose onto your toes with a soft shake of your head and grin. “Just shut up and kiss me, Harrington.”

His grin flashed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

This time, when he kissed you, the whole parking lot blurred into sun and noise and the smell of gasoline warming on asphalt. His hands were still careful. Yours were not. You held onto him with ink-stained fingerspads and a heart that learned how to be true.

[sugartalk-ing]

yaaayyy can we get a lil steve harrington, friends to lovers first kiss? like maybe it's christmas time (i need summer to be over) and they walk into somewhere with mistletoe and everyone heckles them to kiss

send me some blurbs and drabbles to write! lowkey this is in the same universe as what is this feeling? but you don't have to read it to get this lol

You’re being haunted by the calendar above your desk. You only have two weeks until christmas and you have gotten everyone in your family and friend groups gifts… except Steve. Over the past few months of knowing each other, you’ve grown to know him quite well. And you’re a great gift giver! Everyone has told you so! So, why is it so hard for you to pin something down for Steve?

Technically, he told you, you didn’t have to get him anything. But, how could you not? He’s been nothing but kind and welcoming to you. Showing you around the school, getting you acquainted with the new town you moved into at the beginning of the year, even incorporating you into his friend group. 

You glanced at the clock above the door of your classroom, seeing you only had an hour left until the final bell, feeling thankful that your last period was a free period. You already finished grading half of the final essays submitted, figuring you could grade the other eight at home as you mull over your gift options for Steve.

Maybe you could get him a new travel mug? He had been complaining about the one he had now not being able to keep his coffee warm throughout the entire day anymore. Maybe a new mat for his car? The one in the back of his has practically folded in half and refuses to lay flat. 

All good, practical gifts. Also, all gifts that scream super-non-personal. 

You sigh heavily as you shove the folder with your winter break course work into your bag and trudge your way over to the gym to sit it on Steve’s last class like you usually do on your free period. 

When you push through the double doors, you’re met with a bunch of kids running around with flags tied around their waists and the sound of screeching. 

“Welcome to the warzone.”

Speak of the Devil.

You turn around to see Steve leaning across the bleachers, a grin on his face. He sits up to reach for your bag on your shoulder, setting it down for you as you take a seat next to him.

“Capture the flag is a very unique approach for Sex Ed.”

“I gave them their final exam yesterday,” he shrugs, “everyone passed. Figured they deserved a free day for all their hard work.”

“Very cool of you, Coach Harrington.” You laugh when he winks at you, both of you sitting a silence as you watch the kids for a minute before Steve breaks the silence again. 

“Ready for Christmas break?”

“Too ready,” you sigh, sitting so close to him that your thigh brushes against his. Neither of you move. “What about you? You, uh, done with all your Christmas shopping?”

Steve clears his throat, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Sure. I mean, yeah. For the most part.” He glances at you and gives you a smile. “You?”

“Yeah, same. For the most part. Hey, um, speaking of gifts… what… is there anything–” You’re interrupted by the final bell and the onslaught of kids rushing past you to grab their bags. 

“Bye Coach Harrington!” A few of the kids say bye to you, wishing you a good break. Steve grunts as he stands up, picking your bag up for you again. 

“Geez, how much homework did you give yourself this break?” Steve jokes, pivoting away from you when you reach for the bag. “No, I’ve got it. Don’t want you to dislocate your shoulder.”

“Shut up,” you whine, smiling when he laughs. He follows you out of the door and you two fall into step on your way to the teacher’s lounge. 

“What were you asking me?”

“Hm?”

“Before the bell rang,” he clarifies, nodding toward the gym. “Sounded like you were trying to ask me something.”

“Oh!” You smile when he opens the lounge door for you, walking in ahead of him. “Sure, yeah. I was just wondering–”

“Mistletoe!” 

You both stop in your tracks, glancing up at Ms. Mundy. At your confused expressions, her eyes drift up above your heads, and both of your eyes follow. 

“Oh,” you say, your face flushing. “Is that… appropriate?” You mumble, glancing at Steve. His eyes are still locked on the offensive piece of greenery. 

“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun! Everyone has participated,” she says pointedly, leaving out the part that it was with kisses on the back of the hand or on the cheek. She’ll let you two interpret how you should perform the act. 

“Um, I guess it is… tradition?” Steve defends weakly, finally sparing you a glance. You shrink a little under his gaze but nod. 

“Sure, yeah. Tradition.” You clear your throat as you turn to face him, he smiles a little when your eyes quickly dart from his eyes to his mouth then back up again.

It gives him enough courage to lean in, stopping a little more than halfway to give you the opportunity to close the distance yourself. You swallow thickly before leaning in the rest of the way, your lips brushing gently. When you feel him exhale against you, you push up again to give him a firmer press of your lips. 

When you pull back after a second, Steve chases you for one more, one of his hands coming up to cup the back of your neck gently to keep you in place, he’s not even aware he’s doing it. He pulls away when you let out a hum, his hand letting you go just as quickly as if your skin burned him. 

“S-Sorry,” he stutters, glancing around and catching Ms. Mundy’s eye, a sly smirk on her face. His face heats as he takes a step away from you. 

“Merry Christmas!” Ms. Mundy practically sings as she pushes past both of you to leave you two alone. 

It’s silent for a second as you two avoid eye contact, both of you moving automatically to gather the things you two need: your coffee cups, anything you’ve left in the fridge, your bearings to brace yourselves to speak to each other again. 

“What do you want for Christmas?” You blurt out, whirling around to face him fully. Steve feels like his brain’s still rebooting, only faintly understanding what you’re asking him. He has to fight the urge to stride over and kiss you again, declare that this is what he’s wanted all year since meeting you, and especially now after getting a faint taste of you. 

“M-Maybe we could, um, go shopping together?” He suggests, trying to sound casual. “I actually had the same question for you.”

“Perfect!” You nod rapidly, feeling kind of like a bobblehead. You have to remind yourself to stop so you don’t look too crazy. “We could meet at the mall? Tomorrow at noon, if you’re free?”

“Tomorrow at noon in the food court. It’s a date.” He cringes, quickly shaking his head. “Not a date. I mean, like a friend date, is what I meant. A platonic hangout.” He smiles despite his embarrassment when you laugh lightly, the tension finally feeling like it’s been broken. 

“It’s a platonic hangout,” you agree, giving him a small wave as you walk out the door. He waits there a couple of minutes after you’re gone to give you time to reach your car before he leaves, not wanting to meet you out there awkwardly since he was heading the same way. 

This break was going to be interesting.

[firelilyfox]

not used to this

Pairing: Steve Harrington x unexperienced / shy female reader

Summary: Steve has fallen hard for you. And he doesn`t hide his affection at all. But you are not used to this kind of attention ... yet.

Warnings: shy reader. unexperienced. friends to lovers. Steve has a huge crush. kissing. flirting. no use of y/n.

_______________

Steve wasn't trying to be smooth. He was trying to be…Well. Normal. Unfortunately, "normal" tended to disappear the second you smiled at him.

It started with your hair.

The two of you had volunteered to help decorate the community center for Hawkins' annual summer fair, which meant ladders, boxes of paper lanterns, and Robin loudly insisting that every ribbon was "slightly crooked."

You were standing beside Steve, trying to untangle a string of lights. When a breeze drifted through the open windows and a loose strand of your hair fell across your face.

Without thinking… Steve reached over. His fingers barely brushed your cheek as he tucked it gently behind your ear. "There." He smiled. "Thought you might want to actually see what you're doing."

Your entire body froze. "…Oh." Then, after the shortest silence imaginable you took one quick step backward.

Steve's smile faltered. "…Sorry."

"No!" The answer came too fast. "I mean—" Your gaze was suddenly glued to the floor.

"I just…" You laughed nervously. "I have to…" You pointed vaguely toward absolutely nothing. "…go."

Then you practically speed-walked away. Steve blinked, to stunned to even breathe. Robin watched the whole thing from across the room.

"…Well." Steve looked at her. "I messed that up."

The second incident happened three days later at the Family Video.

You reached for the same VHS tape at exactly the same time and your fingers brushed. Steve smiled instinctively. You looked at him and your heart did a complete somersault.

He smiled. Your brain promptly packed its bags and left.

You yanked your hand back so quickly you almost dropped the tape. "Sorry!"

Steve frowned. "It's okay."

"No, I—" You laughed waaay too loudly. "I should…" Another vague gesture. "…Alphabetize something."

You disappeared into the next aisle.

Steve stood there holding The Princess Bride. "…What just happened?"

Then came the fair.

You'd spent the afternoon helping Steve run one of the game booths. He kept making you laugh, while you kept trying not to stare at him.

Neither attempt was particularly successful.

Late in the afternoon, Steve leaned closer to hear you over the crowd. "You've got paint…" He smiled. "…right here." He pointed to the corner of your mouth.

"Oh!" Instinctively, you tried wiping it away.

"No, other side."

"This side?"

"No." He chuckled. "Here." Before he could think better of it, his thumb lightly brushed the tiny streak of blue paint from your cheek.

It lasted less than a second, but your heart nearly exploded.

"Oh." Your voice squeaked. You took two entire steps backward.

Steve's hand dropped immediately. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay."

"No…" His smile had disappeared now. "I shouldn't have…"

"No, really." You were blushing so hard you thought you might actually catch fire. "I just…" Words. Where had words gone?

"I have to go help Mrs. Henderson."

"…She's over there."

"I know." You pointed in the opposite direction. "…Exactly." Then you fled.

Steve watched you disappear into the crowd. His stomach sank and he felt like the worst person that had ever walked the earth.

By evening he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Three times. Three different days. Every time he'd gotten a little closer… You'd moved away.

Maybe Robin was right. Maybe he'd been too obvious. Maybe he'd made you uncomfortable.

The thought sat like a stone in his chest.

He hated it even more than rejection. More than embarrassment. The idea that you might not feel safe around him made him feel physically sick.

So… just after sunset… Steve knocked on your front door. You opened it wearing an oversized sweatshirt and socks.

You smiled when you saw him. Then immediately looked confused. "Steve?"

"Hey."

"Everything okay?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Can we…" He nodded toward the porch swing. "…Talk?"

A few minutes later you were sitting side by side in the warm evening air.

Steve couldn't look at you. "I owe you an apology."

You frowned. "For what?"

He laughed softly. "For apparently making you uncomfortable all week."

Your eyebrows shot up. "…What?"

He sighed. "I noticed how you moved away when I came too close to you and I`m so incredibly sorry."

Your stomach dropped.

"I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or that you are not safe with me. I would never force myself on you like that ... well I guess I kinda did that ..."

He dragged a hand down his face. "God, I`m so so sorry."

"I know."

"I just…" His shoulders slumped. "I think I got carried away."

"Steve?"

"…Yeah?"

"Can you look at me?"

He finally did. You were trying very hard not to smile. "You thought…" You covered your mouth. "…that I was uncomfortable?"

He blinked. "Weren't you?"

For one long moment you simply stared at him. Then you laughed with complete disbelief. "Oh my God."

Steve looked even more worried. "Was I really that bad?"

"No!" You reached for his hand without even thinking. The contact made him stop talking instantly. "No, Steve."

You shook your head. "I wasn't uncomfortable."

"You weren't?"

"I was…" Your cheeks warmed immediately. "Oh man how should I put it?."

"What?"

"This is so embarrassing."

"You don't have to tell me."

"No." You smiled shyly. "I think I should."

Steve waited.

"I moved away because…" You laughed at yourself. "…I forgot how to function."

He stared. "What?"

"I've never…" You looked down at your joined hands. "…had someone flirt with me before."

Steve's heart skipped a beat. Yeah he flirted with you. Hard and with everything he got. And he couldn`t understand the fact that nobody did before.

"So when you tucked my hair behind my ear…" You hid your face for a second. "…my brain completely shut down."

His mouth fell open.

"And when our hands touched at Family Video…" A tiny smile. "…I spent the next ten minutes pretending to organize shelves because I couldn't remember the alphabet."

Steve actually laughed. "You couldn't…"

"I genuinely couldn't." He laughed harder. "I got to 'G' three times."

"Oh my God."

"And then…" You groaned. "…at the fair?"

Steve smiled. "You practically ran away from me. I felt like a deadly disease."

"I know." You looked at him through your fingers. "But you smiled at me first. As if that's a normal thing to do!"

"It is!"

"Not when you look like that!"

Steve blinked. "…Like what?"

"Like…" You took a deep breath. "Like I'm the only person you're looking at. And with those eyes? Give a girl a break!"

His expression softened.

"So every time you smiled…" Your voice became smaller. "…or accidentally brushed my hand…I felt like my heart was trying to climb out of my chest."

Steve had gone completely still.

"And I moved away because I was scared that if I stayed…" You looked up at him. "…you'd notice how hopelessly in love with you I am."

Silence. Complete silence. Steve's face turned the most spectacular shade of pink.

You blinked. "…Steve?"

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"…Steve?"

He laughed once. Very quietly. "I spent…" Another laugh. "…an entire week convincing myself I was the worst guy in Hawkins."

"Oh god. I`m so sorry."

"I thought I'd scared you."

"You absolutely did." His face fell. "No!" You quickly squeezed his hand. "Not like that."

A smile spread across your face. "You scared me because you kept doing incredibly sweet things…and I didn't know what to do with all the butterflies."

Steve looked at you as though the world had just tilted on its axis.

"So…" He smiled, almost shyly now. "…if I did this again…"

Very slowly, giving you every chance to move… He reached up. His fingertips gently tucked another loose strand of hair behind your ear.

This time you didn't step away, instead you leaned into his touch. Just a little.

Steve's smile grew. "That is the reaction I was hoping for."

You smiled back. "That was the reaction all along, I just needed a little longer to understand."

"I`m glad because I dont think I can stay away from you any longer after tonight." He laughed softly. "I love you too, sweetheart."

You reached up, your fingers finding his wrist. "So…"

"So?"

"You can keep flirting with me."

Steve's eyebrows lifted. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "I'll probably still get flustered."

"That's okay. I kinda love it actually."

"I might still forget how words work."

"I think that's kind of adorable."

You laughed. "Just…" You looked up at him with the sweetest, most bashful smile he'd ever seen. "…don't mistake butterflies for fear."

Steve's heart melted on the spot. "I won't."

And when he leaned in to kiss you, you didn't run away. You smiled into the kiss and afterwards Steve wondered how he'd ever mistaken that look for anything other than love.

___________________

Thank you so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated

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