It’s two a.m when you feel his fingers twitch.

At first you think you imagined it—your eyes sting from exhaustion, and you’ve had too many false alarms, too many times you thought the monitors jumped because of something you did.

But then his brow pinches.

And his hand moves again.

“Steve?” You sit forward so fast the chair squeaks. “Steve—hey—can you hear me?”

Robin is on her feet instantly shouting for the doctor.

Dustin scrambles backward, “I’m gonna call the others.”

Your heart leaps into your throat.

His lashes flutter, jaw clenching around a grimace.

“Steve?” you whisper, terrified and hopeful at the same time. “I’m right here—just breathe, okay? Just—”

His eyes open.

Not all the way. Barely a squint. Hazel and unfocused, pupils blown wide. He stares at the ceiling first, then the bright light the doctor swings over him, then Robin and Dustin hovering anxiously at his sides.

And then…finally at you.

His gaze lands on your face.

You expect something, a smile, a blink of recognition, a sarcastic comment about how bad your hair must look at two in the morning.

Instead, his expression shifts into confusion. Deep. Sharp. Like you’re a puzzle piece he’s holding the wrong way.

“Wh—where…” His voice rasps, raw and hoarse. “What happened?”

The doctor steps in. “Mr. Harrington, you’re at Hawkins General. You’ve been unconscious for several days. You took a hard hit during the collapse of the chemical plant at the old Creel house.”

Chemical plant. The official government line.

Steve frowns like the word doesn’t match the picture in his head. “How long?” he asks.

“Ten days,” Robin says too quickly, trying to sound encouraging. “You—you scared the crap out of us, dingus.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a muffled cough.

Dr. Patel continues gently, “Steve, I need to ask you a few questions. Just to check how your brain is doing.”

He nods stiffly.

“What’s your full name?”

“Steven Harrington.”

“And your birthday?”

He answers.

“And the year?”

He hesitates. You see the panic begin to creep in around the edges of his expression.

“Uh… ‘86?” he guesses. “Summer? We just—we just dealt with—” His breath shakes. “Vec—” He stops abruptly, brow furrowing, correcting himself to fit the “earthquake” explanation he’s been given. “The, uh… the tremors, from the earthquake?”

Robin and Dustin trade looks.

Dr. Patel hums thoughtfully. “Steve, tell me the last thing you remember before waking up here.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. His eyes dart across the room, searching for something that isn’t there.

“I was talking to Nancy,” he finally says. “In the RV. We were… I don’t know. Catching up, I guess.” His voice softens in confusion. “She was scared. We all were. And then… then the ground started to shake. And… nothing.”

Your pulse pounds.

Because that was a year and half ago. Before he met you. Before your first apartment together and late-night confessions and soft I love yous whispered into your hair. Before everything you built with him.

The doctor finishes the test, as the door bursts open. Jonathan is first inside, breathless, eyes wide. “We came as soon as Dustin called.” Eddie and Nancy trailing behind him equally as breathless and relieved. 

Eddie leans on the foot of the bed like his legs might give out. “Jesus H. Christ, dude—you scared the shit out of us.”

Steve blinks at all of them, overwhelmed.

“Could I speak with you all,” Dr. Patel says quietly, “out in the hall?”

Robin squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “We’ll be right back, okay?”

He nods, breaths coming uneven.

Dustin stays behind as Steve’s shakingly pleads, “Don’t—don’t leave me alone yet.”

Dr. Patel closes the door gently behind him. His expression is gentle, but serious. “Steve shows signs of retrograde amnesia,” he explains. “The memories leading up to his injury—months, possibly more than a year—are currently inaccessible.”

“Like… gone?” Eddie asks, eyes wide.

“Not gone,” the doctor corrects. “Think of memory as a file drawer. The files are there, but the drawer won’t open.”

“And when does it open?” Robin presses.

There’s a heavy silence.“It could be days,” the doctor says. “Or weeks. Or years. Or… never.”

Your lungs stop working.

“Can we… tell him?” Eddie asks, voice pitching higher. “Like, fill in the gaps? Show him photos, talk him through it?”

Dr. Patel shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says firmly. “Forcing memories can be damaging in cases like this. The brain is in a vulnerable state. If you bombard him with information, try to ‘make’ him remember, it can cause severe anxiety, confusion, even setbacks in his recovery.”

“And—and we’re supposed to just pretend he didn’t lose the last 18 months of his life?” Nancy whispers.

“Pretend? No. Avoid triggering details? Yes,” Dr. Patel says. “Keep him grounded in what he does remember. Familiar routines. Familiar places. Familiar people.”

Your heart splinters. Because you…you are none of those things to him anymore.

Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. “So uh… where’s he supposed to stay? ‘Cause he sure as hell can’t go back to the house he doesn’t remember living in.”

Jonathan nods toward you. “He was staying with—”

“No,” you interrupt immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “He can’t… he doesn’t know me. That would freak him out.”

Robin winces sympathetically.

Nancy adds, “And staying with me and Jonathan would confuse him even more. He doesn’t remember patching things up.”

“I’ll take him,” Eddie says without hesitation. “My place is basically a cave of familiar smells and poor hygiene. Should feel like home.”

It draws a strained, grateful laugh from the others.

You nod numbly, “Yeah. That’s… that’s good.”

The door opens again, Dustin peeking out, “He’s asking for you guys,” he says softly. “He’s… um… kinda scared.”

Steve is sitting up more, breathing hard like he’s trying not to panic.

His eyes scan each face—Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Eddie, Jonathan—landing on each with some level of recognition.

Then he looks at you. And his brows pull together in apologetic confusion.

“Um,” he says, voice hoarse, “sorry but… do I… know you?”

For a second, no one breathes. You force a small smile. Force your voice to work.

“I’m just… a friend,” you whisper. “One of the people who came to see you.”

His shoulders relax, but he still looks guilty. “Sorry. I’m just—everything’s blurry.”

You swallow the burn in your throat. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

–

The day Steve is discharged is strangely bright.

One of those Hawkins afternoons where the sun feels performative, like it’s trying too hard to pretend everything is normal. The hospital lobby hums with murmured conversations and the low squeal of wheelchairs against polished floors. Families gather with flowers and get-well balloons; nurses laugh at inside jokes you’re not part of.

You’re not there.

Instead, you stand in the middle of the apartment you once shared, drowning in the silence that used to feel comforting and now feels impossibly loud. It still smells like him—laundry detergent, cheap coffee, the cologne he always applies too generously in the morning because he insists it “fades by noon.” The couch cushions hold the shape of his favorite spot. His sneakers lie abandoned in the corner, one toe pointing toward the door like he left in a hurry. His jacket hangs over the back of a chair the same way it always does, never quite making it to the hook he installed and promptly stopped using.

On the fridge, the Polaroids watch you as you move. You, in his old Scoops hat, smiling like an idiot, while he flips off Eddie behind the camera. And the one Eddie took where Steve isn’t looking at the lens—just at you. Eyes crinkled. Mouth mid-laugh. A moment caught in the exact shape of adoration.

He doesn’t remember any of it.

You walk through the apartment like you’re trespassing in your own life, touching objects that feel suddenly foreign. You kneel beside the bed and pull out a duffel bag, spreading it open like a wound you’re trying not to look directly at.

T-shirts first. Sweatpants. Socks—even though he never matches them, insisting that the washing machine “eats the good pairs out of spite.”

Robin kneels beside an open duffel bag on the bed, her expression tight with concentration as you hand her his favorite mug with the stupid cartoon shark on it, wrapped carefully in an old sweatshirt you stole from him months ago. “This sucks,” she says conversationally, yanking a hanger free. “Like, in case you were wondering, this sucks. Ten out of ten, do not recommend.” 

The cassette box sits by the stereo, full of tapes you made together—his messy handwriting, your neat labels. You pick it up gently, thumb brushing over the one marked simply: YOUR STUFF. 

You snort weakly, “You don’t say.” 

“You sure you don’t want to come to the discharge? We could go with Joyce and Hopper, then straight to the trailer. Like a whole welcome-home parade. Balloons, confetti, you bursting dramatically out of the cake.” 

You make a face, “Absolutely not.” 

She sobers, “Okay, but for real. You don’t have to hide.” 

“I’m not hiding,” you lie. “I’m just… doing this instead. If he woke up and they told him he had to move back to a house he doesn’t remember packing for, that’s weird. At least this way when he gets there, he has his stuff. That’s… useful.” 

“And you?” she presses softly. “What’s useful for you?” 

You shrug one shoulder, eyes on the socks you’re shoving into the side pocket of the bag. “I’ll be fine.” 

“You don’t have to be. Not with me.” 

You blow out a shaky breath. “If I go,” you say quietly, “if I stand there and watch him walk out of that hospital and into… not our home… I’m gonna fall apart. And I really… really don’t want to do that in front of him.” 

“Okay,” she accepts. “Then I’ll go. I’ll take this—” She gestures to the duffel. “I’ll say it’s from his parents’ place, or something. But now he’ll probably think I raided his underwear drawer.”

Meanwhile, Eddie guides Steve out of the hospital, one hand hovering near his elbow like he expects Steve to topple over at any moment. Steve insists he’s fine—“For the fifteenth time, Munson, I can walk”—but the stiffness in his movements betrays how exhausted he really is. “My parents aren’t here?” he asks, tone attempting casual but landing closer to wounded curiosity.

Eddie adjusts his grip on Steve's arm and shakes his head. “Business trip. Overseas. They got the messages, though. Said to tell you they’ll call once they’re back in the country.”

Steve nods in a way that tells Eddie he expected nothing else.

Eddie jogs ahead, swinging the van door open with an exaggerated bow “Your ride, sir.”

Steve rolls his eyes but can’t quite smother the smile. “Did the royal chariot break down?”

“This is the royal chariot,” Eddie retorts. “She’s got character.”

“She smells like Cheetos,” Steve says, hoisting himself up into the passenger seat, “And maybe… weed.”

When they pull up outside the trailer, Steve goes quiet. The place is the same and not. The cracks in the ground nearby have been filled, the damage patched badly. There are still scorch marks on the grass where things fell from the sky that “didn’t happen.” 

The trailer is cluttered but clean. There’s a blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Two mugs in the sink. A stack of tapes by the TV—some horror, some metal concerts, some romcoms Robin smuggled in “for balance.”

“That’s your room,” Eddie says, gesturing toward the small door off the hallway. “I mean, technically it’s my room and that’s technically my bed, but I’m feeling generous.” 

Steve steps inside like he’s expecting the floor to shift under his feet. There are posters on the wall he half-remembers. A pile of laundry in the corner. The bat—the bat—leans against the wall, grip worn. He runs his fingers over the bedspread, the edge of the nightstand, the window frame. His head hurts. He sinks onto the mattress, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face. 

Eddie watches him carefully. “You alright? You look like you swallowed a brick.”

“Just… trying to make it all match up,” Steve mutters. “Doc says about ‘one year,’ but it feels like someone ripped pages out of a book and kept the ending. I’m assuming we won. And that Vecna’s…  gone. But I don’t know how. I don’t know what we did. Are the gates closed? I don’t know when Max…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “When did she wake up? How bad did it get? What did I… do?” There’s a jagged frustration under the questions. A helpless anger at his own brain. 

Eddie sees it. Hears the edge in his voice. “That’s a story for another time, pal,” he says gently. “All you need to know is that Vecna is gone for good, Hawkins is still miserable, and all you need to worry about is your flat hair.” 

Steve huffs out a startled laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction. “That’s, like, three things.” 

“I believe in your ability to multitask,” Eddie says. 

Robin appears in the doorway, hair windblown, cheeks flushed from the cold. The duffel bag you packed hangs from her shoulder, heavier now with everything you folded so carefully. “Special delivery!” she announces, stepping inside with exaggerated flourish. “Straight from Casa Harrington.” 

Steve brightens a little. “My parents’ place?” 

“Yup,” Robin lies smoothly. “They, uh… left the key taped under the mat. Super secure. Very responsible.” 

“Thanks,” he says, soft. “Really.” 

Robin’s smile falters for a second—just a second—before she recovers. “Yeah, dingus. That’s what friends do.” 

Eddie catches her eye. She gives the smallest shake of her head. Steve doesn’t see that either. 

They spend the next twenty minutes unpacking shirts and socks and the hoodie he doesn’t remember buying. Robin chatters about mundane things—Joyce’s attempt at making bread that could double as a weapon, Lucas’s new videogame obsession, Dustin’s twelve-step plan to introduce Steve to every campaign he missed. Steve tries to laugh in the right places. He tries to feel grounded in the little stories of a life he doesn’t remember living. Still, every few minutes, his gaze drifts to the door.

To the empty space beyond it. To the missed presence he can’t name.

He doesn’t know who’s missing. He doesn’t know why.

He only knows that something important isn’t here— and that the absence feels wrong.

–

Movie nights, dinners, and game nights stop being weekly and start happening every other day, now. Not just for Steve, but for everyone. Staying alone feels worse than crowding into too-small spaces, so they choose noise. 

You skip the first movie night because you’re scheduled for a late shift at work. The second because you tell yourself you’re tired. By the third, you don’t even bother coming up with an excuse.

But the invites never stop. 

Robin calls you while you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, a half-unpacked box of Steve’s things open in front of you—things you didn’t have the heart to finish putting away. His sweatshirt is folded on top, soft from too many washes, still faintly smelling like him.

“We miss you,” she says into the receiver, voice light but tired. “He misses you.”

Your chest tightens.

“He doesn’t know me,” you reply quietly.

There’s a pause on the other end. You can hear the low hum of voices behind her, the sound of a life continuing just out of reach.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It does,” you interrupt gently. “It does mean something, Robin. He doesn’t need… complications. He needs to feel normal.”

You hang up before she can argue, the silence feeling louder than the conversations you’re avoiding.

At the next get-together, Steve volunteers for the snack run.

He comes back with grocery bags filled with a specific brand of chips none of them remember him liking, a box of cookies no one else reaches for, and a candy bar that makes Eddie wrinkle his nose.

“Since when do you eat those?” Robin asks, watching him unload everything onto the counter.

Steve shrugs, unconcerned. “I don’t know. Just… grabbed them.”

“For who?” Dustin presses, crouched on a chair to see over the counter.

Steve pauses. He feels it — that moment when his brain stalls out mid-thought. A faint pressure builds behind his eyes, like trying to remember how a dream ends after you’ve already woken up.

“No idea,” he laughs, the shrug coming a second too late. “Must’ve looked good.”

It’s a few gatherings later when he finally brings it up.

It’s late. The kids are swallowed by a board game, voices raised in mock outrage. Eddie stands at the sink, washing dishes. Jonathan leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching soap bubbles drift down the drain.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve says.

Jonathan glances over and nods. “Sure.”

“The girl from the hospital,” Steve continues carefully. “She said she was a friend.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “She is.” He hesitates, then adds, “She doesn’t come around much anymore.”

Steve frowns. “Why not?”

Jonathan exhales slowly. “She’s trying to deal with all of this on her own. Everything that happened. Losing people. Almost losing people.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the living room. “Being around all of this can feel like reopening a wound.”

Steve absorbs that, jaw tightening. “That seems backwards,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t it help? Being around people who actually get it?”

Jonathan looks at him — really looks.

“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “people think staying away is easier. That it hurts less in the long run.”

Steve frowns deeper. “That still doesn’t make sense.”

Jonathan gives him a small, sad smile. “No. It usually doesn’t.” After a beat, he adds, “Next time you see her, you should invite her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

–

The grocery store smells like overripe fruit and burned coffee.

You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for too long, staring down two different boxes like one of them might solve something bigger than breakfast. Your cart has the basics — bread, milk, eggs — and the coffee you swore you wouldn’t keep buying anymore because it still feels like buying it for him.

You tell yourself this is normal. That it’s fine. That you’re doing fine.

You reach for the box on the left.

At the exact same time, someone else reaches for the one on the right.

“Sorry—”

The voice stops you cold.

You don’t look up right away. Your fingers stay curled around cardboard. Your heart slams painfully against your ribs, the sound of it loud enough that you’re convinced he must hear it.

You already know.

Steve Harrington stands in front of you in a worn Tigers hoodie and faded jeans, hair doing that familiar floppy thing that makes your chest ache. He looks healthier now — less pale, steadier on his feet — but there’s a faint scar at his temple that your eyes go to automatically.

His eyes widen.

“Oh,” he exhales. “It’s— it’s you.”

You swallow. “Hi.”

You don’t mean to smile. It happens anyway, small and brittle, like your face remembers before the rest of you can stop it.

He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands. One of them rests on the red plastic handle of his cart; the other hovers, then drops awkwardly at his side.

“I was hoping I’d run into you,” he says, then winces immediately. “That sounded weird. Not like— I mean—”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, because it always used to be your job to make things less hard for him. You almost laugh at that thought. “I just… yeah. Hi.”

He nods, once, then twice, like he’s confirming something invisible. “Hi.”

There’s a beat where neither of you move. The store hums around you — carts rattling, a kid crying somewhere near produce, the muffled sound of a radio playing something forgettable overhead.

Steve clears his throat. “Jonathan said you might… might be doing this whole ‘handling everything by yourself’ thing.”

Your mouth tilts faintly. “That sounds like him.”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “He’s annoyingly perceptive.”

He glances down at your cart without thinking and freezes.

Coffee.

The exact one.

His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “Huh.”

“What?” you ask, too quickly.

“Nothing,” he says, then pauses. “I just— I keep buying that.” He gestures vaguely. “And I don’t even like it. It tastes burnt.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the cart. “Then why do you buy it?”

His eyes go distant for half a second, frustration tightening his jaw. “No idea,” he admits. “I just… felt like I needed to.”

Silence stretches between you, fragile and heavy.

He breaks it first. “So,” he says, forcing casual into his tone. “Uh. There’s… there’s stuff happening. Movie nights. Dinner. Game nights. A lot of… togetherness.”

You nod. “Robin’s told me.”

“Yeah, well,” he rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. “Robin tells everyone everything, so.”

You smile despite yourself. There’s a pause. Long enough for the hum of the lights to fill the space between you.

Steve clears his throat. “So, uh—” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly unsure. “There’s another movie night coming up. Dinner too, probably. People crammed onto couches. A lot of noise.”

You wait.

He gestures vaguely. “You don’t have to stay the whole time. Or talk about anything. Or— you know— do anything, really.” He winces, clearly aware he’s rambling. “This sounded smoother in my head.”

“Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll… come. Next time.”

His face lights up so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Great,” he says, then catches himself. “I mean— cool. No pressure. Totally casual.”

You smile, real this time. “You’re terrible at casual.”

“You should see me try flirting,” he replies before thinking.

You both freeze.

He flushes immediately. “Not— not flirting with you! I mean— not that I—” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Wow. I’m just gonna shut up now.”

You laugh.

It slips out unexpectedly, warm and sharp and painfully familiar.

His eyes soften when he hears it.

“Guess I’ll see you,” he says, backing toward his cart.

“Guess you will,” you answer.

He pauses, then adds, quieter, “I’m really glad I ran into you.”

“So am I,” you say, and you mean it — even though it scares you.

–

The next movie night is at Hopper’s cabin.

You stand in the driveway for a long second before you knock, keys cool and solid in your palm like an anchor. The windows glow warm against the dark, voices overlapping inside—too loud, too alive. Laughter punches through the wood of the door, Dustin’s unmistakable cackle cutting loudest.

You almost leave.

Almost.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, the door swings open.

“Hey!” Robin says, already grinning—and then she’s hugging you. Tight. Arms locked around your shoulders like she’s afraid if she lets go you’ll disappear. “You actually came.”

“Careful,” you mutter into her shoulder. “You’re gonna break a rib.”

She ignores that and squeezes once more before pulling back. “Worth it.”

The cabin smells like popcorn and woodsmoke and something questionable Eddie brought in a foil tray. The couch is already half-full—Lucas and Max twisted together at one end, Dustin sprawled on the floor with a blanket, Eddie perched on the armrest like furniture is more of a suggestion than a rule. Nancy looks up from where she’s setting drinks on the table and offers you a soft, relieved smile.

You step farther inside, shrugging off your jacket, trying to remember how to occupy space like this again.

And Steve—

Steve is in the kitchen.

He’s got his back to you, sleeves pushed up, hair a little wild like he forgot the mirror existed today. He’s holding a mug beneath the coffee pot, focused in a way that suggests he’s taking the task far too seriously.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, barely audible over the noise. “Not boiling. That’s… probably important.”

You pause. For a second, it feels like stepping into a room you used to know by heart. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just him half-awake in your apartment kitchen, hair sticking up, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple while the coffee brewed.

You shake the memory loose and move farther into the room.

When he sees you, his expression shifts—subtle but unmistakable. Like tension easing from his shoulders, like something unknots behind his eyes before he can stop it. “You came,” he says, surprised enough that it doesn’t sound casual.

“I said I would.” 

“Right,” he says, nodding once, then glancing down at the mug like he’s suddenly remembered it exists. “Uh— drink? Coffee, soda, whatever. Eddie tried to make punch again but I’m pretty sure it violates some kind of health code.”

“I’ll take coffee,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Your fingers brush his when you take the mug from his hand. The contact is brief. Barely anything. But still sparks something sharp and familiar, a lightning-bolt jolt that runs straight through you.

You retreat to the far end of the couch, heart beating a little too fast, mug warm in your hands. The taste is right. Warm. Familiar in a way you don’t examine too closely.

The movie ends sometime after midnight.

You don’t know exactly when it happens—only that at some point the room gets quieter, the sugar rush burns off, and the easy noise settles into something softer. Dustin is half-asleep on the floor, Lucas and Max murmuring to each other beneath a blanket. Eddie’s fallen into an argument with Robin about whether the movie counts as “cinema,” and Hopper has retreated to the doorway with a beer and a headache.

You stand to grab your jacket quietly, trying not to draw attention to yourself, almost making it to the door.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice isn’t loud. It’s careful, like he’s testing it out before committing. He’s standing near the couch, hands shoved in his pockets, the easy sprawl he usually carries himself with dialed back into something smaller. There’s a moment where it looks like he might say something else—but then he straightens, decision made.

“Are you heading out?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s late.”

He nods. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

There’s a pause. The kind that asks for something without saying what.

“Do you want me to—” He cuts himself off, clears his throat. “I mean. I can walk you out if you want. It’s dark.”

You consider it. The driveway. The woods. The quiet that will follow once the door closes behind you.

“Okay,” you say.

The word seems to surprise him.

Outside, the night air is cool and sharp, the kind that seeps under your sleeves and wakes you up a little. Gravel crunches underfoot as you step down from the porch. The cabin behind you hums faintly with muted laughter, the sound softened by walls and distance.

Steve walks beside you, not too close. Just enough to be there.

They've filled the cracks in the ground near the treeline, patched the scars as best they can. It’s obvious where things broke anyway. Hawkins wears it quietly now.

“You good?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think so.”

He hums, not convinced but not pushing.

“Thanks for coming,” he adds. “I know it probably wasn’t… easy.”

You glance at him. His gaze is fixed ahead, jaw set, like he’s afraid if he looks at you he’ll read too much into whatever expression he finds.

“I’m glad I did,” you say.

That earns you a quick look. Something warm flickers there before he reins it in. Steve stops a few steps back, rocking on his heels. “So. Uh. Next time—if you don’t feel like staying long, that’s okay. Or if you don’t come. Or if you—” He exhales, frustrated with himself. “I’m bad at this.”

“At what?”

He hesitates. “Inviting people without making it weird.”

You smile softly. “You’re doing okay.”

He studies that answer like he’s checking it for cracks. “Good,” he says. “Then… next time?”

You nod. “Next time.”

A beat passes. Another.

“Night,” he says.

“Night, Steve.”

You get in the car, shut the door, and don’t pull away right away. Through the windshield, you see him still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching until your headlights come on.

And for the first time in a while, the quiet that follows doesn’t feel empty.

It feels… anticipatory.

–

You never say it out loud.

You barely admit it to yourself.

But some small, stubborn part of you still hopes that one day he’ll remember.

And on the days when that feels like tempting fate — like asking the universe for something it’s already taken — you hope instead that time will do what it always promises to do.

Soften things.

Sand the edges.

Turn this ache into something survivable.

Because loving him like this feels less like healing and more like erosion. A slow wearing-down. A thing you can’t stop without walking away completely — so, you learn how to exist in this strange in-between.

Movie nights blur into sleepovers. Dinners turn into late evenings where no one wants to be the first to leave, because empty houses feel louder now. You show up, linger, and leave early. But Steve keeps finding his way to you.

Not pointedly.

Not obviously.

Just… naturally.

He doesn’t remember you — not in the way that matters — but his attention keeps skidding in your direction all the same. Catching on little things he can’t explain.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking.

The sound of your laugh, which seems to echo oddly in his chest, like he’s heard it before in a dream.

It starts small.

At a crowded diner table, he ends up across from you, shoulder tipped just slightly in your direction. He asks what you’re getting and then orders something new from the menu. When the food comes, you trade plates without discussing why, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

At the arcade, he drifts closer as the place fills, not invading your space so much as silently claiming it. He leans in over the din of machines to say something stupid about high scores, his mouth near your ear, his voice pitched only for you. When you laugh, he smiles like he forgot what he was going to say next, eyes lingering a beat too long before he looks away. Later, when you step back to grab tokens, he follows without realizing — like you pulled him there with an invisible thread.

Sometimes it’s quieter than that.

You sit on the hood of someone’s car after a long night, the air cool and damp, everyone else talking in loose clusters behind you. Steve leans beside you, forearms braced on the metal, eyes on the stars like he’s trying to map something familiar.

“You ever think Hawkins feels… smaller?” he asks.

You hum. “Yeah.”

He smiles at that. “Good. Thought it was just me.”

He asks questions.

Small ones. Safe ones.

“What do you order at diners?”

“Have you always lived around here?”

“Were you always into that music, or did it just… happen?”

He listens when you answer. Really listens. And every time, something in you tightens — because it would be easier if he didn’t.

He saves you a seat. Hands you his jacket without comment when the night cools. Walks you home after group dinners even though his place is in the opposite direction. He says it’s late. That it’s dark. That it’s not a big deal. He keeps pace with you anyway, close enough that your arms brush when the sidewalk narrows.

Sometimes you talk about everything.

Sometimes you don’t talk at all.

Either way, it feels dangerously close to intimacy — the kind you’re no longer sure you’re allowed to have.

That’s when you start to think of it as a slow death.

Because leaving always hurts.

And staying close somehow hurts worse.

–

Of course you notice Nancy.

You always have.

She’s impossible not to notice — all sharp edges and sharper mind, fearless in a way that feels deliberate. You respect her. You always have. That almost makes this harder to stomach.

You notice the way Steve looks at her sometimes. Like he’s lining up memory against reality and trying to see where they overlap.

You know what the last clear thing he remembers feeling is. You heard about the conversation in the back of the vehicle — whispered hopes about kids and road trips and growing old. A future shaped in the middle of chaos.

Not with you.

If his memories never circle back to you… why wouldn’t they land on her instead? Why wouldn’t that path feel safer? Simpler?

So when you step out onto the cabin porch for air and find them there, your chest sinks before either of them even speaks.

They aren’t standing close. They aren’t touching. But they’re angled toward each other, voices low and serious, framed by the soft glow spilling out from the cabin behind them. You don’t hear the words.

You don’t have to.

You see Steve lean back against the railing, hand rubbing the back of his neck. A gesture you know by heart — the one that means something matters.

Nancy’s posture is steady. Arms crossed. Expression soft but intent. Like she’s anchoring him through something delicate. Personal.

Your stomach drops.

The screen door creaks behind you before you can stop it.

Both of them turn.

“I was just—” Nancy starts.

“I’m—” you say at the same time, already stepping back. “Sorry. It’s getting late.”

Steve takes a half step forward. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, forcing a small smile that feels brittle on your face. “Really. I need to head home anyway.”

You don’t wait for a response. But by the time you reach your car, your hands are shaking. You don’t tell yourself not to cry, just let the thought settle, heavy and unkind in your chest:

Maybe he doesn’t remember you because he wasn’t meant to.

–

The porch is quiet, washed in the soft hum of insects and the distant noise from inside the cabin.

Steve leans back against the railing, elbows locked, gaze drifting out toward the dark tree line.

“I mean… you and Jonathan seem good,” he says, glancing over at Nancy. “Like you figured things out.”

Nancy hesitates. It’s subtle — just a slight shift of her shoulders — but it’s there.

“And how does that make you feel?” she asks carefully.

Steve lets out a breath. Not heavy. Not shaky. Thoughtful.

“I remember what I said before,” he admits. “What I wanted. Or what I thought I wanted.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “And I know that mattered. It mattered a lot.”

“But?” Nancy prompts gently.

“But it doesn’t feel like that anymore,” Steve says, frustration edging into his voice. “That’s the part that’s messing with me.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

He gestures vaguely, like he can’t quite grab onto the thought, “I remember loving you,“I remember being so sure. But when I picture my life now…” he continues, a faint frown pulling at his brow, “it doesn’t land there. I keep waiting for that feeling to come back. Like I’m supposed to want that future again. And I don’t.” 

Nancy studies him for a long moment. Then she smiles — small, soft, and understanding.

“That means you’re healing,” she says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

Steve exhales, shoulders easing just a little, then adds, “I am happy for you, though. For you and Jonathan.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m… actually glad we’re friends now. All of us. That part feels right.”

–

Eddie’s trailer is quiet in a way Steve still isn’t used to.

Not peaceful — just empty between sounds.

He lies awake on the mattress, staring up at a crack in the ceiling he’s been tracking for the past ten minutes. It vaguely resembles Indiana. Or a boot. Or nothing at all. His brain won’t settle on it.

His chest feels… off.

Not tight. Not panicked. Just restless — like something is vibrating just underneath his ribs, an irritant he can’t scratch.

He rolls onto his side. Then his other side. Then onto his back again.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his palms flat against his stomach like that might help. “You’re exhausted.”

He is. He knows he is.

But every time his eyes start to drift closed, something tugs him back.

A sense of… unfinishedness.

He exhales and lets his gaze drift, unfocused, toward the dim outline of the wall. He doesn’t fight the thought when it comes this time.

You - like a gravity point.

The way you listen. The way you pause before laughing, like you’re deciding whether to let yourself. The quiet steadiness of you, the way being around you makes his shoulders drop without him noticing until afterward.

His mouth curves slightly, fond despite himself. 

He drags a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters, though there’s no heat in it. “I don’t even—”

The thought stalls.

Because that’s not true.

It’s not just liking you. It hasn’t been for a while now. Not the way his chest reacts when you walk into a room. Not the way he keeps finding reasons to stand near you, talk to you, walk you home like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The realization settles, heavy and unmistakable.

I’m in love with her.

The word doesn’t scare him.

If anything, it feels like relief — like finally naming something that’s been quietly demanding his attention for weeks.

He stares up at the ceiling, breathing slow and even.

“Okay,” he whispers to the dark. “Okay.”

Tomorrow, then.

He’ll ask you out. Nothing big. Just honest — just the feeling in his chest that hasn’t been wrong yet.

The restless pull eases, finally dulling into something warm.

Sleep comes softly, catching him mid-thought.

–

He wakes with a sharp gasp.

For a disorienting second, all he knows is pain — bright and sudden behind his eyes, like someone just switched on a light inside his skull. He fumbles blindly, squinting at the dim red numbers on the clock.

3:07 a.m.

He sucks in a sharp breath, hand flying to his face as he squeezes his eyes shut. The room feels wrong. Too unfamiliar. Too small. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.

“Shit,” he mutters hoarsely.

He sits up too fast and the world tilts. For half a second, he doesn’t know where he is — doesn’t know whose blanket he’s holding, why the air smells like cigarettes and old flannel instead of detergent and burnt coffee.

Then it hits him.

He’s on his feet before the thought finishes forming, bare chest goosebumping in the cold air, the floor icy under his soles. He stumbles into Eddie’s chair, sends it clattering, doesn’t even slow down.

Eddie jerks awake with a startled noise. “What the—?”

Steve yanks the door open, cold air slamming into him.

“I gotta go,” he blurts over his shoulder, voice hoarse and urgent. “I—I gotta go right now.”

Eddie blinks. Then smiles, tired and knowing and soft at the edges. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Figured.”

The night air burns his lungs, sharp and unforgiving. Asphalt bites into his feet, each step a jolt of pain he registers distantly, like it’s happening to someone else. Streetlights streak past as he sprints, chest heaving, breath puffing white. 

By the time he reaches your building, his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribs. He takes the steps two at a time, slips at the landing, catches himself on the railing.

He pounds on the door with both fists.

Once. Twice. Again.

“Please,” he breathes, forehead pressed to the wood. “Please.”

The door opens.

You’re standing there in an oversized sleep shirt, hair a mess, confusion still clinging to your expression.

Steve can’t speak. For a split second, he just stares — at your eyes, wide and alarmed; at the familiar hallway behind you; at the sad, wilted spider plant hanging near the keys. 

“Steve?” you ask, voice thick with sleep. “What—are you okay? Why are you—” 

Your gaze drops.

Bare feet. Red and scraped. His chest rising and falling too fast. No jacket. No shoes.

“Did you run here?” you start, alarm bleeding into your voice. “Steve, you’re barefoot—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

He steps forward, hands coming up to your face like muscle memory finally given permission, and kisses you.

It’s not careful.

It’s not slow.

It’s desperate and grounding all at once, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re real. His mouth crashes into yours, breath shaky, lips cold from the night, kissing you like he’s been holding this in for weeks without knowing why.

You freeze for half a heartbeat.

Then you melt into it.

Your hands fist into his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring him as his breath stutters against your mouth. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard.

“I remember,” he says, voice breaking on the word.

You still.

“What?” you breathe.

“I remember everything,” he says again, softer this time. “You. Us. The apartment. The fights and the good parts and the stupid plant you kept forgetting to water.” A shaky laugh escapes him. “I fell asleep thinking about you and the next thing I knew, I woke up and it was just… there. Like my brain finally caught up.”

Your breath stutters. “Steve—”

His hands are still caressing your face when the words start to tumble out of you, messy and panicked now that he’s really here.

“Steve, I— I’m sorry,” you stammer, tears already blurring everything. “The doctor… he said we couldn’t force it. Said it could hurt you, and I— I,” Your voice breaks. “… wondered if maybe this was your chance to go back. To something easier. Someone…” You swallow hard. “Maybe Nancy. Maybe someone better than me.”

He makes a broken sound in his throat and shakes his head, eyes shining, completely undone.

“No,” he says hoarsely, shaking his head against your skin. “No, no— don’t do that.”.

You keep going anyway, breath hitching. “I thought if you never remembered me.. You could go back to-”

He cuts you off by kissing you.

Not your mouth this time, but your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your eye, where tears are still spilling over. Your cheek. Everywhere he can reach, like he’s trying to erase the words before they can carve permanent scars into you.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. You really thought forgetting you would make me want someone else?”

You meet his eyes and lose the fight to stay composed altogether, you sob, nodding helplessly.

He’s crying now too — tears slipping down unchecked, mouth trembling as he cups your face tighter, like you might break if he doesn’t hold you together.

“There is no someone better,” he says, voice rough and earnest and wrecked. “There never was. Not even when I didn’t remember. Not even then.”

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, thumbs brushing desperately over your cheeks.

“Even when I didn’t remember you,” he continues, tears falling freely now, breath uneven, “I still wanted you. And I still couldn’t stop wanting to be near you. Couldn’t stop looking for you in rooms. Couldn’t stop feeling wrong when you weren’t there. Every instinct in me knew something was missing, and it was always you.”

A sob shakes through him, “I fell asleep thinking about you, wondering how to ask you out without screwing it up. Wondering why not being near you made my chest hurt. I fell in love with you all over again,” he says shakily. 

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palms.

You blinked, caught off guard, but he laughed again, completely oblivious. “I was only kidding.”

Your forced smile appeared instantly. “Oh…yeah.” Steve looked up just in time to see it, the practiced smile, the way the light behind your eyes dimmed just enough to make him unable to focus on anything else.

A few minutes later, you insisted you were going home. “It’s okay.” You promised him. “I’ve got dinner with my parents anyway.”

Steve didn’t believe you for a second, and two hours he knocked on your bedroom window. After three taps and a pause, your curtain shifted.

“Steve?” He climbed in with the grace of someone who definitely had done this many times before.

“I brought snacks.” He held up two plastic bags with that lopsided smile of his, eyes gleaming with love.

You couldn’t help but shake your head and smile, the lines in your face deepening and pulling him forwards. “A real one this time.” He whispered to himself, you heard it anyway.

You sat on the bed while Steve unpacked his emergency supplies. A chocolate bar, packet of gummy bears, your favorite blanket he’d stolen from his own house because it was softer.

Halfway through the romance movie he put on, you curled into his side. His fingers absentmindedly traced circles across your arm. “You wanna tell me what happened?” Steve finally broke the silence.

You hesitated, talking about your feelings was harder than feeling them. “It was stupid.” You shrugged.

“Hey, nothing about you is stupid.” Steve lowered his voice into a soft tone you loved.

You looked down. “The customer today. He said I looked like I’d cry if someone yelled at me.” You swallowed thickly, willing yourself to get through your words. “And then he laughed.”

Steve remained silent, letting you express your vulnerability. “And I know he didn’t mean anything by it, I just hate that people can always tell.” You sighed.

His brows knitted together. “Tell what?”

“That—” your voice became embarrassingly small. “That everything gets to me. I wish I wasn’t like this.”

At the last sentence, Steve turned to you completely. “I don’t.” He said firmly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You know what I see?” He asked.

“What?” You stared into his brown eyes that were so close to yours.

“I see someone who’s more in touch with their emotions than anyone else could ever be.” He said so honestly, you blinked up at him already feeling tears blur your vision.

“You feel things deeply.” He continued, voice quiet like you were a startled deer. “Yeah, it means the hurt hurts more.”

His lips tugged into a small special smile. “But it also means the good things feel bigger too.”

You looked away, breath hitching. “I don’t know.”

Steve gently nudged your chin back towards him. “You get excited over the smallest things, you cry during happy endings because it’s all you’ve ever hoped for, you love people with your whole heart without asking for anything back.”

His gaze softened even further. “You notice everything about everyone because you care.” He laced your fingers together.

A shaky laugh escaped you. “Sometimes I wish I cared less.” You admitted.

Steve’s expression fell, to him, he never wanted you to change. You were his sensitive girl and he loved you for it. “But if you did…” he murmured. “You wouldn’t be you.”

Silence fell over you two again, warm instead of uncomfortable. “I love you because of how deeply you feel. You remind me that it’s okay to not keep things buried down.”

Your breath caught, sympathy filling you from the inside. “You never once made me feel like I had to hide how I’m feeling.” His eyes searched yours. “After everything I’ve been through, you know how rare that is?”

He rested his forehead against yours. “So don’t let one stranger convince you that your heart is something to be ashamed of.”

A tear escaped you despite your best efforts, groaning as you hid your face in his shoulder. “I’m literally crying again.” You huffed.

Steve chuckled as he wiped it away. “I know.” He coo’ed, holding your face gently between his hands.

“You were trying to make me stop.” You raised your brows, furious at yourself.

The cup of coffee was tepid, at best. It had been sat on the counter in the break room, waiting for you while you sorted out some disagreement with two of your sixth grade students. Middle school meant the kids getting to the age where they were beginning to get mean which meant all the girls who were friends at the beginning of the year were no longer getting along.

Every year, it meant leaving cups of coffee on the counter until said issues were sorted out, meaning that for most of the day, you sipped on nearly cold, room temperature coffee. Not the pick up you needed while teaching 11 year olds, that was for sure.

Until one year, where everything changed.

See, there was a new teacher this year. Not new to you, but new to teaching. The old gym teacher had ditched Hawkins the second the military had, too, meaning Hawkins needed someone to take their place. The perfect replacement, according to rumour, had walked right into the principles hands.

The first time you saw him was during assembly on the first day back. All the students, gathered in the gym, piled onto the bleachers with sneakers bought for the new academic year squeaking on the fresh vinyl. The teachers always sat on a row of plastic chairs along the side of the hall, pretending that whatever the assembly topic was, that it was important for the kids to know and that they should be listening the whole time.

In reality, you couldn't care less. Hell, even the principle knew that they only held these 'beginning of the year' assembly's because it was tradition. There was no real meaning or necessity behind them.

So, you busied yourself with the notepad you always brought with you, plus that black inked biro always tucked in some pocket. At first it started off with things you could get away with; like making notes for the different classes you were teaching today, or a list of the shopping you had to get on the way home. Eventually, you ran out of productive things to do, and it moved onto little doodles in the margins. A star, a little faceless character, a badly attempted recreation of your favourite album art… you know.

Then, you felt someone nudge your arm. Not harshly, not sudden in the accidentally way, but in the thought out — let me time this perfectly way.

When you turned, it was someone you simply did not expect to see sitting in Hawkins middle, wearing the bright blue cubs jacket of the school's baseball team. It wasn't difficult to figure out why he was here, the school needed a new gym teacher and he'd always been good at gym from middle all the way through until high school — hell, it had been the only class he had ever been on time to.

None other than Steve Harrington.

"You know, if you were a student, I'd tell you off for doodling during assembly."

Lips parted, your eyes widen slightly at the sight of the man in front of you. How he happened to sit next to you and you didn't even notice — or (shit!) did you sit next to him by accident? You can't remember who walked in first.

It wasn't that you hated him, or that it was the end of the world that you had bumped into him. No, it was just awkward. That you didn't say hello when you sat down, or that you didn't even know that he was starting here this year, or that you… for fuck's sake. This really isn't what you needed this year, that was for sure.

Because you knew Steve. Not as well as Nancy had, not in the same way. Not like Tommy H or Carol had back in the day, god, nowhere near that, you would've died if that had been the case. You knew Steve pretty much like every general student did at Hawkins high. You knew him as the guy that went from girl to girl, never able to stick with one because of some half strung excuse that left the girls he dated annoyed, pissed off, and alone.

Steve Harrington had spent any period where he wasn't dating a girl during high school, asking you out. Not caring whether he had just ghosted one of your friends the previous week, not caring that you'd passed him up nicely two months prior.

He was a constant, all the way through high school. That guy who turned up by your locker, just to hand you a note that read movies, 7pm? in his scrawled blue-ink penmanship, only for you to fold it back up and pass it back to him with a small but polite and not shy, shake of the head.

He never let it get him down.

Steve always tried again, no matter what.

After Shirley, he tricked you into meeting him behind the bleachers through one of your friends, offering to take you to his 'designated spot' he liked to call skull rock. You'd laughed in his face and shaken your head, congratulating him for successfully getting you behind the bleachers as you walked away. A month later after Daniella K, he made you jump by appearing behind your locker door as you shut with, with a note asking you out. You'd drawn two little boxes, labelled them with yes or no and ticked the no box, before handing it back to him and heading off to English.

Three months later, he'd left a flowers on your desk behind him, and you'd rolled your eyes as he grinned at you, head swivelled to look around at you. This had followed by him getting told off by the teacher, at which he simply laughed and made some joke to get away with it. This went on for quite some time, practically all the way through 9th, 10th and even halfway through 11th grade. He didn't let up and neither did you.

Sometimes you felt mean, really. I mean, the boy was consistent, you had to admit. He wasn't going to stop any time soon and you knew that. You just knew that he couldn't stick with one woman, just because he hadn't gone on a date with you yet, didn't mean that was going to change if you'd ever said yes.

You, naturally, fell for people pretty quickly. It would take maximum two months for you to be distraught at Steve leaving you for whatever reason, and you wanted to protect yourself from that. Plus, you knew Steve was only so insistent with different attempts because you kept on saying no and you were pretty much the only girl all the way through high school that hadn't said yes eventually.

So you never went on the date with Steve.

You knew about Nancy, who didn't? You were at the Halloween party where everything went down, and just happened to be passing by the gym when they were talking in the alley. Plus, rumours spread like crazy in a small town like Hawkins, and you knew that Steve loved Nancy.

For the first time, he didn't come running to you. In fact, he pretty much disappeared. Slowly but surely, his King Steve crown fell into the mud and everything fell apart. Through a friend of a friend you heard that post-graduation he was working in the Scoops in the mall and that he was somehow linked to the fire that burnt it down towards the end of summer. Other than that, you didn't hear much about him any more.

Eventually, you moved away for college. It was something you enjoyed, but you did miss Hawkins. It was your home, no matter how many weird or cursed things happened there.

You dropped out of college, decided to come home and take up teaching. At first it started off simply tutoring the English students that needed help. Then you kept taking on new students and they simply loved you. When the English teacher that you had grown up with needed to retire, she offered you to the principle as her replacement. You had a steady job with good pay, and it was doing something you loved.

And now it felt like you were back in high school, sat next to Steve Harrington during assembly with him trying to win you over again. Except you were both adults now, and teachers, and technically co-workers. This had to stay a professional relationship.

"Steve?"

"Hey." He grins, that same toothy flash that he always used to give you back in the day, but with something more mature to it.

Because it had been a while for the both of you. You hadn't seen him since graduation, what, nearly four years ago? A lot had changed. You had become a very different person and you didn't even know where to start with guessing how he had changed. All you knew was that he had hated coming into class each day and now he had voluntarily taken up a job in the same school, doing some good, doing what's right.

So he had changed, and it was looking like it was for the better.

"Hey—" Christ, and after all these years, that's all you can come up with? "Uh, what are you… are you working here, now, then?"

Steve's smile softens, nodding slightly, glancing back to the kids sat on the bleachers and making sure their conversation wasn't getting caught. "Yeah. I am. Thought I might do something better with my life."

"Good on you." And with the lighthearted glint in your eyes, Steve believed you.

With that, yours and Steve's attention was drawn back to the assembly, as the principle brought the gathering to a close, and dismissed both the children and the teachers. If you hadn't had a 9am class to teach, you would have stuck around to have a real conversation with Steve, but the bell was ringing, and this particular 8th grade class were just about to start reading Animal Farm so you wouldn't dare be late.

As you stood, you tucked the pen in a random pocket again and turned to Steve. "I'll see you around, Mr Harrington?"

"I hope so." He smiles, sticking around because the gym was his equivalent of a classroom, and his 8th grade class were rearing to begin the new semester and find out what their new teacher was like. Somehow, still, after all these years, Steve wasn't able to look away from you as you left the gym, following some kids and telling them off for running down the hall.

When a kid from his class came up to him to ask a question, he had to force the smile off his face and actually become a teacher — but Steve didn't miss the realisation that it was the exact same feeling as all those years ago.

You were still you. And you still had him wrapped around your fingers.

It was two days later that you next saw Steve. Usually, you would have bumped into him sooner, but it was the beginning of the academic year so there was a lot to do and you rarely left the classroom. Today hadn't been much different,

The bell had just echoed around the building, meaning the children had scampered out of the classroom before the last bell even rang, running off to their lunch time. You sat at your desk, going through the pop quiz on the first chapter Animal Farm you'd just given them, marking with a red ball point pen while spooning cold pasta into your mouth. It wasn't the nicest thing in the world, but hey, there wasn't anything else to eat and you'd have to eat properly if you wanted to get through the second half of the day.

Until there was a soft knock on your door. You turned, pausing your pen movement and looking through the window in the door to see Steve sheepishly standing there. He had that shy, nervous smile curved into his lips that softly warmed your heart, like he didn't know whether it was okay that he had turned up outside your classroom.

When you smiled, nodding for him to come in, the door swung open to reveal him in a white polo with the cubs logo embroidered into the fabric. In his hand was a brown paper bag that you could only assume was his lunch and… a mug, steaming with hot coffee. Your mug to be specific.

"Hey Steve, everything okay?" You ask, looking up at him as he stood by the desk, fiddling with the pen in your hand, even though you'd stopped writing with it.

Steve nods, placing his bag on the desk but not letting go of the folded top and setting the mug in front of you. "Yeah… d'you mind if I eat my lunch here? I, uh, brought you a coffee."

"That's... my mug. How did you know that was my mug?"

The man shrugs, fiddling with the table edge because lowly, somehow, his nerves were taking over and all he wanted to do was not seem like a creep. "It's your favourite colour… still- I'm assuming it hasn't changed. And it's got stars on it. You love stars. Again- I'm assuming nothings changed since high school and that's stupid of me considering it's been so long since then. I—"

"Steve." He pauses at your soft speech.

"Yeah?"

You laughed a little, your smile lighting up the room. "You can eat lunch with me. Thank you for the coffee, I must have left it in the staff room and forgot about it, it's been one busy morning, that's for sure."

He smiles, a more toothier one this time, dragging one of the plastic chairs from a students' desk over to the side of you. Honestly, he looked a little silly sitting in it, as it had obviously been made for kids and not a 23 year old, adult man. You watched him carefully as he sat in the chair, watching the expanse of his shoulders specifically because — well, he'd gotten broader, that was for sure. Put on a bit of muscle, grown a little mature in the face. He was definitely more put together than he used to be, that was for sure. Tempting, you realised.

Once he's settled, he glances up at you, feeling your eyes burning into him, and he lets out the cheeky little nervous laugh that you remember hasn't changed at all. "Whatcha looking at?"

You snap out of it, shaking your head. "No, nothing, that chair is just… really small that's all."

"Very funny." Steve shakes his head, pulling out a sandwich from the brown plastic bag. "What else was I supposed to do? I don't get a chair in the gym, you know. I have to stand all day."

A fake pout forms on your face as you attempt to hide a laugh. "Aw, poor Stevie."

Steve feels his stomach drop at that. Nobody has called him that for a good while, it was only ever you back in the day when he'd attempt to get you to go out with him through pity. God, even after all this time, he was back in the exact same position that he had been in all those years ago. Still caught up on the same girl, no matter what. Even after demogorgans and Vecna and well… everything, here he was. Right back at square one.

"That's terrible." He laughs it off — that's the best thing to do. He doesn't wanna scare you off again. He doesn't wanna fuck this up like he did before. Give you space, let you explore how you feel for him first and if you feel the same way back? Then he'll go from there.

You shrug at his comment, a smug grin plastered on your face. "So, how've your first couple days been?"

Steve takes a bite of his sandwich, something he just about managed to pull together without being late this morning and lets his eyes wander the room. "Not as bad as I thought it would be. There's a couple good kids I'm already spotting. Some that definitely have potential, too."

"It's a big range here." You murmur, dragging the fork through the pasta that you've barely eaten. "But there's a kid called Dylan Garrosby in 7th grade, he's a real pain so watch out for him."

"Dylan G?"

You nod.

Steve makes a face, something like a frown but not quite, then shrugs, sitting back as much as she can in the little chair he's placed himself into. "Yeah I had him yesterday, he wasn't horrible. Likes basketball but just struggles to concentrate."

A chuckle escapes you as you process Steve's words. "Well, he's a menace in my class, that's all I know."

"You gotta give them the benefit of the doubt." Steve says, even though he's only been teaching for a couple days as far as you're concerned. "I hated Mrs Click's class all through high school and always sacked it off but whenever I had basketball I was there before the ball rang. The kid's just gotta find his passion, he'll be fine."

You pause for a minute, jaw slightly dropped as you stared over at the man in front of you. "Steve—"

Steve looks up at you and grins. "What?"

"I can't believe you're comparing me to Mrs Click!" You cry, dropping your fork on the desk and gesturing wildly. Steve seems to find this very funny, cackling to himself into his food with that warm glint in your eyes that hadn't changed even with all the maturity he's earned. "She was horrible!"

Steve begins to giggle, attempting to get words out through each hiccup of laughter.

"I'm not comparing you to Mrs Click! I'm just saying— the kid'll sort himself out eventually." A sharp eyebrow raises at him as you cross your arms over your chest and Steve's face drops immediately, pointing at you. "Oh my god! That's it! That's the Click Look!"

Somehow, your jaw drops even further this time, you're sat up to full height with a look of betrayal plastered onto your face. "This is my classroom you know. I could kick you out and make you eat lunch on your own."

There's a glint in Steve's eyebrows as he speaks again. "You won't."

"Why won't I?"

"You enjoy my company too much." Steve shrugs, taking a bite from his sandwich again, probably only the third or fourth since he started because of how much you're talking with him. "Nothing's changed since high school. You say you hate me but never reject my company. You don't actually hate me, in fact, I think you really like me."

You scoff a little, sitting back in your chair and fiddling with your food again, attempting to hide the guilt that just swarmed through your bloodstream. "Mhm. I never said I hated you in high school."

Steve glances awkwardly between you and his food. "Everybody thought you did. I mean, I don't blame them. How many times did you reject me?"

"Steve."

"No, come on." He spoke, his voice much stronger than yours as he goes in for another bite. "It's been years, we can joke about it now. Honest to God, it doesn't bother me anymore. Hell— it barely bothered me in high school. It's just… banter between friends now."

You're warming to him again when you meet his eyes. "Friends?"

He nods. "If you're okay with that."

You smile again, then, and nod at him, sitting forward to begin eating again. "Yeah, I'm definitely okay with that, Steve. Thank you."

"Much obliged." He grins.

Over the first month of the academic year, you and Steve grew closer and closer. He hadn't made any moves, but that settled flirty air still circled you whenever Steve was nearby. It was interesting, to say the least. While you knew that it felt the same as all those years ago, you didn't quite know what to make of that feeling. Whether your feelings were platonic or more, you just couldn't figure out.

Back in high school, you didn't reject Steve because you didn't like him, you just didn't want to end up like all the other girls he dated for a couple weeks and then ghosted. You were protecting just yourself.

But things were different now. As much as you didn't want to admit it — Steve had grown up. He had a job he took seriously, he was living in a little apartment on main above the old record shop that shut down when you were just a kid, rather than his parents old mansion that you couldn't figure out what had happened to.

He didn't talk about dates anymore. He didn't mention a girl he liked or someone that he had a crush on, whether you were in the room or not. There were no rumours about him being seen in his car with a girl nor of anybody coming out of his apartment in the same clothes as last night. So, the only reason you had ever rejected him during high school was gone. It was no longer a problem. But had he moved past you now, too? Was it too late?

No matter how much marking you shoved yourself into, how late you stayed at the school doing work, the thought of Steve couldn't leave your head.

Towards the end of October, and you had your head against the wood of your desk, forehead pressing against some kids essay, tapping the pen against the desk. This was getting silly now. You couldn't get it to leave your head. Passing him in the corridor, having to stupidly smile at him like he wasn't on your mind constantly. Sitting next to him in assembly pretending like he wasn't paying rent in your brain.

God, it wasn't even this bad in high school. How had it gotten worse?

Steve wasn't doing much better.

Because while he had tried to avoid a repeat of high school, he had failed and in fact, had done the exact opposite. It was the exact same as before — him completely infatuated with you and you simply just being your lovely self: being kind and letting him down softly.

Except — Steve hadn't actually asked you out again yet. It had been in the back of his mind, sure, but it had stayed there. Steve realised that if he was ever going to give in a try this again, it would have to be in a way where you couldn't say no. He just had to convince you that if you went out with him, you would get all the perks you get now — just more, and with some extra ones. You said it yourself, you never hated him in high school and you definitely don't hate him now.

It was about halfway through November that talks of the Snowball started circulating. Posters started appearing on bulletin boards across the school, in hallways and on doors. Passed through at morning registration and included in department meetings.

Steve remembered his own Snowball like it was yesterday. He'd gone with this girl, Debbie something, he couldn't quite remember. What he did remember was that it was the beginning of everything with you. One of his friends, Chris, had asked if you wanted to go together and you had said yes, so you'd been around him practically all night. Steve had thought you were gorgeous, he couldn't keep you out of his mind all night. In fact, he'd gone home that evening and talked his ear off to his childminder (this was back when his parents still cared to hire one whilst they were away) about you.

Soon enough, teachers were being asked to volunteer to set up, chaperone and set down the Snowball. Steve had turned up outside your door at lunch time the same day, with your mug filled with hot coffee in his hand and the brown paper bag with his sandwich in, like usual.

It was nearing the end of the slotted lunch period did he ask, sat back in that same tiny chair, picking at the filling of his sandwich while you sipped at the coffee. "You gonna do the Snowball?"

You'd smiled down at the sandwich in your hands, shrugging your shoulders slightly. "I was thinking about it. Got nothing better do to that night, you know? Are you?"

"My answer was entirely dependant on what you were gonna do, honestly."

"Why?" The smile was sly now, edging upwards to meet Steve's gaze, that glint in your eyes that scared Steve just that little bit because it always meant you knew something he didn't — in this case though, he did know. "You wanted to ask me to it?"

Steve scoffs ever so lightly, taken aback by how blatant you're being. You catch the light pink dusted against his cheeks as he shuffles in his chair, unsure how to answer, unsure how to understand what you're playing at. Did he just imagine you saying that? Did you want him to ask you out? "Uh— Um. Sh- Did you—?"

Then suddenly you're chuckling to yourself, interrupting his train of thought with that pretty giggle of yours that kept him awake every night. "I'm kidding, Steve. It's the 8th graders disco, one teacher can't take another teacher on a date, especially because we'd have to stay professional the whole night."

He gulps at your words, eyes glued to you, the way your fingers shuffle against your food, the quirk in the corner of your lips when you joke about staying professional. This isn't just the usual banter, Steve realises. This is you flirting back for once, this is you flirting with intent, with a want and a need for Steve to do something about it. Oh god, he better not be wrong about this, this time. He can't lose, this, you again.

"Is that the only thing stopping you?" He murmurs, making sure his eyes don't stray from your own.

He watches your lips part softly, and his ears piqued at the softness of your voice as you spoke. "What if it was?"

"You'd want to?" Steve spoke, sitting up slightly, a bit overwhelmed by what exactly was happening, he couldn't quite believe it was actually happening, in all honestly, hearing you say that… you would. "Go with me to the Snowball, I mean. Not just as… chaperones."

You smile, large and grinning and you go to nod— oh my god, it's happening.

Then the bell rings, indicating the end of the lunch period. The laughing and screaming of children outside comes to a halt and the halls fill with the squeaking of sneakers against the lino floors. Steve deflates, knowing both of you have a half next and he can't do anything to avoid it.

As he gets up to leave, he chucks his half eaten sandwich in the bin, and stops at the door.

"Hey St— Mr Harrington?" You correct yourself as the kids for your next class start piling into their chairs. He turns around to face you, eyebrows high with confusion. You grin over at him, that same glint in your eyes. "This conversation isn't over."

A slow smile curls itself into Steve's lips, and he nods, like he's proud of himself. "Yeah, okay. Talk to you later, Miss."

The door shuts tentatively after the last kid sits down, and you bin the last of your sandwich too, letting it fall into the bin right next to Steve's. You stand, moving to the blackboard to write the lesson topic on the board, when you notice a kid has their hand up already.

"Yes, Erin?"

She's cute when she speaks too, even if her question has nothing to do with anything she should be involved in, but kids, aren't they so damn observant. "Do you have a crush on Coach Harrington?"

You laugh her off. "That's none of your business, Erin."

"But you do!" Another kid pipes up from the other side of the classroom and you begin to notice just how many kids are nodding at the offered idea. Was it really that obvious? "We always see you together at lunchtimes and you always smile at each other in the corridor and Coach always mentions you like aaalwayss and—"

"Right!" You clap, cutting him off and watching them all burst into little fits of giggles. You have to admit, it's cute that they've noticed, but you're not going to let the lesson get derailed because they want to gossip about something that you don't need spread around the whole school by the end of the day. "Animal Farm everybody! Final chapter, are we ready?"

"You like Coach Harrington." One of them singsongs, dragging out the 'a' and the 'o', but you don't catch who, because they've all been very sneaky and gotten their copies of Animal Farm already out and already in front of them.

You brush it off and pull out your own copy, beginning to read.

Suddenly, it was the day of the Snowball.

You didn't know how it had come around so quickly. A whole semester over just like that. A whole three months of meeting with Steve for lunch and trying to pretend you weren't slowly falling in love with him. Just trying to act exactly like you did in high school… pretending.

Because while you had said the conversation wasn't over, you'd actually never picked it back up again. Steve had come around at lunch and you'd eaten together and chatted and laughed but… neither of you had ever brought it up again. It was like the conversation had never happened. Did he regret it? Did you push too far? Was it actually too late and you'd actually, finally missed him?

In the previous couple Snowballs that you had helped out with, you hadn't thought about what you were going to wear. You'd stuck to the basic make up you did for work and maybe changed shirts, but this time was different. It's cheesy and you hate yourself for giving a shit about it because Steve had only ever seen you in the past three months in work clothes, but this was the one chance you had to convince him to ask you out again.

So you tried this time. You made sure you had time to go home and change between set up and the end of school that day. You had laid out the dress you were planning on wearing on the bed before you left, and made sure all your make up was out so it would be quick and easy.

It felt weird, because it had been so long since you'd gotten dressed up for something other than a girls night out with a couple mates a good few months ago.

You arrived at the Snowball on time, a couple teachers already there putting up the bunting and hangers, two history teachers at the far end of the hall attempting to put up the banner that the art department had worked so hard to make the past couple weeks. No Steve yet.

Walking into the storage cupboard, you went for the folded plastic tables, opting to set up something easy for the snacks and punch you were offering the kids. But once you were crouched on the vinyl flooring, fiddling with the clasps and the switches, you just couldn't figure it out. You'd had your nails done the other week and they just couldn't slip under the latch quite in the way you needed to pop the table open.

It was embarrassing, but also kind of the best thing that could have happened, because Steve only came in a couple minutes after you, blazer round the back of some chair, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow.

"Need any help?"

You feel your shoulders deflate at his voice and you rest your head against the edge of the table where its propped on its side. "Shut up and help me Harrington. And don't lecture me, I know how to do it, my nails just won't let me."

Steve chuckled and lowered himself onto the ground, moving so he could reach the latch but making it so his knee was pressed against your back. Too close for comfort. Too close to keep your heat at a steady rate. He was doing this shit on purpose, you were sure. "But they're so pretty. Can't risk breaking them."

"What are, my nails?"

He nodded, smiling and flipping the latch. "Yeah, they're real cute, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. If he didn't ask you out by the end of this, you were going to kill him. You rolled your eyes, playing it off playfully and letting him pull the table out, shuffling backward to accommodate the space. "Well… thanks Steve." You stand, brushing any dust from your dress.

You watched Steve for a second. The way his arms flexed flipping the table to stand correctly. The way his eyes darted to every corner of the table to make sure he was doing it right. The way he ran his fingers down the metal edge of the table and grunted, brushing his hands off and turning to you with a smile. You were gone. You were well and truly gone. There was no getting out of it now — it was impossible. He'd be in your head forever, until you were on your fucking death bed.

And then he caught you staring, a knowing smirk that made your stomach twist playing on his lips. "What?"

Quickly, you straightened, shaking your head. "What—? No, nothing."

"Come on." He laughed, heading towards the storage cupboard again to grab something else. You swiftly regathered yourself and followed him in, finding him hands deep in a box full of white table cloths that definitely wasn't repurposed fabric from the art department.

You knelt down next to him, but was quickly pushed back onto your feet at Steve's protests. "Woah, what?"

"Your pretty dress, c'mon, it's gonna get all dusty!" Steve whines, a hand waving about and forcing you to stand back up again.

"Oh." You murmured, wiping down the front of the skirt, looking down at him as he passes a cloth up to you. You take it between your two arms and let Steve follow behind you with another sheet to leave out with the next table.

Together, you set up the main tables available for the little food and drink the school can afford for the kids, next moving onto another table that Steve again, does not let you set up. You can't tell if he's just being gentlemanly or attempting to irk you enough to make you shout at him but either way, it's working. Once the tables are set up, you head off to the kitchens to get the food while Steve gets dragged into hanging up the silver and blue shining fringe that was planned to run across each wall of the gym.

Somewhere along the lines, set up is finished and the children begin arriving.

Steve gets caught up manning the toilets and making sure too many students don't start crowding in them, leaning against the wall outside the door, caught up in a long conversation with one of the 6th grade kids. You watched from the punch bowl, a fond smile on your face whenever there wasn't a kid asking for a refill, eyes trained on Steve as he spoke from across the gym.

Every time that Elsie, that little 6th grader than wouldn't leave him alone, spoke, he'd smile that familiar warm curl of the lips, and you could tell even from where you were standing that he was making some sort of joke to the girl, some Coach Steve banter that was the reasons the kids loved PE so much since he joined the school.

Then every time he got a spare second, his eyes trained upwards, looking for you, the glint in his eyes turning into something more special. Something he was reserving just for you.

For practically the whole period of the Snowball, you and Steve were kept apart. It was only about halfway through the night (which meant 7pm for the kids), when shifts changed and you were allowed to leave the punch bowl. Mrs Jones, a History teacher, nicely took over from you, telling you to go have at least a little fun.

You gave her a smile and immediately headed over to where you thought Steve was standing, reaching the middle of the gym before realising that he wasn't standing there anymore.

Bastard. You furrowed your brows, looking around for him.

"Hey." That low, rough and calming voice spoke as you turned, making you jump slightly as he did so, suddenly appearing behind you even though you thought you'd already checked that direction. "Woah—"

"Christ, Steve, you scared me!"

Steve grinned, a hand on your waist to steady you. You attempted to ignore the fuzzy feeling the feeling of his hand gave you. "Sorry, sugar, just wanted to surprise you."

A soft smile curls it's way into the corners of your lips as you draped your gaze over his face. "Well, you certainly did that. You okay?"

"No, actually, there's uh…" He stuttered over his words, waving his hands about, your eyes catching the veins in his arms move against the rolled up fabric of his shirt as he tripped and stumbled over his words. "Something I wanted to talk to you about."

"What is it, Harrington?"

His eyes leave the floor then, meeting yours sweetly, lips quirked upward, crinkles by his eyes from the past semester with you. You've completely forgotten about the kids, about how you're just stood in the middle of the gym, you barely even notice the song playing.

Barely. "We've known each other a while now, and I think it's safe to say—"

Take a chance on me, he mouths, along to the song, that started playing at the perfect moment. As the kids start cheering and the song starts the first verse, you start laughing, a full-blown, whole hearted laugh, glee radiating from your face and your smile and just the whole situation he's managed to arrange.

"I'm the first in line, baby!" Steve shouts over the music, taking your hand and forcing you to spin, a shriek of surprise and laughter and happiness and he dips you, getting you face to face with him for a single second.

You grin up at him, feeling his hand at your waist supporting you, and you're so close to the floor but you don't feel like you're going fall at all, not in his arms. "You're such an idiot!"

Steve laughs, dragging you back up to full height.

Before he can force you to dance any longer, you take his hand in yours, you take the lead with footsteps towards the back door. Already, the kids have forgotten about you and are back to dancing in their own little worlds, so not a single soul notices you and Steve slip out the door.

You're met with the alley, the one that stretches between the gym and the English block, Steve's back hitting the wall as you're over taken with laughter.

He's practically giggling too, so you know you're not alone. As though it was an automatic gesture that he had done a thousand times before, Steve's large palms find your waist, steadying you as your breath slowly calms, cheeks beginning to hurt from the grinning and smiling and laughing— oh.

"C'mon baby, we're missing the song— just for you!" He grins, squeezing your waist.

"Steven Harrington—" You sigh, unable to keep the glazed, dreamy look from your eyes, letting your hands rest against his shoulders. "You are such an idiot."

Steve shrugs, tonguing the inside of his cheek. "What? It's a simple question, sweetheart, you gonna take a chance on me? After all these years? After every offer, after every rejection, I've liked you for years—"

The song, still playing in the background but muffled by the closed metal doors to your left, is now the last thing on your mind as you lean up and press your lips against Steve, half to shut him up, half to answer his seemingly endless questions.

He chuckles against your lips immediately, pulling you closer to him via the grip he's got, tight on your hip, making sure that you are flush against his warm torso. There's a couple more brushes of his lips against yours that stay soft, but it doesn't take long for the neediness to break through. For every feeling, every daydream he's ever had over the past however many years it's been now.

You gasp slightly as his teeth nip at your bottom lip, and your hands are digging through the soft locks of his hair, the hair that used to be so precious to him and isn't so much anymore, not since he realised there were more important things in his life.

"Mhmph—" You giggle against his lips, head tilted because he needed to be just that much closer to you. "Steve."

"Wha..?"

You pull back, just enough to be able to scan over his face, dazed from the kiss as well as the reality of finally kissing you. "I'm taking a chance on you."

Steve giggles, a dreamy chuckle pressed between his lips. "Yeah, I got that, sweetheart."

"Took me long enough, I reckon, don't you?"

"I would've waited as long as it took you, sugar, don't even worry your pretty little head about it." He speaks, voice rough and low and familiar and finally yours.

Because even if you had said no over and over and over again, things had changed. Things were different now. Good different. Steve presses his lips up against yours again and you let yourself have a moment before having to go back to the Snowball and take care of the kids again.

You had a feeling you'd never be able to be normal at work ever again, all thanks to Steve.

Three nights with your notes spread across your desk, your pencil worn down to a nub, and your mother calling from downstairs that dinner was getting cold. Three nights reading through library clippings about school funding, college acceptance rates, and the way girls in Hawkins were politely encouraged toward “practical” futures while boys with half of your grades were told they had potential. You had interviewed four seniors, two teachers, one guidance counselor who had smiled at you with the concerned tenderness adults reserved for girls they planned to ignore. 

It was practically perfect.

You had written it carefully. Not angrily, though you had to admit that anger had lived under every line you wrote, warming the words from dpwn below. You had made it clean, sharp, and correctly sourced. You had imagined your byline on the front page. You had victoriously imagined holding the paper in your hands and seeing proof that all the hours you spent noticing things nobody asked you to notice had finally become something real.

The reaction to it, unfortunately, had left much to be desired.

Mr. Walsh held the pages in one hand and adjusted his glasses with the other. His voice was polite enough, but it held that familiar detachment.

“It’s very thorough,” he noted with a faint nod of his head towards the article.

You knew you were absolutely dead, or rather, any hopes of seeing a cover page was.

Across the table, Mark Ellison leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. His article was a soft little thing about “school spirit making a comeback,” built around three quotes from basketball players and one sweeping paragraph about how Hawkins High had ‘survived difficult years by pulling together’. He had written it during study hall. You had watched him do it while eating chips from a vending machine. You had also watched him pay more attention to his stupid Walkman than his article.

Mr. Walsh then gave Mark’s pages a fond pat from beside you. You had to physically stop yourself from letting the steam errupt from your expression, and curled your fingers into your palm. You didn't, however, hide the scoff when the teacher told the boy his next words.

“I think this is what we need above the fold this week. Something upbeat. The town’s had enough heaviness, don’t you think?”

The room moved on. You couldn't even get another word in before everything decided it was time to start up again. That only served further in building up your irritation. 

Someone asked about the sports column, someone else complained that the typewriter ribbon was fading again, and most annoyingly, Mark grinned without trying to look too pleased, which made him only look worse. You sat very still with your hands folded over your notebook, your nails continuing to press little moons into your palms.

“Maybe we can run yours inside,” Mr. Walsh added, almost kindly. You hated how he made it seem like it was somehow charitable of him to do so. After all, his excuses were always relatively  the same. “It’s strong work. Just a bit… intense for the front page.”

Intense.

You looked down at your notes until the letters blurred into a block of black.

That was what they always called girls who didn't make unfairness easier to swallow for others. Intense. Difficult. Ambitious in a tone that meant unattractive. Boys were driven. Boys were promising. Boys were leaders, even when they had to borrow a pencil to write a paragraph about pep rallies. Even when half of them couldn't even write clean enough for legitimacy on papers of loose leaf.

You smiled promptly then because you knew how to make adults comfortable. You weren't so sure your face was able to hide your growing annoyance, though. It was practically humiliating in its steady routine, but you'd learned over the years Mr. Walsh was as stubborn as the donkey he was named after.

“Sure,” you gave a small exhale alongside your smile, your tone was too light to be breezy and far too sweet to be real. “Inside is fine.”

Inside was not fine.

At lunch, you stabbed your fork into a pile of cafeteria mashed potatoes until they lost their shape entirely. With a cheek resting in hand, the sight of the sullen plate reflected your own inner turmoil. Conversational chatter flattered about around you.

“He said it was intense?” One friend asked, sitting across from you with a carton of milk she had not opened. “Everything's intense to that guy. Mr. Walsh wears the same brown sweater every day and once called Pat Benatar ‘too confrontational.’”

“He didn’t say Mark’s article was intense,” you muttered with poorly disguised disgust. Your brows twitched together and your eyes flicked up in a roll. The moment replayed in your head, Mark getting far too much praise for something he spent the better half of an hour listening to Olivia John-Newton, though he'd refuse the accusation vehemently if questioned.

“That’s because Mark’s article has the emotional range of a gym sock,” your friend Stacey said from beside you. She had bright blue eyeliner, a talent for gossip, and the terrifying confidence of someone who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space. You admired her for that.  “You need something undeniable.”

“I had something undeniable.” the response came almost petulant, and if you were still holding onto the leverage that you had a shoe-in for an article, you'd have refrained from saying it.

“No,” Stacey clicked her tongue, pointing her plastic spoon at you. “You had something true. That’s different. Truth makes people sleepy unless there’s blood on it.”

Leah made a face, looking down at the strawberry jam on her cake slice, and promptly pushed it forward. “Please never go into medicine.”

You tried not to laugh and failed halfway, the sound catching in your throat before it could become anything that felt good. For a moment, there was something besides that sense of annoyed displacement. 

The cafeteria around you churned with noise. Trays clattered, and somebody at the far end started chanting for reasons that probably involved a dare and milk coming out of someone’s nose. You let the spark of clear judgement light through your expression as you looked over to  the basketball table occupied its usual territory near the windows.

They were loud enough to own the room without having to ask, a result of years of indulged arrogance,  you could only assume. Tommy H. was telling a story with both hands, his laugh sharp and performative. A few juniors watched him the way freshmen used to watch Steve Harrington.

Steve did not sit with them anymore, that was something practically everyone noticed since last year.

He sat two tables away from the old crowd, alone with a slice of pizza gone stiff at the edges. His hair was still perfect in the way that seemed less accidental the longer you looked at it, all careful lift and feathered brown shine.

His shoulders filled out his yellow polo, but they were rounded inward today, one hand pressed against his temple while he stared at a textbook he did not seem to be reading. There was a bruise near his jaw, faded yellow at the edges. His eyes kept moving toward the basketball table and then away before anyone caught him looking.

King Steve, deposed but still dressed for court.

Stacey followed your gaze. Her mouth curved before you could shove it away off of her.

“If you want the front page,” she brightened up with a revived vigor, “you have to write about the biggest tragedy in Hawkins.”

Leah, unfortunately, looked too.

“Oh Stace’, I don't think that's a good—” she was swiftly cut off by your mutual friends voice dipped in delight

“The fall of King Steve,” Stacey finished and you gasped at her.

You snorted without ceremony promptly, her words did less to entice you and more to amuse you. If there was anything you couldn't find yourself caring less to write about, it would be about anything involving Steve Harrington. “That’s not an article.”

“It is absolutely an article! It’s got everything. Popularity. Masculine fragility. Hair products.”

Leah leaned forward then, lowering her voice. She looked besides you two with a more hesitant approach, her eyes flicked to the table a few feet away from you. “Also maybe just leave him alone? He looks one spilled pudding cup away from a complete collapse.”

“That’s the point,” Stacey had taken to promptly ignoring the two of you. “What happens when a guy builds his whole identity on being wanted, and then people stop wanting him?”

The words landed before the joke did.

You looked at Steve again. He dragged a hand through his hair, then immediately seemed to regret it, patting the front back into place with a reflex so automatic it made your chest pinch in spite of yourself. If you were to compare it to anything, it would be akin to a kid being filmed for a birthday party. It held the familiar awareness of being all too stiff, even in the singular companionship of just himself.

A whole identity built on being wanted.

The cafeteria lights flashed across the windows as usual. Outside, October had pulled Hawkins into a cold, colorless stretch of afternoon. The trees beyond the parking lot shivered with half-bare branches, leaves gathered wetly along the curb. It was a domestic background that you've memorized in routine these past four years. 

You pulled your notebook from your bag suddenly. Stacy's words had flicked on a small lightbulb in your brain.

Leah's  brown eyes blinked wearily on you as the next few minutes were received in silence from your side, only the sound of pen to paper filling your ears. “Oh, God. Stacey, you broke her.”

You rolled your eyes at that.

“I inspired her.” Stacey gave a self assured correction, her fingers going up as if it would further solidify her point.

There was no real attention paid to your friends for the next whirlwind of time, and you clicked your pen every so often in an attempt to soften the strokes of ink.

At the top of a previous blank page, you had written:

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

Stacey leaned over your shoulder and let out a delighted gasp.

“That is disgusting,” Leah immediately. Her eyes widened and she threw you a look that your promptly avoided. 

“It’s not, it's anonymous… and a work in progress,” you murmured in weak retaliation, already thinking faster than you could write. “Stacy's  right, it'd be a good article. How we make gods out of boys and then act shocked when they don’t know how to be human.”

Leah’s expression softened in a way you did not want to look at too closely. Realistically, you realized this might be a bit too cruel. But you were already on your verge, and no matter how absurd the idea had seemed before – you could admit held strong potential. 

“And Harrington?”

You watched him push his tray away untouched, and your gaze was less detached than you had been before.

“Steve is the case study.”

You told yourself that made it cleaner, and you also told yourself a lot of things that week. Things that in hindsight, might’ve been necessary to proceed with caution.

—

You approached him after basketball practice on a Wednesday, when the hallway outside the gym smelled most strongly of rubber, sweat, and floor wax. Most of the team members had already spilled toward the locker room, their voices echoing against the cinderblock walls. Steve came out last, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and damp hair falling looser than usual around his forehead.

He looked tired enough that the sight of him made your plan wobble. It was one thing to think this out carefully and assume control, and it was another to actually act it out. 

Then, finally, he glanced up and saw you waiting by his locker.

You pushed off the wall before you could think better of it. Any further delay would only serve in faltering you more. 

“Harrington,” you called out firmly, letting your voice carry the boldness you had practiced in your mirror. Though, you weren't entirely sure you properly hid the wince that came with addressing him like that. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His eyebrows lifted then, that was what you'd noticed first. His face seemed to twitch in a complicated way, his face didn't hold a smirk, not right away at least. Surprise was there first. Real surprise, open and unguarded enough to make you feel briefly cruel. Your tried not to ponder on him for too long.

“For me?” his voice held a sincere curiosity that had you irritated at repeating yourself.

“No, the other guy with gravity-defying hair and a tragic aura.”

That got him.

A breath left him, almost a laugh, you saw the movement happen in real time. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, trying to recover his balance by looking casual. His thumb hooked into his belt loop. His shining eyes flicked over your face, landed on your mouth for half a second too long, then jumped back up.

You really had to refrain from the scoff that wished to escape you. 

“Tragic aura,” he repeated, his eyes twisted in a regained stability. His voice was more awkward than you remembered it being,  strangely that'd been your first true thought of him. “Wow. That’s, uh… that’s new.”

You gave a low hum in response.  “I’m a journalist. We notice things.”

“Is that why you’re here? To notice me?”

The line should have been smooth. You could actively hear him reaching for an older version of himself, the one who would have tilted his head and let girls do the work of melting. But his voice caught on the last word. Not much, but it was just slightly enough that you felt something in you feel successful.

You smiled, the formation stretched across your face as you cleared your throat softly. “I need help.”

Now, he seemed a bit confused,  his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded you of the neighborhood poodle. You let a smile turn slightly genuine at the semblance found between the two. 

“With?”

You stepped closer finally, and you stepped close enough to see the faint line where his tan had started to fade at his throat, and certainly close enough to catch the smell of clean soap beneath sweat and cologne.

“Understanding someone.” the words came out a bit hesitant, not at all like the suaveness you had practiced by standing in front of your bathroom mirror.

His gaze sharpened a little. Instinct took over him well. “Someone?”

“A boy,” you said quickly. Whatever it was that appeared in your face seemed to have gotten to him.

You saw the ghost of King Steve ever so slightly stir in movement in him. His mouth curved, one corner first, then another. It was almost unfair how quickly he could change expressions, and even worse so, that each expression of his seemed to cause your nerves to fray.

“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert.”

Your eyes flickered to his, though not before you let your gaze find the small details of his face that were only exposed up close. “You do?”

“Former expert,” he amended, and something dry entered his voice. “My credentials are under review.”

You laughed before you meant to. You couldn't help it at the moment. It came out too genuine and his face changed with it. Not entirely dramatic, though. He just went still, the way people did when a sound touched some starved part of them. His own pools of hazel seemed to be too flittery for someone you were sure had done this plenty of time before. Still, against your better judgment, you kept staring into his eyeline.

You should have written that down later, a faint voice echoed through your head. Not the eyes part, you quickly denied and even got upset at yourself for supplying the image. You really should have been memorizing any small part he'd exposed, even more of the behavior you were out to conquer.

Instead, you remembered the exact angle of his shoulder against the locker, the wet curl slipping toward his eyebrow, the way he looked at you with confusion and cautious interest and a kind of bruised hope that had no place in your article.

You tilted your chin, chewing on the bottom of your lip by pure instinct. By now, you were close enough to have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You blinked, breaking whatever power he seemed to have had momentarily to have you swept up and cleared your throat.

Your voice was back to being confident again, since practice made perfect. “Pick me up Friday?”

His mouth caught in a faint sputter, you could tell you had caught him completely off guard. Faintly, as if it were a bodily response, you softened your smile into something smaller, tilting up at him for the silent moment.

“Friday,” he said after a beat. Steve’s voice seemed to have taken a breathless edge now. It did something all weird and wonky to you. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”

“Seven.”

“Seven,” he repeated, and appearing to remember he wasn't an apparition, Steve's body seemed to lean toward yours as he continued. “Where are we going?”

You hadn't thought that far. Instead of deciding on the spot, you bit the inside flesh of your cheek as an amused exhale escaped your lips.

“You’re the expert, Harrington. Impress me.”

You walked away before your nerve gave out. You could feel him watching you down the hall, could feel the whole plan beginning to take shape behind your ribs. You had even taken to looking through your sosters old magazines for inspiration. Hot and cold. Interest and withdrawal. Private sincerity, public disruption. All those where supposed to be tactics to reuse interest in relationships,  but you figured that the same could also be said for an indirect character study. 

Observe the subject under changing social conditions. Note responses. Analyze, that had been your plan split up into groups.

You were very good at making terrible ideas sound academic.

—

On Friday, his Beamer waited by the curb under a sky the color of sad, wet cement.

He got out when he saw you, which you hated because it was exactly the kind of performative gentleman routine you had expected, and also because he did it without checking if anyone was watching. That complicated your observations, causing a flutter to go through you. He wore a brown leather jacket over a striped shirt, jeans that fit him too well, and that expensive cologne that seemed built into the mythology of him.

Ralph Lauren, Stacey had said with the authority of a girl who knew these things and lived vicariously through others. It mixed with the leather and the faint sweet smell of cherry chapstick when he opened the passenger door.

"Aren't you going to get in,” Steve gave you a wounded look. His head was tilted down slightly towards you and it seemed like he was more offended you had even made an attempt to reach for the door. 

You looked at the open door in his hand, feeling less like a mastermind and more like a nervous girl.  “Do you do that for all your dates?”

Steve's hand went up to run the back of his neck as he let out a weak exhale,  the ghost of a smile on his face. “Only the intimidating ones.”

You slid into the car after that, tucking your notebook deep inside your bag where he would not see it. The seats were cold through your skirt. The dashboard glowed amber when he turned the key, washing his face in soft light as the engine rumbled awake.

He didn't take you to Enzo’s, where everyone went to be seen. He drove past the diner, past the arcade, past the bright places where Hawkins pretended it had a pulse. The town fell away into dark stretches of road bordered by skeletal trees and damp fields. Eventually he pulled into a small overlook above the park, where the swings moved gently in the wind below and the streetlamps made small gold circles on the path.

“This is your idea of impressive?” you couldn't help the baffled tone that took over as you asked, but your voice had taken a softer lift.

He shrugged, fingers resting on the steering wheel. “You said you wanted to understand someone. Hard to do that while watching someone like Tommy try to fit an entire breadstick in his mouth.”

“You’re not friends with him anymore?” you didn't really need the answer, everyone practically knew the answer by now. But still, it's different to have someone tell you something by choice than admit knowledge by association.

His thumb moved along the stitching of the wheel. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Not really.”

“Why?”

He gave you a sideways look. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I told you. Inquisitive.”

“Right.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite laughing. The smile on his face was soft in its hesitancy. “I don’t know. Stuff happened. I got tired. He got meaner. Or maybe he was like that, and I just stopped thinking it was funny.”

The words fell between the two of you in a hush.

You watched him in the dashboard light. Away from school, he seemed younger and older at once. Without the noise around him, without the audience, the space he occupied seemed to changed shape. He rubbed a hand over his face, then caught himself before he ruined his hair and dropped it to his lap. He did that a lot.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your trance. You quickly gave a few hard blinks to refocus, you seriously had to stop doing that around him.

“What?”

“You’re shivering.”

Were you? You hadn't noticed much besides him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not fine.”

Before you could answer, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, warm from his body, lined with the smell of him so completely that your next breath came slower than the last.

“You’ll get cold,” you said, a frown finding its way on to your face. It was a cold evening in Hawkins, the chill more prominent than usual. Your worry was quickly shoved down by him.

Steve seemed to just fidget by habit now. The muscle in his forearms tensed and gained your attention as his arms crossed against his chest. He gave a slight shove and his smile was all teeth and unintentional charm.“I’m tough.”

Now, you didn’t even bother to hide your scoff. A challenging twist of your brow appeared and you pointed out the faults in his words. “You just complained about the heater not working.”

“I’m selectively tough,” his grin stayed and was backed up by a small chuckle. 

You looked at him, and he looked back, and something quiet opened in the car.

The conversation shift quickly after that. You asked questions you had meant to use later. What did he want after graduation? He did not know. Where did he want to go? Away, maybe. Or nowhere. What was he afraid of? He made a joke at first, something about being left unsupervised with fireworks, and then he went quiet long enough for the windows to begin fogging at the edges.

“I don’t think I’m good at anything,” Steve told you after that. He said it plainly, almost casually, which made it worse. It was easier to dissect him clinically when he didn't wear that expression that caused you faltering to gain back control. 

You shifted toward him, eyes dragging over him.  They seemed darker with the setting say, but somehow they had something stored away that made you want to push back on his words.  “That’s not true.”

He gave you a look that unnerved you. “You don’t know that.”

You didn't let it get to you. You pushed through because for some reason, you felt like you couldn't stay silent. “I know you noticed I was cold before I did.”

The words had you faltering from the truth it held.

Steve gave a wry exhale, his head tilted back against his seat with his eyes on you. “That’s not a skill.”

Your voice felt firmer now. “It is, actually.”

He stared out through the windshield. Below, the park sat empty and silvered by frost. You couldn't really focus on that, not when Steve sat besides you looking less like the king you knew and more like a boy you wanted to know. You couldn't even process the words before Steve continued in. “Nancy used to say I had good instincts when I got out of my own way.”

Nancy.

There it was. The bruise beneath the bruise. It wasn't  one you were exactly shocked to hear, the whole sum of Hawkins new about the romance between the Wheeler daughter and him. Still, you weren't going deny the tinge of discomfort you felt at the mention.

What? Why were you uncomfortable? You immediately shut down the thought. A hard clearing of your throat helped stabilize yourself. You had to remind yourself that you weren't here for whatever reason that your body seemed to mistake. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, or at least tried to. You should have leaned in then when his head bowed slightly. You should have gathered the quote, traced the wound back to its social function, and built your thesis brick by brick.

You settled on something else, because strangely, anything else seemed harsh. “She sounds smart.”

“She is.”

The words carried no bitterness. That threw you off. You'd have known guys to turn completely hostile after break-ups, and you couldn't even remember a time where someone from Steve’s circle stayed genuine for the moment. You'd completely expected him to talk badly about her, about the situation, and frankly just about anything and everything that came up. To place blame in everything that never warranted it. 

You'd have felt more comfortable if he reacted like that. He didn't notice your turmoil.

“She’s also right,” he added, turning back to you. His hazel eyes mesmerizing in its softness. “I get in my own way a lot.”

You wanted to ask how. You wanted to ask why. What came out was a stupid joke about how his hair probably counted as a separate obstacle. “How, by looking in the mirror and not finding your face under all that hair?”

His laugh wasn’t loud, it certainly was not the cafeteria laugh you'd have known, not the old one that announced him from across the room. It was small and startled and breathless, given to you without polish. It didn't help you when he leaned back against the seat, smiling at the roof of the car, and your pulse betrayed you completely.

What happened next made you feel less like you were playing him and more like he was playing you. When he reached over to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear, he did it slowly enough that you could have stopped him.

You didn't. You didn't stop him.

You told yourself it was because you were playing an act.

His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, working in breaking you out of your mind. Steve’s hand lingered there, his thumb moving once over your skin, it barely had any pressure. He watched the place he touched instead of your eyes, and the careful uncertainty of it burned through you harder than confidence would have.

For one long second, you wanted him to kiss you so badly that you forgot why you were there.

Then a car passed on the road behind you, headlights cutting through the windows, and both of you shifted apart.

Steve cleared his throat, his head turning to look out the driver's side.  He seemed to have looked aware of just how vulnerable the moment was,  and didn't know how to navigate it.  “So. Did I help?”

You looked down at his jacket wrapped around you. It made feel warm in ways you almost wished it didn't. 

“Yes,” your voice came out all wrong,  small and breathless. “You did.”

You wrote three pages that night and hated all of them. It was as frustrating as it was complicated.  The problem was not that Steve failed your test. You found that out quickly. 

The true problem was that he kept passing in the wrong direction.

—

In public, you performed coldness with the sharp dread of a person setting a match to her own sleeve. Or at least, you truly hoped it looked like that. 

Monday morning, Steve found you near your locker with a bright, almost boyish smile that made you glance away before it could hit directly.

“Hey,” he leaned besides you near the locker. “I was thinking maybe after school we could—”

You shut your locker too hard.

“Can we not do this right now?”

His hand, halfway extended toward yours, stopped in the air. He dropped it quickly, trying to make the movement look natural.

“Do what?” his voice had you wanting to falter. God, since when were you this weak?

“This.” You gestured between you, impatient and vague. “The whole thing.”

People moved around you in the hallway, a current of denim jackets and textbooks and perfume. Someone bumped your shoulder. Before you could stumble, Steve stepped closer, placing himself between you and the rush of bodies. It was an unconscious movement. Protective without announcement.

Your stomach turned. You bowed your head to ignore looking into his enrapturing eyes. A warmth came instinctive in your stomach standing in such close proximity with the boy in front of you. You tried to push it down.  

Keyword, tried.

His voice dropped, his head leaning down to yours in an attempt to meet your gaze. “Hey. What did I do?”

His voice had you feeling weak already. “Nothing.”

“Okay, well, I’m getting a pretty strong not-nothing feeling here.”

You looked past him toward Stacey at the end of the hall. She watched with wide eyes, silently mouthing something that might have been commitment or abort. Her hands moved in front of her in a weaving gesture. You weren't sure what she'd been trying to convey, so you only assume she wanted to to keep going.

You crossed your arms, forcing your tone to turn cold and far away. No words really landed cleanly in your head for inspiration, so you took the first ones that would stick. “Maybe you don’t have to be so… much.”

Steve blinked.

His jaw tensed with movement,  your eyes drew to the action by unfortunate reflex now. He glanced down, then back up, searching your face with a focus that made your skin feel too thin and your act feel too hesitant. 

“I’ll fix it,” the words came quietly. You were sure your expression was dumbfounded, sure you had been acting like this on purpose – but what did he gain from doing that? You were so rapidly expecting a textbook fit. Instead, you got patient murmurings. That was worse than any possible anger.

“I don’t need you to fix it.”

“Then tell me what you need.”

His breath warmed your forehead. His hazel eyes showed no sign of any true hostility. They were worried and confused, and there was something heartbreakingly earnest in the way he tried to solve the version of the problem you had invented. You liked that. You liked that he seemed to act like that by instinct.

And so, because of that, you almost reached for him.

You willed yourself to iron quickly. Wetting your bottom lip, you finally looked up at him. eyes. The action had you remembering just why you were so hesitant to meet his gaze, having a look that could melt anything in them. Instead, you stepped around him and walked to class with your throat tight enough to hurt.

At lunch later, you made notes that took up new space in your writing notebook.

He responded to social rejection not with aggression but accommodation. Attempts repair. Shows confusion when expected script fails. Public status seems less motivating than personal connection.

You underlined personal connection so hard the paper tore.

Even detached on paper didn't feel right.

— 

The next test, as the girls had dubbed it, was supposed to be funny. You were sure it was meant to be, but it still held an underlying issue. It was Stacey’s idea, though you were the one foolish enough to do it.

The party was at some fellow senior’s house on Maple Street, loud enough to rattle the windows from the street. Steve picked you up with his hair arranged into what could only be called architecture. He seemed nervous about the party in a way he tried to bury under commentary about the radio, the road, and the fact that you were late even though you had been ready for ten minutes and had simply stood in your room wondering when exactly you had become the villain in your own story.

It was a rough start to say the least.

When you got there, he came around to open your door.

You stood and tried not to let the deep inhale of breathe be heard. The last thing you needed was to look as nervous as you felt. And quickly after that, you took one look at his carefully styled hair, and before you could lose courage, reached up and ran both hands through it. A smile found its way on your face, practiced and teasing, mirroring the girl in the catalogue of your People magazine.

The brush through his hair wasn't gentle, although his hair certainly was. Seriously, you had to ask later on what his secret was. 

The structure of its volume collapsed instantly, and Steve froze. His head still remained in its bowed position from where he leaned down from the passenger seat door of his car. His brows twitched together as your hands ran along his temple. You froze too, fingers still threaded into his hair.

For one second, you waited for the familiar snap. For the old King Steve to step forward with wounded pride and a cruel mouth. The porch light hummed above you. Inside, someone shrieked with laughter. His friends, or former friends, or whatever they were now, could see you from the living room window.

Steve looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the car. He let out a small sigh, and the familiar heart fluttering charming grin appeared on his face. Steve's eyes shut for a moment but his expression didn't falter, even as a series of laughter escaped him. The sound felt warm to you, and your body responded in turn.

“Better?” Steve then fluttered his pretty eyes back open, his head tilting with curiosity. “It was exhausting keeping that up anyway.”

Your hands fell quickly, your finger tips missing the way his hair felt against your skin instantly. The joke died so completely that you could almost hear it hit the pavement.

He glanced at you, the ruined hair falling soft around his face only enhancing him.  “Does it look terrible?”

“No,” you denied, and it came out too quickly. You winced at that, a small noise escaped Steve. 

His mouth twitched. “That was very convincing.”

“I mean it.” you did. 

He looked younger again. Not smaller, exactly. Just less fully arranged. Another strand fell over his forehead, and you had the sudden, awful urge to smooth it back with care instead of strategy.

The party behind you roared alive, and Steve heard. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn toward them like you thought. He looked at you instead, waiting for your reaction, which somehow made you responsible for the whole fragile moment.

You reached up and fixed one piece of hair near his temple. Something in you liked doing that. 

“There,” your voice was stronger now, and your smile had turned real moments ago. “Better.”

The smile he gave you was crooked and private. It really was nothing in comparison to the rest of the party, but it lingered. You spent the next few hours trying to get him to smile like that again.

You didn't take notes that night, or any of the other future nights.

You just remembered things instead.

You remembered the blue flicker of a movie screen across his face two nights later, when he sat beside you in the theater and kept his arm over your shoulders for the first half hour because that was what Steve Harrington knew how to do. Smooth. Easy. Practiced. Then, sometime after the second reel started rolling, his fingers stopped drumming against your sleeve and settled there with a hesitant weight, not claiming, only asking.

You remembered the way he drove with one hand when he was showing off, then switched to both hands when he told you about the time he forgot about his gym clothes and his coach made him wear an extra one two sizes too small. You remembered that he kept cherry chapstick in his glove box beside a flashlight, two old cassette tapes, and a receipt from a gas station outside Indianapolis. You remembered him stealing fries from your plate at the nearby diner and pretending to be wounded when you kicked his shin under the booth.

And in the next important memory, you remembered rain.

It came hard one random Thursday night, turning Hawkins into a blur of headlights and slick black roads. Steve’s house was empty in the way large houses could be empty even before you stepped inside. It was too clean, and far too quiet. The kind of place where expensive furniture sat untouched, waiting for adults who came home late and left early.

You ended up in his bedroom because the living room felt too much like a showroom for you.

His room was warmer than you expected, messier in an unapologetically human way. A baseball glove rested comfortably on the nearby dresser. Records stacked crookedly near the stereo. A half-open drawer with socks spilling out. Hair products lined along the bathroom counter with an intensity that might have been funny if it did not now seem faintly sad. Still, you had gotten a few quips out in hopes of cracking a smile from him.

The storm rattled the windows deeper into that even when conversations died down. You sat on the floor with your backs against the thick wooden frame of his bed, sharing a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and his cologne. It was a familiar scent to your mind now. His knee pressed against yours beneath the fabric. 

Neither of you moved away. 

“I used to think this place was cool,” Steve had mentioned offhandedly after a moment, looking around the space of his room.

You didn't quite follow why his tone seemed far away, to you, his words were still holding up. “It is cool.”

“It’s big.”

Your head turned to face him, a hum on your lips. “That’s usually part of cool.”

He shook his head, the slight shake of his hair reminded you of how you missed touching it. You shook your head and focused once more when he spoke again. “No, I mean… it’s just big.”

You understood what he meant.

Near his large bedroom window, thunder rolled low over the town. The room flashed pale for a second, then settled back into the lamplight.

You rested your cheek against the edge of the mattress, warm eyes pouring into yours as he mimicked your actions. “Are your parents gone a lot?”

“Yeah.” Steve then picked at a loose thread in the blanket. His next words came out short and detached, so unlike the guy you've known. “Dad travels. Mom goes with him when she’s tired of pretending she likes Hawkins.”

You didn't like how his eyes dimmed.  “And you?”

“I stay.”

The word sat between you.

He laughed once, it was without humor, and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. His voice held that rasped edge that sent tingles down your spine.  “God, that sounded pathetic.”

“It didn’t.” The reassurance came so quick it shocked you. You attempted to play it cool, repeating the words slower. 

“It did.” He looked down at his hands, the same ones you found yourself wanting to hold without the premise of a lie. “I just… I don’t know what happens when this is over. School. All of it. Everybody keeps acting like we’re supposed to know.” You didn't know what to say, it was the first time you've seen him so visibly wrecked.  “College, jobs, whatever. And I’m sitting there thinking—what if this was it? What if being King Steve was the only thing I was ever good at, and I wasn’t even good enough to keep it?”

Your chest tightened, it seemed like the world was laughing at you. Her he was, sitting on his bedroom floor besides talking about his insecurities all while you were actively trying to back on them. 

The article was in your bag downstairs. A draft. A title. A guillotine made of clever sentences.

“Steve,” the name came of gentle from your lips. 

He would not look at you, he kept staring at a spot on the floor. 

“Nancy figured it out before I did,” he went on, his voice lower now. His shoulders carried his tension clear as day. “That all the stuff people liked about me was just… noise. Parties, basketball, the car, the hair. The Harrington house. I thought that meant something. Then it didn’t, and it was—”

He stopped and didn't continue any further. You knew the signs before it came, and the room quieted down. 

His throat moved, a small, forcefully restrained noise finding its way out. The rain that thudded against his window filled the silence for him. And for you. 

You reached for his hand quickly.

He looked at your fingers covering his, then turned his palm upward and held on. You opened your mouth to speak, but not much came out. His grip was still foreign to you,  but it was different right now. It wasn't smooth, and it didn't feel like it held any kind of plan. His grip tightened once, almost too much to be soft, but then he quickly loosened it.

You shifted closer.

That was all it took.

He pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that stole your breath, then seemed to realize what he had done a second after doing it. His hands hovered at your waist.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

You settled there instead of moving away. Your own eyes were blown wide and mirroring his. You tried to speak but it came out all airy. “It’s okay.”

His breathing changed when yours did. Steve's eyes seemed to track your face, and the air seemed to turn into something deeper. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke up again. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder,then to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The response that you gave was instantaneous, a rapid rising and falling of your chest went through the warmth of your body. His hands gripped your waist through the blanket, not possessive necessarily, you thought it felt more like clinging. Tethering.  The storm made the windows tremble. His hair brushed your jaw.

You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. The return of the welcome feeling was pleasant in your grasp.

He went still under your touch, and for a moment. Then he exhaled, deep and unsteady, and held you closer. Your faces were breaths away now, the bridge of his nose softly touched yours.

“Hey,” your voice came out weak. It was too soft to be teasing like you'd hoped. 

Steve’s eyes softened instantly. You saw it happen. You saw the moment the small, genuine grin stretched across his face. His voice came back whispered, as if scared to break the moment. “Hi there.”

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched your face with an openness that made lying feel entirely  impossible. You knew he was about to kiss you. You knew that you really should stop him. You knew the truth should come out before his mouth touches yours, before this became another thing you had stolen under false pretenses.

But you'd been stupid, and so you didn't stop him.

The kiss began softly, almost carefully. His lips were brushing yours once before returning with more certainty. He tasted faintly sweet from the chapstick he pretended not to use. The kiss felt like it was bewitching your body whole. His hand rose to your hair, fingers sinking in with a restraint that kept breaking and returning. You gave a slight laugh against his lips before calming down. You felt him trying not to rush, trying not to take more than you gave, and the effort undid you more thoroughly than any practiced confidence could have. Because it was just so him.

You kissed him back.

Not for the article. Not for the headline. Not because Stacey would demand details or because Mr. Walsh would have to admit you knew how to find a story

You wanted to, you truly wanted to..

You kissed him because his hand was warm against your back and his breath caught when you touched his face. Because the room smelled of rain and leather and laundry soap. Because his mouth moved against yours with need and care tangled together, and your whole body answered before your conscience could organize a defense.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. The faint flush from his skin felt nice against yours

He smiled, small and dazed. You added that of the list of expressions you liked to see on him.

“Does this mean I’m helping with your boy problem?”

A laugh broke out of you, shaky and real. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide it. With a lightness in you chest you lifted your head up as you rolled your eyes. Your hand moved on its own account now. It slid up to grasp the side of his face, your fingers sliding against the shape of his jaw.

“Shut up, Steve.”

His arms tightened around you, and his lips found yours once again. His own lightness expressed through the laughter that filled the echoing bedroom. "Ouch, you wound me."

For a few minutes, the world narrowed to the storm, his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the terrible knowledge that you had done something you could not write your way out of.

—

The article sat unfinished for two days.

You told yourself you would kill it. You also told yourself that you had time. Then you told yourself you would revise it.

So you sat in the newsroom after school, staring at the draft title until the faniliar letters turned cruel.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

It sounded brilliant in the cafeteria. You distinctly remember thinking that. But now? Now it sounded mean. 

No, mean was too light of a word. It felt cruel.

You pulled the pages from the typewriter, folded them once, and shoved them into your folder. You would tell Mr. Walsh you had changed direction. You would write something else. Anything else. A review of the cafeteria pizza. A profile on the marching band. A blank page with sorry written in the center.

The front page spot didn't seem so enticing anymore when the cost came so harsh.

You were reaching for your bag when Mark appeared in the doorway, looking over at you. You didn't bother to hide the deep exhale you gave, you whole body tensing on on instinct.

“Working late?”

You stiffened and corrected him. “Leaving, actually.”

His eyes dropped to the folder in your hand. You immediately shut the folder, not liking the look in his gaze. “Is that the mystery column everyone’s whispering about?”

“No.”

“So yes.”

You tucked it against your chest. You had truly no paitence for the boy. You had been feeling horrible all last night yesterday, well, even more so last night than usual. “Move, Mark.”

He held up both hands, smiling. You didn't like his smile. It was nothing like the comforting presence of Steve's. The thought only made your mood worsened. “Relax. I just wanted to see what was so important that Walsh was considering bumping my school spirit piece.”

“He wasn’t.” You wished you sounded as steady as you needed to, but the flicker in your voice betrayed you.

Mark noticed. Boys like Mark always noticed weakness when it benefited them. And Mark himself no doubt would revel in any chance of taking an empty shot at you.

“Come on,” he clicked his tongue in a way that made your blood boil from its condescension. “We’re all on the same staff.”

“No, we’re not.” You pushed past him quickly. 

You did not know, however, that then one folded carbon copy had slipped from your folder and landed beneath the table, half-hidden by the trash can. You did not know Mark found it ten minutes later. You did not know he read it standing under the buzzing lights with his mouth slowly opening into the delighted shape of opportunity.

If you knew, you certainly wouldn't have lived through the reoccurring nightmare you've been having for the past few weeks.

You found out the next morning when Hawkins High came alive with your words.

Not the final version of your words, for it surely would've had a different result. It wasn't even the whole draft.

It was the worst version, the sharpest version.

The version written before you knew the way Steve looked when he gave away his jacket and pretended not to be cold.

Copies appeared on lockers before first period. Someone had run them fast and dirty, the ink uneven, the margins crooked. The title screamed from the top in bold type.

By second period, everyone had read it. By lunch, they were reading it aloud. You pushed through the hallway with your heart hammering so hard your vision pulsed at the edges.

A boy near the trophy case laughed. “Listen to this part—”

You snatched the page from his hand and you were sure the rhythm of your heart could be heard from miles away.

There it was.

Your article.

Your voice, sharpened into a blade that you couldn't even begin to imagine dulling.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king

Every high school builds a throne, though no one admits to carrying the wood to make it. We vote with our eyes, our invitations, and our laughter at jokes that are not funny enough to deserve it. We create a boy and call him a king because it is easier than admitting we are the kingdom that is faulty.

The high school god is rarely born exceptional. He is assembled meticulously. A good car. A good face. The right jacket. The right table. Enough people saying his name in the right tone until even he begins to believe there is something sacred in being wanted. These continue to enforce how sincerity rarely makes the cut.

But worship is not love. Anyone will tell you that, and those who disagree would be dumb enough to face the consequences. Popularity feeds on performance, and performance rots whatever is underneath the layer given. A boy taught to survive by being admired will eventually mistake attention for affection, control for confidence, and loneliness for proof that everyone else has failed him

When a crown falls, what remains is often not a villain, but something more ordinary and more frightening: a boy with no language for himself beyond what other people once applauded and now isolate.

Hawkins High should ask why we keep making kings out of boys who do not know how to be human — and why we act surprised when the weight of a crown crushes them to dust.

You had written every word. It would have been easier to say that Mark embellished over your words, and exaggerated for journalist effect. But he didn't,  you were the one to do that. It was the worst part of the draft he could have chosen, simply because of the fact that you had left out everything you saw after.

You had also left out every human thing that would have saved him.

You found Steve in the print room a few hours later. And before you could assume any sort of hope of a clean explanation, it was shot and dead in front of you. You almost wished he hadn't gone there.

But of course he would have gone there, and of course the place where your betrayal had been made public still smelled of ink and metal and hot paper. It was proof of the now posted article that you didn't even want out. Faintly, you could hear something loud with the clacking press that someone had forgotten to turn off. Steve stood near the long table, one of the copies in his hand, the page trembling slightly between his fingers.

He looked up when you entered and you almost wished he hadn't. 

His eyes were red.

Not crying, not exactly. Worse. It made your heart drop and panic spike up into you. It seemed he intended to hold back so hard that the effort had hollowed out his face.

“Steve–” you didn't recognize your voice. It was so desperate and and pleading. You opened your mouth and tried to stammer out any explanation that came into your head, but there was nothing you found coming to mind. 

“Steve, please! Just listen, I–” He interrupted you and laughed, but it shook you. It wasn't like the laughter you had come to live,  this one had no warmth in it. It was so unlike him and you hated it. You hated causing that. 

“Was any of it real?”

You stopped short, any explanation does quickly in the tip of your tongue. 

He held up the article for you to see. As if you needed to be reminded of what you'd have done, a small breath part of you mouthed off bitterly. 

“When you looked at me like that. When you stayed with me. When you—” His voice caught, and he looked away, jaw tight. You immediately took to shaking your head, the implication of his words just. Because they were true.  And because they weren't. “Was that just material for your front page?”

“No!”

“No?”

“It started—” You hated yourself before the words finished forming. “It started as an article, but—”

His face changed and your heart seemed perpetually lodged into your ribcage. There were some truths that did not deserve the dignity of a full explanation. Steve just exhaled out sharply, his head finally facing you. The reaction wasn't what you wanted, you wanted–no, needed to explain yourself.

He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. Steve didn't give the you the chance to continue. “Right.”

“Steve, I was going to stop it. I didn't even turn it in! I swear, I wasn't going to hand it over. Mark found an old draft, and he—”

“Don’t.” He looked at you then, and the quiet in his voice hurt more than shouting would have. The word held so much that you froze on instinct. Your eyes stung viciously as you opened your mouth but nothing came out. “Don’t make this about him.”

Your mouth closed then. You felt utterly helpless, which might have been deserved. You desperately wanted to tell him everything,  wanting him to understand that it was real – is real. But your eyes, wide and frantic, just froze. He stepped closer, the paper crumpling in his fist.

“Everyone else wanted to see me for my status,” Steve began with a sharp inhale. You felt the stinging turn more prominent in your eyes, you tried to take a step forward but that was rejected when he almost flinched back two steps himself.. “The car, the parties, the game. Whatever. I got that. I was stupid, but I got it.” His breath shook. Steve’s voice cracked  nearing the end, and that was the last thing you heard before your vision blurred into spots. “I thought you were the only one who didn’t care about it.”

“I did! No, I mean–I do, you have to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was surely pathetically small. Everything else seemed to turn into static silence in the empty printing room and you desperately needed to fix it. You wanted to, but you felt so utterly unsure of your next steps. You reached for him on instinct.

Steve flinched back.

The movement was small. Instinctive. As if his body no longer registered you as a comfort, and that split something open in you. You felt the first few tears fall from your lashes, each blink dropping tiny little pearls. Steve made a noise you couldn't properly translate, his eyes were on yours but they held a thousand words and emotions in a single look. His own hand twitched open and shut before being brought up to bury itself in his hair, Steve then forced his eyes shut and his head turned to the side. He couldn't decide what hurt more, being hurt by you, or seeing you hurt.

He was the one that came back sharp and strained.

“Turns out,” Steve’s voice was so rough, it could have been unrecognizable. You opened your mouth immediately to shut down whatever he would say, but he beat you to it.  “you just used me for a headline.”

The press clattered behind him. A sheet slid loose and fluttered to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking and stinging from feeling utterly defeated. Because he was right, you did. You did get to know him for a chance at a headline, so that was why you could only apologize. But you wanted nothing to do with that stupid article, and regret washed over you at the thought of him thinking none of it was real. Because yes, it was messy, but it was real for you. “But–fuck, Steve... please you have to understand that–” you were cut off before you could even continue. 

He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see the part of him that wanted to believe you fighting with the part that had learned too many times what wanting cost.

Then he turned and walked out.

The room didn't become empty when he left, there was no relief that came with him leaving. And the room didn't become calmer in his disappearance; instead, it filled with him.

The absence of his cologne. The missing warmth of his jacket. The ghost of his hand at your cheek, careful and uncertain, before you had earned any of it. All of the little things that were so present just a moment ago were gone and let the physical trail of what happened.

You were left alone with the faint clacking of the room's machinery. And for a moment, you were so ready to run out to try and plead. To explain, to tell him every complete thing he was missing in hopes of him understanding. But you couldn't do that, not when you were already reason enough that he was hurting all over again.

With a loud curse, you found yourself feeling completely lost in a room that you've only ever compared with a haven. 

— 

For two days, Steve Harrington became visible to you in a way he had never been as king.

You saw him at his locker the next Friday morning, hollow-eyed and quiet, pretending not to hear the whispers. You saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with a younger boy you didn't know for exactly six minutes before the younger boy said something animated enough to make Steve almost smile. Then Steve caught sight of you across the room and the almost vanished.

That hurt like a stab to the heart. 

Then came the other little things that made you feel significantly worse.  He stopped coming to the parking lot after school until the buses had left. He stopped looking down your hallway. He stopped being available to your guilt.

You tried to corner Mark. He denied leaking it with the loose, oily confidence of someone who knew proof mattered more than truth. Mr. Walsh gave a speech to the staff about journalistic ethics while refusing to meet your eyes. Stacey apologized three times, then stopped because the apologies had nowhere to land when she held you while your sobs filled your bedroom. Leah sat beside you at lunch without talking much. That was the kindest thing anyone did.

By Friday afternoon, the newsroom felt smaller than it ever had for you. More suffocating. 

The printing press sat under the window, still and waiting. Dust turned in the late sun. Your original ambition lay around you in stacks of paper and headline sketches and discarded layouts.

You looked at the front page proof with Mark’s article on school spirit and felt nothing.

Not disappointment. Not anger.

Nothing.

That truly scared you more than pain did.

You had thought giving up the article would be enough. You had thought killing the story would count as a moral act. But the story was already alive, crawling through Hawkins High with your fingerprints around its throat. You didn't know what to do, the words were already there for everyone that listened. 

You sat at the typewriter.

For a long moment, you did not move. Shortly after a fit of tense silence, you finally rolled in a clean sheet. The keys struck hard enough to ache in your fingers.

This time, you did not write anonymously because you were clever. Or because you were trying to be witty or cruel. You wrote anonymously because the confession was not meant to redeem your name. It was meant to give him back his.

By the final bell, the flyer was everywhere, curtesy of your desperate and frantic efforts. 

It wasn't approved, it certainly also wasn't polished. Id didn't become formatted with Mr. Walsh’s careful little rules. It was just a single page copied until the machine jammed twice and your hands were black with ink that you couldn't scrub off

Students grabbed them from the tables, from the lockers, from the floor where they skidded under shoes. After all, no one loved potential hidden stories more than Hawkins High

You didn't wait to watch them read. That had been the least of your priorities. There was more important things that you cared about than who read a piece of your work now, and he had been gone from your sight long enough.

So, you ran.

The hallways exploded around you with the annual end-of-week chaos of Hawkins High School. Lockers slammed open, someone yelled about a shared ride, and a freshman dropped an entire stack of books and cursed with such feeling that a teacher shouted his name from twenty feet away. The sun poured through the front doors in a white-gold sheet, way too bright after the fluorescent dimness of the hall.

Steve was not at his locker. He was not outside the gym. He wasn't by the trophy case or the pay phones or even the side entrance near the band room. Your lungs burned by the time you shoved through the heavy double doors and stumbled into the afternoon.

The parking lot sprawled ahead of you, shining under the cold sun. Cars backed out in crooked lines. Girls shouted through open windows. The air smelled of gasoline, damp leaves, and somebody’s cigarette. It was all nothing that you cared about. The one thing you did seemed to be missing from the scene. Your eyes squinted in the light as it traveled across the parking spaces of the lot, failing to find what your heart desperately wanted to see.

At the far end, the BMW’s engine roared to life.

“No,” you breathed with pure adrenaline rushing through your veins. Steve sat behind the wheel, one hand on the gearshift, his profile hard through the windshield. 

Before you even knew it, you started running. 

It was stupid, rushed, and entirely filled with desperation. Your shoes slapped the asphalt. You heard Leah faintly calling your name, but you didn't turn back. The wind tore at your hair. Your bag bounced painfully against your hip but you paid it no mind. You cut between two parked cars and nearly slipped on loose gravel.

“Steve!”

He did not hear you, or pretended not to. You gave a groan of loud annoyance, but it still did little to deter you.

You reached the car just as the reverse lights flashed.

Without thinking, without dignity, and definitely without any plan beyond the awful certainty that if he drove away now something inside you would never forgive you, you threw yourself in front of the driver’s side door.

The car jerked to a stop and Steve froze behind the wheel.

Through the glass, his beautifully bright eyes  widened. Hurt, shock, and stubborn pride moved across his face so quickly you could barely separate them. Then his mouth tightened. You could tell he wasn't expecting your actions, and you couldn't exactly say you were the most sane person now.

The window rolled down slowly, the crank turning under his hand with mechanical, agonizing patience.

“What are you doing?” his words came loud and filled with unresolved frustration. Steve’s voice was rough. Thick in its tension. He wouldn't look straight at you. You refused to settle for that, the days spent with the familiar feeling practically left you numb and empty. 

“Go back inside,” Steve’s eyes and words seemed to contradict each other. He shifted back into looking into his dashboard instead of you. “Go celebrate your front page.”

You shoved the crumpled paper through the open window. It landed in his lap.

“I don’t care about the stupid article, ” you said, breathless enough that the words broke apart. “I don’t care about the front page. Just–read it. Please.”

His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he would throw it back at you. Then Steve looked down at the copy of printed words.

You watched his eyes move over the page.

Correcting mistakes:

There was an article circulating this week about a king. It was clever in the cruel way people mistake for intelligence when they are too afraid to admit they have been wrong.

The girl who wrote it thought she was exposing a system. She thought it clever and brilliant. She told herself the boy at the center of it was an idea, a symbol, a lesson with good hair. She thought distance made her fair and judicial. She thought observation made her honest.

Then the boy gave her his jacket when she was cold.

Then he admitted he was afraid of being forgotten, and the girl realized she had been so busy studying the crown of his that she had ignored the weight of it on his own head.

The first article was right about one thing: Hawkins High School makes kings out of boys and then punishes them for not knowing how to be anything else. That wasn't the mistake here. But it was wrong to confuse a boy’s damage with his character. It was wrong to turn trust into evidence. And it was wrong to take the softest things he offered and sharpen them for public consumption.

This is not an apology meant to earn forgiveness. This is meant, instead to fix the record.

The boy was never a god. 

He was kinder than any story allowed him to be, and he was kinder than she deserved. 

Steve stared at the paper.

His chest rose and fell under his yellow polo. His rings glinted where his fingers gripped the page. Around you, students slowed. A few openly stared. You could feel the parking lot turning toward you with the appetite of a place that loved spectacle.

For once, you really, truly, couldn't care.  

Steve’s eyes lifted to yours,  and you could weep just from that alone. “Why should I believe you?” he asked.

The question was quiet enough that no one else could hear. You stepped closer, hands gripping the edge of the open window. Your own voice want any better, it was loud and messy, and undeniably real. A breathless bount of laughter escaped you “Because I was playing a game and I lost, Steve.”

“I lost.”

His throat moved but you hadn't seen it.

“And I lost you,” you sighed with your head hanging low in shame near the open window, voice shaking now, “and I regret it. I was supposed to push you away, but every time you held my hand, every time you looked at me like I actually mattered, I—”

Your breath caught, and you forced it down in order to continue.

“I don’t care about King Steve. I don’t care about the crown or the table or the stupid front page. I want the guy who gets cold in his own car because he gave me his jacket. I want the guy who pretends he doesn’t use cherry chapstick. I want the guy who worries too much and fixes his hair when he’s nervous and acts tough until somebody he cares about needs him to be gentle.”

The words were embarrassing in their vulnerability, and it didn't help that Steve just stared at you. But even small battle wins were tremendous to those who were cautious.  The defensive hardness in his face trembled.

You leaned closer, not touching him. Though God knew you wanted too. But you wouldn't take what he had not offered.

“I just want you,” you said and the words hung there in the bright afternoon.

For a second, nothing happened. That scared you.  Because if even though all of this, he didn't believe you, you were sure that would break you entirely. You didn't understand how looking at him now, with his beautifully enrupturing genuine gaze and constellations of freckles so faint kissing his skin with blessings, you could have been so stupid.

Your panicking monologue was cut off when Steve let out a breath that broke halfway into a laugh.

It made you falter momentarily. You wouldn't exactly describe it as fully happy or clean. Instead, it was more ragged. Disbelieving. Full of relief that came so sudden it seemed to knock the strength out of him. He looked down at the crumpled printed again, then back at you. You saw the exact moment when whatever he had been holding together for two days came apart in his hands.

“You’re insane,” Steve held his head in his hands. The heels of his palms dragged to his eyes, and that when you noticed the concealed redness there. Your panic was a quick guest arrival as your hand hesitantly went over the threshold of the open window and found its spot tangling through his hair at his temple.

Your voice came out soft. “I know.”

“You ran in front of my car.” Steve's was returned in a disbelieving laugh. The sound on instinct made you smile.

“I know.”

“I could’ve hit you.”

You weren't quite so sure you believed that. And it seemed like neither did he fully either. The both of you stared through the air between you “You're not exactly driving donuts with your Beamer in a school parking lot, Harrington. You were going four miles an hour, max.”

His mouth twitched and your heart found its comfort. There he was. That was the boy you wanted to see, the one who was sincere and silly and all of the words in between.

The moment didn't truly feel fixed all the way, and it didn't feel so easily forgiven so neatly that the hurt could be vanished beneath a kiss. But there, beneath the bruised pride and the red eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw, was the boy from the park. The boy from the rainstorm. The boy who had laughed quietly when nobody asked him to perform.

He shoved the car door open.

You barely had time to step back before he was out, hands catching your waist. Steve lifted you clean off the pavement, and a startled sound escaped you as your hands grabbed his shoulders.

“Steve—”

“Shut up,” he rasped, but his voice broke around the smile. Then kiss that came next didn't surprise you. But it certainly didn't prepare you for it either.

It was not exactly graceful, but it was completely and utterly impassioned.

Someone in the parking lot whooped. Someone else yelled something that sounded suspiciously like “Harrington!” A horn blared because a car was stuck behind his open door. The reminder of just how crazy this whole situation was roared in your ears. 

Steve didn't seem to hear any of it. You had a feeling that he did, but just pretended he didn't. That made you smile on reflex against him.

His hands held your waist with desperate certainty, then slid up your back, pulling you close enough that the cold afternoon disappeared between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, ruining it again, and he made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half relief. He tasted the same sweet cherry chapstick you started buying for yourself and breathless warmth. The kiss carried every unsaid thing neither of you knew how to organize yet. Anger. Want. Hurt. Forgiveness beginning somewhere far off and walking slowly toward you.

When your feet touched the ground again, you were dizzy. It was a good dizzy, and the pounding in your side was a welcome pleasure now. 

Steve rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His hands stayed anchored at your hips, refusing to let you drift away. Up close, you could see the faint details scattered along his neck, the tiredness under his eyes, and the careful hope he was trying not to show too quickly.

“You really printed that?” The question broke you out of your stupor. You were still so dazed from his touch that you distantly found yourself nodding. Your hands refused to leave their spot in reaching for him now that there wasn't a lie justifying it.

“Over Mark’s stupid school spirit thing?”

Your words came mechanical,  as if offended he'd even question it. “Technically under it. Around it. On top of some of it.”

“I made a stupid amount of copies.” The confession came paired with you momentarily dropping your hands where they were wrapped around him to hold up the black ink stains on your fingers.

His smile spread, crooked and real enough to hurt. And you swore that it was the most beautiful sight in the world.

“Good.”

You laughed weakly, your hands finding their way back into sliding to the back of his nape. “That’s what you took from the public confession?”

“I’m processing.” His thumb moved along your jaw, slow and familiar. “Also, I liked the cherry chapstick line.”

“I hoped you would,” you felt like a cat relishing in caresses. The smile that mirrored his came quick and teasing on your mouth.  His eyes stayed on yours, and his smile softened at the edges.

“You’re a terrible writer.”

Your brows lifted in instinctive defensiveness of your craft. “Excuse me?”

He brushed his thumb beneath your chin, eyes bright with that old Harrington charm, gentler now, and clearly worn in rather than performed.

“You didn’t even come close to losing me.”

The ache in your chest loosened all at once.

It would not be so easy for you to say it was gone, you would still have to apologize without speeches. He would still have to decide what trust looked like after being turned into copy. 

But Steve was standing in front of you with his hair wrecked by your hands and your confession folded against his car seat. He was looking at you, really looking, not the way a king looked over a crowd, but the way a boy looked at the girl he was still willing to let close enough to hurt him.

You rose onto your toes with a soft shake of your head and grin. “Just shut up and kiss me, Harrington.”

His grin flashed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

One time, at a house party, Eddie was talking to a few buddies he knew from high school. He introduced you, but he could tell you weren’t the most interested in hearing about the audible difference between steel guitar strings and nylon, so he let you step out of the small circle.

The conversation was flowing, you were people-watching, and he was keeping you in his peripheral vision—just in case you wanted him back. 

Then his ears perked up when a guy introduced himself to you, and his grin widened at every stilted response you gave.

The guy was trying so hard, it almost made him feel bad. He knew it could be daunting to talk to women, but he also knew body language was learned. So he let it run its course.

When he finally surrendered, opting to leave you alone after many attempts to pique your interest, Eddie gave him a not-so-gentle pat on the back as he passed by, calling out a smug, “Better luck next time, bud.”

You almost thought he was actually jealous, but when you brought it up later, he scoffed.

"Oh, please! Like stumbling up to you at a party and complimenting your top is what’s gonna get you," he snorted, chuckling at the idea of the drunk guy's pitiful excuse for game actually managing to turn your head.

You smirked, thrilled to finally get some semblance of a reaction from him. "I don't know, Eddie, he was kind of sweet..."

"No, don't even lie, you're not that easy," he said, shaking his head, a warning finger pointed your way. "I had to work for this shit! You had me dancing around like a fucking court jester just to get a second of your attention! Sweetheart, I was like a male bird flaunting everything I got, and nothing! Zip! Nada! You were unshakable."

"Aw, Eds—"

He threw his hands up. "Then, one day, you just snapped your fingers and my clothes were off—"

A shocked laugh escaped your parted lips. "That’s so not how our relationship started!"

"Close enough!" he sassed.

Masterlist

Possessive is a word referred to ownership or a relationship of belonging between one thing and another.

Is the state of having, owning, or controlling something.

Jack Abbot was a possessive man.

Not an inconvenient possessive man. He was subtle. One hand at the end of your back. Picking you up at the end of your shift when he isn’t working. Talking to you with the softest voice. Sharing coffee or a granola bar he had in his pocket for you. The glances to other men when you’re walking by.

He had nothing to fear with you. You sleep and wake up with him every day. He knew exactly how to show someone that you belonged to him without saying a word. He hasn't put a ring on your finger and yet everybody in the ED understands you’re his girl and nobody was crazy to question him.

It was supposed to be your day off. You already made plans with Emery and Parker to go out for dinner and have some drinks like you do every month. That’s your way of gossiping and keeping the bond stronger, especially working at male dominated fields. Keeping the girls together makes the job easier and better. You were even planning to invite Samara to the next dinner.

The best thing about the trio was initially to piss Jack off and because you worked so well together and a friendship naturally bloomed - and thank god it did. The funniest, dirtiest and best conversations came out so easily between you that it was impossible to keep track of the actual dialogue topic when you combined.

Unfortunately your phone vibrated in your purse during dinner with a message from Robby letting you know there was an emergency of a child that fell and the parents were asking for you. These things were pretty normal in your routine when you work with pediatrics emergencies. In less than fifteen minutes you were walking towards the ED entrance like you weren't just discussing panties over drinks.

Worst part of it? You had no time to change your clothes. So you were standing at the nursing station with the most expensive Valentino dress –Jack bought you after you commented once about it, brand new shoes and your favorite coat to protect you from the cold.

The scrubs were a protocol when you’re working and you were not. You hated to work without them and hated even more that your backup scrubs were not in your car. Jack must’ve taken them to wash and didn’t put them back.

Jack didn’t see you coming and he had no idea of the dress you chose for your girls night. Bridget was already laughing when you entered, holding you something to cover up until you have to leave again. She quickly took your overcoat and gave you a white coat, which helped a little but not too much because of your heels clicking at the floor.

“Wow doc, didn’t know you could look that hot.” You heard Garcia teased and shook your head laughing. “You should show up like this more often, as an experiment of course.”

“I appreciate your words Yoyo. Maybe next time I'll show up with your favorite color.” She blew you a kiss and walked away laughing.

“He’s going to need to be sedated when he hears you’re in his ED looking like this” Robby chuckled when he found at the nursing station. “Sorry I've called you, they insisted on being you. They are barely letting Mel work there.’

“It’s fine, Robby. I don’t like my day off anyway.” You winked and went straight to the room they were in.

The child parents came running to you the moment you entered their plain sight. Dr. King was accompanying them before you arrived, describing the situation in detail and how she dealt with them. And for her face you knew how those parents weren’t easy to deal with.

“Dr (Y/L/N), this is Jamie, 10 month old, previously healthy, fell from the crib around 9 p.m.. According to the mother, he tried to pull himself up using the crib rails, lost his balance, and fell over the side of the crib, landing directly on the floor. He cried immediately for about fifteen minutes, with no loss of consciousness and no vomiting. The mother noted only mild bruises in the right frontotemporal region, with no other signs of trauma. He remained active, fed normally, and showed no changes in consciousness or behavior. “ You heard Mel's words with attention while examining the child.

“You ordered any exams, doctor King?” She nodded and passed you the chart to look at.”

“A CT, x-ray and some labs just to make sure everything is perfectly fine.” You nodded, shaking your head.

“Excellent.” You smiled at her and turned your attention to the parents.

“Does he cry when he moves? Has he had any seizures? Allergies or something we need to know?” They kept denying. “Why don’t you bring him early? It’s almost one in the morning.” The parents kept their silence and you shrugged your shoulders, looking at them. “Alright then. Doctor King will accompany you to the CT and the x-ray.”

Something you loved about yourself was the way you’re pretty centered and rigid about your job, especially working around and with children. Fighting with parents? You do every shift. Making the little ones laugh? You did it too. You were tough and nice but at the same time the children absolutely loved you. The most common thing to see was you holding a child mid shift and laughing about it with the nurses.

He was waiting for you at the nursing station. Coffee in hand. Jaws tighten when his eyes land on you. Eyebrows raised while he analyzed your shoes. You leaned closer to him, enough to look professional and only a little mischievous so he could smell your new perfume - the one he bought you.

“Hi there, doctor Abbot.” You touched his arm and smiled, knowing exactly what he was going to ask. “Peds emergency, they have to call the best.”

“This is not workplace clothing.” His hand reached yours, quickly brushing your finger.

“I had a nice time at dinner, thanks for asking, by the way.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll go home when his exams are finished. I won’t even leave this spot.” You sit in the vague chair and cross your arms.

“Nice coat, actually.” Dr. Jack Abbot. It was his coat. “You should work with this more often since you don’t want to change your last name.”

Before you can even replied you heard Myrna screaming at the other side of the room.

“Nice ass, MacDreamy.” She pointed at you.

“Been working out lately, Myrna. Do you like it?” You teased her and she giggled.

“Watch out or I’ll steal your girl, Abbot. I killed a man before and I can do it again.”

When you turned to look at Jack again, he was serious. His forehead was tense and his knuckles white from holding his coffee mug. His hair was a little messy and there was some blood in his scrubs.

Hot. Really hot.

He didn’t care when your friends, female friends, flirted with you because he knew you flirted back joking. He respected your boundaries and you respected him too. You still find it pretty amusing how he gets all possessive over small things, lucky you he didn’t see the dress you were wearing underneath the white coat.

Vintage Valentino, sheer black chiffon, off-the-shoulder neckline with the fabric draped down the arms, creating a dramatic, sophisticated look. At the bust, a large central bow, asymmetrical and flowing skirt, with soft, layered fabric and a high front slit that reveals the left leg. Jack never complained or talked badly about your clothing, he actually enjoyed seeing you wearing the clothes you liked - he enjoyed taking off more. He describes being an extension of your personality.

“Want to talk about that dress?” He lifted up the white coat a little. “Showing legs and neck like crazy, hm?”

“Nope, we’re not doing this here. You’re working.”

“Why not? I thought you like showing off a little too much.” He crossed his arms and you sigh.

“Oh my God, is this foreplay?” His eyes locked on yours. “Fuck it, I’m into it.”

“Just stay here until the boy it’s back.” He stared at you for a few seconds and you tried to control your smile.

“Are you jealous, Abbot?” You heard Shen comment and buried your face in your hands. He just gave him the nastiest look you’ve ever seen in your life and you can tell he already gave you some looks at you in the bedroom.

The exams took a while to get ready and when they returned to the emergency room, you met them again holding a tablet to explain the situation to them. Immediately the little boy was already in your arms, resting his head over your shoulder.

“The CT and the x-ray both came normal, no injury or other systemic trauma. He’s safe and sound. If you notice something is different, bring him immediately.” You hold his little hand and smile brightly. “You’re lucky to be here today, Jamie.”

The parents asked a few questions about the exams and the therapy you chose for him and after they left you stayed inside the empty room for a while before you left to grab the rest of your stuff.

Jack was talking something with Robby when you approached them, taking off the white coat that belonged to your man and putting on your warm and cozy overcoat. His eyes went straight to your almost bare chest, he had to scan the room pretty quickly for perverts watching you. One drunk guy screamed that he wanted you to talk to him, Myrna said something about your ass again and this time Mel came in complementing your legs.

“You should be grateful you weren’t there when Emery and Parker saw me, you probably be in jail now.” He helped you close the buttons of your coat.

“Remind me to put a goddamn ring on your finger.” He whispered closer to you, making you burst out laughing.

“What a romantic proposal. I’m really emotional.” Jack rolled his eyes, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I already heard some jerks talking about you and I didn’t appreciate their tone.” You passed your arms around his shoulder - ignoring the PDA rule you established for work.

“Yeah, I’m still sleeping in your bed tho.” He agreed, laughing softly. “Gotta go now. Emery is waiting for me at Five Guys and I could kill for a burger now.”

“Be careful, beautiful.”

“Try to go home in one piece.” You squeezed his shoulder and winked before walking away.

“Finish what?” You teased, laughing as you wrapped one hand over his neck and tickled at the hairs at the nape, all curly and slightly humid from the sex still.

“Like, did you cum? Orgasm?” Your smile dropped a little, like you didn’t expect him to actually ask or notice that you didn’t. Or care.

“I- uhm, I don’t wanna lie to you. So, no, not really.” You accepted it, you wouldn’t lie to make him feel better. Clark’s expression dropped to confusion and offense, at himself for being so stupid and selfish. How could he not make you cum? On your first time together? This wasn’t only the time to prove how serious he was about you, but to keep you coming back for more. To make you feel like you made him feel.

“But- it’s not like, a big deal. You were great, it was great, you were so nice and considerate, baby. It was wonderful.” Clark shook his head, his eyes dropping between the two of you when he realized he hadn’t even gotten you fully naked, you wore an oversized sweater that covered everything from the hips up. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or assume you needed to give him full nudity to be with him. Now it just feels like he wasn’t thorough enough, special enough. Like letting you take the lead wasn’t about your comfort but about him not doing much.

“How could I- if I didn’t-“

“Clark, people don’t make me cum. It’s just not something that like- happens. I don’t know why but it’s still fine and I want the intimacy more than I want release, y’know? I don’t want you to feel bad, because it’s honestly not you. I don’t want you to overthink it or feel like you’re not enough.” You explained, a little scared that we would not believe you or think you were too complicated or weird. Or that you were lying to make him feel better. Clark sighed but nodded, dropping his hands from your arms and letting you climb off him. He didn’t deserve you being on his lap if he couldn’t make you cum.

“We okay?” You asked low and soft, like you were afraid it had turned him off you or made him mad.

“Yeah, of course, darling. You’re- I believe you. Don’t wanna push or make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Promise?” Oh God, now he made you feel bad about the fact that he couldn’t make you cum. Who let him near you? He sucked.

“Yes, swear to God, honey. Come here.” He said as you got under the covers and he did too, pulling you closer to him as he wrapped one arm around you waist and kissed your cheek. He passed you your tea and you rested it in his firm chest knowing he wouldn’t even feel the heat.

“Can we keep watching my silly romance hockey show?” You asked and Clark smiled and nodded, handing you the remote so you could play the young adult romance novel turned into a tv show everyone was talking about online. He wasn’t going to lie, it was a weirdly interesting and captivating. So he didn’t mind it as a bed time show to get his mind thinking about anything else that was pure and utter embarrassment for himself and his lacking in the sexual department.

Turns out, it did not help. You fell asleep probably fifteen minutes in, he took your cup, covered your back and held you tight as you drifted with your mouth pressed against the bare skin of his sides. The show took a turn, some healthy talks about consent being represented much to Clark’s surprise. But he was mostly impacted about the conversation that seemed to tease at his situation, even if your lack of orgasm didn’t stem from the same thing. She needs to be comfortable. Note taken.

“Cat, can I ask for some advice?” Clark said as he grabbed a chair and sat next to her, Cat putting down her nail file and sitting up straight. Clark never asked her for advice. It was always you, then Lois, sometimes Jimmy and he’d call his parents. So, this was about something he could talk about with any of them.

“Sure, what about?”

“So, you know I’ve been dating-“

“Yes, oh my goodness. Cute! I love her, look at her.” You were sat up straight having a conversation with Steve about something sports related. Clark looked at you and smiled too, because you were cute. He was glad other people saw it too.

“Yeah, thanks. Well, I just have been wondering how true it is- or like- we uhm, were intimate and it was great! But it seems like it was only great for me.” Clark didn’t know how to explain this, he wasn’t one to talk about his sex life, especially with co-workers. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it and google was no help, Cat wrote a relationship advice column. Surely, she was the one to ask.

“Oh- okay. Did you like- try?” Cat’s lips pressed together.

“Yes! Obviously! I just let her take the lead and she kind of focused on me so- I don’t know. She looked like she was enjoying it. And she said she did! She said it was good.” Clark was now flustered and loosening his tie a little.

“Then what was the problem?”

“She didn’t finish.”

“Clark, are you just bad in bed?” She asked in a whisper and looked at him with pity, lips pouting as if she actually felt bad for him.

“Who’s bad in bed?” Lois said as she came near them, a couple pages shuffling in her hands as she glanced at the pair.

“Clark.”

“What? No! I’m not- I don’t think that’s the issue.” Lois laughed at his red cheeks and silly defensive words, he looked around to check if there was someone else maybe listening too.

“Well, what did she say?”

“God, please don’t- I don’t want to break her trust.” He hesitated on his words, looking between the two girls and he put his hands up in a prayer.

“What? That she doesn’t cum? We know.” Lois said with a confused look, like she didn’t know why he was acting like it was something that needed government clearance to know.

“What? You know?”

“Yeah. We talked about it like three months ago at lunch. I was telling them about a night with the finance guy where I came like-“

“Please, don’t, Cat.” Clark squeezed his eyes shut like it would somehow help him not know the intimacies of Cat’s rendezvous. She rolled her eyes, Lois sat against the desk and grabbed an open packet of peanuts, leaving her documents aside.

“Fine. Whatever. She told us- we said maybe she hadn’t met the right guy. She said it wasn’t that.”

“Right, that’s what she said to me. But I don’t know if it’s true or not. She said it was good and she did it for the intimacy, not the pleasure.” Lois laughed and almost coughed up the peanuts that were in her mouth.

“Smallville, she’s too good for you.” Lois said as she shook her head amused.

“I know.” He said with a sigh. It was his first real relationship after all.

Clark had been… a late bloomer for love. He thought he’d find the girl in high school, they’d be together forever and that’d be that. No more first dates, rejections, no more feeling used. It wasn’t like that, though. His kryptonian DNA had been more of a problem than he’d anticipated. It was hard to keep secrets but even harder to know who he could trust with them. It was hard to explain his physique and his sudden need to go help someone on the other edge of town. Clark found himself without a serious relationship when most people already had 3.

That’s when you came in. When he met you, time shifted. Clark was late to meeting you and you just gave him an understanding smile and shrugged it off. You were a simple girl by all means, liked long walks and petting dogs. Liked having girls nights with wine and gossip and liked when he put his hand on the small of your back to guide you somewhere. You were always so normal, in the middle. Never the best, never the worst. Never caught too much attention or too shy.

Clark thinking the world of you was a big surprise to you, you never thought he’d pay attention to you. Lois was smarter, Cat was classier. Jenna from the reception was nicer and his blonde neighbor was better at flirting. Everyone was prettier too. Clark couldn’t see much of that, though. He appreciated women, of course, but you were a warm light. He felt like a lizard under a warm lamp every time you looked at him. Like your attention was giving him a reason to be better, try harder, make you smile. It was making him stronger; just like the sun did.

“Poor girl. She’s so noble, she thinks she’s the problem. She thinks her pleasure isn’t important and she’s not worth the trouble.” Cat said as she looked at you with a pout, Lois and Clark turning to set their eyesight on you too and you felt the attention redden your ears, both you and Steve turning to them. They all waved innocently and Steve waved back, flattered. You didn’t even consider they were looking at you.

“Do you think she was lying to me? Is it my fault?” Clark said as he turned back around and Cat sighed, clicking her heels onto the ground as she found the right words.

“I don’t think she’s lying. I don’t know- Lois, is he good in bed?” Lois choked on her snack once again, Clark couldn’t be redder. They had a one month fling- slept together twice before they both realized the attraction was mostly out of respect for each other’s work and great writing chemistry, not physical or emotional. Lois gulped and looked at you, as if she felt guilty about having even kissed Clark when you were such a better match. If only you had gotten here earlier. She looked back at Clark and saw him fiddling and nervous. She knew how much he liked you, she probably knew before he even did. He wanted help, that took guts to ask.

“Jesus- I mean, yeah. Sure. I finished. You were nice. And she likes you much more than I ever did, that helps. I don’t think it’s particularly you.” Clark nodded like he was thankful for the answer, knowing one of the only other three woman he had slept with had faked it would have done irreparable damage to his confidence.

“Good! So it’s not you.”

“Maybe she’s not comfortable with me- or with herself. Maybe it’s that.” He repeated the speech he heard on your show last night.

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s true- doesn’t mean you can’t try though. Try, pull out all the tricks, focus on her. Ask her. She’s an over sharer; she’ll love that shit.”

“Yeah, do everything. Do all the things.” He whispered to himself, both girls frowning at his weird self assurance.

“Honey bee, can I ask you something?” Clark asked the following day, over lunch on the roof of the daily planet as you tried to shovel your spaghetti into your mouth without making a mess.

“That one’s new.” You said at the nickname, smiling at him and nodding for him to go on.

“It’s about you, you know- what you said about not being able to cum.” You shrunk your eyes at him as you chewed, like you were upset he was bringing it up.

“Clark, I told you it’s not your fault-“

“I know! I know, I get that. It’s just- like, never?” He asked, one hand coming to your knee as he sat in front of you and you rolled your eyes.

“Not never. Sometimes, when I’m on top. Or when I masturbate. That’s why I said no one can make me cum, I can make myself cum.” Good, so there was hope. You had finished during sex, even if it was from your own doing.

“And do you think it’s because you’re not comfortable enough?” Clark said and you seemed to actually thinking about it, putting your fork inside your tupperware.

“No. I was with my ex, my first boyfriend, for almost four years, I’d think I was pretty comfortable with him.”

“Well, I didn’t know that. Four years? Wow.” He mumbled the last part. You had two relationships before Clark, you said. A long one and shorter one, the most recent that ended with cheating after 4 months. He never thought to ask about the first one. You were with some asshole who couldn’t make you cum for four years. He had convinced you it was definitely a you problem- meaning surely he was very convincing or you had tried many, many times. Who was this dude? Batman? Wait. What if he actually was?

“And he did try. Sometimes. And you made me feel good, I felt safe and loved and wanted, Clark. I’m not lying to you.” You pleaded, feeling a scared that you were honestly hurting his confidence or taking too much of his head space with this.

“And have you ever squirted?”

“What’s that?” You feigned innocence, batting your eyelashes at him to get him to turn into a nervous mess.

“It’s when you, um- when women-“

“I was kidding, Clark. I know what it is. I don’t know? Maybe? I think so but maybe it was just pee.” Clark laughed finally, head falling down as he heard you laugh too and put your hand over his, squeezing it.

“I’m still gonna try, though.” Clark admitted as he looked back up at you and you smiled, blushing when you thought about it.

“Sure, Superman.”

He was being creepy, of course he was. He was jealous and obsessed. Whatever. He just wanted to know. Know more about your past, who you were before you two met and the people who had stolen your heart before he got the chance. He knew the last one, some sleazy dude named Michael that was in a band and had been cheating on you for most of the time. You got over him fast and deleted his contact the same day. He wasn’t the object of his obsession. It was the first one.

That’s why Clark opened the yearbook that was in your bookshelf. You only had two, the first and the last one and he wouldn’t be able to tell anything from the first one. He knew you were together from 17 to 20 and you met at school. So, he had to be there, right? Clark looked through the pictures that would have you in them, and there you were, a closed lipped smile that wasn’t like the one he saw nowadays, teethy and real. You were still so precious. He flipped through the pages of the graduating class as he tried to identify the culprit, but there were no compromising pictures. Nothing that told him anything. He finally he went through the personal pages, where each person had a space to put any pictures and dedications they wanted. He found you in some, people complimenting your sense of humor and kindness. He’d wholeheartedly agree.

Finally, he reached what he was looking for. Some dude, Dean (not Batman), admittedly good looking, had a picture with you where he was kissing your cheek. You weren’t smiling, Clark knew you hated those types of pictures that looked planned and with people all over you. He would never make you pose like that. Point for Clark. Clark browsed fast to look for your name in his words, and there he found it. The words that followed were sickeningly sweet; about how much he appreciated you and how he’d never regret you being the first woman he loved. Oh, point for Dean. Well, sort of. You were definitely the first woman he felt this strongly for, an actual requited and real love. Not his longing for girls who never worked out. But Clark wasn’t the first man you loved. It was Dean. Dean who made typos like they paid him for it. Dean who had you for so long, not him. He quickly flipped through pages, skimming the messages until he found your page. It was so you, organized and sweet. Funny when you could, touching all the time. You had no pictures with Dean, just your friends and family. Smart.

“Hey, did you find the recipe?” You asked as you walked out of your room, having changed out of your work attire and into a big shirt and shorts. You looked at was in his hands and smiled nervously.

“Ah, you pulled out the big guns.” You said and walked over to Clark, who led you to his lap and you let your legs hang beside his perpendicular, looking down at the page. His arm immediately went to your waist to keep you steady, the other still holding the heavy book that contained the glimpses of your life before Clark.

“Oh, gosh. Cringe. Ew, ew.” Clark laughed, shaking his head and kissing your cheek.

“No, it’s so sweet. You look so pretty, baby. I looked like a mess as a senior, barely into my body. You look like you.” He said and watched your expression change, opening your eyes and looking at him.

“Really?”

“Yeah. And you have such a way with words, look at this one. So beautiful.” He pointed at the words you had dedicated to Dean, poetic and not too romantic. You laughed a little, glancing at Clark who you know wanted to see how you’d react. To see if there was still emotion there.

“I’d love to take credit for that, but I didn’t come up with that. That’s an Ariana Grande song. I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life, it’d be so sour. I’m hoping that everybody can experience what we have.” You sang along to the rythmn of the song, Clark’s smile growing.

“Cheeky. That would be a journalistic crime.” He shook you in his legs, making you gasp and hug him closer. He saw your hair fall besides your face and frame it perfectly, practically making him moan and put the yearbook aside because it didn’t matter once you were here.

“I just didn’t know what to write, nothing was coming up but it felt too mean to not say anything so… I just quoted Sweetener. People cooed and said I was so nice. Nobody noticed.” You confessed between laughs, wrapping your hands around his face cheeks and pulling him closer.

“Secret’s safe with me.” He whispered before pressing his lips to yours, kissing you and bringing the bitter taste of seeing your past self to a halt. You kissed for a couple of minutes, nothing but the slow sounds of Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together. You finally put an end to it when you ran out of breath, licking your lips to get every single drop of his love. You looked to your library and located the recipe book you were searching for.

“Aha! Get ready for the best nachos of your life.” You said and picked it up, leaving his lap and leading him to the kitchen.

“So… how’s the whole orgasm situation been?” Lois asked as she leaned next to Clark, a beer in hand and at the bar as she took a break from flirting with the bartender for free drinks. Clark looked around the crowded room, as if someone was hearing what he felt was a difficult situation.

“Not really going. Tried once last week and it’s like she got bored after a while, I don’t think she finds sex… fun. And I’ve been really busy with patrols this week.”

“Yeah, she said it was ‘okay’, like she just liked watching the other person feel good and that was enough.” Lois responded, making Clark turn to look at her with an open mouth.

“What? She’s an over-sharer, add a glass of wine and bam! I know the details of her first period. It’s a really funny story, actually, it was Halloween and-“

“I know that story. I’ve been with her drunk and she just told me she thought my hair smelled like lavender and she liked my calfs.” Was he not asking the right questions? He knew it would be more complicated to talk about it with him than with her, though.

“Jeez, she really likes you. You smell like… boy. Sweat and ego.” Clark rolled his eyes, tired of this pointless conversation with his coworker that honestly just made him feel worse. The bar wasn’t too crowded; they went for drinks today because Perry decided to give everyone half day on Friday because he needed to go do ‘something’. Creepy. It was barely 7 pm now, just gotten in and he’d left with you a kiss while you were talking to Cat about something you wanted to do with your hair and he accompanied Jimmy to get another drink. They stood side by side as the music changed and Jimmy came up to them with Cat.

“Brother, someone is all up in your turf.” Jimmy slapped Clark’s back, pointing to the furthest part of the bar where you were standing while someone talked to you. You looked a little overwhelmed, he could tell as you chipped at your nail polish and barely looked up.

“Yeah, I think they know each other. There’s some weird tension.” Cat added, her fruity drink in her hands as Clark shrunk his eyes and noticed your heart was beating fast and your hands were shaking a bit. This wasn’t someone you wanted to see. The man raised his hand, and you glanced at it, heart skipping a beat.

“Wow- you’re getting married?” You asked, interrupting him. He nodded and Clark took it as his cue to reach you, squeezing between the people before finally getting to you, your eyes seemingly softer and relieved as you saw him.

“Clark! Hi.” You said and the man turned to look at him, eyebrows slightly raised at shear statue and build of him. Clark put on hand on your hips, squeezing comfortably and he immediately felt your body relax, no more shaking or discomfort. He finally looked up at the man and even if he had changed throughout the years, he knew who it was. Oh, Clark knew exactly who he was. It was the doomed ex. The long term relationship you had while Clark couldn’t do a second date.

“Uhm, Clark, this is Dean. We know each other from- way back.” You said and Dean nodded, also seemingly uncomfortable now that Clark was intimidating him without even trying.

“High school and college. Well, we went to school together since Pre-K.” Your whole life, basically. Jesus. Point for Dean.

“Clark Kent. Nice to meet you.” Clark offered his free hand and Dean took it, shocked at the force of his shake.

“Oh, Clark Kent. You’re the one who interviews Superman. Yeah, I’ve read them. Really good.” Dean said, impressed as if he never thought he’d meet someone who’s words he has read, someone who knows Superman and is somehow in proximity to his high school sweetheart who went crazy after he left her.

“Thanks, dude.” He mumbles, glancing down at you while you seemingly had went into a shell of yourself again. Like he made you feel small and invisible just by being here.

“Is he cool? I’d think he was a little intimidating, right?”

“What do you think, honey? Is he intimidating?” Clark asked and you looked up, like you didn’t expect to be included in the conversation.

“Uh- not really. He’s tall and strong and all but his underwear makes him less… almighty.” Clark chuckled, he would agree. Dean laughed in shock, he’d never imagine you would know a superhero.

“Would you look at that, the girl who wouldn’t go with me to parties because she was intimidated by everyone now hangs out with Superman. Has writer friends. You’ve changed.” You bit on your tongue, you refused to let Clark see how easy it was for him to get a rise out of you, even after all these years. He was being catty, maybe even baiting Clark to see the real you. The insecure girl who’d avoid him for days when you saw him texting some other girl.

“Whatever, Dean. Nice to see you. I wish you the best with Ellie. You two are meant to be.” You said, sure and certain that would not win this time. He couldn’t keep winning.

“I don’t think you mean that.” He said with a smirk, like he knew it still bothered you. Clark was concerned to say the least. This man had you for 4 years? Your formative years? In college, where people slept around and had fun, you were in bed crying about this sleaze? How was he worthy of all your firsts, of all your tears and your devotion? Why couldn’t you meet Clark first? How did this dumbass convince you of your inability to enjoy sex?

“Right, we have to go back to our friends. C’mon, baby.” Clark cut the tension and pulled you closer to him, Dean’s face dropping like it had occurred to him you were dating.

“Nice to meet you, Clark.” He said, Clark looking down at the man and saying nothing as he led you away from him, the hand on your hip traveling down to your ass as you walked away. You smiled, looking up at him when that gesture made you giddy and warm, like it meant something that he wanted to claim you. He smiled back down to you, one kiss on your forehead.

“Hey, pretty lady. All good? You seemed upset.” Lois said, reaching out a hand to you and hugging you into her chest.

“Fine, just someone I didn’t want to see.” You mumbled against Lois and her really fancy smelling perfume, happy to be back here. Point for Clark. To have found people who seem to like you no matter what, to have a big hunk of a man, a Super man nonetheless, who cares so much about you.

“Okay! New bar?”

You and Clark decided to finish the night early, 11 pm and you were heading to his apartment hand in hand while the streets were still alive and windy. The cold wind had made your cheeks warmer in color and your nose was frozen, making you scrunch it every so often to feel it back to life. Clark would have gotten a cab so you wouldn’t be cold, but you’d said many times you loved the cold breeze

“Do you- do you wanna talk about it?” You said as you waited at a traffic light, looking up at him with a wandering eyes. You knew Clark was very interested in your dating life, particularly since he had little to none and that made him feel nervous. Like he still had so much to learn and experience when you already had. You had assured him it didn’t matter, you felt lucky to be there for him while he figured it out and promised eternal patience and understanding. That’s the thing though, he wanted to get it right. He didn’t want you to be forgiving and teach him, he wanted to be the man you needed.

“Uh- I mean, if you want to.”

“Yeah. Do you want to… know like the story?”

“Yes.” You nodded and crossed the street, squeezing his hand tighter as you looked down.

“Uh- so we started dating junior year. It was a little on and off. A couple of friends told me they had seen him with a girl over the summer, which was fine because there wasn’t anything going on with us. I asked him and he said it was nothing, just friends. And then we became official and it was good, mostly.” Clark nodded, following your tracks and how you were being honest and detailed as always. You kept walking, steps in sync.

“Went to college, same one. He kept being friends with that girl. Never met her or anything but I started noticing he was weird about it sometimes and we had a couple fights about her. And then things just… started to go bad for me. I just became like this really insecure person and … a mess. He didn’t help. We kept trying to make it work but eventually he broke up with me. We ended on good terms but the following week, he was already dating her. I was really mad that I was right, y’know? Either way, they are still together and getting married, apparently.” Clark nodded again, not saying anything like he was waiting for her to say anything else

“But I’ve gotten over it, I’ve changed! Like, you spend more time with Lois than me at work and I don’t say anything!” Well, now you did. You physically cringed, mouth shut close like you had just seen a horribly accident unfold. Clark cleared his throat; he had been so absorbed in his own jealousy that he hadn’t even considered you may feel similar seeing him with Lois every day.

“Oh, honey. I never judged you. I’m just- gosh. I am sad we didn’t meet earlier.” Clark said as he stopped by the front door of the building where his apartment was. You laughed, leaning towards him as he grabbed you by the waist and hugged you.

“Whatever. It led me to you.” You responded, muffled by his jacket and how you rested against his neck. Clark could feel the burden alleviate, of feeling intimidated by your past lovers and his lack of. It was as if every wrong turn and pain led you guys to each other. Clark leaned down to kiss you, you responded with ease, at first soft and loving before it turned hungrier, too much saliva and smacking sounds for being outside. He wouldn’t forget the image of you being surprised that he wasn’t leaving you out, ignoring you. He was different and he had all the eagerness to show you.

“Mmm, let’s go inside, baby.” You breathed out when he finally let you go, mouth placing hot, wet kisses along your jaw like there was a magnetic pull from his face to yours. He nodded and let you go for a minute, guiding you inside the building and leaving you alone for a whole two seconds in the elevator before pouncing on you again like a rubber band. You giggled, letting him pin you to the walls and thread his hands from your ass all the way down your thighs, squeezing your knees as his body basically twisted over you, head looking up, asking you without words to wrap your legs around him and let him carry you. You didn’t, stayed on with your legs straight like it didn’t even occur to you. That’s when Clark saw it. No one had ever swept you off your feet, let you be the receiver, the taker. You were always in control, and you thought it was your duty to give and give. That changed tonight.

“Honey girl, I want you to just let me… do everything today, okay?”

“Why? I like taking care of you. I said I’d make us hot chocolate.” Clark sighed, smiling at your sweet disposition.

“Because you always take care of me. I wanna take care of you, in every way. Okay?” You gulped, Clark never didn’t talk to you like you were the boss, like you had him at your disposal. Because he was, he was weak under your mouth and even the mention of your name, like a little kid getting told Santa Claus would know what he did wrong. But sometimes he needed to be a little firmer with you to get you let loose, and fuck, he already had you needing him all night. This was making you into a fountain.

“Yeah, okay.” The elevator opened and walked out with his hands around you as if you’d fall without him and honestly, you might just melt into the ground if he lets you go. He was quick to open the door around you, guiding you inside before picking you up with an arm under your knees and the other around your back, making you laugh. You dropped your purse and kicked off your shoes on the way, helping him start to get you undressed. He dropped you down with a thud that would have made you afraid if it wasn’t into his expensive mattress that felt like a cloud. He fixed himself on top of you, combing away the hair that fell on your face before kissing you again, like you tasted like honey and he wanted to discover if you tasted like this everywhere. Your lipstick had long faded against his face and your clothes suddenly felt heavy, too heavy on your body and you wanted your jeans off, your blouse was useless when it made a barrier between you and him.

“You were so hot back there.” You looked at him out of breath when your mouths separated as he worked on kicking his shoes off.

“When?”

“When you were mean to Dean. I’ve never seen you be mean.” He smiled as he kissed down your neck, smiling against your skin as his hands travelled below your blouse. He was really a multitasker.

“He was being mean to you.” He said like it was a fact that he would not stand for that. And you knew.

“Didn’t really care, I was kind of just working on not jumping your bones.” As soon as Clark looked down at you like he knew you didn’t want to be there and he wanted to make it clear you were his, Dean’s offensive goodbye faded.

“I wouldn’t have minded.” Clark responded, making you smirk. Clothes quickly started flying off, carefully taken off your body in between kisses and rugged hands making soft touches. You were so winded from his attention, there was no reaction other than basically purring in delight.

Your bra was being pulled from your chest when you reacted again, Clark groaning at the sight even if he had already seen them a couple of times. His hands were squeezing them like it was his duty, softly needing before ending at the tip, rolling your nipples between his fingers. His tongue quickly followed, swirling around your sensitive buds and biting it, your back arching against him begging for more.

“Fuck.” You breathed, mostly to yourself.

“Good?”

“Yeah.” You said as he switched to the other, licking like he was testing his tongue was working right. It really fucking was.

“Honey, are you comfortable?” Like it was checklist, Clark was going to get it right. You shrunk your eyes, nodding.

“Obviously.”

“Not nervous or anything?”

“I mean, a little now.” Clark shook his head, mumbling 'sorry' as you tried not to giggle at him.

“Do you want to try like touching yourself? You can cum like that so-“

“Clark, are you Off Campus-ing me?” His mouth dropped, confused since you’d been asleep when all that happened and he thought you wouldn’t know.

“You were asleep.” You finally giggled, hands wrapped around his arms that had stayed still at the sides of your hips, ready to get rid of your underwear.

“I caught up. It’s sweet, baby, but I think I’d be too self aware.” He nodded, you reached his face to be able to kiss his neck, distracting him for a second as you nibbled on his skin.

“Okay. Can I- can I try again? With my mouth this time?” Clark asked, the last time he had tried with only his fingers where he thought you’d get the most stimulation and even though you withered and got his hand soaking, after a while you asked to stop and just have sex, which again didn’t make you cum.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” You gave him a small smile, like you didn’t mind but weren’t convinced it would work.

“Get naked first. Wanna see you.” He stepped away fast, stumbling on his own shoes as he tried to get rid of his t-shirt and got stuck with the fabric over his arms.

“Jesus- are you okay?” You laughed, sitting up as you watched him struggle to get it off and keep his balance. He finally stood up straight and got it off, jeans flying off and his underwear fell with relief. He had been straining since downstairs, his cock jumped up against his stomach and it distracted you as you saw it twitch begging for attention. You lifted a hand as he came back close, but he smacked it away and kneeled on the bed, pushing you against the headrest and opening your legs. His mouth basically watered at the sight, saliva threatening to spill from his mouth as he lifted your thighs and gave himself a better look, all the folds and skin between your legs being perfect and begging him to come closer.

“If you get tired or anything, don’t worry about it.” You said, resting on your forearms as you looked at him and gave the most forgiving look you could as if you were expecting it.

“I won’t."

“But if you do.” He licked his lips and glanced up at you with a squint, warning you to stop underestimating him.

“I won’t. Just relax and tell me what feels good.” You were going to respond before he dipped his head at the apex of your legs and used his thumbs to spread you apart, blowing ice cold on your wetness.

“You’re so wet. This all for me?”

“I told you it was hot, you were hot all day. When you licked ketchup off your thumb at lunch I almost fanned myself.” He laughed, looking at you cheeky smirk and shaking his head. His thumb rubbed sure circles on your clit, gaining a shudder. Your wetness was dripping from you, you smelled like pheromones and delight to the point it was making him dizzy. He licked up from below your opening up to your clit, collecting everything he could and let it dance on his tongue before removing his thumb and replacing it.

He licked soft at first, rhythmic, firm strokes. Up and down, left and right, in circles. He tried it all on your puffy bundle of nerves, enjoying the pressure the stiffness brought to his muscle. You hummed, head falling back and tried to focus on the feeling and relax. On contrary to popular belief, you did want someone to make you orgasm. You were just resentful and carried low expectations to avoid being let down. And if anyone deserved it, it would be Clark and his complete devotion to making you swoon. He liked you. He loved you. He wanted you.

“Feels good, but I think I need more.” Clark smiled, nodding. It was good that you were helping him instead of being too inactive to give feedback. He once again pressed your lips open, looking at your pulsating pussy begging for his attention. He rubbed your hole, spreading the wetness before shoving the thumb inside and twisting it upwards to press into the spongy spot inside you which he could do because his fingers were huge. You nodded in encouragement, lifting your hips to meet his movements and rolling them back and forth.

“So pretty, baby. That’s it. Take what you need. We’ll get there.” It was we now. This was about you two, not a you problem. Hot. Really fucking hot. He took your labia into his mouth, playing with it and pulling on it softly, making the stretch of the skin show how excited you were for him to prove you wrong. Clark wrapped his lips around your clit, licking up with tiny strokes before he sucked on it real sweet. You let out a surprised gasp, looking down at him like he preforming some sort of Kryptonian sorcery you never thought was possible. Oh sweet, innocent princess. Seems like you had also saved some firsts for him.

"Oh, shit. That-" You squeezed your eyes in shock as the waves of pleasure flowed through your body, the dual stimulation making your hands clench in fists. Clark glanced up at you every so often, hungry for your reactions and moans. It was making you feel like never before, so on the edge and relaxed at the same time you were almost becoming sure Clark was going to land his goal. His mouth became a machine for you, sucking hard in intervals where he flicked quickly with the tip of his tongue. You whined and clenched on his thumb, that pressed upwards when he could.

"Baby, I think it's working. It's almost there- there, there. Fuck, don't stop." You encouraged, opening your eyes to see your boy giving you the dirtiest, most lovesick look. He was hoping for reward and compliments, telling him he was doing good by you. He was making his girl doubt her own beliefs with his skills and love.

"Fuck, Clark, yes, please- Gonna-" Your mouth fell open and a low moan spilled at the orgasm overtook you. It was fast, came without much warning as the band snapped in your belly and it flooded your senses with the most indescribable release. Clark kept going with his fingers, replacing with mouth in a millisecond to breathe out praises.

"So sweet, baby. Good girl, you're so good. There we go, I knew you could do it." His fingers gave no rest as they pet you inside and out, your clit being stimulated without hesitance to drag out the orgasm.

"Clark, I think it's gonna happen again. I feel- it's so much. God, what is that?" You clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer to you and holding him desperately like you didn't know what was happening and needed shelter. He laughed in delight against your cheek, switching his fingers inside you to put the longest ones inside you and fuck against your g-spot with no mercy, thumb replacing the flicking of your clit.

"That's it, hun. Make a mess, show me how good you are for me. Show me I'm different from the others. I can make you scream." And scream you did. It was high pitched and wretched, your body betraying what you thought you knew about yourself. Your nails pushed into the skin on his back as your exhilarated pussy gushed around his hand. Clark dropped his head to look at the meeting of your bodies and how his hand was working restlessly to pull every drop, every moan, every smile from you. You looked like a dream cumming on him, face so blissed out it was lost and your pussy clenching, legs twitching in reaction.

"That's so beautiful, you're gorgeous. So creamy and wet." His words were ridiculous in your mind; you couldn't look good right now moving like you're possessed. You tapped out when the second high finally started to fade, Clark pulling fully away and starting to kiss your face with delight. You were trying to catch your breath when he led you onto your back to regain forces, chest going up and down. His hands, both wet and not, caressed your still shaking thighs with velvety touches.

"I didn't think my body could do that." Clark laughed, so in love with the moment and you. At how you were discovering new things about yourself because he helped you.

"See? Wait till you cum on my cock too." He teased, making you look down at how he was still rock hard, even harder than before, and dripping like it would take him three strokes inside you to spill.

"Yeah? Show me." Clark didn't need further instructions when he spread your legs again and led himself into your wet, relaxed walls. It was heaven, a groan leaving him mouth with how much your body was agreeing with him. Like you were made for each other.

"Sweetheart, you're so perfect. I love you."

"I love you." He started moving with ease, hips synchronized with his heartbeat. The squelch of the wetness, the heat from your pussy. The sheer smell of sex, fluids and sweat, his sheets drenched and filled with you. Your soft whines as you grabbed onto his arms and whispered 'I love you's. It was all creating the perfect moment in his mind. It would replace the insecurities, the past life and the other man he thought he couldn't compete with. Because it wasn't a competition, fuck a point system. It was about love and lust and helping each other come into the perfect pair.

"I didn't think I'd ever know this comfort, this love. It's divine." You were already feeling close again, the fullness of his dick was so unbelievably wonderful you forgot about everything else. He smiled, leaning down to kiss you and picking up his pace with his mouth against yours, tasting yourself on his tongue. You were melting into one, you thought. You could never part from this moment. You would, because there was work and he needed to save the world and you needed to feed the squirrel from the tree outside your apartment. But right now, the moment was infinite and celestial.

"That better not be an Ariana Grande song."

“It doesn't matter, I'm walking- running- running in,” you said breathless down your phone, busy stuffing your bag with whatever you'd need, none of which was food for the shift. You'd recently ran out of the energy bars Jack had recommended.

Everyday you said you'd prepare something nice, some risotto or something and take it in. Every morning you collapsed from exhaustion and ran out of time to make anything that resembled a 'meal'.

“ I've got it here, I'll be around in ten, ” Jack said.

Your bag slid down your shoulder as you paused. “Got it? Got what?”

“ Your address. ”

“How do you have my address?”

He chuckled down the line. “ Remember I ubered food to yours, two weeks ago? You've probably still got leftovers in your fridge. ”

Ah. You remembered. One of those times you let slip your terrible routine and he sort to fix it, sending you over prepped meals that- he was right- were still littered around your fridge.

“Right, yes. You should delete that.”

“ Comes in handy, sometimes. In emergencies, ” he said. “ I'll pick you up in ten, bye. ”

There was no time to argue as the call ended promptly after that.

Jack Abbot was a caring man. Something you were learning the hard way. You knew he'd given Ellis his spare room when she was evicted from her apartment, he'd even let her re-decorate, got her fresh blankets and sheets. You knew that Shen's favourites snacks were always stocked up in the lounge. You always knew that he was first to spot Lena getting tired and was always there with a coffee.

It was just like you knew he knew all those little things about you too.

He knew when your bus got in across from PCMT, always there to escort you over the road and back again at the end of the shift. No matter how long or gruelling it had been he would wait with you, rain or sun. He knew you had a bad sleeping habit so he told you herbal remedies in teas and even brought some for you. Annoyingly they worked and every time you had one you were forced to think of Jack.

You knew that if he said he was picking you up- he was.

There was nothing wrong with his affection.

You just didn't know what to do with it.

The night shift was still new to you. You'd only joined since their nights had gotten wilder, even too wild for the 'weirdest and wildest' to handle so you'd made the swap six months ago to help out. You were used to Robby's ways of doing things: of his careful watch over his residents with happy thumbs up or disapproving shakes of his head.

Jack trusted in his residents to take care of patients, but didn't when it came to themselves.

You rushed around, finding your pens and stethoscope and phone that you'd just put down for a second. Soon enough Jack had texted saying he was coming up (he somehow already had the code to your apartment complex).

His knuckles rattled softly and you rushed to grab the last of your things, including a book marked with 'Abbot, J' that you had yet to get round to reading.

“Hi,” you greeted.

You'd expected he'd come up just to be a gentleman, figuring the two of you would just head back down.

Jack squeezed by your attempt at baring him from your place and walked into your small and cramped apartment. “Hey.”

You tried not to be surprised, shutting the door behind him. “I've got everything, we- we can go.”

“I jussss wanna check-” the kitchen was just to the right and he opened your fridge door, grinning. “I was right. Still got the leftovers.”

There were many containers stacked, some full, others emptying. All marked in his handwriting from his meal prep he shared with you.

“Yeah, I haven't got round to sorting it,” you said. “Sorry, I didn't get around to eating everything. It's really good though.”

Jack smiled, reaching into your fridge like it was his own. “Hey, I made you a lot, didn't expect you to eat everything. Just wanted to make sure you had a choice. Did you like the Linguini? I tried a new recipe.”

Jack moved around your kitchen like he'd been living in your space forever. He was confident as he re-arranged your food, throwing what had gone out of date away and washing his hands in your sink, taking a towel hanging up by a cupboard like he knew it was there and drying.

“Er, yeah, it was nice, we can go, you know,” you said.

“You started reading it?” Jack asked, gesturing down to the book in your hands. “What do you think of it?”

“Oh, er, no. I haven't had the chance to start it. I was gonna give it back to you,” you said.

Jack shrugged. “It's yours, keep it.”

It was not yours. It was his. It was one of his favourites if the several dog-eared pages and annotations were anything to go by. It was a title he'd recommended to you and handed you a month ago but you'd only managed to flick through and get a vague understanding of the characters names only.

“But I mean- I don't know when I'll get round to reading it,” you said, loitering outside your kitchen.

“It's okay, I've read it a thousand times, keep it till you do.”

Wasn't he worried you may never get round to reading it and he might not ever get it back?, if your forgetful memory was anything to go by.

Jack finally abandoned your kitchen, passing by you. “Shall we?”

“Thanks for the lift. You really didn't have to,” you said as you left your apartment building, the sky already darkening and where others came in from their long days of work, yours was only just beginning.

“It's on my way,” he shrugged.

“It's out of your way,” you pointed out, knowing Jack was a complete different way to PCMT then you.

You saw his eyes roll as he opened the passenger door for you, nodding for you to get in.

“Just take the lift.”

“Thank you.”

“Word is you and Abbot arrived together,” said Dana.

You groaned.

There was a lot to like about the night shifts. It felt more of a team work than day did sometimes, you loved working with everyone just as much as you did day and you liked how still it got in the night sometimes. But you missed Dana who watched out for you like a mama bear. Still, she made time to always check in with you before she headed out.

Her jean jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her hair pinned back neater and keys in hand but she still greeted you like it was the start of the day.

“He gave me a lift, the buses are on strike.”

She smirked. “Nice of him.”

“I've told him not to do it again.”

“Oh yeah, how'd he take that?”

He'd shook his head and laughed, constantly brushing off every thanks you made and offer of any aid you could give. He seemed wholly un-bothered by the inconvenience you'd caused.

“Jack's a good guy,” said Dana.

“That he is.”

“You deserve someone like him.”

You weren't sure where Dana got that idea. You also didn't know why you couldn't believe her. Why every time Jack turned up when things were going bad, or why every time he showed he cared you felt scared.

And you'd never really had the time to un-pack that.

You looked up to Dana, folding your arms over on the counter. “And what about what he wants?”

“Well for that you'll have to ask him,” she said with the all knowing look in her eyes. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder as she squeezed. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Night.”

You thought you'd have a chance to view the patient charts that were swapped over to night shift but Jack was next, standing in Dana's space.

“What did mamma bear have to say?” he asked.

“Oh you know, the usual,” you said. “Trying to give me life advice that I won't follow.”

He huffed a chuckle. “I could've told her that, saved her the time.”

“I listen to your advice-”

He levelled his gaze onto yours.

“- I try to.”

His brows rose up. “You brought anything in for food tonight?”

You were about to answer, ready to prove him wrong, finally.

Jack interrupted you. “Anything other than that caramel coffee you like?”

He could read you like a book. You don't know how he found the time to know so much about you, to observe such things you wouldn't even notice unless he pointed them out.

Your silence was an answer.

“I brought extra, we'll have it later.”

He said it so confidently, leaving little space for any arguing on your end.

“Will we?”

“Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the counter. “I'm thinking a midnight picnic, trauma two? Might even get lucky with a GSW as company.”

You laughed and when you looked at Jack he was smiling. It was a soft kind, the sort that smoothed his face and made him seem younger and lighter. The kind that you took home with you and re-played as you fell asleep slowly.

You would never admit how long Jack spends in your mind. Somehow it felt like he already knew.

“You, um, you didn't braid your hair today,” said Jack, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter. His gaze only faltered on yours for a second.

This was something you knew you did, carefully creating a routine for washing your hair that meant you didn't have to do it every day after work. Enough baby powder or dry shampoo meant you could get away with two washes at best.

“No, I guess I didn't.”

“It's gonna annoy you, being in your face all day.”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

Jack didn't listen. He picked up your wrist- the one you kept a hair tie around- and slid it onto his own before going behind you.

“Jack, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Helping you.”

“You don't have to, I'll shove it up.”

Jack grumbled. “Let me work.”

His fingers grazed your neck as he brushed back your hair, the callouses on his hands rough against you, eliciting some sort of warmth in your body. Thankfully he was behind you and couldn't see the blush absolutely coming to your cheeks.

Jack took care of those around him, but he'd never touched anyone else's hair, never stood in the middle of the nurses station where all could see to braid someone's hair.

You felt him work, the weight of his gaze on the back of your head and his fingers moving through your hair like a cool summer evening breeze.

Across the way, Lena peered over her glasses at you with a smile.

“Lena's staring,” you said, unable to focus on any work till Jack's fingers were out of your hair.

Jack hummed. You knew that concentration from the amount of times you've seen him focused. “Lena always stares.”

You noticed Crus and Matteo passing by, both watching and pointing. You were sure Crus made some obscene make-out gesture and only hoped Jack didn't see. You were sure, if anyone else had asked he'd have done the same.

Though you hadn't technically asked.

“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than braid my hair, Abbot.” The lights in the Pitt seemed brighter, burning down on you like spotlights.

“Nothing more important right now.”

Your neck stretched as Jack pulled at your hair lightly to get it all in place. Curiosity ate at you, wondering where he'd done this before but the idea of knowing- like you had any right to- shut you up before you could speak.

Eventually he finished and his hands fell on your shoulders.

“There. Ready to be a hero?” he asked, spinning you around to him.

Your feet scuffed along the floor. “What? Am I the Robin to your batman?”

His lips quirked up and he moved his head side to side like weighing up his options. “More like the Lois to my Super-man.”

You sadly weren't versed enough in comic to know if that was a good or bad thing.

Jack was attending to a young girl when you walked in. Honestly it was starting to get comical how you turned up around him or he you. Some would call it magnets and as you met Jacks gaze as you stepped in you knew the ‘people’ meant Jack.

He looked at you, taking a quick note of the fact you still had your braid in even hours into the night. Jack smiled.

“Miss mermaid this is who I was telling you about,” said Jack.

The young girl- maybe five, maybe six- looked up at you as Jack slowly pulled at the thread bringing the skin of her knee together.

The chart had told you she'd taken a nasty fall on the playground and her teacher had brought her in, still trying to get in contact with the parents while Jack kept her company, cleaning her scraped knees and the gash just below.

“Hello,” the little girl waved. There wasn't even any tear marks on her cheeks but there was a small mark of blood at her little lip and her hair was falling out around her face.

“Hello miss mermaid,” you greeted, realising quickly the name came from her little mermaid top she wore.

“We were just talking about you,” said Jack, glancing quickly at you.

You blushed, wondering what Jack had to say about you to a small child. “Oh?”

“You and Crus played mermaids that time at the beach, remember?”

The girl giggled and Jack smiled over her shoulder at you.

“It wasn't- it wasn't mermades,” you excused.

That day was one of sweltering heat and lingering gazes. The night shift had took a trip to the beach on one of the hottest days of the year, enjoying the day for the day-shifters that couldn't. You'd gotten a lift with Matteo who'd brough Victoria Javadi along as she had the day off anyhow.

There was sand in places you didn't know sand could get, beach balls that somehow were pierced before you could even blow them up and gazes shared with Jack.

Maybe it was the bikini you wore that was so different from the scrubs. Maybe it was the fact Jack was un-characteristically insecure about his prosthetic leg being exposed to all and you'd told him nobody cared, that everybody cared more that he couldn't enjoy himself. Something had changed that day, settling in you like a pebble at the bottom of a lake thrown from a great height.

Since then, you and Jack had never looked at each other the same way.

But you and Crus hadn't been playing mermaids.... exactly. You swam around a lot and sort to collect more sea shells than the other. You just didn't call it mermaids.

“Will I be able to play mermaids again?” asked the little girl brushing hair out of her face with clumsy hands.

“Absolutely,” said Jack with great enthusiasm.

“And run faster than all the boys in my class?”

Jack chuckled, so did you. “Of course, but you'll have to rest up first.”

“Give the boys a chance to catch up, huh?” you suggested, plucking a leaf out of her hair.

“I like running fast,” she said.

Jack worked on the stitching, back to concentrating.

You sat down on the other side of the bed, gently reaching over to pluck bits of leaf and dirt from her hair. “So do I but sometimes we got to take things slow to not get hurt.”

You hadn't realised the meanings of the words until Jack halted his movements, glancing at you.

So you supposed there was a double meaning.

Jack's gaze was heavy.

“Tell you what, miss mermaid, Doctor Abbot here is better at braiding hair than he is stitches,” you said after a clear of your throat.

“Rude,” Jack mumbled.

It took a little convincing but you managed to swap places with Jack, gloving up and taking the tread he'd started at. He took your space on the bed and gently worked the child's hair into something neat while you carried on her stitches, close enough to being finished.

The both of you worked in silence as you each concentrated on your separate endeavours. All the while the young girl sat in between you hummed to herself, some Disney song.

“That's my favourite,” said Jack half way through when he must have realised what song she was humming.

You were still trying to understand it when part way through they changed to 'Under the sea'. You had to all but hold her leg from swinging as she sang loudly, causing you to laugh.

“Why not singing?” asked the girl.

“Yeah, why not singing?” Jack asked

You shook your head. “I don't know the song.”

Jack made a 'pfft' sound like he didn't believe you and 'little miss mermaid' did the same, blowing a raspberry.

Eventually you finished up the stitching, coincidently the same time Jack finished with his braiding.

A nurse- Bridget- walked in with the young girls teacher, eying the two of you between her. “You braiding Matteo's hair next?” she teased with a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes.

Jack moved up from the bed just as you also stood, discarding of the tools you'd used. “Only if he asks nicely.”

“Her parents have been informed they're on their way,” said the girls teacher.

“Perfect,” said Jack, holding either end of his stethoscope slung around his neck. “We are going to leave you in the very capable hands of Bridget who knows many more Disney songs than we do. Don't go without giving me another song.”

The girl laughed, her new braid slung over her shoulder. “I won't.”

Jack smiled and held the door open for you as you left with a small wave and him trailing behind you.

Lena was at the nurses station, answering calls and dishing out work while others walked around the two of you, busy with their own nights that existed by itself in the Pitt.

You hadn't realised you and Jack were heading for the break room till his arm stretched out and he pushed the door open over you.

“Are you really telling me you didn't know the song she was singing?” he asked.

“Of course I knew the song. I wasn't going to sing and embarrass myself,” you said, pulling out the mug you always used and Jack's favourite, finding the coffee pot newly brewed.

“Like I'm any Phil Collins,” scoffed Jack as he pulled out two containers from the fridge.

You frowned, sitting at the table. “Who?”

Jack looked at you, swinging the door shut. His brows rose high, crinkling his forehead. “Phil Collins? Turn it out again.... In the air tonight... The music on Tarzan?”

“Is he the dad of Lily Collins?”

Jack slid into the seat across from you. “Who?” He passed you over a full container of some sort of quinoa. It wasn't just left overs, it was a carefully calculated portion to match his.

You stared down at it like you were trying to decide if it was poisoned while Jack had already had a spoonful of his own.

It felt strange, to be sitting in a secluded room of the chaos and eating with him. Though at work, it felt oddly domestic. It felt- annoyingly- like the right thing to do. You wanted to eat from his container and wash it, hand it back to him. You wanted to know where he kept all his Tupperware, the kind that fell from cupboards at every open of the door.

“You cooking for me now?”

Jack shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “It's quinoa. Hardly cooking.”

You took a careful spoon.

Like he'd been discreetly watching as soon as you swallowed he spoke.

“You like it?”

“It tastes... kind of...”

“Healthy?”

You looked at him, feigned aghast.

Jack smirked, jaw working as he ate his food. “Come on, if it weren't for me you'd still be living on pizza's and take aways. At least this way you save a couple bucks and eat good. For a doctor you should know how important that is.”

“What are you so worried about what I eat for?” you mumbled, more wondering to yourself.

“I like to take care of you.”

He admitted it softly, a slight shrug to his shoulders like it was nothing. Like looking after you, a simple colleague- maybe a friend if you were lucky enough- was a simple feat. As if you didn't struggle to take care of yourself. Jack worked the same shifts, even more as an attending and cooked for himself, did yoga in mornings and even went out as a SWAT team member.

“Why?” You pushed the grains around in the tub.

“Why what?” he asked.

Daring to glance at him, you found Jack looking at you, arms rested on the table, his freckled biceps pulling at his scrub top.

You shook your head, taking another spoon of the food.

Any other time some emergency would be called to save you. Nothing as such when you really needed it. Of course you were glad nobody was being rushed in hurt... but still.

“Why do I like looking after you?” Jack repeated. “Because it's you.”

At that, you smiled. Not through happiness, more sympathy. “Because I can't look after myself?”

You knew you slept a lot, didn't take as good care of yourself as you could have. There were healthy and easy meal ideas sat in a folder in your phone, gathering dust. There was always laundry in a pile, dirty and clean, to go to their respective homes. There were friends waiting to make arrangements you never got around to making. You weren't easy but you didn't think you were so bad someone else had to come in and save you.

Jack paused, his face falling. “That's not what I meant.”

“Sure it is, you can admit it,” you shrugged, the food he's kindly shared turned to ash in your mouth. “I know I might seem like a mess to you, to someone so put together and... older, but I really do have my life managed. You don't have to add me to your to do list.”

“Woah, woah, woah, I never said that. That's not what I meant at all.”

You laughed. It felt better than feeling so embarrassed. “It's okay-”

“- no, no, that's not what's supposed to be going on, I... ”

Jack cared for people, you knew that. It was just apart of himself.

So you were almost distraught inside when you realised he didn't like you anymore than Shen or Ellis. He just looked out for you cause it was something he had to do.

“I'm not actually very hungry right now,” you said, pushing the lid back on and leaving it for him.

Jack was just as quick as you were to his feet. “No, no, wait- wait, hey-”

His pushed the door closed as you only just opened it an inch.

You looked at him. Your stomach was tight, uncomfortably so.

“Let me- let me try again, okay? I didn't think this through.”

“There's nothing to think through, just wait-”

Shen appeared at the door, trying to get in but Jack was surprisingly strong in keeping the door barred. “I need my coffee.”

“Give us a minute, Shen,” said Jack with all his attending commanding voice.

“But-”

“- a minute!”

You caught sight of Shen looking to you for help before walking away, head down and probably with his bottom lip jutted out like a kicked puppy. “Shen won't get far without his coffee.”

“Shen can wait till we're done now listen,” he said and leant against the door, watching you close. “I like taking care of you, I do, I really do. Not because I think you're not capable of looking after yourself, you are, I know you are it's... I just...”

You waited.

There was nothing.

Jack looked at you with all wide eyes and tension held in his arms. It's like he wanted to say something but ... couldn't.

One more minute and Shen would tear the place apart for coffee.

“You're a nice guy, Jack, you just don't have to be that nice.”

Jack let his arm fall from the door and you evacuated.

The sun had started to rise and you were so close to getting out the door, so close to running from the day's problems. Day shift had turned up, somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed to take the days stresses though you weren't sure they could take Jack's insistence to talk to you away.

You were inches away from leaving when Jack called for you.

There wasn't the desperation to talk to you, it was the sort he used in traumas, only.

“I need you, GSW to the chest!”

The both of you ran in, gowns pulling on and gloves next as you pushed through the doors.

It was all the usual to you: too many doctors in one room, so much talking and orders it fell on your ears like music you knew all the words to.

“Woman in her twenties, multiple GSW's,” Robby called out. “Pulse ox eighty!”

The doors shut behind and the team of you all took your roles like a practised routine.

“Three... two... one- move!”

All together you lifted her over.

There was blood blooming on her shirt, a tear in her jeans. There was a black eye and what looked like a broken nose if the cut over the bridge and the slant of it was anything to go by.

You'd seen enough of these to know when they were accidents and when they weren't.

Her back hit the bed and the sharp beep of life being lost echoed.

“We've lost her pulse!” shouted Robby.

Without being told you climbed up, hands coming together and hammering down on her chest. For a split second you felt the ghost of Jack's hands, helping you up before they were gone like a summers breeze.

Looming over her you could see the injuries better. And worse.

“GSW, right-sided, she needs a central line,” you announced.

Jack moved around you and the patient, already preparing himself for the central line before you'd called for one.

“BP's dropping out! Pulse Ox is eighty-five!” Robby called.

“She's got tension pneumo,” said Jack without shouting and everyone heard. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognised that authority he demanded with the simple sound of his voice.

“Crash cart,” said Robby. “Charge to one hundred.”

You waited till you heard the buzz of the cart and felt the heat of the panels before moving.

“Clear!”

The sound of her pulse was quiet and the rhythm was odd but it was there, slight bumps in a green line.

You climbed down, landing next to Jack as he readied with a fourteen needle.

“BP's seventy Ox,” said Jesse.

“Day shifters trying to cramp our style,” said Jack as he slid in.

Robby tutted. “Trying to make sure you don't get all the fun.”

Jack straightened next to you. “Ok, I'm setting up the chest tube, you're gonna set me up with a thirty-two French. Get a mig of atropine and a need a unit of O-neg.”

Two units were hooked up.

“We need to get the chest tube in and stop the bleeding.”

It was all a flurry of hands and tools as the chest tube was in, as the chest was packed with gauze at the right flank where the bullet had tore through her chest. It was a close one, but the sort you could save with nimble hands and careful concentration.

“Okay,” Jack uttered as the both of you loomed over her. “I know we're fighting and I don't like that-”

“We're not fighting and now's not the time,” you said.

Robby was on the other side of the bed, giving the two of you a look. “I agree.”

Jack waved him off, focusing on you. “I'll strike you a deal, we save this woman's life. You get breakfast with me.”

You glanced up, wondering if anyone had heard, though you were sure by now Jack's attempts at asking you on a date was one of the worst kept secrets.

Robby was watching from the other side, arms over his chest and his brows raised.

“You strike a hard bargain there, Abbot,” you mumbled.

“May as well say yes, either way you're saving lives.”

“Why cause you'll die if I say no?”

Jack looked at you. As usual there was nothing giving away if he was joking or not. “Yeah.”

It would have been a pretty poor time to joke.

Five minutes later she was stable.

Blood bags hung slowly draining, rags and gauze of blood littered the ground and torn off gowns were thrown haphazardly around. The patients pulse was steady and beating with the promise of years of life ahead. There'd be challenges, you don't get shot and not have to face even more hardship.

But there was life.

And that was the most rewarding part of the job.

“Good job,” said Robby, peeling of his gloves. “I'm gonna get some air.”

“Then go home, right?” asked Jack as everyone slowly moved away.

Robby only made a rude gesture as the doors closed and left you and Abbott to peel away the blood stained gowns and gloves.

Jack turned to you, un-fazed at the life he'd saved. “You want to go from here or do you want me to drop you off at yours and let you change first?”

You stared at him.

It was almost unfair, his charisma in spite of it all. You didn't stand a chance. When Jack said he was going to save a life, he was going to do just that. It was an added bonus to take you on a date.

Your head was shaking but your lips were curling up.

Jack backed out of the room, leaving you with a thumbs up.

You didn't know why you lingered with the body. You were a resident who had one patient on the go, you should've picked up another. You should've left the trauma room for the surgical consultation.

Yet you wanted to start a chart, wanted to find a name for the girl.

As you walked over, checking her BP which sat safe at one hundred over sixty, her eyes fluttered open, dry lips parting and murmurs exiting.

“Hey,” you dropped your voice gently. “You're safe now, you're at the hospital. Can you hear me?”

You held her head steady as her eyes fluttered but didn't open wide enough to meet yours.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You listened close but got nothing from the grunts.

The doors to the trauma room pushed open.

A small girl stood there, early twenties or even late into her teens. She wore a hoody, blood soaking up the sleeves. She didn't introduce herself, instead, she stared.

“Is she alive?” she asked.

Beyond the broken nose you could see the resemblance in the unconscious on the bed and the one that stood ahead of you.

“Do you know her?” you asked.

“She's my sister.”

“Well your sister was shot in the chest, she's lost a lot of blood but she should make it-”

You heard the gunshots before you saw the gun.

Jack had stripped off the gown stained with blood and pulled off his gloves next, trashing them in a bin.

“That was some way to ask a girl out,” chuckled Robby as he followed his movements in yanking anything with blood on him off.

Jack shrugged. So far nothing that he'd planned the day had gone to plan, asides from saving lives yet that was his plan every day. When you'd called he was already at the hospital but you'd said about the buses and he put his keys back in at once. He thought finally. He'd been waiting for a sign to try to take you on a date, seeing's as the food and books and recommendations and days out weren't enough.

Now, he'd saved a life and got a date.

“So what's next?” asked Robby. “You perform a resuscitative thoracotomy and ask her to marry you?”

“If you have one let me know and I'll see.”

Robby chuckled, patting him on the back when three gunshots rang out.

Everyone ducked.

People screamed.

Where suddenly dozens of people stood everyone was down in lumps, covering heads and ducking for patients.

Jack hovered, not quite down but ready to move. Gun shots were nothing, enough to lull him to sleep. These shots were like any other but they echoed in his ears and richoeted in his heart.

They came from behind him.

From the room he'd just left.

“Where'd that come from?” he asked. He knew.

Robby's hand pushed at his chest, already moving past him. “Trauma two!”

You.

“No!”

The two of them took off toward the room.

A lady exited. It wasn't you. It wasn't the patient. It was a third un-familiar party.

She turned at the sound of heavy footsteps and rose her gun at the two.

“Gun!” someone screamed.

Robby was still holding onto Jack as the two of them skid to a stop in front of her. Somewhere someone was crashing and Jack couldn't see you or hear you.

There were three shots.

He knew three shots were enough to kill.

Jack raised his hands, showing he was harmless and helpless. “Please,” he begged. “Is she alive?”

The girls eyes were hard and full of hatred. The gun was steady in her hands. She was calm, completely but there was no doubt the gun shots were hers. “Not anymore.”

“Oh god-”

“Woah-Woah-” Robby caught Jack with one strong arm as his knees gave out.

You were dead? Some girl- hardly an adult- shot you? Why? To tear out his own heart?

It was already gone.

“Jack? Jack, brother, listen to me,” Robby was trying to talk to him but nothing was going through to him, like a signal lost.

The girl turned and left quickly, making sure everyone knew she had a gone when they all knew she wasn't afraid to use it. The shots must have rung out through the entire hospital.

Robby helped Jack up and as soon as the doors leaving the Pitt closed they rushed in.

The harsh sound of beeping was bouncing off the trauma walls where blood was splattered and a pool of that same blood dripped down into a puddle under the patient.

“Oh my god.” Jack found you at once, using the walls as a crutch as you stumbled your way through the room. He was at your side at once, arms around your trembling body and holding you- moving with you even as you tried to walk.

There was blood all over you and you'd paled dramatically.

Jack coaxed you into staying still, grabbing your cheeks to get your attention. He ignored the pain in his leg that had come from the run, the giving out and now as he crouched to get a look at you. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me- let me look at you. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?”

Robby had already rushed to the patients side, what doctors and nurses that had gained control over themselves joining him in trying to save her life again. “Ah shit, looks like PEA! Amp of antropine, amp of Epi!”

Your eyes darted over to where the chaos ensued, even as Jack tried to get you to look at him.

“You won't ... won't get her back!” your voice was shaky and hoarse from a scream he hadn't heard. “Blew her god damn brains out.”

“Come here, okay, let's-let's-” Jack's arm was around your shoulder and he was moving you out, trying to help pulling off your bloody gloves while keeping an arm on you.

There was blood and something else on your gloves. Blew her brains out. And you'd tried to scoop them back in.

When the bright lights of the hospital met you your body grew still in his arm.

Jack was familiar with trembles, with blood and PTSD. He wasn't used to any of it in you. In everything he'd learnt about you, he hadn't learnt the subtle art of comfort. “Let's get you some air, let's get you cleaned up-”

You pushed out of Jack's arms, pulling and tugging at your scrub top soaked in blood and all but ran into the women's bathroom.

He heard retching as the door closed.

Jack shook his head, ready to follow you when Dana appeared in front of him, hand on his chest.

“Take it easy, take it easy, I'll check in on her.”

He could still hear you throwing up when Dana slipped in.

The sun was high in the sky, casting the roof of PCMT in an orange glow. The sky burnt in its colour but all you saw was red.

One moment the girl had been crashing, the monitor still beeped in your head. Her body had jerked up to the sky before you got a rhythm back and then- just as you did with any patient- you got hopeful. It seemed in the clear to do so, you'd helped patients come back from worse and you always had hope.

Nobody that worked in the ED could live without it.

Then- it had took three bangs for you to drop to the ground but not before being smeared in blood. You didn't even know what was happening as the ringing ran out in your ears. You'd met the ground with a hard thump to your head. When your vision cleared you saw the shoes rush out of the room.

Your guiding as a med student was doing no harm, saving lives and you'd dropped and put your life ahead of your patients.

What kind of doctor did that?

The cowardly type- you.

“You're in my spot,” said a voice coming closer.

Jack.

His voice soothed the nerves in your body that had been on edge since the accident. Everything made you jump, but him.

“It's a nice spot,” you said as loud as you could, knowing your voice still wasn't back. Or loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, getting closer. “But usually I like to be on the other side of the rail. And on my feet.”

You were sat on the edge of the roof, not on the edge close enough for anyone to worry but apparently that didn't stop Jack.

He huffed, behind you now. “Please, I'm an older guy, my heart can't take it. Can you come over?”

If your feet weren't like weights pulling you down maybe you could have but you were struggling to feel any part of you.

You admitted as much, quietly. “I can't move.”

You'd moved quick when faced with the gun, dropping to save your own skin. Since then moving had been difficult, like you'd used every muscle in your body to push yourself and now you were locked.

Jack moved in a blur as he ducked under the rail and slowly set down next to you. He was silent, only his breathing calming you. “Did you get checked over with Robby?”

You nodded. “The ringing'll go away in a day or two.”

“Yeah.... it always does.”

You looked at him and Jack was looking at you. The grey stubble of his beard never looked greyer and his eyes were dull, small half moon bruises of sleep marked there. His hair was ruffled and he smelled dully of hospital.

This was a man that had saved more lives than you could count and severed in tours ... and he was taking time to check on you.

“I'm sorry,” you didn't know you had cried till Jack's arm was around your shoulder, bringing you in.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his arm tight on you. “What are you sorry for, huh?”

“I didn't save her, I-I should've tried. Should be reasoned with the shooter and I just-I just dropped down and you-” your breathing was ragged, the cries frequenting. “-you've done so much, lost your leg for damn sakes and I just dropped.”

“Hey,” he snapped. It wasn't un-kind. It was stern in ways he had to be in the as a night attending. “You did everthing you could.”

You looked at him. He really meant that though. “I dropped down!”

“You saved your life,” he reminded you. Jack's arm was still tight on your shoulders but his other hand held your cheek, making you focus on him. “You acted on instinct. If you hadn't your patient still would've shot and you-” Jack's breath caught. His eyes were glossed over. You'd missed the redness around his eyes. “- you'd have been shot and I couldn't live with that. I-I couldn't.”

Jack wiped away his tears, wiping yours next. He chuckled dryly at the both of your tears.

“I lost my leg in a tour,” said Jack. “Where guns and shooting is part of the job. It's not in a hospital. You did what you could.”

It still didn't feel right. It still felt like the cowards way of doing things.

“Look at me, look at me-” he nudged your gaze to his. His eyes were wide and implored you to look at him. Really look. “You did what you could and I know a patient died and I know-I know it's hard but...”

He sniffed.

“But what?” you mumbled. How could there be a but in any of this?

He held your cheeks tighter, smudging your cheeks just that little more. Jack let out a shaky exhale. “But I am so happy you're okay. I am so fucking glad.”

His dimples were hardly there as he gave you a sorry smile.

Your head fell into his chest and he brought his arms around you, holding you, shushing you as you cried. Cried for your patient, for the shooter, for the way you dropped. None of which maybe could be forgiven but all of which were valid.

Somewhere in the crying Jack held you tighter and moved the both of you back away from the ledge. You let him, even helped in scuffing your feet and pushing away till the railing hit both your backs.

“You're okay, I got you, I got you.”

I got you. He'd always had you, if he hadn't had you today what would you have done? Nothing crazy but you might have stayed up on the roof all day, be dead on your feet by the night. Jack had always had you and when he did you'd all but told him not to.

“I'm sorry.”

His hand ran over your hair. It had come lose but still remained in the braiding. “You don't have to be sorry, you don't.”

“No about earlier, in the lounge,” you said, holding onto him. “You were being nice, you've always been nice and I... I was horrible-”

“- you weren't horrible, no-”

“- you've been so kind to me and I don't even say thanks-”

“- you have actually, quite a few times- ”

“- I don't know why you put up with me-”

“- well, it helps that I love you-”

If there was one way to shut your rambling up, it was that.

You still had a vice on his scrub top but you looked up to him. For the first time- you think ever- Jack had to look away from you.

“What?” you asked.

Jack's jaw ticked and he clocked his head. “I didn't mean to say that.”

Disappointment chocked you. Of course it would just slip out, heck Jack was comforting you, he'd say anything.

“Oh.”

“I do love you,” he said and you looked at him with something akin to hope as you moved your head away. “That's why I've been looking after you, that's what you do when your- when your in love. My... my wife taught me that. I was just scared you know cause.... I haven't been in love since she died.”

It wasn't often Jack talked about his wife but when he did he talked. He'd talk anyone's ears off about her and once or twice you'd been that person.

“I'm sorry.” This time you weren't sure what you were apologising for, you just were.

Jack looked at you with a mocked frustration.

You cringed. “Sorry, I should- I should stop saying that.”

He hummed and nodded along with you, a tiny smile on his lips, the chapped parts cracking from the salt of his last tears. “I never meant to make you feel incapable, I know you can look after yourself. But I want to.”

You laughed at yourself, wiping at your cheeks and snot. “Why? I'm a mess.”

Jack took your cheek in the palm of his hand. “No, you're not. Not to me.”

Jack kissed you so slow and sweet on the edge of the roof with the sun praising upon the both of you. He didn't push his feelings into you, he let you feel them in the gentle press of his lips and the hold of his hands.

✨10 SONGS ON REPEAT

tagged by @fictionalfloozy & @winteryn

Explode! - Mother Mother // Girls - The Dare // honeybee - Olivia Rodrigo // Two of Hearts - Stacey Q // Summer Night City - ABBA // Celebrity Skin - Hole // BLACKOUT - Turnstile // Ribs - Lorde // Night Shift - Lucy Dacus // Imagination - Foster The People

✨10 PEOPLE I'D LIKE TO GET TO KNOW

thank you @novatheory , @snoopysupe , @clarkkentsbiceps, @twentytomidnight

LAST SONG &Run - Sir Sly

CURRENTLY WATCHING New Girl

CURRENT OBSESSION I'm not answering this

CURRENTLY READING my FMLA forms

CURRENTLY WORKING ON Sex On The Beach, Moxie, Loves Me/Loves Me Not WIPS

CURRENTLY WEARING A My Chemical Romance T-shirt that says 'Michael Romance'

LAST GOOGLE SEARCH JJK SEASON 4 TRAILER

FAVOURITE FLOWER peonies

✨FAVORITE TROPES

thank you @ultimatewolverine . Your taste is valid and elite

slowburn or love at first sight // fake dating or secret dating // enemies to lovers or best friends to lovers // there’s only one bed or long-distance correspondence // hurt/comfort or amnesia // fantasy au or modern au // mutual pining or domestic bliss // smut or fluff // canon-compliant or fix-it // reincarnation or character death // one-shot or multi-chapter // kid fic or road trip fic // arranged marriage or accidental marriage // high-school romance or middle-age romance // time travel or isolated together // neighbors or roommates // sci-fi au or magic au // body swap or genderbent // angst or crack // apocalyptic or mundane

✨FIVE THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY

Thank you @steelandvibranium for tagging me! What video game are you playing right now? or recommend?

David Corenswet

Clark Kent

Superman

Actually having the flowstate to write

Attention and validation

✨HOW SPOTIFY SEES MY INTERNET BEDROOM

tagged by @satellite-evans! Yours looked so cute, and then here's mine LOL I don't even drink pop.

If you want to see how your room looks, you can check out madeonverse

When did that "problem" happen? When did that problem decay into the fact that you were actually that problem?

Talking about "it" was uncomfortable. You couldn't tell your mother or your friends. Because how would you just come out and say? You know what? In my two relationships, never, never once did I have an orgasm. And the worst part is that both men told me I was the problem. No, just thinking about it would make you sink with shame. You would want to disappear, to never have opened your mouth. Even worse when you heard everyone saying they had an orgasm with their boyfriend. They commented on it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if it were something that always happened. And even though you knew that men only seek their own satisfaction, not yours, you also knew very well, maybe the problem was you. Because two different men repeating it to you, over and over again, had to mean something, right?

"Ah, of course it's not me, you must have problems," one said when you had confessed that you only felt a little warmth, but an orgasm, nothing. He lay there calmly, lying back on the bed, not even looking at you. As if what you had just told him was an annoyance, your own mistake that he didn't have to fix.

"Now you want everything to be dedicated to you, please, you must have a problem," said the other, looking at you with those eyes that you used to like and that now only made you feel small. "I have made thousands of women come," he boasted, crossing his arms as if he were a prize. As if you were the only one who didn't work right.

So you stopped trying. Maybe it was work stress, maybe the nerves of being with someone new, maybe the discomfort of seeing how a man could finish in bed with you, ejaculate and that's it. No more work, no more caresses, no more nothing. Because he had already gotten his part. And you stayed there, looking at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with you.

But now the fear had returned. You had been two years without a boyfriend, two years without having to worry about this. And when you started dating Clark, you didn't mention it to him. Of course, you were just going on dates, it wasn't anything formal. Besides, he didn't seem like the man who takes you to bed on the first date. He was slow, everything about him was slow: his way of speaking, his way of looking at you, his way of getting close to you. And that slowness also made your heart race. You didn't want him to get annoyed and end up leaving your life like the other two.

Clark was cute. Too cute, even for your taste. You had always said your type were serious men, with few friends, who looked like a block of ice and were intelligent. But you ended up with an intelligent man, yes, but with the prettiest shyness you had ever seen and the loveliest smile anyone had ever given you. A man so tall and so big that to you, who wasn't small, he made you feel protected. You loved holding his hand everywhere, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours. You loved it when he pushed the stray locks of hair behind your ear and smiled at you as if you were the prettiest thing he had seen all day.

But you knew the next step was coming. Or maybe you only thought it one day, while he laughed at something silly you had said. Clark was a gentleman, truly. He wouldn't continue doing something if you told him you felt uncomfortable. Never. That was clear. But interrupting him mid-kiss was awkward. You would make him feel uncomfortable. And he would pull away. Like the others. Or worse, he would stay out of pity.

It wasn't planned. You had only agreed to eat at your apartment, but nothing more. It was after the movie. You kissed him first, almost without thinking, and from there you had been kissing for almost thirty minutes. Your lips were swollen, your breathing uncontrolled, your hands on his chest feeling his heart beat. His curls tangled between your fingers. He was squeezing your waist slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. But then that thought returned. You pulled away to breathe more air. He leaned in as if wanting to let you know he wanted to keep kissing you, but not finding your lips, he buried his face in your neck. You sighed, caressing his curls. You longed to feel him so much, but your fear invaded you. Should you fake an orgasm again? You remembered how ridiculous you felt doing that, those fake moans, that lie that only served to make him finish faster.

"Do you want to stop?" Clark whispered in your ear when he saw that you were only touching his curls without saying anything.

He looked at you. His cheeks were red, but his blue eyes were dilated, dark. Lips swollen like yours. You pressed your lips together. If you were the problem, you repeated to yourself, you'll ruin it. Again.

"No," you said. But you lowered your gaze to his shirt, playing with his button.

Clark tilted his head. He waited for your answer. You knew he didn't want a kiss to continue. He didn't want you to just keep going as if nothing was wrong. He wanted to know why you were nervous. And it wasn't normal nerves, he noticed it. There was something behind your trembling hands, behind the way you avoided his eyes.

"It's just that… I… have a problem," you whispered. And you felt your cheeks burn with shame.

"Problem?" said Clark. He moved on the couch to see you properly. Very carefully, he moved the lock of hair that covered your face and put it behind your ear. "Is it serious?" he asked, and his voice sounded genuinely worried.

"No… no… nothing like that," you said quickly, shaking your head. "It's just… well… I have problems with… that." You made a vague gesture with your hand, not daring to look at him.

Clark frowned, confused.

"I… never… well…," you tried to say, but the words got tangled.

"Hey, pretty, it's okay," he said, and his voice was soft, calm. He caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. "Do you want to tell me? Go ahead. If you don't feel ready, nothing will happen." There was no anger in his eyes, no contempt. It was just Clark smiling with those dimples that appeared on his cheeks.

"I've never had an orgasm," you finally said.

You watched him blush. He nodded without saying anything. And your heart sank. You thought he would start to hate you. You thought you should have kept quiet and just faked it like you had done so many times before. The silence grew long, too long.

"No… but it's my problem," you blurted out, the words coming out fast, barely breathing. "I really enjoy it, it's just that… I won't reach that point. But we can keep going, don't worry about me." You said all that with the intention of making him forget, of him kissing you again and that's it.

Clark looked at you fixedly. "Not worry about you?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood correctly.

He guided you onto his lap gently. You sat on him. The friction was evident, noticeable, but he was focused on you, not on himself. His hands remained still on your hip, not squeezing, just resting.

"It's not just your problem," he said slowly. "Is it a problem? I mean… why do you say it's a problem? Did a gynecologist tell you that?" he asked, and he said it wanting to understand, not to judge.

"No," you played with his shirt again, not looking at him. "It was the… people I was with before," you said, and the word people tasted ugly in your mouth.

"Or they were the problem," Clark said simply.

You looked at him. How could he say it like that, so easily, as if it were obvious?

"But it's two people saying the same thing," you said, and you felt your throat close up. "Two, Clark. It's not a coincidence."

Clark nodded. He had left his glasses on the table an hour ago, since he started kissing you. Now his blue eyes looked at you without a filter.

"We can try it right now," he said simply, like someone says let's have a drink or let's watch another movie. He looked at you with that calm that only he had. "And we'll check if it's true or if you just had two people with low resistance next to you." He smiled a little. "You know I'm very resistant, don't you?" Clark asked.

And you, despite the fear, despite the shame, smiled blushing.

And then you kissed him.

You didn't think anymore. You didn't give yourself time to think. You just leaned your face in and your lips found his again. Clark made a small sound, a low moan that was lost between you two. Your hands went up to his neck. You felt his hot skin, his rapid pulse under your fingers. His hands were on your hip at first, still, as if he was afraid of squeezing too hard. But then they went down to your thighs and there they did squeeze, with desire. He went back to your neck, stopped kissing your mouth to go down to that soft spot right under your ear. He stayed there for a while. Just kissing, just sucking a little, just breathing against your skin. You felt him so good that you moaned uncontrollably. It wasn't a low or subtle moan. It was a moan that came from deep within, without you being able to do anything to stop it.

"Oh, Clark!" you said. And your hands clenched his curls tightly, as if you were about to fall and he was the only thing holding you up.

You took off his shirt. It wasn't easy because he wouldn't stop kissing you, but you managed. The fabric went up his back and he let go of your lips just long enough to take it off completely. Then you took off yours with his help. His hands were large and trembled a little as they unbuttoned the buttons. You didn't know if it was nerves or desire, maybe both. When your shirt fell to the floor, Clark looked at you for a second. Just a second. His blue eyes ran over your face, your neck, your shoulders. And then he kissed you again as if he had been waiting for days to do it.

Clark took your waist and sat you on the couch. But he didn't sit next to you. He did something strange. He crouched down, lowered his body in front of you. A movement you didn't understand. What did he intend to do? He pulled away from your lips, very slowly, as if it cost him effort. He kissed your neck again. Then went lower. He kissed your chest, the top part, right where the heart beats strongest. Then lower down. He kissed your abdomen, right in the center, and you felt your skin pucker from how soft it was. You looked at him. The living room lamp let you see little, just shadows and glints. But the sighs came out of you as soon as you felt him remove your pants. He unbuttoned them, lowered them slowly, looking at you as he did so. Then he took off your panties. Also slowly. His fingers hooked the fabric and lowered it down your legs. Your hands were trembling. Everything was trembling.

His huge hands parted your legs. Gently but firmly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. You opened your legs more for him, without thinking. Your pupils were so dilated you could barely see. But when you looked at his face, he was looking directly at your center. You threw your head back. You couldn't look. You were embarrassed and yet you didn't want to stop looking.

"Clark," you moaned. His name came out broken, like a long sigh.

He leaned in. He kissed your vaginal lips as if they were your regular lips. With the same softness, the same calm. Your mouth fell open. You couldn't believe what he was doing. No one had kissed you there before. No one had taken that time. You felt his tongue lick your line, that little opening you had been so afraid to show. Then he opened it more with his tongue, carefully, and even penetrated you a little with it. The sounds coming from below were wet, lewd, shameful. But you didn't want him to stop. Everything was different. Everything was so strange and so good at the same time. Your hands tangled in his curls again. Your hips lifted on their own, as if your body came to life and wanted more from Clark. More of his mouth, more of his tongue, more of everything.

"Do you like it?" you heard him say. His voice came out hoarse, low, and he was still between your legs. "My pretty girlfriend, you taste so good," he said. Then he pulled away slightly. You looked down and saw a line of saliva hanging from his lips to you. You smiled, blushing, and thrust your hip towards him. He understood. He didn't protest. Oh, he never would. Clark found that exquisite, you could see it in his eyes. To see how his mouth could melt you. He just thought how you must have felt when they pointed out that you didn't have orgasms. When they told you that you were the problem. Surely they were the problem, Clark thought. And he set out to do it the second you told him the reason for that fear. He would show you. He would show you they were wrong.

"Oh, Clark!" you said again. But this time it wasn't just pleasure. It was something else. A strange tremor ran through your body, started in your belly and went up your back. Your legs contracted on their own. Your hands in his curls pushed his face further against you, even though he didn't need you to push him. "God, I… no… Clark," you said. And then it happened.

A strange sensation ran through your entire body. It wasn't like anything you had felt before. It was as if something inside you broke but in a good way. As if you let go of something you had been holding onto for years. Slow spasms, undulations that went up and down your legs, your belly, your chest. You breathed as soon as you could, but it was hard. The air didn't come in well because your whole body was shaking. Clark approached slowly. He kissed your thigh, then your abdomen, then your neck. He kissed softly, very softly, while your body still shook a little.

"My beautiful girlfriend was treated so badly," he said. He gave you kisses on your neck, one after another, while you recovered from the previous wave. You didn't have the strength to even speak. Then he kissed you on the mouth. His saliva and your juices mixed with your own saliva and you didn't care. Nothing mattered more than continuing to feel what you had just felt.

Clark pulled away just enough to take off his pants. He lowered them quickly, this time without calm, and kicked them off completely. He looked at you. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire.

"I don't have a condom," he whispered. And his voice sounded almost apologetic.

You shook your head. "It's okay," you nodded. You said it so fast you barely thought about it. You were lost. Needy for him. Not just anyone. For him.

Clark smiled looking at you. "Good," he whispered. But nothing happened. Not at first.

Until you felt something enter you. You moaned, brushing your lips against Clark's. It wasn't what you thought. It wasn't him. It was his two fingers. He inserted them slowly, one first, then another. He needed to stretch you a little more so you would adjust to him later. But the simple position had already warmed you up more than you thought. His swollen lips close to yours. His hand working below, inside, moving with a rhythm you didn't know. His other hand on your waist, squeezing gently. Your hands on his shoulders, clinging to him. The closeness of his face, the warm air coming from his mouth mixing with yours. The dilated pupils of both of you, so large you could barely see the color of his eyes.

You opened your lips to say something but no words came out. He moved closer, their teeth clashed a little, and he kissed you. It was a messy kiss, wet, with both of them breathing poorly. They moaned between kisses. His fingers entering and exiting you, faster each time. Your tongue playing with his. A third finger entered and you felt everything stretch down there. You closed your eyes tightly. You pulled away from his mouth just to breathe, just to not suffocate. He took your neck with his free hand, very gently, and pulled you close again. And then…

"Damn it… again," you said. Your voice trembled. Everything trembled. "I… oh," you said. You couldn't finish the sentence.

Your body shook entirely. A new wave, stronger than the first, shook you from head to toe. Your hands squeezed Clark's shoulders as if you were sinking. Your legs trembled uncontrollably. Clark held you tight, pressed his chest to yours and held you while you shook. You breathed with difficulty, your face buried in his neck. He didn't move. He just held you. With one hand he massaged your leg with fingers stained with you, and that soft caress helped you come back. Little by little. Very little by little.

And then he carried you.

You didn't even have time to say anything. Clark put his arms under your body, one behind your back and the other behind your knees, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your arms circled his neck by reflex, and you pressed your face against his shoulder. You felt his hot skin, his smell, his agitated breathing. He walked towards your room. He knew the way. He had learned every step of your house when he came to visit you and helped you leave something in your room. A jacket, a bag, a book. He always noticed everything, even if you didn't realize it. He knew where the bed was, where the door was, where the lamp was. When they arrived, he entered without bumping into anything. He placed you on the bed gently, as if you were something fragile. The sheet was cold against your back and that contrasted with the heat of his body on top of you.

You felt his member brush against your entrance. Barely touching you. Just a graze. And you, without thinking, lifted your hip towards him. Your body moved on its own. You were no longer afraid. You no longer wanted to hide. You just wanted to feel him inside you.

"That's it," Clark said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. His member became stained with your juices as he rubbed against you, barely entering and exiting, just the tip. You moaned every time he brushed against that place that needed him so much. "We're going to show them who the real problem was," he said. And then he gave you a kiss on the jaw, right where your face ends and your neck begins. That kiss was soft, but he said it with a certainty that made you believe him. That was enough for him to insert himself into you. Not all at once. It was slow. Very slow. You felt him fill you little by little, centimeter by centimeter. You opened your mouth but no sound came out. Just air.

Then the thrusts began. Slow at first. Very slow. Every time he entered, your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his movement. They went up and down like small waves. Clark's lips went straight to them. He kissed the tip of your nipple, which was already hard, very hard. He kissed it softly, with closed lips, then with his tongue. His mouth was hot and wet. Your hand tangled in his curls again, squeezing gently, pulling a little. His hot breath lingered on your skin every time he parted his lips to breathe.

"Oh, Clark," you said. Your voice came out choppy, broken by moans. "You feel so good," you admitted. It wasn't a lie. You had never felt anything like it. He filled every empty space you had inside.

"No," Clark said, shaking his head while continuing to move inside you. "You are the one who feels so good." He bit your nipple carefully, barely a pinch with his teeth. "So adapted to me," he said, and then he took your entire nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, playing with his tongue around it.

You stayed underneath him on your back for a good while. Then he turned you over gently and you were face down. He penetrated you again and again, from behind, and you buried your head in the pillow to keep from screaming too loudly. Clark's fingers dug gently into your hip, guiding you, moving you to his rhythm. Then he took you and arranged you on top of him. You sat on his stomach and he looked up at you from below. You set the pace yourself. Your hands trembled as they rested on his chest. You bent down from time to time to kiss him, and he took that moment to grab your buttocks with his large hands. He gently spread them to sink deeper into you. That made you moan louder. But you kept your rhythm. Your hips made slow circles. Your breasts moved in a back-and-forth sway, left and right. Clark squeezed them with his hands, massaged them while you moved on top of him. You moaned, but this time it wasn't just any moan. You were almost singing to him, letting your voice out with each rise and each fall. You felt so close. Clark noticed it because your rhythm began to get slower, clumsier. You were tired but you didn't want to stop.

"I… Clark, help me," you whispered. Your voice was barely audible.

He didn't need you to repeat it. You leaned on his shoulders and he lifted your body with force. Clark began to penetrate by lifting and lowering his hips. He led the rhythm now. Both moaned together, at the same time, as if their bodies were one. They were both so close. Clark grabbed your bottom with one hand, with the other he grabbed your hip, and penetrated deeper. Your eyes became moist. You didn't know if it was from pleasure or something else. You looked at him blurry, because the tears hadn't fallen but they fogged everything up. Clark's senses heated up seeing you like that. You breathed so fast you almost felt dizzy. And then you trembled. In the last thrust, your body contracted entirely. You trembled like a leaf in the wind. And you felt Clark fill you, hot, inside. Enough for you to fall onto his chest without strength. Still trembling. Still shuddering when Clark's arms hugged you tight.

He didn't let you go. He didn't push you away. He didn't turn his face to the wall like the others did. Clark kept you on his chest, with an arm around your back and the other hand caressing you gently. He waited for your breathing to normalize. He didn't speak. There was no need. He just held you. And you sank into his chest tired, happy, calm. Hugging him too. With your eyes closed. With a smile he couldn't see but surely felt.

"Confirmed," Clark said after a while, his voice still hoarse but with a laugh hidden in the words. "You are not the problem."

You laughed. A small, trembling laugh, but real. He felt your laugh on his chest, the vibrations of your throat against his skin. And he also laughed. His laugh was low, soft, like everything about him.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look at him. You gave him a short, quick kiss on the lips. And then you hugged him again, burying your nose in his neck.

"I really like you, Clark," you admitted. Your voice came out small, as if you were still embarrassed to say it.

Clark blushed. You felt him get warm under your lips. "I am in love with you," he said. He paused, as if thinking the word embarrassed him too. "A lot," he added, so there was no doubt.

You hugged him tighter, not looking at his smile, but you knew it was there. You felt it in how his chest moved as he breathed.

"Let's clean ourselves up," Clark whispered after a while, running a hand through your messy hair. "We'll take a shower."

Clark did it. He got out of bed, took your hand and led you to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap and waited for the temperature to be right. Then they got in together. You curled up against his chest, stuck to him as if it were the safest place in the world. He soaped your hair first, carefully, undoing the knots with his fingers. Then he soaped your body, slowly, running the sponge over your back, your shoulders, your arms, your legs. There was no hurry. The water fell over both of them and the bathroom filled with steam. Then he soaped himself, with your eyes watching him. In the end they dried off with a large towel that Clark ran over your body first before running it over his. Then they went back to bed, still with damp skin and the smell of soap.

Clark already had his purpose for every night. He wouldn't let you think again that you were a problem. He would show you whenever necessary. With kisses. With caresses. With patience. With that very way of his of looking at you as if you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. That night, when he turned off the light and hugged you from behind, with his nose buried in your nape and his arm crossed over your waist, you knew you weren't alone. That you would never have to pretend again. That Clark would stay. And you, for the first time in a long time, closed your eyes and felt calm.