y

The conversation about children stayed untouched. Not avoided, not denied — just… gently set aside, left somewhere between you, waiting. And while you tried to make peace with it — with your body, with what it meant — Steve stayed close and patient, without pushing or rushing you. 

It wasn’t always easy, though.

Because the thought never truly left you, feeling it in small, unexpected moments. A woman passing by with a hand resting on her stomach. A baby crying softly somewhere nearby. A stroller rolling past. Each one was like a quiet reminder of something you couldn’t quite look at directly. School wasn't any easier. You spent your days surrounded by children—laughing, arguing, running through hallway — and sometimes it hit you so suddenly you had to pause, just for a second, and take a breath before moving on.  But the worst moment was when someone you knew announced they were pregnant. Because before happiness could come, before excitement or congratulations, you felt a sharp drop in your stomach. A flash of jealousy so quick and ugly that it made you feel ashamed. For a split second, thoughts crossed your mind that you immediately wished you could take back. That they didn’t deserve it. That it should’ve been you instead. Then guilt followed just as quickly. You swallowed it all down, forcing a smile onto your lips. You congratulated them, asked questions you didn’t really want the answers to and nodded in all the right places as you listened to nursery plans, baby names and ultrasound stories.

And you got good at that.

But when you got home, where no one was watching, everything came out, quiet at first, then all at once. You cried in the shower where your tears mixed with the water, or laying on the bed with your face buried against the pillow. 

But never in front of Steve. He was still recovering from the accident and you didn’t want him to suffer even more and to make everything worse. 

Again. 

Sometimes, you caught him watching a father with his child after baseball practice or a family crossing the street together. His gaze lingered just a second too long, his expression almost nostalgic, making your chest tighten. Every time he noticed you looking at him, he smiled or squeezed your hand. Like he knew what you were thinking. Like he wanted to reassure you without saying it out loud. Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn’t, the thought still finding its way in. 

Maybe one day he’ll realize it wasn’t enough. 

That you weren’t. 

And he’ll want more.

He’ll leave.

It crept in at the worst times. At the end of the day, when everything was finally quiet and there was nothing left to distract you. During Steve’s baseball practices. At night, when sleep wouldn’t come. Even when you were in his arms. In those moments, you stayed still, your face tucked into his chest, breathing him in like that alone could keep everything else at bay. Until the thought began to haunt you, waking you up in the morning.

Every day, before you even opened your eyes, your arm would move across the bed, reaching for his side — checking. Making sure he was still there. That the space beside you wasn’t empty. Or too cold. That he hadn’t gotten up and left. Not just the room. Not just the house.

But you. 

Most mornings, your hand found him without effort. Sometimes he was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. Other times, he was already awake, looking at you with that soft, familiar smile that made something in your chest ease and forget all your worries. Some days, instead, you didn’t even have to reach for him. You woke up already tucked against him, his arm loosely wrapped around you, like even in his sleep he hadn’t let you drift too far.

Those mornings were easier.

But not all of them were.

Sometimes, when you brushed the sheets slowly, carefully, hoping to find him without having to look, there was nothing. His side of the bed was already cold. You gave it a second. Then another. Your fingers pressed a little more firmly into the mattress, like maybe you had just missed him. Like maybe he was still there and you just hadn’t reached far enough. 

But he wasn’t. You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer, your breath catching as you delayed the reality you already felt settling in. Then you slapped your eyes and saw the sheets already smoothed out, as if no one had slept there. 

That was when the panic set in.

You’d sit up too quickly, your breath already unsteady, your thoughts racing ahead of you. And then you’d get out of bed, almost without thinking, your feet carrying you straight to the closet. 

It had become a habit before you even realized it. You’d pull the doors open and scan the space, your eyes moving over his things — his jackets, his shirts — checking, counting as you made sure they were still there. That he hadn’t taken them. But sometimes even that wasn't enough to reassure you. You’d turn and head for the stairs, taking them too fast, your hand brushing the wall to steady yourself as you went down two steps at a time, your chest tight, your pulse loud in your ears. Until you found him sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread open in front of him, a mug of coffee growing cold beside his elbow. Other times, he was stretched out on the couch, half paying attention to whatever was playing on television. His eyes would lift automatically and that familiar smile would appear. Easy. Familiar. Reassuring. Like everything was fine. And you would smile back, pretend you had just come down for something else. 

You never told him anything but Steve noticed. Of course he did. He was good at noticing things about you. He just… didn’t say anything. 

Until one Sunday morning, when you were standing in front of the closet again, your fingers still wrapped around the edge of the door as you let out a slow, quiet breath. Your eyes slipped closed for a second, your shoulders dropping just slightly as the tension eased out of you.

“What are you doing?”

His voice was close enough to make you flinch. Your eyes flew open. You turned quickly, your heart jumping into your throat, and found him standing in the doorway, staring at you. He must have just come up the stairs. His expression wasn’t accusing or angry. Just… confused, careful. In his hands there was a tray with breakfast.

Shame rushed through you, sudden and sharp. For a second, neither of you moved. You swallowed, your hand still resting against the closet door as if you hadn’t quite decided whether to close it or not. 

“I—” you started, then stopped. Your voice caught, the excuse you were about to give dissolving before it could even take shape. You shook your head slightly, a breath leaving you that sounded thinner than you intended. “Nothing. I was just—”

Steve didn’t move. His eyes flicked past you, briefly, to the open closet. Then back to you.

“Checking if I’d left?”

The words cut in cleanly. Your breath caught. For a brief second, you thought — hoped — he might be joking. But there was nothing playful in his expression as his eyes held yours, steady, serious.

“Wha—what?” you stammered, even though the denial sounded weak the moment it left your lips.

Steve let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped forward carefully, crossing the room with slow, uneven steps before setting the tray down on your vanity fair in front of the bed. The porcelain clinked softly against the wood. The sound felt louder than it should have. Then he turned back to you. He hesitated for a fraction of a second — like he was deciding how far to push it.

“You really think I haven’t noticed?” he said, his tone flat, controlled in a way that made it sharper. “The way you reach for my side of the bed every morning before you even open your eyes. The way you practically run downstairs when I’m not there.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Or how relieved you look every time I walk back through the door after work?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your mind scrambled for something — anything — to say, but there was nothing you could say. Because he was right. And the truth — the real reason behind it — felt too ugly, too fragile to put into words.

“I—” you tried again, your voice faltering, but it died there, unfinished.

Steve didn’t wait this time. “You still think I’m going to leave,” he said.

It wasn’t a question but a statement. The certainty in his voice made your chest tighten.

You didn't answer him but your silence did it.

He turned away from you, nodding, in disbelief, his back facing you as his hands settled on his hips. For a moment, he just stood there, looking up toward the ceiling like he was trying to steady himself, like he was holding something in.

You dropped your gaze. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Quieter. But if anything, it felt tired.

“I’ve told you — more than once,” he said slowly, “that I’m staying. That I’m not going anywhere.” A small pause. “I’ve never given you a reason to think I would. Even when I could have. Even when I was at my worst.”

You instantly knew he was talking about Kirsten. About that night. When he could have left and gone to her house. When he could have chosen something simpler. But he still didn’t. 

“I didn't even think about it,” he added, almost under his breath.

You believed him. 

And that made things even worse. 

You swallowed hard.

“And still…” He stopped, exhaling through his nose before turning back to you. His eyes found yours again, something unsettled flickering behind them now. “Still it’s like you don’t believe me. Like you don’t trust me,” he went on, quieter now, but no less direct.

You flinched slightly at that, your fingers curling in on themselves.

“When…” He hesitated, just for a second, like he was debating whether to let it out or keep it in.

You could already feel that it was no good. That it would hurt you. 

“When you’re the one who left.”

The words hung between you. Heavy. Painful. 

Steve looked away for a moment, shaking his head faintly before letting out a breath that sounded more like frustration than anything else.

“I’m the one who should be checking that closet,” he said, his voice tightening despite himself. “Making sure your things are still there. Making sure you didn’t just—” He stopped, jaw clenching, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere in his throat. Then, more quietly, but still honestly. “I’m the one who should be wondering if you’re going to leave again. Not you.”

He was right. You knew that. But that didn't mean his words hurt any less. Your hands tightened together until your knuckles ached. You bit down on your lip, hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling.

His gaze dropped for a moment, then lifted back to you. “Do you really think I don’t have those thoughts too?” he went on, his voice less controlled, sharper now, stretched thin. “That I don’t wonder if I’m going to come home one day and you just… won’t be here anymore?”

The words hit you straight in the chest like a punch, knocking the air out of you. 

“Or walk in and find you halfway down the stairs with your bags again?” he added. “Just like that day.” 

You stayed silent. 

Steve took a few steps toward you, his shoulders tense. “I’m scared every damn day,” he said, louder now, the frustration breaking through. “All the time.”

Your chest tightened as the words sank in.

“Do you know what I think about when I kiss you goodbye in the morning?” he continued, his voice rough, unsteady in a way that made it worse. “When I leave for work?” A short, humorless breath escaped him. “That it might be the last time.”

Your eyes filled with tears, burning you. 

“The last time I get to hold you. The last time I get to kiss you.” He continued, swallowing hard. “And every single time, I just hope… it’s not.”

Silence followed, thick and suffocating.

He turned away again, dragging a hand over his face before lifting both arms briefly, resting them behind his head. He stayed like that for a second, staring ahead, jaw tight.

“But I still choose to trust you,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I choose it. Every single day.” His arms dropped back to his sides as he turned to face you again. “I choose to believe that when I come home, you’ll still be here.”

You couldn’t breathe properly. Your throat was dry, sore. 

He looked at you like he wanted to say more — like the words were there, right on the edge — but then something in his expression shifted. He stopped himself. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, his jaw tightening.

The silence stretched.

You pressed your lips together, unable to speak. Because he was right. About all of it. 

Even after everything he had said, some stubborn part of your mind kept waiting for the moment he would finally decide he had had enough. Even when… when you had been the one to leave. The one who had packed a bag and walked out, breaking something between you that you were still trying to fix.

What was wrong with you?

The thought came sharp and merciless.Your throat tightened painfully. For a second, you almost felt angry at yourself, enough to want to shake yourself out of it.

Steve cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence. 

“I need you to trust me too,” he said, more quietly now. Exhausted.

“Steve, I do trust you, it’s not—” 

Your voice was so weak that you almost didn’t recognize it. 

“Well, it doesn’t feel like it,” he cut in, not raising his voice, but not letting you finish either. He hesitated, like he wanted to keep going — like there was more sitting behind those words — but then he exhaled slowly and shook his head.

“Forget it. I just… went out to get breakfast,” he added, his tone changing, flattening, like he was forcing the conversation somewhere safer. “I got you those pastries you like. Thought I’d bring you them in bed. I just wanted to… surprise you.” A small pause. “That’s all.”

Your eyes closed for a second, the guilt settling heavier in your chest. When you opened them again, your gaze dropped to the tray on the table. You looked at it better this time — the coffee, still steaming faintly, the pastries neatly arranged like he had taken care choosing them, orange juice, eggs and bacon. There were all the things you loved to eat. 

Steve followed your gaze. “You should drink the coffee before it gets cold,” he said. His tone cold, detached that it surprised you. 

He turned before you could say anything else, moving toward the door with quick steps, without looking back at you.

For a second, you didn’t understand what was happening. Your body froze, your mind lagging behind as the sound of his steps carried down the stairs.

Then it hit you.

He was leaving.

Your throat tightened as you forced yourself to move, your legs finally responding as you rushed out of the room and down the stairs after him, still in your nightgown, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your chest.

“Steve!” You called his name with everything you had, your voice echoing through the house.

But he didn’t answer. He didn’t slow down either. He just kept going, one hand gripping the railing, as he moved fast, like he needed to get out before he changed his mind.

Panic surged through you.

“Steve, wait—!”

By the time you reached the bottom, he was already in front of the door.

“Wait — please, wait!” Your voice broke as you closed the last bit of distance and grabbed his arm, your fingers tightening around it, forcing him to stop. “Where — where are you going?”

He stilled under your touch, turning around to face you. His eyes were shining. “I need… some air,” he said, his voice low, steady in a way that felt final. “I’m going for a walk.”

You shook your head immediately, your grip tightening, your breath uneven. “No — please, stay. Let’s just — let’s talk, okay? Please.” Your voice trembled, the words stumbling over each other as the tears spilled freely now, warm against your skin. You didn’t even try to hide them.

Steve closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose like he was holding something in. “I already tried,” he said after a second, quieter now. “More than once. But you don't seem to hear me.”

You shook your head again, desperate. “I know. I know,  I’m sorry, I just—”

“I don’t know what else to say,” he cut in, not harsh, but firm. Tired. Exasperated. “I don’t know… what else to do to make you believe me.” His jaw tightened and for a moment he looked away. “I’m tired,” he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “And… angry.” He swallowed hard and you saw his throat move. “That’s why I’m leaving. I don’t want to say something I might regret later.”

Or do something he might regret, you thought. 

Your chest constricted painfully.

“Please, don’t go,” you whispered, shaking your head, your fingers curling tighter around his arm like you could keep him there if you just held on enough. “Please, don’t leave me.”

For a moment, his expression softened. He hated seeing you like that. 

“I’m coming back, okay?” he said, softer now, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. Like he needed to stop it before it spiraled. “I’m… I’m not leaving. I just —” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I just need a minute… to clear my head. Be alone for a bit.”

Your grip loosened, but only slightly.

“I’ll be back,” he repeated, more gently this time. “And we’ll… talk later. Promise.”

Talk about what? You wondered. 

Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to your forehead. It lingered just long enough to hurt. Then he pulled away. Carefully, he slipped his arm from your grasp. The loss of contact felt immediate. Cold.

You stood there as he opened the door and stepped outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Silence flooded immediately the space he left behind. Loud. Unbearable. 

You didn’t move. You stayed there, right where he had left you, your hands hanging useless at your sides, your vision blurred with tears you didn’t even try to stop anymore. Your heart pounded unevenly as your gaze fixed on the closed door, like you expected it to open again any second. While upstairs, the coffee he had made for you was already growing cold.

His voice replayed in your mind, louder with every passing second.

I’ll be back. 

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your chest aching.

Would he?

-

You were lying on the couch in the living room, curled on your side, facing the TV, even though it was off.

You hadn’t moved from there since Steve left.

The clock was ticking but you didn’t know how much time had passed. Long enough for the sobs to stop and the tears on your cheeks to dry, leaving your skin tight, your body still, your mind heavy and hollow. Your breathing had evened out. The storm had burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but a quiet that felt too big for the room.

Silence settled around you. Heavy. Uncomfortable. 

Then, suddenly you heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Your body reacted before your mind did. You pushed yourself up from the couch, your heart jumping as you turned toward the door just as it opened.

Steve stepped inside. His gaze lifted as he crossed the threshold, and it found yours immediately.

You stayed where you were. Even though every instinct in your body told you to run to him — to close the distance, to hold onto him, to make sure he was really there — you didn’t.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a few steps forward. 

“You’re here,” he said, his gaze fixed on yours. 

You knew he didn’t mean just now. That you hadn’t left. That he hadn’t come back to an empty house.

You nodded, your throat tight. “And you are back.”

Something in his expression shifted — subtle, but there. He nodded once in return, like he was acknowledging something unspoken between you. 

He knew exactly what you meant too. 

He moved around the couch, with still his jacket on and sat down, leaving only a small space between you. For a moment, he just sat there. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dragging a hand over his face before pressing his palms briefly against his eyes, like he was trying to steady himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About before. I shouldn’t have… reacted like that.”

You hesitated for a second before sitting down beside him, careful and let out a slow breath.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “You — you were right.”

Steve turned his head to look at you.

You swallowed, your hands tightening together in your lap before you forced yourself to keep going. “I am… I am still scared. That you might leave one day.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look away. “And I know I shouldn’t be. That it doesn’t make sense. You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you. Not once.”

A small pause.

“I’m the one who did that,” you added, quieter now. “I’m the one who left. I’m the one who… broke your trust.”

The admission sat between you, raw and unguarded. It hurt you to remind what you had done. But you needed to. 

“And I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softer now. “For that. For everything.”

Steve didn’t interrupt and kept listening to you. 

“But it’s not true that I don’t trust you,” you went on, shaking your head slightly, like you needed him to understand that part most of all. “It’s… me.”

That was harder to say.

Your gaze dropped for a second before lifting again.

“I don’t trust myself,” you admitted, the words catching slightly on the way out. “Because I don’t feel like I’m enough. Like I’m… lacking something. Like I’m not…” You exhaled shakily. “Not what you deserve.”

Your fingers twisted together again before you stilled them, forcing yourself to continue.

“And I know—” you added quickly, almost defensively, “I know you don’t see it that way. I know that’s not how you think. But I do. And it’s not something I can just switch off, Steve. It doesn’t work like that.”

Your voice softened, losing some of its tension.

“I need time,” you said. “To come to terms with it. With the fact that… it’s not my fault.” You swallowed. “And that it doesn’t make me less. Or… harder to love. I just… need time,” you repeated more quietly.

Then, after a small pause, you reached out, slowly, carefully, and rested your hand on his knee. Steve's gaze immediately dropped to where your hand rested. His eyes lingered there for a second before lifting back to yours.

“But I’m not going anywhere,” you said, meeting his eyes. There was no hesitation now, only quiet certainty. “I’m here. And I’m staying.”

Your fingers pressed slightly against his knee, grounding yourself in the moment.

“I almost lost you,” you went on, your voice softening further. “Twice.” Your throat tightened. “And the second time… I almost didn’t get you back at all. I don’t want that again,” you whispered, your eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

You held his gaze as Steve reached for your hand where it rested on his knee, lacing his fingers through yours and giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m not going anywhere either, okay?” His gaze held yours, steady, intent. “I’ve seen what it’s like… living without you. And I didn’t like it. Not even a little.” A faint, humorless breath left him. “Worst week of my life, actually. And I’m not planning on going through that again.”

Your chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear.

“So yeah,” he went on, softer now, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles, “some mornings you might wake up and not find me in bed. Or downstairs. And some afternoons or nights, I might come home late.” A small pause. “But wherever I am, I’ll be thinking about you. And I’ll always come back.” His voice dipped slightly, more vulnerable now. “As long as you still want me to.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I will,” you said, your voice steady despite everything you were feeling. “And I’ll be here too. Waiting for you.” A small breath. “As long as you want me to be.”

Something softened in his expression. Then he smiled and lifted his free hand to your face, cupping your cheek gently before leaning in.

The kiss started soft. Careful. Like everything else between you had been these past weeks. 

But as the seconds passed, some of the distance you had both been carrying seemed to melt away. You shifted closer without even thinking about it, your body moving toward his like it had been waiting for this. Your hands came up to his face as you kissed him back, deeper this time, more certain. The hesitation that had lingered between you began to slip, piece by piece.

You moved onto his lap, straddling him, your lips never quite leaving his. His hands found your waist, holding you there, tightly, like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.

The kiss grew hungrier, faster. His hands moved along your sides, firm, warm, sliding up your back, pulling you closer. Yours slipped into his hair, fingers curling, holding on as if that alone could keep him there. You felt him exhale against your lips, his forehead brushing yours for the briefest second before his mouth found yours again, more urgent this time.

He trailed slowly down your jaw, your neck, until it reached your shoulder. The strap of your nightgown had already slipped down your arm, giving him space, and he took it without hesitation. His lips pressed warm against your skin, lingering, then moving again — slower this time. Each touch sent a quiet shiver through you, your breath catching as he traced a path along your collarbone. You tipped your head back instinctively, giving him more room, your hands settling on his shoulders to steady yourself. For a moment, you just felt the warmth of his mouth, the roughness of his hands against your skin. And the solid presence of him beneath you. 

He was already hard. 

Your hips shifted almost unconsciously against him, drawn closer, and the contact made his breath hitch for a brief second. His hands tightened at your waist in response, grounding, firm, like he needed to keep you right where you were.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, gripping lightly, guiding him back to your lips. There was nothing hesitant left in the way you kissed him now. It wasn’t careful anymore — it was need, release, everything spilling over at once after being held back for too long.

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms as your hands moved over him, impatient. He let out a quiet breath against your mouth, helping you shrug it off the rest of the way without breaking the kiss for long.

Your nightgown had ridden up completely, forgotten, as you shifted in his lap, the fabric bunched at your waist. But you barely noticed it, too focused on him — on the way his touch felt after everything. After weeks without intimacy — without sex. The last time had been during that famous weekend that was supposed to be the last. Fortunately, it hadn’t been in the end. How could you have thought you could live without him? Without his touch? Thinking back now, it seemed almost impossible.

His hands slid lower along your thigh, slipping beneath the fabric of your nightgown, hesitating only for a fraction of a second — as if giving you time to pull away, to stop him. 

You didn’t.

If anything, you leaned into him more, your hands tightening his face even more, your lips parting against his in a silent answer.

You weren’t pulling away anymore.

His hand started moving over you again, sliding under the hem, caressing the bare skin of your ass, gently, slowly, as if he wanted to savor the moment. Like he was relearning you — like he needed to feel every inch just to remind himself that you were real, that you hadn’t slipped away again. 

You pressed closer instinctively, grinding down on his bulge in search of something more, something deeper. It wasn’t enough — none of it felt like enough after everything you had been through. The distance, the fear, the almost losing him.

You needed to feel him. Really feel him.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding on just as tightly, like you were afraid that if you let go, he might disappear. 

“Steve… please,” you whispered against his lips as his hand moved closer to where you needed him most. But every time, when he was almost there, he pushed it away, teasing you.

He smirked, amused. “What’s it, babe?” He murmured, voice low. “Tell me what you need.”

You let out a soft, frustrated breath, your forehead resting briefly against his.

“Please,” you begged, desperate, unable to form a complete sentence.  

Steve’s grin widened even further. He hesitated a few seconds, his hand tightening on your thigh, the other one on your hip, holding you in place as he watched you for a moment longer than necessary. Then finally, he gave in. His hand began to slide down along your core, feeling the wet spot that had already formed on your panties. 

His touch was slow, deliberate, rubbing gentle circles over your clothed clit as heat pooled low in your belly. Your hands found his shoulders again, gripping for balance as you moved against him, hips rolling, chasing his touch. Steve increased the pressure and you moaned into his mouth as you kept grinding your soaked panties.  

The other strap of your nightgown slipped from your shoulder, revealing your breasts. Steve groaned. As he kept caressing your core, he ran his other hand up your stomach and squeezed your tits, gently first, then hard. You moaned again, letting your head fall back.  But it still wasn’t enough. You wanted more. 

“Steve… I need you… Please,” you begged him, almost crying. 

“Yeah, babe? Where do you need me? I’m right here.” 

His hand pressed down on you harder, while your fingers curled into his shirt even more, resting your forehead on his shoulder, panting. For a moment, you hesitated, swallowing slowly. 

“Inside me.” Your voice lower than a whisper.  “I need you inside me, Steve. Please.”

Steve stopped moving, taking his hands off of you. You whined at the loss of contact, missing him already. But before you could say anything, he pulled your nightgown over your head in a single motion and threw it somewhere behind you, leaving you half-naked. 

His gaze dropped straight to your bare breasts, his eyes widening, hungry. He swallowed hard. 

“God…” he breathed, almost to himself.

After few seconds, you found yourself lying on the couch, on your back with Steve on top of you. He hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging them quickly down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, eager to be free of them. 

Steve stood up, pushing his shirt up, revealing the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. Then he took them off and his boxers in one smooth motion, letting them drop to the floor. His length slapped against him.

Both naked, he settled between your thighs, bringing you closer as you raised yourself on your elbows to see him better. His gaze traveled over your body spread open on the couch, lingering on your centre, shiny and swollen already. 

“Fucking beautiful,” he said, looking back at you, a little smile on his lips. “And it’s all mine.” 

Even though you were married and he had already seen you like that several times, you couldn't help but blush at his words.

He lay down on top of you and kissed you passionately, supporting himself on one arm, as he dragged his other hand through your slick folds, spreading yourself open. His fingers drew slow circles around your clit before dipping inside. Your body responded instantly, arching into him, hips rolling against his fingers. The wet sounds filled the room, mixed with your shaky breaths.

“You’re so wet, babe, and I barely did anything,” he murmured under his breath, holding his glistening fingers up to your lips. 

You took them into your mouth and sucked, tasting yourself on them as Steve never took his eyes off you. 

“So needy and desperate, aren’t you? And you really think you could live without me?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, a broken moan ripped from your throat as he rubbed his hand all over your entrance, spreading the wetness. Your hips moved towards him, looking for more. Then he grabbed himself and stroked it a few times, lubing himself up with your arousal. Your eyes fixed on him the entire time, biting your lip at the sight of his thick member. Even after so many years together you still hadn't gotten used to its size, capable of leaving you breathless and sore every time.

Steve moved closer to you, guiding his length through your folds, the tip nudging against your clit, teasing you. You threw your head back, a sigh escaped your lips. 

Without warning, he drove into you with one, quick thrust, seating himself fully inside you. You gasped at the intrusion, arching your back as he stretched you open with a deep groan. He started moving immediately, without giving you time to get used to it. You were so wet that he slid perfectly inside you all the way, meeting no resistance. The wet slaps of skin and your desperate moans filled the living room as he kept pounding into you at a brutal pace. Your hands ran down his hairy chest, his arms and then over his back, scratching him, digging your nails into him as he went deeper with each stroke. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in tighter to you. His hand reached your clit, rubbing it as he kept fucking you harder. He thrusted in and out, relentlessly, quickly. His eyes stayed locked downward, fascinated by the sight of himself sliding in and out of you, dragging a creamy ring back and forth along his length.

“How — How can you think I can leave? That I can do without all this? Without you?" he asked after a while, his lips pressed to your ear. 

There was no malice or bitterness in his voice, just honesty. You didn't respond, you couldn't. Partly out of shame, partly because Steve's movements prevented you from thinking or speaking clearly. Only half-formed words, moans escaped your mouth.

"Steve, I…"

"Yes, babe? Are you coming? I can feel you squeezing my cock. Come on, cum for me."

And you came, clenching around his cock and crying out his name. Steve followed you right away, coming inside you with a low, guttural groan as his release painted your walls. He gently collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. 

-

About ten minutes later, you were lying on the couch, wearing only his shirt, curled slightly on your side with your head resting on Steve’s chest. Your fingers were still loosely intertwined with his, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He lay beside you in nothing but his boxers, one arm draped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm.

Everything felt… lighter now. Not just because of what had just happened between you, but because of everything that had come before it — your argument, the honesty, the way you had finally let yourselves say things out loud instead of carrying them alone.

It hadn’t fixed everything. You knew that. There were still cracks — fears that wouldn’t disappear overnight. Things you —especially you — would have to work through, slowly, patiently. But for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel impossible. It felt like something you could face together.

Steve shifted slightly beneath you, his fingers tightening around yours for a moment before he lifted your hand, turning it gently so your wedding band caught the light of the lamp.

“Give me your ring,” he said after a beat.

You barely noticed at first, still half lost in the quiet haze of the moment. Then you blinked, the words taking a second to fully register. You pushed yourself up slightly, one hand pressing against his chest as you looked down at him, your brows knitting together. “What?”

“Your ring,” he repeated, his voice calm but his gaze intense. “Give it to me, please.”

Confusion flickered across your face as you sat up properly, turning to face him.

“My ring? Why?” There was a trace of unease in your voice now, subtle but there. You instinctively curled your fingers slightly, as if protecting it without even realizing. You didn’t like taking it off. Not even when you had temporarily left Steve you had taken it off.

Steve pushed himself up into a seated position, resting against the couch armrest as he looked at you.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

You knew, instantly, that he wasn’t just talking about the ring. He was asking something bigger.

Did you trust me to stay?

Did you trust me not to leave?

Your throat tightened slightly, but you nodded without hesitation, swallowing. Your fingers hesitated for only a second more before you slipped the ring off and placed it in his hand.

It felt strange the moment it left your finger. Lighter. Wrong, almost.

Steve watched you for a second, then reached up and removed his own. For a brief moment, he held both rings in his palm, staring down at them — silent, thoughtful. 

You shifted closer, kneeling on the couch in front of him now, your eyes fixed on his face, trying to understand what was happening but without success. 

“What are you doing?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly and placed both rings on the couch between you. 

Side by side.

You followed the movement with your eyes, your confusion deepening, your brow furrowing as you looked back up at him.

“Give me your hand,” Steve said softly.

You looked up at him, your confusion still written all over your face.

“Steve… will you tell me what you’re doing? I don’t—”

“We’re renewing our vows.”

You blinked, your eyes widening as you stared at him, even more lost than before.

“What?”

“Didn’t we say this was a new beginning?” he went on, his voice steady, certain. “For you, for me… for us.”

You nodded slowly, still trying to catch up.

“Then we need new promises,” he said. “Ones that actually fit us. Our way.”

Before you could say anything else, he reached for your hands again, holding them gently but firmly between his.

“Trust me,” he added, quieter this time.

There it was again.

That question beneath the words.

You swallowed and nodded. “I do.”

Steve took a slow breath, his thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles as he gathered his thoughts. For a second, he looked almost nervous — but he didn’t look away.

“Do you take me to be yours again,” he began, his voice low but clear, “knowing that we don’t have everything figured out… that things might change, that life might not go the way we planned…”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“To have and to hold anyway,” he continued, “to stay instead of running, to try,  even when it’s hard… to not walk away when things get complicated…”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t blink.

“To love me for as long as we both want this… for as long as we keep choosing each other?”

Silence settled between you the moment he finished.

For a second, you couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. Then you nodded — once, twice, again — your grip tightening around his hands.

“I do,” you said, your voice trembling but certain. “I do.”

Tears blurred your vision as you held onto him. 

“Okay,” he murmured, a faint, relieved smile tugging at his lips. “Your turn.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, your heart still racing as you repeated his words — slowly at first, then with more certainty, your voice finding its strength as you went. When you finished, Steve didn’t hesitate.

“I do,” he said immediately, like it was the easiest thing he had ever done. There was no doubt or uncertainty in his voice. 

He reached for your ring, holding it carefully between his fingers before looking back up at you.

“Repeat after me,” he said softly.

You nodded.

“With this ring, I choose you.”

“With this ring, I choose you,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I promise to love you, to be honest with you and to let you in, always.”

You repeated each word, your gaze never leaving his.

“I promise I won’t shut you out when I’m scared… to trust you, to stay… and to build whatever life we can — together.”

Your throat tightened, but you kept going, holding onto every word like it mattered more than anything.

“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”

When you finished, his expression softened completely. Slowly—almost reverently— he slid the ring back onto your finger. The weight of it felt different now. Not heavier.

Stronger.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his ring, still resting between you on the couch. You picked it up carefully, turning it between your fingers before looking back at him.

“Your turn now,” you said softly, almost timidly. 

He nodded.

“With this ring, I choose you,” you began.

He repeated it without hesitation.

“I promise to love you, to trust you, and to stay when things get hard — not because I have to, but because I want to.”

His voice was firm, certain.

“I promise to stay even when it would be easier to walk away… and to build whatever life we can— together.”

Your chest tightened.

“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”

When he finished repeating, you took his hand and slid the ring back onto his finger, your touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your fingers intertwined. When you looked up again, he was already staring at you. Smiling. There was something lighter in his expression now. Softer. Hopeful. You smiled back, your eyes still shining.

“And now what?” you asked quietly.

A small, familiar spark returned to his gaze.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice dipping just slightly as his hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing softly along your cheeks, “now I get to kiss my wife.”

A flash of playfulness softened his features — something boyish and bright, as if he’d been counting down the seconds to this very moment. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, fueled by a quiet, steady confidence. Like he wasn’t asking — just finally claiming what had always been his.

And then he kissed you.

The force of it, the sudden pull of his hands, sent you tipping backward onto the couch, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as he followed you down without breaking the kiss, his body settling over yours.

You barely had time to react before your hands found him again — his shoulders, his hair — pulling him closer as if there was still distance left to close.

At first, the kiss was slow, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of care that felt almost reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again. Then it deepened, growing stronger, more urgent, the quiet tenderness giving way to something warmer, fuller, alive with everything you had both held back for too long.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, his grip on you firm but steady, keeping you anchored beneath him as if letting go wasn’t even an option anymore.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

But a promise.

A new beginning.

The first step into something new.

Together.

-

A week later, you started therapy.

It wasn’t an instant fix. Nothing about it was. But slowly — almost without noticing at first —something began to shift.

The mornings were the first to change.

You still reached for him sometimes when you woke up, your hand instinctively searching for the warmth of his side of the bed. But you no longer did it with that same sharp edge of panic or fear. You didn’t brace yourself before opening your eyes. You didn’t lie there, afraid of what you might — or might not — find. 

And some mornings… you didn’t even have the chance to.

You woke up already wrapped in his arms, his body warm against yours, his hand resting at your waist like it had been there all night. Other times, you felt him pull you closer in his sleep, like even unconsciously he was making sure you were still there — still his, still within reach.

Those mornings were easier. Quieter. Because they didn’t leave space for doubt to creep in.

And when he wasn’t there, you didn’t rush. You didn’t run to the closet anymore to check if his clothes were still hanging where they belonged. You didn’t scan the house with your heart in your throat, waiting to confirm your worst fear. Instead, you breathed — once, twice. You reminded yourself — quietly, firmly — of everything he had told you. Of everything you had promised each other.

You chose to trust him.

And, slowly, you started trying to trust yourself too. To believe that you were enough. Not just because he said it, or because he loved you. But because you were.

-

Two months later, you came back from a weekend away with Robin and Nancy.

The moment you stepped into the house, you barely had time to set your bag down before Steve reached you, taking the suitcase from your hand and leaning in to kiss you softly.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I was gone only for two days,” you replied, smiling anyway.

“I know,” he said. “Two very long days.”

And then you noticed the expression on his face. He looked suspiciously satisfied, like he was waiting for you to figure something out.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?” you asked, suspicious now. “What did you do?”

He feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. No trust at all?”

You gave him another look.

“Okay, maybe I did something,” he admitted, a grin slipping through.

“Please tell me you didn’t burn the kitchen down while I was gone.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Firstly, rude. And secondly, it’s a good thing. A surprise. Promise.”

Then he extended his hand toward you.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to see it.”

You hesitated for only a second before taking it, letting him guide you inside and up the stairs.

He left your suitcase by the bedroom door without a second thought and kept going.

And that was when you realized where you were going. 

Your steps slowed. Your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.

The further down the hallway you walked, the heavier your chest felt until you stopped, right in front of the door you almost never opened anymore.

Your throat went dry.

You hadn't stepped inside in months. Most days, you barely even looked at it when you passed. Sometimes you wished it wasn’t there at all. That the door could just… disappear.

“Steve… what are we doing?”

He turned back to you immediately, and whatever excitement had been on his face softened the second he saw yours. He stepped closer, taking both your hands this time, holding them gently but firmly. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Trust me. Okay?”

The words settled between you. Familiar now. Your eyes flickered to the door for a brief second, your chest tightening — then back to him. You swallowed hard and nodded.

“Okay.”

He smiled, just a little, then squeezed your hands.

“I need you to close your eyes,” he said. “And don’t open them. No matter what.”

A small flicker of hesitation crossed your face again. But this time, you didn’t let it take over.

“I’m trusting you,” you murmured. 

“I know,” he said softly before closing your eyes. 

You felt him let go of one of your hands, the other still firmly wrapped around his as he guided you forward. Then you heard the sound of the door opening. Your heartbeat picked up.

“Okay,” he said. “Come on. Just follow my voice.”

You did. Slowly. Carefully.

“Stop,” he said gently after a moment.

You stopped instantly, abruptly. 

“Okay… you can open them.”

You inhaled deeply and opened your eyes. 

At first, all you saw was him — standing in front of you, watching you carefully, almost nervously. Then your gaze shifted and everything else came into focus. You turned slowly, taking it in piece by piece.

Everything was different. But it wasn't what you had once imagined either.

The boxes were gone. The walls had been repainted in soft, warm colors that made the room feel brighter than you remembered. 

There was no crib by the window. No changing table. No carefully planned corners for a life that hadn’t come. Instead, there were large canvases leaned against the far wall, waiting to be used. Shelves lined with paints, brushes, pencils and jars of color.

Your breath caught. Your hand rose instinctively to your mouth as your eyes began to sting.

It wasn’t a reminder of what you had lost anymore. Of what you couldn’t have. Steve had transformed it into something full of possibilities that didn’t hurt to look at. That didn’t whisper what if every time you passed by.

Behind you, Steve shifted slightly. When you didn’t speak right away, uncertainty crept in.

He cleared his throat. “Maybe I should’ve talked to you first,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I just… I thought it was a shame to leave it like that and not using it. And you always said you wished you had a space to paint, so I thought—”

He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure.

“I mean, you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” he added, softer now. “We can —”

You turned to him before he could finish the sentence and closed the distance in two quick steps, kissing him. He froze for a second, clearly caught off guard — then melted into it, his hands coming up to steady you as he kissed you back. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breath uneven.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered. “I love it. And I love you.”

Your arms slipped around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

He held you just as tightly.

And over the following weeks, that room became yours.

You spent hours in there — painting, sitting, letting your thoughts settle into something quieter. Sometimes, you didn’t even realize how long you’d been there until the light changed. Steve would linger in the doorway now and then, leaning against the frame, watching you with that same soft expression—like he was witnessing something slowly come back to life. 

Eventually, you even convinced him to sit for you. He complained about it at first. A lot. But he stayed. 

And little by little, that room changed. From something that once held only absence, pain, sadness… to something filled with color.

And hope. 

-

A few weeks later, Steve showed up with a camper that looked like it had lived several lives before you ever laid eyes on it. It was old, dented in places, the paint faded and uneven — but there was a spark in Steve’s eyes when he stood in front of it, one hand resting on the hood like he’d just found treasure.

“I know what you’re thinking but it has potential,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “It probably has tetanus.”

He grinned.

With Eddie’s help — and a lot more time, effort, and swearing than either of them would ever admit— they brought it back to life. By the time summer arrived and school let out, it was no longer falling apart.

With no schedules to follow and nowhere you had to be, you left. The road stretched out in front of you, endless and open. It felt… freeing. You drove for hours with the windows down, music playing too loud, your hands resting somewhere on each other — your arm, your thigh, wherever you could reach — just to feel each other.

You made your way through the Rockies first, the air thinner, cooler, the silence deeper than anything you were used to. You hiked trails that left your legs aching and your lungs burning, but every time you stopped, every time you looked around, it felt worth it. At night, you slept outside more often than not. Sometimes in the camper, sometimes in a tent, sometimes just wrapped in blankets under a sky so full of stars it didn’t feel real. There were moments when you lay side by side, not speaking, just looking up. And your thoughts didn’t spiral anymore. 

At the Grand Canyon, you stood at the edge in silence, your shoulder pressed against his. His hand found yours without looking, fingers threading through yours like it was second nature.

“Hard to believe something like this just… exists,” you murmured.

Steve glanced at you instead of the view. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

After that, you went to Yellowstone. Beautiful and unpredictable at the same time. One moment you were admiring the scenery, the next you were lost, soaked by unexpected rain, or arguing over a map you both insisted you knew how to read properly. 

And then there was California.

Everything seemed to slow down there. The air was warmer, the days felt longer. The ocean stretched out endlessly in front of you, the sound of it constant.

Steve decided he was going to learn how to surf. In reality, he spent most of his time falling off the board while you sat on the beach laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

You played volleyball on the beach with strangers, drank overly sweet cocktails decorated with ridiculous little umbrellas, and watched the sun melt into the ocean more evenings than you could count.

During the day, Steve refused to wear sunscreen, even though you had told him he’d regret it.

And he did.

“This is your fault,” he muttered later, lying on his stomach, his skin flushed red while you tried not to laugh as you applied aloe.

“My fault?” you echoed, incredulous.

“You should’ve insisted harder.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, your fingers gentler than your tone. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you love me.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to as you both knew the answer. 

Sometimes, you acted like kids — splashing each other in the water, chasing each other along the shore, collapsing into the sand, breathless and laughing.

Other times, things slowed down. Quieted.

You’d sit close together, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting against him, listening to the waves without feeling the need to fill the silence.

One night, long after the beach had emptied, you slipped into the ocean together, only in your underwear. 

The cold hit you instantly, sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. You gasped, instinctively reaching for him. His hands found you beneath the surface, firm on your hips, pulling you into him until there was no space left between your bodies. The water moved around you, waves brushing against your skin. You laughed quietly when one hit you harder than expected, your hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, pressing your chest against his, your breath mixing. 

You started kissing — your lips touching, hesitant for half a second — and then it deepened instantly.

Hungry.

Your fingers slid into his hair, grabbing, pulling him closer as his hold on you tightened, one hand pressing firmly at your lower back, anchoring you against him while the ocean swayed around you. There was no teasing or slow build. Just want. Desire. Raw and immediate. 

“I need you,” he muttered against your mouth.

“Then stop talking,” you shot back softly, breathless, your eyes fixed on his. “And show me how much you need me.”

That was all it took.

The kiss turned rougher, deeper. His hand shifted, gripping your hip harder, pulling a quiet sound from you that you couldn’t hold back. The ocean rocked around you, but neither of you paid attention anymore.

By the time you made it back to shore, you were both breathing harder than you should have been, your skin still wet, cooling in the night air. The moment your feet hit the sand, his mouth was on yours again, stronger this time, more urgent, more demanding. Your hands moved just as quickly, sliding over him, holding, pulling, needing to feel him. 

You stumbled back together, barely coordinated, until the sand gave way beneath you and you fell, a soft breath leaving your lips as your back hit the ground. Steve followed immediately, catching himself just enough to not hurt you. 

Sand clung to your skin, your legs wrapped around him without thinking, pressing into him like you couldn’t get close enough, like your body refused the idea of space between you. 

His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your neck, slower now — but not softer. Each touch leaving something behind, something you could feel spreading under your skin. 

“You feel that?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough. 

“Yes—”

Your head tipped back, breath catching, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you tighter, like he wasn’t planning to let you slip away again.

“Don’t — don’t stop,” you breathed against his mouth.

A quiet exhale left him, almost like a laugh, but darker.

“Never,” he replied, almost immediately.

When you finally came together, it felt inevitable. Natural. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm before you even found it. Every movement met, answered, matched. Your breath broke into uneven patterns, your fingers tightening, needing something solid as the rest of the world blurred into nothing but the sound of the ocean and the feeling of him. His name left your lips without thought, barely more than a breath, your body reacting to every shift, every movement that pulled you further into him.

Afterward, you didn’t move. You stayed wrapped around each other, your skin still warm, your breathing slowly evening out as the night settled back around you. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer instinctively, like distance wasn’t something either of you could tolerate. Your fingers traced slow, absent lines over his chest, your cheek pressed there, listening to his heartbeat.

The waves kept coming and going, soft, constant. 

And for once, there was nothing chasing you.

No doubt.

No fear.

No voice in the back of your mind asking what if.

-

When you came back from your trip and the new school year began, things felt different between you and Steve. Not all at once. Not in a way that erased everything that had happened. But the tension, the constant weight of fear and doubt — it had softened.

You still talked about children sometimes. About the future. About what you both wanted. But the summer spent together had reminded you of something important: you were happy. With Steve. With the life you had built together, even if it was only the two of you for now. But it was enough for now. So you decided to wait and to give yourselves time.

No deadlines.

No pressure. 

No quiet panic about what should come next.

Just the two of you.

Or rather, the three of you.

Because shortly after you got a dog.

A golden retriever puppy, barely a few months old, all oversized paws and endless energy that you named King. 

King made his loyalties very clear from the start. He followed you everywhere like your shadow. If you moved, he moved. If you stopped, he sat at your feet. At night, it became a problem. Every time you and Steve went to bed, King would jump up before either of you could stop him and curl up right on Steve’s side.

“You’ve got competition,” you teased one night, already half under the covers as Steve stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the dog sprawled comfortably across his pillow.

Steve scoffed. “Yeah, I can see.”

King didn’t move. If anything, he stretched and it took a solid minute of negotiating — firm voice, light pushing, and eventually bribery — before Steve managed to reclaim his spot. Even then, King would lie at the foot of the bed, eyes on you. 

Steve pretended to be annoyed at him, almost jealous. Sometimes he even sounded like it. But you caught the way he looked at the dog when he thought you weren’t paying attention — soft, amused, completely gone. He loved him as much as you did. Every evening, he took him out for walks, no matter how tired he was. You’d watch from the window sometimes as they crossed the yard — Steve throwing the ball, King sprinting after it like his life depended on it, ears flying, tail wagging wildly.

-

Not long after classes started, a position opened in the art department. A few days later, the principal called you into his office and offered it to you. Your first instinct was to say no.

The thought of being so close to children every day made something in your chest tighten again. Old fears, quieter now, but not completely gone, stirred under the surface.

What if it would hurt?

What if it was too much?

What if you couldn’t handle it after all?

But then you thought about the studio that Steve had set up for you. About the way your hands had found their way back to color, to creation. About the way you had slowly, carefully started building something new out of what you thought you had lost.

So when the principal asked for your answer a few days later, you said yes.

Steve was… impossibly proud.

The surprise party he organized was chaotic, loud, full of people you loved — and entirely overwhelming in the best way.

Your first day in the classroom felt different than you expected.

Not heavy.

Not painful.

Just… new.

There were moments of uncertainty, of course. Small pauses where you caught yourself observing, adjusting, learning where to stand, how to speak.  At one point, while you were leaning over a desk helping a child mix colors, you felt something shift in the room — a subtle change in attention. You looked up. Steve was standing by the door. He hadn’t said anything. Just… watching. A small smile already on his face.

One of the kids noticed him first. Then another. And suddenly the entire class had turned, voices rising all at once.

“Who is that?” “Coach Harrington!” “Is that your husband?” “Are you gonna kiss him?”

Your face flushed instantly.

“Okay — alright — back to —” you tried, but it was too late.

“Ki-ss! Ki-ss! Ki-ss!”

You shot Steve a look — half warning, half embarrassed.

He only grinned and walked over, slow, deliberate, like he was enjoying this far too much. When he reached you, he leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your cheek.

The class erupted.

You covered your face for a second, laughing despite yourself.

“Sorry,” he murmured near your ear, low enough that only you could hear. “Couldn’t help it.” Then, after a beat, softer. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Your cheeks warmed even more, and you nudged him lightly, trying to regain some composure.

By the time the day ended and the last child had left, the classroom fell quiet. You stood there for a moment, taking it in—the scattered drawings, the faint smell of paint, the soft echo of a day that hadn’t hurt the way you feared it would.

If anything, it had felt… right.

A light knock pulled you from your thoughts.

You followed the sound. 

Steve was leaning again against the doorframe, watching you with that same soft expression.

“So?” he asked.

You hesitated only a second.

“It was good,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow.

You smiled a little, shaking your head. “Okay… it was better than good.”

Something in his face eased. He stepped closer, his hand settling lightly at your waist.

“I knew it,” he said quietly.

You let out a small breath, glancing around the room one last time before looking back at him.

“I’m happy. Really happy,” you admitted.

It came out softer than you expected.

Steve’s thumb brushed gently against your side. “And I’m proud of you.”

You held his gaze for a second, then a small, knowing smile curved your lips. “Then maybe we should go home,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough, “so you can show me how proud you are.”

Something shifted in his expression immediately — subtle, but unmistakable.

“Don’t say more,” he murmured, a hint of a grin breaking through.

“Come on,” you said, reaching for your bag.

He took it from you without a word, his other hand finding yours and you walked out together, turning off the lights behind you. 

-

One evening, you were already home, waiting for Steve to be back. Dinner was ready, the table perfectly set. The kitchen still carried the warmth of what you had just cooked, and King lingered nearby, pacing in small, hopeful circles, his eyes fixed on the counter in case something might fall.

You glanced at the clock one more time. 

Steve was late.

You furrowed your brow. Practice should have ended a while ago and he was rarely off schedule without a reason.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, trying not to let your thoughts drift too far ahead of you. But just as a flicker of concern began to settle in your chest, the sound of the front door opening cut through the silence.

Relief left your lips in a quiet breath before you could stop it. King reacted instantly, tail wagging as he rushed out of the kitchen, nails clicking against the floor as he ran to greet Steve.

“Hey, what happened? The kids wouldn’t let you go?” you called out, stepping out of the kitchen after the dog, still distracted as you wiped your hands.

“Hey,” Steve said.

Something in his tone — slight, uncertain — made you lift your gaze. At first, you didn’t notice anything different. Then your eyes caught it.

A small hand, barely visible, peeking out from behind his leg, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his pants.

You slowed mid-step. Your mouth parted slightly, the words you had been about to say fading before they could form. Your gaze stayed fixed there, on that small hand, and on the hint of a face just barely visible behind him as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. But you couldn’t quite see who it was.

You looked back up at Steve. “Oh,” you said, managing a small smile despite the confusion already building, “I see we have a guest.”

Steve lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly, a nervous habit you knew too well. He smiled back—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was hesitation there. Almost… caution.

He glanced down behind him. Then, after a brief pause, he shifted slightly to the side.

And the child finally came into view.

You blinked. “Charlie?” you said, surprise softening your voice.

He stood half-hidden still, shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes flicked up briefly before dropping again like he wasn’t sure if he should be there at all.

You knew him. He was one of your students. And one of Steve’s athletes too. Quiet. Gentle. Polite. The kind of child who never demanded attention, who was always the last to leave, as if he had no hurry, or worse, nowhere to go.

“Good evening, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, his voice small, careful. His eyes lowered to his worn shoes, toes turned slightly inward. 

King, meanwhile, had already approached him, tail wagging enthusiastically as he sniffed at him. Charlie flinched slightly at first but didn’t pull away. He just stood there, still, letting the dog investigate him like he didn’t quite know how to act. 

You softened immediately at the sight.

“Hey,” you said gently, your voice shifting without you even thinking about it as you took a few little steps closer. “It’s okay, you don’t need to be afraid. He’s friendly. And… curious.”

Charlie gave a small nod, barely lifting his gaze.

You knew enough about his situation. In a town like Hawkins, people talked and everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. Over the years, you had heard various things about him. No father. A mother who was rarely home. And when she was, she often seemed lost in problems of her own and Charlie ended up spending many evenings alone.

Your attention flicked back to Steve again as he stepped closer to you. A thousand questions sat just behind your lips but you didn’t ask them. Not yet.

Steve cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he began, his voice low. “I should’ve called, but—”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough to brush his lips near your ear.

“His mom didn’t show up,” he murmured quietly so that only you could hear. “We couldn’t reach her. And I couldn’t leave him there.”

He pulled back, his hand finding yours, fingers wrapping around it as he searched your face. Your eyes flicked briefly to Charlie, then back to Steve. You nodded, a small smile forming as you squeezed his hand lightly, reassuring him that it was all okay. You stepped away from Steve and moved toward Charlie, lowering yourself to his height so you wouldn’t tower over him.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You actually got here at the perfect time.”

He shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back, weight moving from one foot to the other.

“I hope you’re hungry because dinner’s ready,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “And I made way too much food. Honestly, it’s a problem at this point.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Think you could help us with that?”

Charlie nodded after a moment, still not quite meeting your eyes. You nodded back, as if sealing an agreement.

“Perfect,” you said gently. Then, glancing over your shoulder at Steve, “why don’t we go wash our hands while Steve… gets everything ready?”

Your eyes lingered on him just a second longer, enough for him to understand that what you were really giving him was time. He gave a small nod in return before going back to look at Charlie. You reached out carefully, giving him the chance to step back if he wanted to but he didn’t. Your fingers closed gently around his hand—small, a little cold—and you guided him toward the bathroom. Behind you, you heard Steve move, the faint sound of the phone being picked up echoing through the quiet house. As you walked, you could feel the slight tension in Charlie’s grip, the way he stayed close but cautious, like he wasn’t used to this kind of care.

When you stepped back into the kitchen, your eyes found Steve’s immediately. He shook his head, just slightly. Something in your chest dropped, but you didn’t let it show. You forced a small, easy smile for Charlie. 

“Here we are,” you said lightly. “Go ahead, Charlie, sit here.”

You gestured to the chair between you and Steve. He moved toward it slowly, almost carefully, like he was afraid of getting something wrong. Steve took the seat across from you, while King had already settled at your side, tail brushing against your leg, eyes fixed on the table with quiet anticipation. He knew you well enough to expect something, even if he’d already eaten.

You looked at Charlie, searching for the right thing to say. Make yourself at home sat on the tip of your tongue — but it didn’t feel right. Not when you didn’t know what home meant for him.

“Take whatever you like, please” you said instead, softer.

He still didn’t move. His mouth was slightly open, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. You followed it.

Dinner wasn’t anything special — just spaghetti with meatballs, fresh salad and warm garlic bread. The portions were the same you cooked every night for you and Steve, the kind that usually left leftovers for the next day. It was normal for you.

But not for him.

His eyes moved slowly from one dish to the next, taking everything in. There was something in his expression — something caught between hesitation and wonder. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real or that it was actually meant for him.

Your chest tightened and a thought slipped in before you could stop it.

When was the last time he ate like this?

Not just ate — but sat down at a table, with other people and warm food in front of him that he didn’t have to earn, or rush, or hide. Maybe he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he was just waiting to understand what was allowed. Waiting for someone to tell him it was okay.

You swallowed hard but didn’t ask questions. Instead, you reached forward and began serving him yourself, adding a bit of everything onto his plate. More than you normally would. More than he probably expected.

“There you go,” you said gently once you were done. “There’s more if you want, okay?”

He nodded faintly, his hands still resting in his lap for a moment longer.

You and Steve served yourselves next, exchanging a brief look across the table before your attention returned to Charlie.

He hadn’t touched the food yet.

Only when you both took your first bites did he finally move. At first, it was tentative. Slow. Careful. He picked at the food like he was testing it, like he wasn’t entirely sure it was really his to eat. Like he expected someone to stop him. But after a few bites, hunger took over and his movements changed — faster now, less careful. He ate quickly, almost urgently, like his body couldn’t afford to wait. A bit of sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth.

You had stopped mid-motion without realizing it, your fork suspended halfway to your mouth as you watched him. Something shifted inside you. It wasn’t discomfort. Or pity. It was something else — warm, but heavier than you expected. Something that settled low in your chest and stayed there, tightening your throat just slightly. You didn’t have a name for it but it made it harder to look away.

You loved your students. All of them. But this felt different. Seeing Charlie like that, so small in that chair, so quiet and guarded one moment and then suddenly… unfiltered. Unaware. There was something vulnerable about it. But also something incredibly real. And it stirred something in you that you didn’t quite recognize. Something close to affection — but deeper, instinctive, almost unfamiliar in its intensity.

You smiled, softly. Charlie caught it out of the corner of his eye and he slowed down almost immediately. The shift was instant — shoulders tightening again, movements becoming smaller, more controlled, like he had just remembered himself or as if he thought he had done something wrong. Your smile faded just enough. You looked down quickly, pretending to focus on your own plate, giving him privacy again.

Dinner moved forward like that. Quiet, mostly. You and Steve tried to make conversation — small questions, light comments, easy conversation — but you didn’t push. When Charlie answered, it was brief. Polite. Careful.

So you let the silence settle instead. 

And strangely… it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It felt gentle.

Safe.

The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from anyone. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery, King’s tail occasionally brushing against the floor, and Charlie’s breathing slowly evening out as he ate.

And as you sat there, across from Steve, watching this small, fragile moment take shape at your table, you felt something shift inside you again.

Not sharp.

Not painful.

Just… something opening.

Something that felt, quietly, like the beginning of something you hadn’t planned — but somehow already cared about.

At some point, King started circling the table again, nails clicking softly against the floor as he moved from one chair to the next, hopeful and impatient in the way he always was. Then, without warning, he stopped beside Charlie and rested his chin on the boy’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Charlie froze instantly. His shoulders stiffened, his hand hovering mid-air, his whole body going still. 

“It’s okay,” Steve said gently, his tone easy, reassuring. “You don’t have to be scared. It just means that he likes you.”

He reached over, picking up a small piece of leftover meat from his plate and holding it out toward him.

“Here,” he added. “You can give him this if you want. He’ll be your best friend for life after that.”

Charlie hesitated. He looked at Steve first, uncertain — then at you. You gave him a small nod, soft, encouraging. He took the piece of meat slowly, carefully, like even that small gesture required permission. Then he lowered his hand toward King, a little unsure. 

King didn’t hesitate. He took it immediately, tail still wagging, clearly thrilled by the interaction and the food. Charlie watched him, something shifting in his expression. Then, almost cautiously, he lifted his other hand and rested it on the top of King’s head. He started petting him, slowly at first, light, almost testing. King leaned into it, happily, before licking his hand in response.

And just like that a small smile appeared on Charlie’s face. Barely there at first, like he didn’t quite know how to hold it. Then a quiet, surprised sound slipped out of him — something between a breath and a laugh.

You realized then that it was the first genuine smile you'd seen since Steve had brought him home. 

A real smile. 

The sight of it sent a rush of warmth through you so sudden it almost caught you off guard. You looked up, meeting Steve’s gaze across the table.

His expression had softened in exactly the same way.

Neither of you said anything. There was no need. Your smiles said more than a thousand words. 

-

Darkness had settled outside the windows. The last traces of daylight had disappeared long ago, replaced by the quiet hum of crickets and the occasional headlights passing on the distant road. The clock in the kitchen kept ticking steadily forward, each passing minute making the silence feel heavier.

Steve had tried calling again. And again. But it had become clear no one was coming.

Hopper had been informed, and after a brief conversation, the three of you had come to the same conclusion. It was late, Charlie was safe where he was, and dragging him somewhere unfamiliar in the middle of the night would only make an already difficult situation worse. Hopper promised he would start looking into things first thing in the morning. He'd check hospitals, talk to people, ask questions and figure out what had happened. But until then, the best place for Charlie was here. At your house. 

You and Steve got the guest room ready together, moving quickly, instinctively falling into rhythm without needing to say anything. Clean sheets, an extra blanket, a small glass of water placed on the nightstand. You found something for him to sleep in as well. One of the spare pajamas that had been left behind over the years after countless sleepovers. Dustin, Mike, Lucas and the others always seemed to forget something whenever they stayed over. The pajama shirt hung almost to Charlie's thighs and the sleeves fell past his wrists. It was obviously far too big for him, but it was clean, warm, and smelled faintly of laundry detergent.

When it was finally time to put him to bed, something shifted again — a different kind of uncertainty. You were suddenly aware of how unfamiliar this felt — not the presence of a child, not really. You and Steve were surrounded by them every day at school and you had even years of babysitting behind you.

But this was different.

This was your home.

And right now there was a child who was almost a stranger to you. Not one of your little friends, like Dustin, or a friend's kid you found yourself looking after for a night. Sure, he was your student, but you still knew little about him. He was a responsibility that didn’t have a clear boundary. You didn’t know what his routine looked like. Or if he had one at all. You didn’t know if someone usually tucked him in. If he was used to silence, or noise, or being left alone entirely. You didn't know what you could or couldn't do. 

He wasn’t your son, after all. 

And you weren’t his mother. 

The thought made you hesitate. But not for long. Because he needed you, whether you were his mother or not.

You stepped closer to him. He had already slipped under the covers, lying stiffly on his back, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself there either. You reached down and gently pulled the blanket up a little higher, tucking it around him. Your movements were careful, slow. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time. 

“I… uh,” you started, your voice quieter now. “Me and Steve — we’re just down the hall. First door on the left.” You offered a small smile. “If you need anything… anything at all, you can come get us. Or call.”

He just nodded.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, searching his expression, hoping he understood — not just the words, but what you meant.

That he wasn’t alone. 

“Goodnight, Charlie,” you said gently. “Sweet dreams.”

Still no answer.

You smiled anyway, then turned toward the door. You had just opened it, one foot already out in the hallway, when his voice stopped you.

“Goodnight… Mrs. Harrington.”

You turned back, your eyes met his again. For a second, something caught in your chest. You smiled again at him. Part of you wanted to tell him to use your name. To make it easier, less formal. But you didn’t. It was too soon. 

“Goodnight,” you simply said.

Then you stepped out and closed the door gently behind you, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you almost immediately. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping without you even realizing how tense they had been. It felt strange. Like you had just passed some kind of test you didn’t know you were taking.

-

By the time you reached your bedroom, the exhaustion of the evening had finally started catching up to you. You pushed the door open quietly.

Steve was standing beside the bed, halfway through changing out of his clothes. His shirt was already gone, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips while he tugged a clean T-shirt over his head. The moment he saw you, he stopped immediately.

“How is he?” he asked right away, concern already written all over his face. “Did he fall asleep?”

You shook your head as you closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the handle for just a moment before you let it go.

“Not yet,” you said. “But he was fine... and I think he was tired too. After all, it was a busy evening... for all of us. I'm sure he'll fall asleep soon.”

Steve nodded slowly, eyes dropping for a second as he processed that, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. Then his gaze lifted back to yours.

“And you?” he asked more carefully this time, his voice low. 

There it was.

The real question.

Are you okay after all of this?

You leaned back lightly against the dresser, crossing your arms loosely over yourself as you thought about it.

“Honestly?” you said after a moment. “Better than I expected.”

“Are you sure?” He said, carefully. 

You let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t quite make it. 

“I’m not gonna lie. It was… intense,” you admitted. “And a little overwhelming at first.” You paused for a moment before continuing. “When I saw him standing behind you, I think my brain completely stopped working for a second.”

That earned the faintest smile from Steve, though it disappeared quickly again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call first to warn you, but I didn’t really have the time or… a choice,” he said immediately.

You shook your head gently.

“Steve,” you said softly, “you weren’t going to leave him there all alone.”

His jaw tightened slightly at that.

You could still picture it clearly — Charlie patiently waiting at the baseball field long after everyone else had gone home, like he was already used to it. To being forgotten. The thought made something ache inside your chest all over again.

“You did the right thing. I would’ve done the same,” you told him.

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

“Of course.”

Steve looked at you for a long moment after that, something conflicted moving behind his eyes.

“When I showed up with him,” he admitted quietly, “I was scared you’d look at me and think I’d lost my mind.”

You frowned immediately. 

“Steve—”

“No, I —” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling softly. “I was really scared… I didn’t know if this would… bring everything back up again.” His voice lowered on the last part. 

Even now he hated talking about the pain you both had gone through. But you promised each other you'd be honest and tell each other everything, even when it wasn’t easy. You didn't want to repeat the same mistakes.

Your expression softened instantly. “You thought I was gonna fall apart again.”

He didn’t talk but his silence was answer enough. You pushed yourself away from the dresser and walked toward him slowly.

“I… I was scared, at first,” you admitted.

Steve’s face tightened slightly.

“But not because of Charlie,” you clarified quickly. “More because… I didn’t know how I was supposed to act. What he needed. Or what the right thing was.”

You stopped in front of him.

“But…” your voice softened, “I’m glad you brought him here.”

Steve’s eyes searched yours carefully, like he still wasn’t fully allowing himself to believe that.

“And he can stay as long as he needs to,” you said firmly. “Honestly, I’m more angry that nobody seems to even be looking for him.”

Something dark flickered briefly across Steve’s face at that.

“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “Me too.”

Silence settled between you for a moment. Then Steve looked at you again, softer this time.

“You were really good tonight,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“With him,” he added. His mouth lifted faintly at one corner. “The second you realized what was happening, you just… took over.” He shook his head a little, almost like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “You made him feel safe in, like, five minutes.”

Warmth spread slowly through your chest.

“So did you,” you replied quietly.

Steve huffed softly. “I mostly panicked internally.”

You laughed under your breath. “No,” you said, stepping closer. “You brought him home. You made sure he wasn’t alone tonight.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at him. “You’re a really good man, Steve Harrington.”

His gaze dropped briefly, almost shy despite all these years.

“And… You’d be an amazing father,” you added, gentler now.

Steve smiled automatically at that—but it faltered almost immediately after. You noticed it instantly. Like the words had caught somewhere inside him. Your head tilted slightly, knowing exactly what had happened. 

“You can say it, you know,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted back to yours. For a second, he looked almost hesitant. Then finally, “You’d be an amazing mother too.”

A small smile pulled at your lips as you stepped even closer until your bodies nearly touched.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “I’ll try to be.”

Your hand slid gently against his chest.

“One day. When we’re ready.”

Steve’s expression softened completely.

Relief. Love. Hope.

All at once.

His hands found your waist slowly, carefully, like he still wanted to make sure this was real.

“That sounds nice,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You looked at each other for another moment before Steve finally pulled you fully against him. You melted into his arms immediately, your cheek pressing against his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. His hand slid slowly up and down your back while the other rested protectively at the base of your spine. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear.

After a moment, you tilted your head back just enough to look at him again. “I love you,” you whispered.

Steve smiled. “I love you too.”

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

-

The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen. You blinked slowly against the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in muted shades of blue. For a moment, you stayed still beneath the covers. The house sat wrapped in that quiet kind of silence that only existed in the earliest hours — before alarms, before life began moving again. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach. One arm had somehow ended up stretched across your waist sometime during the night, heavy and warm over the blanket, his face half-buried into the pillow. His hair stuck up messily in every direction, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the world.

You watched him for a few seconds, then your thoughts drifted to Charlie. You carefully slipped out from under Steve’s arm, moving slowly so you wouldn’t wake him. He stirred anyway, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before instinctively reaching toward the warm spot you had left. You smiled to yourself. Then quietly, you pulled something on and stepped into the hallway. Your feet slowed when you reached the guest room. Carefully, you opened the door just enough to peek inside. 

Charlie was still asleep, curled under the blankets, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath the pillow, hair messy from sleep. 

Relief moved through you instantly.

At some point during the night, he must have kicked the blankets halfway off himself and King had somehow managed to sneak in too, curled at the foot of the bed like some oversized guard dog, completely passed out.

You almost laughed.

Traitor.

You had checked on him more than once during the night. Each time half expecting him to be awake, scared, crying, confused. But every time, you had found him still sleeping.

Charlie’s face looked different asleep. Softer. Younger. Relaxed in a way you didn’t think you had ever seen him at school. He was just a little boy sleeping. Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly. You wondered when he had last slept somewhere without worrying. If he ever had.

You stepped inside just long enough to pull the blanket back over him. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake. King cracked one eye open, lifted his head lazily.

“You’re supposed to sleep in our room,” you whispered.

His tail thumped once against the mattress before he ignored you entirely. You shook your head, smiling faintly, and quietly slipped back out.

Downstairs, the house still smelled faintly of last night’s dinner. You started the coffee machine first. Then breakfast. You decided to make pancakes, hoping Charlie liked them. Without realizing it, you found yourself making more than usual. 

By the time you were whisking batter, you heard some familiar footsteps behind you and after a moment, strong arms wrapped around your waist, making you smile immediately.  

“Good morning to you too,” you said softly.

Steve leaned down, still half asleep, pressing his face against your shoulder, kissing it lazily. 

“It’s Saturday and it’s early,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Come back to bed.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Don’t tempt me, Steve.”

A soft hum vibrated against your skin.

“You know I can’t help myself,” he murmured near your ear. “Especially when I know I can convince you.”

His hands settled against your hips, warm and familiar.

“Steve…”

“Mhm?”

“I’d like to remind you we’re not alone in the house.”

He kissed your shoulder again. “I checked,” he murmured. “He’s still sleeping.”

The admission caught you off guard for a second. 

Of course he had checked too. 

The thought alone made your chest tighten in the softest way.

You tilted your head back for only a moment, giving him space without even meaning to as his lips brushed your skin again. Then you caught yourself. Turning in his arms, you rested your hands against his chest to stop him.

“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t wake up any second,” you said gently. “And I’d rather avoid traumatizing him any more than life already has.”

Steve let out a quiet sigh — not annoyed. Amused.

His forehead dropped lightly against yours.

“Ok, you’re right. I’ll behave,” he said. “For now,” he added before kissing you. Soft. Slow. 

When he pulled back, he exhaled quietly. 

“I’m gonna call Hopper,” he said after a moment. “See if there’s any news.”

The mood shifted a little, reality settling back in. 

You still nodded. Even though, deep down, you already feared the answer.

While Steve reached for the phone, you turned back toward the counter and started cooking. You needed something to do with your hands, something to stop your mind from spiraling.

You poured the first circle of batter into the pan, watching it spread slowly across the surface as the soft hiss filled the kitchen.

After a few seconds, Hopper answered. You could hear his voice through the receiver — agitated, fast — but none of the actual words reached you. You focused on the pancakes, the smell slowly filling the kitchen. 

A small stack of pancakes had already begun to form on the plate beside the stove by the time you glanced over again. Steve’s expression had slowly changed as he listened to Hopper. His eyes met yours, your stomach tightening. You could tell before he even hung up. 

“Still nothing?” you asked quietly, swallowing hard. 

Steve shook his head. “Hopper checked their caravan,” he said carefully. “Nobody was there. And no one has seen her apparently.”

He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “He said… Charlie can keep staying here, for now. If… we want, of course.” You looked down at the batter absentmindedly as something twisted painfully in your chest. Not because you minded. God, you didn’t. But because no child should ever be left wondering why no one came. Then there was a part of you — the quiet, selfish one — that felt strangely relieved.

Your eyes slowly lifted to Steve’s.

“Yeah,” you agreed immediately. “Of course he can stay. As long as he needs it.”

“You sure?” he asked quietly. Steve watched you for a second, like maybe he was still afraid of your answer. Like some part of him worried this would be too much.

“Steve,” you said gently. “I told you. I’m okay, really. And he needs us now. That’s all that matters.”

Something softened in his face. “You’re kinda amazing, you know that?”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “You brought home a child, Harrington. You are.”

“Yeah, and you just took over, making it feel normal.”

“I just made him dinner.”

“You made him feel safe. Welcome.”

You looked at him, your mouth slightly open. But before you could answer, soft footsteps interrupted you.

You both turned.

Charlie stood awkwardly near the kitchen entrance, hair sticking up everywhere. King stood proudly beside him like he had personally escorted him downstairs. Charlie hesitated when he noticed you both looking.

“Morning,” Steve said immediately, casual — gentle enough not to scare him off. “Did you sleep well, buddy?”

Charlie shifted his weight slightly. Then, he nodded, quickly. 

“Good,” he said, softer than usual. “You hungry?”

Charlie looked up at you and after a moment, he nodded again. 

Your heart nearly cracked open. “Well,” you said, turning back toward the stove, “perfect timing. You pointed toward the bowl on the counter. “Pancakes. They’re almost ready.  And before Steve eats all of them, I suggest you sit down.”

Steve looked offended. “What? I didn’t…”

“You ate six last time.”

“Seven,” he corrected proudly. “It's not my fault if your pancakes are the best,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. 

And for the second time, you saw it. Small. Quick. Gone almost immediately. But there.

Another smile.

And somehow, standing there in your kitchen, with King circling his legs and Steve already pretending to argue over pancake rights, something shifted. You couldn’t explain it yet. Didn’t have words for it. But for the first time in a long while…

The house felt fuller.

Complete. 

-

Since school was closed for the weekend, you had the day off and could do whatever you wanted. So after breakfast, Steve disappeared for a moment before returning with two baseball gloves and a ball in hand. He leaned casually against the kitchen counter, looking at Charlie.

“So,” he said, shrugging lightly, like the idea had just come to him, “since you’re here…”

Charlie looked up from where he sat beside King.

“Thought maybe we could get a little practice in.” Steve tossed one ball lightly into the air before catching it again. “Consider it private coaching.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “But don’t tell the others, alright? Can’t have the team thinking I play favorites.”

Charlie hesitated, shoulders tightening slightly.

“You really don’t have to if you don’t feel like it,” you added gently, not wanting him to feel pressured.

Steve nodded immediately. “No pressure,” he said easily. “We can just throw the ball around for a bit. King will probably join and ruin everything anyway.”

As if on cue, King lifted his head and after a second, Charlie nodded.

Steve pointed at him with mock seriousness.

“That’s my guy.”

-

Outside, you settled onto the porch with your sketchbook, intending to draw. At least, that had been the plan. Instead, your pencil barely touched the page as you found yourself watching Steve and Charlie.

Steve crouched down to Charlie’s height, explaining something while the boy listened carefully, shoulders tense. At first, he nodded and answered only when Steve asked him something directly. But little by little, the nervousness began to fade.

And soon, he was laughing quietly when Steve intentionally exaggerated a missed catch, dramatically falling backward into the grass.

“You did that on purpose,” Charlie said before quickly going quiet again, almost surprised by his own voice.

Steve placed a hand over his chest. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Another laugh escaped Charlie, his smile widened despite himself.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Charlie looked… lighter. Like for a few hours, he had forgotten to be scared. And watching him — safe, laughing, free in a way you suspected he rarely got to be — stirred something unfamiliar and quiet inside your chest. And frightening in how natural it felt. You didn’t quite know what to call it. Not yet. Affection, maybe. Or something dangerously close to love. And that scared you more than you wanted to admit. Because you knew what love could do and how quickly it could turn into grief. How suddenly happiness could become fear and loss. And letting yourself care this much felt dangerous.

But then Charlie laughed again — breathless this time, chasing after King while Steve pretended to complain dramatically about being ignored by his own player — and something inside you softened anyway.

So, just for now, you let yourself enjoy the moment. The sound of laughter drifting through the yard. The warmth of the sun on your skin. Steve’s voice somewhere in the background.

-

By evening, the kitchen smelled like flour, tomato sauce, and melted cheese.

You had decided on homemade pizza.

At first, Charlie hovered near the kitchen doorway again, uncertain, hands half-hidden inside the sleeves of Dustin’s oversized sweatshirt. King sat loyally beside him, tail sweeping lazily against the floor every few seconds like he had already decided Charlie belonged there.

“Come here,” you said gently, patting the stool beside you. “I need help decorating.”

Charlie hesitated, glancing briefly toward Steve like he needed confirmation he wouldn’t be in the way.

“You heard the boss,” Steve said, washing his hands at the sink. “No backing out now.”

Slowly, Charlie climbed onto the stool beside you. You handed him a small handful of shredded mozzarella while you spread tomato sauce over the dough.

“Okay,” you said softly. “You can put the cheese on.”

He watched your hands first, careful and observant, before pinching a small amount between his fingers and sprinkling it over the pizza with extreme concentration. At first he moved slowly, like he was afraid of doing something wrong. Then he paused. 

“Like this?” he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper. 

You opened your mouth to answer, but Steve leaned over the counter first.

“That is way too much cheese,” he said with exaggerated seriousness.

Charlie froze immediately and you shot Steve a look.

“Ignore him,” you said, nudging Charlie lightly with your shoulder. “There’s no such thing as too much cheese.”

Steve looked personally offended.

“There absolutely is.”

“There isn’t.”

“There is. You just refuse to acknowledge basic pizza science.”

You rolled your eyes.

Beside you, Charlie let out the smallest laugh.

As the evening went on, Charlie relaxed little by little. He started helping more without asking. Passing ingredients. Carefully arranging pepperoni in uneven little circles. Sneaking extra cheese onto one side of the pizza when he thought Steve wasn’t looking.

King, meanwhile, had become completely and utterly attached to Charlie. The dog barely left his side. Every time Charlie moved, King followed. Every time Charlie sat down, King somehow ended up pressed against his leg like they had known each other forever. At one point, while you were reaching for plates, you noticed Charlie glance around carefully before lowering his hand beneath the counter. The second the piece of cheese slipped onto the floor, the dog appeared like magic and eat it. Charlie looked oddly proud of himself. Across the kitchen, Steve caught your eye just in time to see Charlie carefully slipping another tiny piece of pepperoni. Steve let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms.

“Great,” he said, crossing his arms. “Now he likes you more than me too.”

Charlie startled slightly, cheeks reddening.

“I— sorry,” he mumbled immediately, hand pulling back like he’d done something wrong.

Steve’s expression softened at once. “Kid, I’m kidding,” he said gently.

Charlie glanced up uncertainly. “He switched teams years ago,” Steve continued, nodding toward the dog. “The second she started sneaking him food under the table, I lost all authority in this house.”

“Excuse me?” you said, pretending to sound offended as you slid the pizza onto a cutting board. “You spoil him just as much.”

Charlie looked between the two of you quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, his hand dropped to scratch behind King’s ears. King immediately melted into the floor with complete devotion.

Charlie also started speaking more. Small things at first. How he liked baseball more than math. How he hated peas. How King reminded him of a dog he’d once wanted but never got. Nothing really big or life-changing but every sentence felt important to you. Like trust being handed over in pieces.

“You know,” Steve said eventually, leaning back in his chair after another bite of pizza, “I think this might actually be the best pizza we’ve ever made.”

You looked up from your plate and glanced first at Charlie, then at Steve. You smiled softly. He wasn’t talking about the food. 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think so too.” Then, after a beat, your eyes dropped back to Charlie. “I had an amazing helper.”

Steve pointed to himself immediately.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding once like it was obvious.

You looked at him flatly. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

Steve placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow,” he said, feigning heartbreak. “That’s actually cruel.”

You laughed quietly when the doorbell suddenly rang. The noise cut through the room so suddenly that all three of you looked up.

“Were we expecting someone?” Steve asked.

You slowly shook your head but but deep down, somehow, you already knew. You couldn’t explain how or why. Instinct, maybe. The feeling settled heavily in your stomach before either of you even moved.

Steve stood first. And you followed almost immediately, wiping your hands absentmindedly on a kitchen towel while Charlie remained seated at the table, one hand resting unconsciously against King’s fur.

When Steve opened the door, Hopper stood there. And beside him, there was a woman. 

Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. There was fading makeup smudged beneath tired eyes and a bruise near her temple, yellowing at the edges. Her clothes smelled faintly of cigarettes and hospital disinfectant. She looked exhausted more than anything else. Worn down by life in a way that made it difficult to tell how old she actually was. 

You didn't need an introduction to know who she was. 

Charlie’s mother.

Your chest tightened instantly.

The woman swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously past you into the house, searching. 

Hopper exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“She got into a car accident yesterday,” he explained quietly, glancing between you and Steve. “Minor injuries but she ended up at the county hospital unconscious most of the night. She didn’t have any documents with her, so they didn’t know who she was.”

“Charlie,” she breathed out.

You turned.

Charlie stood a few feet behind you but he didn’t move. Not immediately. Then, slowly, carefully, he stepped forward. The woman’s eyes were fixed entirely on him. She crouched immediately despite the obvious stiffness in her body, one hand bracing against her knee. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached up.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said quickly, voice cracking as she looked at him. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything.” 

Her eyes filled immediately.

And the worst part was that she sounded genuine. Not cruel. Just… incapable. Like someone who loved her child but kept failing him anyway. The guilt hit you before you could stop it. Because part of you had already judged her and decided what kind of mother she must be. Someone selfish. Someone reckless enough not to notice their child was gone. But now, standing there, seeing the bruising near her temple, the exhaustion written all over her face, she just looked overwhelmed. And broken. 

She looked up at you and Steve then, eyes red-rimmed. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For taking care of him.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” Steve said gently. “He’s okay.” 

“A little scared,” you admitted quietly. “But… he’s okay.”

The woman nodded like hearing that physically hurt.

Hopper stepped aside eventually, giving them space and quietly pulled Steve aside.

“I already talked to her,” he muttered low enough that Charlie couldn’t hear. “One more screw-up and I’m stepping in. I mean it. And I’ll be checking on her. Frequently.”

Steve simply nodded.

Eventually, Charlie disappeared upstairs to grab his things. When he came back down, King immediately stood, tail wagging, following him toward the door. Charlie wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, while he started licking his face without hesitation.

“You know,” you said softly, crouching beside him, “you can come visit him whenever you want.”

Charlie looked up. “For real?”

“For real,” Steve said. “Pretty sure you’re his favorite now.”

King barked once like he agreed. A tiny smile pulled at Charlie’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

You smiled despite the ache building in your throat. You reached up before thinking, smoothing his messy hair back for a second.

“You’re always welcome here, Charlie”, you said, the words slipping out naturally.

They were already halfway to Hopper's truck when Charlie suddenly turned around. You smile and lifted your hand immediately.

“Bye, Charlie. See you on Monday,” you said, your voice trembling. 

He hesitated for a second before raising his own hand in return. Small. Shy. Your arms crossed instinctively over yourself. King moved forward as if ready to follow him but Steve caught his collar gently. “Easy, buddy.”

The dog whined softly. 

After closing the door behind you, Steve’s hand found yours silently. Slowly. His fingers threaded through yours and squeezed. Tight. Like he was comforting you. Like maybe he was holding onto something too.

The house felt unbearably quiet.

That night, lying in bed, you broke. You cried silently at first. Trying not to. Trying to be reasonable. After all, you would still see him at school. And Steve would see him at baseball practice. Nothing had changed. And nothing would. Not really.

Except it had.

Because somehow, impossibly, one day had been enough to make the thought of not hearing his quiet voice in the kitchen hurt more than it should.

Behind you, Steve said nothing. He wrapped himself around you, one arm around your waist, the other pulling you closer until your back pressed firmly against his chest, holding you tightly and letting you cry. 

After a long while, something warm touched your shoulder. At first, you thought it was your own tears. But then Steve buried his face more firmly against the back of your neck.

And you realized.

He was crying too. Silently. Or at least, he was trying to. The fabric of your nightgown was damp against your shoulder. You turned slowly in his arms. His eyes were red.

“Oh, Steve…”

His laugh came out shaky. “I know,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s stupid.”

“No,” you said immediately. “It isn’t,” you said, cupping his face, your forehead resting against his. 

And somewhere in the quiet dark, holding each other like that, you both understood. 

Seeing Charlie again at school would never be the same.

-

The next morning, you woke up early as usual but stayed where you were, tucked beneath the blankets while the soft gray light of early morning stretched across the bedroom. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, facing your side of the bed, hair sticking up in every direction, lips slightly parted as the faintest snore escaped him every few breaths.

You smiled despite yourself. Years ago, you probably would have found it annoying. Now, somehow, it had become comforting. Familiar. You turned onto your side, resting your head more comfortably against the pillow as you watched him sleep.

The night before replayed quietly in your mind.

Charlie leaving.

The silence afterward.

And the ache.

You and Steve had barely spoken once the house had gone quiet again. There hadn't really been words for it. Only a strange sense of loss neither of you had expected. 

And it made no logical sense.

Because Charlie had only been with you for a day.

One day.

And yet it had been enough to love him as something more than just a student. His absence had settled over the house like something physical.

Eventually exhaustion had taken pity on both of you. But sleep hadn’t come easily. You had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking.

About Charlie.

About Steve.

About the future.

And somewhere between all those thoughts, something inside you had finally settled into place. Something that terrified and gave you hope at the same time. Because you had spent so long convinced that door had closed forever and that maybe some broken part of you would never recover enough to want it again.

But Charlie had changed something.

Beside you, Steve stirred. His nose scrunched slightly before he rolled onto his back, stretching with a groan and blinking against the morning light. Then he noticed you watching him, a sleepy smile pulled at his mouth immediately.

“Well,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”

You laughed softly. “Good morning.”

“Morning, early bird.” He rubbed at his face before glancing toward the clock. “How long have you been awake?”

You hesitated. “A while.”

He studied you for a second and then something in his expression shifted, his smile fading just slightly. Like memory had finally caught up with him. He pushed himself up against the headboard, running a hand through his hair.

“How are you?” he asked carefully. “After… yesterday, I mean.”

You sighed and looked down at the blanket for a moment, considering the answer.

“Sad,” you admitted quietly. “I miss him.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “And… I’m worried.” You exhaled slowly. “I just really hope he’s okay, you know?”

Steve nodded immediately. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.” He looked down for a second. “I know we’ll see him tomorrow. At school. Practice and all that.” He hesitated. “But it doesn’t really feel —”

“The same,” you finished the sentence, your eyes meeting his. “Yeah, it doesn’t.”

For a few seconds neither of you said anything else. You looked at him and suddenly, the words you had been carrying all night felt too important to keep inside anymore.

“You know, yesterday…” you started quietly.

Steve immediately looked up.

You cleared your throat and continued. “Yesterday felt like —” You paused, choosing your words carefully.

His brow furrowed slightly. You looked down at your hands, swallowing. 

“It felt like we were a family.”

The words settled softly between you. Steve stayed quiet, letting you continue.

“And I liked it. A lot,” you admitted, a small smile touching your lips. “And it… it made me realize something.”

Steve sat up a little straighter now, more careful. “What… what do you mean?”

You hesitated for a second, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket and then, you finally looked him in the eyes. “I think I’m ready.”

His forehead creased. “Ready for what?”

Your heartbeat quickened. But strangely, you weren’t scared anymore.

“To be a mom,” you said softly.

The room fell completely silent. Steve blinked once, then twice, like he genuinely hadn’t expected those words.

You looked down briefly before continuing. “For a long time, I thought that part of my life was over.” You swallowed. “But taking care of Charlie yesterday felt... so natural. And good.”

A faint smile touched your lips as you remembered the previous day. 

“I liked making him breakfast. Checking on him.” You let out a small breath. “Seeing him play baseball in the backyard with you.”

Your eyes found Steve's again.

“And… I want that.”

Steve still hadn’t spoken. You could practically see him trying to process your words. 

“I want a family,” you finally admitted. “With you.”

Steve swallowed hard. The shine in his eyes made your chest ache. Slowly, his hand reached across the blankets until his fingers found yours.

“You sure?” he asked gently. “Because we don’t have to rush anything. We can wait if—”

You nodded immediately, squeezing his hand. “I’ve never been more sure.”

You took a deep breath. 

“Maybe we can’t be what Charlie needs,” you said quietly. “But there are so many kids out there like him.” Your voice softened. “Kids who just… need someone. And we could be that for one of them. Give them a better life, you know.” 

Your fingers tightened around Steve’s. You hesitated for a moment, then finally said it.

“I’d… I’d like to adopt, Steve.”

For a second, he just stared at you, completely still. 

Your stomach twisted.

“Say something, please,” you whispered, suddenly nervous. “What… what do you think?”

He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss against your knuckles.

“I think,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “every time I convince myself there’s no possible way I could love you more…” His thumb brushed gently over your hand. “You somehow give me another reason.”

Your eyes stung instantly, your breath caught. “Steve…”

“No, seriously.” He shook his head slightly. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”

He leaned forward without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.

“And you’re going to be an incredible mom,” he whispered against your hair.

A watery laugh escaped you. You lifted your head just enough to look at him, smiling. “And you’re going to be the best dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His forehead rested gently against yours as his hand came up to cup your cheek.

“Let's do it. Let’s adopt.” 

Tears threatened to spill. “Really?”

Steve let out a quiet laugh.

“Really.”

Steve kissed you, slowly, carefully. Like the moment deserved to be held onto for as long as possible.

-

Two years later

The afternoon sun spilled across the porch, warm against your bare legs as you sat in the wooden chair Steve had built for you the previous summer. A sketchbook rested on your lap, your pencil moving lazily across the page.

You weren't drawing anything in particular, just pieces of the moment unfolding in front of you.

The yard.

The dog. 

And the baseball game currently unfolding across the grass.

King barked excitedly as he tore after the ball that had no intention of being caught by a dog. He missed it entirely, skidded through the lawn, and immediately tried again as though nothing had never happened. A boy sprinted after it, nearly tripping over his own feet before recovering at the last second.

You smiled to yourself.

"That one didn't count!" he shouted.

"It absolutely did," Steve called back.

The boy groaned dramatically while Steve looked entirely too pleased with himself. You laughed softly and shook your head.

Some things never changed.

The competitive streak Steve brought to absolutely everything was apparently hereditary. Or contagious. You still hadn't decided which.

Steve tossed the ball into the air before catching it again.

"Ready?"

The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“No. You’re cheating."

“I’m winning,” he said, throwing the ball anyway. 

The boy managed to hit it this time, the crack of the bat echoing across the yard. His face lit up immediately. 

It still amazed you sometimes.

The first time he had stepped into your house, every word had seemed dragged out of him. He had spoken cautiously, as though every sentence needed permission before leaving his mouth. Now he laughed loudly and argued confidently. 

Steve grinned. “There you go! Nice job, buddy."

The kid turned toward the porch. "Mum! Did you see that?”

Mum

The word still caught you off guard sometimes. Not because it felt wrong, it was quite the opposite actually. It felt so natural now that it was hard to remember a time when it hadn't.

Your eyes met his. 

Your son. 

“I did," you called back. “That was a good hit, well done!”

The boy looked pleased with himself.

Your chest warmed.

You never would have imagined this. 

You and steve hadn’t been parents yet.

And Charlie had still been someone else's child. 

But then everything had changed.

Charlie had lost his mother only a few months after you and Steve had finally decided to adopt. The grief that followed and the months afterward hadn't been easy. There had been lawyers, court hearings, social workers and many questions. But eventually, after months of waiting, the judge had signed the papers and Charlie had finally come home. This time not as a guest. 

But as your son. 

And now you were finally a family. Not the one you had imagined years ago but the one that had been waiting for you instead.

A sudden movement pulled you from your thoughts. Your hand settled automatically over the curve of your stomach as you looked down, a smile spreading across your face.  Even now, months after finding out, part of you still couldn't quite believe it. After everything that had happened, after making peace with the possibility that it might never happen, life had found a way to surprise you again. 

You felt another kick. This one stronger as if she was demanding attention.

You laughed under your breath. "Well, hello to you too."

A moment later you heard the familiar creak of the porch boards and Steve appeared beside your chair.

"You okay?"

You nodded and reached for his hand, placing it gently against the curve of your stomach. Right on cue, your daughter kicked again.

Steve’s face softened immediately. "There you are, princess,” he murmured, as though he were greeting someone already familiar. 

You watched him for a moment. The man who had once brought home a scared little boy because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone. The man who had become a father long before either of you realized it.

Out in the yard, Charlie was already growing impatient.

“Dad!” 

The word made Steve glance up instantly. “Yeah?” 

“Are we playing again or are you tired already?”

Steve looked back at you, looking deeply offended. “Did you hear that? No respect around here."

You laughed. "Go save your reputation, coach."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading back toward the grass where Charlie was impatiently waiting for him, bat resting on one shoulder and King circling excitedly  around both of them. The afternoon sunlight wrapped around the three of them as they disappeared into another argument about baseball. You rested a hand over your stomach and watched.

Your husband.

Your son. 

The life and the family you were building together. 

Years ago, you had thought some dreams were gone forever. That you would never be a mother. Now, surrounded by the people you loved most, you realized that sometimes life gave you a different ending than the one you had initially imagined. 

And sometimes, somehow, it turned out even better.

THE END

Look away. Look away. Look away. Look away.

Steve’s angel on his shoulder is screaming at him, begging for the man to listen but he doesn’t. He can’t.

Because less than a hundred feet away from him, you’re there. Carefree and beautiful, swimming and floating around in your pool.

Never mind that it’s almost one in the morning. Every night for the past two weeks, you’ve stepped onto your patio and swam laps around the pool while Steve watches from his window.

He can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that his bedroom window has the perfect view of your backyard, and the pool you’ve occupied lately.

Steve doesn’t know you well. You moved into the house next to his only a few months ago – renting it from the Belmont’s he’s grown up living next to.

You seemed nice, kind even. On the first week, you had knocked on his door with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. You introduced yourself with a dizzying smile, and a syrupy sweet voice – he physically had to stop himself from drooling.

And once you were fully settled in, your routine began. You worked at the diner in midtown, and he only knew that because saw you wearing the uniform dress and apron while he was checking the mail – not because he was watching you (he absolutely was).

You seemed to take the mid shifts for the most part. You left for work around 2PM and came home at 9PM, four days out of the week. He wasn’t sure what you did once you were home but once midnight hit, you were in the pool – every night like clockwork.

And tonight’s no exception.

Steve is standing in front of his window, far enough to not be seen unless you’re really looking, but still close enough to see you clearly. There’s not much light outside – most of it comes from the reflection of the moon and a warmer light you’ve installed in your own backyard.

You’ve been swimming for almost thirty minutes now and not once has his eyes wandered from the sight of you. Despite the darkness, he can see you perfectly. You’re floating on your back now and your body is on full display to him.

You’re wearing a red bikini and the color is so stark, it almost glows against the water. Your arms are moving slowly under the water to keep you afloat, your knees and ankles moving carefully to help tread the water.

He can’t tell if your eyes are open or not, and it’s hard to focus on anything except your tits.

Steve inwardly cringes at himself, and tears his eyes away from you – choosing to stare at a patch of carpet on his bedroom floor instead. He’s being disgusting and disrespectful. You’re in the comfort of your own home, doing something that brings you peace and he’s invading that. Even if you don’t know it.

He should close his blinds– no, he’s going to.

Just as Steve looks back up to close the curtains, his eyes land back on where you were floating but something’s different.

You’re still floating, easily treading water but this time, without your fucking top on.

Steve’s mouth goes completely dry and his already half hard cock, hardens even more – straining against the waistband of his sweatpants.

He sees the bikini top you had on barely two minutes ago now hanging off the small stonewall ledge of the pool. For a second, he wonders if you took it off for him. But that would be ridiculous. Surely if you had even an inkling of him watching you, you would storm right up to him and smack him across his face – probably yell obscenities at him, maybe even call the police.

Right?

Steve swallows harshly and despite telling himself to shut the blinds a few moments ago, he grabs the chair from his desk and slides it to in front of the window. He settles into it without much more thought and watches as you move through the water.

He knows he shouldn’t but all common sense has left his mind and has been overtaken by hunger. Steve’s hands find the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, swiftly tugging them down past his thighs.

The cool air hits his skin and just barely offers him some sense of relief. He can feel the bead of precum wet on his tip. Keeping his eyes on you, he raises his hand and carefully spits into his palm. He wraps his palm around his cock, slowly twisting his wrist as he jerks himself off.

“Fuck,” He breathes aloud. The relief is immediate, and even though he wishes it was your hand instead of his, he welcomes it.

His wet hand keeps working around himself, and he watches you descend under water. You stay under for a few seconds, long enough to make him miss you. Finally, you come back up, your hands raising to push your drenched hair away from your face.

Steve doesn’t even try to silence the moan that spills from his throat. His eyes follow the way the water cascades from down your face, down your throat, all the way till it falls over your tits. Your mouth is just barely hung open, very clearly so you can inhale fresh air, and water slides over your rosy pink lips.

Steve’s hand moves faster as he keeps his gaze glued to you. His room fills with the sound of his slick hand fisting his cock, his hand stroking himself up and down, up and down.

He whines into the air as you lean backwards again, your chest and torso displayed to him again and he’s so, so fucking grateful.

“Oh fuck, mhmm,” Steve groans, his hand moving faster. The lewd schlick sound of his wet palm stroking his cock surrounds him, it’s so loud he’s almost worried you’d be able to hear it.

His breathing getting heavier as he tracks the way you move. His eyes threaten to squeeze shut but he can’t bring himself to look away from you, even for a second.

You keep moving, slowly swimming from the shallow end to the deep end. Your body moves to effortlessly, so beautifully and his mind begins to wander.

He imagines how you’d look riding him. He imagines how your tits would bounce in clear view of his face, perfect for him to grab and squeeze as you fuck yourself on his cock.

His hand tightens around his shaft, a thin layer of sweat building at his temple. He keeps thinking of how you’d look as he fucked you.

He could fuck you in that same pool – push you against the stone wall, holding your hips in place as he fucks into you. He imagines every pretty sound that would slip past your lips, how you’d whine and beg for more.

“S-Shit. Yeah, just like that, baby,” Steve hisses as he moans mindlessly, his hand pumps his dick faster, rougher. He’s so close already.

He focuses back on you. You’re floating in the shallow end again, and Steve’s gaze is fixated on the way your hand rises out of the water, the tips of your fingers gently gliding across the west skin of your stomach, up the valley of your breasts, carefully circling the skin around your nipple.

His hand is frantic now, stroking himself relentlessly as he stares at you. He’s a moaning, blubbering mess as he watches the way you touch yourself. It’s a show perfectly made for him.

Steve felt that rush of adrenaline coursing in his veins, traveling through his chest and all the way down to his cock. He was right there, and as he watches you emerge from the pool – water soaking your tanned body, droplets sliding down your skin, he’s thrown over the edge.

His stomach tightens, head thrown back as he whines your name into the air. He barely has time to throw his shirt upwards, exposing his stomach as warm ropes of cum spurt from his cock, coating his skin.

His chest heaves, and he keeps his hand moving over his skin, drawing out his orgasm. It takes him a few seconds for the ringing to leave his ears and come back to reality. His hand uncurls itself from around his dick, and he lets it drop against his sticky stomach.

Steve tracks you as you step out of the water and reach for a towel. He’s sad as you cover yourself up, but as his mind catches up with his body, he realizes he should feel guilty. His face burns with shame and he moves to clean himself up.

He grabs a few napkins from his nightstand, wiping his cum off his skin, and tells himself this was a one time thing and it will never happen again.

So when he presses you into an unlit corner in the radio station's basement—facing away from him, wedged between unfinished drywall and dust-coated shelves, whispering about how tight your pussy feels—bet it'd get even tighter if someone walked in, huh? you want that, baby? want someone to see how good you take this cock?—fucking you so hard until you have to bite down on the meat of his palm to keep from screaming—it isn't really because he wants an audience.

If anything, the possibility of one is secondary.

What he wants is proof.

Proof that you're still here, that you still want him. Proof that, out of everything happening around you, you're still choosing him.

The tangible, undeniable affirmation that, even as the world is ending around him, there's still this: your hands on him, his hands on you, the two of you choosing each other in spite of everything.

For a few stolen moments, there's physical evidence of something good still existing in his life. Something worth fighting for. Something that belongs to him just as much as he belongs to it.

And of course, it’s not something he’d ever say out loud—because naming it would mean having to sit with where it actually comes from.

What? It's hot, he'll say, the next time he pulls you into the tiny bathroom in the sqwk basement, smirking in the mirror as he bends you over the sink, shoving his pants down and stroking his cock; it's been hard the last half hour, straining against his jeans while he sat on the couch with his legs crossed, watching the group busy themselves with strategizing about tonight’s crawl, trying to figure out how to stop the world from ending—or at least pretend they can.

He'll insist it's about the thrill.

You look so good, honey, can't help myself.

What he'll never say is that it goes deeper than that.

He'll never admit that those reckless, impulsive moments are rooted in the same fear he's been carrying inside him for years. The fear of loss. The fear of loving people so completely and still being unable to keep them. He's spent his life watching people disappear, leave, die, or slip beyond his reach.

So he finds whatever excuse he can to steal a few minutes alone with you in a world that never seems to stop demanding something from him.

And for a man who's spent so much of his life losing things, those few minutes of certainty are intoxicating.

The irony of I-don't-give-a-fuck-anymore Steve is that, in some ways, he's the most frightened version of himself.

And sleep together. 

Steve isn’t one of your friends, at all. He’s friends with you friends, which means you have to stand him being there every time you see them. You’re not a big fan of him either, you found him cocky and you refused to believe he really changed that much since high school. He’s not your sworn enemy but you definitely argue and bicker.

You do sleep together sometimes as well. 

You’re the first one to judge yourself for it, but something about the constant fighting makes it ardent. You couldn’t deny the chemistry and passion. 

So you fall into a rhythm that benefits you both. You do not get along well, but he will be taking you home or climbing up your window from time to time.

Tonight though? He's an hour late already. 

Your window creeks open and there he is, in all his stupid glory. Hair messy and a cocky smile across his face like he owns the world. He freezes when he sees you sitting up in bed with arms crossed.

“Uh, you still awake?” he asks, like it’s not obvious. 

"Do you think you can just come here whenever you please?" you ask.

He steps fully into the room, closing the window behind him. “Sorry.” He kicks off his shoes, then peels off his shirt after taking his jacket off, and tosses it on your chair confidently.

You stand up and walk towards him, decided. You grab his face and start kissing him. Steve lets out a quiet, surprised noise like he wasn’t expecting you to cave first. But of course he doesn’t hesitate, and kisses you back. 

You were horny, okay? You’ve been waiting an hour for him to get here and throw you into bed. You wanted things done, now. 

His hands tangle in your hair and then slide down to pull you flush against him. He backs up slightly until his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sinks back onto the bed, letting you climb over him like it’s your rightful place. Which it kind of is. One hand slides up your spine beneath your shirt while the other stays gripping your hip. 

And when you finally break the kiss to breathe, he stays looking at you. You take your shirt off, rushed. His eyes darken instantly, even with a lacy bra still on (that you definitely left on under your pajamas so he can appreciate it.) His hands slide along your sides to memorize every inch. 

Then, he leans in and starts pressing open-mouthed kisses on your chest. You start grinding on his forming bulge, which undeniably starts feeling harder against you. His hands grip your hips, helping you move. He kisses your neck hard, a little too rough, even starts biting. 

“Hey! No hickeys!” you remind him of your rule. 

For a split second, he looks genuinely offended, like you just told him Christmas is canceled. “Come on, one little hickey is not even gonna show!” 

“Not on my neck, it’ll be too obvious.” you accept. 

“Okay.” he whispers, then flips you onto your back and starts trailing kisses down your neck, down to your covered breasts. A soft kiss there. Then another.

“You’re obsessed with my tits.” you say and he doesn’t even try to deny it. Thumbs brushing over the lace edge of your bra before his palms cup you fully. “You can mark them.” 

The cocky, heart-stopping grin comes back. He takes your bra off and finally, his lips meet skin. He bites gently, stings just right, and starts leaving a trail, tiny red marks hidden beneath clothing lines where no one will ever see them unless they’re very close. A quiet hum vibrates from his throat as he works.

You let out quiet moans as well, the ones he loves. He even starts humping your clothed cunt with his clothed bulge. His hands stay warm and steady on you, but his mouth? That's where all his focus is.

“Need you,” you whimper. “Take your pants off.”

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He sits up and kicks off his shoes, then unbuttons his jeans with quick fingers. He’s wearing boxers underneath, dark gray, and they do nothing to hide how much he wants you right now. The boxers go too, kicked aside along with his pants. All bare naked, he’s already hard. He just crawls back onto the bed on top of you.

“Don't tease me tonight, you’ve already made me wait an hour.” you say sweetly. 

“Okay, honey.” He's a sucker for when you talk to him like that. He closes the distance between you, kissing you hard again. His hand pushes the fabric of your panties aside, he grabs his cock and starts to pat it on your pussy a few times. His breath hitches, he loves that. 

He reaches for his jacket where he put the condoms. He came prepared tonight, unlike last time where you only had to do oral stuff. 

Your hand comes down your body and you start touching yourself slowly to alleviate the need. But Steve sees you touching yourself and it nearly undoes him. His jaw clenches, his breath stutters. He just freezes, staring at your fingers moving over your clit like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Without breaking eye contact, he finally gets the condom on, and then crawls back over you fast.

He captures your lips again as his hands find yours as he starts entering you. 

“Oh yes.” you murmur once he’s fully inside you. His head drops slightly and his eyes close shut. Then slowly, he starts to move. The rhythm slow and deep as his hips roll into yours. “Yes, faster!” 

He picks up speed. Harder. Deeper. The bed creaks under you, a little too loud but neither of you cares. His hips have a new rhythm now: relentless.

“Oh, Steve! Oh, Steve!” you keep moaning for him, he keeps groaning after each of your moans. The sound of skin on skin fills the room too with the squeak of your bedframe.

One hand slides down to grip your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist so he can go even deeper. “You feel so good, baby.” he moans. 

“Fuck, you’re so mean for making me wait for this.” you almost pout. 

He leans down and kisses your lips. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs against your lips. “I didn’t mean to.” And like an offering or a peace treaty, he starts moving even deeper. 

“Oh!-” you can’t help the moan that comes out of you. Your hands go to grab his face, making him look at you and bring him closer to your lips. “Where were you?”

It wasn’t a very valid question from your end. You’re just the girl he fucks and that he can’t stand at the time. But you couldn’t help but feel a little possessive. 

But Steve actually chuckles, low and breathless august your lips, still moving inside you with that deep rhythm. "I was late 'cause I drove around Hawkins for twenty minutes like an idiot," he confesses. "Didn't wanna show up empty-handed again after last time."

“You were late because you were buying condoms? I’m gonna kill you.” you say frustrated after getting what he means by ‘last time.’

“The pharmacy was closed! I had to go all the way to Miller Street for that 24-hour gas station.” It sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud. And now? Now you’re glaring at him while you’re literally underneath him in bed. “I’m sorry. Isn’t it worth it at least?”

“I don’t know, make it worth it.” you say.

He takes that offer seriously. He ends up behind you now, arm wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against his chest. His lips find the back of your neck to start kissing and biting. His free hand trails down over your stomach until he reaches your clit. He doesn’t tease this time, he starts moving his fingers, circling slowly, adding pressure, listening closely to what makes you gasp. 

He enters you again, with no warning. His hand continues with growing confidence, firm circles as his cock thrusts inside you. His other hand stays wrapped around your waist. 

“Oh, I’m coming.” you feel him everywhere from his fingers to all his girth deep in you. 

All his attention zeroes in on you, how your fingers dig into his arm, every little sound escaping you.

He continues that pace, just the right pressure while his mouth kisses and nips on your ear, knowing that drives you crazy. “Come on, pretty girl, finish for me.” 

“Oh, Steeeeve!” you arch back as you feel the pleasure take over your body. 

His fingers slow but don’t stop completely, letting you ride out your orgasm. He stops kissing your neck, too focused on watching you as you come. 

You feel him slowing down, his thrusts decrease. 

“Don’t stop, you didn’t finish.” you say breathlessly. 

 He kisses your shoulder, then carefully rolls you onto your back. His hand trails down his own stomach, adjusting himself in you again. 

“Move, baby.” you tell him. 

The second he hears you calling him baby, he’s moving. He kisses you and his hips start rolling again, trying to memorize how you feel around him. 

His breathing gets heavier with each movement, the pleasure building fast. 

"Fuck me so so good every time." You lose all filters and whisper in his ear, your hands tug on his hair. 

A ragged groan tears from him, his rhythm stutters for a second before he kicks into overdrive.

He kisses you hard, as his hips snap faster now, deeper and harder. One hand fists in the sheets as he hides his face in your neck, tiny gasps and grunts keep coming out of him. 

“Come for me, yeah baby.” you keep tugging on his hair. 

A string of quiet ‘fuck’s and your name tumbling out between his breaths. Then that overwhelming wave crashing through him. White-hot pleasure erupts as he comes hard with a muffled groan against your skin.

For several long seconds, he doesn’t move, stays breathing heavily above you. 

“You’re crushing me.” you complain and he rolls off you. 

“Sorry.” He’s still catching his breath, flushed cheeks. He props himself up on one elbow beside you. 

He takes care of the condom, throwing it away. He pulls the blanket over both of your bodies, then turns onto his back and opens an arm: silent invitation for cuddling. 

“Oh, we cuddle now?” you tease but somehow, end up laying on him anyway. 

Steve smirks, wrapping both arms around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you two. 

“Yeah, we could cuddle now.” he mumbles into your hair, voice all soft and sleepy now.

Right now he just wants this. Your weight against his chest, your warmth seeping through his skin. One hand slowly rubs up and down your spine while the other plays with a strand of your hair.

You couldn’t deny this was nice. But you settled for not overthinking this right now. 

“You’re so clingy after sex.” you mock him as if it was only his fault. 

"Shut up." he mutters into your hair. 

He’d never admit it out loud during daylight hours. But right now? In the quiet dark of your room? With both of you all warm and sticky and blissed out? He’s in heaven. 

You let this state take over you as well. It was nice not overthinking it. You find yourself kissing him again, a sweeter kiss this time. 

It catches him off guard, but he kisses you back with equal tenderness. Just warm mouths moving together. A little peck that lingers, then another, and another. 

When you finally pull back just an inch? He chases your lips for half a second, like he can’t get enough. You laugh at that and he smiles. 

He leans in again and presses another kiss to your lips, so you stay kissing, slowly. 

It should feel nice. It does. But you can feel the panic curling in your stomach. 

This was wrong, too much. 

You slip out from his grasp. “Uh, maybe you should leave now.”  

"What are you doing?" Steve mumbles, barely awake.

“It’s late.” 

He pushes himself up on one elbow, watching as you search for your clothes on the floor and lock yourself in the bathroom. 

He gets dressed quickly, quietly. He grabs his jacket from where he tossed it earlier and slips it on, he walks over to the window, opens it, and lets the air hit his face. He doesn’t want to leave, he’s looking for an excuse to stay. 

You walk out of the bathroom, changed back in your pajamas. And him, instead of immediately climbing out like usual, he stays looking at you. 

“I was just about to leave.” he lies. 

“Are you mad?” you notice his frown, it’s hard to ignore. 

“I just… don’t get why you suddenly wanted me to leave after we were cuddling and kissing and everything was cool.”

"We're not dating, Steve. We shouldn't have done that." you simply say. 

"Yeah. I know." The funny thing is that he does know this. It’s the arrangement. But it still hurts when you say it out loud.

"We can't have anything, we don't even get along." you say like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We had sex, that's where we should have stopped. But we got carried away."

"Cuddling is where you draw the line?" he looks genuinely caught off guard. 

“Yes!”

“Seriously?”

"Don't look at me like that."

"I'm trying to understand your logic."

"This was supposed to be simple."

"What are you actually scared of?" he clocks you. 

“I’m not scared, stop acting like you know me!”

“I do know you.” he steps closer. “Want to know what I think?”

“No.” you shake your head.

“I think you’re trying to ruin this by overthinking it.” he explains anyway. 

“What am I overthinking?” you challenge him. 

“This! Us!” he takes another step forward. "We kissed like it meant something five minutes ago! And now suddenly it’s a bad idea just because… what? You got scared?"

"So what? You want to be in a relationship with me now?"

“Yes!” he doesn’t even hesitate, the word comes out fast. Again, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Listen, I know we fight! And I know it’s messy! But we have something that I haven’t felt in a long time.”

“Steve…” you stand there frozen.

“I wanna try.”

“You’re not serious.” you shake your head. 

“Because you’re funny. Because you’re stubborn. And because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you for months." he confesses.

You stay silent, thinking. Overthinking? Maybe? 

He walks over to you, leans down, and kisses you. Softly, not passionately, not forcing anything. 

You let him kiss you for a few seconds, but your brain doesn’t let you just let it happen. 

“W- wait-” you say in between his kisses. 

“Okay.” he exhales, pulls back. 

“I- I don’t know, Steve. This will end horribly.” you decide. Before even trying, you decide it’s doomed to end. 

“That’s not guaranteed.” he insists. “Why don't we just try? See where it goes?"

"What if we end up hating each other?” you insist too. 

“What if we don’t?” he fights. "I’d rather try with you than not try at all, and just stay wondering.”

“Since when do you even like me?” 

“Since I met you, I think.” he admits. “When you yelled at me for some dumb stupid joke I made.” he smiles. “You were so mad, and I just thought: fuck, she's really hot when she's angry."

You roll your eyes at that and shove him. He grins, winningly. Cocky, full-force smirk. 

“Rude.” he laughs, he grabs both your hands and pulls you forward. He tries again, kisses you again. 

“Stop kissing me every two seconds.” you can’t stop the tiny laugh that comes out. 

“Can’t help it.” he says before leaning back in for another quick peck on your lips. And another one. Each one gets sillier than the last, with a lot of exaggeration of a smooch noise.

You shove him again, laughing. He stumbles back, dramatically falling onto the bed. He throws an arm out to grab your wrist before you can escape.

“Get back here.” he demands.

You smirk. “One date.” 

He freezes mid-tug. "...One date?" he repeats quietly, and sits up slowly now. “Yeah, one date. Tomorrow night? I'll pick you up at seven."

“If it goes well, we can try this.” you press.

“Okay,” he nods. “We’ll have the best date ever.”

“You’re so cocky.” you shake your head.

“Well, yeah. I'm taking my future girlfriend on a date." he smirks.

You’re about to tell him ‘stop’, but the smile growing on your face is quicker after he says that. 

"Tomorrow," he whispers, "I'm gonna make sure that smile lasts all night."

“Stop it with these lines!” you laugh. “Tomorrow’s our first date. We shouldn’t be kissing before it, let alone sleeping together… so go.” 

“We can’t kiss?” he asks, voice cracking slightly like a kicked puppy. And then the second part hits: ‘We shouldn't be sleeping together.’ Oh no. That’s way worse.

He sits up straight on your bed, and starts gathering his jacket and shoes with exaggerated sadness. Pouty lips, sad eyes. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” you whisper and kiss his cheek.

His pout vanishes, the sad eyes sparkle again. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” he whispers, still smiling like an idiot. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It makes them reckless in some ways, but careful in others.

And I think that's what drives a lot of his behavior in s5.

Ultimately, Steve is someone who cares so much it probably gets exhausting for him sometimes.

For all his tendencies to act detached—snarky, cocky, stubborn, mean, bitchy, whatever you wanna call it—Steve has always been someone who loves people with his whole chest.

When he loves someone, he commits to them completely.

And when it comes to you, he's hopelessly attached.

So yes, when he fucks you prone—his weight crushing against your back as he grinds against your ass, buried so deep you feel him in your stomach—voice low in your ear when he asks if you can be a good slut for him—fuck, you just got so tight, baby. you like being my little slut? hm? gonna let me use this pussy whenever I want?—

When he yanks your arms over head, pushing his fingers into the space between yours, lacing them tight so he has all the leverage like this while he uses you—

When he leans down close, exhaling against your skin, nosing into your neck as he presses gentle kisses across your cheek—love you... love you so much. does this feel good? yeah? you gonna come for me, baby? that's it, good girl, let me feel you—all while fucking you so hard the bedframe thuds repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that the wallpaper’s gonna show it tomorrow—

You know it's because Steve doesn’t experience love in parts.

The humidity was too high? He was annoyed. The Colts didn’t win a game? He was sulking. The universe didn’t align to his every whim and need? He was pissed and he was going to make it everyone else’s problem.

And tonight, this was your issue, because you were scheduled to work the closing shift with Steve.

Great.

Robin says something to him that you don’t hear before slipping out of the booth, scurrying over to where you’re hanging your belongings up on the coatrack and hurriedly whispers, “He was up all night trying to find Dustin again, got no sleep. Rare form today.”

“I don’t understand how you’re friends with him,” you whisper back, letting your purse fall to the ground. “He’s an asshole, Rob.”

She makes a face, tilting her hand back and forth in the air as if to say, well…

“Steve’s a good guy when you get to know him,” she settles on saying. “Anyway, I have to run or I’ll miss my date. Have fun, be nice, and don’t kill each other, alright?”

“No promises,” you mutter, and Robin laughs as she skips out the door.

Steve is, if possible, even more irate when you slip into the booth, avoiding eye contact and gunning for the chair, hoping to keep conversation to the minimum for the next six hours.

He, on the other hand, has no such desire.

“Do you not know how to show up to work on time?” he huffs out. “Seriously, a couple of minutes is one thing, but half an hour—”

“And spend more time with your sparkling personality than I have to?” you snap without looking at him. “I think not. Besides, it’s not as though I suddenly have control over what the hell the military is doing.”

“It’s called planning,” he snarks.

You breathe in, once, sharply, and bite your tongue.

But Steve isn’t content to simply drop it, the way he’s never been content to drop it. And honestly, you don’t pretend to understand the intricacies of his life; You understand that he looks out for a bunch of kids, that one of them is in a coma, that another one is going off the deep end and taking all of his grief out on Steve. And at one point in time, that would’ve been more than enough for you to give him your deepest sympathies, to extend a level of grace only given to the most extreme of cases.

Except—

Then you’d met Steve, and he’d taken one look at you, wrinkled his nose, and asked Robin, “Did we really need to hire someone else?”

Your relationship hadn’t been anything better than adversarial ever since.

“—could take your job a little more seriously,” he continues to rant. “It’s not exactly like we’re flush with cash around here, and it’s not like there’s a shortage of people looking for jobs—”

The chair you’re sitting in scrapes against the floor as you stand abruptly, whirling around to find Steve standing entirely too close.

You see red, demanding, “God, what will it take for you to just shut up?”

Steve grins. “You could suck my dick.”

There’s a moment where the two of you are left standing there, chest to chest, nose to nose, and you can see the dare in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw. The fact that he doesn’t actually mean it, but he wants to push your buttons, to get you to react more than you ever have before.

He doesn’t have any intentions on you calling his bluff, and you’re determined to not lose this game.

“Fine,” you say sweetly. You move past him, snagging his wrist as you do. “But not in here. I don’t think Robin would be too happy if she found out.”

For the first time tonight, Steve doesn’t have a response. He doesn’t even fight you as you drag him along to a nearby closet, yanking the door open, shoving him in, and slamming it shut behind you. The room is plunged into darkness and you feel your way over to him, your fingers grazing the soft material of his sweatshirt. 

His hands find your waist, skimming up your sides until his palms are pressed into your cheeks, his breath hot on your lips, but before he can get any bright ideas, you say, “I said I’d suck your dick, not make out with you.”

You can practically feel his frown as he shifts his hands back, tangling them with your hair. 

“Fine,” he says shortly. “Then do it.”

That’s all the warning you get before you’re pushed to your knees.

You don’t waste any time reaching for his belt, undoing it with shaky hands as he continues to run his fingers through your hair, tugging at the roots the smallest amount when you pull his jeans and boxers down just enough to take him in hand.

A gasp gets caught in your throat when, even half hard, your thumb and pointer finger barely meet.

He lets out a throaty laugh. “Find something you like?”

“Fuck you.”

His fingers tighten in your hair. “Do you ever shut up? God.”

And as his thumb traces a path down your jaw, stopping just as it reaches your lips, you spit out, “Make me.”

His grip on your chin tightens as his thumb dips between your teeth, pressing down on your tongue and drawing your mouth open. Spit pools as you give him a few rough pumps, the tip of his cock jutting against your chin. He drops his other hand, then, placing it over yours as he taps the tip against your lips.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?” he says, pulling his thumb back and guiding himself in.

The heady taste of precome spreads across your tastebuds as he sinks into your mouth, his cock sliding over your tongue as you take him deeper. He lets out a low grunt, and for a moment, you wish that you’d had the foresight to turn the light on so you could see the face he’s making as he hits the back of your throat.

You gag and he lets out a quiet whimper as you pull back, instinctively looking up and wishing that he could see you as well. But even just hearing the sounds he’s making — you can imagine the wrecked look on his face, the flush spreading across his cheeks, and it’s enough to have arousal coursing through your own body.

(Because even though he acts like he has the power in this situation, you both know well enough that you’re the one wielding the proverbial blade.)

He guides you back down, muttering a curse when you take him just a little bit deeper, swallowing down your gag reflex as your hand twists around the base of his cock. 

And for all of the hell you gave him over everything, you find that you don’t quite mind letting him set the pace. There’s something intoxicating about the precome spilling onto your tongue as you hollow your cheeks, smiling when he moans, and all at once, he grips you by the roots of your hair and thrusts in.

“You can take it,” he grunts. “Fucking know you can. Always mouthing off, always getting in my business — well you’re all quiet now, yeah?”

Despite yourself, you nod, your hands sliding down to hold his thighs as he fucks your face, tears welling int he corners of your eyes. It should be humiliating to let yourself be used like this, to let your asshole coworker treat your body like an object for his own pleasure, but it’s hard to feel embarrassed when all of this is turning you on as well.

One tear slips down your cheek, and then two, and in a move that’ll no doubt have you reeling for weeks, his hand finds its way to your face, his thumb gently wiping away the wetness gathered there, even as he continues to use your mouth for his own pleasure.

“Just like that,” he says, voice dropping. “You like this, don’t you?”

You hum around his cock, wrapping your arm around his leg to pull him in even closer, to take him even deeper. He swears loudly when the tip of your nose brushes against his bush, and you only manage to hold him there for a few seconds before you’re forced to release, dizzy as you gasp for air.

You sit there, panting, and before Steve can even move, you pull him back closer, desperate to take him even deeper — to take him all the way — to have the exhilarating feeling of choking on his cock pull you further into the depravity you’ve found yourself in. He makes a noise of surprise when you repeat the motion, your nose pressing into his pelvis as he mutters fuck fuck fuck, and you whine when he pulls you off.

“You wanna choke on it that bad, huh?” he asks, condescending and sweet at the same time. “Wanna cry some more for me?”

“Fuck you,” you say, already reaching for his cock again.

But he doesn’t let you.

One hand grips your hair even tighter as he tilts your head back while the other slaps the tip of his cock against your lips, saying, “Open up for me. Gonna see what that bratty mouth of yours can do, yeah? Gonna make me feel good?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, though, before he bullies his way in, setting a brutal pace as he thrusts in and out of your mouth. More tears spill down your cheeks at the pressure, but there’s no part of you that can deny how good it feels either. To be used without care, to have someone’s aggression taken out on you. Your clit throbs at the thought of doing something more, of seeing what else he can do when he’s as pent up as he has been for months.

He laughs when you gag. “Who knew that all I had to do to get you to be a little nicer to me was use your mouth?”

You pinch his thigh in retaliation — you’ve been perfectly nice, thank you very much — and in response, he presses even further down your throat.

“Gonna let me come in your mouth?” His voice comes out a little more ragged, a little more choppy as his hips stutter.

You nod (as much as you can, anyway, with his thick length prying your jaw apart) and he makes a contented sound, smoothing your hair away from your face in a way that’s entirely at odds with how roughly he’s using your mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Thought so.”

His hand curls into your hair as he presses his front against your face, your nose grinding into it. You squeeze your eyes closed as the head of his cock nears the back of your throat, and then you feel it — the way he fills your mouth and throat, his come flooding it as he finishes deep within you. He pulls back and the last few spurts land on your tongue, mix with the rest already dripping down your throat, and your tongue presses against the underside of his length as you swallow.

You sit there for a moment, the only sound being made is that of your panting, before he pulls you up suddenly, fingers digging into your forearms, his lips crashing into yours. A startled noise escapes you as he presses you back into the wall, hands scrabbling for stability, and in the next moment, he finds the pull chain and the small closet is finally filled with light as he pulls back, his eyes dancing across your face.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, as though he has a reason to be out of breath. “Fuck.”

You open your mouth to retort, to say something, but he only pulls you back in for another kiss, his nose crushing painfully into your cheek and his tongue swiping against your bottom lip.

You let him in.

Steve, it seems, has no issue in tasting his own come in your mouth, eager and willing to explore every corner as you sink further into his hold, your own arms coming around to wrap around his neck. You feel him smile against you, and you can’t stop your own giggles from spilling out when he runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth.

And finally, finally, you pull away, chest heaving as you search his face, his brown eyes gazing at you with something more than thinly veiled annoyance for the first time, and a decision is made before you can think it through.

“If you need some stress relief again,” you say, grinning. “Let me know. Might be able to help.”

He huffs out a laugh, dropping his head against your shoulder.

“And next time I’m having a bad day…” You pry his arms from you and slip past him, cracking open the door just the tiniest amount. You glance over your shoulder to find him staring at you in open surprise. “I know who to call.”