ella ☆彡

“You didn’t know about… those?” Robin finally looks away from Nancy long enough to catch you staring.

“He normally keeps his shirt on when we–” 

Robin holds a hand up, “Okay. I’ve heard enough stories about Steve’s encounters to last a lifetime,” she shudders. 

You’re glad to get away with your little white lie based on your single non-platonic night with Steve. Deeper questions mean more lies and more debriefing with Steve to keep your stories straight. No one’s questioned your relationship yet, you don’t want to give them any reason to. 

“I’m surprised. You two seem serious,” Nancy chimes in.

You shrug, “He never really talks about his past. I knew about all of you, but that’s about it.”

“It’s not like we talk about it either, Nance.”

Nancy rubs circles into Robin’s back, eyes focused on her already burning skin, “I guess you’re right. I think she deserves to know.”

“Hopper’s going to kill you,” Robin warns, her tone measured. 

“I’m not scared of him.”

“I, for one, am. And I’d very much like my girlfriend to stay in one piece.” 

Nancy rolls her eyes, pressing a tender kiss to Robin’s forehead, the kind of kiss that says ‘I love you’. Before you can ask what Nancy thinks you should know. Edie sprints over, jumping onto your towel. Steve trails behind her, his soaked clothes weighing him down. 

“Looks like someone’s regretting the bright idea to wear jorts to the beach.”

Steve flips Robin off quickly, then joins you and Edie on the towel. She grabs a hot pink plastic shovel from her bucket.

Edie looks up at you, “Hops, can we bury Daddy?”

Steve grunts, practically begging you to suggest anything else. 

“Let’s go find a nice spot for him,” you smile, taking one of her sandy hands in yours.

Steve flops back on the towel. You have to force yourself to follow Edie instead of curling up beside him and pressing kisses to his soft stomach. She sinks her shovel into the sand a few feet away from where the rest of the group is set up.

“Here!”

Digging the hole takes longer than you expected, even with help from Robin, Nancy, Dustin, and Eddie, who joins later, a few beers in hand. Steve nurses his beer at the towel as his daughter and friends dig him a grave. 

When the hole is appropriately Steve sized, Edie shouts, “Daddy!”

He comes over instantly, a forced grin on his face. Steve lies down in the hole, not bothering to remove any of his clothing. Sand clings to his damp skin and hair. Edie, Dustin, Robin, and Eddie waste no time shoveling sand onto Steve’s body. You and Nancy hang back, trying to keep in your laughter as Edie yanks the beer out of Steve’s hand so she can bury both of his arms with him.

Once she’s satisfied with the layer of sand covering her father, she toddles over to her bucket, packing sand into it. Dustin and Eddie nearly fall to the ground when she plops a malformed sandcastle onto Steve’s chest.

“This is Castle Harrington,” Edie announces.

“Great job, Little E,” Eddie high fives her.

You sweep sand off Steve’s face, his eyelashes flutter as your hands brush against his skin.

“You okay down there?”

Steve nods as much as the sand will allow him, “Just peachy. Everything itches and it feels like I’m locked in a sauna.”

“Let me know when it gets too hot. I’ll convince the boss to let you go.”

He chuckles, “She’s very proud of herself.”

“She is.”

As if on cue, Edie sits down next to Steve, “Uncle Eddie and Auntie Robin found a camera.”

Steve grimaces. Robin can barely hold the camera upright with how hard she’s laughing. She hands it off to Eddie, who takes one look through the camera and loses his composure. 

“Can you do it, Hops?” Robin wheezes.

You leave your place beside Steve and take the camera out of Eddie’s hands. “Ready?”

Edie puts on a big smile, “Ready!”

…

By the time Steve is free from his sandy prison, the sun is lower on the horizon and the sky has lost the light it had when you came out to the beach. Steve’s shorts and shirt are covered in sand, like the rest of his body. He uses his fingers to shake some of the sand out of his hair onto the ground. Edie is just as coated, she copies Steve, shaking sand out of her long waves. Robin picks her up, failing to keep the sand from transferring to her own clothes.

“I can clean her off while you… figure out how to get sand out of your jorts,” Robin snorts.

“My dad said there’s an outdoor shower in their backyard, that’ll do the trick,” you suggest.

Steve immediately heads toward the Hopper-Byers house, trudging through the sand. 

You move to catch up, but Edie stops you, “You’re daddy’s Sally.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Edie grins, not catching on to your confusion.

You say your goodbyes to the group, then jog to Steve. He’s hopelessly trying to wipe sand off himself to no avail.

“Jesus Christ, it’s in every crevice. I didn’t know that was possible,” he grumbles. “Can you shower with me? Just to make sure I get all of it.”

“I’m looking forward to helping you clean sand out of your ‘crevices’.”

“It sounds gross when you say it like that.”

“Because it is gross.”

When you get to the backyard, you unlock a wooden fence that’s just tall enough to block whoever’s in the shower from view. The sun-bleached wood planks creak as you push against them. Inside, there’s a shower head mounted to the side of the house and a shelf with a half empty bottle of soap. Steve steps in eagerly, fumbling with the zipper on his shorts. 

He glances up at you, “You help me, I help you?”

You walk into the shower. The space is tighter now that you’re both inside it. Steve lifts off your cover-up, discarding it in the corner. Sand and saltwater plaster his denim shorts to his skin, making them a struggle to remove. It’s a team effort to get them down to his ankles. 

“Edie called me your Sally. What does that–”

Steve pauses, “Shit,” he tries to play it off with a chuckle. “One night, I was watching When Harry Met Sally, and Edie walked in. I didn’t notice her until it was too late, so I sat her on my lap and we finished the movie together. She always tells me that I need to ‘find my Sally’.”

You hum, avoiding Steve’s gaze as you peel his shirt off, searching for a way to make the conversation less awkward.

“What’d you tell her during the deli scene?”

“That Sally was very excited for her sandwich,” Steve laughs.

You laugh too, “Nice save.” 

“What can I say? I’m a responsible parent.”

The showerhead spits out lukewarm water when you turn the knob. Steve lets it rinse the sand off his skin, cloudy droplets run down his body into the grass. You grab the soap, massaging it onto his arms. Steve turns, allowing you to soap up his chest. Your fingers snag in his chest hair as you work your way down to his belly button. It’s impossible to avert your eyes from his hardening cock.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“You know I don’t mind. It’s not like we haven’t sex before,” Steve’s body relaxes as your hands drift over the scars on his sides. “Where are these from?”

“An accident during the big quake in Hawkins.”

Steve doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push the subject. It’s quiet as you scrub his body down, attempting to wipe away as much sand as possible. He’s mostly clean when his hands snake around your waist, pulling you in close.

“Can I?”

You tangle one hand in his hair, guiding his face to yours. The kiss is wet and fervent. His grip on your waist strengthens, squeezing your skin. His nose bumps against your as he deepens the kiss. Steve tastes like beer and the cigarettes he claims he wasn’t smoking with Eddie this morning. A fire lights in your belly at the feeling of his throbbing length pressing against the taught material of your bikini bottoms, rubbing against the slick fabric. Fuck. All you want is to be close to him. 

Steve’s hands slide down your waist to your thighs, fingers fiddling with the ties on your bikini. The same clumsiness he had the first time you got together. Like his brain overrides with one mission only, not caring how he gets to what he needs. 

“These look good on you,” Steve’s voice is low, desire evident. 

You grind against his cock in response. He whines, hips already stuttering. Steve chucks your bikini bottoms away. They hit the fence with a wet slap. The sound makes you jolt closer to him. He wastes no time, his fingers circling your clit.

“Steve,” you moan. He continues to play with your clit, building up your arousal, but not giving you the release you need. The teasing is infuriating, still you can’t get enough of him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

He doesn’t let you respond, rutting two fingers into your cunt without mercy. Anything you could’ve said is far gone. Pleasure overwhelms your brain. Your eyes roll back, breathing turns shallow. The effect he has on you is like no other. You didn’t know sex could feel this good until Steve touched you. He has a level of experience, but also a level of care that sends every part of you over the edge. 

“There she is,” Steve pumps his fingers, walls clenching around them; trembling as Steve picks up the pace. “Already close, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you croak.

Your knees buckle as Steve coaxes the orgasm out of you. Splitting you open with his fingers alone. Steve scoops up your arousal, then slides his coated fingers into his mouth. Tongue swirling around them to suck off every last drop. At the sight, your heart races. He makes a show of licking his fingers clean, like you’re the best meal he’s ever had. 

Steve cradles your cheek, “Is this alright?” 

The tip of his cock brushes against your mound, teasing your entrance. Still feeling the aftershocks of your release, you can barely nod. Steve moves at a slower pace this time. Pushing in inch by inch. Your body pulls him in. Steve rolls his hips. Once, twice. His head thrown back, water spraying down on his cheeks. Fully letting himself feel you. All the tightness of his experiences gone. You push yourself to the hilt, leaning in to kiss his neck. Careful not to leave noticeable marks, sucking and tugging at the skin. Steve’s cock twitches inside you, he pants with each thrust despite his speed. He drops his head onto your shoulder, trying to hold himself together for a little longer.

Steve fails, filling you with his come, everything that built up between you throughout the day washing away. Body reeling from the spark you’re both feeling. It’s not pure electricity, what you have with Steve is warmer, more intimate than what grows in a casual relationship. You card your hands through his wild hair, parting the wet clumps. Steve sighs as your fingertips make contact with his scalp.

“I love you,” escapes his lips, the thought on his mind entering the world without realizing the weight of what he said. Ruining both your plans, destroying everything you’d built with him.

You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”

You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face. 

—

So. 

How did you end up where you are? 

You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened. 

It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler. 

Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there. 

The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him. 

Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.” 

You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.

In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen. 

It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been. 

Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby. 

She grumbles on your hip. 

Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed. 

He stands there in quiet. 

Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person. 

“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air. 

His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born. 

“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat. 

You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him. 

“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous. 

He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest. 

“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”

To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.

“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.

You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you. 

Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly. 

He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation. 

“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask. 

Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”

You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce. 

“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say. 

“Yeah.” 

You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace. 

“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath. 

“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car. 

You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.

“Why?” she murmurs.

“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick. 

“Okay.”

You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think. 

Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings. 

You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked? 

Where’s your backbone?

Where’s your common sense?

With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright. 

You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life. 

“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change. 

“Mommy?”

“Mm?” you ask. 

Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks. 

“Two minutes.”

“Off.”

“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”

She whines long and loud.

“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”

Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?” 

“Yes!”

You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood. 

She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.

“Better,” she echoes. 

Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Who?” she asks. 

Uhhhh.

“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”

“Y’okay.” 

“Yeah?”

Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire. 

“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”

“Can we talk, first?”

You don’t blame him for asking. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?” 

“I’m not going to yell.”

“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.” 

“Are you angry?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”

You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows. 

The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her. 

She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV. 

Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now. 

“How old is she?” he asks finally.

“She’s turning two soon.”

Steve seems to be holding his tongue. 

“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”

“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”

You flinch. “What?”

“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”

“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”

“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”

This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?” 

“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”

“She’s my baby.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”

“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean. 

You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.” 

“I can be best for you both.”

You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means. 

“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says. 

“If?”

He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.” 

“She’s looked after.”

“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”

“You might not actually want her, Steve.” 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”

You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur. 

“I needed to see her for myself.”

“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”

“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”

“Keep us?” you ask indignantly. 

“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”

He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”

You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe— 

“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.

“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”

“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”

Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to. 

A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee. 

After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours. 

“She’s beautiful,” he says. 

“Looks like her mom,” you mumble. 

“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”

You huff a weak laugh. 

“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks. 

“You want to be her dad?”

For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”

He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault. 

You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time. 

In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair. 

“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table. 

Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in. 

You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”

“Y’okay.”

“This is daddy.” 

You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return. 

“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.” 

“Huh?”

You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”

“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely. 

“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?” 

“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve. 

“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.

“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength. 

“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”

Leah gives him a good shake. 

—

“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”

Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle. 

“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound. 

“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”

Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks. 

Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”

“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.” 

He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby. 

He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers. 

Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby. 

He pauses on the spot. 

Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult. 

He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend. 

Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence. 

“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one. 

Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.

“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”

“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but. 

“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”

“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”

He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”

“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”

Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.” 

Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby. 

“She’s mine,” he says. 

“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”

He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”

“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”

“I’m still gonna go!”

“With what money?”

Steve will save again. It’s community college. 

Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”

“I’ll going, Rob.” 

“Fine. I believe you.”

“Can you help?”

She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly. 

Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac. 

He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway. 

You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all. 

“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon. 

“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”

“Is it cool that I’m early?”

You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”

“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”

“Right. Okay.” 

You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself. 

“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”

“You want me to go grab her?”

“Where is she?” 

“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”

“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”

You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”

“I wanted to.”

“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”

He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”

“I…”

“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”

“I don’t think she knew.”

Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years. 

Steve Harrington does not love by halves. 

“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks. 

“We are leaving.” 

“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”

“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”

His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”

“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”

“Exactly.”

You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again. 

From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!” 

He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says softly. 

Leah hums her content. 

“Good nap?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”

She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word. 

She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you. 

“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”

Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.” 

“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly. 

Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.

“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks. 

You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum. 

“Yeah, of course she can.”

“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”

“Can have?” she asks. 

“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking  your face to make sure he’s not being weird. 

Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”

Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”

Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee. 

“Barbie!” she cries.

“With a puppy!” 

“Oh gosh.”

Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”

Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open. 

“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection. 

“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.” 

You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.” 

“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.” 

“It’s nice of you.” 

He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home. 

—

“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.” 

Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building. 

“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?” 

“Think so. Why?”

“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”

The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”

“Sure. Thank you.” 

Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video. 

It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay. 

The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”

“Hi, Robin.”

“Hi,” she says. 

The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap. 

“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.” 

“Hi, bubby,” Leah says. 

Robin snorts. 

“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?” 

Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”

Leah looks up at her with huge eyes. 

“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?” 

“The duckies,” Leah says factually. 

“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.” 

You don’t question for a second that she means it. 

You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.” 

“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin. 

“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.” 

“Oh.”

“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”

“You’re not busy?” you ask. 

“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.” 

You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.

You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.

“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”

“The music, bubby,” you say. 

Leah gives a neck-breaking nod. 

“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?” 

“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say. 

“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”

Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles. 

“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”

Her hitting doesn’t slow. 

“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.” 

Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines. 

“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s  important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”

The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!” 

Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?” 

“Hi,” Leah says. 

“Hi.”

“Hug me now?”

Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”

She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life. 

“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose. 

“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.

Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back. 

Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware. 

Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again. 

You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry. 

“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No, yeah.”

“You sure?” 

He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.” 

It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her. 

You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid. 

His eyes widen at the sight of you. 

“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”

“Uh– did I?” 

“I know it was you.” 

Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”

“I saw you.”

“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”

You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”

“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”

“Well, thanks for trying.”

Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”

“We’re working things out.”

Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”

Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”

Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”

“Hi!” Leah says. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks. 

“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.” 

“Where to?” 

“Max’s.”

“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

“I’m not!” 

“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?” 

“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”

Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”

“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.

“For once.”

“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”

Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks. 

His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room. 

And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people. 

Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”

“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.” 

“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”

Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”

“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name. 

“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say. 

Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”

“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil. 

Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?” 

Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves. 

“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats. 

Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard. 

He is startlingly capable. 

You are startlingly hot. 

You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts. 

—

Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks. 

This is my baby, Leah.

The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home. 

Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!” 

She sobs. 

You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”

She sobs louder. 

Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.

“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.” 

Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage. 

“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”

“Not going,” Leah says. 

“Just for now!” 

“No!”

You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”

“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?” 

You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.” 

Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”

Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob. 

“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”

You falter.

The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”

“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”

“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”

“Yeah, I got one.”

“You got a car seat?”

“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.” 

Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” 

“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek. 

“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?” 

Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”

“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave. 

You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask. 

“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?” 

“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”

“Are you okay with me taking her?”

You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you? 

Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me. 

He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride. 

Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have. 

But it’s not everything he wants. 

“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?” 

“Okie dokie.”

Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah. 

“See you later, mommy,” Leah says. 

You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”

He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back. 

Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.

It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin. 

“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.

“Right, right!” 

He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out. 

Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.” 

“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles. 

“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”

“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”

“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.” 

“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her. 

“Wonky?” she asks.

“Does daddy look wonky?”

“Mm,” she says. 

“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?” 

She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.” 

He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears. 

“Mom!” Robin says. 

“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.” 

He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.

It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.

Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear. 

Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth. 

“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully. 

“Right? She has my eyes.”

“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly. 

“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says. 

Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says. 

Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?” 

“Yessss.”

“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?” 

“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”

“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says. 

Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand. 

Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.” 

“Kill?”

“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.” 

“Y’okay.”

“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”

She giggles worse. 

He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out. 

Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?” 

He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says. 

“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”

He urges you to take Leah. 

The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself. 

“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly. 

“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”

Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white. 

—

Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless. 

“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”

You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean. 

“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear. 

“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask. 

“Sleeping.”

“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”

Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”

“Yeah, do you want one?”

Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?” 

He groans. “Just a migraine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Feels like one.”

“You get them a lot?”

“More since you left.”

You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”

“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”

“Not my first one.”

You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask. 

“Had three.”

“You never told me.”

“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”

You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”

Steve covers his mouth with a big hand. 

You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.” 

He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.” 

“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.” 

“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”

“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”

“Steve.” 

“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–” 

“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.” 

You pull his hand off your face. Not without care. 

“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.

“I don’t need one.” 

“How do you know?” you whisper. 

He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”

You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came. 

You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”

“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”

His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”

“When?”

“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet. 

“The other times?”

“They can last for days.”

You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.

“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”

“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”

He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”

“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says. 

“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.” 

You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck. 

“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”

“We don’t have to do this again–”

“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.” 

“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.” 

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.” 

“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”

You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.” 

“It wouldn’t have been like that.”

“I realise that now.” 

His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth. 

“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples. 

“You don’t have to–”

“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”

You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either. 

“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.” 

His throat bobs. 

“S’it still hurting?” you murmur. 

“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.” 

“I can’t do this with you.” 

He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.” 

You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue. 

But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.  

A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his. 

“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.” 

He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”

—

The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze. 

“What side do you sleep on?”

Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering. 

“Left.” 

“Left side’s all yours.”

He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers. 

“Make room for me?” he asks Leah. 

She grins around her bottle. 

You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful. 

You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space. 

Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you. 

“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly. 

“You okay, daddy?” she asks. 

“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”

“Sleep?” she asks.

“With you, if that’s cool?”

“Cool,” she says decidedly. 

When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest. 

“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior. 

Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap. 

Refusing to think on it is the best way forward. 

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath. 

Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked. 

“Steve.” 

He blinks to attention. “Huh?”

“Pull the blanket up over yourself.” 

He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet. 

“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask. 

“No. I’ll be okay.”

You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted. 

Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough. 

“Can feel you staring,” he whispers. 

Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”

“Staring at me.”

“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.” 

“Still ‘live.”

You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.” 

He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says. 

“Missed you, too.” 

You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain. 

“You did?” he asks. 

“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling. 

He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”

“I wasn't.” 

“Would’ve looked after you, though.” 

“Steve…”

“I would’ve.”

“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”

He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.

“Do you still want that?” he asks. 

You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”

He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him. 

“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down. 

You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath. 

“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly. 

He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you. 

You press your forehead to his chin. 

“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss. 

Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip. 

“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words. 

—

In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows. 

“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually. 

“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”

“Yeah.”

“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”

“Am’ my toes,” she says. 

“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”

You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep. 

This is not going to go how you’d first thought. 

—

From the reception hall to the party favors left out on the tables, there hasn’t been a single thing that’s escaped the judgement of the people of this miniscule, insipid town. They’ve dropped by your house with fabric samples; stopped you in the grocery store and absolutely insisted you use their cousin’s flower shop for your arrangements. Roy had even been so bold as to write the entire guest list himself and pass it off to you like a memo. And no matter how many nights you spent sitting between Gator’s legs crying to him about the mountainous stress on your shoulders while he listened and wiped your face of tears, there was nothing either of you could do about it. Lehigh was Lehigh. Everyone was entitled to their opinion, and what was worse was that they knew it.

You couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about it, even now. This was supposed to be your wedding– theoretically, the happiest day of your life. So why were everyone else’s hands all over it?

You knew Gator felt the same way, evidenced by how many times he’d grumbled in your ear over the past weeks that the next person to approach you and give you a direction was about to be told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. He’d even offered to help with some of the planning, which had made you loose an exhausted laugh– Gator planning anything would have been more of a hindrance than a help at this point. You hardly needed the man who couldn’t tell the difference between a rose and a chrysanthemum to be picking out dinnerware with you.

But you got through it– little by little, meltdown by meltdown, you forged forward, slapping away the helping hands clamped onto your shoulders, all with your eyes on this day and this boy and everything everyone told you you were doing wrong about it.

So why is there still a knot in your gut?

You stare back at the dolled-up version of yourself in the vanity mirror of the room you’ve secured for the bridal party, and you hardly recognize your own face. It’s the first moment you’ve had alone all day, and you only barely managed to force your bridesmaids and your mother and Karen out of the room, but it’s less peaceful than you’d thought it would be. Your makeup is flawless, your hair swept halfway up with sprigs of tiny white flowers. Your dress is perfect– just the way you pictured it. And you’re exhausted by all of it.

For a moment, a memory flashes through your mind. One perfect night, some eons ago– right at the beginning of all of this, back when you hadn’t ever pictured you and Gator might be built to last. It was late, and dark, and you were still in your pretty white sundress and the cowboy boots you’d been dancing all night with him in. He was reckless driving, drifting around corners and kicking up dust behind his truck. Country music was blaring from the radio, and you were screaming at the sharp turns, cackling with laughter as you grappled for purchase on the door handles, your hair flying in your face from the wind coming off the open windows. 

And Gator was looking over at you, his face split ear to ear in a grin. So consumed with happiness it felt like it was piercing your chest, driving itself straight into your heart, so foolishly open and waiting. And you thought, nobody makes me laugh like this boy. 

It didn’t matter that you’d lost track of the number of times you’d been told to stay away from him for your own good. It didn’t matter how many fights you’d already had, even just at the beginning of things between you. It didn’t matter that he called you a tease, mocked you for playing hard to get, just because you were insistent upon hiding your heart from him until you were sure he deserved it. In that moment, country lights blurring by, stretching your legs out into his lap so he could grip your shin, nothing Gator Tillman had been before he met you meant a thing. What mattered was who he could be– who he became on a perfect night, when you got him alone, when he sagged into your arms and admitted his bravado was defeated. You could see it happening, day by day, that change. He was growing toward you slowly, cautiously, like a houseplant that had never learned how to face the sun. 

That was the night you finally gave in. You loved him. You’d loved him always. You’d love him forever.

You leaned across the car and tugged his face toward yours for one brief, searing kiss. Gator laughed against you, the noise rasping in his throat. The sound transformed him into a different person– a person he might have been long before he met you, if only life had dealt him a different hand. But he was here now– alive and sweet and grinning. And you grinned right back, unashamed and unhidden.

The memory flutters in your chest, soft and aching. That joy isn’t gone now– you know better than to think that. It’s just buried under miles and miles of stress and anxiety and shit people have been shoving on you for months. It’s too easy sometimes to forget why you wanted all this in the first place. 

The door opens somewhere behind you, and you’re glad for the changing screen that stands between you and the doorway– you need a moment to school your face back into bland enthusiasm for whatever new visitor wants to impose upon your time.

“Baby?”

You whip around on your vanity stool, your heart leaping. That’s not Karen, and that’s not your bridesmaids, either. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. “Gator?”

“Hey, mama,” he returns, satisfied. “Where are you?”

“Gate, you can’t be in here,” you hiss. “It’s bad luck– we talked about this.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I couldn’t stay with you last night, either,” he gripes, and you hear his footsteps as he nears. “Stupidest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard.”

You shoot off your stool, equal parts exasperated by his ongoing irreverence with wedding traditions and thrilled he’s actually here. You haven’t seen him all day, or for most of yesterday, and damn it, but you’ve missed him like hell. “It’s not stupid,” you say again, although considering how much you wanted him next to you in bed last night, that argument is a little weak. 

“Come out and let me see you,” he says, thankfully staying put on the other side of the screen.

“I can’t,” you tell him, heart pounding in your chest. Something about the one person you’ve been dying to see all day standing feet away from you and not being able to touch him is getting to you. “You can’t see me. We’ll be cursed, or something.”

“You tryin’ to kill me, woman?” he tosses at you. “You’re about to be my wife. I’m gonna see you every damn day. Now get out here and let me look at ‘ya.”

You roll your eyes and loose a reluctant laugh, and mostly because you can’t stand to do anything else, you step gradually out from behind the screen. 

Gator looks unfairly good.

His hair is neat, but still loose the way you like it. His brown suit jacket sits crisply over his black dress shirt, the leafy boutonniere with white flowers pinned to his lapel expertly enough you know immediately he didn’t do it himself. There’s a formality to him, a stiffness that betrays how foreign these clothes feel on his body, but he still wears it exceptionally well. And when his dark eyes find you, he smiles at you in the way nobody else ever could. 

He reaches out for you immediately, taking both of your hands in his. “Look at you,” he nearly whistles, spreading your hands so he can see you better. “Spin around for me, baby.”

You feel a little silly, but you do as he asks, a blush high on your cheeks. The gauzy, petal-like skirts of your dress swish against your legs as you turn, the short, flowy sleeves tickling your arms. Gator’s hands slip around your waist as you come back to him, and yours find his arms, smoothing over his pristinely ironed sleeves. 

“You’re perfect,” he tells you, his eyes glittering as he smiles wider at you.

“Yeah?” you ask gently, a little ashamed to still need the assurance. 

“Most beautiful woman in the world,” he affirms, and leans in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. “You make a pretty fuckin’ bride.”

The words send another flutter through your chest, and some of your nerves dissipate. “Karen said the dress makes me look promiscuous,” you inform him sardonically. You’d thought it was absolutely beautiful until she said something, and despite how you joked it off, the comment had been needling at the back of your mind all day.

“Karen’s a bitch from hell,” Gator retorts evenly. 

Your lips press together to hide your laugh, your self-consciousness slipping away. “Gate, she’s your stepmother.”

“So?” he intones, dipping his head to kiss the side of your throat. “She’s still a bitch. She’s just jealous.”

“Jealous of me?” you snort. 

“Mm,” he agrees, the vibrations travelling along your neck. “You’re younger and prettier and have a tighter ass.”

You huff a breathy laugh, still fighting your sour mood. It’s easier now that Gator’s hands are on you– now that you’re back in his grip. People have never understood how much he lifts your temper, but then, they’ve never been in love with Gator Tillman like you have. You’d take this boy over any of them– over anything in the world.

Gator pulls back, noticing the dryness in your tone. He lifts a hand and pokes your cheek with his knuckle. “What’s with the face, huh?” he asks, and even though he’s still teasing you, a flash of concern is in his eyes. “You thinkin’ ‘bout backing out?”

“You wish,” you joke back, your hands lifting to thread behind his neck.

Gator grins at you. “Come on. You gettin’ cold feet, or what?”

You heave a long sigh, borne on the exhaustion and clamor and stress of the day. “I hate everyone,” you admit, defeated, staring up at him guiltily. “I only like you. And I just want everyone else to fuck off.”

“That’s my girl,” he laughs, pushing in to kiss you again. “You tell ‘em, baby.”

“They don’t listen to me,” you protest weakly, letting him mess up the makeup on your cheek as he nuzzles into it. What the hell– you have time to fix it later, anyway. “Nobody does. I feel like this whole stupid thing is more for them than us.”

“That’s ‘cause it is,” he agrees into your skin. Finally, he pulls back to look at you again, his eyes sweeping down your face and back up. The mischief and humor haven’t left his expression, and they certainly don’t leave when he slips his hand back into yours and retreats a step back toward the door. “Come on.”

You frown, your brow knitting as he pulls you along. “I can’t go out there. Karen’s probably guarding that door like a pitbull.”

“Relax,” Gator intones, dragging you out the door and into the thankfully empty hallway. “How d’you think I got in here?” His head turns left and right, checking for members of your bridal party. He doesn’t find any, and the two of you forge ahead. 

You’re amused but compliant as he tugs you down the hallway and towards the front door. You don’t know what insane idea has worked its way into his head, but you’ve learned over the years that it’s always best with Gator to just let it play out. “Where are we going?” you finally ask him as you make it out of the house unnoticed, spearing for his truck, parked in the driveway. 

Gator doesn’t glance behind him as he says, “We’re goin’ to get married.”

You snort. “Yeah, I think you’re jumping the gun a little, Alligator. Ceremony’s not till five.”

You reach the truck, and he drops your hand to open the passenger side door for you. He’s grinning again— ear to ear. “Who said anything ‘bout a ceremony?”

Your eyes widen as you stare back at him. “What are you talking about?”

He nods to your seat, not budging. “Get in the car, sweetheart.”

The order leaves no room for debate. A little thrill runs through you at the words– at the realization of what, exactly, his batshit-crazy plan is. You give in quicker than you mean to and climb into the car, and he reaches over to tuck in your dress before shutting the door behind you. 

As Gator backs the truck out of its spot in the driveway, you worry your hands, nerves and excitement indistinguishable inside you. “This is so stupid.”

“I can always drop you back off,” Gator threatens mildly, pulling onto the main road and gunning the accelerator.

“It’s our wedding, Gator!” you protest, though an anxious smile is already growing on your face. “We’re running away from our wedding. People are gonna care when they figure out we’re missing.”

“The hell are they gonna do about it?” he deadpans. “You’re my woman. You’re gonna be my wife. I can do what I want with ‘ya.”

“They’re probably gonna come after us on horseback,” you propose, biting at the skin beside your manicured nail.

Gator notices and grabs your hand away from your face, pulling it over to him and wrapping his fingers around it. “Relax, mama. You’re too stressed all the damn time.”

As the landscape of the ranch fades behind you, your smile grows and grows on your face. You can almost feel the expectations lifting one by one off your shoulders, kicked up like the dust behind Gator’s truck. 

Gator glances over at you, glimpsing your expression. His own grin spreads, his eyes alight. “Hey, there she is.”

You press your lips together, but it’s a useless endeavor. You feel lighter than you have in months, that bubbling joy of being with him back in your chest with a vengeance. “This is so stupid,” you say again, shaking your head. 

Gator huffs a laugh and reaches over to pull your head toward him, planting a kiss on your temple. He ruffles your perfectly-done hair as he lets you go, and you bat him away, your crinkling eyes on the open road.

By the time the truck skids to a stop outside a church you’ve only been to once in the middle of town, the ground is slick with rain. 

“Alright, let’s go,” Gator announces plainly, throwing the truck in park and popping his door as casually as if you’re stopped outside a megamart. He comes around the truck and opens your door, too, and you stare past his shoulder at the drizzling rain.

“Gator–” you protest a little. “Gate, it’s raining.”

“So?” he drawls. “You’re not gonna melt like that chick in that stupid movie you showed me.”

“The Wizard of Oz?” You correct him flatly. “You don’t remember the name of The Wizard of– oh!”

Gator cuts you off by planting his hands on your waist and lifting you out of the truck. His arms bunch around your middle, carrying you over the puddle on the ground he sloshes through, uncaring. You yelp as you land unsteadily back on your feet, the icy rain already peppering your skin as he steadies you. 

“I’m gonna look like a drowned rat,” you giggle, gripping his arms.

“Y’think that’s gonna stop me?” he teases, then slips his hand into yours again. 

Your eyes flick back to the building before you, tall and white and imposing. 

“This was the church you wanted, right?” Gator asks, voice low.

You glance over, surprised. “You remember that?”

Gator rolls his eyes. “I listen to you sometimes.”

In the early days of wedding planning, you’d scoured the area for chapels that might meet Gator’s father’s requirements, and this place had checked every single box. 

It was large enough to hold all your guests, but not so much as to intimidate; it was close enough to the middle of town that no one would have complained about the commute like they did now with the chapel near the ranch. The pastor was an amenable type of man who would have let you have your wedding any day of the year you wanted. 

And, perhaps selfishly, it was stunningly beautiful. Clean white walls, dark oak pews. Stained glass windows cut kaleidoscopically into the walls, and a stark gold crucifix at the altar.

It had been perfect– that is, perfect until Roy determined that he wouldn’t accept anything other than his home parish for the two of you. That decision, more than perhaps anything else these long months, had broken your heart the hardest. It had been the first night you’d cried to Gator about all of this, his fists clenching as he thrashed against that feeling he hated the most– being useless to you.

You shove down the emotion rising in you at the sight of the church– the one real ask you’d had, and the one thing you’d resigned yourself to lose. Emotion at the fact Gator had known what it meant to you, committed it to memory– and brought you here anyway, damning what anyone else thought. This was where he wanted to marry you. This was what he wanted to do: make you happy. Simple, unspoken, and rawer and more passionate for it.

He had always loved big, your Gator. It didn’t matter to you if he couldn’t say it well.

You grin at him again, eyes fighting tears as your voice falls back on teasing. “Boy, I’ve really got you whipped, huh?” 

Gator shoots you a look. “I can still turn and run, baby.”

You cackle, slipping your hand into his again. “Aw, I’d like to see you try. Come on. Time’s wasting.”

When you stumble through the tall wooden doors of the church, you let out a breath at the opulence. It’s exactly as you remember from that one, heartbreaking visit– more beautiful like this, even, now that it’s empty of people and sunlight.

You aren’t really the religious sort– never have been. But when you and Gator walk through those doors, slick with rain and unable to kill your rowdy laughter, you’re sure for a moment that something different is in the air. In the shadows growing against the walls, the hazy overcast pushing dull light through the multicolored glass, there is a reverence, a meaning you hadn’t anticipated cloaking the quiet space. 

Gator pulls you through the church, rapping his knuckles on the door of the pastor’s office. It takes some negotiating to get the man to come out, to make him understand that you’re not both crazy people, that you really do have a marriage license, but eventually, he relents and lets Gator drag him up the aisle to the altar.

You stand in front of the pastor resolutely as you wait impatiently for him to agree to marry you, the sight of Gator’s wet hair dripping in his face and your makeup smearing under your eyes not helping in convincing him you’re taking this seriously. He recognizes you from your visit, at least, but Gator’s pushiness has a way of getting under people’s skin, and the man doesn’t look as though he’s inclined to give in.

The pastor glances between you, skeptical. “I assume you have the rings?”

Gator pats his breast pocket. “Right here. She won’t get away that easy.”

“And you’re sure this marriage is made of your own free will?” The pastor clarifies with you, studying your face with mild concern. 

You give Gator a look. “What should I say?”

Gator’s eyes flatten. “You think you’re so damn funny.”

You laugh, turning back to the pastor. “Yeah, I guess I love him pretty bad. Might as well.”

The pastor heaves a resigned breath. “And you wouldn’t like to invite anyone else to bear witness?”

Gator turns back to you, and you exchange a brief, incredulous look. 

“Fuck no,” Gator barks, and you have to press a hand to your mouth to stifle your laughter. 

Gator’s lips twitch at your expression, and he corrects himself. “Sorry– I mean, no. It’s just us.”

“Just us,” you affirm, eyes dancing.

The pastor sighs and goes to collect his book of rites. 

Gator leans forward, his freshly-shaven face brushing your cheek as he whispers in your ear, “This is how it should have been this whole time– me and you and that dress. And whatever’s under that dress.”

You burst into laughter again, quieting yourself when the pastor turns slightly. “We’re in church, you cretin.”

Gator presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls back, smiling at you. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you repeat, etching that smile, that sweetness, into your memory forever.

Gator holds your hands as the pastor reads through the marriage rites– the shortcut version, at Gator’s impatient request. The quiet, rain-soaked church stares down at you, empty of judgement and opinion and objection. It’s only you and Gator and Gator and you, the mud flecks on your white skirt and the wilt of his boutonniere the only evidence it was a struggle getting here at all. And you think for a moment that whatever sealed you together to begin with, tangled you together like snarled fishing line, must be with you for this second in this church.

You’ve given a thousand furious words to this boy. He’s hurled hundreds right back at you, razor-sharp and meant to cut the both of you free from each other. It’s never worked. And the two that you utter, alone at the altar, are somehow the easiest to say.

You’re forty-five minutes late to your own wedding. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

By the time you make it back to the right chapel, the one with all of your flower arrangements and bridesmaids and overbearing relatives stacked up inside, the parking lot is so full Gator has to pull his truck over on the side of the road. The rain hasn’t stopped, seeping into your white dress and all but destroying your meticulously-styled hair. Gator isn’t in much better shape. His blazer is discarded in the backseat after he tried to make you use it as a canopy. His black dress shirt is sticking to his skin.

“Get your ass in gear and let’s go, woman!” Gator yells at you, waiting as you stumble away from the truck and run toward him again, pushing your sopping hair out of your eyes.

“It’s these fucking shoes!” you argue, yelping as your heels sink into the muddied grass. “I can’t exactly sprint in these things, Gator!”

Gator rolls his eyes and comes back for you, grabbing your hand and tugging you along once more. “Goddammit, you’re slow. Hope our kids don’t get that from you.”

“Not all of us played quarterback in high school,” you snap at him, though everything lacks its usual bite. You haven’t stopped grinning like an idiot since you left the empty church, and neither has Gator, much as he tries to hide it. 

He all but drags you across the lawn in a shortcut to the church, laughing when the mud catches you again and you’re pulled out of one of your shoes. He goes back for it, and for the other one when you lose that, too, and then you’re booking it toward the church barefoot, your white pumps clutched in Gator’s free hand. 

“We are in such deep shit,” you giggle, staring at the nearing chapel doors, which are suspiciously flung wide open despite the rain. They’re all waiting for you– probably furious and worried sick.

“That’s mud, stupid,” Gator teases, not slowing his pace. “And it’s on your face, by the way.”

“Better than looking like– whoop!”

Gator catches you just before you slide and eat shit on the slippery ground, and he hauls you upright with a laugh so infectious you wouldn’t have believed it came from him if you hadn’t seen it for yourself. 

Finally, you make it to the chapel, skidding to a stop in front of the bleached wood of the old, white stairs. 

Standing at the top of them is Roy Tillman, dressed and dry, staring down at you with twenty-seven years of disappointment and unchecked anger.

The humor drains out of you, Gator’s hand in yours the only thing keeping you from trembling with icy fear.

“Look at the two of you,” Roy drawls, still in that careful tone you’ve come to realize means he’s still holding back. “You keep these good people waiting, run off to do fuck all on the day a’your wedding?”

Neither you nor Gator offer an explanation– just wait. 

“It’s a goddamn fuckin’ disgrace.” Roy shakes his head at you, his eyes simmering. “Now get your asses in there, clean yourselves up, and do what you’re fuckin’ told.” With that, he turns on his heel and makes his way back into the chapel, leaving you to soak in his disappointed hopes. 

Your eyes slide to Gator, examining his reaction. 

He’s already looking at you, mollified. But then his lips curl up, and he shrugs, guilty but uncaring. 

You burst into laughter, and he clamps a hand over your mouth to shut you up, his shit-eating grin the same as that first day in his truck. Humor, elation, and not one ounce of regret. 

“You heard him,” Gator mutters in your ear. “Better get in there, huh?”

You giggle again, pressing your lips together to hide it, and Gator loops your clasped hands over your head and around your waist, hurrying you both inside after his father.

By the end of the night, both you and Gator are exhausted.

Your clothes dry and your face wiped of mud and makeup, you sit in Gator’s lap in a chair in the reception hall, one of his arms tucked tight around you and the other resting on your leg. You’re ignoring the dirty looks Karen is shooting you from across the venue at the gall you have to be sitting in the same seat. People are making idiots of themselves dancing drunkenly, the lights are low and the candles in the centerpieces are glowing gently, and everything is almost exactly how you pictured it— except for one thing. You’re happier. Much happier than you would have been had things gone to plan today.

You lean back against Gator’s chest, heads pressed together in a comforting weight.

“It is pretty damn beautiful,” he admits, staring past your central table and toward the dance floor that’s only just starting to wind down. 

“All that planning had to count for something,” you agree mildly. “And people aren’t nearly as mad at us as I thought they’d be.”

“They’re drunk,” Gator replies, snorting. “Trust me, when they sober up, they’ll be pissed.”

You huff a light laugh, his cheek resting on your head. “I don’t care,” you tell him.

Gator lets out a small, contented breath. “Yeah, me neither.”

“How’s it feel to be a husband?” You ask him, fingers rubbing up and down on his forearm. One of your hands finds the gold ring now sitting on his ring finger, and you fiddle with it, turning it around and around.

“The same,” he huffs, then snorts again when you pinch his arm. “How’s it feel to be a wife?”

“A wife?” you hum, lazy and contented. “Feels like I’ve gotta step up my casserole game. Your wife?” You pull back, turning to smile at him. “Feels pretty fuckin’ great.”

“Mm,” he smiles back, prodding his nose into your cheek, nuzzling at your skin. “My wife. Sounds kinda nice.”

You give him a flat look, amused. “Oh, you think so?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs against your cheek. “I like you bein’ mine. All this bein’ mine. Think I’ll probably stick with it for a while.”

Your smile spreads at his teasing, and your hands smooth up his arms as he begins to place kisses across your face. “Hate to break it to you, Alligator, but all this has been yours for a long time.”

The words make something shift in him, evidenced by the tightening of his hands on your body, the deepening of his kisses. “I’m gonna take real good care of you, you know that?” he tells you, the words gentle. “I know,” you murmur, the noise of the reception hall fading into nothing in your head. 

“Every damn day,” he promises, his voice muffled by your jaw. “Gonna give you anything you want, pretty.”

“I really do have you whipped,” you laugh lightly, scratching your nails gently against his arm.

Gator pulls back and meets your eyes, his expression so serious, so overwhelmingly focused on your face. “You gonna put up with me? Even when I’m a total shitbag?” 

Your eyes crinkle as you smile at him, one of your hands coming up to touch his face. “Till I’m nothin’ but bones, baby.”

His lips curve upward, an unbelievable softness entering his dark eyes. “You know I’m gonna love you forever, right?”

“I’m pretty much banking on it,” you whisper, your thumb stroking over his cheek. “It’s a good thing I love you more.”

Gator leans forward and kisses you, so gentle it makes your chest hurt. “Sorry, stupid. Not possible.”

When he kisses you again, you feel that declaration sink into you, melt into your bones, seep into the very core of you. And for a moment, you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. You’re too tangled.

That feeling stays in your chest, tucked away like the secret you etched into stone today, hidden and sacred and beautiful. And it remains there, pressed somewhere between your intertwined arms, deep down where no one else can ever touch it.

---

Kai wears this big giddy smile as he presses your thighs down, not letting you kick at him. His eyes find Beomgyu’s, who’s holding your upper body against him, your back to his chest. He has both your wrists held in one hand, and his giggling rumbles against your back.

“Isn’t this kind of cute, hyung?” Kai asks, playful glint shining in his eyes. You roll yours and give up on trying to push yourself out of Beomgyu’s arms.

“It’s so funny,” Beomgyu says.

“Glad you guys are having fun,” you grumble.

“Aren’t we so strong?” Beomgyu asks, teasing you now. You should have never opened your mouth earlier. Ugh.

“If I say yes, will you let me go?” They both laugh, but neither give you an answer. You feel a little embarrassed, and it only gets worse the more they give you these patronizing coos.

Beomgyu rests his head on your shoulder, which is tolerable enough until he decides to bite down on the skin there. You flinch and yelp, regretting ever wearing this damn tank top. You can’t even swat him away like you normally would when he gets bratty.

You look to Kai for help. “Are you not gonna stop him?!” You feel a nip to your neck next, and you try to thrash your elbow back against Beomgyu, but his strong arms wrapped around you prevent that from happening. “You’re both assholes,” you huff.

“You’re so cute though,” Kai says.

“Yeah, especially when you pout like that,” Beomgyu adds, squeezing your cheeks in his hand. You feel like some doll that they’re playing with as they please.

“Be nice to her,” Kai says, pushing Beomgyu’s hand down so he releases your face. His arm wraps around your waist instead. Kai’s barely even holding you down now, just running his hands down your legs mindlessly. At least he knows when to quit it—the jerk behind you can’t say the same, fingers digging into your wrists even though you’re not fighting back anymore.

“I am,” Beomgyu counters. He plants a kiss on your cheek. “See? Nice.” You make sure your grimace is very prominent in response, ignoring the way you heat up at his action.

“Don’t make that face,” Kai says. “We’re just having fun.”

“You’re being mean,” you complain. Beomgyu laughs, but you ignore him.

“I’m sorry.” Kai’s hands readjust themselves to sit at your hips, and his eyes meet Beomgyu’s. “Hyung, let’s make it up to her,” he suggests. His lips are just slightly tilted up, and your stomach flips because you think you know what he’s planning.

As much as you want to protect your pride and shut this down, there’s something about them holding you down and giving you all their attention that’s making you a little dizzy. Kai hovers his face over your stomach, lifting your top up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin to pepper his kisses onto.

You turn your face to Beomgyu, blinking at him curiously in anticipation of whatever he decides to do. All he does is raise an eyebrow at you. “What?” he asks.

Your face heats up as you return your attention to Kai. “Nothing,” you answer.

Beomgyu laughs, “You were expecting me to kiss you, huh?”

Now you’re really flustered. “No!” you defend. It’s annoying how funny Beomgyu finds this. You’re about to continue bickering, but right as you open your mouth, Kai licks a stripe up to your navel, and you end up letting out an embarrassing mewl instead.

“Oh, Kai was right, this is cute,” Beomgyu says, stupid victorious grin on his face. “It’s easier to shut you up than I thought.”

You don’t respond, too focused on the look Kai sends you as his fingers just barely delve beneath the hem of your shorts. The question is in his eyes, and your answer is in the way you lift your hips up for him. He looks happy as can be when he slides your shorts down, throwing them to the floor and spreading your legs to admire your panty-clad center.

Beomgyu leans forward over you to peek as well, and his prying feels way more invasive than Kai’s with the way he smirks like some freak. Your wrists are still held in his grasp, so you can’t even push him away like you want to. Kai rubs two fingers over your covered slit, watching with a bitten lip and amazement in his eyes.

“Is she wet?” Beomgyu asks.

“She is,” Kai answers. There’s something proud in his voice, bordering on cocky. He presses his fingers against your clit firmly, and the pressure feels amazing. Beomgyu leans back instead of looming over to get a look at your panties, which gives Kai more room to bring his head between your legs and drag his lips over your core, kissing your entrance through the material of your panties. He pokes his tongue out and delicately circles it at your hole, unhurried and teasing, and it makes your breath hitch. You feel your panties soaking through the longer he keeps going, a mixture of both his saliva and your arousal collecting up.

You stutter out Kai’s name, fighting against Beomgyu’s grip so you can bring a hand down to him. It’s a losing battle, and you give up after only a few seconds. Your hips grind against Kai’s face, and he flattens out his tongue so you can ride it like that.

“Wow, you’re pretty desperate,” Beomgyu says, watching your hips stutter over Kai’s face.

“S-shut up,” you reprimand. Your stomach muscles are getting tired from rolling your hips up, and Beomgyu takes notice.

“Need some help?” he asks, bringing his hands to your hips. Your own hands are finally free now, and you immediately stretch out your arms in relief. Before you can massage out the soreness in your wrists, Beomgyu uses his grip on you to push you harder against Kai’s tongue, smothering the poor boy with your cunt. You can’t deny how good it feels, though; Kai’s tongue drags right through your folds until your panties are rendered useless.

Kai pulls himself back after a minute, dazed look in his eyes as he yanks your panties down your legs, getting rid of the cloth as if it only irritated him now. He parts your folds with his fingers, zeroing his sight on your weeping cunt. Your hips cant up needily, greedy for more stimulation.

“You’re soaked,” Kai says, finger catching a drop of your arousal and swirling it over your entrance.

“So eat her out,” Beomgyu says, waiting for him to get on with it. Kai sends him a pointed look before taking your clit into his mouth. You sigh out as he sucks at your bud, but he doesn’t stay long, pulling back to shoot daggers at Beomgyu.

“Do something, hyung. Stop being so useless.” He’s right back on you after that, returning his mouth to you and licking greedy stripes over your core. Beomgyu scowls and brings a hand under your shirt, finding your nipple and pinching it meanly. You gasp and arch away from him, but he brings you right back and places his other hand over your mouth, concealing your moans. He toys with your tits relentlessly, tugging and teasing as you whimper and cry beneath his palm.

“Why don’t I get to use her cunt?” Beomgyu asks, squeezing your breasts as Kai pushes his tongue inside you. Kai doesn’t bother pulling away to respond, choosing to bury his face deeper between your thighs instead. He holds your hips securely in place, making sure you can’t run away from him.

Beomgyu pouts and turns your head toward him, stealing your attention away from Kai. He holds your head still so that you’re looking him in the eye when he twists your nipple between his fingers, grinning when you shut your eyes and jolt at the pain. He brings your face to his and captures your lips for a messy kiss. You can’t do anything except whine and take it, hands grasping onto Kai’s hair for dear life.

Kai whimpers when you tug at his hair, and it serves to encourage him further. He brings his tongue to your clit and swipes rapidly over the bud, and you feel him holding back a smile when you keen beneath him. Your legs threaten to close over his head, but he holds you open easily. You’re defenseless, left to take whatever the two men want to give you, feeling overwhelmed by all the stimulation. You break away from the kiss to pant and mewl into Beomgyu’s neck, breath hitching and body jolting.

“You’re close?” Beomgyu asks, pulling your tank top above your tits so he can see them. He grinds his hard cock against your back as he cups your breasts, humming in satisfaction as the soft flesh fills his hands. You nod in response to his question, unable to use any words, mouth stuck open around your moans. “Yeah? You’re gonna cum on Kai’s tongue, be a good little slut for us?”

Kai stuffs a finger inside you then, pumping needily as his lips wrap around your bud. He sucks and swirls his tongue over it, determined to push you over the edge. Your orgasm builds up quickly, leaving your body shaking with need. Both boys catch onto it easily, working more obsessively to get you off now, as if they need it as much as you do.

“That’s it, give it all to us. Such a good baby, letting us do whatever we want,” Beomgyu coaxes. “Could just keep you here and use you forever, make you our little doll.” Your stomach twists at his crude words, but it brings you exactly where you need to be. Your climax hits you like a wave of ecstasy, leaving you sputtering out nonsense in your haze. You roll your hips, riding your high out while Kai curls his finger inside you, pushing up against your gummy walls.

You whimper as your orgasm fades, the pleasure still buzzing in your system as Kai replaces his finger with his tongue, licking up all the arousal your cunt oozes out. He moans like a bitch, enjoying this more than you’ve ever seen from a man before. His hands soothe your thighs, fondling the soft flesh as he slurps up whatever he can get from your sopping hole.

“Shit, you look so pretty, look just like a whore. Kai, you should see this,” Beomgyu says. He places a hand in Kai’s hair and pulls his face away from your cunt. His mouth is shiny with your essence, eyes hazy with lust. Beomgyu pulls him up until he’s hovering over you. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Yeah,” Kai agrees. Your stomach flutters at the praise.

“You should kiss her,” Beomgyu suggests with a mischievous chuckle. Kai busies himself doing exactly that. His kiss is eager and desperate, humming in content as you accept his tongue into your mouth. Kai’s hands caress your tits mindlessly, much nicer than the rough way Beomgyu treated you. Kissing Kai leaves you breathless, but you don’t dare part from his lips, letting him steal your breath and get his fill.

Your eyes widen when you feel something poking at your entrance. Beomgyu’s hand smooths down from your waist to your hip, holding you steady as he circles his tip at your fluttering hole. You break from Kai then, and he holds your face dearly as he wipes the saliva from your lips.

Beomgyu brings his mouth to your ear, his hot breath sending a chill down your spine. “You gonna be good when I fuck you, too?” he asks in a gravelly whisper. Your thighs ache to clamp shut at that, but he keeps you spread open with his demanding grip. He follows you when you turn your head, unable to escape. “Gonna cry out like you need my dick more than air?”

You whine and lean forward until your head finds Kai’s shoulder. He brushes your hair to the side comfortingly, kissing the crown of your head as Beomgyu eases his tip inside your walls. You hiss at the ache, but Beomgyu aids the stretch with a skillful hand over your clit. He rubs tight circles onto the bud, and that’s enough to get your head reeling to the point where all you want is for Beomgyu to sink further into you.

“How’s it feel?” Kai asks, running gentle fingers down your back.

“Feels good,” you answer. Your hand blindly searches for Kai’s cock through his pants, wanting to make sure he’s not left out. You’re delighted to feel the way he throbs in his pants when your fingers wrap around him.

“Such an angel,” Kai coos, patting your head. It makes you smile and lean into his touch. Beomgyu’s hips meet your ass, finally bottoming out, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning. “How is she?” Kai asks, eyes meeting Beomgyu’s.

“Superrr tight,” Beomgyu grunts out. Your legs struggle to hold your weight up, but Kai helps keep you steady with his strong arms. You feel like you’re getting split open around Beomgyu’s cock, the girth of it leaving you deliciously full. You’re clutching onto Kai for dear life with one hand while the other weakly tugs at his waistband. He takes mercy on you and pushes his pants down just enough for his dick to pop out, and the sight makes you salivate.

His tip is a pretty pink and glossy with precum, which trails down his shaft in a delicious line. He’s veiny and rock hard, and you’re shocked at how patient he’s been—he must’ve been aching for some relief. You wrap your hand around the base, holding him still so you can lick up the drop of precum, following the line all the way to his tip. You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock, then give him a small, wet kiss right over his slit. The groan he lets out is sinful, and it makes your walls tighten around Beomgyu’s length.

“Are you sucking him off?” Beomgyu asks, a little breathless as he hastens his pace. He laughs at you, and it leaves you a little humiliated. “You need two cocks at once, huh? Need all your little holes filled?” You wish his filth didn’t have such an effect on you, but you feel the way you gush around him as he speaks.

Kai’s patient with you, not forcing you to take his dick further in your mouth than you’re willing to, but he does help guide your mouth around him, gripping your hair to help you sink him further down your throat. You’ve never felt so full in your life, yet you still want more, greedy and aching and feeling every bit like the whore Beomgyu says you to be.

Your back arches, and immediately it makes Beomgyu hit deeper inside you, the head of his dick rubbing against a spot that has you seeing stars. With every drag of his thick cock inside you, you get more and more brainless, forgetting anything except the satisfaction of this moment. His eager fingers on your clit only lead you closer to your orgasm, and your legs begin to shake with the anticipation of it.

“Shit, if I knew how much of a greedy slut you were, I would’ve fucked you a long time ago,” Beomgyu says. He presses his palm against your lower stomach, adding a pressure that has you moaning loudly around Kai’s dick. Kai pulls you off of him, letting you breathe as Beomgyu fucks you into climax.

“Good job, that’s it, just take it all,” Kai praises, thumb wiping at your cheek. You didn’t even realize you’d been crying. His eyes hold a sort of fondness when he watches your mouth fall open. He brings his thumb past your lips, pushing down on your tongue with a wicked smile. You taste your salty tears on his digit, and it makes you feel lightheaded. “You really do look pretty getting fucked. You look like a princess,” he says.

Your moans spill out uncontrollably; you can’t help it when Beomgyu’s hitting all the right spots. He grips your hair and pulls you back to him, ripping you from Kai. His arm wraps around your waist, keeping your body right up against his as he pounds into you. You’re starting to feel overstimulated, but you let Beomgyu do as he pleases.

“Are you close?” you ask him, voice shaky and uneven after all your moaning.

“Yeah, gonna let me cum inside?” he asks. “Give Kai my sloppy seconds?” You hear the grin in his voice as he says it. You don’t assume Kai is too happy hearing that, but you also don’t check to see. Beomgyu’s pistoning into you now, chasing his high eagerly, fucking you like some toy. The growl he lets out fills you with another wave of arousal, the moment getting more intense and primal as Beomgyu approaches his orgasm.

His fingers bruise your hips as he holds you tight against him, finally stilling his movements and cumming inside you. You grind your hips down against him when he fills you up, the feeling of his release painting your walls making you crave more stimulation. You feel insatiable, like you constantly need more, never wanting to stop. Luckily for you, the moment Beomgyu pulls out, Kai’s dragging you over to him.

“He’s such a man, only thinks with his dick,” Kai huffs. “Couldn’t even get you off more than once.” He aligns himself with your entrance and wastes no time slipping in.

Beomgyu takes offense to that. “I could’ve, but I don’t think she could take it,” he defends.

“Hear that?” Kai asks into your ear. He holds your body against him, keeping you upright as he positions your head forward, making you look at Beomgyu. He’s scowling, arms crossed over his chest like a brat. You’d laugh if you weren’t getting your guts rearranged by Kai right now.

Kai’s clearly on some mission to prove Beomgyu wrong, but you’ve got a sneaking suspicion that part of this is to feed his own ego, too. His fingers find your abused clit, so sore and sensitive by now. Your body jumps as soon as he starts circling it, pace rapid and determined to get you cumming around him.

Kai’s dick hits even deeper inside you, and it has your eyes rolling back from how good it feels. It borders on being too much, but you take it all willingly. It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time before you feel the knot building in your stomach again, ready to snap any moment.

“Gonna cum,” you warn, leaning your face into the crook of Kai’s neck.

He grabs your jaw and brings your focus back to Beomgyu. “No, look at him,” Kai insists. “Tell him how good you feel.”

You whine. It feels impossible to talk that much, but you still try. “So good. You’re so big. Nngh—I love it so much.”

“That’s right,” Kai says, soothing a hand down your body in reward. “Go ahead and cum for me, princess. Be good.” You don’t dare disobey, immediately doing as he wishes and falling apart over his cock. Your walls clamp around him intensely, and you feel so full that you’re scared you might break.

Beomgyu comes closer to you, holding your face in his hand and fixing you with a mean gaze. “Was I not enough for you?” he asks. He must be feeling insecure now. “Do you think Kai’s better than me?”

You want to respond and tell him no, you think they’re both incredible, but before you can get any words out, Kai’s jackhammering into you and stealing your breath. The feeling is so overwhelming that all you can do is pathetically reach forward and cling onto Beomgyu.

“Clearly she does,” Kai answers for you. You shake your head rapidly, eyes wide like you’re scared Beomgyu might believe him.

“She’s saying no,” Beomgyu points out.

“That’s cause she’s too nice to hurt your feelings.” You’re literally caught in the middle of their ego-stroking contest.

Beomgyu’s hand moves down to your throat, lightly squeezing down. You almost cum again on the spot. Your brain feels fried, completely out of it in your lust-drunk state. Any little brush against your skin could make you cry out.

“Are you gonna answer for yourself, or are you just gonna let Kai do everything for you?” There’s venom laced inside the question.

“You don’t need to do anything, princess. I like doing everything for you,” Kai says.

You still try to answer Beomgyu nonetheless; if not to heal his insecurities, then at least to make yourself feel less like some object to fight over. “You’re both so good to me,” you say.

Beomgyu smiles and runs his hand through your hair. You can tell that he needed to hear that. He removes his hand from your throat and brings it up to your jaw instead, holding your face still as he leans in for a kiss. He coaxes your lips apart easily, and you let him explore eagerly. He licks into your mouth like he needs to steal something from you, like he’s reclaiming something. He takes your hand and places it around his shaft, already hard again. You jerk him obediently, eating up the moans he spills into your mouth.

Kai fucks you with hard, focused strokes, and his rhythm is so perfect that it has you seeing stars. You’re trembling with oversensitivity, but Kai still plays with your body as much as he wants. His hands find your tits, carefully massaging them and listening to your whines intently. He brings his mouth to your neck, trailing wet kisses all across your skin. He makes his way up to your jaw before he gently urges you away from Beomgyu’s kiss and into his own. Pleasure builds rapidly inside you from all their attention, and you’re about to explode yet again.

Your hand hastens its pace over Beomgyu’s cock, thumb swiping at his slit, coaxing more precum out. The sticky substance helps you glide over his length, and he holds your fist still so he can fuck into it himself. He’s a mess of moans, and the noises help to push you over the edge as well, tightening again around Kai’s dick.

Kai doesn’t part from your lips, sloppily making out with you as you cum around him. His pace loses its rhythm as his own high looms over him, chasing it desperately as he slams into you. It’s hard to take now, but you keep your complaints to yourself, because you’re dying to feel him shoot his load in you.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Beomgyu warns. You twist your hand around him to aid in getting him there, so willing to make him burst. Only a few seconds later, his seed is shooting out onto your torso, white strands decorating your body. He groans something strangled and deep, and you etch this memory into your head to keep forever.

Kai’s nearly there too, holding onto you tight as he delivers his last few thrusts. His dick twitches as he finally empties himself, leaning into your neck to groan against your skin. You whimper at the feeling of being filled up again, so satisfied that you feel like you’re floating.

The three of you catch your breath, heavy pants filling the room as you slowly collapse against the couch. Kai pulls out of you and lets you lay on top of him. You feel the rise and fall of his chest, and it grounds you back to earth. It grounds you too much, matter of fact, because the whole night suddenly hits you like a train. You just fucked your friends. It’s a very sobering realization.

“I swear I’m not a whore,” you say. It’s half-joke, half-defense. Both the boys laugh.

“You were moaning like one a minute ago,” Beomgyu says. He leans his head against your thigh, eyes zeroing in on your cunt. “And you got cum leaking out of you,” he adds.

“We know you’re not a whore,” Kai says. You laugh, but it really does comfort you to hear. You didn’t want your friends’ perception of you to change because of this.

“What’s wrong with being a whore?” Beomgyu asks.

“You’re only saying that cause you are one,” you tease. Beomgyu chuckles and pinches your clit in retaliation, reveling in the way your whole body jumps at that. You even feel Kai laughing from under you. “You suck,” you say, groaning.

s o o b i n

. . . l o a d i n g

y e o n j u n

. . . l o a d i n g

b e o m g y u

bro, you good? by @gyuuberryy (loser! bff!beomgyu)

t a e h y u n

. . . l o a d i n g

h e u n i n g k a i

bed chem @csbenthusiast (huening kai x fem!reader, amazing banter, butterflies in my stomach!!)

r e a c t i o n s / / i m a g i n e s

brain empty, just you! by @gyuuberryy (loser!txt's reaction to you getting them flustered)

txt without protection by @biteyoubiteme (title says it all, my friends)

It took a week for your publicist, Jennifer, to convince you to meet with Steve Harrington. In your defense, she shouldn’t have told you why right away. The why gave you a valid reason to back up your refusal. You didn’t have to explain that meeting Steve Harrington went against every bone in your body, against every ounce of integrity you have.

“He’ll be here soon,” a woman in a crisp pantsuit assures.

Her insistence had grown tiring after about ten minutes. The lawyer next to her just keeps his eyes focused down at his watch, like he's counting every second he can bill extra as a “late fee” or whatever term a multimillion dollar law firm like his has for when their wealthy clients waste their time. You can feel yourself washing away into the bland modernity of the conference room. The intensely white walls closing in on you with every additional minute you’re trapped inside them. Offices like these still feel unnatural to you, no matter how many times you find yourself in them.

An hour has passed since the official start of the meeting when Steve “The Hair” Harrington himself finally walks in. A gigantic pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. He plops down in the office chair between his publicist and his lawyer. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he yawns, as if he was the one waiting over an hour to get started.

His lawyer begins to go over the terms of the agreement. Steve runs a hand through his hair, even though you can’t see them, you can feel his eyes burning a hole through you. Inspecting you like a piece of merchandise. Instead of looking away, you keep your head up, staring right back at him. 

Steve grins, “I like her.”

“I think you like every woman you come in contact with.”

“Ouch,” Steve places a hand over his heart. “Everyone knows I only like the pretty ones.”

Steve’s publicist leans over, whispering something that makes him settle down. You force down the uncontrollable heat rising to your face, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing his comment got to you. Steve’s charm would not work on you. 

His lawyer continues going through the basics of the agreement, your lawyer chiming in with amendments when necessary. If you were going to have to “date” Steve, you deserved at least a few benefits; besides the main one of washing away the current, idiotic controversy you’re caught up in. The words “at least six months” are what catch your attention. Six months? With Steve fucking Harrington?

“Can’t we make it two? Or less?”

Everyone at the table shakes their heads, including Steve. That same smug expression marring his features. No wonder the general public finds him attractive, they never have to deal with this insufferable side of him.

“We need people to forget about Mr. Harrington’s personal issues and your situation with Chrissy Cunningham,” Jennifer responds. “If it’s seen as fake, more attention will be drawn to what we want the public to forget. More discourse is the last thing we want and inauthenticity is a sure fire way to get it”

Steve snorts, “Maybe if your client didn’t think she was ‘too good’ to give Chrissy the time of day, she wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“I didn’t hear her,” you stress every syllable. 

“Sure,” Steve mouths.

His lawyer cuts him off to prevent an argument from starting. Your mind drifts in and out for the rest of the conversation. Terms like “soft-launch” and “speculation” go in one ear and out the other. You knew what your mission was before you set foot in the room: make Steve Harrington look like less of a little bitch.

…

The following “intimacy” session is your own personal hell. You want to spin on your heel and take off down the hall before anyone can make you do anything “intimate” with Steve. Thousands of fans would kill to be in your position, and you’d kill to be in theirs; not knowing Steve Harrington would be a blessing. 

Steve’s deep in conversation with his publicist, yet still manages to shoot glances back at you. His sunglasses are now pushed back into his infamous hair. Unfortunately, it  looks just as perfect in person as it does in every photograph you’ve seen. Last night, you’d spent hours looking through anything you could find on Steve. Paparazzi shots, blind items, social media posts, gossip blogs, even some fan pages. From what you could find, Steve was a certified playboy until he started dating his co-star Nancy Wheeler on the set of Hawkins, a beachy teen drama that took itself way too seriously. When Nancy dumped him, he had a drunken breakdown that destroyed his carefully curated image. Dating you was his team’s way to rebuild that hollow heartthrob persona in a way that would lead to a wave of ‘he’s so boyfriend’ comments under posts of you two together. Absolutely disgusting.

If you’d known that pursuing acting would involve frequently soothing men’s egos, you might have chosen another career path, artistry and accolades be damned. These past few weeks have made you loathe the industry more than ever. You’re counting down the seemingly neverending days until you’re back on set. Maybe you just should go back into theater.

Once you’re in yet another soulless office, Steve’s publicist introduces herself as Olivia, taking the seat next to Jennifer in the front of the room. 

“I don’t need to learn how to kiss. Can’t she learn on her own?” Steve complains.

Olivia taps her foot against the floor, clearly growing tired of Steve’s entitled bullshit, “This isn’t about ‘learning how to kiss’ it’s about making the kiss believable. People need to believe that you’re attracted to each other, that you’re in love.”

You groan, “Why can’t you set him up with Chrissy or… literally other than me.”

“Why do you hate Chrissy so much?” Steve questions.

“I don’t hate her. I just think two would be a better fit.”

“I always have trouble fitting,” Steve smirks.

After a pointed look from Olivia, he mumbles, “Sorry.”

Jennifer claps her hands together, “Let’s get started. Sit next to each other.”

You and Steve take seats in plush office chairs that have been pushed a little too close together for your liking. The smell of alcohol radiates off Steve. Without his sunglasses, he’s squinting like the lights in the room are too bright. His hazel eyes are red rimmed and puffy. 

Before you can comment on his state, your publicists instruct you to rest your head on Steve’s shoulder. You follow the order, not wanting to piss them off any further. The fabric of Steve’s t-shirt is soft from wear, and his body heat seeps through the thin fabric. He slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you ‌closer to him.

“Great. That’s great,” Olivia says. “Kiss her forehead, Steve.”

His surprisingly plush lips make contact with the skin below your hairline, sending chills down your spine. Get a grip. Steve kisses you again, this time at your temple. Each kiss is tentative, like he thinks you’ll break if he goes at his usual strength.

Next, you practice cuddling. Steve nuzzles into your neck, you curl into his chest. You convince yourself that it’s just like any other acting job as you kiss Steve’s cheek, then his earlobe with a softness you wouldn’t have expected from yourself.

You continue work through various romantic actions without incident until Jennifer asks you to, “Kiss him.”

Kissing Steve isn’t appealing in the slightest. The thought of having to kiss him for the next six months, maybe longer, is even worse.

“Promise I won’t bite,” Steve winks.

You roll your eyes, then let them drift to his lips. Jesus Christ, why are they so soft? If you didn’t know better, you’d think he has lip gloss on. But you know his masculinity is too fragile for that to be the case. Was he blessed with everything at birth? Probably. You slide a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging on the soft strands  in a way that makes Steve’s eyes widen. He recovers quickly, snaking one hand up to your jawline and the other down to hold your waist. 

You’re about to lean in for the kiss when Steve takes control, guiding your face to his with an almost unnatural ease. An ease that makes his experience evident. He’s showing off. His lips interlock with yours. The taste of liquor overwhelms you on impact. But you don’t want to hear any remarks from him if you pull away early, so you deepen the kiss, allowing your lips to explore his. Steve lets out a sound that verges on a moan, then quickly stuffs it back down. Of course this is making him horny. Though making Steve horny doesn’t seem very hard to accomplish. It just confirms your suspicion that Steve can’t act, he goes off his own feelings and claims he’s in character. From the few episodes you’ve seen of Hawkins you’ve seen, you already could tell that Steve was basically playing himself. And he only gets away with it because of his charm, looks, and famous father who no doubt uses his influence to keep Steve afloat. Your career would be so much easier if you could lean back on those things the way he does. You wouldn’t need training or talent, you could just be mediocre like Steve. It honestly sounds miserable. 

You pull away from the kiss first, wiping your lips in an attempt to get rid of the bitter, alcoholic taste that’s now clinging to your mouth. Steve turns to your publicists for approval. You do the same, watching  their surprised expressions.

Olivia blinks, “I think that’s good for now.”

On the way out, you lean close to Steve and whisper, “Still think I need to learn how to kiss, Harrington?”

The red tinge that creeps into his cheeks is a good enough answer for you.

…

Luckily, you don’t have to deal with Steve for the next few days. His ‘busy’ schedule has made it difficult for your teams to schedule your first outing. On one call, you ask if joining him on one of his benders counts as a date. The comment wasn’t received well by his team, but you hear a snort from Jennifer. Clearly, you weren’t the only one who noticed that he’d shown up to your first meeting hungover.

Finally, you and Steve are set to attend Robin Buckley’s comedy show in Santa Monica. Robin is another one of Steve’s co-stars from Hawkins, and the only member of the main cast who’s seemed to have stayed out of any drama both during and after the show. Her close relationship with Steve gives you pause, but it’s better than spending your Saturday night on a one-on-one date. You’re not sure you’re ready to be alone with Steve yet.

You decide to keep things simple with a black dress and plain makeup. The fact that this night is to build speculation has been drilled into your head. The goal  is to get noticed, which shouldn’t be difficult with Steve’s notoriety and your growing fame. You’ve recently started to get used to the lack of privacy, so you’re not exactly thrilled to encourage people to push your boundaries even further. To become even more invested in you instead of your work.

You meet up with Steve a couple blocks away from the venue.

“What’s our game plan?”

“Our ‘game plan’ is to hold hands, make sure people notice us, and laugh like Robin’s the funniest person alive so I don’t get called a bitch for ‘not supporting women’.”

“Well, Robin is the funniest person alive, well, other than me.”

“It’s okay to be delusional, Harrington,” you punch his arm. 

“You really are a…,” Steve shakes his head, strands of hair falling down into his face. “Never mind.”

“You were going to say bitch, weren’t you?”

“Nope… not at all,” Steve grins. “You’re an angel, and everyone knows it.”

“Aw, I was going to say the same about you.”

Steve grabs your hand and tugs, “Come on.”

The venue is buzzing with energy from the moment you step inside. You try to ignore the heads that turn with each step you take. Steve moves a hand to your waist, guiding you through the crowd to your table, which is smack dab in the middle of the room; giving you a great view of the stage and everyone else a great view of you and Steve. 

It’s not long before a group of twenty somethings covered in Hawkins merch approach your table, excitement radiating off them. 

“Hey ladies,” Steve smirks as the girls react to his words with glee.

You roll your eyes. He’s eating up every ounce of attention in a way that you’d only expect from someone as self-centered as he is. 

“Can we get a photo?” One girl asks.

“Of course.”

When Steve gestures for you to lean into the group, they glare at you. 

“We were hoping it would just be with you,” another girl says, her gaze boring into you.

Steve looks at you, then back at the group, “Sure.”

You scoot your chair out of the camera’s view, watching as the group gets as close to Steve as they possibly can for the selfie. After taking a few photos, they continue to talk to Steve and completely ignore you. You don’t expect everyone to love you or even to know who you are, but being excluded always stings. At first, your mind drifts to the Chrissy situation, if they’re fans of Hawkins, they’re probably fans of Chrissy who are pissed off at you for your perceived slight. Then it dawns on you that your proximity to Steve could be another reason for the group’s reaction. You’ve seen it happen before: girlfriends of heartthrobs being attacked for being anywhere near the man fans have claimed. They don’t know that you want to be here less than they want you to be. You’d be fine if they pulled Steve away from you for the rest of the night so you don’t have to deal with him anymore.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, the fans disperse when the venue lights dim. A spotlight illuminates the stage, and Robin Buckley walks right into it. The crowd erupts. Robin smiles awkwardly, waiting for the applause to quiet. Getting right into her set when it does. Steve laughs at every joke, sometimes before the joke is even over. You laugh too, not just to fit in, but because Robin is genuinely funny. How did Steve manage to become best friends with her? 

The show significantly improves your mood and makes pretending to like being around Steve a lot easier. You don’t mind when Steve reaches for your hand again, holding it steady in his, only letting go to clap for Robin; then picking it right back up. 

After a little more than an hour, Robin takes a bow and walks off stage to booming cheers from the audience. Steve is grinning as if he’s the one who just performed.

He leans in close, “She’s great, right?”

“She is.”

When Steve looks satisfied, you add, “But it makes me wonder why she’s friends with you.”

Steve’s grin falls, “Robin’s friends with me because we get each other. Besides, I’m pretty great too.”

“Still haven’t seen any proof of that, Harrington.”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Steve’s breath tickles your ear, the warmth of it spreading through your body.

Steve helps you up from your chair, gripping your hand as he leads you to a door in the corner of the room. A few people call out to him as you walk past, Steve acknowledges them but keeps moving. He knocks twice on the door. The lock clicks and Robin pops her head through.

“Steve!”

“Hey, Rob.”

Robin’s gaze moves to you, “Oh, you’re on that show! The one that like totally swept the Emmys last year! What is it? The Zebra!”

“The Zero,” you correct.

Steve snorts. Robin doesn’t notice.

“Right, right! I watched it, I promise.”

“Don’t boost her ego,” Steve grumbles. “She’s almost as bad as Byers.”

“You’re one to talk about ego.”

Robin chuckles, “Come in. I need to hear about whatever this is,” she gestures between the two of you.

It’s almost as lively backstage as it is in the main room. People buzz around, congratulating Robin as she passes.

“This is the biggest venue I’ve played so far,” Robin clarifies, more for you than for Steve. “Everyone’s pretty excited about it. Mostly because it means more money for them. But that’s showbiz for you.”

Steve nods, “I’m proud of you, Robin. At least things are going well for one of us.”

“You’re doing pretty well for yourself too. Steve, you’re literally going to be–”

“Hey, what did I tell you?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy, but… she’s your girlfriend or whatever. She’ll hear about it eventually.”

“Hear about what?”

You heard Steve’s team mention an announcement that had been postponed because of his controversy, something about a producer or president not being happy with Steve’s conduct. But they hadn’t brought up specifics and nothing had come up about it in your deep dive into Steve’s life.

“Steve’s going to be,” Robin looks at Steve for approval before stage whispering. “The new Spiderman.”

You laugh, “Aren’t you a little old for that?”

Steve scowls at you, “I can still play a high schooler… even if I couldn’t, it’s set in college so it really doesn’t matter.”

“I think you’d be a really good super senior Spiderman,” Robin jokes.

“Not helping,” Steve grunts. 

“I can see it,” you scan Steve’s expression. “Spiderman: Graduation Day.”

Robin doubles over. Steve cracks ever so slightly, his features softening at your comment. It makes you feel like you won whatever competition you and Steve have been competing in since the moment you met. 

When Robin finally recovers, she asks, “So what’s the deal with you two?”

“PR relationship,” you and Steve reply in sync.

“Obviously. And I can guess why. I was wondering why you guys don’t like each other. Steve, she’s totally your type, plus she’s cool.”

“She’s pretentious. I knew she would be but it’s even worse in person.”

“Did you have to look that word up to use against me?”

Steve throws his hands up, “See! Pretentious.”

“At least I’m not a talentless nepo-baby,” you retort.

There are a dozen things you could bring up to insult Steve, but this seems like the safest to mention without ruining Robin’s big night. She doesn’t deserve to get caught up in your issues.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groans. “I knew that was your problem. Let me guess, you ‘actually worked to get where you are’ and I didn’t?”

“I did, actually. Not everyone has a famous daddy to rely on.”

That shuts Steve up. He crosses his arms and turns away from you. Before he does, you catch a glimpse of pain in his expression.

Robin just stares, “How is anyone going to believe that you two are dating?”

…

Rumors that you and Steve are dating spread across the internet like a wildfire. There are already dozens of breakdowns of your interactions at the comedy show and attempted lip readings of your brief public conversation. You’re just glad that no one filmed you and Steve backstage with Robin. 

Jennifer called you the morning after to get all ‌the details. Luckily, your performance was good enough for her and Steve’s publicist. When she told you that you wouldn’t have to see Steve for two weeks while he’s at fan events in Europe, you’re relieved.

But the weeks pass far too quickly for your liking and soon enough, you’re sent out on a breakfast date with Steve to his favorite cafe.

As expected, Steve is nowhere to be found when you arrive. You take a seat outside under the green and white striped awning, away from any prying eyes and ears. The cafe is kitschy in a way that toes the line between authentic and curated. With vintage wooden tables and tiny decorations scattered around that give it some personality without being too much for the wealthy residents of the area. It’s almost as performative as Steve is.

It takes about 15 minutes for Steve to show up in oversized sunglasses with his hair tousled to look effortless but not messy. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Everything in you wants to gag at the pet name; somehow you resist the urge.

“Hi, sugar bear,” You mock.

You stand up to kiss Steve on the cheek. Despite the mostly empty tables around you, you still feel the need to put on a show. Both of you were instructed to save any undeniable signs of affection for later. Clasped hands and casual cheek kisses are just enough to spark speculation without confirmation. Or at least, that’s what you’ve been told.

Steve sighs, “We need to work on this.”

“You’re not head over heels for me already, Harrington?” You pout. 

“I am not the issue here. Get off your high horse, and we can make this work. Everyone thinks you’re the next big thing, act like it. Shouldn’t be too hard for you, right? Since you’re such a great actress.”

“You’re the second coming of Daniel Harrington. Shouldn’t this all come naturally to you? Phony acting, throwing yourself at women. You know, you might have your dad beat on that second one with the things you said about Nanc–”

Steve’s eyes flare, “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.”

Before Steve can reply, a waitress rounds the corner, approaching your table. Within seconds, Steve is playing the perfect boyfriend. You step back into your role as the adoring girlfriend, ignoring the tremors in your hands.

“What can I get you two today?”

Steve orders food for both of you, “Trust me, their breakfast burritos are the best thing I’ve ever had.”

You smile back at Steve and give your coffee order to the waitress. You’re going to need a lot of caffeine to get through a meal with Steve. Once she walks away, both your smiles drop. 

“You’re not special, sweetheart. Awards don’t mean anything if you don’t have the personality to back your career up,” He scoffs. “I’m actually surprised people didn’t turn on you sooner.”

“Oh, please, the only reason I’m not getting any grace is because I’m a woman. If you–”

“Here we go,” Steve groans, he picks up a butter knife from the table. “Just stab me in the neck and get this over with. We’ll both be happier.”

He holds the knife out to you, “I know you want to, sweetheart.”

“You’re so fucking dramatic.”

“It’s almost like that’s my job.”

Footsteps approach from behind you. Steve sets the knife down as soon as the waitress returns with your coffee. 

“Here you go,” her voice is syrupy sweet. “Your food will be out shortly.”

Steve nods, eyes still glued to you.

You look up at the waitress, “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Once she’s at a safe distance, you turn back to Steve, “We have issues with each other. That’s one thing we have in common. And we both trust our teams. Pretending isn’t hard for either of us, so let’s just go with it, then move on.”

“Agreed.”

…

A week later, you’re walking hand in hand into a high-profile Halloween party with Steve at an unnecessarily extravagant hotel. Your publicists decided to dress you in matching costumes, Princess Buttercup and Westley, which isn’t as nauseating as what originally came to mind when you heard the idea. Steve’s face being partially covered for the night is a bonus. 

His hand squeezes yours as he makes his way to the hotel’s gigantic bar, his leather gloves sticking to your skin. Your gaze drops down to the V-neckline of Steve’s billowing black shirt, chest hair peeks out from under the loose ties. It’s probably the third, or fifth, time you’ve looked down at the area since you arrived at the party, no matter how hard you try to look at anyone or anything else. Maybe Steve is physically attractive despite his aggravating personality. He’d probably say the same about you.

Party noise drowns out whatever Steve orders. The volume of both the music and the chatter has allowed you and Steve to get away with not speaking to each other beyond initial greetings in the hotel lobby.

Steve breaks your attention away from watching an older actor fail to flirt with a much younger pop star by handing you a drink that looks more like fake blood than an actual cocktail. 

Steve leans in, his lips brushing your cheek on the way to your ear, “Thought you’d like something with venom in the name.”

You roll your eyes, “Really mature.”

You punctuate the statement with a giggle in case anyone is watching your interaction. If you break the facade now, this all would’ve been for nothing.

“Only with you, sweetheart,” Steve winks.

The action makes your heart skip a beat. Get it together. You grab the glass out of Steve’s hand and take a long sip. Steve watches intently, then uses his leather-clad thumb to brush the excess liquid off your bottom lip. He locks eyes with you as he sucks his gloved thumb clean, the sheen of the mixture of saliva and food dye residue catching under the dim light. 

“I thought they’d put us in something sexier for our ‘hard launch’,” Steve scans you with an almost predatory look in his eyes. “I suggested Hugh Hefner and a Playboy Bunny, but I guess that was ‘too controversial’.”

Of course he did.

“You guess?”

Steve shrugs, “You’d look hot in the bodysuit and ears,” He demonstrates by putting two fingers on top of your head. “I wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid mask all night. It’s covering my best feature.”

“Nothing can cover your massive ego,” You joke.

“Funny,” Steve pauses for a beat, then clarifies as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. “I meant my hair. That’s my best feature.”

“I know what you meant, Harrington,” You sip on your drink, waiting for him to shut up again.

“Okay, well, I’m going to explore and find someone more fun to hang with,” Steve grins. “You’ll be alright.”

Steve doesn’t give you a chance to reply, wandering off into the crowd, drink that’s practically filled to the brim in hand. 

“Fuck you,” you murmur.

“It’d be my pleasure, princess.”

You turn to see a familiar man with shaggy brown hair.He’s wearing a surprisingly good vampire costume, one that fits him in all the right places. God, you just can’t escape the cast of Hawkins. 

“Count Edward Munson,” Eddie bows. “But you can call me Eddie.”

You introduce yourself, then say, “Steve went that way if you were looking for him.”

Eddie snorts, “Anyone who willingly interacts with that douchebag is… never mind. No offense to you.”

“None taken. Steve’s an interesting guy.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Eddie takes a swig of his drink. “Don’t know how he managed to get with a girl like you. You’re from The Zero, right? Steve isn’t exactly the ‘prestige TV’ type.”

You nod, “But Steve and I aren’t…”

“So I have a chance?” Eddie raises an eyebrow.

You laugh, “Maybe.”

“Will you at least dance with me? A dress like that shouldn’t go through the night without being twirled.”

Eddie extends his hand, and you take it. Your publicist definitely wouldn’t approve of this, but you need to do something real that doesn’t involve Steve. It’s Halloween, you deserve to have fun.

In the middle of the room, you’re surrounded by couples awkwardly dancing with each other, too afraid to let loose or too drunk to do anything but grind on each other. Eddie whirls you on the dance floor like you’re actually a princess, the crimson fabric of your dress fanning out with each spin. After every release, Eddie pulls you back in, his hands pressing into your waist and a mischievous look in his eyes. 

He spins you again, but instead of being pulled forward, someone pulls you in from behind and snakes an arm around your waist where Eddie’s hands were.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve breathes, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath. “Thanks for hanging onto my girl for me, Munson.”

Eddie furrows his brows, “I didn’t do anything for you. All I did was treat the girl you ditched the way she deserves.”

“I’ve got a handle on it, Munson. But thanks for the advice.”

Steve’s grip on you tightens, making it clear that you belong to him. Only a few people have noticed the confrontation between Steve and Eddie.

“Have you told ‘your girl’ what you did? I’m sure she’d love to know.”

Behind you, Steve’s entire body tenses up. What the hell happened between them? You didn’t see anything about a feud during your initial deep dive into Steve’s past.

“Bye, princess,” Eddie smirks, bowing once again before walking away.

You spin on your heel to face Steve, “What did you do to him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve’s words are clipped.

“It clearly does, Harrington. Tell me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve rubs a hand over his masked face. “Let it go.”

“Fine,” you huff. “I’ll just ask Eddie.”

Steve grabs your arm, “Don’t.”

Now, more people are paying attention, watching you and Steve closely. Shit.

Steve slips your arm around his neck, taking your other arm up as well. It feels like you’re at a school dance as Steve pulls your body flush to his, resting his head on your shoulder so he can whisper directly into your ear.

“You’re not going to make a scene. I’m going to book us a room upstairs where we can talk without half of Hollywood eavesdropping. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Steve leads you out of the party to the front desk. 

“Can I book a suite? Whatever’s available.”

“Our luxury honeymoon suite on the fifth floor is the only one available at this moment,” The clerk looks back down at his screen. “How long are you planning to stay? The nightly rate is 5,836 dollars.”

Almost 6,000 dollars for one room? Steve is unbothered by the price, he takes out a sleek leather wallet and places a black card on the counter.

“No problem, we’ll only be here for the night.”

You feel out of place as Steve pays for the room, signing waivers without any thought. He does most things without thinking. The clerk slides the room key across the desk after Steve signs the final paper.

“Have a good night,” the clerk nods at Steve, then at you.

…

The hotel room is massive. A perfectly made bed sits on an elevated platform in the center of the room, surrounded by ornate furniture with little decoration. The door to what you assume is the closet is cracked just enough to show the large safe inside. 

“If I tell you what happened, you have to sign an NDA. Yes?”

The pit in your stomach deepens. No wonder there isn’t anything about this online. 

You try to brush it off, “I don’t care. I want to know.”

“Take this thing off my head first.”

Steve turns around so you can reach the ties on the back of his mask. He yanks it off, and  throws it to the ground. His precious hair is pressed to his scalp, and there are deep red indentations on the sides of his nose. 

“I kept him from leaving Hawkins, okay? I convinced them to put him in a shitty contract so he’d have to stay ‘til the end. Now, he blames me for setting his music career back because he couldn’t do anything until the show was over,” Steve sighs. 

Holy shit.

“God, you are even worse than I thought. Using your privilege to trap someone on a stupid teen drama, what, because you can?”

“It’s more complicated than that, sweetheart.”

“It doesn’t sound complicated. It sounds like you’re an entitled asshole who was willing to ruin his friend’s life to keep a TV show going.”

Steve takes a step forward, “I didn’t ruin his life. Munson is doing just fine. Without that ‘stupid show’, without me, he wouldn’t be where he is now.”

You scoff, “Oh, so it’s all okay? If it were really fine, he wouldn’t hate your guts, Harrington. You clearly caused enough damage to–”

“Shut up,” Steve pushes you up against a wall.

“Why should I? There were times where I thought I went too far with you, but maybe I didn’t go far enough? I mean, who knows what else you’ve done? I bet you did something to Jonathan Byers over the whole Nancy situation. You probably did something to her too, besides go on a drunken rant about your relationship. Who knows where I’ll end up after this is over?”

You and Steve stare at each other. His hands burn through the fabric of your dress, lighting your entire body on fire. The air in the room crackles, waiting for Steve’s next move.

Instead of yelling at you, Steve crashes his lips into yours. They move without hesitation, pulling, pressing, roaming. It’s messy and unrestrained. When he pulls away, you just stare at each other, in disbelief at what just happened. Almost instinctively, you slap him. The crack echoes through the luxurious room. Steve recovers quickly, and smirks at you. You want to slap him again, but against your better judgement, you tug him back in. Letting your lips lock with his. Your fingers grab at his neck, digging your nails in, attempting to find some kind of stability. They travel up to his hair, pawing and pulling at it. 

Steve makes quick work of your costume, discarding it in the corner next to his mask. 

He gives your body the once over, “On the bed, sweetheart.”

You watch from the plush bed while Steve pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his toned torso. A trail leads down from the hair on his chest to the waistline of his pants. When he pushes down his pants, you see that it disappears into his boxers, just above the tent his throbbing cock is creating. Steve climbs onto the bed, on top of you. His lips suck at your neck, creating a bruise that will ache by morning. You yank at the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down to reveal his thick length. 

“Told you I have trouble fitting,” Steve gives you a sly smile.

“Just put a condom on it, Harrington.”

Steve reaches over to the nightstand drawer, palming a condom from inside. 

“You’re already soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart? You didn’t need to yell to get my attent–”

You cut him off with a sloppy kiss, biting at his bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark, ignoring the bitter taste of whatever he downed tonight. Hands making a mess of his hair, tugging on the strands at the nape of his neck. Steve groans against your lips.

In retaliation, he brushes the tip of his cock against your clit. Teasing instead of committing to what you both want but refuse to ask for. You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction. His lips pull away from yours, returning to your neck. 

Steve finally bullies his cock into your swollen center after what feels like eons, splitting you open. Your walls immediately tighten around him, squeezing his length and adjusting to his size. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps.

Your hips stutter as he thrusts deeper into you, only stopping when his length is buried inside you. Your core aches at the sheer force of it, he wasn’t exaggerating about how big he is. 

“Is that all you’ve got, Harrington?” The words are breathier than you want them to be but they still ignite Steve. You refuse to let him win.

He thrusts into you at a brutal pace, arching your back with every movement. You lock eyes with him the entire time, daring him to look away first. Your body writhes beneath him. Still, Steve doesn’t let up, cock twitching inside you. His hand travels across your breast, fingers playing with your pebbled nipple. You nip and suck at his neck, returning the hickeys he gave you. Nails dragging down his back in a way meant to leave marks. Steve grunts, fighting his own climax, determined to draw out your arousal.

Eventually, Steve relents to the pleasure, panting as he releases into you. The feeling unravels you to your climax. Sweat and cum cling your skin together, heat still strong between your bodies. What was that?

…

Three days later, Steve texts you: my dad wants to meet you. pick you up at 7 for dinner.

He doesn’t respond to any of your messages asking him to explain the situation more. You even try to call, but he ignores that too.

The only thing you’ve received from him since your night together was the NDA he insisted on. It’s not like you want to be with Steve, or even that you like him, you just expected to address what happened between you.  Then again, you should know not to expect normal behavior from Steve.

At exactly 7:00, there’s a harsh knock at your door. You add finishing touches to your makeup and head to the door. Steve knocks twice in the time it takes you to get there, increasing the force each time.

You open the door to see him in a perfectly tailored suit, hair swept back into its usual style, with a designer shopping bag in hand. 

He thrusts it to you, “Put this on, sweetheart.”

“I’m already dressed, Harrington.”

“Just do it,” Steve rolls his eyes.

Steve clearly isn’t going to let up until you follow his orders, so you walk back to your bedroom. He follows, lingering in the doorway after you go in. Watching. You slam the door in his face. On the other side, he chuckles.

“Well played.”

Inside the bag is a pristine garment box. You lift the lid to reveal an intricately beaded black dress. The fabric is smooth against your finger tips as you take it out to see the dress in its entirety.

Silver beading trails down the silk from the bustier to the skirt, forming constellations across the delicate fabric. You unzip the back and carefully step into the dress, pulling the thick straps over your shoulders. The bottom hem of the dress falls at your ankles with a slight flare. 

Begrudgingly, you step away from the mirror and crack the door open, “Can you help me zip it?”

Steve grins and steps inside. As soon as you turn around, his fingers make contact with the exposed skin of your lower back, burning you. Something catches in your chest as he pulls the zipper, knuckles gliding up along with it.

“You look stunning, sweetheart. I mean it,” Steve hums. “You have to admit that I have incredible taste.”

“In this case.”

“In every case,” He spins you around to face him. 

You clear your throat, “How did you know my size?”

“Called your stylist to ask.”

She’d probably given him advice on what kind of dress to pick out as well. The dress fits right in with your usual styling. It’s something you would’ve picked out for yourself. What if he asked what you like? You push the thought away as soon as it arrives. Steve Harrington would never put in that much care. Especially not for you. 

“And how much did this cost?”

Based on the brand name and attention to detail, you assume it’s in the thousands unless Steve somehow bribed a worker into giving him a hefty discount. With the confidence you saw Steve slide his card to the hotel clerk with, you doubt that he has any qualms with spending absurd amounts of money.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” Steve’s voice is low. “Enjoy the treat.”

You try to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks, “Let’s go.”

…

The Harrington mansion is tucked away in the hills, a sprawling Spanish style estate hidden behind lush trees and a towering iron gate. Despite its beautiful surroundings, the mansion itself is painfully tacky.

Steve stares out the window, “Robin called this place a McMansion the first time she came here.”

You snort, “She’s not wrong.”

“I guess not,” He pauses. “Uh, hey, so my dad is a major asshole. You should know that before we go in.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from the man who’s responsible for half your DNA. Assholery is 100% genetic.”

Steve blinks, processing your statement, “You’re… one of a kind, sweetheart.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t special,” You retort.

“You aren’t special in the way you think you are, or I guess the way you want to be.”

Ouch. 

Steve gets out of the car first to open your door for you, extending a hand to help you out. His grip is firm, fingers pressing into your skin.

Soon enough, you and Steve are standing at the threshold of the mansion.

“Does he know this is all fake?”

Steve nods, “My mom knows too.”

After a beat, Steve rings the doorbell. The door swings open to reveal a beautiful brunette woman. Her hair styled just as perfectly as Steve’s, every inch of her deep blue dress is pristine.

“Steven!” She wraps her arms around her son. “It’s so good to see you!”

She pulls away to inspect you, “Well, you are an absolute darling. I’m Cecilia Harrington, Steven’s mother.”

Cecilia pulls you into a polite hug. A tall figure in a crisp suit approaches from behind her. 

“Hello, Steven,” Even Daniel Harrington’s voice is rich, but with an edge that makes you feel uneasy.

“Hey, dad.”

Cecilia releases you from the hug, allowing Daniel to get a good look at you. His gaze sends a chill down your spine.

“Hi, Mr. Harrington.”

“I’ve been curious to meet you,” He shakes your hand. “You’re brave for agreeing to deal with my son for this long.”

“It’s no big deal. Steve is great and the relationship is helping my career.”

Daniel turns, “She’s good, Steven.For a second, I actually believed that she likes you.”

Steve places a hand on your lower back, steadying himself. 

Cecilia steps in, “We should get to the dining room. Our chef prepared quite the spread.”

The tension is thick on the walk to the dining room. Steve reaches to pull out a chair for you, Daniel beats him to it. 

“Here you go, dear.”

Steve seethes as he takes the seat next to you. He takes your hand, squeezing it like his life depends on it. For once, you’re inclined to let him. His relationship with his father isn’t what you expected. You’d thought Steve’s parents would be overly positive about everything he does based on his arrogance and sky high ego. 

A chef comes out to explain the array of food covering the table. You can feel Daniel’s eyes bouncing between you and Steve the entire time. Steve has guzzled half a glass of wine by the end of the chef’s presentation. 

“I thought you let up on the drink after your incident.”

“Helps my nerves,” Steve replies, taking another long sip out of the glass.

“Now, I must admit that I brought the two of you here under false pretenses. Steven, I don’t need to make sure she’s the right fit, there’s not a doubt in my mind that she’s the one who can fix things for you. She’ll make you look less pathetic, less unhinged.”

“Then why are we here?” Steve refills his glass to the brim.

“I just needed to see it. I mean, a girl like her would never willingly spend time around you. No girl in her right mind would unless she has ulterior motives. Do you have ulterior motives, dear?”

You shake your head, “I want to focus on my work and move past any unnecessary drama.”

“That is the ambition, the dedication I wanted from you, Steven,” Daniel’s fork screeches against his plate as he drags a severed piece of steak to his mouth. “But you inherited my vices and have an infuriating streak of laziness.”

Steve stiffens beside you, taking in every insult. His overcompensation makes sense now that you see that way he’s torn down at home. You feel bad for Steve, something you didn’t know was possible. His eyes are glued to his plate, hand grasping yours like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Danny, Steven’s been working very hard recently. Let’s cut him some slack.”

“Thanks, mom,” Steve mutters. 

“Yet he was reckless enough to jeopardize everything we gave him.”

“I was hurt!” Steve shouts, looking directly at his father for the first time tonight. “I got drunk and said some things I shouldn’t have. It was just a stupid mistake.”

“A mistake that reflects badly on you and on me. Becoming a liability is the last thing you want, Steven.”

The table shakes when Steve stands up. He slams his chair in and walks away, food still untouched on his plate. The pleased expression on Daniel’s face pushes you to follow Steve.

Outside, Steve leans against his BMW, lit cigarette glowing in his hand. 

“I thought you’d stay in there to talk shit about me. Seems like you and my dad have the same opinions.”

Being compared to his father stings. Your hatred for Steve is nothing like… okay, maybe you’re a bit of a hypocrite.

“When you said he was an asshole, I didn’t think you meant that he was an asshole.”

“Like you said, him and I share the same DNA. I can’t escape it.”

“You aren’t him, Steve.”

Steve points back to the mansion, “That’s my future.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” you have no idea why you’re giving Steve a pep talk, you can’t fix him and you don’t have any desire to.

He takes a slow drag from the cigarette, a dead look in his eyes. 

“We should leave,” Steve states bluntly.

You get into the car without resistance, leaving the Harrington mansion behind you.

…

Steve pulls over a few feet down the winding driveway, just beyond the iron gates. 

“Let me have this.”

His lips slam into yours with an aching desperation. Hands roaming to the back of your dress, fumbling for the zipper. Knowing the reaction it causes, you tug at Steve’s hair. He whines against your lips at the feeling. You hate that his body is so familiar that you know exactly how to make him tick. 

“You’re such a tease, sweetheart,” Steve utters.

In response, you begin to palm Steve’s cock through his pants, lips sucking and biting at his neck. He completely gives up on the zipper. Arousal overwhelming him to the point that he’s gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

Your heart pounds as Steve guides you into the backseat, climbing in after you. The tent in his pants is growing, practically begging you to do something about it. Steve shoves your dress up to your waist for better access. He rips your panties away, chucking them to the car floor. The leather seats stick to your skin, you grab at the edge of them as Steve’s fingers get to work on your swollen center. He confidently navigates your clit in a way that would annoy you if your every instinct hadn’t abandoned you the second he touched your body.

Steve slips one finger in, then another, “Need to prep you.”

“It isn’t that bi–”

He cuts your lie off by pumping his fingers. You sputter, brain scrambling in an attempt to refocus on your train of thought. You unravel when he pumps again, moaning at every move he makes inside you. Just as your vision clouds and mind blanks, Steve yanks his fingers out of you. 

“Suck, sweetheart,” He holds the two fingers in front of your mouth, pushing them between your lips.

Reluctantly, you take his fingers into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, sucking every ounce of your arousal off. Steve’s hips buck, he uses his free hand to unzip his pants to pull his chubbed up cock out. 

“No condom?”

Steve removes his fingers so you can reply, “I’m on birth control.”

He grins, pulling his pants down eagerly, “Knew it.” 

“You’re so needy, Harrington.”

“Shut up,” Steve grumbles.

Your opening stretches to fit his length, drawing him in. Steve pants as he rolls his hips into you. You pull him in for a kiss so he can taste what’s left of your cum. His body trembles, short circuiting at all the sensations of you.

He doesn’t last long after that, emptying himself out into your spasming walls. Once he pulls out, Steve wipes his cock off with your panties before readjusting his pants and getting back to the front seat. You fix your dress and climb into the passenger seat beside him.

The car is silent as your descent down the driveway continues. You know you need to address the situation because Steve won’t. He seems content with fucking and moving on, but treating you like a one night stand  doesn’t work well when you’re forced around each other constantly.

“We can’t keep doing that,” You gesture to your ruined panties in the backseat. “without rules. I don’t like you and I don’t want you to get your feelings hurt when you forget that.”

Steve scoffs, “Trust me, I won’t forget. I don’t like you either, sweetheart.”

“Good,” You cross your arms.

“But we should have rules. So you don’t get attached.”

You ignore him, “No sappy intimacy outside the PR bullshit, no cuddling…”

“No spending the night together,” Steve adds. “And no talking about feelings.”

“You already broke that with your daddy issues talk.”

“Fine,” Steve grunts. “I won’t do it again. Deal?”

“Deal.”

A/N: I really hope you enjoyed this fic! I've been obsessed with this AU for weeks and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it! Feel free to chat with me about it! Part 2 is a doozy so stay tuned for that!!

Family Video wasn’t exactly where you’d imagined spending your summer. You knew you’d be working for most of it, but you’d be hoping it would at least be somewhere more…stimulating.

You didn’t hate the place. It was great for the employee discount, and you almost always got first pick out of the new tapes when they came in but you would be lying if it bring some kind of heaviness in your chest when you spent every afternoon stocking the shelves whilst the rest of your friends had free time to do whatever they wanted.

It’s fine, you’ve made your peace with it for the most part. Some people are just dealt different hands in life and while yes, you could spend the rest of your summer outwardly pissed off at the world, how would that help you?

Instead, you channel your energy, into expense sheets and budgeting folders that live under your bed next to your little silver lunchbox you use to keep all the money you make.

It’s nothing grand, but it brings you safety. A crutch, something to fall back on. Most people wouldn’t understand your need to know where every cent is going, because who really cares what happens to the 50c you let fall onto the floor?

You did. You knew just how far to stretch every single dollar left in that little lunchbox like your life depended on it. That was what kept you going, that if you knew it all went to shit one day, you’d still have that.

Steve Harrington was a curveball. A boy raised with a silver spoon in his mouth who only carried 10 dollar bills in his wallet, not a single coin to be seen.

You knew boys like Steve Harrington from the countless service jobs you’d worked over the years. Boys who would have to call Daddy just to know how much gas cost, boys whose biggest concerns were winning their next match, or when their next haircut would be.

So, seeing ‘King Steve’ take up a job at Family Video? Call yourself intrigued, who knew graduation would end with such a fall from grace for the former high school star athlete.

You’d imagined him somewhere far from here, working some corporate job for his father in the big city. That had been the plan after all, everyone knew kids like Harrington basically had their whole lives planned out for them.

But there he was, same mousy brown hair and brown eyes yet this time in an awful vest embroidered in the Family Video logo and his surname, you’d laugh if you weren’t so shocked.

“Harrington?” you say shocked, your jaw slackening as you catch sight of him behind the counter.

His own expression morphs into perplexion as he watches you walk into the store, uniform freshly buttoned over your baby tee. His mouth forms your name in a hesitantly baffled manner.

“Oh shit,” you laugh, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear as you walk closer, “It really is you!”

His smile is strained as he replies, “It’s me.”

You want to ask him why he’s here, why he’s decided to start slumming it downtown when he’s got a nice cushy mansion practically all for himself. However, he looks like he’s begging you not to ask any of that, and you’re a lot of things but an asshole isn’t one.

So, you let it go, you smile and nod your head like you’re not bursting with a million questions and instead offer, “Where do you want me, boss?”

Steve lets a breath out, his shoulders slumping in relief.

Odd.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

It’s almost embarrassing how easily the two of you become friends. Who would’ve known that Steve Harrington was a total loser?

God, it’s almost like all that confidence in high school got washed away the second he graduated.

He’s dumb. In the funniest way. He knows jack shit about movies except for the dumb action movies that somehow every boy in Hawkins has ever seen and he’s horrendously bad at flirting.

Which is even worse for you considering that it works on you. The dumb smiles and the lines that fall flat—they endear you. So, despite your best efforts—you fall for Steve Harrington.

He’s unusually sweet, kinder than he was in high school and weirdly self-actualised which throws you off.

And as much ad you promised yourself you wouldn’t, you can’t help but compare your Steve to ‘King Steve’. Even though you know he’s not that anymore—that he’s left all that behind him when he left high school.

Dating Steve is nothing like you’d thought it would be, he takes you out to dinner and pays for your meal without even asking, he brings you flowers—different bouquets at first until you mention you like one more than the others, and those become ‘your flowers’, and he never pushes.

You know more about his sex life than you would like but surprisingly enough—Steve is a romantic. He is slow and tender and kind-hearted that you can’t even imagine that the same boy you once knew in high school is the same man you love.

The first time he picks you up, you clean obsessively. Your place has never been dirty but you’re hoping the obsessive cleanliness will distract him from the glaring wealth gap between the two of you.

You’re not embarrassed perse, it’s just that—you really like him. He’s become one of the best things in your life and it would really suck if the one thing you couldn’t control became the thing that drove him away.

Three subsequent knocks echo through your home and with a heavy chest and a smile about as fragile as your mental state, you open the door.

Steve is smiling, that charming boyish smile that you’ve grown immeasurably fond of.

“Hi.” He beams, he thrusts his hand out to you, practically shoving the bouquet under your nose as you flinch back slightly.

“Oh!” you say surprised, “These are for me?” you ask shyly, your hands lifting to grasp the stems of the colourful bouquet with a frail hold.

Steve rubs the back of his neck with a nod, “Yeah, I uh—I thought you’d like them. I dunno, is it too much? I can take them back—” he offers hastily.

You frown, pulling them towards you with a swift shake of your head, “No! no—no they’re nice. They’re lovely Steve.” You assure him, watching delightedly as a red hue blooms from his neck over to his face.

You glace down at the flowers with a fond gaze, biting your lip.

“I’ve never gotten flowers before.” You admit in a hushed whisper, slowly tracing the petals of the fragrant rainbow in front of you.

You glance up at Steve with a soft look, “I’m going to put these in some water, would you like to come in?” you offer.

He nods fast enough that you worry he might just pull a muscle, “Yeah—yeah let’s do that.”

He follows you into your home as you try not to turn around and stare at him. You want to know what he’s thinking—if he finds your place too small, too cold or unlived in, if he likes that you have pillows scattered over your couch despite them being mismatched—if the colour scheme reminds him of something.

You don’t realise it then, but he’s staring at you as you make your way to the kitchen, flowers in your delicate hold as you take precision to care for the flowers.

His gaze is soft and adoring, eyes alight with wonder and ill-hidden emotion. Steve had always worn his heart on his chest and was never really that good at hiding his feelings—he just hopes he makes it through this date without blurting it out that he loves you

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

Dating Steve is nothing short of the best time of your life, you do nauseatingly cute couple things like going to the movies just to make out, drive down to lover’s lake to have picnics and spend hours on the phone with one another.

You open yourself up to him, telling him things you thought you’d never have the confidence to utter aloud.

“My family isn’t around anymore,” you mention casually one night. You’re lying on Steve’s bed with his arms around you as you trace formless shapes onto his chest.

You feel Steve freeze beneath you, and you worry that you’ve overstepped, that maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all.

His arms tighten around you slowly, unsure at first before he pulls you closer to him, smacking a loving kiss onto the top of your head.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, acknowledging that he’d heard you but not pushy enough for you to grow uncomfortable.

You nibble on your lip with a contemplative expression, “Yeah,” you admit. “They uh—they left after the earthquake.”

“And you stayed behind?”

“And I stayed behind.” You agree.

There’s a bout of silence between the two of you before Steve’s voice whispers softly, “Why?”

“Why’d I stay?” you rhetorically ask, feeling his hum as he does it.

You shrug, “Dunno, I guess I just couldn’t imagine myself leaving y’know? I was old enough to move out and Hawkins is home.” You mumble.

You don’t see the smile that graces Steve’s lips, but you feel him tug you closer and snuggle into you, a silent agreement between the both of you that he shares your sentiment.

“’S that why you started working at Family Video?” he asks and you tense in his arms, trying to avoid where the conversation is heading.

“Yeah,” you mumble reluctantly. “Gotta make a living somehow.”

Steve frowns, “Does Keith even pay you enough? I don’t really know how much you need but if it’s not enough I could aways—”

“Stop,” you cut him off. “He pays me fine Steve, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

Steve sniffs, tugging your face to look up at him. “Always gonna worry about you honey,” he says softly, a soft smile spreading across his face.

You squint at him, “Well don’t. I’m fine.” You promise.

He glances over your face, offering no other rebuttal so you drop your head back to his chest without another word.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

And soon enough, Steve’s kids become your kids. It’s like overnight that you end up adopting 6 kids that are somehow simultaneously the most amusing and annoying things in your life.

They’re fuels for chaos, but they bring so much love into yours and Steve’s life that you can’t help but adore them. Steve and you become honorary parents to the most accident and danger prone group of children.

It’s only right as a group-appointed mother that you spoil your kids, well as much as you can afford to anyways. You find yourself rearranging your own budget to fit in the rest of the party.

Candy for the kids DND nights, birthday gifts for everyone, anniversary gifts for Steve and small things that you think any of them will enjoy. It leaves you wrought out sometimes but it’s worth it most of the time to see the grateful smiles and endless affection that you receive in return.

You like making them happy, and if that means skipping a couple of meals here and there or having to sacrifice some of the luxuries you treat yourself to? You’re more than willing to sacrifice.

You want them to like you.

So, when Steve offers to pick the kids up from the arcade after your date, you don’t hesitate to offer to pay for them to get milkshakes on the way home.

Steve levels you with a look that more amusement than begrudging.

“I wanted one anyway,” you say softly as he scrutinizes you doubtfully but relents to their whining and heads towards the drive thru.

“Alright,” you call out, turning backwards in the passengers’ seat to confirm their orders.

“It’s 3 chocolate, two vanilla’s and one strawberry right?”

“Yes,” they chorus back to you and with a snort you turn to look at Steve who raises a brow at you.

“You want anything?” you offer and he scrunches his face, shaking his head.

 “Still full from lunch.” He says and you nod.

“That’ll be $15.” The crackly speaker answers you when you’ve read out the kids’ order, having you pause as you contemplate whether to add your own.

“Will that be all?”

You only have $20 in your wallet; you can’t afford to have a milkshake and get groceries this month.

“Yes,” you say softly, ignoring that Steve whips his head to your own with a confused look.

While you’re making your way through the drive thru line the kids are involved in their own discussions, Steve interrupts your train of thought with a hushed whisper, “Baby, I thought you wanted a milkshake too?”

You force a smile, shaking your head, “I wouldn’t be able to finish it anyways.”

He frowns, “You sure? I can always drive back around and get you one, the lines not that long.” He offers

You disagree with him immediately, “It’s alright—we’ve gotta get Will home soon or Joyce will kill us.” You remind him.

He doesn’t look happy about your stance, but he can’t actually refute it, so he nods even though there’s a tightness in his chest that won’t go away and drives to drop the kids off as they slurp their milkshakes in the back.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

It all comes back to bite you when Steve arrives early to your place for your date, forcing you to let him wander around while you shower and get ready. You promise you’ll only be 10 minutes, but Steve knows better than to hold you to that.

He doesn’t mind waiting, he makes himself comfortable on your bed, throwing a random ball around as he whistles to himself.

With an ill-timed throw it misses his outstretched hand and falls to the ground, rolling under your bed. He leans over your bed, pushing himself down to peak under to try and grab it before his attention shifts to a different item.

A silver lunchbox, completely unassuming laid against the wall just begging for Steve to open it.

He hems and haws for a couple of seconds, still hearing the sound of water rushing through the thin walls of your room before he reaches a handout and tugs the lunchbox with him to sit back onto your bed.

He questions his own ethics for a few seconds, arguing that this might be a complete betrayal of your trust even though you yourself knew fairly well that he would be snooping around your room.

Nevertheless, the box is opened and Steve’s face morphs into confusion.

“What?” he mutters to himself, taking in the sight of carefully folded pieces of paper and stacks of bills hidden inside. Granted its probably only around a hundred dollars, but it’s odd enough to have Steve wondering.

Is this some kind of emergency fund? Something you just haven’t told him about?

With barely constrained inquisitiveness, he opens the folded papers one by one. His heart clenches in his chest when he reads your handwriting.

May—expense sheet

Total income: $175

Groceries: $50 $30

Rent: $75

Fun stuff: $15 milkshakes w the kids $15

Steve’s present: $50

Leftover: $5 (savings)

5 dollars leftover for your savings? What the hell?? How didn’t Steve notice this?

His heart grows heavy the more he goes over your previous expense sheets, every single sheet has money adjusted—times when Steve rarely let you pay for dinner when he left his wallet at home had made you late on rent, when you had bought Steve the cologne he’s been speaking about for ages for his birthday, you’d had to stretch 20 dollars over two weeks for your groceries.

He was the worst boyfriend, what kind of boyfriend didn’t know that his girlfriend was struggling to make ends meet? What kind of boyfriend doesn’t notice that she’s been skipping meals, that she’s been taking care of everyone else but not herself—

“Hey, so I was thinking after the movie we could go back to yours? I was thinking—” you babble as you walk out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind you as you towel dry your hair without looking at him.

He stares at you with something akin to horror and despair in his expression and when you don’t hear him respond, you turn to look at him.

“Steve?” you say confused, frowning at his expression before you catch sight of the familiar items on your bed, spread out before him like photos of a crime scene.

No, a horrified thought invades your mind. Nononono

He was never supposed to find those.

“Steve I can explain—” you say panicked.

He frowns, shaking his head, “What?”

“Baby, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, devastation coating his tongue in an acidic pain.

Your heart feels as heavy as lead in your chest, “I didn’t want you to worry, I was handling it—”

“Handling it?! You were skipping meals!” He disproves.

You shrink into yourself from his tone, feeling like a child being scolded by their parent. He softens at the sight of you, getting off the bed and tentatively walking over with his arms outstretched presumably to show he’s not a threat.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he grows near. “I didn’t mean to lash out.”

You shrug, wringing your hands out in front of you in nervousness before he tugs them into his own. He pulls you into his chest, his arms bracketing your form as he rests his head on your own.

“I just wish you would’ve trusted me,” he says softly, his voice tinged with sadness.

You shake your head, “I do trust you!” you insist, pulling away to look up at him.

His smile is crooked and a little fragile, “But you don’t trust me enough with this.”

“That’s okay! Hey—it’s okay, I’m not mad. I’m not mad I promise.” He insists when it looks like you’re about to argue with him.

“I’m sorry,” you say uncertainly, blinking back the tears that prick the corners of your eyes.

“No need,” he dismisses you immediately.

“I just didn’t want to burden you with the bills and the budgeting—I’ve had it under control since my family left, and I thought if I did it well enough then you wouldn’t realise because I can handle it you know? I—I can be self-sufficient and I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone, and I could still be a good friend and girlfriend and buy you these things you want because you deserve them—”

Steve cups your face in his hands, cutting off your train of thought as he forces your gaze to meet his.

“It’s okay” he reassures you, stopping you in your tracks. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

You bite your lip unsurely, “Are you—do you think less of me?”

Steve’s face grows dark, “Never,” he vows. “I would never think less of you.”

Some of the weight eases off your chest and you let a fragile smile break through your nervous expression.

“However,” he adds despite your protests. “You are going to let me help.” He asserts.

You frown, already shaking your head, “I’m not a charity case, I don’t need—”

“Ah ah,” he tuts with an amused smile. “I never said that I know you don’t need my help, but it would make me very happy if you’d let me help every once in a while. Most of my trust fund is sitting untouched and trust me—I’d be a whole lot happier spending it on spoiling and taking care of you than on anything else.” He practically pleads.

You try to smother the wobble in your lips as you lean up to press a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips.

“You can’t go crazy,” you threaten him with a shaky voice.

He agrees immediately, because of course he does.

“You have to let me help, okay?” he fires back.

With a small amount of hesitation, you nod slowly.