henlo it me

𝗱𝗮𝗲𝗿𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘆𝗲𝗻

in short: he would talk in his sleep just so he wouldn't have to be the last one to hang up

Daeron can talk nonstop. Sometimes he's not much different from Egg. He'll ask you strange, silly questions in between serious things. "Hey, where do you keep your milk? In the fridge door or at the back of the fridge?" You can hear him pouring cereal into a bowl. "Milk first, then cereal, or the other way around?" He'll tell you everything he's doing, absolutely everything. He masterfully jumps from topic to topic. Even when you're saying goodbye, he'll suddenly remember something he's wanted to say for ages. Daeron might call you without even lifting his head from the pillow. Need I mention that he always sends you messy drunk texts and makes calls just to say he's glad you're his girlfriend? Daeron is the one who, after your "bye," will say with puppy-like intonation, "you hang up first." He'll argue with such persistence, as if there's a prize for it. You can clearly hear in his voice that he finds it both amusing and sweet. After a fair amount of time, Daeron will finally say gently, "Okay, okay, you win, as always, thief of my heart. I am simply weak before you. So I surrender."

𝗮𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘆𝗲𝗻

in short: no games with him. well, okay, sometimes

Aerion likes to maintain the illusion that he's incredibly busy. "Baby, I'm busy." He's busy scrolling through his Instagram feed. He'll reply later, when he deems it appropriate. Sometimes he'll just leave a reaction. He'll never admit it, but he really likes it when you send "good morning" and "good night." It makes him feel needed? Aerion saves every photo you send in your chat, even the silliest ones. That's the real you. He'll grumble about you taking an unflattering picture of him, but his lips still twitch into a smile every time. "You hang up first? What are we, children?" He'll protest excessively. Playfully arguing with his loved one about who should end the call first isn't very cool for a guy like Aerion. But sometimes… it seems when he's in a tender mood, he'll argue with you. This happens when you're sleeping apart due to circumstances and you both miss each other. The night strips away masks, leaving raw honesty behind. The kind that isn't cool, but is true. He wants to go to sleep, his voice hoarse because of it, but he promises you'll be the first to give in, and then he'll definitely say you're both being ridiculous.

𝗯𝗮𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘆𝗲𝗻

in short: he's such a sweetheart. he'll interject with his "no, you" like a lovestruck teenager

Baelor is the one who likes every single one of your posts, every photo, everything you put on social media. He might look a bit like your number one fan. Looks like? He is one! He wants to support you in every way. This isn't performative love so everyone can see how happy you are. He doesn't reply immediately, but as soon as he frees up. He just needs to switch his focus from work to you. That's why his messages are never dry. Baelor might send a text that just says "swamped" along with a photo of his mock-sad face. He always says "I love you" when he hangs up. Once, Baelor's secretary caught him in the most amusing situation. His chair was turned towards the window, and he didn't hear her come in. He was talking to you, and you had been arguing for five minutes about who should hang up, occasionally interrupting yourselves to decide what to have for dinner. Here he was, a grown man with the widest smile, saying "no, you hang up first," even though he had just told his employee that he was very busy with a very important business call. She mercifully pretended she had never set foot in the boss's office. And the two of you settled on caponata for dinner.

𝗹𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗹 𝗯𝗮𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗼𝗻

in short: he'll call you a fool, not maliciously, and then tease you about it, but he's happy that you see the two of you as sixteen year old idiots

Lyonel obviously loves to chat, but not on the phone. He usually saves all his entertaining stories and jokes for in-person meetings. Just let him feel like the best comedian for a bit. Strangely enough, over the phone, he talks as if it's business. Everything is clear and fast. Though he'll then throw in an affectionate pet name and express his regret that he can't tie you to him so you'd always be by his side. He even reads a physical newspaper. You jokingly call him grandpa, and he looks at you over his glasses and mimics you, saying you'll regret your words. His habit of talking on the phone while driving at considerable speeds drives you crazy. He shouts into the speaker and asks you to speak louder. Louder, when he's flying like the wind? First, he laughed heartily at your phone teasing, then he mimicked you back, putting on a sweet girly voice. You rightly called him a child. He rightly said that at least you're both having fun. Then he demanded you meet up as soon as possible. "I need to hold your hand, my darling." You thought he was a sarcastic fool, but you still ended up sitting in the park, drinking coffee, innocently holding hands.

𝗱𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗹

in short: gently involved in everything. everything that concerns you

Duncan is the one who replies always, no matter the circumstances. He already feels awkward in your kitchen, dough sticking to his hands. He was trying to bake cookies but got distracted when a message from you came through on his phone. His screen is sticky, smudged, and smells of cinnamon, but he still managed to unlock it. Duncan holds the phone to his ear, trapped between his shoulder and his head, still messing with the baking. "Is it important, dear?" Even if it isn't, he will listen to you for as long as it takes. He can turn into your personal therapist, deftly inserting supportive comments throughout your entire speech. Duncan humbly says he doesn't have a way with words like you do, but he knows how to listen. He is, without a doubt, always ready to lose and be the first one to hang up. There is nothing he wouldn't do for his lady. He'll argue with you sweetly, his voice warm like July air. But as soon as he catches a commanding note in your voice, he'll say jokingly, "If my queen wishes me to do so, who am I to resist?" The last thing you hear before he says a gentle "bye" is him giggling softly.

𝗺𝗮𝗲𝗸𝗮𝗿 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘆𝗲𝗻

in short: no. this just isn't for him. sorry. actually, not sorry

Maekar is a person who manages his time efficiently, or so he believes. He loves the "do not disturb" function on his phone. Muting excess noise that gets in the way of work. Rational, as he loves to preach. He texts you sparingly, and the same goes for calls. Everything has its purpose, and he expects certain results. Calling his children during his lunch break (each of his kids), he wants to hear "everything is fine, father, no problems." That certainly won't satisfy his peace of mind, as his children have no concept of "no problems." For Maekar, calls are most often associated with problems. His already stern-looking face looks uninviting, but when he hears his phone ring... his shoulders slump, as if someone is pressing down on them with malicious force. He'd rather listen to everything you have for him in person. Two hours? Fine, then he'll listen to you, sipping wine in your kitchen. "No, you hang up first?" What nonsense? That's his first and most honest thought. He'll be silent for a while, weighing his options, then decide he's gone crazy with you for even considering participating in this idiocy. Maekar hangs up the call. That's what you wanted, isn't it?

you do not recognize the room instantly, and worse—your head is pounding. it aches all around, from the back of your skull to your temples, at an intensity that you can only describe as blistering.

not the sort one receives after indulging in their cups, or the kind after a restless night of sleep. this is something else entirely. 

you sigh, your body sinking into the mattress further. it is more comfortable than you recall, your limbs stretching for a moment with a satisfying burn, the shield of sleep still thick in your mind.

everything seems a little numb, still. the sounds of the world outside your window are fairly quiet, save for a few birds chirping. it must not be early enough—usually you can hear the thunderous ring of steel on steel, courtesy of your brother and whatever household knight he is sparring with to begin his day.

even the noises outside the door seem duller than normal. your mother’s solar is only a few steps away, and usually you can hear the chatter radiating from there when you wake. her and your sister, no doubt, the one that rises early every morning with your parents and makes you look bad in comparison.

it could not be your other sister, not anymore. she has been married for almost the length of a year, nearly expecting her first child now, and yet when you are tired, you can almost forget.

the feeling is rather sweet, you think tiredly, when you wake up too early and it feels as though you are still in a dream altogether. one where you are still a girl, waiting for your septa to come wake you, one where all your siblings still live in your home, where everyone is still together.

if you were not so fatigued, you might smile.

you turn your head towards the door slightly, eyes attempting to fixate on the location of the noise, or at least, where the noise would be coming from. it is surprisingly silent, you think, at least for your family’s home. you are all an awfully noisy bunch, and yet—

that is odd, you reflect for a moment, stirring to rub at your eyes. 

the door is not… in the correct place? you look to the right of you, where the entrance to your small room has always been, just besides the vanity where you ready yourself. your eyes turn quickly in each direction, looking for those familiar objects—the vanity, the mirror, the wardrobe.

this room is not your own.

you jolt up in bed, sitting up and bringing your knees to your chest, as if you might be able to defend yourself against your confusion somehow. 

the only word you can think to describe this room is… morose. 

nothing like your bedchamber at home, which is lively and full of sun and color. here, the curtains are almost completely shut, just the barest bit of light pouring in. the fireplace glows dimly but it does little to brighten it enough for you to make sense of where you truly are.

how could that be? how could you have fallen asleep at your home and woken up in an entirely new place?

you turn your head again, looking in the other direction for the door to this chamber. instead you find—

“seven hells-” you shout, scrambling to move yourself from your position under the covers. you push yourself to the other side of the bed, away from the stranger sitting in a chair besides you.

he had been asleep, you think, your own head throbbing even more painfully now from the sudden movement. he had been sitting, but his elbow was against the arm of the seat, leaning against it in his slumber. you think he was even snoring.

you could not make out a face, just a flash of light colored hair, and now—

fuck. he stares for a moment, both of you gone silent, as he blinks wide, lilac eyes at you. and you think for a moment, scanning his features, that he looks almost… relieved. 

that is most odd, given that you are anything but relieved. you frantically tug down the hem of your night gown, trying to cover yourself. when you look back at him, he is still silent. 

worse—he is staring at your exposed skin. you could almost gasp at the indignation of it if you were not so confused. a sound like a scoff almost escapes you—you thought princes were supposed to be chivalrous. 

“your… your grace?” you question, your voice coming out raspy. your throat feels sore, almost, as though you have not drank enough water in some time. suddenly, you feel parched. “uh… where am i?”

“i…” the prince—one of them, you imagine, though you do not know his name since it is your first time ever meeting one in person, like this—begins, before trailing off. “i am glad you are awake now.”

his voice is filled with a sincerity you do not completely understand. he speaks with a seriousness of tone, as though there was a possibility of you not awaking, somehow.

“as am i, your grace,” you reply, blinking at him slowly. “pardon me, but-”

“i will fetch the maester. lay back down,” he orders, and you furrow your brows in confusion. 

“maester?” you ask, as he begins to step towards the door. “no, i do not require the maester. can you please call for my mother and father?”

the prince freezes, his hand stopping mid-air as he reaches for the doorknob. he turns around slowly, his violet eyes meeting yours. you notice it then as his jaw tightens, clenching slightly.

relax, ser, you think bleakly and unfiltered, you do not have to go chase them down yourself. i need only a maid to find them—

“your mother and father?” he repeats. you think for a moment that you can hear his teeth grinding against each other.

“yes, your grace. are they not here with me?”

“why would they be here?” he sounds listless, as though you are burdening him with questions he does not want to answer.

“well, my brother then? they did not send me off alone, did they?” you ask, panic rising in your voice as he continues to look at you with that expression on his face. “a-and where am i, if i may ask? i do not recognize these chambers.”

“i am going to fetch the maester. you are in need of his services,” the prince says quietly, and you can no longer discern what emotions exactly lies behind his voice.

“i… i-” you begin, before faltering. you are not even sure what you intend to say. 

you stare at him for another moment, breathing heavily. you pull on the cotton sheets to try and cover yourself further.

his grace steps away from the door, walking towards you for a moment. he walks until he is at the edge of the bed, leaning forward to look at you. you shudder under the intensity of his gaze, realizing quickly that this is not—

the prince glowers down at you, his purple eyes locked on yours. his expression is mostly unreadable, but from this close, you can see him very clearly.

it is not light hair, nor blond. it is silver, just as the history books describe it. his hair gleams where the light catches it, pure argentine the longer you stare. you rake your eyes down slowly, to the lilac of his eyes and the pale lashes that he blinks at you.

then the curve of his nose, which you look at for far too long. it seems almost oddly… intimate to study him this way, but you cannot help yourself, not as you take in the pink of his lips and the scars that mark his cheeks.

he must be one of the king’s sons. there is no one else he could be. the crown prince is more dornish than valyrian, you know, so it cannot be him. one of the three others then. perhaps you should have paid attention more closely when your septa would teach you. or even to your father’s conversations at the dinner table. 

there always seemed something more important to think about. and well—

your thought is interrupted by him.

“what is it?” he demands, his face much closer to you now.

“i, uh,” you start quietly, blinking rapidly. “you should call for a chaperone, at least. this is not proper.” 

the prince shifts from concerned to exasperated.

“what is not proper?”

“well, us, of course. we cannot be alone in a room together,” you state plainly, confused why he is not understanding what you are saying.

are the dragon princes truly so high in the in-step that they do not remember any of the customs of society? just because he is royalty does not excuse him from requiring a maid or some guard to oversee the encounter. to make sure something untoward does not occur, the sort of thing that could ruin you.

gods above—the man was in here while you were asleep. how could that possibly be proper?

the prince brings his fingers to his face, pinching his nose, his fingers forming a fist when he finally brings them back down to his side. he looks frustrated, you think.

and he is not the only one. you pause, your mouth hanging open slightly, waiting for him to say something. 

“do you know who i am?” he demands again, the words lingering in the air for a moment before you nod slowly.

“of course. you are a prince.”

he blinks at you.

“i am… a prince? that is all?” his handsome face contorts into an entirely unpleasant expression.

you had not thought your forgetfulness would impact him so deeply. in fact, you cannot even remember ever being introduced to him.

he is not making a good first impression upon you. he cannot expect every lady of the kingdom to be able to tell him apart from his brothers on the first interaction? 

you try to think harder, but your head hurts deeply. there are only two silver-haired princes, you finally recall, because the other two have dark hair. 

but even of the two, you do not know which stands before you.

“i apologize, your grace,” you start. “my head is ailing me. if i am forgetting our introduction, then i am truly very sorry. i hope you will not judge me too harshly.”

the prince swallows, staring at you. he does not look pleased, not that he ever did.

in fact, he looks as the sort of man who might never be pleased, not about anything. lines of worry are seemingly permanently etched into his face, surrounding his eyes most notably. 

you suppose he must have many duties as a prince. children to take care of, surely. you do not know which of the targaryen brood belong to him, but you have seen them before. you think it was a tourney, but you cannot recall exactly now. there is only a few of them with that silver hair that your prince possesses.

those must be his sons, no? the ones possessing the hands and the lances that your younger sister was dying to get her prettily made favor into?

you look at him again, pushing away your thoughts. he sighs, his broad shoulders rising and falling for a moment beneath his doublet. 

“i will return with the maester and a chaperone.”

“thank you, your grace.” 

you move yourself back slightly, settling against the bed, sliding your legs under the covers again. he watches you as you move, and you suddenly feel warm at the realization.

when his hand reaches the handle, he pauses for a moment. you steal the opportunity before it evades you. 

“my prince?” you ask hesitantly. 

“yes?” 

is that… eagerness? in his voice? you blink, trying to decide if your mind is deceiving you. why would a prince be eager to speak with you, anyhow?

“can i ask for your name? i apologize again, i… i am having trouble remembering.”

the prince looks at you again, but it is unlike the other glances and gazes from just now. he stares intensely, his purple eyes boring through you, the feeling almost hot and fierce.

“maekar,” he says, though the word is strained. “i am maekar.”

oh. yes, you think, that makes sense. the one from the song.

“thank you, prince maekar.” 

you turn away, staring out the window of this strange room for a moment. you hear the prince sigh, and then he opens the door and steps outside.

once the door is shut, maekar waits. his head rushes with thoughts that he does not want to think about, and questions that he does not have answers for.

a servant boy walks towards him, no doubt to ask what he requires, but maekar has just lost the last of what remained of his patience.

“get the fucking maester,” he snaps, and the servant almost flinches.

“right away, your grace,” the boys, before hesitating for a moment. “-and what should i tell him?”

— Baelor

Nimble fingers twirl his rings, an idle motion at best. His opposing eyes follow how the layers of silk spill upon you, Baelor sitting by for the act unbroken. The prince appoints time for this duty, and nothing in the realm can stir it.

A smile plucks at his lips, fond and gentle. The thick colour of the Targaryen blood pours over you, you bear it in your ownership — as if bred into it. Pride tightens his heart, affection alongside it. “The pale necklace,” his voice rises, tenderly in the silence of the task, urging your eyes towards him, “it will suit best,” he ends, sharing a smile across the room with you. Silver gems grace your neck, and he arises from a chair nearby. Closing in on you, his fingers brush the stones, your skin afalme against the cold jewels.

— Maekar

He was a busy prince — or that was what Maekar wanted to be thought of. Yet, his presence at your customary dressing puts that truth in question.

With a face of white marble, he is mute. Pallid eyes pierce through the fabrics of your enveloping dress, intent on the sculpture of your frame. A flutter of curled eyelashes breaks his stare, and he furrows a brow at one of the maids fiddling gracelessly with your laces. “Move, girl,” he grunts, his strong steps parting a path through skittish women. Severe hands catch your back, and melt into gentleness foreign to claws that tore through men. Every gesture is precise, practised for his girls. He glances your way in the echo of the mirror. He catches the smile illuminating your face. “Hush,” he forces between his teeth after he finishes with a firm kiss on your hair.

The sun poured through your window in long, lazy streaks, turning the dust in the air into something soft and golden. It was the kind of light that didn't demand anything from you, that simply existed. 

Nothing could've disturbed your peace and quiet.

Not today.

Weekend mornings were sacred. No alarms. No rushing. Just the gentle awareness that you had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to enjoy it. You could already picture it: wandering downstairs when you felt like it, eating whatever you wanted for breakfast, letting the hours blur together in the most delicious way. And then doing it all over again tomorrow.

You lay tangled in your sheets, suspended in that perfect in-between, where sleep hadn't fully let go yet, and consciousness hadn't quite claimed you either. Your thoughts drifted slowly, lazily, like they had nowhere better to be. Every breath felt deep. Heavy in the best way.

Your untouched curls fanned out around your head, catching the sunlight as it spilled across your pillow. You didn't know it yet, but they looked especially alive this morning, soft and full and glowing like they'd been carefully arranged by the universe itself.

You shifted slightly, burrowing deeper into the mattress, a small smile tugging at your lips as you decided—very firmly—that you were not getting up anytime soon. This morning was yours.

And then..

"WAKE UP, PRINCESS! YOUR KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR IS HERE!"

The sound ripped through the house with all the subtlety of a fire alarm.

You groaned immediately, burying your face into your pillow as if it might protect you from the sheer audacity of your brother's voice. Dustin Henderson was many things, but quiet was not one of them ,especially when he thought he was being funny.

"Shut up," you groaned into the fabric, barely awake. "I swear to God-"

From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of snickering, followed by hurried footsteps and what sounded suspiciously like him running away before retaliation could occur.

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face.

Of course. Of course it was your brother who would ruin such a lovely and perfect morning. 

Your morning peace cracked just enough to let the outside world seep in, but not completely. Not yet. You were still half-lost in the warmth, still clinging to the comfort of your bed, unaware that just down the hall, someone else had gone very, very quiet. And that he was already on his way to you.

By the time Steve made it upstairs, you'd already drifted back under.

Not fully asleep, just dozing. Floating. Caught in that hazy space where the world feels distant and safe, and nothing sharp can reach you.

He moved quietly, instinctively so.

The house was still settling behind him, distant murmurs of Dustin's voice echoing once before being cut off, probably by Mrs. Henderson telling him to keep it down. Steve slipped out of his jacket at the bottom of the stairs, folding it over his arm like it was second nature, like he already knew he wouldn't need it where he was going.

His footsteps were soft against the carpet as he climbed. Careful. Measured. When he reached your door and nudged it open slowly, the faintest creak slipping into the room before he froze completely, breath caught halfway in his chest.

You were sprawled comfortably across your bed, limbs loose, face turned slightly toward the window where the sunlight spilled in unabashedly. Your breathing was slow and even, lips parted just a little like sleep had caught you mid-thought.

And your hair- 

Steve's mind went blank.

Your curls were everywhere. Wild in the softest way. Piled around your head like you'd sunk straight into a cloud and never bothered to come back down. The sunlight threaded through them, catching on every curve and coil, turning them warm and bright and impossibly alive.

He'd seen you a thousand times. Laughing. Arguing. Rolling your eyes at Dustin. Sitting cross-legged on the floor explaining something way too smart for him to follow.

But this?

This felt... private.

Intimate in a way he hadn't prepared for.

They hadn't been together long. Long enough to know it mattered. Long enough for careful hands and hesitant kisses and that quiet awareness that everything still felt new and fragile in the best way. Long enough that he'd never slept over, never seen you like this, untouched by effort, untouched by the day.

Steve had been in this house before. Of course he had. Dustin had claimed him first, dragged him over for game nights and breakfast chaos and afternoons that stretched too long. He knew the couch. The kitchen. The way the stairs creaked on the third step.

But this was different.

This wasn't him as Dustin's Steve. The honorary babysitter. The loud presence in the living room.

Steve had come here for you.

To be polite. To impress your mom. To sit at the table and say please and thank you and pretend he wasn't nervous about joining your family breakfast like it meant something more than just food.

Something fluttered low in his chest, spreading fast, warm and dizzying and almost embarrassing in its intensity. He swallowed, shifting his weight like that might ground him, like that might stop the sudden rush of affection threatening to knock the breath out of him.

Because this wasn't the version of you he usually saw.

No styled curls. No effort. No awareness of being watched.

Just you, soft, half-asleep, sunlight-touched and completely unguarded.

And it made his chest ache in a way he didn't have a name for yet. "Jesus," he breathed, barely louder than a thought.

He eased the door shut behind him and crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. When he reached the foot of your bed, he set his jacket aside and sat carefully, the mattress dipping just enough to make you stir.

Not awake. Not yet.

Steve smiled without meaning to. His hand curls into the sheets as he exhales through his nose, a quiet huff of a laugh at himself, like he can't believe he's nervous about this. About you. The awe doesn't fade, though. If anything, it settles deeper. Quieter. Reverent.

"Hey," he murmurs softly, voice low and warm. "C'mon, sleepyhead."

No response, just the faintest shift, a soft hum of contentment slipping from you without thought.

Something in his chest stutters.

He tries again, even gentler. "You're gonna miss the whole morning."

Still nothing.

Steve smiles despite himself, fond and helpless, leaning closer until his shadow spills over you, until he can feel the warmth of your skin beneath him. Up this close, the moment feels almost too private. Like he's standing on the edge of something he doesn't quite have the words for yet.

"Guess I gotta do this the hard way," he whispers. 

When he finally lies down, it's slow. Thoughtful.

He lowers himself carefully, bracing on his forearms so he doesn't crush you, fitting over you like he already knows how, warm and solid and careful. Protective without trying. Familiar in a way that feels almost unfair, considering how new everything still is.

His presence wraps around you instead of pressing down.

Then he starts small.

A soft kiss to your forehead.

Another to your temple.

Your cheek.

The bridge of your nose.

Each one gentle like he's testing whether you'll stir, like he has all the time in the world. Nothing like Dustin's yelling from downstairs. Nothing loud or chaotic.

You come back to yourself slowly.

Not all at once, just bits and pieces. Warmth first. Weight, careful and familiar. A soft breath against your cheek.

You mumble something incoherent, words slurring together like you're still halfway under. Your brow furrows, nose scrunching as you shift beneath him.

Steve stills immediately.

"Hey," he whispers, almost instinctively. "It's okay."

Your eyes flutter open, unfocused at first. All you see is a blur of brown and gold and morning light, then it sharpens.

Steve.

Right there. Hovering over you, braced on his arms, hair a little messy, eyes soft and entirely fixed on you like he's afraid you might disappear if he blinks.

Your mouth curves into a sleepy smile without you even trying.

"...Hi," you murmur.

Relief washes over his face so fast it's almost funny. "Morning."

You blink up at him, still processing, then let out a tiny huff of a laugh. "You're being weirdly quiet," you mumble. "Did Dustin finally break you?"

He snorts under his breath. "Please. He tried."

You shift again, stretching slightly, and that's when awareness fully settles in. You're tangled up. Hair probably everywhere. Eyes puffy. Face warm from sleep.

You suddenly feel very exposed.

"Oh my god," you groan softly, lifting one hand to your face. "This is... not how I wanted you to see me."

Steve frowns, distracted, gaze flicking to where your curls spill across the pillow, catching the sunlight. His eyes trace them like he's cataloging every detail, like he's trying to understand how something can look that good without effort.

"See you how?" he asks, genuinely confused.

You peek at him through your fingers. "Like this. I look—" you gesture vaguely, embarrassed. "Like I just woke up."

He smiles then. Small. A little stunned. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I know."

You drop your hand, narrowing your eyes. "Steve."

"I'm serious," he insists, still looking at you like you've hung the moon. "You're... kind of unreal right now."

Your cheeks heat immediately. "You're lying."

"I never lie before breakfast," he says solemnly, then pauses. "Okay, that's not true. But not about this."

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. "You're so dramatic."

"Maybe," he admits. His thumb brushes the sheet beside your shoulder, hesitant but warm. "But you make it hard not to be."

And you realize, that he hasn't stopped looking at you once. Not even for a second.

Steve finally speaks, voice low, hesitant, like he's testing the words before they come out.

"I—uh... wow."

He blinks at you, still a little stunned.

"Is this... how it normally looks?",  he gestures softly to your curls, fingers slowly tracing the faint outline of the strands framing your flushed face. 

You feel a rush of shyness, curling a hand in your lap. "Yeah... this is my natural hair. I... I usually style it, you know, blow-dry it, tame it a bit."

His jaw drops slightly, eyes widening as if the words don't compute. "You... style this?"

You nod, embarrassed but honest. "Every day. I just... I didn't have time last night. Thought I'd fix it before you got here."

Steve whines softly, half-joking, half-serious. "You can't. Wait- fix it? Don't ever do that. Leave it like this. Please." The way he says it, awed and utterly captivated, makes your chest flutter.

You always do your hair before leaving the house. After every shower. Before every hangout, every event, every casual I'll just stop by for a minute. Not because you hate your curls, just because they're a lot.

Too much volume. Too much shape. Too noticeable in a decade that worships blown-out layers and sleek ends. So you tame it. Heat it. Smooth it into something safer. Something that blends in better, that doesn't take up so much space.

It's habit. Curling iron, dryer, patience. Make it behave. Last night was the exception.

You were exhausted, convinced you'd wake up early and fix it before Steve arrived. You wanted to look put together, especially since this was new, since he was coming over for breakfast, since meeting your mom felt important.

You just didn't expect him to see this. But maybe there was nothing to worry about?

"I mean...can I at least do my curl routine?" you murmured, fingers nervously twisting a loose strand of hair. "Just so it looks more presentable?"

Steve froze, eyes wide. His jaw literally dropped. "Presentable?" he whispered, as if the concept didn't even exist. "Do you have any idea... what this hair looks like right now?"

You tilted your head, shy but teasing. "Uh... messy?"

"Messy?!" His voice rose in a whisper-shout, incredulous. 

You giggled, brushing your fingers through a curl. "You're overreacting."

"No," he said firmly, stepping closer, voice low and earnest. "I—look, I don't know why I'm even surprised. I mean... genetically, yeah, it makes sense. Dustin got the curls, fine. But... this? This is something else."

He paused, eyes practically sparkling, and it hit him: all those compliments he got in high school? All the hair jokes, the admiration, the "King of Hawkins High" nonsense? None of it mattered. None of it prepared him for this. For you. Steve "the Hair" Harrington was completely, utterly in awe of the angel standing (or sitting) right in front of him, and he couldn't look away.

"Please," he said, almost pleading, voice softening. "Let me see. Show me. The... uh... curling routine? I need to understand how this happens."

You blinked, flustered, but also amused. "You want to watch me do my hair?"

"Yes!" he whispered, leaning closer, eyes glued to yours. "I don't even—God, I don't even know. I need to see how this works. You can't just... just have this and not let me witness it."

Your heart swelled a little at his earnestness. You nodded slowly. "Okay... fine. But you're not touching anything unless I say so."

Steve grinned like he'd just won a golden ticket. "Deal," he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I'll be the most respectful observer ever. Probably."

Later, you're sitting at the mirror, you reached for the spray bottle first, explaining to him that your hair had to be completely soaked before anything else. Steve watched, utterly fascinated, as you carefully spritzed each section, the curls coming alive under the mist.

"This is... a lot," he murmured, brow furrowed at the display of products in your vanity, which is ironic coming from him, but there was no judgment in his voice, only awe.

"It's the only way I can brush it without ruining the curls," you said softly. "Unless I'm using heat,"

"Fuck that," he cut in immediately, a small laugh escaping him. "No way am I letting you touch that hair with heat. Ever."

You smiled, letting him take the brush. He was patient, careful, gentle, and you closed your eyes as he hummed quietly, brushing through the damp hair with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. There was a warmth in the way he worked, as if every stroke was a silent compliment, and you couldn't help but relax under his hands.

Once the middle section of your hair was clipped up, you wet the sides until they were thoroughly soaked and began scrunching layer by layer, coaxing the curls into their natural shape. Steve leaned in close, tilting his head to follow each movement, asking tiny, fascinated questions, and offering to help whenever you gestured.

He keeps asking questions, genuine curiosity in every word. "So that... like, makes it curly like this? Every time?" When you nod, he can't help the small grin.

"Mousse next," you said, and he handed it over, careful not to spill a drop. You applied it to the sides, then moved to the back, focusing on the middle and front sections of your hair, repeating the process, wetting, brushing, scrunching, layering the mousse.

Steve perches on the edge of the bed, leaning forward slightly,

"It's... kinda mesmerizing," he admits, voice hushed. "The way you do it. The patience, the... process."

You laugh softly, trying not to notice how intently he watches every motion, how his hand twitches like he wants to touch but knows better.

Finally, you added a bit of gel and began diffusing, Steve hovering beside you, hands ready to help, adjusting the heat and airflow, making sure the curls dried perfectly without losing their bounce. He didn't rush, even as the diffuser hummed for what felt like forever, and you realized you didn't mind that he was there at all.

Once the majority was dry, you let the rest air-dry, slightly embarrassed by how long it took. You added a few drops of hair oil to break the gel and finish the look. Steve watched every movement like he was witnessing a miracle, each curl and each bounce, he couldn't stop thinking how lucky he was to see it all unfold.

He reaches out, fingertips hovering near a strand, pauses, then gently tucks a curl behind your ear only when you nod approval. His eyes stay locked on yours, on the way the sunlight hits each ringlet, the way it frames your face.

“Jesus,” he breathes, the word slipping out before he can stop it. He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to recalibrate. “You’re… you’re really beautiful. Like—” He exhales a small, disbelieving laugh. “Like this should be illegal or something.”

You giggle, cheeks warming, and before you can deflect or tease him back, he leans in. The kiss starts soft, barely there, like he’s checking if this is real. It is.

Your laugh melts into the kiss, and that’s all it takes. Something in Steve shifts. He kisses you again, deeper this time, more certain, like the permission you gave him didn’t just apply to your hair, but to everything.

His hand slides into your curls, fingers threading through gently at first, then a little firmer when you sigh against his mouth. He makes a quiet sound at that, barely restrained, like he’s finally losing a battle he didn’t even know he’d been fighting.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs between kisses, forehead resting against yours, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’m never recovering from this. Ever.”

You laugh again, soft and breathless, and Steve kisses you like he means it, like he’s memorizing the moment, the light, the curls beneath his hands, already knowing this is something he’s never going to forget.

"Steve—" 

“BREAKFA—”

Dustin’s voice cuts through the moment like a siren. He barrels into the room without knocking, stops dead in his tracks, and immediately regrets every decision he’s ever made.

Steve’s hand is still warm against your cheek, thumb resting just beneath your eye. You’re leaning into him without even realizing it, half-lidded and soft, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

Dustin screams. Actually screams.

“OH MY GOD—WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING HER FACE LIKE THAT?”

Steve startles, hand flying back like he’s been caught committing a crime. “Dustin! Dude—what the hell?”

You groan, covering your face. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Because I didn’t think I’d walk in on this.” He waves his hands between the two of you dramatically. “Whatever this is.”

Then he squints at you. Pauses. Leans closer.

“…Wait.”

You peek at him through your fingers.

Dustin tilts his head, eyes narrowing in recognition. “Is that—” He points. “Is that your real hair?”

You blink. “Yeah?”

He stares for a second longer, then nods, oddly sincere. “Huh. I haven’t seen it like that in forever.”

Steve opens his mouth, still recovering.

“It looks good,” Dustin adds quickly, then grimaces. “Which I hate. For the record.” totally jealous.

You smile. “It was Steve’s idea.”

Dustin whips around. “It was whose idea?”

Steve shrugs, trying, and failing, to look casual. “What? I just—thought she should leave it.”

Dustin presses his lips together, processing. Then he shudders.

“Okay,” he says slowly, backing toward the door. “This is… oddly domestic. And it’s adorable. And I kind of want to throw up.”

He turns to leave, hand already on the doorknob, then pauses.

“…Oh yeah. Breakfast is ready.” and you swear you've never seen him leave your room faster, or close the door properly for that matter. You and Steve just stared straight at closed door, then you both start laughing.

You bump your shoulder into his. “You love him.”

“I do,” he admits immediately. Then, with a smirk, “Doesn’t mean I won’t lock your door next time.”