s ᯓ★

Eddie made a huffing sound, all faux offence and mockery. “It’s called exposure therapy, Harrington. Look it up.”

Steve looked to you for backup, brows raised expectantly, but you were far too used to this behaviour by now. Besides, the two boys were chest deep in the dark blue water now, Steve subconsciously floating further from you as he tried to wrangle Eddie towards the pool steps. And you found that the distance didn’t panic you as much as you once thought it would. You were still standing waist deep, happy to see your toes wiggle on the blue pool tiles.

Eventually Eddie checked the time on the cheap silver watch hanging from his wrist and cursed loudly, remembering he’d promised Gareth he’d help move some amps before band practice. He hauled himself from the pool in a shower of water, curls dripping onto the tiles as he shoved his feet back into his boots without drying them first.

“You two have fun,” he announced too loudly, pointing between you both. “No drowning. No weird sexual tension. Behave yourselves.”

“Get out,” you and Steve snapped, looking anywhere but at each other.

Eddie barked out a laugh at that, eyes too bright with vindication before he saluted lazily and disappeared through the gate, humming a song you didn’t recognise under his breath.

Quiet settled in his wake. The low hum of the pool filter continued steadily from somewhere behind you, bugs buzzed lazily in the trees beyond the fence line. Water lapped softly against your ribs where you stood in the shallows, fingers now curled over the edge of the pool in lieu of Steve’s arm. Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower started up.

Steve exhaled through his nose and made his way over to you, careful not to splash too much. “Fuckin’ finally,” he muttered.

You snorted, a decidedly unattractive sound and you looked down at the water to hide your grin. Steve moved a little closer, shoulder brushing yours underwater. It shouldn’t have felt like such a big thing. It was barely even a touch. But fuck, your breath still snagged somewhere in your chest all the same. It felt like the water should have rippled from your body, bones rattling, heartbeat loud enough to make waves in the water.

“You okay?” he asked softly. It wasn’t exactly pity, nothing too gentle, just quiet enough to make you far too aware that Steve cared. Like he was constantly checking the weather inside your head, making sure the skies were still clear enough to continue.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

Steve’s gaze caught your own, the steadily rising sun finally catching his features. Brown eyes turning gold, hair turning honey, skin turning bronze. “You sure?”

“Mhm.” You could only mumble, head nodding.

His eyes narrowed slightly like he didn’t fully believe you but he let it go after a moment, pushing himself away from the pool wall and motioning toward the middle of the shallows. “C’mon then,” he said. “Next lesson.”

You groaned immediately. “That sounds ominous.”

Steve grinned. “Nah. You’re ready.”

You wrinkled your nose, the distaste on your features more than apart t and the motion of it let you know your face was catching the sun, skin stinging. “People tend to say that before terrible experiences.”

The boy swam backwards, arms outreached, the water practically parting for him with every measured move. He grinned at you, watching you watch him. “You survived floating,” he offered helpfully.

“Barely.”

Steve barked out a laugh at that, loud and surprised, and god—it was addictive, making him laugh like that. His whole face changed when he did it. Softer and brighter, like summer had made him just for you.

“C’mon, when have I ever let you astray?” Steve held out his hands to you, water dripping from his forearms, beckoning you with his fingers in hopes you would follow him and after only the briefest hesitation, you did.

That alone felt monumental.

You sucked in a breath, resisted the urge to hold it, but you stepped forward all the same. Slow motion movements, like dragging yourself through a dream that was maybe once a nightmare, you followed Steve to the darker side of the pool. You gasped when the water hit your chest, a new cold lapping at your breasts until they were submerged too.

Your toes burned from staying up on them but still, you stayed, you didn’t panic. Steve noticed it too as he stood a foot away from you, his eyes warm, his chin dipped into the water. You could tell by the way his expression flickered into something almost proud.

“See?” he said quietly. “Already gettin’ better.”

The praise warmed you embarrassingly fast; faster than the sun, than the summer heat that was sticking to the skin that you hadn’t submerged.

“Alright,” he started, running a hand through his wet hair, “today we’re gonna work on going underwater.”

Your stomach dropped instantly, the quiet, gnawing ache turning into an open pit. Your heart fell into it, crashing between your ribs on the way down. “Oh absolutely not.”

Steve sighed like he’d expected that exact response. “C’mon.”

“No.” You didn’t have it in you to sound polite, to even attempt to make the word sound softer, more apologetic. The steps leading out of the pool looked like an ocean away. “Steve—.”

“You trust me, remember?” The boy’s words were much gentler than your own and he took a few steps towards you, hands up and laying across the surface like he’d catch you if you fell.

You felt the world tilt a little. “That was before I knew you were going to try to drown me.”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed but you knew him well enough now to see the fondness there, the lift of his mouth that almost made a smile. “You are not gonna drown from putting your face underwater for two seconds,” he told you softly.

You wanted to be home. You wanted to be on solid ground in dry clothes. You wanted to kick Eddie’s bedroom door open and demand to know why he set this stupid thing up in the first place. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your that and gave a weak laugh. “You don’t know that.”

Steve smiled then, an awfully pretty thing that made it much harder to deny him of anything. He shrugged, slipped deeper into the water. “I literally do. It’s my job,” he grinned at you.

“Look, why don’t we just—.” Steve made his way over to you, chest rising from the water and he took your hands in his own. His gaze met yours, his expression turning serious. “Hey, look at me, yeah? I’m not gonna let you go, okay? I swear to god, I’ll be here the entire time. Nothin’ bad will happen.”

Water dripped from his nose onto his lips as he watched and waited, his words tumbling over you as you tried to separate them from the irrational fear that was making your chest too tight. You thought back to lakes and dark skies and darker water. Deep and endless with fallen branches and weeds growing from the sand you couldn’t see.

Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitched. It was easy to remember the hands that pulled you out when the same ones were holding you now. You stared at the way Steve’s fingers wrapped around your own, his big palms engulfing yours. He was warm despite the cool water, an anchor in the middle of Hawkins community pool.

“Okay,” you whispered, the word getting stuck and twisted in your throat. But still, an agreement.

Steve’s brows shot up in surprise but he hid it well, replacing his shock with a smile that rivalled the sun above. “Yeah?” He murmured, double checking as his gaze travelled over your face, searching for anything that would suggest you were going to change your mind. He found none. “Atta’ girl.”

But still, your face must’ve shown your fear, because Steve tried another approach.

“How ‘bout you just listen first?” His voice was practically honey, melted butter on a open windowsill, softer than you’d ever heard. His thumbs stroked over the backs of your hands and you forgot about the water kissing at your collarbones. “You don’t even have to fully go under today, okay? We’ll just practice until your comfortable.”

You could only nod but the moment was firm and resolute so Steve took it as a good sign. But even though you knew Steve was there to help, the deep end glimmered darkly behind him, a seemingly endless blue that stretched beneath the surface and your chest tightened instinctively at the sight of it. Steve followed your gaze immediately.

“Hey.” Gentle again, achingly so. “Eyes on me.”

You looked back, blinking quickly until you felt the prick of tears that had threatened to show themselves subside.

“There you go.” His tone dropped quieter still. “That’s all you gotta think about, alright? Not the deep end. Not the lake. Just me.”

Your heart turned traitorous and you wondered if he’d hear it the way you did when you fell into the lake, if the drumbeat you’d heard in your own ears would be loud enough for Steve to hear too. Steve seemed entirely unaware of the effect he had on people sometimes. Or maybe just on you.

He moved closer again until your knees almost bumped beneath the water and the sun was suddenly too hot. You watched the muscles in his shoulders, watched the movement of them ripple and twist as he held you closer to him that you would’ve deemed necessary. But you didn’t mention it, you didn’t move away.

“First thing,” he murmured, “you gotta learn how to breathe properly.”

You scoffed, a little offended. “I know how to breathe, Harrington.”

He grinned at you, lopsided and boyish. His hands squeezed your own and he mumbled, “well, that remains to be seen.”

You glared at him halfheartedly, a weak attempt at best considering you were still stiff with fear, clutching his hands like a lifeline.

“When your face goes underwater,” he explained, ignoring your expression, “you breathe out through your nose slowly, okay? Little bubbles. If you hold your breath too hard, you panic.”

“Little bubbles,” you repeated skeptically. You stared at the surface of the water, as if daring something sinister to appear from its depths. Instead, you saw the wiggling outline of your legs and Steve’s, your feet close to his, toes almost touching. “Little bubbles. Fuck—“

“You’ll be fine, I promise,” Steve whispered. “It’s easier than you think.”

You nodded as if you agreed with him, chest rising and falling a little faster than before and you steeled yourself, hands holding Steve’s way too tightly but he didn’t complain. He only squeezed back. But still, you couldn’t bring yourself to drop any lower into the water. Frustration crackled in you, tears pricking at your eyes again but annoyance for yourself surpassed the fear and you swore, blinking harshly at the blue sky as you tried to pull yourself together.

Then Steve let go of your hands and lifted his own carefully, giving you every opportunity to pull away before he touched you. “Can I?” he asked quietly.

Hawkins seemed too quiet then, like even the cicadas had stopped their buzzing to hear your answer. The filters and generators were merely white noise as you stared at the boy and his hands that were reaching for either side of your face.

You nodded before you could overthink it.

One hand settled lightly at the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into the damp strands at the base of your skull. The other brushed your jaw, callouses rough against your skin, a gentle scratch that sent goosebumps over your forearms, across your chest, and you hoped to god that Steve didn’t notice.

“Relax your shoulders,” Steve said softly. “Good,” he praised instantly when you did, your breath coming out in a small shudder as your body went a little limp. His thumb brushed over the spot near your ear and you wondered if it was deliberate, you wondered if he knew. “Now, tilt your chin down a little.”

You obeyed automatically, a mortifying concept that you would dissect later in bed when you were alone and too warm but Steve’s eyes stayed fixed on yours the entire time, warm and honey brown and impossibly steady.

“You’re safe,” he told you quietly. “Okay?”

Something inside your chest ached at the sincerity in his voice and now more than ever, you believed him. You could only more once, heart hammering, your hands reaching to wrap around Steve’s forearms, clutching at him as he held you, as he guided you.

“Atta girl,” he said again, his voice so quiet it sounded hoarse, a little rough.

God. Fuck.

“Now,” Steve continued, “I just want you to put your mouth underwater first. Blow bubbles. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” you echoed weakly.

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart,” he smiled, voice dropping to an octave that was solely for you.

“And if I die?” You tried to sound serious, but maybe Steve knew you were just trying to buy some extra time. Your hands were tight around him, your fingers barely managing to meet as they held onto his wrists and his thumbs were stroking over the spots of skin they were touching, maddening circles that made everything seem a little fuzzy.

He snorted, the sound much more attractive than when you did it. “You’re so dramatic.”

“All I’m saying is, you’ll have to be the one to break the news to Eddie,” you shrugged. God, you felt like you were babbling, panic mixing with a dry humour that felt clumsy as the words tumbled from your mouth. The water was so close to your chin, your mouth, your nose. “Besides, you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

Steve didn’t say anything about breaking the news of your demise to your best friend but he did say: “I’ll miss you as soon as this lesson is over,” he murmured lightly. “Now, c’mon. Give it a try.”

Your heart nearly stopped functioning altogether. Because what the fuck was that supposed to mean and how were you supposed to focus on your breath now? You stared at him for a second too long before finally inhaling, careful and cautious, and then you started bending your knees.

The water crept toward your chin immediately. Every instinct screamed at you to jerk back upright, the shock of the water near any part of your face a sign of something awful to come. The bottom of the pool suddenly seemed too far down.

Steve’s hand tightened slightly against your neck. Not crushing but a gentle squeeze, his thumb rubbed over the damp hair there, his eyes fixed on your own as he bent down with you, following you the entire time. “You’re okay,” he reminded you. “Slow breaths.”

You tried. Really, you did.

The second the water touched your lips panic sparked hot beneath your ribs, but Steve stayed right there, close enough that your knees brushed his underwater.

“Blow out,” he encouraged gently. “That’s it.”

You lowered your lips beneath the surface and immediately sputtered. Chlorine filled your mouth, a too clean taste that was cold and sharp ans shocking against your tongue. You couldn’t help it, you sprung back up from the water, coughing and embarrassing amount.

Steve caught you before you could stumble backwards, hands leaving your neck and jaw to grip at your waist. “Easy,” he soothed quickly. “Easy, sweetheart, you’re alright.”

He was watching you with wide eyes, as if he was worried he’d pushed you too far. But he held on, the ripples you’d made from your dramatic exit from the water circling you both. The sun was beating down hotter now, higher in the blue sky above but mortification burned through you warmer than any Indiana summer.

“I hate this,” you croaked.

“I know.” His thumbs rubbed absentminded circles against your sides before he seemed to realise what he was doing and quickly let go. He stayed near, cheeks pink and flushed looking, from the sun or his proximity to you, you weren’t sure. But his voice was achingly gentle when he told you: “But you still did it.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.” He smiled, lopsided and soft.

You groaned dramatically, letting your forehead thunk lightly against his shoulder and you felt how he froze underneath you before his finger poked at your ribs. “You good there?”

His voice vibrated through his chest into your skin.

You wanted to die. Honestly, it seemed like the only reasonable solution to everything that had happened that morning. You wondered if today would’ve been easier if you’d taken Steve up on his offer to walk you home last night, if it would’ve been different now. If something would’ve happened. “M’gonna drown myself voluntarily now,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

Steve let out a breath of a laugh and warm hands settled carefully at your upper arms. He guided you backwards, just an inch or two, just enough so he could find your gaze with his own.

“Hey.” Sincerity threaded through every word. “You’re doing good. Seriously.”

“Really?” You asked reluctantly, brows crinkled, cheeks and neck warm. You hated how you sounded, how you felt. Weak and scared and a little bit pitiful.

But Steve nodded and grinned, thumbs tracing down your arms, leaving droplets of water in his wake. “Yeah, really. You wanna stop for today?”

You considered it, for a second, maybe five. But the surface of the pool had stilled, blue and calm and still very clear. You saw your toes, saw Steve’s. It wasn’t that deep, the logical conclusion was right in front of you. If you went under, you could stand and come straight back up.

You could.

You should.

Fuck.

You glanced at Steve, lips twisting as you thought about what to say, heart racing at the prospect. Fuckfuckfuck. “Uh, can you hold my hands again?”

Steve didn’t question you, but his brows rose all the same as he offered you both his hands. They engulfed your own, still amazingly warm despite the cool water and he waited for your next instruction.

He didn’t expect you to say: “I’m gonna just— dunk. Do it with me.” You swallowed tightly and then remembered yourself. “Please?” You added.

Steve looked too shocked to speak. He considered telling you to hold on, to wait, to maybe take some baby steps before leaping into the literal and proverbial deep end but you looked like you’d made your mind up. Determination set in your pretty features, your hands gripping his like they were your only lifeline.

So he nodded, held onto you a little tighter and moved close enough for his toes to touch yours. “Ready?” He whispered.

You nodded, too sick to speak.

“Three, two, one…”

Fuck. You bent your knees.

The water climbed your cheeks, cool against skin that was still warm from the sun. For a split second, panic flared bright and familiar, something instinctive and sharp and awful but then Steve squeezed your hands and the world disappeared.

Everything became blue.

The sounds of summer vanished. No incessant cicadas, no distant lawnmowers, no rustling leaves. The pool filter became a distant hum, softened into something that barely existed at all underneath the surface.

Your entire world was now just water and light. And Steve.

You blinked underwater, surprised that you could, wondering when the fear would spike, when absolute horror would set in, when things would turn too murky to see. But sunlight fractured above you in ribbons of gold, breaking apart against the surface. It turned Steve into something dreamlike, his features softened by the movement of the water between you. Not that there was much.

His hair floated slightly around his forehead, a wild thing and his eyes were on yours, his lips stretched prettily into a wide smile. Tiny bubbles escaped from your nose, little, tiny bubbles, exactly like he'd told you.

The realization hit slowly, rolling over you like a summer morning; warm and lazy, like you were just waking up from a too long sleep. You were doing it.

You were underwater and you weren't drowning. Your lungs weren't burning, an unblinking darkness wasn't reaching for you. There was no lake, no too strong current and fuck, weeds weren’t wrapping around your ankle, pulling you downdowndown.

Only blue tiles beneath your feet and Steve in front of you.

His eyes widened slightly as he saw understanding settle across your face, a pretty flicker of understanding in your own gaze and pride bloomed in him, an uncontrollable thing that broke free from his ribs. He couldn’t say it, not underwater, but you could tell. It made you smile too, big enough that water kissed your teeth and you jerked slightly at the coolness of it, but Steve just held you tighter.

The water shifted between you as he drifted towards you a little more. Hands tugging at your own, knees bumping, chests impossibly closer. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, you were sure you would’ve.

His fingers remained wrapped around yours, shifting from cupping your hand to linking between your own, a wholly intimate thing, far more so than the two of you half naked beside each other. The strangest thing happened then, a whole thirty seconds after you’d been brave enough to disappear under the surface. The fear that had occupied so much space inside your chest, that awful, burning knot that had lived in your chest for so long simply just… loosened. Like unclenching a fist you hadn't realized you'd been holding for too long.

It hadn’t disappeared, not yet. Not that quickly. But it unravelled slowly, unwound itself from the spaces between your ribs and your heart and your lungs and it gave you space to breathe. It let you feel the water on your skin, it let you blink against the chlorine and watch the way the sun danced above you.

The expression felt ridiculous underwater, but you grinned wider still, lips parting as if you could laugh, and Steve saw it. His own grin appeared instantly, bubbles leaving his lips, his nose. They popped and fizzed between you both, reaching for the surface that was only a short swim away.

God. He was beautiful. Even distorted through the rippling water, especially in the shifting light of the sun, shapes of yellow and light blue scattered themselves over his chest, his cheeks. They caught his eyes, turned them from brown to honey, his cheeks warm and sun-kissed, even under the water.

A stream of silver bubbles rose from your mouth too, racing toward the surface, floating upward between you. You waited for the water to rush into your throat, to floss your lungs but nothing happened apart from a slight burn, a reminder that you would need to breathe soon. But staying down here worn Steve, alone and in the quiet together, seemed worth the sting.

The moment into something weightless and for a beat, neither of you moved. You simply floated there, hands linked and suspended in blue. The surface shimmered above your heads like liquid glass and sunlight painted Steve in different shades of gold.

His eyelashes looked darker underwater. His freckles softer. Closer. Jesus Christ, everything felt closer and the world outside the pool seemed impossibly far away.

The party, the achingly awkward goodbye. The walk home Steve never got to give and the disappointment you'd seen him try to hide.

All of it drifted somewhere beyond the water you were floating in. And whatever you were feeling, thinking, Steve seemed to feel it too. His grin faded, not completely. It just softened into something else, the corner of his mouth relaxing as his gaze lingered on yours. Underwater, here with the boy, you found you couldn’t look away.

The sunlight moved across his face and your own, a shifting mosaic of gold and blue. Your pulse stumbled and water made everything feel too slow. Dreamlike and hazy and so not real.

Steve's eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. The motion was tiny, a barely there thing but god, you still saw it. Heat flooded through you despite the cool water surrounding your body and for one absurd second, you wondered if he could hear your heartbeat. You wondered if the water carried it, if it echoed between you.

Reality caught up with you then, a full fifty one seconds after you first sunk underneath the blue surface. You felt the burn in your lungs get too hot to ignore, reaching your throat and the panic that had lived inside of you for so long came back, a rattling thing that had you planting your feet on the pool tiles and pushing up. You burst from the surface, droplets flying as you sucked in a breath and Steve was there too, hands still holding yours, fingers intertwined.

Steve looked just as startled by the moment as you felt, his chest heaving although you were so sure he could hold his breath much longer and more comfortably than you could. He shook his head, not daring to let go of you to sweep his hair back and dark brown curls were plastered to his forehead instead.

It made him look younger, boyish. With freckles and water droplets stuck to his cheeks and you were breathing too hard as you stared at him, wide eyed and in wonder. You just weren’t sure what had you feeling more astonished: the fact that you had willingly gone underwater or that Steve Harrington looked like he wanted to kiss you.

And then the world crashed back all at once. Sunlight. Heat. Birdsong. The stupid hum of the filter. Your gasp. Steve's laugh.

Water streamed down your face as you broke through the surface beside him and you sucked in a breath so large it hurt. Steve was laughing openly now, head tipped back and the sound was a joyous, ecstatic thing that made you smile so hard your cheeks ached.

“I did it,” you breathed. The words sounded almost astonished.

Steve looked at you and his laughter softened, pride taking place over excitement and all of it was bright enough to rival the sun over your heads.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. You hadn't let go of his hand but he hadn’t let go of yours either. “Yeah, you did.”

The water lapped gently around your chest, the surface of it still moving from your exit from below, the trickle of water surrounded you both as it dripped from your soaked hair, the lobes of your ears, the tips of your noses. Steve’s eyelashes were spiked together, too pretty to look at

Neither of you moved, to be honest, neither of you seemed particularly eager to. And somewhere beneath the celebration and relief and your racing heartbeat, a different realization settled between you.

You'd gone underwater.

Somehow the part that lingered in your mind wasn't the fear or the dark or the suffocating memory of the lake. You didn’t think about the weeds and the sludge that caught you from below, ankles trapped, your shirt wrapped around your ribs, branches clawing at your feet.

You’re barely through the gates when she starts squirming in your arms, legs kicking wildly against your hip. She babbles at full volume, squealing, clapping her hands together in a desperate attempt to get his attention.

“Okay, okay,” you murmur, shifting her higher. “We see him. I know.”

He’s finishing a lap when you look up.

He cuts cleanly through the last stretch of water, arms slicing forward, shoulders rolling smooth and strong beneath the surface. When he reaches the wall, he plants his palms on the edge and hauls himself up enough to hook both forearms over the edge.

Water streams down his shoulders, along the swell of his biceps, dripping from his chin in steady rivulets. The sun turns every drop of water on his skin into a shimmering prism of light.

He wipes his face with both hands, dragging them down over his eyes to clear the chlorine, and slicks his hair back.

Then he looks up.

And it’s unfair, how his whole face changes.

Recognition lights him up instantly, his mouth curving into that easy, unguarded smile you’ve seen a dozen times now—one that pulls gentle crow’s feet around those ridiculously kind eyes.

At first glance, they're just brown.

Until the sun hits.

Then a deep shade of hazel starts to blossom at the edges, that slow spill of green feathering inward. Honey-warm at the center, almost amber where the light pools. A kind of kaleidoscope you only notice if you stare for too long.

Which you don’t.

He grins wide as you approach the pool deck, squinting slightly against the glare off the water.

There’s always this split second where he looks so openly happy to see you.

Or, more accurately—to see your daughter.

You lower yourself carefully to sit at the edge, adjusting your grip because your daughter is now folding herself in half trying to reach him.

“Hey," he smiles, glancing toward the clock mounted near the lifeguard chair. "You guys are early today,”

“Yeah, I know, she—” Your daughter lets out a determined grunt and lunges forward, feet thumping against your thigh as she tries to swan-dive straight into the water. “—Okay, okay! Hold on!”

Steve laughs, water sloshing around his waist when he lifts himself up with one hand.

“Whoa,” he says gently, catching your daughter by the ankle before she can kick you in the ribs. “Here, let me see those.”

He wiggles her foot up and down, thumb brushing over the soft arch of her sole to make her squirm. She giggles, kicking against his palm the way he’s been teaching her to do in the water.   

His eyes grow wide. “Hey! Those are some serious kicks. You been practicing without me?”

You laugh, tightening your grip before she can try to launch herself again. “Sorry, she’s just... really happy to see you."

He smiles at that, still holding her tiny foot in his hand. He gives it another gentle wiggle, brushing over her little toes.

“Yeah?” he murmurs to her, playful. “You're happy to see me?”

Then he glances up at you.

And it’s very deliberate, the way he looks at you when he says it.

Something soft in his smile when he tells you,

“I'm happy to see her, too.”

𓇼

It really was just curiosity at first.

You’d sit on the shallow steps with the other parents, water lapping at your calves, your daughter balanced against your chest while you adjusted her rash guard for the tenth time.

And you’d watch him.

He’d kneel in waist-deep water, a half-circle of bobbing babies surrounding him like ducklings. Wisps of hair pasted to tiny foreheads, fat cheeks glistening with water. Tiny palms slapping the surface while he explained very seriously that, “Pools are for swimming, not drinking. Ah, ah, Ben—I saw that, bud.”   

Gentle water acclimation and back floats came first.

Then came assisted front floats.

Your stomach tightened the moment he announced it.

Your daughter had only just begun to stop crying when her ears dipped into the pool. Turning her over to face the water felt like betrayal.

You shifted her in your arms, hesitating.

Then you felt a pair of warm hands brush gently against yours.

“Here, you mind if I show you? No, no, you're fine, you're doing great. You just want to support her like… this.”

You watched his hand slide over yours, cupping under her stomach to demonstrate proper placement. The span of his palm was wider than your daughter’s entire torso, fingers splayed across her round little belly, thumb braced lightly against her ribs. His other hand hovered near her shoulder, ready to catch her if she tipped even slightly.

Your chest tightened as you let go.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured you, glancing up with an easy smile. “I’ve got her, promise.”

He knelt in the pool so he was eye-level with her, bringing his face close enough that she could focus on him instead of the water beneath her.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice dropping into that calm, even register he uses with all the kids. “See? Just floating. That's not scary, right?”

And though his eyes were on her, you had the distinct feeling the reassurance was meant just as much for you.

He eased her forward across the water, keeping her chin well above the surface, adjusting instinctively when her body went stiff. 

“Can you kick for me?” he coaxed, lifting one of her chubby legs and moving it through the water. “Kick? Like this?”

For a second, she just blinked at him. Then both legs started flailing at once—wild, enthusiastic splashes that sent arcs of water straight into his face.

He sputtered, wiping at his eyes with his shoulder. “Hey! Okay! There we go!”

He turned to you, grin wide, blinking away droplets from his lashes.

“You might wanna start saving up for Olympic training.”

It was the first time he made you smile like that.

It wouldn’t be the last.

𓇼

“Uppies” are his favorite part of class.

At the end of every session, when the babies are pruny and a little glassy-eyed with exhaustion, he rounds everyone up for one last game.

He holds each baby under the arms, gently lowering them until the water reaches their shoulders. Leans in close, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper—ready?—then hoists them high overhead with a loud whoooosh!

The pool always fills with shrieks of laughter, your daughter’s being the loudest.

She’s fearless now. The same baby who used to cling to your shoulders now squeals in joy whenever he dips her in. Wraps her arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the ends of his damp hair. One time, out of pure excitement, she smacked him square on the cheek. He’d only laughed, lifting her back up for another round.

“You like that, huh?” he grinned, a little breathless from doing twenty sets of baby shoulder-presses. “Okay, okay—one more. But that’s it. Last one.”

It’s never the last one.

He always does it again. Then again. Down, up, down, up—biceps flexing with effort, cords of muscle rippling under sun-warmed skin.

It has to burn after a while, lifting water-logged, wriggling toddlers out of the water like that.

He never lets it show.

𓇼

After a few weeks, your daughter doesn’t hesitate anymore.  

The moment he’s close, she starts reaching.

Abandons your shoulders, ignores the bright foam rings floating nearby. Both arms stretched out toward him, fists clenching and unclenching impatiently.

You think it’s because she's come to associate him with safety. With warm, steady hands and that reassuring laugh that always comes right after something scary.

Like independent swims.

He backs slowly through the water while she paddles toward him, barely supporting her—just two fingers under her hands at first, then nothing.  

“It’s okay, you got it,” he encourages when she lets out a frustrated whine. “C’mon, show me those strong legs. Kick-kick-kick!”

Her face scrunches in fierce concentration. She paddles forward in determined bursts, swallowing a little water but pushing through.

“That’s it. Big kicks. Yeah, there you go!”

And the second her tiny hands smack against his chest, he steadies her instantly, sliding his hands under her arms.

“Yes! Look at you go!”

Up she goes, lifted higher and higher until her legs dangle, round belly catching the sunlight.

Droplets fall from his jaw, tracing down his throat as he tilts his head back to grin at her. His brows shoot up, eyes going wide in exaggerated disbelief.

“Woah!” he gasps. “That was all you! I didn’t even help!”

Your daughter squeals, loud and piercing, toes knocking clumsily against his chest. You watch as he lowers her back down, pressing his nose briefly to her cheek before settling her against his shoulder.

He turns to you, grinning so wide it creases his whole face.

Did you see that?! he mouths, eyes shining with pride, excitement radiating off him.

You can’t do much except smile and nod.

𓇼

The day you realize you’re well and truly gone is the day the class moves to the deeper end of the pool.  

The water reaches all the way up to Steve's chest there. The babies have got snug little float belts on, just enough to add buoyancy while they practice longer kicks and back floats.

Steve's hand rests under your daughter’s back, fingers spread between her shoulder blades, the other steadying her hip. You cling to the divider rope, peering anxiously at the deeper water where they float.

When he catches you watching, he bends down close, lowering his voice in an exaggerated whisper.

“Who's that?” he gasps, pointing at you. “Is that your mommy?”

Your daughter follows his finger. Sees you.

She squeals, slapping both hands into the water so hard it splashes up into his face.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “That’s your mom, huh? Say hi! Hi, mommy!”

He lifts one of her chubby arms out of the water and wiggles it in a wave. “Look at us! We’re in the deep end!”

She babbles wildly, smacking the surface some more.

He adjusts his hold on her so she’s secure against his side and calls out, “You wanna come join us, mom?”

You blink, heat rushing to your face. “Oh—uhh, no, that’s... I’m okay!”

He studies you for a moment, something curious flickering in his gaze, but doesn’t push.

“Alright, we’ll just show off from here then,” he calls back easily, shifting his attention back to your daughter. “You wanna show mommy your starfish? Yeah? C’mon, show me your starfish. That’s it!”

𓇼

He finds you at the end of class.  

You’re sitting at the edge of the pool, feet dangling just above the water. Your daughter is bunded up like a burrito in your lap, sucking from her sippy cup with half-lidded eyes, fighting sleep.

You see him walking toward you, still dripping from the pool.

Water traces slow paths down his calves, leaving faint wet footprints on the concrete. Without thinking, you reach into your bag and hold out your spare towel.

“Oh, thanks,” he breathes, a little winded still, taking it with a small smile.

He drops down beside you, close enough that your thighs brush. Drapes the towel over his shoulders and scrubs it briskly through his hair, roughing it up until it sticks out in uneven, damp spikes. A few strands fall back over his eyes.

You try very hard not to stare.

There are beads of water still clinging to his bare skin, catching in the dark tuft of hair at the center of his chest. One rolls down the soft line of his stomach before disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks.

You clear your throat, suddenly very absorbed in fluffing up your daughter’s towel.

“Hey,” he says casually, nudging your shoulder lightly with his. “Were you okay earlier?”

You glance at him. “Earlier?”

“When we moved to the deep end.” He tips his head slightly, studying your face. “You just... seemed kinda freaked out.”

You huff a small, embarrassed laugh. “Was it that obvious?”

“A little,” he shrugs, smiling.

You shift your daughter higher on your lap and press a kiss into her damp hair, mostly so you don’t have to hold his gaze.

“I just, um…” you clear your throat. “I can’t really swim. Not very well, anyway.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

When you glance up, you don't find any judgement on his face. Not really surprise, either. If anything, he looks thoughtful. Maybe a little relieved, like he’d worried it was something worse.

He adjusts the towel around his shoulders, rubbing at the back of his neck as he considers.

“Well,” he starts carefully, “would you want to learn how?”

You blink at him.

“It’s just—it's kind of an important skill to have, you know?" He supplies quickly. Then his gaze falters, drifting down to your lap, settling on your daughter who’s now blinking up at him with sleepy curiosity.

“I mean, I could uh... I could show you sometime. If you want.”

Oh.

“Oh—no, I—” you rush out, flustered. “I wouldn’t want to like, take up your time. You already have to deal with so many of us.”

He shakes his head, a small, easy smile pulling at his lips. “It’s fine, I don't mind. I'd be happy to do it.”

He turns to face you fully, smile turning playful when he adds, “Seriously, I won't even charge you."

That pulls a small laugh out of you.

“You won’t, huh?”

“Nope,” he says, eyes twinkling as he gestures to the small, bundled-up head peeking up at him. "Call it a... bonus. For having the cutest little swimmer around.”

You glance down at your daughter, smiling.

“I don’t know,” you say lightly, bouncing her on your leg. “This little swimmer has the tendency to get super jealous.”

He lets out a soft laugh, reaching out to gently nudge her pudgy cheek with his knuckle.

“What do you think?” he murmurs to her. “Should we teach mommy how to swim?”

Your daughter makes a soft, pleased noise, leaning into his hand.

Steve grins, then looks back up at you, gently brushing his thumb across your knee.

“So?” he asks, voice gone quieter.

His eyes hold yours—dark brown edged with hazel, warm honey pooling at the center.

You can’t hear what he says. A stream of static is erupting— it’s chatter, you piece, coming from the radio attached to his plate-carrier. Darling girl, you think you can make out, You’re gonna be okay.

“Darling girl?” you parrot, letting out a wet laugh. It’s difficult to speak— let alone breathe, or move. Something thick is collecting in your lungs, drowning you from the inside out. “What is this, the forties?”

He holsters his sidearm and musters an amused smile. It’s tense, you can recognise it in the dent of his cheek: the kind he flashes his patients with when they’re rolling into the ED, nervous out of their mind and asking if they’ll be okay.

“Well, you started it,” he says, deceptively calm as he thumbs at your carotid: it’s weak. Too weak. Abbot wills away the reflexive dread from taking over him. “Besides, I’m a classic kind of guy, y’know?”

“Take me home, then,” you murmur, delirious. The world flickers like a lightbulb on the fritz. “I’m… tired.”

“No, no, hey.” He breaks through your dizzy spell. “Not yet. We haven’t even gone out on a date yet, right?”

Groggily, you can see him sling his rifle aside and dig into his vest as he keeps an eye out. “You flirting with me, Jack Abbot?”

“Have been for the past year, sweetheart,” he hums, tearing a QuikClot packet with his teeth and ducking down towards you. “‘Bout time you caught on—”

You cry out. 

A sudden bolt of lightning has rippled through you, and you catch yourself fisting at his sleeves out of blind instinct. 

Easy, easy, I know, he apologises, still packing the gushing wound as tightly and quickly as he can. 

The burst of white-hot pain has you jolting back into reality:

The street team. Routine outreach. You’d been right beside Whitaker when a thunderclap echoed through the winter air, sharp as the pop of a starting pistol. Then everybody had scattered in shrieks, and before you knew it you were looking skyward at the clouds, watching the snowflakes flutter down, down, down, to meet you.

“..itaker,” you choke, eyes bright with alarm, “Whitaker.”

“Safe,” he promises, ripping through a sterile dressing and pressing it over your bleeder. The dump of adrenaline won’t last you more than a few minutes at the rate you’re losing blood. “Hey, listen to me. Listen. EMS is coming, then we’ll get you to PTMC.”

You can hardly hear him through the battledrum in your ears and the firefight taking place only a street away from you. Gang-violence, you realise. That’s why Abbot is here with the SWAT team in full gear.

You’re gonna be fine, y’hear me?

“I’m bleeding out,” you slur, finally looking down at your torn scrubs, where Abbot’s gloved, red hands are coming away sticky; drenched up to the seams of his camo with cruor that’s too dark and too much and—

You remember now. You had taken a round straight through the gut.

What is it he told you, once?

Nipples to navel is no man’s land.

“Oh god,” you shiver, feeling your breath give way as the reality set in, “I’ve been bleeding out. That’s why you’ve— that’s why you’re being so sweet. I’m dy—”

“No one is dying,” Abbot cuts to the quick, chasing to meet your drowsy gaze. His voice is a low, fetching timbre. “Hey, hey. Look at me. That’s it. How does dinner sound?”

What? you say. Atleast you think you do.

He reaches up to touch your cheek, but hovers over the thin of it instead when he realises how bloody his palms are. 

“Dinner. At a restaurant.” He spares a glance past the corner to where his unit has begun closing back in. “Somewhere classy, so we can dance, yeah?”

Gossamer. Periphery vignetting. 

Okay, you agree. I’ll wear my finest.

The world tips like a cradle into a gaussian blur. 

“…eetheart. Hey. Hey!” 

You blink. Suck in a pained breath.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Abbot reminds, jostling you with a start. “You gotta stay awake, okay?”

Had you closed them? You didn’t notice. All you can tell are sirens blaring closer, and you imagine the ambulance, skidding in somewhere off in the distance.

“I can’t dance,” you admit, taking whatever precious time you have left to look at him; to carve into your memory the profile of his face, the colour of his eyes and the dimple whenever he speaks.

( Abbot looks different like this. Battle-worn and stalwart. But the light breaking through the snow behind him is casting a silver halo over his head, softening his rough edges. He looks like—

Like an avenging angel; armed to the teeth with nothing but gunpowder bullets and his healing hands. )

“Me neither,” Abbot soothes. “Just, just stay with me, can you do that?”

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. I will.”

Attagirl.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He doesn’t shake. He never allows himself to do so in times like these— it’s what had made him a good combat medic. Clarity in crises. 

He doesn’t shake. Not when he’s forced to switch out between his medkit and his sidearm to return fire until Hiro had him covered; Not even when he’s forced to collar you a little further into safety, and it slashes a terrible, sickening dragpath of your blood across the glittering snow.

“You’ll be alright,” he’s saying. Ordering. It’s half for him and half for you. The firefight had long since passed and been handled, and he has you safe in his arms. The whole ordeal since he’d slid over to your side and carried you off had only been five minutes at best. 

“I got you. I got you.”

When EMS hauls you both in and tears away, he doesn’t shake. 

When they hook you up to drugs and bag you, he doesn’t shake then either. 

Abbot might’ve even been mistaken for the calmest of the entire EMS crew as they wheeled you into the PTMC’s ambulance bay, where everyone’s already been prepped and waiting for your arrival. 

Lateral transfer is smooth. They whisk you into Trauma-1. 

Abbot gives a rundown of the situation; of mechanism of injury. He reports when and lists what’s been administered en-route to the trauma centre, and asserts that you “…won’t be stable for long, not unless we do something about her bloodloss and collapsed lu—” 

Something blares from the monitors.

Jack’s heart seizes.

He reckons your vitals in a blink. O² is dropping, Jesse declares, and the bay runs more amok as other numbers begin to tank into catastrophe. You’re crashing. He has to move. He has to do something. He’s a doctor. He—

—grabs your limp hand; Feels your radial pulse deteriorating, thready with little life.

“You’re cold,” he announces, uselessly. It subsides into a whisper of “No,” and “Sweetheart,” and “Didn’t you say you’ll stay with me?” 

Robby’s gaze snaps to Jack.

In a flash, someone is rushed in and is prying his fingers apart from you. 

It takes Jack a moment of stubborn resistance to realise it’s Dana, tugging him aside. 

“Listen to me. We gotta let ‘em work,” she avers. “Why don’t we patch you up too? Robby is on the case. He knows what he’s doin’, you know that.”

Robby. Right. Robby is a good doctor. An excellent doctor. He’s competent; not shaking— When did Jack start shaking? He never does. 

…Not until now. Not until you. 

( No amount of combat could’ve prepared him for this. No field manual ever said anything about witnessing your proverbial heart bleeding out in your arms, while you lie to their face that they would be fine. You just have to stay awake. Stay with— )

Like a good soldier, he has enough sense to let himself be led out and away from the fray despite his instincts clawing against it. But, “I’m not letting her out of my sight,” he says. 

He’s shocked to find his voice fraught with desperation. 

“Dana,” he startles. It’s his adrenaline, crashing. “Dana, I— I can’t— I can’t let her out of my sight—”

Something in her fractures along with the crack of his wavering voice.

“I know. I know, Jack. It’s alright,” she overrides in a hush, and like the clever woman she is, reasons with: “Look here. We can watch her from the Nurses station. How ‘bout we park you there, and you can keep an eye on her while we stitch your shoulder up. No rooms or beds, I promise. Sound like a plan?”

Yes. Good. Okay, he moves, since words are betraying him. There’s a ball in his throat he’s not sure how long he’s been swallowing down, and there’s a burn licking up the back of his eyes. He hadn’t even noticed he was clipped until it was mentioned.

Dana peels his gloves off. They’re slippery with your blood. She’s regarding him with that same, gentle look she spares for her most doleful patients. Then, once more like the clever woman she is, distracts his mind by turning its wheels as Perlah makes quick work of the wound on his shoulder: 

She tells him that his SWAT team is safe and his unit is right behind him, ETA-5; that the rest of the hospital street team had made it out safely and were being treated too for minor injuries. That the men— gangsters— responsible for this whole shitshow in the first place are being apprehended as they speak. 

Jack is grateful for her, in spite of however much of what she’s said almost certainly coming through one ear and out the other. It’s kept him, successfully, from spiralling into an anxiety attack.

He bristles, paces, hovers impatiently, until his adrenaline grinds to a stop. When they finally stabilise you and sweep you upstairs for emergency surgery, he tails you, helpless, where Walsh ends up having to step between him and the threshold of the doors leading towards the OR. 

Abbot doesn’t argue.

Just stands outside at attention again until an hour— maybe several, he couldn’t tell anymore— had passed; and Dr. Shen must have come in already for the nightshift, because Robby is here now by his side to tell him the procedures he’d done on you in the trauma bay, and is pleading him to Stop doing guard duty, Jack. Stand down. It’s alright. The fight is over.

“Is it?” he cuts. You’re fighting for your life on a table right now, he can’t bring himself to say. And I never got to tell you that I—

“Robby,” he resigns, after a long while, “I won’t survive this.” 

He had been picturing everyone he’s ever had taken from him since your gurney disappeared out of sight. 

There’s Afghanistan— Curly and Vega and Yeti during Kandahar; Pope and Genie and Milo during Helmand— who he’s lost to the dogs of war. There’s his deceased MVC vet Raymond Orser who he coded for two hours straight to no avail, and there’s the ghastly weight of his wedding ring from when he lost his wife, and jesus fucking christ now he’s going to be losing you next, and—

Robby squeezes his good shoulder.

“I can’t. Not again,” Jack confesses. “I won’t survive it.”

It.

“She’ll pull through,” Robby insists, because there’s nothing more defiant than saying that at the face of Death; and lets his dearest friend cry at long last, lets him lean into him for a settling embrace. 

The day’s events have caught up with them: they were anguished, and exhausted. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You wake up with the sun, an induced coma later.

Blearily, you make out what can reasonably be a rainbow of cards— is that a balloon?— and fresh flowers clogging your bedside, poking between the beeping medical paraphernalia that’s pumping drugs through countless lines. It feels like being a puppet with tangled strings.

You vaguely recall this isn’t the first time you may have been conscious as you recovered, but the first time fully awake and oriented. 

There’s the ghostly warmth of a hand clasping yours you can still feel, after all, and the memory of muffled murmurs around you as you were sleeping.

Despite being sluggish, though, you manage the call button once you’ve gathered enough strength. A nurse materialises into your room, who briefly catches you up until your ICU doctor arrives with surgical consult: It’s Garcia, looking unimpressed with her pager pointed accusingly at you.

“You bitch,” she bites, without heat. “You scared the shit out of all of us the past week, y’know that?”

You make a face as you sip your cup of water. “Oof. Oh god. Don’t make me laugh.”

Then, not a split-second later:

“Oh, hello there,” you greet, to the Saint stunned at the door—

—And Abbot has to physically steady himself, out of the sheer overwhelming relief in his marrows. 

“Soldier boy,” you finally call out. Your radiant smile, weak as it is, still washes over him like pure, incandescent sunlight. 

“Yo.” Shen caught your attention as you came out of Central 11. An empty cup of Dunkin in one hand, his phone in the other, he matched your lazy speed. “ETA on the food is 3 minutes.”

You held your open palm under the sanitiser dispenser, “Alright. Ready?”

Shen chuckled and tucked his phone under his armpit, “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He held out a closed fist the same time you did, “On three?”

You nodded and counted to three, throwing out a classic rock, confident it would land you another win compared to Shen’s four recent losses.

“Shit.” You hissed at the sight of Shen’s paper that he promptly wrapped around your fist to emphasise his winning round.

Shen shrugged, “Ooh. That was satisfying.” He backed away to check the board, “Godspeed, dude.”

Hands placed under the sanitizer dispenser out of habit, you scowled at Shen as he walked to the oval desk with a pep in his step, rubbing your hands together with vigour as you headed in the opposite direction to the Ambulance Bay.

Luck was on your side that evening, for one, there was no sight of an ambulance sliding into the bay and two, your Grubhub driver was already situated on the sidewalk with a motorcycle helmet still worn and a beige paper bag stapled with the receipt, in his hand.

You gave him a friendly wave, head turned to check the doors as you stepped into his space to retrieve the bag of hot food. You exchanged basic pleasantries, and then the delivery man hesitated to step away, his eyes visible through the visor as he stared, waiting for something additional in return.

A tip?

“Oh! Yeah, sorry—” You reached into your pocket and pulled out a button and a sturdy hair tie from Ellis, “Um…”

“Here you go, man.” A third voice.

The gravelled tone that both you and Shen tried to discreetly avoid amongst the several rendezvous‘ with your Grubhub driver. The one that belonged to the attending physician, that in line with technically being your boss, was also the one man at the centre of your little workplace crush.

You had met Dr. Abbot amidst the mass-casualty during PittFest. Assigned to the Red Zone, you worked amongst the seasoned professionals with a hindrance of confidence in the capability of your own hands. Not the time, nor the place to reach a movie-like flow of a meet-cute whilst performing CPR on an asystole patient with blood up to your elbows.

But you saw him. And, Jack Abbot definitely saw you.

That being said, under alternative circumstances, you’d have welcomed Dr. Jack Abbot’s presence in the Ambulance Bay.

Your body stiffened, the guilt riddled all over your face. No question as to who the Grubhub bag was for.

The driver gave a two-finger salute to the generous $20 tip and backed away to his motorcycle parked to the side. Jack would be sure to mention an abiding PennDot Motorcycle Safety Course user, to Robby at some point during hand-offs.

He slowly looked to you with mirth.

“I told him to take the pedestrian entrance?” Not convincing even yourself with the higher octave in which you spoke, pocketing the receipt in your scrubs to avoid Jack checking the order note at the bottom.

“Uh-huh.” Jack dipped his hand in the bag and pulled out three fries, “Jack Tax.”

With a hand held out to gesture you back inside, you gave a strained smile and obeyed his silent order to get back to work.

Shen was on the other side as you entered. “Better luck next time, Rock.”

2.

“What the hell are those?”

You looked down at your new scrubs. OK, you had pushed the boat out and bought a different shade of black, more complimentary to your seasonal colours with the undershirt to match. Maybe you hesitated in your car, singing lyrics as words of affirmation to beat the hesitancy that robbed yourself the joy of a new purchase.

(Being perceived was a sore spot for you.)

And then, the universe placed you in the PTMC with a specific co-worker that made it his full-time job to perceive his surroundings and outwardly share his candid thoughts without much effort for filtration. Aside from that being engrained in the speciality of being a physician, you still entered the PTMC with gritted teeth and a nervous disposition that Dr. Jack Abbot would pin the attention onto you.

Despite this, you looked up from your body and toward Jack, “My scrubs?” You reiterated verbally.

“No.” Jack reached for the earphones dangling around your neck like a stethoscope and tugged once, “These beat up things. They still sell them with the wires attached?”

Thank goodness it wasn’t the scrubs. You didn’t fancy using your credits already.

You jumped to their defence, “I like them having wires. Means I can keep track of both earphones.” You then added in deflation, “It’s not exactly in my budget.”

“If they’re on a leash?” Jack looked to Dr. Ellis with an expression that read: Are you hearing this shit? She shrugged. “You have got to get a new pair from this century, sweetheart.”

This century? You bit the insult harboured for the salt and pepper haired veteran turned senior attending. Sometimes things were best left un-personalised to save any feelings hurt.

In replacement, you deadpanned where Abbot smirked, slowly pulling the headphones from your neck to bunch them up and pinch them with a butterfly clip.

Dr. Ellis chuckled beside you, body leant against the desk, “Tell a girl how you really feel, Dr. Abbot.”

“I mean it.” Jack gestured to the knotted wires in your grasp, “Is the sound even high definition?”

“Out of one ear.” You mumbled quietly.

“Out of one ear.” Jack repeated with a curt nod and a playful laugh that translated to the idea that he proved his point in one conversation. “Alright, go drop those historical artefacts in your locker, I’ve got a patient in 10 for you.”

It took two days after that altercation for you to arrive at your locker at work, your trusted wire headphones miraculously MIA, meaning you had to persevere with the ambient noises of Pittsburgh on your walk to work. (All eyes pointing to Abbot and his security accomplice, Ahmad.)

Code punched in, you barely had time to blink the sleep from your eyes—your Circadian rhythm still adjusting with the new shift rotation—when you spotted a small white case haphazardly wrapped in…twine?

It look as if it were meant to be a bow. That alone was distracting, and very telling.

“What the—?” You plucked the case from the middle of your locker, the realisation making your ears ring before you slammed your locker shut and sauntered into the belly of the Pitt to find your culprit.

Jack was at the work station, refusing to sit as he bent at an awkward angle to read the words on the computer, when you found him with a little more aggravation than he had anticipated.

“Fucking AirPods?” You struck the atmosphere with a loud call. Lena—the charge nurse—peered over her glasses at your sudden outburst. Out of respect, you were quick to change the level of your tone, “Jack, these are like $250.”

His eyes darted up to you, nothing short of a serious expression on his face. “OK?”

You hesitated, “Are you—Are you playing a joke on me? I can’t accept these.”

“Well, that would be a little rude.” He sounded monotonous, uninterested as he scrolled down the page with the mouse in his hand.

You took a different route of reluctance to accept such a gift.

“How can you afford these?”

“Blood money.”

“Jack.”

Jack stood at full height, “Re-lax.” He folded his arms across his broad chest, “Consider it a welcome gift to the Night Shift.”

(Nobody put money in the make-believe pot but him.)

”I changed shift patterns, two weeks ago.” You retorted.

He corrected, “A belated welcome gift, then.” When you didn’t seem convinced, Jack went in for—what they called in bowling—a strike. “Accept the earphones from this century…you’re too pretty to be walking around with those battered old things.”

“What?” You blinked in disbelief. Jaw slack.

Did you just hear that correctly?

Jack didn’t bring forth any further compliments apart from a shit-eating grin that had you stuck in the mud, clutching earphones way beyond your price range. You heard Lena chuckle at her iPad, and you snapped back into reality, fingers curled around the gifted AirPods; because performing a surgery to be able to clutch your own heart beating triple the amount of beats it should be, per minute, was downright unrealistic.

“Thank you.” You said quietly before turning back on your heel to put the earphones in your locker for safe-keeping.

Jack and Lena watched you scurry away like a field mouse, Abbot failing to miss the knowing gaze from Lena peering over her glasses at him.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Dr. Abbot.” She spoke in a tone of amusement.

Jack gave a nod, “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

3.

The third time was on the lesser side of grand gestures such as brand new Generation 3 AirPods wrapped in a twine bow, but the outcome was more gratifying to both parties.

The shift had been considered one of your worst. From the moment you stepped into the PTMC—even before this, but you attempted to leave your personal life at the door—you were greeted with hurdles that you continued to get your foot stuck under, metaphorically grazing your chin as you landed face first into disaster.

In addition to this, you were notified of Louie’s passing in an insensitive, pass-off comment by one of the new residents, James Ogilvie. It was told to try maintain a professional barrier between you and the patient, don’t get intertwined in their life and make a best friend out of them. But, you adored Louie. Despite the reasons behind his visits, his face was a welcomed one with the abundance of kindness he brought for someone who was losing against his own demons.

You placed your head against the coolness of your locker, burning eyes shut after Dr. Ellis told you to take five after you delivered some harsh truths to a difficult woman who was labelled Dr. Google and had little belief in the medical care provided to her son.

The idea came to visit Louie in the Viewing Room, maybe have one last conversation with him, but the notion was thrown off when you came to terms with the knowledge that a one-sided conversation with your favourite patient would only make matters worse for you. You’d be sure to visit him once your emotions were wrangled.

You let out a shuddered breath that you had been withholding.

“Hey.”

Almost giving yourself whiplash at the speed that you turned your head, your heavy heart dropped at the sight of Jack Abbot standing a couple of steps away from you with an iced coffee in his hand. He looked empathetic, concerned after it was relayed to him about your outburst toward a patient’s family member.

You were never one for sudden outbursts. Especially toward visitors.

You crossed your arms in an attempt to close yourself off, “Hey, Dr. Abbot.”

“I heard about Dr. Google.” He took a step closer and you winced, prepped for a slap on the wrist moment. He would remind you at a later time. “You OK?”

“I’m fine. Just—” You rubbed at your eyes, “Having a bad day.”

“Preach.” Jack mused and extended the plastic coffee cup to you. He encouraged you to take it with a nod of his head, “I think I got your order right. Don’t get mad if it isn’t. I heard that’s your thing now.”

You took the cup by the lid and threw Jack a stern look, unable to conceal the growing smile. “Thanks.” You took a sip and revelled in the immediate caffeine hit, and subsequently, Jack getting your order right.

(He asked Shen to go through his order history that he knew you had shared.)

Jack bit back a smile.

“Jack Tax?” You offered the cup up to Jack.

He hesitated to take it—cross-contamination and all factors a doctor usually worries about—but then threw caution to the wind. Might be the closest he gets to kissing you. Or something along those lines.

Jack took the cup wet from condensation back, tilting the cup upward until the coffee hit his lips. His eyes pinned you to the spot and suddenly, the ceiling tiles needed your immediate attention.

You started to count them. Length by width to equate the amount in total. Twenty-six by fourteen would equal—

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Oh.

Your equation forgone, your solemn expression wiped and replaced with surprise. Your attention dropped to the male in front of you, almost missing the way his free hand shook at his thigh. The burning question left hanging in the air as you digested each syllable he had spoken as if it were sacred text to memorise by word of mouth.

Suddenly feeling sheepish, Jack realised that he had picked a sensitive time in your day to boldly ask the question he had been biding his time to get correct. His throat bobbed, fingers curled around your coffee cup as it dawned on him that he may be translating as a real jackass with little emotional maturity to understand that you may just want to be left alone.

There was no escaping it, he thought. That would just look ridiculous now.

He cleared his throat, “I’m sorry.” He scrunched one eye shut and waved his own question off, “I shouldn’t have asked you when you’re having a bad day.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” You let out a nervous chuckle, palms pressed into your back as you arched your back to stretch awkwardly, “Free as in…?”

“A date.”

The wind almost knocked out of you. Lips formed into an ‘O’ you began to laugh from feeling shy, “Yeah. Shit, Abbot. I am off tomorrow.”

He knew. He checked the schedule.

Jack finally took a breath. His hand outstretched again to hand you back the coffee he had bought you.

“Alright.” He nodded, backing away with his thumbs up, “You can explain to me the reference: There’s people dying, Kim, that you told to Dr. Google over some drinks.”

You grimaced with the coffee back in your hands. Nose scrunched, you spoke, “Yeah. Sounds good.”

4.

Chivalry wasn’t dead.

According to the dive bar on Babcock Blvd with Jack Abbot punching his four-digit code into the card machine with every round of drinks he—and eventually you—had purchased on your night in Pittsburgh together.

You had both agreed on ‘casual’. Casual place, for a casual—no pressure—date, wearing casual clothes that differed from the usual scrub-wearing outfits you never seemed to be able to peel off of your frame.

Jack arrived early after you politely declined his text in the morning after you left work, asking if he could pick you up. The bar wasn’t far from your apartment, and it would save Abbot the fuel money that he so flippantly spent on brand new AirPods on you.

(The pieces of the puzzles were all slowly coming together.)

Nervous wasn’t part of Jack’s vocabulary. Built on adrenaline rushes and catastrophic tragedies, there wasn’t a bone in his body that shook at the definition of nervous.

He sat at the bar with the sticky countertop, his curls dampened from the rain and his prosthetic leg causing irrefutable irritation from the way it caused him to ache uncomfortably. No, he wasn’t nervous—he couldn’t be—Jack just felt…overwhelmed.

At least that’s what he so stubbornly called it.

And then you walked in.

Shit. OK, call it what it was. Nerves.

With a sunny disposition, your head shielded by a sodden newspaper you undoubtedly ducked into a corner shop to purchase on your walk. Suddenly, Jack felt inadequate in all aspects as a man, who wanted a date with the most beautiful woman he had set eyes on in a long time. His clothes suddenly falling short along the themes of ‘casual’, he regretted choosing a basic black tee—because it showed off his muscular biceps—and dark blue jeans. You looked breathtaking, and you weren’t even trying.

Jack threw back the dregs of his alcoholic beverage, hand slammed on the countertop as he gave a nod and a gesture to the bartender to give him the same again. Just stronger.

He stood when you approached, a grimace on his lips that told everything a doctor who knew him on a more personal level would know.

(His leg was killing him.)

You shrugged your jacket off, “Bothering you?”

“Not anymore.” Jack mumbled, eyes set on you with some well-placed adoration. When he sat, he spoke again, “You look pretty.”

“Thank you.” You tilted your chin into your shoulder.

After that, Jack paid you six more compliments—seven after his fifth drink slammed to ail his nerves—and aside from his attentiveness and eyes boring into your skull, the date turned out better than either of you had anticipated. There was no shadow of a doubt that it wouldn’t have crashed and burned but as two doctors at the PTMC, it was in your nature to expect the worst but hope for the best.

The kiss came in between your last drink and Jack passing off his card to the bartender. Mid-conversation, you had spotted Jack becoming fidgety in the stool he was perched on and you had put it down to the buzz of the alcohol mixed with relief that you two were two kindred flames outside of the workplace.

And then, his mouth was on yours. His hand placed against your jaw, fingers curled at the back of your head, he pulled you in for a painstakingly languid kiss. Noses bumped, smiles mushed together, you eventually pulled away when the kiss became borderline inappropriate for a public display of affection.

It sent your head reeling, judgement clouded to where the casualness of the date at the dive bar followed you into the car park, where Jack Abbot was casually knee-deep in the passenger seat of his truck with your bare thighs constricting around his head.

When he had finished, the windows fogged with droplets of condensation drooling down the tempered glass, Jack sat on the floor of the passenger side with the door open as he refitted his leg with a triumphant grin on his face. You had managed to wrangle your outfit back onto your body, face hot from a concoction of euphoria and the remainder of the alcoholic buzz.

“I’ve ordered you an Uber.” Jack mentioned as he cracked his spine, “ETA is about 5 minutes.”

He wasn’t going to be presumptuous of the night. Satisfied that you had reached your climax, Jack kept a respectful distance to the idea of going home with you after a successful first date.

(Not that he didn’t want to. He respected boundaries. Plus, with work the next day, his scrubs were at his house across town.)

You stretched like a cat in the seat, “How much do I owe you?”

Jack chuckled as he stepped onto the tarmac, his body angled toward you as he brought you in for another sweet kiss. “This one’s on me.” He mumbled against your lips.

5.

“I’m sorry to miss this.” Jack gripped onto the steering wheel of his truck, face apologetic.

You applied your lipstick in the passenger mirror, brows pinched at his apology. The lid to your lipstick made a soft click as you spoke, “Girl’s night?”

Jack nodded once.

That’s cute.

You leant over the console and pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips. The relationship still fresh—and more important, under wraps—you would take any opportunity outside of work to spend together. In which, Jack Abbot had coincidentally discovered his newfound love for ‘Girl’s Night.’

With a handful of your friends having met the elusive senior attending doctor turned…a person that you shared a bed with from time to time—labels had yet to be discussed—Jack had been privy to the inner workings of a get together where the women in your life sat on your sofa and just talked.

A lot.

He ended up making himself useful, serving drinks and food with a stolen kiss that had all your friends beaming from ear to ear. It turned out that Jack enjoyed it. And, when he wasn’t needed, he’d retreat to the bedroom to watch some news reports on his phone; with one earphone flicked out incase you called for his assistance again.

You rubbed your hand to the nape of his neck, “With all due respect. You’re not invited. And, not just because you picked up a SWAT shift on the Fourth of July.”

“Yeah.” Jack drawled, “You look pretty.”

“Thank you.”

Jack gestured in a circular motion around his own lips. “I like the…lipstick.”

“Oh yeah?” You grinned, lapping up his compliments like a parched dog.

“Yeah.” Jack confirmed lowly. He took a moment to rake your frame with his hungry eyes, a fleeting thought passed in his mind as he began to fish into his back pocket for his wallet—he started to carry cash whenever you were around—and pulled out a thick wad of dollars, his thumb making handiwork to count out the bills. “Here. Before I forget.”

“I don’t want your money, Jack.” You argued when he began to hand the money over to you.

Jack insisted, “Come on. A couple of rounds on me. Please?”

You hesitated, but ultimately knew it was a dead end debate in which Jack’s generosity and stubbornness would prevail. Fingers pinched the cash, you—respectfully—counted how much he gave you.

You frowned at the amount. “Jack. You’ve given me $200.”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you think we’re drinking?” You let out a breathless laugh and went to hand back $150, only to be met with reluctance. You shook your head, “Drinks do not cost that much.”

”$100 for drinks.” Jack leaned back into the driver’s seat, “And $50 for new lipstick.”

“What?” You stared at his weathered features in surprise, “You just said you liked my lipstick. Now you want me to buy a new one?”

As if it were the most glaringly obvious statement in this side of Pittsburgh, Jack tilted his head with his brows furrowed, feigning innocence like you wouldn’t believe.

It made your stomach knot.

“To buy more of the same lipstick.” He shifted in his seat to lean toward you, his lips a hot breath away from yours. “Because, I’ll keep kissing that shit off of you.”

You visibly reeled.

+1

You found Jack on the rooftop, where you had been informed he would be. His frame outlined by the bleeding pink and orange hue of the sunrise that peeked above the horizon. Hands in his pockets, he stood at the precipice of the ceiling, his eyes scanned across the Pittsburgh skyline.

You allowed some grace. Hand clutched a familiar brown paper bag, watching as Jack took deep breaths to remind himself he was still human. Still apart of the Earth that kept spinning after another person was added to the death toll.

Another person he couldn’t save.

When you saw his feet shift, you called out. “Grubhub delivery for one handsome veteran?”

Jack tilted his head to your voice, chin meeting his shoulder, “I didn’t order anything.”

“Shit.” You took a step forward, “Must be the wrong roof. You’re still handsome though.” Your lightheartedness was met with a chuckle, you could see it in the way Abbot’s shoulders lightly bounced whilst he shook his head.

“What are you doing up here?” He asked. Not that he wasn’t inclined to savour more moments up with you. The rooftop just wasn’t your thing.

You approached the railing that separated you from Jack, “Your friend with the loose tongue told on you.”

In reference to the Chief Attending, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, who had every incline to believe that you and Jack Abbot were in the early stages of a blossoming relationship. The man was incredibly intuitive, and when Jack began to smell like aftershave masking the scent of a lavender laundry detergent that was awfully similar to the one that he happened to smell off of you whenever you were in close proximity doing hand-offs…well, everything seemed to make sense in his mind.

So, as any good friend would do, he had pulled you aside with the ruse of discussing patient care, when in fact—whilst sparing you the gory details—Dr. Robby had some wonderful insight about Dr. Abbot’s whereabouts coming to his shift ending.

“Snitch.” Jack muttered.

“Out of love.” You reminded him, “Coming through.” Your body already dipped to bend below the metal railing, only for Jack’s hand to prevent you from reaching full height on the other side.

He thumbed behind him, “Behind.”

You stepped back reluctantly, “Oh, so there’s a hierarchy up here?”

Jack grunted as he bent down, popping back up behind the railing, his exhaustion worn on his face didn’t prevent a smile seeping through the cracks as he looked at you.

(God, he was so fucking attractive.)

“With a girlfriend that is afraid of heights? I’ll take my chances with her behind the railing.” Jack kissed you, his knuckle brushing your chin as you both avoided the fact that he had just pinned the tail on the donkey and called you his girlfriend. He sniffed, “You’re much cuter when you’re not chicken soup on a gurney.”

He kissed you again to distract you from the confusing comparison.

In translation: Jack didn’t want you fainting off the side of the building.

Slightly amused, you pulled back from the kiss and waggled the bag of hot food in front of Jack’s face. He read the side of the bag with narrowed eyes, a low hum elicited from the back of his throat.

“Robby?”

You threw him a look of complete disdain. “Jack Abbot. I’m starting to believe you don’t think I have any money.”

“I know you do. I just don’t expect you to spend it on me.” Jack said with honest conviction. He took the bag anyway, hand already diving into to find a couple of loose fries at the bottom of the bag.

He offered you one and you bit it between your teeth with gratitude. Not wanting to overstep, you allowed the silence to blanket over the two of you—the distant wails of sirens the only ambient sound so close to the PTMC—knowing that when Jack wanted to confide in you about his troubling thoughts, he’d do it when he was ready.

For now, Dr. Robby would be the one privy to that information.

You watched the sunrise further up into the sky whilst Jack tucked into his food, occasionally offering you a bite which you’d take out of politeness as you hadn’t eaten since the start of your shift. As the colours of the sky bled into a watered down pink, you let out a sigh of relief.

What a fucking pain of a shift to have overcome. You knew Jack felt the same.

Jack watched you rather than the scenic view ahead. That familiar ache in his chest returning; the one that he had felt similar to when he first met his late wife.

Not a comparison. Just a feeling.

When you caught him in the act of admiration, you lifted a brow for him to fess up.

I think I’m falling in love with you. No. He’d tell you that in different circumstances. In your apartment, with a pizza box between you and a movie thrown on that you swore you let Jack choose.

So, Jack Abbot settled for the next best thing. Your secret love language. “How much do I owe you?”

Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”

Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.

You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.

The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”

Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”

Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”

“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”

The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.

Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.

Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.

Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”

Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”

You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”

The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.

The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.

Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.

Then you both burst out laughing.

You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.

“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”

“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”

“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.

“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.

He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”

Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”

You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”

“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”

Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”

“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.

“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”

Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.

That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.

Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.

“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”

You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”

“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”

“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”

“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”

You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”

He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”

You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.

It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.

“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”

He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”

You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”

You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”

He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”

You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”

He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.

Then he stopped abruptly.

You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.

“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”

He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”

You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”

He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”

You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”

“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”

You choked.

The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.

Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”

You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”

He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”

“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”

He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”

You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.

“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.

He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”

You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”

His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.

“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”

His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”

He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.

You exhaled, relieved.

Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.

“Your mom,” he said.

You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”

“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”

You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”

He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”

You blinked. “She did?”

“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”

He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”

He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”

Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”

You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”

He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”

You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.

He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.

“You’re really serious about this,” you said.

He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”

You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.

He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”

You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”

He nodded quickly. “Deal.”

You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”

He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”

You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”

He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”

“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”

He held up his hands. “I would never.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”

“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”

“Agreed,” he said.

“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”

You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”

“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”

He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”

You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”

He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”

You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”

He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.

A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.

“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”

Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.

The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.

On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”

You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.

Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.

The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.

The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.

Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”

Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.

Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.

Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.

Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.

Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.

“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”

You had both ignored her.

That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.

Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.

Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.

Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.

He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.

Steve visibly gulped.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.

Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”

“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”

Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.

You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.

“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”

Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”

Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.

Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.

You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.

You both turned to look at each other at the same time.

“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”

You blinked at him.

Your mother blinked at him.

Your father did not blink at all.

Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”

Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.

“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”

“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”

You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.

“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”

Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”

Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”

“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”

Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”

Your father stared at him.

You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.

“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”

You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.

Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.

“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.

Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.

That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.

You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.

You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.

Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.

By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.

He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.

Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.

“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.

You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”

He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”

Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”

Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”

You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.

A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.

Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.

You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.

You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.

Then you noticed the customer.

She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.

You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.

His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.

“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.

You stared at him. “What?”

He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”

Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.

“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.

He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.

Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.

Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.

You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.

You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”

You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.

Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.

Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.

By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.

You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”

You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.

You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.

Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.

You opened the door and immediately stopped.

Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.

He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”

He looked up.

He stopped talking.

For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.

You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.

He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”

You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.

“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”

He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.

“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”

Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.

You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.

You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”

You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.

The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.

You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”

Steve blinked at you. “What?”

“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”

He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”

“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”

You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”

He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”

You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”

He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”

You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”

He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.

He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.

You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”

He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”

You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”

He blinked. “That’s your move?”

“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.

“Hawkins,” he said.

“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.

He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”

You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.

He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”

You grinned. “Thank you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”

You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”

He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.

“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”

You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.

He froze.

For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.

You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.

You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.

You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.

“Hey,” he said.

You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.

He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”

There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”

You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.

His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”

“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.

He stopped. “The noodles?”

“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”

He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”

You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.

Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.

Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”

They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.

In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.

“I think I broke the rules,” he said.

Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”

“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”

Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.

“Finally,” she said.

Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.

“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.

Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.

Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”

She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”

“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”

“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”

She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”

He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”

He blinked. “You think she likes me?”

Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”

Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”

Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.

“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”

Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”

Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”

He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.

“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”

Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”

“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”

She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

He started for the door.

Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”

Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.

He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.

Steve opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.

You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.

He swallowed. Tried again.

Still nothing.

You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.

“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”

He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”

You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”

He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.

He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.

Except the opposite happened.

Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.

Much worse.

He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.

You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.

Instead, you started getting used to it.

Then you started liking it.

You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.

Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.

And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.

At group hangouts, it only got worse.

Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.

No one questioned it.

That was the wildest part.

One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.

And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.

He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.

He did not do that.

Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.

From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.

“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”

He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”

Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.

He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.

“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.

He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.

“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”

He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”

She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.

Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”

He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.

“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”

Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”

“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”

He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.

He knew what he needed to do.

He just. . . didn’t want to do it.

Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.

When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.

“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.

Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.

The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.

You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.

He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.

He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”

Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”

Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.

You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.

“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”

The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”

He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”

You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”

He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”

There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.

“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”

He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.

“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”

The words hung in the air between you.

For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.

“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”

He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”

You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”

He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”

Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.

You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.

“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”

He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”

“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”

There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.

“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”

He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.

“Everything good?” she asked.

“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”

Lucas frowned. “Already?”

“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”

Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.

Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.

He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The next few days were, in a word, terrible.

Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.

You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.

You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.

What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.

You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.

It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.

By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.

She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.

“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”

Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.

“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”

“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.

“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”

Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”

You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”

There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”

You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”

Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”

Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”

Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”

You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”

“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”

Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”

“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”

You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”

Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”

“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.

You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.

“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.

You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.

“Oh oh,” Robin said.

You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.

You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.

Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.

The door swung inward and there he was.

Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.

He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.

“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”

He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.

You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”

He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”

The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”

His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”

“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”

He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”

“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”

He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”

You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”

He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.

“You. . . what?” he said.

“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”

He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”

“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”

He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”

You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.

He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.

He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”

You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”

You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”

He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”

You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.

“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”

He’s already two Red Bulls deep by the time one o’clock rolls around. The shift wasn’t anything worse than the usual holiday-weekend nonsense- at least that’s what he’d been telling himself.

“Plans with the special someone tonight?” Dana bumps her hip into his as he reads through the patient board at the central hub.

The eye roll she gives him is on instinct but he can’t stop the smile that tugs at his lips. “They said they had a ‘surprise’ for me when I got home.”

“Oh-ho, somebody’s in for a treat.” She can’t help but laugh while tucking her glasses into her scrub pocket. “Probably got a cute new set for ‘ya, just for tonight.”

“Don’t get him too excited,” Donnie calls over his shoulder from the other side of the desk. “He’ll forget there’s still 6 hours left in the shift.”

Frank lets out a playful groan, letting his head lull back. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“Okay, Romeo,” Dana chuckles. “South 15 is ready for ya.”

“Can’t get Whitaker to stitch them up?”

The blonde simply smiles. “He’s on his third scrub change of the day already, cut the kid a little slack.”

Begrudgingly he takes the tablet from her hands. “Yes, mom.”

Dana is mid-conversation with Robby when the phone at central rings. Her gaze hardens as she listens to dispatch before thanking them for the heads-up and hanging up the call. “Rig incoming, thunderclap headache with possible signs of stroke.”

He just nods and takes a deep breath. “Get Trauma 2 ready.”

The doors of the ambulance open, the late afternoon sun sitting just above the horizon and shining directly into your eyes. Instinctively you squint, moaning in pain as your head throbs.

“29 year old female, thunderclap headache with neck pain and stiffness. BP 135/86 but stable. Responds to auditory and visual input. Gave one unit of morphine in the field.”

You lie on the gurney, audibly groaning but not moving. Even a centimeter of movement made your brain feel like it was on fire. You can make out the sounds around you- voices talking urgently, wheels against pavement, the idling of an engine. But it all feels.. far away. Almost like you’ve stepped out of your skin. The ringing in your ears is like steady background noise, overpowering the voices around you just enough that you can only catch a few words here and there.

You recognize Robby as soon as he’s wheeling your gurney into the Emergency Department. You’d met briefly- you had stopped by to pick up Frank after work one night and Robby was outside talking with Dana as you pulled into a parking spot. He seemed nice, but you immediately picked up on the way his jaw tightened a bit when you mentioned your boyfriend’s name.

But his expression was different this time. Eyes firm, calculating, voice stern. A true captain guiding his crew.

Before you even realize it you’re being pushed into a trauma room. The bright lights make you hiss, eyes fluttering as you try to fight off the wave of nausea from the extra stimuli. The sounds get louder. More voices. Machines beeping. Numbers being exchanged. Words that are clearly medical but mean nothing to you are spoken overhead.

Nothing makes sense, but you know where you are. You specifically told them to take you to PTMC.

Suddenly they’re counting to three and your body is jolted when they transfer you to a bed. You cry out in pain, nearly screaming as you feel electricity shoot through your spine and into the back of your brain. The dizziness is back. Nausea sitting low in your stomach but thankfully not bubbling up anymore.

The lights hurt. The sounds hurt. Forming words hurts. Your brain feels like a bowling ball, forcing your head against the thin mattress below you. Even if you wanted to lift your head the muscles in your neck and shoulders feel like they’ve been superglued in place.

Someone to your right is asking questions. A blonde woman with glasses- the only thing you can pick up through your blurry peripheral. Robby says it again, louder. You only hear “history” and “migraines”.

“Fr..” you try to say, the words feeling like sand slipping through your fingers. “Fra.. F..” You keep trying, knowing what you want to say but not being able to form it on your lips.

Robby takes a deep inhale and calls to someone else in the room. “Get Langdon in here.”

“What’s going on in there?” Frank nods to Trauma 2 as he takes a sip from his bottle of water.

“Thunderclap headache,” Dana says, only sparing a glance from the screen of her tablet. “29 year old female, hope it’s not a stroke.”

He stands a little straighter automatically. Immediately a bad feeling curls in his stomach. His bottle is abandoned on the counter next to Dana before he crosses the room. He’s barely close enough to see through the huddle of bodies before Perlah is opening the door.

Their eyes meet for a mere second.

“Get in here.” She calls out to him, not leaving room for questions.

His feet move before his brain catches up. The room is controlled chaos- but not the typical kind that comes in for traumas. No bleeding, no open wounds, no struggling to breathe or pulse only faintly thumping.

It’s you. On a hospital bed. Hooked up to monitors and lying there in obvious confused agony. His eyes flick to the screen denoting your stats and he feels his throat tighten at your elevated blood pressure.

“Langdon!” Robby’s voice brings him back to life. “I need a history.”

“Uh-yeah, yeah, um,” he stumbles, blue eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he tries to figure out his thoughts. “They, uh, have a history of migraines- range from mild to severe. On propranolol and sumatriptan.”

“High blood pressure?”

“No,” Frank shakes his head, arms folded over his chest to hold himself together. “Propanolol as a migraine preventative.”

You can hear his voice, but you can’t see him. “F.. Fran-“ you try again, brain working overtime to connect the syllables.

“I’m here,” he calls to you, heart breaking at the way you look so confused and broken. “Don’t try to move.”

Even if you wanted to, your body physically won’t let you.

Scissors have cut off the hoodie around your body. Your favorite one that you’ve stolen from Frank- an old, cracked screenprint of the Penguins’ logo filling the front of the fabric.

You tense instinctively when a cold stethoscope is slipped under your tank top. Someone instructs you to take deep breaths.

“Normal breath sounds on both sides.” The monitor’s steady beeping shows your elevated heart rate and Frank’s jaw tightens. A light is flashed at your pupils and your hands clench at the blanket beneath you while you cry out. The light makes your brain feel like it’s being tased “Pupils reactive, photophobia present.”

Frank’s brain is running a marathon. He wants to jump into the action, push past Robby and hold you. But he knows it’s not that simple. The attending clearly is still holding that fucking grudge, and he knows that the momentary relief of being next to you isn’t worth more disciplinary action and months more of triage hell.

They give you fluids. They give you fentanyl for the pain. Perlah draws blood for the usual tests. Him and Mel keep talking about your medical history. He feels like his heart is in his throat as everyone starts spitting out differentials.

“We’re gonna need a CT.”

They need to rule out so many things, and God he is praying it’s not a stroke or hemorrhage or anything terrible. But he also knows he can’t let himself get his hopes up.

He clings onto the bed as they wheel you out of the room.

“Fr..” you start to say as those blue eyes look down at you. “F.. Frank.. ie?” The syllables are rough, but the pain is lessening with each moment. Talking isn’t as exhausting as before, and the sound of your voice in your head doesn’t sting.

“I’m here,” he nods, trying to put on a brave face. He can see the deep-set confusion and fear in your gaze. “You’re gonna need a CT to see what’s going on in your brain.”

“F..Frank?” To manage to say in almost a full breath. “‘M scared.”

“I know, sweetheart. It-“ he stops himself before the words keep going. If he shouldn’t give himself false hope, he can’t imagine trying to give it to you. “I’m here. You’re in good hands.”

The CT scan feels like your brain is vibrating. The buzzing creeps into your body and you feel that same distant feeling from when you were being brought into the ED. The pain isn’t as bad as before, but the familiar throbbing in your skull is still present.

You’re now quietly lying in a room with the lights dimmed when the door opens. Frank slips in, shutting the door behind him before pulling the chair close to the side of your bed.

“Hi,” you murmur, body shifting slightly to look at him. The bed below you was propped up slightly, your body between a lying down and sitting up position. There was a pillow behind your head and two blankets- Dana made sure you were warm enough after having to tug on a gown. If someone came in they might not even realize you were sobbing from pain and fear just thirty minutes ago.

“Hey,” he breathes, his hands reaching over to gently take your left one.

“I tried texting you.. while I waited for the ambulance,” you admit shyly, gaze averting his. “My.. hands were shaking too much.”

“It’s okay,” he immediately assures. Frank’s thumb rubs back and forth across your knuckles, the motion meant to soothe him just as much as you. “I’m just glad you got to a hospital.”

You suck in a breath, the noise shaky. “It was.. the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life, all shrunk to a minute.”

He nods, eyes looking at your hands. “Clear signs of thunderclap.”

Bottom lip between your teeth, the skin raw. “For the record, this was not the surprise I was planning.”

He cracks a tiny smile- barely more than the corner of his lips turning up. “I figured as much.”

“WebMD said I was dying.”

“WebMD says that no matter what you look up. LangdonMD says you are still very much alive.”

You can’t help but smile.

“Sorry about the hoodie,” you say a little sheepishly. “I wouldn’t have put it on if I knew-“

“Sweetheart,” Frank says just a bit louder, his fingers giving your hand a small squeeze. “It’s just a hoodie, I’ll get over it. All I care about is you being okay.”

You simply nod at his words, not trusting your voice.

There’s a brief moment of silence before there’s a knock on the door. Dana slips into the dark room. “Hi hun,” she smiles sympathetically, a soft hand placed on Frank’s shoulder while looking at you. “Was really hoping I’d get to meet you outside of this shitshow.”

Frank had always said that Dana was the only one able to keep the day shift crew smiling on bad days, and you could clearly see why. You already felt comfort just from her presence and can’t help but huff a small laugh at her lighthearted words. “Guess I just wanted to really see you in your element.”

Her smile widens even more, a twinkle in her eye. “I see why Langdon snatched you up. Grumpy pants needs to laugh more.”

She slips on a pair of gloves and starts to take your vitals again. BP was still elevated but was consistent with the last few listed recordings. “I feel bad sometimes. Poor Frankie’s gotta play doctor with me even when he’s home with my migraine issues.”

“Sweetheart-“ Frank says almost on instinct. He doesn’t know if it’s a warning or to brush off your worry.

Dana’s brow quirks up. “Frankie?”

He practically deflates. “Oh no.” You hear him curse under his breath.

“I guess she’s gonna use that nickname for evil?”

“Absolutely,” the two of them say almost in unison, and you laugh.

Once Dana finishes with your vitals she excuses herself out of the room. Frank, knowing that something wasn’t quite right due to his medical knowledge, gives your forehead a soft kiss before following her out the door.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

She sighs, not looking up from the tablet in her hands. “There’s a lot of things I’m not telling a lot of people.”

Frank sucks in a deep breath and runs his hands down his face. “You know what I mean,” he subtly gestures towards your room.

“Sweetheart,” Dana finally turns to look up at him, expression neutral. “I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

“There’s no family history of stroke or high blood pressure or-“

“That you know of. And we both know that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.” The older woman reaches out to rest her hands on his shoulders. Even the touch is comforting, despite the chaos and stress of The Pitt around them. “Hope for the best, but please expect the worst.”

His shoulders slump, her words setting in. He knows she’s right, regardless of whether or not he wants to admit it. “Yeah, I know. I’ll.. do my best.”

Robby makes himself scarce around you and Langdon. He knows it’s scary for both of you, and the last thing he wants to do is let his lingering anger and frustration with Frank take over and make him say something he’ll regret.

He makes sure Mohan and King are on your case, and gives his input when needed. Tells Dana that Langdon can take the rest of his shift off if he wants to stay by your side. You tell Frank that keeping himself preoccupied with patients will be good for him. If you need anything, your room is in the charge nurse's line of sight.

The CT results are good- no hemorrhage, no clots. A good sign that this isn’t a stroke or a much more serious issue.

When Mel and Samira come in to go over the results with you and Frank, you make a dumb off-handed comment about having a headache the past few days. With chronic migraines and EDS, you’ve almost grown accustomed to the pain and have started being able to keep going with at least one part of your body yelling at you.

But apparently, to three medical professionals, that isn’t normal.

Frank eggs you on, practically begging you to explain more in-depth. Location, how long it lasts, does it get worse when you move.

“Hurts more when I stand up and is better when I’m laying down,” you say casually, almost shrugging it off. “Just figured it was my hormonal cycle.”

Mel’s eyes widen just a millimeter, but Frank clearly detects it in the way they share a look.

“MRI with gadolinium,” the blonde says, tearing her eyes away from Frank as Samira moves to the computer.

“Why?”

“Sweetheart,” Frank speaks up, his right hand cupping your cheek. “You.. are more than likely leaking spinal fluid.”

His words feel like he punched you. “W-what? Spinal fluid? How?”

“Your connective tissue disorder,” he searches your eyes as he explains, making sure you understand. “It weakened the membrane around your spine enough that it caused a leak. The MRI will show where it is so they can patch it.”

Of course. Of course this was because your stupid body wasn’t built correctly and is actively fighting against you. Because the migraines themselves weren’t enough.

Samira, sensing that this was about to get emotional, politely lets you know that someone will be by soon to bring you up for the MRI before her and Mel leave the room.

The moment they leave the tears that were brimming your eyes fall. Your body still hurts, and Frank wants so badly to tug you into his arms, but he doesn’t want to risk making you feel worse. But when you look over at him, so small and fragile and scared shitless? He can’t take it. Wordlessly he pulls down the railing on the side of the bed and squeezes in next to you on the tiny mattress. Right arm wraps behind your back, barely pressing against you, while his left hand cups your cheek. “This isn’t your fault, sweetheart.”

“Sure feels like it,” you mumble between tears.

“I swear on my life this is not your fault. You have no control over chronic illnesses. There isn’t anyone to blame for you having EDS.” Frank helps you turn your body towards him so he can look into your eyes. “I love you. I love everything about you, regardless of how many good days you get between the bad ones.”

You hold his gaze but can’t get any words to form. Your chest feels tight from all the love you have for him.

“You saw the good in me when I was at my lowest and everyone else abandoned me. And I plan on staying here, doing the exact same thing for you.”

Despite the dull ache in your body you lean into him, wordlessly connecting your lips.

A mix of lips and tears, the salt melting into your mouths as he moves against you. Your hands grab fistfuls of his scrub top- holding on for dear life. He’s solid against you. Sturdy. Your shoulder to lean on when you just can’t do it alone anymore.

Just as you did for him- freshly divorced, almost done with rehab, lost in the world. Your presence a guiding light back to existence as he crawled out of rock bottom.

His hand cradles your jaw like you’re made of glass. The most precious thing in existence, right here in his arms.

You rest your forehead against his when you part. You’re breathing a little heavier now, cheeks stained with streaks from your tears. Hair messy, hospital gown wrinkled against your body, eyes red and slightly puffy. God, you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I love you too, Frankie,” you whisper.

The contrast for the MRI doesn’t hurt, it just.. feels wrong. Like ice water running through your veins, making your body tingle. There’s a metallic taste on your tongue.

All of it is normal, Frank reassured you.

This wasn’t even close to the first MRI you’ve had, but that doesn’t mean you’re necessarily used to them by now. They weren’t comfortable. They were loud. The air smelled like sterile antiseptic cleaner and nitrile gloves.

Frank urges you to eat when you’re wheeled back into your room in the ED. Something from the cafeteria- a mere step above the sandwiches on the boarder’s cart.

He hovers while you pick at your food but you don’t comment on it. You know he’s just as stressed about all of this as you are- probably moreso. Based on the way he can’t sit still you know he’s still coming down from the adrenaline high of seeing you in the trauma room.

“Honey,” you gently call to him. His gaze snaps up to you, like he’s waiting on a command. “I’m okay.”

You watch him take a breath. And another. “I know,” he nods. “I’m just.. antsy, I guess.”

“I’m sure they need help out there. We’ve gotta wait for the MRI results anyway.”

He wants to argue, wants to stay right here with you, but he knows you’re right. Even if Robby told radiology that they needed these results rushed, it would still take at least an hour or two. Dana, Mohan and King were all checking in on you regularly. There was no reason for him to sit here twiddling his thumbs while you two waited.

With a resigned sigh he nods. “Alright,” he breathes. “Fine. But only to make you happy.”

You chuckle softly, gaze softening up at him.

He pushes the bedside tray closer to you as he stands. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Langdon.”

He rolls his eyes at your teasing.

When the results come back Frank slips into your room once again. CSF leak in the bottom of the cervical spine. Explains the neck stiffness, the pain in the back of the head that pulsed when you moved. Frank knows you hate the idea of surgery. Your EDS has made it so any time you’ve had a procedure done the healing time was significantly longer than most patients. Thankfully, your case wasn’t as bad as it could have been and a blood patch should do the trick with lots of bed rest and fluids.

Dr. Mohan orders the treatment and steps out of the room, giving the two of you privacy again.

“Thank you,” you mumble once the room settles into silence. “For everything.”

“You never have to thank me.”

“I know.” A deep inhale fills the silence, tongue jutting out to lick your chapped lips. “I know it’s your job to take care of people when they’re sick. I just..”

You trail off, looking down at your hands.

Frank calls your name, voice soft and gentle. “I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

Your body relaxes a little more. Eyes flutter closed as he leans in to press a kiss to your temple. “You took care of me when I was at my lowest, babe. Now let me take care of you.”

The morphine has helped enough that you can move your head a bit. It’s a stiff nod, but he catches it regardless. “Okay,” you swallow. “Okay.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his expression softening. “Love you, sweetheart.”

Your lips curl up into a tiny, barely-there smile. “Love you more, Frankie.”

“Huh, don’t let Ringleader Evans hear you say that.”

“Did you not just attempt to pass off the utensil nose kid to Shen?” You thumbed in the direction of the teenage girl sat upon a gurney with all four prongs of a fork, nastily pierced through the tip of her nose.

Jack nodded in defeat, “Touché.” He sipped at the sweet coffee with a grimace, “How’s it looking?”

How it looked every shift. Considerably overwhelming. Lupe had passed on a note before the rotation of ward clerk, to advise that Chairs were replenished with the disgruntled patients that had been passed up to Urgent Care and Family Medicine due to the mass-casualty at PittFest. With little reprieve to pump your lungs with air and to compose your nerves that had been shot after two victims of the shooting bled out beneath your sterile gloves; you compartmentalised your grief and slapped on your ‘big girl’ face to make it through the night.

The sheet vinyl flooring had been wiped down, your nostril hairs still singed with the faint scent of copper and recent — and premature — death.

So, with little adrenaline left to keep the momentum of this false narrative that everything was simply okay, you offered Jack Abbot a glance that translated into: Everything is on fire.

Noted.

Jack shifted on his feet, head on a swivel to pinpoint each patient in their allocated rooms. He muttered, “You know you can take five.” His attention diverted back to you, “It’s more so if you will.”

“Then you already know the answer.” You didn’t mean to express such bluntness in your tone. You hid the rest of your bite behind a secondary sip of the coffee, knowing where the conversation was going. You decided to jump ahead, “Jack. You’re fussing.”

“You’re my wife.” Jack said matter of factly. “It’s part of the job description.”

Ah. That part was also a contributing factor to the thorn in your side. That your slice of life with Jack Abbot was within the sterile environment of the Pittsburgh Medical Centre Emergency Department, with the occasional time for pancakes at sunrise at Jack’s favourite diner.

It came with the territory, being married to the attending physician on the same shift rotation as you. It also allowed you to be privy to the knowledge of Jack’s rooftop escapades with his feet flush against the edge of the building, all thanks to a certain Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Hindsight was a beautiful concept and Robby sent Abbot a shortened version of a heartfelt apology for being a snitch through text…because the eyes never lie.

Yours especially.

Morbidly, Jack had been saved by the bell of ambulances direct from PittFest. Now? He had some grovelling to do whilst on shift.

“Baby…” He started, his fingertips twitched to smooth across your hip. They settled by his side instead. “It was going to be a conversation.”

”When?” You interjected.

Jack dragged a hand down his tired features, silently sending a few curse words Robinavitch’s way. “Over pancakes?” He lilted.

Your displeased scoff expressed your opinion on that.

He continued, “I know you’re mad—”

“I’m not mad, Jack.” You cut him off a second time, face smeared with upset. “I’m worried. About you, that fucking rooftop, and the fact that Robby passed on that information so flippantly, it felt like a joke.”

It was sort of a joke. Between Robby and Jack. That was not going to be the correction Jack Abbot made to your face, though.

Jack cooed, head dipped to meet your gaze, “Hey…It wasn’t meant to get to you like that.”

Eyes lifted, you frowned at your husband. It was on the tip of your tongue. No, it should’ve have happened that way. That, Robby, in the early stages of emotional distress, had tugged you by the elbow into Pedes — the makeshift morgue — and explained the situation he had found on the rooftop at the start of his shift. Absolutely, it should not have reached you in a tone so casual that you had to ask him twice.

It just made things worse when two of the patients that had died in your care, were laid flat with a thin sheet veiled over their bodies just beside you.

Before a word could escape your mouth, a third voice entered your bubble and popped it with enough vigour that the conversation was pinned instantly. “Trouble in paradise, lovebirds?”

You both turned.

Myrna. The elite regular patient that kept the world spinning outside of your flurry of disaster that followed you room to room. A mouthful of harassment, and the tendency to overstep boundaries on multiple occasions, but adored all the same. When she was cuffed to her wheelchair, that is.

She wore a complacent smile, eyes devouring your husband on the spot.

“Lookin’ good, Dr. Abbot.” She drawled, “Fancy a ride, Ponyboy?”

Jack chuckled. Much better than Fruitcake. “Myrna.” He warned playfully, “My wife is right here. I don’t think she appreciates your advances.”

“You his bodyguard now?” Myrna tilted her head at you, her words completely satire and a breath of fresh air on such a heavy weighing night.

You let your hand smooth across Jack’s back until it rested upon his shoulder and you smiled with ease, “If it means you stop trying to take him away from me, I might have to be.”

Jack watched your side profile lovingly, a soft smile at the edges of his lips as he allowed himself the notion to bring you closer into his side with one swift tug at your hipbone. Entirely against protocol, but he felt like throwing caution to the wind after such a tumultuous start to the shift.

He so desperately craved to correct the part of you that wore undeniable sadness in your exhausted eyes.

Myrna waved at you both, “The offer is on the table all night, Ponyboy.” She added, “Gives your wife the peace she needs. She just doesn’t tell you to your face.”

You gawked, huffing out somewhat of a laugh as she turned the wheelchair.

“I’ll keep you to that promise, Myrna.” Jack called as the menacingly entertaining woman wheeled herself in the direction of the three medical assistants that she had a tendency to sink her teeth into. Jack shook his head, “What…a woman.”

“Hm.” Is all you could muster.

You were a tough cookie to crack. Abbot had learnt that the hard way. On multiple occasions.

Being in close proximity to each other, allowed Jack’s eyes to dart across your face, his eyes filled to the brim with adoration and a sprinkle of guilt.

He gave your hip a squeeze, “Over pancakes?”

“I suppose it will have to be.” You muttered, a small smile on your face when you felt Jack squeeze your hip gratefully. You spoke again, “OK. You’ve reached the PDA limit that doesn’t have us sat in a formal meeting with Gloria and HR.”

Jack pulled you closer, “Come on. Let’s give Trauma Two a show.” He mumbled, almost into your neck, “One kiss. He’s had a really bad day.”

Without a moment of hesitation, because you happened to like your job and preferred to avoid the wrath of Gloria Underwood, your hands gave a clean shove to Jack’s chest as he tried to keep you in place. The shove had minimal impact to his stature, being built sturdy; but Jack gave in with amusement lathered on his face.

He gave you the once over as you stepped away toward the break room, his feet taking him in the same direction.

You called over your shoulder when you noticed him stalk you, “I think I’ll take that offer up on behalf of Dr. Abbot, Myrna!” A yelp escaped your lips when you felt Jack’s hand come into contact with your backside. “Jack!”

“With pleasure.” Myrna had responded coolly, already scanning to locate her more favoured salt and pepper haired doctor.

Jack clasped a hand over your mouth with the break room in sight, a hiss seething past his teeth when you nipped at the skin of his callus palm.

“Get inside.” He mumbled.

He doesn’t need to ask why they’re all feeling quite so vitriolic; it’s seven PM and none of them seem to have anywhere better to be. 

The only person with the night off is Benton. How they ended up here, Carter will never be sure. 

He’s chewing on the end of his pen, watching Maggie and Carol both battle with the vending machine in the waiting room; it’s refusing to dispense the Twix they were planning on sharing. The smell of coconut manages to crest through the saccharine waves and Carter thinks he might have to read the bottle when he gets home lest it drive him insane.

“Boo.”

He jumps, accidentally kicking himself away from the desk he’d been leaning most of his weight and feels the jolt of his stomach falling out his ass as he grabs onto the closest thing to stop himself from falling in his rolly-chair. 

Your skin is soft under his and your laugh is softer. “Are you okay?” You have the decency to look a little embarrassed at his display, letting him dig his nails into your forearm. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You said ‘boo’,” he points out dryly. “What are you doing here? I thought you started at ten?”

“What are you doing here?” You reply, kicking over another chair and sitting to face him. “I thought you finished at six.”

His argument is more valid than yours; the number of hours of unpaid overtime the two of you do to finish your charting is astronomical. Him being kept an hour behind to finish up is so common it’s almost expected. You starting three hours early?

“Dr Greene called me in, said you guys were apparently drowning?” You glance around the ED. It’s practically the Sahara. 

“We were,” he agrees. “About an hour ago. Car accident gave us six traumas at once but they all got moved up to the OR.”

“What are you still doing here then?” You scooch closer and Carter realises the coconut smell is coming from you and not him. “Thought you’d be all over that.”

He shrugs. “We had a woman who needed a chest tube, I did that.” After Benton had left he hadn’t felt like fighting to be let into an OR when he could instead be downstairs commiserating about how much he misses you. 

You haul your feet off the ground and bring them so you’re sitting cross-legged in front of him. You opt for scrubs most days while he prefers to wear his white coat, and Carter thinks you’ve never looked quite so lovely as you do now. Your hair is pulled out of your face with a pretty clip, your scrub pants are pulled up and he can see an expanse of your ankle above your white sneakers. Your nails are painted but chipped and your watch’s battery is dead. 

You’re not even his girlfriend yet. 

Lydia comes around the desk, looking wildly unimpressed. “Oh, good, you’re here,” she slaps a stack of envelopes down in front of Carter. “Delivery for you.”

Carter flushes immediately; in the time it takes for you to look to his face to the stack of pink envelopes and then back again, they’re the same colour. “What’s all this then?” You shuffle in your seat, smug smile on your face. 

“Nothing,” he reaches for them and he worries for a second you won’t let him take them. You don’t even move for them. “Uh,” he coughs. “They’re Valentines.”

You watch Carter flounder in front of you. You are not his girlfriend, he is not your boyfriend. The two of you are well aware with where you stand with each other, the last time he’d seen you for a substantial amount of time he’d kissed you right in the middle of you brushing your teeth. You’d gotten toothpaste on his cheek and he’d barely flinched. You’re smiling dangerously at him and Carter knows without you saying anything that he needs to say something else. 

“They’re… stupid,” he laughs, scratching below his ear as a nervous tic. “I get them every year.”

You raise your eyebrows at him, smile widening almost imperceptibly. “Every year?”

This is your first year at Cook County, your first Valentine’s here, and your first time being forced to acknowledge that the annoying, charming boy who sleeps across the hall from you is sometimes perceived as handsome by people that aren’t you.

He flips them over in his hands, refusing to look down at his lap where they’re sitting. His cheeks are burning under your gaze, he knows you’re taking pleasure in his embarrassment and the worst part is that he still likes you enough that he cares about it. Meeting you has kind of ruined his life; Carter has never been quite so depressed to be quite so infatuated.

It had happened while he was getting ready for work that morning, the sun wouldn’t rise for at least another hour, and Carter had stood in the bathroom with one sock on and his tie hanging loose around his shoulders. 

The mirror had fogged up from your post-shift shower and stayed fogged from his pre-shift shower. Your shampoo pervaded his mind, an honest mistake that was trickling down from his freshly cleansed scalp and into his blood stream, pooling behind his eyes and settling on his tongue. 

The smell is so distinctly you that his chest feels tight in that inconvenient way it’s been feeling for months now. He’d leaned against the sink and tried very hard not to smile at nothing. Your toothbrush sat in the ceramic holder beside his own, your fash wash’s green bottle is right beside his razor, and there is a stand of your hair sitting at the bottom of the sink.

It’s normal - you share a bathroom. This is bound to happen. He’s seen plenty of your hair, you’re pretty clean about it but living together there’s only so much you can clean up after a double shift. 

He hadn’t seen you in days, but you’d been here. There’s something glittery on the counter from when you’d done your makeup to go out with some of your med school girlfriends almost two weeks ago. He’d brushed away most of it on instinct and then immediately hated himself for doing it because now there’s less proof that you had been there at all. 

He is twenty six years old. He’s delivered babies. He’s watched people die. He has held a beating human heart in his hands. 

He is undone by the knowledge that you coexist in his space. He misses you. 

And now, for the first time in ages, you’re in his space again and he’s immediately reminded of the fact that he is not yours and you are not his. 

You don’t seem annoyed by the fact that you’re scheduled to work Valentine’s day, no more than you’re annoyed to work any other day. A sick sense of relief snakes out from somewhere in his chest cavity and wraps itself around him like vines. 

Sometimes he’ll catch you watching him in the kitchen, chin on the back of the sofa while he makes you a warm drink under the guise of making one for himself. Sometimes the two of you will be watching a movie and your legs will tangle together.

One night, after a particularly gruelling shift, the two of you had fallen asleep in his bed, your arm thrown over his torso and his palm pressed to your back under your pyjama top. 

Sometimes you look at him with that same look as you did the first night he’d kissed you, barefoot in the kitchen, lights off and still heavy with the weight of the ER. Kissing you might be the real worst thing that’s ever happened to him; if it was just a crush he could shove it down and pretend to be brave about it. 

Because you do all of that, and then you go out with sleazy cardiology nurses and guys you meet at bars. You can sleep with whoever you want but he can’t pretend it doesn’t feel like you’ve given him CPR just enough to break his ribs but not restart his heart. 

Carter has never felt more brilliant and more stupid at the same time. 

The vending machine clunks and Maggie cheers as their Twix is released into the tray. You’re looking at him with an appraising look and he feels like there’s no scenario where whatever comes out of his mouth is what you want to hear.

“They’re just from patients,” he says. “Mostly old women. Sometimes their daughters.”

You hum like you don’t care, shifting to come cross your legs on your chair. “You’re a popular guy, Carter. Own your shit.” You sigh, trying to draw it out so it goes from dramatic to dramatised. You know that Carter is kind of an oblivious asshole, you’ve fought over it, you’ve cried over it, but he seems very in tune to all of your negative emotions and the concept of him taking note of how miffed you are is mortifying. “You’re available.”

Available. Carter feels it thunk in his chest. He is available, he’s not your boyfriend, and based off past experiences Carter can guess that there will be a couple of phone numbers included in this years’ stack of love letters. If he really wanted to, he could call up any one of them. 

He opens his mouth to argue and then stops. Because you’re right. He has been. Sulking quietly. Pretending he doesn’t mind. Pretending he doesn’t care who you go home with when he’s on call. Pretending the smell of your conditioner didn’t nearly make him late this morning because he stood in the bathroom like an idiot, breathing it in.

And yet, the world thunks against his chest cavity, falls there heavy and rolls around for a bit, coming to a stop before finally blooming open. He feels warmth spread from his stomach up to his cheeks. 

You’re sitting too still, pretending to look at the chipped polish on your nail. The letters are still sitting on his lap. His cheeks, sunny and lovestruck, twitch and he has to force himself not to smile at you. You’d kill him if he called it adorable, but he’s so endeared by the way that your lips are pressed together as much as you’re trying to seem relaxed.

“You seem enthused,” he says glibly. You roll your eyes and he knows that at the very least in this moment you like him. He’s still really not sure where the jury is sitting on how you feel about him as a whole, but Carter’s pretty sure he’s become winsome enough to you lately that it’s leaning positive. 

“I’m fine,” you say, lips pulled into a pout. You’re wearing lip gloss. Carter feels an ache in his stomach that he knows can only be satiated with the knowledge of what flavour it is. 

“You’re fine,” his mouth drifts open of it’s own accord, a boyish smile taking over the lower half of his face. It, combined with the flush and the pure unfettered affection, makes him look a lot younger than he is. His hair is sticking up at the nape of his neck where he’s been scratching the back of his neck. A nervous tic that only you can bring out of him. “You don’t care.”

He’s making fun of you. You refuse to acknowledge it. “You’re my roommate.”

John has held your face in his hands and kissed you hard enough to knock the air out of you. He’s had to pee while you’re in the shower, separated by the frosted glass of the shower. One time you yawned with food in your mouth and he caught sight of the back of your throat and wasn’t immediately disgusted. He’s fucking gone. 

Carter flips the stack over in his hands, pulling one out from the confine of the string tying them all together. He muses, watching you out the corner of his eye, an air of forced nonchalance that you’re too busy sizzling to notice is intentional. “Guess I should see who they’re from.”

Your head snaps back over to him before you can stop it. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he’s really putting it on now, stressing his vowels and seeing how thick he can lay it on before you realise he’s fucking with you. “Wouldn’t want to ignore someone’s heartfelt confession, that’d be rude.” Your jaw tightens and he commits it to memory. He hasn’t in his life enjoyed something quite as much as he is enjoying winding you up. Your hair is loose in its clip and he knows you’ll tighten it later and you’ll go back to being his coworker and, yes - his roommate, instead of his friend and his love and whatever else it is you are. 

“Are you two done having your lovers’ quarrel?” Mark is back, crabby as only a man who’s just lost the woman he loves can be. “I need you in central twelve,” he’s looking at you. 

You get up and take the case file from Dr Greene with minimal glancing at your fellow intern. You leave the two of them alone together to go take care of a little boy with a forehead lac, and you’re barely out of earshot before Carter is grumbling “We’re not lovers,” to his attending. 

“Sure,” Mark leans against the desk. “Anything good?” He nods down at the stack of letters.

Carter looks at them- really looks at them, for the first time. “No,” he says finally. “None of them are my type.” He tosses them straight into the wastepaper basket at his feet including the one he’d almost opened. 

Mark’s known him for three years now. Sure, Carter’s been a med student and even now he’s a surgical intern so the two of them don’t work together as closely as Greene works with you, but they’re close. Mark doesn’t even need to verbally call bullshit for Carter to know the older man is judging him. 

“I hate this,” he admits. “It’s not funny, before you say that.”

“Oh no,” Mark comes to sit in your previously vacated chair, grabbing one of his charts to scribble some notes down. “I’m John Carter and my parents are loaded and all my patients just fall right on in love with me.”

“Don’t forget that I have a full head of hair,” Carter snips.

Greene almost kicks the chair out from underneath him. 

“She’s not interested in me,” he says finally. Mark is still writing notes; Carter thinks he’d have to tell him he’d gotten you pregnant to get as big of a reaction as he’s hoping for. “At least not as much as I’m interested in her.”

“So you’re keeping your options open.” Mark gestures with the end of his pen to the trashcan on the floor. 

“I don’t want options.” Carter scoots his chair closer to the older man. 

Mark huffs at the intrusion of his space, resting his chart on his lap and pushing his glasses up to properly look at Carter. “Have you told her that?”

He laughs, resting his elbows on his knees and resisting the urge to tug his hair out of the roots. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey I know we’ve had something casual going on for a really long time but I’m one whiff of your deodorant away from proposing’?” He’s not even fantasising about your perfume anymore, he’s moved onto the stick you keep in your locker to stop you sweating through your scrubs. He’d wax poetic about it if you gave him the opportunity. 

“You could start smaller than that.” Mark’s mouth twitches. 

The room you’re in is the closest one, and the door is open. Carter hears your voice, soft and affectionate, and his stomach flips. Your figure is distorted by the frosting on the glass. 

“Look, man,” Mark pushes his chart aside to look Carter right in the face. “By now, if she doesn’t know you’re gone for her, she’s the only one. So at this point, you either gotta keep your options open, or you can grow up.”

“Grow up,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes.” Carter pictures his boss trying to speak to his daughter, to impart any sort of fatherly wisdom onto her. Rachel would be about ten, probably, Carter doesn’t really know how old kids are. The picture makes him sad, and he has to shake his head to stop thinking about it. “Use your words. You’re very good at them when you’re not being a coward.”

Carter watches him finish his chart, dump it back on the desk, and walk away, irritation and reluctant gratitude tangling in his throat. The pink envelopes sit at the top of the bin, cheap. Impersonal. 

The next time Carter catches sight of you it’s with that same cardiology nurse that he’d seen you with a few weeks ago. “You’re working tonight?” He asks you. He’s practically batting his eyes at you while you wait for Wendy to come back with the bloodwork you needed done. 

You look at him blankly. “Well, I’m here.”

“Your roommate home?” The nurse brings his hand to your badge, tracing the sides of the laminate. “We could get together… I know it’s not gonna be Valentine’s day when we get off work but we could still hang out?”

You’re rescued by Wendy before you have to answer but you take the time to anyway. Carter doesn’t hear exactly what you say to the poor guy but it has him scowling as you walk off.

You meet Carter in the break room, peeling off your gloves and flexing your fingers. There’s dried blood on your wrist and he forgets to ask before he’s catching your arm. You’re still as he wipes it off, your pulse fluttering under his touch. Maybe that’s his. Carter knows that sometimes when two people are in love their heartbeats can sync up. He feels too detached to be in sync with you. “Thanks,” you mumble.

He can smell it again now that he’s close to you again. “What flavour is your lip gloss?”

You blink at him and Carter knows that’s probably crossing the threshold for how strange he can be before you tell him to go home. He’s already two hours overtime. A slow smile spreads across your face. “Watermelon.”

“Figures,” he mumbles, thumb stroking your pulse point. It thrums diligently. 

You frown at him. “What’s that mean?”

This is the only modicum of privacy Carter has had with you for almost two weeks. The ER hums outside the door, but in the break room it’s quiet. “It’s February, and you taste like summer.”

You push him off. “Go home, Carter. There are dishes with your name on them.”

Carter doesn’t let go of your wrist, instead pulling you back towards him. You’re so soft under his skin, and you’ve fixed your hair and you’d turned down a date with a nurse. You stumble the half-step easily, sneakers squeaking against the floor and opening your mouth to murmur his name. He doesn’t give you the chance. It doesn’t even feel like a conscious decision, more like impulse, born from the weeks of missed mornings and empty apartments and desperation running so deep Carter can barely sleep knowing you’re not on the other side of the hallway.

He kisses you like he never has before and you kiss him back like it’s all you’ve ever done. 

It’s slow and sweet, and he doesn’t care that you’re both at work. His hands are on your hips over your scrubs, your lips just as soft as he knows. Bright, sweet, unmistakably watermelon. With this, he thinks it might tip him into needing more than two hands to count the number of times you’ve kissed. 

“You should go home and get some rest,” you mumble against his mouth, as if he could. 

He presses a lingering kiss to your jaw as he tries to pull back. “You just want me to do the dishes.” You’re both acutely aware of the fact that anyone could come in at any moment. You beam at him, letting him kiss you again.