My Guilty Pleasure

Your dad’s best friend. Your dad’s best friend—the one who’s been around your whole life. The one who used to ruffle your hair and call you “kid.” The one who now has his arm wrapped around you like it belongs there. Like you belong there.

“…You okay?” Steve’s voice is low, careful, like he doesn’t want to break whatever this is.

You hum softly, cheek pressed against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat—steady, strong… except it stutters every time you shift closer. “I should go,” you whisper, even as your fingers curl tighter into his t-shirt.

He doesn’t let go. “Yeah,” he murmurs, but his hand drifts up your back anyway, slow, absent-minded, like he’s memorizing you. “You probably should.”

Neither of you move.

The silence stretches… heavy, full of everything neither of you have said out loud yet.

You tilt your head just enough to look at him. His face is softer like this—no armor, no shield, just Steve. Just a man who looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” you ask quietly.

His jaw tightens. “Because I didn’t want to,” he admits. Honest. Always honest. That’s what makes this worse. Or better.

You don’t even know anymore. Your hand drifts up without thinking, brushing along his collarbone, tracing the line of it. He inhales sharply, like even that tiny touch does something to him. “Stevie…”

“Don’t,” he breathes, eyes closing for a second. “If you say my name like that, I’m not gonna be able to pretend this isn’t happening.”

Your heart stumbles. “Then don’t pretend.”

That does it. His eyes snap open, searching your face like he’s looking for hesitation—an out, an excuse, something to stop this before it goes too far.

But you don’t give him one.

“I’ve tried,” he says, voice rougher now. “God, you don’t think I’ve tried? You’re—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “You’re off-limits. You always have been.”

“And you’ve always looked at me like I’m not,” you whisper. That hits. You can see it in the way his expression cracks, just a little.

Because it’s true. It’s been building—quiet glances, lingering touches, the way he started looking at you like you weren’t a kid anymore… like you were something he had to fight not to want.

“I shouldn’t love you,” he says finally, the words like they cost him something.

Your breath catches. “…But you do.”

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek so gently it almost hurts. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

The world kind of… stops. No hesitation. No taking it back. Just truth. Raw and terrifying and yours. Your eyes sting, and you laugh softly—because of course it had to be him. Of course the one person you weren’t supposed to fall for is the one who feels like home.

“Good,” you whisper, leaning into his touch. “Because I don’t think I know how to stop.”

Something in him finally gives.

He pulls you closer, like he’s done fighting it—like he’s been waiting for permission he was never going to give himself. Your head tucks under his chin, his arms wrapping around you fully now, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. “You’re gonna get me in a lot of trouble,” he murmurs into your hair.

You smile against his chest. “Yeah,” you mumble. “But you’re not letting go.”