A collection of stories following Thea, a High Elf Circle of the Moon Druid, who was alone for 167 years, before being abducted aboard a Mind Flayer ship.
🩷Halsin x Thea🩷
Whilst I will follow the story of BG3, some stuff I might tweak/miss out just for pacing or situations I want to create.
Stories will be given context/warnings via emoji:
🌸 = Important for story.
🌼 = Can be read as stand alone.
🌈 = Fluff
🔥 = Smut
🌧️ = Angst
🌦️ = Hurt/Comfort
🌩️ = Violence
⛈️ = Hurt/No Comfort
🌸You can find a summary of Thea's backstory here.🌸
The drive back to your house was painfully quiet at first. Gator kept both hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw tense, eyes fixed forward, while you stared out the passenger window. Neither of you knew how to recover from tonight. Between Roy, the dinner and the comments, it was a lot. But silence clearly started eating Gator alive after a while. He shifted slightly in his seat before speaking quietly. “I didn’t mean that stuff.”
You kept looking out the window. “What stuff ?”
“The ranch.” He swallowed once. “Dad talking like you belong to me.” You sighed, remembering the way he talked about you.
“You didn’t exactly disagree.”
“I know.” The answer came frustratingly fast, like he’d already been thinking about it. “I just…” He exhaled heavily through his nose. “I don’t know how to talk about that stuff the right way, without saying dumb shit.” You finally looked at him.
“About what stuff ?” He didn’t respond right away. You could almost see his brain overheating with how much he was thinking about his next words. Then, finally, he spoke again.
“You.” The word came rough, as if vulnerability physically hurt him. Gator kept staring at the road, not daring to look at you right now. “When I’m not around you, I keep thinking something bad’s gonna happen.” His fingers tightened slightly around the wheel. “But when I am around you, I still feel crazy all the time.” You stayed quiet, listening. “That ain’t your fault, I just… don’t know what to do with it.”
“With what Gator ?” He laughed bitterly under his breath.
“You know what.”
“No, Gator. I actually don’t.” That frustrated him immediately. He shook his head once.
“I’m trying here.” Gator glanced at you briefly before looking back at the road. “I ain’t good at…” He stopped himself. Tried again. “I never had anybody I worried about like this before.” Your chest tightened a little, but before you could say anything, he ruined the softness. “And every time another guy gets near you I wanna break something.” You closed her eyes, disappointed.
“There you are.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” Silence swallowed the truck again after that. Because underneath all the possessiveness and jealousy, he was still trying, in the only broken way he knew how.
By the time he reached your house, both of you looked exhausted. Gator parked outside quietly but didn’t unlock the doors right away.
“So…” He muttered. “Can I stay tonight ?” You looked at him carefully, not angry anymore, just drained.
“I think we both need to think tonight.” Gator immediately looked disappointed, but he nodded once.
“Yeah. You’re probably right.” You reached for the door handle, but he suddenly caught your wrist. You turned back toward him. Gator looked strangely nervous now. “Hey…” He started, but didn’t finish.
“What ?” You could see the hesitation on his face. He spoke again after a few seconds.
“…Thanks for tonight.” Confusion flickered across your face. “For coming.” He looked away briefly. “For not making things worse with my dad.” The sincerity in his voice surprised you. Gator Tillman saying thank you, and meaning it, that’s not something you see everyday. Before you could react any further, he leaned forward and kissed your lips slowly, like he wasn’t completely sure you’d let him do that. But you did, you kissed him back, your hand resting on his cheek while his rested on your thigh.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. He exhaled loudly, relieved. “Night baby.” You nodded and got out of his car, heading towards your front door. The truck stayed outside until you got safely inside the house, then finally drove away.
Half an hour later, you were sat on your couch with Caleb on speakerphone. He thought you got arrested and couldn’t understand why, so you had to tell him everything from the very beginning.
“You’re telling me he literally had you detained by deputies ?” Caleb sounded horrified.
“Yes.”
“Oh my God, babe, that is sooooo not romantic.”
“I know.”
“And then his dad basically offered you up like livestock at dinner ?!” You groaned loudly into the couch cushion.
“You see why I’m losing my mind ?”
“Yeah !” Caleb snapped immediately. “Also your life sounds like one of those southern crime documentaries you see on TV.” Despite everything, you laughed. Talking to Caleb loosened some of the panic sitting in your chest. He always knew how to make you smile, no mater what was going on with your life. Eventually though, the exhaustion caught up with both of you.
“Call me tomorrow.” Caleb said softer now. “And seriously… be careful with him.” The words lingered after you hung up. You sighed heavily before standing to go and close the curtains. But as you glanced outside, you suddenly frowned. A black SUV sat parked across the street, engine running, a man sitting inside, watching the house. Something cold crawled up your spine.
“…No fucking way.” Your pulse quickened, because suddenly you remembered seeing that same vehicle two nights ago, parked farther down the road, and someone had been inside then too. Anger immediately overpowered fear. You grabbed your phone and texted Gator right away.
11:23pm : Seriously Gator ?? Again ????
Gates 🐊 - 11:23pm : ?
11:24pm : You don’t need to have people watching my house every second of the day. I thought it was only for when you were out of town ?? This is ridiculous.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Gates 🐊 - 11:25pm : what are u talking about
11:25 pm : Black SUV sitting outside my house right now. There’s literally a guy sitting in it. Is it one of your dad’s deputies again ?
You barely had time to lock your phone screen when it rang loudly in the quiet of the night. Gator. You answered, ready for the stupid excuse he was going to give you. You didn’t have time to say anything before he spoke.
“What kind of SUV ?” The sharpness in his voice immediately threw you off.
“What ?”
“What kind of SUV ?” He repeated faster now. “Black Tahoe ?” You moved carefully toward the window again.
“Huh, yeah, I think it’s a Tahoe ?”
“Plate.”
“I can’t see it Gator.”
“Try.” The command in his voice made adrenaline spike through your chest instantly. You crouched slightly near the window.
“…Uh. KT something… maybe a 9 in it ? I can’t…” He didn’t let you finish.
“Fuck.” Your stomach dropped.
“What ?”
“Listen to me carefully.” Gator’s voice had changed completely now. Pure cop mode, with a splash of panic underneath it. “Lock every damn door in that house right now.”
“Gator…”
“Now.” Fear hit fully this time. Caleb was right, your life did look like a crime documentary right now. You ran for the front door immediately, locking it with shaky hands before hurrying toward the back.
“What’s happening ? Gator talk to me !”
“Don’t stand near windows.”
“Gator !”
“Did you see his face ?”
“No !”
“Was he white ? Beard ? Ballcap ? Anything. ”
“I don’t fucking know !” You locked the final door, breathing hard, then slowly peeked back through the curtains. The SUV started moving, slowly pulling away from the curb.
“Oh my God, he’s leaving !”
“Take a picture.”
“What ?”
“Take a fucking picture !” He was screaming through the phone now, you could hear his truck door closing, signaling that he was in his car, probably to come get you. Your hands shook violently while grabbing your phone and snapping one quick blurry photo through the curtain just before the SUV disappeared down the road. Then, you backed away from the windows entirely, heart pounding violently against your ribs.
“Gator… What the fuck …”
“I’m coming baby, I need to call someone so I’m gonna hang up. Keep your phone near you and don’t unlock the door. I’m coming as fast as I can.” The line went dead. You spent the next ten minutes sitting hidden beside the couch gripping your phone so hard your fingers hurt. Every sound outside made you jump.
After a little while, you heard some noise at your front door. The knob moved, and you heard a key being pushed in the lock. You froze, that’s it. The guy was there, he was coming to kill you, chop you up into pieces … The door slammed open, and a familiar voice hit your ears.
“Baby ? It’s me.” Gator. But, how the hell did he manage to open your front door with a key ? You never gave him the key to your house. That’s a question for later. For now, you were relieved that he was there. As soon as he stepped inside, he looked furious.
“Show me the picture.” You fumbled with your phone, before handing it to him with shaky hands. Gator stared at the image, and all the color drained from his face. He knew exactly who it was.
“What ?” You whispered. “Who is that ?” Gator handed you the phone back.
“You need to pack a bag. You’re coming back to the ranch with me tonight.” Fear twisted harder in your chest now.
“No, stop doing that !” You snapped suddenly. “You cannot keep shutting me out every single time something serious happens !” Gator ignored that.
“Pack a bag.”
“Gator !” The sharpness in your voice finally made him look back. “You keep taking one step forward and three backwards !” You shouted. “You say you care about me, then hide everything from me like I’m too fucking stupid to handle the truth !”
“That ain’t why.”
“Then why ?”
“Because if you know too much, you become part of it.” The words chilled you instantly. Neither of you spoke while you packed, too damn scared to stay home now anyway.
The drive back to the ranch was suffocating. Gator barely said two words the entire time. His jaw stayed clenched, one hand gripping the wheel too tightly, the other constantly tapping against his thigh with nervous energy.
When you finally reached his barn, Gator moved fast. He crossed immediately toward an old storage cabinet hidden beneath the stairs and unlocked something shoved deep behind it. He then dragged out a long black case. What the hell was that ?
“Gator…” He ignored you completely. The case opened with a heavy metallic click. Inside was a large rifle broken down into multiple pieces. The exact kind of weapon nobody kept around for normal reasons.
“What the fuck ?” Gator started assembling it piece by piece with frightening familiarity, like he did that a thousand times before. Metal clicking smoothly together beneath his hands. You’ve never been this close to that kind of weapon before.
“You need to calm down.” You said quickly.
“No.”
“Gator, look at me.”
“No.” His voice sounded raw now, and he was shaking with rage. You stepped closer anyway.
“You are scaring me.” That finally made him stop for half a second. Just enough for you to keep pushing. “You can’t keep saying you care about me while treating me like I’m some outsider you don’t trust …”
“I do trust you.”
“No you don’t !”
“Yes I do!”
“Then talk to me !” Silence exploded between you and him. Gator stared at the half-built rifle, breathing hard, before finally spilling something.
“There are people working with my father that should’ve never known your name.” Fuck, does that mean you were in too deep now ? Gator looked wrecked, and underneath the anger, you could see that he was scared. Scared of what could’ve happen to you. “If they think you matter to me…” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He didn’t finish that sentence, instead, he looked into your eyes, before dragging both hands over his face violently and looking back toward the gun.
“I gotta handle this first.”
“Gator…”
Then finally, his voice breaking slightly:
“I promise I’ll explain after.” And you believed him. You believed that he finally trusted you enough to let you in. Gator looked away first, then back down at the rifle. Without another word, he finished assembling it.
The metallic clicks echoed through the barn loft one after another, while you stood frozen nearby watching him work. He reached for a box of ammunition next, his movements steady. One bullet after another slid into the rifle with sharp mechanical sounds that made your stomach twist tighter every single time.
“Gator…” No response. Once the rifle was fully loaded, he lifted it easily onto his shoulder before grabbing the scope adjustment. He walked toward the window, opening it with a rough scrape. Gator planted one hand beneath the rifle smoothly and looked through the scope, completely focused now. You watched how his expression change as he adjusted the sight, like a professional.
It kind of scared you how natural it looked to him. After a few seconds, Gator nodded faintly to himself, satisfied. He reached into the case again and pulled out a silencer. He screwed it onto the end of the barrel before raising the rifle once more toward the darkness outside. He steadied himself against the window frame. A long silence followed, you couldn’t move. Then, a sound you’ve never heard before escaped from his rifle, it could barely even register as a gunshot. Far across the property, one of the fence posts suddenly splintered violently.
You jumped hard anyway. Gator lowered the rifle slightly and exhaled once through his nose, once again, satisfied.
“Gator…” He finally turned toward you.
“You stay here.” You panicked immediately.
“No, please.”
“I’ll be back quick.”
“No.” You shook your head. “Absolutely not. I’m coming with you.”
“You’re not.” His answer was sharp, making you wince a little.
Gator set the rifle strap more securely over his shoulder before walking toward his jacket hanging nearby. “This is the safest place you can be right now in this whole fucking county.”
“At your father’s ranch ?!”
“There’s armed men all over this property.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t wanna stay here !”
“Baby…”
“No !” Panic sharpened your voice now. “What if Roy comes here ?!”
“He won’t. He’s old. He’s probably already asleep.” That honestly did not reassure you at all. Gator kept moving around, grabbing things while talking quickly. “I’ll lock the barn when I leave.” He nodded toward the window. “There’s still guys working night patrol on the property. I’ll tell them to keep their eyes here.”
You stared at him like you barely recognized him anymore. You finally had the guts to ask the question that was burning on your tongue for a little while now. “Are you gonna kill somebody with that ?”
That finally stopped him. Gator froze halfway through pulling his jacket on. He hesitated, his eyes flicked toward the rifle briefly.
“I’ll do whatever I gotta do to protect you.” The words hit you like ice water. You just stared at him, completely stunned, because he didn’t sound dramatic or angry, he sounded sincere. Like he’d already made peace with whatever that meant.
Gator looked away first once again, as if even he couldn’t handle the weight of what he’d just admitted, before heading for the door. Panic surged through you again. “Wait !”
He turned just in time for you to rush towards him. Your hands grabbed the front of his jacket hard as you kissed his lips with desperate force. Gator immediately stumbled from the impact before kissing you back just as hard, one hand gripping your waist, the other still holding the rifle carefully away from you.
When you finally pulled back, your breathing shook. “Come back fast, please.”
“I will mama.” Before leaving, Gator suddenly reached for a radio clipped beside another jacket hanging near the door. He switched it on, and static crackled loudly through the barn. He pressed the side button before speaking. “It’s Gator. Who’s on night patrol tonight ?” A burst of static answered first, then, a male voice.
“Me and Carter.” Gator’s expression stayed cold, unreadable.
“Get to my barn. Now.”
“Everything alright ?”
“No.”
“On our way.” Gator clipped the radio free and turned toward you.
“This is the ranch radio.” He placed it carefully into your hands. “Everybody working on this property carries one. If something happens, you hold this button and talk.” He pointed briefly. “Somebody will come.”
You nodded, but the reality of that made you feel sick. Because this wasn’t normal, none of this shit was normal. Gator reached for the door handle, but stopped one last time to look at you.
“Lock it behind me.” And he left. You moved fast to the window after locking the door. Outside, two armed ranch hands arrived fast on ATVs from farther across the property. Gator met them near the barn steps. Even from where you were, you could see the shift in their posture when they noticed the rifle over his shoulder. One of the men said something, and Gator answered sharply.
The men both nodded immediately. Then, one moved toward the barn while the other stayed watching the surrounding fields. Finally, Gator climbed into his truck and disappeared into the dark ranch roads without another glance back.
synoposis ⸝ ⸝ the hot new neighbour moves in next door and his first stop in town is your bakery, where he learns two things. one: he needs to up his game at pronouncing ridiculous dessert names, and two: you are one very good-looking single mother.
warnings ⸝ ⸝ none; just fluff, not really proofread, mechanic!dean and single!mom!reader’s first time meeting ♡
You’re already up at seven in the morning, boxing cupcakes, assorted macarons, and other sweet treats for another round of pickup orders today whilst triple checking the labels for every one to make sure it’s the right order for the right customer. Then, the sound of a car engine is heard rumbling down the street—louder, closer, until you’re pretty sure you can’t even hear your own thoughts anymore. And then, the engine gets cut. Other people on the block seem to have spot the newbie too already. Your daughter perks her head up from her spot at the kitchen island, spoon full of cereal halfway to her mouth when she drops it back into the bowl, eyes wide and curious. “Mommy, look!” The five-year-old gasps dramatically, “We have a new neighbour!”
“Huh.” That’s all you say in response—more so to yourself as you look out the window to see a ‘67 Black Chevy Impala pull into the driveway of the house next door to yours that’s been long vacant since you’d moved here—which was some time ago. “Well, that’s somethin’ new.”
The driver steps out a second later. Tall. Broad shoulders. Worn jeans hanging low on his hips and a black tee that clung tightly to his solid figure in a way that honestly feels disrespectful to a town where half the women are divorced or have been without partner for as long as they can remember. (A little ironic you think when you pretend not to hear the backhanded pity from the same women for being a single, never married mom at twenty something years old. How different are you from them, really?)
And it was in that moment the entire town lost their collective minds.
—
By 10:30 AM, every resident that’s been remotely alerted of the newcomer has somehow gathered every possible legal (or illegal) information about him. Dean Winchester. Late twenties. Employee at Miller Automotive. Moved from Illinois—no sorry, Georgia—or was it Kansas? Definitely Kansas. But most of all? He’s unmarried. That’s what gets the older women hyped about the most.
You hear all of this secondhand while writing new recipe ideas in your notebook inside The Sugar Shoppe later that morning. The bakery smells of vanilla and brown sugar, soft instrumental music playing over the speakers while your daughter sits at one of the corner tables, aggressively colouring with a brand new pack of permanent markers she absolutely should not be having anywhere near her nice clothes.
The bell above the front door rings to capture your attention and you look up, already speaking out of instinct. “Hey, what can I—”
The words suddenly die in your mouth when you stare at who’s in the doorway. None other than your new neighbour, looking extremely uncertain about every life choice he’s ever made as he stands there, looking unfairly even more attractive up close. There’s grease faintly staining his forearms, dark attire visibly disturbing the sunshine and rainbows your bakery is practically made out of. But one thing’s for certain—anybody can get lost in those sage green eyes of his.
He glances around, making awkward eye contact with a few ladies in the bakery who are now all staring at him like they want to devour him whole. Which, they do, if you’re being honest. He smiles politely at them and they immediately start whispering and giggling together before his gaze finds yours again. “Looks like Barbie threw up in here,” he jokes blankly, clearing his throat when he approaches the counter.
You blink. Then laugh a little before you can stop yourself. “It grows on you,” you say with a sweet smile. “You’re the new neighbour, right? I live next door.”
You think his eyes light up for a moment—maybe in recognition, or something. Or you’re just being delusional because a really hot guy who seems to be out of your league; single, tired, working mom, is talking to you right now and the overhead lighting is reflecting off his eyes.
Instead, he nods once, eyes trailing over you for longer than necessary which has you sweating a bit. There isn’t any flour on your nose right? God, you hope not. “I’m Dean,” he introduces himself. Dean. You nod, telling him your name in response and he actually smiles. He smiles. You can then only wait patiently as he scans the menu, and then the very carefully crafted glass display filled with endless sugary sweets and pastries with mini chalkboard stands on each plate like a toddler scribbled on them. His gaze slowly drifts over to an actual toddler sitting not too far by—one that looks dangerously similar to you. Like the universe got lazy and decided they were just gonna make a mini clone of you and have you bring it into the world.
.....That is your kid. Right?
“That, uhh—” he stutters nervously, awkwardly gesturing to the child in the corner. He doesn’t want to sound rude, or assume anything. You follow the motion of his finger, spotting your daughter who simply flashes you a big toothy grin. You chuckle, shaking your head as you look at him again, “She’s mine, yeah.”
Phew. He was right, letting out a sigh in relief he didn’t even know he was holding in as your daughter waves furiously at him. He smiles, giving her a small wave back.
“Cute one you have there.”
“Thanks.”
He clears his throat, “....So what’s a uh—macaron.... and a macaroon?”
“Well macarons are kind of like a cookie sandwich. Um, we have vanilla, pistachio, salted caramel....” you explain, listing off the various flavours off the top of your head before moving on. “And macaroons, they uh—look like that, and are usually made with shredded coconut.”
“Who creates two different desserts with only one letter differing them?”
“The French and Italians?”
“....Fair.”
You laugh again, softer this time, and Dean swears the entire bakery suddenly feels a little warmer now. After embarrassing himself trying to pronounce more dessert names, he ends up just ordering a black coffee with two sugars. Valid. Atleast he knows how to say that.
While he’s busy digging for his wallet, you quietly start filling an empty pastry box. Two glazed cinnamon rolls and chocolate croissants, a cherry danish, and three sprinkle-ambushed sugar cookies your daughter, now standing beside you insists on adding herself.
Dean finally glances up, looking half-confused, half-terrified. “Woah, sweetheart—don’t think I ordered all of that,” he says with a laugh.
Sweetheart.
You just smile, ignoring the way your heart skips a beat at the nickname as you fold up the box effortlessly like you’d done this a million times (surprise, you have). “Call it a welcome to the neighbourhood gift. On the house.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Observing your sweet smile, pouty lips, the way your lashes flutter against your skin when you blink. God, wow. You’re something else.
But then he snaps out of it when your daughter who was previously standing alongside you, waddles over to his side, shoving the pastel pink box with the bakery’s name printed in cursive at the side into his hands abruptly.
“Mommy made these cinnamon rolls at four in the morning,” she takes a loud gasp suddenly—toddlers—before whispering just loud enough for Dean to hear—and you. “Because she’s crazy.”
“Hey—I heard that!”
Dean laughs, shaking his head as he politely accepts the gift, something softer settling into his rough features.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, eyes boring into yours where he can’t tell if you’re blushing because of it or because your offspring is embarrassing you infront of him. “Then I guess I better appreciate ‘em properly.”
Summary : Gator Tillman has your heart. You'd do anything for him, but he treats you like you're nothing. Will he ever change his mind and his beliefs ?
Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader
Summary: A one night stand has Dean Winchester considering becoming an honest man.
Genre: Fluff, Self-Inflicted Angst, Smut
Content: no Y/N, Dean POV, one night stands, strangers to lovers, Sam and Dean find a new case, but something's a little off, 1526/9432 words
A/N: Yes, it's inspired by Silk Sonic lol
Fic Masterlist
Chapter 1 - Monster of the Week
“Get this,” Sam says, and Dean knows nothing good can come from it, at least nothing that wouldn’t ruin his peaceful morning. He only gets so many of those.
“Noah Whitaker reported missing by fiance Beth Laurens after returning from grad school on summer break uncharacteristically belligerent and violent before leaving home for a local bar. He has yet to be seen since the incident by his fiance or his peers. Fiance states, ‘It’s like he was a different person,’” Sam reads from the paper he picked up at the check-in desk for the motel they’re slumming it in this week.
Dean rolls his eyes, tossing a paper ball into the air and catching it from his position sprawled on the stiff motel bed. “Dude went on a bender. Sounds pretty normal to me.”
“‘Laurens reports that Whitaker never drank a day in his life and was known across town for his calm and welcoming temperament,’” Sam continues, that smart ass tone sinking into his voice.
Dean shrugs. “Even more reason to let loose.”
“Dude,” Sam nags, sounding much like a buzzing in Dean’s ear. “He’s pursuing a Master’s of Divinity in Illinois. He volunteers at the hospital in his spare time. He travels across Tennessee to ‘share the Lord’s good word.’”
Dean sighs and sits up from the bed. “I don’t know, Sam. Sounds to me like this Whitaker guy just got a little wild at grad school and his girl couldn’t take it. Now, she’s crying wolf so that little bible-thumper reputation doesn’t get shat on.”
Sam shakes his head. “I think this has a good chance of being one of ours.”
“I think you’re just stir crazy,” Dean scoffs, squeezing the paper ball in his hands tighter together.
“Well, maybe I am. We haven’t had a case since that siren in Florida,” Sam whines, slumping down in his seat like a kid who’s been denied an extra serving of cereal. It’s a gesture Dean is more than familiar with. “It’s been ghost town after ghost town.”
“A ghost town would actually be pretty fun,” Dean grins, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
“Look, we’re only a county away from Polk, so I say we check it out instead of sitting on our asses throwing paper balls all day.”
Dean frowns. “Rude,” he says, holding his ball close to his chest. He tosses it over his shoulder, grinning when it lands in the waste basket next to Sam’s bed. “All right. Let’s head out. I could use a change in scenery.”
-
Dean navigates to the Whitaker residence, adjusting the necktie that somehow still manages to be uncomfortable after all the time Dean’s spent impersonating federal agents. Meanwhile, Sam noses through the local paper he snagged from the gas station they pulled into after reaching Temperance.
Temperance. Dean still can’t believe that’s the actual name of the town. The bible-thumper theory is making more and more sense each minute.
“Says here that local police found evidence of a minor accident on Noah’s car. Problem is, there’s no telling when the damage occurred. It could’ve been before he got in town, on the way to the bar, or before his disappearance,” Sam summarizes, mostly to himself. Dean has to turn down the music to actually hear him.
“So, he crashed, hit his head, and woke up with a personality change.”
“Minor accident,” Sam emphasizes. “Busted headlight, couple dents. It wouldn’t have been enough to secure a significant injury, or at least not one major enough to have him acting like a completely different person. I wonder if he hit something, and maybe that something didn’t really appreciate it.”
“So what? He runs over a shapeshifter and ends up on the shit list?” Dean suggests, filling in the blanks.
“I think there’s a chance.”
Dean hums, shrugging as he puts the Impala in park. “Well, my money’s still on preacherman gone wild.”
“We’ll see about that after we speak to Beth,” Sam says, climbing out. Dean follows him up the pathway leading to the prim little house belonging to the couple. One of those little knockers hangs from the front door, which Dean eagerly rushes to use before Sam can get his hands on it. He grins at his brother, who only rolls his eyes.
The door opens to reveal a sweet-looking blonde, the type that would teach kids at Sunday school, for sure. She puts on a polite smile, but a furrow lingers on her brow as she looks at the two suit-clad men on her doorstep.
“Good afternoon, miss,” Dean says, flashing his fake badge with a practiced fluidity. “We’re agents Ford and Harrison. Would you happen to be Beth Laurens?”
“I already spoke with an agent,” the girl says with a hint of confusion mixed with accusation. Dean subdues the reactive twitch in his brow and ignores the instinct to look over at Sam. Feds usually don’t pick up local cases like this. It’s why the whole impersonation gig works so well. Maybe they should’ve gone with priests this time around.
“Is that right? Well, you see, we weren’t actually assigned this case, but we’ve been working on some similar missing persons in the area that could be connected to your fiance’s case. We figured we’d cover our bases and ask a couple questions, if that’s all right,” Dean lies.
Beth pinches her lips in trepidation but resigns by opening the door for the two men. “I suppose so.”
Dean smiles and steps into the small house, looking at the disgustingly domestic interior. A display of pictures sits lovingly on the nearby mantle. He examines what looks like a prom photo, one depicting Noah holding Beth at an awkward distance from behind, leaving room for Jesus, obviously.
“High school sweethearts,” Beth says in a somber tone as she settles into an arm chair.
Figures.
“So, you’ve known your fiance for a long time then,” Sam remarks in that soft voice that always gets him what he wants, “And he’s never had a sudden change like this?”
“My Noah is the sweetest man I’ve ever met, always has been. He never once raised his voice or spoke so crudely to me before that night,” she says. “Crudely” is not the sort of word Dean would expect to hear coming out of someone younger than fifty, especially with that much disdain.
“It must have come as a shock for him to act so out of character all of a sudden. Can you tell us more about that night?” Sam says, sitting on the couch and directing himself toward Beth. Dean finds a spot next to him.
“Well, as you probably heard, he came home after finishing the semester, but when he did, he was all out of sorts. I was only trying to welcome him home, but he was just so irate and . . . aggressive! He shoved me off of him. Shoved me! I tried to calm him down, see what was the matter, but he just wouldn’t listen. He started yelling about how suffocating I was. Can you believe it? Suffocating?”
Oh, yeah. I can believe it, Dean thinks.
“He started asking where we keep the liquor. We don’t keep liquor. We don’t drink. So, he got even more irritated and said that he would find some himself! He stormed out, just like that, even when I called for him to stay. And he never came home after that.”
“Is there any chance that Noah might have been getting involved in anything while he was away?” Dean asks, and he can tell by the firm look over Sam’s shoulder it’s the wrong thing to do.
“What are you implying?” Beth asks, walls already forming as she sits at attention in her seat.
“I’m not implying anything, miss. I was just—”
She stands suddenly from the chair, pointing between the two false agents on her couch. “But you are! My Noah is a good, God-fearing man. He would never do anything like what you people are saying about him! Get out!”
Sam holds out a hand. “Miss Laurens. My partner and I only want to—”
“Get out!” she repeats, pointing to the door.
Sam stands, slapping Dean on the shoulder to follow. “We’ll leave, if that’s what you want. We didn’t mean any offense.”
“Noah would never head to a bar! Especially not that, that cesspool Blue Moon!” Beth shouts as she pushes the brothers out the door and slams it shut behind them. The name sticks in Dean’s head. None of those articles Sammy looked over mentioned the bar’s name.
Sam punches Dean’s shoulder in time with the deadbolt clicking into place. “Nice going.”
Dean shrugs, heading down the steps back to the Impala. “That woman wasn’t going to give us anything more than she gave the tribune anyway. Bible freaks like that won’t say shit to anyone if it makes them look bad.”
“You don’t know that. If you’d kept your mouth shut she might’ve given us at least something to go on, but thanks to you we’ve got nothing.”
Dean grins over the top of the car.
“Not nothing, Sammy. I got us a lead.”
Next Chapter
Surrender to Dreams Taglist: @vampire-kissi3s
Supernatural Taglist: @mrrayjay
Summary: What you and Dean have is casual with no strings attached, so why do you get so upset when he shows interest in another woman?
Content warnings: smut, dissociation during sex, reader has less emotional intelligence than dean but we love her for it, mentions of bruising from sex, semi rough sex, doggy style, angst, kinda shameful feelings relating to sex, angst, cursing, lowkey self worth issues
wc: 5k
a/n: requests open!!! there most definitely will be a pt2!!
~~~
“You’re unbelievable.”
Dean’s eyes move to the scowl on your face, cutting short his beholden gazing at the waitress’s ass. He’s entirely unapologetic to be caught staring. The fact that he looked at all irritates you, but him doing it so brazenly in front of you infuriates you so much you lose your appetite.
“Easy there, tiger.” He says with an aloof smirk. “M’just appreciating the scenery, that’s all.”
He’s allowed to appreciate whoever he wants. That’s not the problem. The problem is that it's happening in front of your face this time, and you dislike this pretty waitress a little extra. She’d been so focused on calling Dean sugar and sweetie that she’d brought you out the wrong eggs. You’d been surprised she remembered your order at all, with how little attention she paid you.
You give Dean a sour smile. “Can you at least try to keep the drool to a minimum? I’m trying to eat.” Really, you’re just pushing the food around your plate.
He watches you for a second, then he waves the tacky waitress back over, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.
“What can I do for you, sugar?” She asks suggestively, only acknowledging Dean.
“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” He apologizes with a charming grin. “My friend here ordered over-hard.” He gestures to the two eggs on your plate, which are very obviously undercooked. “Think you could run them back and get her new ones?”
“Of course,” The waitress smiles and then takes your plate without even looking at you. She seems delighted by Dean’s labeling of you as a friend.
When she’s gone, Dean stares at you expectantly. You ignore him, so he says, “Y’know, it’s polite to thank someone when they do you a favor.”
“How is wooing the waitress a favor for me?”
“C’mon, we both know you won’t eat eggs like that. You don’t like when the yolk is runny.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say you know I’m right, why are you acting crazy.
He is right. You think runny yolks are gross. In any other situation, you might even think the gesture was thoughtful, and that it showed that he paid more attention to you than you thought. But right now, you’re annoyed and dedicated to maintaining your attitude. So the most logical explanation for the whole thing is that Dean cared less about getting you what you could eat, anx more about about getting another view of the waitress walking away.
“I’m not hungry, anyway.” You say.
“You gotta eat. Y’need to keep your energy up after last night.” He winks at you like he’s sharing some inside joke, as if he’s totally oblivious to how exasperated you are.
Him bringing that up irritates you even more, which you didn’t think would be possible. You look at your arrangement with Dean for what it is. You sleep together occasionally, partly because it's convenient and partly because he’s good at it. Scary good, sometimes. There’s no romance between you. The sex is hard and dirty. It’s not a situation you’re particularly proud of, especially when the nonchalant, non-committal nature of your relationship is thrown in your face, like it is right now. But the sex has proved too good to walk away from. The longer it's gone on, the more apathetic you’ve become to the arrangement, and Dean himself. You sometimes aren’t sure if you even like him.
Sometimes, you wonder why you bother answering when he calls. The easy answer is that it’s safer for you as a lone female hunter to work with someone else watching your back, but you know that’s not the entire truth. There are a handful of other sole hunters and groups that you work with when you cross paths, but Dean is the only one you see so frequently. And the only one you sleep with.
And you two certainly argue. A lot. It’s kind of your thing. Every so often, you team up to work cases, inevitably end up bickering, and then unavoidably end up fucking. The circle of life, as Dean would call it. He’s capable and reliable on a hunt, and you’d guess he felt the same about you, but once the job is done and all sexual frustrations are relieved, you don’t stick around. You don’t overstay your welcome or wait for Dean to ask you to leave. You find your next case and are gone by the next morning. He never asks you to stay.
That’s how it works. Just a few days together and then you leave the man with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon in your rearview.
Maybe the problem now is that you’d slept with him before finishing the case. So now there’s no avoiding him the morning after. Instead, there’s sitting at the dinghy town diner, forcing yourself to stomach breakfast while he openly lusts after another woman after being inside you not even twenty four hours ago.
Not the best start to your day.
“I could’ve handled it myself.” You snap. “I just didn’t want to get in the way of your eye fucking.”
“How considerate of you.” He says flatly. “Really, what’s got you so pissed?”
Literally everything you’re doing. But you say, “I’m not pissed.”
“You sure? You’re looking at me like you wanna murder me.”
You’re spared from having to answer when the waitress comes back, giving Dean big eyes as she sets the plate down in front of you. He smiles at her.
He catches you glaring at him. “I’m just teasing you, sweetheart.” The corners of his lips twitch into a smirk. “Don’t you worry. You don’t have any competition.”
You recoil. “That’s not- I’m not-” Stammering, you give him a look of disbelief. “I don’t care about competition. There is no competition, I mean.”
Dean smiles wider at your reaction. “Then what’s with the attitude?”
You stare at him as he eats for a second, trying to formulate a thought that isn’t kick him hard in the shin under the table. “I always have an attitude.”
“Ain’t that the damn truth.” He agrees around a mouthful. He swallows before continuing. “But you’re extra feisty today.”
This time you give in to the urge to roll your eyes. You’re reaching your wits end and he’s smiling at you, acting like this is all a game for his entertainment.
“I didn’t sleep well.” You say sharply. “I’m used to sleeping alone. You know, without someone taking up all the space in the bed.” You cross your arms over your chest.
“I don’t think that’s it.” He muses, still smiling smugly. “Looked like you slept like a fuckin’ baby to me.”
Your face heats up at that comment. You internally cringe as you're confronted with the thought of him perceiving you while you were asleep. It just feels like something too intimate for the insouciance between you. And even though Dean truly did take up the majority of the bed with his large frame, you’d slept well. You hadn’t even stirred when he got up to shower, so now you don’t have a good defense.
“Whatever, Winchester.”
“Y’sure you’re not jealous that I’m giving attention to-”
“Now I’m pissed.” You interrupt. “Get a grip, Dean. I don’t care what you do or who you give your attention to, alright? Now can you hurry up and finish eating. I don’t want to stay in this town any longer than I have to.”
Though your tone had been cutting, Dean appears unaffected, simply shrugging in response. “What’s the rush? Got your rocks off and now you’re ready to skip town. M’starting to think you might not enjoy my company.”
“Well, don’t think too hard. Might hurt yourself.”
“Cute.” He sneers. “But you seemed to enjoy my company last night, though.” He pretends to think. “In fact, you couldn’t get enough of my ‘company’ last night, if I’m remembering it right.” He leans across the table towards you and drops his voice, mirth glittering in his verdant eyes. “Hell, I’ll give you ‘company’ right now if it’ll fix that attitude-”
The more primal part of your body stirs at his provocative tone and the deep timber of his voice, but your annoyance quickly beats that side of you back into submission.
“At this rate, you’ll never have my company again.” You lean forward and taunt. You know it’s a total lie but it feels good to threaten him anyway. You’re also curious how he’ll react. You've tried to be done with him before, but for some reason, when he calls, you feel inclined to answer.
In his typical withdrawn nature, Dean deflects with a dismissive joke. “Oh, come on, woman, y’know it breaks my heart to argue with you like this.”
“But you have such a talent for it,” You say with fake sympathy.
“Fightin’ with you is just a hobby. My real talents lie elsewhere.” He counters with a smirk.
You recognize the innuendo immediately. Dean practically defaults to making sexual insinuations, and does it frequently that it frankly annoys the hell out of you. It’s just a constant reminder that the only thing between you two is sex. Sex and hunting. And you know he’s more than capable of handling a spirit or two on his own, so that makes your true value to him more than clear.
“Yeah, like driving me insane?” You mutter.
“If I’m driving you insane, sweetheart, it’s only because you gave me the wheel.” He gives you a deliberate look with his eyebrows raised. A look that somehow says and we’ll keep riding until we crash.
You roll your eyes and check the time. “Whatever that means. Hurry up. Library’s open.”
A few minutes later, the same waitress brings over the check. Dean snatches it off the table quickly, but not before you see the phone number written in pink glitter ink at the top. The corner’s of his lips lift as his eyes sweep over the digits, and you’re not sure why that makes your stomach flip.
You spend the next several hours at the library looking through old paper records. The research takes you both much longer without Sam but you’re thankful he’s not here. Though he’s easier to get along with than his brother, you don’t enjoy the looks he gives you and Dean when you fight, like he’s dealing with children. Like he knows something you both don't.
Eventually, you find the death certificate you were looking for. A hitchhiker had been struck and killed in a hit and run accident over thirty years ago, and now the spirit was apparently haunting the isolated stretch of road where he’d been hit, alongside the big cliffs on the east side of the town. The remains were buried by the family on the side of the road, at the site of the accident.
You meet Dean outside in the parking lot outside the library. He’s busy looking at his phone, so he doesn’t see you coming at first. Despite yourself, you find yourself admiring him as you approach. God knows he might be annoying and callous at times, but he sure is good looking. Tall and broad as he leans against his car, and when he looks up and sees you coming, his smile is blinding. No wonder you keep coming back. How does a girl say no to someone like that?
Dean slips his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “We ready to go?”
“Yeah.” You put the road map on the hood of the Impala and point out where you’ve circled the radius the burial site should be located in. “Bones should be somewhere in here.”
He’s standing close to you and you can smell the rugged mix of leather and cedarwood that follows him around. It makes your head swim for half a second, so you focus your attention on the map. He glances at the map, but then you feel him staring at you.
You flinch when he brushes hair away from your neck, stepping away from him immediately. “What are you doing?” Your heart races at your confusion from the intimate gesture.
“You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you?” He muses. “Just noticed you have a bruise on your neck.”
Using the side mirror of the Impala, you examine your neck. There are three little bruises at the base of your throat, the exact size of Dean’s fingers you’re sure. He has a habit, which you enjoy but would never say it out loud, of holding you by the throat when he fucks you.
“So?” You ask with regained composure. “S’from you. Now let’s go.”
“From me?” He asks but you’re already getting into the passenger seat. He climbs into the car as well before glancing at the bruises again. “You mean from last night?”
“Yeah,” You say impatiently. “Can you start driving now?”
“In a second. Why didn’t you say anything?”
You give him a bewildered look. “About what?”
Dean looks away and starts the car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He seems unusually tense. “I must have fucking hurt you last night, then.” He finally says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
You roll your eyes. “You didn’t hurt me. Seriously. I always have bruises after.”
“What?”
His scandalized expression makes you realize that he would have no idea about the bruises he leaves you with after you hook up because he never gets the chance to see you the next day. It irks you that he’s pretending to care about it, though. He’s not exactly the most gentle lover, so what did he expect? The bruises are always very minor, from getting caught up in the heat of the moment, and you’ve never held it against him.
“It’s just a bruise, Dean.” You murmur. “I’ve had worse.”
“Yeah but not from me.”
“It’s not a big deal. Now come on. There’s a three mile radius we’ll have to search. Better to get it done while there’s still daylight.”
Dean starts the car but he’s uncharacteristically quiet for the majority of the ride. Usually, you’re wishing he would shut up or turn the music down, but the volume is set at a respectable level and he’s not even singing along. You’re not sure what his problem is, but it puts you on edge. Part of the reason your arrangement with him works so well for you both is that it’s simple. No nuances, no extra baggage or anything like that, but today, it doesn’t feel simple. But it’s not your problem because you don’t let it be. He can be quiet all he wants. You don’t have to wonder why.
By the time he pulls off the road, there’s only a few hours until dusk. You grab the weapons and supplies you need from the trunk, which Dean offers to carry, and then start the tedious task of walking along the stretch of road, searching for any sign or marking of the grave site. After the first hour of walking and Dean’s phone constantly going off, you’re frustrated.
“Who’s even texting you, anyway?” You snap.
“Oh, that’s Sam.” He says, putting a hand on your shoulder as you step back from the side of the road the same moment a car goes speeding past. “Just checking in. You know how much of a tight ass he is.”
“Well, maybe you should answer, so he can stop checking in every five minutes.” You mutter, rolling your shoulder out of his grip. As far as you’re concerned, he’s only allowed to touch you in the bedroom. Any other time and anything else is off limits.
Another hour passes. A fairly strong breeze blows over the cliffs, blowing the dust and debris on the road, making the grass you’re walking through sway around your ankles. Your mind starts to wander and lands on the ghost of the hitchhiker. You cruelly compare him to yourself. At least he had someone who cared about him enough to mourn his death and bury his body. That’s more than you have. The thought surprises you, but there’s no time to grapple with its implications because Dean calls your name.
“Looks like a grave to me, what about you?” He asks.
Hidden in a tangle of weeds and tall grass, there’s a malformed wooden cross, desiccated from time and the elements, and an inscribed stone. Despite your arguments, Dean insists upon doing all the digging himself, even when you complain that it’s going to take longer than if you helped.
“Just be a doll and hold my jacket, will you?” He requests with an appealing smirk, holding it out for you to take. “Good girl,” He says when you do.
You narrow your eyes at him but stay quiet. He begins to dig while you just watch. In no time, he’s covered in a layer of sweat, glistening in the low hanging sun. You look away occasionally to avoid getting caught, but you sneak appreciative glances at his body as he continues the hard labor. His biceps swell with each lift of the shovel, the muscles in his back flexing as well.
“Rest in peace, you son of a bitch,” Dean mutters after salting the bones. He drops the match, and you’re just relieved you’ll get to skip town.
It’s after dark by the time you make it back to the inn on the edge of town. It’s a rare occurrence that a hunt goes so well, and you want to keep that momentum going. You see your truck where you left it in the parking lot and linger only to give Dean a half hearted goodbye. He’s texting, probably messaging Sam back that the case has been closed, but shoves his phone away at the sound of your voice.
“You’re headed out now?” He asks incredulously.
“Yeah. I can stop if I need to sleep.”
Really, three days with Dean has been more than enough for you. You feel thoroughly disoriented, like you’ve been adrift from yourself just by being near him. Driving through the night, alone with all the thoughts you’ve so savagely wrestled into tight little cages, doesn’t really appeal to you, but you know better than to linger where you’re not wanted.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dean barks, jerking his head to gesture towards the inn. “I’ve got the room for another night, and I don’t wanna live with you falling asleep at the wheel on my conscience.”
“I’m perfectly well rested-”
“Thought this morning you said you didn’t sleep well?” He counters with raised eyebrows.
You concede without much other convincing, mainly to avoid getting back into that whole argument again. If he wants to pretend he wants you to stay because he’s worried about you, that’s fine, but you know why he really wants you to stay.
Not even an hour later, he’s coming on to you. The events of the day have soured you against him, but your body still wants him, still responds more willingly than your mind ever does. He’s pressing you up against the wall, with one hand tangled in the roots of your hair, the other pawing at your ass in your jeans, lifting your leg to hook it around his waist as his mouth ravishes yours.
“This what you needed?” He pulls away a fraction to murmur, his wet lips brushing yours. He lets go of your hair to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Round two to get rid of all that attitude-” As if sensing that you’re going to say something snarky back, he rolls his hips against you, pressing the hard line of his erection against the seam of your jeans just right, so that you have to bite your lip to suppress a whine. “Such a bad girl all day, and now you’re playing nice ‘cause you want my cock.” His voice is making you wetter with how breathless, low and gravelly it is.
He dives in for another filthy kiss, his taste completely overwhelming you. His hand engulfs the base of your throat and he uses his hold on you there to pry you away from the wall and toss you onto the bed.
“Now you’ve got nothing to say?” He taunts, standing before you at the foot of the bed while you lay on your back, panting.
Dean pulls his shirt off before reaching for his belt and you feel your pussy spasm with interest. “Come on, you know the drill. Take all that shit off.” He gestures to your clothes.
A few moments later, he’s got you on your hands and knees, both of you entirely bare. He’d teased you with his fingers for what felt like forever, edging you until you left angry scratch marks down his chest. Stingy with getting you to your release as punishment for being mouthy all day.
“Fuck-” He hissed, pulling his hand away from the puffy, wet mess of your pussy to glance down at the fresh red lines running from his pecs to his ribs. “Kitty’s got claws, huh?” He smirked.
You hadn’t meant to hurt him, but the last time he’d stopped rubbing your clit right before you were going to come made you nearly deranged with desperation.
Now he’s dragging his cock between your legs, coating himself in all of your sticky arousal, before you feel the burning intrusion of him plunging inside. If he notices the little black and blue imprints from his fingers dotting your hips and the plush flesh of your ass from the night before, he doesn’t say anything.
He fucks you hard and fast, just the way you like, so that you can only focus on the sensations and not any of the shit flying around in your head. He fucks you like he hates you, and it brings tears to your eyes. Your jaw aches from clenching your teeth against the screams you hold back. You’re honestly surprised he has the stamina to fuck you so raw and aggressively, given he had exerted himself over digging up the bones not too long ago.
Dean folds his body over yours, so his sweaty chest sticks to your back, grunting in your ear with every slam of his hips into you. His hand is around your neck again, squeezing you in a firm grip but without really restricting your airway much. You like the drunk, fuzzy feeling you get from it, and you like the way he’s just making you take it.
“Such a fuckin’ bratty little thing,” Dean uses his grip on your throat to lift your head a bit, so he can murmur directly into your ear. “All fuckin’ day, until I give you what you’re too proud to ask for.”
His dirty talk is constant but you miss about half of it. While during the day your mind runs things, right now, with him pounding into you like it's his job to bruise your cervix, your mind turns off, and you’re just your body. Your pussy is throbbing, muscles in your arms and thighs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up, even with his help. You let him make you feel good. And you do feel good, like you’re floating, like you’re not real. Times like this might actually be the only time you do feel good, so you surrender completely to the feeling. You’re not yourself when you let him fuck you. You’re someone different, someone better and worse at the same time. Or maybe, when he’s using you like this, when you let him use you like this, you’re nothing at all.
He squeezes the flesh of your ass before slapping it hard, and you moan in response. He pulls at your hair, and you whine at the pinpricks of pain that you love, pussy clenching hard as you get dangerously close to coming.
“What a fucking whore,” Dean pants in your ear. “Can feel the way your pussy loves that,” He slaps your ass again and laughs darkly.
He makes you cum by sliding a hand between your legs and playing with your aching clit. You scream into the pillow, as if you're cumming against your will, and he doesn’t relent until you stop shuddering, stop tightening your pussy around him. He comes, still with his hand around your throat, like he owns you, like you’re a dog he has on a leash, and when you think about that in the shower later, it makes you feel sick.
He lets you shower first, and then when you’re done, he goes. You never shower together. And you might sleep in the same bed afterwards, but it’s not like you cuddle.
You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly coming back to yourself from the post orgasm haze. You listen to the muffled noise of Dean singing in the shower, staring at the steam that billows out from under the door. Your body is satisfied and fairly tired, but your mind is restless. You’re thinking maybe you should have left town tonight when Dean’s phone rings beside the bed.
Expecting it to be Sam, you answer it. It’s just like Dean to focus on getting laid, before assuring his brother that he’d made it back unscathed. “Hey, Sam,” Your voice is a little hoarse.
“Sam? What? No, this is Penny, from the diner. Who is this?”
You blink. “You have the wrong number.”
“No,” The insufferable waitress says in her snotty little voice. You can barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears. “I’ve been talking to Dean with this number all day.”
Your stomach drops to your feet. “Wrong number.” You repeat before hanging up.
You know you probably shouldn’t but you open up the message threads on Dean’s phone. No recent messages from Sam. Just a shit ton from this same unknown number. There’s bile rising in your throat as you realize what it all means. That Dean had taken the number from the restaurant this morning, had reached out to the tacky ass waitress, and had continued to flirt with her via text all fucking day. While standing beside you. And when you’d asked about it? He lied to your face and said it was Sam. And to make the entire situation worse, he’d fucked you after it, too. He’d kept you both on retainer, two chicks on the line so if one fell through, he’d still be able to get his dick wet.
Jesus, you’re such a fucking idiot. You let him do this to you, too.
You read a few of the messages before you feel so sick you have to stop. But you see enough to realize they were making plans to meet up. Tentatively for tonight. He calls her baby and beautiful and other shit he never says to you. Instead, he calls you whore.
Emotions boil under your skin, and you can’t make sense of any of them, until anger surfaces. You know there’s no real reason to be angry with him, other than the fact that he lied to you. You have no claim on him. He’s not yours. Not by a long shot. But you feel humiliated, insulted, and worst of all, fucking hurt. But that only lasts for a second before you smother it under more anger.
Dean steps out of the bathroom with a towel hanging low on his hips, torso naked. Your nail marks on his chest stand out against his tanned skin. “Think I pulled something in my back towards the end there. Think you could-”
“You were texting Sam today?”
The nonchalant expression leaves his face at your tone. He stares at you for a second before heading over to the side of the bed, where his clothes are. “Uh-yeah-”
“Really?” You press.
“Can’t a man get dressed before he’s interrogated.” He half heartedly jokes, but then catches the hardness on your face and becomes sheepish.
“Just answer me.”
“Unless you wanna waterboard me, too. In that case, I can keep the towel-”
“Jesus christ, Dean!” You yell. “This isn’t a fucking joke!”
He stares at you, maybe shocked that you raised your voice, or surprised he’s been caught. “Yeah, I’m not exactly laughing here, sweetheart-”
“You asshole-” You round on him, shoving him as hard as you can but even then he only stumbles on step backward. “Keep lying to my face, Dean. Go ahead. I fucking know it wasn’t Sam. God, you must think I’m a fucking idiot.”
“You know that’s not true-” He raises his voice slightly but it’s only to be heard over your own ranting.
“Oh my god, you’re actually disgusting.” You shake your head at him. “You disgust me.”
“I didn’t exactly do anything.” He frowns. “They’re just messages…and we’re not- uh, you and I don’t- You said it yourself. You don’t care who I-”
“You lied to me, Dean.” You bellow. You’re vaguely aware of the dramatics of the scene you’re causing, and later you’ll probably be mortified by your behavior, but right now, you can’t control yourself. You’ve never been this fucking angry at him, never this disappointed. It just confirms what you knew all along; you’re entirely nothing to him.
“You lied to me, and then you fucked me!”
“I didn’t think you would care! She’s just-”
“Then why the fuck did you lie about her!” You nearly scream, getting in his face. “You wanna fuck her, then do it! Don’t ask me to stay the fucking night with you, when you’re telling some other bitch you’re gonna see her tonight! God, are you really that stupid, Dean? You didn’t think I would care? No, you didn’t think about me at all, you piece of shit.”
He gapes down at you and says your name pathetically. You just stare at him, chest heaving. Finally, he says, “You’re right.”
“Fuck you.” You say, the anger leaving you fast. You have to get out of here. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done with you.”
You’ve had that thought about him before. But this time, as you let the door slam behind you, you think you really mean it.
Summary: What you and Dean have is casual with no strings attached, so why do you get so upset when he shows interest in another woman?
Content warnings: smut, dissociation during sex, reader has less emotional intelligence than dean but we love her for it, mentions of bruising from sex, semi rough sex, doggy style, angst, kinda shameful feelings relating to sex, angst, cursing, lowkey self worth issues
wc: 5k
a/n: requests open!!! there most definitely will be a pt2!!
~~~
“You’re unbelievable.”
Dean’s eyes move to the scowl on your face, cutting short his beholden gazing at the waitress’s ass. He’s entirely unapologetic to be caught staring. The fact that he looked at all irritates you, but him doing it so brazenly in front of you infuriates you so much you lose your appetite.
“Easy there, tiger.” He says with an aloof smirk. “M’just appreciating the scenery, that’s all.”
He’s allowed to appreciate whoever he wants. That’s not the problem. The problem is that it's happening in front of your face this time, and you dislike this pretty waitress a little extra. She’d been so focused on calling Dean sugar and sweetie that she’d brought you out the wrong eggs. You’d been surprised she remembered your order at all, with how little attention she paid you.
You give Dean a sour smile. “Can you at least try to keep the drool to a minimum? I’m trying to eat.” Really, you’re just pushing the food around your plate.
He watches you for a second, then he waves the tacky waitress back over, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.
“What can I do for you, sugar?” She asks suggestively, only acknowledging Dean.
“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” He apologizes with a charming grin. “My friend here ordered over-hard.” He gestures to the two eggs on your plate, which are very obviously undercooked. “Think you could run them back and get her new ones?”
“Of course,” The waitress smiles and then takes your plate without even looking at you. She seems delighted by Dean’s labeling of you as a friend.
When she’s gone, Dean stares at you expectantly. You ignore him, so he says, “Y’know, it’s polite to thank someone when they do you a favor.”
“How is wooing the waitress a favor for me?”
“C’mon, we both know you won’t eat eggs like that. You don’t like when the yolk is runny.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say you know I’m right, why are you acting crazy.
He is right. You think runny yolks are gross. In any other situation, you might even think the gesture was thoughtful, and that it showed that he paid more attention to you than you thought. But right now, you’re annoyed and dedicated to maintaining your attitude. So the most logical explanation for the whole thing is that Dean cared less about getting you what you could eat, anx more about about getting another view of the waitress walking away.
“I’m not hungry, anyway.” You say.
“You gotta eat. Y’need to keep your energy up after last night.” He winks at you like he’s sharing some inside joke, as if he’s totally oblivious to how exasperated you are.
Him bringing that up irritates you even more, which you didn’t think would be possible. You look at your arrangement with Dean for what it is. You sleep together occasionally, partly because it's convenient and partly because he’s good at it. Scary good, sometimes. There’s no romance between you. The sex is hard and dirty. It’s not a situation you’re particularly proud of, especially when the nonchalant, non-committal nature of your relationship is thrown in your face, like it is right now. But the sex has proved too good to walk away from. The longer it's gone on, the more apathetic you’ve become to the arrangement, and Dean himself. You sometimes aren’t sure if you even like him.
Sometimes, you wonder why you bother answering when he calls. The easy answer is that it’s safer for you as a lone female hunter to work with someone else watching your back, but you know that’s not the entire truth. There are a handful of other sole hunters and groups that you work with when you cross paths, but Dean is the only one you see so frequently. And the only one you sleep with.
And you two certainly argue. A lot. It’s kind of your thing. Every so often, you team up to work cases, inevitably end up bickering, and then unavoidably end up fucking. The circle of life, as Dean would call it. He’s capable and reliable on a hunt, and you’d guess he felt the same about you, but once the job is done and all sexual frustrations are relieved, you don’t stick around. You don’t overstay your welcome or wait for Dean to ask you to leave. You find your next case and are gone by the next morning. He never asks you to stay.
That’s how it works. Just a few days together and then you leave the man with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon in your rearview.
Maybe the problem now is that you’d slept with him before finishing the case. So now there’s no avoiding him the morning after. Instead, there’s sitting at the dinghy town diner, forcing yourself to stomach breakfast while he openly lusts after another woman after being inside you not even twenty four hours ago.
Not the best start to your day.
“I could’ve handled it myself.” You snap. “I just didn’t want to get in the way of your eye fucking.”
“How considerate of you.” He says flatly. “Really, what’s got you so pissed?”
Literally everything you’re doing. But you say, “I’m not pissed.”
“You sure? You’re looking at me like you wanna murder me.”
You’re spared from having to answer when the waitress comes back, giving Dean big eyes as she sets the plate down in front of you. He smiles at her.
He catches you glaring at him. “I’m just teasing you, sweetheart.” The corners of his lips twitch into a smirk. “Don’t you worry. You don’t have any competition.”
You recoil. “That’s not- I’m not-” Stammering, you give him a look of disbelief. “I don’t care about competition. There is no competition, I mean.”
Dean smiles wider at your reaction. “Then what’s with the attitude?”
You stare at him as he eats for a second, trying to formulate a thought that isn’t kick him hard in the shin under the table. “I always have an attitude.”
“Ain’t that the damn truth.” He agrees around a mouthful. He swallows before continuing. “But you’re extra feisty today.”
This time you give in to the urge to roll your eyes. You’re reaching your wits end and he’s smiling at you, acting like this is all a game for his entertainment.
“I didn’t sleep well.” You say sharply. “I’m used to sleeping alone. You know, without someone taking up all the space in the bed.” You cross your arms over your chest.
“I don’t think that’s it.” He muses, still smiling smugly. “Looked like you slept like a fuckin’ baby to me.”
Your face heats up at that comment. You internally cringe as you're confronted with the thought of him perceiving you while you were asleep. It just feels like something too intimate for the insouciance between you. And even though Dean truly did take up the majority of the bed with his large frame, you’d slept well. You hadn’t even stirred when he got up to shower, so now you don’t have a good defense.
“Whatever, Winchester.”
“Y’sure you’re not jealous that I’m giving attention to-”
“Now I’m pissed.” You interrupt. “Get a grip, Dean. I don’t care what you do or who you give your attention to, alright? Now can you hurry up and finish eating. I don’t want to stay in this town any longer than I have to.”
Though your tone had been cutting, Dean appears unaffected, simply shrugging in response. “What’s the rush? Got your rocks off and now you’re ready to skip town. M’starting to think you might not enjoy my company.”
“Well, don’t think too hard. Might hurt yourself.”
“Cute.” He sneers. “But you seemed to enjoy my company last night, though.” He pretends to think. “In fact, you couldn’t get enough of my ‘company’ last night, if I’m remembering it right.” He leans across the table towards you and drops his voice, mirth glittering in his verdant eyes. “Hell, I’ll give you ‘company’ right now if it’ll fix that attitude-”
The more primal part of your body stirs at his provocative tone and the deep timber of his voice, but your annoyance quickly beats that side of you back into submission.
“At this rate, you’ll never have my company again.” You lean forward and taunt. You know it’s a total lie but it feels good to threaten him anyway. You’re also curious how he’ll react. You've tried to be done with him before, but for some reason, when he calls, you feel inclined to answer.
In his typical withdrawn nature, Dean deflects with a dismissive joke. “Oh, come on, woman, y’know it breaks my heart to argue with you like this.”
“But you have such a talent for it,” You say with fake sympathy.
“Fightin’ with you is just a hobby. My real talents lie elsewhere.” He counters with a smirk.
You recognize the innuendo immediately. Dean practically defaults to making sexual insinuations, and does it frequently that it frankly annoys the hell out of you. It’s just a constant reminder that the only thing between you two is sex. Sex and hunting. And you know he’s more than capable of handling a spirit or two on his own, so that makes your true value to him more than clear.
“Yeah, like driving me insane?” You mutter.
“If I’m driving you insane, sweetheart, it’s only because you gave me the wheel.” He gives you a deliberate look with his eyebrows raised. A look that somehow says and we’ll keep riding until we crash.
You roll your eyes and check the time. “Whatever that means. Hurry up. Library’s open.”
A few minutes later, the same waitress brings over the check. Dean snatches it off the table quickly, but not before you see the phone number written in pink glitter ink at the top. The corner’s of his lips lift as his eyes sweep over the digits, and you’re not sure why that makes your stomach flip.
You spend the next several hours at the library looking through old paper records. The research takes you both much longer without Sam but you’re thankful he’s not here. Though he’s easier to get along with than his brother, you don’t enjoy the looks he gives you and Dean when you fight, like he’s dealing with children. Like he knows something you both don't.
Eventually, you find the death certificate you were looking for. A hitchhiker had been struck and killed in a hit and run accident over thirty years ago, and now the spirit was apparently haunting the isolated stretch of road where he’d been hit, alongside the big cliffs on the east side of the town. The remains were buried by the family on the side of the road, at the site of the accident.
You meet Dean outside in the parking lot outside the library. He’s busy looking at his phone, so he doesn’t see you coming at first. Despite yourself, you find yourself admiring him as you approach. God knows he might be annoying and callous at times, but he sure is good looking. Tall and broad as he leans against his car, and when he looks up and sees you coming, his smile is blinding. No wonder you keep coming back. How does a girl say no to someone like that?
Dean slips his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “We ready to go?”
“Yeah.” You put the road map on the hood of the Impala and point out where you’ve circled the radius the burial site should be located in. “Bones should be somewhere in here.”
He’s standing close to you and you can smell the rugged mix of leather and cedarwood that follows him around. It makes your head swim for half a second, so you focus your attention on the map. He glances at the map, but then you feel him staring at you.
You flinch when he brushes hair away from your neck, stepping away from him immediately. “What are you doing?” Your heart races at your confusion from the intimate gesture.
“You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you?” He muses. “Just noticed you have a bruise on your neck.”
Using the side mirror of the Impala, you examine your neck. There are three little bruises at the base of your throat, the exact size of Dean’s fingers you’re sure. He has a habit, which you enjoy but would never say it out loud, of holding you by the throat when he fucks you.
“So?” You ask with regained composure. “S’from you. Now let’s go.”
“From me?” He asks but you’re already getting into the passenger seat. He climbs into the car as well before glancing at the bruises again. “You mean from last night?”
“Yeah,” You say impatiently. “Can you start driving now?”
“In a second. Why didn’t you say anything?”
You give him a bewildered look. “About what?”
Dean looks away and starts the car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He seems unusually tense. “I must have fucking hurt you last night, then.” He finally says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
You roll your eyes. “You didn’t hurt me. Seriously. I always have bruises after.”
“What?”
His scandalized expression makes you realize that he would have no idea about the bruises he leaves you with after you hook up because he never gets the chance to see you the next day. It irks you that he’s pretending to care about it, though. He’s not exactly the most gentle lover, so what did he expect? The bruises are always very minor, from getting caught up in the heat of the moment, and you’ve never held it against him.
“It’s just a bruise, Dean.” You murmur. “I’ve had worse.”
“Yeah but not from me.”
“It’s not a big deal. Now come on. There’s a three mile radius we’ll have to search. Better to get it done while there’s still daylight.”
Dean starts the car but he’s uncharacteristically quiet for the majority of the ride. Usually, you’re wishing he would shut up or turn the music down, but the volume is set at a respectable level and he’s not even singing along. You’re not sure what his problem is, but it puts you on edge. Part of the reason your arrangement with him works so well for you both is that it’s simple. No nuances, no extra baggage or anything like that, but today, it doesn’t feel simple. But it’s not your problem because you don’t let it be. He can be quiet all he wants. You don’t have to wonder why.
By the time he pulls off the road, there’s only a few hours until dusk. You grab the weapons and supplies you need from the trunk, which Dean offers to carry, and then start the tedious task of walking along the stretch of road, searching for any sign or marking of the grave site. After the first hour of walking and Dean’s phone constantly going off, you’re frustrated.
“Who’s even texting you, anyway?” You snap.
“Oh, that’s Sam.” He says, putting a hand on your shoulder as you step back from the side of the road the same moment a car goes speeding past. “Just checking in. You know how much of a tight ass he is.”
“Well, maybe you should answer, so he can stop checking in every five minutes.” You mutter, rolling your shoulder out of his grip. As far as you’re concerned, he’s only allowed to touch you in the bedroom. Any other time and anything else is off limits.
Another hour passes. A fairly strong breeze blows over the cliffs, blowing the dust and debris on the road, making the grass you’re walking through sway around your ankles. Your mind starts to wander and lands on the ghost of the hitchhiker. You cruelly compare him to yourself. At least he had someone who cared about him enough to mourn his death and bury his body. That’s more than you have. The thought surprises you, but there’s no time to grapple with its implications because Dean calls your name.
“Looks like a grave to me, what about you?” He asks.
Hidden in a tangle of weeds and tall grass, there’s a malformed wooden cross, desiccated from time and the elements, and an inscribed stone. Despite your arguments, Dean insists upon doing all the digging himself, even when you complain that it’s going to take longer than if you helped.
“Just be a doll and hold my jacket, will you?” He requests with an appealing smirk, holding it out for you to take. “Good girl,” He says when you do.
You narrow your eyes at him but stay quiet. He begins to dig while you just watch. In no time, he’s covered in a layer of sweat, glistening in the low hanging sun. You look away occasionally to avoid getting caught, but you sneak appreciative glances at his body as he continues the hard labor. His biceps swell with each lift of the shovel, the muscles in his back flexing as well.
“Rest in peace, you son of a bitch,” Dean mutters after salting the bones. He drops the match, and you’re just relieved you’ll get to skip town.
It’s after dark by the time you make it back to the inn on the edge of town. It’s a rare occurrence that a hunt goes so well, and you want to keep that momentum going. You see your truck where you left it in the parking lot and linger only to give Dean a half hearted goodbye. He’s texting, probably messaging Sam back that the case has been closed, but shoves his phone away at the sound of your voice.
“You’re headed out now?” He asks incredulously.
“Yeah. I can stop if I need to sleep.”
Really, three days with Dean has been more than enough for you. You feel thoroughly disoriented, like you’ve been adrift from yourself just by being near him. Driving through the night, alone with all the thoughts you’ve so savagely wrestled into tight little cages, doesn’t really appeal to you, but you know better than to linger where you’re not wanted.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dean barks, jerking his head to gesture towards the inn. “I’ve got the room for another night, and I don’t wanna live with you falling asleep at the wheel on my conscience.”
“I’m perfectly well rested-”
“Thought this morning you said you didn’t sleep well?” He counters with raised eyebrows.
You concede without much other convincing, mainly to avoid getting back into that whole argument again. If he wants to pretend he wants you to stay because he’s worried about you, that’s fine, but you know why he really wants you to stay.
Not even an hour later, he’s coming on to you. The events of the day have soured you against him, but your body still wants him, still responds more willingly than your mind ever does. He’s pressing you up against the wall, with one hand tangled in the roots of your hair, the other pawing at your ass in your jeans, lifting your leg to hook it around his waist as his mouth ravishes yours.
“This what you needed?” He pulls away a fraction to murmur, his wet lips brushing yours. He lets go of your hair to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Round two to get rid of all that attitude-” As if sensing that you’re going to say something snarky back, he rolls his hips against you, pressing the hard line of his erection against the seam of your jeans just right, so that you have to bite your lip to suppress a whine. “Such a bad girl all day, and now you’re playing nice ‘cause you want my cock.” His voice is making you wetter with how breathless, low and gravelly it is.
He dives in for another filthy kiss, his taste completely overwhelming you. His hand engulfs the base of your throat and he uses his hold on you there to pry you away from the wall and toss you onto the bed.
“Now you’ve got nothing to say?” He taunts, standing before you at the foot of the bed while you lay on your back, panting.
Dean pulls his shirt off before reaching for his belt and you feel your pussy spasm with interest. “Come on, you know the drill. Take all that shit off.” He gestures to your clothes.
A few moments later, he’s got you on your hands and knees, both of you entirely bare. He’d teased you with his fingers for what felt like forever, edging you until you left angry scratch marks down his chest. Stingy with getting you to your release as punishment for being mouthy all day.
“Fuck-” He hissed, pulling his hand away from the puffy, wet mess of your pussy to glance down at the fresh red lines running from his pecs to his ribs. “Kitty’s got claws, huh?” He smirked.
You hadn’t meant to hurt him, but the last time he’d stopped rubbing your clit right before you were going to come made you nearly deranged with desperation.
Now he’s dragging his cock between your legs, coating himself in all of your sticky arousal, before you feel the burning intrusion of him plunging inside. If he notices the little black and blue imprints from his fingers dotting your hips and the plush flesh of your ass from the night before, he doesn’t say anything.
He fucks you hard and fast, just the way you like, so that you can only focus on the sensations and not any of the shit flying around in your head. He fucks you like he hates you, and it brings tears to your eyes. Your jaw aches from clenching your teeth against the screams you hold back. You’re honestly surprised he has the stamina to fuck you so raw and aggressively, given he had exerted himself over digging up the bones not too long ago.
Dean folds his body over yours, so his sweaty chest sticks to your back, grunting in your ear with every slam of his hips into you. His hand is around your neck again, squeezing you in a firm grip but without really restricting your airway much. You like the drunk, fuzzy feeling you get from it, and you like the way he’s just making you take it.
“Such a fuckin’ bratty little thing,” Dean uses his grip on your throat to lift your head a bit, so he can murmur directly into your ear. “All fuckin’ day, until I give you what you’re too proud to ask for.”
His dirty talk is constant but you miss about half of it. While during the day your mind runs things, right now, with him pounding into you like it's his job to bruise your cervix, your mind turns off, and you’re just your body. Your pussy is throbbing, muscles in your arms and thighs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up, even with his help. You let him make you feel good. And you do feel good, like you’re floating, like you’re not real. Times like this might actually be the only time you do feel good, so you surrender completely to the feeling. You’re not yourself when you let him fuck you. You’re someone different, someone better and worse at the same time. Or maybe, when he’s using you like this, when you let him use you like this, you’re nothing at all.
He squeezes the flesh of your ass before slapping it hard, and you moan in response. He pulls at your hair, and you whine at the pinpricks of pain that you love, pussy clenching hard as you get dangerously close to coming.
“What a fucking whore,” Dean pants in your ear. “Can feel the way your pussy loves that,” He slaps your ass again and laughs darkly.
He makes you cum by sliding a hand between your legs and playing with your aching clit. You scream into the pillow, as if you're cumming against your will, and he doesn’t relent until you stop shuddering, stop tightening your pussy around him. He comes, still with his hand around your throat, like he owns you, like you’re a dog he has on a leash, and when you think about that in the shower later, it makes you feel sick.
He lets you shower first, and then when you’re done, he goes. You never shower together. And you might sleep in the same bed afterwards, but it’s not like you cuddle.
You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly coming back to yourself from the post orgasm haze. You listen to the muffled noise of Dean singing in the shower, staring at the steam that billows out from under the door. Your body is satisfied and fairly tired, but your mind is restless. You’re thinking maybe you should have left town tonight when Dean’s phone rings beside the bed.
Expecting it to be Sam, you answer it. It’s just like Dean to focus on getting laid, before assuring his brother that he’d made it back unscathed. “Hey, Sam,” Your voice is a little hoarse.
“Sam? What? No, this is Penny, from the diner. Who is this?”
You blink. “You have the wrong number.”
“No,” The insufferable waitress says in her snotty little voice. You can barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears. “I’ve been talking to Dean with this number all day.”
Your stomach drops to your feet. “Wrong number.” You repeat before hanging up.
You know you probably shouldn’t but you open up the message threads on Dean’s phone. No recent messages from Sam. Just a shit ton from this same unknown number. There’s bile rising in your throat as you realize what it all means. That Dean had taken the number from the restaurant this morning, had reached out to the tacky ass waitress, and had continued to flirt with her via text all fucking day. While standing beside you. And when you’d asked about it? He lied to your face and said it was Sam. And to make the entire situation worse, he’d fucked you after it, too. He’d kept you both on retainer, two chicks on the line so if one fell through, he’d still be able to get his dick wet.
Jesus, you’re such a fucking idiot. You let him do this to you, too.
You read a few of the messages before you feel so sick you have to stop. But you see enough to realize they were making plans to meet up. Tentatively for tonight. He calls her baby and beautiful and other shit he never says to you. Instead, he calls you whore.
Emotions boil under your skin, and you can’t make sense of any of them, until anger surfaces. You know there’s no real reason to be angry with him, other than the fact that he lied to you. You have no claim on him. He’s not yours. Not by a long shot. But you feel humiliated, insulted, and worst of all, fucking hurt. But that only lasts for a second before you smother it under more anger.
Dean steps out of the bathroom with a towel hanging low on his hips, torso naked. Your nail marks on his chest stand out against his tanned skin. “Think I pulled something in my back towards the end there. Think you could-”
“You were texting Sam today?”
The nonchalant expression leaves his face at your tone. He stares at you for a second before heading over to the side of the bed, where his clothes are. “Uh-yeah-”
“Really?” You press.
“Can’t a man get dressed before he’s interrogated.” He half heartedly jokes, but then catches the hardness on your face and becomes sheepish.
“Just answer me.”
“Unless you wanna waterboard me, too. In that case, I can keep the towel-”
“Jesus christ, Dean!” You yell. “This isn’t a fucking joke!”
He stares at you, maybe shocked that you raised your voice, or surprised he’s been caught. “Yeah, I’m not exactly laughing here, sweetheart-”
“You asshole-” You round on him, shoving him as hard as you can but even then he only stumbles on step backward. “Keep lying to my face, Dean. Go ahead. I fucking know it wasn’t Sam. God, you must think I’m a fucking idiot.”
“You know that’s not true-” He raises his voice slightly but it’s only to be heard over your own ranting.
“Oh my god, you’re actually disgusting.” You shake your head at him. “You disgust me.”
“I didn’t exactly do anything.” He frowns. “They’re just messages…and we’re not- uh, you and I don’t- You said it yourself. You don’t care who I-”
“You lied to me, Dean.” You bellow. You’re vaguely aware of the dramatics of the scene you’re causing, and later you’ll probably be mortified by your behavior, but right now, you can’t control yourself. You’ve never been this fucking angry at him, never this disappointed. It just confirms what you knew all along; you’re entirely nothing to him.
“You lied to me, and then you fucked me!”
“I didn’t think you would care! She’s just-”
“Then why the fuck did you lie about her!” You nearly scream, getting in his face. “You wanna fuck her, then do it! Don’t ask me to stay the fucking night with you, when you’re telling some other bitch you’re gonna see her tonight! God, are you really that stupid, Dean? You didn’t think I would care? No, you didn’t think about me at all, you piece of shit.”
He gapes down at you and says your name pathetically. You just stare at him, chest heaving. Finally, he says, “You’re right.”
“Fuck you.” You say, the anger leaving you fast. You have to get out of here. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done with you.”
You’ve had that thought about him before. But this time, as you let the door slam behind you, you think you really mean it.
Could you do something with the Joe Keery characters where it’s a bit angsty bc they forgot important plans they had with reader and it’s like how they apologize??
Includes: Gator Tillman, Steve Harrington, Kurt Kunkle, Travis "Teacake" Meacham, Walter "Keys" McKey
Gator never remembers any plans you have together unless they were his idea. He uses the excuse that he's busy or has a lot on his plate to avoid admitting that he didn't care enough to remember. Your last straw is when he forgets your anniversary dinner. He comes home late, reeking of alcohol. You watch him take off his boots and strip down to his undershirt, waiting for an apology or any sort of recognition that you know will never come. Gator finally notices the look in your eyes when he plops down on the couch next to you, "What's wrong with ya?" When Gator goes to pull you into his chest, you pull away. In response, Gator just groans, "What'd I do this time?" That's what sets you off. You and Gator fight frequently, but it's never been like this. His lack of care has bothered you throughout your year-long relationship, you can't help but scream at him and practically beg him to care about you outside of what he can use your body for. Gator, somehow not understanding why you're so upset, argues that he needs time with "his boys" and that he'll take you out to dinner another night "with flowers and all that bullshit." The argument ends with you shouting that you're done with him as you're storming out of the house. It takes a week for Gator to show up at your friend's house with flowers, a stuffed animal, and promises of a reservation at the restaurant you've been desperate to try, asking you to take him back. He lays it on thick, and your stomach flips at how sweet he's being. Against your better judgement, you take him back. Gator doesn't fully change once you're back together, but he tries a little harder than he did before.
Steve always remembers date nights. You're more likely to forget plans than he is. Which is why you're so shocked when he doesn't show up for your anniversary dinner. The dining room was set up with food you'd made, decorations, and a present sitting next to Steve's plate. He comes home the next morning with his hair mussed and a distant expression, it isn't until he sees you curled up on the couch with tears in your eyes that he realizes what he missed. Steve profusely apologizes, explaining that Nancy needed his help with a story and he lost track of time. It takes a few minutes for you to reply, which kills Steve. You tell him that you're tired of being second to a girl Steve hasn't dated in years after they've both moved on and that you need some time to yourself. You've only been at Robin's place for a day when Steve shows up with red-rimmed eyes, looking worse than he did when you left (Robin quickly leaves the room, mumbling a quick "sorry" when you ask if she'd told Steve you were with her). He tells you that he knows how it feels to be the second choice, and he never wanted to make you feel that way. Steve insists that his relationship with Nancy is over and he's all in on you now. The conversation isn't heated, but it's painful for both of you. At the end of it, you feel like Steve really heard you and is going to work on the issues you brought up. A couple days, after you come back home, Steve sets up his own anniversary dinner with a pile of apology gifts in the corner. And the make up sex afterward is incredible.
Kurt is clueless about your plans most of the time. He's so focused on building his platform and making enough money as a Spree driver so he can be a creator full-time. He crashes on the couch after a long night of driving and streaming, not realizing he missed anything. The next morning, Kurt finally puts the pieces together when you don't come out of your shared bedroom for breakfast. He opens the door with a plate of two lukewarm Eggos doused in syrup in hand, begging for forgiveness. Kurt gives a bunch of insane (and definitely untrue) reasons why he didn't make it to dinner last night and promises it won't happen again. He promises that he'll take you to the viral restaurant that opened a couple minutes away from your apartment. Even when you're clearly upset, he's still focused on content. You start an argument about all the grievances you've had throughout your relationship, throwing in a few jabs at Kurt in the process. The insults obviously hit a nerve when he leaves to "find someone who supports his goals." Kurt comes back less than two hours later to apologize and tells you he didn't mean any of it and would make it up to you (and he definitely makes good on that promise).
Travis has a hard time focusing on his own schedule, let alone your shared plans. He tries with calendars and sticky notes, but sometimes things slip through the cracks. You've never been bothered by it until Travis stands you up on your anniversary. He realizes once you walk through the door with a dejected look on your face. Travis walks through everything, trying to figure out how he missed this. You normally love listening to Travis's voice, but you can't deal with it right now. Travis stares at you like a wounded puppy when you walk away and lock yourself in the bedroom without saying a word. He gives you space for a few hours before he sits down outside the door. Travis whispers your name a few times before he starts talking, "I know I can be a lot. I am a lot. It's how I've always been, you know? My mind jus'... can't sit still. My mama always told me it's one of my many flaws, and she's right. I screw things up... I let you down... I probably piss you off most of the time. I just... I need you to know that I don't do it on purpose. It's just the way I am, which is a shit excuse, but it's really true. If you wanna leave me, that's fine... well, actually it's not fine. I'd miss you like hell, but it's your choice, there're better guys out there for you, baby. They deserve you more than I do." Once Travis finishes, you unlock the door and hug him. You reassure him that there's nothing wrong with him and that you were just upset with the situation. He holds you in his arms and makes a plan for an anniversary picnic later that day.
Keys is a total workaholic, so he misses things from time to time when he's consumed by a project. You love his passion, which is why you let it slide until he misses your anniversary date to fix a bug that popped up in the game he's been working on. You're almost okay with it because it seems like he genuinely got distracted and lost track of time. But when he mentions Millie, you snap. You like to think you're not a jealous person, but Keys spending your anniversary with his ex is too much to deal with. It doesn't turn into a blowout fight because Keys refuses to fight with you like his parents did, so the resentment just builds. You give him the silent treatment for a couple days until you come home from work and see that he ordered takeout from your favorite restaurant and set up the kitchen to look like you're actually there. There's a laptop on the counter with a game that walks you through your relationship with Keys; everything from your first meeting to when you moved in together. Keys pops out once your favorite song starts playing at the end of the game, he has a bouquet of flowers in his hand and an apologetic smile on his face because he knows you won't be able to say no to him after seeing the game.
A/N: I love doing these JKCU requests! I do feel bad that Gator's is always the longest one (followed by Steve) but I can't control it lol.
I pretend I don’t care about her stare, while she’s giving me a tough time.
summary: you’re an observer of sorts, a wall flower, and the last hire made by the infamous runaway Jimmy ‘fast hands’ Lee. It was a job you took on a whim, a decision made without much thought. You weren’t expecting to ever share a room with Steve Harrington again, but when it starts to happen five days out of the week, you certainly weren’t expecting the now quiet and brooding former king to take up so much space in your mind.
WC: 17k
warnings: 18+ slow burn, soft soul touching smut, takes place a few months after season five not exactly canon accurate (he still has his beamer), steve is picking up the pieces of his life, reader has no knowledge of upside down, moved back after the military disappears, touch and love starved steve (reader is similar), mild angst, lots of yearning, mentions of holiday sadness, smoking, one bed trope, p in v van sex, scar kissing & touching (steve has scars).
authors note: well this was originally supposed to be a long one shot but it grew legs and became too long. so enjoy part one of two of the story i’ve been writing since volume one. Writing this got me through a rough holiday season and it started to feel really special. I hope it feels that way when you read it and thank you for waiting so long. I wouldn’t call this a holiday fic at all, its used as more of a backdrop. also i have no idea how things at a radio station work so if it’s not accurate beyond what I googled I apologize! don’t hate me! Thank you to Andy, Candy and Jelly for listening to me ramble and read snippets over the course of the last few months, couldn’t have finished it without you!
Three Weeks Before Christmas - A Monday Morning.
Steve Harrington was an anomaly.
A word you never thought you’d use for the face and hair of Hawkins High’s sports programs circa 1981 to 1985. A jock who used to push kids in lockers, break their camera’s, the kind to stand girls up who would just turn around and beg him to do it again. The popular guy who always seemed to get what he wanted, someone you thought would have his future laid out for him on a road paved of gold. So when you had your first day at The Squawk almost three months ago, and found him not only working the sound board for WSQK’s very own ‘Rockin Robin’ aka your favorite trumpet player to skip band practice with, but that they were also best friends. Like inseparable best friends, finishing each other's sentences kind of best friends, you weren’t sure how many chapters you missed after leaving for college four years ago.
Steve Harrington was an anomaly, and he was wearing that damn brown bomber jacket again.
It was your favorite of what seemed to be his early winter collection that had started to appear in the form of thick sweaters and fitted jackets once the sun began disappearing after four pm. Another thing you hated almost as much as not being able to put your chipped polished finger on him anymore, was that now, the word favorite is in your vocabulary when it comes to the guy who never even looked your way despite sharing the same homeroom all four years of high school.
This particular jacket though? It was your kryptonite. The soft suede wraps around his broad shoulders like butter, tapering just enough at the bottom to give the illusion of a loose fit, like it’s tailored special just for him. Its rich earthy brown color brings out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes that you swear changed colors with the season, or maybe it was because Nancy Wheeler finally stopped coming around.
You’d overheard a conversation between him and Robin a few weeks ago after noticing an extra broody-ness about his presence that she had finally left Hawkins to attend Emerson in Massachusetts. It was all you were able to catch without being caught eavesdropping on your way to map out the next few weeks DJ schedules in Jimmy’s abandoned office. An office you were only supposed to be an assistant too, but now somehow managed to end up being the one to do the job it was made for. It was becoming a full time one too, keeping the station running since its operating hours are no longer the allotted time slots given by the military. Which still seemed like a fresh nightmare for most of the people that decided to stay when the fences finally disappeared.
“Morning!” You greet them, stretching your neck enough to peek out of the open office door, making your presence known since your ever changing schedule keeps you at the station at random times.
Today you’d gotten here at 3am to fill the late night dead air with your own curated mix, something you do whenever Steve or Keith couldn’t. It was easy money, you didn’t even have to talk, just make sure to queue the ads you’ve been having to fight tooth and nail to get in order to keep the lights on.
“Good Morning!” Robin waves stretching her neck to meet your gaze with her signature toothy grin that lights up the whole room. Her blonde hair is extra frizzy from the snow starting to fall outside, the cold kissing her cheeks with roses.
All you get is Steve’s back as he continues his path to the studio, giving you a quick flick of his wrist in acknowledgment. It was 50/50 depending on the day, or even his shift if he’d stay mute or give you a short ‘Morning’. Either way, it didn’t matter because he still cared enough to pretend that he likes his coffee black in front of you. A secret that you’ve always kept close after catching him put cream and an absurd amount of sugar in his whenever he thought you weren’t looking– on multiple occasions.
”I put your coffees in there already, three creams and two sugars for Robin, and don’t worry Steve, I left yours black just how you like it.”
Your lips twist at the slight tense of his shoulders.
”Thanks boss!” Robin sings, skipping to catch up with her best friend’s long strides.
”I’m not your boss!” You call back, brows furrowing ñ at the nickname she’s been determined to make stick. They weren’t paying you a radio manager’s wage.
“Could’ve fooled me!” Her raspy voice carries across the room, before both her and Steve’s go muffled behind the soundproof door.
5 minutes till showtime.
You can see them through the glass that encases them from the cracked window in your office. Steve looks like he’s rambling about something to her, big hands gesturing wildly before they push back his thick mane of chestnut hair, the blonde tips it used to have, long forgotten. It is his personal tell that he’s stressed, besides a thumb flick to the nose which follows shortly after. Robin’s face softens, not meeting his chaotic energy as he takes off his jacket, revealing the cream mock turtle neck sweater underneath it. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but whatever it is makes his shoulders slump, nodding in response with another card of his hair. Relaxing.
It’s unexpected when his eyes shoot across the room, meeting your gaze for the first time in a few days. Averting your stare as quickly as you can, your cheeks feel like they're being raked over coals, they burn hot as you try and refocus on the spread sheet laying on the desk. Quietly vowing to leave the station before they break for lunch as your escape plan. This way you can lock yourself in your dark apartment and sleep off the exhausting seven hours before suffering the kind of embarrassment that radiates from your fingertips and all ten of your toes.
—-
Thursday Early Morning
5:13am. The bright green numbers on your dash feel like an assault as the tires of your Oldsmobile crunch against the snow and gravel leading up the path to The Squawk. From inside, the constant vigil of the studio lights fades into a soft glow, filtering through the glass front entrance doors to cut through the last bit of night and bounce off the shimmering snowflakes that somehow continue to fall. It’s been four days of this now, the sky alternating between flurries and heavy snowfall. It’s starting to feel like it might never stop, like the universe seems determined to deliver a white Christmas during the one year you and the rest of this town can’t seem to find the spirit.
Your jaw stretches with a yawn as you try to will the caffeine to hit your bloodstream faster. You pull up beside what should be Keith’s Thunderbird and rub the remainder of sleep from your eyes blinking at Steve’s BMW parked next to the WSQK van. A newfound anxiety flutters beneath your ribcage, at the memory of how his eyes caught you– like you were intruding on something personal, a secret only meant for his best friend’s ears. Everything with Steve Harrington has felt like a secret lately. An unsolvable puzzle with a missing piece always just out of reach. There’s a determination to find it. With slightly shaking hands, you arm yourself with a travel mug of homemade coffee and a deep breath to collect your courage before heading inside.
He probably won’t even say hi anyway, if you’re lucky he’ll just wave from the studio, maybe, and then you’ll both ignore each other until he leaves without saying goodbye.
Frank Sinatra’s ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ spills from the speakers in the studio, the door propped open allowing the soft trumpets and piano to fill the normally quiet space. He plays a lot of Sinatra on his overnights, a taste you’ve assumed he acquired from Robin, but part of you can’t be too sure anymore.
Christmas lights that weren’t there the night before are draped around the DJ booth, with even more hanging half hazardly above the soundboard. They twinkle in red, green, and gold, warming the room in a comforting glow. It’s not until you round the corner that you see Steve on a step stool stringing more around the common area, a small pile of multi-colored shimmering garland on the table beside him with tiny Santas and snowmen hanging off the tinsel.
Steve Harrington is decorating for Christmas.
“You’re not Keith.” You say, finding your voice, trying to break the usual awkwardness between the two of you with some kind of joke. Butterflies waking up in the pit of your gut when you hear it.
A laugh.
It’s so quiet that if you didn’t see the slight shake of his shoulders, you’d probably miss it. An unfamiliar desperate need to make him do it again tugs at your heart.
”Defintely not Keith.” He huffs, but you can hear the slight smile in his voice. You’d almost forgotten what he really sounds like.
His Nike covered feet step down from the stool, leaving the string of lights to dangle half way on their journey across the room. Turning around, he runs one of his big hands through his messier than usual hair, those familiar hazel eyes catching yours for the second time in one week. A record breaking streak.
He’s wearing dark washed jeans, they fit him snug like all of them do. A navy WSQK sweater stretches over his chest, the letters faded and peeling because Jimmy cheaped out on the printing company.You’re willing to bet Steve’s got three more washes till they're all completely gone. The sleeves are pushed up revealing his permanently sunkissed skin despite the warm weather hiding on the other side of the earth, and they’re dotted with more freckles than you can count.
“He asked me to cover his shift last minute, something about a pet ferret?” His face twists in the kind of judgment that has an uncontrollable giggle slip past your lips.
The gold in his eyes seems to sparkle at the sound, the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that he doesn’t let win.
“That explains the smell of his jacket sometimes.” Scrunching up your nose at the memory of the last time you saw Keith, Steve can’t seem to fight his grin off this time, pearly whites gleaming behind plush pink lips.
It threatens to steal the breath from your lungs, teeth digging into your bottom lip with cheeks that start to feel like the surface of the missing sun, warming your skin with something that has you looking away. Suddenly, you have a new understanding for all those girls in high school.
“I hope you don’t mind, me uh - decorating and stuff.” He scratches the back of his neck, like talking this long to someone that’s not his best friend is hard for him, or maybe it’s just because it’s you. “Robin was complaining about how she’s not feeling very festive this year, and it’s her and vi- it’s her first Christmas dating someone so I was thinking maybe this might help.”
It almost makes you mad at how sweet of a gesture it is, and how it feels like you’ll never quite figure him out. Every time you think you’re close, he sheds another layer. Throwing off your scent.
”Not at all, honestly, I haven’t been feeling very ‘jolly’ myself.” You laugh weakly, finally meeting his softened gaze, making his shoulders relax as if there were a world where you’d actually be mad. “This job has been…a lot.”
You don’t go into anymore detail about how none of this was what you signed up for, or how your home doesn’t feel very much like one anymore, like your childhood was some figment of your imagination the military erased. You’re not sure he’d even want to hear any of it anyway. No need to test the boundaries of this new progression between you and the former king of Hawkins, anyway.
“Well, if it means anything coming from me, I think you’re doing a great job, all things considered.” He answers with a casual shrug, like he didn’t just shatter all the assumptions you thought he had of you in one sentence.
”It- It does mean something, thanks, Steve.” It feels weird saying his name out loud, despite how many times it’s crossed your mind over the past few months.
Pink powders the apples of his cheeks, and now it’s his turn to look away.
”Decorate all you want. I’ve got this, like, 4 foot tall Christmas tree I had in my dorm in college that I can dig out and bring into the station tomorrow.” You add, returning to the safety of the original conversation, and you can tell he’s thankful for it.
”Cool.” He grins, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels a little bit.
”Cool.”
The two of you stand there, not really sure where to go from here until the music cuts off and Steve remembers the job he’s actually supposed to be doing.
”Oh shit!” He gasps, eyes looking like a deer caught in headlights. “I gotta flip the record, I’m sorry, I swear I don’t let it go silent like this normally.”
You want to tell him that you know, because his overnights are some of your favorites to listen to. But you decide it's another secret best kept to yourself instead.
”It’s fine, I’m sure the four people listening will forgive you.” Rolling your eyes playfully, you catch the small grin you get in return as he jogs to the studio room. “I’m gonna go do my job too.”
Grabbing the stack of ad proposals next to his garland, you wave them in your hand, before making your way to Jimmy’s office, the kind of smile that makes your cheeks hurt tugging up the corners of your lips when you’re sure he can’t see it.
—-
Saturday
“Secret Santa!” Robin exclaims from the doorway of Jimmy’s office, bright blue eyes staring at you with the kind of excitement that threatens to be contagious. “We need to do a Secret Santa!”
”There’s like six of us who work here.” Steve speaks up from behind her, a half eaten sandwich dwarfed in his big hand, leaning against the studio room looking far too cool in a maroon sweater and dark washed jeans.
”Okay and? That’s an even number. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect scenario actually.” She gives him a tight lipped sarcastic smirk, before bringing her attention back to you,rolling up the sleeves on her white turtle neck she’s layered with a black The Smith’s shirt on top of. “Here me out -“
”We can do it.” You say simply, closing the radio tower instruction manual that was starting to give you a headache.
“Wait, really?” She gasps with a smile so big it shows all her teeth, practically vibrating when you nod your head yes. “Oh my god this is so exciting, I’ll get everything together, you don’t have to lift a finger. Let's say a ten dollar budget, nothing too crazy.”
“Ten dollars?! I don’t like anyone around here enough to spend ten dollars on.” Steve scoffs, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth before crossing his arms.
”Are you kidding me? You don’t like me enough to spend ten dollars on? Her?” Robin points at you, and the urge to hide is the most tempting idea you’ve ever had, especially when Steve’s eyes meet yours from across the room with something you can’t decipher. ”Dustin, Mike? Literally you just hate Keith.”
”Dustin and Mike hardly count. They are here like two hours a week but fine! You win.” He surrenders, throwing his arms up before running an annoyed hand through his hair. His plan to help her feel more festive worked a little too well.
“I always do!” She sings, throwing a wink at you before sauntering back to the chair and mic that feel like they are made for her to deliver Hawkin’s favorite segment of the day, nudging Steve playfully on her way. ”Hurry up dingus, we’re back on in three minutes.”
”You had to walk around me, I’m already here.” He huffs, kicking off the corner and back into the studio room closing the sound proof door behind them.
You can’t seem to fight the smile that twists at the corners of your mouth as you grab your weekly planner from under the pile of work orders that you’ve been deluding yourself into thinking you can find the fixes in the manual.
The faint sounds of Billie Holiday’s ‘I Thought About You’ catches in your ears, something shifting in the air as the heat from an unfamiliar stare warms against your skin, sending goosebumps pebbling, begging for your attention. You haven’t risked even a glance through the window of your office since the day that Steve caught you, but something was daring you to do it again.
You aren’t sure what you’re expecting when you look up but it isn’t his eyes already locked on you, holding your gaze after they meet letting you know it’s not a mistake. Butterflies stretch their wings wide as you work up the courage not to look away first. The grip on your pen tightening, teeth digging into your bottom lip watching the slight shimmer of gold around the darkness of his pupils. He studies your face like he’s looking for the answer to something hidden inside of the contours of it, and you think this must be the way you look when he catches you staring.
It’s Robin that unknowingly interrupts whatever was going on, tearing his attention away with a bob of his Adam’s apple and a shake of his head. Saying something that looks a lot like the word ‘sorry’ before switching out the sound effect 8-track for the one she clearly wanted. In the hour it takes for you to wrap up and reach the end of your day, neither of you dare to look up again, and it’s you who leaves with a quick flick of your wrist, not saying a word this time.
What was that?
—-
Two weeks before Christmas
You stare at the name on the small piece of paper you’d grabbed from Robin’s Santa hat on your way out the door. The white wisps of your breath filling the freezing space of your car, too stunned to even be bothered to turn it on. You read it a few more times just to be sure that too many overnights weren’t making you delirious, but there it was, clear as day in Robin’s signature bubble writing.
Steve
His name plays on a loop as you finally kick on the engine to your car, it finds its way in every thought, sneaking past your efforts to shut it out. ‘Steve’ lingers in the cold breaths you take on your way to the front door of the small apartment you’d rented while your parents house gets rebuilt. It warms against your skin like the hot water from the shower that rinses off yet another long day at the station, following you to bed and curling around you under your covers, meeting you again in your dreams.
—-
Tuesday
You climb up the short ladder that leads you to the hatch door, pushing up, you give it a good shove, the rusted hinges squeaking as it flings open. The clearest night sky you’ve seen in what feels like weeks shimmers brightly above you. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it was twenty degrees, not when it looked like this. Tightening your scarf and zipping up your coat as far as it will go, you finish your climb up onto the roof.
The cold greets you with a sharp sting, sending a shiver straight to your bones.Too focused on closing the door to keep the heat trapped inside the station you don't notice you aren’t the only one admiring the view. It shuts with a loud thud at the same time someone clears their throat behind you. Jumping at the sound, you turn around with a startled scream just begging to escape and echo through the darkness until your wide eyes meet Steve’s panicked ones.
”Hey! It’s just me! It’s cool, you’re cool, we’re cool.” His hushed words come out with urgency to stop it from happening, a nervous hand running through his already wind swept hair after it seems to work.
Cool seems to be Steve’s favorite word when it comes to you. You weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that.
”Jesus Christ, Harrington.” You gasp with a hand on your chest, your quick huffs of breath embarrassingly visible in the cold air.
”Sorry! How was I supposed to know anyone else would come up here?” He exclaims, a slight agitation to his voice that doesn’t last long before asking “Are you okay?”
Your gaze lands on his Nike’s first, wandering up the light wash denim that covers his legs, accentuating parts of him that you’ve been trying not to think about. Tonight he wears a dark brown leather jacket that tapers at the waist just like your favorite one does. While his lack of scarf seems like a choice, it has the moles that cluster around his neck in their own constellations battling for your attention with the ones above him.
“Yeah, I’m good. No scarf?! Aren’t you col -“ You lose your train of thought when your eyes catch the glowing ember at the end of a half smoked cigarette tucked between two long fingers. “Wait, are you up here smoking?”
His eyebrows furrow together like he’s confused, until realization dawns on him smoothing the wrinkles on his forehead.
”Yeah,” He shrugs, flicking the ash before taking another drag. “I used to in high school, well, mostly at parties when I was drunk trying to look cool. But I don’t know, I picked it back up recently, I don’t smoke all the time, mostly over nights when I’m stressed or bored.”
“What are you now?” The question comes out before you can even filter and mark it as inappropriate, the look on his face burning your cheeks only adding to your immediate regret.
But then he does the last thing you expect, he answers it — honestly.
“Stressed.” Wind whips his hair around some more before he shrugs in a squeak of leather adding, “and a little bored.”
There’s storm clouds in his stare as he looks at you with an intensity you can feel tingling at your fingertips. Underneath it lives a nervousness that tries to hide in the dark pools of his eyes from letting you perceive him, gauging your reaction by taking another drag.
”I come up here when I’m stressed too.” You say with ease despite the wild thumping of your heart in your ears, taking a few steps closer, your boots crunch against the frozen brick.
“To my spot?” His words come out around white clouds of smoke, a small smile twisting up the corners of his lips.
”Excuse me? Your spot? I’ve never even seen you up here.” Scoffing, you dig your hands deep in your pockets, shuffling closer with chattering teeth you desperately try to hide.
As if on instinct, Steve positions his body to block you from the wind, cinnamon and amber from his cologne tickling at your nose. He was closer than you’ve ever been to him, close enough to have your palms sweat, for your softened gaze to trace the purple bags under his eyes. The pale pink of a healed scar you don’t remember from high school shows its imperfect end from the edge of his beige sweater’s collar, only to hide from you again when he lifts his cigarette towards you in an offering.
“I’m pretty sneaky. Stealthy, if you will.” He winks, cold bitten cheeks pushing up at the snort you give him in response.
Your fingers brush with his accepting the nicotine with a spark you blame on the emanating voltage from the tower.
“What about you?” He asks quietly, his eyes wandering over the details of your face like he was really looking at you for the first time. Maybe he was.
Despite yourself, you can’t help but wonder if he likes what he’s found.
”Stressed, maybe a dash of depression, maybe.” If you admit to it out loud, that might make it true, but it’s his honesty that pulls out your own.
He nods his head in response, mimicking your previous stance, shoving his cold hands in his pockets. He kicks at the small patch of ice, brows furrowing as he thinks about what he wants to say. The pad of your thumb brushes against the butt of his cigarette still a little wet from his lips, there’s an intimacy there when yours wraps around it, cheeks hollowing as you take a drag. Inhaling him.
“Honestly, this time of year. It’s never been my favorite.” His gaze is piercing when they meet your eyes again.“The only time I really liked it was when I had a girlfriend and that was like once.”
”Nancy Wheeler.” You hum, biting at your bottom lip wondering if it was a mistake to say her name out loud.
”Yeah,” he sighs, watching you take another drag, eyes lingering just a little on your mouth when you hand it back to him. “But honestly, I’m starting to realize a big part of that was because I didn’t have to spend it alone.”
“What do you mean?” You ask confused because he’s Steve Harrington, the boy who’s always had it all. “What about your parents?”
”They’re never home — hell, they were gone when the quarantine happened.” There’s a bitterness in his dry laugh, taking one last hit before tossing the cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his sneaker. “They couldn’t get back in, but I think they preferred it that way, part of me thinks I did too.”
“I’m sorry, Steve.” You don’t know what else to say, but it also doesn’t feel like he's looking for much more than that either, giving you just a peek into the closed blinds of his soul.
The bare trees rustle and snap in the silence between you. It’s not an uncomfortable one, but one that lets you sit with the weight inside of it. Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins, the boy who everyone adored school but always returned to a shell of a home. You can feel the wall rebuild itself around him after revealing more of his hand despite the way both you subconsciously shuffle closer to chase each other's body heat. Steve looks up at the sky, but your eyes stay trained on him. Maybe you were seeing him for the first time too.
The moon shines bright above, casting shadows on his sharp features, revealing the slight dusting of a five o’clock shadow that covers his jaw you didn’t notice before. Steve Harrington had grown up into a man. You aren’t sure how you missed it until tonight, under a blanket of stars no one’s seen in weeks. What else haven’t you seen?
His gaze finds yours again, the wind making his hair go wild. He holds it like he did in the studio room the other day, and you swear he moves even closer, the toe of his shoe tapping against yours. You can smell the leather of his coat, the tobacco clinging to the fabrics of his sweater mixing with the spice of his cologne in a way that shouldn’t smell as good as it does. A playful smirk teases at the corners of his mouth.
”You’re always looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.” There’s something delicate about the way he stares at you, tugging at the bundle of nerves twisting in the pit of your stomach. Loosening the knots.
“Is there something wrong with that?” You hum quietly.
”N-no.” He smiles with something timid behind it, weary even. “Just no one’s ever reall-“ He’s cut off by the crackle of the walkie talkie you didn’t know he had clipped to his back pocket
“Radio silence again dingus!” Robin’s voice comes through the small speaker, “Trying to make moves here and you aren’t helping.”
You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve roll his eyes any harder, a loud irritated breath escaping through his nose like a bull. He mouths sorry before bringing the walkie talkies to his lips, pressing harsh on the red button.
”I’m doing you a favor tonight if you remember, watch the tone.” He turns it off after, leaving her no room to respond, determined to get the last word.
”Another day of catching you not doing your job.” You tease with a wink, getting your own eye roll but this one comes with a smile.
”I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He wiggles his eyebrows, starting to back away towards the hatch door.
Was Steve Harrington flirting with you?
”Ugh! Not you too.” You groan, crossing your arms watching him open the rusted metal with ease.
”If the shoe fits.” He shrugs, “Don’t stay out here too long, can’t have you getting sick, the station would probably burn down or something like that.”
”You and Robin ran it just fine.” You argue, with a grin that refuses to go away.
“Yeah, sure.” Steve snorts, climbing down the first few steps of the ladder stopping when all you can see is his shoulders up, “but seriously, it’s cold. I mean it.”
”Okay, Dad.”
He visibly grimaces at the nickname.
”Yeah, pretty awful isn’t it?” You arch a brow, laughing at his glare for falling into your trap. “I’ll come back in a few minutes, promise.”
He lingers for a few seconds more looking torn, like he wasn’t ready to leave yet, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish he could stay too. But he does the selfless thing you’ve noticed he always does, closing the hatch behind him with one last look catching your small wave goodbye.
—-
Friday
Robin is a ball of energy at seven in the morning, completely consumed by whatever she’s ranting to Steve about when they burst in through the front door together. You watch with an amused smirk from your spot on the lime green couch in the common area, a cup of fresh coffee you brewed for the three of you warm in your hand. She’s so distracted that she doesn’t notice you, but Steve does, almost as if he was searching for you first. The blue hidden in the gold and moss of his eyes are like sunbursts when they find your gaze. His smile is small, but it’s just for you and it’s enough for the butterflies you’ve managed to snuff out all morning with distractions to wake back up. Hiding your smile in your mug, you watch as he nods his head giving Robin a ‘yeah,’ like he’s listening, but something tells you he had stopped a while ago.
Once they get inside the soundproof room Steve peels off the same leather jacket he wore on the roof. Robin follows suit tossing her long navy blue tench coat to the side, lips still moving a mile a minute. He runs two big hands through his hair, the little bit of flurries that had stuck to the ends melting on his fingertips before pushing up the sleeves of his WSQK sweater. And just as you suspected the K at the end of it had already peeled off since last week.
Robin’s lime green polished hands fly all over the place making the people on her ‘Beam me up, this place sucks’ sweater look like they’re actually running. Crossing his arms as he leans against the door frame, Steve seems distracted, but you can tell he’s still actively trying to focus. He’s shaved since the last time you saw him, and the bags that had kissed lavender under his eyes on the rooftop were gone. Maybe that meant he’d finally gotten some sleep.
His best friend grabs her coffee mid sentence, holding out a finger to give her a minute as she drinks what has to be at least half the cup. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip watching Steve grab his own. Suddenly you wish you’d have gone into Jimmy’s office for this moment as a new fear that maybe something that seemed like a cute idea in the middle of night actually makes you look like a weird stalker. The intrusive thought eats away at your confidence as he takes the first gulp and looks confused peering down in his cup before taking another just to be sure.
Steve’s eyes lock on yours through the glass, something inside them shifting just like the air between you on the rooftop. A secret revealed that paints his cheeks red, a small gesture that you don’t know has never made him feel more seen as he takes another sip of his coffee made the way he actually likes it today.
—-
“Hey boss, I’m running out for lunch, but Dustin’s got the news report covered while I’m gone.” Robin pokes her head in Jimmy’s office where you’d been for the past hour lost in balancing the books.
”Not your booosssss,” You sing with an annoyed smirk, giving your eyes a break to look up at her. “Isn’t he in school?”
”Winter break!” She grins, shoving her arms into her coat like she’s in a rush, “I’ll be back in like thirty, maybe forty minutes tops!”
She’s gone in a blur of blue and blond before you have a chance to respond, and as if on cue Dustin comes strolling in not even two minutes after her departure. He waves at you with a wide grin, green braces gleaming against the low light. The ends of his long tan trench coat are stained wet, dripping on the checkered floor. Duck boots squeaking against the linoleum. He must’ve rode his bike here like a lunatic.
”Hiya boss!” He greets, turning around to face you walking backwards to the studio room completely oblivious to the angry Steve yelling behind the soundproof glass watching him drip water and salt everywhere.
”Henderson!” You groan, burying your face in your hands before resting it on your desk.
”It’s a compliment!” He argues, getting you to look back up only to see that Steve is now standing behind him with his hands firmly planted on his hips.
”Are you kidding me asshole? Look at the floors.” He huffs, with the kind of outrage a parent would have with their kid.
“It’s just water, it’ll dry.” Dustin rolls his eyes, pushing past Steve to start setting up but not before adding. “Or you can make yourself useful and mop it up.”
”How about I kick your teeth in, instead?”
“Not the first time you’ve threatened that.” The teenager raises his eyebrows at him, looking unimpressed, letting you know they’re always empty. Of course Harrington is all bark and no bite.
Another endearing quality, unfortunately.
“Yeah, and one day it just might happen if you don’t watch your sass dickhead.”
It takes every ounce of will power not to snort at the sight in front of you, smiling like the Cheshire Cat at all the ways you’re going to schedule them together this summer.
If it ever comes.
“I’ll let you know if I need, I don’t know — like, a car crash sound, or maybe a police siren, but otherwise quiet on set. I have a job to do.” Dustin closes the door to the studio before Steve even has a chance to get the last word in, something you’ve come to find as the clear indicator of who the winner is in these little spats between all of them.
Steve still flips him off through the glass, grumbling to himself about getting the mop so someone doesn’t slip and break their necks. Dustin gives you a thumbs up from behind the sound board switching the ON AIR sign ‘Red’. He taps the sheets of paper you assume is the ‘news’ loudly on the desk to add his own effects as he kicks it off with the weather. Which is snow… always more damn snow.
You groan, rubbing your temples at the thought of having to clean off your car every day for another week and all the shoveling, so much damn shoveling.
”God, I miss summer.” You mumble, exhaling a defeated breath through your nose grabbing the calculator to finish where you’d left off.
You don’t get very far though, the familiar sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway breaking your concentration. Heat warms your cheeks instantly, teeth digging into your bottom lip daring to look up and meet the hazel eyes you swear have changed colors again. Something new — brighter, something that feels more like Steve.
”H-hey.” He waves awkwardly, giving you a closed lip smile riddled with the kind of nerves that tighten in your chest too.
”H-hi.” It comes out quieter than you intend, your voice cracking making you try to clear the nerves out of your throat too.
Steve digs his hands into his pockets, leaning on the door frame with a shyness you’d never expect from him. It’s got a stubbornness about it like he’s worked himself up to do this and is vowing to see it through.
“How’s your uh, how’s your day going?” A hand that can’t help itself comes out of his pocket running through his hair.
“It’s going,” you sigh, a little defeated tossing your calculator to the side. Suddenly the weight of the last few months makes itself known in the muscles of your shoulders, while your bed starts to sound a little too welcoming for it to only be half way through your shift. “What about y-you? How’s your day going?”
“Not too bad, I passed out on the couch and slept for like 12 hours yesterday. So I’d say feeling pretty good all things considered.” Another card of his hair.
Your eyes catch Dustin watching you both with an amused curiosity.
“On the couch?! Rest in peace to your back.” You smile trying to crack a joke that somehow works, earning you the twitch of his lips that you were looking for.
”It’s been through worse.” He laughs softly, looking down at his feet before meeting your gaze from under his thick lashes with a shy teasing grin. “Did you switch up the coffee this morning or something? It was better than usual.”
The giggle that bubbles out of you makes Steve’s full pink lips stretch wide over his teeth that look even more brilliant in the daytime. It cracks at the awkwardness that's tried to settle between you.
”I guess you’re not as stealthy as you think you are huh?” You wink, giddy feet bouncing under the desk.
”Apparently not.” He narrows his eyes playfully, “it needed maybe one more packet of sugar though, but hey, who’s counting.”
”Steve, I put in three already.” You scoff with a smile so wide it hurts, heart skipping a beat when his grows like it can’t contain itself either. “Why did you even pretend to like your coffee black in the first place? Such a weird thing to lie about.”
“I don’t know!” He whines, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as he runs his hands down his face, “It’s like I did it once, because you know, you’re pret — “
Steve clears his throat catching the words that almost slipped from his mouth, but you catch them, heart thumping wildly at the idea of how that sentence almost ended.
”I hadn’t seen you since high school, so I wanted to come off more like an adult? I don’t know, it was dumb and honestly, I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you caught me lying or that you let me keep up with it for so long.” He groans, huffing out a laugh scratching the back of his neck.
”Don’t worry, it was pretty amusing, dare I say my favorite part of the morning. You always looked so nervous, like you were about to be caught robbing a bank or something.” You try to hide your laugh behind the back of your hand, when you earn another one of his glares.
”Ha, ha, ha.” He rolls his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his lips gives him away.
”Steve!” Dustin’s voice interrupts you, making his shoulders tense, jaw clicking with instant annoyance.
”What Henderson? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation?” He snaps turning around to face the high schooler, broad shoulders blocking him from your view.
”I’m sorry to interrupt your flirting to ask you to do your job.” Dustin responds with a taunting smile that you don’t need to see to know is there.
“You’re really pushing me today, you little shit. I’ll be there in a minute, just give me a second.” This time Steve runs both hands though his hair before turning around to face you again, the thumb flick you were expecting hitting his nose.
”What is this, the third time now in the past few weeks?” You can’t help yourself, or the teasing smirk that spreads across your face, lashes fluttering a little too much, but the greens in his eyes sparkle because of it.
”Like I said the last time, I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He laughs at your scowl about the nickname, walking backwards towards a very impatient Dustin, like he doesn’t want to stop looking at you until he absolutely has to.
This time you didn’t have to wonder, Steve Harrington was flirting with you.
————-
Five days before Christmas
Monday
When Dustin said to expect snow this week you didn’t realize that he meant a blizzard. Of course it’s a fucking blizzard.
Your tires spin in the foot of snow that’s already fallen since it started this morning. The smoke from your exhaust comes out in huge plumes, over working your engine until you finally give up and take your foot off the gas. You curse the day you decided to go with the cheaper car that lacked the four wheel drive needed to leave the station tonight. And god, you really wanted to crawl into your bed.
“You’re gonna flood your engine!”
It’s muffled, but the sound of Steve’s voice is unmistakeable, the timbre of it etching into the corners of your mind lately. Cutting off your engine, you look through the fogged up passenger window to see him and Robin standing at the front entrance of the station, the low yellow light almost turning them into shadows. Robin waves excitedly with mitten covered hands like she didn’t just see you less than ten minutes ago, an oversized crocheted beanie threatening to swallow her eyes. Steve on the other hand, he looks almost as stressed as you feel with only that damn leather coat protecting him from the winter storm quite literally raging around him, Nike’s still on his feet.
Leaning over your console, you start to crank open the window, the glass sticking from the frost, groaning like it might shatter before it gives way to snow fluttering into your car. Maybe this wasn’t your best idea.
”I’m stuck!” You yell over the howling wind jutting your bottom lip out for dramatic effect despite stating the obvious.
”Steve can drive you home!” Robin volunteers without hesitating to ask him if that's okay, but he doesn’t even flinch at the idea.
”Oh — oh no that’s okay, I live on the other side of town, maybe you guys can just help dig me out?” You suggest instead, heart rate kicking up at the thought of being inside Steve’s car.
You’ve heard a lot of stories about that BMW, most against your will.
”You’re just going to get stuck again trying to get out of here, I’ve got four wheel drive. It’s fine, I can drive you.” He waves you off, taking his first steps towards you and into the storm. He walks past his BMW parked on the other side of the WSQK van that blocked some of the snowdrifts, protecting his car from suffering the same fate.
”How will I get to work in the morning if I don’t try and get my car out of here now?” You counter, with the kind of nerves that only seem to get worse every time he’s around.
His steps crunch softly in the snow stopping at your half opened window bending down with a hand on the roof to meet your eyes. Robin follows close behind, tilting her head to the side to listen, a smirk twisting up the corners of her lips.
“I’ll pick you up, you’ll need help digging out your car anyway.” He shrugs like he wasn’t offering to completely inconvenience himself for the next 24 hours for solely your benefit.
“Steve - I can’t, I- “
”Seriously it’s fine! Steve loooves doing stuff like this, it’s like a hobbie, a kink if you will.” Robin interjects, a little too pushy for you not to narrow your eyes at her. “He’s got like a white knight complex or something.”
“Okay, Robin.” Steve snaps, glaring at her from over his shoulder. ”Also, how is enjoying being helpful to my friends a kink? What the hell is wrong with you?” scoffing incrediously, he turns his back almost completely to you.
“I’m just saying!” She shrugs winking at you like you’re in on the joke, but all you can focus on is Steve insinuating that you’re his friend and why that word has a sting to it.
Running an irritated hand through his hair, he mouths something to her you can’t hear before turning to meet your gaze again with a softness inside his eyes that doesn’t match the tone he just had. It’s the same way he looked at you under the stars that night.
“We’ve got two options here, and they are either accept my help now, or after you make me throw out my back attempting to dig out your car in a blizzard that will inevitably still get stuck half way down the hill.” The teasing grin on his pink lips disarms you with the kind of charm only he knows how to have, the kind you remember from high school. “I’ll do whichever one you want, honey, so you tell me.”
Honey.
The word wraps around you gooey and sweet, covering your insides in sugar, warming your bones, leaving you no choice.
”Fine!” It comes out in a playful huff, the edges of your mouth threatening to curl as you pull your keys out of the ignition. You meet his eyes from under your lashes, giving him one last chance to change his mind. “If you’re really okay with this.”
He nods, those perfect teeth of his tugging his full bottom lip between them, cheeks dusting a pretty shade of pink that’s not just from the cold.
”Oh, trust me, he is!” Robin interrupts, and you watch in real time the way the gold sparkling inside his eyes turn black before they roll in the back of his head.
“Keep running that mouth Buckley, and you’re going to get real familiar with the walk home.” He groans with another hand through his hair, the constant snow fall making the ends wet.
”Empty threats.” She scoffs, completely unphased just like Dustin. “Now let's go before we all get stuck too. No offense to you guys but I don’t want to have a sleep over at The Squawk with Keith.”
She says his name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and Steve’s face twists in disgust like he can taste it too.
“Couldn’t agree more’.” You add, amused by another display of the two of them sharing the same brain.
Leaning over to crank your window back up, you meet Steve’s gaze from up close, something swirling inside it that you can’t figure out making your heart thump a few beats quicker. He holds you there till you’re sealed inside, leaving the storm muffled just like his voice.
“I‘ll go warm up the car.”
———-
You never thought you’d be sitting shotgun in Steve’s BMW, or that it would relax every bone in your aching body, loosening the stress knots that have made a permanent home in your shoulder blades. It’s the way the cinnamon and amber fill the small space with the musk of his cologne, and how they mix with the deep tanned leather of the seat underneath you. The heat that blows from the vents only seems to intensify it along with the man next to you. It feels like you’re surrounded by him, encased by him.
He drives slowly down the winding road that leads into town, the tires crunch as it compacts the thick snow underneath them. It falls from the sky like it’s angry, wind sweeping the wet flakes against his headlights. His wipers squeak working overtime to keep visibility. The full moon hidden behind the deep purple clouds fights to shine its way through the storm, casting a deep lavender glow along the banks. Illuminating the snow that hangs heavy on the edges of the trees that line the bare woods surrounding you. Frank Sinatra’s ‘You Go To My Head’ plays softly from his speakers with a light crackle from years of playing his music way too loud joy riding with Tommy and Carol.
Steve readjusts slightly in his seat to shift gears, and you catch a whiff of tobacco still clinging to the fabric of his sweater underneath his coat. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you have to fight the urge to lean forward and inhale.
“Okay, so — secret Santa. We were thinking of having it at the Wheeler’s, since their basement is practically like our second apartment anyway, on top of the fact that it’s way easier to get to than The Squawk.” Robin breaks the silence, leaning forward resting her elbows on the backs of either of your headrests.
You don’t miss the way Steve’s grip on the steering wheel tightens enough to show the white’s of his knuckles at the name, or the anxious pit that forms in your gut at the idea of being the new face in a group of friends that are tied together by something you can’t even begin to comprehend.
“Hey! Sit down, are you kidding me?” He scolds, glaring at her from the rearview mirror.
”Sorry, Dad.” She huffs, raising her hands in defense, flopping herself back into her seat. Your lips twitch at the familiar nickname.
”And put your seat belt on too. Jesus, I’m driving in a freaking blizzard Robin.” He only takes his hand off the steering wheel just long enough to run it through his hair. Robin sticks her tongue out at his reflection, but you still hear the click of her seatbelt before she continues.
“Anyway, I’m thinking around 8 o'clock Christmas Eve. You can make Keith work the overnight shift since you’re the boss and all.” She grins wide when you toss her your own glare from over your shoulder.
”What if Keith wants it off?” You counter with teasing revenge.
It’s Steve that snorts next to you, bringing your attention to the curve of his lips, doing good to keep his eyes on the road.
”Keith was banned from secret Santa, per our agreement, so therefore he has to work and you have to go.” He argues siding with his best friend daring to meet your gaze before adding a little quieter. “Besides, I want you to go.”
Your stomach flips at his admission, cheeks warming enough they could fog the window next to you if you were just a few inches closer. Biting down on your bottom lip, you try to fight off the shy smile that wants to take over your face. Nervous hands pulling at the sleeves of your coat.
”I guess I’ll see what I can do.” You try to play along with a roll of your eyes and a bad attempt at an even voice, but you can tell Robin sees right through it. The heat of her stare threatens to burn a hole in the back of your head daring you to meet it.
”Perfect, then it’s decided.” She finally says, something mischievous dancing around in her tone. “Hey dingus, drop me off at our place first, I forgot I gotta wake up early to help my Mom with something.”
It sounds casual, the way she lays the trap, but you know exactly what she’s doing and you’re almost positive Steve does too. Especially by the way he stares her down through the rear view mirror before clearing his throat.
“Sounds good.” He nods with a small smile that almost seems nervous, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to gauge a reaction you don’t give despite the wild thumping of your heart in your chest.
Robin Buckley was a menace.
Of course it doesn’t take much longer for Steve to pull into the small parking lot of what you assume is their apartment complex. It’s one of the two in Hawkins, and yours of course is on the exact opposite side of town. Guilt consumes you with the realization of how far out of his way he’s going to not only drive you home, but to also pick you up first thing in the morning as the never ending storm clouds continue to dump what seems like another foot of snow on top of you.
Robin jumps out of the car before it even fully comes to a stop.
”Drive safe, and I’ll see you on Christmas Eve!” She smiles, sticking her head in one last time, throwing Steve a wink that makes him scoff and wave her off.
”Bye. Close the damn door before the snow ruins the leather.” He scolds, trying to dismiss her very obvious ulterior motives, mouthing ‘go’ until she finally obliges.
The wind outside isn’t loud enough to drown out her cackle after she shuts the door, and despite his annoyance he still doesn’t drive away till he sees her disappear safely into their apartment. Adding yet another quality to the long list of things Steve does that you unexpectedly find extremely endearing.
“I’m sorry — I don’t know why she’s being so, so - she’s being weird.” He stammers nervously, slowly pulling out and back into the snow storm that’s only seemed to get worse.
”I think that’s just Robin’s general demeanor.” You say casually, like your palms weren’t sweating.
“That is also true.” He laughs quietly, shifting gears when his tires slide, turning a corner.
“Are you seriously sure this is okay Steve? We're still not that far from the station. It’s getting bad, I can just stay there.”
As if to prove your point, the wind kicks up, smacking loudly on the side of his car.
”You’re not sleeping at the station.” He responds seriously, shifting again before slowly hitting the gas getting back on the main road. “I would not have offered it if I didn’t want to.”
”Technically Robin offered.”
”We’re basically the same person, so.” He shrugs, a toothy grin spreading across his face that only seems to be more handsome draped in shadows and moonlight.
Frank Sinatra’s ‘If I Had You’ fills the quiet space between you, the strings and his deep melodic voice turning the snow outside into something magical instead of treacherous.
“You really like Sinatra don’t you?” The question makes him do a double take, a reveal that warms both your cheeks and sends butterflies soaring deep in your gut giving your cards away about listening to his overnights.
‘I could show the world how to smile. I could be glad all the while. I could change the grey skies blue, if I had you.’
”Checking up on me I see.” He grins, shifting again only this time the side of his hand grazes your thigh, the slightest touch sending your body buzzing.
”I mean, I’ve got to keep tabs. I’ve caught you slipping, what? Four times now?” You tease, doing your best to hide your grin.
”Three. And all of them were your fault.” He corrects, sly eyes finding yours over the console making you giggle.
”Sounds like a deflection to me, Steve.” You sigh, relaxing even more in your seat meeting him from under your lashes. “I just never pegged you for a Frank Sinatra kind of guy.”
He huffs out a laugh, running a big hand through his hair that almost looks like a messy kind of bed head after the amount of times he’s done it throughout the day.
“I wasn’t until Robin started judging my love for Eddie Money like it was the worst thing she’s ever heard in her life. Which is crazy cause —”
”He makes hits!” You agree, with the kind of excitement that makes a smile stretch so big across his face that it splits in two.
”Thank you! Yes, he makes hits. But, she disagrees and decided to dedicate the first two months we worked at the station ‘expanding’ my music taste. I tried hiding the fact that I liked Frank outta spite, but apparently you aren’t the only one who listens to my overnights.” He glances over holding your stare for just long enough to make your heart skip a beat.
“You really aren’t stealthy, Steve.” You giggle before adding, “I bet she knows you’re smoking again too.”
”You’re probably right.” He groans at the possibility.
”I hear that a lot.”
Steve snorts, flipping his blinker on to turn down the road that leads to your side of town, shifting again his knuckles brush against you for the second time sending goosebumps pebbling across your skin.
“I was so surprised the first time I heard you play ‘My Way’, but honestly Harrington, it kinda suits you. I like it.” Your cheeks warm at your own compliment, something about saying it in his moonlit car has it feeling bigger than intended.
He stays quiet for a moment, letting the song fill the space between you charged with the new feelings that sit on the edge of both of your tongues.
’And I could leave the old days behind. Leave all my pals, I’d never mind. And I could start my life anew, if I had you.’
”Yeah?” He asks quietly, with a kind of soft vulnerability wrapped around the word that’s unmistakable.
“Mmhmm.” You whisper matching his tone turning shy, heart thumping wildly in your chest. “It’s hard not too.”
You aren’t talking about Sinatra anymore, and you think you both know it.
His gaze feels heavy as it crawls over the details of your face in the silence that follows, trying to figure out what’s going on inside your head. You hope whatever he’s looking for is hidden, just like the feelings that are starting to bloom despite how much you’ve tried not to water them.
“What was it like?”
The question you’ve been too scared to ask since you’ve been home slips out without warning, nervous fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater that poke out from your coat.
“Lockdown?” He clears his throat, straightening his posture holding the steering wheel with a harsh grip.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” You try to take it back watching the way all the muscles in his body seem to tense at the memory.
”No, no, it’s fine.” He responds with a small smile reading you like a book from the corner of his eye. “I don’t mind, just, uh, I wasn't expecting it.”
”Sorry, I have a bad habit of just blurting out whatever pops into my mind.” You laugh nervously, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Oh, I know, I remember your conversational skills on the roof.” He teases, the whites of his teeth shining against the dashboard lights.
“Now look at us because of my lack of conversational skills.” Smirking, you dare to look over at him again, your eyes tracing the moles that dot his profile.
Steve was always handsome, but was he always this handsome?
“Fast friends.” He chuckles softly, meeting your gaze briefly before focusing back on the road.
There’s that word again. You guess it’s better than ‘cool.’
The snow falls so heavily outside you aren’t entirely sure how he’s even able to see through it anymore.
”Lockdown was like being trapped in a never ending loop of the worst day of your life.” He says with a low voice, his handsome features going dark at the memory.
Shifting gears again, his Beamer slowly trudges up the kind of hill that you know would have been your car's demise if you had even made it out of the station's parking lot. He leaves his hand to rest on the stick shift this time, the tips of his fingers press softly into your thigh, he doesn’t move them.
“But at least I had a real excuse for once as to why my life turned out the way it did.” There’s a layer of self hatred sewn into what he’s saying, it’s hard to miss in the way it diminishes the light in his eyes.
”What do you mean by that?” You whisper, too nervous to talk at full volume, but you lean your thigh further into his touch, keeping him connected to you. The rev of his struggling engine bleeds through the conversation, and you wonder if his car will even make it back.
”I mean look at me.” He laughs, like it’s obvious.
“I am looking at you Steve.”
You almost tell him that it’s all you seem to be doing lately.
”My Dad’s a lawyer with his own firm, and I’m a sound guy at a radio station who peaked in high school that can’t seem to get it together enough to leave.” He scoffs like you must need a reminder, running that nervous hand through his hair again, knee starting to bounce.
“That’s not what I see.” It comes out soft just like your gaze, fingers flexing in your lap fighting the urge to wrap around his.
”Yeah?” His voice cracks a little, but he keeps his focus on the disappearing road. “What do you see?”
’I could be a king, dear, uncrowned. Humble or poor, rich or renowned. There’s nothing I couldn’t do, if I had you.’
“Someone that loves his friends so deeply that he constantly puts his needs last. You’re selfless almost to a fault Steve, and sometimes I have to fight the urge to yell at you to take care of yourself when I see how bad the bags under your eyes get some days.”
He chuckles dryly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he blinks back tears that threaten to spill like he’s never heard these things about himself before. A storm raging inside of him just like the one outside.
”I see a guy who’s so kind, he’d sacrifice his own happiness for anyone that he loves. And I think that’s exactly why you’re still here. I wouldn’t call that being a failure. Not by a long shot.”
That’s when you do it, you wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, he does it back with zero hesitation, like he was waiting for you. Keeping you there.
”I think about it all the time you know?” He whispers, the pad of his thumb brushing against your knuckles, butterflies multiplying deep in your gut.
”What?”
”Leaving.”
Frank Sinatra’s deep baritone fills the quiet that falls between you when he turns on your road, letting the weight of his confession hold the space there. A deep longing inside of it to see what lies past where the twenty feet tall fences were.
“Why haven’t you?” The question feels loaded when it leaves your mouth, and the way his thumb stutters tells you it is.
”I just need to know they’re safe — that they get out of here first. Especially Dustin, that little shit gets under my skin but I love him like he's my kid.” He answers the question with the most selfless kind of reason you should’ve expected. Something else lingering inside of it that he doesn’t want to unpack just yet. “After everything, I just can’t, I can’t. Not yet. Part of me feels like maybe I’ll always live here.”
He pulls into your complex like he’s done it a thousand times before, wheels spinning in the snow before his car propels forward into the first spot, only letting go of your fingers to put the car in park.
”That doesn’t mean you can’t explore what’s past Hawkins, Steve.” You whisper, turning in your seat to face him, already missing the warmth of his hand. “You’re not stuck, even if you stay, you can always see what else is out there, one place at a time, one trip at a time. Bit by bit. The world is big, and it’s not going anywhere.”
His eyes shine, glassy and shimmering under the street lamp above his car. They tell you everything he can’t bring his mouth to speak, your hands flexing in your lap fighting the urge to grab onto him again. Shadows make the moles and freckles that dot his skin look like the last flick of a paint brush, the final touches to a painting and you realize — yes, Steve has always been this handsome, you just didn’t see it before.
You see it now though.
“Thanks for taking me home.” You smile a little shy, the heaviness of the conversation hanging in the air.
“Any time, honey.” His full lips twist into something sweet, the new nickname making your body come alive. “Want me to walk you to your door?”
He glances around your well lit parking lot like something could be lurking in the shadows, it feels silly to you, but the expression that furrows deep in the V of his brows tells you that it’s anything but to him.
“I’m already scared you’re not gonna get out of here as it is. I’m just right there.” You point to the door of your apartment, the one conveniently closest to where he’s parked and his shoulders visibly relax. You knew he was going to watch you till you got inside anyway.
”I’ll pick you up around 8?” He asks, his eyes glancing down at your hands that fidget like he missed your touch too.
The bold red numbers on his dash read: 9:38PM. Suddenly tomorrow feels like a million years away.
“That sounds good.” It comes out in a whisper, your mind frantically searching for anything to say to keep him here even if just for a few minutes more. But it’s all static.
”I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.” He smiles, leaning back into the headrest.
”I’ll make you coffee for your troubles — with four sugars, don’t worry.” You tease, trying to ignore the nervous crack in your voice, but your joke lands earning you a snort in response and it only pushes your cheeks up higher.
“Better make it five.” Steve winks, white teeth gleaming against the dashboard lights at the eye roll he gets.
”Whatever Harrington, it's your body, your diabetes." You shrug, not expecting the genuine full belly laugh you get, quickly doing your best to try and memorize the bass and timbre of it in case you don’t hear it again.
You take one last look at him, committing this moment to memory. His eyes do the same as they trace over every curve and dip of your face, it makes you squirm a little in your seat. Your fingers grab the door handle at the same time he clears his throat leaning back into the leather. He flicks his thumb across his nose, before that big hand of his wraps around the stick shift, signaling that it’s really time to go.
”Please drive safely.” You beg, stepping out of the car and into the snow, remembering all those times he peeled out of the station’s dirt road.
”I will, I will. Don’t worry.” He waves you off with a smirk, “I’ll be thinking about that coffee the whole way home.”
He’s not talking about the coffee.
You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, the wet snow flakes that stick to your cheeks melting from the heat emanating off of them. Shutting the door, you wave at him one last time before trudging up to your apartment, feeling the warmth of his stare on you the whole way. He waits until your keys are in your door before you hear the squeal of his gear shifting, his tires spinning loudly just like yours did at the station. It makes you turn around, and you watch him try to back out again just to get himself even more stuck in the snow that just continues to pile around him. He tugs at his hair trying one more time, finally giving up when smoke starts to come up from the burning rubber of his tires. His eyes meet yours through his windshield, apologetic and nervous, the wind kicking up a notch to add salt to the wound.
”You’re gonna flood your engine!” You tease with a grin, getting the shine of his teeth you were looking for. Bright like the sunshine you missed so much, they break through the storm clouds that threaten to hide his face.
Steve Harrington was snowed in at your apartment.
—-
You never thought your place was that small for a studio until Steve was standing in the middle of it, broad shoulders and long legs taking up so much space. His eyes are curious as they absorb his new surroundings, mouth slightly agape unzipping his leather jacket looking around like he’s being let in on a big secret. Nerves twist tight in your gut at the general clutter scattered around your room that doubles as a common area, especially the pair of underwear hanging half hazardly from your laundry basket.
”Sorry for the - the um, mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone, obviously.” You stutter, peeling off your coat in a rush.
Hanging up your puffer by the front door, you scurry past him to try and clean up what you can, starting with the black lace but the deepening red in his cheeks tells you that it's too late.
”You're fine, seriously. You’re cute — I mean.” He clears his throat like it's closing up, scratching the back of his neck, “It's a cute, cute apartment.”
You can’t stop the twist of your lips no matter how hard you try, giggling a soft thank you as you speed clean around him. He stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself either, both of you lost in uncharted territory.
“Here, I’ll take your coat.” You huff throwing away the last of the wrappers you’ve collected, taking a deep breath at the realization that you’re being a bad host. “You can sit on the couch, and get comfortable.”
Steve looks like a deer in headlights when you walk over to him with an open hand.
”Is it okay if I use your bathroom real quick?” There’s a shyness in the way that he asks, slipping his wet leather coat into your grasp, that nervous hand pushing his hair back.
There’s a brief moment of panic as you try and remember the way you left it, but since you weren’t running late today, you’re nintey nine percent sure it’s safe.
”Yeah of course, it’s on the right around the corner, not the left, that's just a closet.”
He nods, patting himself down like maybe he’s forgetting something before turning around and disappearing into the bathroom with a soft click of the door. A shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding slips out from between your lips as you hang up his coat. The musk of his cologne hits your nose along with the relaxing hint of amber inside of it, and this time, you give in, inhaling a little more.
You take one last look around your apartment for anything else you might’ve missed before grabbing an extra blanket from the closet you warned him about. Your heart thumps a little quicker hearing the muffled sound of the water running in the sink as the reality of Steve Harrington having to sleep on your couch just a few feet from your bed settles in.
You grab the extra pillow you usually cuddle with from its hiding place under your comforter, laying everything out for him on one side of the loveseat. Staring down at the short piece of furniture, there's a part of you that wonders if he’s even going to fit on it, at least comfortably. Another wave of guilt hits you like a tsunami as you start to think maybe you should be the one to sleep on the couch instead.
The sound of the bathroom door opening stops you from being able to fret about it too much as he emerges from around the corner. His hazel eyes find yours instantly, the gold in them looking warm like honey. A toothy grin cracks his handsome face in two calming the anxiety that had begun tightening uncomfortably in your chest. The sleeves of his brown sweater are pushed up, and the windswept mess on the top of his head had obviously been tamed in his absence. A mental image of him fixing his hair in your small bathroom mirror has the corners of your mouth curling up. It feels like something to check off a bucket list.
“I like the pink rugs you have in there.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb taking two long strides to the middle of the room, his gaze wandering the posters on your wall like he's trying to piece you together.
“Thanks, I bought them when I first moved back to brighten it up a little.” You sigh with a shrug, looking down before adding “this one too.”
You point to the fuzzy burnt orange throw carpet under both your sock covered feet, a proud smile pulling up your cheeks meeting his eyes from under your lashes.
”I’ve got the last little bit of my favorite summer candle. I usually light it when it snows like this. If you wanna get really crazy, we can even pretend it’s June.” The wiggle of your eyebrows earns you the kind of laugh from him that threatens to become your favorite sound.
“What does summer smell like to you?” He questions with a soft stare, teeth tugging at his full bottom lip. The warm light from your floor lamp casting shadows across his sharp features.
”It smells like the beach on the sunniest day of the year — salt water, sunshine, with the smallest amount of sweetness and dare I say a dash of clean linen.” You sigh at the thought of it, side stepping him to light it from where it sits on your kitchen island.
“Take me away to cocamo or whatever the song says.” Steve huffs, finally flopping down on your couch. A low groan rumbles from his chest as his body molds into the cushions. This time he runs both hands through his hair.
“I’m just gonna change into something more comfortable really quick.” It comes out in a rush, your nerves from before jumbling the words on the tip of your tongue.
”Take your time,” He waves you off with a yawn, “do you care if I use your phone to call Robin while you’re doing that? I don’t want her thinking I’m in a ditch somewhere.”
“Go for it.” You smile, grabbing your softest pajama pants and an oversized shirt doing your best not to over think it, or the fact that you have nothing for him to sleep in.
Disappearing around the corner, you have to ward off the mental image of what Steve sprawled out across your couch in his boxers would look like.
—-
His voice sounds faint on the other side of the door and even though he's speaking in a hushed tone you can still tell he’s annoyed by whatever his best friend is saying on the other end. Judging by the way she was acting in the car, you can only imagine in the privacy of a call.
You stare at yourself in the mirror, probably the same way he did, messing with your appearance. Your mind wanders, replaying the night and how pushy Robin was all of the sudden, and it makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t. Maybe you weren’t the only one figuring out what that flutter in your stomach actually means.
Clearing your throat loudly, you give him a subtle warning of your return, fingers wrapping around the doorknob for ten extra seconds longer before finally coming out.
”You are not basically Dave Hull, you don’t host a match making show, please shut up— I gotta go, seriously? Can it— bye!”
He hangs up, running an irritated hand down his face mumbling something to himself before turning around. His eyes go wide, crimson staining his cheeks clearly oblivious to all the warnings you tried to give him.
“Sounds like she was super worried.” You tease trying your best to hide your smile and ignore the way his gaze wanders your softer edges, the hardened shell at work hung up with your coat.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” He snorts with an annoyed groan, “she was just being —“
”Robin.” You finish with a giggle, dragging your feet lazily to your bed, as a guilty conscience has you sizing up the couch again.
”I forget that you understand.” He laughs dryly flopping back down where he was sitting before you changed, thighs spreading wide as he head lulls against the cushions.
”Steve, I really don’t think that couch is going to be big enough for you.” Crossing your arms, you try to think of any kind of comfortable position he could possibly sleep in without his legs hanging over the arm rest. Or worse, propped up in mid air.
“I think you should take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
”No, nope, absolutely not.” He sits up, squaring his broad shoulders in stubborn finality.
“Seriously, I re-“
“I mean it, I'm fine, I could sleep standing up if I’m tired enough.” Steve grabs the blanket you laid out for him, leaning back and stretching out with one leg on the arm rest and the other on the floor.
“See? Comfy.”
He drapes the quilted comforter over himself to really drive his point home. It doesn’t look comfortable at all, but it’s obvious he’s not going to back down.
You narrow your eyes at him, staring just long enough to get a laugh before he shoos you away to a bed that’s been calling your name since the station. This time you don’t have it in you to argue, taking one last look at him letting him win after he whispers a final ‘I’m fine, go to bed.”
———
The wind howls loudly outside, noisy gusts blowing against your windows sending in a chill that bleeds through the cracks of the poorly sealed glass. Another harsh blast against your apartment building has the flimsy foundations shake, and despite the thickness of your comforter goosebumps pebble across your skin, teeth threatening to chatter. Glancing over at your alarm clock, bright red numbers flash a harsh 12:34AM at you.
It was the sound of Steve’s light snoring that lulled you to sleep about an hour ago, but now it’s his constant shuffling and re adjusting on the couch that pulls you out of it. A long huff escapes through his nose after turning for what feels like the hundredth time, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s running a hand through his hair.
The wind kicks up again, blowing out the dim flame of your dying candle on the kitchen island, the soft yellow glow disappearing turning the room a deep blue. A shiver runs up your spine at the same time the springs of the couch squeak as he tries to readjust again.
”Steve, just get in the bed.”
The shuffling stops, both of you holding your breath.
”It doesn’t have to be weird, you’re clearly uncomfortable.” You sit up rubbing the sleep from your eyes finding him in the kind of position that was sure to give him back problems for the next week.
The internal battle he’s having with himself is evident on his face, and it lasts long enough for the uncomfortable weight of regret to start settling in your chest. Nerves digging your canines into the skin on the side of your thumb.
“Fuck it.” He huffs under his breath sitting up, grabbing the pillow you gave him that had been rolled up to help support his neck in the pretzel of a position he had put himself in.
Your shoulders relax for a split second until the realization of what this means quickens the beating of your heart. Chewing your bottom lip, you lift the comforter in a silent invitation doing your best to keep up with the ruse that this wasn’t a big deal, even if it feels like the exact opposite.
Steve stops at the side of your full size bed, running those long fingers through the already messy main on the top of his head. Purple shadows kiss the bags under his weary eyes as he takes in the small space next to you before they meet your gaze.
”Are you sure? I- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He asks with a sleepy rasp in his voice that makes your chest swell.
”I’ve actually never been more sure of anything in my life, if you can believe it.” You give him a lazy reassuring grin, “besides, I’m cold and I’m willing to bet you’re like a human furnace.”
He lets out a soft laugh at the reveal of your ulterior motive, the stress in his shoulders softening as he runs a hand over his face before nodding tossing his pillow down next to yours.
”As long as it’s mutually beneficial.” Steve smiles a little shy climbing under the covers, his weight making the mattress dip in the middle daring you to come closer.
The bed squeaks underneath him as he adjusts, your metal bed frame smacking against the wall. He settles on his side facing you with a hand tucked under his pillow. You mimic the way he lays, nerves coming out in the form of fidgeting feet, your toes brushing against his under the covers. He’s so close that you can see the smattering of freckles at the corners of his eyes, and every mole that dots along his neck. Amber and tobacco hit your nose, warming you just like the heat that radiates off his body, eyes glowing a golden evergreen in the deep blue light of your apartment.
God he was close, so close.
His gaze traces the lines of your face and you swear they linger on your lips. Even if just for a fleeting moment, catching your breath in the back of your throat.
“Bet you regret offering to take me home now huh?” You tease in a whisper, the tip of your toe catching on his shin.
“Nah,” he scoffs with a soft grin,“I do however regret not wearing my boots, I wasn't even thinking, rookie mistake.”
Your giggle makes his full pink lips stretch wide over perfect white teeth. Butterflies flutter in a kaleidoscope of color when he catches your feet with his own.
“I’ll help you,” you hum, as your hand not tucked away finds a new home in the space between you. “Don’t worry.”
There’s a moment of silence while his fingers follow yours, resting close enough for the tips of them to brush. His thick eyebrows marry in the middle of his forehead, thinking hard about whatever he’s wanting to say next.
“Sorry if that was a little much in the car earlier, I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.” He looks up at you from under his lashes, insecurities swirling in the depths of his irises.
“Don’t be,” your voice comes out quiet, swallowing your apprehension as your index finger hooks with his, “I like seeing that side of you.”
His finger flexes at your response, squeezing.
“Yeah?” He questions with the kind of disbelief that cracks open your heart.
“Mmhmm.” You murmur, holding his gaze, toes digging into the top of his foot, silently saying I like you.
You don’t know when it happened, but staring at him in the incandescent light of your room. You’re sure of it now.
Steve scoots closer, the heat of his breath fanning against your lips. Drawn to him like a magnet, you do the same, the tip of your nose brushing with his. Cinnamon from the Big Red he always chews invades your senses like the left over cologne clinging to his clothes. Another gust of wind smacks against your windows, sending a chill up your spine. Steve’s lips quirk on one side.
“Want to test out your furnace theory?” He breathes, a nervous crack in his voice, as he takes the leap of no return, first.
Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, all you can muster is a shy nod, your legs wrapping tighter around his. Something greedy warms every inch of your skin like it’s a need to have him as close as possible, and here he is offering it to you like it’s all he wants too.
His big hand finds your hip before sliding to the small of your back, his palm flattening along your spine tugging you to him. It doesn’t take much to close whatever space that was left between you, legs tangling together with bodies pressed so close that you can feel every ridge and dip of him. You look up from under your lashes just to find him already staring down at you, and even with the heavy weight of his mind evident under his eyes, he’s somehow more handsome than he was an hour ago.
Your palms flatten along his chest, the unbuttoned collar of his sweater revealing the top of a thick patch of hair that hides underneath the cotton. It makes your thighs press into his, your cheeks burning but if he notices he doesn’t show it. The pad of his thumb presses softly running along the dip of your spine, soothing your stiff muscles while his eyes trace over the contours of your face. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel like he can see everything that you’re trying to hide, and when his gaze lingers on your lips you’re sure he can.
The hand he kept tucked under his pillow outstretches with his arm, sliding under your head to pull the rest of you in. Tucking you under his chin, you bury your face into the side of his neck, thankful for the hiding place. His skin feels just as sunkissed as it looks, and it takes everything inside of you not to nuzzle deeper into him searching for more.
“Is this okay?” He whispers against the crown of your head, soft fingers running up and down the length of your back.
“Mmhmm.” You mumble against his throat instead of ‘can I live here?’ curling your fists into his sweater to pull yourself closer.
For the first time all winter, you’re thankful for the snow.
“Are you okay?” Your question comes out in a murmur, lips ghosting against his skin as you attempt to look up at him failing miserably nosing the sensitive spot behind his ear.
”Am I — am I okay?” He snorts incredulously, pulling you close enough to feel impossible, turning his head just enough for your cheeks to brush, the heat of his breath pebbling goosebumps along the side of your neck. “Never been better, honey.”
Honey. You want to change your name to honey. Get lost in the gold of it hidden in his eyes.
All you would have to do is lift your chin up slightly, and your lips could be pressed to his. The thought of them being so close quickens your heart beat, breath hitching as the tip of his nose nudges against the side of your cheek. Testing the boundaries like the realization dawned on him too. The sound of your heavy breathing mixes with the howling of the wind outside, filling the quiet space of your apartment, neither one of you daring to speak. His chest rises and falls under your palm, his own heart matching yours, skipping a beat at the tilt of your chin.
His fingers slide down your spine, fiddling with the hem of your shirt until he feels the slight nod of your head giving him permission. Electricity sparks goosebumps along the soft skin of your lower back the moment the tips of them touch you, a low hum escaping the back of your throat. You swear you feel his lips curve up against your cheek at the sound. Your bodies move together, seeking friction you’re not ready to give into yet, heavy breathes hot against each other's necks.
Your hands trail down his chest, a greedy need to touch more of him taking over all logical thought. They reach the bottom of his sweater at the same time your nose presses harder into his cheek when the blunt end of his nails drag softly down the dip of your spine. Your fingers slip under the hem, the pads of them meeting the rough hair of his happy trail. His body tenses, the movements of his hand coming to halt. You immediately feel the loss when he pulls it out, long fingers grabbing a hold of your wrist.
“Hey.” He whispers against your ear, his voice laced with something soft and scared.
You work up the courage to push past the bitter taste of rejection sneaking up on you to pull your head back just enough to meet the heavy gaze of his eyes, eclipsed dark with want, fear sparkling in the depths of them. The tips of your noses brush, and your fingers itch to smooth the lines in the middle of his forehead from the furrow of his brows despite the way your heart drops to the pit of your gut.
Maybe you read this all wrong.
“There’s — There’s stuff you don’t know about me.” He starts, the hand on your wrist letting you go so he can thread his fingers with yours, easing some of the anxiety that had started to build. “Things happened to me — happened to a lot of us during that time.”
You press your forehead to his, the pad of your thumb rubbing softly over his knuckles, silently encouraging him to continue. His face twists like he’s in pain, shame shadowing his handsome features, breaking your heart before he even has a chance to finish.
”These things, they left their mark on me. It’s — it’s a lot to explain, not really pillow talk.” huffing out a nervous laugh, he swallows avoiding your gaze, he moves his focus to your tangled hands instead before continuing, “my stomach and umm parts of my chest — I’ve got a lot of scars is what I’m trying to tell you pretty fucking badly. A lot of them, and I haven’t really shown them to anyone before. Well anyone —“
”New?” You finish, squeezing your legs around his calf a little tighter remembering the one you saw wrapped around his neck.
Tears that you don’t let fall sting the corners of your eyes. Seeing him vulnerable like this, leaving himself bare to trust you to help pick the pieces back up has a sharp pain tightening in your chest. A vengeful rage boiling under the surface at the idea of whatever it was that caused him so much pain. The urge to apologize to him eats at you but you keep it to yourself knowing that’s the last thing he would want. Steve Harrington hated pity.
”Yeah,” He breathes a slight sigh of relief, his eyes finally meeting yours with a worry he can’t seem to shake swimming deep in the pools of them.
”Steve.” His name comes out gentle, a softness about it that has his nose nudging against yours. “You only have to share with me whatever you’re comfortable with.”
You run the tip of your nose along the length of his, breathing him in.
“I don’t need to see them yet, or ever if that’s what you want, I just — I just really want to touch you.”
Your eyes close, hiding from his gaze that searches for you.
“I want that too, honey. God more than anything.” He whispers against the corner of your mouth, the silk of his lips waking up every nerve ending in your body.
He lets go of your hand, fingers lazily crawling up your hip before returning to their home on the small of your back. A shiver runs up your spine at how good it feels to be touched by him again, only a few minutes passing but they felt like a lifetime.
You meet Steve’s stare, an intensity burning in his eyes that wasn’t there before. The kind that gives you the courage to slip your hand back up the bottom of his sweater. Tentative nails raking through his rough happy trail. The feeling of your touch sends a shudder through his body, like it’s been denied this kind of intimacy for a long time. A low groan catching in the back of his throat pressing his forehead harder against yours.
Your touch grows bolder, more curious as your fingers dare to crawl further up. The pads of them are met with uneven skin, evidence of large almost teeth-like shaped gashes lining the sides of his ribs. Despite pinching his eyes closed, he leans further into your touch. Your teeth dig into the fat of your bottom lip, holding in the cry that wants to slip out.
What happened to you?
The blunt ends of your nails find the softer patch of hair on his chest, your hips meeting his on their own accord. Steve tilts his head up, his mouth hovering just above yours as his hands spread wide across the small of your back. He pulls you to him like there’s somehow more space between you even though there isn’t. Your top lip brushes just slightly against his full bottom one, while your fingers dance slowly down the other side of his ribcage. The bumps of identical scars kissing the pads of them again.
His nose presses into your cheek, a shaky breath tickling against your skin. The blunt end of his nails digging crescent moons into the soft skin of your back when you go over a deeper indentation.
“So handsome.” You whisper, lips ticking just under the shell of his ear as you glide your fingers over the same spot again.
He breathes out a shy laugh, nuzzling deeper into you leaving a whisper of a kiss at the hinge of your jaw. His mouth is so close to where you want it most, a fluttering tickling deep in your gut at the feel of them dragging along your skin.
“So beautiful.” His voice comes out low against the sensitive spot in the crook of your neck. Its baritone has your body curving soaking in the warmth of him through your palms because touching Steve feels like bathing in sunshine.
The need for more is insatiable, and he lets you take as much as you want. Your hands wander the broad expanses of his chest, tracing the dips and curves of the pinched skin of his scars until your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. The soft caresses of his fingers against the sore muscles of your back lulling you to the deepest sleep you’ve had in what feels like months but not before you hear a quiet whispered ‘sweet dreams, honey.’
——-
Part Two ✨
tag list: @beezusvreeland @winharry @stydiaforeverbitchezz @mhayes777 @margiissoswag
Hi! I’d love to request prompt “I hate you.” “Why are you here then?”
Aged-up (18+) — Reader is Dustin’s older sister. She dated Steve during their junior year and they were deeply in love, but the breakup was messy and ended on really bad terms. Now they’re forced to see each other more often, bc they wanna help out dustin but old feelings resurface, and Steve gets noticeably jealous when he sees that she has a growing connection with Eddie. Lots of unresolved tension, angst, jealousy, and emotional confrontation… ending in smut.
“I hate you.”
{PART TWO- HERE}
Steve Harrington x Henderson!reader
Word count: 9K
Prompt: “I hate you.” “Why are you here then?”
Synopsis: Your little brother is in trouble forcing you to come back to the town you’d fled from. And back to your childhood ex who you couldn’t hate more. 18+!!! [NO UPSIDE DOWN AU]
[a/n: this ended up being way angstier than I planned, so that’s on me, I just can’t help myself. In any case I hope everyone can still enjoy, but please let me know what you think x]
[MASTERLIST]
There’s never good news to be had from a call in the night. You learned that lesson young.
A call in the middle of the night is how you found out that your grandma had taken ill when you were ten. Another when you were seventeen to inform you that your high school boyfriend had cheated on you.
And now, a call to your studio apartment in the city at twenty-four.
It doesn’t wake you with a gentle pull. It's a yanking drag of ice cold dread. The shrilling is like pins and needles across your sleep bitten eye-lids. But you know you’ve got to answer.
Even half asleep, you’re lunging across the glaciers of sheets in the bed you sleep in alone to frantically pull the receiver upward to your ear. You’re only vaguely aware you’re alive because the sweaty clam of your palm is making it hard to keep the smooth surface of the phone from slipping down your hand.
The crackle on the other end is a stabbing reminder that you aren’t dreaming and you have to wince away before you can accept the information being relayed to you.
“Hello?” You croak down the line, hoping that someone had called the wrong number. Willing that some other schmuck was getting bad news.
“Yo.” The masculine voice says tentatively back.
Eddie.
Your heart sinks and you push forward to grab the edge of your alarm clock to confirm that it was in fact 2am. Meaning that nothing could be alright. Eddie would know better.
“Is Dustin okay?” You plead back to him.
You don’t need to ponder what he could be calling about. Your sweet baby brother, who you’d left back in the town you grew up, had been struggling of late.
Eddie was a nice guy that had taken him under his wing in high school. And even though he was closer in age to you than him, you appreciated it. Because it meant that someone could keep you updated on him. Someone who wasn’t Steve assface Harrington.
You hear the wrecked sigh back. “Yeah he’s okay. I’ve just had to peel him off the bathroom floor of the Hide-out though. He’s puking his little guts right now.”
You’re pushing yourself upright in a sitting position, trying to rub the last crusts of sleep from your eyes, cataloguing the troubling information he relays back to you.
“He’s nineteen? Who’s serving him?”
“I don’t know, man. It’s Hawkins. It’s not big like Indianapolis, they need the money.” Eddie replies. “This isn’t the first time in the last couple months, dude. I’ve tried to put off calling you but I’m drowning here.”
Dustin and his friends had suffered a tragedy of sorts in the past year. You’re gnawing the nails of your fingers thinking about it again.
Jane was a precocious neighbourhood kid that the local sheriff had taken in, and she’d passed away in the fall of their senior year.
It had been tantamount to the worst thing that had ever happened to the kids you’d watched grow up. When you went back for the funeral you’d known that it had torn a hole through Dustin. He’d turned down a pretty vibrant scholarship. Had stopped taking your calls. Had stopped doing much of anything other than sleeping and crying.
You’re pushing yourself up before you can think about it, grabbing at discarded jeans from the floor.
“Should I come out to you?” You ask rigidly, already having decided you’d be going anyway.
“I mean… yeah?” Eddie weakly answers. “I dunno, dude. I’m out of my depth here. I’ve had to call Harrington to come help. He’s just so angry.”
You stop short, one leg out of your jeans to mentally eviscerate Steve's image from your head.
You burn through memories of first times, shoulder kisses and locker notes.
You’re scoffing on instinct. “What’s he going to do? Give him tips on how to be an unbearable cunt?”
You can hear fumbling on the other end, you assume Eddie’s moving out of ear shot.
“You’ve not been here. He’s out of control. Since Max, Lucas, and Will left for college it’s been like free falling. I need the help.” He whispers back.
You try to ignore the pull of guilt that the person helping out with your little brother is your ex.
You’d conceded the battle over their strange bond. They’d gotten so close when you’d dated all those years ago that it had seemed like more trouble than it was worth to tell them to stop seeing each other.
But it didn’t stop you from kicking the wing mirror off Steve’s car every time you found it parked outside your house before you moved away.
It was like a game. You’d do something vengeful to Steve and he would pretend not to notice. And your penance for giving in to your rage was not demanding he leave Dustin alone.
“Alright, alright. I’ll relent. It’ll take me an hour to get to you. Is it worth leaving tonight?”
You hear the sound of a violent retch down the phone, and wince.
“I’d say so. Me and Steve want to speak to him when he wakes up tomorrow. I think it’d be best if you were here.”
You swallow back the lump in your throat that you’d have to be in the same room as your ex as soon as an hour from now. You hang up without a further word and think over the years that lead up to your departure.
The things you try not to think about most of the time. And it’s like you’re right back there.
You walk out your front door in 1991, right into your bedroom in ‘83.
–
When Steve had made indications that he was into you in junior year it had been hard not to feel like you’d won some kind of prize.
He seemed so untouchable back then. He still kind of does. But in school it was another level. You weren’t ‘cool’ or whatever you want to call it. You kept mostly to yourself freshman and sophomore year. You had friends but it wasn’t like sitting on fancy cars surrounded by people praising you for merely breathing.
He’d sat next to you in homeroom for two years, without so much as glancing at you. Then one day he spoke to you like he’d never not. There had been a doubtful tiptoeing at first, that became simple giggles and before you knew it you were getting groped in the back of his Beamer between classes.
The first couple times you’d figured that’s all it was. So you kept coming back every time he left you a locker note. Steve wasn’t the type of guy you turn down. Dirty trysts in a car were good enough for you.
But it became so much more. More than you ever could’ve anticipated.
You knew that you loved Steve during your first fight. It had clawed its way up your back, and weighted itself down on your chest while you cried to him that you didn’t want to be a secret. You wanted to be Steve’s girl. You wanted people to know that he liked you. Even if it was just enough that he’d make out with you every day after school.
He never laughed or sneered at the idea that people would find out. Just curled himself around you to whisper pretty promises. And when he followed through, you were a goner.
He held your hands in the hall, scooped you into his chest against lockers to tell you that you looked nice each morning. He ignored the questioning looks of his friends. For a while it felt like he was it for you.
For a while it was safe to surrender to the title of Steve Harrington's girlfriend. Enough that you let him take your virginity. Enough to bring him into your home to befriend your brother. Let your mom nudge you under dinner tables when he’d kiss your cheek and tell her that dinner was delicious.
The summer before senior year was spent making whispered plans of moving away together. Away from the authoritative eyes of his dad that never seemed to be too fond of you distracting his only son. Cicadas would soundtrack long sweaty nights of kissing in his bed. And when he told you he loved you, you didn’t think he was lying. You didn’t wonder if it was all an elaborate farce.
Enter Nancy Wheeler.
You didn’t consider yourself to be a suspicious person. Much less of kind eyed Nancy a year younger than you. So when Steve was paired in a project with her, you didn’t let the possessive monster seep out of your pores.
You didn’t bite his head off when he’d miss dates or let his eyes linger on her just too long in the halls.
You didn’t demand he tell you why you’d found her sweater in the back seat of his car. Or why he never told you looked nice anymore.
You just waited for the moment the unlikely fantasy you’d been living in would be snatched away from you like you always secretly thought it would.
It was Carol who delivered the heinous final blow. You suppose she’d become a friend. In the only way a nasty person like Carol could be. She’d fidget with your clothes if they weren’t sitting right or suggest snidely that you wear a different shade of lipstick. But you were the devil she knew.
She’d called you at midnight on a Friday, from a party you hadn’t been invited to. There was no polite tact. Just mumbled yells over the sound of Duran Duran to inform you that Steve had bedded the priss and it was all anyone in the senior class could talk about.
When you’d arrived back at school on Monday, unslept and swollen from the violent sobs your mom had held you through for two days straight, it wasn’t long before the nasty eyes that had followed you till lunch had found you hidden behind the gym– where Steve had followed to tell you that it really wasn’t you.
It was him. It was her. It was timing. It was right.
He was in love with her.
You were too nice about it after. It wasn’t until weeks later that the resentment built before turning into fiery hatred.
Senior year felt like a decade. When you got into college you left, and you never looked back. You only saw Steve in passing after. He never spoke to you. The message had been clear that you didn’t want him to when you told him to fuck off pretty abruptly in the school hall three weeks after the break-up.
You replay the car crash over and over in your head the whole drive back to Hawkins. The fact that the last words you’d said to him had been venomous. How you never thought you’d have to speak to him again. And now you were going to be caged in with him like a wild animal.
You know he ended up being a high school coach. And that Nancy Wheeler had dumped him in favour of college. You silently cheered her on when she did. You never blamed her for his bad nature and wandering eye. She was never cruel to you. She too had been enamoured by the myth that was king Steve.
Besides you had moved on with your life. Sort of moved on? You don’t let him affect you in the profound way he used to.
But you’ve never trusted anyone again. Not really. Not the way you’d let yourself with Steve. Nothing vulnerable. Nothing real.
Relationships were something to dip your toe in. But it was never allowed to be deep water diving like it had been with Steve. No one had ever known you like that again.
Sometimes you worry that no one ever will.
You try to keep the rock hard wall that you meticulously built up. Remind yourself that you’re going there to help your brother– whose problems dwarf yours. But when you see the truck you know is his parked in front of the trailer in Forest Hill’s, you’re already rigid with boiling rage.
Rage that he held space with your brother. He is who gives him worldly wisdom. He saw your mom more than you did. All because you were too stung by his violation of your good nature to come home for longer than a weekend.
Why would you want to come back to place that turned you into the avoidant, unattached woman you are now. Especially when everyone just loved to remind you how much they love Steve. Lovely Steve. Handsome Steve.
Perfect Steve.
It was his fault that you struggled to get Dustin to open up to you. You know Dustin blamed you for the breakup. And you know he values Steve as a formative male figure, more than anything. Everyone in school knew. That was bad enough. Your pride could only take so much, and admitting to your mom and brother that he’d cheated on you was about all you could take.
So, you don’t. You let them dote on sweet Steve.
But you knew the truth. You knew he never wanted you. He wanted girls who his dad would invite to dinner parties. He wanted permed, pressed women with roses in their cheeks who lived in the nice houses on the edge of town.
Another mark to your name was that you’d left. Dustin was understanding– to a point. And when you didn’t move home the second his childhood friend passed away, he made it clear just how disappointed he was to have you as a sister.
So you’d always be the bad guy. That was your cross to bear. Even when it was Steve who had decemated the implicit trust you’d placed in him as the only person you’d ever truly loved.
You’ll be cordial, you’d decided on the drive. Downright polite– when Dustin’s eyes eventually dance over the two of you in the morning. You’ll work with Steve to convince your brother not to ruin his bright future. But Steve wasn’t going to get the energy it would require to pretend you don’t hate him when no one else was around. That was something you would never give him.
It’s three in the morning when you kill the engine, finally back in Hawkins. The drive was short but it felt like hours.
Reminiscing does that to you. Sometimes you find yourself looking back fondly at the year you were with Steve– the penance for that is that you punish yourself for twice as long with the reminder of all the pain you felt because of it.
There’s a small light glowing from the kitchen window of the motor home Eddie lives in. You imagine the two men crowded inside drinking coffee to keep themselves awake for the intervention in the morning.
You resolve that your small win is getting to see Eddie.
You’d grown more fond of him than you’d thought. Fond in the sense that when you come home the few times a year you bother, you’ll sit in his living room to talk all night. Mostly he’d tell you about this girl he’d been in love with since school. You’ll tell him that loves a suckers game anyway.
You don’t have to knock at Eddie’s place. You are past that now. You walk in like you always do but you’re quiet in your steps in fear of waking Dustin before you have ample idea of what you were walking into.
As predicted they sat opposite each other, staring at a coffee pot on the counter like if they take their eyes away, they’ll fall into a deep fitful sleep.
You catch the back of Steve’s head before he turns around– you assess the broad back he now had. You pointedly don’t gaze long enough to catch his face. Instead you let yourself be engulfed in the deep sigh and wilting hold of your dark haired friend.
“Missed me?” You ask, latching onto his tall frame.
You hear him chuckling softly above you. “Man, you have no idea.” He pushes you back to inspect. You catch the crinkling around his eyes to suggest he’s missed you at least a bit. “Your hair's different.”
Reflexively you flinch up to smooth it down. “I was bored.” You confirm.
Eddie smiles back at you tenderly. “I like it.”
There’s a deep clearing of a throat from behind you guys. You shut your eyes on instinct to pepper waves of calm down yourself before you interact with Steve. Eddie’s sympathetic when he shuffles back to his half full mug, no longer obstructing your view of the handsome man who had once been your beautiful boy.
You expect him to look contrite, considering he had been nothing but a horrible stain on what should’ve been a simple school career. He doesn’t though. He’s covered in whispers of barely concealed contempt.
“Steve.” You bite out bitterly.
“Didn’t know you guys were so close.” He says finally, chewing around the words like they were sharp glass. You raise your brow back at him.
You see Eddie pushing himself forward into his elbows on the kitchen top. He looks deeply uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as you felt.
“Problem?” You ask.
He’s breathless in his snort back. “No, I just would’ve thought if you had time to correspond with Eddie– you’d have time to check in with Dustin once in a while.”
There’s a sour taste rising in the back of your throat. He’d said the exact thing you’d been avoiding facing down in your own head. No one wants to acknowledge their shortcomings. Much less when yours were all seamlessly entangled with your own pathetic anguish over a high school heartbreak.
“Who’s fault is that?” You mutter snidely, ignoring the pang of hurt that grazes over the deep trench of his brow. “How bad is it guys?”
You can see the shoulders of the two men before you sag in a defeated quake. It was the elephant in the room no one wanted to talk about, even though it was what you were here for.
It’s by and large to do with the fact that no one wants to think about a kid dying. And that’s what was causing the brother you once knew as so care free to bend and break.
Steve’s rubbing over the bridge of his nose in what you can only assume is an effort to soothe his own shaking nerves. “He’s a mess. To cut a long story short.”
Eddie pushes up abruptly. “That’s putting it mildly. He needs a reminder that there’s more than drinking yourself silly out in the world for him. Me and Steve can’t fix this alone. We’ve tried it all. We think the shock of seeing you here will be the wake up call he needs.”
You’re nodding to yourself, trying to swallow back the beating of your heart in your throat. “Is he asleep?”
“Finally.” Steve confirms, arms coming round to cage his chest. “We were just waiting for you to get in. We don’t think he’ll be up for a while. He was pretty messed up. We were gonna split for the night and reconvene in the morning.”
It makes sense. You guys would be better resting before trying to crack down on him. You don’t know if you could bear it if you stayed up all night waiting.
“He’s in the spare?” You ask Eddie.
“Yeah. As far as I’m concerned, after all the puke he’s got on the bed, it belongs to him now.” The curly haired man grimaces back at you. “You crashing with me?”
You’re starting to nod back at him. You didn’t really feel much like exposing to your mom the nature of your visit. There was no way you could creep into her house just before dawn without being faced down with a CIA level interrogation.
There’s a slam of a mug on the counter and you find Steve looking straight at you. There’s an air of grievance– outrage at the suggestion. But you can’t for a second imagine why.
“Why aren’t you going back to your moms?” He rudely interrupts.
“It’s three in the morning. Have you met my mother?” You stiffly pinch back. “Besides I always crash here the first night I’m back in town.”
Steve doesn’t say anything back to you. But you can see the deep crimson rise up his neck, and the various clenches of the muscles around his pronounced jaw.
He doesn’t give much in the way of why he feels the need to pry so deliberately into where you sleep at night all these years later. But when he swipes his jacket to announce he’ll see both of you at nine, it doesn’t go unnoticed that he roughly shoves past Eddie, or the purse of his lips as he shuts the door behind him.
The breath that escaped you once the door had shut behind him was a wrecked exclamation. Eddie’s whistling slowly.
“That was awkward.” He says finally, as if it was a surprise.
The huff back you give him is sardonic. It was an understatement. You weren’t expecting his icy tone. Especially because it was him who was the problem to begin with.
“I don't know why I expected him to be any different. Steve’s an asshole, what’s new?” You say pushing into the living room to sit finally.
Eddie remains standing but pulls his hand up to his chin to rub it inquisitively.
“You’ve been gone a while. He’s been… different? I thought we were friends now, but I kind of got the vibe that he was mad at me there.”
You pull your eyebrows together at the idea that Steve would be friends with anyone as controversial as Eddie. He’s the town pariah. ‘The freak’ Munson.
“I wouldn’t take it personally. I seem to bring out the worst in him. He never cheated on Nancy so it must be exclusive to me.” You mutter pulling the throw blanket over your lap.
“He still asks Dustin about you.” Eddie says slowly, like he was thinking about the implication of his words.
Your heart stutters once in your chest. That’s not something Dustin ever mentions on your calls. Not that you guys ever spoke about Steve really. Your calls these past couple years were fleeting– mostly just Dustin asking when you’d be home next, and you disappointing him once more when the answer was further away than he’d prefer.
“Probably just commitment to the bit that he was the good guy in our break-up.” You reply clipped, trying not to show that it made you feel something.
Eddie’s shaking his head when he makes his way over to sit on the armchair next to you. “It doesn’t seem like that to me. I think Nancy dumping him and not going to college like everyone else did humbled him. Maybe this would be a good time for you to bury the hatchet?”
The look you give him is downright dirty. You had zero intention of burying anything with Steve, not unless it’s a tire iron in his windshield. You know it’s petty to still feel this strongly about it years later, but it wasn’t a small relationship to you the way it seemed to be to Steve.
You thought you guys were going to get married. Have kids. The whole nine yards. You spoke about it. Even if you were young, it meant something to you. If he’d broken it off with you before he started up with another girl you’d feel differently.
It would’ve hurt like a bitch, and you’d have still mourned the what-ifs but at least you’d feel like you could trust someone again after. Now when a man tells you he likes you, you look for all the evidence that would suggest he doesn’t. And if you look for something hard enough, everything is a sign.
Everything is a clue that you’re just as unlovable as Steve made you feel.
You shake your head at him with a wild breeze. “I’m here for one thing– one. I’m going to get Dustin’s head right, and then I’m leaving.”
Eddie shrugs weakly with a smile. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
You don’t bother to reply because you highly fucking doubt that.
–
You and Eddie don’t bother staying up later than that to talk. Neither of you were in a particularly good mood. When you wake up you could hear the scratch of Steve’s tires on the gravel outside. You’re too anxious to fathom having to be the one who sits around talking to him in the meantime before everyone awakes so you skid across the trailer to Eddie’s room to rouse him from his deep sleep.
You have to smack him over the head with a pillow to get him to shift himself upward.
“Dude. Get. Up.” You hiss from above him. “Steve’s here.”
He’s whining from beneath the mounds of cotton pillow. “So what? The doors unlocked, he’ll just walk in. Go away.”
You grunt back at him but don’t bother arguing. You can already hear Steve shutting the trailer door behind him. You’re mentally still slapping Eddie with a pillow but you relent to slink back to the sitting room where Steve is making himself at home.
If last night was anything to go by, it wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation, but even you are shocked by the look he gives you as you depart from Eddie’s room. You give him the cold shoulder all the way to the kitchen, and you can feel his eyes burning into your back as you go.
Your skin is pricking under his watchful eyes while you brew a coffee.
“Is there any reason where you’re staring at me?” You ask pointedly.
Steve leans back and breathes out shakily. It sounds aggressive. You can see the tension in his arms when he pulls them up behind his head.
“I’m just wondering how long you’ve been fucking Munson.” He finally spits out.
You’re taking a large gulp of coffee while the question ricochets off of you. The confusion translates in the choking on the warm liquid. It catches on the dryness of your throat, causing you to push forward and cough through it.
You have no idea where the question would’ve come from. Or why he thought it was appropriate for him to even ask.
When you get your air back, you’re pushing the mug down on the counter with a clatter. “Excuse me?”
Steve is completely pushed forward now, elbows dug into the material of his jeans. “You heard me.”
“Yeah, I did. I’m just trying to recall when my sex life was any of your business.”
He scoffs back at you sharply. “Your sex life was only my business for a long time once.”
The heat that rises up into your face is uncomfortable. It sits glazed over the swell of your cheeks.
“Do you call Nancy to ask about who she sleeps with these days? Or am I special?”
The second it leaves your lips you regret taking it there. You can see the aftershocks roll in. You hate Steve but you weren’t here to hurt him. It wasn’t worth the energy. The look he gives you back shows you that you’ve more than just offended him. You’d wounded him.
“How long are you going to punish me for a mistake I made when I was seventeen?” He demands, standing up finally. “I’m sorry that I’m not jazzed at the idea of watching my ex-girlfriend sleep with my friend.”
You back yourself up until your butt is hitting the sink behind you. Steve is barely any closer to you but you still feel like you need to protect yourself from his domineering presence.
“I’m not punishing you, Steve.” You croak. “Also, not sleeping with Eddie. But even if I was, it would be a fraction of the cruelty you showed me when we were together.”
You can see the sag hit his shoulders, and the whimper of quiet relief when he digests your words.
“I was a stupid kid. Do you not think I regret what I did? I wake up everyday with the reminder of the monumental mistake I made.” He says, pushing forward to stand almost in the kitchen space. “You’ve never given me the chance to say sorry. You’re just gone.”
There’s no place to move yourself to put distance between you and Steve. You wish you could.
“I gave you Dustin. That’s about all the forgiveness I have for you.” You say firmly.
His brows pull together in biting confusion. “You gave him to me? You were needed here. You are needed here.”
You can feel the sweat pulling at the back of your neck from the twitching anxiety under your skin. The room was feeling tighter around your shoulders, like it was closing in on you.
“Why do you think I’m here? I came here to see him. To help. I don’t need to make amends with you. I don’t want to. I just want to help my little brother so that I never have to see you again, Steve.”
Neither of you hear the footsteps, but you certainly hear the croaking voice from behind Steve.
“Why would I need help?”
You and Steve swivel to find the sickly white face of Dustin standing in the now empty sitting room. Eddie must have heard everything too because he’s battering through, pulling jeans on in a hopping jump from behind the figure of Dustin.
This isn’t how you wanted to start today. You wanted it to be more peaceful than Dustin coming through to you and Steve fighting. But it was just another thing to add to the growing list of regrets you have toward this place.
“Dustin…” you whisper weakly, pushing past Steve to grab at your not-so-little brother.
He cries into the hold you pull him into on impact, wrapping his hands around your shirt to hold you like you’d leave if he didn’t. This was the first time you’d seen him since El’s memorial, and he looked worse today than he did then. You just feel better having him in your arms again.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” He weeps, muffled into the fabric his face is pressed in.
You don’t realise you’re crying until you try to speak, but it comes out in uneven wobbles. “I know, my love.” You pet his head soothing sweeps. “Tell me what’s been going on, yeah?”
–
The four of you talk all morning, and well into the afternoon. Despite all the disturbance it’s brought up for you, coming home was the right thing to do. Eddie and Steve were correct in their assumption that bringing you in would serve as the wake up call Dustin needed.
It’s decided in the mid hours of the day that you guys have talked about the situation inside and out– it wouldn’t be a simple fix. Dustin was going to need time, and you were happy to give it to him. If that meant staying for a couple weeks then that was just the way the cookie crumbled.
You take Dustin back to the house you grew up in at four. You needed to see mom, and Dustin needed a shower. Badly needed a shower.
You and Steve don’t acknowledge each other when you leave. The distraction of Dustin waking up had tempered the will for you to argue with him that day. You’re just thankful to finally be in your house, where your bedroom lay unchanged from the burdens of time.
It’s the same as it was the day you left. Suspended uniquely in time. Your posters remain unchanged, teddies still uniformly rowed, comforter the same burnt orange colour. You don’t need to check but you know there’s a shoebox under the bed filled with items belonging to Steve. It’s comforting that there’s somewhere in the world that doesn’t change, no matter the pulling weight of time.
Dustin and you set up camp in the den, bundled under thick blankets to play a movie that you’d both seen too many times. But you’re just happy to have eyes on him. To know for this one moment he’s safe and well.
Neither of you talk about his drinking, or the pain he felt. He doesn’t ask when you’re going home again. It feels like how it was before the world got big for both of you.
“So you and Suzie broke up? Over the phone?” You wonder aloud, chewing the edges of a fruit roll up.
The shoulders of your brother shake in a shrill laugh. “We broke up two years ago. Did you think we’d just be long distance for the rest of my life?”
You shove at his shoulder weakly. “I don’t know? It happens– some people marry their high school sweetheart.”
“You didn’t.” He whispers pointedly.
You chose to ignore the stabbing in your chest at the reminder, dumping the rest of your snack on the table– suddenly no longer very hungry.
“Evidently not.” You confirm.
“Do you still hate Steve? Is that why you guys were arguing this morning?” The curly haired boy inquires, turning round to lean his back against the arm of the chair. Seemingly studying your face for the micro-expressions you can’t conceal.
You’re sighing before you mean to. “It’s complicated, Dustin. I just wouldn’t go out of my way to be around him, if it were up to me.”
He’s nodding slowly back, like he was dissecting the information intricately.
“Because Steve cheated?” He asks finally.
Your mouth falls agape that he’d worked it out. Or maybe that he’s always known. Maybe little Mike Wheeler had told him. Or he’d heard the whispers of town gossip. Not that any of it mattered. It wouldn’t change that he knew.
“Who told you that?” You turn to push yourself in a more prone position.
“Steve.” He says simply.
It’s hard to comprehend a world where Steve is repentant enough to tell your little brother what he’d done. He never even used the words himself when he dumped you. You’d never heard Steve truly admit what he’d done was wrong. Today was the closest he’d came, but he always managed to turn it around on its head. Saying things like I was young, and stupid. You were young then too, and you’d never have done to him what he did to you.
“Yeah.” You confess eventually. “I find it hard to be around him because of that.”
“But you know he’s sorry, don’t you?” Dustin questions, looking up at you with eyes that make him seem younger than he was now. They were hopeful. Naive.
“How do you know that he’s sorry?” You press.
“We talk about it a lot.”
Your stomach heart is sinking slowly through your torso.
“Well, that’s not appropriate, Dustin. He shouldn’t be talking about that. Especially not with you.” You argue back at him, evasively avoiding the line of questioning about Steve’s repentance.
You can’t really allow yourself to see Steve as a human who can make mistakes like everyone else. If you can understand his actions, it makes it harder to stay angry and hateful towards him. And without those feelings, all that’s left is a gaping wound that you don’t know you could ever fill. You sustain yourself on fires of hate that burn within you.
Without the fire, you’d freeze.
“He needs someone to talk to.” Dustin insists. “I know it might be too much to ask but could you please try to speak to him before you go this time? I think you both need it.”
The look on his face cracks your chest in two. The silent pleading of him makes it hard to find any response other than a weak nod of approval. And when he smiles, going back to watching the movie, you know that you’ll have to honour the promise. You cared too much about him not to.
–
You spend two weeks in Hawkins trying to pull Dustin back from the brink of total self destruct. He doesn’t fight it, which you appreciate. It's pretty evident to you that he was crying out for help. The drinking was a wail of anguish for someone to show him the path out of the pale waves of grief he’d been drowning in.
You take him to a support group out in the city for young people experiencing loss, and you cater to his every whim. If he wants to drive at midnight and listen to purple rain on a loop through the stereo– that’s what you do. You try not to worry that this could’ve been fixed much sooner if you’d made the hours journey home more often.
You don’t see Steve again in the next two weeks. Eddie stops in for visits, sometimes joining you guys for lunch. But there’s no sightings of the hazel eyed boy. You suppose he was giving you space so you could focus on Dustin. But he doesn’t know that the first request he’d given you upon your arrival home was to call a truce of the Cold War between you both.
You consider not doing it. You truly do. The closer you get to needing to go back home for work– PTO days running scanter and scanter with each passing evening– the more you try to talk yourself around what he’d asked. You’d lay in bed, playing different scenarios around in your head.
Sometimes in your head you go out to him, hear his apologies and lie through your teeth that you forgive him. In others, you finally slap him straight across his smug face. It always comes to the same thought though. You just not going out to see him at all. Simply getting in your car on the final day and leaving him in the rear view just like you did all those years ago.
It isn’t until you drop an earring under your bed, and find yourself face to face with the box you’d packed away under there that you decided you would speak to him.
The shoebox is exactly where you remember leaving it, except it’s now covered in a thin layer of dust collected from years of being untouched. It catches a breath in your throat. As if being pulled by some force you drag it out to inspect the contents.
Before you open it you try to remember what you put in there, but you were drawing a continuous blank. When you take the top off your hand is a whimpering shake.
You didn’t realise how many pieces of Steve you’d kept locked away from the harsh winds of time, but there it was laid out in front of you like the perfect analogy.
T-shirts you’d borrowed, photographs of the two of you, love letters that had been left in lockers, movie ticket stubs, wilted rose petals and the shiny empty wrapper of the condom you guys had used your first time. All cramped in this off yellow box.
It was no wonder why you’d never gotten over him. When you were keeping him locked away in this box.
You were keeping his photos in a box. All of them. Still in their frame.
You resolve immediately to take it and drive out to Steve’s new apartment next to Forest Hill’s. You only know he lives there because every time you drive past it, Dustin points and tells you that’s Steve’s place. He tells you it with a beaming grin because he’s proud that his friend had his own place now.
You have to psych yourself up to even get out of the car, but then you’d catch the edge of the box obscured by your coat in the passenger seat, and you remember that the only way out is through.
That’s what they told Dustin at his grief counseling. When he’d come out and told you, you wondered if grief was what you’d been carrying around all these years. Had you been mourning Steve like he was dead? Or were you mourning who you might’ve been had someone not stolen your ability to trust before you even made out into the big bad world?
You carry the box like it’s a loaded weapon up to his door, and before you can knock he’s already opening the door.
He doesn’t seem entirely surprised to see you, but your mouth falls in a sharp ‘O’ to find him greeting you before you've worked up the courage.
“I saw you pull up.” He clarifies from the doorway.
Your throat feels rough when you try to talk. “Can I come in?”
Steve doesn’t say anything, just stands aside to motion you through with a flick of his wrist.
“Sorry for intruding. I’m leaving in a couple days, so I thought I should just get this over with.” You say, inspecting the modestly sized apartment.
It’s nothing like where he grew up. It felt like a real home. It was lived in, instead of the squeaky showroom that was his childhood home.
You turn to see him shutting the door behind him. “You’re not here to kill me, are you?” It sounds like a joke but there’s no heart in it. He seems nervous.
You clear your throat when you sit down on the surprisingly comfortable sofa, placing the box on the oak table in front of you,
“Nope. I found this, and I wanted to return it to you.” You say, tapping the top of it.
You can see his brows pulled together in confusion when he comes to sit next to you. He leaves ample space.
“An old shoebox… you shouldn’t have?” He says.
You sigh weakly and take the lid off to reveal the contents. When he catches sight of it, the breath that escapes him is clipped. Pained almost.
“Dustin said you told him what happened when we were together, and that you’re sorry. I’ve been trying to work out why I can’t find it in myself to get over it. Then I found this.” You explain, “I can’t forgive you because I’m carrying this around with me everywhere I go. It can’t be my burden anymore. So I’m returning it to you.”
Steve doesn’t even seem like he’s listening, he’s dragged the box to him, rifling through the mementos of devotion you’d kept of him. You sit quietly and let him do it.
“You kept all of this?” He whispers finally.
“I didn’t take it with me when I left or anything. But I knew it was there. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away I guess.” You reply meekly. “I think that’s what pisses me off the most. I can’t bring myself to get rid of it, and you threw me away like it was nothing. I know we were kids. I know it wasn’t that deep for you, but it was for me.”
“I didn’t throw it all away.” He says back, looking up at you with quiet sentiment. “I kept stuff too.”
Your heart stutters up a beat.
“I keep your scrunchie in my bedside drawer. And a whole mess of Polaroids in a book. It didn’t mean nothing to me. I still loved you when I started up with Nancy. I just…” he’s pulling a shaky hand through his hair. “I was a spoiled brat. No one said no to me, I thought I could have whatever I wanted. Deep down, I knew me and her weren’t right for each other. But me and you were so different. I thought I needed to be more realistic. My parents were the popular kids in school, they were prom king and queen, they got married straight out of high school. I thought that’s what I wanted too.”
You’re nodding along with his words because he wasn’t saying anything you didn’t already suspect. You had always known that it was unrealistic. What you and him were doing. It wasn’t sustainable. People thought it was weird, but you thought that just proved how much you guys must have loved each other.
“I get that, Steve. And I feel that for you. But you could’ve just left me be.” You whimper out eventually. “I was fine before I met you. The person I am now…it’s just affected so much of my life. I don’t trust anyone.”
You can see him fiercely swiping away tears.
“Trust me, I’ve suffered for my mistakes.” He confirms shakily. “I’ve never felt the way I felt about you again.”
You don’t feel like the burden is being lifted the way you thought it would. The more he speaks, the more compressed you feel by the weight of the emotions. He tries to reach over to clasp your hand in his, but you snatch it away in favour of standing like he’d scalded you with hot water. You can see the way he dejectedly pulls back.
“I didn’t come here for this kind of resolution.” You say weakly. “That was your own doing. This is me surrendering. You’re off the hook.”
He stands up to close in on you again. You’re still pushing back to head to the front door.
“I’m not off the hook though.” He pleads, following you. “You hating me isn’t half as much a punishment as how I feel about myself. I’ve never stopped loving you, and if I don’t tell you now, I’ll never get the chance again.”
Your body is whipping round to face him, and you find yourself nose to chest with him. You didn’t even realise he was so close until he’d caged in on you completely. You push back to brace yourself at the door.
“Okay.” You say breathlessly. “Well, you’ve told me now, it’s off your chest, you can move on. I’m giving you permission to stop punishing yourself.”
The heat rolling off his body is seeping into yours, you can smell the musk of aftershave and sweet sweat. He’s staring down at you with a deep intensity that you don’t know where to place. You hold his eyeline even though it makes your chest heave and shake.
“I wanted to kill Eddie when I thought you were sleeping with him.” He whispers, standing even closer to you than you thought was possible. He was caging you in. “When you came out of his room that morning, I felt like I was going insane. I couldn’t just reach out and touch you, remind you that you’ll always belong to me.”
You can see his breath fanning over yours, his hands have pressed into the door just above your head. You don’t want to admit the words he’s saying are travelling straight down to your heat. Each one sparking electricity through what was now becoming a damp, clenching cavern of need.
“Steve…” you test. “Don’t do this.”
Your words go in one ear and out the other, probably because he can tell just half-hearted you mean them.
“Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I’ll stop.” He pleads. “Tell me that you’re not soaked through right now at the thought of me fucking you against this door.”
Your body is arched up now, pressing forwardly against his, letting his knee spread your thighs apart so that he can slot in. Your underwear is clinging to you like a second skin, because he was right. He was right about all of it.
“Tell me to stop, and I will.” His lips are brushing yours in a chaste whisper. All you’d have to do is push a centimetre forward and they’d be locked together.
All sense– all will to do the right thing– is already gone. You don’t want him to stop, you want him to do all the dirty things that are crossing your head as he speaks.
“Don’t stop.” You finally beg back, and he closes the gap immediately.
You push back into him, twisting his hair around your clenching hands like it was tethering you to the earth itself. You aren’t thinking about the pain anymore. You’re like a junkie with a fix. You could repent for being weak tomorrow, but right now you want to find the acres of flesh that are hidden beneath his clothes.
He’s pushed his thigh to your aching core, to jam you harder into the wood behind you. You’re gasping into his mouth as it creates a delicious friction between your throbbing clit and the fabric of your underwear. He seizes the opportunity to push his tongue further into your mouth to brush against your own.
There’s no battle for who’s in control. It would always be unfairly balanced in his favour. You were already moldable putty in his hands. His hands that already knew every inch of you with expert precision.
You dance your fingers down to push under his shirt, dragging your nails against the hair just above his waistband, and he grunts harshly against your lips, pulling your entangled body back the way to his couch that seems to be miles away now.
You’re stripping clothes piece by piece as you go, not concerned about where they land as you throw them in your wake. You don’t make it to a lying down position before you’re shoved standing against the back of the couch. He’s kneeling beneath you, dragging your already unbuttoned jeans past your legs, taking your panties with them as he went.
Your whole body seems to be on vibrate, there’s a shake in your legs buckling under the weight of anticipation when he catches sight of your weeping centre. He doesn’t take his eyes off it when he whines.
“You’re still so pretty. Look at you, all wet for me and I haven’t even touched you.”
You crack in two at his words, head thrown back in wanton agony. You need him to touch you.
You feel him drag a finger along you, barely dipping past the lips only to abandon them. You peek down to find him licking the wet off his index finger. It feels like a small death, you don’t think you’ve ever been this worked up before.
“So sweet,” he whines, before pushing forward to latch his tongue straight to the source.
The cry that escapes you is closer to sob, just thankful to feel something other than the violent throb that your cunt had become. You don’t care that it’s Steve, you don’t care that you should know better. All you care about is the precise circling of his tongue on your clit.
You yank at his hair while he’s working you over, nails embedded into his scalp, the ball in your abdomen tightens with agonising pulls. He spreads you out even further, you have to hold onto the structure of the couch to stop from collapsing back, especially when he drags a finger up to sink deep within your walls.
“Steve.” You whimper, trying to grind back down into the flex of his finger and the lapping of his tongue. “Feels so good. Fuck, please more.”
You’re begging now. Pleading for him to either put more fingers in or end your suffering and just fuck you. Fill you up with something.
He unlatches, face damp with the excess of what had been dripping out of you, your lower half is clenching at the sudden emptiness between your walls.
“You want me to fuck you?” He asks tauntingly. If you’d been any less turned on, you’d have told him he was an asshole and left but there was no way you could go now.
“I really need you to fuck me,” you beg, pulling him up to you to violently latch your lips onto his once more. You can taste yourself on him but it doesn’t put you off, just makes you want him more.
He groans at your frantic pleading and pulls away to turn you so that you’re bent over the back of the sofa now. Your fingers curl around cushions beneath in gripping anticipation.
“Gonna fuck you so good, baby. Make you forget your own name. Make you forget about fucking Munson.” He promises, dragging his length up and down your folds.
“Tell me you don’t want him. Tell me he couldn’t fuck you like I could.” He chastises, pushing so that the head is just barely pushing into your depths.
It’s cruel. He knows what he’s doing. He knows there’s nothing between you and Eddie anyway. You try to push back onto the length but he holds you bruisingly by the hips to stop you.
“Say it, and I’ll give you what you want.” He insists.
You’re hiccuping around the words, trying to pull them from deep within you.
“I don’t want him, I never wanted him. I want you, please, I want you. I love you.” You weep from below him, you can feel the twitch in his cock at your words.
“Fuck.” He whimpers and pushes himself forward, dragging half of his thick girth into your still clenching walls.
You’d forgotten how big he is, but you remember now. You remember in the biting stretch– how it hurts so much that it’s good. Your moans are screams, and when he hilts himself fully within you, you can feel his shattered breaths while he peppers kisses down your shaking back.
You can’t focus on anything other the gentle pressing against the spot inside you that blinds your vision, and when he drags himself out all the way to smash back into you, there’s nothing you can do but let him fuck into you how he wants. Your body belongs to him in every way. You just want him to get you where you need to be.
His pace is harsh, he uses the tug of your hair to keep you stationary so that he can pump in deeper with each agonising thrust. It’s better than you remember.
You’re already coming apart at the seams. It doesn’t take much, once his hand closes round you to rub at your clit, you have no choice but to surrender to the sea of euphoria dragging you out.
You bite into your arm as you cum around his length.
You can’t hear his gentle pleas of encouragement or his strangled moans as he cums deep within you. You’re so gone on him that you might as well be in space. There’s nothing there but the battering of your heart against your ribs and the ecstasy slowly melting away from your violent orgasm.
But you come back down eventually. You have to. And when you do he’s pulling out of you gently, causing a sharp intake of breath to rip through you from the sting.
You pull your jeans back up weakly, not turning around to look at him while he does the same. It’s heinously quiet, except from the shuffling of clothes covering skin again.
Once your modesty is back in place you turn to find him with the same guilty look that you must be wearing too.
Summary: As a storm rolls in, small acts of kindness and quiet conversation draw you and Gator a little closer. But when the rain finally hits and the night settles in, it becomes harder for either of you to pretend the connection between you is nothing.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
The diner is quieter than usual; the lunch rush never quite materialises. A couple of regulars drift in and out. Mavis keeps the radio low behind the counter, some local station droning through headlines and farm reports.
The small television mounted in the corner shifts from a weather map to a man in a suit gesturing at a blue pattern curling across the state.
“…storm front moving in late Thursday evening. High winds expected. Possible hail…”
You glance up at the screen. The map zooms in to show a huge yellow band sweeping across the county. Mavis squints at it, then clicks her tongue.
“Joe,” she calls toward the kitchen. “You best go wind those awnings in ‘fore that wind gets clever.”
Joe grunts something unintelligible in response.
“An’ check the side shutters while you’re at it,” she adds, already moving toward the back door. “Last time one of ‘em near took out Hank’s Buick.”
Her voice becomes muffled as the door swings shut behind her.
You glance back at the tv and think of the cabin immediately. The faint scar of light you’d noticed where one of the shingles had slipped. There’s also a darker patch on the beam above the sofa that looked like damp.
You slip your hand into your apron pocket and pull out the new phone. It still feels unfamiliar in your palm, lighter than the old one. Your thumb runs along the smooth edge of the case before you unlock it and for a fleeting second you think of Gator sat at your kitchen table last night, sliding the box across the table like it was nothing for him to be so generous.
You click the screen into life. No missed calls. No unknown numbers clawing their way up the display with their angry, red notifications. Just the quiet glow of the home screen. You hadn’t realised how tightly you’d been holding yourself until you woke up this morning to the absence of it all. Shoulders feeling at ease for the first time in days.
You open the browser and type: how to fix roof tiles. The results bloom across the screen; articles, hardware store links, chat forums full of men arguing about power tools. You tap the first video instead.
A man in a baseball cap appears on screen, already halfway up a ladder, wind whipping his jacket as he gestures toward a patch of roof. You tilt the phone slightly, leaning in. He’s explaining something about flashing and water run-off, about how rain never falls the way you expect it to.
You squint at the corner of the screen, trying to match what he’s pointing at with the beam in your living room. Trying to picture the angle of your roof and whether the dip runs left or right. He demonstrates laying down a temporary tarp.
You begin a list in your mind of the things you need. Another video auto-plays before you realise it. This one slower, an older man speaking gently, going step-by-step. Tools laid out neatly on a driveway.
“What’re you doin’?”
You look up, startled by the sudden gruff voice.
Gator stands on the other side of the counter, cap pushed back. He must have come in while you were squinting at the screen. The bell above the door must have chimed but you hadn’t heard it.
He nods toward the phone in your hand.
“New hobby?” he smirks.
“I’ve got a slipped tile or something and one beam that’s definitely going to start dripping if the wind hits it right.” You smile, sliding the phone back into your apron pocket. “I figured I’d try get it fixed before the storms hits.”
He glances toward the television where the weather map is still glowing faintly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Weather out here ain’t subtle.”
You reach for a paper cup without asking. Gator doesn’t take his eyes off you as you turn toward the machine.
“You just starting shift?” you ask over your shoulder, measuring grounds by feel now instead of sight.
“Hour ago,” he says. “Been quiet.”
“I thought it was like, a bad omen, or a curse or something to say things were ‘quiet’.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh.
“M’already cursed enough.”
You glance back at him briefly as the coffee pours. Then slide the cup toward him and rest your forearms lightly on the counter.
“You always wanted to be a cop?”
He considers that for half a second.
“Ain’t ever really thought ‘bout it,” he says, honestly. “Jus’ kinda did it.”
The bell above the door chimes and you turn automatically. It’s one of the nurses, comes in every morning; her hair twisted up tight, coat half shrugged around her shoulders fishing for her wallet.
“Morning,” you call, voice light and friendly. “Milk, two sugars?”
“You’re a gem,” she replies, smiling warmly.
You make up her coffee in a takeout cup, slide it across before she’s even reached the counter properly. She pays, nods a quick thanks and is gone as quickly as she arrives.
When you turn back, Gator is watching you.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothin’,” he says, then, “you’re settlin’ quick. Already learnin’ orders.”
“Thankfully, not much to remember. Seems this whole town is kept alive by strong coffee.”
“An’ how’s Mavis treatin’ you?”
As if summoned, the back door swings open and Mavis appears, a mug clutched in one hand, dish towel in the other.
“Like royalty,” you answer quickly.
Mavis squints at the two of you.
“My ears were burnin’,” she says.
Gator nods at the mug in her hands.
“That burnin’ smell is usually your coffee,” he smirks.
Mavis swats at him with the towel as she passes.
“Watch it, Tillman.”
You smile into the counter at the sound of it, their back and forth, it’s easy and unpolished. It all feels so uncomplicated. Familiar in a way you hadn’t quite expected. It’s comfortable and for once you feel… happy.
The comfort barely has time to settle before the radio on Gator’s shoulder crackles to life. A sharp burst of static cuts through the low hum of the diner. He closes his eyes briefly, a small exhale through his nose, like he knew the peace and quiet couldn’t last.
“All units, we have a 10-33 on Main. Possible break-in. Caller reports hearing glass breaking. Any units in the area?”
Gator rolls his eyes faintly, already reaching up to press the button at his shoulder.
“M’over that way,” he says, ignoring the codes entirely. “Will head over now.”
There’s a beat of static.
“Copy Unit 3, 10-4. Will advise caller unit en route,” the dispatcher replies without correction.
He pushes away from the counter, taking his paper cup.
“Duty calls,” he mutters, not looking particularly thrilled about it. “See ya.”
“Bye,” you reply. Then, before you can overthink it, you add, “Be safe.”
He pauses slightly, barely noticeable, then gives a small nod.
“Always am.”
Outside, Gator slides into the cruiser and pulls the door shut with a solid thud. The engine turns over easy beneath him, familiar and steady. For a moment he just sits there, hands resting loose on the steering wheel, the diner window reflected faintly in the windshield.
Be safe.
It’s a small thing. The kind of thing people say without thinking. Still, it settles somewhere under his ribs in a way he doesn’t examine too closely.
He shifts the cruiser into gear and pulls away from the curb, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before it disappears.
Inside, the diner quiets again. You wipe down the counter, stack a couple of clean mugs. The television continues to drone on about wind speeds and pressure systems. Mavis appears at your side with the remote in hand.
“Damn sick of hearin’ weather reports,” she mutters, clicking the channel over.
A burst of canned laughter fills the diner as some overly bright talk show host replaces the weather map. You smile, leaning against the counter as Mavis settles in to watch.
♡♡♡
The wind has picked up. Not enough to be cruel, not yet, but it worries at the treeline and keeps shifting the clouds like it can’t settle on what it wants to do. Mavis sent you home early, the diner was dead anyways and she wanted you inside before the storm manifested.
You stand out in the clearing with a tarp tucked under one arm and the little step ladder angled against your hip, and it’s obvious that you’ve misjudged the scale of what you’re attempting.
The ladder is a joke. You might reach the porch roof if you tiptoe and pray. It doesn’t even come close to the slope above the living room, where you know the shingle’s sitting wrong because you’ve seen that thin beam of light that peeks through when you stand at a certain angle. And then there’s the beam above the sofa, holding that darker patch like a bruise. Damp, maybe, or just old wood that’s stained by time. You don’t know. You don’t know enough. That’s the problem.
You shift the tarp higher under your arm, glancing up at the roofline again, trying to map out a plan that doesn’t involve you having to haul yourself from a step ladder onto a pitched roof in rising wind. You chew the inside of your cheek, pretending you’re assessing rather than stalling.
Gravel crunches in the distance. At first you assume it’s a ranch truck cutting across the back route, one of those heavy, familiar sounds that has nothing to do with you. But the engine grows louder, closer, and you turn your head toward the drive, squinting through the trees.
A silver pickup eases into the clearing. You don’t recognise it immediately. Dust on the wheel wells. A ladder strapped down in the bed. The driver slows, rolls forward a few more feet, then stops and Gator’s face comes into view through the open window.
Cap pushed back. Same tired steadiness in his eyes, but something looser in the set of his shoulders. He looks from you to the tarp under your arm to the step ladder that barely reaches your waist. His mouth twitches.
“Whatcha doin’?”
You blink, as if you need the moment to catch up.
“The roof…” You lift the tarp slightly like it explains itself. “Storm’s coming.”
“Ladder’s about two feet short,” he smirks. “You plannin’ on jumpin’ the gap?”
Heat creeps up your neck, embarrassed at your incompetence. You tighten your grip on the tarp.
“I wasn’t… I was figuring it out.”
He swings the door open and steps down. He doesn’t look amused in a mean way, it’s more like he’s seen this kind of stubborn before and knows exactly how it ends.
“Remembered you sayin’ about it,” he says, nodding vaguely as he walks around to the truck bed. “At the diner.”
You recall the conversation from earlier, when he’d seen you watching roof repair videos. You hadn’t asked him to help, didn’t even hint. You’d just spoken out loud, and he’d listened.
He unhooks the ladder from his truck with practiced movements, metal clinking softly, and sets it down with a dull thud. You stand there a little too still, unsure where to put your hands now that the tarp is suddenly redundant.
“You don’t have to…” you start.
He shoots you a quick look.
“Ain’t a big deal.”
It is, but you let it go because he’s already carrying the ladder toward the house, and you’d promised yourself to be nicer to him. He leans the ladder against the eave; gives it a testing shake before grabbing his tool bag and stepping up. He climbs with one hand, weight shifting easy, boots sure on each rung. Halfway up he pauses, glances back.
“You comin’ up or you just watchin’ my ass?” he smirks.
“I’m not…” You hesitate, then add quickly, “I’m coming.”
You climb carefully, the wind tugging at your sleeves. The roofline comes level with your eyes and then suddenly you’re up, one knee on the shingles, palm flat against the slope as you steady yourself.
The view from here makes the cabin feel smaller. The clearing wider. The trees closer than they looked from the ground.
Gator is already crouched near the spot he’s found; hands moving, checking the overlap, pressing down along the seam. He’s quiet for a moment, focused. You edge closer and then stop, not wanting to crowd him. The shingles are rough beneath your jeans. Your stomach does a small, odd roll when you look down the pitch toward the yard.
Gator glances back at you once.
“Y’alright?”
“Fine,” you lie.
He doesn’t comment, just shifts slightly, so his body is between you and the steepest drop.
You turn carefully and lower yourself to sit, palms flat against the shingles to steady yourself. The grit bites faintly into your skin through your sleeves.
Gator’s already reaching into the pocket at his thigh, pulling out a small cluster of nails. There’s a hammer in his other hand now, the handle worn smooth from use. The broken tile rests near his knee, and he nudges it aside before sliding the replacement piece into place.
You clear your throat.
“So,” you say, trying for casual and landing somewhere near awkward. “You knew my grandfather?”
Gator’s hands still. For a half second he looks at you like you’ve spoken another language. Then his gaze flicks over your face, searching for something that isn’t there.
“You said he taught you to drive. The other night,” you add quickly.
“Right, yeah.”
He turns back to the roof seam, thumb worrying at the edge of a shingle, testing it.
“Him and my dad were friends. Always ‘round for huntin’ season. Whenever he was in town, he’d be over at the ranch for dinner and whatever.”
He shifts his weight, pulling a flat pry bar from his pocket and easing it under another slipped edge.
“Jus’ remember him being there, you know? Ain’t been here in a few years though. That’s why y’cabin looks like this,” he gestures loosely at the moss covered roof.
You watch him work for another second, the easy familiarity in his voice when he talks about Everett catching at you.
“Did you… know me then?”
Gator stills for half a beat, the pry bar resting against the shingle. You misread the silence.
“I mean,” you add quickly, brushing wind-blown hair out of your face, “I used to come out here with him sometimes. I know that much. I just,” you give a small, almost embarrassed shrug. “I don’t really remember it. I have trouble with childhood memories and stuff. I just know he brought me, so, I figured if you were around…”
Your words trail off. He doesn’t look at you. His jaw shifts tight before he sets the pry bar aside and presses a tile down into place with steady hands.
“I remember,” he says.
Just that. Then he goes quiet, reaches for the hammer and drives the nails in. The change is subtle, but it cuts. A second ago he’d been easy, chatty. Now the air around him feels a fraction tighter.
You watch him, the clean line of his shoulders bent over the tile as embarrassment creeps in, you hadn’t meant to make it awkward. Then, a flicker of something worse follows close behind: the uneasy thought that maybe there’s a reason he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Were you loud? Too much? The kind of kid people were relieved to see leave? That’s what your mother used to say.
You hate that you don’t know. The silence stretches between you both, and your chest tightens with the instinct to fill it.
“Do you want a drink or anything?” you offer, too brightly. “I’ve got coffee. Tea.”
He shakes his head, still not looking at you.
“Nah. I’m almost done.”
His hands move decisively now. He lifts one shingle, and there it is, one cracked piece tucked beneath, the culprit. He pulls it free and holds it up for you to see.
“There,” he says. “That was y’problem.”
He passes it over and you take it automatically, fingers closing around it.
“Chuck it,” he says. “I got one to fill the gap.”
“Okay,” you murmur.
You edge back toward the ladder, testing each step before committing your weight. The roof feels steeper now that you’re leaving it. You keep your eyes on your hands, on the steady rhythm of rung to rung, refusing to look past your own knees.
Once you’re down, you don’t linger. You carry the broken tile straight to the trash by the porch. The lid snaps shut with a hollow crack that echoes briefly in the clearing.
You turn back toward the house.
Gator’s already on the ladder, descending steady and unhurried, one hand holding the tool bag, the other guiding himself down. His shoulders flex beneath the cotton of his shirt as he shifts his weight. The tac vest is gone today; there’s nothing between you and the shape of him but fabric. Forearms corded and flexing, strong in a way that isn’t showy.
Your gaze tracks lower to the solid line of his back. The way his shirt pulls across it when he reaches. The easy control in the movement. You realise you’re staring.
He steps off the last rung and turns toward you.
You look up at the roof quickly, squinting like you’ve been assessing the patchwork the whole time.
“Looks good,” you chirp, a touch too casual.
“S’fine,” he says. “Won’t leak.”
The wind surges again, stronger this time, tearing through the trees at the edge of the clearing. It cuts straight through your sweater. You fold your arms tighter without thinking, chin dipping against the cold.
Gator notices. Whatever he’d been holding onto a second ago loosens.
“Temp’s gonna drop some more,” he says. “You got that old fireplace goin’ inside?”
You glance toward the porch where you’d stacked a bundle of wood and kindling you bought on your way home, still wrapped in plastic. You gesture vaguely.
“I’ve got… stuff. Just gotta figure out how to keep it in the fireplace. I’m not exactly…” You hesitate, then try for humour. “You saw my bonfire, I kind of go big with these things.”
He looks at you for half a second and then the laugh slips out of him before he can catch it. The last of the tension drops with it.
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “I saw.”
You feel yourself relax with it, the tightness in your chest easing in response.
“I’ll show you,” he says. “Ain’t hard if you do it right.”
You watch as he carries the ladder back to the truck and slides it into the bed with a solid scrape of metal on metal. He tosses the tool bag in after it, shuts the tailgate, then turns back toward you.
Inside, the cabin has shifted into that early-evening dimness where the light thins out at the edges of the room. You flick the lamp on by the sofa, a soft yellow glow settles over the space.
You grab the bundle of wood and the small box of kindling you’d left by the door and carry them toward the fireplace then lower yourself onto the hearth.
Gator steps in beside you and crouches down.
“Y’ever used it?” he asks.
You shake your head. He grunts softly in response, then reaches in and gives the hearth a quick sweep with his hand, flicking out old ash. There isn’t much. He pauses, glancing back at you like he expected worse.
“I brushed it out the other day,” you explain.
He nods, on his knees now, close to the brick, movements sure as he stacks kindling. He arranges it carefully; small pieces criss-crossed, space left for air, the larger logs waiting to one side.
You hover beside him as he tears a strip from a paper starter and tucks it beneath.
“Air’s the thing,” he says, voice low and steady. “Y’choke it, it dies. Y’give it room, it’ll catch.”
You watch his hands as he works. They’re big, rough; the knuckles scuffed faintly. There’s something oddly careful about the way he places each piece, like he’s teaching a child without making you feel like one.
“You’ll hear it,” he continues. “When it’s takin’. Little crackle. Then it starts talkin’ louder.”
He strikes the match and for a second the flare throws sharp light across his knuckles, across the line of his jaw. He cups his hand around it instinctively, shielding it from the draft that creeps through the room, and lowers it carefully to the paper he’s twisted tight beneath the kindling.
The flame catches slow, almost reluctant at first. He adjusts one small piece of wood with the tip of his fingers so the air can move through. You find yourself leaning closer without meaning to, drawn by the quiet concentration in him as much as the warmth beginning to bloom.
“Once it’s goin’, don’t mess with it too much,” Gator says. “Folks always wanna poke at it. Let it do its job.”
The fire strengthens gradually, light spilling upward, reflecting in his eyes when he glances at it to check the draw. You don’t look away quickly enough.
The room starts to warm. You can feel it on your shins, your hands. You realise, watching him kneel there in your living room with soot on his fingers, that you had him all wrong.
When he stands, he brushes his hands together then offers you one to help you up. You take it, try not to notice the warmth of his calloused palm as he pulls you to your feet.
“Keep it fed slow,” he says, nodding back toward the fireplace. “Don’t smother it.”
He drops your hands and steps toward the door. You follow without thinking, trailing him out onto the porch as the air presses colder against your skin.
He reaches the tailgate and drops it open with a solid thunk. You hover a step behind him, unsure whether to say something or let the quiet stretch. He reaches in, pulls the tool bag back out and passes it to you.
“You keep ‘em,” he says. “Cabin’s old. Stuff’s gonna come up.”
“I can’t…” You start, then stop because you know he won’t accept your protests. You try for something else. “You really have to stop doing things for me.”
He lifts one brow.
“Why?”
“Because,” you say, trying to make it a joke. “At this rate I’m rackin’ up a debt.”
“Ain’t keepin’ score,” he says easy, but his hand shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck like the idea makes him oddly self-conscious.
“I’m serious,” you smile. “One day you’re gonna ask me for something and I’ll have to, like, donate a kidney.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“Jus’ keep makin’ my coffee,” he says. “An’ don’t let Mavis near it.”
You laugh, the sound carried off by the wind.
“Deal.”
You take the tool bag, fingers brushing his for half a second. He pushes the tailgate closed again. For a moment you both just stand there.
Gator’s eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again so fast you almost think you imagined it. But you feel it too; the brief, charged stillness. The space narrowing as if something could happen in it.
He swallows, jaw shifting. For a split second, it looks like he might lean in. Your breath catches. You think of how close his face is. Your body jumps ahead of your mind with the thought: What if you let him?
The first drop lands heavy on the hood of the truck. Then another. A sharp, scattered tapping that gathers itself in seconds into steady rain, drumming across metal and gravel.
You both look up instinctively.
“Shit,” you murmur, half laughing.
The sky has turned fully now, thick and low. The wind pushes colder with the rain. You tug the neck of your sweater up over your hair and jog back to the porch.
“Thank you!” you call back. “For the roof. And the fire. Just… thank you.”
He’s already moving for the driver’s side door.
“Drive safe!” you add, retreating toward the steps as the rain soaks through the shoulders of your sweater.
He pauses just long enough to look back at you, rain catching in his hair. Then he’s climbing into the truck, engine turning over beneath the growing hiss of rain.
You make it to the porch just as the downpour steadies, heart still beating faster than it should. You stand there a second longer than necessary, watching the blur of his taillights through the rain, trying not to think about how close you came to doing something stupid.
♡♡♡
The storm is coming in sideways. Wind dragging low across the pasture, bending the grass in long restless waves. Then the rain, slanting hard against the siding of the outbuilding. Thunder rolls far off before splitting closer, the sound flattening the air for a breath before releasing it again.
Gator stands by the narrow window in his room and watches the ranch disappear in sheets of grey. The outbuilding was built newer than the main house, tighter seams, better insulation. The storm feels removed here. He knows that isn’t true for you.
He can picture the cabin too clearly; warped boards, old wood, the pitch of the roof he’d patched that afternoon. Lightning flares white across the field and he finds himself counting the seconds before the thunder hits.
He drags a hand down his face and turns away from the window.
The room is dim except for the television casting restless blue light across one wall. Some late-night rerun murmurs to itself. He left it on when he came in, more for noise than interest.
He drops back onto the edge of his bed first, then lets himself fall fully onto the mattress, boots still on, one arm folded behind his head. His mind doesn’t stay in the room; it slips back to your front yard without asking. Not to what nearly happened but to what he wanted to happen.
He’d thought about it before, back then. Back when it had felt safer to assume there would be more time. But since your return he had been fighting it, a mixture of anger and embarrassment that he didn’t seem to mean anything to you, you didn’t even remember his name.
So what he hadn’t expected, stood there in front of your grandfather’s cabin, was you. The way you hadn’t stepped back. The way your breath had shifted. The way that, if it hadn’t rained, you may just have closed the gap.
Thunder lunges overhead, sharp enough to rattle the glass, and the sound breaks the thought clean in two. His head lulls to the side, watching the rain hammer at the windowpane. You’re alone out there.
The cabin’s older than it looks in daylight. And it isn’t that he doubts his work. The patch was good and he knows it will hold. He doesn’t doubt you either. You’d listened attentively to his instructions about the fire.
Another crack of thunder. Closer.
He exhales slowly through his nose. It’s fine. You’re fine.
A minute passes, maybe less, but it’s long enough for the image of you alone in that cabin to settle into something heavier than it should be. He tells himself to leave it. You’re fine. The roof was solid. The fire was steady. Still, his hand reaches for his phone almost absently, thumb pausing over your name as he considers how not to make it sound… pathetic. He types something, frowns, erases it. Tries again. Erases that too. He isn’t worried, he tells himself. He just wants to know.
He types.
Gator: hows the roof? not raining inside?
He reads the message once, jaw shifting slightly as if weighing it, then sends it before he can second-guess himself. The storm keeps moving across the fields, thunder rolling slow and deliberate overhead. Your reply comes quicker than he expects.
You: All good! Thank u again :)
He exhales softly, something easing at the edges. He lets his thumb hover over the thread a moment longer before typing again.
Gator: and u aint burned the place down?
There’s a longer pause this time, lightning splitting pale across the dark sky, thunder following close behind, close enough to vibrate faintly through the floorboards beneath his boots. He glances toward the window, imagining the same flash spilling through your cabin walls.
Then the screen lights again. Not words but a photo. He taps it, and the image opens full screen.
Firelight fills the frame first, the flames caught mid-flicker. You’re just off to the side of it, turned slightly toward the camera, hair loose around your shoulders now. The light hits you unevenly, carving soft shadow beneath your cheekbone, catching along the curve of your mouth. The cabin behind you recedes into dark wood and lamplight.
You look settled in a way he hasn’t seen yet in daylight. There’s something quiet in your expression, something unguarded. For a second he just looks.
The firelight makes your eyes seem darker. The faint line above your eyebrow catches the glow where your head is tilted slightly, barely there unless you know to look for it. And Gator does.
His thumb shifts, enlarging the image a fraction more. His gaze lingers on your mouth longer than it should. Then drifts to the way your sweater has slipped slightly at one shoulder.
The storm keeps moving outside, but it sounds farther away now.
He drags his thumb slightly to focus on your face, your eyes. But all he can see is the scar. He zooms again and he traces his finger along the line, the years between then and now collapse without warning.
The barn had smelled like dust and sun-warmed hay that day. Late summer, stifling, the kind of heat that pressed slow and heavy against the back of your neck.
You’d been too small for the boots you insisted on wearing, the toes were scuffed, heels clumsy against the packed dirt floor. The hay bales were stacked higher than they should’ve been. You’d decided that meant they were meant to be climbed.
“Don’t,” Gator had said, already moving toward you. You’d grinned over your shoulder anyway.
You were all fearlessness and stubbornness then. Hair slipping loose from whatever tie Everett had managed that morning. Talking too much, watching everything, taking it all in.
You made it halfway up the stack fine. Then your boot caught on the twine.
It happened fast, a slip. The hollow metal ring of your head catching the edge of the water trough on the way down.
You didn’t scream, just sat up slowly instead, blinking once like the world had tilted and you were waiting for it to right itself. A thin line of red slid through your eyebrow, across your lashes.
His stomach dropped so hard he felt it in his knees.
“You’re bleedin’,” he’d said, already crouching in front of you.
You touched your forehead like you hadn’t noticed. Looked at your fingers. Looked back at him.
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. He pulled his overshirt off, dipped one corner of the fabric into the trough, wrung it out once, then brought it to your skin.
Careful to be gentle. Gentler than his hands usually were. You flinched at the cool touch but didn’t pull away. Just watched him, those big doe eyes staring into his soul.
“Hold still,” he muttered.
He steadied your chin with his thumb so he could see the cut better, your skin was so soft, warmed by the sun. The fabric of his shirt came away red, but the bleeding slowed quick. He brushed some hay from your temple before it could stick to the damp skin.
“We gotta go inside,” he’d said, already half rising to take your hand.
You caught his wrist before he could stand.
“I don’t wanna go in yet.”
“You gotta get it looked at.”
“I wanna stay out here. With you.”
The wind had moved through the pasture then, lifting loose strands of your hair across your cheek. You hadn’t wiped them away. You’d just kept looking at him like you were waiting for him to decide something important.
He’d felt it then, not in a way he had words for at eight or nine or whatever he was, but in the weight of it.
Something steady and frightening in how right it felt to be the one kneeling in front of you. To be the one you looked at like that. Your eyes had locked onto his, dark and unwavering, and he’d had the strange, sudden thought that he could keep looking back at you forever and not tire of it.
The way your fingers stayed wrapped around his wrist, small but certain, like it was the most natural place for them to be. He’d wanted to be the one to fix it. To fix you. To be the one you reached for. Always.
Summary: Unwelcome calls keep interrupting the quiet of your new life. Gator notices you seem a little jumpy and shows up with a simple kindness that starts to shift something in you.
Note: I’m getting the loveliest comments from you all, thankyou so much! I’m so glad you like it. Hilarious storytime: saw my old English Teacher this week because I was taking my cousin to school, anyway teacher asks me if I’m still writing lol. Didn’t tell him I use my powers to write smut on the internet mwahahahaha. Anyways, next chapter is here for you. Mimi <3
Part One | Part Two
The ringing slices through the dark. You are wrenched upward from sleep so deep it feels bruised; mind still fogged with the last fragments of a dream you can’t quite reach. For a moment, you don’t know where you are. The trill of the ringer echoes through you.
Then the vibration follows it. A hard, rattling hum against wood.
Your mouth is dry. There’s a smear of warmth at the corner of your lips where you must have slept too heavily, too comfortably. You drag the back of your hand across your face and roll toward the sound. The screen lights the room in a thin blue glow.
Unknown number.
4:13 a.m.
It rings and rings and you just watch it, heart slow to catch up, thoughts thick with sleep. Outside, the trees are still only silhouettes. The world hasn’t properly started yet, even with the morning shift at the diner you didn’t need to be up for another hour at least.
Sean works nights. He would be clocking out right about now. Or be halfway into a shift somewhere new if he’s already found another dive bar willing to overlook whatever story he fed them.
You let the phone ring itself tired. When it finally stops, you tap the screen and block this number too. You drop the phone onto your stomach and lie back, staring into the dim shape of the ceiling beams. The quiet presses back in around you, but it isn’t restful now.
You thought he would be in jail. He should be, there had been enough in his pockets to keep him somewhere unpleasant for a good stretch. You’d assumed it would buy you time. And even if he had gotten out, even if he had talked and charmed his way free, you hadn’t thought he would care this much.
You took fifteen hundred dollars. Out of stacks that could have papered the inside of that house twice over. You hadn’t even scraped the surface of what was under those floorboards. You’d been careful not to make it obvious. Careful not to give him a reason.
A reason.
You huff. As if he ever needed one.
The relationship hadn’t started like that. At first it had been loud and bright and intoxicating. You were young, furious at your mother and desperate to prove something. That you could choose your own life and your own people. Sean had felt like that choice. All sharp smiles and plans and promises.
He liked that you chose him. Liked it even more when you chose him over everything else.
Once you moved in with him, the shift was quiet. So quiet you almost didn’t notice it. His suggestion that you didn’t need to keep working somewhere that had ‘guys staring at you all day’. The way he’d show up unannounced at whatever job you did manage to get; inserting himself and making trouble until it felt easier to just quit.
He framed it as protection. As devotion. As love.
Unfortunately, you can remember all of those years. Remember the first time he said your mother had been right about you; too much, too emotional, too difficult. Remember all the times he told you there was nowhere else for you to go.
He never hit you. He didn’t have to.
He just shrank the world down to the size of that house. To the length of the grocery store aisle. To the cash he pressed into your hand every week like you were a child on allowance.
You never had your own bank account. He said it was simpler that way, that couples didn’t need separate finances. Your paychecks, on the rare occasions you kept a job long enough to get one, were deposited into his account. Cash he would just peel from your purse.
You got good at hiding small bills. Got good at slipping twenties into coat pockets he would never check. Got good at smiling like you weren’t being slowly erased.
The phone rests warm against your stomach now, the blocked number sitting in your call log like a redacted name.
You consider changing your number. New phone, new sim. The thought feels obvious but also exhausting. A new phone means money, paperwork, stepping into a store and giving a name, an address.
Your mind slides sideways to Gator’s visit last night. The conversation about your licence plates and how someone was already looking. It wouldn’t have been Sean, dialling blindly from whatever burner phone he had his hands on, but clearly he has friends in all sorts of places. You aren’t going to leave him a breadcrumb trail.
You press the heel of your hand briefly against your sternum, self-soothing. No one knew where you were. You’ve been careful.
But careful doesn’t mean invisible.
New plates. New phone.
Add it to the list.
You exhale slowly through your nose. It’s barely four am. Your shift at the diner starts at six. No point in going back to sleep, so you push yourself up and head to the bathroom.
♡♡♡
The ranch wakes early. The low rumble of trucks turning over, the muted clang of a gate somewhere out past the barns. Ranch hands and guards crossing the fields beyond the office window when Gator steps inside.
Everything in the office has a place; files stacked square, flags positioned deliberately. A large map of county lines pinned to the wall behind the desk, red and blue markers dotting sections like veins. There is something about this room that always makes Gator feel like a child again, as if he is here to be told off for some juvenile game his dad hadn’t found funny.
Roy doesn’t look up immediately. He’s seated behind the desk, reading something printed and stapled. The light from the window catches in his hair, more grey than it used to be but no thinner for it.
“You’re late,” Roy says, without lifting his eyes.
“Ain’t on shift ‘til seven,” Gator replies evenly. “Got time.”
Roy turns a page.
“Mhm.”
The sound sits there, neither agreement nor dismissal, but to Gator it is a familiar hum of disappointment. He stays standing, knows not to sit unless invited. He tucks his hands into the straps of his tac vest and waits.
Roy finally looks up.
“You didn’t think to mention she was back.”
It isn’t phrased as a question. Gator’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t expected his father to care. The fact that he did wasn’t a good sign.
“Weren’t nothin’. She jus’ got lost on the backtracks in the dark.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Roy folds the papers carefully, placing them on the desk like he’s setting down a piece on a chessboard.
“You didn’t think to mention Katherine Davenport’s daughter was back in town?”
The words are measured. Roy seldom raises his voice; his tone commanding enough. Gator’s brow furrows slightly.
“Hang on, who we talkin’ about?” he asks. For a second he thinks Roy must be referring to someone other than you.
“Everett’s girl,” Roy clarifies.
“Yeah right, so who is Katherine?” Gator asks. He knows your grandaddy, knows you. But the name Katherine wasn’t ringing any bells.
Roy’s eyes settle on him fully.
“The problem,” he says.
“What problem?” Gator asks again, still confused.
Roy exhales through his nose, almost impatient.
“Everett gave his daughter, Katherine, control of Caldwell Holdings when he retired ten years ago,” Roy says, leaning back now, fingers steepled loosely in front of him. “And in those ten years, Katherine Davenport has turned her father’s company into an acquisition machine. Oil, retail corridors, housing developments, energy. If it can be bought, it gets bought. Now, Everett kept himself a board seat so he could block her worst ideas.”
Roy gestures lazily toward the window, toward the fields beyond it.
“She’s made six separate bids on parcels out by Highway 22. Everett blocked them, every time.”
Gator blinks, his head slowly making sense of the information.
“But Everett is dead.”
“Dead?” Gator asks. You hadn’t mentioned it. Not when he drove you out. Not when he stood by your fire. He thinks of the shadows under your eyes. The way your hands had trembled, just barely, when your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Maybe that wasn’t just about whoever kept calling.
“A few months ago, the girl told me,” Roy continues. “But now I don’t have a friendly seat on that board and Katherine’s daughter is playing house in my town after years of silence. As I said, a problem.”
“She’s alone,” Gator says, not following his dad’s suspicions. “Beat up ol’ Chevy, sleepin’ in some broken as shit cabin. Didn’t look like she was scoutin’ land.”
Roy’s mouth tilts, faint and humourless.
“You think they’d send a team of suits? No. Katherine is plotting. And her daughter shows up here, now? After what… nine years? Ten?”
“Been longer,” Gator mutters before he can stop himself.
Roy’s eyes flick to him.
“Exactly.”
“She don’t remember me,” Gator says, because he can’t quite help it. “Didn’t even know who I was.”
Gator thinks of you standing by that fire, wind lifting your hair. Thinks of the confusion in your eyes when he’d said he knew your name. There hadn’t been anything calculated there. Just blank space.
“She didn’t seem-” he starts.
Roy cuts him off with a raised hand.
“You were children,” he says evenly. “Childhood fondness don’t mean much when there’s money on the table.”
He gestures loosely toward the wall map.
“This land is valuable. More so than folks realize. Katherine’s made no secret of her interest in expansion. Retail. Infrastructure. The county grows, or it gets swallowed. I intend for it to grow on my terms.”
Gator feels something twist low in his stomach. Protective instinct that doesn’t know where to settle; toward you or toward the land he’s grown up believing is his to defend. Roy leans forward slightly now, palms resting flat against the desk.
“You know her,” he says. “If anyone can get close without her raising suspicion, it’s you.”
“I told ya, she don’t remember me.”
Roy watches him closely.
“Or she’s lying,” he offered.
The suggestion lands sharp. Gator meets his father’s eyes, that all too familiar scheming look on his face.
“Why would she?”
Roy’s shoulders lift in a fractional shrug.
“People lie for all kinds of reasons. Especially when they want something.”
“I don’t think she’s workin’ for her mother,” Gator says quietly.
Roy’s expression doesn’t shift.
“Then find out. Ask questions. See what she says and what she doesn’t. You’re good at that.”
The praise is deliberate; a hook to reel Gator in, dressed as approval.
“If she’s here sniffin’ around for Katherine, I need to know before anything moves.”
Roy reaches for the papers again, signalling the conversation’s nearing its end.
“I don’t operate blind, Gator. And neither do you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gator nods once then turns to leave, boots heavy against the wooden floorboards.
Outside, the air is sharper than it was inside. The fields stretch wide and open. He stands there a moment beside his truck, keys loose in his hand, vape resting between his teeth.
He thinks of muddy summers. Of you tying flowers in your hair. Of you sitting cross-legged on the tailgate, grinning like you’d swallowed the sun.
Or she’s lying.
The idea sits wrong. Why would you pretend not to know him? What would that get you?
Still.
Roy doesn’t get things wrong often. Gator exhales, long and steady, and climbs into the truck. He’ll go see you. Like he’d planned to anyway.
♡♡♡
The bell above the diner door hasn’t stopped chiming since six-fifteen. It isn’t busy enough to call it a rush, but it’s steady. Two truckers at the counter arguing about road conditions out by Bismarck. A pair of hospital nurses whispering over to-go cups. One farmer in the back booth with his hat still on, reading yesterday’s paper. A few more bodies dotted about.
You move between tables with a pot of coffee and a smile you keep having to reconstruct.
“Top you up, hon?” you ask.
Your voice sounds normal, at least you think it does. The right upturn on your consonants to seem chirpy. But inside, your mind keeps flicking back to the cabin and the phone you left on the kitchen counter. Fifteen more calls had come in before you left for your shift. You couldn’t face the possibility of it lighting up again and again, vibrating itself, and you, toward the edge. You’d left it on purpose.
“Sweetheart?” Mavis calls from behind the counter. “You with us?”
“Yeah,” you answer quickly. “Sorry.”
You turn toward the service hatch just as Joe slides a tray through, steam curling up in lazy ribbons. He gives you a small, reassuring smile like he’s clocked the way your hands have been moving too fast.
“You’re good,” he murmurs under his breath.
You nod, not trusting yourself to respond. You balance the tray against your hip before stepping through the gap in the counter and nearly walk straight into a black cotton clad chest.
You gasp softly, the tray tilting. A hand lands on your shoulder, firm but not rough. The other catches the edge of the tray before it slips, steadying both you and the plates in one smooth motion.
“Easy,” Gator says.
For a second, all you feel is irritation. For fuck’s sake, of all the places he could stand. You straighten quickly, reclaiming the tray.
“I’m fine,” you say, sharper than you mean to be.
His hand drops away immediately.
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
You don’t look at him properly. You can feel the heat of him there, blocking half the aisle.
“Take a seat,” you say briskly. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
You move around him before he can answer, the tray steadier now in your grip than your pulse feels in your throat.
Behind you, he watches. You’re moving too quick. Shoulders tight. Smile flashing on and off like a faulty light switch. When you bend to set the plate down, your hand trembles just slightly before you tuck it back against your apron. The scene was hardly giving corporate espionage.
You bounce between two more tables, collecting empty mugs, stacking plates neatly on your tray. Joe takes the dishes from you at the hatch without comment this time.
You turn, wipe down the counter space in front of Gator even though it’s already clean, then reach for a paper cup. The coffee machine hisses as steam ghosts up around your fingers.
He hasn’t said anything. Just watches.
You set the takeout cup down in front of him without acknowledging him then glance around the diner to check if you’re needed. The truckers are mid-argument again. One nurse is paying at the register. Mavis is arguing with the receipt printer. But nothing immediately needs you.
You rest a hip against the counter across from him. Your fingers drift to your other hand without you noticing. You pick at the skin beside your thumb, rolling it between your nails.
Gator watches as you do. You used to do that when you were thinking too hard. He remembers you sitting on the porch step, worrying that same bit of skin raw every time Everett was packing up the car to leave.
He leans forward slightly.
“You alright?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I talk plenty,” you reply, a lightness you don’t feel slipping into your voice.
His expression doesn’t change. He’s still watching you in that way that feels less like scrutiny and more like patience. You hold his gaze for a second longer than you mean to. Then look away.
It would be easier if he’d just shrugged and sipped his coffee. Easier if he’d taken the dismissal and let you hide behind it. Instead he waits, and the waiting makes something in your chest loosen against your will.
You exhale through your nose and lean your palms against the counter like you need it to hold you upright.
“It’s just…” you start, then stop. Shake your head. “It’s stupid.”
But Gator doesn’t touch the coffee or look away. He just watches you, expectantly. You fill the silence because he hasn’t.
“My ex,” you say finally. “He’s been calling. I blocked the number like you said, but he just uses a different one. Phones been going off all morning, I had to leave it at home,” you admit, words coming faster now. “Figured if I don’t hear it, it can’t get to me. Which is dumb, I know. It’s not like that solves anything.”
You rub at your forehead briefly.
“I thought about getting a new phone. But that’s money. And paperwork. And I don’t exactly have time to stand around in some store explaining my life story to some spotty twenty-year-old with a name badge…”
You huff a small breath and realise you’re rambling. Even the truckers have gone quiet.
“Sorry,” you say, straightening abruptly. “You didn’t come here to listen to me moan. It’s nothing. Enjoy your coffee.”
You reach for the rag on the counter, something to do with your hands. Before you can grab it, he passes it to you.
“Ain’t gotta apologise,” he says.
You take the rag from him without looking up, tuck it into your apron pocket.
“Still,” you mutter.
You turn away before he can say anything else and head toward the truckers, clearing their plates as they shrug on their jackets.
Behind you, Gator watches. This isn’t the snippy edge you had the other night; this is different. You move like someone bracing for impact. He stands, setting a few bills on the counter, more than he usually leaves, way more than the coffee is worth.
He grabs the to-go cup, the bell gives its familiar chime as he steps out into the morning light. He pauses beside his cruiser and lets his gaze drift back toward the window where he can just make out your shape moving behind the counter.
Roy’s voice sits in the back of his mind. Find out.
He thinks of you on the side of that road, the look you’ve been wearing these past few days. You aren’t measuring acreage or calculating profit. You were measuring distance. Safety. He’d been right yesterday; you were running from something. And he intends to find out what.
♡♡♡
The clouds are rolling in as you pull into the clearing. The cabin looks the same as it did that morning. You leave your shoes by the door when you step inside, shrug your bag onto the chair, grab your clip from the side table and scrape your hair up without bothering to look in the mirror.
You head into the kitchen and open the cupboard out of habit more than hunger. Joe’s omelette had been unexpectedly good. You’d eaten it leaning against the counter between orders, barely tasting it at the time, only realising now that it had been the first proper thing you’d eaten all day.
You settle for a handful of crackers, something to chew while you flick the kettle on. The water begins its low hum.
You slip into the bathroom while it heats, turning on the tap and splashing cool water over your face. You look in the mirror, wipe away the droplets with a soft towel. By the time you return, the kettle is rattling faintly.
You pour the water over the tea bag and watch the colour bloom slowly into the mug. You wrap both hands around it and step into the living space, lowering yourself toward the sofa. You’re just about to settle when there’s a knock at the door.
You sigh, placing your mug on the coffee table before crossing the room and pulling it open.
Gator stands on the porch, still in his work gear. Black tee stretched across his shoulders, tac vest strapped tight, boots dusty from the day. He doesn’t say hello, just holds something out.
A small white box. You blink at it.
“What’s that?”
He shrugs, like it’s obvious.
“Y’needed one.”
You look from the box to him and back again. It takes you a second to understand.
“A phone?” you ask.
He nods once.
“S’one of those cards, pay as you go. Can top it up at the gas station.”
Your chest tightens slightly.
“I didn’t… I wasn’t suggesting,” you say quickly. “Earlier. At the diner. I wasn’t trying to… I don’t want you thinking I was angling for you to do this.”
He frowns faintly. You hesitate, looking between him and the box in his hands.
“I can’t accept this.”
“Yeah, y’can,” he says evenly. “Y’need one, I had one. Now you got one.”
He holds the box out a little further.
“Ain’t that complicated.”
You look at it a second longer before stepping back.
“Come in,” you say quietly.
He glances down at his boots and tips his chin toward them in silent question.
“It’s fine,” you tell him.
He steps inside, moves to sit at the little kitchen table, awkwardly straight-backed, like he isn’t sure what to do with his hands.
“Want a drink?” you ask.
He shakes his head. You sit opposite him and he nudges the box across to you. The seal tears clean under your thumb. The plastic peels back with a faint crackle.
“Sorry,” you say after a moment, not looking up. “About earlier. I don’t usually… unload like that.”
“S’fine.”
“Felt kinda good to get it out,” you admit, prying the SIM from its packaging.
He tilts his head and leans back slightly in the chair.
“Couldn’t tell your friends? Your mother?” he asks, casual. “Ain’t that what you girls do?”
You huff a soft laugh.
“Yeah, well. I haven’t got any friends.” You slide the SIM into place, click the tray shut. “And my mom hasn’t spoken to me in seven years. So we’re not exactly doing the girly chat thing.”
You don’t look up when you say it. There’s a small pause.
“Shit,” he says, quieter. “Sorry.”
You shrug.
“It’s fine.”
And it is. Or at least it’s been long enough that it feels like it is. You can’t remember the last time you thought about her properly.
Seven years is a long time. Long enough for the anger to dull. The phone screen flickers faintly as you press the power button.
Gator clears his throat.
“Sorry about your granddad,” he says.
That one makes you look up. You hadn’t expected it, although now you presumed Roy had told him.
“Thanks,” you reply after a second.
“I didn’t…” You hesitate. “I hadn’t seen him much the last few years anyway. My mom made sure of that.”
You pick at the corner of the plastic wrapping still clinging to the back of the phone. You peel it slowly, methodically.
“I didn’t even find out he’d died until months after,” you add. “I don’t really know what happened, like if he was ill or anything. I just woke up one day to a letter from his lawyer.”
You look across at the bedside table where that very letter sat. You remember the first time you opened the envelope to see a bundle of legal documents, serious words on weighty paper. Then, a smaller envelope tumbled out and inside that a neatly folded letter in familiar scripted handwriting: ‘To my darling girl…’
You turn back to the table, give Gator a faint smile then focus your attention back onto the phone in your hands.
“He taught me how to drive,” he says after a moment.
You glance up.
“In his pickup. I was maybe eight.” A small ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “Couldn’t even see over the wheel proper. Had me steer while he did the pedals. We near took out a fence post first time. He’d take me drivin’ around the fields, told me it helps y’learn the shape of a place.”
There’s something softer in his voice when he says it, you can’t help but smile.
“He loved it here,” you say.
The words come easily, even if they aren’t tied to any clear memory. You don’t remember the time you spent out here as a child, not in detail. But you always associate it with your Pops.
He was the one who brought you. Who’d show up in his truck, flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, hat tipped back just enough to squint at you over the brim. Cowboy boots scuffed at the toes.
That’s the image that stays with you. Him grinning like the day belonged to just the two of you. You can’t reach the conversations anymore. But you can still picture that.
The phone vibrates lightly in your hand, the screen flashing brighter as it completes its startup sequence. The image dissolves and is replaced by a home screen, blank and waiting.
“Workin’?” Gator asks, leaning forward to look at the screen.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Yeah, it does.”
You hesitate, then reach back to the kitchen counter for your old phone. The screen is still dark, stubbornly silent for once. You unlock it and scroll to Mavis’s contact, copying the number over carefully. Send a short text: ‘It’s your favourite waitress. New number.’
The reply comes almost instantly, you smile at the screen. Gator shifts in his chair, glancing toward the door.
“I should head.”
“Wait,” you say quickly.
You slide the phone across the table toward him.
“Put your number in.”
Gator pauses for a second. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because it catches him in the chest. You don’t remember him. There’s no obligation in this; no old loyalty being honoured. But you’re asking him anyway. Choosing him.
His fingers move slower than yours did, deliberate. Adds his name and number then slides the phone back across the table.
For a moment, you just look at it. Then your hand drifts to the old phone sitting beside it.
“Will you take this?” you ask, holding it out to him. “It’s probably not worth anything. But even if you just… throw it away somewhere else. I’d appreciate it.”
He studies you for a second before taking the old phone from your hand.
“Yeah,” he says simply, slipping it into his back pocket.
You walk him to the door this time. At the threshold, he pauses, waiting for you to open it. The porch light catches along the edge of his jaw when you do, throws his cheekbones into quiet shadow. There’s a faint crease between his brows from squinting all day, and a smudge of dust near his collar that you hadn’t noticed before.
Up close like this, he’s broader. Taller. The kind of presence that fills a doorway without trying.
It takes you a second longer than it should to step back. The evening has cooled properly now. The trees are darker, the sky stretched thin and pale above the clearing.
“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time. “I mean it. You didn’t have to… I just, I really appreciate that you did.”
He looks at you for a moment, something unreadable but warm flickering there.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
Then he steps off the porch and crosses toward his cruiser. You stand in the doorway and watch him go.
The cruiser’s headlights flare briefly as he pulls it into gear, then dim as he turns toward the road. The sound of the engine fades slowly into the trees until the clearing feels wide and empty again.
You hadn’t expected him to be like this. That first night you had thought him cocky and irritating. But tonight he felt… steady. It didn’t feel like the phone was a favour you would later owe him, it felt like a genuine gesture.
You close the door and lean back against it, thinking about the way you snapped at him the first night. The way you almost did again this morning. But he still showed up anyway.
Maybe you don’t have to keep meeting him with your teeth first. Because he might be the first person in a long time who feels even close to something like a friend.
Summary: Late one night you pack up what’s left of your life and drive across state lines to the hunting cabin your late grandfather left you. Out on the back roads, Deputy Gator Tillman finds you lost… and remembers you, even if you don’t remember him.
Note: Okay so what happened was I had sort of too many ideas for my ‘Beautiful Broken Things’ fic so I decided to split it and those ideas started this. Now, this is super self indulgent, it is based on my own memory issues (I can’t remember anything from before I was 16/17) and I apologise in advance because I got SO INTO writing this that it is now like…. 17 parts. BUT I will upload it semi-quick, maybe a chapter a night? So you won’t have to wait ages for the next bits. It’s mostly written, just needs proof reading.
I also think it might be important for me to stress that I make Roy rather redeemable in this fic, he isn’t totally Mr Sunshine but he just isn’t the villainous asshole of this story. So keep that in mind.
You didn’t recognise the face in the glass. The skin dull and pale with tired, lifeless hair pulled back into an elastic too close to snapping. Everything about you was too close to snapping, but in truth, you didn’t even have the energy to break. Looking up you met your own eyes in the mirror; this time you would have to find the energy. You couldn’t stay, not again, not this time.
You opened the cabinet and began pulling your things out and dropping them into the empty sink; half a box of q-tips, a bottle of black nail polish and a few loose hairbands. You gave the shower door a shove and reached under the dripping showerhead for the shampoo and conditioner, adding them to your pile in the sink. You paced across the hall where you found an old gym bag in the linen closet, some folded towels and a bedsheet in the bottom. You packed the toiletries into a plastic bag, rolled up a couple blankets and placed them on the floor before carrying the bag down the hall to the bedroom.
Yours and Sean’s bedroom wasn’t big, the whole house wasn’t big, but it had been home and when you were young and in love it seemed to have so much potential. Even if it was miles from what you had grown up living in; you could ignore the fifties popcorn ceilings and the chain-link metal fenced yard because Sean had found somewhere just for you. But the cracks started appearing, then the mould and then things started breaking and Sean never fixed anything and he wouldn’t let you call the landlord and you tried to fix what you could, but you never really had the money to spare, and it seemed an endless task.
In the bedroom, two of the closet doors leant covering the window; one had come off the runner and Sean hadn’t seen the point in only having the one, so he took both off and used them to keep out the sun whilst he slept through the day ready for his night at whatever dive bar he was temping at. You slapped the light switch, a single bulb with no shade flickered into life above your head as you threw the bag on the bed.
From a top cupboard you took down a carry-on case and decanted your sparse closet into it, still on the hangers, then turned your attention to a small worn dresser, the top drawer of which had no handle; you pried it open with a pair of scissors and scooped up the contents throwing it into the suitcase. You looked around the room. Nothing. That was it. Your entire existence.
For seven years you had lived here and all you had to show for it was a gym bag and a carry-on? You zipped both bags closed and carried them out to the hall, hesitating, you dropped the bags on the floor and turned back to the bedroom. Where you were going, he wouldn’t find you and by the time he was home you would be long gone. Besides he didn’t even know you knew about it. You knew you shouldn’t but after everything he had done to you, really, you deserved it.
You walked back to the furthest closet and slid the door across, the only thing Sean kept neat was the inside of his closet. He liked shoes, expensive ones, he always had these expensive trainers, and you had never understood how he could afford them when you barely had money for food most weeks. He kept them in the boxes, all stacked up.
You weren’t naïve, you knew he was up to something you just never knew what and were too scared to ask. One night, he had come in from work whilst you were in bed, you had laid still pretending to be asleep hoping he would just leave you alone and he did. He left the lights off and just creeped into the bedroom. So, you watched as he snuck around the room and crouched into his closet, you watched as he reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of money which he hid. You closed your eyes tight as he shut the door, not wanting him to know you had seen. But you knew he was getting this money from somewhere; he was hiding so much from you, but you couldn’t ask and you weren’t sure you wanted the answer. Guess you had it now though, let’s see if he could talk himself out of a felony charge, not that you’d stick around long enough to find out.
You gently moved a stack of shoeboxes across, and there it was, a straight cut edge in the floorboard, you grabbed the scissors from the dresser and slid them in, popping the loose board up. In the gap below was piles of cash, more than you were expecting, all neatly piled and wrapped in rubber bands, who did he think he was? You picked up two stacks of notes and put the floorboard and shoeboxes back how you found them. No point in being greedy, better he doesn’t realise that anything is missing than give him a reason to chase you, you thought.
You walked back through the hall, collecting the bags and switching off the lights as you went. Your car was one of the only things you had left your house with when your mother had made your leave, and you loved it. A 2014 Chevy Tahoe, it had been a gift for your sixteenth birthday, back when your parents still acknowledged you as their child.
Sean had lost his licence not long after you’d moved and so thankfully, he had helped you to pay for the car as long as you ferried him around. It was old and it had some wear and tear, but it had never let you down, it was the only thing that hadn’t. You put the bags and the blankets into the trunk and then worked on shimmying the door key off your keyring. When you finally got it loose, you went back inside and placed it on the kitchen table.
You took one final look around the house that had had so much promise and had meant so much to you, had once filled you with joy and made you smile; you could remember watching movies snuggled up on the sofa and Sean practicing making cocktails at the kitchen bar when he was first getting jobs in bars, back when you used to laugh and love each other. You closed the door as you left.
Once in the driver’s seat, you fumbled across into the glove compartment to retrieve a stack of documents and a letter, you plugged your phone in to charge and opened up the maps app.
“Ok then Pops,” you sighed, unfolding the letter and turning the pages over in your hands, “I’m doing it, you better be watching me.”
You typed in the zip code scrawled on the letter, the map on the screen zoomed out then in again as a pin dropped on a pixelated area of pastel green, below it a thick black notification read ‘estimated journey time 7 hours and 23 minutes’. You started the car engine and checked the gas tank, which was a little under half full, plugging your seatbelt in you pulled away letting the house fall into the rear-view.
The sun had long since set when the gas tank light came on, You had just crossed the state border and had made pretty good progress. The fluorescent lights of a gas station were visible on the horizon. There were no other cars in the forecourt, you pulled your hood up shielding your face and hopped out of the car. The fuel cap was still stiff from when you were rear ended a few months ago; the side panel had dented and you couldn’t afford to have it fixed so you asked someone at work to take a look, they did the best they could and hadn’t asked you for anything in return, but the metal never straightened out properly and the fuel cap still got stuck and then of course, Sean found out and that all escalated. Regardless, you loved your car, temperamental parts and all.
You watched the numbers tick over on the pump mindlessly until a motorbike pulled in beside you and you were jolted back into reality. You replaced the pump and slammed the fuel cap which closed first time. You reached through the window for your purse and adjusted your hood once more before walking across the forecourt to the store. The door rang as you entered, you wandered up and down the aisles unsure if you were hungry at all, settling on a bag of Skittles and a bottle of Sprite. You approached the cashier with your head down.
“Just these and the fuel for the Chevy, pump two,” you said sheepishly as you placed the items on the side, “thanks.”
The man pressed a few buttons on the register barely even looking at you as he scanned through your sugar rush. You weren’t sure why you were nervous, as if he was going to snitch on you for running. You smiled, paid for your goods and wished the man a good evening, thankful for his disinterest.
♡♡♡
You could feel your eyes getting heavier; the passing lights on the interstate all blurring into one. You wound the window right down and let the cold night air shock you into life. You took a quick glance at your phone, the maps app slowly tracing your movements across the screen, one hour twenty-eight minutes left to go. The app was suddenly interrupted by a flashing notification; you swiped it away in dismissal but more followed it and then the app disappeared to make room for the dreaded incoming call. You let it ring, your grip tightening on the steering wheel, when the caller finally gave in, you quickly turned your phone to ‘do not disturb’.
No more interruptions, you weren’t going to change your mind this time and how the hell was he already out? Sean had been picked up with more than enough to be done for possession, he should be rotting in a cell. You put your foot down, more determined than ever, whatever was at the end of this car ride was guaranteed to be better than what you were leaving behind.
Finally, you signalled to leave the interstate. You turned right and followed the road through wide open country. A sign welcomed you to Fargo. You passed through a main street, antiquated store fronts with their lights off, closed up for the night. You carried on through until there was nothing but trees and a few scattered houses, the road seemingly stretched on forever. The further you drove the more sparse your surroundings became.
The app led you on, to more poorly lit winding roads that had gotten progressively thinner and their surfaces rougher. Around you the trees got thicker and thicker, you could hardly see the sky for how tall they were, you had been driving slow, breathing in the new smells and the fresh air; you almost missed your turning.
You took the left turn and the map on your phone pinged, connection lost. You swiped at the screen trying to bring it back to life but there was nothing, the device had completely lost you. You pulled over to the side of the road, turned on the interior light and reached for the glove box to retrieve the letter; you turned it over in your hands, on the back was a roughly drawn map and a set of written instructions.
You hold the paper closer and squint at the hand-drawn map in the dim light. It’s a scrawled mess of lines that don’t make sense; you aren’t even sure where you are. You tap at your phone screen again but the blue dot that is supposed to represent your location is dancing around the map sporadically as your phone attempts to communicate with some distant satellite to no avail.
Headlights bloom in your rear-view mirror. The vehicle slows as it approaches, an SUV with a light bar on top. It rolls past you a few feet before brake lights flare red, then it reverses slowly until it’s level with your driver’s side window. The window of the patrol car hums down; you lower your window in return.
“Y’alright there, ma’am?”
The voice is lazy, belonging to a Sheriff’s Deputy. Broad shoulders resting back into the seat like he’s got nowhere else to be. One hand draped over the steering wheel. The other hooked in his vest.
“M’jus’ askin’,” he adds lightly. “Outta town plates, parked up at the side o’the road, m’thinkin’ you might be a little lost.”
“My maps app lost signal,” you say, holding up your phone as proof. “I’m not broken down.”
“Ain’t what I asked.” A corner of his mouth twitches. “But good t’know.”
You inhale through your nose.
“I’m trying to find a cabin. My grandfather’s. I haven’t been here since I was a kid.” You unfold the letter and lean toward the window slightly. “It should be down one of these roads.”
He shifts in his seat, interest piqued now.
“Granddaddy got a name?”
“Everett. Everett Caldwell? It’s a hunting cabin.”
The easy slouch leaves Gator as recognition sets in. He leans forward slightly, squinting at you properly. The dash lights catch your face, your eyes. He knows those eyes. He hasn’t seen them in years, but he knows them. Everett’s girl. A memory of muddy knees, feral hair and rosy cheeks flashes in his mind.
“Are you ok?” You ask, the deputy had gone quiet.
“Yeah. I know it.” He glances past you toward the dark stretch of trees. She doesn’t recognise me, he thinks. “Couple miles further in. Road forks and folks always take the wrong one.”
“Thanks, I can manage,” you say.
“M’sure you can.” He chuckles, studying you another beat. Then, casual as anything: “Tell you what. M’headed that way anyhow. I’ll roll ahead; you follow. Saves you guessin’.”
You hesitate and he notices.
“Ain’t tryna drag you off into the trees or nothin’, promise.” That smirk again. “Just doin’ my civic duty.”
You almost laugh despite yourself.
“Fine,” you say. “Thank you… Deputy.”
That makes him grin properly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He rolls his window back up, eases the patrol car forward, and you fall in behind him. You follow him down several more dirt roads to a break in the trees. There the road forks, just like he said and he signals left. You follow on and ahead, a small wooden cabin comes into view.
As you turn in the drive the headlights illuminate a rickety wooden structure. You had spent many a summer here with your grandfather as a child, not that you remember it. It felt different now, darker, older, like you. The wood was worn and plants overgrew the walls. The lantern hanging in the porch, no longer lit, was rusted and one of the windows was boarded up. You got out of the car, and the fresh air hit you, you hadn’t realised how exhausted you were.
His brake lights glow red in front of the cabin before cutting out. The trees close in around the clearing like they’re listening. You stare at the silhouette of the house as he steps out of his vehicle.
He glances at you.
“How you remember it?”
“I don’t really remember it at all.”
He glances at you then walks a few paces toward the porch, hands settling on his hips as he scans the roofline, the boarded window, the sag in the steps.
“Been empty a while,” he says.
“I know.”
He looks back at you.
“You plannin’ on stayin’ here tonight?”
“Yep.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“By yourself.”
It’s not a question.
You’re tired. So tired. Your bones ache. Your brain feels wrapped in wool. You just want to lay down, not discuss logistics with some try-hard Sheriff’s Deputy.
“Yes,” you snap, sharper than you intended. “I’ve been driving for seven-” You check your watch, “Eight. Eight hours. So thanks for showing me the way, but I’m tired and not looking for a property evaluation.”
His eyebrows lift. There it is - the temper. That hot headedness that got you in more than enough trouble in the past. He exhales a quiet almost-laugh through his nose.
“Alright.”
He rocks back on his heels.
“M’jus’ sayin’. Gets cold out here. Cell service ain’t great.”
“I’ll manage.”
He studies you a second longer, weighing something. Then, dry as dust: “Okay.”
He turns back toward his cruiser, then pauses and glances over his shoulder.
“M’keep an ear out for the call about a frozen dead body come mornin’.”
You glare at him. His mouth curves.
“Kiddin’,” he says lightly. “Mostly.”
You don’t smile, just survey the cabin a little longer. The Deputy nods once.
“Well. Welcome back, I guess.”
And just like that, he gets into his patrol car and pulls away, headlights disappearing through the trees until it’s dark again.
Gator doesn’t drive far before the quiet hits him. Everett’s girl. He remembers you knee-deep in the creek, holding a jar of snails like you’d discovered gold. Remembers how you’d yelled at him for calling them ‘gross’. Remembers how you’d told him he was being mean, then grabbed his hand and run across the ranch five minutes later, forgiven and forgotten. You didn’t recognise him. Not even a flicker. He tells himself that’s fine, it’s been years, you were kids. Still. His jaw tightens as he takes the next bend. Welcome back, he’d said. Like he hadn’t been waiting.
Exhausted and alone again, you head back to your car, take two blankets from the back seat and make your way over to the door. The door groans as it opens. Inside, the furniture is covered in dust sheets. You walk over to the bed and throw one of the blankets over it. The metal frame creaks as you collapse on top of it. You unfurl the other blanket and cuddle it around your shoulders. Within seconds, you are asleep.
♡♡♡
You woke, heart racing, to the low grumble of an engine outside. You struggled to your feet and darted across to the window. He’s found me, you thought, how has he found me? You cleared a corner of the glass slightly with your sleeve and peered out. Another car had pulled up behind yours; its door emblazoned with the County Sheriff’s Office logo, from it a dark-haired man in a cowboy hat had emerged and was walking directly to the cabin door.
You backed away from the window and looked around the room frantically for a mirror or something you could see yourself in. Failing to find anything you settled for smoothing your hair over with your hands and rubbing your eyes awake.
You reached the door just as the knock came and opened it halfway. The man smiled in a way that felt entirely false as he removed his hat. You gave him a quick glance over; flannel shirt, sherpa coat, leather gloves. He looked exactly like the kind of man who would live around here.
“Mornin’.”
His voice was gruff. He pointed with his hat to your Chevy.
“Noticed your car out front. Come to let you know this cabin belongs to a friend. If you’re needing somewhere to stay you can head back into town. Find plenty of rooms. Ain’t gonna make a scene and take you in but can’t let you stay here.”
“Everett? Your friend? You knew my Pops? Hang on, it’s here somewhere,” you turned back into the cabin and grabbed at the blankets on the bed until the letter fell to the floor.
“Here, here,” you handed it to the man at the door. “He left it to me, this cabin, in his will. I only found out recently and it took me a while to get out here. I’m not… you know… I’m allowed to be here. At least, I think I got the right place, the map was rather rough, and I had to have one of your deputy’s show me the way late last night.”
The older man looked you up and down, you suddenly felt conscious of your unruly appearance, no wonder he had thought you were just a squatting passer-by. He passed the letter back to you without reading it, the fake smile had disappeared from his face.
“Everett’s dead?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you muttered, you had expected to be the only one your family failed to tell. On the other hand, it didn’t surprise you. It wasn’t in your mother’s nature to think about anyone other than herself.
“I’m sorry, he passed away a few months ago. I don’t really know many details; I only found out myself when I got this letter. My family… they don’t…”
“Sorry for your loss,” the man interrupted, “Everett was a friend of mine. Good man. Good hunter. Sorry, name's Roy Tillman.”
You told him your name but kept yourself shielded partly by the door. You were unsure of him; he didn’t exactly give off a friendly vibe.
“Oh I remember you. Wild little thing, always had me and your grandaddy chasing you and the boy around. You planning on staying long?”
You looked at his face and tried to recall it, but there was nothing. You had trouble with your memories. It was as if your brain had just wiped its hard drive after you left your mother’s and moved in with Sean. You weren’t aware of it so much when you were with Sean, there was no one to remind you that you had existed before him.
“Sorry, I have a really crap memory, I don’t… To be honest, I don’t have much of a plan, but I also don’t have anywhere else to go,” you began to pick nervously at the skin around your thumbnail.
“You said one of my deputy’s showed you here last night?”
“Oh, yeah. Um, didn’t catch a name. Younger guy, slick back hair-”
“Gator.”
“Excuse me?”
“That was Gator. My son, the boy?” he looked at you with a slightly amused smile. “You really don’t remember, huh? Well, I thought he had a habit of forgetting to mention things to me, but I think he could well be off sulking someplace.”
You stood still, body still planted in the slightly open door, unsure what to say, unsure what he was talking about. There was something about Roy that put you on edge.
He stepped back and ran his hand along the wooden porch rails.
“You need something you let me know.”
“Will do,” you said, even though you had no intention of taking him up on that offer.
He nodded and placed his hat back on his head as he approached his car. You retreated into the cabin and listened as the sound of his engine disappeared.
The cabin was open plan, save the small bathroom in the back corner. You pull the dust sheets from the couch and armchair, they’re not in bad condition, just a little dated. Behind you the bed is unmade with your blankets strewn across the top. It definitely needs work, but it’s yours and it’s safe.
You stand in the middle and let the silence press in. Dust hangs in the air where you disturbed the sheets. The wood smells damp and old, like something that’s waited through too many winters. You step toward the kitchenette first, assess the damage. The tap coughs before water sputters out, brown at first, then clearing. You let it run.
The cupboards are mostly empty. A few chipped mugs and plates. In one drawer you find cutlery wrapped in a dish cloth gone stiff with age. You rinse everything twice before setting in on the side to dry.
The fridge hums when you plug it in. that feels like a small victory. You start a list in your phone while you still have battery.
Cleaning supplies
Groceries
Extension lead
Light bulbs
Something for the window
Firewood
The boarded window nags at you. The roof too, now that you’ve seen the sag in it. You step outside again and walk the perimeter slowly. The grass is overgrown around the edges. One of the porch steps dips dangerously under your weight. You test it twice; it definitely needs fixing.
You glance towards the treeline. It feels like you’re being watched but you tell yourself that’s ridiculous. You haven’t seen another house for miles, just trees.
You kick at a loose piece of siding as you round the cabin. You lean on the porch railing, and it almost gives out beneath you. Righting yourself, you open your notes app and start a new list of things to fix.
Front window
Roof holes
Front step
New lock
Porch railing
An engine hums faintly somewhere beyond the trees. You freeze. The sound passes along a back road. Through the branches you glimpse the flash of a black truck. The windows down, but the bodies inside too far to make out.
You pretend not to notice as the truck continues on. You stand there for a few seconds longer, eyes skimming the treeline for signs of life. But nothing appears.
By late morning the cabin feels less like a grave and more like a project. You wash your hands in water that still smells faintly metallic, change into a clean sweater from your case, and drive the Tahoe back down the dirt road. In the daylight the trees look less threatening, and the road signs are legible.
The town appears slowly, first the church steeple, then a gas station, then a row of brick storefronts with painted signs fading at the edges. Everything looks permanent, built to last. Like it expects to outlive you.
You park crooked the first time and have to straighten up. You hop out of the car and look up and down the main street. To your left, the neon open sign of a diner catches your attention, you walk towards it in search of caffeine.
The bell above the diner door rings when you step inside. The low hum of conversation dies as the three customers sat at the counter turn to look at you. An outsider in their midst. You move forwards anyway.
An older woman with greying hair pulled tight at the nape of her neck studies you with a thin smile.
“Passin’ through?” she asks.
“Uh, no,” you say. “Just got in.”
She wipes her hands on a towel before resting them either side of the register.
“Ya staying long?”
“That’s the plan.”
She tilts her head slightly, looks you up and down then back to your face like she’s decided something.
“Ever wait tables?”
“Yeah,” you reply, confused at first.
“Can ya carry three plates, smile and pretend ya care?”
“Like a pro,” you huff a laugh.
“Well then, you start tomorrow. Afternoon shift starts four-thirty.”
You blink.
“That’s it?”
She shrugs.
“Short staffed. Last girl skipped town, new beau. Name’s Mavis, and that-” she gestures with her thumb through the kitchen window to a man standing over the grill, “is Joe. I’ll pay ya cash, end of the week and you can keep tips.”
You nod, tell her your name and add a quick, “thank you.”
She waves you off like gratitude is unnecessary. You order a coffee and take a seat. Mavis returns with a mug; you wrap your hands around it and let the heat sink into your palms. She disappears out the back. One of the men at the counter leans back slightly to address you.
“You Everett’s granddaughter?” he asks.
You slow blink, clearly news travels fast in this town. You only turn your head slightly, as you give a short reply.
“Yes.”
He looks you over in a way that lingers a second too long.
“Been a long time since anyone stayed out there. Didn’t think anyone was comin’ back for it.”
“Well,” you say, slight agitation in your voice. “I’m here.”
He smiles. Not kindly but not unkindly either. Just… unsettling. The bell above the door goes again, but you turn back to the counter, eyes down watching the swirling liquid in the mug.
“You stayin’ up there alone?”
There it is. Only took three sentences for him to hit creep status. You roll your eyes, still watching your mug like it is the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen.
“Don’t see anyone else with me, do you?” you reply sharply.
“Roads get real quiet out there,” he says, really leaning into the creep status. “Real dark-”
You turn to look at the weird old man just as he is interrupted.
“You ain’t got no business out on them roads, Dale.” The deputy from last night is stood over the man, his hand braced firmly on Dale’s shoulder. “Not unless you plannin’ on runnin’ into trouble.”
Dale looks chastened and turns back to his plate.
“Just makin’ conversation,” he mutters.
“Then make it at home, to your wife.”
The deputy doesn’t look at him again, instead turns his attention toward the counter where Mavis has reappeared.
“Coffee,” he says to Mavis.
“You’re early,” she says.
The deputy shrugs. Mavis places something on the counter in front of you, you look up to meet her eyes.
“Apron,” she says, giving the folded cloth a little pat. “Ain’t got a uniform, just that.”
You mutter a thanks and return to searching for answers in your coffee. Mavis sets another cup down beside you as the deputy slides into the empty stool. Having had quite enough conversation for the day, you down the remnants of your coffee and stand, reaching for your purse.
Before you can pay, he drops a few bills on the counter beside his cup.
“For hers too,” he nods at Mavis.
“I can pay for my own coffee.”
He doesn’t look at you, “I’m aware.”
You shake your head and slide your money back into your purse slowly.
“Thank you,” you say, because your mother may have been a bitch, but she did raise you with manners.
He nods his acceptance and you leave. You don’t look back at the diner window, but you know he’s watching you walk away.
You stop in the hardware store two doors down. You walk the aisles slowly, checking your list and grabbing things that feel useful: extension lead, light bulbs, box of nails, a cheap hammer.
The man behind the counter barely glances at you when you place everything down. He tells you the total without smiling. You count the cash carefully, aware of how thick the folded notes still feel in your purse. Sean’s money. You don’t linger on the irony.
You tuck the change into your coat and step back outside.
The grocery store is next. Smaller than you expected. You buy the essentials and last minute add a cheap bottle of wine you don’t strictly need but justify anyway.
At the checkout you pay in cash again, like you’re refusing to leave a footprint. The cashier counts the bills twice before handing you a receipt.
Back on the street, the town feels quieter now, a mid-afternoon lull. A dog barks somewhere behind a house. Wind nudges an old campaign poster against a brick wall.
You load everything into the Tahoe carefully, arranging it so nothing rolls around on the drive home. When you shut the trunk, you catch sight of it. The same black truck you’d noticed earlier, parked near the edge of the lot.
You hadn’t thought much of it before but now you do. Two men sit inside, the windows rolled down. Neither of them are pretending not to look at you.
Their engine starts as soon as you pull out. You don’t look in the mirror at first, you wait, then risk a glance back. The truck follows for half a block before turning off in the opposite direction. You release a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. Paranoid, you tell yourself.
The road out of town stretches ahead. You pass the church again. Then the gas station. Then the trees begin to close in as the roads thin.
Halfway down the dirt road, just before the turn off, a silhouette appears ahead. The same black truck. It slows as it passes you. You keep your eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel. But you feel them looking. One of the men leans slightly toward the open window as they pass. Neither smiles, nor waves. They just watch. You drive on.
When the cabin finally comes into view through the trees, you feel the smallest flicker of relief.
♡♡♡
By the time the light begins to thin, the cabin looks different. Less like an abandoned shed and more… awake. You’ve dragged half its inside out onto the lawn. A broken dining chair with a split leg. A stack of warped plywood. Newspapers so old they crumble at the edges when you lift them. Some hunting books with curled, water-stained pages.
You find three of your grandfather’s flannel shirts at the bottom of a crate. Folded once, then forgotten. You shake one out. The fabric is soft with age, worn thin at the elbows. It smells like nothing now, just dust. You fold it again and set it aside. Useful.
You sort everything in quiet concentration into two piles: useful and useless. Anything useless makes it’s way to the lawn pile.
You build the fire pit slowly, dragging stones from the edge of the clearing and arranging them into a rough circle. You pile some paper and a bit of the plywood on top to get you started. You hesitate only a second before striking the match.
The first flames take reluctantly, then eagerly. Paper curls inwards, blackening. The plywood collapses in on itself as the heat climbs. Smoke rolls upward, thick and grey against the fading sky.
You go inside and come back out with the cheap bottle of wine and one of the chipped mugs from the cupboard. You pour more than you mean to. The first sip is sharp and not very good. You drink it anyway.
Your phone vibrates against the porch step beside you. You ignore it. It vibrates again. You turn it over this time. Sean. Three missed calls. Two voicemails. Another call coming through. You flip it face down again.
The screen glow disappears, but the tension doesn’t. It lingers in your chest, a low, humming thing. You take another sip of wine to wash it down. The cheap sweetness catches at the back of your throat.
The fire settles into a steady rhythm, wood splits softly as heat works its way inward. You stand to add more to the top, watch as the fire engulfs the broken dining chair and a few more dried up books.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. He can’t find you.
Then headlights flare across the trees. They sweep wide and white through the clearing, cutting through the smoke, catching the edge of your cabin, your car, your face. You freeze instinctively. The engine idles before cutting out. You don’t turn, just stare at the fire like it has your full attention.
“Evenin’.”
His voice carries differently out here. Echoes slightly, you feel it more than you hear it.
“It’s contained,” you say, still looking at the flames. “Before you say anything.”
Gator looks at you. The firelight catches in your hair as the wind lifts it. It’s soft, curling at the ends where the heat brushes it gold. You look thin, still beautiful but tired. Like something that’s been worn down and hasn’t quite decided whether to harden or break.
He tells himself he is here because of the smoke. Because he doesn’t know how to say that he wanted to see if you were alright. Because it’s easier to lie than tell you that he can’t stop thinking about you and why you don’t remember him.
“Got a complaint.”
You let out a short breath that might be a laugh.
“From who?”
“Folks.”
“There aren’t any folks.”
He steps closer. You can see his shadow stretch long and warped across the grass beside yours. The firelight glints briefly off his belt buckle. You take another sip of wine, more for something to do with your hands than because you want it.
The wind changes direction and smoke drifts toward him. He doesn’t step back, just squints slightly and waits for it to pass. He pulls a neon green vape pen from his pocket and takes a large inhale, the pen clicks softly. There’s a beat before he blows a large cloud of sickly sweet vapour into the air.
“You work quick,” he says after a moment.
“I don’t like sitting still.”
“Yeah, I remember,” he chuckles, taking another hit of the vape.
You look at him in confusion but before you can ask what he means. Your phone vibrates again. It’s loud in the quiet. You don’t reach for it, letting it ring out. But it starts again straight after.
“Persistent,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He nods once, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
The fire collapses inward with a sudden crack, sending a burst of sparks upward. You flinch. He doesn’t.
Gator steps forward and nudges one of the burning planks back toward the centre with the toe of his boot. There isn’t an ounce of recollection behind your eyes, he wonders how long he can stand here before you tell him to leave.
“You don’t have to babysit it,” you say.
“’M’not.”
“What are you doing then?”
“Watchin’”
The word hangs between you. You look up at him properly now. The firelight sharpens the lines of his face, throws his eyes into shadow. He looks familiar, in a way people often do to you, but you can’t place him. You never can. Your stupid brain won’t allow it.
Gator can feel your eyes on him.
“Did you really get a complaint?” you ask.
His gaze holds yours a second longer than necessary. He doesn’t answer. You know he didn’t. he knows you know it. But neither of you push.
Your phone vibrates again.
You exhale slowly and reach for it this time, just to make it stop. You press the side button until the screen goes black.
“You can block him,” he says.
“I can ignore him.”
“That ain’t the same.”
The fire shifts again, lower now, steadier. He looks towards the tree line briefly, then out toward the road.
“You expecting someone,” you ask.
“No. Are you?”
You hesitate.
“Have a black truck keeps rolling past,” you say, unsure why you’re telling him. “Followed me out of town, slows up when it passes by.”
His jaw tightens, just slightly.
“Yeah.”
You wait.
“My dad’s men,” he says after a second. “You’re sittin’ on the edge of Tillman land. Ranch runs long this way. They do a loop.”
“A patrol?” you ask.
“Somethin’ like that.”
“They were watching me,” you say.
“They watch everythin’.”
“That’s not comforting.”
His eyes flick back to you.
“They ain’t gon’ come up here.”
You look at him again.
“Why?”
“Cause I said so.”
You take a sip of wine.
“You always this… territorial?”
He hums in response. You study him for a second in the firelight. The certainty in his posture. The way his hands tuck into the side of his deputy vest. He comes across as confident, but you wonder if it’s an act.
“I met your dad, actually,” you say.
He turns to look at you, some of that certainty falling away. You take another sip of wine, unsure why you keep doing it, it really is awful. You pour the rest out on the grass.
“He came by this morning,” you continue with a laugh, “thought I was squatting.”
The wind pushes smoke sideways again. He doesn’t move. You keep talking, if only to fill the silence.
“Told him who I was, turns out he knew my Pops. I used to come here with him sometimes, but I don’t remember it. I’ve got a crap memory; bunch of stuff just isn’t there.”
You shrug like it’s nothing. Like misplacing years of your life is the same as misplacing your keys.
Gator watches you a second too long. He remembers you shoving him off the dock and laughing when he came up sputtering. Remembers you yelling at Roy for gutting a deer in front of you and then asking to hold the knife five minutes later.
He remembers all of it. You don’t remember him at all.
Something small and stupid twists low in his gut. He tells himself it shouldn’t matter. Kids grow up, people move on, not everything sticks. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he isn’t worth remembering.
“Yeah,” he says evenly. “Been a while.”
You don’t notice the shift.
The fire drops inward with a loud crack. You crouch to adjust a plank with a stick, focused on the flames.
He straightens.
“You don’t wanna let that run all night,” he says, voice smoothing back into something professional. “Wind shifts out here. Embers travel.”
“I won’t.”
He nods. There’s distance in him now. Contained. He steps back towards his vehicle.
“Make sure you drown it ‘fore you head in,” he adds. “Last thing I need’s half the tree line goin’ up.”
You glance at him, a flicker of irritation there.
“I know how fire works.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“Tell that to my dad’s old tool shed,” he mumbles under his breath. You only slightly catch it.
He opens the driver door and ducks inside. The engine turns over and headlights sweep the clearing once more. You watch as the trees swallow his taillights.
♡♡♡
Inside the cruiser, the dark feels thicker. Gator drives slow at first. Doesn’t turn the radio on or reach for his vape. He just replays the evening in his head. He shouldn’t have said that about the tool shed, should have played it off like he doesn’t remember you either. But he does. He remembers it all.
Summer heat. The shed baking in the sun. you barefoot in the dirt, hair a mess, holding a box of matches you weren’t supposed to have.
“It’s science,” you’d said. Dead serious. Seven years old and furious that he’d told Roy you couldn’t build a proper fire.
Gator had laughed. Called you dramatic. You’d lit the match anyway.
The flame caught faster than either of you expected. Dry kindling stacked too high, too tight. You’d both panicked at the same time. You yelling. Him swearing. Smoke climbing thick and grey against the clear blue sky.
Roy running from the house, his voice cutting across the yard like a gunshot.
You’d grabbed Gator’s hand. Not thinking. Not asking. Just grabbed him and ran. Through the tall grass. Around the water trough. Into the tree line.
You’d tossed the box of matches somewhere behind you. Let the fire swallow the evidence.
You didn’t stop running until you hit the woods. Until your lungs burned and your legs gave out. You collapsed against a fallen log, breathless.
And then you’d started laughing. Bright and reckless.
You looked at him like he was your accomplice. Like the whole world was something the two of you could outrun. Thick as thieves.
Summary: Abandoned outside a movie theater, Hawkins High’s academic overachiever makes an impulsive choice.
Offering her extra ticket to Eddie Munson.
What happens when the Brain and the Criminal realize they might not be as different as Hawkins High insists they are.
Themes/ Warnings: Swearing/ strong language, No use of y/n, Reader is female, Lengthy talks laced with self-deprecation, a compilation of my teenage struggles as a retired quote unquote academic overachiever
Words: 11,4k words (im sorry)
“Are you kidding me right now?”
You're livid. Absolutely, undeniably livid.
It's bad enough you had to stomp through the freezing dark just to get here, wind slapping you in the face, your fingers basically turning to ice cubes, with a side of sketchy dudes yelling from their cars, making you wish you could disappear. And now, on top of all of that, Jenna, the only one in your grade you have enough of a connection to call your friend, is bailing. After a week of three long quizzes and two group presentations where you basically carried half the members, the one thing you were actually looking forward to is now ruined.
With a popcorn bucket in one hand and the payphone receiver in the other, you barely hear Jenna's voice over the ringing in your ears. Her excuses blur together.
“I lost track of time,” Jenna says, her voice strained and distant across the crackling line.
“My car broke down,”
“I wasn't sure you were actually gonna' go,”
That last excuse pissed you off the most. You've been planning this the entire week. Agreed on the time, discussed the expenses, and now she’s going to tell you that she wasn't sure if the plan was on.
Unbelievable.
You’re about to hang up, maybe mutter a resigned “fine, see you tomorrow,” and just deal with it, when a distant voice drifts through the phone.
“Babe, come back here,” someone calls, muffled but unmistakable.
And then it clicks. Lost track of time, my ass. You’ve been ditched. Ditched for her asshole of a boyfriend, who you’re pretty sure doesn’t even know your name.
You suck in a shaky breath, but it does nothing to quell the frustration you're feeling. Your hand is trembling as you slam the receiver down so hard it rattles the phone, the sound echoing sharp and final. You don't say goodbye. You doubt she even noticed, and if she did, you couldn't care less at the moment.
You trudge to a nearby bench, sit with a huff, and stare at the popcorn in your hands. You fish your pockets for the tickets, tickets you've already paid for, and were about to rip them into pieces when you overhear a commotion.
It was coming from the ticket booth.
“Come on, man,” said the guy who seemed to be the one causing the ruckus. “I'm two cents off!”
You vaguely see the clerk shrugging and shaking their head no, and the guy backs away. He starts to walk towards where you're sitting, and stops short just a little bit to your right.
“Fucking prick,” you hear him mumble under his breath while he lights a cigarette, and as the subtle flicker of the fire comes to life, you finally get a better look at the man's face. You instantly realise who it is.
Munson.
You couldn't recognise him from the distance. His long, wild hair was haphazardly tied into a bun, a couple of strands falling and framing his face. He’s still wearing his leather-vest combo, sleeves pushed up to reveal arms scattered with tattoos, but has decided to forgo the club shirt he wears all the time and is now wearing a band shirt you don't recognise.
You do some soul-searching.
You're pissed, you have a warm bucket of popcorn on your lap, and two unused tickets in your hands.
And now there was a boy standing right next to you, albeit a boy you don't really know, who seems to have a predicament that you can remedy.
Fuck it, you think. It's not like the night could get any worse.
“Hey,” you call out from where you're sitting. He turns his head towards you, eyebrows raised in confusion, but doesn’t say anything right away.
“Hi?” he finally calls back, sounding unsure, like he's trying to figure out where he knows you from. Maybe gym class last year, or that group project where he never spoke– not for the lack of willingness to help, but more so the lack of an audience. Eddie doesn’t think you know each other, which also means you’re not hostile. For the most part, you just floated in each other’s background, orbiting the same halls, but never really crossing paths.
You nod toward the ticket booth. “Freddy’s Revenge?”
He looks back at the booth, still not catching your drift. “Uh, what?”
“The movie you wanna’ see,” you clarify, trying your best to hide the remnants of frustration from your earlier conversation.
“Oh. Yeah,” he says with eyes wide, recognition finally dawning on the boy as he glances between you and the booth. “That one. Yes.”
He’s still visibly confused, which, to your surprise, you find oddly...
Adorable?
The thought catches you off guard, and you quickly shove it away.
You’ve got your answer. Standing up, you walk over and, without a word, thrust the popcorn and extra ticket in his arms—A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge written in fine print. He fumbles at the suddenness of your actions, nearly dropping both in surprise, causing his cigarette to slip from his lips.
As you're dusting off some suspicious patches of dirt on your pants from the rickety bench, Eddie finally catches up to your offer.
He's immediately wary, shoulders stiffening as if bracing himself for the punchline of some joke at his expense. There's a flicker in his eyes that says he's used to people offering things just to snatch them away, or worse, to laugh when he reaches out.
He begins to wonder if there's a catch. If there's an ambush waiting for him behind the theater doors, if you're going to demand free weed at the end of the night for being nice, anything. What could you want from him? Who are you?
Eddie knows your face. He knows he's seen it before, but everyone in Hawkins who wasn't his friends or his uncle has all blended together in his mind. He doesn't remember your name, but he does remember that he can't just keep staring at you for long.
“Are you sure?” Was the question that eventually made its way out of his mouth. He looks at you with this mix of suspicion and hope, the kind of look that comes from having too many good things turn out to be tricks.
You just look at him for a moment, thinking of any reason why you shouldn't be sure.
You're not friends. Barely acquaintances. If anything, you know him more by reputation—rumors of dealing weed in a secret spot in the woods, tagging random buildings with obscure logos, and stealing faculty car keys for a joyride, following his name wherever he goes.
But there's something about the way he's standing in front of you at that very moment. His back is hunched, shoulders drawn in, like he's trying to appear smaller than he is. His eyes were wide and earnest, and his voice deep but impossibly gentle. The contrast between his rough look and the way he acts is almost disarming.
Every reason to say no is quickly overcome by the curiosity to say yes.
“Hog the popcorn, and I'm shaving you,” was the answer you gave him as you made your way to the theater entrance.
You reach the doors. As you’re halfway through opening it, you look back, only to find him still standing by the bench, dumbfounded and looking at you like you might as well have spoken Latin. He couldn’t make sense of you, and now there's something in his eyes, something in the way he was looking at you, but you couldn’t decipher what it was.
“Dude,” you say, beckoning him with a nod to follow you inside, deciding to let your observations go for now.
Only then does he snap out of whatever trance he's in, cheeks tainted pink as he mutters a soft “Shit, sorry,” and jogs to you as fast as he can without spilling the snack in his arms.
The two of you walk side by side upon entering the theater, and Eddie immediately notices the stares, feels them creeping up his neck. His blazing into places isn't anything new. Most people in town have already grown accustomed to his presence, despite it being unwanted. He's learned how to stomach the nasty looks and the harsh whispers. For years now, Eddie had developed the skills to shut them all out. Walk proudly, look straight ahead, and scream as loud as possible on the inside to drown out all the noise from outside.
He doesn't seem to need any of it tonight.
Because tonight, every look of judgment and hurried whisper wasn't for him. They were aimed at you.
The guys by the popcorn line are gawking at you like you’re some carnival attraction, while the girls waiting for their boyfriends shoot you pitying glances, as if you’re trapped in a bad joke.
Somehow, out of the two of you, you’re the freak, just for being seen with him.
As you finally reach the hallway heading to the screening rooms, Eddie urges you to stop.
“Hey, listen. Uh- I don't want to sound unappreciative, but-
“You don't think this is a good idea,” you interrupt, already aware of what the boy in front of you is thinking.
“Not really, no,” says Eddie. He looked so solemn, framed by the theater's dim lights, a soft halo glowing around his curls. His eyes remain downcast, staring at the popcorn bucket still in his arms, flicking up just long enough to meet yours and then darting away, too shy to hold your gaze. For all his wild reputation, the tattoos, the loud music, and the leather, he looked more like someone who’d apologize to a chair after tripping on it, rather than a no-good, criminal in the making.
You think to yourself, there's no way this is the guy parents tell their children about.
You start to speak, your voice low but steady.
“If you wanna' go, that's fine. I won't hold it against you,” you start, angling your head to catch his eyes. He doesn't look up, but you continue. “But if you wanna' go because of me—because you think every half-witted normie back there is bothering me—they aren’t. Right now, I truly don’t have it in me to give a rat's ass. You're not here as a charity case or whatever narrative you’ve got in your head. A friend bailed on me, and you needed a ticket. That’s it. I just didn’t want to be alone tonight,” you finish, your voice growing softer at the admission.
There's a small stretch of silence after that.
At first, you thought this was the part where he apologizes, hands you your things, and turns around to leave you. He doesn't.
Instead, Eddie surprises you.
He moves past you towards the door, grabs the handle, and opens it for you. He gestures with his head as he says,
“After you.”
For the first time that night, you see him smile. It was shaky, hesitant, but authentic. You take it as a victory.
You give him a smile of your own, but it's more playful.
“Good choice,” you say, slipping past him toward the seats.
You both settle near the back, not so close your neck aches, but not so far you feel exiled. The sweet spot.
Or so you thought.
For a while, things between you were a little stiff, which was understandable, seeing as you were two strangers forced into small talk in the dark. The two of you filled that darkness with comments here and there about the previews. He called one of the romcoms “cheesy.” You said something about “cheesy’s not always bad,” and he left it at that with a smile.
You notice, after a bit, that he only grabs popcorn after you do, and never more than two kernels at a time. You counted.
You start grabbing a couple more pieces on purpose just to see if he’ll take it as permission to stop eating like British royalty. He doesn’t.
Finally, you prod him.
“You know, I wouldn’t actually shave your head, right?”
His laugh is nervous and quick. “Y-yeah, yeah, I knew. Totally knew you were joking.”
He’s taking three kernels at a time now, which was progress, but he’s still watching how often you grab some and match your pace.
And then, it was the Battle of the Armrest.
At first, it was the two of you retracting your elbows each time you’d accidentally graze each other, but then, as if he's testing the waters, Eddie bumps you on purpose, a sly little push. You retaliate with a not-so-subtle elbow nudge of your own. It escalates until both of you just start snickering and nudging the other off.
“I got you in here for free with popcorn,” you whisper, faux-offended, as he claims the armrest.
“You mean the popcorn I’ve been holding for the last 20 minutes?” He grins, and you swear you see a dimple.
“It’s been 10.”
“And my arm’s getting numb from it. This is how I lose my rockstar career.”
You smile as you shake your head at his behavior. You surrender, but only for a few seconds. You let him have the armrest, then, once he's comfortable, you move to casually place your elbow over his. He gives you a look, you give him one back as a challenge. He says nothing as he grabs more popcorn to shove in his mouth.
You look away first, but Eddie catches your smile.
And that's when it hits you. You’re actually having fun.
Eventually, the lights went out, signalling the start of the movie, and that's when you saw it.
A few rows ahead, you spot two familiar faces from school, a couple who treat every public space like their own personal stage.
“Can't catch a fucking break in this town,” you mutter to no one in particular, used to voicing out reactions that get drowned in the sea of overly sweet giggles and macho antics of the crowd you run with.
“Jesus H. Christ,” you hear Eddie say beside you, admittedly startling you a bit. You see him looking at the same couple you saw. “Is that not a health hazard?”
This makes you snort. He's funny.
“Might as well call it a threat to national security,” you reply, and both of you snicker, tucked away in your own private bubble.
“We're trying to watch a movie here,” the bubble bursts.
You whip around to find none other than Tommy fucking H, flanked by who you assume as a pack of assholes you never bothered to meet when they were still at school. When did this prick slither back into town?
“Oh, so two people sucking each other's face off is fine, but god forbid two people whisper a bit,” Eddie retaliates before you could fully process what Tommy said.
“Fuck, Munson, is that you?” Tommy says with a condescending laugh, and then, as he notices Eddie's not by himself, “With little Miss Valedictorian, too. How'd you bag that, Munson?
Eddie’s eyes snap to the back of your head, your face turned away from him while you're looking at Tommy. It was as if he was suddenly seeing you in a different light. Of course, you looked familiar. Your name, your face, hell, your entire reputation is plastered everywhere at Hawkins High. Debate trophies, quiz bee ribbons, banners shouting your victories, all branded with your name, flood through Eddie’s mind.
It took Eddie a minute to recognise you because you don't have classes together. He thinks you're probably taking every AP class known to man, while he's stuck wrestling with senior-level algebra for the third time. You're on your way to a bright future filled with college applications, honor rolls, and six-figure jobs, and yet here you are.
With him.
Sharing popcorn and an armrest with the drug-dealing, super-senior, like it's nothing.
Should he have just said no to you from the start?
His internal conflict is disrupted by your speaking up.
“Definitely not by having his daddy do it for him,” you answer back, not appreciating the way Tommy's talking about you, instead of to you. “How's the job search going?”
Tommy pauses just long enough to reload, then sneers, tossing out a half-baked insult meant to drag you both down.
"You know, you should really watch what you say," he begins to say. “Or all you're gonna’ get are junkie dropouts desperate for attention for the rest of your life.”
By now, your back-and-forth has stirred up a commotion, drawing curious stares from the rest of the theater.
Soon enough, one of the workers marched their way to your seats to address you and Eddie, completely ignoring the fact that the gaggle of pricks behind you played a part in the disturbance, too.
“Excuse me, we're going to have to escort you out. Both of you,” said the attendant who approached you.
“Don't bother. We're leaving,” you say, already on your feet and heading for the exit. Sparring with someone operating at Tommy’s IQ level is not on your agenda tonight.
You glance back to see Eddie right behind you, Tommy still snickering with his crew. Before you can stop yourself, words spill out.
“Junkie dropout,” you say vaguely, tossing his words back at him. “Takes one to know one, right?”
You catch his jaw tighten, but you turn away before he can spit out a comeback.
Eddie trails after you as you slip out into the night, finding your way back to the same rickety bench where it all started. This time, Eddie takes the seat beside you.
You lean back, eyes closed, head tipped over the backrest with a sigh. Eddie, perched at the edge, misreads your mood as frustration with him instead of the whole mess. You sense him fidgeting beside you.
“I'm sorry about that,” you hear him say.
“Why?” you ask, opening your eyes to look at him fully, eyebrows drawn in confusion.
“I don't know, I–” he stutters, his hands gesturing as if he's physically trying to coax the words out of his chest. “It probably wouldn't have been that bad if I weren't there,”
“That's stupid,” you reply without hesitation. “I don't know how you saw that situation, but you were not the problem.”
Eddie goes silent again. You keep surprising him.
“What did you mean?” he asks, remembering your words before leaving the cinema. “Takes one to know one?”
“Oh,” you say as you sit back up, giving Eddie your undivided attention. “Tommy didn’t get his diploma, not the right way at least.”
No fuckin’ way.
“No, he walked the stage,” he argues, emotions of envy disguised as indifference resurfacing in his mind. He pushes them back down. “I was dealing that day.”
“Oh, he walked, alright,” you say, subconsciously placing your arm on the backrest. You don’t notice that it would only take Eddie to lean back a couple of inches for your arm to be basically wrapped around his shoulder, but he does—and now he’s acutely, painfully aware of it. He freezes, heart hammering so loud he’s sure you’ll hear it. You go on to speak, unaware of Eddie's silent battle. “But that was only because his dad paid off Higgins and half the faculty to save face. Tommy didn’t meet the grade requirements. He tried to, but he didn’t make it.”
Eddie takes this in with a deep, steadying breath, grateful for the distraction of your arm behind him. His whole perspective is skewing off-kilter in real time by your words, and he can still feel the echo of his racing pulse, every muscle in his body slow to unclench from your actions.
“So, it was...”
“Fake,” you finish for him. “Tommy Hagan was a casualty of Hawkins High.”
“Saved by his daddy’s money,” he mutters to himself.
For the first time in a very, very long time, Eddie feels the heavy knot of self-blame loosen just a little. Maybe, sometimes things really are just unfair, and he's not the only one suffering from it. For a moment, the world feels a little less cruel, and he clings to that fragile sense of belonging as if it might vanish any second.
You look over Eddie and take in his features. He seems miles away, dead silent, and lost in thought. You think back on your parting words, and realization dawns.
Takes one to know one. Shit.
“I didn’t mean that I thought you were a–”
“No, I know,” he jumps in, voice soft but eager to reassure you. Guilt keeps your words tumbling out.
“I just– I don’t want you to think that I–”
“I don’t,” he interrupts again without a hint of hesitation in his voice, because he actually does believe you. For the very brief time he’s known you, he’s surprisingly certain that you truly didn’t mean any harm. To hell with cliches, he thinks to himself. You’re different.
Right then, you choose to trust Eddie. You meet his eyes, nod, and lean back, withdrawing your hand. The wind shivers through you, but something else makes you flinch.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
“What's wrong?” Eddie asks, instantly alert. For the first time tonight, it’s you who’s finding it difficult to meet his eyes.
“I–” you falter. Three-time state debate champ, and now you're stuttering through a single sentence. “I just kinda’ wish you didn't leave the popcorn in there,” you finally admit sheepishly.
Eddie stares at you, unblinking, until a slow, irrepressible grin spreads across his face.
Then he bursts out laughing, doubling over with his elbows on his knees and his hand pressed to his forehead, barely holding himself together.
You try to be mad, annoyed that he’s laughing at you during a moment of weakness, but a smile sneaks onto your face anyway. You shove his shoulder with a muttered “fuck off,” nearly sending him off the bench. He only laughs harder, and your grin only grows.
“God forbid a girl is hungry,” you finally manage to say, between his bellows.
The asshole, an endearing one, sure, but an asshole nonetheless, had the audacity to wipe tears from his eyes as he calmed down. Once put together enough, he turns to you and says,
“Well, I know this place just down the street. It's probably still open.”
“I don't know,” you begin, pretending to hesitate, but then you ask, “Do they have good onion rings?”
“No,” Eddie says, voice serious, before breaking into a grin. “Only the absolute fucking best.”
And so the two of you set off on your journey. Eddie stood up first, not bothering to dust his jeans off as you did earlier. He's sat on more questionable surfaces in his 19 years of existence, he thinks to himself. He steps forward, causing you to look up at him, confused. And then, he offers his hand with a flourish, every bit the gentleman.
“I am capable of standing on my own, you know,” you say, but not rudely, an easy smile still on your face.
“Just take my damn hand, Smarty,” he insists, wiggling his fingers at you.
“Smarty?” you ask with a snort of laughter, but to Eddie’s surprise, you take his hand anyway, letting it linger as you stand. For a moment, he freezes, caught completely off guard and confused about what he should do now. He hadn’t expected you to accept, not really, and now he seems genuinely at a loss for what to do next. Then, almost bashfully, he breaks into an easy grin.
“As in smarty pants. It was either that or ‘Einstein’,” he recovers.
“Groundbreaking,” you deadpan.
“I know, right? Absolutely outdid myself with that one.”
He guides you toward his van, parked only a few feet away, your hands still tangled together.
“I can also walk on my own,” you comment, in absolutely no hurry to let go.
“I'm not risking it,” he replies, making a show of intertwining your fingers and placing your still clasped hands inside his jacket pocket, drawing you closer to him.
“Risking what?”
“You. You’re precious cargo,” Eddie tries to say casually, though not quite able to keep the tremor in his voice, knowing he has your hand in his, and you were letting him. “The future of Hawkins, Indiana. First president of the planet ten years from now. I’m not risking you.”
You roll your eyes, but the flutter in your chest betrays you.
“Well, in that case, I think you should be carrying me,” you challenge.
“I would, but tossing you into my van in the dead of night might look a little suspicious.”
When you reach his van, he leads you to the passenger side. You’re halfway to grabbing the door handle with your free hand when his hand darts out to swat yours away with a playful tut and a warning, “Don’t you dare.”
Eddie opens the door for you and helps you up, using your joined hands as leverage. Once you’re settled, he finally lets go, and the absence of his warm, calloused hand is so jarring that you can’t help the involuntary flex of your hand— a subconscious attempt to replicate the feeling, hoping to keep the memory of it a little longer. You look back at Eddie, expecting him to shut the door and circle around, but he lingers.
In the next second, Eddie’s in your space, his arm reaching next to your head for the seatbelt in a single smooth motion. The world narrows to the warm scent of his jacket, the gentle clink of metal as he pulls the belt across your chest and snaps it into place. And then he’s gone again, back where he was standing by the open door with a crooked grin.
“Okay, now this is just excessive,” you say with a huff, after the initial shock has worn off.
“What do you think ‘Eddie’ is short for?” he quips, finally shutting the door and circling the van. You think Eddie sounds nothing like excessive, but you let it slide. Same first letter, close enough.
Once he's settled behind the wheel, he takes the keys out of his pocket and starts the ignition. The van sputters to life, a low tumble echoing out into the empty street. He takes a deep breath and clutches the wheel tight.
“You good?” You ask after a while.
“Yeah,” he starts to say, noticeably breathless. “I just– it's not every day I have royalty to drive around in my humble chariot.”
You stare at him for a beat. You take note of his eyes, a gaze that comes and goes. One moment, you swear you're being hypnotized by its intensity, only to be gone, looking everywhere but you in the next. You notice his slightly trembling hands, which have been unsteady and uncoordinated the moment you placed the popcorn in his arms, and clammy for the short time you had it in yours.
“You've been like this all night,” you say out loud, stating your observation.
“Like what?” he replies.
He keeps his eyes set straight ahead.
“Jittery. Nervous,” you say, ticking off the symptoms. Then, on a hunch, you say, “Do I make you nervous?”
Eddie stills. He slowly turns to you with an expression you’ve never seen on his face all night. One of his eyebrows is quirked up so high it disappeared under his dishevelled bangs, nose scrunched, and mouth left slightly agape. All the nerves and manic energy vanish, replaced by a look of such unfiltered incredulousness. For a heartbeat, he just stares at you, at a complete loss for what to say. When he finally speaks, it’s in a tone so squeaky, you would have been pretty sure only the dogs could hear it.
“You only figured that out now?”
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, unable to ignore the hilarity of his admission.
“Why would I make you nervous?” you blurt, genuinely stunned. The idea that Eddie Munson could be unsettled by you feels absurd. You’re just another senior, maybe with a few extra ribbons, but still just another face in the crowd. Yet the way Eddie looks at you now, it’s clear he sees something else entirely.
“Because you're…” Eddie starts, then falters, searching your face as if hoping the right words will appear there. He looks away, voice tight. “You're unorthodox.”
“Unorthodox,” you repeat slowly.
“Yeah, like—look, I have a system in place, okay? I have to if I want to survive,” Eddie continues. “If you’re one of us, you’re a friend– an ally. When push comes to shove, even if you don’t like me, I’m there for you. Always. If you’re a jock, you’re a threat. A fight waiting to happen. If you’re in cheer, you’re off-limits. Not even in a romantic sense, you just are. Not as a friend, as a lab partner, nothing. And if you’re Higgins, well, that’s just evil incarnate territory,” his laugh is brittle, forced. You smile tight-lipped, but you don’t laugh, realizing the depth of where his rant is heading.
He swallows hard.
“But you,” he says, head turning in your direction, but his eyes are downcast again, the moment resembling his hesitance to enter the theater with you earlier. He goes on, voice growing softer the more he reveals.
“You don’t fit anywhere. You blow the whole thing up. You’re… valedictorian. Future Nobel Prize winner. The kind of person who has their name uttered in reverence by everyone, the kind of person who always knows the answer. You shouldn’t even be looking my way. I shouldn’t be worth your time, and I would’ve been completely fine with that. Because I believe that. Our worlds should be light-years apart. I can’t even picture your world, let alone imagine you’d ever look twice at mine.”
You stay quiet, letting him fill the silence.
“But here you are, you’re… there,”
He pauses again, drawing in a deep breath before finally meeting your eyes.
“You’re real. You let me hold your hand for Christ’s sake. Me. I keep waiting for the punchline, but it’s not coming, and I have no idea what to do with that,” he says.
Eddie’s voice drops to a near whisper, as if he’s scared that speaking any louder might break whatever fragile connection exists between you. “All night, I kept thinking you’d finally see it. You’d realize you’re here slumming it with the town screw-up, and you’d just get up and leave. And I wouldn’t blame you.”
He keeps his gaze on you, eyes wide and vulnerable. “But you didn’t.”
He rubs the back of his neck, laughter breaking through the nerves, but it’s soaked in disbelief. “So, yeah, I’m nervous. Because how the fuck am I supposed to handle any of this?”
Your heart breaks at his words, every word stealing the breath out of your lungs. You never considered the optics, never needed to. Yes, it was you that the people were gawking at earlier, talking about you like some sideshow act, but at the end of the day, none of it is going to stick anyway. People are just going to brush it off and forget about it. Call it a fluke. A one-time thing. A mistake.
But Eddie, the guy that’s been branded as the town’s own personal bad luck, he’s going to carry this weight long after tonight. He already is. For Eddie, this is permanent. To you, this is a passing storm, and you—you put him right in its path, chasing what you wanted and leaving him to shoulder the fallout.
You swallow, voice fragmented. “I’m sorry.” It’s not enough, but it’s all you have.
Eddie blinks, startled. “Sorry? For what?”
An apology was the last thing he expected to hear as a response.
“For all of it,” you tell him, looking him straight in his eyes, conviction clear in your voice. “For spurring all of this on you tonight. None of what happened, none of what was said back there bothered me, but I didn’t consider whether it bothered you. You said I was the type of person who always knew the answer, but, evidently, it’s not all good either. When you feel like you know everything, you forget to ask.”
He’s quiet for a beat, the silence stretching, but his gaze softens—some old hurt flickering in his eyes, like he’s remembering every time he’s been on the outside looking in.
“And for everything before tonight,” you continued, feeling as if what you just said was inadequate. Eddie responds with a subtle tilt of his head, not catching up on what you were saying.
“The people I hang out with,” you clarify softly. “For what they do, what they say. I’m sorry.”
For a moment, you see him start to close up, shrinking back into a hollow caricature of who he is—old defenses triggered by the mere mention of those people. It’s a habit, you realize, he must have adapted over the years of being scrutinized before being known. No one else would take the time to get to know him, so might as well just give them what they want to see. You assume it’s easier that way. Efficient.
But Eddie immediately realizes that there’s no need to hide who he is. Not with you.
“It's not your fault,” he responds, his voice so quiet, you almost missed it.
“No, but—” You falter, searching for the right words as your chest tightens. “But I didn’t do anything to stop it. I just stood by, every time, and kept silent. I let it happen because it wasn’t about me. But that’s just it. Not choosing is a choice. And I’m sorry for every time I picked the easy one.” You look down at your hands, wishing you could take every moment back, wishing you’d been braver when it counted.
Eddie leans back, his eyes never leaving you. Silence stretches between you until, finally, he smiles.
“I forgive you.”
You shoot him a look meant to say, “This is serious, not the time for adorable smiles and distracting dimples,” channeling your best glare.
“You really shouldn’t,” you say, shaking your head, pushing away the stray thoughts. “Not that easily.”
“Easily?” He asks with a grin, and for a second, you glimpse the version of him that comes alive around people he trusts—lively, teasing, warm. “You offered me a movie, buttery popcorn, stood your ground for me against Tommy H, and, just to bring it up again because I'm still not over it, you let me hold your hand,” he says, humor dancing in his voice, and then, when he notices that you remain unconvinced, he sobers up a bit. “Seriously. We're good,”
All you could do was sigh. He was a persistent guy, and you're done assuming for him. If he says you're good, then you're going to respect that and carry on.
“You won’t get far if you keep being that easy, Munson,” you tease, matching his smile.
“Only for the pretty ones,” he fires back, winking in a way that’s more dorky than smooth.
It fucking worked on you anyway.
“And cheesy as hell.”
“I thought cheesy’s not always bad?”
You give him an audible groan as he lets loose a gleeful laugh.
“Listen,” you say after a pause. “To answer your question about how we handle this, maybe we start small. Baby steps.”
“Okay. Baby steps,” he nods, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as you watch him think. “But, like what, though?”
You pretend to ponder, masking the chaos in your stomach that’s been churning for the last five minutes.
“Maybe you could start by taking this very cool person to this very cool place with the very best onion rings in town.”
“That I can do.”
And off Eddie goes, breaking traffic laws and the sound barrier, while you cling to the seat for dear life. You try to distract yourself by trying to decipher the cassettes poking out of his open glovebox. It was tape after tape of metal bands you didn't recognize, but you tried to file them in your mind, making a mental note to find some of them at the record store the next time you visited.
Metallica, Judas Priest, Black Sabbath, and–
Hang on.
You nudge a few tapes aside, squinting to see if you really read that name right.
Eddie spots you from the corner of his eye, rifling through his collection. There’s a question in his raised brow as he speaks up.
“I mean this in the most respectful way ever, but I don't think there's something in there for you.”
You ignore him, stubbornness kicking in. With a little triumphant noise, you manage to free the cassette from the pile, holding it up to the light for confirmation.
The Sisters of Mercy. First and Last and Always.
“And I also mean this in the most respectful way, Munson, but you are sooo about to eat your words,” you respond, flipping the cassette his way so he can see the front.
Eddie glances over, easing off the gas in the process, and looks at you. His eyes go to the battered cassette in your hands, then to your face, and this motion cycles two more times before he finally speaks.
“No fucking way,” he says under his breath. You smile with mischief.
You clear your throat, summoning the deepest voice your vocal cords would allow.
“In a sea of faces,” you begin to sing, messy and off-key, but it’s enough to send Eddie into another spiral.
“NO FUCKING WAY,” he shouts through a laugh that blends into a scream, ecstatic.
“In a sea of doubt,” you continue, your voice getting bolder with every word, until Eddie clamps his hand over your mouth, grinning like an idiot. You dissolve into a fit of laughter, unable to fight it.
“Nope. Absolutely not. You've fucked my perception of reality over enough for one night,” he says through a gleeful smile.
You wriggle free from his hand so you can speak.
“Fine, no more singing. But I'm borrowing this because my mom “misplaced” the one I bought last year.”
“Deal,” he says, still in disbelief, “Fuckin’ Sisters of Mercy.”
You chuckle to yourself as you pocket the cassette in your hands. You’re both silent for the rest of the drive, stealing glances at each other every now and then, before looking away with a snicker when your eyes meet.
By the time you finally arrived at the quaint diner, you were practically vibrating with hunger, more than ready to jump out of the van and march straight to the counter to demand everything they could serve hot within 10 minutes. As soon as the van rolled to a stop, you fumbled with your seatbelt, then tried to reach for the handle– Lord knows you really tried– but Eddie let out a screech that stopped you cold, your fingers barely grazing the metal.
You think he meant to say, “Don’t do it,” but what actually erupts from him is a sound that you can only describe as a prehistoric, reptilian war cry.
Eddie leaps from the van, nearly tripping over his own feet three times before finally making it to your side to open the door for you.
“Seriously, Marian. It’s like everything we’ve been through meant nothing to you,” he declares with a huff, scandalized by your act of treason that was opening a door on your own. What you latched onto, however, was the new nickname.
“Marian?” You ask as you exit the van, amused at the reference.
“Would you prefer we go back to ‘Smarty’?” he asks, closing the door behind you.
“I’d prefer we get inside and inhale as much greasy food as possible, pronto,” you shoot back.
You start to walk towards the diner, its bright neon lights attracting you like a moth to a flame. As you approach, you notice the slightly chipped paint, well-loved outdoor benches, and unevenly lit signage. While taking in the facade, your eyes land on the familiar face framed by the dusty windows, making you abruptly freeze mid-step.
You stop dead in your tracks, halting suddenly enough that Eddie, walking right behind you, nearly bumps into your back.
“Whoa–” he reacts, hands bracing himself on your shoulders to regain his balance. “Why are we stopping?”
You inhale sharply, feeling the earlier frustration surge back through you.
“Remember when I said I got ditched tonight?” you answer, your voice overly calm and neutral.
He answered, "Yes?" his tone careful, sensing the tension radiating from you.
Words fail you. Instead, you reach up, grab Eddie by the chin, and swivel his head toward the scene. He squints, trying to make out the faces of the guilty parties.
“Which one’s the ditcher?” He asks.
“The blonde one,” you answer through gritted teeth. “The ape in a letterman jacket’s her boyfriend.”
You let your hand fall from Eddie’s face and slip it back into your jacket pocket, releasing a tired sigh. The anger from earlier fades, replaced by exhaustion. Sensing your shift, Eddie moves to stand between you and the window, shielding you from the scene inside.
“Do you want to go?” he asks you, concern written all over his expression.
A part of you does. You steal a glance past Eddie’s shoulder, gaze locked on Jenna and her boyfriend. The old voice in your head is urging you to go. To walk away and slip back into the comfort of pretending none of it bothers you. The option is familiar, an action you've done more times than you care to count. But as you turn to face Eddie, hand fidgeting with the Sisters of Mercy cassette in your pocket, your resolve crumbles.
You don't want your night with him to end.
You want the laughter to keep going, the easy jokes, and the freedom to be yourself. In just a few hours, Eddie has given you more joy than your revolving door of friends have in years.
You glance back at the diner, watching Jenna laugh with her boyfriend, her world spinning on without you. That’s when you decide.
You raise your hand parallel to your elbow, palm facing up.
You offer Eddie your hand.
“Are you sure?” Eddie asks for the second time tonight.
“I am. You?” Was all you say.
“Let's get you those onion rings, Marian,” he says, placing his hand in yours with the conviction of a soldier marching into battle, lacing each finger firmly.
Hand in hand, you step into the diner and claim a booth tucked away in the corner. Heads turn as you pass, Jenna and her boyfriend’s too, you assume. You feel Eddie’s shoulders tense, his grip on your hand tightening with every curious glance.
You both reach the corner booth, mostly unscathed. As you settle in across from each other, an elderly woman shuffles over, her attention fixed on Eddie.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” she says, a warm smile curling at the corners of her lips while her eyes glint with mischief. “My eyesight ain't what it was, but I'm quite sure this pretty thing ain't your uncle,” You see Eddie shrink in front of you, bracing for whatever she’ll say next.
Then, in a whisper that’s not really a whisper at all, Joni leans in conspiratorially, “She your girl?”
Your eyebrows leap in surprise at her boldness, heat rushing to your cheeks. When you risk a glance at Eddie, his eyes are wide, ears burning red, panic written all over his face.
“Christ, Joni,” Eddie manages, his voice strangled by a nervous laugh. He scrubs a hand over his face, as if that could hide his blush. “Ever heard of subtlety?” He gives you an apologetic look.
“Tried it in '62. Worst year of my life,” Joni quips, not missing a beat. She fixes you with a keen gaze, a teasing lilt to her words as she says, “So, you’re not Wayne.”
"Last I checked, no, ma'am." You answer politely.
“You dating this tomato?” she asks you, making Eddie, now red-faced, lean back as if trying to melt into the seat.
“Sorry to disappoint,” you answer with a laugh and a blush of your own. “But we just met tonight.”
She regards you with a quiet hum, looking at you for a second longer before speaking to Eddie again.
“She called me ‘ma’am’,” she says with a satisfied smirk. “I like her.”
“Splendid, Joni,” Eddie groans, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. Even with half his face hidden, you can see the crimson creeping up his neck. “Can we order now?” he mutters, clearly desperate to change the subject.
Joni finally relents, jotting down your orders: two chocolate milkshakes, a burger with a side of fries for Eddie, chicken tenders for you, and the very much anticipated basket of deep-fried onion rings.
As Joni retreats to the counter, you drum your fingers on the table, letting the silence stretch before finally addressing the bright red elephant in the room.
“Your girl, huh?” you tease, voice low, a smile twitching at your lips as you study Eddie’s expression.
“Quit it,” he shoots back, bristling, but you can see the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“D’you bring ‘your girls’ here often?”
“Do I look like I have girls to bring anywhere?” Eddie retorts, gesturing at himself, voice half-defensive, half-amused.
“You brought me,” you point out, perching your elbow on the table and resting the side of your head on your knuckles.
“Yeah, and you’re the first,” Eddie admits, his voice softer now, almost shy. This makes you smile wildly.
“I'm honored,”
“I’m gonna’ puke,” Eddie groans.
“Comin’ in hot,” Joni pipes back, bringing your orders to your table. Your mouth waters at the sight, and the aroma of the food seizes your senses. For a split second, you’re so distracted by the food that it takes a moment to register how impossibly quick it all arrived. How did it get here so fast?
Eddie, already on the same wavelength, narrows his eyes at Joni.
“This is someone else’s order, isn’t it?” he says, his tone dry and familiar, suggesting this has happened before. Joni shoots Eddie a knowing smirk as she serves the food, leaving both of you with a sly, “I don’t know what you mean,” and nothing more.
As soon as Joni walks away, both of you dig in, fully realizing that half a bucket of popcorn wasn’t enough to sustain two growing teens for a night. Eddie offers the fries that came with his burger toward you, nudging the plate closer. You return the gesture, sliding a couple of chicken tenders his way. Your next target is the tall glass of chocolate milkshake, topped with, in your opinion, a little more whipped cream than usual. You weren’t about to complain. After taking one sip, you were more than ready to worship the ground Eddie Munson walks on for bringing you to Joni’s diner.
“Holy shit,” you say, setting the glass down with reverence. “Did she steal this from Willy Wonka?”
Eddie’s face lights up, hands tapping the table twice, delighted to finally have someone to share his sentiments with. “I fuckin’ know, right?” he exclaims, leaning in, eyes wide with genuine excitement. “It’s the perfect consistency and everything.”
Soon enough, resisting the onion rings becomes impossible. You nudge Eddie with your foot under the table, drawing his attention away from the ketchup packet he's fiddling with for his fries. When he looks up, you tilt your head toward the steaming basket of golden onion rings between you, your eyes shining with anticipation.
“Together?” he asks, taking a guess at what you’re hinting at.
“Together,” you respond.
You and Eddie each grab an onion ring at the same time. You raise your rings, tap them together in a playful toast, then take a bite.
Your head hits the table.
With your eyes closed, savoring every bite, you have to admit Eddie was right. These are the absolute fucking best onion rings you’ve ever tasted. Maybe it’s hunger, maybe it’s the company, or maybe Joni really is magic. Whatever the reason, you’ve never felt so happy to be ditched.
“If you told me you had friends in high places like this, I would’ve offered you a ticket five years ago,” you mutter after chewing, immediately taking another bite.
Eddie shoots back, “Wait ‘til you find out I got a records guy,” his eyes sparkling with mischief. He’s leaning in, elbows on the table, clearly at ease now.
“He’s single, by the way,” Joni chimes in with a wicked grin, her gaze flitting between the two of you.
Eddie almost dies from choking on an onion ring, his coughing loud and desperate. His face flushes deep red, eyes wide. You double over with laughter, heat rising in your chest, a chaotic mix of concern, delight, and shared embarrassment. The words slip out before you can catch them.
“Good to know.”
Eddie clams up quickly after that, his entire body going completely still, as if his brain has forgotten how to take control of his limbs. He stares at you with the exact same look he had when you first asked him to join you earlier that night.
Flustered, you clear your throat, glance away, caught by the sudden awkwardness. Unsure, you focus on the milkshake, letting its cold sweetness distract from the tension in your chest.
Eddie slowly moves, hand gingerly taking a fry to bite, but what you fail to notice is the faint twitch of his lips—a smile threatening to break free out of giddiness, the tips of his ears flushed as he glances at you from beneath his lashes.
“Hey,”
You both turn towards the sudden intrusion, the noise slicing through the tension like a knife. What greets you is an uncomfortable-looking blonde, hair teased to hell and back, looking everywhere but at who she's supposed to be.
You hold your gaze on Jenna, silent and unblinking. Eddie, restless in the thickening tension, shifts in his seat and finally breaks the silence.
“Can we help you?” he asks, unamused.
Jenna ignores him with an eye roll, her lips pursed in a way that tells you she’s holding back more than she’s saying, and finally turns to you.
“Can we talk?” she snaps, arms folded and a single eyebrow raised. “Alone,”
You settle back in your seat, locking eyes with Jenna and letting the silence stretch, making her wait for your answer.
“No, I'm good,” you state simply.
Jenna’s face pinches, and she lets out a frustrated whine. “Come on, don’t make this harder,” she pleads, but there’s no real remorse in her tone. “I know you’re mad. I’m sorry, okay? Now, can you please leave the freak show?”
“You know, if I squint really, really hard, I think I could almost see a real apology somewhere in there,” you say, your tone light but edged with sarcasm.
Jenna throws her hands up, exasperated. “Oh my–” she grumbles, rolling her eyes so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t pull a muscle. “What is your problem? Are you really this mad over one movie, you’re willing to shack it up with him?”
Eddie takes the insult in stride, letting it wash over him like water on a duck’s back. Chin up, let the noise drown everything out, he reminds himself.
You weren’t as forgiving.
“How did I never notice how blatantly conceited you are until now?” you say with a shake of your head, completely in disbelief with how much you’ve chosen to ignore for the sake of company. “Has it ever crossed your mind the entire time we’ve been here that I'm not doing this to get back at you. That I’m here with him because I wanted to be?”
Jenna doesn’t hesitate. “No, because you wouldn’t,” she answers back. Her conviction makes you laugh.
You lean forward, voice low, not bothering to hide the bitterness that seeps into your words or the despondency you’ve pushed to the farthest depths of your mind. “How would you know, Jenna?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jenna challenges, daring you to admit defeat. That the two of you were never friends. That you clung on to her fabricated kindness because you were more than willing to accept whatever scrap the rulers of Hawkins High’s social hierarchy were willing to give you.
Because you didn’t want to be alone.
But you don't take the bait—not this time.
You sit back, crossing your arms with finality. “You know damn well what it means,” you reply. For the first time, clarity washes over your thoughts—the realization that you don’t owe her anything.
Jenna’s bravado falters, her voice softer now, almost pleading as she tries to salvage the situation. “I’m trying to help you out, okay,” she stammers, eyes darting to the others in the diner, “Leave with us, right now, before the entire town figures out who you are and who you’ve been with,”
You hold your ground. Your eyes find Eddie—still there, unwavering—a stranger just hours ago, yet here he is, determined to keep you company, to coax a smile out of you when no one else bothered. In a town that’s given him every reason to be wary, he’s chosen to trust you even when walking away would have been as simple as leaving you on that cold, dusty bench.
“I’m right where I want to be.”
Jenna’s lips press into a hard, thin line. “Don’t bother talking to me tomorrow,” she spits out, the words brittle and laced with wounded pride. She turns sharply on her heel, shoulders rigid, and you hear the echo of her retreating footsteps. Her voice calls out to her boyfriend, but you don’t look. Even when the bell chimes as they go through the diner’s double doors, you keep your gaze fixed ahead—jaw clenched, hands clasped together, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you stumble.
Once you’re certain she’s gone, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Your whole body seems to collapse in on itself, your head drooping until it finds a resting place in your hands. Between you and Eddie, the abandoned scraps of food lay cold and forgotten.
“Shit,” you hear him whisper under his breath.
“Yeah,” you laugh, your voice devoid of humor. “Shit.”
Noticing how defeated you look, Eddie rises from the booth. He leans over the table, gathering the basket of untouched food, then makes his way to the counter near the register. You barely register his quiet request to Joni to wrap things up, your thoughts still scattered and far away. When he returns, he doesn’t take his previous seat across from you. Instead, he steps around the table and slides into the booth right beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
Gently, his hands find your wrists and coax them free from your defensive posture. You let him guide your arms down, following his lead until your head settles on his shoulder, catching the uneven texture of his denim vest. His hand comes to rest at your temple, soothing your turbulent thoughts.
You hear him speak.
“I don’t get it,” he admits.
You turn, shifting to face him more directly, your voice soft but tinged with curiosity. “Get what?”
Eddie exhales, gesturing toward the swinging diner doors where Jenna disappeared. “That,” he says, the word heavy with meaning. “I mean, I admit, I never really paid attention to you before tonight,”
“You have a way with words,” you interrupt.
“But,” he cuts in, meeting your eyes with an earnestness that makes you falter. “These cynical eyes of mine have seen enough to know that people should adore you. Perfect grades, perfect attitude, and all that. The way the food chain goes, you should be right at the top with them, maybe even a tier above. Everyone who wants to be someone should be hanging on to every word you say. Not driving you away the moment you don’t fit perfectly into their meticulously manufactured life,” he shakes his head, voice dropping, “She barely tried to get you back on their side.”
His words sting, not because they’re wrong, but because they land so close to the truth. Jenna barely put in the effort with you, but what hurt more was witnessing firsthand how easily people can dispose of you—the moment you’re no longer useful, you’re gone. The realization sits heavily in your chest, leading you to your confession.
“I don’t have friends, Eddie,” you say, in a voice so small and vulnerable, you had a hard time believing it was yours. “I’m a convenience.”
You hesitate, fingers twisting together in your lap. “Jenna, she—” You pause, steadying yourself with a sharp breath, and look up at Eddie, searching his face for judgment but finding only patience. “I just started hanging out with her earlier this year. She was nice enough, you know? Sat next to me during class, invited me to parties…”
You force a faint smile, “And then came the favors. First it was homework, then a couple of reviewers, and after that, it just… escalated.”
Your confession shifts something in both you and Eddie. For the first time, you see the truth of it laid bare—how much you’ve pretended this was normal, how lonely you’ve felt all along.
You swallow, voice thick. “And I ignored it. I kept telling myself that’s just how it is between friends. That maybe I was lucky anyone wanted me around at all.”
Beside you, Eddie’s hand curls into a fist. His jaw tightens, and you can see the frustration flicker across his face.
“Jenna, and everyone that came before her… they only ever listened to me because they had to. Not because they actually wanted to.” You say it quietly, the realization settling over you like a cold shadow.
Eddie sits with your words, chewing his cheek thoughtfully. After a moment, he finally asks, “Then why do you stay?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just honest confusion.
You stare at the table, searching for the right words. “Because if I don’t, then all I’m left with is what’s in here.” You tap your temple, giving a weak, humorless smile. “And it’s not always pretty.”
Eddie’s expression softens, and you realize he understands in a way most people never could. He knows those voices—the ones that take center stage in his mind, whispering self-sabotage, self-doubt, relentless criticism. He’s battled them too.
Eddie recalls his words just a few hours ago.
If you're one of us, you're a friend.
When push comes to shove, I'm there for you.
Always.
So he makes it a vow.
“I'd stay,” he tells you. Not as a suggestion, but as a promise.
You blink, not sure you heard him right. “Hm?”
Eddie mirrors your gesture, tapping your temple. “When it gets ugly in there,” he says softly, “I’d stay.”
You search his face, voice barely audible. “Why?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re one of us,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You act before you can think, your body moving on instinct.
In a heartbeat, you wrap your arms around Eddie, holding him tight—needing the comfort more than you ever realized.
It was awkward, given your position, but Eddie hugs you back, his hand gently rubbing your back, offering you the comfort you've denied yourself for so long.
You might have stayed in that embrace forever, if not for the sound of someone clearing their throat awkwardly nearby.
“I-uh, don’t mean to interrupt—” Joni’s voice breaks through the haze, hesitant but kind. She’s standing just off to the side of the booth, a plastic bag of takeout dangling from her hand. “But we’re closing up soon.”
You blink, disoriented, the world rushing back in. “Closing?” you mumble, suddenly aware of the emptying diner around you.
You realize it’s just you, Eddie, Joni, and a few lingering staff left in the diner.
You slip your hand from Eddie’s back and glance at your watch.
“Shit.”
Eddie frowns, confused by your sudden urgency. “What’s up?”
“Curfew,” you reply, already on your feet.
“Where do you live?” Eddie asks, sliding out of the booth to let you pass. He grabs the bag from Joni as he moves.
You catch your reflection in the dark window, fixing your hair absently. “Maple Street,” you say, glancing at Eddie. “You know it?”
Eddie, who’s driven Mike Wheeler home a few times, nods. “Like the back of my hand.”
You nod back, already moving for the doors when something tugs at your memory, making you pause mid-step.
“Oh!” you blurt, spinning around to face Joni, who’s still standing nearby with a gentle, knowing smile. “How much do I owe you for the—?”
Joni waves you off with a laugh. “On the house, honey. But only if you promise to come back for a second date.”
Eddie starts to protest, “It’s not a—” but you cut him off, grinning. “Easy,” you say, matching her playful tone.
You share a glance, grinning in sync, before heading out together.
“I’m usually not one for reckless driving, but–”
Eddie twirls his van keys around his finger, grinning at you. “Say less.”
You’re not sure if the van wheels touched the ground once after Eddie stepped on the gas at full throttle, but you can’t say you’re not grateful for Eddie’s complete disregard for traffic laws. You make it home only a couple of minutes past your curfew, giving you plausible grounds to use a delayed screening and an impromptu dinner as an excuse.
Technically, the second one wasn’t a lie.
You barely register the van’s engine dying before Eddie is already out of his seat. He rushes around the front, opening your door for the third time tonight. The gesture is so familiar now that it makes you smile.
You step out onto the curb, stretching your legs. The cool night air hits your face as you fall into step beside Eddie on the walk to your porch. With a grin, you nudge him playfully. “Ever consider NASCAR?”
Eddie shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, trying—and failing—to hide his pride. He glances at you with that crooked grin you’ve grown to adore. “You think I got a shot?”
“I think there’s already a trophy with your name on it.”
You and Eddie reach your front door in a few quick steps. His footsteps echo on the porch, each one slower than the last, as if he’s trying to delay the inevitable goodbye. The final thud of his shoes feels heavy—final, somehow.
You turn to face him, lowering your voice so it won’t carry through the front door. “I’ve reached my verdict,” you say, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “You’re not terrible company.”
You catch Eddie’s fingers fidgeting nervously in his pockets. He lets out a soft chuckle, eyes darting away.
“Neither are you,” he whispers back.
You hesitate, searching his face for something—maybe a reason to stay out here just a little longer, but you know it’s time. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, forcing yourself to step back, even though you wish the night could last forever.
Eddie’s smile wavers just a bit, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
Tomorrow. At school. In front of every student, every clique, and walking stereotype. You’ll see him.
But then what?
“Will you?” Eddie blurts out, unable to hide the doubt in his voice.
You didn’t understand the question, not immediately. You don’t pick up on Eddie’s doubts. How he questions if you’re truly willing enough, brave enough, to continue standing by his side. It wasn’t fair on your part to assume what you’re capable of, but unfairness has followed Eddie like a shadow his entire life. He doesn’t just expect it, he welcomes it.
What if you pass each other in the hallway tomorrow? The thought prickles at the back of his mind, sharp and sudden.
When you walk on by, surrounded by dozens of probing eyes and chattering lips.
Will you smile at him the way you did tonight, with no shame or hesitation?
Will you call his name?
Or will you walk away, pretending this night meant nothing?
Before you can form a response, Eddie steps back, his shoulders tense. He keeps his gaze averted as he heads down your porch, retreating toward his van, each step quicker than the last.
“Nevermind. That’s—never mind.” His voice is quiet, almost lost in the night air. He doesn’t wait for your answer.
But you give it to him the very next day.
The fluorescent lights of Hawkins High cast dark shadows as he leaned against his locker, only half-listening to his friends drone on about some math test. He kept glancing up, nerves on fire, until he finally saw you walking down the crowded hallway. Two different girls from the cheer squad to your right– none of whom is Jenna– and a jock on your left. For a moment, Eddie’s heart sank. Was last night actually just a fluke? Had you slipped effortlessly back into your old role, leaving everything that transpired the night before behind?
But then he really looked at you. The girl approaching him looked different—your eyes distant, your expression flat. Gone was the girl who smiled too widely, laughed too loudly, and sang off-key last night. Eddie’s chest tightened. It felt wrong to see you like this, like watching someone else wear your skin. With his hands into fists at his sides, Eddie fights the urge to make it right. He stayed rooted to the spot, letting that feeling remain as it is.
A feeling.
As you drew closer, the noise of the hallway faded into a low hum. Your head lifted, eyes scanning the crowd, then finding him. Eddie felt his breath catch, the seconds stretching impossibly long. For a split second, he wondered if you’d look away, pretend he wasn’t there. But instead, something in your gaze flickered with recognition. Slowly, your lips curved into a small, genuine smile, softening the mask you’d worn moments before.
“Hey, Eddie.”
a/n: This took a lot out of me, so I'm not really sure if I'll revisit this anytime soon. For the meantime, please assume that they lived happily ever after.
Summary : you and Gator have known each other since you were kids, long before he learned how to harden himself into something sharp. What stated as familiarity turned into something messy.
Gator Tillman x f!reader
Warbings : smut, dark gator, toxic situationship, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, angst, miscommunication, rough sex
Words : 5,6K
A/N : Guyyyysssss I wanted to post something so bad ! I’m working on so many things at the same time that I didn’t even post a single thing, doesn’t mean I didn’t work tho 🧘♀️ so here’s a little something ! First time I’m writhing for Gator. A second part will be posted soon (I promise, I juste need to rework some things).
Lots of love, thanks for waiting !!!! I have so much trouble staying constant. Love love love <33333
part.2 here :)
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
The first time Gator Tillman saw you, you were small enough that the world still felt bigger than your fears.
You were sitting cross-legged in the dirt outside the Tillman house, fingers cacked with mud, stubbornly trying to fix the broken wheel on your bike. You kept glancing up at the porch like you were waiting for him to notice, as if you needed him to.
He stood there, watching you fumble with your jaw tight for a long moment, thinking of how embarrassing it was of you to try to impress him. Not even cute, just pathetic, really. How dumb you were, believing that wanting something hard enough could make it yours.
Eventually, he came down the steps and crouched beside you without a word, sleeves rolled up, fingers careful as he helped snap the wheel back into place. His hands were much stronger than yours and he fixed it less than a minute.
You had looked at him like he’d done something heroic. Even back then he didn’t smile much, but he’d glanced at you like you were something fragile and important. For a split second there was something softer in his eyes, something that might’ve grown into kindness if he’d been raised differently.
But he grew up in a house where softness got carved out of you early. He was already the boy who followed his father’s shadow until it swallowed him whole. So he quickly learned how to be a man according to his father’s beliefs and became pathologically obsessed with attempting to emulate his daddy in a twisted attempt to win his approval.
In High school, his voice got mean as he wore arrogance like armor, strutted like he always had something to prove. And just like that, Gator Tillman became a dim-witted, violent hothead who pointlessly escalated situations, causing him more problems. But somewhere along the way, you never stopped looking at him like that boy in the dirt.
For some he was a jerk desperate to impress his daddy, a looser who could only name his most recent achievement as being a good football player in high school. He was, for sure, an over-confident idiot who managed to screw up every assignment people gave him. But you always thought part of him wanted to be a good boy.
Even after he figured out exactly how easy it was to make flustered.
You knew what he was, knew he could be ugly in ways that went deeper than skin, and yet you still went to him. Still answered when he texted past midnight. Still let him show up unannounced. Still let him lean against your car like he owned it. Still let him look at you with that slow, lazy knowing gaze that said he didn’t have to try very hard with you.
He liked that.
God, he liked that.
He knew he didn’t deserve the way you looked at him, because there was something quietly sweet about you, something unspoiled that should’ve wanted more than him. He just wasn’t going to fight it. If you insisted on crawling back into his arms, who was he to stop you ?
These days, when he looked at you, he was still seeing that pathetic little girl down the street, doing anything for his attention. And maybe if he gave you the right amont of attention you craved so hard, his own father would stop looking down at him.
The only thing that had changed, was that now, Gator could fuck you.
You were on top of him, your hips rolling in a steady rhythm as you rode his thick cock, your breasts bouncing with each movement. His hands were gripping your hips, but his eyes stared at the ceiling, distant, like his mind was miles away. Maybe replaying some work bullshit or whatever had him zoning out lately.
“Feels so good.” You panted, your voice a sultry mix of pleasure and frustration seeing him not even looking at you. You leaned down, your nipples brushing against his chest, trying to regain his focus as your thighs gripped his sides firmly.
You’ve been sliding up and down his length, taking him deep with each roll of your hips for several minutes now. You’d initiated like always, pushing him back onto the mattress after a few half-hearted kisses. His shirt was off, jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock, which you’d stroked to hardness before sinking down onto it.
You planted your hands on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his shaky breaths, as you straightened up, grounding your clit against his pubic bone one every downward thrust, chasing your own pleasure while trying to pull him into the moment. “Come on, Gator.” You murmured, nails lightly scraping his nipples to spark some reaction.
You picked up the pace, bouncing harder, your ass slapping against his thighs with loud smacks. You arched your back to give him a better view, hoping it'd snap him out of it.
“You like that ? Feel how wet I am for you ?” You asked, clenching your inner walls around his shaft on the upstroke, squeezing him tight to coax a groan or a twitch.
But Gator just lay there. His cock throbbing faintly inside you, a biological response, but his face remained blank.
Frustration bubbled under your arousal as you kept going, determined to make him feel anything. You reached down, rubbing your clit in fast circles while you fucked him deeper, your juices coating his balls and dripping onto the sheets.
“Fuck, you're so big !” You panted, faking enthusiasm to lure him in, but he didn't bite.
No grunt, no filthy words back, just that vacant stare, so you shifted, grinding in slow circles now, your pussy lips dragging along his base, trying to build friction that might jolt him. You even leaned down again to suck on his neck, teeth grazing the skin, tongue flicking over his pulse point, but his body stayed passive.
“How good my pussy feels around your cock ?” You asked, your hips never ceasing their delicious grind.
Gator groaned, his hips bucking upwards involuntarily as you bite his ear lobe. "Fuck, you feel good."
You smiled, a wicked glint in your eye. You leaned back, changing the angle of your hips, taking him even deeper. “What are you thinking about ? Maybe I can help."
Gator's hands slid up your body, his thumbs brushing over your hard nipples. "Just work—fuck, yeah like that—just work stuff. You know how it is."
You rolled your eyes, but your smile never faded. You reached behind you, your fingers finding his balls, rolling them gently. "Well, maybe I can help you forget about work. What do you think about that ?"
Gator's breath hitched, his hips moving in sync with yours now. "Fuck."
You laughed, a breathy and sexy sound to his ears. His hands lightened on your hips then, his thrusts becoming more urgent. You moaned, your head falling back, as you rode him harder, your pussy clenching around his cock.
"Fuck, Gator. Just like that. Fill me up, baby."
Your efforts ramped up, but he remained a hard placeholder beneath you. The disconnect gnawed at you, turning the heat between your legs bittersweet. You chased your own release anyway as he was letting his mind wander away again, slamming down one last time as your orgasm crested, pussy fluttering around his unmoving length, waves of pleasure crashing through you without his participation. He didn't follow.
As you withdrawn, panting, you almost collapsed onto his chest, but your hand slid down his body, fingers wrapping around his still hardening cock. Gator groaned, his eyes rolling back as you began to stroke him. You laughed, your lips trailing kisses down his chest. "That's what I thought." You murmured, your head dipping lower, your tongue swirling around his tip.
Gator's hands tangled in your hair, his hips bucking upwards. You took him deeper, your mouth working its magic. You looked up at him, eyes locked on his, a satisfied smile playing on your lips. You knew you had his full attention now.
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
Gator was sitting on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough for his knuckles to pale. He looked like a man waiting for a verdict. You were still talking, something about your sister getting married next year or whatever happy family crap you always dragged after fucking. He came to your bed after a long day at the station, carrying the kind of anger that never really belonged to the moment. He’d been arguing with his father again, as usual.
This time it wasn’t even about work, but more about how he still didn’t have his life together. How he was behind. Gator hated this conversations, because no matter how he tried to prove he was worth something, that he was’t just wasting himself, his father never listened. got his life together yet.
Gator hated those conversations, because no matter how hard he would try to prove something, his father would not listen. Instead, he had called him a pussy this time. You didn’t know that by the time he showed up at your door later that night, didn’t need to actually, you would certainly agree.
He barely heard the words you were saying, not really wanting to pay attention anymore, if he even did tonight. He turned his head slowly, eyes settling on you instead.
His gaze traced your face, slower than it should have. Your eyes, some color he’d never been able to pin down, annoyingly bright and soft when they looked at him. His jaw tightened as his eyes looked at your mouth and without meaning to, followed the way your tongue darted out now and then to wet your lips, absentminded. He followed the motion without meaning to. His eyes went down your throat, following the line of your neck, where he’d left some marks. The fabric of his shirt brushing your thighs when you shifted on the bed.
“Heard me ?” You asked, smiling a little.
He blinked, like he’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Congrats to her.”
You laughed under your breath and rolled your eyes. “You’re such an ass.”
You were used to him not listening, but normally he would’ve tried, smirked or said something smug, maybe even grabbed you by the waist to pull you down into his lap just to shut you up, the way he always did to keep it simple. But tonight, he didn’t even move. There was something different about the way he was looking at you.
And that was a new problem for him, one he’d tried to avoid already.
Lately, there was a strange heaviness in his ribs like a bruise he couldn’t press without flinching. When you laughed too loud at one of his joke, like he was actually funny. Also when you mentioned some guy from the bar the night before, even in passing, a sharp flicker of irritation sparked hot and sudden before he could swallow it down. And when you touched him for no reason at all, no teasing, just your hands on him because you wanted to, a low, unwelcome warmth spread through him, settling deep and heavy in his chest.
He didn’t put a word on it yet, but didn’t want one anyway. He just knew he didn’t like it at all.
“You okay ?” You asked, tilting your head, studying him like he was something that needed fixing.
He hated that look.
He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be ?”
You pushed yourself up and moved toward him again, slow and deliberate, like approaching something half-wild. Crawling behind him on the bed, you slid your hands onto his shoulders from the back, fingers curling there as if you belonged. Your thumbs pressed into the tight muscle at the base of his neck, kneading gently. Then you leaned forward until your chest rested against his back like you weren’t afraid of him at all.
“You’re being weird.” You murmured near his ear.
“Am not.”
“You are.”
Your fingers moved to his hair, pushing it back where it had fallen into his eyes. Your palm settled against his cheek, turning his face slightly toward you. It’s nothing, barely anything, he thought. But his entire body went rigid and your thumb traced once along his jaw. He closed his eyes, savoring the strange feeling.
“Gator ?”
He opened them again. You were so close he could see every tiny detail of your face. He didn’t say a single thing, couldn’t. He could only look at you and smell. The scent of your shampoo, something like stupid flowers, and beneath it, the unmistakable, musky-sweet smell of you, of sex and skin. You leaned in and pressed your mouth to his cheek, on one of his small beauty marks. Then another. And another. He had so many of them, from his cheek down to his neck. You loved it, and he knew it.
Usually he’d let you and lean back to it, let you worship what everyone else avoided, but tonight felt so different. It was too close to something he didn’t understand.
He stood up abruptly, the mattress shifting under you. “Don’t.”
You blinked up at him, “Don’t what ?”
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a step away like he needed distance. “Just—” he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t do that.”
You leaned on your elbows, your back against the mattress. “Kiss your face ?”
“Yeah.”
Your brows pulled together, “That’s new.”
He scoffed. “Ain’t new. Just unnecessary.”
Unnecessary. Like the way your touch lingered. Like the way you said his name softer when you thought he was upset. Like the way you looked at him now, trying to understand him. You studied him, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore. Instead, his eyes fixed on the window like there was something worth seeing out there.
“You’ve never complained before.” You said quietly.
“Can I have my shirt back ?”
You looked at him confused but when he held out his hand for you to give it back, you passed it over your head and threw it to him. You rolled on the bed and reached for your own shirt from where you’d thrown it earlier.
You forced a small smile, trying to lighten the mood, knowing Gator was complex and contradictory. “Okay. No face touching. Got it.”
He sat back down, tying his shoelaces with quick, tight movements. Still not looking at you as he felt it again. That ugly, unfamiliar ache in his chest that flared when you adjusted so easily without fighting him back. Like you were willing to shrink for him, and he hated that feeling more than anything. Hated that it almost made him turn around.
Coward, he told himself.
He started to think that perhaps he was the one who wasn’t good enough for you.
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
It had been five days.
Technically it wasn’t that long. Gator disappeared sometimes, got bored or distracted. You’d learned not to expect consistency from him. Still. Five days. You checked your phone more than you meant to, a small flick of your thumb every hour or so just in case you’d missed something.
You replayed that night more time than you wanted to admit, trying to remember if you’d said something wrong or if you’d crossed some invisible line you hadn’t known existed. You told yourself you must’ve pushed too far. Maybe the face thing was too intimate after all. Maybe he didn’t like you wearing his shirt like that, without asking. Maybe you’d been too clingy. Maybe he thought you were hinting at something with your sister’s wedding. God, maybe he thought you were expecting more.
You weren’t. You knew what this was. Didn’t you ?
You saw him once at the bar three nights ago. He’d been at the far end, leaning against the counter, laughing too loud at something one of his colleague said. You’d caught his eye for half a second and he’d looked at you, but looked away first, as if you were a stranger.
Your stomach had dropped so fast you’d almost felt dizzy. You didn’t went to him, telling yourself you wouldn’t chase this time. If he wanted you, he could walk the ten steps it would take to close the distance. But he didn’t.
The next night, you were sprawled across your couch long past midnight, the TV murmuring low enough to be background noise. Some rerun you weren’t actually watching flickered across the screen. Your phone lay face-up on your stomach like you weren’t checking it every thirty seconds.
You told yourself you wouldn’t text him.
You lasted twelve minutes.
Your thumb hovered over his name while you argued with yourself. He was always the one who reached out first. Always the one who decided when you existed again. And tonight, he hadn’t, you knew he wouldn’t. Before you could overthink it again, you typed:
You: You alive ?
Wednesday 2:03 am
You stared at the message for a full five seconds before hitting send.
Delivered.
You watched the tiny word appear under it like it might change into something else if you looked hard enough.
Five minutes.
You flipped onto your side, pretending to watch the TV.
Ten minutes.
You unlocked your phone. Locked it again.
Fifteen minutes.
Your jaw tightened. You tossed the phone onto the cushion beside you like it had personally offended you.
God. How stupid.
You tried to convince yourself you didn’t care. That if he answered, great. If he didn’t, whatever. You were fine. Completely fine.
Forty-three minutes later, your phone buzzed.
Gator: Yeah
Wednesday 2:46 am
You stared at the screen until it dimmed in your hand. A slow breath left your lungs, something between a laugh and a sigh. You locked your phone and set it back down.
You left him on read for once.
You hated how small this made you feel. Hated how quickly your mind turned on itself, searching for flaws. Maybe you’d sounded needy. Maybe you’d looked at him too long. Maybe he’d finally gotten bored of you and that weird moment was just his way of easing out. That one hurt the most. Because if he was done, he could’ve just said so, unless you weren’t worth the explanation.
Two days later, there was a knock at your door long after the sun’s gone down. You almost didn’t answer it as you were in the middle of cooking, music low in the background, trying to distract yourself from the quiet. The apartment smelt like garlic and onions, something simple simmering on the stove.
The knock came again, firmer this time.
When you opened the door, he was standing there like he hasn’t been gone a week., hands in his jacket pockets, the one he always wore at work.
“Hey.” He said.
You didn’t even pretend to hesitate and step aside immediately.
“Hi.” You breathed, and you hated how relieved you sound.
He walked in without brushing against you, and you closed the door, following him into the kitchen.
“I was just making dinner,” you say lightly. “You, uh… you want some ?”
“No thanks.”
That’s it. No apology. No explanation.
You turned back to the counter, picking up the knife again, trying to ignore how aware you were of him behind you.
“I saw you at the bar the other night,” you said, keeping your tone casual. “You looked busy.”
He hums something noncommittal.
You swallowed, “I thought maybe you were—” You stop yourself. Start over. “I didn’t know if you were still mad.”
“Mad ?” He repeated with a low voice.
You nod even though he couldn’t see it. “About the other night.”
You heard his boots against the floor and your grip tightened slightly on the knife as you keep chopping. “I just,” you started again, softer now, “if I did something—”
His steps were closer now.
“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” you add quickly. “I was just—I texted you,”
“And I answered.”
Forty-three minutes later, but you kept that to yourself, you didn’t want to sound like you were actually counting.
His hands were on your hips before you could finish chopping the vegetables or come back with a punchline, his body pressing against your back. The heat of him seeped through your shirt, his breath rough against the shell of your ear. “Didn’t come here to talk.”
Your pulse kicked up, betraying you. “Then what did you come here for ?”
Gator’s laugh was low, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above your jeans. “You know damn well.”
His other hand slid up, palming your breast though the fabric, thumb rolling over your nipple until it hardened under his touch. “Been thinkin’ about this pussy all damn day. How tight it gets when I fuck you just right.” His voice dropped, “How you whine when I don’t let you come fast enough.”
You arched into him, your ass grinding against the tick ridge of his cock trapped in his jeans. You tried to keep your composure, even though you weren’t hungry for food anymore, but he didn’t need an invitation. His hand shot down, popping the button of your jeans before yanking them and your panties at the same time down to your thighs in one rough motion. The cool night air hit your wet folds, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his fingers pushing inside you without warning.
Desperate, he thought. Just what he needed.
“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He groaned, his lips brushing your neck. “Already so fuckin’ ready for me.”
You gasped letting out the knife, your hands slapping against the counter as he fingered you hard, his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. “Gator, fuck—”
“Yeah, that’s it.” He murmured adding a third finger, stretching you obscenely. “Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so hard you forget your own name.” He twisted his wrist, hitting that post inside you that made your legs tremble. “Then I’m gonna do it again. And again. Until you’re sore tomorrow just from walkin’.”
You moaned, your head falling back against his shoulder as he worked you, his fingers slick with your arousal. You could feel his cock, heavy and throbbing against your ass, and you reached back, gripping him through his jeans.
“Less talk, more fucking.” You begged.
Gator growled, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound before spinning you around. His mouth crashed onto yours, tongue forcing its way past your lips as he reached his arm behind you and swung everything to the side in a loud, rumbling noise, but you didn’t care at all as he hiked you onto the counter.
His hands were everywhere—under your shirt, squeezing your tits, pinching your nipples until you whimpered into his kiss. He devoured you and you let him do, as always. He bite your lower lip, then was tearing at his belt, his jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock, thick and veiny, the tip already glistening.
You barely had time to wrap your legs around his waist before he was slamming into you, filling you in one brutal stroke. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck, fuck—”
“Told you.” Gator grunted, pulling back only to drive into you again, harder this time. The counter cracked under you, utensils rattling as he pounded into you. “Gonna fuck you until you can’t walk straight.”
As much as you were enjoying it, something underneath it all felt wrong. Everything was too fast, like he was trying to outrun something. For a second, when he’d first touched you, it had felt different. You let yourself believe that maybe the distance from the past week had cracked something open in him. But his fingers dug into your hips, not quite painful enough to make your breath hitch, but enough to feel almost desperate.
“Wait—wait—I—I can’t—slower.”
He had one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to hold you open, spreading you wider, changing the angle so every snap of his hips hit that spot inside you that made you see stars. “Nuh-huh. Not until this pussy’s so full of my cum you’re leakin’ it for days.”
You couldn’t even form words, just broken moans and his name, over and over, as he railed into you. You tried to meet his every vicious stroke but you were feeling to dizzy to even try and grind your clit against his pelvis. The kitchen blurred, the only thing in focus the way his cock stretched you.
You tried to keep your focus to let yourself stay in the moment, but it was starting to feel like heat without warmth. An uneasy sensation coiled low in your stomach, not pleasure exactly but something wrong. It felt less like he wanted you and more like he just needed something that wouldn’t slip away.
“So fuckin’ tight.” He snarled, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise.
“Please, Gator. You’re gonna kill me—s-slow down—» You cried out breathless.
“No, I know you can take it. You’re gonna milk my cock like a good girl.”
« I—I can’t— » You didn’t even finished your sentence as you came with a broken scream, your back arching off the counter, your orgasm rippling through you in waves. But Gator didn’t stop.
He fucked you through it, his hips pistoning, his cock swelling inside you. “That’s it,” he grunted, his voice rough with effort. “Gonna give me another.”
“Hold on—I need—I need a minute—”
He didn’t even listen to your begging, “Gonna take my cum like the greedy slut you are.”
And with that, he didn’t give you the time to recover. He pulled out, your juices dripping down his shaft, lifting you up and swinging you over his shoulder. He crossed the room in three strides, taking you to the living room.
« On your knees, ass up. Now. » He barked, voice rough as gravel, shoving you down onto the couch cushions face-first as your shirt rode up, baring your ass. You complied fast, heart pounding, knees digging into the fabric, back arched to present your pussy to him.
Gator didn’t waste time as he gripped your hips so hard you’d feel it tomorrow, nails digging in, and slammed into you without warning, burying his full length in one brutal thrust. You gasped, the stretch burning as he filled your pussy completely, walls clenching around the invasion.
“That's it, take my cock like the slut you are.” He snarled, pulling back only to ram forward again, setting a punishing rhythm that shook the couch. His balls slapped against your clit with every drive, the sound wet and obscene.
“Fuck, fuck—” You sobbed, not even pushing back against him, your fingers twisting in the cushions as he pounded you relentlessly. “You’re too much—just—slow down—”
He leaned over you, one hand fisting your hair to yank your head back, the other coming down in a sharp smack on your ass, leaving a red print. “You like that ? My dick splitting you open.” He demanded.
You whimpered, pleasure not spiking anymore through the roughness. “Please—just l-let me breathe—”
Gator's pace turned savage, withdrawing almost fully before plunging back in, stretching your pussy wide each time, his frustration pouring out in every thrust. Sweat slicked your skin, your juices coating his cock and dripping down your thighs.
“Knew you needed this. Needed me to come over and use this pretty little cunt to take my shit out.” He grunted, releasing your hair to slap your ass again, harder, the sting making you cry out. “My dirty little hole to use.” His voice was a rough scrape in your ear. “You understand ? Tell me you understand.”
It was depredating in addition to hurting. The crude words, the complete reduction of you to a function, combined with the brutal, physical mastery of your body, made it impossible for your brain to think anymore.
He reached around, fingers finding your clit and pinching it roughly, rubbing in harsh circles that bordered on pain. “Cum for me, then. Squeeze my cock while I fuck you raw.”
You came again with a choked cry, your body locking up as another orgasm tore through you, soaking his balls with your release. This time, Gator followed, his cock jerking deep inside you as he groaned, his release flooding you in thick, hot pulses. He didn’t pull out, driving through your climax with brutal force, prolonging the waves until you were trembling.
He took a final, deep thrust, then pulled out of you abruptly. You whimpered at the sudden hollow emptiness. Before you could collapse, his hands were on you again, dragging you off the couch and onto your knees on the rug. He stood over you, his cock glistening with your release, jutting out proud and angry red.
“Gator—wait, I’m serious—t-two minutes.” Your eyes were burning, a tear rolling down your cheek.
He framed your face with those rough hands, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks. “Open.” He commanded, his voice guttural. You looked up at him, your lips parting. Your tongue darted out, tentatively tasting yourself on him as he strokes himself slowly.
“All of it.” He growled, guiding himself forward.
You took him into your mouth, the stretch of your lips a fresh challenge. He was still fully hard, throbbing as you worked your tongue along the thick vein underneath, hollowing your cheeks. He groaned, his head falling back as his hands tangled in your hair.
“Yeah.” He breathed, his hands tightened in your hair, his hips moving in time with your mouth. “Just like that. Use that pretty mouth. You like the taste of your pussy on me ?”
You hummed around him, a muffled affirmation. You relaxed your throat, allowing him to slip deeper, until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base. You could feel him hitting the back of your throat, your gag reflex kicking in.
“Fuck.” He panted, voice harsh with need. “You take it so good.” His hips gave a shallow thrust. “Always so fucking good for me.”
He began to move in earnest, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had you gagging gently. “Look at you. On your knees just for me.”
You could only moan around him, your hands coming up to grip his big thighs for balance. The world narrowed to the heat in your mouth with the sound of his ragged breathing above you. He was talking non-stop, a filthy, praising torrent that fed the fire in your belly all over again.
“Gonna come down your throat.” He promised, his voice straining.
You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks in helpless streams, your breath hitching as you tried to steady it.
He nodded, looking down at you, “You’re gonna swallow every fucking drop.”
You moaned around his cock and with a roar Gator came, his cock pulsing as he shot his load down your throat. You swallowed greedily, your tongue lapping at his cock as you milked him dry. Because fuck, you wanted it. How pathetic. You wanted to taste him, to feel him coming in your mouth.
Gator pulled out, his cock softening as he stepped back. You looked up at him, lips swollen and wet, skin warm, exhaustion heavy behind your eyes.
“You leaving ?” You asked, pulling in a shaky breath as you tried to process what just happened.
“Yeah.” He replied flatly like it didn’t matter at all.
You stared at him confused. “You just got here.”
He was already dressing up, movements abrupt and careless, like this had been the plan all along.
“Got stuff to do. »
“At midnight ?”
He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. He avoided your eyes again, with that restless energy crawling under his skin like he couldn’t stand to be still another second. You sat up slowly, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin.
“Did I do something ?” It came out colder than you expected.
“No.” He didn’t even think.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, “Then why does it feel like I did ?”
“You’re overthinking.” He walked back into the kitchen without giving you a single glance.
You stared at his back, trying to cover yourself with what you could find. “Am I ?”
Silence stretched, thick and ugly. This wasn’t about overthinking but the way he’d taken and taken until whatever was bothering him burned itself out. And now that he’d gotten what he needed, he was leaving. As if you were a place to unload something heavy. Not a person. He grabbed his jacket and you felt the anger settle properly then.
“Seriously ?”
He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, “Don’t start.”
“Start what ?” You shot back, sharper now, pushing yourself up on your elbows from the couch.
He’d stopped at the entrance of the room, leaning back against the wall like he needed the distance.
“This.” He gestured vaguely between you, like it was something inconvenient. “Whatever this is.”
You swallowed. “I’m not asking for anything,” you say quietly. “I just—”
“Just what ?” He barked.
You hesitated but he was already halfway gone. You could see the emotional shutdown, the wall sliding into place.
“Forget it.” You said finally, tired of fighting for eye contact.
He nodded once, “Yeah. Good idea.”
He lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture over his shoulder, like that was enough. He didn’t look back and went for the entrance door.
