ellie

He seems like the type to finger you in a the bathroom of a dive bar under some neon lighting and then smear your own cum on your lips after (Call that "lip gloss" 🥴). I think he mainly uses his index and middle fingers and knows enough to "scissor" them to stretch you out in prep for him. When you're getting close, he's practically cupping your whole pussy with his tight little movements. Think you can handle a third? Because he'd totally shove his ring finger in with a thick silver band on into you. He likes watching your hips buck and thrash around like a fishtail. Remember, though, this is a dive bar, so he'd have to clasp his other big hand around your mouth to block out your wails and cries as you're cumming.

Travis strikes me as the type of guy who follows your lead in bed, meaning that if you do something to him, he might try to do it back to you to see if it's your "thing." If you like licking up a guy's neck while you're clutching them tightly to you in missionary (*cough cough* 🙋🏻‍♀️) he'd angle his head to mouth at your neck better, dragging his tongue up from the base to your earlobe. If you're going down on him and find out he's got a certain sensitive spot on the junction of his thigh and pelvis, and you experiment with your tongue movements on it, he might drag his tongue off your pussy to your own crease to mimic the pleasurable sensation for you.

If you're riding Travis in bed he's definitely looking up at you reverently, mumbling a string of curses and praises for how hot you look up there/how incredibly deep you've got him in you/how it's a wonder he managed not to blow his load the second you put his tip in. But the moment he dares to carelessly compare you to some porn video he's seen, feel free to thread your fingers through his wavy bangs and yank him up to meet your frown. You let him know right fucking there that there is no "porno chick I saw that one time"—only you. Hold his goofy ass in place while you slam your hips down on him harder, it'll make him see stars 🥴

I think one of the biggest appeals of him is that he looks like such a sweetheart puppy with some midwestern charm, but we ALL know that, really, truly, he's a filthy fucking slut. Like, legit, he'd probably be really into you treating him a girl in bed. Ride him till he’s fucked out then mockingly coo at him (while grabbing his face), “Aww, what happened? Too much for you?” Keeping jerking him after he already came, saying, “C’mon, Travis, I know you’ve got one more in you for me!” Have him eat you out on his knees while you stand above him guiding him around by his hair, calling him a good boy.

He wouldn’t play when it comes to eating ass. I feel this in my bones. Like he’d be licking your cat from the back while you’re laid out, eyes closed and brows furrowed as you focus on how his tongue’s curling against your lips, when he’d suddenly pull away and say, “It’s starin’ at me.” “What is?” But you know damn well what he’s talking about. Travis does one big, flat lick up your entire slit up to your other, tighter hole, pointing his tongue as he flicks off. He likes when you’re on your knees for this, but he also likes when you’re 69’ing because inevitably you’re melting into him, bodies pressing flat together as you pull off of his dick to weakly service it with your hand.

Robin is thankful you’re still getting changed behind the curtain so that you don’t see her roll her eyes in exasperation.

“Then what do you want?” Robin asks with an air of impatience. “Because I’m hungry and you promised me hot dogs!”

You sigh and glance at the dresses you still had yet to try on and can’t help but feel a little dejected. Steve’s birthday party was on Saturday and you were struggling to find a dress that felt good enough for the party. If it was anyone else’s party, you would have just worn a nice top and either jeans or a denim skirt. But this was Steve Harrington’s party and you wanted to look good. Really good. Because after months of you and Steve dancing around your feelings for each other, you had finally had enough.

And so, you had come up with a little plan to show up to Steve’s party in a nice dress and hope that he would finally take a hint. 

The only problem being—is that you were struggling to find said nice dress. And now you were starting to wonder if it was a stupid plan.

“I don’t know,” you tell Robin miserably, deciding to abandon the dresses you had left to try on in favour of pulling back on your jeans and t-shirt. “I just want something that makes me, you know, stand out to Steve.”

“You always stand out to him,” Robin tells you gently, softening a little at your slightly dejected tone. “But he’s also a guy so he’s also an idiot.”

You laugh a little but your stomach turns a little as you wonder—not for the first time—if Steve really did like you the way everyone told you he did. Robin insisted that Steve liked you, so did Dustin, Max, Lucas and even Nancy. Everyone told you Steve was crazy about you. So why hadn’t he made a move? Why hadn’t he been honest with you about his feelings? What if everyone was wrong? What if he didn’t actually like you and you were making a fool of yourself?

“Are you overthinking again?” Robin asks you when you say nothing.

“No,” you say, the uncertainty in your voice evident as you pull back the curtain to see Robin sitting in the armchair outside of the dressing room. “Maybe? I dunno Robin, I’m starting to doubt the plan.”

Robin sighs, glancing over at the dresses you still had to try on before looking back at you. “You know what I think the problem is?”

“What?”

“I think you’ve been trying to find the wrong type of dress.”

You blink, a little confused by Robin’s words. “What's wrong with the dresses?”

“Nothing! Not really they just—they don’t scream ‘fuck me’, you know?”

“Robin!”

“What?” Robin asks, holding her hands up in surrender. “Do you or do you not want Steve Harrington—christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this—want Steve to fuck you?”

You were aghast, your mouth hanging open in shock at her words. But you don’t deny it because yeah—you did want to him to fuck you.

“I—I um, I mean—”

“—see? You need a ‘fuck me’ dress not a ‘take me to church’ dress,” Robin tells you, stepping into the dressing room to grab the pile of dresses resting on the bench. “Stay right there. I’ll find a dress for you and it’ll make Steve want to fuck your brains out—”

“—Robin!—”

“—kidding! Mostly.”

But the thing is—Robin hadn’t been kidding.

Because the dress she had picked for you was one that didn’t just say ‘fuck me’—it screamed it.

“Are you sure it isn’t too booby?” You ask Robin for perhaps the millionth time as you adjust the strap: of your dress. It was the night of the party and you were getting ready at Robin’s before Steve came to pick you both up and it was only natural that your nervous system was a mess.

“I highly doubt Steve Harrington of all people would think a dress was ‘too booby’,” Robin says with a slight roll of her eyes. “He’ll just see that hint of your cleavage and forget what year it is.”

You smile a little but still, you weren’t entirely convinced. Because now that you were wearing the dress—which was beautiful, the glittering material a mix of black and a deep red that couldn’t help but catch the eye—you were wondering if it was too late to just wear some of Robin’s clothes instead.

But before you could suggest such a thing, the familiar sound of Steve’s car horn came from outside and the words die on your tongue.

“C’mon,” Robin tells you, seeing the slightly panicked look on your face. She gently fixes a piece of stray hair and smiles at you. “You look incredible. Don’t overthink it, okay?”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter as you grab the gift bag with Steve’s present—a watch you knew he had his eye on—in and following Robin out of her bedroom.

You vaguely hear Steve talking animatedly to Robin’s parents in her living room as you make your way down the stairs. Your heart was beating so fast that it felt as though it was attempting to beat its way out of your chest. You felt hot all over, clammy even and you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands because this dress was so far out of your comfort zone that you had the urge to run upstairs and take it off.

As if she had a sixth sense for any thoughts you had of fleeing—Robin grabbed your arm and gave you an encouraging smile when you reached the bottom of the staircase.

“You look great. Stop doubting yourself or I swear to god, I’ll slap you. That four hour shopping trip wasn’t for nothing, you know.”

You blink before a small laugh leaves your lips. “Four hours is an exaggera—”

It was the sound of Steve saying yours and Robin’s name that cuts you off. Your body stills and you turn around and—

Your breath hitches in your throat when you finally see Steve. He looked devastatingly handsome—he always did—but especially in those jeans that hugged his thighs and ass so well that it made your throat feel a little dry. He was also wearing that sage green shirt that you had told him looked nice the other week and you wonder for a moment if he was wearing it for that reason. But before you could think too deeply about it, you finally look at his face and Steve—he was just staring at you, lips parted and seemingly speechless.

Your face feels so hot that you were sure it was noticeable. You could barely hear Robin’s mom gushing about your dress, about how grown up and beautiful you looked because all you could focus on was Steve’s eyes slowly travelling up your body.

It was as though everything else around you had ceased to exist all because Steve Harrington was looking at you.

“Happy Birthday, Steve,” you say finally, your voice higher than usual due to the almost crippling nerves you were feeling.

Steve doesn’t say anything to that and you weren’t sure whether that made you feel better or worse.

“Cleans up well, doesn’t she?” Robin asks Steve with a somewhat smug smile and plainly ignoring the flustered look on your face.

Steve blinks, licking his lips as he tries to formulate a response whilst still looking at you, completely unable to look away.

“I, um—yeah, I mean—she—looks—”

Steve couldn’t string a sentence together and everyone in the room could see it—you, Robin and even her parents.

“She looks—yeah—she looks beautiful.”

Beautiful.

Steve had called you beautiful.

That word now lived somewhere deep in your ribcage and didn’t want to leave.

It was all you could think about as you sat in the passenger seat of Steve’s Beamer. Robin’s voice was almost completely drowned out as you repeated the way he had said it over and over again in your head. The way he had looked at you—

But arriving at Steve’s party felt like a bucket of ice cold water being poured over you. 

Because you were painfully overdressed.

And that warmth that the word beautiful had given you almost entirely disappeared.

You felt as though everyone’s eyes were on you, wondering why the fuck you had turned up to Steve’s birthday party in a dress like that. And honestly—you were beginning to wonder the exact same thing.

“C’mon,” Steve says to you and Robin, his hand finding your lower back—just that little bit lower than he usually would—while the other gently pries the gift bag from your hand. “Let’s get you both a drink.”

You let Steve guide you into the kitchen because it was a welcome distraction from the people who were looking at you. Because having one of Steve’s large hands resting on the small of your back meant that you weren’t thinking of anything else.

But he doesn’t keep it there for long, much to your dismay. Steve withdraws his hand as he busies himself with making both you and Robin a vodka cranberry. You don’t even notice how he spills a little bit of the cranberry juice when he chances another glance at you because you were too busy trying to pull down the hem of your dress.

Once Steve had made your drinks, you wasted absolutely no time in taking a generous swig as some sort of liquid confidence. 

Steve raises a brow but says nothing.

“I’ll just take this up to my room,” Steve says, holding up your gift bag with a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll open it later when things aren’t so—crazy.”

You nod and force a smile, the uncomfortableness you were beginning to feel seeping into your gut as you watch Steve head upstairs.

“Why the fuck did I do this?” You ask Robin almost as soon as Steve disappears, your knuckles turning wet as you grip the edge of the countertop. “What possessed me to do this, Robin? I look so fucking stupid—”

Robin’s eyes widen as she sees the genuine panic in your eyes—the embarrassment, the worry reflected there. She puts her solo cup down and steps toward you, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“You don’t look stupid, okay? I promise—”

“—everyone else is wearing jeans, Robin. I look so out of place—”

“—so? Did you or did you not see Steve’s reaction to the dress? He nearly crashed into like ten cars on the way here because he kept looking over at you.”

“It wasn’t ten cars—” Your face feels hot as you say it, something tightening in your gut as you remember feeling Steve’s eyes on you in the car, the way Robin had kept yelling at him to keep his eyes on the road.

“—stop deflecting or I will drag you upstairs and lock both you and Steve in his bedroom until you both stop being idiots.”

No matter how much the thought of being locked in a bedroom with Steve Harrington made your core ache with need, you knew it wasn’t the grand declaration of feelings that you had always envisioned for you and Steve.

And so, you try to enjoy yourself despite how uncomfortable you feel. It seems to work—at least for a little while.

You dance with Robin, laugh with a few of Steve’s friends and all the while, you keep catching Steve looking at you. But still—he doesn’t make a move. He doesn’t even ask you to dance when Heaven Is A Place On Earth starts to play like he usually would at a party. You tried not to let doubt creep in, tried not to listen to the small voice in the back of your head telling you that Steve clearly didn’t feel the same. That the months and months of flirting, of lingering touches and almost something moments were simply figments of your imagination. That buying a dress to try and encourage Steve to finally make a move was an act of desperation that Steve—another everyone else around him—pitied. 

You were trying not to listen to those voices, instead remembering the way Steve had looked at you, the fact he had called you beautiful and meant it.

But it all came crashing down when you left Steve and Robin to grab yourself a drink.

You still feel eyes on you as you walk into the kitchen. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you just needed to wait it out until the party died down a little. You just needed to wait until then to—

You don’t register the sound of shouting right away. In fact, you were so in your own head that you barely hear it at all. 

But you certainly register the warm, sticky liquid suddenly drenching the front of your dress.

“Oh shit,” the guy who had spilled his beer all over you laughs as embarrassment and humiliation stir so deep in your gut that it makes you feel physically sick. “Sorry about that babe, want me to help you clean up?”

The way his friends laugh loudly at the suggestion makes you suspect that the beer spilling had been anything but accidental and that this guy was anything but sorry. 

You try to conjure up a quick, self-assured response. Try to conjure up the nerve to call these guys—who you were sure had just stumbled into the party without invitation—a bunch of assholes. But all you could focus on was trying not to burst into tears as shame, embarrassment and humiliation all swirled sickeningly in your gut. You felt it turn into something so all consuming that for a moment, you couldn’t move—didn’t want to move. All you could hear was the guys’ laughter, the beer that soaked your dress beginning to drip down your thigh and a faint ringing in your ears—

“Hey, hey, what happened here?”

You didn’t think that there would ever be a time that your stomach would turn horribly at the sound of Steve’s voice—at his hand on the small of your back, at the concern in his eyes as he looked at you.

You open your mouth to reply but no words come out—because your eyes became glassy and panic began to rise in your chest.

“Little black dress over here spilled her drink,” one of the guys lie easily to Steve as a smug smile tugs on the corner of his lips.

“That—that’s not what h-happened,” you say finally in a shaky voice. “I-I didn’t spill anything, that guy—”

“—clearly she’s had one too many,” the guy who had spilled his drink over you interrupts. “Should probably take that dress off, sweetheart. You’re pretty wet”

You don’t hear Steve’s pissed off response. In fact, you don’t hear anything at all—just the ringing in your ears as you finally look down at the front of your dress. You see how it was soaked through almost entirely, the wet fabric clinging to your skin and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

And that was the moment that the dam finally broke. 

You don’t think as you push Steve aside, your body in autopilot as you rush out of the kitchen where you collide into Robin. You barely hear her as she asks you what had happened, why your dress was drenched and stank of beer and why you were crying. You don’t say anything, not even glancing her way as you slip into the crowd gathered in the living room, slipping through the mass of bodies before heading up the stairs. Your hands don’t stop shaking until you stumble into Steve’s large, family bathroom.

You slam the door shut behind you as sobs wracked through your body. Hot tears of shame and embarrassment spill down your cheeks as you sink down to the floor. Your back against the freestanding bath as you tug your knees close to your chest to try and find some semblance of comfort. But none came—all that lived inside you was humiliation and shame. 

You wondered why you had even bothered. It was so clear to you now—because if Steve hadn’t made a move on you after months of flirting back and forth, months of touches and glances that felt anything but friendly—then maybe you and everyone else around you had been wrong. That sure—maybe Steve was attracted to you but not enough to risk your friendship, not enough to want you the way you wanted him.

You felt so stupid for hoping that he wanted more and you felt even more stupid for coming up with this plan that was dripping with desperation. Everyone at the party could see it—the way you had dressed up specifically for Steve. They also probably saw the way he had kept you at arms length all evening too and the shame returned in a fresh wave of sobs that you couldn’t hold back even if you had tried.

The sound of a gentle knock on the bathroom door makes you look up just in time to see Steve slipping into the bathroom.

You had the urge to yell at him to leave but instead, you let out another small sob before burying your face into your knees.

“Oh, please don’t cry,” Steve soothes you gently, sinking down onto the bathroom floor beside you and placing a cautious hand on your arm, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “Please don’t cry because of those assholes.”

You wish you were simply crying because of those assholes and not the mix of emotions you were feeling. The humiliation of the past three minutes, the embarrassment of being the girl so desperate for Steve Harrington’s attention that she wore a dress that she could barely afford and the almost crippling fear that Steve didn’t actually feel the same way, that you had made a fool out of yourself for being so certain that he had. 

“It—it’s not j-just ab-about those a-assholes, Steve,” you tell him, hiccuping slightly as you force yourself to look at him. You almost wish you hadn’t because those big hazel eyes of his were looking at you with such kindness and concern that it very nearly split you open.

Steve blinks, brows pulled together in slight confusion as he looks back at you, his other hand finding home on your shoulder and squeezing reassuringly.

“What do you mean? What else is this about?”

You knew you should lie. You knew it wasn’t the time nor the place. It was his birthday party and his bathroom should be the very last place to have this conversation. Not only that but you stank of beer, you were incredibly upset and tethering on the edge of tipsy.

But that was also why you couldn’t stop yourself.

“This stupid f-fucking dr-dress,” you sob out, feeling utterly pathetic as tears keep falling down your cheeks with no sign of stopping.

Steve looks perhaps even more confused, eyes shifting down to your dress and the way the glittering material was almost a second skin, the way he had a clear view down your cleavage and the way the tops of your thighs were exposed. Steve swallows, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before he looks back at your face.

“Why?” He asks you gently. “You look fucking beautiful, even if you’re covered in beer.”

It was supposed to make you laugh, you know it from the way the corners of his lips curl upwards in amusement.

But you don’t laugh, instead you shake your head and let out another loud sob.

“Be-because I-I wore it for you and y-you don’t e-even care,” you stutter out, the words falling from your lips before you could even think about stopping them. “I-I feel s-so stupid and n-now it-it’s ruined and—”

“Wait, wait, wait—” Steve hushes you, his fingertips pressing into skin before one hand lifts to gently cup your jaw. “You—you wore it…for me?”

It was only then that you realised what you had told him, that you realised just how honest you had been. You think briefly about lying right to his face, telling him that you were joking and to forget all about it. But it was Steve’s thumb gently rubbing along your jaw that had you nodding before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah,” you admit quietly with a small sniffle. “To—I-I don’t know, impress you or m-make you s-see me di-differently. I told you—it was stupid—”

“Not stupid,” Steve assures with a gentle smile, another gentle caress of your skin that left you feeling a little lightheaded and your stomach tightening in a way you didn’t want to think about. “You just—you don’t need a dress like that to impress me or for me to see you. I already do.”

You blink, tears sticking to your lashes as you look back at Steve with your lips parted.

“B-but—but you’ve never—”

“—I know,” Steve says quickly, his other hand resting on your knee as he shifts that little bit closer to you. “Trust me, I know. I was—I was waiting for the right moment, I guess. Well, that’s what I told myself anyway because there were so many right moments where I should have told but you didn’t because I was—scared, honestly. Scared that I had just imagined that you liked me back, scared that I wouldn’t do it right and then you’d want nothing to do with me.”

You laugh a little at that because the notion of not wanting anything to do with Steve was so ridiculous that you couldn’t help but laugh.

“That’s almost as stupid as me b-buying a dress just for your attention,” you say with a small smile and a quiet sniffle.

Steve smiles and then his eyes shift back down to your dress and you watch as he swallows, his hand on your knee squeezing gently before he seems to force himself to look back at your face.

“Then we can be stupid together,” Steve murmurs affectionately and the way he says it, you can’t help but smile right along with him. There was a moment where you just look at each other. His big, hazel eyes keep yours hostage before they flit down to glance at your lips for a brief, barely there moment.

Steve clears his throat, looking away as he asks, “you uh, you want me to grab you something to wear while you have a shower so you don’t smell like a brewery all night?”

You nod, looking down at your dress and grimacing before looking back up at Steve with a small, grateful smile. “Please.”

Steve smiles back at you before he gives your knee a little final squeeze before getting to his feet and holding out his hand for you to take.

You try not to think about how his hand feels against yours as he pulls you up to your feet. You notice immediately how Steve doesn’t let go of your hand. Instead, he pulls you just that little bit closer and leans down to whisper in your ear. “The dress is incredible by the way, truly. You look so fucking good. I almost got hard right in the middle of Robin’s living room when I first saw you.”

You hadn’t been expecting it, not at all and the words go straight to your core. A current as strong as electricity flowing through you and making your cunt pulse with need for the man in front of you as he pulls away from you with a slightly smug smile.

“Steve!” You choke out, half laughing, half flustered, your face so hot that you wouldn’t be surprised to find steam rising from your skin. 

“What?” Steve asks you with an innocent smile. “You said that you wanted my attention and you certainly got it. Why do you think I’ve tried to keep a respectable distance all night? Because I’m trying my best not to embarrass myself at my own party.”

You try to laugh but you’re too busy trying to not think about Steve and what was hiding beneath those fucking jeans. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t allowed yourself a good look at the crotch of his jeans from time to time. Mostly because the imprint of his cock against the denim was near impossible to ignore.

“Couldn’t be more embarrassing than me showing up to your party in a ‘fuck me’ dress when literally everyone else is dressed normal.”

The words came out before you could really think of what you were saying.

Steve chokes out a laugh, the tips of his ears reddening in a way that gives you a fluttery feeling in your stomach and makes you feel warm inside.

“A ‘fuck me’ dress?” Steve repeats with another quick glance down at the dress, at the way the damp fabric was clinging to your breasts. “Pretty accurate description.”

You swallow thickly and you weren’t sure if you could take anymore of his teasing, your panties were dampening at an alarming rate and your heart was surely beating its way out of your chest.

“Let me grab you those clothes, yeah?” Steve suggests before you could embarrass yourself any further. “And I’ll wash that ‘fuck me’ dress for you too.”

Your face warms but you manage to crack a smile. 

“That’s funny,” you mutter as you watch him step away from you, your body still thrumming from the proximity to him. You register the distant sounds of the party on the floor beneath you and guilty twists in your gut. You wanted to tell him you were sorry for pulling him away from his own birthday party, sorry for potentially ruining his evening but Steve slips out of the bathroom before you could do so.

Now that you are alone, you try to comprehend the last ten minutes. But it was proven difficult when your heart was beating so fast, when your hands shook as you tried to unzip your beer soaked dress and when there was an intense ache between your legs that made everything else around you feel fuzzy.

You manage to peel off your dress, letting it pool around you at your feet before you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror—at the dark lace panties you had put on in the hopes that Steve would be the one undressing you. You took those off too in case the beer scent also lingered on them, noticing the way your panties stick momentarily to your puffy lips due to how wet you were and something hot pulses through your body at the sight of your slick coating your panties.

A sharp knock on the bathroom door pulls you back into reality.

“You decent?” Steve calls to you through the door as you scramble to find a towel to cover yourself with.

“Yep!” You shout back after wrapping the towel around your bare body, kicking your soaked panties beneath the vanity unit as the bathroom door opens.

Steve walks in with a small pile of clothes in arms but he very nearly drops them at the sight of you wrapped in one of his soft cotton towels.

You watch as for the second time that night, his eyes travel up and down the length of your body, his lips parted and wet as he looks as though he wanted nothing more than to gently tug the towel from your body. There was a large part of you that would have gladly let him do so. 

“Here,” Steve finally says, placing the clothes onto the countertop and forcing his eyes to remain on your face. “I got you a t-shirt and those shorts you left here the other week.”

“Thank you,” you say with a small, grateful smile. You can’t help but notice the way Steve’s cheeks had turned red and you find your own face warming.

Steve clears his throat, eyes flickering away from you to your dress and your bra laying on the tiled floor. “I’ll um, wash these in the basement,” Steve tells you, bending down to pick up the discarded clothes and determinedly not looking at your legs as he does so. 

You nod, feeling too breathless, too aroused to even form a thought as you watch Steve’s knuckles turn white when he grips the fabric of your dress tightly in his hands. 

You look at each other again, Steve looking at you in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to do before he clenches his jaw and he turns to leave.

You nearly stop him. You nearly reach out to grab his arm so he wouldn’t leave you, nearly call out his name and ask him to stay. But you don’t—instead you watch him leave the bathroom with your clothes and you let the ache he leaves behind fill you.

You take your time in the shower, lathering the vanillary body wash that smelt like Steve over you and as the smell of beer washes down the drain. Your muscles relax beneath the hot water and you have to ignore the urge to let your fingers trail between your legs to ease the ache there.

You step out of the shower, water dripping from your body before you glance over at the clothes Steve had brought you. You feel that warmth in your stomach heat up when you imagine yourself wearing Steve’s t-shirt. When you eventually do pull it on over your head after gently drying your body, you’re hit with the smell of him that seems to linger on the material.

It made you feel dizzy with want, the tension that had been building between you and Steve all evening not lessening even in Steve’s absence. 

You retrieve your soaked panties from beneath the vanity unit and pull them on, along with your shorts before stepping out of the bathroom.

The party downstairs continues and you find that there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to go and rejoin the party. And so, you head towards Steve’s bedroom, figuring you could just wait out the rest of the party in there.

But as you push open Steve’s bedroom door, you’re greeted by a truly heavenly sight.

Steve was standing near the end of his bed, in the middle of peeling off his shirt. You got a glimpse of his soft stomach, of his happy trail that kept you up at night, of various moles and freckles that were scattered over his skin and—finally the sight of the dark, coarse hair that covered his chest. He was fucking beautiful and you barely register him turning around to look at you.

“Hi,” he says by way of greeting, making zero attempt to cover up but you notice the way his cheeks flush slightly pink. 

“Hey,” you say, hating how breathless you already sound.

Steve’s eyes shift down your body again, his gaze washing you in a rush of heat and want that you couldn’t control. You see the way his eyes linger for a moment too long on your hardened nipples that could be seen through the fabric of his t-shirt and you watch as he licks his lips slowly before looking back at your face.

“Good shower?”

You laugh because the tension between you was palpable. You could see the way Steve was trying to be normal and the way he was failing miserably.

“Great shower,” you tell him. “Incredible water pressure.”

Steve snorts lightly with laughter and you take a tentative step closer to him, closing his bedroom door behind you while your heart pounds in your chest.

“Robin kicked those guys out by the way,” he tells you, watching you carefully as you move towards him. “I would have done it but I needed to see if you were okay.”

You smile a little, pausing a foot away from him. “Glad you did.”

“Me too,” Steve says softly. “Made me realise how much of an idiot with the whole—you know, been waiting for the perfect moment to be honest with you when I should have just—I should have just told you.”

Your breath hitches, your eyes flickering over his face so that you didn’t miss a single facial expression. “Told me what?” You ask quietly.

Steve takes a deep breath before he closes the distance between you, lifting both of his large hands to cup your jaw gently between his palms, holding you like you were made of something more precious than gold.

“Told you that—that you’re not only my best friend but you’re my favourite person in the world. The one who I can’t go a day without seeing smile or hearing you laugh. The person who thinks I’m funny when I’m clearly not and the one who seems to know exactly what to say when things get too loud. The one who doesn’t just make me want to be a better man but the person who makes me a better man. The one who has seen my best times and my worst times and still—still sees the best in me even when I don’t. The person who I—who I love. Who I love whether you’re wearing a ‘fuck me’ dress or one of my old t-shirts. The person who I really hope isn’t too mad at me for making you wait while I tried to find a perfect moment.”

You were rendered speechless, words completely failing you as you stare back at Steve with wide eyes, trying to process every word he had just said.

“Was that too much or—”

You don’t let Steve finish his sentence because you decide that you couldn’t wait even a second longer. Because he loved you. He loved you, he loved you, he loved you—

“I love you too,” you tell him breathlessly as your hands plant themselves on his chest before you lean in and finally press your lips against his.

For a moment, Steve does nothing at all. He seems to freeze entirely, his brain short circuiting at the fact you were kissing him. But as your fingers gently brush through the hair that covered his chest, he seemed to finally come to his senses.

Steve groaned—actually groaned—against your lips as one of the hands still cupping your jaw gently threaded into your hair, his fingers curling at the back of your neck as he kisses you back with a sense of urgency he couldn’t seem to control.

The kiss was messy, spit-slick and desparate—months and months of tension finally snapping as Steve used his other hand to tug you closer by your waist, his mouth still moving against yours as though he wouldn’t ever be able to get enough.

Neither of you pulled away—the kiss moving from messy to slow and reverent, your lips gliding wetly against each other in a way that had your pussy throbbing. A small whimper escapes you before you could stop it because your body was thrumming with want.

Steve pulls away only to whisper your name before he dives back in. His hand in your hair titling your head back so that he could deepen the kiss, his tongue gently coaxing your lips apart in a way that had your stomach tightening deliciously as he licks into the wet heat of your mouth.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips as his hand in your hair finds home on your waist. The other moves to rest on your hips where Steve squeezes the flesh before tugging you closer until you are flush against him. 

You gasp against his lips when you feel just how fucking hard he was through the denim of his jeans and any intelligent thought left you as you moaned against his mouth.

“Shit, baby,” Steve practically whimpers as he pulls away to press a trail of wet kisses down your neck. “You’ve fucking ruining me already.”

You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a moan, your head tilting back as Steve’s tongue glides over the skin of your neck, still a little damp from the shower.

“Did you use my body wash, pretty girl?” Steve whispers against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip the globes of your ass and failing to suppress a groan. “Cause I can smell it on you.”

“Maybe,” you gasp out, your chest heaving as your eyelids flutter shut at Steve’s touch.

Steve hums against your skin before gently sucking on a spot on your neck that had you squirming against him.

“So fucking sensitive,” he murmurs, squeezing your ass again before one hand moves to the hem of his t-shirt that you were wearing—fingers just brushing the skin beneath in a silent question.

You lift your arms in response and Steve waits no time in peeling off the t-shirt.

But the moment he sees the sight of your bare breasts, all bravado he had possessed moments ago seems to leave him.

“Holy fuck—” he breathes out, his own chest heaving as his eyes feast on you. “You’re so—fuck—I can’t believe we’re finally doing this. We’re finally—holy shit—”

“—Steve,” you interrupt him with a faint smile and a finger over his lips. “It’s just me.”

Steve smiles back at you, pressing a kiss to your finger before you pull it away from him. “That’s exactly why this is—why I’m losing my shit right now I mean—fuck, look at you.”

The words go straight through your body like molten lava and you have to squeeze your thighs together to try and ease the tension between your legs. 

And Steve—he fucking notices.

“Fuck it—”

Steve’s lips were back on yours and you could barely think straight as the kiss became almost frantic, his hands roaming your body greedily as he sank down onto the bed, pulling you down with him. His hands find your hips before he tugs you down onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his as you straddle him. 

The position presses your clothed core against the bulge in his jeans and neither of you could suppress a moan at the contact. 

“Please,” Steve asks, eyes half lidded and glazed over with want as he looks up at you. “Please, pretty girl. I need—”

You knew what he needed without him even needing to finish his sentence. You press yourself more firmly against his bulge and you swear you could feel every hard ridge of him through his jeans. The friction was dizzying and you could barely stop yourself from rolling your hips against him. Steve lets out a whimper, fingers squeezing the flesh of your hips before his lips find yours again.

The kiss was messy, little wet sounds filling the space between you as Steve’s hips bucked up instinctively, grinding his hard cock against your core. You were embarrassingly wet at this point as Steve encouraged the movement of your hips with his hands, the wet patch in your panties seeping through your shorts. You were almost sure that Steve could practically smell how aroused you were at this point, but you found that you didn’t care.

You could have come from the friction alone, but both you and Steve knew that wasn’t what you wanted.

“Steve,” you gasp, heat burning through your body as you look down at him. “Touch me, please.”

Who was he to deny you such a request?

You let out a small squeal as Steve wraps his arms around your waist, standing up for a brief moment before he lowers you back down onto his bed.

“Anything for you, baby,” Steve tells you before he tugs both your shorts and your panties down your legs.

“Fuck, baby—”

It was the only intelligent thing Steve could think to say when you were finally laid bare for him. You look back at him and you find that there wasn’t a part of you that felt nervous or self conscious with the confidence his gaze gave you. In fact, you found your thighs widening instinctively as he could see the mess he had caused between your legs—the way your folds were coated with arousal, slick dripping down onto his bedsheets beneath you and how swollen and desperate for attention your clit was.

“—you’re fucking beautiful,” Steve finally tells you as his fingers brush over the skin of your inner thigh, watching in awe as goosebumps erupt over the skin at his touch. “S’fucking beautiful. I could fucking cum just by looking at you, pretty girl.”

Your cunt pulses with need and you swear you see Steve’s cock twitch beneath his jeans.

“But I’m gonna take care of you first, yeah?” Steve murmurs, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your thighs before they glide through your wetness.

That first, direct touch of his fingertips against your slick folds made you whimper from relief.

“S’fucking wet,” Steve murmurs, his lips parting as his eyes filt down to watch how your wetness now coats his fingers. “Drenched for me already, aren’t you sweet girl?”

You nod frantically, eyes squeezing shut as two of Steve’s thick fingers glide through your slick, gathering it and then smearing it over your clit in a circular motion that had your back bowing off his mattress.

“I got you, baby,” Steve murmurs and you jolt as you suddenly feel his breath hot against your inner thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”

You nod, parting your lips as you begin to take a deep breath—but you are cut off by your own, loud moan as he dips one thick finger inside of you.

“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh as he begins to pump his finger in and out of you, watching every trace of pleasure flit across your face as he adds a second finger. “That’s it, pretty girl. Look at you, soaking my fingers so well.”

You were a mess already and he had barely even begun. You were so fucking wet that the pump of his fingers in and out of your soaked pussy were causing a schlick-schlick-schlick sound to fill the room, mixing with your moans as liquid heat coursed throughout your entire body. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” Steve tells you, curling his fingers against your front wall as he watched you in utter awe. “S’fucking pretty, baby. I swear.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, a pleasure so intense coursing through your body that you were surely soon to forget your own damn name. Your slick was dripping down his wrist, onto his sheets and Steve couldn’t help but breathe in your heady scent, his nose nudging against your clit as he did so.

“Fucking hell,” he groans out, scissoring his fingers gently inside of you. “Sweet girl, you smell so fucking good. I need to taste you, I need to—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence because one buck upwards of your hips and Steve finally takes the hint. His lips seal themselves over your aching clit while he continues to fuck two of his fingers into your needy hole. And the moan he lets out at that very first taste of you? It was divine.

Steve Harrington wasted no time in giving you exactly what he knew you needed. His lips began to suck your clit gently, his thick fingers continuing to fuck you even as your one of your hands found its way into his hair and tugged at it harshly. If anything, the mix of pain and pleasure spurred Steve on, his fingers curling inside of you again as he started to alternate between giving soft licks to your clit and sucking it between his lips.

It was almost overwhelming, the deep penetration on his fingers and stimulation on your clit was making pleasure build up so intensely you were close to tears.

“C’mon, baby,” Steve murmurs against yours, his own hips rutting against the mattress but his focus remains on you and your pleasure and nothing else. “I got you. I got you.”

Your thighs tremble around his head, your head thrown back against his mattress as you let out a moan so loud that the partygoers downstairs were sure to hear it. Your orgasm was so intense that your entire body seemed to be overtaken by a white hot pleasure that you felt in every damn nerve, your vision whiting out briefly all because Steve Harrington sent you to another universe with his fingers and tongue. 

He doesn’t let up, only withdrawing his fingers so he could replace them with his tongue, slurping up every last drop of your arousal and groaning against you as he does so. 

You were still shaking, still sensitive and still coming down from the most intense orgasm that a man had ever given you and yet—there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to stop. 

The fingers that were still in his hair gently tug him away from your cunt that was dripping with a mix of his saliva and your essence. He groans as you pull him away, eyes half lidded with need as he looks at you. Steve’s lips are swollen, wet and he had never looked so fucking handsome.

“That was—”

You silence him by grabbing his fingers—the ones that had just been inside of you, the ones still glistening with your slick—and raise them to your lips. Steve realises what you were about to do a millisecond before it happens and he could not contain the groan that leaves his lips as you take his fingers into your mouth and suck.

Steve had surely died and gone to heaven. That could be the only explanation as he watches you lick his fingers clean, your eyes not leaving his for even a second until you release them with a wet pop.

“Take your jeans off and fuck me, Harrington,” you tell him.

Steve Harrington did not need telling twice. In his haste to peel off his jeans, he stumbles but manages to catch himself at the edge of the bed. 

He turns around when he hears you stifle a laugh.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, baby,” Steve tells you with flushed cheeks. “That was completely purposeful.”

But you don’t respond, because you were too busy staring at the outline of his hard cock through his boxers. Even though the dark material, you could see how fucking big he was and it made your mouth water. 

Steve notices—because of course he was—and he wastes no time in pulling down his boxers to free his cock.

“Oh my—”

You had heard rumours before that Steve was big, that his size sometimes intimated the women he had slept with in the past. But nothing could have prepared you for just how big and how beautiful his cock was. It was so big and heavy that it made a loud, audible slapping sound against his soft stomach as he freed himself. It wasn’t just long but it was thick and slightly curved in a way that made your cunt clench around nothing. The ruddy tip was glistening and already leaking with precum and you watch as a dribble of it slips over his veiny shaft.

Steve, seemingly taking you openly staring at his cock as worry, hesitates before joining you back on the bed, bracing his body over yours with his elbows as he looks carefully at your face. “We can do just the tip if you—”

“—what?” You ask him, slightly confused as you look back up at him, your hands gently rest on his shoulders. “No, no, no—I want all of you, Steve. I was just…looking.”

Steve blinks, his cheeks reddening before he smiles down at you. “Impressed?”

You smile and your heart feels warm at the way, even now, Steve was able to make you laugh. Because no matter how much your relationship had changed over the past twenty minutes and how much it would change after, the foundation of your friendship would always remain standing. That Steve loved and respected you as a person first, that he always would and that intimacy wouldn’t change that. 

“Depends if you know what to do with it,” you tell him with a teasing smile.

Steve rolls his eyes a little but you see the way the corners of his mouth twitch as he tries not to smile.

“We’ll see about that,” Steve murmurs, wrapping a hand around his length and stroking himself once before he guides the bulbous head of his cock to your entrance. “You sure?” He asks, despite the fact he was so hard that it was nearly painful, despite the fact his dick was pulsing in his hand from need—he needed one last bit of reassurance that he wouldn’t be too much for you. 

You nod, your eyes softening as you look up at him, one of your hands lifting to cup his cheek gently. Steve leans into your touch instinctively and the way he sought out your touch makes you feel almost invincible.

“I’m sure,” you whisper back. “I trust you, I love you and I’m sure.”

Steve’s resolve seemed to crumble at that, his eyes shining as he tells you, “I love you too.”

His lips found yours in a kiss that was surprisingly soft given the position you were in, given what you were about to do. You melt into it, your fingers gliding into his hair as Steve groans against your lips, carefully positioning himself back at your entrance. Your legs widen to accommodate him as you continue to kiss him as though he was your only source of oxygen. Steve’s brows are furrowed as he kisses you back, making sure to go slow as he finally—finally—pushes the fat head of his cock inside of you, slipping into your tight heat inch by inch.

The stretch was overwhelming—it almost felt as though he was splitting you open with his cock but fuck, it was incredible. You couldn’t pull but pull away from Steve’s lips so that you could look at where look your bodies were now joined, the way you were stretched obscenely around him.

“You okay?” Steve asks when he was almost buried to the hilt, his eyes not leaving your face as he searches for even a hint of pain. “Baby, please say you’re—”

“—I’m good,” you say breathlessly, your eyes flickering upwards to meet his. “Really, Steve. I’m good.”

Steve nods and then swallows before he presses forward, until his hips are flush against yours and you feel the tip of his cock hit your cervix.

“Fuuuccck,” Steve exhales, pressing his forehead against yours as the arm that was propping himself over you shakes with the effort of holding himself back. “You feel—fuck—you feel incredible. I swear, you were made for my cock, sweet girl.”

The words make you feel warm and your cunt flutters around his cock, making Steve groan out. You hook one of your legs over his hip and arch your back, trying to encourage him to move.

“Steve, please.”

It was exactly the encouragement he needed. With a groan of your name and sweet kiss to your forehead, Steve starts to move. He moves his hips back until only the bulbous tip of his cock remains inside of you before he pushes himself back home, setting a deep rhythm that has your nails biting into the skin of his shoulders.

The wet sounds from the mix of your juices quickly fill the room, along with both yours and Steve’s moans as Steve grabs your other thigh to hook it over hip. You whimper out his name as his cock nuzzles against your cervix and Steve couldn’t help himself anymore. He pulls out almost entirely before slamming back into you. And again. And again and again and again until his cock was continuously slamming in and out of you, the sound of skin slapping against skin so obscene it made your head spin.

“Fuck, Steve!” You mewl, your breasts bouncing with every deep thrust of Steve’s cock. “You feel so—”

“—I know, baby. I know,” Steve grunts as his balls slap against your skin from the force of his thrusts. “You trust me, yeah?”

You nod frantically, pleasure coursing through every damn nerve in your body as Steve shifts his position. You whimper out in protest before you watch as he gently lifts your thighs to rest over his shoulders.

“Feel good?” Steve asks as he leans over you, his cock now hitting so deep inside of you that you swear you saw stars. 

You nod because no words could come out as you felt him in every damn pore in your body. Your body buzzes with anticipation as you expect him to move, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

“Words, pretty girl,” he tells you, two fingers gently gripping your chin. “I need words.”

You whimper out because you were throbbing with need and could barely think straight, let alone form a sentence.

“Steve, please—”

“Baby, no,” Steve murmurs, dipping his head down to brush his lips across your cheek. “Need you to feel me if it’s good. C’mon, sweet girl.”

“Yes,” you manage to gasp. “I feel—I feel really good.”

“Good,” Steve smiles before he rolls his hips forward. The tip of his cock hits that spot inside of you that had you squirming beneath him, clenching around him so hard that Steve’s fingers grips into the flesh of your thigh before he pulls out of you just to slam back in all over again.

“I love you,” Steve tells you as he sets a rhythm that has your toes curling. “I love you so fucking much, baby. I’m so fucking lucky.”

He was babbling nonsense as his cock drilled into you like it was the last time, not the first. You were a mess of moans and whimpers beneath him, your sobbing cunt convulsing around him with each and every thrust. You could hardly think straight because nothing existed beside Steve and the way his cock was pumping in and out of you.

“You look so fucking beautiful,” Steve tells you, eyes heavy from the intense pleasure he was feeling, from the effort of holding back his own release so it wasn’t over before you finished. “Taking my cock so well, baby. Look at you fucking taking it.”

And you do—your eyes shifting down to watch as Steve’s thick cock disappears inside of you, watch the way you suck him back in like you never wanted him to leave.

It was almost too much, every part of your body was singing with pleasure and all you could moan out was Steve’s name and the fact you loved him and—

Your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. It was somehow more intense than the first, nearly earth shattering in the way it left you clinging to Steve as though he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. You clenched tightly around his cock and it was all Steve needed, his release following yours only seconds later. He slams into you a final time and you swear you feel his heavy cock pulsing inside of you before he comes hard. Ropes of thick, hot cum flood your spent pussy, painting your walls with his release as your name fell from his lips like it was the only word he knew.

He doesn’t pull out right away and you don’t want him to, instead—your lips find each other's and the kiss was sweet and tender and everything you had ever wanted and more.

Steve eventually pulls out of you after a few moments to clean the mess between your legs with his boxers. You were tender but he was so gentle and loving that it made your heart thump loud in your chest.

When he returns to the bed, his arms wrap themselves around you and you waste no time in melting into him, the party downstairs entirely forgotten as you lay in Steve’s arms.

“I take it we’re a little more than best friends now?” He asks you quietly with a trace of amusement in his voice.

“I think we’ve always been more than best friends, Steve.”

Steve smiles at that before pressing a gentle but firm to your forehead because you were right—you had always been more than best friends and you always would be.

dividers and banners by me 🌸

please credit me if you reuse!

.✦ ݁˖ rec account: @moonstone-recommends .✦ ݁˖

when gator is jealous? oh boy—he makes it known. if he's with you, he'll tell whatever guy is trying to flirt with you to fuck off and he'll slap a hand on your ass for good measure. he'll make it abundantly clear in any way he can that you're his and his alone. you didn’t mind it, honestly. and if he isn't there and you come home and tell him about some guy who had tried to get your number on a girls' night? he'll bend you right over the kitchen countertop and make you forget all about mr. no name at the bar as his thick cock pounds into you from behind. you’ll be moaning out obscenely, the sound of skin slapping and the schlick-schlick-schlick sounds from gator pounding into your soaked pussy filling the kitchen.

teacake is very comfortable in your relationship and doesn’t tend to get jealous. he trusts you implicitly and so, he doesn’t see any reason to be jealous when he knew you were his completely. instead if a guy ever tried to flirt with you in front of him, he’ll just throw an arm around you and have the biggest grin on his face as he says to the guy: "sorry man, she's taken." the closest teacake gets to feeling jealous is when you’re saying how hot a certain celebrity is and he’ll pout and ask, “but i’m hotter, right babe?”

keys doesn't quite know what to do when he feels jealous. he knows you love him and that you only have eyes for him, but sometimes it gets to him. on those nights, he needs to reassurance. he’s usually the big spoon but he’ll ask you to hold him which you do of course while gently running your fingers through his hair. he’ll always be honest with you in those moments—he’ll ask you if he’s working too much, if you’re happy. and you’ll press a kiss to his forehead and tell him you’d never been happier. keys would then smile a little before lifting his head to kiss you properly. you wouldn’t leave the bed for hours after that.

kurt does not handle jealousy well at all. honestly, that man is terrified at the thought of you leaving, of you finding someone better than him. and maybe there was a part of him that believes he really doesn’t deserve someone like you. and so, when kurt get jealous, he gets upset. he’ll hold onto you real tight and beg you not to leave him. sometimes he’ll cry. he’ll tell you how much he loves you, how he doesn’t know what he’d do without you. and you’d always smile at him sweetly and kiss him just to shut him up. he usually takes the hint then.

dividers by @anitalenia

For as long as anyone could remember, Dema had stood untouched.

Its towering white walls cut across the horizon like a scar, separating its citizens from the world beyond. Within those walls, the Bishops ruled absolutely. Every aspect of life was controlled. Every thought monitored, every dream suppressed. The city crushed your spirit, that's what it wanted. It wanted you to feel hopeless, to give in, to forget that anything existed beyond those suffocating walls.

The Bishops ruled the city, creating a religion to practice these sick ideals. There were nine of them, one to rule each district of the city, to control and rule over their citizens with iron fists wrapped in crimson robes. But one was the most powerful, the one whose name was whispered with the deepest fear: Nico.

And for just as long, there had been the Banditos.

Living beyond the city in the wild lands of Trench, they fought for freedom. They sabotaged supply routes, guided escapees out of the city, and refused to bow to the Bishops' rule. They wore yellow duct tape on their shoulders like armor, carried yellow flowers in their pockets like prayers. Yellow—the color that meant hope still existed somewhere in the world.

Their leader was known as the Torchbearer. For years, that had been Steve Harrington.

He had led the Bandito's across Trench, built camps from nothing with his own bleeding hands, rescued citizens from Dema's grasp in the dead of night, and spent countless nights studying the city that haunted every horizon. He knew every gate, every guard rotation, every weak point in those impossible walls. He'd memorized the layout of streets he'd never walked, towers he'd never climbed.

But no matter how many victories they claimed, one truth remained, heavy as stone in his chest.

Steve could never destroy Dema alone. The walls were too strong, the Bishops were too powerful, their control too absolute. To bring down Dema, they needed someone from inside. Someone who understood the city, someone capable of fighting the Bishops on equal ground, someone capable of seizing, taking control of vessels the way the Bishops did, turning death itself into a weapon.

No citizen held this power, except for one.

The Banditos called this person Clancy.

Not because it was a name, but because it was a role. A title passed from one hopeful soul to the next, each one carrying the weight of everyone who'd come before. Each one carrying the desperate belief that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

A Clancy possessed the rare ability to seize vessels the same way the Bishops could, taking control of the dead and turning them into living puppets. It was the only power that could truly challenge the rulers of Dema. The only thing that could level the playing field.

Over the years, Steve had searched endlessly.

Some Clancys died before they could reach the tower. Some disappeared into the city and were never seen again. Some surrendered, choosing the safety of submission over the danger of rebellion.

Each loss carved something out of Steve's chest. Each failure made the next search harder. Made belief feel more like foolishness.

Yet Steve never stopped looking. He never gave up hope that one day, one cycle would end the rule of the Bishops and free the citizens of Dema. Even when hope felt like the cruelest thing he could carry.

Then they found Eddie Munson.

And for the first time in years, Steve allowed himself to believe.

Eddie wasn't what anyone expected. He was loud, reckless, stubborn. He didn't lead people like Clancys had before, with quiet determination or solemn speeches. He led them with music, with laughter that echoed across Trench, preaching hope and screaming "stay alive" like it was both a command and a promise.

He laughed in the face of danger and somehow managed to make everyone around him laugh too, even when their hands were shaking, even when fear sat heavy in their stomachs.

The younger Banditos adored him. They followed him like he was made of starlight, hung on every word, learned every song. The older ones respected him, saw something in his eyes that reminded them why they'd started fighting in the first place.

And Steve…Steve became his friend.

The kind of friend who stayed awake talking beside campfires until sunrise painted the sky pink and gold, discussing everything and nothing, childhood memories, favorite foods, the shape of clouds, the weight of responsibility. The kind of friend who knew exactly how Eddie took his coffee in the morning (too much sugar, not enough patience to let it cool). The kind of friend who trusted him with the future of every Bandito, with the lives of everyone they'd sworn to protect.

Together they trained, Eddie learning to control his power while Steve taught him everything he knew about Dema. Together they planned, spreading maps across makeshift tables and marking routes with trembling fingers. Together they dreamed about the day Dema finally fell, about what freedom might actually feel like, about a world where yellow flowers could grow without fear.

Steve remembered one night in particular. It was the first time Eddie had been practicing seizing, taking control of a small animal, a dead rabbit, then releasing it gently. His hands had been shaking with exhaustion, sweat dripping down his temples.

"What if I can't do it?" Eddie had asked quietly, vulnerability cracking through his usual bravado. "What if I get up there and I freeze? What if I'm not strong enough?"

Steve had looked at him, really looked at him, and seen the fear beneath the confidence. Seen the boy who'd escaped Dema's walls with nothing but hope and terror.

"You're stronger than any of them," Steve had said, and he'd meant it with every fiber of his being. "You're going to tear that place apart, Eddie. I know you will."

Eddie had smiled then, that brilliant reckless smile that made Steve believe impossible things.

"Yeah," Eddie had said. "Yeah, I will."

For the first time, the future didn't seem impossible. It seemed close enough to touch, close enough to taste. Steve could almost feel it, the moment when those walls would finally crumble, when the Bishops would fall, when everyone trapped inside Dema would walk free into Trench.

Then the day finally came.

Banditos emerged from every corner of Trench like a flood. Hundreds of yellow banners appeared across the landscape as they marched toward Dema's gates, a sea of hope moving as one. Every Bandito covered in yellow duct tape with yellow flowers in their pockets, symbols of everything they were fighting for. Some were crying. Some were singing. All of them were ready.

Steve's heart had been pounding so hard he could barely hear his own thoughts. This was it. After years of planning, years of losing, years of hoping, this was finally it.

The final battle had begun.

While Steve led the Banditos against the Grateful Gone rising from the ground to attack them outside the walls of Dema, Eddie slipped away. Steve had watched him go, their eyes meeting for just a moment across the chaos. Eddie had nodded once. A promise, a goodbye, a see you on the other side, and then he was gone, disappearing toward the base of the tower.

Their plan depended on it.

The Torchbearer could lead the army, but only Clancy could reach the Bishops. Only Clancy could climb the tower. Only Clancy could end the cycle.

Steve had forced himself to turn away, to focus on the battle in front of him. He had to trust Eddie. Had to believe.

The fighting lasted for hours.

The Grateful Gone came in endless waves, shambling forward with dead eyes and rotting hands. Citizens who had lost their lives to depression, who couldn't handle living in Dema, now controlled by the Bishops like puppets on strings. An army that never tired, never stopped, never felt pain.

Steve's arms burned with exhaustion as he fought. His sword was slick with something he tried not to think about. Around him, Banditos screamed battle cries and fell and got back up and kept fighting. He saw Marcus take a hit to the shoulder but keep swinging. Saw Elena pull another Bandito out of the path of grasping dead hands. Saw Thomas fall and not get back up, yellow flowers spilling from his pocket onto blood-soaked ground.

Yet the Banditos kept pushing forward, kept fighting with everything they had.

Because high above them, somewhere inside the tower, Eddie was fighting for all of them.

Steve's lungs burned. His muscles screamed. But he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. Not when they were this close.

Another wave of Grateful Gone rose from the earth in front of their neon gravestones, dirt falling from their shoulders, mouths hanging open in silent screams. Steve braced himself, raised his torch, that both served as a weapon and a symbol of hope. 

And then they fell.

Just collapsed, all at once, like strings had been cut. Bodies hitting the ground with heavy thuds, finally, truly dead.

For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

The bishops had fallen. 

A roar erupted throughout the battlefield that shook Steve's bones.

Banditos cheered, weapons were thrown into the air, some collapsed from relief, others cried openly. Years of fighting, years of losing, years of hoping…and they had finally won. Steve felt tears streaming down his face, felt his chest expanding with something too big to name. Joy. Relief. Disbelief.

Eddie had done it.

Eddie had actually done it.

Steve had never ran into the city and climbed the stairs so quickly in his life. His legs burned, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he couldn't slow down. He and a handful of Banditos raced up the main tower where the Bishops had ruled, taking steps two and three at a time. Robin was beside him, Nancy just behind, all of them desperate to reach the top, to see Eddie, to celebrate their impossible victory.

When they finally reached the top, Steve burst through the doorway expecting triumph.

Expecting freedom. Expecting Eddie standing there with that brilliant smile, maybe a little bloody, definitely exhausted, but alive and victorious. Expecting to throw his arms around his best friend and laugh and cry and finally, finally breathe.

Nico lay dead at the center of the room.

The final Bishop, the most feared of them all. Gone. His crimson robes pooled around him like spilled wine, his face frozen in an expression of shock.

For a brief moment, Steve smiled.

They'd done it.

Eddie had done it.

Steve's eyes searched the room, looking for Eddie, ready to celebrate—

But his smile died on his lips as he watched Eddie reach for the red robes hanging along the cobblestone wall.

The room fell silent. No one even dared to breathe.

Steve's heart stopped.

No.

No, that wasn't, Eddie was just, he was going to destroy them, right? Tear them down, burn them, throw them from the tower as a symbol of Dema's fall?

"Eddie?"

Steve's voice came out smaller than he intended, almost pleading.

Eddie didn't respond. Didn't even look at him.

Slowly, deliberately, Eddie tore one of the crimson robes from the wall.

Then another.

The bright red fabric pooled around his feet like blood.

Steve's chest tightened. His hands started shaking.

For a moment, Steve thought he was destroying them. Had to be destroying them. Because Eddie wouldn't, he couldn't—

Instead, Eddie lifted one, and draped it over his shoulders.

The world tilted.

Steve felt like the ground had disappeared beneath his feet, like he was falling through empty air with nothing to catch him.

"No," Nancy whispered, her voice breaking with disbelief.

Eddie adjusted the robe with careful, deliberate movements. Crimson against black, the colors of the Bishops. The colors of everything they'd been fighting against.

Steve stared, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to process what he was seeing.

This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

"Eddie..."

The name barely left his lips, breathy and broken and desperate.

Eddie didn't answer. Didn't even flinch.

He picked up another robe, turning around as he draped the hood over his head, shadows falling across his face. When he looked up, his eyes seemed different. Distant. Like he was looking at them from very far away.

One by one, he offered the robes to the gathered Banditos.

Some hesitated, staring at the crimson fabric like it might burn them. Others accepted immediately, reaching out with trembling hands, wrapping the red around their shoulders like it was something precious.

The moment they did, something changed in their expressions. Something hardened. Something closed off.

The victory dissolved and something colder took its place.

A new beginning, or maybe an ending.

Steve wasn't sure anymore. Wasn't sure of anything.

His mind was screaming. This wasn't supposed to happen. Eddie was supposed to destroy the Bishops, not become one. They were supposed to win. They were supposed to be free.

Then Eddie stopped in front of him.

The room seemed to disappear around them. The other Banditos, the dead Bishop, the tower itself, all of it faded until there was only Eddie standing there in crimson robes, and Steve still wearing yellow duct tape on his shoulders.

His best friend. The person Steve had trusted more than anyone, the person he'd believed would save them all. The person he'd stayed up with until sunrise, sang with, laughed with, dreamed with.

Eddie held out a robe toward Steve.

An invitation. A choice. A betrayal.

Steve looked down at the crimson fabric, and something inside his chest cracked open. Not anger, he couldn't find anger anywhere in the hollow space where his heart used to be. Not hatred. Just grief. Just devastating, crushing grief.

Because the person standing before him wasn't Clancy anymore. Maybe he wasn't even Eddie.

Maybe he'd never been.

Slowly, Steve shook his head.

"I can't."

For the first time, Eddie faltered.

The words felt like giving up. Like admitting defeat. Like watching everything he'd fought for turn to ash.

His hand tightened around the robe, knuckles going white. His jaw clenched. For just a second, something flickered across his face, regret, maybe, or pain, or the ghost of the person he used to be.

Yet he never looked up.

Never met Steve's eyes.

As if he couldn't bear to. As if looking at Steve would shatter whatever resolve he'd built around himself.

Or perhaps he simply couldn't see him anymore. Couldn't see past the yellow duct tape on Steve's shoulders, the color of the Banditos, the color of hope, the color Steve had spent years carrying like a torch through the darkness.

Steve remembered the first time he'd seen Eddie. Years ago, when Eddie had first escaped the walls of Dema, stumbling into Trench like a newborn learning to walk. He'd been scared and alone, breathing in the fresh air like he'd never tasted anything so sweet. The chill of the wind had cut through his thin grey and drab prison clothes, and he'd been shaking, from cold or fear or relief, Steve had never been sure.

Steve had walked up to him and handed him a jacket without a word. A jacket with yellow duct tape on the shoulders.

Eddie had stared at it like it was made of gold. Like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"What's this for?" Eddie had asked, voice rough from disuse.

"It means you're one of us now," Steve had said. "It means you're free."

Eddie had put it on with trembling hands and smiled, that brilliant, reckless smile that Steve would come to know so well. The smile that made him believe impossible things.

"Free," Eddie had repeated, like he was testing the word. "Yeah. Yeah, I like the sound of that."

It felt like so long ago now. Like a different lifetime. Like a dream Steve had woken up from.

Eddie's gaze passed right through the yellow on Steve's shoulders now, like it was invisible. Like Steve was invisible.

Without a word, Eddie stepped around him.

Offering the robe to someone else.

And just like that, the cycle began again.

-

Steve didn't remember leaving the tower.

One moment he was standing there, watching Eddie hand out crimson robes like gifts, watching Banditos accept them with eager hands. The next moment he was stumbling down stairs, his vision blurred, his chest so tight he couldn't breathe.

Robin was beside him. He didn't know when she'd grabbed his arm, but she was holding on tight, guiding him down and down and down the endless spiral of steps.

"Steve," she kept saying. "Steve, breathe. Just breathe."

But he couldn't. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.

They'd lost.

After everything, after years of searching, years of fighting, years of hoping…they'd lost.

No. Worse than lost. They'd won, and then had victory ripped away and twisted into something unrecognizable, a bishop, Nico. They were so close, and Steve knew it. 

By the time they reached the bottom of the tower, Steve's legs were shaking so badly he could barely stand. The streets of Dema stretched out before them, impossibly quiet after the chaos of battle. Bodies of the Grateful Gone littered the ground, finally at rest. Yellow flowers were scattered everywhere, trampled into the dirt.

The celebration had ended only minutes ago, Steve could still hear the echoes of it. The cheering. The chanting. The sound of red fabric tearing as Eddie distributed the robes.

But now there was only silence.

Heavy, suffocating, wrong.

Robin guided him to a narrow alleyway tucked between two towering white buildings. Other Banditos were already there, moving like ghosts. Some wrapped injuries with shaking hands. Others gathered abandoned equipment, their movements mechanical, empty.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody wanted to.

Not after what they'd just seen.

Not after Eddie.

Steve's knees gave out and he collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold ground. His pack was beside him, he didn't remember dropping it, and he stared at it like he'd never seen it before.

They were supposed to be celebrating right now. They were supposed to be free.

Instead, they were hiding in an alley, preparing to run.

Steve's hands were shaking as he reached for his pack. He needed to do something. Needed to move. Needed to focus on anything other than the image burned into his mind, Eddie in crimson robes, Eddie with dead eyes, Eddie becoming everything they'd fought against.

He pulled the pack open and started shoving supplies inside. A canteen, a map, a flashlight. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated. His vision kept blurring.

He could still picture the scene perfectly, like it was happening right in front of him.

The tower rising over the city, impossibly tall.

The red robes hanging from its sides like banners of victory.

Eddie standing at the very top, crimson fabric draped over his shoulders.

For one brief, impossible moment, Steve had thought they'd won. Thought Eddie had finally done it. Thought this Clancy would be different.

Then Eddie had grabbed the robes.

And instead of throwing them down, instead of destroying them, instead of ending the cycle—

He'd wrapped them around his own shoulders.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, but the image only became clearer.

Eddie standing above the city dressed in crimson, looking like he belonged there. The citizens going back to their bleak routines, multiple worships a day, after a long day going back to their dark and drab rooms with the only light being the neon, the buzz deafening their ears after a little bit. What Steve thought were Banditos stepping forward one by one, reaching for robes with eager hands. Accepting the role of Bishop. Accepting Dema. Accepting defeat.

Accepting everything they'd sworn to destroy.

A sob tried to claw its way up Steve's throat. He swallowed it down, forced it back, shoved it into the hollow space in his chest where his heart used to be.

He couldn't break down, not here, not now.

He had to keep moving, keep calm to lead as he knew the Banditos were counting on him…more than ever now.

A pair of footsteps echoed through the alley.

Steve didn't need to look up. He knew the sound of Robin's walk, the particular rhythm of her steps.

She stopped beside him and slid down the wall to sit next to him. For several moments neither of them spoke. The sounds of the city drifted around them, distant bells, the wind whistling between buildings, the soft crying of other Banditos trying to muffle their grief.

Robin stared toward the massive tower looming over the rooftops, her expression unreadable.

"I really liked this Clancy," she said quietly, her eyes glancing up at the tower, knowing that Eddie was looking down at them.

Steve's hands froze on the strap of his pack.

The words hit harder than any physical blow could have.

Because she wasn't wrong.

Everyone had liked Eddie. He was impossible not to like.

He'd been loud when everyone else was afraid to speak, funny when morale was low, hopeful when things felt impossible. He'd made them believe that maybe, just maybe, they could actually win.

Steve remembered nights around campfires in Trench, Eddie making up ridiculous songs about the Bishops, making everyone laugh until their stomachs hurt. Remembered Eddie promising he'd tear Dema apart brick by brick if he had to. Promising he'd never become one of them. Promising he was different.

Promising.

Steve's throat tightened.

"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice rough and tired and broken. "Me too."

Robin looked down at her hands. They were covered in dirt and blood, she'd been fighting just as hard as him.

"He was so close," she whispered.

Steve let out a slow breath that felt like it was tearing something inside him.

"So was the last one."

Robin's eyes shifted toward him, understanding settling in her expression.

The last one, and the one before that, and the one before that.

The pattern repeated itself over and over, an endless cycle of hope and betrayal. Find a Clancy. Teach them. Believe in them. Watch them climb the tower. Watch them fall to the bishops sick rule or worse, watch them choose to stay at the top.

The conversation ended there for a moment.

Because there wasn't much else to say.

They both knew the pattern. They'd both lived it too many times.

Steve resumed packing, his movements mechanical. A map disappeared into his backpack. Then a flashlight. Then a handful of supplies, dried food, bandages, a spare knife.

Anything to keep his hands busy.

Anything to avoid looking up at the tower.

Anything to avoid thinking about Eddie standing at the top, wearing crimson, becoming everything Steve had spent his life fighting against.

"So that's it?" Robin finally asked, her voice small. "We just leave?"

The question lingered in the air between them.

Steve zipped the bag shut. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet alley.

"What?"

"We just leave?" Robin repeated. "We don't—I don't know—try to talk to him? Try to bring him back?"

Steve's jaw clenched. He wanted to say yes. Wanted to say they'd storm back up that tower and drag Eddie down and remind him who he used to be.

But he knew better.

He'd seen this before.

Once someone put on those robes and their faces and hands were smeared in that black paint, once they felt that power, once they stood at the top of the tower and looked down at the city spread beneath them, they didn't come back.

They couldn't.

Steve stood slowly, his body feeling heavy, like every failed attempt was another weight strapped to his shoulders. Like he was carrying the ghosts of every Clancy who'd come before, every Bandito who'd died believing in freedom, every promise that had turned to ash.

He glanced toward the tower one last time.

High above the city, crimson banners fluttered in the wind. The setting sun painted them even redder, like they were soaked in blood.

Somewhere up there was Eddie.

Not the Eddie he'd known. Not the Eddie who had laughed around campfires and made terrible jokes and promised to stay alive. Not the Eddie who'd put on that yellow-taped jacket with trembling hands and smiled like he'd been given the world.

That person was gone.

Maybe not forever.

Maybe not completely.

Steve tightened the straps of his backpack, the familiar weight settling against his shoulders.

"That's not Clancy up there anymore," he said, his voice flat and empty.

The words hurt to say. Hurt worse than the battle had, worse than any physical wound.

Robin looked away, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Because she knew he was right.

Neither of them wanted him to be a Bishop, the thing he hated the most…but he was.

The alley fell silent except for the quiet sounds of other Banditos preparing to leave. Packs being zipped. Weapons being gathered. Quiet goodbyes being whispered.

Then Steve looked beyond the city walls visible between the buildings.

Beyond Dema.

Beyond the towers.

Beyond the endless white stone that had haunted his dreams for years.

Out there was Trench. Wild, unpredictable, free.

And somewhere in these walls, someone wanting to escape from the Bishops rule, someone was waiting.

Someone who didn't even know it yet.

Another Clancy. Another chance at freedom, finally.

Another person who would promise to be different, who would swear they'd never fall, who would look Steve in the eyes and make him believe impossible things.

Steve had spent too many years doing this to stop now. Had lost too many people to give up. Had carried hope for too long to let it die in a Dema alleyway.

Even if hope felt like the cruelest thing he could carry.

Robin watched him carefully, studying his face like she was trying to decide whether he actually believed what he was thinking, or if he was just going through the motions.

Maybe he did believe.

Maybe he didn't.

At this point, belief wasn't the important part, continuing was, getting up was, taking the next steps to find the right Clancy was.

"We'll try again," Steve said, his voice stronger now, steadier.

Robin blinked, surprise flickering across her face.

"Again?"

A tired smile appeared on Steve's face. A hopeful smile even after he watched his best friend become the one thing he hated.

The kind of smile that said he'd been knocked down a hundred times and intended to stand up a hundred and one. The kind of smile that said he'd carry this weight until it killed him, and maybe even after that.

He adjusted his backpack and started toward the alley's exit, his legs steadier now, his purpose clear.

Toward the city gates.

Toward Trench.

Toward whatever came next.

"Always," he said.

Robin stood and followed him, and one by one, the other Banditos did the same. They moved through Dema's streets like ghosts, yellow duct tape still on their shoulders, yellow flowers still in their pockets. Defeated but not broken. Lost but not gone.

They passed through the gates as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. The Grateful Gone lay still on the ground, finally at rest. The battlefield was quiet now, peaceful in a way that felt wrong.

Steve didn't look back, he couldn't.

If he did, he might see Eddie standing at the top of the tower, watching them leave. Might see the person he'd trusted most in the world wearing crimson robes. Might see the moment when hope died and the cycle began again.

So he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, leading his people back into Trench.

Back to the wild lands, home for the Banditos.

Behind them, the tower stretched into the darkening sky, impossibly tall, impossibly white, impossibly permanent.

And somewhere at its peak, the newest Bishop stood at the window, watching the Banditos disappear into the wilderness.

Watching Steve walk away.

Watching the yellow fade into the distance.

Eddie's hand touched the crimson fabric at his shoulder, and for just a moment, something flickered across his face. Something that might have been regret. Something that might have been grief.

But then it was gone, smoothed away, replaced by the cold certainty of power.

The cycle would continue.

It always did.

-

THREE YEARS LATER

Bee hated the walls.

Not the way someone hates an inconvenience, or the way you hate waiting in line, or the way you hate cold coffee in the morning. She hated them the way you hate something that's stolen pieces of your soul. The way you hate something that's beaten you down so many times you've lost count. The way you hate something that wins, again and again and again, no matter how hard you fight.

Most citizens didn't seem to notice them anymore.

After a while, people stopped looking up. The towering white structures surrounding Dema became part of everyday life, no different than the roads beneath their feet or the grey buildings stretching endlessly toward the sky. Just another feature of the city that crushed you slowly, day by day, until you forgot what it felt like to breathe freely and you eventually take your own life.

Citizens walked beneath them every day without a second thought, heads down, shoulders hunched, moving through their routines like automatons. Work, home, sleep, repeat. The walls might as well have been invisible for all the attention anyone paid them.

But Bee noticed them every single time.

How could she not?

They were impossible to ignore, at least for her. Every time she turned a corner, every time she walked down a street, every time she looked up at the sky, there they were. Looming. Watching. Waiting. A constant reminder pressed against her consciousness like a thumb on a bruise.

The walls weren't just stone and mortar. They were a promise.

A promise that no matter how far she walked, how hard she fought, how desperately she wanted to leave, how many times she tried, Dema would always be waiting for her. Dema would always win. The walls always won.

She stood now at the edge of a deserted street in the outer east district, Keon's district, staring at the massive structure looming overhead. Her neck ached from tilting her head back, but she couldn't look away. Cold white stone disappeared into the clouds, so tall it seemed to pierce the sky itself. Somewhere beyond it was Trench. Freedom. Or at least what she imagined freedom looked like, she'd never actually experienced it long enough to know for sure.

The wind carried the distant sounds of the city around her. Footsteps echoing off stone. Muted conversations bleeding through walls. The faint ringing of bells marking time for the evening worship, another day closer to nothing. Life continued as normal, the way it always did.

Even when people were miserable.

Even when they wanted more.

Even when they dreamed about escape but were too afraid to try.

Bee's gaze drifted downward, away from the impossible height of the walls, toward the pavement beneath her feet. Toward the long scars cutting through the stone like claw marks, deep grooves, scratches, drag paths. Evidence of struggle that were left there on purpose.

A bitter smile touched her lips.

Those were hers.

Every single one.

Years of escape attempts had left marks across Dema's roads, a trail of failure carved into the city itself. Physical proof that someone had tried. That someone had fought. That someone had refused to accept this place as home, no matter how many times they were dragged back.

Evidence that she had failed to escape and find freedom. She couldn't remember how many times she had tried to escape and failed, how many times he Bishops had tried to drown her and crush her spirit. 

The first time she'd tried escaping, she had been fourteen years old.

She could still remember it with painful clarity, the way her hands had shaken as she'd packed a small bag with stolen food and a change of clothes. The way her heart had hammered so hard she thought it might burst through her ribs. The way the fence had felt beneath her fingers as she'd climbed it in the dead of night, rough metal cutting into her palms.

She'd made it nearly halfway to the outer walls before being caught.

A hand had closed around her ankle, smearing black liquid against her skin…the mark the bishops left, and yanked her down from the fence. She'd hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs, stars exploding behind her eyes. When she'd looked up, gasping for air, Nico had been standing over her.

His face had been completely blank.

Not angry, not disappointed, not even mildly annoyed.

Just... nothing.

He dragged her back towards the city and dragged her back to her assigned housing unit without saying a single word. She'd kicked and screamed and clawed at his back the entire way. He hadn't reacted, hadn't flinched. He didn't acknowledge her struggle at all as she kicked and screamed, her heels digging into the gravel as evidence, hoping someone would find her and help her. 

It was like fighting a statue.

The second attempt had lasted two days.

She'd been smarter that time, waited until a supply shipment was leaving the city, hidden herself among the crates, held her breath as the gates opened and the truck rolled through. For two glorious days she'd walked through Trench, feeling grass beneath her feet instead of stone, breathing air that didn't taste like ash and despair. The wind was cold and the grey uniforms every citizen wore did nothing to provide her any warmth from the harsh winter of Trench. 

She'd thought she'd made it…but she was wrong.

Nico had found her sleeping beneath a tree, curled up with her stolen jacket pulled tight around her shoulders. She'd woken to find him standing there, watching her with those empty eyes. This time he'd tied her hands before carrying her back.

The third attempt had lasted nearly a week.

After that, she'd stopped keeping track of the exact numbers. The details changed, different routes, different methods, different desperate plans cobbled together from hope and stubbornness, but the endings never did.

Eventually, Nico always found her.

Sometimes he found her hiding in abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the city, pressed into corners with her knees pulled to her chest, trying to make herself small enough to disappear. Sometimes he found her running through the streets at night, her lungs burning, her legs screaming, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might kill her before he could catch her.

Sometimes she woke up to discover him standing beside her bed, just watching, waiting. Like he'd known exactly where she'd be and had simply decided to let her sleep before dragging her back.

The memory alone made her stomach twist with something that felt like nausea mixed with rage mixed with a horrible, creeping sense of helplessness.

She hated him.

Hated him with an intensity that sometimes scared her, a white-hot burning thing that lived in her chest and never quite went out. But not because he shouted at her, he never did. Not because he punished her beyond the recapture itself, he didn't. Not because he threatened her or hurt her or made her life worse than it already was.

In some ways, that would've been easier to process if he did, easier to fight against, easier to hate cleanly, without the complicated tangle of emotions that came with it.

No, Nico never seemed angry.

Never frustrated.

Never disappointed.

Never anything at all.

I's like he never showed any emotion, and maybe that's what this city did to you, make you an emotionless husk until it all ends. 

Every time he dragged her back to Dema, his face remained completely blank. Expressionless and empty, like her escape attempts weren't worth reacting to. Like she wasn't worth reacting to. Like she was simply a problem to be solved, a misplaced object to be returned to its proper place.

Not a person. He never treated anyone like a person, especially not the citizens in his district.

Just a thing that kept ending up where it didn't belong.

And somehow, that was worse than any punishment could have been. The complete and utter absence of acknowledgment. The way he looked at her, or rather, the way he looked through her, like she was made of glass. Like she didn't matter enough to warrant even the smallest emotional response.

The worst part, the part that kept her awake at night, staring at the ceiling of her assigned housing unit, was that despite everything, despite every failure, despite every time Nico's hand had closed around her arm and pulled her back...

She still wanted to leave. Still dreamed about Trench every night. Still found herself staring beyond the walls whenever she got the chance.

Still wondered what freedom felt like, really felt like, beyond those two days she'd managed to steal.

The wanting never stopped. It lived inside her like a second heartbeat, constant and insistent and impossible to ignore. Some days it was the only thing that felt real.

Which was exactly why she found herself sitting in the backseat of Nico's car right now, her hands resting nervously in her lap, her heart doing that familiar hammering thing against her ribs.

She didn't know why he'd agreed to this.

She'd asked, more out of desperation than any real hope, if he would drive her to the outer edges of the city. Just to see, just to look, for the last time. She'd expected him to say no, or more likely, to simply ignore her the way he usually did.

Instead, he'd said yes.

On one condition, that she would never escape the city ever again, or even think about it. It was the only way she could get one painful breath of fresh air.

And now here they were.

Outside the window, the city slowly disappeared behind them, grey buildings giving way to smaller structures, then to open spaces, then to fields of dead grass stretching toward the horizon. Bee watched carefully, her eyes tracking every landmark, every turn, every checkpoint they passed through.

Even now, even sitting in Nico's car with him right there in the driver's seat, she couldn't stop herself from cataloging escape routes. Noting which roads led where, which gates had guards, which sections of wall looked weaker than others.

It was automatic at this point. instinctive, like breathing, even if she wasn't planning an escape. 

Nico sat in the driver's seat, silent as always, his hands steady on the wheel. His face was turned toward the empty road ahead, expression blank, giving away nothing. The streetlights streaming through the windshield painted harsh shadows across his features, making him look even more like a statue than usual.

Bee looked up at those street lights, their yellow glow almost casting a comfortable glow over the barren road. She closed her eyes, praying those lights would take her away from this, take her somewhere safe. Home, but deep down, she knew it was insane to think that. 

For several minutes neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn't unusual, Nico rarely talked. When he did, it was usually because he needed something, and even then his words were clipped and efficient, stripped of anything resembling warmth or personality.

Bee stared out the window, watching the landscape change. Empty fields replaced buildings, green and lush grass growing off the side of the road wildly, freely. The farther they drove from the city center, the lighter her chest felt, like someone was slowly removing weights she'd been carrying for so long she'd forgotten they were there.

This was the furthest she'd been from Dema's core in months. Maybe longer.

She almost smiled. Almost.

The feeling was too fragile to trust, too easily shattered. Hope had betrayed her too many times before.

Instead, she glanced toward the front seat, studying the back of Nico's head. His dark hair curly hair blowing slightly in the wind, his posture was perfect, as always. Everything about him was controlled and precise and utterly devoid of humanity.

"You know," she said carefully, testing the waters, "I'm surprised you said yes."

Nico didn't look away from the road. Didn't even twitch.

"To what?"

His voice was flat. Emotionless. The same tone he used for everything, whether he was recapturing her or asking what she wanted for dinner or informing her of new city regulations.

"The drive," Bee said.

Silence stretched between them, long enough that she thought he might not respond at all. Then—

"You agreed to the conditions."

That was it, a couple of words. As if that explained everything, and maybe it did…because after all, he told her the conditions and she still agreed to it. 

Bee rolled her eyes, a familiar frustration bubbling up in her chest.

"Wow. Riveting conversation." She scoffed, sarcasm dripping from her voice. 

Nothing. Not even a flicker of reaction.

She sighed dramatically, slumping lower in her seat.

"Do you ever get tired of being mysterious? Or is this just your personality? Because I've gotta tell you, it's really annoying."

Still nothing.

Bee sank even lower into her seat, until she was practically horizontal, staring at the car's ceiling.

"Great talk."

The road continued beneath them, smooth and endless. The engine hummed softly, a steady rhythm that might have been soothing under different circumstances. For a while, everything felt strangely normal. Almost peaceful, in a surreal sort of way.

The sun was warm through the window. The landscape rolling past was almost pretty, in a desolate kind of way. If she squinted and ignored the walls visible in the distance and pretended she wasn't sitting in a car with the person who'd recaptured her more times than she could count—

It almost felt like freedom. Almost.

Then Nico stiffened.

It happened so suddenly that Bee nearly missed it. One second he was driving normally, hands relaxed on the wheel, posture perfect but not tense. The next second every muscle in his body seemed to lock up simultaneously.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles going white.

His shoulders went rigid.

His jaw clenched.

Every line of his body screamed tension in a way she'd never seen before. In all the years she'd known him, if "known" was even the right word for their strange, horrible, toxic relationship, she'd never seen him react to anything. Never seen him show fear or anger or surprise or any emotion at all.

But this...This was different.

Bee frowned, her own body tensing in response to his.

"Nico?"

No answer.

His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, but there was something in them now. Something she couldn't quite name but that made her stomach drop.

A strange feeling settled over her, cold and heavy.

Slowly, carefully, she leaned forward in her seat, trying to see what he was seeing.

"What is it?"

Then she saw him.

A figure stood in the middle of the road, maybe fifty yards ahead.

Motionless. Waiting.

At first, Bee's brain couldn't process what she was seeing. The figure didn't move, didn't wave, didn't step aside. Just stood there like they'd been planted in the asphalt, like they were part of the landscape itself.

Then the details started filtering in.

One thing standing out to her the most, Yellow.

That was the first thing that registered. The color immediately drew her attention because it was so out of place, so vibrant against the grey and brown and white of everything else. Yellow tape crossed the front of a worn olive-green hoodie in an X pattern. More yellow tape wrapped around both knees of dark olive cargo pants. A yellow bandana hung loosely around the figure's neck, bright as a sunflower.

Dark curls escaped from beneath a black beanie, wild and unkempt in a way that no one in Dema would ever allow their hair to be.

In one hand, the figure carried a torch.

An actual torch, like something out of a story, flames dancing wildly in the afternoon breeze. The fire seemed impossibly bright, impossibly alive, casting flickering shadows across the road.

For a split second, nobody moved.

The car kept rolling forward, eating up the distance between them and the figure. Thirty yards. Twenty-five. Twenty.

Then Bee saw something she'd never expected to see in her entire life.

Fear.

Nico looked afraid.

Not just tense, not just alert, actually, genuinely afraid.

His face had gone pale. His breathing had quickened. His eyes were wide, fixed on the figure ahead like he was staring at death itself.

Bee's own heart started hammering.

She'd never seen Nico afraid of anything. Hadn't thought he was capable of fear. He was a Bishop, one of the nine rulers of Dema, powerful and untouchable and completely in control of everything.

But right now, in this moment, he looked terrified.

"Nico—"

The Bishop slammed on the brakes.

Everything happened at once.

The tires screamed against asphalt, a sound like the world tearing itself apart. The car lurched violently, throwing Bee forward against her seatbelt. The belt caught her hard across the chest, knocking the air from her lungs.

But they weren't stopping.

They were accelerating.

Nico's foot had hit the gas instead of the brake, or maybe he'd done it on purpose, she couldn't tell, couldn't think, couldn't process what was happening because the car was speeding up and the figure in yellow was getting closer and closer and—

Metal shrieked under the weight. Glass shattered all around them.

The car jerked sideways so violently that Bee's head slammed against the window. Pain exploded behind her eyes, white-hot and blinding. The world tilted, spinning, everything turning sideways and then upside down and then sideways again.

The figure in yellow disappeared from view.

Or maybe Bee's eyes had closed.

She couldn't tell.

Couldn't tell which way was up.

Couldn't tell if she was screaming or if that was the sound of metal tearing.

The car rolled.

Once. The ceiling became the floor became the ceiling.

Twice.

Her shoulder slammed against the door so hard she felt something crack. Not break, maybe, but definitely crack. Pain shot down her arm, sharp and immediate and impossible to ignore.

Three times.

Something struck her head again, the window, the seat, the roof, she didn't know. More pain. More confusion. The world was a kaleidoscope of motion and sound and terror.

Metal shrieked like a living thing dying.

Glass rained down around her, glittering in the sunlight, beautiful and deadly.

Her seatbelt dug into her chest and shoulder, the only thing keeping her from being thrown around the car like a rag doll.

Then, finally, the car stopped moving.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Bee hung suspended in her seatbelt, the world still spinning even though the car had stopped. Her head throbbed, her shoulder screamed at her in pain, her chest ached where the seatbelt had caught her.

She tried to breathe and coughed instead, her lungs burning.

Smoke.

The smell hit her before the realization did, acrid and chemical and wrong. Smoke was filling the car, thick and grey, making her eyes water and her throat close up.

Then she heard it.

The crackling. Fire.

Oh god, fire.

Panic surged through her, sharp and immediate, cutting through the disorientation and pain. She had to move. Had to get out. Had to—

She tried to reach for the seatbelt buckle, but her hands wouldn't cooperate. Her fingers felt numb and clumsy, like they belonged to someone else. The buckle wouldn't release. She pulled at it, yanked at it, her movements growing more frantic as the smoke grew thicker.

The heat was building. She could feel it now, pressing against her skin, making sweat break out across her forehead.

The crackling grew louder.

Closer.

"Help," she tried to say, but it came out as barely a whisper, her voice lost in the smoke and fear.

She pulled at the seatbelt again, harder this time, desperation making her movements jerky and uncoordinated. The buckle still wouldn't release. The smoke was so thick now she could barely see. The heat was intense, painful, like standing too close to an oven.

This was it.

After all those escape attempts, all those times Nico had dragged her back, all those years of fighting and hoping and dreaming—

She was going to die in a car crash on the outskirts of Dema.

The irony would have been funny if she wasn't so terrified.

Then she heard a voice.

"Easy."

The word cut through the chaos like a knife, clear and strong and steady, close. Very close.

Hands appeared through the smoke, strong hands, capable hands, hands that knew what they were doing. They reached for her seatbelt, found the buckle, pressed the release.

The belt snapped free.

Bee started to fall, but the hands caught her, hooking beneath her arms, supporting her weight.

"I've got you," the voice said. "Hold on."

She was being pulled, dragged out of the car. The world tilted again as she was maneuvered through the wreckage, through the smoke, through the broken window. Metal scraped against her legs. Glass crunched beneath her. The heat was intense, almost unbearable, and then—

Cool and fresh air of Trench.

The smoke cleared and she could breathe again, gasping and coughing and alive.

The hands kept pulling her, kept moving her away from the wreckage. Away from the heat, away from the fire that was consuming what was left of the car.

Normally, she wouldn't have let a total stranger drag her around aimlessly, but every bone in her body ached from the wreck.

Finally, they stopped.

Bee was lowered gently onto grass, soft and cool beneath her. The hands released her carefully, making sure she was stable before letting go completely.

She lay there for a moment, just breathing, just existing. Her head was spinning. Her body ached everywhere. But she was alive.

Alive.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Slowly, the world came back into focus.

Orange flames lit up her surroundings, climbingthe twisted remains of the overturned vehicle, maybe twenty feet away. Black smoke poured into the night sky covered in stars you could never see from the city. The heat radiated from the wreckage in waves, intense enough that she could feel it even from this distance.

Too close.

She'd been too close.

If someone hadn't pulled her out…She would've been a goner.

Bee turned her head, looking for her rescuer.

A man crouched beside her, watching her with concerned brown eyes. He was maybe in his mid-twenties, with messy brown hair that stuck up in several directions and a face that might have been handsome if it wasn't currently covered in soot and worry lines.

He wore an olive-green hoodie with yellow duct tape crossed over the chest in an X pattern. More yellow tape wrapped around his knees, a yellow bandana was tied around his neck, dark olive cargo pants, and worn boots. The same figure she saw on the side of the road. 

The torch lay on the ground beside him, the flames dying out before it laid against the moist grass.

"Can you hear me?" he asked, his voice gentle but urgent.

Bee blinked at him.

"Yeah," she managed to speak between coughs, her voice rough from smoke.

His shoulders visibly relaxed, some of the tension leaving his body.

"Good. That's good." He studied her face carefully, like he was checking for signs of serious injury. "You hit your head pretty hard. How do you feel? Dizzy? Nauseous?"

"Like I was just in a car crash," Bee said flatly.

The response slipped out automatically, her default coping mechanism, sarcasm in the face of trauma. It was either that or start crying, and she refused to cry in front of a stranger.

The man actually laughed.

A short, surprised sound that seemed to catch him off guard as much as it caught her. His eyes crinkled at the corners, genuine amusement breaking through the concern.

"Fair enough," he said, still smiling slightly. "Anything broken? Can you move your arms? Your legs?"

Bee took inventory of her body, carefully moving each limb. Everything hurt, but nothing felt broken. Her shoulder throbbed where she'd hit the door, and her head was pounding, but she could move. Could breathe, could think, mostly.

"I don't think so," she said. "Just... bruised. Everywhere."

"That's good. That's really good."

He paused slightly, looking at her as she raised an eyebrow slightly at him.

"Well…not good that you're bruised, that's really bad actually—." He began to ramble aimlessly, which in any other circumstance, Bee would be annoyed, but she couldn't help the way the corners of her lips tilted up in amusement as he rambled.

He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his hair and leaving streaks of soot behind. For the first time, Bee noticed that his hands were shaking slightly. Not much, but enough to be visible.

He'd been scared too, she realized. Scared for her.

The thought was strange, foreign. When was the last time anyone had been scared for her? When was the last time anyone had cared whether she lived or died?

Bee's gaze drifted past him, toward the burning wreck.

The driver's side door stood open.

Empty. Her heart sank, a cold weight settling in her stomach.

"Nico," she said quietly.

The stranger followed her gaze, his expression darkening slightly.

"He got out," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Saw him run into the fields right after the crash."

Bee stared at the empty driver's seat, at the open door, at the space where Nico should have been before her head laid back against the soft grass with a soft thud.

He'd gotten out.

But he hadn't stayed.

Hadn't checked on her.

Hadn't come back.

He'd just... left.

Left her trapped in a burning car.

Left her to die.

She shouldn't have been surprised. 

A lump formed in her throat, thick and painful. Not because she cared what Nico thought, she didn't, she couldn't, he'd never given her any reason to. But because some small, stupid part of her had hoped that maybe, after all these years, after all the times he'd dragged her back, after all the times he'd found her and returned her and kept her alive—

Maybe he cared, at least a little, at least enough to make sure she wasn't dead. 

Apparently not.

It made her question, why did Nico always chase after her if he didn't care? 

"Hey."

She looked up at him, it was almost like he could see the internal spiral. 

The stranger had moved closer, concern written clearly across his face. His brown eyes were kind, genuinely kind, in a way that made her chest ache.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

Bee swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat back down.

"Yeah," she lied. "I'm fine."

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he just nodded and settled into a more comfortable sitting position beside her, close enough to help if she needed it but not so close as to be invasive.

For a long moment, they both just sat there in the grass, watching the car burn. The flames had fully engulfed it now, consuming what was left of the metal frame. The heat was intense even from this distance, making the air shimmer and waver.

Bee's mind felt sluggish, struggling to process everything that had happened in the last few minutes. The figure in the road. Nico's fear. The crash. The fire. Being pulled from the wreckage. Nico leaving.

It was too much, too fast.

She focused on breathing instead. In and out. Steady and slow.

Finally, she turned to look at the stranger properly.

Really look at him.

The way he carried himself, confident but not arrogant, capable but not cold. Everything about him was different from anyone she'd ever met in Dema. Different from the grey, lifeless citizens shuffling through their routines. Different from the Bishops with their crimson robes and empty eyes.

Different in a way that made something stir in her chest. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

The stranger tilted his head slightly, like he was surprised by the gratitude.

"For what?"

Bee gestured toward the burning wreckage.

"For saving me." Her voice softened, became smaller. "I would've died in there."

The stranger looked away briefly, like he was uncomfortable receiving thanks. Like saving people was just something he did, nothing worth acknowledging or celebrating.

Then he shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Couldn't exactly leave you in there, could I?"

Something about the way he said it, so casual, so matter-of-fact, like of course he'd risk his life to pull a stranger from a burning car, like there was never any question, made Bee's throat tighten again.

She studied him more carefully, taking in details she'd missed before. 

The yellow. So much yellow. Almost too much if she was being honest. 

And suddenly, like a puzzle piece clicking into place, realization struck her. He wore this bright color, one no one ever saw inside the walls of Dema. It was too bright, too hopeful, the Bishops couldn't see it. 

There were only a few people who wore it, but Bee always thought they were a myth, something a citizen made up to give more citizens hope. Hope that maybe there was more to life than this city. 

Her eyes widened.

"No way," she breathed.

The stranger raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face.

"What?"

"You're one of them."

His smile grew, like he'd been waiting for her to figure it out.

"One of who?"

Bee's heart was hammering again, but this time not from fear, from excitement, from disbelief, from something that felt like the world tilting on its axis, she couldn't tell.

"The Banditos."

The word came out almost reverently, like a prayer, like a secret, like something sacred.

The stranger's smile became a full grin, bright and genuine and real.

"We're real," he confirmed.

Bee stared.

Actually stared, her mouth hanging open slightly, her brain struggling to process this information.

The Banditos were real.

Not just stories whispered between citizens when the Bishops weren't listening. Not just rumors passed down through generations. Not just desperate fantasies invented by people who needed something to believe in.

Real.

The stories flooded back, things she'd heard as a child, huddled in corners with other kids, trading tales like precious treasures. Stories about people who lived beyond the walls. People who refused to kneel. People who fought back against the Bishops and won, sometimes. People who wore yellow like armor and believed in freedom the way other people believed in breathing.

Ghosts in the wilderness, some called them.

Rebels beyond the walls.

The people who refused to give up.

Most citizens thought they were myths, fairy tales, things parents made up to give their children hope, even though hope was dangerous in Dema.

But Bee had never stopped believing.

Even when it seemed impossible, even when everyone else dismissed the stories as fantasy, even when believing felt like the most foolish thing she could do.

She'd believed.

And now one of them was sitting right in front of her.

The stranger extended his hand toward her, his smile warm and open.

"I'm Steve," he said.

Bee hesitated for just a moment before taking his hand. His grip was warm, steady, grounding. Real. Solid. Proof that this wasn't a dream or a hallucination brought on by hitting her head.

"Steve?" she repeated.

"Steve Harrington."

His smile grew wider, and there was something in his eyes now, something proud and fierce and unbreakable.

"Leader of the Banditos."

Bee's jaw nearly dropped.

Not just a regular Bandito. Not just someone who'd escaped Dema and joined the resistance, but the leader himself, Torchbearer.

The figure from every story, every rumor, every whispered conversation. The person who'd been fighting the Bishops for years, who'd rescued countless citizens, who'd built a community in Trench from nothing, who carried hope like a torch through the darkness.

Standing right in front of her.

For the first time in years, maybe in her entire life, excitement replaced the hopelessness that had taken up permanent residence in her chest. Not just a flicker, not just a spark, a genuine surge of something that felt dangerously close to joy.

"You can't be serious," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Steve laughed, the sound rich and genuine.

"I get that a lot."

Bee stared at him, speechless, her mind racing. The Torchbearer. The actual Torchbearer. The person she'd heard about in stories since she was a child, the person she'd half-convinced herself was just a legend, a symbol, something people invented to keep themselves going—

He was real.

And he'd just saved her life.

"I'm Bee," she finally managed to say.

The moment the name left her mouth, Steve froze.

It was subtle, just a fraction of a second, barely noticeable. But Bee caught it. The way his eyes widened slightly. The way his breath caught. The way his entire body seemed to still, like he'd just heard something significant.

Something changed in his expression.

Something shifted behind his eyes, something hopeful and hungry and almost desperate. Like he'd been searching for something for a very long time and had just caught a glimpse of it.

He looked at her differently now.

Not like a citizen he'd rescued.

Not like a stranger he'd pulled from a burning car.

Like a possibility, like she might be the answer. 

Like maybe, just maybe, the thing he'd been looking for had finally found him instead.

Steve's hand tightened slightly around hers, still holding it from their handshake. His brown eyes searched her face, studying her with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't.

"Bee," he repeated softly, like he was testing the name. Seeing how it felt.

She nodded, suddenly nervous without understanding why.

"Yeah. Just... Bee. Not short for anything. Just Bee."

A slow smile spread across Steve's face, not the friendly, casual smile from before. This one was different, deeper, like something inside him had just clicked into place after years of being misaligned.

"Bee," he said again, and this time there was something almost reverent in his voice.

The moment stretched between them, heavy with something Bee couldn't quite name. The air felt charged, electric, like the space between lightning and thunder. Like something fundamental had just shifted in the universe and they were both standing at the center of it.

Steve's eyes never left her face, and Bee found she couldn't look away either. There was something in his gaze, recognition, maybe, or hope, or the ghost of a belief he'd thought was dead.

For the first time in three years, hope stirred inside Steve Harrington. Real hope.

Not the stubborn, desperate kind he'd been carrying like a weight and trying to convince the other Bandito's and himself. Not the kind that felt more like obligation than belief. But genuine, honest-to-god hope that maybe, just maybe, Dema hadn't won.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd finally found another Clancy.

Because he had heard from Dustin—not you—that Max had broken up with Lucas. And Steve was terrified that you would follow suit. That you'd block him out completely as well as everyone else.

And Steve could not let that happen.

And so, Steve had decided enough was enough.

“You can talk to me, you know,” he tells you later that evening as he drives you home, his fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. “If things are feeling heavy or—you know.”

You don’t say anything but Steve sees the way your fingers curl into the leather of the passenger seat.

“M’fine,” you mumble, glancing out the window so Steve couldn’t read your expression.

Usually he’d drop it. Leave it there. But he couldn’t let you shut him out any longer.

“You’re not fine,” Steve tells you. “Fine isn’t refusing to talk to me about things. About Billy. About losing him. About how it’s affecting you.”

You go quiet. Really quiet. He hates when you go quiet—he’d much rather you yell at him.

Steve glances over at you and can see it—the way you were biting the inside of your cheek, the way you were refusing to look at him. You were closing up, getting ready to shut him out like you always did.

“I just—I worry, okay? A lot. I might not know what you’re going through but I know what you’re doing isn’t healthy. You need to talk about things, even if it’s difficult, even if it’s heavy. Bottling it all up isn’t going to do you any good. You need a shoulder to lean on sometimes and that’s okay. I’m your boyfriend, you can lean on me whenever you need to. I got you. Always.”

Silence and then—a small sniffle.

Steve pulls over the car immediately so he can hold you. So he can pull you into his arms, wipe away your tears and tell you it was okay.

“I just—I keep seeing hi-him d-die ov-over and o-over again,” you sob out. “And I c-can’t make i-it go a-away.”

Steve feels as though his heart shatters to pieces in his chest. The thought of you being plagued with images of Billy’s brutalised body makes him wish he could take it all away, despite knowing that there was no way he could. And so, he just presses another kiss to your forehead and holds you a little tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you, the words muffled against your skin as he squeezes your arm gently. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

It wasn’t a cure, not even close. But it was a soothing balm you needed after two months of aching.

“I got you,” Steve tells you gently, another kiss to your hairline before he pulls away enough to wipe some more of your tears. “Always.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

And the thing about Steve Harrington? He always kept his promises.

dividers by @strangergraphics

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when you and joe ended, it was quiet.

it wasn't with a slammed door or a string of words thrown sharp enough to leave scars, it was the kind of breakup that hurt more because both of you were being kind about it. because you loved each other too much to pretend there was nothing wrong and too honestly to keep forcing something that was beginning to bend under the weight of two lives moving in opposite directions.

you had both tried. god, you'd tried.

there'd been late night flights and missed calls and messages answered hours too late because one of you had been on set, the other in a studio, then across the country, then in another time zone entirely. there had been promises made in airport terminals and half finished conversations over crackling phone lines. there had been so many moments where it felt like you were reaching for each other through glass.

every time you finally got a stretch of time together, it felt precious and rare, and every goodbye got harder because neither of you wanted to be the person who said it first.

eventually, that became the problem. not because the love had gone anywhere, because it hadn’t, but because love alone couldn't fix the feeling of becoming strangers to each other’s routines. of loving someone in fragments. of trying to hold on so tightly that the tenderness started to bruise.

so you ended it before it could rot. before impatience turned into bitterness, before longing became resentment, before the version of you that loved him most got buried under everything you couldn't give each other.

and then, because neither of you knew how to be cruel even when you were breaking apart, you let go.

-

after that, there was nothing obvious. no big statement, no messy captions or indirect interviews. just silence. a clean, terrible silence that stretched on and on until it became its own kind of language.

you stopped texting. stopped calling. stopped making excuses to stay in each other’s orbit. and for a while, it was the only way to survive it.

but love like that doesn't vanish, it lingers.

in the oddest places.

in the back row of a room full of people where you suddenly, instinctively look up because you feel seen. in a flash of brown hair and a familiar profile across a crowded event. in the reflexive little pause your heart makes before you remember to breathe. in the way your gaze keeps finding his before you even realise you're searching.

it became a habit, though neither of you ever admitted it.

at events, you'd scan a room full of sparkling gowns and sharp suits, and there he was. half lit at the edge of a crowd, looking at you with the same stunned softness he'd always worn when he thought no one was watching. and every time, neither of you did anything more than a sad smile and a small wave, like the two of you were standing on opposite sides of a river neither could cross.

sometimes his eyes looked tired. sometimes yours did.

sometimes he looked like he had meant to say something and thought better of it. sometimes you did too.

and always, always, there was that impossible undercurrent underneath the politeness. the knowledge that you knew each other too well to really fool each other. that even now, from across a room, he could probably tell whether you'd slept or not. whether you were pretending to be fine. whether you were holding your shoulders too rigid because you were nervous. whether you were smiling with your mouth and not your eyes.

it was unbearable, in the quietest way possible.

and then came the awards night.

the kind of serious, glittering, high-stakes evening where everyone looked like they'd been polished to perfection and every conversation sounded half like a compliment and half like a competition.

you spent the entire day trying not to think about it, failing miserably, then spent the entire drive to the venue with your hands clenched in your lap and your pulse thudding hard enough to make you feel faint.

you were nominated for best actor, which sounded unreal every time you heard it out loud.

you had worked for this for years. years of auditions, rejections, near-misses, tiny roles no one remembered, projects you poured your whole heart into only to watch them disappear into the noise. it never really felt like this was meant for you, not all the way. and now, somehow, your name was printed on the same card as people you had grown up admiring, people whose faces had been on magazine covers and billboards for as long as you could remember.

you told yourself you were being ridiculous. you told yourself it was an honor just to be nominated. you told yourself you would be fine no matter what happened.

you were lying.

by the time the category came up, your entire body felt like it had turned to static.

your fingers were cold. your throat was dry. every tiny movement around you felt amplified, every sound stretched out and distorted. you could barely hear the presenter introducing the nominees over the pounding in your ears. your name came and went in a blur.

there was a pause. and then your name was called again, this time as the winner.

for a second, you honestly thought your brain had short-circuited.

the applause sounded distant at first, like it was happening underwater. someone beside you said something you couldn’t register, the room tilted and steadied and tilted again.

your heart was beating so fast it felt almost painful.

you stood up too quickly, nearly tripping over the edge of your dress or your own feet or the fact that your entire life had just split open and become something else.

the people around you were smiling, clapping, rising to their feet. you could see flashes from cameras, could hear the swell of the room like waves hitting the shore. you walked toward the stage in a daze, one hand pressed briefly to your chest as if you could keep your heart from escaping.

then you looked up.

and there he was.

joe was in the crowd, sitting just far enough back that you hadn't noticed him until now. his smile was wide and genuine and so full of pride it nearly undid you on the spot. not the polite little wave smile. not the sad, restrained one you had gotten so used to. this was bright and open and devastated in the most beautiful way, like he was seeing you become yourself in real time and could barely stand how much it meant to him.

your breath caught so hard you almost missed the last step.

he was just there, and you felt that old familiar ache rise up so suddenly it almost took your knees from under you. because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how many months of silence, seeing him like that still felt like being struck somewhere tender.

you made it to the microphone somehow.

you laughed a little too brightly at first, because you didn't know what else to do with the fact that your hands were shaking. the audience laughed with you, kind and expectant, and you glanced down at the award in your hands like it might vanish if you looked away too long.

the speech came in fragments at first. thank you to the academy, thank you to the cast and crew, thank you to your team, your family, your friends. your voice trembled once and you had to swallow hard. you looked out over the room and tried not to cry because that would have made everything worse and you were already one breath away from completely losing it.

and then your eyes found joe again.

he was still watching you. still smiling, though now there was a shine to his eyes that made something in your chest tighten painfully. he looked so proud it almost hurt to witness it. like your success was somehow his too, like he had been carrying it in his hands from the beginning.

you shouldn't have said it, maybe.

it was too personal. too honest. too much for a room like this, filled with polished strangers and bright lights and a thousand cameras waiting for a moment they could replay forever.

but you didn't know how to leave the truth sitting in your mouth when it had been living in your chest for so long.

so, toward the end of your speech, your voice went softer.

you thanked your parents. thanked your friends. thanked the team that had believed in you long before the world had any reason to. and then, after the smallest pause, you said his name.

just his name at first, spoken gently enough that the room seemed to lean in.

you thanked joe for helping you get here. for believing in you, for seeing something in you early on that you hadn't yet learned to see in yourself, for encouraging you when you were tired, for pushing you when you wanted to quit, for being the person who could look at you and speak your potential into the room like it was already real.

your voice almost broke on the last part.

you said that in a room like this, where everyone had expectations and opinions, it meant everything to have one person who never looked at you like you were any less than enough.

you didn't look at him when you said it. you couldn't. the words were too raw, too vulnerable. you were afraid that if you met his eyes again you'd stop speaking entirely.

the applause that followed was louder than anything else in the room.

by the time you stepped away from the microphone and began the walk back down the stage steps, your whole body felt like it had been set alight and then gently, carefully, put back together.

everyone was standing. everyone was clapping. faces blurred as you passed them. someone touched your arm, someone called your name, someone laughed with joy on your behalf. all of it felt unreal, like you were drifting a few inches above the floor instead of walking.

and the whole time, you could feel him.

you almost made it back to your seat when he was suddenly there, in front of you, moving through the crowd with none of the hesitation he'd shown all night. like he had decided there was no point in pretending patience was still an option, like the second you stepped off that stage, all the distance between you had become unbearable.

you stopped breathing.

joe looked wrecked in the sweetest way. his eyes were glassy, his smile trembled at the edges like it had been fighting tears for the last several minutes and was losing. he looked at you for half a second as if memorising the fact that you were really standing there, award in hand, trembling and glowing and somehow more beautiful than he remembered, though he knew that was not actually possible.

then he stepped forward and pulled you into him.

it was not cautious. it was immediate and desperate and real, his arms wrapped around you like they had never learned how to let go in the first place. you made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and your own arms went around him with zero hesitation, because your body had known where to go long before your mind could catch up.

he held you like he had been waiting years.

and maybe he had.

the room went on around you, applause still rippling, people still moving, but inside that embrace there was only the two of you and the violent, aching recognition of how much love had survived the silence.

joe buried his face near your shoulder and whispered, barely audible, “i’m so proud of you.”

the words went straight through you.

your fingers curled into the fabric at his back. you tried to laugh through it, but the sound came out broken.

he loosened just enough to look at you, his hands still firm at your waist. his mouth opened, then closed, like he was choosing whether or not to say something he had kept inside for a very long time.

then, softly, with a kind of honesty that made the air between you feel electric, he said, “i love you.”

everything in you stilled.

the world around you blurred at the edges. the lights, the applause, the noise, all of it dropped away until there was only his face, open and trembling and heartbreakingly familiar. the fact that after all this time, after all the missing and the silence and the careful smiles across crowded rooms, he was still saying it.

not as a performce, not as a habit.

as truth.

your throat tightened so hard it hurt.

you looked at him, really looked at him, and all the love you had been carrying like a secret suddenly felt too large to contain. all the time you had spent pretending you were fine, all the nights you looked at old photos, all the moments you had felt him in the room before seeing him, all the tiny griefs that had never fully left, gathered itself into a single bright ache.

you let out a breath that shook, then you said it back.

“i love you too.”

his face changed immediately, something soft and stunned and almost disbelieving washing over it, like he had been waiting to hear those words again for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like when they were real.

his grip on you tightened and for a second you thought he might say something else, might explain himself, might turn the moment into words that could make sense of what you were both feeling.

instead, he just held you harder.

you did the same.

there were still people all around you. still cameras. still the entire absurd spectacle of an award show unfolding at full speed. but none of that mattered in that instant. not really. because beneath the noise and the lights and the polished surface of the night, something in you had finally stopped breaking.

you had loved each other then, when it was hard and messy and impossible.

you loved each other now, when it was quiet but no less true.

and maybe that was the part neither of you had ever been able to let go of.

not the relationship itself, but the knowledge that some feelings don't die just because timing is cruel. sometimes they wait. sometimes they survive the distance. sometimes they spend months or years looking for each other in rooms full of people and only need one honest moment to come home.

joe pressed a kiss to your temple, brief and trembling, and you closed your eyes for just a second, letting yourself have it.

just this, just him. just the two of you in a crowd, finally not pretending not to feel the gravity of what had always been there.

and when you opened your eyes again, he was still looking at you the same way he had on that stage, proud and wrecked and full of love, like you were the brightest thing in the room and he had known it all along.

-

“Some more than others,” Monica mutters quietly. Keys pretends that he hadn’t heard her as he walks towards Room 12.

Ever since you had started figure skating professionally almost four years ago, you had visited the ER around twenty five to thirty times, give or take. Between sprains, swollen muscles, gashes, cuts and one or two concussions, you knew the ER department like the back of your hand. You knew the doctors, the nurses, the trainees, the cleaners, the receptionists and of course you knew Doctor Keys.

When you first met him he had still been a student doctor, having just finished medical school. You had sustained a small laceration on your leg and Keys had been the one to stitch you up. You had talked his ear off about how you had gotten into ice skating after watching Ice Princess when you were a kid, how you had bought your first pair of skates at fourteen and had never looked back. Keys didn’t quite understand why you would choose such a dangerous hobby and had told you to bear more careful next time. You had come back barely a week later with another, slightly bigger laceration.

For some unknown reason, maybe fate, maybe it was simply Monica’s strange sense of humour but whenever you came into the ER, he was always your doctor. And so, you had built quite the rapport with Doctor McKey. You teased him, he scolded you for being reckless and the cycle continued—another injury, another lecture, another promise you’d be back soon. The whole department was aware of it too. Keys had even once overheard Nurse Martinez and Doctor Bennett discussing a bet on how many injuries you were going to sustain that year and how long it was going to take before Keys finally lost it.

But he hadn’t. Not yet.

“There’s my favourite doctor,” you greet Keys as he walks into your room with a smile that doesn’t entirely cover up the pain you were in.

Keys hums in acknowledgement, though his ears turn a little red at your words. That was another thing about you—you teased him relentlessly. Monica called it flirting, Keys called it annoying.

“You know, I did tell you this might happen if you didn’t rest your ankle,” Keys comments, unable to stop himself from doing so as he approaches your hospital bed to have a closer look at your ankle. He could see that the flesh was swollen, tender.

“I know but I wanted an excuse to see you,” you say with a bright smile before you tilt your head to the side. “Did you get new glasses by the way?”

Keys pauses, hazel eyes flickering over to you as a faint flush begins to creep up his neck. You were wearing a grey zip up hoodie but your skating costume beneath was peaking out—Keys could see the obnoxious glittering orange material that you had worn a couple times before.

“I did,” he answers, his ears remaining that signature red as pushes up his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“They’re cute,” you tell him. “Suit you.”

Keys decides to ignore you. Though of course you notice the way the flush had spread up to his cheeks

After a gentle assessment, Keys confirms that you had a stress fracture. If he was honest, he was pissed off about it. You hadn’t listened three weeks ago when you had come into the ER with inflammation. You had continued to be your usual, reckless self and now you were at risk of chronic pain or permanent damage to your ankle if you didn’t rest for at least eight weeks.

“Eight weeks?” You echo, your playful facade faltering for the first time as Keys notices the genuine panic in your eyes. “But this is my job! I have a competition soon, I can’t take eight weeks out—”

“—either you take eight weeks out or you risk never being able to skate again,” Keys tells you bluntly. “Your choice.”

For perhaps the first time in four years, you look genuinely worried. Terrified even and Keys starts to feel bad for being so direct with you as he watches the way your fingers curl into the sheets of the hospital bed and how you look away from him with a tight jaw.

Keys hated to admit that he cared about you way more than he wanted to. That he felt a tightening in his chest whenever he saw the words ‘figure skater’ on the triage board. That the reason he got so short with you sometimes was because he wanted you to listen to him, wanted you to take what he said seriously so he didn’t have to worry about you anymore.

And there was a part of him that felt as though he failed you every time you showed up to the ER, every time you had to wait in the waiting room for hours on end. That was the part of himself he didn’t want to think too much about, didn’t want to think about why he cared so much about a patient. Why he cared that your eyes were now slightly glassy as your gaze fixed determinedly on the call bell.

“Look—I know it sucks and I know you love your job but if you put any more stress on this ankle by doing anymore Axels or Solcows—”

“—it’s Salchow—”

“—whatever it’s called. You do more of that? You’re going to cause some irreversible damage and I wouldn’t want that for you.”

You swallow, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before you turn to look back at Keys.

“So eight weeks?” You repeat in a quiet voice.

“Eight weeks,” Keys confirms with a small nod and sympathetic smile. “Rest as much as you can and make sure to keep it elevated. Ice it when possible. If you need to take anti-inflammatory medication I can prescribe you some to save you a trip to the pharmacy and an ACE wrap would be preferable.”

“That’s a long list, Doc,” you say with a small smile. “But I’ll try to remember. I promise.”

Keys nod, trying not to think about the way that small smile had made his entire day.

“I’ll get some medication for you and a nurse will be over soon to wrap your ankle,” he tells you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You snort with laughter and it’s a struggle for Keys to not smile at that sound.

“Can’t anyway,” you say. “Doctor’s orders.”

You stay in the ER for the next three hours, waiting for a nurse to become available to wrap your ankle, waiting for your prescription to be ready and finally waiting to be discharged. In that time, Doctor Keys had checked up on you six times. Not that you were counting.

“Don’t you have other patients you should be checking up on?” You ask him with a smile the seventh time he walks into your room to check your vitals for no apparent reason. “I don’t want there to be a HIPAA violation because you’re worried I’m going to burst into flames or something.”

Keys goes red—now that you had called him out for it, he was beginning to realise just how much he had been checking up on you.

“As far as I’m aware, bursting into flames isn’t a symptom of stress fracture,” he murmurs. “But what do I know? I only went to medical school for like five or six years.”

It took a moment for you to realise that for once, Keys was being indulging in your playful teasing and it was so endearing to you that you couldn’t help but smile. You open your mouth to continue the tennis match of playfulness when a nurse walks in.

“Oh sorry, Doctor McKey,” the nurse says with a nod. “I have her discharge papers here.”

“Oh,” Keys says, smiling at the nurse who hands him the papers. “Cool. Thank you, Nurse Richards.”

“I’m free to go?” You ask as the door closes shut behind the nurse. 

“You’re free to go,” Keys confirms with a nod, ignoring the pit in his stomach at the thought of you leaving.

You manage to manoeuvre yourself off the hospital bed, hobbling a little to keep weight off your ankle as you grab your skating bag from the nearby armchair.

“Is someone picking you up?” Keys asks, watching your ankle carefully as you swing your bag over your shoulder. He knew your skates were in there from how heavy the bag looked. “Like your parents? A friend? A partner?”

Keys knew that the last suggestion had been loaded and that you could see right through him but you didn’t comment on it.

“No, I was just going to get an Uber,” you tell him.

Keys should have left it there. Should have told you to rest your ankle and sent you on your way. But instead, Keys opened his mouth and said something he almost instantly regretted.

“I could take you back home,” he says so suddenly that he surprises even himself. “Um, I have my lunch coming up so—I don’t mind taking you back home on my break.”

Why did he open his mouth? Why did he just offer to drive you home? Why did you have to look so damn pretty in that—

“Okay,” you say, forcing Keys out of the spiral he had been out to descend into. “Yeah. If that wasn’t a problem then—that would be great. Thank you, Doctor McKey.”

“It’s Keys,” he says gently. “Please, call me Keys.”

It was no surprise to you whatsoever that Doctor McKey—Keys—drove a Toyota Prius. It also didn’t surprise you that his most listened to artist was Noah Kahan or that the last playlist he had listened to had been called ‘Calming Mix’.

“Can you stop going through my Spotify?” Keys asks you, face red as his eyes remain on the road while you flick through the app on the screen in his car.

“You said I could be in charge of the music—”

“—you’ve also been trying to find a song for the past five minutes—”

“—in my defence, I am high on pain medication—”

“—you had one Advil like an hour ago—”

The back and forth between you and Keys carries on for the entire car journey to your apartment. In the end, you selected Staying Still just as Keys pulled into your street. 

“Thank you Doc—Keys,” you say when his car finally stops. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Keys says with a curt nod. “But I wanted to. An Uber from the hospital would have been extortionate.”

“Sure,” you say with a small laugh as you reach for the door handle. “Well—I’ll see you in eight weeks for the all clear.”

Keys watches as you open up the car door, watches as you go to step out and—

“Do you mind if I stop by to um—to check you’re doing okay?” He asks you in a slight panic because all of a sudden, eight weeks was too long to not see you. “Bring you groceries or…whatever you need.”

You had half climbed out of his car at this point but you pause at the question, turning to look back at him with a smile tugging on the corners of your mouth.

“Is this in a professional context? Like are you gonna bring a stethoscope or—”

“—no,” Keys shakes his head, feeling his face burn as he wonders what the fuck he was doing. “No stethoscope."

“Shame,” you tell him with a wry smile. “I like the whole McDreamy thing you got going on.”

“Mc—what—”

But instead of answering, you finally climb out of his car before limping towards your apartment door. And Keys begins to wonder what the fuck had he just done.

Keys waits a respectable amount of time—four days—before he first shows up at your apartment door with his arms full of groceries. He had spent way too much time and way too much money on the grocery shop for you but he told himself it was all in aid for your recovery. That he was being a good doctor.

But then he kept showing up. With groceries, with pizza from that Italian palace he knew you liked and one time, with some cupcakes he had “accidentally” bought too many of. And after the first few visits, you began to invite him in—for dinner, for a few episodes of whatever TV it was that you were watching. And Keys was happy to note that you were actually listening to his advice—that you were resting, keeping your leg elevated as much as you could and that you hadn’t been skating since the trip to the ER.

It had been six weeks since then and Keys was over every couple of days now. You found that you had memorised the sound of his car pulling up outside your apartment. You found that those days Keys came over had quietly become your favourite. And Keys found himself thinking of excuses to visit you. He sometimes left his jacket on your couch just to come over the next day or because he had found a TV that he knew you’d like and needed to tell you about it immediately.

It was a Friday night and Keys had a difficult day in the ER. You didn’t ask what had happened but you had heard about the fatal car crash that had occurred in the city earlier that day. The one that had killed an entire family. And so, you had suggested trying to make pizzas from scratch. It had gone horribly but Keys had managed to crack a smile for the first time that day.

You beam when you see it and you can’t help yourself. Because Keys had been so good to you over the past few weeks that you wanted—needed—to say thank you. And so, you set down the dough you had been kneading with your hands for the past few minutes before you lean towards him, your lips aiming for his cheek.

But at that exact moment, Keys turned his head—likely to ask you to pass the sauce or the olives or whatever, you don’t find out—because instead of your lips landing on his cheek—they plant themselves directly onto his lips.

The millisecond or so that your lips were pressed together, you find that his were soft. Pillowy. Ones you wanted to melt into.

But the accidental kiss lasts barely a second before the both of you pull away as though scolded.

“Oh god,” you gasp, your face hot as you stare at Keys with wide eyes. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry! I was trying to kiss you on the cheek but you turned and I—”

“—no, no, no,” Keys says hurriedly, his face so red that he was almost the same colour as the tomatoey sauce as he raises his hands in surrender. “Don’t be sorry! I mean—it was an honest mistake. A big, big massive mistake—”

You laugh but it doesn’t meet your eyes as the words big, massive mistake settle somewhere in your gut. Oh god, you felt awful for making him so uncomfortable but you didn’t know what to say as he backed away from you a little. And so, you tell yourself that the best thing to do was laugh it off.

“Wow,” you say with a forced laugh. “Didn’t think you’d hate the idea of kissing me that much.”

You say it as a joke—you mean it as a joke but your tone makes it sound like anything but. Keys also stops kneading the pizza dough while you look away, not wanting him to see the look of disappointment on your face. 

But before you could even think about returning your attention back to your half-made pizza, both of Keys’ large hands are suddenly resting gently on either side of your neck.

“Keys? What are you—”

Whatever you had been about to say is lost as Keys pulls you in. You barely have time to register what exactly was happening before his lips meet yours purposefully this time and suddenly? Nothing else matters.

His lips were still soft, still pillowy and they were gliding against yours as though they belonged there. You melted into him, your hands finding their way into his hair as his glasses pressed uncomfortably into your face. But you didn’t care—not as you felt his warm tongue dive into your mouth in a move that left you feeling hot all over, that left the blood running through your veins humming.

Keys kissed you like he never wanted to stop, not caring about the flour that was now in his hair from your hands. And likewise, you didn’t care about the flour that was now all over your neck. Not when kissing Keys felt this good. Not when his thumb gently traced over the skin of your neck as he deepened the kiss further, tilting your head back ever so slightly as you clung to him.

It was the sort of kiss that could have lasted for hours. But the sound of the pizza cutter that had been perched precariously on the edge of the kitchen countertop clattering to the ground was the thing that finally pulled you both apart.

You were both breathless, flustered and both unable to stop yourselves from smiling.

“I don’t remember that being on my treatment plan, Doc,” you tease him.

Keys rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. He leans in to gently press his forehead against yours, licking his bottom lip as his eyes shift between yours. “You make me sick sometimes, sweetheart,” he tells you before leaning in to press a gentle, sweet kiss to your lips. “But good thing you’re the cure for it too.”

Your stomach warms at his words and it’s impossible not to beam at his words.

“Maybe I should get stress fractures more often if this is the sort of treatment you deliver.”

Keys shakes his head before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Absolutely not. I’m wrapping you up in bubblewrap to keep you out of harm's way.”

You laugh but you have a feeling that he wasn’t joking. Because there was no way Keys was letting his favourite patient ever get hurt again.

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…

It turns out that the home studio Keys invited you to is a spare bedroom in his apartment. The walls are padded with charcoal gray soundproofing. A simple keyboard is positioned under the window; an acoustic guitar is propped up on one side of the keyboard, a navy blue electric guitar on the other. His desk looks more like a gamer’s setup than a musician’s, complete with a high-powered computer and ergonomic chair in a similar shade of blue to his guitar.

“My friend Millie used to live with me,” Keys explains. “I made it into my office when she moved out.”

He pulls out the seat in front of the keyboard for you. The view from the window is a plain brick wall with a faded advertisement for a bread company that you’re almost certain went out of business years ago. 

“It’s not much to look at but it helps me think,” He sits down in his desk chair, spinning it around to face you.

You raise an eyebrow, “Seriously?” Your eyes move between the window and Keys.

“I like to be alone with my thoughts,” Keys smiles bashfully. “We can swap spots if you don’t like it.”

“No. This whole thing is about trying something new. Sitting in your slightly depressing workspace is new.”

Keys chuckles, “Glad I could help,” He pauses, turning around to open software that looks more experimental than anything you’ve seen your usual producers use. You don’t know what you expected, the article mentioned that he created his own producing platform using his tech background. 

“Now tell me what the song is about.”

“A lot of things, my ex–”

“Not the tabloid answer. Go deeper,” Keys urges, he adjusts his glasses. “I can’t make something based on your ex. I mean, I could, but it wouldn’t be right.”

“The song is about… you know when you want something so badly that you’re willing to ignore all of your instincts? Like it’s actively causing you pain, but it’s somehow part of you… It’s inescapable.”

Something you can’t quite read flickers in his expression, “Yeah. I get that.”

Voicing your thoughts makes what you’ve been chasing clear. The reaction you got from Keys is exactly what you want. Your first album connected with people. You could see it on tour every night as fans screamed their hearts out to your lyrics. But you want to pull emotion out of them, something deeper than ‘I’m sad because I got dumped.’

“Do you want me to play it for you?”

“Well, I can’t really produce a song I’ve never heard. Actually–”

You interrupt him, “You can because you can produce anything but ‘it wouldn’t be right.’”

Keys flushes, “Play the song, please.”

You turn to the keyboard, ignoring the expanse of brick in your eyeline. What if he hates it? Worse, what if he hates it and doesn’t say anything? The team around you has fallen into that habit. It’s almost impossible to get genuine feedback on your new work.

Keys is quiet as you sing, only humming along to the melody as he gets the hang of it. The fear washes away, the song is good, you’ve known it since you read over it with a sober mind this morning.

When you’re done, Keys claps. You wonder if he’s one of those people who claps when the airplane lands. Your eyes drift down to his hands. Slender fingers, precisely clipped nails, smooth skin unmarred by scars or callouses. You force yourself to look back at his face. His expression is purely analytical, already building a sound around your rough draft. 

Keys gets up, moving to sit beside you on the seat. His thigh brushes against yours. Hands ghosting the keyboard over your own. Up close, Keys smells clean, like laundry detergent and 2-in-1.

“Build,” he adjusts a setting and plays a string of notes, fiddling with things until it sounds the way he wants it to. “The listener should feel the pressure you're describing. If the song builds as you sing, then drops off just before the end,” Keys demonstrates, guiding your hands to copy the rhythm. “It'll be like you’re weighing them down, not letting up until it’s too late. By then, the song is done and they’re chasing relief. The next track on the album can give them that… this is for an album, right?”

“It is. I was thinking this would be the lead single. I still have to talk it over with my team but it’s what I want.”

“Yes! Okay, that’s perfect,” Keys runs a hand through his hair, pushing loose strands out of his face just for them to fall back down. “Lead single. Lead single. I don’t know what the rest of the record is like, but this needs to be the lead. It’s strong, which is what you need for your big follow up.”

You grin, “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Great minds think alike,” Keys jokes before refocusing on the task at hand. 

“We need to include that pressure in the mix,” he hops up and returns to his desk, leaving a void beside you. The distance is unnatural, every fiber of your being wants to be close to him again. That’s where you were supposed to be. Jesus, you just met the guy. 

“Lower vocals, slight delay,” he muses. “Can you sing into the mic attached to the board? I need to test the levels first.”

You sing the ABCs as Keys clicks away on his desktop, back slouched forward.

“Your posture is awful,” you laugh.

Keys attempts to straighten his back but goes back to position almost immediately, “So I’ve been told.”

You sit in a slightly uncomfortable silence while Keys messes with his software. Finally, you decide to get up and stand by his chair. His body tenses as you lean into his shoulder.

“Is something wrong?”

He shakes his head, “There’s a glitch in the software. Shouldn’t take too long to fix.”

“I can record vocals while you work on that. Maybe try to refine the melody, too. I was drunk when I wrote all of it.”

Keys stares at you, “That’s what you come up with when you’re drunk?”

“It’s my preferred creative state.”

“Guess I should get drunk more often,” His eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second. Keys coughs. “The software is almost ready, you should start on vocals. Warm up, drink from a flask, whatever helps.”

“Very funny.”

…

The rest of your session goes well after the software hiccup. Once Keys is done, the song sounds exactly how you imagined it. The growth from your past work is evident. It feels right, just like Keys said.

He disappears into another room and comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses. You’re lying on the floor now, exhaustion threatening to overtake your body. Keys sits down next to you, legs criss-crossed.

“Thought we could use some creative inspiration after the work we did today.”

You snort, watching Keys carefully pour wine into both glasses before handing one to you.

“But seriously, today was incredible. That song, your voice, I mean, this is a hit. No wonder you’re so successful.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without your production. You just… understood everything I was thinking and feeling, then put it into the music.”

Keys shrugs, “Just doing my job.”

“You’re great at it.”

He avoids your gaze, heat rising to his cheeks at your praise. Keys takes a long sip of his wine.

You continue, because he deserves it and to see how flustered he’ll get, “I’ve worked with a lot of producers, but you’re unique. They don’t see things the way you do. Working with you—

“Stop,” his face is bright red now. “You don’t have to compliment me.”

“I mean it, Keys. You’re amazing. I don’t understand all the technical shit you do, you’re like a wizard with it. And you’re a spectacular musician,” you drink out of your glass, watching him over the brim.

Keys gulps down more wine, “I was scared to meet you, you know? Like, actually terrified.”

“Why?” You don’t think that you’re a particularly scary person, yet your fame and stage presence can unnerve people in a way that you don’t fully get.

“You’re a global sensation. Everyone loves you and your music. I thought I was going to mess it up or make things awkward. You’re talented and effortless and beautiful,” Keys freezes, still sober enough to realize what he let slip. “I mean, objectively, you’re all those things. I’m not trying to make a move.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you were.”

Keys sputters, eyes widening behind his glasses. When he regains some sort of composure, he slides closer to you. His large hand cradles your cheek, tilting your head to look directly at him.

“Kiss me,” you murmur.

“Getting involved with a collaborator is a bad idea. It never ends well, trust me,” yet, Keys leans in, nose brushing against your skin. 

“We’re not officially collaborators."

“We will be,” Keys whispers. “I like working with you.”

“I like it too. One kiss won’t ruin it.”

The wheels in his brain turn, deciding between his options. It doesn’t take long from his lips to make contact. Keys is hesitant, analyzing the situation, eyes finally fluttering closed as he gives himself over to you. His hand lingering on your cheek. Warmth runs through your body, you deepen the kiss, pushing yourself as close to him as you can. Your hand finds the hair at the nape of his neck, you comb through the silky strands, gently tugging on them when Keys tries to pull away. The fresh smell from earlier has been replaced by the wine you’ve both been nursing.

His lips are softer than any man’s should be, they move with a level of experience you didn’t expect from him. Your heart skips a beat when Keys pushes you down to the carpet, steadying himself on top of you. His weight envelopes you.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” he mutters against your lips.