honey girl

You reach around him and press three buttons in a row, clearing out whatever nonsense he’d punched in. The microwave beeps obediently and starts to whir. Gator exhales through his nose. You hear him shift, the scuffed heel of his boot scraping across the cracked linoleum as he steps back.

"You always this bossy with your patients?"

You grab a dishrag and toss it over your shoulder, not looking at him. "Only the ones who almost set fire to their drapes last week."

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. It sounds like something trying to crawl up a dry throat and dying halfway.

"I didn’t ask for you."

"No. The state did. Big difference."

That gets him quiet. The microwave hums louder than it should. This place makes noise like it’s protesting every breath. The fridge rattles. The AC groans but doesn’t blow. Somewhere in the bathroom, a slow drip ticks like a clock.

You hear Gator shift again, arms folding. "Used to come through County sometimes. Victim reports and shit. Back when you were still in scrubs. Didn’t peg you for the mothering type."

You glance at him. His face is the same as you remember, minus the way it used to carry too much smugness and swagger. His jaw’s still sharp but there’s tension in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it's the slight beard starting to grow in, maybe it's the scars, or maybe it's just the fact that he doesn’t have his eyes anymore. That tends to shift the dynamic.

"I’m not," you say. "But I am paid to keep you alive, which means making sure you don’t blow yourself up for the third time this month."

"Third?" he echoes, lifting his brows. "Thought it was only twice."

"You don't always hear about the ones I catch in time."

The microwave dings and you open it before he can try. The bowl’s too hot, so you use a towel and grab a spoon. You set it on the table where he usually eats, pushing aside the mess of newspapers and empty cans.

He waits until your footsteps pass him before moving. You can hear the way he tests the space with his foot, like he doesn’t trust the floor to stay where it was yesterday. You almost reach out, almost guide him like you would one of the other clients, but you don’t. He’d hate that. He’s already gripping the edge of the counter like he’s daring himself to make it across the six feet of floor without help.

He does. Barely. His chair scrapes back as he sits down.

“Still got it,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t reply. You pull open the window above the sink instead, let in some fresh air that doesn’t smell like reheated TV dinners and humid bitterness.

Gator takes a spoonful and immediately hisses, half-coughs.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tryin’ to skin my tongue off?”

You glance back. “Didn’t think I needed to remind you soup gets hot. My mistake.”

He says nothing, just sits there fuming, going for the second bite like it offended him personally.

You lean your hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about saying thank you?”

His head tilts slightly. “You ever think about mindin’ your own damn business?”

“Every day,” you reply. “But then you do something stupid again.”

There’s a silence. Not a loud one. Not angry, either. Just... there. Sitting heavy between you. You watch him take another bite, slower this time. He looks like he’s chewing memory more than food.

"You were different back then," you say finally.

He swallows. “Back when?”

“Back when you were a deputy. Still had that dumb truck. Used to roll up like a Hot Wheels car.”

You expect another jab. Another smart-ass deflection. But Gator doesn’t smile. His spoon hovers in midair.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I liked driving fast. Or at all."

You nod. “I remember.”

He sets the spoon down. Reaches for the can of soda you left near the edge of the table. He misses it by an inch. Your hand beats his, pushing it gently toward him until his fingers close around the rim.

He doesn't say thank you.

He doesn’t have to.

Because he knows you’ll be there.

Even when he’s acting like a bastard.

Especially then.

The bathroom is just wide enough for your knee to brush the edge of the tub when you sit him down on the closed toilet seat. The counter digs into your hip, and the mirror above the sink is fogged from the old radiator’s steam pipe that runs along the back wall. It always runs too hot in here, even when it’s cold outside.

“You could’ve told me you were growing a beard,” you mutter, soaking the rag in warm water. “Would’ve saved me from bringing the razor.”

“I wasn’t,” he says flatly. “Just forgot.”

You wring out the rag and lean in, pressing it against the curve of his jaw. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull back. The stubble is rougher than usual. Thicker. It smells like his soap, the kind you buy because he doesn’t care enough to notice brands.

“Well,” you say, voice lighter now, “you forget for another week and I’m charging double. I don’t do lumberjack grooming for free.”

Gator smirks faintly, lips barely moving. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to impress anybody.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Still handsome. Stubborn, moody, difficult, but handsome.”

His brows twitch like he’s not sure if you’re joking. You are. Mostly. But it’s true, too. Even with the band of fabric he wears across what’s left of his eyes, even with the scar cutting down his cheekbone, even with that worn flannel pulled loose at the collar. He’s still himself. Still Gator Tillman. Just quieter now. Bruised around the edges.

You grab the razor and lather his face with a little of the cheap shaving cream he keeps under the sink. Your fingers are gentle but quick. He lets you touch him like this, like he’s used to it now. Like it’s normal.

“You ever nick me,” he says, “I swear—”

“You’ll what?” You lift a brow. “Scowl in my general direction?”

He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.

You start on his jaw, slow strokes with the razor, careful to mind the curve near the scar. Your hand steadies against his chin. The blade whispers down skin. He doesn’t flinch.

“You know,” you say after a minute, “this is probably one of the parts of this job I enjoy.”

“You enjoy shaving me?”

“Yeah.” You rinse the blade. “It’s quiet. Focused. And you stop talking.”

“Convenient.”

“And,” you add, “you’ve got a good face. Nice jaw. Would be a crime to let it get buried under all this gristle.”

“You flirt like a truck stop waitress,” he says.

“Damn right I do.”

He’s quiet again. You move to the other side of his face, press your fingers lightly to tilt his chin. His pulse is steady under the skin. You don’t say anything else. The room doesn’t need it.

You finish, wiping away the last of the lather with the cloth. His skin is warm beneath it. Those few familiar moles and freckles are visible again. You reach to rinse your hands and toss the towel in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.

But before you can turn away, his hand reaches out. Finds yours.

He’s slow about it, like he’s not sure he has the right. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back.

You don’t.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek. Presses it there. Just rests it. Your palm against his newly smooth skin. The tiniest tremble in his jaw.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe for a second.

It isn’t flirty. It isn’t seductive. It’s just... quiet. Needy in a way that aches.

And even though he doesn’t say a word, you know exactly what this is.

You leave your hand there a little longer than you should.

Because he doesn’t get this often. Not anymore.

Because you don’t mind the quiet moments either.

Because it’s the one time he lets you touch him without biting back.

He’s still Gator. Still hard-edged, still impossible. But this? This is the part of him that he never lets anyone else see.

And you’re still here.

Even when he doesn’t ask.

Especially then.

You don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. The knock has a kind of rhythm to it. Measured. Familiar. You open the door and find Nadine standing there with a container in her hands and a smile that means she’s brought something dangerous.

"Oatmeal raisin," she says before you even ask, lifting the Tupperware like a peace offering. "Still his favorite, right?"

You breathe in the smell and nod, already reaching for it. “You spoil him.”

“Somebody has to,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for more invitation.

She’s dressed like always, some kind of floral blouse under a light jacket, gold studs in her ears, her hair pulled back into a bun that’s starting to loosen in the front. She smells like the kind of department store perfume that clings to coat collars and car seats for days.

You close the door behind her and follow her into the kitchen, popping the lid on the cookies before your shoes even leave the mat.

“He’s gonna inhale these,” you mutter, already grabbing a small plate from the cabinet. “And then act like he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”

“He’ll grumble through the whole first one,” Nadine says, “but I guarantee you he’ll have three gone before I get a word in.”

You like her. You always have. She’s one of the few people who knows how to talk to Gator like he’s still human, even when he’s acting like a closed door. She doesn’t tiptoe. Doesn’t baby him. She also doesn’t bullshit, which you appreciate.

She watches you for a moment while you arrange the cookies on the plate, and you know that look. It’s the same one she gives him when she knows he’s full of it.

“You heading out?” she asks gently.

“That was the plan,” you say. “Usually give you two the apartment. It’s kind of your time.”

Nadine steps closer and reaches out, setting one hand lightly on your forearm. Her grip is soft, but there’s something in the way she holds it that makes you pause.

“Stay,” she says. “Just for a bit. Not on the clock. Just cookies and coffee and a little conversation.”

You hesitate. You’ve never stayed during one of her visits. You usually use the window to grab groceries or take a break, let them have this. But her tone isn’t casual, and her eyes are steady on yours.

“I’d like you to sit with us today,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s good for him. And frankly, you could use a break too.”

You don’t argue. Not with her. You nod, slow and small, and she smiles like she’s been waiting for you to agree since she pulled into the driveway.

She walks into the living room ahead of you, calling out as she goes. “It’s me, Gator. Brought cookies.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear him shift on the couch. The leather creaks under him as he turns toward the sound of her voice.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “Thought you got lost.”

“Please,” Nadine snorts. “I’ve been navigating this godforsaken town longer than you’ve been breathing. Don’t sass me.”

You follow them in, quieter. Normally, your footsteps would head toward the door. This time they carry you back across the living room, and the moment you cross into his space, you feel it. He knows you stayed. Of course he does. His head tips, just slightly, in your direction, and even though the cloth he wears keeps you from seeing what’s left of his eyes, you feel his attention land on you all the same.

You sit down on the armrest of the chair across from him, legs tucked close, hands folded in your lap. Nadine takes the couch next to Gator, passing him a cookie and patting his arm when his fingers fumble for the plate.

The three of you sit like that, sharing the space in silence for a few moments while he chews through the first bite and makes a face like it’s too sweet, even though everyone knows it isn’t.

“Still soft,” he says grudgingly, like it’s a complaint.

“You’re welcome,” Nadine replies, taking one for herself. “I’d ask for an actual ‘thank you’, but I know that’s not your style.”

“I don’t say thank you,” he grumbles, “I eat the damn cookie.”

“Good enough,” she says, biting into hers with a grin.

You lean back a little, letting their conversation wash over you. There’s history here. Most of it is dark, but Nadine feels like sunshine even through the dark times. You like that about her.

And even though you’re not saying anything, you feel his awareness of you like gravity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time your fingers drum against your knee, his head turns just a little. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t ask, but you know he’s listening to you the way other people watch with their eyes.

The plate of cookies sits between them. Nadine talks about the new pastor at the Lutheran church and how the coffee’s gotten worse somehow. Gator grunts responses that are half amusement and half disinterest. You stay quiet, sipping from the mug she pressed into your hands without asking.

And you’re not on the clock. You’re not checking your watch or cleaning up the fridge or reminding him to take his meds.

You’re just there.

And he knows it.

Even when he won’t say it.

Especially then.

The door sticks a little when you open it, just like it always does. You push through with your hip and call out a low greeting, already juggling the day’s supplies in your arms. The air smells like toast and the faint trace of whatever cologne he still insists on using, like anyone but you is ever close enough to notice.

He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch, arms folded across his chest like someone tried to tell him how to live. His head lifts slightly when he hears the keys jingle.

“Thought that old lady was comin’ today,” he mutters, not quite facing you yet. “The one who won’t shut up about her grandkids.”

You let the door close behind you with your foot and drop your bag on the counter. “Beverly?”

He grimaces. “Yeah. Beverly. She always brings me sugar-free snacks and tries to get me to do chair yoga. Last week she told me her grandson’s ‘learning percussion’ and made me listen to a recording of him beating on a bucket. Swear to God.”

You laugh into your sleeve. “I’m surprised you didn’t fake a seizure.”

“Came close,” he mutters.

You start unpacking the bottles, setting them in their little row near the sink. One of them rattles too loud and you shake it gently to check how low it is.

“So what, you’re happy to see me instead?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you catch the way his chin tips slightly toward your voice, just enough to count as a yes.

You smile at his silence. He doesn’t say things like that out loud. He doesn’t have to.

“You know what day it is,” you say, already gathering the gauze and gloves.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Therapy.”

“And before that…”

He groans. “Med check.”

You’re already walking over. “Face check.”

“I hate this part,” he says.

“I know.”

But he lets you do it anyway.

You sit on the ottoman across from him and snap the gloves on. The sound makes him flinch a little. He never says why. You just know it gets in his head. You grab the small flashlight and tilt your chin toward him.

“You ready?”

“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?” It comes out like bait, a hook for you to latch onto, even if he knows you never fully will.

“No, but I’ll say something nice about your hair.”

He snorts. “That’s a lie.”

You lean in. Carefully, you reach up and unfasten the cloth wrap that sits where his eyes used to be. You try to keep your face neutral, like always, but it never stops hitting you. The damage is still raw in places, though the burns have healed over into pink, shiny skin with ragged edges where his brow used to be. The scarring is faded but still angry. You’ve seen worse, but somehow this one gets to you more.

Maybe because it was done on purpose. Maybe because you know who he used to be.

He sits still, like he trusts you more than he lets on. The flashlight flicks over the tissue. You check the edges for inflammation, infection, irritation from the cloth or the heat. You wipe around the scars with a warm cloth, slow and careful.

“You’ve still got good skin,” you say without thinking. “Takes care of itself, even when you don’t.”

He makes a noise low in his throat. “You hittin’ on me again?”

You grin, focused on the last patch of scar near his temple. “Maybe.”

He shifts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice lazy and rough. “I might not have eyes, but my hands still work just fine.”

You freeze for half a second, cloth still against his skin, before answering too quickly.

“Didn’t say they didn’t.”

That comes out more breathless than intended. You both go still, the air between you suddenly different. 

You clear your throat, fold up the cloth, and snap the gloves off. Your hands feel too warm now as you settle the wrap back over his face. You move back to the counter, pretending to be busy with the pill organizer.

He shifts again, the couch creaking under him, but doesn’t break the silence.

Finally, you turn. “We should head out soon. Your appointment’s at ten.”

“I know,” he says.

You grab your keys, the bag, and the Tupperware of snacks you packed for him earlier that morning. He doesn’t ask what’s inside, but you know he’ll eat them anyway.

The door clicks shut behind you both, and for a while, neither of you say anything.

But as you help him into the passenger seat of your car, he brushes your hand by accident, and you swear he lingers there just a second longer than necessary.

He won’t say what that means.

You don’t ask.

Especially then.

The chair squeaked under him in a way that always made it sound like it was going to break, like one more hour in this place and the legs would just give out beneath the weight of his bullshit. He shifted anyway, leaned back farther than necessary, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to protect.

He couldn’t see the guy sitting across from him, but he’d built enough of a picture over the last few sessions to feel confident about the assumptions he made. Gator could smell the cologne he used — one of those cheap ones that thought it smelled like wood but really just stung the nose like pine-scented antiseptic.

“Morning, Gator,” the therapist said, voice warm and calm like it always was. Like they hadn’t been through this same dance for six weeks now.

“Sure,” Gator said, not moving. “Let’s call it that.”

The man, Todd was his name, didn’t bite at the sarcasm. He just scribbled something on his clipboard, which Gator had told him on week two was annoying as shit. Clearly, it didn’t stick.

“How was the last week?” He asked. “Anything new come up?”

Gator shrugged. “Didn’t die. Didn’t kill anyone. Banner week.”

More scribbling. Gator hated the sound of that pen. He knew the guy did it on purpose, kept the silence going so Gator would fill it, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.

“You getting out of the house at all?” the therapist asked after a beat.

“You mean besides this circus?”

“Yes.”

Gator scratched at the seam of the cloth over his face, just near the temple. “I walk. Sometimes.”

“Where to?”

“Nowhere. Just… ‘round.”

“Alone?”

Gator didn’t answer. Not right away. The truth was, he hated going anywhere with people, but he hated being seen walking alone more. The blind guy stumbling down the sidewalk with a cane and a band over his face wasn’t exactly blending in.

“Mostly,” he muttered.

The therapist nodded, Gator could tell from the subtle shift of his clothes. “We talked before about connection, Gator. About letting people in. You’ve made real progress on your mindset. You’ve unpacked a lot about how you were raised, about your father’s influence, about what was expected of you. You’ve been doing the hard work. But what we haven’t really explored yet is how to form new relationships — ones that aren’t built on power, or fear, or control.”

Gator’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.

The therapist continued, carefully. “Are there people in your life you’d call close? People you care about, or trust?”

There it was. The question they’d been circling for three sessions. Gator let the silence hang for a long moment, just to make a point.

“Not many,” he said finally. “Most people don’t wanna… get too close to the guy who lit the family name on fire.”

“You aren't responsible for your generational trauma.”

“I know that,” Gator snapped, sharper than he meant to. They'd gone over that shit time and time again, but it still slipped out. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his thigh and exhaled. “Nadine still comes by. She brings cookies. Bitches about her book club. It’s fine.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It’s loud. But yeah. I guess it’s… somethin’.”

“Anyone else?”

Gator hesitated.

“My nurse,” he said after a moment. “Caretaker. Whatever she’s called on the paperwork. The young one. She’s ‘round my age.”

“I'm familiar. What’s that like?”

Gator shifted again, scratched at the side of his neck.

“She’s annoying,” he said flatly. “Talks too much. Makes fun of my microwave technique. Smells like clean laundry and peppermint. Keeps tryin’ to feed me shit I don’t wanna eat. Tells me when I’m being a prick.”

The therapist didn’t speak.

“She’s fine,” Gator added, quieter. “Good at her job. Better than Beverly. Beverly tells me about her grandkid’s little league games like I give a damn.”

“But this one… you let her close.”

“I let her do her job,” Gator snapped, then exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It ain’t like that.”

Todd was silent again, just long enough to make Gator grit his teeth.

“What?” Gator growled.

“You talk about her differently.”

“Jesus,” Gator muttered, throwing his head back against the cushion. “This the part where you ask if I’ve got romantic feelings like we’re in a high school counseling session?”

“No,” he said calmly. “But I am going to ask if you’ve considered the difference between isolation and independence. You’ve been alone for a long time. And it sounds like this person is someone you let in more than most.”

Gator didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled.

After a beat, he smirked.

“Most folks don’t want to fuck up their insurance benefits getting involved with someone who looks like a half-melted action figure,” he muttered.

Todd sighed, more amused than exasperated. “You’re not disfigured, Gator.”

“Says the guy with a functioning face.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Damn right I am.”

“You ever try not doing that?”

Gator leaned back again, his voice dry. “What’s the fun in that?”

And the silence returned.

Like it always did.

Especially then.

You finish lining up his meds on the counter like always, labeled for morning and night, the little clack of each cap clicking into place while he sits in the armchair by the window pretending he’s not paying attention. You’ve already made the bed, opened the window just enough to keep the room from getting stale, laid out his water and snacks on the table like you always do on Fridays in case he gets restless after you’re gone. You’re halfway out the door before he finally says something.

“You smell different.”

You pause, fingers still wrapped around your keys. “What?”

He shifts like he’s not sure if he wants to repeat himself, but then he sits forward and mutters it again, slower this time. “I said you smell different.”

You blink and glance down at your dress, then back toward him. “Okay, creep.”

“I ain’t bein’ creepy,” he says, scowling like he’s already annoyed you made him clarify. “You don’t smell like peppermint.”

“That’s what this is about?” you laugh, stepping back into the room. “You miss the peppermint oil?”

“I don’t miss shit,” he grumbles. “I’m just sayin’. It ain’t what you usually wear.”

You lift an eyebrow. “So what do I smell like?”

He sniffs once, face twisting like he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “Cherry. And somethin’ else.”

“Bergamot.”

There’s a long pause before he snorts. “The hell is that?”

“It’s… I don’t know. It’s just in the perfume.”

He mutters something that sounds like “fancy bullshit” under his breath, but you catch it and smirk. You move closer to grab your jacket from the chair where you left it earlier. That’s when he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm — just for balance, you think, or maybe not — his palm presses against the bare curve of your shoulder.

His hand goes still.

It’s clear the second he notices.

You aren’t wearing your usual scrub top or hoodie. No soft cotton or oversized sleeves. His thumb drags lightly across the edge of your strap, and it’s quiet for just a little too long.

“You wearin’ a dress?” he asks, already knowing the answer. There’s something sharp behind the words, dulled down with effort but still biting around the edges.

You hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Huh.”

You glance at him, at the way his jaw’s set like he’s grinding down something behind his teeth. “I have plans.”

“You goin’ to a funeral or somethin’?”

“No,” you say. “I have a date.”

He leans back a little like the chair just got less comfortable. “Huh,” he says again, but it comes out lower this time. “So that’s what this is.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” you add, pulling your hair back and twisting it into a clip, “but yeah. First date.”

“Who is he?”

You turn halfway toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he lies. “Just curious what kinda guy gets you smellin’ like fruit and soap.”

You don’t respond. The silence stretches until he fills it himself.

“He got two workin’ eyes?”

You blink, slow. “Jesus, Gator.”

“What? That a requirement now?”

“You’re being a dick.”

“I’m just sayin’. I got some questions.”

“He’s a nurse. I met him last month. It’s a drink and maybe a movie. That’s it.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell by the way his foot bounces once against the floor and then stops. His jaw flexes. He folds his arms tighter.

“Must be nice.”

You sigh and head toward the door again. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“I ain’t stoppin’ you from leaving.”

You pause again at the threshold, hand resting on the knob, the weight of the night pressing in against the back of your neck.

Behind you, his voice cuts through — louder now, sharper than before, riding the edge of anger even though it’s dressed up like a joke.

“You better not come back here tomorrow all sex-drunk and forgetting shit.”

You turn slowly, eyes narrowing, pulse climbing in a way you don’t like.

“I’m not gonna be… sex drunk.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just stare at him, both of you standing your ground, both of you pretending that nothing got said that wasn’t supposed to.

You open the door and step out into the night.

You don’t slam it.

But you don’t close it softly either.

Especially then.

The voice in the audiobook was too smooth. It irritated him more than anything. Some guy reading a western like he had ever stepped foot on cracked earth or held anything heavier than a coffee cup. Gator let it drone in the background, something about two brothers and a land dispute, but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. His jaw ached from clenching. He had turned the volume down twice already and didn’t know why he kept turning it back up again.

The apartment was too quiet. Not silent — the fan still clicked every now and then from the corner, the fridge kicked on and off in its usual stubborn rhythm — but it felt like the walls were waiting for something. The kind of waiting that pressed in behind the ribs.

He leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet resting near the edge of the table. The blanket you’d folded for him sat untouched, the faint scent of whatever soap you used still clinging to it. Not the peppermint. The cherry and whatever-the-hell it was. Something citrusy and light, like lotion in a bottle too expensive for anyone normal to buy.

Bergamot. That’s what you said.

Gator scoffed quietly to himself and rubbed a hand across his face.

Fucking bergamot.

You were probably at some bar by now. Sitting across from a man who didn’t know you liked your coffee strong or that you hummed under your breath when you organized his pills. Some guy with decent shoes and clean hands, maybe a little cologne rubbed into his neck, probably wore button-ups that actually fit. Some guy who didn’t need a ride to the damn clinic every week or a guide to find the damn light switch.

The thought made him shift, restless. His fingers curled into the edge of the throw pillow beneath his elbow.

He didn’t care. He didn’t.

But the idea of that guy, this nurse or whatever he was,  trying to understand you, trying to keep up with you, trying to figure out how you worked… it grated. He doubted that pretty boy had ever had to listen, not really. Bet he thought quiet was just silence and not the weight of it. Bet he thought soft touches were enough to keep a woman like you interested.

Gator knew better. Knew it in the way your voice changed when you were serious. Knew it in how you let him hear your breath catch when his hand landed on your shoulder, skin bare and warm beneath his palm. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t pulled away. He had felt the curve of your neck and the shift of muscle under his thumb. That moment had been short but it had happened. He hadn’t imagined it.

He tried to shake the thought but it followed him as he stood, slowly, body stiff from sitting too long. He took his pills with warm water and stood at the sink longer than necessary, fingers braced against the counter, chin tipped forward like gravity was trying to press him into the floor.

The apartment still smelled like you.

Even now. That scent mix clinging to the air like it was trying to haunt him. He swore he could feel it in the fibers of the carpet. His fingers twitched like they remembered the feeling of your arm. The dress. The way your voice sounded when you said first date like it wasn’t anything worth worrying about.

He turned off the audiobook and left the speaker on the table.

His bedroom was dark, only the hallway light bleeding through the cracked door. He didn’t bother undressing. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded behind his head. He tried not to think about where you were. Who you were with. If this guy would touch you the way he would. If he’d even know how.

You didn’t wear that scent for just anyone. That wasn’t a work perfume. That was a look-at-me kind of perfume.

His hand slid over his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before resting lower.

He hadn’t meant to think about it. But now it was there and it wasn’t leaving.

He thought about how soft your skin had felt under his palm. About the sound of your voice when you laughed at him. How your perfume clung to your collarbones. How your thighs probably looked sitting across from some other man. How your legs crossed. How you leaned in when you were listening.

His palm moved lower, breath hitching with it, the fan above clicking like it was counting the seconds between every drag of his fingers. The room felt warmer than it should have, sweat already gathering beneath his shirt. He didn’t bother peeling it off. Just let his hand slip down over his stomach, rough skin catching on the waistband of his sweats, the movement automatic now, familiar. But tonight it felt like more than a routine. Tonight it felt like punishment.

That scent clung to everything you’d touched.

His hand gripped tighter, breath shallow now, pulled through gritted teeth.

He couldn’t see you anymore, sure, but that didn’t mean he forgot. He remembered how you looked when he’d see you at the hospital if he stopped in for a case. Scrubs, sure, but nothing could hide the way you were built. Not dainty, not delicate. You were soft in the way a man could hold onto, something that filled both hands and then some. You moved like you knew how much space you took up, like you didn’t care who noticed. Your hips always shifted before your voice did. Your arms had weight when you reached past him. Your thighs always brushed against the couch cushion when you sat near.

And your tits — fuck. He hadn’t seen them, of course not, but he remembered the way your shirt used to stretch a little across it when you leaned. The sound of fabric shifting when you adjusted the neckline without thinking. He used to steal glances, back when he still had the option. Now all he had were those stored-away pieces, pulled forward with every breath you left behind.

He hated that he couldn’t see you. Hated that all he had was memory and scent and the way your voice got tight when you were trying not to argue. Hated the way your shoulder felt under his hand earlier, warm and bare and real, just for a second before you pulled away.

His grip stuttered, hips pushing up toward his hand as the pressure built sharp and low in his gut. You, somewhere else, maybe laughing at someone else’s dumb joke. Maybe sitting across from some guy who didn’t even know how you liked your tea, or how to tell the difference between your annoyed silence and your tired one. Probably didn’t know how it felt to have your fingers graze his skin and not look at him like he was broken.

Even without his sight, he knew you never looked at him like that. 

The thought hit hard, and he came with a rough sound caught in his throat, more breath than voice, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.

His hand stayed where it was for a minute, chest rising fast beneath it, cooling sweat clinging to his collarbone.

He didn’t say your name.

But his mind did.

Again and again.

The room felt too quiet when it was over. Too empty. The fan kept turning overhead like nothing had happened.

He pulled the blanket up past his stomach and let his arm fall across his eyes, not that it mattered.

All he could smell was you.

And all he could think about was what he’d never get to see.

And what someone else might be seeing now.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Especially then.

You come back around six from doing errands, arms full, the smell of browned meat and tater tots still clinging to your jacket. The casserole dish is wrapped in foil and still hot enough that you have to shift it from hand to hand as you move toward the kitchen. Gator’s already in his chair, angled just slightly away from the television like he’s listening but not watching anything. You’re not sure he even knows what’s on. The remote is resting on the arm of the couch untouched, and the news is just cycling quietly, background noise for a day where you haven’t really talked.

Not that anything’s wrong. Not exactly. You’d come in earlier like usual, checked his meds, done the daily routine. But it had all been mechanical. His tone had been even. Yours too. Everything said had been about what needed to be said, nothing more. You’d caught him listening hard every time you moved though. You knew the silence had weight.

You slide the dish into the oven to keep warm and set the table without asking. He doesn’t offer to help, not that he usually does, but today feels different. Tighter. The quiet clings to the corners of the room. He doesn’t ask about your night. You don’t bring it up.

Dinner is easy, solid, the kind of food that fills without needing much conversation. You set the plate down in front of him, spooned out carefully, hotdish bubbling at the edges, and he mutters a thanks like it caught in his throat.

He eats like he always does, slow but steady, like he’s thinking while chewing, like there’s something behind every bite he doesn’t want to name.

Halfway through, he sets his fork down, not dramatically, but enough that you glance up from your own plate. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, clears his throat, and then says it like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“You don’t gotta stay here all the time, you know.”

You pause, chewing slower, then set your own fork down gently beside the plate. “What are you talking about?”

“You got a life out there. Friends. People. Shit to do.” His voice is too casual. Too careful. “I’m not your whole goddamn schedule.”

“I know that.”

His head tilts slightly like he’s trying to catch your expression. “Just sayin’. People might start to talk. Wonder what you’re doing here every night.”

“You think I care what people think?”

“I think you should,” he snaps, too fast, too sharp. He softens it a second later. “I just mean… don’t wanna be the reason you stop showin’ up somewhere else.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw is set. The muscle near his temple keeps twitching. He was fishing for how your date went in the most Gator way possible.

“You’re jealous,” you say plainly.

He scoffs. “Of what?”

You don’t answer. Neither does he.

You clear the dishes in silence, scraping the plates and rinsing them slowly. Behind you, you hear the creak of the chair as he stands. You listen to the shuffle of his steps, slow and searching. You already know he’s heading toward the fridge before you hear the clumsy sound of the door being pulled open and something rattling inside.

“What are you looking for?” you ask over your shoulder.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, frustrated, “Beer.”

You sigh and dry your hands quickly on the towel, walking over and nudging him slightly out of the way. His fingers are tight around the door handle, jaw clenched, annoyed at himself more than anything else.

“It’s behind the ginger ale,” you say, reaching in and grabbing one from the back. You twist the cap off and press it into his hand.

He mutters a quiet thanks that barely reaches your ears.

“You want one?” he asks, fingers already curling around the bottle like he needs the weight of it.

“I’m working.”

“Pretty sure your shift ends in an hour,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That so?”

He nods. “You can cut out early if you want. Boss says it’s fine.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Just something simmering under the surface you don’t want to touch yet.

He takes a long drink, standing there by the fridge like it took effort to get that far. His head tips toward you again, just slightly. He can’t see the look on your face, but he knows something’s changed. He always does.

You glance at the clock, then back at him.

You grab a beer from the fridge and twist it open without saying anything.

“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask, voice quieter now.

He turns his head toward you like he’s glaring, and even without eyes, you can feel the way it would land if he could actually see you.

You walk past him into the living room without waiting for an answer.

He follows.

You put something on. It doesn’t matter what.

And then, for a little while, the silence between you feels like something else entirely.

Especially then.

The couch dipped a little when you sat back down with the beers, one in each hand, your hip brushing his as you passed him his. He took it without saying anything, fingers brushing yours, the bottle already slick from condensation. The movie was still going, volume turned low enough that he had to listen close, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your voice filled in the gaps.

You’d been narrating parts of it for him. Not the whole thing, just the stupid parts, which was most of it. You’d tell him when one of the girls made a dumb face, or when the monster puppet looked like it came out of a pizza box. He didn’t ask you to, not really, but you did it anyway, casual, soft, like it was for your own entertainment as much as his.

It wasn’t a good movie. He figured that out from the music alone. It had that warbly synth stuff underneath the dialogue, everything sounding like it was filmed in someone’s basement on a camcorder with a dirty lens. But you laughed at it like you’d seen it before, and that did something to him. Made it easier to listen. Made him forget how close your leg was to his.

Your arm had brushed his earlier, and you hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t either. That was two brushes in twenty minutes. He was keeping count now, apparently.

The movie shifted tone around the halfway mark. The music changed. He heard the moaning before anything else. Heard it in that fake, breathy way actresses used to do when they were trying to sound hot and not bored out of their minds. You went quiet, which made it louder.

He lifted his beer, sipped once, then turned his head toward your voice, even though he couldn’t see your face.

“You gonna describe this part too?” he asked, letting the words roll out slow, just a little smug.

You made a sound in your throat like you might actually consider it.

“I mean,” you said, laughing, “I could.”

He turned his face forward again, shoulders relaxed but jaw tight. “Go on then.”

You hesitated, but then, with a breath, you actually did it.

“She’s got her shirt off. Lotta bounce. Hair’s big. Too much lip gloss.”

He grunted, amused. “Classic.”

“Guy’s not even hot. Looks like he borrowed his dad’s chest hair.”

Gator snorted. “You’d think they’d at least cast someone worth lookin’ at.”

“They didn’t cast for that. They cast for screaming volume and tit-to-waist ratio.”

He smirked. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve watched more bad horror than you, probably.”

“You say that like it’s a challenge.”

You didn’t answer right away, but you kept describing.

“She’s on top now. Moaning way too loud. It’s mostly shadow but you can tell the guy’s doing jack shit.”

“Christ,” Gator muttered, lifting his beer again. “Stop.”

You laughed. “You asked.”

He shook his head, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, didn’t expect a play-by-play.”

“You’re lucky I’m keeping it tasteful.”

“Sure.”

You kept talking for a little while after the sex scene faded out, your voice soft and steady as you described the next girl on screen. You didn’t always narrate like this. Just tonight. Just enough. He could tell by the way you spoke that this one wasn’t your favorite. You called her a knockoff Barbie with hair teased too high and makeup caked on like stage paint. You said she moved like a paper cutout and screamed like someone trying too hard to be hot. You described her as tall, fake-tanned, long-legged in a way that didn’t look real.

He didn’t say anything at first, just drank his beer and let your voice fill in the blanks. But you went quiet after a while. You stopped talking somewhere around the time she bent over in slow motion and let her shirt ride up. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, not exactly, but different. Like something was sitting in it, watching both of you.

He turned his head toward you, didn’t need to see you to know what you were thinking. He could hear it in the way your breath caught a little. In the way you shifted your leg but didn’t move away. In the way you didn’t ask anything, but you wanted to. He felt it in the space between your words.

So he said it, casual, low.

“Never been into girls like that.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. But he could hear you thinking.

“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” he went on, setting the beer on the table, voice steady now. “But it ain’t what really does it for me. Sure did for a while. Had enough bikini posters in my room back at my dad's ranch. Well into my 20s. You would have given me shit for it.”

Still quiet from your side. He could tell you weren’t blinking. Probably staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear it. Wondering why he was saying this.

Hell, he wondered too.

“I like soft,” he said. “I want hips I can grab onto. A body I can fuckin’ hold, not worry I’m gonna snap.”

He heard your breath catch again. Not like before. Not annoyed. Just caught. Like you hadn’t expected him to keep going.

“Wanna feel her chest press up when she’s on top. I wanna know she’s really there. I don’t like dainty. Don’t want someone I can pick up with one arm. I want someone who’ll ride me until the couch breaks.”

He let that one sit.

Then, quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “You know what I mean.”

You hadn’t moved, not really. But everything about your body had shifted. He could feel the tension in the way your knee stayed against his. The way your next breath came through your nose instead of your mouth. The way your beer bottle didn’t clink against the table yet, even though you’d stopped drinking five minutes ago.

He didn’t need eyes for this part.

He could hear it. In the air. In your silence. In your body betraying your mouth.

And it was doing something to him too.

Especially then.

You’re halfway through some garbage midnight rerun on the fuzzy local station. Something about mutant turtles, maybe? You aren’t even sure anymore. You’re just there. Still sitting too close on the couch. Still holding half a beer you forgot you were drinking.

It’s later than you’ve ever stayed. Quiet in that way that starts to feel like it means something. You’re stretched out beside him, feet resting against the coffee table, arm close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And for once, it’s not awkward. Not tense. Just easy.

You don’t even know how it comes up. Something dumb on screen. Some residual tension from his earlier words. Some bad pickup line in a parking lot scene. You snort. He scoffs. And then somehow you’re saying,

“Can I ask you something weird?”

He grunts in a way that means yes.

“Have you…” you hesitate, then push past it. “Have you had sex since you’ve been, y’know. Blind?”

Gator doesn’t turn his head, but you can feel the shift in him. The low flick of a breath from his nose.

“Wouldn’t you know? You’re here all the damn time.”

You let out a short laugh. “I mean, I’m not here when Beverly’s here.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a cough. “Yeah, okay. We’ll I’m sure as shit not fuckin’ Beverly.”

You frown. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well what’d you mean then? You think I got a fuckin’ lineup out the door? You think that’s what I’m after now? Walking around with a cane and a fuckin’ scarred up face looking for someone to pity-fuck me? Ain’t exactly in the market.”

You blink, a little stunned by the sharpness of it. But he doesn’t seem mad. Just honest. Tired.

“Wasn’t getting much play before anyway,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Half the time it was just about the badge. And I ain’t him anymore.”9

You don’t say anything to that. But your fingers flex on the bottle, and he hears it. You know he hears it.

He exhales again, like he’s dragging the memory out with him. “Cop buddies tried to take me to Bare Assets after I got out. Thought they were doing me a favor. Got me a dance in a private room. One where it ain't ever just a dance. One of those real feel-good, you-earned-this kind of things.”

He shakes his head, like he can still hear the music. “Was just sad. Couldn’t even get hard. All that perfume and fake giggles and hands on my legs and nothin’. Felt like they were feeding a dog scraps just to watch him beg.”

You blink again. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”

He turns his head slightly. “Not sayin’ I can’t get hard. Just sayin’—”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, well. I can.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

You laugh softly, nervous. “I believe you.”

“It’s just…” He shrugs. “It takes certain things now. More about the other senses than just imagining a good pair of tits. Like I gotta actually pay attention to shit now. Voices, tone, smell. Touch. Not that I get much of that now.”

Silence again. Longer this time. Thicker.

Then—

“Pretty sure I’m halfway there right now.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re stunned.

You see him grinning then, it's not as smug as usual. It's almost nervous then. 

Especially then.

He could tell the second you stood up that you were rattled. The shift in your weight, the scrape of your knee against the cushion, the way you cleared your throat like it might buy you a second.

“I should go,” you said. Light. Dismissive. Trying to pass it off like it was nothing.

He didn’t move. Just cocked his head. “Thought you weren’t on the clock.”

You let out a sharp little laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat. “I’m not, but I also can’t believe you’re propositioning me right now. Real classy.”

He huffed, slightly offended. “Ain’t proposin’ nothin’.”

You kept talking anyway. “I mean, I know Beverly says this job can be uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn’t realize bedside handjobs were part of the care routine.”

He grinned, just barely, but didn’t rise to it. Not all the way. Because he could hear it in you now. That edge. Not just your usual bite. This one was shakier. Like you were trying to push something away before it stuck.

He waited until your steps circled back toward him. Until he knew you were close. Then he reached out, slow and sure, and caught your wrist in his hand.

“Hey,” he said. Quiet, but firm. “Don't go.”

You froze. He had never asked to directly like this.

He could feel your pulse skip under his fingers.

But then it came, sharp as ever. “What is this, Gator? You think I’m just gonna stick around and what, crawl into your lap ‘cause you’re lonely? You think I need this job that bad?”

His jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist, hands up like he’d touched something too hot.

“That's not what I meant,” he muttered.

“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. “Because that’s what it sounds like. You flirt and tease and say shit and then when I react, suddenly I’m the one who’s reading too much into it?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sat there, back against the couch, mouth tight, fists loose on his knees. He could still feel the shape of your wrist in his palm.

“You're not reading into it too much.” He muttered it like it was forcing its way out of his mouth.

His therapist’s voice surfaced, unwanted, in the back of his head. Telling him to make meaningful connections and shit.

Dammit, Todd.

He rubbed at his jaw, annoyed with himself. “Look. You wanna know what it is?” he said. “It’s that I like you. Alright? Not in some sad broken man way. Not ‘cause you wipe my counters and cook me shit. I like you.”

You didn’t speak. He kept going.

“I think about you when you’re not here. Wonderin’ what smartass thing you’d say about whatever trash’s on the TV. Thinkin’ what you smell like when you’re out on a date with some douche. I listen to you hummin’ while you fold towels and I swear to God it makes me feel like my fuckin’ ribs are cracked open.”

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for your wrist again, slower this time. Not pulling, just holding.

“And I know it ain’t your job to listen to this shit. I'm a bastard most of the time and I know you got no reason to care. But if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna choke on it.”

You didn’t pull away. Not this time.

So he held on.

And you stood there in front of him, too close to pretend you didn’t hear him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo, soft under all the heat.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow.

"I think about you other ways too. At other times. When I shouldn't." He cleared his throat, the words rough, the honesty rougher. "Think about how you'd sound. How it'd feel to have you on top of me. I've thought about it."

Your breathing was louder, unsteady, like it had to push its way through. His thumb slid slowly along your inner wrist. Up and down, tracing a gentle arc over the thin skin.

"You don't look at me like I'm broken. I mean..." he let out a breath of a laugh. "I can't fuckin' see it. But I know you don't."

"You're not. Broken, I mean." You finally say. The words feel like a secret, a quiet confession.

He nods, slow, and turns his head a little, just enough that you can see the shape of his profile against the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen. The edges of his jaw and chin and throat. The shadow of his mouth. His thumb keeps moving. Up and down. Over your wrist, then the side of your hand, and then back.

"You're always callin' me handsome and shit. Which is fuckin' wild, by the way. You must be goddamn delusional. But I get it. I hear the tone in your voice when you say it. I can tell the difference. I know it ain't a joke. So that's somethin'. I still got some parts worth lookin' at."

Your chest is so tight it hurts to breathe.

"Gator."

"I do. By the way." He smirks in a way he hasn't done in a while. "Got other parts worth lookin' at. Ones you haven't seen yet."

You let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it was a little stronger. Your voice is quieter now. Less angry. Less annoyed. Just a little... something else.

"I've seen your dick, Gator. I had to make sure you didn't fall in the shower the first couple weeks."

He knows that and he's a little mortified by being reminded of it in this moment. "Okay, well you haven't seen it hard."

That bit of crass boyish humor and defiance were definitely still in him. Todd couldn't cure everything in therapy.

"You think I'd want to?"

"I know you do."

Silence.

"You ever think about me?" he asks. "Beyond the flirting you do every damn day and then try to say it's for my ego. Do you?"

You swallow hard.

"Do I what?"

"Do you ever think about me like that?"

It's your turn to smirk now. "Do you really want me to answer that, or are you just asking to hear yourself talk?"

"I'm blind. Not deaf. And yeah. I want an answer."

He stands, letting go of your hand. You take a step back.

"You're a good-looking guy, Gator."

"That ain't what I asked."

"You're right."

"So."

"So what?"

He reaches for your hand again, fingers searching for a second before finding the shape of it. "I remember what you look like."

It hits you harder than you realize when he says that. And he notices. You know he does. He doesn't miss a single fucking thing.

"Your skin. Your hair. The curve of your waist. How big your eyes are. I remember it.."

Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is racing. You want to kiss him and run away and hide and scream all at once.

"Your scrub tops when you worked at County? Fuckin' hell. All stretched across your tits. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the shit that did to me. Be in the hospital takin' witness statements while half hard." He let out air through his nose, shaking his head. "Then found out you moved on to outpatient stuff and I didn't see you anymore. Then that fucker burnt my eyes out. Sure there's a fuckton more in between everything, but that ain't important right now. The real torture of it all is you're around me everyday now and I can't even fuckin' see you."

He said the last part like it pissed him off more than he could admit. More than he had the words to.

"You can hear me." You say, whispered.

He lifts his head up more, confused look on his face. "Yeah. I can."

You move his hand to your hip, where you have soft sweatpants on. "You can feel me."

Still in that whisper soft tone. It was undoing him. Was this...?

"And you can definitely smell me.. Won't shut up about my scent half the time."

His thumb brushes your hip. "You're wearing that cherry shit again."

"Then use those, Gator. If this is what you want. Then take it."

You didn't mean for it to come out like a challenge. But it does. And you can tell he likes it. Likes that tone. The one where you're daring him.

He's always liked a woman that would talk back to him, he can admit that now.

He slides his hand across the curve of your waist. Fingers spread out and pressing into your skin. The shirt you're wearing is thin, so he can feel your warmth. He pulls your body closer.

"I don't wanna be a joke to you." He whispers.

"You're not." You reply.

He slides his hand down your ass. "Or a pity fuck."

"It's not."

"Then what am I?"

"You're a guy I care about. Who has been hurt and needs someone who cares enough not to hurt him anymore."

His breath hitches and he grabs your ass more firmly, pulling you to his lap. You're straddling him now. His hands are on either side of your hips, still grabbing.

"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, voice a deep growl.

You're both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours. You reach out, running a hand through his hair.

"Whatever you want me to."

He kisses you. Hard and hot and desperate. His hands are on your back, holding you to him. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair. He groans into your mouth, hips bucking up.

"Fuck, I need you," he pants, pulling away. "You feel so fuckin' good."

"We should go to your bed, this couch is awful."

"Yeah."

You stand up and take his hand, leading him. He follows, and he's glad the house isn't big. He'd hate to get lost now.

You close the door behind him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. You walk toward him, stopping between his legs.

"Lie down." You say.

He does.

You climb onto the bed, straddling him. You grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up and over your head. It lands somewhere across the room.

Gator hears the material hit the floor. He can feel your body hovering over him.

You lean forward, kissing his lips. Then his cheek. Down his jaw. His throat. He can feel your bare tits against him, heavy and warm. He lets out a low moan.

Your hands are on his chest, roaming, reaching for the hem of his black t-shirt.

"You ain't wearing a bra when you're workin'?" He pants out.

"You can't see me. What's it matter?"

He groans. "It matters."

You laugh, pulling his shirt up. "Then let's get this off."

He sits up slightly, arms over his head, and you slide the shirt off. It falls to the floor, joining your own.

The dark chest hair and beauty marks strewn across his toned chest are even more handsome up close. You trail your hands down his torso and he makes the prettiest sound.

"Fuck. You touch me like you fuckin' love it."

"Because I do." You confess, and press a kiss to his shoulder.

He shudders. You can't tell if it's from the touch or your words.

You reach for the button of his jeans.

"Do you want these off too?"

"Fuck yeah. Take 'em off."

His cock strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs once his jeans are off. His hands reach out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. "So no bra..." he says, sitting up a little. "Any panties?"

"You'd have to find that out yourself, wouldn't you?"

He smirks, hands tugging the sweats down, exposing your naked thighs. His hands roam from your waist to the crease at your hips where your tummy meets your thighs, searching for a bit of fabric. He finds none. 

"No panties," he whispers. "Fuck."

You kick your sweatpants all the way off, now just completely naked on top of him.

"This is gonna sound fucked up..." you start, a nervous laugh spilling out. "But I'm kind of happy you can't see me right now. I always feel...self conscious? When I'm on top."

He can hear the vulnerability. The softness.

"Why?" he asks.

"I don't know. I mean, I'm not perfect. Always worried the view is going to disappoint."

"Oh, so I'm the blind one and you're the fuckin' deaf one. Got it." He says with a little snort.

You can't help but laugh. "What?"

"I spent the last half hour tellin’ you what I liked."

"Yeah, but.."

"No fuckin' buts." His hands grip the plush softness of your ass. "You think this doesn't turn me on? You think I don't wanna squeeze your hips and thighs and feel those fuckin' tits bounce while you're riding my cock? You think I can't imagine how you look when you're panting and wet? Or how pretty you'll sound moaning my name?"

You're taken aback, but you still manage to clear your throat with a small laugh and tease him. "How do you know I'll moan your name?"

He growls, squeezing you a little harder, and bucks his hips up, grinding against you. You gasp at how good the friction feels.

"I'll make you," he pants. "Trust me, I'll make you."

He's kissing you again, his hands roaming your back. He grips your ass again, hard, pulling you against his cock, just the fabric of his boxer briefs between you.

"Take 'em off," he grunts. "I need you to take these fuckin' things off."

You sit up, moving off him and grabbing the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Lift your hips."

He does and you pull them down, tossing them aside.

"Get on top of me," he commands.

"Bossy." You reply, but you get a good look at his cock as you do and, fuck, he wasn't lying. It's thick and hard, a pretty pink at the tip that matches his plush lips.

You climb back on top of him, settling over his hips.

"Fuck," he groans, feeling your heat. "I wanna touch you."

"You are touching me," you say, breathless.

"Not like that." He replies. "Let me feel you."

You guide his hands to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipples, and he hisses a low curse as he palms your tits.

"These things shouldn’t be fuckin' legal," he groans. "Spillin’ over my hands."

You moan softly. He squeezes them a little harder, teasing your nipples, and you whimper.

"Yeah, that's it. I wanna hear you," he growls, and sits up. "Want these in my mouth."

You lean forward, bringing your tits to his lips, and he groans, laving at them. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, squeezing. He looks so good like this, his mouth on you, sucking, licking, grabbing, moaning.

"Think about these every day," he mumbles, voice muffled by your chest.

"Yeah?" You ask, and he hums, nodding, pulling his head back.

"Always had a thing for 'em. Love a woman with a good pair. Wanna bury my face between 'em."

He kisses you, hot and hungry.

"You're a fuckin' wet dream. God this shit feels like a dream. You know your senses get heightened and shit when you can't fuckin see?"

"I went nursing school, yes." You laugh against his mouth. "But it's more like you develop your other senses more over time like--"

"I'm gonna develop my dick into you, okay? Not the time for anatomy lessons."

"You're cute when you're horny."

He growls. "Shut up."

You grind down on him and he curses, the feeling taking all the bark out of him. "Fuck. Shit. Yeah. I wanna fuck you so bad. God. Need to be inside you."

He can't see your blush, but he can feel the heat coming off you. 

"I'm on the pill, but I don't have condoms," you say, hoping that it doesn't ruin the mood.

He groans, leaning his forehead against yours.

"I'm clean, swear on my life. Sure you could get that info anyway. Ain't been with anyone since..." He swallows hard, his next words barely audible. "Since before."

He's scared, you can feel it.

"It's fine," you whisper, hands in his hair. "I trust you."

His cock twitches and he hisses.

"Fuck, I want you."

"Then have me," you say. "I'm here."

He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers brushing your pussy. You're wet, slick against his touch, and he groans again. His thumbs finds your clit, circling slowly.

"God..." you whine out before biting your lip. "No man has an excuse for not finding it now."

"No man is gonna have the fuckin’ chance."

You shudder at his possessive tone, and he feels the shift in your hips.

"That's right. You're mine. Just mine." He grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers harder.

He rubs your clit for a moment longer, until you're squirming and gasping and rocking your hips.

Then he grips his cock, stroking it a couple times, before guiding the tip to your entrance. "C'mere."

You sink down on him slow, letting him stretch you open. You both moan, the sound a harmony, his low and raspy, yours soft and sweet. He feels bigger than you expected, but the pleasure is sharp, not painful.

"Oh, fuck." He curses. "Jesus, fuck."

You start moving, rocking your hips against him, taking him deeper each time. He groans, his hands gripping your ass, holding you as you ride him.

"Tell me how it looks," he breathes, his voice strained. "Tell me what you look like. I wanna know."

"I don't...I can't say that shit… what if I sound stupid?" You pant out.

"You won't. Please."

You can't say no to him when he begs.

"Your cock...it's so thick and pretty and hard, and it's sliding into me, and the way my pussy's wrapped around it, God..."

He groans, thrusting up. “You like it? How it looks when I'm fuckin’ you?”

"I love it. Fuck."

You're moving faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm, the room filled with the sound of your skin slapping against his. He's thrusting up to meet your hips, and you can't stop the sounds that spill out.

"Wanna feel your tits bouncing," he pants.

You move one of his hands from your hip to your breast. He squeezes one and groans, hand resting just under to feel them bounce. 

"God, I love the way they move. They're fucking perfect. You're perfect."

He moves his other hand up, feeling your neck, then your jaw.

"Open," he rasps.

You open your mouth, and he slips two fingers past your lips.

"Suck," he orders.

You do, swirling your tongue around them. He hisses.

"Just like that. Jesus. Your mouth's so wet. Like a pussy."

You whimper, and he feels your tongue lap at his fingers. He pulls them out and moves his hand to your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The hand still on your hip digs in harder, moving you faster.

"Ride me harder, baby," he pants.

"Yes," you breathe, and you bounce harder, the angle making him go deeper.

"Oh, fuck." He grits. "Feels so fucking good. Your pussy's so tight. So fucking wet. God, the sounds you're makin'."

His words are particularly special or flowery, but the praise is still doing something to you, making heat pool in your belly. Suddenly you're grateful that he never shuts the fuck up.

"You're close," he pants, and you nod, forgetting he can't see it.

"I am," you reply, voice shaky. "Are you?"

"Yeah, baby. So fuckin' close."

You reach down and rub your clit. Gator feels the movement and lets out a broken moan.

"Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. God, you touching yourself.?"

"Gator," you cry out, and he can feel how much you're shaking.

"That's it," he pants. "You're gonna come on my cock. You're gonna come all over it, and then I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck. That's what you want, isn't it? My cum so deep in your pretty little pussy."

You whimper, his words and the movement of his cock and the way he's moaning and growling and hissing sending you over the edge.

"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and you're coming, crying out and shaking and rocking your hips, his name on your lips.

"Yes," he groans. "Fuck yes, that's it. Fuck. Keep going. God, you're so wet. I can feel it. You're milking my cock. Fuck, I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna—"

"Please," you whine.

"Oh, fuck. You're beggin' me. Fuck. Say it again. Beg me."

"Please," you moan. "Please, come inside me."

He's not sure if it's the words or the way you sound when you say them, or the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock, but he's coming hard, holding you down on him and filling you up. He's cursing, the word fuck spilling from his mouth over and over, and you're crying out again, your body shaking as you come a second time.

The sound he makes when his cock starts pulsing in you, the way he fills you, it's like nothing you've ever heard before. He's not quiet, not even a little. And you've never felt this kind of release, not from any other man. You feel lightheaded, dizzy almost, the room spinning around you.

He's panting, trying to catch his breath, his hands still gripping your hips. You can feel his cock softening inside you, but it's still buried deep.

You're both silent, trying to recover, the air thick with sweat and sex.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Fucking hell."

"Yeah," you agree.

There isn't much else that can be said. He’s a sightless man who just fucked someone so thoroughly, it was like he could see every inch of her body.

You reach for the nightstand, finding the glass of water he keeps there. You drink half and offer him the rest, bringing it to his lips. He takes it and gulps down the remainder.

You collapse onto the bed next to him, still naked. His arm is thrown over his face, and he's panting.

"I'm gonna get us cleaned up. Then we'll talk," you say.

The arm that isn't over his face reaches over to stop you as you get up. 

"No you're not." He says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm not sleeping like this and neither are you." You say with a lighthearted eyeroll. "I'll be back."

He huffs but he doesn't actually say anything, keeping his hand on you.

"What is your issue?" You ask, confused now.

"I'm supposed to be the one doin' that shit for you!"

He yells it, but there's nothing mean in his voice. Just frustration and something else. Something sad.

"Gator." You whisper, and move the arm from his face.

He doesn’t cry in the usual way. The damage to his tear ducts and lacrimal glands was too severe. You’ve only seen it once before, early on into working with him. His sockets don’t glisten or brim over like other men’s might. The burns left them scarred and hollow, the skin puckered and shiny in places where the grafts took, ragged in others where the heat had eaten too deep.

When emotion breaks through him, it shows as a raw wetness that seeps at the edges. The sound gives him away more than anything — his breath hitching, his voice breaking, the rough sniffling that seems to scrape at the back of his throat.

"Oh."

"Oh," he parrots, even with his voice breaking. "I can't take care of you the way a man should. I can't..." He shakes his head. "Fuck. I really am useless."

You have the words for it because Todd made sure you did. You remember him sitting across from you in that first collateral session, explaining what to watch for if the past shoved its way into the room. The hitch in Gator’s breathing. The lock in his jaw. The way shame can masquerade as anger. You see all of it now, strobing through the dim. And it feels like none of that actually prepared you for this moment.

Useless.

The word lands wrong in your chest because you know where he learned it. You picture the way he told you about his father in clipped notes and hard pauses, a man who measured worth in bruises and obedience, who called softness a weakness and turned love into a job no one could keep. 

The word useless lived in that house like mold, got into the walls, into the food, into the boy who learned to clean his plate even when it tasted like rot.

You know why the word hits you like a thrown glass now. You can see him reaching for it the way someone reaches for an old injury, pressing just to make sure it still hurts.

He fills the silence with a breath that shakes. “Guess the old man was right about—”

“Stop.” You lean in, press your mouth to the strip of skin above his wrap, right where his skin is smooth and warm below his hairline. “Do not put his voice in your mouth. Not here.” You keep your lips there a second longer than necessary, then pull back only far enough to whisper. “You are not useless.”

He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound dry and stubborn. “Yeah. Fine. But, as much as I can’t stand Todd and his perfect hair and golf tan and dumb boat shoes… he has a point.”

You blink, caught off guard by the picture. Todd is all sweaters and salt-and-pepper and lace-up boots that look more library than lake. You almost correct him, almost say he has a gray beard and a tweed problem and probably gets sunburned looking at a window, but you swallow the impulse. Let him have the cardboard villain if it makes the medicine go down.

Gator turns his face toward your voice like he can find you by the heat of it. “Point is, he keeps sayin’ I gotta say things out loud or they fester. So.” He swallows. His hand flexes on the sheet. “I was a real piece of shit before. I know that. I acted like a man who deserved more than he gave. I liked bein’ mean. I liked when people backed up. I thought the badge and the name made it fine.” He pauses. “It didn’t.”

You slide your palm up his forearm, slow and steady, the way Todd told you helps when the edge gets sharp. He doesn't pull away. You hate that the muscles under your hand are tight and trembling, like he is bracing for a hit that never comes.

“I ain’t like him,” Gator says, voice roughening. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to scare women. I don’t want to hurt ’em. I did enough hurtin’ walkin’ around blind to my own bullshit before I lost my eyes.” His mouth flattens. “And that lady I killed… in my head I said it was an accident like it made a difference. Maybe it does on paper. But I still did it. I was still on my way to murder someone that night, just ended up bein’ the wrong person.”

Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against his skin. You don’t bring up the facts again. Don’t repeat what the report said, or what the lawyer said. You just let him hold the thread in his own hands.

“Now… I wanna take care of somebody,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not own ‘em. Not control ‘em. Just… take care. Bring their coffee the way they like it. Fix the crooked shelf. Keep a hand at their back on the ice so they don’t fall. Sit through the boring shit ‘cause it matters to them. Hold ‘em when they’re sick. Touch ‘em like I know where they’re sore and where they’re strong.” He lets out a breath, soft and wrecked. “And I can’t even see if they’re rollin’ their eyes at me. I gotta ask where the cups are in my own kitchen. Gotta have someone check my goddamn face for infection. It’s funny, in a mean kinda way. Like the universe waited for me to want the right things just so it could get locked behind fuckin’ glass.”

You lean down and kiss the space above his wrap, then the ridge of his temple, then the curve of his cheek where the graft meets the old skin. “You are doing it,” you say. “You’re taking care. Right now. You’re talking. You’re telling me what you want. That counts, a lot more than you realize.”

He breathes like he doesn’t believe you—but maybe wants to. A small laugh escapes, smaller than his pride, shaped like a bruise. “Feels like one of those twisted jokes,” he murmurs. “Soon as I decide I’m ready to be good at somethin’ that actually matters, I’m short a couple tools.”

Your hand slides from his forearm to his bicep, a firmer grip that says don’t run. Don’t look away—even if looking’s different now. He turns his face toward you again, closer this time, like he’s learning you by sound and warmth.

“Yeah,” you say, soft. “Maybe it is a joke.”

You let the beat stretch, then add, calm and sure, “But the punchline’s not that you failed.”

He swallows. Nods once. Your foreheads almost touch.

And you stay like that, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, your mouth on his temple. Both of you listening to the same breath, until the room remembers how to be small and safe again.

Then you tilt your mouth toward his ear.

“Do you want to take care of me,” you ask, quiet but clear. “Right now? ”

He huffs a laugh, trying to pull the moment back to something he can joke about. “Think I could go another round.”

You snort and tap his bicep, gentle. “Not like that.”

There’s a small pause while he tries to figure out what you mean. You can feel him searching the space for you, head turning a little.

“Do you trust me?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he adds, dry, “You helped me the week I kept gettin’ turned around in the shower and cussin’ at the faucet like it was personal. Pretty sure I gotta trust you by now.”

You laugh, soft and fond, and squeeze his hand. “Come on.”

You help him sit up, then stand, then you guide him with your palm at his at his elbow. The little bathroom off the bedroom is warm from the radiator, mirror fogged at the edges, tile cool under your feet. You set him lightly against the sink, steadying him until his knuckles find the porcelain. He’s still flushed from before, chest rising slow, hair mussed from your fingers. A line of dried sweat glints along his collarbone. His mouth is a little swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, a good kind of used.

You take the wrap from his head, careful with the knot, careful with the edges. He holds still, jaw set. When the cloth comes free, he lets out a breath you can feel on your wrist.

“Isn’t it weird,” he says, voice low, “how I still wanna look away or close ‘em when I can tell you’re lookin’ at me like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, already reaching past him to turn the shower on. The pipes knock once, then settle, steam lifting in a thin veil.

“Like I’m somethin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says, almost a whisper.

You test the water with your fingers, then glance back at him, water pattering louder now. “That’s because you are.”

You step him into the tub with you, guide his hand to the tile so he can place his feet, then tug the curtain closed. Warm water finds both of you in a steady sheet. You lift his hand and set it at your hip, then tip your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. You kiss his jaw next, then the notch of his throat, then the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. You tell him what you love as you go, soft against his skin.

“This throat,” you murmur. “How your voice sits low here when you’re bein’ stubborn.”

You kiss the slope of his shoulder. “These shoulders. Big enough to lean on.”

You kiss along his collarbone. “This. Warm. Strong.”

Your mouth trails over the center of his chest, the dark hair gone flat under the spray. “All of this. The way you feel under my hands.”

He breathes out through his nose, steady, like he is letting the words soak in the way the water does. Your palms smooth down his ribs, over the curve of his waist, around to the small of his back. You kiss the flat of his sternum and feel his fingers flex at your hip.

“What happened to me takin’ care of you,” he asks, a half-laugh caught in it, like he is trying not to ruin whatever you are doing.

You smile against his skin and look up at him. “We’re gettin’ there.”

You find the body wash and the little bath pouf tucked on the caddy. “One of those fluffy things,” you say, half laughing.

He makes a face you can hear. “Hate that damn sponge-ball. Feels like bathin’ with a tutu.”

“You’ll live,” you say, smiling as you squeeze a ribbon of soap onto it. You work it until it foams, then curl his fingers around it and lift his hand. “Here. Help me.”

You guide him to your throat first. The puff glides over your skin, slick and warm under the spray. He follows your touch, slow, careful, the lather sliding down to your collarbones. You tip your chin so he can reach, and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to keep his balance.

Then his hand drifts lower.

He circles the top of your breasts and you hear the soft sound he makes when the pouf sinks against you, soap clinging, bubbles collecting at the curves. He moves under, patient, thorough, the drag of mesh and his knuckles leaving heat in its wake. You let out a quiet sound you did not mean to make.

“There’s more than those,” you whisper, teasing.

“Yeah, well,” he says, a smile in his voice, “there’s a lot of ‘em. Gotta make sure they’re extra clean.”

You laugh, breath catching when he lifts and cups you from beneath with the pouf, then you tap his wrist and steer him on. He runs over your shoulders and down your arms, slow from biceps to wrists like he is memorizing your shape through foam. You turn to give him your back and he follows the line of your spine to the small of it. His hand settles at your hip before sliding lower. He soaps the curve of your ass, careful and firm, then between your legs with a touch that is reverent more than greedy. You guide him, small nudges at his wrist, and he listens without argument, washing your inner thighs, the backs of your knees, down your calves to your ankles.

“Good,” you murmur, flushed and clean and dizzy. You tug him forward so both of you stand right under the water. The spray warms your face and rinses the lather off your skin in shining sheets.

“My turn,” you tell him, taking the pouf and running it up his chest. The suds cling to dark hair and stick to his sternum. You work the lather over his ribs, his sides, the planes of his stomach. He stands still, trusting your hands, only shifting when you press his hips so you can get everywhere. You soap his shoulders and the cords of his neck. He tips his head for you without being asked.

You turn for the shampoo on the shelf. Your back finds his chest, the weight of him a solid line. You pop the cap, squeeze the clear gel into your palm, and work it through your own hair first. Then you lift his hands and lace his fingers with your sudsy ones, pulling them up into your hair so he can feel it slip and catch as he lathers. His thumbs skim your scalp. His mouth finds your shoulder, a soft kiss against wet skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the curve there, barely louder than the water.

You swallow, then turn to face him. You pump more shampoo into your hands and reach up, working it through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow circles. He goes quiet the way men do when something good undoes them. You rinse him with your fingers spread, then step closer and tilt your head with his so the spray catches both of you. You close your eyes while the water runs clean, while the last suds slide off your shoulders and down your bodies.

You stay like that for a while, chest to chest, water drumming on your crowns, the bathroom small and warm around you.

His thumb finds your mouth first, tracing the shape of your bottom lip like he is reading a word he loves. He leans in and kisses you, careful and slow, nothing like the hungry mess from before. You can feel how he is touching you just to memorize you. He pulls you closer, chest to chest under the warm hiss of the shower, and you breathe the same steam.

“See,” you whisper against his mouth, “you can be good at taking care of me.”

He grumbles a little, more embarrassed than annoyed.

“And even better,” you add, smiling so he can hear it, “we can take care of each other.

Another soft mutter, as if he's trying to protest but knows you'll see right through it. 

“It’s pretty obvious you like me taking care of you,” you tease, and he kisses you soft again, a little longer this time, like he is sealing something.

You turn the water off and help him step out. Everything after is a blur of warm towels and dripping hair and the small bathroom’s heat. You put a clean wrap on his eyes. You hand him a fresh pair of boxers. You grab one of his black T-shirts from the dresser and tug it over your head, then stop halfway and catch his hands.

“Help me,” you say, guiding his palms along the hem, over your ribs, up to the collar so he can feel how it hangs on you. He smooths the cotton down your sides. It catches on your curves and you laugh. “Kinda tight… my ass is half out.”

“Not gettin’ any complaints here.”

He finds your fingers, and even though you could guide him, he turns and leads the way to the bed with the surety of someone who knows every inch of his room by heart. You climb in, the sheets cool, his body warm. You tuck yourself against him.

“Is it okay if I stay?” you ask. You already know, but you want to hear it.

He lets out a quiet laugh and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to share a breath. That is the answer.

“Ain’t really done the stayin’ thing,” he says after a moment. “Used to just do it and go. Don’t know if I kick in my sleep. Might snore. Could talk, too. No idea.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “We’ll find out.”

He exhales and settles, one hand open on your hip like a promise.

After a long minute he says, almost sheepish, “You probably can’t be my caretaker anymore. Pretty sure this is a violation or whatever.”

“Oh, it’s a violation,” you say, laughing into his chest. “A big one. But I can still be here every day. I’ve got other clients. I’ll be fine.”

“So I’m gonna be seein’ a lot more of Beverly,” he groans.

“You’ll live,” you say. “Just don't end up doing this with her, cause then we’re really screwed.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right.” Then he tips his face toward you. “Ain’t doin’ this with anybody but you.”

You feel his words settle between your ribs. He tucks you closer. You let him.

Theres not much after that. A kiss or two. Maybe a quiet conversation. Something about his father or yours. Something about a dream, or the kind of future you would want if the world was different.

The morning will come and the coffee you make him will be too sweet, but he'll drink it anyway. 

Beverly will show up, late and with another story about her grandkids.

He'll call Karen, just to talk to the girls, and leave another message that goes unanswered.

There will be a text from Todd. A reminder about his appointment.

But right now, in the warmth of his bed, he isn't alone.

And when he wakes up, you'll still be with him and he'll realize, in the small hours before the sun, that it is enough.

The world will go on spinning. But for a moment, right then, everything will feel right.

Especially then.

WOW SORRY FOR THAT EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER!

If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them so I'm extending it until end of October!

“My turn,” He yelled, everyone, preparing yet another shot. “Never have I ever had a one-night stand.” 

“I don’t think you guys are playing this game fairly by targeting us.” You grumbled, all of the older kids slamming the shots back. You winced as the tequila burned your throat, watching Steve gag around the lime slice.

“To think, we finally let you drink with us, and this is how it is.” He grumbled, his shoulder brushing yours. Steve Harrington had been your best friend since middle school. One of the few surviving friends of his ‘King Steve’ era at Hawkins High. You survived long-distance friendship and the turmoils of life. Now here you were, sitting in his living room during the summer. Just like you were a teenager again. 

“There were no rules about what we could say. You should’ve clarified.” Mike snorted, sticking his tongue out at his sister. 

All she did was snarl back, “Okay. Never have I ever been caught hiding porn magazines under my bed.” 

That got a howl of laughter to echo around the room, the boy hesitantly chugging back the shot. The two siblings now in a stand-off of emotional warfare. 

“Never have I ever slept with Jonathan Byers.” Mike bit back. 

“Whoa!” Her ex-boyfriend and current situationship yelled, not sure why he got dragged into this. 

Another drink. “Never have I ever been a virgin at 19.” She bit back. 

“I told you that in confidence!” He cried out, not even taking the full shot. Too busy trying not to throw it up on Steve’s rug. 

“Never have I ever slept with Steve Harrington.” Mike howled.

“Oh my god, you are so ridiculous,” Nancy yelled, not even bothering to fill the glass. Content on taking a swig directly from the bottle. 

Maybe if the alcohol wasn’t already pumping in your veins, you wouldn’t have done it on instinct, but you tilted your own head back. Another shot going down, leaving a burning feeling in your chest, hand rubbing your clavicle to ease the ache. And maybe you could’ve gotten away with it, had everyone not been staring at Steve, awaiting his protests for Mike’s comment. 

“Wait,” Dustin shifted in his seat, now all eyes on you. “Did you just take a shot, Y/n?”

Steve was oblivious, still side-eyeing Mike for his unnecessary jabs at his sister. 

You froze, fingers still gripping the empty shot glass. Eyes wide as jaws began to fall to the floor, Robin covering her face with her hands. 

“Uh..” You choked out, “Yeah.” 

A chorus of yells broke out, Steve’s body tensing beside yours. 

“Oh my god.” Max cackled, her and Lucas falling into each other. 

“Dude, I told you so!” Lucas said back. 

“I knew you guys had been friends for too long not to have done something,” Dustin yelled, punching Will in the arms out of excitement. Ignoring his whines. 

“Jesus Christ, don’t say that,” Will begged, reading the room unlike his tispy friend. 

“This is insane.” Robin’s hands were gliding down her face, as her world had shifted on its axis. Unaware of how she didn’t know this had happened between her two best friends. It wasn’t something you and Steve talked about often, or really ever. 

“Wait, really?” Nancy’s eyes were wide, shooting daggers at the two of you. 

Suddenly, the room was too crowded, your shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin. All eyes were now on you, and you were looking everywhere but at Steve. 

“Wait, when did this happen?” Jonathan asked, “Are you guys like, together now?” 

Too quickly, the two of you began denying it, scoffing out in unison no’s. The silence was deafening after, scoffs of disbelief and looks of confusion. 

You let Steve speak, unable to form any coherent thoughts. “It was a long time ago.” He had settled on, hoping that was going to ease the nosiness. Which, of course, it did not. 

“You told me you never had feelings for Steve,” Nancy said, an accusatory glance shot your way. 

“And I never did. It was purely physical.” You rambled, “It was way after you guys got together, swear. God, Steve and I are just friends.” 

“Just friends normally don’t have sex.” Robin pointed out, “I mean, we’ve never had sex.” 

“Robin, did you wanna have sex with me?” You scoffed, her face turning into one of disgust. 

“Wait, so this happened the summer after you graduated?” Max pointed out, doing calculations in her head. 

Steve’s heart was pounding out of his chest, his eyes glancing at your frame every few seconds. Watching your eyes dart anywhere but his. He was silently pleading for you to look at him, just one glance. 

“Yup.” You smiled awkwardly, avoiding his gaze like the plague. “Now who’s next?” Doing your best to push the game forward, or end it entirely. 

“Yeah, never have I ever had sex with Y/n.” Lucas laughed, making Max push him backwards off the couch. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Steve winced, not even bothering to take another drink. Everyone was well past their limit anyway to continue drinking like fish. “You guys are cut off.” 

“No, please-” 

Steve tried to wrestle the bottles out of Dustin’s hands. The two of them ended up in a heap on the floor, playful giggles erasing the awkwardness air out of the room. 

“Jesus Christ.” You sighed, about to get up and run to the bathroom, before three sets of hands were on your shoulders. All but dragging you into the garage under the guise of smoking a cigarette. Mind you, none of you smoked. Jonathan simply handed Nancy the pack. His eyes are all-knowing. 

“Was wondering when the interrogation would start.” Your mouth watered at the pack in Nancy’s hand, demanding to bum one off of her. 

“Only if you answer our questions.” She smirked, waving the pack above your head like a dog with a bone. 

“You each get one question. Maybe two if you guys are nice.” You sighed, snatching the pack from her quickly. They were kind enough to at least give you time to light the cigarette before the questions started. They all spoke over each other, your head aching at the volume. 

“One at a time, please.” You whined, opening the garage door to feel the summer night air hit your flushed skin. 

“Me first,” Robin demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Of course, that would bother her the most. “Honestly,” You sighed, “It happened once, and we never talked about it again. Truly. It would’ve been weird to bring it up.” 

Max raised her hand like she was in school, waiting for you to point at her. “Was it a spur-of-the-moment thing? Or was there a love confession? Were you drunk?” 

“Yes, no, and no. Tipsy off champagne, sure. I was a virgin, made a joke about going to college one, and Steve said ‘What if you weren’t?’ It seemed batshit to me, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I could just get it over with with someone I trusted.”

The girl's eyes were wide, staring at you like you had three heads. 

“And there were no feelings? Like at all?” Nancy asked slowly, like she was scared of startling a wild animal. “Because I mean, for years, everyone thought you two would end up together. I mean, even I did. S’why I was so jealous of you.” 

You shook your head, flicking the cigarette on the ground. “Nope. I mean, it was intimate, yeah, but no love confessions. Just casual sex between friends.” 

“Casual. Right.” Robin nodded, clearly not believing the words coming from your mouth.

“Was it good?” Max asked, making Nancy push her shoulder playfully. “Guess I could ask you too, huh?” Max hissed back, the two of them joking around.  

“It was good.” You sighed, “Probably the best sex I’ve ever had.” You admitted, “Just hasn’t been the same with anyone else.” 

Nancy furrowed her brows, “He’s good. I get that, but hasn’t it been the same?” 

“Y’know, men are just.” You waved your hand around. “They can do all the right things, but it’s not like they’re my best friend, so they don’t know me like Steve does, I guess.” 

“What about that guy you dated for like two years?” Max asked. 

“Sex was fine, just nothing special.” You shrugged. That’s what you told yourself anyway. It’s the only thing you’d let yourself believe. The thoughts resurfacing made your skin crawl. 

They all made a noise, staring amongst each other like they were in on an inside joke you weren’t privy to. You tuned them out, letting the cigarette burn up in your hand, thinking back to graduation night all those years ago.

Graduating from High School didn’t feel as monumental as you thought it was supposed to. There were no grand proposals of love in your cap and gown, no dramatic football field walk-offs, no long monologues about societal expectations. It was a diploma in your hand, too many photos, and dry snack plates littered about. It didn’t feel like much of anything. 

For Steve, it was worse; his parents didn’t even bother attending. Content on spending the start of their summer at their beach house. Calling it a punishment for Steve not getting early admission anywhere, like his father wanted. It was cruel. He acted like it didn’t bother him, but with years of friendship under your belt, you knew his tells. He was tugging the roots of his hair anxiously, the hairspray falling before the night was halfway through. Every time your parents spoke about how proud they were of you, there was a faraway look in his eyes. 

Even when your own parents took him in their arms, a son they never had. He appreciated it, but you knew it wasn’t what he wanted. To be discarded and disregarded by his own parents cut him deeper than he’d ever show. 

That’s why, after all your family retired for the night, you were sneaking into the Harrington household. Not even bothering to sneak in through the window, you opened the front door slowly. The house was dark, still. The only light was emitting from upstairs, where Steve was. You hollered out his name a few times before padding up the stairs. As soon as you spotted him, your heart fell, graduation gown lazily thrown against his chair. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. 

You cleared your throat before speaking, “Hello, graduating class of 1985.” 

He didn’t even jump, just wiped his eyes and turned towards you. You held up the stolen bottle of champagne, a bag of food in your other hand. 

“Did you think I was gonna let you celebrate your first night as a free man in this big house all by yourself?” You smirked. 

His eyes lit up in a way only you could make them. His shoulders were trembling from the laugh he was trying not to let escape. “Did you break into my house?” 

“Door was unlocked.” You shrugged, walking into his room as if it were your own. Which, at this point, it might as well have been. “Got your favorite and dessert. Figured we’d put on a record and talk about how terrible Tammy’s song was. And principal Higgin’s speeches.” 

Steve just watched you glide around his room, entering his orbit like you always had. Rambling on as you set the food out, forcing him to pick a record from his crate. 

Once the music was playing, you both ate, rambling on and on about tonight's events. It was an hour later, and you were taking turns destroying the personal-sized cake you picked up from the supermarket. Forks in hand, bitching about the upcoming Summer break. 

You’d be pulling extra hours at the diner, saving up for Fall tuition. While Steve was ranting about his father letting him know he was effectively cut off financially. And how he was really worried about how it would impact his dating life, because of course he would be.

“My summer is gonna be spent at some dead-end minimum wage job before my dad allows me to get an actual job with him,” Steve rambled, “While all the hot girls are going to college. They’re gonna see all these educated hipster dudes and come back to Hawkins and not even spare me another glance.” 

“At least you’re not going into college a virgin.” You shrugged, placing the icing-covered fork down. “I’m never getting laid ever at this rate. It could always be worse.” 

Steve’s body stilled, brows furrowed at you. “What do you mean? Are you saying you never?” 

“Thought you knew that.” You hummed, kicking your feet lazily behind you. Your head still propped up by your hand. 

“But you and Tyler? Not even once? I mean, you guys dated for almost a year.” Steve was aghast, unable to comprehend a teenage boy, not wanting to go all the way. 

“We did like hand stuff, but yeah, never.” You admitted. It wasn’t something you were particularly embarrassed about, but it worried you. Most of the time, people in college had already had sex; you couldn’t imagine many people would want anything to do with an almost 19-year-old virgin. 

Steve made a noise of shock, sitting back on his hands. His mind is running a thousand miles a minute; any longer and smoke would be steaming out of his ears. 

“God, what a loser,” he laughed, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“He just didn’t seem into it, I guess? He probably just didn’t like me very much.” 

“Hey,” Steve frowned, “It’s his loss. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” 

You sighed, “Just gotta find some college boy that doesn’t mind screwing virgins.” You laughed, ready to swing your body off the bed to flip to vinyl over. 

Steve stopped you, his hand steady on your arm. He wasn’t sure what he was about to offer you, whether it was the cheap champagne or the loneliness in his gut. 

“What if you weren’t a virgin, though?” He asked gently, his eyes heavy on yours. 

“What?” You laughed, sitting upright to look at him. 

“Just, what if I... you know?” He stumbled on, tripping over his own words. 

You were lost, unsure of what he was asking. “No offense, but I don’t trust you as a wingman-” 

“No, that’s not what I mean.” He grumbled, cursing himself under his breath. “You know I love you, right? You’re my best friend in the whole world. Nothing would change that.” 

“I know, Stevie. I love you too.” You smiled, covering your hand with his. 

“And I don’t have any romantic feelings for you, not in that way.” He admitted, watching your face intently for your reaction.

“And I don’t for you…” You said, unsure where he was leading with this. 

“But I do have eyes, and you’re very attractive.” 

“Thank you?” You spoke, still confused as you watched him pick out each word carefully. 

“And I’d hate for you to lose your virginity to someone who doesn’t care about you. I know teenage boys, they’re pigs.” He rambled, “It should be special. With someone who cares about you and your pleasure. Someone who makes you feel safe.” 

You nodded, urging him to continue. “So, what I’m trying to say or offer is that I could take your virginity.” 

The words cut through the air like a record scratch, your eyebrows furrowing. 

You knew Steve had a reputation to be upheld at school. The Playboy, the man-whore of Hawkins, as you called him. He was very experienced in that department; you had overheard the rumors. The girls' bathroom whispers about him. But you never thought of him in that way; he was always just Steve. Your Steve. A weird feeling sat in your gut the more you thought about it. 

You looked deep into his warm eyes. He was attractive; that much was obvious to everyone with eyes. He cared about you more than anyone ever had before. He knew you like the back of his hand. There was never a time when someone else came before you. You were two peas in a pod. Everyone knew that wherever you were, Steve was right behind. 

Because he was your Steve, you knew he’d respect you. He’d never cross any lines; he’d be the perfect gentleman. And that’s when the ache started, the gentle throb between your legs. Craving the physical touch of another. 

You don’t know how long you sat there in thought before speaking. Asking him one more time just to make sure you heard him correctly. 

“You’re offering to have sex with me? Just to clarify?” 

He nodded, “As a friend.” 

It sounded silly the moment it left his lips, a smile appearing on your lips. Just one smile and all of his anxiety disappeared. 

“You want us to have sex as friends?” You giggled, “Wait, I don’t want it to ruin what we have.” You paused, grabbing his hand tighter in yours. 

“No, no.” He said quickly, “We don’t have to. I just want you to have that experience with someone who loves you. Nothing’s gonna change between us. I don’t have feelings for you, you don’t have feelings for me. Purely casual. No kissing, no romance. Think of it as an introduction to sex.”

“What’s in it for you?” You couldn’t help but ask. 

A lazy smirk fell on his face, “Well, like I said. Saving you from a horrible first time. It’s simply a bonus that I get to have sex with a pretty girl.”

“You’re so ridiculous, Steve Harrington.” You laughed, his thumb rubbing, smoothing circles into your hand. 

“We don’t have to. We can forget I ever even said anything, and I’ll blame the stolen champagne.” 

“No, I think I want it to be you.” You admitted. 

Your Steve. The boy who took the training wheels off your bike for you. Then kissed your bloodied knees when you crashed into the asphalt. The same boy who taught you how to drive stick, letting you get curb rash all over the Beamer's brand-new tires. The two of you had been through hell and back together; nothing would ruin your friendship. You knew it deep in your heart. There was no life you’d live without Steve.

You both took a moment, letting the words settle between you. His hands were jittery against yours, in anxiety or anticipation, you weren’t sure. Your stomach was in knots, excitement and fear rising in your chest. 

“Do you wanna do it now?” 

“So should we?” You both spoke at the same time, giggling.

Untangling his hands from yours, you moved the half-eaten cake to the desk. Clearing off his bed. He closed his curtains for privacy, flipping over the vinyl once more. You crawled into his bed, settling underneath his covers. You had been in his bed hundreds of times, but now your palms were sweaty. Heart nearly beating out of your chest. 

“One rule,” Steve said, still standing at the edge of the bed. His eyes were dark as he watched you. “We communicate the whole time. I’ll talk you through everything. You tell me what you like, what you don’t like. We stop at any time.” 

Your teeth bit down on your lower lip, nodding at him. 

“Gotta say it, pretty girl.” He urged, your stomach turning with desire. 

“Y-yes.” You said, “I promise.” 

He smiled, slipping his socks off. Giving you time to undress. You lifted your hips, shimmying your pants off underneath the blankets. You weren’t sure why you felt the need to hide, but you blushed when he tugged his own pants down. You had seen him shirtless hundreds of times, but here he stood clad in nothing but his underwear. He looked godlike, his hair messy against his forehead. 

“Should I take my shirt off?” You asked breathily, fingers fumbling with the hem. 

He nodded a little too quickly, a blush forming on his cheeks. “You can leave your bra on. Whatever you feel comfortable with.” 

The shirt was off in seconds, a simple, plain black thing. Having sex with your best friend wasn’t on the agenda for the night, or maybe you would have put on something cuter. But to Steve, it didn’t matter; his jaw ticked anyway. Watching intently as the flesh bounced when you lay back on the bed. He was just a man at the end of the day. 

He joined you underneath the covers, leaning on his elbow to take a look at you. “You feeling okay?” He noted your breathing was heavier, limbs moving nervously. 

“Nervous, but good nervous.” You smiled, his face moving close to yours. 

“S’okay if I touch you?” He asked sweetly. 

You went to nod but stopped yourself, shuffling under the blanket once again to slip your underwear off. Palming up the fabric in your hand and hiding it beneath your discarded pants. 

Steve couldn’t help but laugh, making you glare back at him. “We’re literally about to have sex, but you don’t want me seeing your underwear?” 

“Be nice to me.” You playfully frowned, falling back into position. “Okay. You can touch me now.” 

He pressed his lips down to your forehead gently, letting his hand move underneath the blankets to rest on your stomach. You almost flinched at the warmth of his hands, willing your body to calm down. He took his time, slowly dragging his palm around your naval until it slid further down. You didn’t know where to look, eyes darting all over the room. 

“Spread your legs for me,” Steve demanded softly, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it before. The words went straight to your core, nearly gasping at the lust in them. It hadn't occurred to you until now that you’d both be sharing your most intimate parts. You would see him fall apart in pleasure just as much as he would you. 

You obliged, your legs parting open for him. His hand traveled through your pubic bone, fingertips teasing the hair down there. Your hips jumped up when his middle and ring fingers pressed softly against your clit, with little resistance. You were wet, and now he knew it as he rubbed an experimental circle into the swollen bud. 

“This okay?” He panted, breath hot against your neck. You were so lost in the moment, you didn’t realize his head was nuzzling closer. 

“Yeah,” You sighed, “Y-you can add a little more pressure.” 

Oh, was he good at following directions. His fingers pressed down harder, continuing his small strokes. He watched you intently, listening to your body’s cues on where exactly to press down harder, and didn’t stop until he found the right rhythm. He knew he did when you let out a small moan, then clamped your mouth shut. Your body flushes in embarrassment. The last thing he wanted was for you to silence yourself, to worry about being quiet instead of focusing on the sensation. 

“You don’t have to be quiet,” He whispered, “I want you to focus on feeling good. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.” 

“J-jesus.” You stuttered, your body going hot. Every time he spoke, you could feel yourself getting wetter, craving more of him. 

But you listened, letting the pathetic moans slip through your lips. He could feel your hips tilting upward, rocking against his hand for more. So more he gave, letting his fingers speed up their movements. 

“O-oh, Steve. Right there.” You sighed, one of your hands grabbing his wrist tightly. “Please don’t stop.” 

“M’not. Just relax. Just feel it.” He cooed, ignoring his cock twitching in his boxers. He couldn’t believe this was happening, your cunt spasming around his fingers as he drew you closer to the edge. Your chest heaved, tits bouncing out the top of your bra with each gasp that left your plump lips. He found himself staring at them, wondering what they’d feel like pressed against his. 

His hips shifted towards your leg, his bulge brushing against you. Doing everything in his power not to hump you like a dog in heat. You felt it anyway, your eyes shooting over to his. 

“You’re hard.” You spoke it like a fact, your voice breathy. 

“Yeah?” He laughed, pressing a little harder into you. “Got a pretty girl moaning my name and cumming around my fingers. Course imma be hard.” 

“God.” You moaned loudly, eyes falling back shut. 

He worked you through your orgasm gently, slowing but not stopping his movements. He waited until your moans had ceased and your breathing evened out before he let his fingers glide further down. 

“I’m gonna put my fingers in now. That okay?” He asked, feeling the opening of your entrance mouth against his fingers greedily. 

“Y-yeah.” You sighed dreamily, and one of your hands had gone behind his head. Fingers laced in his brown locks, his head hovering just above your chest. Resisting the urge to lean down and bite the supple flesh. 

He slid one finger in at a time, letting your body adjust to one before two were slipping deep into your cunt. You were soaked with your previous release and your ongoing arousal. He could feel you dripping down his hand; he was so hard he thought he was going to pass out. 

He pulled his fingers out slowly, before pushing them back in with a wet squelch. The sound would have embarrassed you if not for how deeply they were prodding inside you. His fingertips are brushing a spot inside of you that no one has ever had before. It had you grasping onto him like a lifeline, body tensing. 

“Hey, you okay?” He panted, stilling his movements. 

You nodded, moving your hips down. Trying to fuck yourself on his fingers since he stopped. “F-feels weird. In a good way. Overwhelming. Never felt that before.” 

A deep smirk appeared on his lips, curling his fingers ever so gently to the right. He knew he hit the spot again with you jumped. He let his fingers push in deeper, prodding the spot with each thrust. “Is that it?” 

“Yes.” You cried, head thrown back into the pillows. “Fuck, that’s so good.” 

“S’your sweet spot. It’s gonna feel so good when I’m inside you, honey.” He mumbled, his thumb coming up to rub your clit gently. 

His words made you cum without warning; the sheer mention of his cock being inside you had you cumming around his fingers again. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed as he walked you through it, the kindest, filthiest words leaving his lips. 

“There we go, look so good cumming for me. It’s okay, just take it. There you go.” 

Your legs slammed shut around his rest, thighs shaking around him. He took the hint and gently removed his fingers, leaning over to wipe them off on his discarded shirt. You were out of breath, watching his back muscles ripple with his movements. 

“How was that?” He grinned, acting as if he didn’t just give you the two best orgasms of your life. 

“No wonder half of Hawkin’s is throwing themselves at your feet.” You teased him, rubbing your face with your hand. “Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.” 

Pride oozed off of him as he leaned forward, ready to crawl on top of you. You stopped him with a hand to his chest, letting your fingers glide through the soft patch of hair. “Will you let me..?” 

“Oh, well, I was gonna-” 

“Just a little, if t-that’s okay with you. Think it’s only fair.” You smiled, omitting the fact that you so desperately wanted to feel him at least once in your hands. Who was Steve to deprive his pretty best friend of anything? 

He pushed his boxers down off his legs quickly, his cock slapping his pubic bone with a snap. The covers had long been pushed down beneath your knees; no point in hiding from each other at this point. All shame and embarrassment had long been out the window. You had to stifle the gasp once your eyes fell between his legs. He was huge, in a way that felt anatomically impossible. His thick bulbous tip was the prettiest shade of pink, his length long, complete with a thick vein that ran underneath. 

“Steve.” You paled, mouth agape at him. 

He must have been used to this reaction as your hand reached out, wrapping around his length. Your fingers barely fit around it. He had to bite his lip to avoid moaning just from the simple grab. He twitched heavily in your hand. 

“I heard the rumors, but this is insane. That’s not gonna fit inside me.” You gawked, stroking him slowly. 

Between your hand and the words leaving your mouth, he was doing all he could to not ruin this entire idea of his by blowing his load early. 

“I’ll make it fit, pretty girl, don’t worry.” He spoke through clenched teeth, whining when you brought your other hand up. Fitting more of him in your hands. He pulled away slowly, ignoring your whines of protest. “Don’t wanna be a ten pump chump for your first time.” 

You giggled at this, letting him slot himself in between your legs. He leaned over you to fumble around in his bedside drawer, pulling out a stack of condoms. You watched him open the foil with his teeth and expertly roll the latex over himself with ease. You tried not to think of just how many girls have seen him do this, ignoring the weird ache it brought in your chest. 

All of that left the moment he leaned back down, his hand bracing himself next to your head. The other holding his heavy cock in his hand. You could feel the tip brushing against your entrance ever so slightly. 

“Are you ready? Still okay with this?” He asked again, staring deep into your eyes for confirmation. 

You had made your mind up already, spreading your legs wider for him. “Yes, please.” 

He leaned down, dropping another kiss to your forehead before he lined himself up, letting his tip push past your drenched folds. He held you close to him, whispering words of encouragement as he settled inside of you. The stretch hurt, a deep ache that hurt in a good way. Your head was heavy, eyes rolled to the back of your head. Your hands were pressing deep red marks into his shoulder blade, but he didn’t care. Not while your tight cunt was barely making room for him to push in. 

“Gotta relax, baby.” Steve cooed, not even a quarter of the way in. Your heart thumped widely at the nickname, letting his slip of tongue go unnoticed by him. 

“Stevie, y’so big.” You cried, still urging him to continue. He pushed deeper, his hand rubbing small circles on your hip bone. Doing his best to relax you, so you’d open up wide for him. Your cunt took him in slowly, fluttering and squeezing with each inch he slowly dragged in. By the time his hips hit yours, tears were pouring down your cheeks. The stretch was too much; it felt like he was splitting you apart. 

“I’m sorry, so sorry. It’s in now, baby. It’s okay, shhh. Do you wanna stop?” He whispered, smoothing down your hair, keeping you as close as possible to him. 

“N-no, please don’t.” You sobbed, “Just need a minute.” 

“I’ll give you all the time in the world.” He smiled, pressing small kisses into your neck. He meant it; you were warm and wet around him. So tight he had to breathe through his nose and think of anything else to calm him down. 

It took a few minutes of feeling his lips on your skin, his hands roaming respectfully. One of his hands settled on your thigh, nearly gripping your ass in his hands as he held you close. The dull ache had faded, your body stretching to his size as if you were made for him. You could feel your cunt drenching around him again, the ache of needing more settling deep in your bones. 

“Steve.” You breathed out, nearly startling him. 

He looked down at you with his brown doe eyes, ready to give you anything you wanted. Because he always would. He’d never say no to you. Not his Y/n. 

“How’s it feel?” He asked. 

“Good. Really full.” You whispered, “You can move now.” 

“Just tell me if it’s too much, okay?” He didn’t move until you nodded, slowly dragging his cock out of you a few inches before pushing back in. 

You gasped loudly, encouraging him to keep going as he did it again. And again. Slicking up your entrance enough to gain traction, allowing him to slowly slip all the way out, and then your cunt suckling him back in.

“Oh my god.” You cried out, your head deep in the crook of his neck as you clung onto him for dear life. 

His movements were careful and deep, pounding into that sweet spot he found earlier with each thrust. He was surely ruining you for all men to come, as he found a rhythm that worked for both of you. His hips slapping against yours, the lewd sounds of his wet balls slapping against your ass. 

“You feel amazing, honey,” He grunted, making sure you knew this was good for him too, “So tight and wet.”

“Oh, Steve. I-I think I’m gonna cum. I feel like-” Your moans were cut off by his hands grabbing your ass, lifting your leg higher. He shifted even deeper inside of you like this, his tip slamming into your spot with each jolt. 

“You’re gonna cum for me.” He spoke like a fact, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. 

You melted, your body falling slack as you fell into your third orgasm of the night. “Yeah, yeah, I am.” 

It was hard to keep your eyes open as your body shook with pleasure, but it was worth it to see Steve’s face. His plump lips parted, his cheek flushed as his eyes were locked on where you were connected. Watching your release soak his cock. He was beautiful. 

Suddenly, all of the girls in the Hawkin’s bathroom made sense. Why they’d come to his door crying, begging for another chance. Why he walked around god-like all those years. Because with each snap of his hips into yours, Steve Harrington was fucking you into heaven. He was hitting spots inside of you that you’d never even heard of. Bringing you more orgasms in an hour than you had in your entire life. 

“That’s my gorgeous girl.” He preened, and doesn’t miss the way you clench around him after he says it. He’s chasing his own high, leaning back down to press his body against yours. His thick patch of hair rubs against your clit with each roll of his hips. Your entire body was sensitive; each touch had you crying out. 

No matter how much he wanted to cum, he decided he needed one more out of you. Dragging his hips even faster. If this were the first and last time this would ever happen, he’d make it last. He wanted to memorize each gasp that left your lips, the furrow of your brow when you were close. How you felt marking him as your own. 

“Stevie…” 

“Yes?” He panted, his eyes meeting your blissed-out ones. 

“Kiss me.” Your voice was strained, face scrunched up in pleasure. 

Kissing was crossing a line you hadn’t discussed; kissing made it something else. But Steve couldn’t say no to you, not while your lips were parted, begging to be kissed. Begging for him.

He didn’t hesitate to bring his lips down to yours in a crushing kiss. It wasn’t romantic; it was hot and desperate. Open mouth panting into open mouth as you both fell apart in unison. His balls were tightening as your legs shook around his waist. 

“You gonna cum for me? One more time?” He asked against your lips, your head shaking. 

“Yes, you can, baby. Can feel it. Just one more. You’ve done so well.” 

You were crying out against him; you were overstimulated in the best way. With each drag, you could feel the coil tightening, an unusual feeling appearing in your lower belly. 

“W-wait, Steve.” You panicked, pulling away from his kiss. “I feel like I have to-to you k-know” 

He ignored your panic, lifting your leg higher around his waist. “Do you trust me?” 

“With my life.” You nearly sobbed, the feeling only growing stronger. 

“Then shhhh, just relax. I got you.” He whispered, speeding his thrusts up. 

You could barely breathe, each thrust knocking the wind out of you as the pleasure swelled into something you didn’t have a name for. All it took was one more thrust, and the dam had burst, your cunt squirting around him. Your entire body is shaking in pleasure, unable to hear the pornographic wet sounds. It was music to Steve’s ears, his own body flinching in pleasure when he came undone. Spilling his seed into the condom, his hips stilling. 

“Oh my god, Y/n.” He moaned in awe, shakily looking down at the now ruined sheets. 

The room felt too hot, your body slick with sweat, rubbing against his own. You couldn’t look, keeping your eyes clamped shut. 

“That’s so gross.” You grumbled, “M’sorry.” 

“Sorry?” His jaw dropped, leaning down to cup your face in his hands. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t ever apologize for your pleasure. Don’t let any of these little boys make you feel bad, or gross.” 

“Yes, Captain.” You giggled, a goofy smile on your face. His forehead was damp, his hair curling and sticking to his forehead. 

“Gonna pull out and clean you up, okay? Don’t move. It might sting a little.” He warned, pressing a barely there kiss to your lips before he moved. You hissed at the loss of contact, the ache coming back once he slipped out. You refused to look at the damp and bloodied sheets, simply letting him bring a cool washcloth to your legs, patting you clean. It was more intimate than the sex, letting him take care of you like this. 

He gave you a t-shirt of his to slip on and an old pair of boxers. You went to the bathroom while he changed the sheets. When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you hardly recognized the girl staring back at you. Your hair was a mess, cheeks flushed. Small love bites littered your neck from where Steve got carried away. The ache he left between your legs. Your Steve. 

When you walked out of the bathroom, he was sliding a movie into the VHS player, a goofy smile on his lips. “You don’t regret anything, do you?” 

You shook your head, “Not at all. Now grab that cake and pour me a glass. What movie did you put in?” You hobbled over to the bed; if Steve noticed your gait off he didn’t comment on it. Content to follow your orders, as the old TV crackled to life with ‘The Breakfast Club’. 

You were snuggled up in his bed, blankets pulled up to your chin, when he brought you a slice of the cake. Another red solo cup full of champagne. “For the newly no longer a virgin.” 

“Oh, shut up.” You grumbled, snatching the plate from him. He ended up stealing half of your piece, your forks battling as the movie droned on. The night continued as normal, no more touches. Everything was just as it was before, as if nothing had happened. So why was it over half a decade later that the memory still made your heart race? 

You avoided Steve for the rest of the night, content on blindly hoping that everyone would have forgotten it by now. But Steve was just as lost in the memory as you were, both of you zoning out, trying to forget the looks on each other's faces as you came. It wasn’t that you forgot about it over the years, more like you actively tried to. He was your friend; it was a simple act between two horny teenagers who cared for each other. Nothing more, nothing less. Right? 

You should’ve known you’d have to face him eventually, his hand grasping your shoulder gently. Guiding you into the hall outside his bedroom. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, his breath smelled of tequila and lime. A stark contrast to the champagne and cake from the last time his face was this close to yours. 

You stilled, shifting awkwardly on your feet. “Yeah, why?” 

“Just everything in there. I’m sorry that happened. They can be, well, you know.” He chuckled,  his hands still sitting comfortably on your shoulders. Your body leaned into his subconsciously. 

“I already got interrogated in the garage,” You admitted, “It was my fault anyway. Should’ve just lied and not done the shot.” 

Steve’s brows furrowed a bit at this, “Do you?” He cleared his throat, “Do you regret it?” 

You reeled back a little, shaking your head. “N-no. no.” 

“Oh, okay. Good.” He nodded, the air around the two of you growing awkward. It was never awkward with you and Steve. Immediately, you hated it; it felt like your skin was crawling. He felt it too. The nagging feeling inside his chest telling him to pull you close, to bring you back to him. The silence was heavy, covering you two like a blanket. It stayed until Steve opened his mouth, the next few words tilting the world on its axis. 

“I regret it.” 

It took the air from your lungs, nearly staggering back if his hands weren’t holding you steady. His fingers tightened their grip, scared you’d make a run for it before he could get all the words out. He must have seen the look of horror on your face, the shame filling your chest. 

“Not because of you,” he rushed, voice cracking immediately, like he’d been waiting to say this and now it was all coming out wrong. “Jesus, no-not because of you. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Then why?” Your voice was meek, almost unrecognizable. 

“Because it ruined me,” he said quietly, like admitting it out loud might finally split him open. “Not because it was wrong, but because it was right. Right in a way, I never even realized until years later, I regret it because I couldn’t stop remembering it. Because every time I looked at you after that, there was this gap. This space between what we were and what we could’ve been.”

“I didn’t know…” You whispered, “I didn’t even. I didn’t let myself think about it. I thought it just wasn’t in the cards for us. You were my Steve. Wasn’t gonna ruin that.”

“I love you,” he said, finally, like it was a confession and an apology and a surrender all at once. Like he couldn’t go another second without the words leaving his chest. “I loved you before I knew it had a name. And now I do, and I don’t know how to live with it without wrecking everything.”

“Are you sure this isn’t the tequila talking?” You asked, the world still spinning on its side, as he looked down at you as if you were his whole world. Which you were to him. 

“Yes, I mean it’s giving me courage, but everything I’m saying I mean. God, Y/n, I mean it.” He promised. The confession had you reeling. 

“Steve…” You whispered, “I love you, too.” 

“Yeah?” He smiled, his hands shaking. “Thank god, I was feeling a little nervous there.” 

The tension was broken at that, laughter filling the air once again. The language the two of you knew well. You didn’t know where to put your hands, what to say next. 

“It’s never been like this with us,” You said quietly, as if you said it too loud, it would jinx it. 

“I know,” comes the answer right away. “That’s what’s freaking me out.”

“I’m also freaking out.” You assured him, your eyes wide. Laughs erupt from your chests, leaning towards each other from it. Your hands came up, pressing gently against his chest. You and Steve were never overly touchy-feely as friends; boundaries were upheld. Upheld for so long, it's as if each of you knew once it started, you’d never want to stop. 

“I don’t know how to do this.” He admitted, his hands covering yours. You could feel his heart beating against your intertwined hands. Fast, loud, and just for you. 

“Me neither, but it feels right. Don’t you think?” You smiled up at him. 

He gave you that beautiful, toohy grin of his. “God, yeah, it does. Feels like there’s always been something missing.”

“All this time?” Your eyes softened, mourning the years lost. How could you miss something you never even knew you could have had? 

“All this time.” He beamed, “And I don’t know what’s next. All I know is that I’m never letting you go. Ever.” 

“That a promise, Harrington?” You teased, his body leaning closer into yours. 

“That’s a threat, actually.” He smirked, finally crashing his lips onto yours. 

This was all you could dread while standing on your childhood home’s front porch step for the first time in a year. You tried not to think about a year ago when your left hand was heavier and your smile wider. Instead, you mustered up a pathetic smile, welcoming your family with open arms. Praying to drop the topic that was your personal life, which surely wouldn’t last as long as you’d hope. 

The first crack came at dinner that night, your mother pulled out all the stops, a roasted chicken with all the sides. Before you could finish your plate, she cleared her throat loudly. 

“I don’t wanna say much. But you need to know that I saw Steve at the grocery store the other day with all those kids. His parents left town again, so he’s all alone in that big house.” If she saw you flinch at the sound of his name, she didn’t address it. 

“Thanks for the heads up. And the pity party attempt, mom.” You managed to get out, dropping your fork. Your appetite now undoubtedly ruined. 

A few moments of silence passed before Mom took that as an opportunity to keep going. “You know they’re still family to you. They’d love to see you. I’m still planning on bringing them a pie. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without-” 

“Mom, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t.” You snapped, pulling the chair out more dramatically than you should have. 

“Y/m/n.” Your father sighed, pleading with his eyes for you to stay. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s work been?”

Thankful for his diversion, you managed to get out some basics about work. The simple generic small talk. The only thing you could stomach. You just had to get through the next week, and everything would be fine. Right? 

Word of your arrival in town spread like wildfire; you knew it would the moment someone drove past your parents' house and saw your car out front. The first person to call came as a surprise, your mother holding out the kitchen phone for you. None other than Robin on the line. The last time you spoke to her, you were choking back sobs, screaming at her to tell you where Steve had gone. 

The night your life fell apart in front of your eyes was nearly 6 months ago. After 8 months of an engagement, the two of you decided to move, Chicago, calling your name. A fresh start, not too far from home. A place away from the expectations that lingered above his head, the ghosts that haunted underneath the town. You told yourself it was just stress from the move, stress from Steve having a hard time finding a job he loved. You convinced yourself that the distance that had grown between you two was normal. Wedding planning had been put on hold, simply trying to get through each day at a time. You weren’t in the city for 2 months before it came crashing down in front of your eyes. 

It was a normal day, until it wasn’t. You came home from work, your home absent of the joy it used to bring. In the same kitchen he used to pick you up and spin you around in, he sat against the table. Illuminated by nothing but the city lights peering in through the window. Your keys hitting the bowl on the counter echoed through the still house. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” He said, no pleasantries, no welcome home. Five words that tore open your chest, leaving you gasping for air. 

“What?” You laughed because what else was there for you to do? Shock had taken over your body, feet glued to the spot. Overcoat still on, work bag dangling from your arm. 

“This. Us.” He spoke through clenched teeth, tears staining his cheeks. “I can’t keep sitting in this apartment day in and day out, alone. Contributing nothing. You’re gonna end up hating me. If you don’t already.” 

The bag slipped from your arm with a heavy thud. Rushing over to him, standing across from the table. “What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

“It’s been coming for a while, Y/n. We both keep dancing around it. I see it, you’re stressed out, pretending you’re not carrying me behind you like deadweight,” He sniffled, “I’m a fuck up, an embarrassment. Everything my dad said, I would be.”

You reached for him with shaky hands, knees falling to the floor beside him. Pulling yourself into his lap, holding his hands in yours. “Stop, stop.” You demanded, “I have never seen you like that. Ever. Steve, your father is an abusive piece of shit. Who cares what he thinks? It’s only been a few months; it’s going to take time. Everything is going to work out. I keep telling you that, and I believe it.” 

“I see myself like that, and I can’t unsee it. Day in and day out, I’m here in this city, alone.” He shook his head, barely responding to your begging him to look at you, to hold you back. To pretend he wasn’t okay with all that you built to slip through his fingers.  “Yeah, we were bored at home, but this is the alternative? Being alone in a city that doesn’t care if I exist.”

You scoffed. “We didn’t leave because we were bored. We left because we deserved better. Because after everything you’ve been through, after everything we’ve been through, we earned a fresh start.”

“And what if this fresh start is killing me?” He laughed, a horrible, dry laugh from the depths of his chest. His body rattles against your hands. 

Your breath stutters. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” He admitted, the air around you two changing. Your hands slipped from his, still sitting back on your knees in front of him. He still barely looked at you, content to stare at the wood grain on the table. Committing the pattern to memory. 

“So what, you want to move home?” You asked, the walls still smelled like fresh paint. The cardboard boxes you two procrastinated on throwing out lingered in the guest room. There hadn’t been enough time to make it home, the training wheels were still on. 

“We can..” You sighed, rubbing your face. “We can maybe sublet the lease until it’s over. I don’t know. We have to see if there are even any places for us to rent back home.” 

He turned in his seat, his eyes finally meeting yours. You could see his heart breaking on his face, and you knew. Something bone-chilling washed over you, nearly forcing your body flat on the floor. 

“You don’t mean us, do you?” You managed out, tears already welling in your eyes. 

His head shook, moving towards you. Joining you, knees aching on the floor you once rolled around in joy on. 

“I love you,” he says, voice breaking. “I promise I do. This isn’t me walking away because I stopped loving you.” His hands gripped yours for a second before you yanked them away. 

“Then don’t do this. If you love me, don’t leave me.” You sobbed, “If you loved me, you’d stay, or let me come with. I don’t care where we are; I want you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

He reached for you again, his touch burning your skin. 

“I have to,” he whispers. “Because I can feel myself holding you back. You deserve the chance to love this city the way you’ve always wanted to. I don’t belong here. I know I don’t. But you do. I’m not cut out for this life. Not this place, not this constant fight to prove I’m worth something. But you are. You shine here. And if I stay, all I’ll do is make you smaller so I don’t feel so lost.”

“So you go back alone,” you said, incredulous. “Back to the same streets, the same expectations from your father, the same ghosts?”

He gestured helplessly at the room, at the life you’d hauled here with too much hope and not enough certainty. “Better that than I stay here, pretending I belong.” 

“You’re really going to throw this away?” You asked, tears streaming down your neck. “You’re going to throw away all the years between us because you won’t give it a few more weeks?” 

“I can’t give you the life you deserve here.” 

Your chest aches. “I don’t want this without you.” His thumb rubbed over the ring on your finger, a choked sob escaping your chest. You remembered the day he proposed, the reminder of the happiest day of your life turning bittersweet in a matter of minutes. 

“I know,” he says, his own tears falling freely now. “And that’s why I have to let you go before I turn into something you resent.”

You sniffled, “If you walk out of that door, Steve Harrington, I will resent you. I’ll never forgive you for giving up on us, for walking out like a coward.” 

He flinched at your words, understanding he deserved it. “Don’t think I’m giving up on us for nothing, I’m doing this for you.”

Then his hand falls, the space between you unbearable, a chasm building between the two of you. 

“No,” You shook your head, a laugh tearing out of you like a mad woman. “You’re doing it because you’re scared. You let your father’s words get in your head, now you’re letting them ruin your life.” 

“You don’t understand, and that’s okay.” He gave you a weak smile, standing up slowly. “But I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone before.” 

“Bullshit.” You sprang to your feet, pushing his chest. He didn’t move, just stood there taking whatever you’d give him. “You can’t say you love me while you’re actively leaving me. You just don’t wanna marry me anymore? A few rough months and you’re tapping out? That’s not how the real world works.” 

“You’re not listening to me,” He seethed, “I am miserable here! I miss my friends; I am alone here with no one but you. If I go home, I have a job with my dad, and you can still live out your dreams.” 

“My dreams mean nothing if you’re not here.” You yelled, pushing him roughly again. His hands come out to grip your wrists. “You’re not even fighting for us. You’ve given up.” 

The realization hit you like a freight train, stumbling on your feet. “You’ve given up.” 

“Y/n..” 

“Out.” You sobbed, taking a shaky step back. “You want to leave so bad? Get the fuck out. Run back home to the people who thought you couldn’t do it. Prove them right. End up just like your fucking father. If you want to live and die in that town, don’t let me stop you.” 

He knew rationally your words were just your heart breaking, and it tore him apart knowing he was the one doing it. You’d move on, he knew you would eventually. He just wanted you to have the life here you deserved, the one you’d keep him up all night daydreaming about. It just wasn’t going to be with him. So he resigned and walked into the room, grabbing his bags. All you could do was stand there, shell-shocked. Tears streaming down your cheeks. You ignored his goodbyes, waited until the door locked behind him to throw yourself on the floor. Screaming until your voice went hoarse. The next morning, you called Robin, begging her to tell you where he was. She said it was best she remove herself from this, wishing you well. All it took was one conversation, one bad night, and your entire life had crumbled right before your eyes. 

Now, as you stood there lost in the memory, you snapped back, hearing her voice on the other end of the line. 

“Hello.” She asked, making you blink. 

“Hi?” 

“Y/n,” Her voice rang out, too cheery. “It’s good to hear your voice. I’m glad you’re home.” 

It was awkward, a painful awkwardness that sat in the middle of your chest. Your best friend, the girl you used to tell everything, was now someone you could barely have a normal conversation with. 

“Yeah, you too.” You mumbled, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m not trying to be mean, but did you need something?” 

She paused for a moment, “Uh, yeah. I just wanted to invite you to our Christmas party tomorrow. It wouldn’t be the same without you. We miss you.” 

The honesty in her voice made your heart ache, but you couldn’t. “I don’t think that’s a great idea, Robin-” 

“Steve said it’s fine.” She yelled, and you could hear mumblings in the background. “You don’t have to stay for long, just get some food. The kids really miss you, and so do I, Y/n. We miss our friend.” 

You sighed, running your hand through your hair. “I don’t know.” 

“Just, Steve’s house tomorrow at 7. Don’t worry about bringing anything. If you don’t come, that’s fine too, just…. Think about it.” 

“Okay.” You said, before hanging up the phone. Your forehead banging the wall harshly. 

The next 24 hours were spent pacing around your childhood bedroom, nearly burning a hole in the carpet. You could go and be social, see your friends. Fill the gap in your heart that formed the moment you last heard from them. If they hated you, they wouldn’t have invited you. Robin didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. But if you did go and walk into the Harrington household again, you weren’t sure if your heart could take it. It was naive to believe you could come here and not have a run-in with the man, but you didn’t prepare yourself enough for this.

On one of your last paces, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The same mirror you got ready in for your first date with Steve, which felt like a lifetime ago. The mirror you cleaned both of your bloody faces in after the Starcourt Mall fiasco. You let yourself linger on your appearance, no longer recognizing the girl who stared back at you. 

“Fuck it.” You grumbled, your voice echoing throughout the empty room. You plopped down, dragging over your makeup bag. You would go, but you wouldn’t be happy about it. Your hands shook the whole time, nearly covering your chin in lipstick. They continued shaking as you drove to the store, picking out the most expensive bottle of wine the Hawkin’s supermarket had. The feeling only got worse when you pulled into the driveway. A black cloud dangling above your head.

The Harrington house was always extravagant, but dull. Lifeless in the way his parents decorated, only brought to life by the love Steve himself made. Today, it looked the opposite of that, with lights lazily strung up on the porch. The soft, warm glow of a Christmas tree peeking in through the front window. You thought back to your own home, where the tree sat untouched in a box in the spare room. What good was decorating if no one was around to see it but you? 

You weren’t willing to admit it to anyone, but Chicago was lonely. Steve had it all wrong those months ago; you were only thriving because he was there with you. You were so focused on providing a future for you two that you let him slip through the cracks. The city was big, big enough to hide your sorrows. But what was the point if the city didn’t care if you were there? You hated that he was right, you hated that things happened the way that they did. 

Once you had had enough of licking your own wounds, you tumbled out of the car. The wind was biting, soft snow still falling. You made a point not to look at Steve’s car on the way up the drive; you knew that BMW like the back of your hand. No point in ripping off another bandage. When you were face-to-face with the door, you clutched the wine like a lifeline, telling yourself you still had time to run. No one would even know you were here if you spun your tires fast enough. 

All of your daydreaming of running away vanished when the door swung open, your hand still up, going to knock on the wooden door. “Y/n?” Max spoke, her eyes wide.

Maybe you should have called, maybe you should have told Robin you were coming. Maybe Robin lied, maybe she didn’t tell anyone you were invited. Maybe you weren’t invited, and Robin was meddling again. 

All these fears vanished when Max basically leaped into your arms, wrapping them around your body tightly. You smiled in a way you haven’t in months, cheeks aching from the foreign movement. 

“Max.” You breathed out, squeezing the redhead back with just as much vigor. 

“Holy shit,” She laughed, her face still smushed in your trench coat, “I didn’t think you’d come. I missed you.” 

“I missed you more, kiddo.” The wine bottle nearly fell from your hand when she pulled back. You kept your gaze on her; she had grown so much since the last time you saw her. “God, you’re like a proper adult now, huh?” 

She rolled her eyes, taking the wine from your hand gently, “Not old enough to legally drink yet, but Steve said we can get a glass at dinner if we don’t break anything.” 

For the first time in months, you didn’t flinch at the mention of his name, too overwhelmed with emotion to even care. “That sounds like him.” 

You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around her once more, kissing the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.” It was a quiet admission, one for her only. When everything happened, Max quickly grew to be the little sister you never had. It wasn’t fair for you not to reach out as much, but she was in college now. She had a life outside of Hawkins, just like you; she understood more than most. 

“Don’t do that.” She shook her head, “All that matters is that you’re here now.” 

You opened your mouth to speak, only to get cut off by a loud squeal of your name. Your head shot up, peering into the house. Within seconds, a hurricane of overgrown teenagers were barreling towards the door. Dustin’s mop of curls was the first to appear out of the doorway, nearly pushing Max aside as he leaped into your arms. 

“Jesus assholes!” Max barked, the boys ignoring her as they crowded around you. 

Lucas flanked your side, Mike towering over the group, El behind him, while Dustin was squeezing the life out of you. 

“You smell good,” Dustin mumbled, making you roll your eyes. 

“Thank god you’re here,” Lucas breathed out, “Max has been nonstop talking about you-” He was cut off, no doubt, by a smack from the woman herself. 

Mike was rambling on about needing to ask you questions about school, something about wanting to intern at your job. 

El had snuck up, her hands tugging at the ends of your hair. “You cut it?” She had a soft frown. 

“I think it looks good!” Will spoke up, his arms wrapping around your side. 

You were lost in a fit of giggles, doing your best to keep up with all the overlapping voices. 

“Jesus, don’t overwhelm her!” Robin had now joined the party on the porch, her hands on her hips. That didn’t stop the kids from talking over each other; they eventually backed off a hair. Giving you time to hug each of them individually. 

“Seriously, you smell really good, you look like some rich lawyer.” Dustin rambled, making Mike smack him upside the head. 

“Jesus, you’re flirting with her?” He scoffed, “She works in publishing, by the way. Which is why I need to talk to her-” 

“I’m not flirting, dude, that would be against bro code-” 

You ignored them, wrapping your arms around El, almost picking her up off her feet. “Oh my sweet girl.” 

“Y/n, I only spied on you a few times.” She smiled, making you sputter out laughter. 

“Jesus, okay. You’re lucky I love you, or I’d have a stern talking to you about boundaries.” You shook your head, the smile hurting your cheeks now. 

“Don’t worry, it was only because we were worried. Steve never knew.” Will spoke up, making you wrap your arm around the younger boy. 

“Sorry, I worried you guys, really.” You spoke, looking around all of them. Letting your eyes land on Robin. Her hair was longer, and she seemed more sure of herself. More carefree than you remember her. 

As if sensing the long-awaited reunion, they slowly shuffled back into the house. Leaving you and Robin alone for a moment. 

“Robs.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

“Y/n.” She smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. You weren’t sure who ran to whom first, but the next thing you knew, the two of you were in each other’s arms. Squeezing so tight you could barely breathe, your head was in her neck. Willing the tears not to slip out of your lash line. 

“I missed you.” You choked out, her hand gripping the back of your coat like you’d vanish if she let go. 

“Missed you more.” She sobbed, her back shaking. “God, I have so much to tell you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I picked a side. I promised I’d never do that, but I did anyway. Then I waited too long, and I figured you hated me-” 

“I figured you hated me.” A throaty laugh left your chest. Eyes thick with unshed tears.

She shook her head, pulling her head back to get a look at you. “I could never hate you. You’re my best friend. I’ll admit I haven’t been the best one lately, but if you’ll still have me…” 

“Robin Buckley…” You sighed, a toothy grin on your face. “I’ll have you. You’re never getting rid of me. Not really.” 

“I do hate to cut this reunion short, but I’m freezing my ass off out here.” She said, making you throw your head back in a giggle. She looped her arms with yours, pulling you into the warm house. She helped you hang your coat up, giving the same one over everyone had. 

“Dustin was right, you do look like a hot lawyer.” She whistled, making you roll your eyes. 

“Please,” You scoffed, “Look at you? I know the girls at Smith are just dying for a piece of you.” 

“Well doesn’t matter if they are; Vickie and I are finally going steady.” She grinned, you smacking her shoulder. 

“Oh my god? Robin, that’s so awesome.” 

“I’ll introduce you when I find her. I think she’s helping in the kitchen. Or in the cellar? I don’t know she’s been nervously running around preparing for today.”

You nodded, awkwardly following behind her into the living room. Nothing had changed in the house, but everything did at the same time. It was evident his parents hadn't been here in a while; it felt lived in. Warm and inviting, a stark contrast to how it was years ago. 

Max caught your eye in the kitchen, putting the wine bottle you brought in the ice bucket. You spotted Steve behind her, with his back turned. You darted your eyes away, walking over to the couch where the party was draped over it. A video game console was plugged in, abandoned as they chatted amongst each other. You could only avoid him for so long, but you were going to prolong the inevitable as much as you could. 

“So,” You started, plopping on the couch between Lucas and Will. “Tell me what I’ve missed.” 

And missed a lot you had. You listened intently as they all told you about their freshman year in school, thankful for the break. Dustin was already a semester ahead at Princeton, go figure. Will and Jonathan had settled down in NYC. Jonathan, you learned, was not visiting until Christmas Day. Too many obligations and not enough time to travel. But his mom and Hopper would be here tomorrow to begin more holiday festivities. 

Lucas and Max had just signed a lease on an apartment near Indiana State. Lucas made the basketball team, already gaining traction with recruiters. Mike was a year behind, letting El catch up with her schooling before they went to school near Montauk. Keeping Hopper and Joyce close. In the meantime, he picked up a passion for writing, no doubt why he was asking for pointers on publishing. 

“I barely finished my degree, Wheeler.” You admitted, doing school while the world was ending wasn’t ideal, but you made it work. Fresh out of college into the real world, you were still finding your bearings. “But I do have some work friends, I can get some numbers.” 

He seemed content with the answer, slinging his arm over your shoulder in a hug once more. It was then that the inevitable happened: Steve Harrington finally sauntered out of the kitchen. His eyes found yours in almost an instant, the room going still. 

He looked panicked, his footfalls freezing. You were sure you looked the same, frozen in shock. Your hands fumbling around with your bracelets, something to occupy your shaky hands. Nearly everyone looked away, glancing at each other with nervous eyes. Unwilling to watch the trainwreck unfold. Steve took the first step, his hand coming up in an awkward wave. 

“H-hey! Glad you could make it.” He stuttered out, nearly stumbling into the back of the couch. “Thanks for the wine. Do you want a glass?” He spoke too loudly, making Robin wince from behind him. It reminded her of his Scoops Ahoy days, talking too loudly when he was nervous. You stood up on shaky legs, the blood rushing to your head nearly making you dizzy. 

“Yeah, I can get it though-” 

“No!” He yelled, before running his hands through his hair, “No, I mean. You’re the guest. I can get it.” He was nervous, but in a way that had a pit forming in your stomach. 

“It’s okay.” You spoke softly, a tone that used to be reserved for just him. “I’ll get me and Robin a glass. You can’t uncork it right anyway.” 

Your words triggered a memory for both of you, one of you catching Steve shoving kitchen scissors into a half-broken cork, in an attempt to pour you a glass for dinner. He ended up pushing it further into the bottle. By the time you got it out, small pieces were floating around in your glass. You drank it anyway, straining out the small pieces with a grin on your face. Except this time, instead of the memory making you laugh, it made your heart stutter. 

“Y-yeah.” He grumbled, watching you walk past him with an awkward grin. The moment you set foot into the kitchen, you were taken aback by none other than Nancy Wheeler. She was standing against the stove, stirring a pot. 

“Hey?” You spoke, which sounded more like a question. 

She jumped, startled by your presence. “Oh, Y/n. Hi.” She gave you a wave, her eyes wide. You and Nancy were never particularly close; you weren’t the biggest fan of how she treated Steve in high school, but you had a lot of respect for the woman. You always considered her a good friend, but something about her standing in Steve’s kitchen made you regret ever coming tonight. 

“Nancy. How have you been?” You smiled, grabbing two wine glasses out of the cupboard, muscle memory taking over. But the cabinets had been moved around, you squinted. Before you could lean your head back to ask, Nancy was pointing at the cabinet next to it. 

“Wine glasses are in that one,” She spoke absentmindedly, unaware of your spiraling thoughts. “And I’ve been good! Boston is… nice.” 

You smacked your lips against your teeth, pulling out two glasses. Grabbing the corkscrew from the drawer. “That’s nice!” Your voice was a little too cheery when you uncorked the bottle, pouring yourself a larger glass than you needed. 

“How’s Chicago?” She asked, moving to check whatever bird was roasting in the oven. It was clear she wasn’t interested in awkward small talk, but you appreciated her attempt at it nonetheless. 

“Cold.” You gulped your glass, filling it up before setting it back in the ice. “Loud.” 

“Yeah,” She laughed, “Sometimes you forget how nice the quiet is until you’re back home. You really can get lost in the city life.” 

“Yeah.” You smiled at her, asking her if she would like a glass. She declined, but thanked you anyway. “Well, it’s been so good to see you.” 

Thankfully, you found Robin, shoving the wine into her hands. “Think Nancy Wheeler hates me?” You asked quietly, Robin’s demeanor going taut. 

She shook her head, taking a drink from her glass. That was all the answer you got from her before she pulled you back into the crowd. You mingled about, still not having caught a chance to meet Vickie. When Robin ran off to find her, you clung to Max’s side like following the light in the dark. You weren’t going to let her slip out of your life again; you weren’t going to let any of them. It was easy to avoid Steve, as he seemed content to step awkwardly around you most of the night. 

The tension was unspoken, but everyone felt it. It hangs heavy, just like the mistletoe in the bedroom hallway that mocked you each time someone came out of the bathroom. Memories of the two of you haunted every corner of this town, but this was the epicenter. The home that the two of you shared for months, the party that called you their parents. The house that would be yours the moment his parents decided to finally buy their beach house in Florida.

Maybe this would be easier if you pretended Steve hadn’t branded every part of your body. The tan line from the diamond that sat on your finger for almost a year wouldn’t fade, no matter how much you scrubbed. You both spent too much time in the sun last summer, lounging around the lakeside for days on end. Your hair, he loved, had been cut off, your hairstylist swearing hair held memories. With each snip, you willed Steve to leave your mind, but you instead just found yourself missing the parts of yourself he held in his hands. No matter how many times you changed your style or willed yourself to be anyone else. At the end of the day, you were always going to be his. There was a part of you that would never belong to yourself again. 

You turned to your left, and the redhead whom you thought was Max was now replaced by Vickie. The infamous girlfriend who had been running around all night, missing Robin at every turn. You smiled politely, “Vickie, right? Robin’s been looking for you.” 

She smiled widely, teeth showing at the mere mention of her girlfriend. “Yes! I was helping with the chicken, then the stuffing, then I had to go in the cellar for wine, but it’s so dark down there, and I’ve just been running around everywhere.” She was out of breath, nervousness rolling off of her. You could see now in startling clarity just how alike she and Robin were. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m fully convinced that the cellar is haunted.” You laughed, making her nod quickly. 

“Literally! Also, I’m not used to rich people, because why do you need a cellar full of wine in your house? It’s beyond me.” She whispered the first part, making another laugh slip through your lips. That laugh was cut short when your eyes glanced into the kitchen yet again. This time, catching Steve towering over Nancy. His body was nearly caging hers against the counter, his hand steady on the cabinet above her head. It was clear he meant to grab something out of it, but the two of them paused. Caught in the moment. Now you were caught in it too, staring like a fish out of water. 

It felt like you were intruding on an intimate moment, the way his eyes gazed down at her. Flicking back from her lips to her eyes. She did the same; it was buzzy. Even from far away, the tension between them radiated around the room, hitting you right in the chest. 

“I heard him and Nancy have been close ever since she came back,” Vickie smiled widely, somehow completely oblivious as to who you were. But she caught you staring quickly. It wasn’t her fault; you hadn’t been here when they started dating. Just through the tail end of Robin’s pining.  “He moved back home after he broke off his engagement. Real hallmark, you know? Holiday rekindling of old flames that never quite snuffed out, it’s sooooo romantic. Kinda like me and Robin if you think about it. High school lovers-” 

Her words made the wine you drank nearly come back up your throat, your eyes still locked on the pair. Tuning out her rambling, you let yourself look at him this time, really look. Steve looked the same, his hair a little longer. Undeniably, there was a spark lit back within him, one you had missed. A wide smile on Nancy’s face as they talked, his head leaned down to hear her better. If he moved down any closer, their lips would be touching. The sheer thought of you having to witness that made you look away, swallowing down bile that had risen. 

You supposed it’d make sense for him to move on; it had been months. Nothing was stopping either of you, but something about seeing it. About it being with Nancy, out of everyone. The same girl you’d compare yourself to late at night, the girl Steve swore he’d moved on from. It felt like someone had grabbed a knife and split your chest open. 

“Yeah, sure.” You managed, catching Robin’s eye as she walked over. She paused midwalk, staring from Vickie to you, back to Steve and Nancy across the way. 

“Oh fuck.” She said a little too loudly, all heads looking towards you all. Steve’s head pops up immediately, his eyes meeting yours. You knew this was a bad idea, a horrible, terribly bad idea. His body moved away from Nancy’s on instinct, but it was too late. Not like it mattered, not like anything mattered anymore. 

“Oh my god. You’re Y/n, aren’t you?” Vickie gasped, her hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I’m so sorry. This is so not how I wanted to meet you, Robin told me to be on my best behavior-”

You cut her off with a wave, “It’s fine. It was really nice to meet you.” You gave her a practiced smile, stepping away from the wide-eyed ginger. “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”  

Your heels clacked against the floor loudly in the now quiet room, excusing yourself. You chugged down the rest of your glass, setting it on the table before stumbling into the bathroom. Your hand clenching your chest, searching for an open wound that wasn’t physically there. 

You leaned against the door, nearly falling to your knees in anguish. It felt childish; you had no claim over him anymore. Time had stretched a chasm between the two of you. But why did it feel like you were being split in two? 

You gathered your bearings, letting your hands grip the sides of the sink. Staring back at your reflection in the mirror. “Get over yourself, Y/n.” You all but slapped your own cheeks, psyching yourself up. “It’s fine. Have dinner, then leave. Have Christmas, then go home. You can just leave.” 

Within your own psychotic mumblings to yourself, you realized you weren’t any better than Steve, willing yourself to run away the moment things got complicated. 

Outside, back in the living room, the tension wasn’t any better. Vickie’s mouth was agape, Robin stumbling to her quickly. Steve was still frozen in place, eyes locked on where you had run to. Nancy simply crossed her arms, shrinking herself into the corner. 

“What was that?” Dustin broke the silence, watching Steve slowly regain control of his limbs again. 

“Vickie, honey sweetie baby. What did you say?” Robin’s voice was shaky, while Vickie continued stuttering out apologies. 

“Um. I just said- I don’t know.” She cried out, “I was just speaking. You know me. I just ramble sometimes, and she was looking at them, so I blurted out something-” 

“What did you say exactly?” Steve spoke up, Nancy closing her eyes. 

“Uh. I said something along the lines of ‘Wow, aren’t Steve and Nancy so cute? He left his fiancée and is back home with his ex. Like a bad Hallmark movie p-plot.” 

As soon as the words left her mouth, everyone in the room winced, “Vickie, sweetheart. Why would you say that?” Robin’s eyes closed. 

“I don’t know,” Tears were in the nervous girl's eyes, “I’m so sorry. It’s not my business. I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

“Yeah, it’s not.” Steve barked, a little too cruelly for Robin’s liking. 

“Hey, it was an accident.” She glared at her best friend, “Don’t blame her for misspeaking when you don’t even know what’s going on in your own life.”

Steve’s face fell, hating his business on display like this. 

“Wait,” Mike raised his hand, much like a child asking a question in class. “Are you and Nancy back together?” 

“No.” Steve and Nancy both scoffed in unison, the girl still trying to hide herself in the kitchen. 

“You guys have just been weirdly close,” he muttered, throwing his hands up in defense. 

“Okay, can everyone please get out of my business. Jeez.” Steve said, finally, holding his hands up. “Vickie, I’m sorry. Don’t feel bad. Besides, it doesn’t matter. We’re all adults here.” 

“Barely.” You spoke up, your voice making all of them jump. In the midst of the chaos, they didn’t even notice you slinking your way out of the bathroom. Posture upright, as if nothing had bothered you. A part of Steve hated how unbothered you looked, your lack of emotion sat heavily on his mind. 

“W-what?” He stuttered, looking at you. 

“You guys are barely adults.” You laughed, it was hollow. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, but no one noticed except for him anyway. “Jeez, who died?” 

“No one!” Nancy spoke up, opening the oven a little faster than she needed to. “Chicken’s done, can you guys set the table?”  

There was a mad dash around the room, everyone wanting to find something to occupy themselves. You found Vickie, wrapping your arms around the still trembling girl, promising her everything was okay. As soon as she steadied her breathing, Robin brought the two of you fresh glasses. You found a spot at the table between the couple and Max. You felt old helping Max pour herself a glass of wine. 

“You kids grow up fast.” You grumbled, sliding over the full glass to her. “Let me guess, everyone else wants one too?” 

A chorus of ‘yes mom’s’ made you chuckle, a flashback to just a year ago getting called mom at this same table. The bottle was emptied on Dustin’s glass, to which he gave you a playful wink, making your eyes roll. 

“How many girls are you wooing back at Princeton with that charm, huh?” You teased, sitting back down in your chair. 

“Oh, the ladies love me. I’m irresistible.” He purred, making the others groan playfully at him while sides got passed around. Everyone loaded up their plates, eating amongst quiet conversation. 

“God, Y/n, do you remember Tommy and Carol?” Robin asked, in between bites of a roll. 

You scoffed, “Unfortunately.” 

“They’re getting married. Steve got the invite last week. Twenty bucks says it’s a shotgun wedding.” She laughed. 

“Wait, what?” You gasped, “I didn’t even know they were back together?” 

“Yup, Tommy proposed on the football field,” Steve added, slowly joining in the conversation. “Think he’s trying to be a good person.” 

Robin just cringed, “Proposing on your high school football field to the girlfriend you consistently cheat on?”

“I hate the guy, but at least he’s trying.” Nancy shrugged, not meeting anyone's eyes. 

“But that’s total loser behavior.” Max joined in, “If Lucas proposed to me on the basketball court, I think I’d break his ankles so he could never play again.” 

Lucas just sighed, “And that’s why I love you so much.” 

“I think my dad did a good job proposing to Miss Joyce,” El spoke up with a smile. You remember hearing the news of that, tears prickling in your eyes as Joyce recounted the date he had set up. 

“Honestly, that was probably the best proposal to ever happen. Hard to top that.” You raised your glass. While it was honest, a simple nod to the two older parental figures in your life. It didn’t sit right with Steve, the words on the tip of his tongue. 

“I think my proposal was pretty good.” He grumbled into his plate, staring intently at the piece of chicken on his fork. 

How many times tonight were his words going to pause the room around him? An awkward silence fell once again, the tension rising from the floorboards. One you couldn’t blame on the haunted cellar below your feet. You downed yet another glass of wine. When the clink of the glass hit the table, you realized you shouldn’t have spoken, shouldn't have had that last glass. 

And El. Poor innocent sweet El Hopper just kept speaking, “How did you propose?” 

You forgot she wasn’t there, still being hidden away by Hopper in the Cabin during all the endless crawls. Murray had apparently spent weeks searching for the exact ring Steve wanted for you. Smuggling it inside an unsealed peanut butter bopper. The ring smelled like peanut butter for days after he slid it on your finger. It fit like a glove. You still felt empty without it, your hand subconsciously going to twirl the delicate band that was no longer there. 

Steve’s mouth fell open, his eyes darting to yours. You saved him from the awkward stumbling, giving her the softest smile you could muster. “It was sweet. He took me on a picnic to where we had our first date. Had candles. Robin made us a cake.” 

You tried not to let it show just how badly the memories hurt, instead smiling fondly at the table. There was no attempt at hiding your history together here; it bled into every memory. Being together with someone for years will do that to you; your lives are so interconnected that sometimes it is still hard to remember where he ends, and you begin. 

“I spilled wine all over her dress, and a bird ate the sandwiches I made while I was proposing.” Steve added, “It was a mess.” 

“It was perfect.” You shrugged, leaning over to grab another roll from the bowl. “So Mike, when are you proposing?” 

His eyes widen, and he stutters out a pathetic response. Max and El are giggling wildly at each other. Steve hated how well you were at changing the topic, deflecting the attention off of you two so smoothly. Hated how well the two of you worked in unison, in everything you did.

Dinner continued without another awkwardly timed comment, plates clattered as everyone took turns helping clean up. Dessert was cookies Vickie had made, the kids no doubt getting crumbles all over Steve’s overpriced couch. An hour of goodbyes later and the teenagers had scrambled back to their homes. Nancy left with Mike, giving you an awkward one-armed hug. You had all promised to see each other again before the break ended. Whispers of a New Year's Party, but nothing concrete. 

All while Steve’s gaze was burning into your back, watching your every move. It made your collar slick with sweat, your hands trembling with bundles of emotions. You needed air and a cigarette. Your effort to sneak out was thwarted by none other than Robin. 

“Leaving without a goodbye, Y/l/n?” Robin caught you, your hand still on the doorknob. 

“I know better than to Irish exit with you people, I’m just getting some air.” You promised her, two fingers came up to her eyes, pointing them back at you, signaling she was watching. You laughed on your way out, letting the cool air chill your skin. 

You walked out to his garage, leaning under the awning. To get away from the porch and prying eyes in the windows. You let your hands shake freely, dropping the nonchalant facade you held up for the past few hours. Letting that sickly sour feeling wash over you again. It was jealousy, anger, sadness, and something else you couldn’t quite place all wrapped around you at once. It was drowning in your own feelings, begging for one drop of air.

“So, about what you heard in there. With Nancy.” That was all he said, the back of your eyes prickling. You didn’t even hear him step outside, let alone stand beside you. You told yourself the tears were just from the cold air, but you knew better. 

“If I wanted to know, I would have asked.” You shrugged, “None of my business anyway, is it?” 

“It’s not what it looks like.” He pleaded.

All you could do was laugh, rummaging around in your purse for your cigarettes. A habit you picked back up again, the day after he left. You shoved the filter between your red painted lips, lighting it with ease. All while he stood and watched, eyebrows furrowed. 

“So it doesn’t look like you dumped me to come back home and fuck your high school ex?” You couldn’t help but let the words slip off your tongue. There it was, the anger of yours he had become familiar with. He knew it was there, boiling just under the surface. 

He sighed, “Nancy is still with Jonathan, you know. We’re just… friends.” 

“You seem real sure of that.” You scoffed, letting the smoke wrap around you like a security blanket. “Besides, doesn’t matter, does it? You’re single. You can do whatever you want.” 

He deflated, letting his hand rest on the porch. “Yeah. Guess so.” 

The silence was deafening, the snow still flurrying around the two of you. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. In just the past few months, you’ve changed so much. Your hair was shorter, and your eye bags were evident. A hallowness was deep inside you, and the light drained from your eyes. And it was all his fault; he knew that. He watched your hand flick the cigarette, the absence of the gleaming diamond on your finger making his breathing stop. 

It didn’t even occur to him until now that this was the first time he’d seen you since he left. You were on his mind so often that it was as if he conjured up a new image of you every time his eyes opened in the morning. 

The guilt pressed down on his chest, thick and suffocating, and the silence between you stretched too long. Long enough for old wounds to start itching. Long enough for that anger to claw its way up your throat, hot and familiar. You’d learned how to survive by holding onto it, how to use it to pull yourself out of the days where feeling nothing felt worse.

“I wish you’d just tell me what you were really thinking.” He spoke up, his eyes drilling holes into the side of your face. 

You held onto tighter to the anger, the feeling comfortable in your hands. You’d rather feel angry than nothing else at all. So the insults began to slip out. If he was going to walk away and leave you again, you were going to make sure it was on your terms this time.

“Okay, do you really wanna know Mr. Peaked in high school?” You could barely believe the cruelty in your voice when you spat out the words, “I think you couldn’t make it in the big city. So to fuel your ego, you had to go home to our piss ant hometown and try to fuck your high school ex-girlfriend, right? Right back where you were in High School. Welcome back, King Steve!” 

He stuttered back a few steps, recovering quickly from the whiplash. 

“At least I’m not pretending to be happy. How is it up there on your high-horse? Because after this week, you’re going back to that lonely apartment.” He cackled, “Doesn’t matter how much money you make, how nice your clothes are, how much your snotty co-workers like you. You’re all alone out there. And I’ll be here, with my friends.” 

The emphasis of my didn’t get lost on you. You suppose he was right; they were his friends first before you ever joined them. His words pierced your heart, nearly knocking you off balance. You thought this was it, but oh, he wasn’t done.

“You can’t make the pain go away by treating me like a villain, Y/n.” He said, his voice softening. “I hurt you. I know I did, and I’m so sorry. I was only doing what I thought was right, for both of us. I was drowning.” His voice cracked on the word. Both of your resolves are crumbling around your feet like drywall. 

“We were supposed to drown together.” You snapped, “When you got down on one knee and put that ring on my finger, it was a promise. A promise to love each other through all the hard times, and you couldn’t even try. You just gave up on us. On me.” Your bottom lip wavered, staring down the man you loved more than life itself. 

“I was doing what I thought was right-” 

“Spare me the fucking bullshit.” You waved him off, “You could’ve sat me down. We could have talked it out like adults; instead, you ran home with your tail between your legs. Letting everyone feel bad for the boy whose fiancée left him in the dust-” 

“You don’t know anything.” He laughed dryly, his hands running feverishly through his hair. “When I came home, did you know the first thing everyone said to me? Everyone. Robin, the kids, my parents?” 

You stayed quiet, watching his chest heave. “They all said, “How did you ruin the best thing you’ve ever had?” He scoffed. 

“You left! That’s how!” 

“Remember that you let me leave.”

“What was I supposed to do, Steve?” You were in hysterics now, “Was me on my knees, begging and crying, not enough?” 

“You let me leave Y/n.” He repeated, “You changed your number, you stopped talking to everyone. The only thing left for me to do was to drive up there, but I knew you wouldn’t wanna see me.” 

“If you loved me, you would've.” You sighed, running your hands over your face. You were sick of the arguing, of the back and forth. 

“You could’ve visited too! You ghosted everyone. You didn’t just hurt me with the radio silence. You broke Max’s heart-” 

You stepped closer, pressing your finger harshly into his chest. “Leave them out of it.”

“You can’t even be honest with yourself.” He chuckled dryly. Watching you huff down the remnants of the cigarette that now stunk up his clothes. 

“You don’t know me.” 

“I think I know you better than you know yourself sometimes.” 

“My life is different now.” You let out a breath, stomping the cigarette butt underneath your boot. “Don’t pretend you know how I’m doing. Who I’m with. Because you don’t. You don’t know anything about me.” 

You knew what your words were implying when you said them, refusing to correct yourself. You wanted to see the hurt flash in his eyes, the same way yours did, seeing him and Nancy in the kitchen. But when the flash came, you couldn’t feel anything but guilt. Something shifted in those brown eyes of his; what started as hurt faded into something darker. 

“Is there someone else?” His eyes were ablaze, a darkness in them you hadn’t seen before. You stayed quiet, looking up at him through your lashes. Unable to speak, the closer he got with each step. “Tell me, is there someone else?” 

“And if there was?” You challenged, tilting your head at him. 

“Answer me.” He demanded softly, still walking towards you like a predator stalking prey. You took a step back, eyes never leaving his until your back from pressing his snow-covered car. He was inches away, still waiting for your answer. 

“It’s none of your business.” 

“Then why even mention it?” He chuckled darkly, his leg slotting in between yours. You were pushed further back into the car, his body now on yours. Nothing could change the chemistry between you two, not time. God himself couldn’t change the way your bodies drifted towards each other. You were the compass, and he was your true north. You’d always find yourself back here. On your way to him, in this town.

“Does it bother you?” You met his darkened eyes, “Thinking of someone else taking what you left behind?” 

“Don’t pretend-”

“Hey-oh whoa.” Robin’s voice broke you two out of your trance. The two of you were springing apart like there was a fire. Vickie’s hand was in hers, both clad in their coats, ready to leave. “Sorry. The snow is really coming down; we wanted to get back before it got any heavier.” 

Steve cleared his throat, leaning awkwardly against the hood of the car. “Yeah, course.” 

You walked forward, wrapping your arms around the two girls. Bidding them farewell, promising to see them soon. Robin left with a suggestive look towards you, making you flush. You watched her car roll down the road, feeling Steve’s eyes on your back. You don’t know how long you stood there, snow pelting your skin, before he spoke up. 

“At least get out of the snow, Y/n.” You turned back, stepping back onto his porch. 

“I should probably leave.” 

He didn’t say anything, simply walked ahead of you, opening his door. You looked around for your coat, scrambling around. Before you could get your second arm in your sleeve, he broke you out of your rushing trance. 

“Does he make you feel like I did?” 

You paused, letting the coat fall to the floor. “What?” 

He looked pathetic, his inhibitions falling when it was just you he was standing in front of. “Does he make you feel even a fraction of what I made you feel?” 

It took you a second to remember the way you avoided his question, letting him believe a false narrative he made up in his own head. It made every nerve in your body set ablaze, the idea of him being jealous. You let yourself fall into the feeling. 

“Does Nancy make you feel a fraction of what I made you feel?” You barked back, the tension rising. The two of you were playing with fire now, poking the bear just to see what would happen. This was foreplay, and after months of longing, the two of you were coiled tight. 

“So you are jealous,” He grinned devilishly at you. 

“You’re one to talk. You’re the one who pinned me to your car, ready to take me right there.” 

All he did was stalk closer, “And you liked it, didn’t you?” 

You were quiet, letting the air around you thicken. Yes, you liked it. It’s the first thing that got your blood pumping in months, a heat grew between your legs. A long-neglected aspect of your life you hadn’t thought of much until now.

“Yeah, you did.” He said cockily, watching your pupils go wide. Much like his. He knew your bedroom eyes well; he knew you were soaked underneath that satin skirt you had on.

“So what?” Your mouth was dry, meeting him halfway. The two of you are standing in front of the couch. 

“Did you miss me? Miss my cock?” His words made goosebumps rise on your skin. You forgot just how filthy his mouth was.  You remained quiet, the two of you in a standoff, to see who would break first. Your hands were clenched into fists, shaking wildly. 

“I missed your cock but not that mouth.” You regretted your words the moment they came out, because his eyes lit up. He knew he had you right where he wanted you. 

He then plopped onto the couch, his legs spread wide. You looked down at him in astonishment, “What-” 

“You want it so bad? Come get it.” He patted his lap, the bulge in his khakis prominent. 

“You’re such a cocky asshole, you know that?” You seethed, crawling into his lap regardless. Making yourself at home on top of his hips, “Acting like one taste of my pussy wouldn’t have you begging for more.” 

“Never said it wouldn’t,” he grinned. 

You weren’t sure who moved first, the next thing you knew, teeth were gnashing against skin. Lips pulled together tightly, hands squeezing and scratching wherever they could. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was hunger and frustration and longing wrapped up in heat, the kind that burned instead of soothed. It was animalistic. Every kiss felt like a confession, every desperate grab a way of saying what neither of you had managed to put into words.

“Did you fuck her?” You asked with a growl, pulling his head back by the hair on his neck. He let out a grunt at the movement, his eyes snapping to yours. Taking him by surprise at your sudden violence, the green monster tugs at you. 

“Bet you wanna know-” 

You yanked harder, his neck jerking. “I asked you a question.” 

“F-fuck, no. No, I didn’t.” He whined, “She loves Jonathan.” 

“Would you have fucked her? If she wanted to?” 

“Probably.” The admission was sharp, his eyes pleading with you. 

No words could match how you were feeling; instead, you brought your lips to his in a bruising kiss. As if you could will away any memory of her lips from his. Nails scraped against skin, leaving a painful reminder of you on his body.

No time was wasted in undressing; your shirt was pulled open. Your skirt pulled up over your hips.

“Baby, let me get you ready.” His hands slid up under your skirt, pulling your soaked panties to the side. His fingers were swiping at your entrance. He sensed your urgency, not wanting to hurt you. 

You shook your head, continuing to pull his pants down to his knees. Still straddling his lap, you pulled his hand away despite his protests. 

“Just need you, please.” The words were thick in your mouth, hovering on top of his hardened cock. Steve was well endowed; it took your body years to become used to his size. Now that it had been months, surely it would be difficult. But you were a masochist. You wanted it to hurt; you needed it to hurt. It’s what you felt like you deserved. 

He hesitated, but nodded. Trusting you to make your own decision, his breath hitching when your wet slit rubbed against his tip. His hands braced your hips as you slid down, taking a few inches in a fast thrust. 

The gasp that left your mouth was inhuman, your body falling into his hold. “Baby,” He hissed, “I told you to let me-” 

You shushed him, the stretch burning in a sick twisted pleasure as you moved further down. Taking all nine inches of him in a gentle swoop. “Needed this. Just like this.” You cried out, your clit rubbing against the coarse hair that sat above his cock. 

“Yeah? No one else can fill you up like this, baby.” He grunted, his hold on your hips sure to leave bruises. “Can they?” 

You shook your head, grinding down on him slowly. Letting your cunt adjust to the intrusion, soaking him in your arousal. 

“Have you been fucking other men, baby?” He mocked the slow, gentle circles he rubbed on your skin, contrasting with his evil words. 

You didn’t respond; you couldn’t not while you were still catching your breath. “Bet every time they fucked you with their tiny cocks, you thought of me, huh? Couldn’t quite reach where I can.” 

“Shut. Up.” You grumbled, pretending like you weren’t clenching around him at his words. 

You lifted your hips, pulling off of him except for an inch before slamming back down. This cut him off from his next taunt, letting out a guttural moan instead. He was quiet after, helping you find a gentle rhythm. Your hips stuttered each time they met his, his bulbous tip hitting your sweet spot each time. 

Neither of you was going to last long; you could feel it in the way his muscles tensed. Both of you hadn’t felt the touch of another since your last night together. You were both lost in the feeling, riding his cock like you’d die without it. 

“Take that fucking cock.” He sighed, throwing his head back into the couch cushions. 

“Do you ever shut up?” You stuttered, your fingernails digging harshly into his shoulder blades. Lost in the feeling of him, before he stopped you. Holding your hips down on him, you barely got a chance to speak before he lifted his hips. Thrusting up into you experimentally, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. 

“Tell me how good it feels,” He panted, ignoring how you struggled to bounce in his lap. “Tell me, or I’ll stop.” 

You were quiet, meeting his eyes. “You wouldn’t.” You called his bluff, but unfortunately, he was serious as he began to slide you off his lap, excruciatingly slow. 

“W-wait,” You cried out, placing your hand on his chest. “Please don’t stop.” 

He thrusted up into you slowly, “Be a good girl and tell me how my cock feels splitting you apart.” 

“God,” You sobbed, bracing yourself in his hold as he let you bounce on him once again. “Feels so good. S’fucking good baby. Please don’t make me stop.” 

“S’what I thought.” His hand slapped your ass harshly, gripping the flesh to help guide you in taking him with each swivel of your hips. In the chaos, he leaned forward, pressing sloppy kisses to your neck.

“Where’s the ring?” He growled, his teeth biting against the flesh of your collarbone. 

One of your hands was now laced in his hair, the other pressed firmly on his chest. “W-what?” You slurred, his pace still unrelenting. Fucking his hips up into yours without a care in the world. 

“The ring. I want it on your hand.”

“You d-don’t deserve it being on my hand.” You barked back, letting your fingernails dig into his chest. The pain only spurred him on. 

“I know.” He grunted, planting his feet.“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna fuck you with nothing but that ring on your hand.” 

“Jesus.” You grumbled, nearly losing your balance. His hands gripped your hips tighter, taking over your movements completely. Fucking up into you as if you weighed nothing, your head falling back. 

“This fucking pussy missed me, huh?” He grunted, as if the lewd sounds of your cunt squelching for him weren’t enough. Steve always had a filthy mouth; it only got worse when he had something to prove. 

“Fuck you.” You whined, blindly covering his mouth with your hand. In return, all he did was bite down gently on your digits, continuing on. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” His words were muffled, your body coming apart on top of his. You screaming out his name only spurred him on, emptying his load deep inside your cunt. With each clench around him, you took him in deeper, holding onto him for dear life as you both rode out your orgasms with each other. 

Sweat lined your skin. Steve’s warm lips were against your skin. Relishing the feeling of you still around him. 

“You okay?” He mumbled, your eyes slowly fluttering back open. You didn’t know what you felt, now stuck in the after. After this complicated line was crossed. Where were you to go now? 

“It’s late.” You said shakily, lifting your hips off of him slowly. Tears prickling your eyes when you were faced with the emptiness when he slipped out of you. You ignored his worried eyes, pulling your skirt back down. Fumbling with your shirt buttons. 

“You,” He cleared his throat, pulling his boxers back up, “Don’t have to run out. You can stay. Wait a minute-” 

“No, I should go.” You said clearly, stumbling around to collect your things. 

“You’ve had a lot to drink, what we did-” He paused, “You need a minute to calm down.” 

“I haven’t been drunk since we argued outside. I can’t use the wine as an excuse for this.” You rubbed messily at your eyes. “I’ll be safe, I just can’t be here. I need to go.” 

He stopped you at the door, holding onto your hand. “Please call me when you get home. Or I’ll come over to check myself.” 

You did call him that night, keeping it short and sweet before you trudged up to your room. Screaming into your pillowcase. You didn’t expect the night to go as it did, your heart unable to handle it. You woke up the next day with an emotional hangover, trudging through the next few days like a zombie. 

You kept your promises, getting coffee with Robin. Going Christmas shopping with Max and El. You even spent lunch with your mother, ignoring her judgmental glares when you told her that you and Steve didn’t magically get together over one Christmas party. 

Christmas Eve night, and the house was quiet, aside from the phone ringing loudly off the hook at 10 before midnight. You nearly tripped racing to the phone, picking it up in haste. 

“Hello?” You spoke into the receiver quietly, praying neither of your parents would pick up the other line. 

“Hey.” Steve’s voice rang out quietly, “Sorry if I woke you.” 

“Couldn’t sleep.” You admitted, imagining him in his bed. The phone nuzzled between his cheek and neck. 

“Me neither.” His voice was deeper than normal. Thick with sleep, and an unknown emotion. Your teeth bit down on your bottom lip, refusing to make the first move. You knew why he called you, and you hated that he knew you’d answer. 

“Do you remember our old spot?” He finally spoke.

You were grateful that he couldn’t see your smirk through the phone, “I remember.” 

“You can say no, but I can be there in 10.” 

You should’ve said no. You should’ve told him you planned to drive home tomorrow, to leave this town with your tail between your legs. Unable to face what you’d done. But lines have already been crossed; what was one more time? So the words were leaving your mouth before you had the chance to reconsider the consequences. 

“I’ll see you there.” 

Minutes later, you had pulled your car into the abandoned parking lot, right between Hawkins High and Hawkins Presbyterian. It was here that you felt 17 again, sneaking behind your parents' backs to meet up with a boy. Going from one backseat to another. When the familiar rumble of Steve’s beamer pulled up beside you, it was the soundtrack to your teenage years. His engine turning off, his stumbling as he clambered into your passenger seat, as he belonged there. 

His cheeks were flushed from the cold. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” You replied, just as awkwardly as he did. “Merry Christmas.”

He made the first move, cupping your face in his large hand. Forcing you to look at him. “You’re so beautiful.” 

No makeup on, in ratty high school pajamas, hair a mess in the moonlight. You were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen; nothing would change that. 

“What are we doing?” You frowned, ignoring the way you nuzzled into his palm. 

He only repeated your words with a gentle tone, “You tell me.” 

“I don’t know.” You found yourself leaning in, chasing his lips with your own. 

You hated how well you knew each other, falling into a rhythm as if there wasn’t a chasm between the two of you. It took all but a few kisses before you were stumbling into the backseat, clothes getting pulled off in every direction. 

“Let me take care of you, please.” He was all but begging against your lips, his hands tugging at your pajama pants. Who were you to deny him? 

It took a while to get a comfortable position, grown-up bodies not quite slotting together in the leather seats as teenage ones once did. Your head was leaning against the door, cushioned by an old hoodie as Steve lay half on the floor. His lips were trailing messy kisses up your thigh, before his tongue hit your quivering clit. 

“Oh my god.” Your body immediately convulsed, head twacking against the car door by accident. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care as his mouth worked magic on you. Slowly inching his fingers deep inside you, curling them just enough to have you see stars. 

It was moments like this that you were reminded of just how well he knew your body, playing you like a piano. Knowing exactly how to make you scream. So there was no surprise when a short few minutes later, you were coming apart on his face, lazily grinding against his nose. Chasing every ounce of pleasure from him. He would’ve kept going if you hadn’t stopped him with a short pull of his hair. 

“I might get a concussion if we don’t switch.” You giggled, sitting up slowly. Having hit your head against the car door enough. “And you don’t need anymore head injuries.” 

He laughed, but paused when he saw you flip over. Settling on your hands and knees for him, your glistening cunt wide on display for him. 

“Jesus, fuck.” His cock got even harder if possible, as he balanced on his shaky knees. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, please.” You wiggled your hips at him, making more curses slip from underneath his breath. You wanted to wrap your mouth around him, but the limited movement didn’t allow for that. You heard him pull his boxers down, leaning forward with a cupped hand to your mouth. 

He didn’t even need to give you directions; you were spitting into his hand. He used this to stroke his cock lazily, not as if he needed it since he worked you open this time. 

Your hands were gripping the door when he slowly pushed in, the angle even deeper than the last time. His hand settled on your lower back while he pressed against your womb with each shift of his hips. 

“S’fucking deep.” You babbled, “I love your huge fucking cock.” 

Your praise only made him twitch deep inside you, dragging against your warm walls. “S’all yours. Your fucking cock, baby. Only f’you.” 

You cried out his name when he moved. It was hot and fast. Both of you were chasing your highs greedily as the car rocked. The only sounds were the pornographic moans slipping through your lips and the harsh recoil of his hips hitting against your ass. 

“Need you to cum again for me, baby.” He grunted through his teeth, his hand reaching between your legs to rub circles on your swollen clit. “Gotta feel it.” 

With a fast nod, your cunt squelched around him. Your hand slid across the frosted glass, cooling your warmed skin as he trailed kisses up and down your spine. Coaxing you through the orgasm that had your legs trembling. 

“Cum inside me.” You cried out, repeating it over and over. “Mark me as yours.” 

“All your’s baby. Yeah, oh fuck yeah- take that cum.” He stuttered, his hips stilling as he emptied inside of you. Filling you up once more, plugging your cunt full of him. His fingers kept rubbing your clit slowly, feeling each twitch of your cunt suckling in his cum. “Good girl, taking it all.” 

“Fuck.” You whined when he slowly pulled out, helping clean you both up. 

He ended up on his back, pulling you onto his chest, awkwardly cuddling in the backseat. Your face nuzzled into his side, hand trailing fingers through his chest hair. A place on his side that was once yours every night.

“If you love me here, why can’t you love me there?” You asked, his chest stilling. 

“I never stopped loving you. I haven’t even tried, I just know it’s not possible.” He admitted, his hand running through the ends of your hair. This hair now held memories of him, too. 

“Like it. Your hair.” He admitted. 

“Only cut it because it reminded me of you.” You admitted back, closing your eyes. Letting the beat of his chest echo in your ears. If this was going to be the last time the two of you were ever like this, you were going to cherish it. Even if it was in the backseat of your car, his head was awkwardly propped against the foggy windows. 

“I didn’t cut my hair because I knew no one else would cut it like you.” He sighed, his hands stilling on your scalp. 

“We’re hopeless.” He couldn’t help but agree, holding you even tighter. 

“Do you wanna go back to my house?” He spoke quietly, not wanting the night to end. Not here, not in the backseat of your SUV like lovesick teenagers. 

You didn’t even have to think when you nodded, the two of you dressing in comfortable silence. When you got to his house, he slipped your coat off your shoulders, a practiced motion you got down after years of Indiana winters. His hair was damp from the snow and sweat, tiny curls appearing on his forehead and the back of his neck. Your fingers ached to trace the spiral. 

“I have some cider.” He spoke up, “Could warm us up.” 

“You should steal some of your dad’s bourbon. I can spike it.” You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes this time. 

“I like the way you think.” He parted with a kiss on your forehead. Leaving you to grab two mugs, warming up the apple cider. Successfully spiking it with the decanter he brought back. You migrated to the couch, settling in the spot across from him. The drink burned your throat, the spice settling deep in your chest. 

“We’re gonna have to talk about it, you know?” He spoke, setting his mug down on the table. Leaning back on the couch, one arm spread against the back of it. “Like actually talk about it.”

He looked good, too good. The dark red cashmere contrasts against his pale skin, his still-damp hair falling across his forehead. Your fingers ached to run your hands through his locks again, to press your lips to his exposed neck. 

“Tis the damn season.” You said sarcastically, your hand still gripping your mug tightly. Willing the spiked cider to enter your bloodstream faster. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just a weekend where we let ourselves pretend everything was okay.” 

“It means everything, and you know that.” He spoke quickly, his eyes squinting at you. 

Your mouth went dry, taken aback by his words. You knew it did the moment you two crossed the line that it was more than just sex. It could never be just sex between the two of you.

“Okay..” You slumped in your seat, “What does it mean then? Tell me. Because on the same day you were giving Nancy heart eyes, you fucked me on your couch.”

“I don’t see Nancy as anything other than a friend.” He swore, “I’ll admit, it was nice to feel wanted, I guess. I was lonely, and she was here. It was easy to slip into old shoes, harmless flirting. At first, just longing for someone. But Nancy.. We’d never work out. She still loves Jonathan, and I’d never get over you.” 

“There’s no one else.” You admitted, answering his question from days ago. “I was just riling you up. Which was very toxic of me, but you’re hot when you’re making assumptions. I went on one date, snuck out through the back door of the restaurant, crying.” 

While the thought made his stomach coil, he couldn’t stop the loud laugh that left his lips. “You’re kidding.” 

“No, it was embarrassing,” You giggled, “He ordered garlic bread, hold the garlic, so it was just bread. And when I asked him why he didn’t just say bread, he said it wasn’t the same. The only thing I could think of was ‘Wow, Steve would make fun of him with me’. So I cried and left.” 

“I would’ve made fun of him with you, but he didn’t deserve to go on a date with you.” He frowned a little through his laughs, “No one does.” 

A sharp silence sat between you two. Snow was still falling from outside, and Cider still steamed in your mugs. The room smelled like pine needles and cinnamon.

“I don’t know what to do,” You admitted, feeling small under his gaze, “We both hurt each other, but have we hurt each other too much? Can we take back the things we said?”

“No,” Steve said.

 Finally, after a brief moment of silence, your heart sank. So this was it, after everything, this was the closure you were avoiding. The kind that snuffed out the last bit of hope you’d been clinging to, leaving you no soft place to land. 

“We can’t take it back. We said those things because we were scared and hurting, and pretending we didn’t mean it at the time isn’t gonna fix anything.” 

His words hit like a gunshot at point-blank range. You took a moment to let the words sink in. 

You swallowed hard, nodding. “So that’s it, then.”

He shook his head. “No. Not if you don’t want it to be.”

You looked up at him, confused. Unsure if it was the cider speaking, or him. But when you caught his eyes, they were clear and determined. 

“We can’t go back to how we were. That much is obvious. Too much time has passed. We’ve both changed, I know I’ve changed.” He let out a soft laugh, “But that doesn’t mean it’s the end.” 

Silence stretched between you two, no longer a sharp sting- just a heavy weight over the two of you. 

“I spent months convincing myself that I made the right decision. I hurt you, I know I did. And there’s not a day that goes by, Y/n, that I don’t regret that.” He admitted, “I was lost. I was so lost and in my head, and I thought the only way to find myself again was space. I just kept thinking that if I stayed, you’d end up resenting me. That you’d wake up one day and realize you’d slowed yourself down for someone who couldn’t keep up. That you’d hate me the same way my dad hates my mom for ever keeping him in this town.” 

His words were heavy with emotion, cut off by your shaky voice. “You didn’t have any right to make that decision without me.” 

“God, I know,” he said. “But at the time, I couldn’t breathe. I was just treading water every day. I didn’t know who I was anymore, and I was terrified you’d end up hating me. So I did the worst thing possible and sped up the process.” 

“I don’t hate you,” You spoke quickly, “Steve, I could never hate you. Trust me, I tried.” 

He cracked a sad smile at that, his thumb rubbing over the edge of his now-chilled cider. 

“I guess I just thought leaving would give you space to become everything you were meant to be,” he said. “And maybe give me time to figure myself out. Looking back, yeah. I’d go back in time and change it if I could, but I can’t.” 

“Did it?” You asked, “Give you time?” 

He shook his head, cruel amusement on his lips. “Just made me realize that losing you made my life so much worse than it was. You changed, you know?” 

You raised an eyebrow at him, “The hair isn’t that big of a deal.” 

“Not that. You don’t need me the way you used to. You’re more sure of yourself, I can tell. And that scares me, because I know we can’t come back and expect things to be the same.”

“I don’t want the same,” you sighed. “I just don’t want to lose you again.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Maybe we don’t decide everything right now.”

You glanced back at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… we take it slow,” Steve said. “No promises we can’t keep. No rushing back into forever just because we miss each other. Let me earn your love again. Let me earn you putting that ring back on your finger. I’ll do it all over again. I’ll even get back down on one knee.” He brought his hand to yours, lacing your fingers together. Tracing the empty spot on your left ring finger. 

You nodded slowly. “No running this time.”

“No running,” he agreed, bringing your hand up to his mouth. Pressing the gentlest kiss to your knuckles.

It wasn’t forgiveness, not in the traditional sense. No one tells you what to do when someone you love hurts you, so you hurt them back twice as hard. It wasn’t a clean slate; there was no pretending to patch over bullet holes with cheap plaster. Starting over didn’t erase the hurt or fix the cracks in the foundation. It just meant choosing each other again, knowing exactly what it could cost. But waking up every day, fighting for each other instead of against one another, felt like something worth risking the pain for. 

A ripple of whispers spreads through your fifth-grade classroom.  

You blink, already pushing your chair back. “Did he say what kind of emergency?”

Eli shakes his head, serious as anything. “No. He just said we need to hurry.”

Your stomach gives a small, uneasy flip.

Eli isn’t the type to exaggerate. He’s sweet, careful. Reminds everyone when it’s time to line up after recess and always volunteers to erase the board without being asked. He's the sort of kid teachers trust without thinking twice.

If he’s the messenger, it’s because of something important.

“Alright, everyone,” you call to the class. “Keep reading quietly. I’ll be right back.”

A chorus of shuffling follows as you reach for your cardigan.

“Hurry, hurry,” Eli bounces on his heels, voice small but insistent.

Before you can answer, he reaches for your hand. His grip is tiny, warm, a little sticky—surprisingly strong. You find yourself getting dragged by his bouncy, determined steps, weaving past rows of lockers, dodging a cluster of kids heading to recess. He zigzags through the main hallway, past the water fountain, the art room, taking the shortcut through the library until you arrive at the wide, double doors leading into the gym.

The moment you push them open, chaos erupts.

Bright rubber dodgeballs zing through the air. Sneakers squeak across the glossy, lacquered floor. Laughter and triumphant shrieks ricochet off the walls, punctuated by the occasional, “Yes! Got you!” from victorious first graders.  

Coach Steve's leaned casually against the far wall, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose around his neck. He’s sipping from a blue ceramic mug that reads World’s Best Teacher in chipped white lettering.

Only five months into the job, yet he’s already something of a legend here at Hawkins Elementary. The younger kids adore him—dodgeball days and ridiculous warm-up games where he pretends to be a shark, stalking the gym with dramatic dun-dun noises until they’re all shrieking with laughter. Older kids trust him in quieter ways, lingering after sex ed to ask questions they’re not brave enough to bring home. 

Despite the nerves you remember from his first day, Steve has settled into teaching like it’s been waiting for him all along.

Right now, though, he’s fully in coach mode. Brow furrowed, stance wide, eyes tracking the game like it’s a championship match instead of a bunch of kids still learning how to throw straight.

“Out of bounds! That one doesn’t count.”

“Woah—no head shots, Jacob! C’mon, we talked about that.”

“You okay, Alex? I got you. Here, try it like this. Yeah, there ya go bud!”

Eli, who had been clutching your hand the entire walk across school, suddenly lets go and races toward his favorite teacher.

“Coach Steve! I did it! I got her!”

Steve looks up. Sees you.

And the grin that breaks across his face is so immediate, so fond, it'd be enough to give you both away if anyone was paying the tiniest bit of attention.

“Hey!” he laughs, stepping forward. “Nice work, buddy. Thanks for the help.”

You watch, eyes narrowed in confusion as he ruffles Eli’s curls and slaps a high five against his tiny palm.

Eli puffs up with pride and pivots to sprint back to the game.

“Whoa—hang on, pal.”

Steve drops to his knees, setting the clipboard aside as he reaches for the loose strap on Eli’s shoe. He fastens it with careful, practiced fingers, giving it a quick tug to make sure it’ll hold.

Your stomach melts a little at the sight of him crouched like that: focused, patient, so gentle with this kid who’s staring at him like he hung the moon.

“There we go, champ,” he grins, giving Eli's sneaker a little pat. “Good as new. Now go have fun, alright? Your team missed you.”

Eli nods hard, then rockets back into the game without another word.

Steve straightens and finally turns to you, eyes warm, smile soft—and just a touch guilty.

“Mr. Harrington,” you say, crossing your arms carefully, “what exactly is the emergency you pulled me out of class for?”

His mouth quirks sheepishly, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, I just…” He steps closer, dropping his voice. “Haven’t seen you all morning. I missed you.”

You blink.

“You—” A breathy laugh slips out before you can stop it. “You sent poor Eli to fetch me because you missed me?”

He nods like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Yeah. He's my fastest kid.”  

“No, that's not the...” you trail off, turning your head, failing completely to hide your smile.

Steve steps closer, angling the clipboard between you so that, to anyone looking in, it would look like you’re addressing some very concerning issues with the class roster.

Well, except for the part where his eyes are glued to your face.

There’s this soft intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch, just by holding it. You find yourself staring back, unable to look away, appreciating the faint creases around his temples, how they deepen with his smile, the plush curve of his bottom lip and the rounded apples of his cheeks as they get pushed upward.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, voice all deep and honey-warm. “Just needed to look at you for a second.”

You shake your head, cheeks warming despite yourself.

There’s a reason you’ve been keeping this thing with Steve a secret.

You both realized, pretty early on, that acting normal in a building full of nosy children and nosier adults was a losing battle. You had to learn to bend with it, catching tiny, fleeting moments in the spaces between, holding onto each one as tightly as you can.

It wasn’t perfect. Mrs. Kline, the school secretary, has definitely noticed the two of you laughing a little too freely by the copier. One of your students will occasionally squint at you during silent reading time, wondering why a tiny scrap of paper left on your table at lunch leaves you grinning for the rest of the day.

Still, you make it work.

A shared coffee in the teachers’ lounge before the morning bell. Standing side-by-side near the parking lot fence as the buses roll in. A granola bar tucked under your desk with a note folded impossibly small.

you look beautiful today ◡̈

He repeats the message to you now, even as you roll your eyes and try to look away.

“Seriously, I mean it," he murmurs, tracing your face with his eyes—the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek—before lingering, unmistakably, on your mouth. “Want to kiss you so bad right now.”

You snort, nudging the sleeve of his sweatshirt with a finger. It’s soft, heather-gray, the Hawkins Elementary mascot faint and cracked across the chest.

“That’s deeply unprofessional of you, Mr. Harrington.”  

He groans under his breath, brow creasing as he tips his head back. “God, I love it when you say it like that. Say it one more time?”  

“Jesus—Steve!” you hiss, half-laughing, eyes darting toward the gym floor like the kids might suddenly develop super-hearing over the screech of sneakers and flying dodgeballs.   

Instead of stepping back, he leans in closer, lips parted in that familiar half-pout, eyes full of mock agony. “Can’t help it, honey. You’re fucking killing me over here.”

“Language,” you warn him, simply out of pure habit.

He smirks, lips twitching.

From the far end of the gym, a group of kids cheer triumphantly, “Yes! Coach Steve! We won!”

You both jump back like you’ve been caught doing something much worse than grinning at each other like idiots.

“Uh—great! Great job, gang!” Steve calls, clapping his hands. “Let's get all the balls in the cart and then grab some water, yeah? Five-minute break.”

Then he leans back in, brows raised. “See? Total professional. I’m telling you.”

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re still smiling when he pivots, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one’s paying attention. Satisfied, he turns back to you, brows drawn into a hopeful, pleading slant.

"C'mon," he murmurs, lifting the clipboard up like a partition. "I’ll get another game going. The kids won’t even notice. Just you... me...” He gestures between you, then toward the double doors leading outside. “Five minutes?”

You press your lips together, schooling your expression back into something stern. “Steve Harrington. I am not fucking you behind the school gym.”

"Language!" He gasps, mimicking your tone. “And jeez, who said anything about that? I was just gonna, you know, have a very professional conversation with you… about teaching.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, c’mon, bab—"

“Coach Steve?”

Both of your heads snap down at the same time.

Eli stands there, chin tipped up, hands clasped neatly behind his back like he’s been waiting for his turn to speak. He’s rocking gently on his heels, eyes bright with curiosity as he looks between the two of you.

“Heyyy, buddy!” Steve laughs nervously, voice jumping up an octave. “What’s up? You okay?”

Eli nods.

Then, completely matter-of-fact, he asks:

“Coach Steve, when you marry her, can I come?”

Steve chokes on absolutely nothing.

“When—what?”

“When you get married,” Eli repeats patiently, like Steve’s just being a little slow today. “I wanna come.”

Steve squats down so fast he almost drops the clipboard.

“Eli,” he says carefully, “why do you think we’re getting married?”

Eli shrugs, unfazed. “’Cause you’re prac-tis married.”

“Practice… practice married?”

“Yeah. Like my Auntie Jen and her friend Mark at Thanksgiving.”

Steve blinks. “Okay, and what's... why do you think we’re practice married?”

Eli doesn’t hesitate. He points toward the front of the gym, in the general direction of your classroom. “’Cause you always wait for her outside her door.”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it.

“And you bring her coffee. But you don’t bring us coffee.”

“Well,” Steve murmurs faintly, “that’s ‘cause you’re six.”

Eli shrugs again. “And you talk to her really soft. Like this,” he cups his hand around his mouth to demonstrate, whispering loudly. “Also, you always save her a chair at ass-em-blee.”

Steve rubs a hand down his face, glancing up at you before looking back at Eli. “That’s, uh… very observant of you, buddy.”

Eli isn’t done.

“And you make funny faces at her in the hallway. Oh! And you fixed her pencil sharpener. And, and, there was one time you looked at her, and you didn’t look away for one... two... three...” He glances down at his fingers and starts counting under his breath. “five... six... seven... eigh—”

“Okay!” Steve laughs loudly, holding up his hands. “Okay, buddy, I get it. That’s... that’s a long time.”

Eli nods, clearly pleased with himself. “Auntie Jen and Mark, they used to go everywhere together. And Mark fixed all the stuff around her house. Then later they got married for real.”

He looks between the two of you, satisfied.

“So. I think you’re practice married.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and crouch beside Steve. “Well... I think that’s a pretty solid theory, Eli.”

“Mm-hm, thanks,” he nods confidently. Then he spins back to Steve. “So, when you do the real one, can I come? I’m really good at sitting still. And my mom says when people get married they always eat cake. I love cake.” He spreads his arms wide. “Auntie Jen’s was this big!”

Steve presses his lips together, letting out a short, incredulous snort. “You know what, pal? Sure. Whe—if we get married, you’re more than welcome to come. And we’ll get the biggest cake we can find, okay?”

Eli beams. “Okay!”

He starts to run back to the group, then skids to a stop and turns around.

“Hey, Coach Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You should ask her nicely,” Eli says, serious as anything. “With flowers. Mark did that.”

And then he’s gone.

Steve stays crouched, staring after him, jaw slack.

“…Did a six-year-old just give me relationship advice?”

“Mm, seems like it.”

He stands slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes still following Eli as he rejoins the others.

“You think he spotted it before we did?” he asks quietly. “Back when... you know, we were still trying to figure out what we were doing?”

You smile. “Probably way before then.”

Steve's still distracted when you put your hand on his shoulder, quickly checking to see that no one’s watching before pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.

He blinks, stunned. “Wha—no, wait, shit—”

He reaches for you a full second too late; you’re already headed for the door.

“Language. Have a good rest of your class, Mr. Harrington.”

Steve watches you go, hand frozen at his cheek.

Across the gym, Eli spots you and waves enthusiastically, completely unaware of just how accurate his little theory was.

The proof?