cobaincreates

It hums, low and heavy: tides of exhausted whispers, shuffled footsteps, muffled sobs. It’s the sound of grief, of quiet desperation, clinging to you like a second skin. No matter how many shirts you fold or blankets you pass out, it sticks. 

It’s been three days.

Three days since the ground opened up. Since buildings collapsed like sandcastles, and people you used to smile at in grocery store aisles stopped answering their doors. Three days since the sky turned that strange, terrifying color no one wants to talk about, and nothing has felt quite real since.

But people are trying.

There’s still that: the trying. A stubborn spark buried beneath the weight of rubble and loss. Hope, maybe. Or just plain human instinct. Either way, you think some of that has managed to cling to you, too.

You’ve been here since that first awful morning, when the town duct-taped this place together with tarps and folding chairs, transformed a cracked gym into a makeshift lifeboat.

You hand out meals, sort donations, tape signs, draw blood when the Red Cross is short-staffed. Anything to keep your hands moving. Anything to keep the silence from swallowing you whole.

Your back aches like you've aged ten years over a single weekend. Your knuckles are raw from repetition, from the folding and scrubbing and washing. You can’t remember the last time you slept more than four hours.

But it’s better than going home. Whatever that means now. ⟡ It’s mid-morning when they arrive.

The doors creak open, letting in air that’s too sharp for late-March, laced with something burnt and acrid that sticks to your teeth. It’s been that way for a while.

Three figures step through, arms loaded with cardboard boxes.

Robin’s the first one you spot: suspenders, messy hair, that same barely-contained energy she always had in pep band, just now under a layer of obvious sleep deprivation. She’s talking to Melissa at check-in, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands buried in her pockets. 

Beside her is a curly-haired kid, maybe a couple years younger. Eyes glassy and distant, clinging to his box like it might float away if he lets go.

And then there’s him.

Standing a step behind the others, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He’s got this slow, careful way of moving, like one wrong breath might shatter something. He scans the room like he’s bracing for a punch, like just seeing it—the cots, the faces, the quiet—might hurt if he lets it.

He doesn’t say a word when Robin asks Melissa if they can help. Then his eyes land on yours. And he smiles.

Soft. Almost sheepish. Just the barest curve of the lips.

A quiet, hey, you.

You look away first.

⟡

Five minutes later, he’s standing beside you at the sorting station.

No swagger. None of that self-important saunter you remember from years ago, back when the world still made sense. He just thanks the volunteer who pointed him over, then gets to work.

You’re smoothing out a kid’s t-shirt: daisy yellow with a faded cartoon duck, soft with wear but clean. Clearly loved, once. You line up the sleeves carefully, set it on the growing pile of gently used things.

Across the gym, you hear laughter. You glance up to see Robin at the food pick-up station, waving a butter knife around like it’s a prop in a one-woman play. Vickie stands beside her, pink-cheeked and trying not to laugh, spreading peanut butter way too thick on a slice of white bread. They bump elbows, hands brushing. Robin grins, and passes her a jar of grape jelly like it’s some kind of secret.

You smile without meaning to.

And catch him smiling, too.

Something tender settled on his face—fond, a little wistful, like maybe it’s the first good thing he’s seen in days.

It warms something inside you.

“You friends with Robin?” you ask, voice low.

He blinks, like you pulled him out of a daydream. “Yeah. She, uh… kind of dragged me here.”

“She threaten you?”

“Oh yeah. Something about locking me in the trunk.”

You snort. “Sounds about right.” 

Across the gym, Robin whispers something close to Vickie’s ear, and both of them dissolve into giggles like teenagers at a sleepover.

“They’re cute,” you murmur. “’Bout time Vicks moved on.”

That gets his attention.

His eyes flick over at you, a spark of curiosity behind the quiet. You don’t meet his gaze—just grab another hoodie and keep folding. But you feel it now, the newfound interest. The quick, sideways glances he sneaks in between sorting, like he’s trying to figure you out in pieces.

Then he picks up a fitted sheet.

And it’s instantly over for him.

He tries, bless him. Really gives it a shot; flipping one corner, tucking another, wrestling with the elastic like it’s a live octopus. But the sheet only laughs, curling back into itself and sagging in a cotton blob of defeat.

You try to stay quiet. Honestly, you do.

But the laugh bubbles up anyway. Bright and unexpected, the first real one in a while.

He looks up, sheepish. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

You nod toward the carnage. “Not your fault. You got assigned to, like, the advanced calculus of folding.”

He smirks. “Didn’t realize I needed a math degree to volunteer.”

You both laugh, and for a second, everything aches a little less.

He steps forward, hesitating for a beat. Then he rumples up the sheet in his arm, wipes his palm on his jeans and extends it toward you.

“I’m Steve, by the way.”

You glance down at his name tag: round, loopy letters scrawled in thick black marker, the ‘e’ curling up like it ran out of room but still had something to say. You smile and give him your name in return.

His grip is warm, steady. He holds on just a second too long.

The gym hums around you: rolling carts, soft voices, the distant wail of a tired baby. Still moving. Still trying.

You eye the sheet between you.

“You want a hand with that, Steve?”

He blinks. Then grins. Wide and a little boyish, like you just offered him a lifeline.

And it does something funny to your chest. Eases the weight for the first time in days.

“Yeah, please,” he says, handing you a corner. “Thanks.”

⟡

After that, it becomes a thing.

No announcements, no “see you tomorrow”s.

He just keeps showing up. Slips on the blue volunteer vest, asks where he’s needed, and gets to work.

More often than not, he ends up beside you.

Some days you’re folding again. Other days, it’s sorting hygiene kits or dragging heavy boxes through the maze of sleeping bags and taped-off walkways. One day, you’re both ankle-deep in freezing water, mopping up a flood in the east hallway after the heater burst. The towels are useless, and within five minutes your socks are soaked straight through your shoes. You end up smacking each other with soggy rags, laughing like idiots as he nearly wipes out trying to skate across the floor on a towel.

It’s stupid. Chaotic. Completely ridiculous.

You can’t stop thinking about it for days.

⟡

The gym is always loud, always moving, but it never seems to wear on Steve.

If anything, he thrives in it. Maybe for the same reasons you do.

And the more time you spend with him, the more you notice the little things.

Like how he always helps the younger kids first. Crouching to their level with juice boxes and fruit snacks in hand, never rushing them, even when things are busy. He knows how to make balloon swords out of rubber gloves. He lets one of the little girls draw all over his arm with a glitter pen—pink and gold stars up to his elbow—and pretends it tickles just to make her laugh. High fives her afterward and promises he’ll “keep it there forever.”

Then there’s the day you come back from lunch and find him trying to stack fifty metal cots by himself. No one asked him to. His clipboard lies abandoned on a crate, next to a half-eaten granola bar. He’s already halfway done—sweat blooming through the back of his shirt, palms scraped raw on the rough edges—when you rush over.

“I’m good,” he pants. “Kinda like the mindless stuff, y’know?”

You do. You really do.

But you help anyway.

⟡

Time gets strange in the gym.  

Mornings blur into nights. Days fold into one another like the piles of donations you sort. At some point, you stop keeping track of how many times you look up to find him already there—smiling, handing you gloves or a bottle of water like you were the first person he thought of.

And somewhere between organizing snack bags and arguing over who folds faster, you realize you’ve started watching him.

Not in a romantic way. Just... noticing.

Like the way he double-checks expiration dates, how he hums under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. How he grabs the heaviest boxes before anyone else can. How he fidgets nervously when someone’s crying, hovering close by but never approaching.  

And sometimes, more often than you want to admit, you catch him staring, too.

⟡

It’s late when it happens.

The gym’s quieting down. Most people are asleep or nearly there. You’re alone at the donation table, organizing gauze pads you’ve already counted three times, just to keep your hands busy. Your fingers are cold, your eyes ache.

Then—a crinkled, yellow candy bar slides into view, wriggling in your periphery.

“Guess who charmed the vending machine into giving this up?”

“Wow,” you look up, raising a slow brow. “A fine vintage. Let me guess, circa ‘82?”

Steve drops into the folding chair across from you with a groan; vest gone, shirt streaked with something suspiciously orange. His hair’s a mess, flopping into his eyes in a way he doesn’t bother fixing.

“Off by a year. This baby expired in ‘81.” He plops the candy on the table with a flourish, then slouches back in the chair, hands folded over his stomach.

“And that machine tried to chew my arm off, so. You’re welcome.”

You smirk, already tearing into the wrapper. “Would’ve paid good money to see that.”

“Yeah, well.” He gives you a smug smile, eyes half-lidded. “Just don’t say I never get you anything.”

You break the bar in half, hand him a piece without looking. Your fingers brush, and his smile flickers a little softer.

There’s a familiar lull as you both chew, the kind of quiet that feels earned after a long day.

Then Steve nods toward the Red Cross sign taped to the side of the table. “Hey, they still need donors? For blood?”   

You glance at it. “Always. Why?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I’ve got some. Might as well share.”

The simplicity of it hits deeper than it should.

You swallow the flutter in your chest, try to make your smile casual.

“Alright then, Harrington. Roll up your sleeve.”

⟡

Behind the divider, the world softens.

Steve sits on the edge of a cot, rolling up his sleeve. His arms are lean, golden, dusted with freckles and faint scars—some so old they’ve nearly faded to nothing. You spot a jagged one near his elbow, a cleaner line near the bend of his forearm. Too many to ask about. So you don’t.

Instead, you snap on your gloves and wrap the cuff around his bicep. “You done this before?”

“Nope,” he says, eyeing the needle tray. “You?”

You sigh, slow and theatrical. “First time, actually. Super nervous.” 

You let the silence stretch, just long enough to see the panic bloom in his eyes.

“I’m kidding,” you add, lips twitching. “Certified and everything. You’re in… let’s say, extremely average hands.”

“Awesome,” he deadpans, letting his head fall back. Golden lamp light hits the curve of his throat, the sharp cut of his jaw. “I’m doomed.”

“You’ll live.”

His skin is warm as your fingers brush over the bend of his arm, searching for a vein.

“This might pinch.”   

He nods. Doesn’t flinch when the needle goes in, but his brows pull together in this boyish, slightly petulant way that makes your stomach twist a little.

You tape the tubing in place, and together, you watch the line fill, red and steady.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost miss it:

“Do you ever feel like you’re just… stuck on autopilot? Like, you're moving so you don’t have to stop and think about why?”

For a moment, your eyes drift to his arm. To the scattered constellation of pink and gold stars: a quiet galaxy etched across his skin. The ink’s faded, worn thin by time and sweat. Yet the glitter holds on, stubborn flecks of stardust catching the light. Shimmering.

“All the time,” you murmur. “It’s why I stay so late. Easier than going home.”

He nods slowly. Doesn’t say more.

⟡

When the bag’s sealed and labeled, you turn back to him.

“Wow. Didn’t even faint. I’m so proud of you, Harrington.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” He smirks, leaning back. “I’m extremely brave. Should write that down in my file.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for the supply bin. “Hold still, tough guy.”

You fish around until your fingers land on a strip of pink. You pull it out slowly, trying to keep your face neutral.

It’s a Care Bears Band-Aid.

Cheer Bear—bright pink, rainbow belly and all—looks like she’s seconds away from launching herself into the world’s most violently loving hug.

“Perfect,” you announce, peeling it open with exaggerated care. “For extremely brave men who cry during commercials.”

“That was E.T., and it was one time.”

“Uh-huh. Arm out.”

He sighs like it’s killing him, but does as he’s told, forearm turned as you press the Band-Aid into place. It lands a little crooked, the rainbow slanting to the left, but it holds.

You’re smoothing the edges down with your thumbs, lingering for a moment longer, when you hear his breath hitch.

Barely a sound, so light you could’ve imagined it.

And suddenly, the air between you cinches tight.

It’s a strange little moment, suspended in silence as you start to feel everything at once: the brush of his knee, the clean citrus of his cologne. The heat radiating off his skin, steady and low-burning.

Then he moves.

Lifts his other hand to rest it gently over yours. Not even a full grip, just fingertips across your knuckles.

When you look up, he’s already watching you.

And in his face—his tired eyes, his barely-parted lips—is that same quiet ache you saw weeks ago. The one that bloomed quiet and slow while Robin passed Vickie the jar, and their laughter cracked through the air like sunlight.    

Only now, it’s not across the room. It’s right here.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then stops.

You feel it before you realize what’s happening. The hum in your chest, the pull behind your ribs. The kind that makes you move before thought.

He leans forward, knees nudging yours, and you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft. Tentative. Warm.

It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

When you part, you linger. Foreheads nearly touching, sharing air in the narrow space.

His hand is still resting on yours.   

And maybe you’re both too tired for this. Or maybe that’s the only reason it’s happening now, because exhaustion has finally worn you down enough to stop holding back.

Whatever the reason, it happens without thinking.

Naturally, inevitably, like it was always meant to be this way—you lace your fingers through his.  

⟡

The hallway passes in a blur.

The rushed squeak of your shoes. The soft scuff of his behind you. He holds onto your hand tight, squeezing every few steps like he’s making sure you’re still there. Like now that he’s touched you, he’s afraid to let go.

You tug him through the maze of folding cots and half-empty water bottles, past that old vending machine with the handwritten ‘out of order’ sign.

You round a corner. Your breath quickens.

The supply closet waits.

The same one you ducked into on your first day here, blinking back tears. The one place that didn’t ask anything of you, nothing to keep you company except for the dull groan of old pipes.

You shoulder the door open, smiling before you’ve even stepped inside. He follows you in.  

And then it’s just hands. His on your waist. Yours in his hair.

The kiss this time is anything but careful. It’s messy and immediate, all breathless heat and frantic motion, lips parting before you’ve even found the rhythm. Like you’ve been orbiting this moment for weeks and finally, finally, gravity decided to give in.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting all night. Like getting it right doesn’t matter, just getting close. You taste melted chocolate and the golden haze of caramel, sweat and sugar clinging to your skin. Warmth, relief, hunger, all at once—everything you’ve been quietly starving for.

Your back hits the wall, cold cinderblock biting through your shirt, but it barely registers. Not with his mouth on your neck, breath hot, lips dragging down your throat, his tongue catching just beneath your collarbone. He kisses there, then again, slower. Like he means it.

Then—clang. His foot kicks something metal: a mop bucket. It sloshes, spins, then rattles to a halt.

He groans under his breath. “Perfect. Real smooth.”

You’re already grinning. “So much for keeping it quiet.”

He lifts his head, eyes hazy, mouth red and swollen. “Not my fault. You just took, like, a gallon of my blood.” 

You laugh, breathless, drunk on heat and him and the way he says the dumbest things like he’s proud of them. “Steve, if I took a gallon of your blood, you’d be dead.”

“Yeah, well,” He shrugs, dips back in, presses a kiss just beneath your ear. “You’re kinda killing me now, so…”

You smile into his cheek, hooking your fingers in his collar. “Shut up.”

He does. Kisses you instead.

His hands slide under your shirt, palms rough, warm against your skin. He explores slowly, fingertips skating over your ribs, dipping into the curve of your waist. When you reach for the hem of his jeans, his breath stutters against your lips.

“Hey,” His voice drops. “You sure?”

His thumb brushes your cheek. Eyes wide, searching yours with a gentleness that guts you. A flicker of something that feels like care. It catches in your chest before you can stop it. 

You swallow around the sudden tightness in your throat, and murmur teasingly, “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, smile blooming slow and dazed. “Been sure since the second you kissed me.”  

You barely have time to roll your eyes before his mouth is back on yours, hot and hungry, and then his hand is sliding down, slipping past your waistband with a slow, deliberate drag.

You gasp, head tipping back as his fingers find you—already slick, already aching.

“This okay?” he murmurs into your neck, breath skating hot across your skin.

“Yeah,” you whisper, arching into him. “Don’t stop.”

He groans, quiet and rough. “Fuck. You feel—Jesus. You’re soaked.”

You shiver, clutching at his back, fingers digging into warm muscle as he works you open with slow, deliberate strokes.  

The closet feels like it’s closing in. Heat pressed against every surface. Sweat beading at the back of your neck. Every pass of his fingers sends another wave rolling through you—deep, steady, inevitable.  

You hear yourself whisper, helpless:

“Please, Steve—”

And the sound he makes at that, wrecked, almost pained, sends another knot rising in your throat.

“God,” he pants. “You’re so… you’re so beautif—”

You slam your eyes shut and cut him off with a desperate kiss, fumbling at his jeans. The zipper gives, and your hand slides in, finding him hot, thick, twitching in your palm.

You stroke him slow at first, matching the rhythm of his fingers. He groans, hips bucking, chasing it like he can’t help himself. His grip on your waist tightens, movements stuttering as he loses himself in the rhythm.

Then his fingers slip deeper, hitting just right, and your whole body locks.

“Steve—I’m—”

“I got you,” he whispers, like a promise. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You come hard, clinging to him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, riding the waves as he holds you through every one. Arm locked tight around you, lips grazing your hair, your temple, trailing a soft path down the side of your face—gentle, grounding kisses that make your chest ache in a different way.

And when you stroke him in return, when you twist your wrist and he leans in for a kiss and whispers that he’s close, when he buries his face in your neck and trembles against your skin and spills into your hand—

He breathes out your name.

And you go still.  

⟡

Afterward, there’s only silence.

Breath. Sweat. Heartbeat. You’re still tangled up in each other, hands curled in warm places, chests rising and falling in sync.

Then, low and a little hoarse:

“You okay?”   

You nod, eyes fluttering open. Your pulse is still kicking hard beneath your ribs, skin humming with heat and something heavier.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Steve huffs a soft laugh, nose brushing your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"You think this disqualifies us from ‘Volunteer of the Month’?"

You blink, then push a lazy finger into his chest. “You lost that title the day you stole my granola bar.”

He leans back just enough to stare at you, mouth open like you accused him of felony. “You said I could have that.”

“I said you could have half. You ate the whole thing and licked the wrapper.”

He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “I regret nothing.”

You scoff. “Well I do. Had to listen to a grown man rant about raisins for ten minutes.”

Steve groans like he’s reliving the trauma. “They looked like chocolate chips! Top five betrayal of my life, easy.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself.

He grins at that, like he’s proud of himself for pulling it out of you. Face flushed, hair a mess, lips red and kiss-bitten. He looks wrecked. Boyish and sweet in a way that makes your ribs feel too tight.

You stare, just for a moment longer. Long enough for it to sting. Then quickly cast your eyes away before something stupid like hope can take root.

“Drama queen,” you mutter.

And just when you think maybe the moment will pass—that maybe you’ll both pretend this was nothing but heat and impulse, something you can walk away from—he does it again.

Lifts a hand. Brushes a strand of hair from your face with the back of his fingers, thumb brushing your temple like you’re something fragile. Breakable.

His voice drops, soft enough to catch in his throat.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he says. “Doing this. With me.”

Your breath catches. Something shifts inside you then, something big and irrevocable. Lodges squarely in your chest, right behind your ribs.

He clears his throat a second too late, blinking fast. “I mean the, uh… with the volunteering.”

You try to smile, even as your heart folds in on itself.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too, Harrington.”

He steps back, tugging his shirt down in a rush, suddenly all elbows and fidgeting. You grab a tissue from the shelf, wipe your hand, fix your vest. Neither of you talks.

But when you look back up, that signature grin is back: crooked and tired, but no less smug.

“So,” he says, bumping your shoulder, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You wanna go split another candy bar? Pretty sure I lost, like, half my bodily fluids tonight.”

You blink, eyebrows shooting up. The emotional whiplash almost knocks you off your feet.

“Jesus, Steve. Don’t call it that.”

“What? It’s a medical word.”

“No, it’s just gross.”

“Yeah, but like… hot gross.”

“Absolutely not.”

You reach for the door, but pause mid-step, glancing at the inside of his elbow. “C’mon then, Care Bear.”

He freezes. Stares at you like you’ve just slapped him.

“…Okay, no. No. You are not calling me that—”

You’re already walking.

“—I’m serious! I’ll rip this thing off, I swear! I’ll bleed out on the floor, I don’t care—wait, no, seriously, please—”

He’s still groaning behind you, throwing dramatic threats over your shoulder, rambling something about Robin and you know she’ll ruin me for this—

But he doesn’t sound all that mad.

And he doesn’t stop following you, either.

⟡

You’re elbow-deep in canned beans when you hear it.

That voice.

Low and lazy, just this side of sleep-soft. Like warm flannel and tangled sheets and a morning that didn’t come soon enough. Even over the creak of rolling carts and early-shift chatter, you can hear the smile in it. That trademark Harrington charm, sugar-dipped and effortless.

You freeze, fingers curling tight around a dented can of Del Monte.  

Don’t look up. Don’t be obvious. Don’t be—

You look up.

He’s dressed like always: soft sweater pushed to the elbows, faded Levis, volunteer vest slung over one shoulder like an afterthought. His hair’s still damp—probably rushed a shower—and there’s a pillow-crease on his cheek, pink and soft and stupidly endearing.

His eyes find you fast.

Of course they do.

And it’s not awkward, exactly. Just… loaded. Like walking into a room that still smells like sex and memory.

He stalls halfway across the gym, one hand raised in a sheepish wave.

You return it vaguely, mostly with your eyebrows, then duck your head and pretend the green beans need alphabetizing.

Eventually, he ambles over. Picks up a box cutter and flicks it open.

“Hey,” he says, voice low.

You glance up. “Hey.”

A beat passes. Not quite uncomfortable, but not comfortable either. He slices into a new box and nudges it toward you. You start sorting cans, grateful for the distraction. Anything to keep from thinking about where those hands were last night. How careful they were.  

One. Two. Three.

Stop thinking about it

Four.

Don’t think about his mouth.

Five.

His voice.

Six.

The way he said your name right after—

Seven.

You inhale, and the worst part is, you can still smell him. Skin-warm cologne with a citrus edge, fresh from the morning shave.

He shifts a little closer. Close enough that your arms brush when you both reach into the box.

“Hey,” he says again, softer. “You okay?”

You blink over at him. There’s no teasing in his face. Just concern. Real and quiet, resting in the little furrow between his brows.

“Yeah,” you nod, too quickly. Then, slower, “Are you?”

His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “Yeah.”

Then he rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking down, thumb pressing into a tendon.

“I just meant… after last night.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so Steve. Of course he’s worried. As if you didn’t practically shove him into that closet with both hands and a running start.

You shift your weight, keeping your voice even. “Yeah, I mean. It was, you know…”

A pause.

“…fine.”

He blinks. Just once.

“Right,” he nods. “Yeah. Totally.”

He clears his throat and starts arranging cans into an unnecessarily perfect pyramid. You bite your cheek, resisting the grin that tugs at your mouth.

He pauses for a second, mid-stack, and adds quietly:

“As long as you’re okay.”

You purse your lips. Study the label in your hand like it’s deeply fascinating.

Green beans. Low sodium. Riveting.

Then, casually: “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

You glance over again.

He’s still wearing that soft, hopeful look, eyes edged with something uncertain, like he's waiting to be let in or let go. There’s a pink flush across his cheekbones, and it’s definitely not from the cold.

You can’t help it. You smile.

“You wanna come help me grab something from my car?”

⟡

He’s grinning like an idiot when you shove him into the backseat.

His backseat.

The maroon BMW 733i gleams in the early sun like it’s fresh off a dealer lot. Like it’s auditioning for a cologne commercial, the kind with bad jazz music and slow-motion pans. It looks absurd out here, parked behind a half-collapsed gym.

But then again, so does he.

He laughs as you crawl in after him, knees knocking, elbow jamming into the doorframe. You’re both a graceless mess over buttery leather that’s far too nice for what you’re about to do.

“Thought we were getting something from your car,” he teases, breath hot on your collarbone.

You blink down at him, sprawled like he owns the place (he does), arm behind the headrest, the other low on your waist.

“Yeah,” you say, tone flat, shifting your weight to grind against the obvious bulge in his pants. “Then I figured I should check yours first. Pretty sure you left your spine back here, since you couldn’t even look at me this morning.”

He snorts, surprised.

Then lunges.

You yelp, squirming as his fingers dig into your sides. Your elbow knocks the window as you twist, tangled and breathless, laughing too hard to breathe. You end up pinned sideways, his body pressing you into the seat, chest to chest, until he hooks an arm around your waist.

Rolls on top, pins you to the seat with a low grunt.

And just like that, the laughter drains out.

Now he’s above you, arms braced on either side of your head. He’s holding most of his weight off you. Most.

Your chest heaves beneath his. His eyes are locked on yours.

Your throat goes tight.

“Just kiss me already,” you mutter.

He stills. Then slowly, gently, his hand comes up, thumb tracing a slow line along your cheek.

His grin curves, smug as ever.

“Why?” he murmurs. “Thought you said last night was bad.”

You roll your eyes, nose brushing his, lifting your hips so they push pointedly against him.

“No. I said it was fine.”

He hums, low and deliberate, and you feel it settle deep in your chest. Then he leans in, dragging his lips firmly across your jaw. Hot. Possessive. The low-grade warmth in your belly flares into a scorching heat.

“Well,” he murmurs against your skin. “How ‘bout I make it good this time, then?”

You hesitate. Just for a breath, a beat. Long enough to remember this is a terrible idea. That it’s easy in the ways that always come back to hurt.

Then you shove him back, palms to chest.

“Do your worst, Care Bear.”

His grin turns wicked. 

And nothing about what happens afterward is fine.

⟡

It becomes a pattern.

Not something you talk about. Not something planned. Just a habit that forms by accident—then sticks like a bruise.

At first, it’s fleeting.  

A stolen kiss behind the supply crates, slow and clumsy and electric. Cut short by the slam of a locker, the squeak of sneakers, someone calling for an extra set of hands. You stumble apart like teenagers caught under the bleachers, hearts pounding and lips wet.

Other times, it barely gets that far. Just a lingering glance, the warmth of his hand brushing yours. A too-long pause at your waist. Breathless laughter you muffle into your sleeve. Then someone rounds the corner, and you both vanish into your roles again—two professionals, doing charity work, not about to make out in a janitor’s closet. Definitely not.

And sometimes… sometimes it goes further.

Sometimes it’s the closet again. Musty and cramped, your back pressed against cold shelves, his mouth hot on your neck. Sometimes it’s the backseat of his car, windows fogged, knees jammed against the console, seatbelt buckle digging into your hip.

Always somewhere temporary. Always on borrowed time.

Maybe that’s why you never actually go all the way.

There’s always something. A clipboard-wielding chaperone. A door that won’t lock. Time, space, reality, shoving its way in before you can tip over the edge.

Funny thing, though: Steve’s usually the one who slows it down.

Not because he’s disinterested, no. His mouth is eager. His hands are everywhere.

But he’s never in a rush. He seems content, almost addicted, to that liminal space. Open mouths, wandering hands. Quiet gasps swallowed in the dark. Kisses that leave your knees weak and your breath wrecked. A pressure between your hips that never fully breaks.

Most times, that’s all it is.  Making out. Touching. Laughing into each other’s necks like you’re seventeen again. Too much, and nowhere never enough.

But the kissing. God, the kissing.   

Steve Harrington kisses like he’s known you forever. Like he’s already read your mind cover to cover and wants to underline his favorite lines. He says your name like a prayer and makes it sound obscene. Makes your bones feel loose. Your lungs feel irrelevant.

And outside those stolen moments? You both get really good at pretending.        

You master the casual banter. The shoulder nudges. The nothing-to-see-here grins when someone walks by. You’re still Steve and you: volunteer buddies, glorified shelf-stockers, partners in folding blankets and alphabetizing canned goods.

You learn how to mouth get back to work across the gym with kiss-bruised lips and flushed cheeks. He slips granola bars into your pocket when you forget to eat (raisin-free, obviously) and you stop asking how he always knows.

It’s a strange kind of intimacy. Clumsy, sometimes. Ridiculous, even.

There’s the time he bangs his elbow so hard and swears loud enough to startle an entire volunteer shift. You both double over behind the lockers, hands over your mouths, trying not to wheeze-laugh like you’re thirteen and hiding from a camp counselor.

And then there are moments that are too quiet. Too still.

A look that lingers. His pinky brushing yours as you reach for the same clipboard. Moments when he just… looks at you. Not hungry, not playful. Just steady. Like he’s memorizing something he’s about to lose.

And the worst part? You let him.

It stretches between you, this almost-something. This not-quite-anything.

Stretches and breathes and changes shape, but always lingers.

And somehow, those are the moments you like best.

The ones that ask nothing of you but to exist. To feel.

Because naming something this fragile would make it real.

And real things can break. Real things can leave.

So you don’t talk about it.

Except once.

⟡

It’s late.

You’re parked behind the center, windows cracked because it’s one of those rare days when the air is appropriately warm, for once. Soft and a little sticky, clinging to your skin in that early-spring kind of way that you've missed.

Steve has one hand on the steering wheel, spinning it lazily back and forth. You’re watching the streetlamp through the windshield, both of you quiet. Neither in a rush to go home.

You say it like it’s nothing.

“I can’t really commit to anything. Right now.”

The words taste uncertain. You scramble for a version that won’t sound pathetic.

“I’m still… working through some stuff. From the quake.”

You don’t say the rest. Not the lights you leave on at night. Not the way your stomach drops when a truck hits a pothole. Not how, in silence, you can still hear the earth cracking open underneath you.

You don’t have to.   

“I get it,” Steve says softly. “I mean… I’m coming out of something too.”   

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask.

And that’s it. That’s The Talk.  

A single, raw thread of honesty, weaved between all the ones where your mouths are too busy for words.  

Then it’s gone. Folded into the quiet.

Tucked away, like a chapter you both agreed not to finish.

⟡

Nothing really changes after that.

You still show up. Still orbit each other like twin moons. Sometimes crashing, sometimes coasting. Always drifting back together.

Sometimes you wonder what it means, this ache. This comfort.

This strange, almost-thing that feels like safety, even when it shouldn’t.

You don’t call it healing. That would imply something tidy. Something whole.

But it is something.

Even if you never say trauma. Even if he never says heartbreak.

Your bodies say it anyway, in the way you clutch his shirt too tight, in the way he lingers after a kiss.

And maybe it’s not healthy. Maybe it’s not sustainable.

But it makes sense. In the way things often do when you’re hurting.

You don’t call it coping. You don’t call it love. You don’t call it anything.

You just keep showing up.

Letting it happen, letting it last.

Because right now, it’s the only thing that feels solid.

And for a while, that’s enough.

⟡

That all lasts two weeks.

Turns out, you forgot to account for one (1) critical variable in the delicate calculus that is Sneaking Around With Steve Harrington.

Well—two (2), actually.

Two band geeks. Both madly in love. Both absolutely incapable of keeping it subtle.

It’s Friday. You’re halfway through checking expiration dates on soup cans when Vickie slides up beside you, bright-eyed and buzzing with whatever coffee she’s managed to find in a town that runs on bad coffee.

“You excited for tonight?” she chirps, practically vibrating.

You blink. “Tonight?”

She pauses mid-bounce, head tilting. “Wait, he didn’t tell you?”

Your stomach drops half an inch. “Tell me what?”

Your eyes scan the gym, already knowing where they’ll land.

Steve’s ten feet away, flipping through a stapled sign-in sheet with the kind of furrowed brow that reads this should not be this complicated. One hand on his hip, pen tucked behind his ear. Robin’s next to him, mid-rant, waving her arms like she’s leading an aggressive orchestra. Steve just grins at her, lopsided and familiar, like he gave up trying to win arguments years ago. 

Then Robin glances over. Sees you. Sees Vickie.

And something in her face shifts.

A flicker of awareness. Something smug.

She’s halfway to crossing the gym when she pivots and calls over her shoulder. “Hey, dingus! What time are we heading to Family Video?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but someone calls his name from across the gym. He lifts a vague hand—later—and wanders off.

You watch him go. Then turn back slowly. “Vicks? What were you saying?”

“Oh! Movie night at Steve’s. He promised pizza. Robin’s picking the movie, thank god.” 

“Yeah,” Robin says, suddenly beside you, “because if I have to sit through Caddyshack again, I’m driving to L.A. to personally slap Chevy Chase.”

Vickie giggles, bumping her arm. “You’re coming, right?”

You hesitate. “Steve hasn’t... asked me.”

Robin snorts. “Told you he’d forget,” she mutters to Vickie. Then turns back to you, all raised brows and wise mischief. “Trust me?” she says, hands on your shoulders. “Steve is definitely not gonna mind.”

You squint at her. Robin’s never been your person. That’s always been Vickie.

Still, there’s something... honest in her expression. Sincere. Maybe even knowing.

You glance back at Steve. He’s smiling at an older couple now, hands in his back pockets, laugh catching in his throat like sunshine. Charming. Effortless. Like he’s never had a complicated feeling in his life.

And there it is again. That quiet ache. That heavy, stupid maybe blooming behind your ribs.

Vickie taps your shoulder. “Besides, you don’t wanna make him the third wheel, do you?”

They’re both looking at you now. Robin, sharp and amused. Vickie, glowing with that soft, dreamy kind of love that makes everything feel simpler than it is.

You paste on a smile.

“Fine,” you say. “Only ‘cause I love you two.”

“Love you!” Vickie sings, skipping off with Robin in tow, already mid-argument over snack choices—gummies versus popcorn, sweet versus salty—the kind of playful intimacy that makes your chest ache for reasons you’ve gotten really good at not naming.

You watch them go.

Then you watch him.

Steve laughs at something the old man says, head tipping back, hand ghosting over his chest like it really got him.

He looks light. Unburdened.

You should be happy for him.

Instead, your chest feels like it’s caving in.

And you find yourself wondering, not for the first time, what exactly you are to Steve Harrington.

And whether he’s ever wondered the same.

⟡

Robin answers the door before you can knock.

She’s grinning.

“Told you she’d show,” she calls over her shoulder. “Steve’s in the kitchen. Come in, come in!”

You step inside.

Steve’s house is exactly what you imagined. And nothing like it at all.

You’d always heard the stories. The infamous Harrington house. Back in high school, it was legendary. Big backyard, bigger pool. Perpetually absent parents. Music loud enough to be heard halfway across town.

Now, it’s dead quiet.

Your sneakers sink into a plush welcome mat with flying geese stitched across it. You feel vaguely guilty stepping on them.

A lamp glows from a side table that probably costs more than your rent. The walls are lined with abstract art: cool-toned fog, brushed steel frames, the kind of stuff that screams expensive without actually saying anything.

The whole place feels like a showroom. Like someone tried to make it look lived-in without actually living in it.

“Hey,” comes a voice from the hallway.

Steve pads in barefoot, fingers around a six-pack of Coca Cola. Soft blue crewneck, grey sweats, mussed hair.

He smiles when he sees you.

“Catch,” he grins, and tosses you a can.

⟡

The night turns into a slow-motion dance of avoidance.

You and Steve spend the movie at opposite ends of the sectional. Between you: a canyon of throw pillows, soda cans, and half-empty chip bags. Robin and Vickie are curled up together on the floor, whispering, giggling, feeding each other gummy bears.

You try not to notice how often they glance your way. You try even harder not to care.

Steve flicks popcorn at Robin when she picks another murder mystery.

You laugh. You smile. You play along.

But your eyes drift, again and again, to where he sits. To how his arm rests across the back of the couch. To how his knee shifts, edging slightly closer to yours.

Close, but never quite touching.   

⟡

Somewhere around the second pizza box and third on-screen decapitation, Robin jolts upright like she’s had a revelation. 

“We need a name,” she declares, gnawing on a bright red Twizzler. “For our little squad. Like, The Four Horsemen of Volunteerism. Or, wait, The Canned Crusaders.”

“Please stop,” Steve says flatly.

“Or Band Together!” she snaps her fingers. “Get it? Band geeks turned band of do-gooders—”

“Uh, I was on the basketball team?” Steve cuts in.

“Yeah, only ‘cause you have the rhythm of a wet sock.”

“You tripped over a pencil last week.”

“Because you distracted me!”

“Sure.” 

And just like that, the room explodes. Couch cushions go flying. Popcorn rains down. Steve ducks sticky red ropes to the head while Vickie snorts into her Sprite.   

It’s easy, this. Too easy.

Until it isn’t.

⟡

Around 10:30, Robin and Vickie pull the classic we’re definitely not leaving to make out in the car routine.

“We should go,” Vickie says sweetly, all innocent eyes and coy smiles.

“Yeah,” Robin smirks. “Leave you two completely unsupervised. What could possibly go wrong?”

Steve walks them to the door, muttering something about how Vickie shouldn’t let Robin drive, under no circumstances. Robin rolls her eyes and kisses his cheek like she’s his mother.

Then she pulls him into a hug. Tight. Quiet.

They say something you don’t hear. But whatever it is, it makes him smile. 

“See you tomorrow?” Robin murmurs, pulling back.

“Yeah,” Steve says, then smirks. “Try to get some sleep, huh?”

“Only if you do,” she sing-songs back.

Vickie lingers a second longer, touching your arm lightly as she passes.

“Don’t overthink it,” she says quietly. “He’s been staring at you all night.”

You don’t know what to do with that.

Because you didn’t notice.

You were too busy staring at the space between you.

Robin waves dramatically as the door clicks shut behind them.

And then it’s quiet again.

⟡

The TV drones on. Another crime scene, another murder. The leftover pizza’s gone cold. Your soda is flat. A single unopened beer sits sweating on the coffee table.

You crack it open, just to give your hands something to do.

The first sip is awful.

“Jesus,” you cough. “How do you drink this crap?”

Steve snorts. “You’re not supposed to sip it like wine.”

“Oh, my bad,” you mutter. “Should I be shotgunning it instead?”

He flashes you a grin, easy and lopsided. “Exactly. I used to do it in under three seconds.”

You raise a brow. “Let me guess—King Steve’s party trick?”

It slips out before you can stop it. Too sharp. Too knowing. You regret it the second his smile falters. Just a flicker, barely there, but enough to shift the weight in the room.

He sets his drink down with quiet precision.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “That was me,” he shrugs. Laughs, but it’s a hollow little thing. “…King Steve.”

The silence that follows is louder than anything else.

You’ve never talked about this.

The Before.

Before supply closets and clipboard duty. Before breathless kisses and granola bars in your pocket. This thing between you has always existed in a safe little bubble. Low-stakes, unnamed. Untouched by memory.

But now you’ve poked a finger through it. Let the past in.

“I was… kind of a different guy back then.” he says finally, voice low. “Used to think being popular meant you were doing something right.” He shrugs, eyes somewhere far off. “Turns out, that’s not really how it works.”

When you glance up at him, he’s not looking back.

Jaw tight. Shoulders drawn. His gaze is fixed on something only he can see: a memory reel running behind his eyes.

And the thing is, you remember that version of him, too. The face you recognized the first day he stepped into the relief center, donation box in hand.

Steve Harrington.    

The myth. The golden boy. The name that lived in every hallway and floated over every cafeteria table.

You weren’t friends, not even close. You didn’t orbit the same suns. But back then, his name was a part of the scenery, constant and unshakable.  

You glance around the room now. At the plush throw pillows, the untouched beer, the way the quiet has weight here.

You try to picture what it must’ve looked like back then. Loud music. Pool parties. Muddy footprints across kitchen tiles. A crowd to disappear into. People packed in tight like joy was something you could manifest through sheer volume.

It must’ve been easy, then, to confuse noise with meaning. To fill every inch of space with someone else’s laughter and call it your own. To believe that, if enough people showed up, the chaos could become a kind of proof.

Yet now, sitting in this beautiful, hollow house, with its too-soft carpet and cold expensive art, you’re realizing just how lonely that story must have been.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone so surrounded could still end up carrying this kind of quiet.

Even now, with Robin’s constant orbit. Even with all those kids that pop in and out of the center, loyal and rowdy and halfway adopted. There’s still a loneliness here. Something left behind.

You look at him again. Barefoot, sweatshirt gone soft with wear, hair falling into his eyes. He’s staring down at his hands like they’ve done things he’s still apologizing for.

It really is strange, how someone so clearly loved can still look so lonely.

You set your beer down. Lift your fingers from the cold aluminum.

“Well, good,” you say softly. “I like this version better.”

Steve’s head lifts. He looks startled, like he wasn’t expecting kindness. Like maybe he doesn’t know what to do with it when it comes without strings attached

But slowly, something eases in him. He reaches for his beer again, lifts it toward you with a tentative smile.

“To upgrades?”

You tap your can gently against his.

“To upgrades.”

The second sip is worse than the first.

“Nope. Still disgusting.”

Steve huffs a laugh, a real one this time, and it cracks through the quiet like sunlight.

He stands, that familiar glint back in his eyes.

“Okay,” he sighs, stretching. “You ready for something better?”

You narrow your eyes. “Define better.”

He grins. “Trust me.”

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, but don’t question, you do.

⟡

You’re soaked.

Damp. Sticky. Giddy.

The bottle of Dom Pérignon—a dusty, decades-old relic from the back of the Harrington fridge—had popped like a firecracker, unleashing a fountain of foam that sprayed the counters, the cabinets, and half of Steve’s torso in one glorious, sticky arc. The cork had shot off like a boozy comet, ricocheting off a cabinet and vanishing into the shadows.  

“Shit!” Steve yells, triumphant.

Champagne geysers from the neck, spilling over his hand, bubbling down the green glass and splattering across the tile. He fumbles for the counter, trying, failing, to cup the foam in his palm. “Quick! Grab the glasses!”

You scramble for the tallest cabinet, wrenching open the creaky doors, and pull down a pair of absurdly delicate crystal flutes—thin-stemmed, dust-rimmed, probably older than either of you. You manage to catch the overflow just in time, the liquid gold fizzing up the sides, shimmering under the soft overhead light.

“Can’t believe they never opened this,” Steve mutters, pouring fast and loose, half of it missing the glasses entirely. “Pretty sure it was an anniversary gift or something.”

“And this,” you said, blinking through the champagne mist speckling your lashes, “was definitely what they had in mind when they bought it.”

He grins, crooked and proud. “Exactly. We’re doing ‘em a favor.”

You clink flutes, then burst into laughter at the ridiculous ping they make.

“Cheers,” Steve grins, eyes sparkling.

“Cheers.” You take a cautious sip. And—

“Holy shit,” you breathe. “This is…”

It hits like starlight. Bright. Cold. Electric. Like citrus and static and expensive mistakes. Sweet at first, then bone-dry. Like soda, if soda came with a trust fund and a château in France.

Steve watches you with a half-smile, his sweatshirt now entirely soaked, clinging to the slope of his chest. The dark stain blooms all the way to the waistband of his grey sweats. His cheeks are pink, flushed with laughter.

He looks like summer. Like a crush you never had the nerve to name.

“Better, right?” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You glance at him over the rim of your glass, throat fizzing with bubbles and something like longing.

“Much better.”

He lifts a finger, suddenly mock-serious. “Hang on. You haven’t even seen the best part.”

You open your mouth to ask what part, but he’s already gone, vanishing around the kitchen island like a man on a mission.

There’s a shuffle. A thunk. The crackle of static.

Then—

A brassy, soul-splitting saxophone explodes into the room, so loud it rattles your glass. The sound fills every corner of the kitchen like a marching band—rich, dramatic, way too loud.

You jump, nearly spilling champagne down your arm. “Jesus!”

Steve skids back into the room in socked feet, flute held like a mic, arms flailing, spinning like he’s headlining the Garden.

Love me or leave me, make your choice but believe me!

He belts it out, off-key and proud, hips shimmying.

You blink. “Is this—is this ABBA?”

“It’s ABBA!” He yells, like that explains everything. “And it rules!” He spins, flailing like a malfunctioning disco ball. “Come on!”

You stare, equal parts horrified and charmed out of your mind.

He leaps, skids through a puddle of champagne, and nearly wipes out into the fridge. But he somehow manages to catch himself, grinning back at you like it’s all part of the choreography.

He’s ridiculous.

He’s glorious.

You’re laughing before you even realize it. Not just a giggle—a full-bodied, helpless, stomach-aching laugh.

I can’t conceal it. Don’t you see, can’t you feel it?

He points at you, faux-accusing. “You’re not even trying!”

“Steve, you’ve had one beer!” you gasp between peals of laughter.

“And?” He stares you down, brow cocked, full sass.

And before you can dodge, he lunges.

You shriek as he grabs your hand, yanking you into the middle of the floor.

Oh, I’ve been dreaming through my lonely past…

“Steve—!”

You laugh as he tries to spin you under his arm. It's not graceful. Your socks slip on the wet floor, your flute nearly launches across the room, and you slam into his chest with a breathless oof.

He catches you easily, hands warm and steady, eyes laughing down at yours.

Now I just made it, I found you at last.

Your heart is pounding.

Not from the spin. Not from the champagne.

From this.

Him.

You feel seventeen again. Giddy. Buzzing. Drunk on sugar and something dangerously close to joy. Barefoot in a boy’s kitchen, dancing like the world’s ending, laughing like it never hurt.

There’s foam on Steve’s chin, and he’s singing again—loud, right into your face. You laugh so hard you double over.

So come on, now let’s try it!

You spin, arms out for balance. The record warbles, the saxophone soars.

And for one shimmering, golden second—you forget.

You forget the way the ground shook beneath you. The tremors under your feet. The silent, unspoken fears.

Right now, there’s only this:

A kitchen full of bad dancing and good champagne. Steve’s hand on your waist. His laugh in your ear.

The ex-king of Hawkins High, twirling you like you’re the crown jewel of some forgotten prom night. 

I love you, can't deny it…

He spins you again. You come crashing into him, flute somehow still upright. One hand slides into his hair, and—

You kiss him.

Soft. Dizzy. Smiling. His lips are warm, mouth fizzy with champagne. He tastes like laughter, like something stolen. He pulls you in closer, palms warm against the small of your back.  

When you pull back, your foreheads stay pressed together.

ABBA’s still playing in the background, but his singing’s faded enough for the lyrics to slip through:

I love you... I do, I do, I do, I do, I do.

Steve seems to hear it at the same moment.

You laugh, breathless. “You trying to tell me something, Harrington?”

He snorts softly, nose brushing yours. “Honestly? Wasn’t even listening to the lyrics.”

“Oh, really.” 

“Yeah, I just like the…” He makes a vague gesture. “Sax part.”

“Uh huh.”

He grins, a little sheepish, but doesn’t argue.

You pull him down again. Kiss him while the last golden notes of ABBA melt into the quiet.

⟡

You laugh the whole way up the stairs.

Damp footprints trailing behind you, kissing the hardwood in soft, wet plops.

Your shirt is soaked through with champagne, sheer and glinting under the hallway lights. Your chest is tight, bubbling with something that doesn’t have a name. Joy, maybe. Or nerves. Hard to tell the difference when they fizz the same way behind your ribs.

Steve’s behind you, breaths uneven, laughter tumbling from his chest in quiet huffs.

He nudges your ankle with his toes when you pause at the top step, and you squeak like you’re a kid caught sneaking out after curfew.

Upstairs, the house is still. The sounds from the record player reduced to a soft, distant warble. Moonlight pours through the high windows, casting silver puddles along the floor, lighting your way.   

Steve’s bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

“Here,” he tosses a towel your way. “Catch.”

You barely do, fumbling it against your chest and letting out a soft laugh. “Thanks.”

You dab absently at your arms and neck, blotting away sticky trails of half-dried champagne. Your fingers hesitate when they reach your collarbone, sugar crackling faintly under your touch.

You don’t look at him. Not yet.

But you hear it, the soft grunt as he peels off his soaked sweatshirt. It clings to him, suctioned tight to his back, and he wrestles with it for a second, arms flexing as he yanks it over his head. The fabric peels away with a wet squelch before he tosses it toward the hamper. It misses, landing halfway on the rug.

You glance up.

You don’t mean to stare.

But you do.

He’s bathed in moonlight—soft golds and gentle shadows, every line of him slick and gleaming. Champagne still hangs in droplets to his skin, catching light in the hollows of his collarbones, trailing down his chest, the sharp cut of his ribs.  

One drop clings just beneath his sternum. Tiny. Trembling.

A star, mid-fall.

He reaches for another towel, rubbing absently at his arms, until he notices you watching.

His movements still.

His eyes flick to yours, then away. “You, uh… you want something to change into?” He jerks his chin toward the closet. “I’ve got shirts. And like, sweatpants.”

The offer is casual. Light.

But it lands heavy in the room, humming with something unspoken.

Stay.

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you step forward.

The towel slips from your fingers and puddles soundlessly at your feet. Your breath presses tight behind your ribs, but you don’t touch him. Not yet.

You just stand there, inches away, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough to breathe him in: champagne and sweat, sugar and Steve.  

Close enough to memorize him all over again.  

The scatter of freckles across his shoulders. The raised ridges of scars running down his sides.  

Quiet, hidden things you’ve been pretending not to notice. 

Your fingers lift, slow and featherlight, and brush that trembling droplet from his chest. His body stills beneath your touch. You trail lower, following the faint shimmer left behind, down the line of his stomach, where the muscle jumps.  

“You missed a spot,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He huffs out a breath, unsteady. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

His hand hovers near your wrist, not quite touching. Not pulling away either. Just there, waiting. Like he’s afraid to move too fast and ruin this delicate, shining thing you’re both standing inside.

Then he smiles, soft and teasing. “You know you dropped your towel back there, right?”

You smile back. “Got distracted.”

He laughs, low and warm, and glances down at your hand, still resting against his stomach.

You take another step.

Your palm slides up, settling over his heart. It beats hard under your touch, steady and familiar.

Then he leans down.

And this kiss isn’t like the ones that came before.  

This time it’s slow. Careful. Measured. Like he’s reading you again for the first time.

You barely notice when your knees hit the mattress. His hands settle on your hips, guiding you back like he’s done it a thousand times—only it’s never felt like this.

This isn’t adrenaline. This isn’t heat stolen in the dark.

It’s something else. Something new.

You whisper, “Steve—”

He stops. Presses his forehead to yours. Breathes you in.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

He opens his eyes.

And it’s all there.

Not just lust. Not just heat.

Everything else.

Awe. Fear. Wonder. Something terrifyingly close to love.

You’ve seen him bare before. In cars, in closets, against walls that didn’t belong to either of you.

But not like this.

Not in his room. Not in his bed. Not with moonlight painting silver into his hair and the quiet wrapped around you like a second skin.

You watch him roll the condom on. His hands tremble. That alone makes something ache in you. Like he’s doing something fragile. Like it’s sacred, somehow.

In some strange way, it feels like you’re losing your first time to him.

He leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other brushing your hair back from your face. It’s instinctive. Tender. Just Steve—touch before words, affection woven into every small gesture.

“You okay?” He whispers.  

You nod. Press a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Wanna feel you. Inside.”

His breath stutters. His eyes close.

When he pushes in, it’s with his lips pressed to yours. Slow, careful. Still, the stretch burns, blooming through your hips like fire licking down a fuse.

You’ve felt him before, in every other way. But this—this stretch, this heat, this ache—it’s new. Overwhelming. Perfect.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails pressing into his back. His name falls brokenly from your lips.

“Good?” he asks, voice shaky.

You nod, legs tightening around his waist. “Don’t stop.”

His pace is slow, steady. Like he’s trying to remember this for the rest of his life, etch it into the bones of his bed, into the walls, into you. Just this rhythm of slick skin and pleasured breaths.  

You bite your lip to keep quiet; old habits from old nights.

Steve notices.

“Hey, you don’t have to do that. I wanna hear you.”

The words break something open in you.

You moan, soft at first, then louder, eyes stinging.

“Steve—” you gasp. His name is a confession.

“Yeah, baby,” he kisses you again, voice thick with feeling. “I got you.”

His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit, and it’s like the world tips sideways. You cry out, clutching him closer as the pleasure builds, bright and sharp.

“Jesus,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s it. You feel so good. You’re so—god, you’re so beautiful.”

You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. You arch, thighs trembling, heels digging into his back. Your name, your voice, your body—it’s all for him now.

His movements sharpen, urgency bleeding into every thrust, pounding deeper until your whole body clenches and your toes curl tight.

“I think about you,” he gasps, hips pistoning, voice raw against your lips. “All the time. Imagining this—you, here, in my bed—fuck—”

Your orgasm breaks over you like a wave. You cry out, his name falling from your lips in stuttered gasps, over and over.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me. That’s my girl.”

You rise. You soar. You shatter.

And when you fall, he becomes the place you land. ⟡ You don’t fall asleep for a long time.

It’s quiet now, just the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant murmur of crickets outside the open window. Somewhere down the block, a car rolls by, tires hissing over the asphalt, but the sound fades as quickly as it came.

The sheets are a mess, bunched near the foot of the bed, half spilling onto the floor. Steve’s arm lies draped across your stomach, fingers tracing absent patterns on your skin. You’re both still sticky, sweat and champagne drying in tacky patches, but neither of you moves. You just lie there, bare and boneless.

It’s silent in your body for the first time in weeks. No ache in your chest. No weight behind your ribs. Just a strange, welcome emptiness, like someone drained the panic out of you and left behind warmth. Temporary, maybe. But it’s something.

Eventually, like always, you talk.

Not in any meaningful way. Just stupid, winding stories that don’t go anywhere, laughter bubbling up between every word. You tell him about the time Robin tried to hit a high C during the homecoming pep rally and cracked so hard half the bleachers gasped. Steve cracks up, asks about your part on the snare, and you recount in painful detail the hideous feathered hats you were all forced to wear.    

Steve chuckles, eyes closed, smile lazy. “You guys were such geeks.”

“Oh, please.” You jab him in the ribs. “Like you wouldn’t have loved to see me in that getup.”

He cracks one eye open, gives you a slow once-over, and smirks. “Honestly? Yeah. I think I would’ve been into it.”

“Perv.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “What can I say? Guess I have a thing for dorks.”

You roll your eyes and reach up to ruffle his already-destroyed hair. He groans in protest, flailing half-heartedly.

“Jesus, my hair,” he mutters, swatting at your hand. “Have some respect. This is, like, the best thing about me.”

You snort, half-amused, half-surprised. “Steve, your hair is not the best thing about you."

That makes him pause. He cocks his head, brow raised. “Oh yeah? Then what is?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded. His smile is nothing but trouble.

Your heart skips a beat.

Because you know the answer. You’ve known it for a while.

But saying it out loud would be admitting something real. Make it a thing.  

So you hesitate. And in that pause, Steve rolls halfway on top of you, bracing on one elbow. His hips press against yours in a slow, suggestive grind.

You roll your eyes, laughing, shoving a hand to his chest. “Down, Harrington.”

He flops back dramatically, arms flung wide. “Rude.”

“It’s not that either,” you mutter. “And I’m not telling you. You’ll get a big head.”  

“I already have a big head.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” You jab his side. He lets out a strangled squawk and twists away.

Then, just as the laughter begins to fade, he says something that pulls the ground out from under you.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, eyes wide. “You what?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Yeah. Like… a rule. For myself.”

“A no sex rule?”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wait—since when?”

He breathes out slow, then squints up at the ceiling. You watch him for a moment, the way his fingers twitch against the comforter, picking at a frayed seam.

“Since the quake, I guess?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he shifts, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like I took a vow or anything. I just… I kept ending up in these half-assed relationships, y’know? We’d jump into bed on, like, the second date, and then realize we didn’t even really like each other. I mean, half the time we barely knew each other.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You go still.   

Your mind flickers back to that night. That closet. You remember how it’d felt to kiss him with your heart racing and your hands shaking, to reach for him before you could think too hard about it.

You remember the buckle of his belt between your fingers. 

How you had reached first.   

“Wow,” you murmur, voice low. “That’s… kind of romantic?”  

He scoffs. “Okay, first of all, I’m always romantic.”

“No,” you laugh, “you’re just a walking cliché.”

He mumbles something about how a walking cliché just made you come three times, and you roll your eyes, ignoring him on principle.

“Anyway,” he says, tone softening again, “it wasn’t anything that dramatic. I just wanted to try something different. See if…”

He trails off.

You tilt your head. “See if what?”

“If maybe… knowing someone could come first, for once.”

Your heart stutters. You’re quiet for a long moment.

“So,” you say slowly, “you made a no-sex rule... and then we started hooking up?”

Steve winces, letting out a sheepish breath. “Yeah. That wasn’t exactly part of the plan.”

“Kind of undermines your whole system, doesn’t it?”

He smiles, soft. “Yeah, but—I don’t know. It felt different with you. Like, by the time it happened, I already knew you. Not just your favorite song or whatever, but like... you, you know? Better than most people I’ve dated.”

You don’t answer.

And maybe your silence makes him nervous, because he glances away and adds quickly, “Not that we’re dating or anything. I just meant—”

You cut him off, gently. “I know what you meant.”

He nods, fingers still working on a loose thread.

You both feel it. That wall you’ve run up against. This thing neither of you are naming.

You stare at the ceiling, voice quiet. “I still don’t know if I’m in a place to… commit.”

“That’s okay,” he says, without missing a beat. “I just… I like being around you. However it works. Doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”

You glance over at him. At the mess of his hair. The soft crease between his brows. The fading scratch beneath his jaw you’re pretty sure you left.

And for a moment, you wonder what might’ve been different. If you hadn’t kissed him that night. If you’d started with a conversation instead of heat. If you hadn’t been so broken when he found you.

Would he have waited?

Would he still have chosen you?

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard, eyes fixed on the slow spin of the ceiling fan.

“Everything’s been weird since the quake,” you say softly.

He doesn’t rush to fill the space. He waits.

“I sleep like shit. I flinch at dumb stuff. Doors slamming. Cars driving by. I know it’s irrational, but my body still… freaks out.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then, gently: “It’s not irrational.”

You glance over, and catch him brushing absent fingers across the scars along his side. One of many you never found the words to ask about.

“I get it. Different triggers, maybe. But same reflex.”   

You turn to face him, brow furrowed.

“Do you ever get nightmares?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates, then nods. “Not every night. But yeah.” A beat. “Sometimes I wake up thinking there’s something under my bed.”

You blink. “What do you mean? Like… a monster?”

He shrugs, a wry little twitch of his mouth. “Something like that.”

And not for the first time, you notice the flicker of exhaustion beneath his easy grin. Something fragile in the honey-brown of his eyes. Like uncertainty. Like fear.

You quietly nudge his shoulder. “Well… maybe Care Bear over there can keep watch tonight.”

You nod toward his nightstand, where a small, stuffed bear sits. Faded brown fur, one ear bent, a blue ribbon tied neatly around its neck.

Steve jerks upright. “Shit—!” He scrambles across the bed, nearly wiping out as he tries to shove it into the dresser. “That’s not—don’t look at that."

You burst out laughing. “Steve, come on. I clocked that thing the second I walked in.”

He flops back beside you, groaning, arm flung over his face. “I got it when I was five, okay? Just never got rid of it.”

You snuggle closer, smiling against his shoulder.

“It’s cute.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Adorable?”

“Worse.”

“Oh, my bad. It’s so incredibly sexy—”

He lunges, fingers diving into your ribs. You shriek, thrashing, laughing until your lungs ache and both of you collapse against the pillows, well and truly spent.  

Laughter settles, soft as snowfall.  

Eventually, his arms come around you again. His lips press to your forehead. The warmth of him, the weight of him, it pulls you under.

And when sleep finds you, it’s the deepest you’ve had in weeks. ⟡ Even with his mouth open and drool running down his cheek, Steve Harrington looks like something out of a daydream.

You let yourself stare at him. Openly. Shamelessly.

It’s not something you used to let yourself do, never dared to, but now... now it feels necessary.

He must’ve shifted sometime after you both crashed last night. One arm flung wide, the other curled under his chest. His face is half-buried in the mattress, the curve of his nose squished flat against the linen. Hair a disaster, pillow lines pressed deep into one cheek.

He looks younger like this. Softer.

The sunlight spilling through the curtains paints him in gold. Nose. Cheekbone. Shoulders. The long line of his back. The room is quiet except for the lazy whir of the ceiling fan and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.

And you realize, watching the calm rise and fall of his chest, that you hadn’t woken up with a jolt.

No gasping breaths or suffocating panic. Just the slow, steady rhythm of someone breathing next to you. The comfort of warmth that isn’t yours alone.  

You shift sightly, careful not to wake him, but even that small movement draws him closer. His brow furrows faintly, lashes fluttering. And then, slowly, his eyes crack open.

They find yours immediately.

There's a pause. A beat of something between awareness and amusement.

Then the laziest, most satisfied smile spreads across his face, crooked and half-asleep. His eyes slip shut again, but the grin stays.

“Creep,” he mutters, voice scratchy with sleep.

You snort, tugging the blanket higher over your chest. “Good morning to you, too.”

You make a half-hearted attempt to roll away, but you don’t get far. His arms shoot out instinctively, wrapping around your waist, pulling you back in with one smooth tug.

“Hey—”

“Shh.” He buries his face in the curve of your neck. “Still sleeping.”

“It’s eight,” you whisper, laughing softly as his hair tickles your chin.

“Exactly,” he grunts, like you’ve only proven his point.

You hum, amused, but your fingers find his hair anyway. He melts into the touch, warm and heavy and slotted perfectly beside you. One of his legs tangles with yours under the blankets, and his hand finds the small of your back.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then, slowly, his lips brush your neck. Just once. Just enough to let you know he’s awake now.

Another kiss follows, lower. Slower.  

“You know,” you murmur, “for someone who claims to be asleep, you're awfully touchy.”

He doesn’t respond, not with words anyway. Instead, he presses another kiss just beneath your ear.  

You squirm, caught between a laugh and a breathy sort of gasp. “Steve—”

“Shh,” he whispers, lips curling against your skin. “M’checking something.”

His mouth trails slow, lazy kisses down the side of your neck. His hand slips beneath your shirt, warm palm resting at the dip of your waist. There’s no rush to any of it. Just curiosity. Reverence. Like he’s exploring familiar ground just to see if anything’s changed.

Then, he finds it. That spot just under your jaw that makes your breath catch every time.

He grins into your skin, smug. His teeth graze the spot just enough to make you twitch.

“Found it.”

You roll your eyes, even as your melt into him. “You’re a menace.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, smile soft. He’s all bedhead and sleep-rumpled charm. A secret only you get to keep.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s the first time.

Your heart stumbles.

“Morning,” you whisper.

He frowns, instantly betrayed. “No, not morning.”

He ducks back down, mouth grazing your collarbone now.

“We’re going back to sleep,” he says, clearly lying.

Because his mouth doesn’t stop.

It wanders lower, slow and deliberate. Fingers tugging the comforter down inch by inch, peeling it away like wrapping paper. Cool morning air kisses your bare legs as it slips off, a shiver chasing after the warmth of his mouth.

He pauses when he reaches the hem of your shirt—his shirt, an old Hawkins Phys Ed tee, worn thin from a thousand washes. He noses at it, breath hot through the fabric, and presses a kiss just below your navel.

“I thought we were—” you begin, voice catching as he mouths along the curve of your stomach, “—going back to sleep.”

He hums, noncommittal. Mouth still moving, hands still wandering.

“We are,” he breathes, lips brushing lower. “Right after this.”

The knocking starts just as his fingers dip into the waistband of your panties.

Steve pauses, lips still pressed to your skin.

Then, with almost comic defiance, he moves again. Hands resuming their slow, steady path.

Until the knocking comes again—twice as loud, followed by a very urgent, very boyish shout:

“Steeeve! Open up, man! We gotta move!”

Steve’s head drops to your stomach like a brick.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mumbles.

You blink, dazed. “You expecting company?”

He peels himself off you like it physically hurts. “Not really. Just—hang on.” He glances up apologetically, stumbling for his jeans. “Gimme two minutes?”

You nod, pressing your face into the pillow to hide your laugh as he wrestles into last night’s pants, nearly falling over trying to hop into them one-legged.  

“STEVE HARRINGTON!” The knocking is closer to pounding now. “We know you’re in there! Will said it’s starting! Like, starting starting! We gotta go!”

“I’M COMING!” Steve barks back, his voice cracking mid-yell. “For the love of god, one second!”

You trail after him to the hallway, lingering at the top of the stairs as he throws open the front door—shirtless, shoeless, still trying to zip his jeans.

“Dude, what the hell?” The boy in front, Dustin, you think, blurts immediately. “Why aren’t you dressed? We gotta go. Vecn—"

“HEEY, Dustin! Buddy! Pal!” Steve’s voice is borderline hysterical, hitting a pitch that can only be described as ‘frantic kindergarten teacher.’ “What happened to good morning, huh? Would a little ‘Hey, Steve! How’re you doing today?’ kill ya?”

Dustin stares.

“Dude, what?” He snorts, shaking his head. “Where’s your shirt? And what the hell happened to your hair?” 

You pad down the stairs to find four boys clustered on the porch, backpacks slung over shoulders, eyes glued to Steve like he owes them money. Steve runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“Okay, first of all, shut up, it’s seven in the morning.”

“Eight-thirty,” a kid interrupts behind Dustin. Tall, sulking, radiating judgment.

“—and second, I thought we weren’t starting ‘til this afternoon.”

“Plans changed,” Dustin says. “We gotta hit the supply stash before the fog rolls back in.”

Steve sighs. “Alright. Just wait in the car. I’ll be ready in ten.”

“Steve, we don’t have ten—”

Dustin’s words cut off mid-sentence as his eyes slide past Steve… and land on you.

His jaw drops to the welcome mat. All the boys go still.

Steve turns slowly, and closes his eyes like he’s praying for death.

Dustin’s brows climb toward the brim of his baseball cap, grin spreading slow. Toothy. Smug.

“Ohhhhhh...”

“Henderson,” Steve growls, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear to god.”

You give a tiny wave, tugging your (Steve’s) shirt lower down your thighs. “Hey, guys.”

There’s a chorus of awkward waves and “hey”s. One of them mutters, “Dude.” Another snickers. One of them clocks the shirt you’re wearing and elbows the others.

Steve slaps the doorframe, loud. “Okay! That’s enough. Show’s over.”

He throws his arms out, herding them backward like unruly sheep. “I’m gonna go shower. And you four are gonna wait in the car. Quietly. Not a word. Not a word. Got it?”

He slams the door in their faces.

Silence.

Then, muffled through the wood:  

“Told you. Pay up. Three bucks.”

“He said they were just friends!”

“She’s wearing his shirt, dumbass!” ⟡ You’re gathering your things while Steve scrambles around like a man late for everything.

“How do you know those kids again?” you ask, watching him wrestle a sock onto the wrong foot.

He glances up, hoodie halfway over his head, the collar snagging on his ear. He flails for a minute before tugging it down.

“It’s uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the front of the house. “Kind of a long story. Babysitting, technically. Mostly just driving them around and… stuff.”

You give him a curious look. He gives you a defeated shrug.

You smooth your hands down your thighs, brushing away invisible wrinkles. “Well I should… head out.”

He pauses mid-step, mid-thought, like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. His eyes flick toward the door, then back to you.

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “I’ll walk you out.”

You fall into step beside him, the hallway stretching quiet and soft around you. Your footsteps are light against the old floorboards, every creak a memory from the night before.

Halfway down the stairs, Steve clears his throat. “Oh, by the way. Robin and I might not be at the center for a couple days. We’re, uh, taking a little break.”

You blink. “A break?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Just a little time off. Thought we could use it.”

“Oh.” Your voice comes out too flat, too fast. You try to soften it with a smile. “Sounds good. You guys deserve it.”   

He nods, eyes darting away.

Your hand is on the door when he suddenly catches your wrist.

“Hey, wait—just—” He swallows. “Just be safe, okay?”

You blink. Out of everything he could’ve said—goodbye, take care, even just a see you around—he chooses that.

Be safe.

The words hit strange and sharp, right in the pit of your stomach.

And it’s not just what he says. It’s how—like he’s holding back something urgent, something he can’t quite voice. Brown eyes wide and earnest, a little desperate, despite the faint smile.

You nod, caught by the strange pull to say it back. “Yeah. You… you too, Steve.”

His gaze flicks to your mouth, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

You’re not sure what you’d do if he did. You’re not sure what it would mean if he didn’t.

But he doesn’t.

His grip tightens on your wrist, just barely, then he lets go.

You open the door. The morning air hits you like a cold splash, bracing and immediate. Too sharp for May.

You start walking.

You don’t look back.

And it's the last time you see him for a long time. ⟡ It’s snowing. Or—it looks like snow, at least. That soft, aimless drift of white outside the windows. But it’s May. Honest-to-god May. The kind of month that should be all short sleeves and sneakers, windows down on the drive home, air thick with blooming wildflowers and fresh grass and the promise of summer. There shouldn’t be anything falling from the sky except pollen and the occasional thunderstorm. Instead, the sky is bleeding white. The specks dust everything in pale layers, delicate as powdered sugar. But it doesn’t melt. Doesn’t dissolve or vanish into slush. It clings. To roofs, to sidewalks, to the back of your denim jacket. Static, dead, silent. The air smells wrong. Tastes worse—bitter and metallic, like the inside of a fuse box after it blows. Like ozone. Like soot. You saw the first flakes that morning from the breakroom window, standing stock-still with a lukewarm paper cup of gas station coffee. You blinked once, twice, watching it drift from the sky. Vickie had been the first to say it out loud, voice pitched somewhere between awe and dread: “…Is that snow?”   No one answered right away. The weather reports called it wildfire residue. Atmospheric ash from a burn zone in the Rockies. Something about a cold front pushing east. Like that explained the blood-red sky and the silence. Like it was normal for white powder to fall from a bruised horizon when it should be seventy-two out and sunny. It should’ve felt apocalyptic. Biblical, even. Fire and ash and bad omens. Instead, it just felt... expected. Like another thing that shouldn’t be happening, happening anyway. Now, you watch it swirl past the window—paper-thin and weightless—while Vickie paces in jittery figure-eights, arms crossed tight across her chest. She’s talking fast. Faster than usual. Words toppling like a stack of dominos. “Robin said Chicago. That’s not that far, right?” You nod slowly, not looking away from the window. “Yeah. Not far.” “I mean, that’s like—what, three hours? Four if there’s traffic? That’s basically a day trip. And it’s not like I’m worried or anything, I just think the whole ash-rain thing is super weird, and I mean, thank god they drove and not flew, because you know I don’t trust planes, but with all the earthquakes and sinkholes lately, you really just never know what’s gonna—” “Vicks,” You gently reach for her hand. Her fingers still. Her mouth does not. “—and I’m not worried, okay? I just think it’s a little irresponsible to leave in the middle of all this—" she gestures wildly toward the swirling white haze outside the window, “—when the town’s basically half-a-step away from being The Day After and none of the phones are working right, and—” “Vickie.” You squeeze her hand, firmer this time. “They’re fine. I’m sure they’ll be back soon.” She looks at you, startled, like she’s only just registered your voice. Then she nods. Swallows. Her fingers tighten around yours. “...Yeah. Yeah, I know.” But you both know she doesn’t believe it. And neither do you. ⟡ The rest of the day passes in slow, mechanical rhythms. You mop the floors, even though you did it yesterday. Vickie reorganizes the lost-and-found bin for the fourth time this week. You double-check the first aid kits. She unloads the canned food drive. You alphabetize them for no reason and stack the green beans into a small pyramid. Outside, the ash keeps falling. Steady. Soundless.   A kid asks you if it's poison. You don't have an answer. ⟡ A week goes by. No word from Steve. Seven days. He’d only said “a couple.” Now, the ash is thicker. Coating the ground and barren tree branches like mold. The sky's turning redder by the hour. And you’re still waiting. But there’s only so many times you can say He’ll be back soon before your voice starts to sound like a lie. ⟡ It happens on a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. You’ve stopped bothering to keep track.

You’re staring out the window again, elbows on the check-in desk, pen loose in your hand. The ash falls like it always does, but your eyes have stopped registering it. It’s just there. Like fog. Like rot.

Like the static of the radio behind you. It’s always on these days, more white noise than words, cycling through one stale public service announcement after another.

“…air quality warnings remain in effect across the tri-county area. If you’re experiencing headaches, fatigue, or blurred vision, limit your time outdoors and stay hydrated—”

“Hey, Mel,” you call over your shoulder. “Mind changing the station?”

There’s a shuffle, a twist of the dial. A burst of static, then—

“…kicking it back a few years with this one. Hope it sends a little light your way. Keep your head up out there, folks. Here’s—”

ABBA.

Bright. Sparkling. Joyous.

The synth line lands like a fist to the sternum.

Something seizes, right under the ribs. Your skin goes cold all over. Pressure builds in your chest, tight and awful.

You lurch to your feet. Knock over a stack of files. Mutter something about checking inventory.

You make it to the supply closet before your legs give out. Darkness swallows you whole. Immediate. Suffocating. Like plunging headfirst into Lover’s Lake in the middle of January—nothing but shock and silence and cold so deep it burns.   Your hands scrape along the wall, desperate for something solid. You're on your knees. You don't remember dropping. One palm flat against the icy linoleum, the other braced against rough cinderblock. Your breath comes in gasps, vest too tight, like cinched wire around your ribs. Your heart is pounding, thunder in your ears. And still—the music. Distant now. Muffled by walls and insulation, but unmistakable. Drifting in on dust and memory. Tonight the Super Trouper lights are gonna find me, shining like the sun… The melody filters in like smoke. Like memory. Like his voice. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. You try not to remember. You fail. Steve.   You see his face. The way his fingers closed around your wrist that day. The way his mouth parted as if to say something important, then didn’t. The light in his eyes, flickering. The silence that followed. Your vision blurs.   But I won't feel blue… You remember the last time you were in this closet. His hand at the back of your neck. His lips warm against yours. That stupid, lopsided smile mid-kiss—like you had all the time in the world. And you’d believed it. You’d let yourself believe that nothing needed to be said. That he knew. Like I always do… You curl inward, folding around the memory. Of his breath against your cheek. The press of his forehead to yours. His heartbeat thudding where your ribs touched. The way you never said goodbye. …'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you. Then, suddenly— The overhead bulb flickers.

Once.

Just once.

A single flash of gold, sharp and fleeting. Dust suspends midair, frozen like glitter in amber.

Your breath catches.

A sudden burst of brilliance. Like a falling star.

Then, with a blink, it’s gone.

Darkness.

Like it never happened.

You sit perfectly still, back against the wall, knees drawn to your chest. Eyes closed. Lips trembling.

“Steve,” you whisper into the dark. To no one. To nothing. “Please come back.” ⟡ You barely notice it at first. Because somewhere between the earthquakes and the sinkholes and the too-frigid air, you’d forgotten what spring looked like. What it felt like. You’d forgotten about soft things. About the gentle, non-violent colors that once bloomed in the world. Forgotten the gold-tinged green of new leaves, the scattered confetti of wildflowers that used to dot the roadside. Forgotten that the world could be alive. You’d forgotten the sky could be blue. But it is, now. Not bruised with smoke. Not streaked with blood-red smears across the horizon. Not coated in the flat, endless gray of ashfall. Just… blue. The grass is coming back too, impossibly fast. Scrappy, sun-drunk blades of green, pushing up through sidewalk cracks. Flowering weeds, thin stems and stubborn petals, clawing their way toward the light. You don’t notice it until you’re driving in your car, halfway to the gym for your shift. When you realize the neon orange signs you used to drive around are gone, fresh pavement over what had once been split open.   You roll the windows down without flinching. Breathe deep. There’s no stink anymore. No rot. No burnt copper taste in the back of your throat, no sour tang you never found the name for.   The air smells like earth now, wet and clean.   You glance up through the windshield, fingers slack on the steering wheel. Still just blue. Still impossibly calm. And for a moment, you believe it. You believe in this strange rebirth, this version of Hawkins that moved on the way it always does, glossing over tragedy like it’s a pothole to be paved.   The radio’s on. Some over-earnest DJ laughing about “the freak weather last week” and how real spring has finally arrived. Like it never really happened. And somehow, you almost convince yourself of that, too. Until it happens.   ⟡ It’s halfway through your shift when Vickie screams. You jerk upright, the sound slicing straight through you. Your heart stutters in your chest, thudding hard and uneven. Your clipboard slips from your hand, clattering to the floor. And then you see her. Robin. Standing in the doorway like something out of a fever dream. Hair tangled, clothes caked with dirt, a new rip in her sleeve. Her eyes are ringed with dark shadows, like she hasn’t slept in a week. But she’s alive. Vickie doesn’t hesitate. She flies across the room and slams into her in a hug that knocks them both sideways. Robin laughs, wet and shaky, but she doesn’t fall. Doesn’t let go. You watch, frozen. Disbelief and something sharp and bright curling in your lungs. For one long, terrifying heartbeat, your gaze sweeps the doorway, searching for what you barely dare to believe. And then— He’s there. And the rest of the room blurs and slips away. He’s thinner now. Paler. There’s a gash on his forehead, blood dried dark down his temple. Fresh bruises blooming across his jaw.     But he’s here. Moving—limping—toward you. And smiling. That smile. Like the very first day. Soft. Almost sheepish. Just the barest curve of the lips. A quiet, hey, you. Your chest tightens to the point of pain. Because even without words, you somehow know. Know that none of this is a coincidence. He limps closer, hands loose at his sides. His eyes flicker over your face, cautious, apologetic, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You just stare at each other for a long, suspended beat. And then, barely above a whisper, you say: “Monster under the bed?” Steve blinks, then lets out a short, stunned laugh. “Yeah,” he nods, incredulous. “Yeah. Something like that.” He’s barely finished saying it before you collide with him. Your arms lock around his neck, too hard, too fast. You hear him grunt, feel the shake of it in his ribs, but he holds you just as tight. Arms around your shoulders, then your waist. His head dips into your neck. He doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, it’s ragged. Barely audible. “I’m so sorry.” ⟡ It’s been three months.

Three months since the earth split open and tried to swallow your town whole.

Since you ran donation hauls out of a high school gym that reeked of antiseptic and grief. Since you shared lukewarm coffee with broken people under flickering fluorescents and learned that, sometimes, the world doesn’t give warnings, it just ends. And you live through it anyway.

Three months since the sky, once the color of a deep bruise, turned back into blue. Clear, bright, impossibly alive.

Three months since Steve Harrington walked into your life.  

And now… it’s over.

The relief center is closing.

You’re folding the last of the volunteer vests into a battered cardboard box. The banners are gone. The walls are bare. The quiet is almost eerie now.

Around you, people are saying their goodbyes like it’s the last day of summer camp. Tired hugs. Quiet laughter. Bittersweet, but not quite sad. Not anymore.

You zip up the last supply bag and let out a quiet breath.

Steve’s beside you, helping with the last of the cleanup, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted with tape residue and healing scars. Most of his bruises have yellowed out now, the gash on his forehead just a pale crescent. Faint pink, one of many.

But there’s that one scar, just under his jaw, that you catch yourself staring at sometimes.

Frowning at, if you’re being honest.

“You’re doing it again,” Steve says, not looking up.

You blink. “Doing what?”

“That thing.” He taps under his chin, smirking. “The frown.”

You huff. “It still looks like it hurts.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t. Not anymore.”

You hum, but don’t argue. He knows what you mean anyway.

You know the truth now, after all.

That the earthquake wasn’t just an earthquake. That the ash wasn’t from any wildfire.

And the monster under Steve’s bed… well, it had a name.

There’s no forgetting it. Only moving forward. Healing. Letting the earth hold you again, even after it tried to break you.

“Oh—hey,” he says, suddenly brightening. “Almost forgot.”

You look over as he pulls something from his back pocket.

“Figured we could listen to this on the drive.”

It’s a beat-up cassette. Label faded, plastic scratched to hell.

You raise a brow. “Harrington, is this a mix?”

He grins, proudly. “Obviously. I make the best mixes.”

You snort. “You listen to REO Speedwagon and, like, one Bob Seger song.”

“Who?”

“Old Time Rock and Roll?”

You sigh at his blank expression. “From Risky Business? You know, the one that’s goes—”

“Ohhh!” His whole face lights up. “Love that one! Here listen:” And before you can stop him, he’s holding a roll of duct tape like a mic. “Just take those ooold records off the shelf—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, already laughing. “I didn’t ask you to sing it.”

But he’s shameless. Bopping his head, rolling his shoulders in a move that barely qualifies as dancing as he starts slinking toward you.

“C’mon! I’m good! Admit it!”

Then he lunges.

You shriek as he scoops you up, arms wrapped tight, spinning you in lazy half-circles while you flail.

“Say it!”

“Steve!” you shriek, laughing breathlessly as his fingers dig mercilessly into your sides. “Put me down!”

“Say I’m a good singer!”

“You’re terrible!”

You grab a handful of his hair in retaliation, ruffling it viciously.

“Hey!” he protests, even as his grip tightens. “What’d I tell you about the hair?”

He’s still laughing when he finally sets you down. Still grinning as your hands smooth his hair back into place.

You let your fingertips linger there, just a moment longer.

His smile softens. “What?” he murmurs, tipping his head.

You shake your head, but your hands find their way behind his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Familiar now, but you don’t think you’ll ever get used to the way he sighs softly against your mouth. Or the way he chases your lips when you start to pull away.

When you finally draw back, your heels touch the floor again, steady.

You lift one slow finger between you.

You rest it gently against his chest, over the quiet, steady rhythm of his heart.

“This,” you say, voice quiet. “This is the best thing about you.”

He blinks, grin faltering. Not gone—transformed.

“…I realized I never told you that.”

His mouth opens, then closes again. His eyes go wide and glassy. And then, slowly, he dips back down to kiss you again.

Deep. Steady. Like punctuation.

Somewhere across the gym, Vickie coos. Robin groans, beaming.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours.

And then he whispers something you don't think you'll ever forget. ⟡ When it’s all done—the packing, the folding, the lingering goodbyes—you find yourself standing at the threshold of the gym.

You stand there for a while.

The space feels strange. Empty without all the cots and supply crates, like a stage after the curtain's dropped. The corners that used to hold sleeping bags now gather dust. Old homecoming banners still cling to the rafters, curling at the edges, green and gold glitter faded and sun-warped.

But it's okay. New banners will go up. New cheers will fill the air. This place will go back to being what it was—a gym.

Steve stands beside you, hands on his hips as he takes it all in.

He exhales, long and slow. “Well,” he says, nodding with quiet satisfaction. “I guess that’s it.”

Without a word, you reach out and thread your fingers through his.

Behind you, the air is crisp and sweet. The sky is a soft spring blue. The breeze carries birdsong and fresh-cut grass. Real flowers bloom along the sidewalk, stubborn and bright.

The world is rebuilding. Not quite fixed, but healing. Bit by bit. Day by day.

“You ready?” Steve asks, grinning down at you.

You squeeze his hand. Turn to face the future.

“Ready.”

You step into the sun together.

a/n: I had a lot of fun writing this one! it feels a little sad letting it go but I hope it brought some light to your day ✨ love y'all, catch you on the next one 🫶

You stamp your lips into his skin in good morning, and again because it’s a satisfying warmth on your mouth. He smells sweet, like your new body wash since he couldn’t find his last night. You decide you like the scent on his skin better than yours. 

The quiet is strange but the farthest thing from unwelcome. No neighbors or roommates or parents to wake to. Just the soft hush of rain against the roof and the swish of your ankles underneath the blankets. 

Your fingers chase the hair from Steve’s eye socket, your thumb perching behind his ear. His pupils shift under his eyelids and he sighs the softest little sound you’ve ever heard. 

It’s cruel to wake him, certainly. He did most of the heavy lifting yesterday and was up organizing later than you were. But you’re feeling especially selfish this morning, tickling him awake with a swarm of several more arm kisses. 

There are worse things to wake up to, you reason with yourself as Steve hums, his fingers curling against the sheet. He’s quiet for a long beat and you decide maybe it's better to let him rest. 

But his lips part and he rasps out, “Mornin’.” 

“Mornin’,” you parrot. Your grin is immediate, spanning ear to ear with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

He smushes your face to his bare collar, the heel of his free hand climbing up his cheek. 

You turn to watch his eyes unstick themselves of sleep and continue to wonder how you got so lucky. You press another kiss to his chin. Another to the coarse thatch of hair on his chest. Another to his shoulder. You just can’t help yourself today. 

“It’s so quiet,” he murmurs, hand crawling under your shirt in a long splay up your spine. 

You beam, weaving a leg under his heavy one. “I know.” 

“We have a house.” 

“I know.” You sound as excited as you can be without yelling. 

He hums, the corners of his smile creeping wider, a hand steady on your back. 

Your finger twists a curl at his nape idly. “What’re you thinking?” 

Steve’s gaze flickers from the ceiling to you, eyes like old pennies under the clouds coloring your room a gloomy shade of gray. “Nothin’,” he whispers, lips skimming the corner crease of your eye. “Just happy.” 

You hum, one part agreement, two parts delight. “Can we get a dog now?” 

He huffs out a chuckle, vibrating the place where your chests kiss. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.” 

“‘Cause you always say no.” 

“‘Cause it didn’t make sense before.”

“So, we can?” 

He has a hard time pretending to hate the look you show him. Your jutted lip and raised brows show no mercy. He wants to say yes, of course he does, but he’s not as impulsive as he used to be. He’s a homeowner. His responsibilities extend beyond just himself now. 

“Can we unpack the house first? Then we’ll talk about it.”

You flick his collarbone. “Excuses. Excuses.” 

If there’s a fond way to roll your eyes at someone, he’s figured out how to do it. Steve knows you’re all drama. And he knows you’re over the moon with or without the promise of a dog. 

You bend out of his embrace and regret sitting the second you’re up. Your back aches twice its weight, muscles sore with yesterday's labor. 

But Steve relishes his view. You're in nothing but underwear and one of his shirts, the dip of your lower back exposed where the hem has scrunched up. He might buy you new pajamas if he thought you’d actually wear them or if he didn’t adore just how lovely his clothes look on you. 

And he doesn’t give you a chance to ask, his fingers automatically massaging a path up your aching shoulder. You squirm but you love it. You kiss his hand in thank you and carry it around your waist to play with. 

“Don’t get up,” he says. Pleads, practically.

You face him. “But we have sooo much to unpack.” 

“It can wait,” he argues. He steals your entwined hands for a persuasive set of kisses. One to each knuckle and then a flurry up your arm. And his hands are an equally convincing force, coercing you right back onto his chest. 

You’re putty, melting into his hot hands like candle wax. You throw a leg over his waist and settle down in a more comfortable straddle. The possibility of you falling back asleep jumps an alarming percentage. 

You bolster your chin on his sternum and meet his eyes. “But I really want that dog.” 

“More than me?” 

You hum debatably into his puckered lips.

He smiles hard and forgets about kissing you, pinching your side until you yelp. Your giggles spill through twin smiles, overlapping each other in layers. “Might have to put the house back on the market if you keep being so mean to me," he says.

“I’ll be nicer if we go look at the shelter today.” 

“Mm. Not letting this go are we?” 

You shake your head.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. “We’ll go–”

You see the shift in his expression before he even says anything. Your eyebrows jump in excitement. 

“If,” he tacks on quickly, “we finish downstairs today. Hmm?” 

“Mhmm. Easy.” 

“Easy,” he repeats. But not one lick of him believes you. It wasn’t easy carrying so many of your boxes yesterday and it certainly wasn’t easy getting you to pack everything up in the first place. 

But ultimately he’s amused. And he thinks you’re especially pretty when you’re confident. So Steve kisses you like he has something to prove. 

He gropes the swell of your ass mid-kiss and while it’s not unusual for him to do so playfully, you can’t perceive it in any way innocent when you’re pressed up against his morning wood. 

“Steve,” you scold lightly. 

He hums against your mouth, a faux sound of innocence. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

You break apart with a wet smack. “Gotta unpack.”

“Have all day,” he says, words all smushed together so he can sew his lips right back to yours. 

“Mm-mmm.” You turn your cheek, but the hands on your waist don’t let you go far. “‘S, like, ten-thirty already.” 

He works a slow line past your jaw, spending extra time on the sensitive skin around your throat. Devious. 

“Steve.” 

“Hmm?” 

You push off his chest until you're sitting upright on his thighs.

His heart tick tick ticks under the flat of your palm. His pupils are wide, mouth kiss-bruised a bright shade of red. He’s so, so dreamy, all flushed and starry-eyed like this. He’s got you wrapped around his finger just as much as you’ve strung him with yours.  

You sigh. “Why do I let you win?” 

He smirks that stupid victorious smirk you love so much. “‘Cause you love me.”

“You’re so annoying.” 

“Me?” he laughs. 

“Mhmm. And a hypocrite.” 

The hand clasping your hip pressures you back down, the other cradling one side of your jaw. “A hypocrite?” he whispers. 

“Mhmm.” 

He fills the tiny space between you, half-lidded and heavy-handed in a fervent kiss. He’s not rough but he is eager. Open-mouthed and persistent like he’s trying to weld his face to yours. 

You meet him with the same intensity. It’s instinctual. The push-pull of your bodies, like you’re more one entity than two. You’ve been dating Steve long enough to know what he likes and what he doesn’t. You’ve made out more times than you can count. And he’s a simple man. You’ve got him hard, properly hard, in a matter of minutes. 

His bottom lip is pinned between your teeth, your chests rising and falling in sync. You grind back on his crotch and his breath hitches. 

“Ahh,” he pants. “Can I…” 

You don’t know what he’s trying to ask but you nod anyway. It’s not hard to piece together, though; not when he’s fisting the fabric of your shirt like it’s causing him physical pain to see you wear it. 

You help him hitch it up your back and down your arms to be tossed out of the way. Steve quickly stops you from lying back down. His large palms spread wide against your tummy, thumbs kneading either side of your belly button. He roves up your ribs attentively, studying how your skin pulls and dips beneath his fingers. 

You swear you feel him down to the divots in his fingerprints, the slow speed of his hands tantalizing. 

His thumbs pause at your breastbone, sweeping up and around your nipples as if he’s never played with them before. They perk up easily, to Steve's obvious enjoyment. 

He’s told you a thousand times how pretty you are, naked and not. And he doesn’t have to say it now for you to know he’s thinking it. 

He stares at your chest, your tummy, the soft stretch of your thighs, each like they’ve been carved from marble, destined to end up behind a glass at some museum he’s never been to. 

You get shy eventually, needling past his hold to hide in the slope of his neck. Your mouth peppers lazy kisses where it can reach. Soft ones, not nearly as greedy as before. You work your way up, suckling long enough to leave a couple of red rings in your wake. 

Steve's hips shift under yours as you arrive back at his mouth. He’s getting antsy, the finger fidgeting with the hem of your panties no longer satisfied. So maybe you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are when he holds your hips down and bucks up into your clothed cunt. 

Your jaw slackens, a broken moan dampened against his mouth. 

“Can be loud ‘s you want now,” he assures. His hands roam, around your ass and back up your sides. Soothing, but so feather-light you shudder. 

“Still have neighbors.” 

He hums in half agreement. Yes, you have neighbors, but their bedroom wall isn’t attached to yours. He imagines you’d have to scream bloody murder for the neighbors to hear you here. 

You slink back up to sit and Steve’s fingers fall to your hips. Your pelvis rolls into his. Again when he shudders. 

“Shit,” he sighs. 

“Feel good?”

His eyes disappear behind his lashes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Mhmm.” 

You continue to work him through his briefs, a slow back and forth forming a hot puddle between your own legs. With one hand propped against his sternum, you force your eyes over to the stacks upon stacks of moving boxes in the room. 

“Condoms… condoms.” 

Steve almost misses your mumbling– and to his credit, you’re talking more to yourself than him– but he blinks out of his daze and sighs vaguely at the nearest box. “Fuck. Bathroom, maybe.” 

Not ideal. 

“Think I have one in my purse,” you remember, swaying heavily to the side to scan the floor beside the mattress. 

Steve’s hands fly to your waist to balance you as he huffs. “You mean your bottomless pit?” 

“Don’t shame me. It comes in handy.” The bottomless pit in question is spotted, half buried under yesterday’s clothes across the room. “One sec’.”

Steve grumbles as you climb off of him. But his heart turns in his chest as you saunter off. His love for you is always there. It’s the shape of you as you crouch, how you tip your purse upside down and fan the contents out across the floor with a hum. 

“Aha.” You pop up, waving a glossy, square packet as you skip your way back. “My trusty bottomless pit saves the day.”

You clamber back on top of him clumsily, planting yourself in his lap like he’s no more fragile than the kitchen barstool. 

Steve groans under his breath. You’ve got him really wound up and his patience is thinning. 

Your hips roll into his again, the curve of his cock a strong silhouette through two sticky layers of fabric. You scoot back on his thighs and palm him with modest pressure. 

“Babe,” he shudders, thumbs pawing the sides of your underwear again. “Please.” 

“So impatient,” you tease. 

You watch him intently. How his nostrils flare the second you break the seal between his hot skin and the band of his underwear. How his eyebrows crinkle together as you push the cotton down his thighs. 

His cock bobs free before you take it gently by the base. Steve’s not just a pretty face, and he’s not cocky for no reason. He’s well-endowed, a dusty shade of pink blended tan into the dark curls at his hilt. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

He shifts his gaze past you because he’s certain if you make eye contact with him this’ll be the shortest sex of his life. And even the half-blurry blob of you in his peripherals is still too fucking enticing. He forces his eyes up at the popcorn ceiling and traces the shapes in his mind. 

You spread the pearl of precum down a vein on the side of his cock, using the slip to tug him a handful of times. The slick dissolves, and your hand catches twice before you’re getting ready to spit in it.  

But Steve whines, “Need to feel you.” 

Your hand stops but the pad of your pinky trails a sneaky line from tip to base. “My hands not enough for you, Stevie?” 

“Not gonna– mm– last.” 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” 

You mean it rhetorically but he quickly shakes his head no. You forget how much you enjoy being in charge until you have Steve squirming under you. 

You stabilize yourself on his chest, hiking one leg up at a time until you’re underwear have been flung to the floor. The slick between your folds is more palpable as you sit back on his thighs, hot skin to hot skin. 

His eyelids flutter closed as you roll the condom on. He’s flushed up to his ears, breath nimble off his open mouth. 

“Ready?” 

He nods like you’ve asked something outrageously silly. 

You guide the head of his cock up to your folds, sinking down in one tedious stride. It’s a good kind of ache, scratching the deepest part of your tummy. 

His hips jerk involuntarily as you release your full weight onto them, his nails leaving crescents on your skin. “‘M not gonna last,” he warns again. 

“I’ll go slow.” 

It’s not much consolation. No matter what you do to him, he’s not gonna last. You’re too damn irresistible for your own good. 

You rock your hips forward and back in a continuous cycle. The pace is indulgent, just slow enough to make things last. Your eyes unfocus, your head tipping back. Every drag squeezes the coil in your stomach tighter. 

Steve’s eyes flick to yours, his voice wavering as he mumbles, “Tease me too much.”

“I do?”

“Mhmm.”

You smile softly at him and his eyes jump away. He’s drawing loopy patterns into the meat of your thigh to distract himself. And it doesn’t help when you cover his hand and sweep your thumb across every digit. He’s so focused on not blowing his load that he can’t even speak. 

You pause your rhythm and hum to yourself before continuing. “Know what I just realized.”

“Hmm?”

“Forgot the shower curtain.”

Steve exhales hard, words sticking to his teeth.“We’ll get a new one.” 

“I really liked that one.”

He can’t think straight long enough to tell if you’re purposely trying to distract him or not and he doesn’t care all that much either way. He just needs you to be the same level of fucked that he is. 

His hand trembles over to your pubic bone, thumb snaking right up to your clit. 

You nod as he presses. Right there. 

He rubs slow circles, a spark of pleasure each time he closes a loop. 

“Fuck,” you drawl simultaneously. 

You laugh, blissfully unaware as your muscles clamp around his cock. 

But Steve’s fingers pause on your clit, his other hand tense at your hip. “Don’t,” he shudders out. 

You close your mouth, a soft little apology grin that sends Steve’s stomach flipping. He’s so fucking in love it’s not even funny. 

“Sit on my face.”

You hum, so high on cloud nine you’re sure you’ve misheard him. 

“Let me taste you.”

Your breath stutters. He’s serious. 

“Come here,” he’s pushing you up and off him before you have much of a chance to process it. “Wanna make you feel good.” 

Your cheeks burn a hot shade of embarrassment, your tongue suddenly too heavy in your mouth. You wriggle up his body, guided by the relentless hands on the backs of your thighs. Steve’s eaten you out, but not like this. 

“Steve,” you manage. 

“What?” He knows you better than he’s known anyone in his life. He feels your shaking and he hears the rampant doubts coursing your mind. “I want to,” he promises, pressing a long, love-packed kiss to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. 

You’re unconvinced. You’re certain you’ll break his face the second you sit down. You’ll be so mortified you’ll have to break up with him if he doesn’t first. You’ll have to sell the house before you’ve even unpacked–

“Please?”

He’s not trying to be pushy or even funny as he bats his eyes. He just so genuinely craves to see you unravel in the same way you’ve spun him around. And yeah, he has a sweet set of brown eyes. Sue him. He loves you too much to look at you with any less adoration. 

You nod emphatically. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve been this nervous about sex with Steve, but you’ve learned just about everything there is to know about him since. You trust him in every capacity, especially in bed.   

He nips his way up your thigh, pulling you lower and lower until his breath is hot on your cunt. Steve licks a wide stripe up to your clit, sucking before swirling his tongue around the sensitive hood. And then his mouth starts lapping you like you’re his last meal. 

Your fist jerks, fingers knotted through the hair on his scalp, and he moans. You don’t hear it over the wet smacking as much as you feel it, the vibrations sending pleasure through you like a pulse. 

His tongue drives you to a mess. He’d push you completely over the edge if you didn’t stop him.

“Okay, okay,” you gasp, pushing up onto your knees. “We’re even.” 

He smirks and strokes down the backs of your calves. “Are we competing?” 

“You seem to think so.” 

He shimmies to a sit with an arm around your waist and bestows you with a fleeting kiss, lips washed with the taste of your juices. “Lay down.”

How the fuck could you say no to such a pretty face? 

You scooch down, face up on the sheets. Steve parts you by the ankles and crawls up your body, planting kisses like seeds. His teeth graze the inside of your wrist before he stretches it up and flat against the mattress above your head. 

Your fingers thread through his, his other hand steadying his cock at your entrance. He swipes the head up and down your wet folds before sliding in with a groan. There’s less resistance this time, a fluid in and out to his hips. 

His thrusts are languid. He indulges more closely in the taste of your mouth and the balmy feel of your waist. 

The winding in your tummy resumes, your fingers naturally finding your clit while Steve rocks into you. A heavier thrust and your lips detach, Steve’s rehoming to the skin beneath your jaw. He picks up his pace, puffing and panting into your neck in short bursts. 

Your legs wrap around his, the heel of your foot digging into his lower back. “Mm– Steve.”

“Yeah?” he huffs. 

“Mhmm.”

If the sounds you’re making are anything to go by, Steve thinks he’s doing a pretty good job. And you know he’s just as close to cumming. You know his little sounds and twisty little expressions like the back of your hand. How his stomach tenses and his breath catches. 

You burn the entirety of this to your brain, rubbing yourself faster, more in time with his movements. 

“‘M close,” he says, desperate and hopeful that you are too. 

You nod, focused on the high climbing higher each second. 

His hips stutter when you clench around him. The coil releases and you come undone simultaneously. 

“Fuck, ah– fuck,” he whines, sharp but breathy in your ear.  

Your fingers slow and his thrusts wane and the pleasure softens. Steve wobbles down onto you as gently as he can, taking your interlaced hand between your bodies. Your hearts kiss with each rise and fall of your chests. Steve mouths over the most accessible bit of skin under your ear, thumb sweeping the gentlest curves around your face. 

You exhale into his crown, raking a hand through the dark mop of curls damp at his nape. Your other eases down his back, savoring the contraction of his muscles as he breathes. You travel down the curve of his ass and give him a firm squeeze. “How’s your ass? Still sore?” 

He huffs at you, nose crushed to your neck. “I fall down one flight of stairs and I never hear the end of it.” 

“I told you to be careful.” 

“I was being– whatever.” His thumb continues to caress your jaw, his lips idle on your neck. 

This is Steve’s favorite part of sex. To hold and to be held, easing off a high that’s miles better than a good smoke. There’s nothing greater. 

“Should I check for bruises?” 

“If you kiss ‘em better.” 

Your chest aches with the sweet swell of laughter. Steve’s your person. You realize it time and time again. 

He peels himself off like you're double-sided tape. His hair’s still crazy despite your finger-combing and his eyes are just as heavy as they were when he woke up. He slides out of you with a hiss, sitting back to knot the condom and toss it toward a pile of bubble wrap. 

He looks back at you fondly. “Shower?” 

You shake your head. “Just lay with me.” 

“Downstairs isn’t gonna unpack itself, you know.”

“Shut up.” You palm his chest until he lays and you throw an arm across his middle. “This was your evil plan all along.” 

Slouched on an ambulance bumper. Split lip. Purple bruise blooming across his cheekbone. Dried blood at his temple. His stupid sailor outfit torn and singed. In short: he looked like hell.

Even now, your gut twisted at the sight of him. You hated that it did.

Steve freaking Harrington. Swagger, sarcasm, smug grins. Always pushing your buttons—always on purpose. For years it was snide comments, eye-rolls, bickering in hallways and backyards and cars during missions. He made your blood boil.

So why were your legs already moving?

He didn’t see you—head down, raw knuckles on his knees, dried blood in the creases of his fingers. You stopped just short, unsure why you were even there.

He looked up.

Your eyes met and everything shifted.

“You look like hell.”

He cracked a smile through split lips. “Sweet as ever.”

You rolled your eyes—automatic, familiar. But your voice softened: "You’re lucky you’re alive.”

His gaze flicked to your fists, tight at your sides. Then, soft enough that you barely heard it over the chaos: "You were the first person I looked for."

Your breath caught. He didn’t dramatize it, didn’t even meet your eyes at first. Just said it like it cost him something. Maybe it did.

“Why?”

That made him glance at you. 

“Because I knew if I didn’t make it,” he said, “you’d never let me live it down.”

You huffed a bitter laugh. 

Steve nodded slowly, then added, quieter now: “And because… I didn’t want to do this without you.”

The air between you shifted again—heavier now. Fragile.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The fire. The sirens. The voices. All of it faded.

All that remained was the stupid sailor uniform, the bloodied knuckles, and the boy beneath it all—the one who used to drive you insane, and now made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to name.

You stepped closer. Just a little.

Steve didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. He just watched you—eyes tired, open, like he didn’t want to miss this moment.

The air between you felt breakable. Like if either of you breathed too hard, it would all fall apart.

“Come on,” you said, voice rough. “Let’s get you out of here.”

He didn’t argue.

You weren’t sure how you got back to his place. Someone gave you a ride, maybe. Maybe you drove. It was all a blur—blood, smoke, and the silence between you in the car, thick with everything you didn’t say.

You didn’t ask why you were the one taking him home. You didn’t ask if someone else should be. You didn’t want the answer.

Inside, the house was dark and quiet. Outside, the world was stained with blue and red. Here, everything still stood.

Steve leaned against the wall just inside the door, swaying slightly. The adrenaline was gone. What remained was weight. You saw it in the way his shoulders slumped. The way he blinked too slow.

“Shower,” you said, voice low. “You need one.”

He gave a faint laugh, wincing when it tugged at his lip. “You offering to join me?”

You raised an eyebrow, but your voice stayed soft. “I’m offering to make sure you don’t pass out and crack your head open.”

“Sexy.”

Still, he let you lead him down the hall.

You turned on the water and found a towel in the cabinet like you’d done it a hundred times before. Like this wasn’t new. Like this wasn’t terrifying.

Steam filled the bathroom, curling between you. Steve slouched on the toilet lid, bruised and wrecked, watching you.

“Don’t think I can lift my arms,” he muttered.

You stepped between his knees, fingers brushing the first button of his ruined uniform. His breath hitched.

“You sure?”

“Just… let me take care of this.” Of you. 

One by one, you stripped away the smoke and blood, his shoulders bowing under your touch. By the time the costume hit the floor, only bruises and bare skin remained—vulnerable, beautiful, infuriatingly him.

Steve didn’t speak—just watched you, jaw tight, eyes searching like he couldn’t figure out why you were being so gentle with him. Why you weren’t teasing, scolding, calling him an idiot like usual.

When you reached the waistband of his boxers you froze, eyes flicking up.

A nod. Barely there. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

You swallowed, eased them down, let the fabric fall to the floor. Then you opened the shower door.

“Go slow,” you said. “If you fall, I’m not catching your naked ass.”

That pulled a huff of laughter.

He stepped in carefully, braced a hand on the tile, eyes closed as water poured down, washing away blood but not what was underneath.

He stood still, steam rising around him, watching you with something raw in his eyes—a body mapped in bruises, cuts, tension.

Then, softly, “Stay with me.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t push. Just stood there, voice low. “Please.”

The softness in it undid you.

Shoes, jacket, shirt—gone in clumsy, shaking motions. Each layer falling like you were shedding the night itself.

Then you stepped into the shower, silent, breath unsteady.

The water hit hot, but not half as hot as what burned in your chest. You didn’t touch him. Not yet. But close—closer than ever.

You reached up, brushed the bruise on his cheek. He leaned into your palm like he needed it to stay upright.

Water slid down his shoulders, over bruises, blood, ash.

“Let me.” Just above a whisper.

A nod. Stillness. Trust.

You soaked a cloth, pressed it to his skin—slow, careful, reverent. Wiping away blood. Dirt. A little of the night.

Silence stretched. Your hands drifted from cleaning to simply resting on his chest, steady, grounding. His hand covered yours—not to stop you, just to hold.

You leaned your forehead against his. Steam curled around you.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“So are you.”

You hadn’t noticed. But with your palm flat on his chest, his heartbeat under bruised skin, you felt every tremor in your own fingers.

“Thank you,” he said. Two words, heavy.

Your throat tightened.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” you cut in. Gentle. Firm.

That shut him up.

You pressed the cloth to his ribs again, slower this time—if that was even possible.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you whispered. “When I couldn’t find you—”

His exhale broke, half-laugh, half-sob. “You think I wasn’t looking for you?”

Your throat closed. No words would come.

The cloth slipped from your fingers, forgotten where it fell.

Your palms spread across his chest instead. His eyes weren’t just tired anymore. They burned with something you’d ignored for far too long.

“You’re here,” he murmured. “You’re really here.”

The words tore you open. "I didn’t want to lose you."

His chest rose and fell sharply. Something shifted, and you felt it—like a wall had broken between you.

He leaned in slow, giving you space to pull back. You didn’t.

Foreheads touched first. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck, water dripping from his fingers, and his lips brushed yours.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t adrenaline. It was quiet, grounding—and somehow, it felt like he was checking if you were really here.

You kissed him back, salt on your lips—water, tears, you couldn’t tell.

When he pulled back, he only pressed his forehead to yours again, breath shaky, warm.

The world outside the water didn’t exist.

Just you. Him. Steam curling over bare skin.

And the fragile truth between you: you’d made it through. Somehow, still standing. Together.

Steve looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Like you weren’t just someone he survived with—you were someone he’d been waiting for.

His hand lifted, fingertips brushing your cheek, pushing damp hair back. You leaned into the touch.

Then he kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t careful.

This time, it wasn’t asking permission.

It was need.

“Sweet as ever,” he rasped against your lips again—but this time it wasn’t sarcastic. This time it was reverent.

His mouth moved against yours, desperate, unwilling to let go. Your lips parted, and he groaned as the kiss deepened. Not rushed, but hungry.

You pressed closer, skin to skin, hands sliding over his chest, tracing bruises you’d just been so careful with. He winced, but didn’t stop you.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded, voice rough. “I am now.”

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you had nothing to do with the water.

“You always do this to me,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw.

“Do what?”

“Make me forget everything else.”

His mouth grazed your neck, deliberate, devastating. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours. He pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, jaw tight.

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

You shook your head. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

Something broke open. His hands claimed your back, your hips, the line of your spine. Every insult, every eye-roll, every sharp word had only ever been smoke.

Maybe, underneath it all, you’d been burning for him all along.

The kiss turned heavier, messier. His hands tangled in your hair, your mouth hot against his. He kissed like he fought—intense, focused, all in.

Steam thickened. Your breath hitched as his lips grazed your shoulder, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp.

“Steve—” You never called him that. Always Harrington.

“Say that again.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Steve.”

He kissed you like the sound wrecked him.

His hands slid down your back, heat trailing his touch. Your fingers traced his ribs, his hips, until he gasped into your mouth—quick, shallow, undone.

His grip on your waist tightened like he needed to be sure you were real.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmured, voice thick.

You let him. His touch softened, reverent now, washing soot and blood from your skin. His eyes tracked every inch like he was memorising you, branding you into him.

You cupped his face, thumb brushing his jaw. He leaned into it, starving for the contact, his eyes searching yours.

“What are we doing?” he whispered.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know. All you knew was you didn’t want to stop—not tonight, not after everything. You wanted something soft. Something safe.

Steve.

You kissed along his jaw, his neck, his chest—his pulse stuttering beneath your lips. His hands kept moving, mapping you, committing you to memory.

The night’s pain began to dissolve, replaced by a warmth blooming between you. A warmth that had nothing to do with the water, and everything to do with letting go.

Letting him in.

Your breaths mingled in the steam; gasps and groans echoing off the tiles. You weren’t in Starcourt anymore. You were nowhere but here. Just the two of you.

You felt your body respond to him, your pulse racing in a way it never had before. Your hands slid down his back, gripping his ass to pull him closer. He groaned into your mouth, hips pressing harder against you.

His hands rose to your chest, tentative at first, then bolder as you arched into him. You could feel him hard against your stomach, and suddenly there was no thought of waiting.

You lathered soap in your hands, then stroked him slowly, deliberately. He hissed, head dropping back, a broken sound slipping from his throat. The sight—Steve Harrington unraveling under your touch—sent a rush of heat between your thighs.

His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing until you moaned. You slipped a hand between your legs—he stopped you, rough and pleading.

“Don’t. I need to feel you.”

You let him take over, his fingers replacing yours, teasing then circling until you cried out. His mouth was on yours again, swallowing the sounds, his rhythm steady and devastating. The pressure built fast, unbearable, and when you came it was with his name torn from your lips, echoing off the tile.

You trembled against him, weak-kneed, but his arms held you steady, his hand coaxing you through the aftershocks until you sagged against his chest.

When you reached for him, wrapping your hand around his length, his eyes locked on yours—dark, undone. He covered your hand with his, guiding your pace until his breath hitched and his voice cracked.

“I need more.”

He lifted your leg around his waist and slid into you in one smooth stroke. The stretch stole your breath, the fullness dizzying. You clung to him, gasping into his mouth as he moved—slow, deep, relentless.

Every thrust drove the air from your lungs, replaced with heat that coiled low in your belly. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching, as if needing to be sure you were there, that this was real.

“You’re here,” he whispered.

You kissed him like an answer, nails biting his shoulders, urging him deeper. His pace quickened, water and steam blurring everything but the sound of your bodies, the ragged rhythm of your breaths.

The pressure coiled sharp and tight, unbearable but not yet enough. Every stroke, every circle had you teetering. His lips were everywhere—your jaw, your cheek, your temple—his voice breaking in your ear as if he was right there on the edge with you. 

You whimpered his name, and he stilled for half a second, forcing you to breathe, dragging it out until you thought you might shatter. Only then did he press harder, faster, relentlessly until release crashed through you, your whole body shaking as his arms held you together.

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And you did—pleasure ripping through you, your whole body shaking as he held you steady. He followed with a groan, spilling against you, clutching like he’d never let go.

For a moment, nothing existed but water, heat, and the hammer of your hearts. His lips brushed your temple, softly.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. The world outside was gone. There was only this—him, you, and the fragile truth that somehow, you’d made it through. Together.

You leaned into him, forehead against his shoulder, his heart racing beneath your skin. The water poured over you both, steady and unrelenting, but the world outside—the fire, the monsters, the fear—felt impossibly far away. All that remained was this: his arms around you, holding like he didn’t plan to let go.

Steve pressed soft kisses—forehead, cheek, neck—each one wordless, reverent. Finally, with a sigh, he eased out of you, setting your leg down gently. The cool air rushed in as you stepped apart, the heat of the shower falling away. He turned off the water, then held out his hand.

You hesitated, then took it. He wrapped a towel around you, and you lifted your arms without thinking, letting him tuck the fabric close. He handed you another for your hair before grabbing one for himself—simple gestures, suddenly heavy, proof of something that had shifted between you.

For a beat, neither of you spoke. Then, without warning, he pulled you close again, grounding you against his chest. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance. Smoke still clung faintly to your skin. But in his arms, it all felt far away.

Time stretched. Silence settled. The weight of what you’d both survived hung heavy between you.

When Steve finally spoke, his voice was rough, quiet. “Come on.”

You nodded, letting him lead you into the dim hallway. The floor was cold under your feet, but his hand—warm, steady—kept you anchored. He didn’t let go, didn’t look away, as if afraid you’d vanish if he blinked.

His lips curved just faintly despite the bruises. “Still not catching me if I fall?” he whispered, echoing your words from earlier. You swallowed, heart tight. “Not a chance.”

In his room, the sheets were messy, the bed unmade. He slid beneath the covers and you followed, curling against his side, bone-deep exhaustion finally pulling at you.

His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, steady, solid. The world outside could wait. For now, there was only this—his warmth, his breath, the fragile certainty you weren’t alone anymore.

Steve’s fingers brushed through your damp hair, his lips ghosting your temple. His voice was soft, wrecked, but with that familiar edge of teasing you knew too well.

“You look like hell,” he murmured.

This time, you laughed—quiet, shaky. “Sweet as ever,” you whispered back, stealing his own words.

His chest shook with a breath that broke somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and he held you like he finally understood he didn’t have to let go.

The fire was over. But you knew you’d keep looking for him—in every room, every moment. And for the first time, you thought maybe he’d already be looking, too.

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.

Until the knocking starts.

Correction: pounding.

Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.

You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.

But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.

Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s brought a car with her.

A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.

Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.

A boy.

Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t know him. Not really.

Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.

But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.

Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.

Poof. King Steve: dethroned.

Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.

You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.

You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.

He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)

But now, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … Up close, he looks worse.

Biblically bad.

Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.

His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

You glance down at Steve.

His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.

You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.

And something inside you goes still. 

These are... bite marks.

Not scrapes. Not scratches.

Bites.

His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.

Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.

You turn back to Steve.

His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.

You kind of hate him for it.

Because you know this type.

Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.

You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.

Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … It takes two hours.

Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.

It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.

Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.

Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.

You stiffen. Then sigh.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.

You stay on the couch next to Steve.

Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.

You stay up.

Because someone has to. … It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.

Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly. 

Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.

But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” you whisper.

No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.

Your throat tightens.

You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.

His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.

You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.

Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.

You pour three cups anyway.

Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.

Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.

Gives his face a little shake.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.

Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.

It hurts worse looking at him.

Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.

You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.

You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.

And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” you warn.

He ignores that.

Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.

Then: flip.

One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.

You blink at it, betrayed.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

And fuck, it lands.

It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.

You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.

And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.

He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?

You raise your brows like, Try me.

You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.

You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.

In your head, you run through the math.

Ten days. Minimum.

Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.

God help you. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.

Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.

Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.

When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.

You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.   

He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.

The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.

Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—

Jesus.

He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.

You get the hoodie off.

His chest is bare.

And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.

You both freeze.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”

He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.

You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re a sadist.

That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.

But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.

You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.

But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.

Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.

You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.

Something twists low in your stomach.

You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.

Your gaze follows it.

The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.

You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.

Instead, you say:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.

But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.

Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.

One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s a long pause.

Then he does.

His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.

The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead. 

It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.

Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.

And that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.

Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.

No, he goes rigid.

His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.

And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.

A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.

You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.

His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.

Then, he leans.

Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.

Like a plant bending toward light.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.

And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.  

You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.

But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.

You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.

And then a quiet thought hits you.   

A hunch, really.

You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.

You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.

Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.

But you don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.

He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.

And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.

At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.

That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.

It wants to lean in.

Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.

Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.

To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re losing it.

You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.

And beneath that?

Yeah.

Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.

You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.

His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.

His eyes flutter open.

And the look he gives you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.

His eyes are still on you.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.

You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

He nods, a little too slow.

You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.

Then you turn.

And you walk out.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

Not with thunder. Not with rain.

With pressure.

The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.

Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.

The moment before it tips. 

It’s here now. In this room.

In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.

The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.

The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.

His voice breaks the quiet.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.

You can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.

You meet him halfway.

His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.

And then your lips meet.

A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.  

Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.

You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.

His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.

Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.

Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.

You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

But you know.

You just… know.

The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.

So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.

Still, you don’t stop. 

You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.

Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.

Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.

You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.

You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.

His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.

You swallow hard.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.

He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.

You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.

He quiets instantly.

Because your hands are on him now.

You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.

Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.

And Steve unravels beautifully.

You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.

Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.

Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.

So you double down.

You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.  

You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.

What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.

You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

And your body breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.

You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.

And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.

And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … You never ask him to stay.

Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … You learn the little things first.

That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.

And sometimes, you catch him staring again.

Only now, you don’t look away.  

You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."

You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.

Then he moves.

Three steps. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

You do.

First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.

Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.  

You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.

He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.

On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.

He’s watching you. Again.   

You glance up. "What?"

He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“Steve.”

“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”

You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”

He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.

“Yeah,” he says.

But it’s not what he means.

You both know that. … The sex changes, too.

In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.

But at night? He’s something else entirely.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.

And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation. 

He knows you now.

Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.

One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.

“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”

You break on his name.

He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.

And afterward, he stays.

Inside you. Around you.

He never pulls away first. … Not all nights are easy.

Some nights, you wake alone.

You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.    

You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.

He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.

When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.

Lets you guide him back to bed. … Your mornings are different now.  

You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.

It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.

The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.

He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.

Like maybe he was meant to be here all along. … Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count. 

Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.

And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t. … Like tonight.

You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.

It would be so easy to stay here.

To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.

But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.

“Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.

“…Do what?”  

“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.

That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.

Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.

You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”

His hand stills.

“I’m not.”  

“Not what?”

“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”

You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.

“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”

He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”

Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?

You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.  

The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.

Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel. 

That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.

Sinks its teeth in. Festers.   

Until guilt turns into remorse,

Remorse turns into habit,

And habit drags on as penance.

So he made himself useful.

Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.

Diving first. Bleeding first.

Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.

That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.

You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.  

“You’re for you, Steve.” 

He blinks, brows knitting.

“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.

Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.

You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You don’t.

You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.   

You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.

You stay up.  

Because someone has to. … You get used to the quiet.

Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.

To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.

To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.

You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.

So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.

Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.

You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.

“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”

Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.

You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”   

You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.

You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”

Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

But his ears are pink by the time you close the door. …

After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.

Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker. 

“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”

Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.

You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.

“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?

You glance over your shoulder.

Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.

You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”

Dustin beams. “Awesome.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:

“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”

The room goes still.

Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.

Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

“No.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”

You blink at him like, Seriously?

He raises his brows like, Try me. 

You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.

He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.

“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”

You frown. “Our what now?”

“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”

You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”

But Steve isn’t laughing.

“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?” … The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.      

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

You wait.

Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.

Fear.

You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”

He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”

“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”

His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”

“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.

But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.  

“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.

“...I just got you.”

The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.

His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”   

He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.

He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”

You smile into his shirt. “Deal.” … It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.

The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.

“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”

You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”  

He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”

“You needed it.”

Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.

He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.

The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.

You let it breathe.  

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist. 

Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.

Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.

That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.

Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.

The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.   

And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.

You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.

He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.

And he’s learning to let you.

You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You hum. “Just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.

You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:

“I was just… thinking about what you said.”

He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”

“At the gate.”

That’s all you have to say. You both remember.

The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.

I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—

You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:

I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.

You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”

“When?”

He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.

“Not out loud. But you did.”

You think back.

To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.

Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.

Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.

Your fingers find his jaw.

“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

And you do.

Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.

And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it. … The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.

But it’s home.

More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.

The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.

Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.

But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.

And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.

It’s just time, now.

Yours.

Together. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.

She meant hearts. You meant bones.

Maybe she was right.  

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

You've named it something else now, anyway. …

epilogue

You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.

You’ve got prep to do for night.

Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.

“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”

You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”

“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”

He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.

“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”

Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.

But for now, it’s just him.

Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light. And the sun keeps pouring in.   

That was a month or so ago, but you carry the horrors of that day still. 

In the vivid nightmares that rattle your bones. In the marred skin of your ankle, hidden beneath bandages, slowly healing with each passing day. And in the strange boy with puppy dog eyes who still hasn’t left your side.

Let me check your leg, Eric scribbles on a notepad. 

His handwriting is slanted and small and hardly legible — fitting for a man whose mind is always racing faster than he can keep up. 

The marker is fading slowly, too, dying from excessive use because the majority of your conversations are spoken through written words on a page. You’ve gone through a notebook or three already.

You snatch the notepad from his grip to write a response of your own. Eric peels the tattered blanket from your body to survey the gauze around your ankle. He peeks beneath the bandage, and his chest pinches at the sight — not because of his sensitive stomach, but because of the harsh reminder of the day he almost lost you.

The paper swishes faintly when you turn the notebook back to him. Okay, Dr. Eric :P, you’ve written in sloppy cursive. The boy grins at the mischievous look in your eyes.

“That’s Doctor Eric Esquire to you,” he corrects in a whisper that makes his accent sound more posh than usual. He smooths the gauze back into place with a gentle hand and says, “You’re healing fine, I think. I’ll have to go out and scavenge for more bandages soon, but these should last for another…”

The sounds of your rapid scribbling fill the quiet cabin. Eric trails off in wait, wide eyes darting from the marker in your hand to the pinched look of concentration on your face. 

He sees a strange sort of giddiness sparking in your otherwise serious features that makes him fearful. Intrigued, yes, but still distantly fearful. All your ideas tend to get him into trouble.

The notebook turns to him again. His stomach does a backflip.

Wanna go on an adventure?

“This is… Not what I was expecting,” Eric muses beneath the sounds of a rushing waterfall. 

His words echo slightly in the expanse of the dank cave. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in full volume, deep and accented and smooth. His pretty whispering annoyed you to no end back when he was just a stranger with exactly zero survival instincts. Now, you never want him to stop talking.

“Well, that’s why it’s an adventure,” you lilt, wiping water from your brow with the neck of your t-shirt. 

Your clothes stick to you in places where the waterfall had splashed you on your way underneath it. The still air of the cave, strangely cool compared to the humid air outside of it, makes you fight back a shiver.

Eric eyes you from a distance, features swirled in a quiet concern. It’s impossible to relish in this little ounce of peace when you have the kind of mind he does — the kind of mind that’s always anxious and always filled with thoughts of you. 

He cares so much for you, far more than he planned to, that it’s made him chronically fearful. He’s grown to realize, since he met you, that the two words are rather synonymous. You can’t have love without fear — and what is there to be fearful for, if not for the ones you love?

“Your bandages really shouldn’t be getting wet, you know?”

You scoff and limp further into the damp hollow. The quiet sound of your steps reverberates within the stone walls, along with the subtle scuffing of your bad foot. “You said I was healing okay, remember?” you huff and drop the basket in your elbow onto the cobblestone.

“I said you were healing fine,” Eric chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” you shrug with a scrunched nose, flashing him a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You turn away again and wince at the distant ache in your ankle when you crouch. 

Sometimes the scars hurt like they’re still fresh, still weeping scarlet and throbbing like a new wound. Eric’s not a doctor, but he tells you that it’ll probably be that way forever. “Phantom pains, I think they call it,” he says in a posh accent that makes him sound more official than he really is. You’re inclined to believe him, anyway.

The boy watches as you sort through the wicker basket you stole — or borrowed, as you claim, “’cause it’s not like the owner’s coming back for it anytime soon.” It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t let him see, like it was some kind of big secret. 

He grimaces when you squat, putting unnecessary weight on a barely healing leg. He knows it hurts, even when you pretend it doesn’t — especially when you pretend it doesn’t. His chest pinches like the ache is his own. Like sympathy pains or something. He worries so much for you that you’ve given him fucking sympathy pains.

“We shouldn’t have left,” Eric agonizes, wiping a pair of anxious hands down his face. He swipes his fingers through his hair and finds the chestnut curls now partially damp. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I mean, what if we have to run, huh? What if we have to—”

“We won’t,” you groan as you stand to full height again. You hold an old quilt in one arm and gesture wildly with the other. “That’s what the waterfall is for. They can’t hear us under here. Nothing’s coming.”

He knows you’re right, but it doesn’t worry him any less.

“How’d you even know this was out here?”

You falter for a moment. A mere blink of a second. But Eric catches it immediately because there isn’t anything about you he doesn’t instantly notice. He’s rarely ever seen you, his silver-tongued girl, so ambivalent. And something about it frightens him.

“I was… on a walk one day… while you were out scavenging—” you answer slowly, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal at all, though you immediately follow it with, “—Don’t get angry.”

Eric’s pink mouth falls softly agape, opening and closing like a fish’s might, while he tries to find the words to say. To shout. To scream. 

“Y-You... You— You left without me?” he stammers, voice booming. 

The words ring across the expanse of the shallow cave, bouncing off the damp stone walls. It’s the loudest he’s heard himself talk since the world ended, and the notion startles him. Like a dog just learning how to bark.

Eric’s breath hitches in his throat as his dark eyes widen in fear. He waits instinctively for the screeching of far-off monsters and their booming footsteps — prepares for an adrenaline rush that’ll give his weak arms the strength to carry both of you to safety.

It never comes. 

The sounds of the waterfall shield you from the war raging outside of it. 

When the panic passes, the anger resumes.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Eric agonizes, quieter now, though the corner of his lip twitches with withheld anger. 

You keep your back to the boy and lay out the contents of the wicker basket. A floral quilt to cushion the stone flooring, two bottles of wine to share between you, several bags of stale chips, and one MP3 player that’s somehow stronger than the end of the world. You pay Eric no mind as he continues to rant behind you.

“What if you’d gotten killed? What if— What if you got lost and I couldn’t find you—?!”

“Don’t shout!” you gripe despite your own booming voice. 

“Why not?” Eric questions with a cynical laugh. “I thought nothing could hear us under here?”

You spin back around to face him, grimacing slightly when your healing wounds start to burn. You tilt your chin in a look of defiance, though your eyes sparkle faintly in the dim natural light — something mischievous and strangely shy. 

“I don’t want you to shout because I put a lot of effort into this,” you answer in a steady voice, lips quirking in a distant smile. “And we can’t enjoy it if you’re gonna be grumpy the entire time.”

Eric blinks at you for several long moments, brown eyes wide like an owl. Only then does he notice what you’d set up for him in the brief minutes he’d been blinded by his anger. A picnic of sorts — fashioned with a moth-eaten quilt, dusty wine bottles, and snacks you’d scavenged and seemingly stashed like a squirrel. It’s about as fancy as you can get in an apocalypse.

His mouth opens and closes again, this time in a quiet sort of shock. “Wh… What?”

“Well, you kinda spent your entire birthday taking care of me, so… I figured we were past due for a celebration.”

Eric’s brows pinch together. A furrow of deep thought settles between them. 

He realizes he hadn’t thought twice about his birthday till now. Hadn’t thought twice about turning another year older, just like he hadn’t thought twice about needing to be repaid for taking care of you. He did both things without thinking. He can’t control his urge to dote on you like he can’t control the existential dread of getting older.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“‘Cause you told me once,” you shrug. “And I keep track of the days in my calendar, so—”

“So, you’re saying that… That you did all this...” the man laughs, gesturing to the cave and the waterfall and the wine. “For me?”

A similar-sounding laugh sputters from your own mouth ‘cause you do it all for him. From going on stupid picnics to fighting monsters from another planet. Everything you’ve done up until this point, you realize now, you’ve done for Eric. You keep on living despite the unfavorable odds for Eric.

“Of course I did. It’s not that big of a deal,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest to shield your bleeding heart. “I mean, you kinda saved my life. The least I can do is take you on a stupid fucking picnic.”

When you turn around again to ease yourself onto the blanket, Eric tries to make out the words to thank you. Not just for what you’ve done here, but for what you’ve done all the days since he found you. Because you’ve saved his life too, more times than he could count, actually — ‘cause that’s just what you do. You save each other and don’t think twice about it because that’s what you do when you care for someone.

He forgot all about birthdays and picnics and what it meant to be alive before he found you. And now that you’re here, you spend every single day reminding him of everything the end of the world begs him to forget.

“I’m— I’m sorry… I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Eric stammers in a sheepish murmur, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I know,” you nod, smiling as you pat the spare spot beside you. “Now stop being weird and come sit down.”

The wine is warm, the chips are stale, and the quilt just barely cushions the hard ground beneath you — but everything’s still somehow perfect. Your MP3 player is almost as old as you are and cracked down the middle, but the music plays just perfectly from its headphones, anyway. 

Maybe it’s perfect ‘cause it’s not perfect. 

Or maybe it’s perfect because you’re here.

You sit side-by-side on the handmade blanket, legs crossed and knees brushing, as you share an earbud between you. Conversation ebbs and flows between snacking. Music fills the silence.

I was sittin’ in a crummy movie with my hands on my chin,

All the violence that occurs, seems like we never win...

Eric tips his head back to down the rest of the cheesy crumbs in the package he holds in a pale fist. His scruffy cheeks jut like a chipmunk as he chews through the mouthful. “I missed this, you know?” he mumbles.

You set the wine bottle beside you after taking a lengthy sip, licking the bitter-sweet grape from your lips. “What?” you wonder aloud. “The wine? The Cheetos? The music?”

The boy goes quiet as he ponders the question. He figures he was talking about you, mostly — this sort of connection between humans, this sort of comfort, this sort of normalcy. The music answers your question in his silence.

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

He nods anyway. “All of the above, actually…”

“You know what I miss?” you wonder beneath the rustling of the Scooby Snacks you dig your hand into. You chuck a cartoon bone into your mouth and find the graham-cracker components have gone soft with time. “I miss driving down backroads… going way faster than what’s probably allowed… with the windows down and the radio all the way up…”

Eric watches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare, unblinking, at the waterfall ahead of you. Clear water rushes from the mountain and falls hard onto the cobbles and the still water below. Rogue drops splatter inside the shallow cave, occasionally splashing you with fat droplets.

The running waterfall cast fleeting shadows over your face, littered now with faint scars. Your features are much softer than he’s used to in the natural light.

“I miss college parties,” he confesses, wiping his palms on his knees.

You wash the dry graham cracker out with another sip of wine and try not to laugh as you swallow it down.

“Why’s that funny?” Eric wonders through his own chuckle, only partially offended.

“I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t take you for a partier.”

“I wasn’t really…” he concedes with a shy shrug, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “But I was a really big fan of karaoke.”

“Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric humors with a scrunched nose.

You tilt your head back to laugh — a pretty, airy sound that echoes within the cobbled walls, only partially drowned out beneath the rushing waterfall. You shift closer toward him when you’re upright again, probably without realizing, but Eric notices. He can’t help but notice everything you do. And he can’t help but lean instinctively closer to you, too.

He can smell the natural scent of you beneath the various surrounding ones — of freshwater, pine, and whatever cologne was spritzed on your shirt before you found it. He can smell the sweet wine on your breath, too, and he quickly realizes that you’re close enough to kiss. If only he weren’t so chicken shit.

The proximity makes his cheeks flush, though you’re not nearly as fazed by it.

“I forgot what that felt like…” you muse in a quiet voice of disbelief.

Eric smiles so hard his eyes squint. “What?”

“I don’t know… just, like, happiness? I guess?” you laugh. “I used to think that was impossible before now.”

“Yeah… Me too.” 

The conversation lulls for a moment. The music playing in your ears takes over: 

—I was standing at a bar and watching all the people there…

All the loneliness in this world, well, it’s just not fair…

You cage your smile between your teeth in a feeble attempt to conceal how wide it’s grown. Your eyes are wide and sparkling, likely from the wine, as they flit between both of his darker ones. Eric exhales a breathy chuckle in response, all giddy and nervous for a reason he can’t name (probably from the wine, too, if he had to guess).

He feels himself leaning in to kiss you before he realizes it. He only catches himself when you pull unknowingly away, reaching again for the glass bottle at your side. His heart drops to his swirling stomach as his cheeks flare a deep pink.

“I’m glad you followed me like a creep for a week straight, you know that?” you confess with a teasing squint in your eyes as you bring the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

Eric scoffs at the memory, which feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once.

He was by himself when the world first fell — a stranger in a strange country, and the loneliest he’d ever been in his life. And, perhaps, the most scared, too. 

Then, all of a sudden, he sees this girl rush out of an alleyway and into a monster-infested street to save a dog from an otherwise unavoidable death. Eric watched from a distance as you returned the scared pup to its owners — a very young couple cowering behind a car, not that much older than you. 

You pointed them in the direction of a military base setting up camps for civilians then went the opposite way. Away from guaranteed protection. Like the safest hands were your own. 

Eric made the quick decision to follow you as you went. He figured if you were brave enough to save some dog that wasn’t yours, and stare death directly in the face while you did it, then you could do just about anything.

He didn’t know, then, that he was making the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pummel me in the face for following you like a creep.”

“I should’ve,” you quip. “But I liked your company too much, I guess…”

“Liked?” the boy parrots, laughing loudly at the turn of phrase. “Is this your way of saying you’re finally tired of me?”

You roll your eyes and hide your smirk behind the neck of the wine bottle. “Do you think I would’ve done all this shit if I wasn’t the least bit fond of you, Eric?”

The question is rhetorical, but you expect a lighthearted quip from the British boy anyway. Your words seem to settle something heavy on him, though. It’s the very first time you’ve admitted out loud, without a shred of sarcasm, how much you really care for him. 

Eric forgets to say anything at all. The cave fills with a loud silence. The steady drumming of the waterfall and the whisper of rustling trees. Strangely peaceful for the end of the world. 

“Wanna know something wild?” he asks you after a few long moments. His accent makes the words sound heavy on his tongue. Your brows raise to egg him on, and he continues, stumbling over himself in the process. “I’m… I’m not happy the world ended, but… I am— I am glad that it brought me you.”

Your breath catches. It’s the most profound thing anyone’s ever said to you, you think. Way deeper than any measly ‘I love you.’ And how are you meant to respond to that? To his confession that the end of the world was worth finding you? There’s no string of words in the English language that could possibly compare to that.

Eric waits for your response with bated breath. He hopes for an affirmation of your similar affection, of course, but a rejection would be better than nothing at all. He blinks at you with hopeful chocolate eyes, then flinches away when you laugh.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, giggling, as you reach suddenly for his face.

You cradle his scruffy jaw between warm and gently calloused hands, pulling him into you with an admirable effortlessness. You kiss him like it’s natural to you — like he was never just a stranger — like you’ve spent entire lifetimes kissing him.

You take the breath from his lungs with little effort. Eric tips his head back and sighs when you swipe your tongue along his chapped bottom lip. The exhaled breath fans across your cupid’s bow, and you smile against his mouth as you clamor gracelessly into his lap — straddling his lean hips and pressing your beating heart to his. 

The earbuds fall carelessly to the ground, and the fading song plays muffedly from beside you:

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

Your mouths click when they part, a subtle sound beneath the drumming waterfall behind you. Your eyes are heavy and lidding as they fall to Eric’s kissed mouth — now a rosier shade, gently swollen, and shining with your spit. A stamp of ownership, almost, that makes your chest swell with pride.

Eric looks up at you with big, wet eyes as his hands fidget on either side of your waist. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages,” he confesses in a low murmur.

A small smile quirks faintly at the edges of your mouth. “Could you maybe say something that’s not super cliché?” you tease.

“How about… I really, really want to kiss you again?” Eric offers in a honeyed tone that makes his accent heavier. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “And that I… I wanna make you feel good?”

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile. Your fingertips are calloused and cold as they toy with the curls at the nape of his neck — tiny chestnut strands coiled in perfect ringlets. Eric fights back a shiver.

“Then I’d say that…” you begin with a mischievous lilt to your voice, wild eyes flitting from his pink lips to his watery eyes. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages.”

You part from him then, taking the warmth of your body with you as you sit on your knees across from him. The rugged ground is hardly cushioned by the thin quilt. You can vaguely feel small rocks digging into your skin, but your need for him is much louder. 

You cross your arms in front of yourself to swipe your t-shirt over your head. You toss the discarded fabric carelessly beside you, then work at the buttons of your jeans — also borrowed, and just a half-size too big for you. 

Eric watches with his heart in his throat. It’s the most naked you’ve ever been in front of him before. The sight of your bare skin, covered now only in the sports bra you’ve had since the world ended, makes his head swim. It takes him a moment too long to realize he should be undressing, too, and he rushes to catch up.

The two of you undress yourselves in relative silence. The sight is hardly as sexy as you’d expect — full of fumbling limbs far too eager to be graceful. Eric’s shirt gets stuck on his chin. Your jeans get caught at your ankle. The tense lull between you ebbs into a symphony of entwining giggles.

With your clothes scattered in abandoned piles, you lay back against the blanket. Eric settles on top of you with a strange sort of effortlessness — like it’s muscle memory to him, even though neither of you has done this for a long, long while — much less with each other. 

The weight of his body is warm and heavy over yours. You slide your hands under his arms and curl them over his freckled shoulders, digging your nails softly into his pale skin to pull him further into you. 

You watch with heavily lidded eyes as Eric brings his hand to his mouth. He slides his pointer and middle finger between his lips, wetting the pads of them with his tongue. You exhale a deep breath when the limbs come out again, glittering in the low light. 

He studies your features with a dark and unwavering stare as he slips his fingers between the lips of your pussy — tracing the velvety lips for a moment before easing them slowly inside. Your eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling. Eric smiles to himself, wrist flexing, as he explores your silky cunt with his fingers. 

“Please fuck me,” you sigh when his palm bumps your swollen clit. Your head tips back as your hips buck upward, all but melting under his touch. “Please.”

It takes Eric a moment or more to formulate a response. You’ve never been so subservient like this before, so needy for him. This must be the eighth wonder of the world, he thinks to himself, as he continues to work you open with unworthy hands.

“Have to get you ready for me first,” he tells you, voice and low gritty, as he exhales a breathy chuckle that fans across your jaw. “Don’t wanna break you, honey.”

You manage a scoff in response. “Well, that’s very presumptuous of you— oh…”

Eric crooks his fingers until the tips of them brush a spongy depth inside you. Your mouth falls agape at the feeling, so foreignly full beneath him. His spit-slick lips curl into a lazy smirk. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve spit a snide remark back at him if his thumb hadn’t pressed so mercilessly to your delicate clit then. The words dissolve like dust on your tongue and escape only as a breathy moan. 

Eric continues his relentless pursuit with nothing but two of his fingers. Relentless, you think,because he’s hardly trying to make you cum now. You’re not sure if he’s just oblivious to how good he’s making you feel, or if he’s pushing you to the edge and jerking you back on purpose. It’s agony either way.

He only stops when his pointer and middle finger start to prune, the pads of them softly wrinkled from your honey. He wipes them off on the quilt like a total barbarian. You would’ve said something about that, too, if you weren’t still trying to catch your breath.

Eric rises to his knees. His bare chest, dusted with sparse hair over the sternum, rises and falls with uneven pants. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs — half-hard, glowing red, and leaking faintly at the tip. His wide hands are softer than your own as they smooth up and down the length of your thighs. His thumbs rub soothingly over the supple insides of them — with a touch almost as gentle as the melted chocolate gaze he looks at you with. 

“Are you alright?” he wonders, all quiet and suddenly shy, like you aren’t all but dripping for him now.

“You’re so annoying,” you gripe with a scoffed-out laugh, rolling your eyes because you’re certain he’s teasing you. Your stomach sinks when the genuine glimmer in his eyes doesn’t waver. You squirm beneath him and his unyielding gaze. “I’m okay, Eric,” you murmur sheepishly, never easily serious.

He nods to himself and swallows hard, still visibly unsure. It makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing. “Stop staring and kiss me, you asshole,” you grouse with a forced laugh, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

Eric’s mouth quirks in an absentminded smile. “Just let me look at you for a second…” he whispers, squeezing the outsides of your thighs with warm hands.

“We don’t have to whisper anymore, dummy,” you tease in a hushed tone of your own.

His grin widens until his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his tongue pokes softly through his teeth. He laughs despite himself and grips his heavy cock in his fist. “You’re so mean, you know that?” he asks, folding your knee back with his free hand. You’re not sure if he’s expecting a real response, but he slips into you before you can give him one.

He fucks into you slow — bitterly, painfully, and agonizingly slow — forcing you to feel every inch of him. His cock is of average length, but girthy enough to stretch you open. You’re suddenly grateful he thought to use his fingers on you despite your impatience, but the two of them alone hardly equate to how thick he is.

Both of you inhale sharply when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, neither exactly used to the feeling. Eric allows you a moment or more to adjust before sliding out again. You exhale softly together in entwining moans that get lost beneath the sounds of a raging waterfall.

Eric thrusts into you again with gritted teeth, trying not to whimper too loudly when your pussy clenches around him. He bends at the waist to hide his face in your neck and exhales all his pathetic moans there. 

He keeps one hand clenched into a fist on the blanket to prop up his weight; his other slides beneath your head to cushion your skull from the hard ground. You grip the boy by his flexing biceps, digging your nails into the skin every time he thrusts into you. Jaw clenched, nose scrunched, eyes squinted — you take his cock without complaint despite the very loud feeling that it’s all too much for you.

Eric is everywhere, and the notion alone overwhelms you. He’s in you, on top of you, all over you. Like the air you breathe. You need him just the same. Not because he’s your friend but because you’re scared you might seriously die without him. 

It’s dramatic at best. At worst, it’s the exact opposite feeling you should have for anyone in the apocalypse, where death is essentially promised for both of you.

Tears prick your eyes at the thought, though you’d rather blame them on Eric’s merciless thrusts. They’re sloppy and unmeasured as he struggles to find a rhythm. He’s similarly overwhelmed by the pleasure. You can tell by the way his body trembles over yours, and the way he buries loud moans into your pulsepoint. You can feel the vibrations of each moan in your veins. 

The way you’re pinned beneath him cages your clit between your bodies. Every time Eric’s lean hips thrust upward and back again, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock brushes your sensitive button. You couldn’t free yourself from it if you tried. You’re not sure if you even want to.

“This is good for you, right?” Eric wonders through heavy pants, voice wavering under the weight of his pleasure. “Please tell me this is good for you.”

Any other time, you would’ve laughed at him, but now you only nod. Rapidly and with your jaw clenched tight. Just as pathetic as he is. 

“’S good,” you promise through gritted teeth as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to tighten. “It’s so good, Eric. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The affirmation makes him moan. Loudly. Enough for you to be momentarily grateful for the cover of the rumbling waterfall. Eric buckles down over you and strengthens his rapid, irregularly timed thrusts with a feeble cry. 

Your own whine rumbles in your throat, falling from your mouth like honey. Your warm skin, now slick with a layer of sweat, begins to buzz. The need for release builds like a dam within you — somewhere deep, right where the tip of Eric’s cock fucks into you. 

Your thighs start to tremble on either side of his waist. Your hips begin to buck despite yourself. You can’t be sure if you’re running from the pleasure now, or chasing it entirely.

“You gotta cum, baby,” Eric tells you through a pitiful whine, face still tucked into your neck. He licks his lips and starts to babble: “I can’t— I’m too close— I need you to cum before I do, baby— Need you to cum right now— Fuck.”

“Is your idea of dirty talk always this pathetic?” you would’ve joked if you weren’t already cumming for him. 

Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan as your head tips back into his palm. Your back arches as you reach the height of your pleasure, pussy fluttering through every wave of it. 

Eric fucks you the entire way through your orgasm — despite your nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulders, despite your velvety cunt tightening around him, despite the very overwhelming feeling that he might burst entirely.

Only when your body goes lax does he pull out of you. 

The empty feeling makes you whimper. Your weeping pussy clenches around nothing while Eric jerks himself off. You can’t see him, but you can feel his wrist moving in rapid motions between your legs. 

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he tenses on top of you. His still body goes rigid. Something warm and wet spits on your inner thigh a second later — a heavy load of his pearly white cum, which he gives you three of before he’s milked himself dry.

Eric collapses on top of you when he’s officially spent. He forgets to hold up his weight, and you deliberately decide not to remind him. You let the man soak in the waves of his pleasure while you strain to reach the wicker basket at your side — struggling for a moment to find the handful of napkins at the very bottom, then using them to wipe up the mess on your thigh.

“Ah, shit,” Eric curses when he notices (his mess or his weight, you can’t quite tell). He sniffles and rolls off of you. “Sorry…”

Your head whips in his direction. You find his face all flushed, glowing red along the apples of his cheeks and the very tip of his nose. His eyes are big and wet, too, glassy like he might cry. 

Buzzing with concern, you rise to your knees, watching intently as Eric reaches for your discarded pile of clothes. You set them aside when he passes them to you and hold his face in your hands instead. His stubble scratches at your delicate palms. Your wide eyes sparkle with concern as they dart over his teary features.

“Hey… Hey, what happened?” you agonize. “Are you okay?”

Eric laughs at himself, then sniffles again as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah… So much for not being cliché, right?” he jokes.

“What happened?” you repeat, giggling this time at his crooked smile.

“Nothing,” he assures, shrugging his freckled shoulders. “I just… I’m just really happy, I guess…”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh of relief as you nod in response. “Yeah… I am, too.”

Eric’s grin widens at your confession. His cheeks speckle a rosy color, like he’s pleasantly surprised by the response — as if his softening cock isn’t still sparkling with a mixture of your cum. 

You meet his smile with a scowl, rolling your eyes as you shove playfully at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble and turn away from him, reaching for your clothes. 

Your body looms over him as you stand, putting very little weight on your scarred leg. You bend at the waist to tug your underwear up your thighs.

Eric shoves his boxers on with a cheeky grin. “I’m really glad I found you, you know that, right? Even though you’re mean to me all the time?”

You scoff and drag your sports bra over your torso, yanking it at the hem to pull it over your breasts. “I’m happy you found me, too, stalker,” you respond in a monotone that would otherwise suggest the opposite. But Eric catches you smiling when you reach beside him for your shirt and knows you really mean it. 

“You love me,” he insists playfully, right before stealing a kiss from you. 

His lips only manage to brush the corner of your mouth in his haste, but he grins wide about it anyway. Your face screws like you weren’t begging him to fuck you ten minutes ago, as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re disgusting…” he hears you mumbling as you turn away, tugging your shirt over your head. 

But to keep up appearances of course, because fuck Hangman. Him making you come on his cock is victory enough he doesn't deserve any more semblance of gratification to his ego from you—you try to rally up your best look of irritation of the words spewing from his parted lips as they trail down the column of your throat.

“Who knew you’d be so easy.” His smirk against your heated skin has you scowling at the ceiling, your fingers tightening in his hair only making his expression deepen and bare his teeth to nip at your neck, making your body shudder against his.

There’s an arm around your waist as his hips buck up into yours, you would think in this position—you on top of him, hand in his hair, your tits that he loves to suck and play with so much bouncing against his chest, your nails digging into his bicep—that you’d have some guise of control. A show of you using him, taking what you want from him. But as it always goes; Hangman is in total control, poised. Playing your body like a fiddle he knows too well, knows how to touch in just the right spot to have you like puddy in his hands. Knows just the right swipe and nip of his tongue against your flesh to have you trembling. That perfect thrust and pounding of his hips that makes you come harder than you thought physically possible.

And, begrudgingly to you, his words know how to fall from his mouth and land on the core of your want that has you rolling your eyes in pleasure instead of annoyance, your pussy clenching around him.

And fuck does he know it.

You don't need to try to give it away, to hide it. Everything you felt for him, because of him, dripped from your body like a plentiful stream of scowls, moans, and whimpers. Hangman drinking from you like a man discovering new land; conquering you as his own personal source of repartee and pleasure. This little dynamic the two of you had was vicious and teasing on the outside for those looking in. But behind closed doors there was nothing but raw sexual tension and lust that always knocked you for a loop and had you thinking ‘why him?’

Out of all of the other pilots who you could stand, why had you went and fucked Hangman?

And why can’t you give it up?

An answer simply answered by his thumb pressing itself onto your clit, the slow-hard circles he rubs into it making your moans come out more weak, more frequent and loud; Fuck, he made you feel so good, too good. Not fucking him would feel worse than not fucking him.

“Oh, baby, how many times will this make it?” You don’t have to open your eyes, you can feel the wattage of his cocky smirk through your lids, “for someone who claims to hate me you come on my cock an awful lot.” His teeth nip at your chin, “I think you should thank me. Say ‘thank you, for making me come, Jake.’”

Jake. Not Hangman. Jake.

You’ve been fucking for so long you’ve dropped callsigns. So long, that the bite behind you saying his name has morphed itself into its own callsign of pleasure the both of you un-admittedly enjoyed; if the way his cock twitches inside of you each time it falls from your panting lips is anything to go by.

“Fuck off.” You groan in the farthest thing from indignation.

Hangman chuckles cockily, his hot breath against your skin as the assertion from his hold on you and the stamina of him having the strength to continue the steady—incessant—thrust of his cock in your cunt, makes the fluttering around his length turn into that vice like clenching; you’re so close again.

“That’s the attitude that got you in this position. Thinking you have everyone fooled, walking around callin’ me names. Being so cruel, when we all know how much of a slut you are for my cock.” He grunts against your lips, “You’re a bad liar, sweets. But if you’d like to keep pretending that you don’t love me, that you don’t love coming on this cock, then I can gladly,” he moves his thumb from your clit grinning, “stop.”

“Jake.” You groan in frustration, the daggers in your eyes as you look down at him making his grin grow into that frustratingly smug stretch, that you hate to love so much.

God he’s so annoying.

So breathtakingly annoying; his emerald eyes filled with a desire hot enough to burn through you, his smirk just as singeing—if not more.

Fuck you hated him.

“If you want to come you know what to do.” His hand moves to the back of your neck to close that sliver of distance between your lips, as he pulls you down the rest of the way. And just like the rest of him; his lips are perfect, his tongue filling your mouth the cherry on top of said perfection. “Ask me nicely,” he smirks.

And you really really want to tell him to fuck off. But he’s fuckng you so excruciatingly slow that it has your insides flip-flopping with too much intimacy, you need him to go faster. Need his fucking to match the cockiness of his words before you do something crazy like moan for him in the weakest whimper to “make me come, please, Jake, please.”

You felt as though your whole world had stopped spinning, but the bustling chatter from the crowd downstairs reminds you otherwise.

Panic slowly begins to set in, and you find yourself second-guessing your actions before turning on your heel and motioning back towards the door. Only to stop when you feel the cool metal of the handle between your fingers.

You weren't entirely sure what you wanted to say to Rafe, but you knew you had to say something.

"Is that really all you have to say?" Your voice is shaky as you grit your teeth, your fist softly pressing against the wooden door before turning back to him.

Rafe slowly looks to you. His eyes reddened from the alcohol he had consumed, but at least this time, he doesn't look away. He stares you right in the eye, and with a slight slur in his words, he extends his arms out and says, "What were you expecting?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe you could start by telling me why you've been avoiding me all day? Declining my calls and ignoring my texts?" You bite down on your lip, fighting the mixture of anger, bewilderment and distress that was coursing through you.

"I don't know what you're talking about," He shakes his head, a smug smile on his lips.

"Don't lie to me!" You exclaim.

Your sudden outburst spreads fear in his eyes. "Shh! Do you want someone to hear you?" He whispers loudly, waving his hand at the door out of frustration.

"Well, I'm clearly not getting any answers from you. Maybe someone else will?"

He takes a seat on the bench in the middle of the room, heaving a sigh as he does. He pulls his gaze away for a moment before burying his face within his hands, his leg bouncing slightly with nerves. Despite the annoyance you were feeling towards him, you could see that something was really bothering him.

"I can't..." He exhales, shaking his head. "I can't let this... us... you jeopardise everything."

A sigh of disbelief falls from your lips as your brows inch together. "Might I remind you that you were the one that asked me to stay last night? You were the one that initiated it, and you were the one that risked us getting caught. So don't for a second think that I'm going to take the blame for whatever repercussions follow."

"I know, okay? I know that this is all my fault." He says flatly.

"Well, there's something else you need to know," You admit timidly, knowing full well that what you were about to tell him was really going to make him want to bite someone's head off. "Sarah knows..."

His head snaps in your direction, and you watch the fear in his eyes multiply as he swallows hard. "What do you mean 'Sarah knows'?"

"She, uh, she heard me last night when we were... y'know," You knew you shouldn't have, but you couldn't stop the slight smirk from tugging at the corner of your lips as you recall the way Rafe had made you feel the night prior. "She doesn't know it was me, though. Just that you had a girl in your room."

"Fuck," He bellows, pushing himself back onto his feet and starts pacing. He brushes his hands through his hair, letting them stop at the back of his head as he takes in a deep breath.

Then, out of nowhere, he slams his fist into one of the lockers. The blow causes you to jolt back in shock as you let out a yelp. Silence quickly fills the room as you take in the boys reaction, and you're left wondering why he was so adamant about keeping you a secret, if not just for the fact that you were a pogue by choice.

It was the first time you had ever seen him so angry, so frightened, and not just at the situation, but at himself too.

Rafe was no angel, in fact, he was far from it. But he had never once shown this sort of aggression in front of you before, and it only made you worry even more about the consequences of people finding out.

His face contorts into a series of different emotions as he leans his head against the locker. The regret he felt was evident in his actions and the look on his face. He hated the fact that he had let himself be vulnerable with you, something he had sworn he could never do, and now it was coming back to bite him in the ass.

"Rafe..." You approach him cautiously. Not because you were scared or worried that he would hurt you, you already knew he would never, but you didn't want to startle him. He was deep within his thoughts, mumbling words of deprecation to himself. "Rafe... it's going to be okay."

"How? How could we possibly know that?" He tilts his head to the side, jaw tightening once again. "How the hell are we-"

Rafe is interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing in the hallway outside, followed by multiple voices. He quickly urges towards you, clasping a hand firmly over your mouth and a tiny gasp escapes.

However, despite the security outside, his sudden closeness doesn't go by unnoticed. You want to move, to pull away, but his gaze is binding you to him, and a shaky breath leaves your lips. Just loud enough for him to hear as his eyes flicker across your own.

He raises a finger to his lips, gesturing you to be quiet, and you simply give in and nod as you wait.

Eventually, the footsteps recede, and so do the voices. Rafe heaves a relieved sigh, lowering his hand, but the intensity of his gaze remains. And still, neither of you dare to move.

It took you until then to notice that the two of you were panting quietly, and with each breath, your bodies pressed against each other with the remnants of adrenaline lingering in the air. You weren't entirely sure when Rafe had put his hands on your waist, but they held onto you with such urgency that it felt almost desperate.

"Rafe, what are -" You almost choke on your words, but before you could get another out, he interrupts you by pressing a hard impassioned kiss to your lips. You're too shocked to reciprocate, and he pulls away before you can even think to do so yourself.

A shiver of anticipation runs through you at his touch, and after a moment, you meet him halfway in another heated kiss. The second your lips touch, you feel sparks exploding in your chest, and you lean into it more as Rafe responds with more intensity.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, he runs his hands down your hips as he backs you into the lockers. Hoisting up one of your legs, he lets it curl around his waist, igniting you with ecstasy. Your body feels electric as he leans into you, and you kiss him with a smile.

"Y/n," You hear your name in the back of his throat, and suddenly your mind runs away from you, idly, reminding you of why you had risked getting caught to follow him up the stairs in the first place, and you're enveloped with irritation.

"Wait, Rafe. Stop," You turn your face away from him, and he's quick to respond. He pulls himself away just as you had asked despite the confusion laced in his features. "I can't do this. I can't - I can't keep letting myself fall into your trap."

He backs away for a beat, opening his mouth to speak but closes it as you fix your dress and make yourself decent again. You look to him with a softening expression and say, "I need to know why you did it. Why did you ask me to stay if you were just going to leave? Was it because of me? Were you ashamed of waking up beside me?"

"What? No - that's not..." Rafe immediately tries to shut the accusations down and his brows furrow with denial.

"Then why? Was it all just a part of your plan to mess with my head?" He reaches for your hands, but you pull them away before he can make contact and sniff back the tears that had pooled in the corner of your eyes. "Do you have any idea what it felt like for me to wake up alone in your bed?"

"Y/n, I-"

"Or to make me think that somewhere deep down, you might actually feel something for me only for you to hurt me even more?"

"Fuck, Y/n. No. I don't know - I don't..." His fingers trail across his brows nervously as he begins pacing again. "You just... You get inside my head, and then I can't... I can't stop thinking about you, and it's killing me, okay? But, we can't... I can't-"

"Can't admit that what's going on between us is real?"

His eyes widen in what you can only assume to be recognition, "Y/n, you know that I can't do that. It wouldn't be-"

"Don't you dare tell me that it wouldn't be safe. I am tired of feeling like the dirty laundry you kick under your bed. I want to be with you, Rafe, but I can't do that unless you finally admit to yourself that-"

"Please, Y/n. Stop," His voice comes out softer, a pained expression on his face.

You always knew that Rafe struggled when it came to Ward, but you also always had a hunch that something bigger was going on than just a son wanting to impress his father. It's why Rafe had been so set on you being a secret.

"You want me to stop? Fine. I'll stop..." You pause for a moment. "If you can look me in the eye and tell me that everything we've been through, every late-night confession, every secret, every intimate moment, meant nothing to you. Because the only way that I am ever going to be able to let this go is if I know there's nothing left to hold on to."

Where you expected Rafe to look you in the eye and tell you to your face that your time together and the feelings he swore he didn't have for you was all nothing but a figment of your imagination, he doesn't. Instead, he sighs loudly and runs his hand through his hair as he clenches his eyes closed.

"Just say it, Rafe. Tell me that none of this was real, and I'll leave you alone. For good."

"I fucking can't, okay!" He retorts, smothering his face with his hands.

A relieved sigh falls from you at the same time the locker room door bursts open and in walks one of the security guards. He stares at the two of you, taking in your appearance with a smug smirk on his lips before pressing a button on the walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder.

"You were right. I'm bringing them down now." He says into the small device before gesturing for the two of you to follow him out the door. "Alright, you two. Let's go."

"Listen, I don't know if you know who my father is, but if this doesn't play out discreetly, then there's going to be a lot of issues." Rafe steps towards the man, and he eyes the boy up and down before eventually nodding.

Rather than leading you back downstairs, the man lets the two of you leave unaccompanied. Rafe strolls out of the room and towards the stairs, but you quickly match his pace.

"Rafe, we-"

"Not now. I'll call you later." He cuts you off, grabbing onto your arm and coming to a standstill in the middle of the staircase. You couldn't believe it. After what had just happened upstairs, he was going right back to how things were before by pretending you didn't exist when everyone else was around.

"You're unbelievable," You pull your arm free and head down the rest of the stairs alone and just when you think you've successfully returned to the party without anyone the wiser, you see Sarah, JJ and John B waiting just across the hall.

"Hey, where did you run off to? Kie and I were looking for you everywhere." Sarah exclaims, oblivious to the fact that her brother was only ten steps behind you.

The panic coursing through you was like nothing you had ever felt before, but you had to play it cool. "Yeah. I just needed to freshen up, and the line to the bathroom was too long. Why don't we go and-"

"Holy shit," JJ says, his gaze focused just behind you, but you didn't have to turn around to know that it was Rafe they were looking at. The worst part was that if JJ could figure it out, then you had no doubt that the others had too.

"Oh my, god. You found her!" You hear Kie's voice as she and Pope rush up the hall. "Hey, what are you guys... looking at..." Her voice fades as she too takes in the sight of you and Rafe.

Despite your promises that everything was going to be okay, you knew your greatest fear and nightmare had just become a reality.

And as if it weren't bad enough having to attend such an insufferable night, being subjected to Ward Cameron's voice as it lingered in from outside was the icing on the cake. He was wooing the crowd with his rich-people talk and manipulative charm. Which was all to be expected. Though, unlike most of the guests, you pay him no mind as you float through the mass of people, relentlessly trying to find your friends.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd have mistaken you for a kook," A voice says from behind and when you turn, both Kie and Pope are stood there smiling at you.

Letting out a relieved sigh, you pull the two of them into a hug, "Oh, thank god. I was worried I'd actually have to talk to these people."

"I don't know. I think you would manage dressed like that," She reaches for a part of your dress and you playfully slap her hand away before the three of you fall into a peal of comforting laughter.

"Yeah, you’ve certainly made an impression tonight." Pope crosses his arms.

"Who can blame them, she looks... hot," Kie playfully smacks Pope on the arm.

Rolling your eyes, you say, "Oh, stop it."

Whilst flattered by your friends' compliments, the moment quickly becomes bittersweet as you remember the reason you'd worn something so out of your comfort zone. In short, the dress was meant for Rafe. You wanted to surprise him. Let him know that on the odd occasion you weren't opposed to trying to fit in with his world.

Plus, when you bought it, you had every intention for it to end up on his bedroom floor.

It was backless and draped down to your ankles, flourishing at the bottom as it split down your thigh. And the only thing keeping it in place were the two thin spaghetti straps that crisscrossed over your shoulders, letting the material dip just above the small of your back. It was a moss green silk-like material, a colour Rafe had once complimented on you.

Though, now when you thought about the night that could've been, you were suddenly feeling very naked. And this only intensifies as the crowd around you grows bigger. You suddenly become aware of the eyes on you, the ones Pope had pointed out, and protectively wrap your arms around yourself.

"We should probably go rescue Sarah from her kook duties before she crosses back over to the dark side," Kie says as more of a command than a suggestion and both you and Pope agree.

However, it's not until she had almost dragged you out to the back patio that you catch sight of an all too familiar face and the same tousled hair you had been running your fingers through less than twenty-four hours ago.

There he was.

Stood between Topper and Kelce, looking as handsome as ever in a suit Ward had picked out, no doubt. The powder blue reflecting against the sapphire in his eyes, and in that moment it was as if time stood still as your gaze fell upon each other. A surge of panic courses through you as you suddenly realise just how badly you wanted to be with him, how attached you had grown to being in his arms, but mostly, how scared you were of the thought of losing him.

The breath in your throat hitches as he takes you in, his eyes softening for a moment before his jaw tightens and he looks away. Not daring to give you another second of his time as he scopes his surroundings, cradling the glass in his hands as he pretends he was actually interested in any of it. In anything, as long as it wasn't you.

"You okay?" Pope asks after noticing you had stopped for a second, and you click back to reality, nodding your head and giving some excuse about your shoe getting caught underneath your dress.

Outside, Ward's voice only gets louder, practically consuming you as you spot Sarah in the middle of the dancefloor. The three of you wave her over and after checking to see where her father was, she discreetly makes her way towards you.

"Oh, my god," She groans, shaking her head and gives you a hug. "It's been an hour and I have spoken to like thirty different people. You guys look stunning, by the way."

"How's the whole 'mystery girl' thing coming along?" Kie raises her brows with curiosity.

Sighing, Sarah frumps herself down on a chair in a quieter area of the party, watching as it unfolded before her, "It's pretty much a bust. He hasn't spoken to anyone except Topper, Kelce and a few of the other guys. And the girls... he just brushes them off.”

"Wait, you're actually trying to find this girl?" You ask, fighting to hold back the panic that had ignited in your stomach as your conversation that afternoon comes flooding back.

"There she is!" The blond hollers, making your presence known. "We were beginning to think you ditched us for the kooks after all."

"Please, I could never do that to you, JJ," You wink, pushing open the outer wire door of the Chateau. "I see you three have bounced back nicely."

"You know it, baby!" John B says, a smirk splayed across his lips.

It amazed you how fine they all seemed while you were still dealing with a slight pounding in your head from the previous nights' bonfire. Then again, pogues knew how to party better than anyone, and they were certainly living proof of that.

JJ offers you a sip of his beer as you sink into the chair beside him, letting your head fall to rest on his shoulder and he instinctively pats your thigh with comfort. After the morning you had, getting a little buzzed with your friends seemed like the perfect way to get your mind off of it all.

It was stupid, really, of you to think that Rafe would ever change his ways, and yet, you still held onto the idea of him perhaps feeling something for you with a little bit of hope. Even after you had awoken in his bed, alone, with the sun beginning to peek through the clouds, you tried to tell yourself that his abandoning you was nothing.

"I'm telling you, it was so loud," Sarah exclaims as she and Kie push through the front door, giggling to one another as they join the rest of you.

"Yep, I did not need that image in my head. That is - repulsive!" Kie retorts, her face scrunching with disgust.

John B reaches for Sarah's hand and pulls her into his lap, "What was so loud?" He mimics.

The two girls share the same disturbing look before the blonde ultimately decides to spill, and leaning into the group, she says, "Last night after I got home... I went to see if Wheezie was awake, and when I was leaving her room, we heard a girl... with Rafe."

The second the words leave Sarah's mouth, you almost choke on your drink knowing that it was you she had heard last night and the idea of your friends finding out about you and Rafe suddenly consumes your mind. Your skin crawls at the thought as an overwhelming shadow of dread looms above and your blood rushes to your cheeks as the hair on the back of your neck stands with fear.

"What? Like talking?" Pope queries.

"No, dummy," Kie scoffs, shaking her head with a lazy smile.

Sarah snickers lightly, clearly amused and somewhat puzzled by her new discovery. "I've never seen Rafe bring someone home before. Not even Topper or Kelce. I mean, he's literally always walking around with a stick up his ass saying 'relationships are only a cause for distraction' or 'attachments only make you vulnerable to loss’."

JJ leans forward, his curiosity getting the better of him, and wiggling his brows, he asks, "Do you know who she was? Was she hot?"

You bite down on your lip, waiting for Sarah to answer the question. Each and every fleeting second feeling like a million as the anticipation builds inside your stomach.

"I had to go do some last-minute shopping with Rose and Wheezie this morning, and whoever she was, she was gone by the time we got back," Sarah rolls her eyes.

An inaudible sigh of relief escapes you, and not just for your sake, but for Rafe's too. Not that he particularly deserved you trying to protect him after leaving you high and dry. He hadn't even answered your calls or responded to your texts, which wasn't like him. Not when it came to you.

It was like he had dropped off the face of the earth... your earth...

... either that or your fears had manifested and he really was avoiding you.

"Well, whoever she is, she clearly has no respect for herself if she's getting caught up with the likes of him," Kie says, raising her brows for emphasis.

You knew that you shouldn't have let her words get to you, being that she had a burning hatred for the boy, but the fact that she didn't know it was you who had been sleeping with him only meant that she was speaking the truth. But somehow that seemed to make it worse.

Maintaining a secret non-relationship with Rafe Cameron, of all people, was never going to be easy. That much you already knew. Between the constant lying to your friends and sneaking around behind their backs, plus his unpredictable behaviour. It was hard enough, without having your friends talk about you, and degrade you, unknowingly.

"Just because she's with Rafe doesn't mean she has no respect for herself," The words slip from the tip of your tongue, and when you look up, everyone is looking at you. Each of them just as confused as the other. "I'm just saying, we don't know what goes on behind closed doors."

"Maybe she's keeping it a secret because she's actually embarrassed to be seen with him?" Sarah exclaims, somewhat excitedly.

"Or it's strictly physical?" JJ adds and nods his head with approval.

Sighing, you say, "I'm serious, guys. I get that Rafe is literally the last person we should be 'nice' to-"

"You got that right!" John B cuts you off, earning himself a couple of cheers in agreement.

"-But that doesn't mean that this girl deserves to be outed because of him."

"Since when do you care so much about the kooks? Let alone, Rafe Cameron?" Kie asks, almost accusingly and her brows inch together.

"I don't. I just-" You pause for a moment, trying to keep your nerves from completely overthrowing you. Taking one more look around at your friends, you could see that the hatred they held for the boy you loved was simply too strong to bypass your reasoning. They had every right to feel the way they did, but unfortunately, they didn't know him like you did. "- Just... forget it."

With a defeated smile, you take a huge sip of your drink as the conversation continues around you. You tried to drown it out by focusing on the water in the marsh or the wind chimes that hung in the corner, but despite your best efforts, you kept being brought back to the topic at hand. If not by your friends, then by your own mind.

The rest of the afternoon remained this way: with your friends participating in conversations and indulging themselves with multiple 'juice boxes' while you slipped in and out of focus. You were sort of relieved when you had to go home, only to remember the unbearable night that awaited as you pulled on the dress your mother had let you pick out.

Now knowing that your friends were keeping an extra careful eye on Rafe, your plan to try and get him alone seemed less and less likely. Maybe it was for the best. Seeing him, even for a split second, he looked happy. Okay, even. As if last night had never happened and he hadn't blatantly been ignoring you.

Perhaps this was all some sort of premeditated idea and he was just looking for one last rendezvous before ending things? You didn't want to admit it, but you wouldn't put it past him either.

"I need a drink," Kie announces, spinning on her heel. "Does anyone else want anything?"

"I'll come with," Sarah responds and you shake your head, not really feeling the party mood. They tell you they'll be right back and you watch as the two of them head to the other side of the club.

After a couple of minutes, Pope leaves you too. Having to get back to his dad before he got in trouble. You soak in the silence as the cool island air washed over you, nipping at your skin slightly but relaxing you nonetheless.

It was a strange feeling - being surrounded by a hundred people but also feeling so indifferent... so alone.

Inside, you could see people mingling and enjoying their night. Whether they were self-indulgent vultures, or not, it didn't matter. They still had somewhere to belong. Though, your interest is piqued when you see Rafe again. This time he was by himself just inside the club doors as a girl follows him, trying to talk to him, but he doesn't look even the slightest bit interested.

"Well, look at you," Topper stands right in front of your view before leaning back for a second and taking in your dress.

"Hey, Topper," Your words come out a little shaky and you try to peer over his shoulder but there was no use, he was simply too tall.

"Y'know, for someone who denies themself of all this," He gestures to his surroundings. "You sure know how to look the part." He smirks, biting his lower lip slightly.

Letting out a soft chuckle, you shake your head.

"No. Seriously. You look - you look great, though." He smiles, and for a second you could've sworn there was a flirtatious hint in his tone.

"Thanks, Top," You extend your arm and give him a friendly nudge at the same time you see Rafe had moved towards the staircase inside.

Immediately, your eyes rapidly scan the outside area for your friends and when you see them still waiting for their drinks, you knew that this was it. This was your chance to finally confront Rafe and demand he tells you why he had been acting so weird. Why he had left you after being the one to initiate you staying over and why he had been ignoring you because of it.

"Hey, do you want to-"

"Sorry. Hold that thought. I have to quickly use the bathroom, but I'll be right back." You get your words out hastily, barely giving him a moment to answer before you were rushing off back to the club.

Weaving your way through the crowd, you give the room a quick glance before cautiously heading up the stairs. Being that it was out of bounds for the night, the last thing you wanted was to get caught with Rafe. It was risky, extremely risky, but you were desperate for answers and it seemed that this was the only way you were going to get them.

Tiptoeing so to not alarm anyone, you check all of the rooms before reaching the men's change room. It was a daring move but again, you were desperate. You push the door open and stepping inside you see that you were right to think he was in there.

Leaning against the window with his back to you as he watches the crowd below, he throws back the rest of his drink before letting out a heavy sigh. It took everything in your power not to run to him, but you needed to stay strong.

With your heart beating a million miles an hour, and your stomach churning with nerves, you quietly close the door behind you. Then, with a shaky breath, you swallow the ball that had formed in your throat and open your mouth to speak, only to have him beat you to it.

"You can't be here."