Cycat Writes

And tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the day you would typically see him. Yet, you still haven't called. The way you miss hearing the sound of his voice is terrible. Even more terrible is the desire to call him when a crippling anxiety, fear, and confusion keeps you from doing so. You know you have to; you promised him. But what is waiting on the other side of that call? You battle with the intense need to know but also with a fear that's paralyzed you since Gator kissed you. Did he still like you? Did he hate you? Or is it worse?

You roll over in your bed and bury your face into your pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. In truth, it makes you feel better, even if just a little bit. Sometimes screaming into the void is the best thing anyone can do. After that release, you sit up and take your phone from the nightstand. You didn't even need to scroll through to find his number in your phone. You've never told him, but he's saved in your favorites. It made no sense to ruminate any longer and with a tap of your finger you start your call.

He doesn't answer immediately and though it's not surprising it's also not any less nerve wracking. You helped him set up the voice assistance on his phone to make sure it announces who is calling. The only uncertainty that remains is whether or not he answers. A shock to your heart zaps you when you unexpectedly hear the mellifluous voice of a woman on the other end.

"Hello, this is Gator's phone," she greets politely.

One beat. Two beats. One gasp of breath. That's how long it takes for you to realize it's Dot.

"Hello? Dot, is that you?" You can't hide the surprise and confusion that holds fast to your voice.

"Yeah, hi, how are you?" She adds gently.

"Um, yeah, so I was just calling to let Gator know that I'm coming over tomorrow," you explain with a gulp. "Um…I mean…if that's still OK?"

"Tomorrow?" You hear her pause and you just know she repeats it to relay the message to Gator.

Your heart sinks. He doesn't even want to speak to you. You can easily turn this around and be angry at him with how childish he's being, but you can't blame him. You left with him with confusing thoughts in your head that you are certain he shares, too.

"Tomorrow is fine," Dot finally answers you.

An anxiety inducing silence overwhelms you as you try to think of what to say next. There are so many words you want to get out and you can't seem to utter any of them.

"And you're still coming to see Scotty's pageant this weekend?" Dot asks, a sweet sincerity in every word. "She really, really would like for you to come."

"Are you sure? I really don't want to impose."

"Scotty really likes you," she adds in a quiet but emphatic voice, "and everything's squared away with you picking Gator up."

Surprise silences you and forces you to find an appropriate response. You clear your throat.

"Oh yeah?" You know you sound stupid. Or cold. Or stupid and cold. But you couldn't bear it if showing even a little bit of excitement would only lead you down a path of disappointment.

"Yep we were just discussing it before you called," Dot assures you.

It's as though she senses your need for the assurance. You want so badly to believe her.

"I'm sure you and Gator will talk the details tomorrow."

"Ok, thanks Dot," you say taking a deep breath.

"Oh…hold on a second," Dot adds and you hear some shuffling coming from the other end.

"Um, hey," the sound of Gator's voice on the other end nearly makes you gasp, "so, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Y—yeah, yes, of course," you say a little too quickly. "Do you need me to bring anything? "

"No," Gator replies with a simple answer, "just you."

There is no particular tone or cadence in his voice. Not anything you can decipher or try to read into anyway. But the words…the words hold a myriad of meanings and a myriad of possibilities.

"Ok," you pause formulating more words in your mind, "Gator, can I just—"

He cuts you off before you can speak another word, "Hey, we'll talk tomorrow, OK?"

"Oh…ok then."

And that is it. Silence again on the other end after he ends the call. It leaves you with an entire day and a sleepless night to overthink everything before you see him again.

Gator attunes his senses to everything around him as he waits for you. He starts to make his way to the door as soon as he hears you pulling into the driveway. He opens the door and waits for you, leaning against the doorway.

With one long inhale and then exhale, you open the door. It's only been a little over a week and seeing him again feels like fresh air in your lungs. And yet, you feel so nervous as you see him stand there. You shuffle your feet beneath you as you stand next to your truck, gathering enough courage to go to him.

"Hey," you say as you approach the foot of his steps, "do you want to go for a walk?"

He pushes himself to stand up straight and confidently takes his cane in front of him. You hold out your hand ready to help when he needs it. He glides one hand down the railing on his own to guide himself. A bittersweet pride fills you at the realization that as he becomes more independent the less he needs you.

The cold air flushes your cheeks as you start down the sidewalk in silence. Both of you take in the sounds around you: the morning chorus of the birds singing in the trees, the way the breeze whistles through the leaves along with them, and the whooshing of vehicles as they cruise by you in the street. The breeze carries your perfume to his nose and nearly stops him in his tracks.

"Listen," he breaks through the silent that fills an invisible space in between the sounds that surround you, "I'm sorry about the other day—I wasn't thinkin' and I thought, well,—I don't know what I was thinkin'."

"I'm sorry, too," you feel an obligation to agree despite being more confused than ever. "Maybe I over stepped my boundaries."

Gator ruffles his hair back with one hand and shrugs, "I guess? I mean you know better than I do."

The tone he takes only serves to make you feel even more confused. As you continue around the block and loop up a side straight the silence grows louder in the space between the two of you. Gator digs one hand in his pocket while he scans and sweeps the ground ahead of him with his cane.

"Can we just stop?" You say stopping in your tracks as you let out a sigh of frustration.

Gator can sense your frustration down to his very core. It's enough to make him shake with frustration of his own.

"Goddamn it what you do you mean?" He huffs as he turns to you.

"Can't we just start over?"

His lips turn downward as he nods his head. The way he crosses his arms and tightens his jaw tells you more than any of his words can say.

"So, like pretend nothing happened is what you mean?"

God he could be so frustrating, you think.

"That is not what I meant," you assert as you furrow your brow and cross your arms over your chest, a mirror to him. "Why are you being such a jerk?"

He scoffs at your words, tilting his head back to release a gruff sigh into the cold December air. He walks forward a few steps before turning back to you.

"I think it's time for me to go home," he says but gestures towards the sidewalk ahead of both of you. "If it's not too much trouble could you lead the way."

His words drip with the pettiest sarcasm and it only intensifies the irritation that buzzes beneath your skin. And because of it, you remain still, feet planted on the ground. You know you're being stubborn but you can't help it.

"So, you're just not going to answer me?" You question him.

"Fuck," he growls, sweeping his cane across the sidewalk before he starts back towards his house. "I'm not fucking do this."

He walks ahead with the utmost caution, tapping his cane in front of him. You feel your heart pounding in your chest as the conflict vibrates beneath your skin. As he walks ahead you can't help but notice how he tries to remain cautious of his surroundings all while trying to storm away. The sight tugs at your heart and you can't help but rush ahead to him even if it means you get him safely to his door before rushing away again.

Gator notices you next to him and chooses silence. He can tell that he's close to home when he feels a light touch of your hand to his elbow, guiding him to steps that lead to his door. He unlocks it without a word, leaving you at the bottom of his steps.

"So that's it? You're just going to leave it at that?!" You exclaim as he opens his door.

You just want to fight. You know it's wrong, but you can’t hold anything back anymore.

"We're not making a scene out here," he says plainly, "we can talk inside."

The corners of your lips quiver as you fight the urge to rush through his door.

"Oh, sure you don't want to make a scene," your fingers wave into air quotes that he can't even see as you emphasize every word, "that's really rich coming from you."

He shifts weight so he's leaning against the door. His body language and posture are collected yet demanding. His breaths are deep and heavy in his chest as he presses his head back against the door. The tightness in his jaw is visibly tense all the way to his neck and acts like an invisible zipper to your lips.

"Get in the house…now."

The way the words leave his lips is as even and firm as his stance. Your breath quickens deep within you. You're grateful he can't see how your chest is heaving in a steady up and down motion. In the heat of your disagreement, the most intrusive thought enters your mind. He looks too damn good. And as if by a force that's greater than you both, you step forward and walk up the stairs.

He feels your presence next to him and he shifts a step to let you inside. As he closes the door behind him, you don't cower. He doesn't make you feel small, like most men have made you feel in the past. You witness as a look of desperation fills his very being when he leans his back against his door.

"So how am I the one running, when it was you who did that exact thing last week, huh?" Gator questions, his hands settling at his hips.

"I didn't—," you begin, your words faltering, "I was--"

"Nervous? Scared?" He interjects.

"What? Like those aren't valid feelings?!" Your reply is swift.

And his is just as immediate ,"Oh no, they're valid because I'm feeling them, too! Fuck!"

The exasperation that reveals itself in his honesty provokes an unexpected silence within you. You watch every move his body, from the way he repeatedly runs his hands through his hair before placing them on his hips to the pacing of his feet beneath him.

"Do you even know how crazy you've made me feel since the last time you left?" He exclaims.

"Well, I have a feeling you're going to tell me!" You can't help but answer back.

"Can't you just let me finish?" His words to you leave him as soon as you finish. "Even when you left, I still felt you."

The words are like a dart straight to your heart. It amazes you how he manages to make you speechless when you want to say so much.

"Every single time you leave, I still feel you here," he confesses as he shakes his head, feeling almost embarrassed by the vulnerability he can't seem to hide from you. "And it's—"

A feeling stirs deep within your core and you rush to him, grasping his face with a touch of your hands. Every word of his confession is worthy of the kiss you press to his lips. He falters from the shock of your gesture. Despite this, you can't let him go. You feel your chest heave as you kiss him until it leaves you breathless.

Gator's mind spins as you kiss him like it's the last thing you'll ever do. He can scarcely believe it as you push his coat off his shoulders and discard it to the floor.

"Fuck," he sighs when you finally let him go.

There's no doubt as to the inevitability of what's about to happen. With a gentle touch your fingers tiptoe at his waist until your caressing the soft skin of his stomach. His breath and body quivers as you pull his T-shirt over his head.

The anticipation is broken by a subtle gasp from his full lips brought on by the touch of your finger tips against his skin. He's lean and muscular and the feeling of chest hair is a luxury you didn't know you needed. Your hands rest there, feeling the up and down of his breaths and the pumping of his heartbeat. You pull Gator close to you as you climb your hands up to his shoulders and then to his face, where you pull him forward again for another, deeper kiss.

Gator revels how his entire body reacts to your touch. Though something in the back of his mind still needs convincing, he moves his hands down to your waist pulling your hips into his pelvis. He would grip you harder if he could. He's been drowning so long in a sea of criticism, shame, and disappointment with no way to come up for air. Until you. His hands grip your hips with the deepest desperation. The only hope he has strengthens when he clings to you: the life preserver of his life.

With breathless anticipation, you lead him to sit back on the couch. He waits as you pull your t-shirt over your head and discard it to the floor. You slide your jeans down your hips, kicking them to the side before you place your legs on either side of his straddling his lap.

"Fuck," he moans his large, firm hands roaming up your bare thighs until they find your hips and ass.

Your supple and velvet-soft skin beneath and between his fingers lights up every nerve in his body. The way you rock your pelvis in his lap coaxes a whimper from him. He rises for you and his jeans grow taut as he throbs against the constraining fabric. On instinct, you rock your pelvis against his feeling him grow against the flimsy fabric of your panties. With deft hands, you unhook your bra and toss it to the floor before pulling him close.

Gator roams his hands up your waist, his head spinning at the beautiful and intoxicating scent of your body. You feel his warm breath against your chest as he tilts his head upward to you. He's gorgeous like this. Eager. Desperate. Yearning. His face softens with expectancy and a wordless expression that asks permission for what he so desperately wants to do next. You pull him close as your response, feeling his pillowy soft lips travel against your skin until they reach your nipples.

He can't wait and is taken over by the desperate need to taste you. His tongue flattens at his first taste and your entire body shudders as he continues. He swirls his tongue against the pebbled skin, where you become pert and responsive with each luxurious motion he makes.

"Gator," you whine as he wraps his arms tightly around you like a prized possession he's not willing to let go.

"Mmm," he moans, growing more and more intoxicated by your scent and your taste. "Baby, you taste good."

His voice is deep and smooth as he speaks. His words rumble through the concourse of your body until they reach and light up every part of your core.

The overwhelming desire, no, the overwhelming need to make him feel everything takes. He surrenders to the tender touch of your lips against his. He allows himself to settle into the way your fingers run through his hair while you explore his lips and mouth with a gentle push of your tongue.

Gently, you push yourself off his lap to slide down his body. The warmth of your chest against his chest coaxes a shudder of anticipation as you settle your legs between his legs. You draw a trail of kisses that start at his lips to his chest where you revel in how his chest rises and falls. His breaths are sharper and quicker as he feels your hungry kisses at his happy trail stopping just before the waistband of his jeans.

"I just want to make you feel good," you say with a voice so low and so sweet that draws low moan.

The way your soft fingers work slowly and deliberately at unbuttoning his jeans is deliciously antagonizing. He feels how your gentle hands pull at them. He lifts his hips slightly off the couch making it easier for you to pull them off along with his boxer briefs.

"Oh my god," your marvel at how his thick cock stands at full attention for you, quivering in desperation. "You're so big Gator."

Normally, he'd smirk and have a quick and arrogant response about how he already knows how big he is. But, he couldn't with you. The way those words leave your lips is an affirmation he never knew he needed until this very moment. His thoughts swirl and ricochet against the boundaries of his mind and the anticipation of the touch of your lips at the tip of him takes his breath away.

"Oh fuck," he groans as you wrap your lips around him slowly taking more of him into your mouth.

You slowly draw him in savoring first hints of his arousal leave him to light up every taste bud on your tongue. Every ridge of him slides and throbs against your lips as you take more and more of him in, until the tip of him reaches the back of your throat. The whimper that leaves him, the desperation slipping away as he allows himself to feel every touch of your hand working on him and the inhale you take as your head bobs up and down against this hard length.

"Holy shit, baby!" He gasps, a shaky whimper escaping him.

With one hand he grips the soft upholstery of the couch between his fingers while his other palm rests against your soft tresses. You moan as your hunger for him grows and you move faster in your goal of getting him to lose all control in you. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. The drum of his heart is rapid against his chest as his legs, torso, and his entire body begins to quiver in response.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he moans and breaths sharp, as he begs for you to stop. "I wanna come but not like this!"

You take your mouth from him licking one last stroke up his shift, as he twitches still so full and hard for you. As he tries to catch his breath, you stand and removing the only barrier that is keeping you from joining him completely.

"You're right, not like this," you sigh in agreement as you straddle yourself over his beautiful body, "this way."

His mouth drops in disbelief as you center yourself over him and he feels your wet opening at the weeping tip of his cock. With a loud gasp of combined relief and ecstasy, he feels you lower yourself onto him and his hands fly to your hips with the strongest of grips as you move against him. He throws his head back releases a moan into the air as you squeeze around him with a tight embrace of your walls. Your own whimper reaches his ears like a song as you feel him throb and grow inside you.

"Fuck, you're so tight!" He exclaims, his voice rattling without constraint.

The words carry the encouragement that brings you to roll your hips and bounce against him squeezing him tighter and tighter to feel every ridge and vein of him pulsate with a steady rhythm. Every warm quiver that you feel inside you grows progressively stronger, shaking you from your core to your legs, up your abdomen and to your chest.

How could this possibly get any better?

The thought is brief and as if reading your mind and understanding your body, you are met with the best argument his body can provide. His hands knead against the plush skin of your ass as he heaves into you with as much might as his hips can muster.

"Ohmygod!" You gasp so fast, the words come out as one and tears of pure pleasure leaping from the corners of your eyes. "You feel so good."

The feeling of your hands bracing themselves firmly against his torso along your moans and whimpers are a plea he is more than happy to oblige. And so he thrusts into you again, again, and again. Through quickening breaths, you manage to beg for more.

"Gator, please don't stop!" The breathless sob you make drifts sweetly to his ears as you beg with a final, strong rock of your pelvis against him.

The desperation of your plea permeates through every squeeze of you around his cock. He pounds into you the way you both need: messier, faster, and unrestrained with each pump. You arch your back and throw your head back as his arms around tightly around your waist.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come," he pants his entire body beginning to shake. "Sweetheart?"

His face turns up to you, his brows furrowed and begging for an answer, for your permission.

"It's ok, come inside, please," you nod through every panting breath, "wanna feel all of you."

Faster than you speak the words, Gator is shaking and driving into you with all of his strength, all his heart, all that he has. You wrap yours him so tightly against your chest that he can taste the sweetness of your skin, feel the perspiration that gathers there, and he feels your pounding heartbeat. Together, you quake and cry prayers of each other's names as Gator empties into you. The way you throb and close yourself around him coaxes every bit of his heat to paint your walls.

The echo of your breaths is the only sound that reverberates against the walls, wrapping around you as Gator pulls you tight to rest his head against your chest. The sound of your heartbeat drifts to his ears as his perspiration intermingles with yours. The subtle and sweet scent of your perfume unites with delicate dew that rests on your soft skin bewitches him in a way no potion ever could. You squeeze each other tighter, even as Gator softens inside you, neither of you wanting to experience the feeling of your union ending.

Gator tilts his head up towards you and submits to the gentle caress of your fingers through his hair.

"What now?" His voice holds an apprehension as he waits for any words to leave your lips.

"I don't know Gator," you reply, somehow still not able to believe what's just transpired. “Can we just stay like this for a little while?”

November 1984

You knew something was up the minute you pulled into the driveway, parking directly behind the BMW. As usual, his parents' cars were nowhere to be seen, but you'd honestly be more concerned if you did see them in the driveway.

As you got out of your car, you studied the house. The lights were off, most of the curtains drawn, the gate leading into the backyard still closed. You glanced at your watch, half-convinced you'd gotten the time wrong, but no—it was nearly 7 p.m. on a Friday night, and Steve was alone in his house.

For a moment, something like hope filled your chest. Then you remembered what happened Halloween night, two days ago, and you realized it was probably a lot worse.

'It,' of course, was how you and Steve danced around the subject of his substance use: the smoking and the drinking that had started early for him and had only gotten worse over the past few years.

The problem with being best friends with Steve Harrington for so long was that you'd watched him become his worst self and felt powerless to stop it. Carol and Tommy always made it worse, and Steve had always been...susceptible to peer pressure, no matter how much you begged and pleaded with him to just be careful.

Nancy's influence had been a good one—you hadn't seen Steve smoke since she complained about tasting it when he kissed her and he'd cut down on his drinking. You had even silently cheered with her at parties when Steve began turning down drinks. But after their rather pitiful fight in the bathroom that you'd had the misfortune to overhear and the conversation they'd had the following day, your hope that this behavior would continue was practically nonexistent.

You took a deep breath as you headed for the door, admonishing yourself silently. You're here to help him through this so he doesn't do all that again, not yell at him and make it worse. He needs someone in his corner right now.

The front door was unlocked, as you had expected it to be. You stepped inside and looked around. The house was empty and strangely clean, as if Steve had done a very early spring cleaning to distract himself.

But even though the house looked like it hadn't seen a party in weeks, it smelled like one had been raging for several days. Sighing, you climbed up the stairs and headed for Steve's room. It was empty, but the sight still made you mutter, "Oh, Steve..."

His bed was unmade and there was an empty bottle of vodka on his nightstand. Next to it was an abandoned rocks glass of half-drunk whiskey, a semi-melted ice cube in it. "Mixing liquors again, are we?" you sighed, picking it up and taking it into the bathroom. You dumped the liquor down the sink.

Back in his room, the ashtray you thought he'd thrown out was back on his dresser, clearly used, a cigarette butt in it. A pack of cigarettes—mercifully mostly full—was beside it.

You picked up the empty bottle of Absolut and carried it and the rocks glass back into the kitchen. You tossed the bottle and washed the glass out. You put it back in the cupboard, grabbed two water bottles from the fridge, and headed out to the pool.

As you had expected, Steve was outside. He had rolled his jeans up to his knees and sat on the edge of the pool with his legs in the water. There was a beer can beside him. The air was thick with the smell of a cigar, the embers of it glowing between his fingers. He lowered it from his mouth and exhaled heavily. His hair was disorganized and falling into his eyes.

"Hey," you said heavily as you approached, sitting down cross-legged beside him. You handed him the water. Steve took it wordlessly and slumped his head onto your shoulder. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really," Steve mumbled.

"It might help," you insisted.

Steve scoffed. "What's there to talk about? You were outside the bathroom when I left, you know what Nance said. She doesn't—" He cut himself off, his lower lip trembling. He lifted the beer to his lips.

You covered it with your hand. "Drink the water, Steve," you admonished gently. "It'll help more than the alcohol."

Steve, who had heard this from you multiple times before, rolled his eyes and muttered a half-hearted, harmless, "Fuck off."

The pair of you fell into silence with Steve's head rested on your shoulder. You gently plucked the cigar from his hand and wrapped your arm around him, resting your head against his. He made a soft sound of thanks and you repeated your mantra to yourself as butterflies came to life in your belly: Friends first.

Those two words had gotten you through the past few years of Steve's promiscuity, especially his relationship with Nancy. It meant shoving your own feelings for your best friend since childhood to the side in favor of his friendship and supporting him, no matter how painful it was—as it had been with Nancy, when you were almost certain you were going to lose him to her forever.

So as supportive as you were trying to be, some small part of you was a little relieved their relationship had gone belly up.

You were pulled from your slightly guilty thoughts by Steve whispering into your sleeve, "I miss her."

More guilt curled through your stomach. "I know, I'm sorry," you murmured. "I miss her, too."

"Is it already weird? Without her?" he asked.

You shrugged. "A little. I'm more worried about you, though."

Steve lifted his head, a frown on his face. "She was so worried about Barb and lying to her parents. She had...something weird going on and I'm worried—"

"Doesn't she always have something weird going on, Steve?" you asked, a little more sharply than you would have liked.

"I mean I guess so, but—" He looked up at you. "Are you...upset with me about something?"

"What? No!" Liar. You were terribly upset about all the alcohol he'd consumed, his intoxication in his eyes and how unfeeling he was to the cold water his legs were in and the looseness of his body. But now wasn't the time to chide him.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just...you look mad."

You sighed heavily, pulling Steve into a hug he more than happily fell into. "I'm not mad at you," you promised, keeping your voice soft. "But you're upset, which means I'm upset too, that's just how this works, Steve."

He held you tighter. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered, a phrase you had never heard Steve utter except when he was plastered.

"I'll always be here," you said softly, despite it all, and you held each other until Steve started to shiver. "Hey, why don't you get out of the water?"

Wordlessly, Steve untangled himself from you and got out of the pool. He sighed heavily and drank the rest of his beer. You took the empty can from him when he was finished and the two of you made your way back into the house, much warmer than outside.

"Weren't you supposed to winterize the pool already?" you asked as you shut the door to the patio behind you.

Steve shrugged. "I forgot to do it earlier this month, then thought it might be nice for Halloween if I had a party, but then everyone was going to Tina's party, so...no point in having my own, y'know?"

You nodded, accepting his explanation. "We'll close it soon, okay?"

He nodded. "It... It made Nancy mad that I left it open. B'cause of Barb," he said, his words slowing down and slurring. He'd built up a high tolerance, but the alcohol was finally kicking in. He looked disgruntled for a moment, then said, "Did she expect me to cement it in or something?"

"I doubt it," you told him. "I think that is just the alcohol talking."

He made a face. "You don't like me drinking, do you?"

"No, I don't, and you already know that," you said, rolling your eyes. "We'll talk about it when you're not hammered. For now, why don't you drink some more water and then get to bed?"

"Okay," he said, surprisingly agreeable. You'd been expecting a bit of an argument.

You helped Steve walk up the stairs, stopping every so often as he got woozy, with an arm looped under his own arms. He stumbled toward his room and stopped at his bedside, staring at his nightstand like he knew there should be alcohol there but couldn't quite figure out why it wasn't.

After a moment, Steve just shrugged and unbuttoned his jeans without warning. He unzipped them and stripped them off; you turned away to give him privacy while also watching him out of the corner of your eye to make sure he didn't fall over.

As if that's your only reason, you scolded yourself, your belly flipping as Steve pulled his shirt over his head. He crawled into bed in his boxers.

You crossed your arms over your chest and looked over him. "You gonna be okay if I leave you?"

"Don't leave," he pleaded. "I—I don't wanna be alone."

You looked at Steve for a long moment, then sighed. He looked so small beneath the covers, alone in a way he hadn't been since the first time his parents left him by himself for a business trip. You'd been kids then.

"Alright," you relented. "Shove over."

Steve wiggled to one side of his bed while you pulled off your sweater and your jeans. You stole a pair of his sweatpants and crawled into bed in them and your tank top after shutting off the lights.

"Thank you," Steve whispered, shutting his eyes and exhaling slowly.

You hummed quietly. You didn't protest as Steve reached over and took your hand, keeping it between your bodies like you had done when you'd been much younger and Steve had terrible nightmares.

Into the dark, some time later, you said, "It's gonna be alright, Steve. We'll figure it all out. Your life isn't over because of a breakup, okay?" Silence. "Steve?"

You scooted closer and listened to his breathing; he was dead asleep.

"Good night, Steve," you sighed.

~❊~

The next morning you woke in an empty bed to the noise of Steve's dresser drawers opening and closing. You sat up in bed and stared blearily at him.

"What're you doing?" you asked groggily.

"Where can I buy nice flowers?" he asked without looking for you, still digging through his clothes. It took you a moment to realize he was just standing in a blue shirt and his boxers, apparently looking for a specific pair of jeans. The shirt did absolutely nothing to cover his ass and you found yourself staring for a moment, an action you'd done so often throughout your friendship that Steve no longer noticed or teased you about it.

"Good morning to you too," you grumbled, rolling out of his bed and wiping sleep from your eyes.

"Morning," he said distractedly. "What kind of flowers should I buy?"

"Steve, what are you going on about?" you asked, frowning. "Flowers?"

He finally turned around to you, jeans in hand. His eyes were much brighter than you had been expecting for a guy who had to have woken up with a massive hangover. "I'm gonna fix it. I'm gonna apologize to Nancy for the fight and make it up to her and I'm gonna give her flowers."

You stared at him. "Steve, what are you apologizing for? She's the one who couldn't tell you she loves you!"

He winced but ignored your remark. "Uh...for being a dick?"

You sighed. "Look, you can be a dick and you definitely have been, but I don't think you were the dick in this scenario."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, Nancy seems to think I was, so I'm gonna fix this."

You pulled a face. "Why are you apologizing for doing what you were told, Steve? She can try to tell Barb's parents what really happened all she'd like, but we were told to keep our mouths shut."

"Yeah, but you know Nance," he said quietly. "She...feels like it's her fault."

You recognized the look on his face and you felt something in your chest crack. "Oh, Steve... She's blamed you for it, too, hasn't she?"

Refusing to make eye contact with you, Steve pulled on his jeans. "If she hadn't stayed with me that night, she would have left with Barb, and maybe she'd be alive right now."

"Or maybe they'd both be dead," you snapped. You sighed as he flinched. "Look, I'm sorry, it's just— There's no use thinking about what we could have done differently. Sure, a lot of what happened that night was a mistake, but we can't change that. Even though we want to. Look at me, Steve."

His gaze remained trained on the floor as he busied himself with putting his socks on, balancing awkwardly on one foot.

"Please," you insisted, shoving the covers back and nudging him with your foot.

Steve finally looked around to you. His eyes were watery and now you could see the signs of a hangover on his face. Every word you had prepared to say died in your throat at the sight of him and you sighed heavily.

"If you want to try to make up with Nancy, be my guest. Just...don't feel guilty about listening to the officials."

Steve shrugged. "Maybe she's right. Maybe we're wrong to listen to them and let them get away with it."

You smiled ruefully. "Yeah, well... Nancy's right more often than not."

He looked at you for a long moment and you wondered if you'd said it wrong, somehow. Was your tone too bitter? Could he tell that some small part of you resented that he listened to her when he had once listened to you?

But after a moment, Steve just said, "Can you help me choose some flowers?"

You sighed. "Sure. Let me get my clothes on."

Steve made a face. "You want to put your dirty clothes back on?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure you don't have any more of my clothes here."

He checked his dresser quickly, then shook his head. He threw one of his sweatshirts at you instead. "Here, put that on."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Sweatpants and a sweatshirt? In public? Really?"

He shrugged. "What? You look cute. Guys'll love that."

Rolling your eyes, you pulled the sweatshirt over your head. "They're your clothes, Steve."

He understood the implication you didn't have to spell out. He rolled his eyes and held his hand out. "Give it back, then."

You drew away from him. "No."

Steve sighed as you pulled your shoes on. "You confuse me."

"That's my goal," you said with a faux sweet smile. You stood up and headed for the door. "C'mon. We'll have the best luck at that floral shop on Main Street."

Steve grabbed his keys off of his nightstand. "Next to the record store?"

"Mhm. Grab your coat—it might rain later." You started out the door, heading for the stairs.

Sighing, Steve pulled on his gray jacket, hesitated for a moment, and then grabbed a flask from a drawer in his nightstand. He filled it quickly with a bottle of whiskey you'd miraculously missed in your cleansing of his room last night.

"Steve!" you shouted from downstairs. "What's taking so long?"

"Coming!" Steve called back. He capped the bottle, shoved the flask into his jacket pocket, and followed you out of his house.

~❊~

Hours later, you found yourself waiting in the back of Steve's BMW, watching him walk down toward the Wheeler's house, carrying red roses. The two of you had spent far too much time talking to the florist about arranging a bouquet with floral meanings before Steve had decided to go simple and to the point.

You knew he was mumbling different variations of his practiced apology to Nancy as he walked, vaguely hearing him mumble to himself through the cracked passenger side window. You were pleased to hear him mutter, "What the hell am I sorry for?" Clearly, he was getting the message you were trying to tell him: he had no reason to apologize for being upset that Nancy was lying about being in love with him. (Although you did think he ought to apologize to her for a good many other things.)

"Steve!"

You glanced out the window to find a young boy—you'd seen him before, hadn't you? It took you a moment to realize it was one of Mike's friends, glimpsed in brief when you hung out with Nancy. Which one was this?

Perplexed, Steve stopped.

"Are those for Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler?" the boy asked. (Curly hair... Baseball cap... You fought to remember his name. Nancy had told you all of the boys' names, right?)

Steve glanced down at his roses. "No."

"Good!" The boy grabbed them, walking toward the BMW.

"Hey! What the hell!" Steve snapped, picking up a fallen rose petal flower.

"Nancy isn't home," the boy said without stopping.

Steve frowned. "Where is she?"

"Doesn't matter," the kid said, though you could see the gears in Steve's head turning. You sat up straighter in the backseat as the kid opened the passenger door. "We have bigger problems than your love life. You still have that bat?"

"Bat? What bat?"

"The one with the nails," he said, and his exasperation made you remember.

"Dustin!" you said aloud, snapping your fingers. He glanced back at you and waved.

"Why?" Steve asked.

"I'll explain it on the way," Dustin said, climbing into the car. He glanced back at you. "Why are you back there?"

You shrugged. "Easier to chide him when I can make eye contact through the rearview mirror."

"Now?" Steve asked.

"Now!" Dustin called.

"What's going on?" you asked.

Dustin swiveled to stare at you again. "I...can't tell you. You weren't involved last year, so—"

"She knows," Steve said, climbing into the car.

Dustin spluttered. "You told her?!"

"She's my best friend, of course I told her," Steve snapped, raising his voice over Dustin's incredulous yipping—something about the government and federal secrets and bad men with anger issues.

You cleared your throat. "Kinda hard to keep a secret when he comes back all bruised and bloody and refuses to go to the hospital. And I'm really good at annoying him."

"You refused to go to the hospital?"

"Mhm," you said, loud enough to be heard over Steve's groan as he pulled away from the Wheeler's driveway. You mimicked Steve's voice as you said, "It's fine, I've got a bottle of bourbon I've been meaning to use! Special occasion! And then he passed out."

"Shut up!" Steve whisper-hissed at you, glaring at you through the mirror.

You rolled your eyes and huffed, sitting back in your seat.

"That was a terrible idea, Steve!" Dustin chided.

"Stubborn, isn't he?" you said.

"What did I say?" Steve asked, putting on that scolding tone. You raised your eyebrows and he quickly dropped it.

"Whatever, doesn't matter right now," Dustin said. "We need to find my pet demodog."

You frowned. "Your pet what?" you and Steve asked at the same time.

Sighing, Dustin launched into an overly detailed explanation that had you forcing yourself to remember your eighth grade science classes. Though you struggled to keep up with the terminology as much as Steve did, you managed to follow along enough: something from the Upside Down had found Dustin, and he'd taken it in as a pet for some reason, it had now eaten his cat and gotten loose.

"So we just gotta find this thing?" you asked.

"Yeah," Dustin said.

"Can't be that hard," you reasoned. "What does it eat?"

"Whoa, what?" Steve asked.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, c'mon, it's simple! We buy whatever food it likes and leave it out for it to find. Got any idea where it might be headed, Dusty?"

Dustin grinned at you. "I think it might be trying to go home. And I'm pretty sure Dart eats only meat."

"Great. Steve, pull over at the store, we can get some pre-packaged stuff for...Dart," you said, pausing on the little beast's name. You hadn't asked Dustin what he planned to do when he caught the demodog, but you weren't totally sure he'd thought that far ahead.

Well, you'd cross that bridge when you came to it.

Steve pulled into the grocery store parking lot. "Alright, kid. Go get what you need."

Dustin was up and out of the car before you could tell him to wait for you. You sighed, pushing your door open. "You coming, Steve...?"

You trailed off as you turned back toward him, finding him with his head thrown back, a flask at his lips. Had it been a painting, you would have found it beautiful. But that was just the thing—it wasn't a painting, it wasn't some guy depicted in the throes of his worst nightmare. It was Steve. Your Steve, falling back on the same old bad habits you'd been trying so damn hard to curb stomp out of him.

"Steve." Your voice was flat.

He took another swig before lowering the flask. He offered it to you. "Want some?"

You scoffed. "Seriously? Want some? Are you insane?"

Steve blinked, taken aback by the sudden harshness in your tone. "What—"

"Look, I get it, this is stressful and annoying and not what you had planned for the day. I didn't plan for this either! But can you put the damn drink down?" you snapped. "You're the one driving, for Christ's sake!"

He sighed. "Alright, fine, maybe it's not the smartest idea—"

"Not the smartest?" you echoed. You slammed the car door shut again. "Steve, what the fuck?"

"Oh, come on, what's with you all of a sudden? You never cared before!"

"Yeah, before," you snapped, "when we were friends with deplorable people? Before, when casual drinking was all we did? Before, when it wasn't a damn problem you won't admit to?"

Steve turned around in his seat to glare at you. "A problem? What are you talking about? I've been perfectly fine and I am well aware of how much I'm drinking. It's not a problem, I've got it under control!"

You scoffed. "Sounds exactly like something an alcoholic unwilling to admit it would say, dumbass." It wasn't until the word left your mouth that you realized its tone had changed from the sweet, affectionate name-calling to a hard, angry punctuation.

Steve flinched. "I'm not a fucking alcoholic, I'm not my damn father!"

"I never said you were, but ironic you thought about that, isn't it?" Before you could feel bad, you continued, "Look, I know that all this—" You gestured around you, summing up all of Hawkins and its problems. "—has been a lot to take in recently. I realize Nancy made it worse. I know this is hard for you. But, Jesus, Steve. The vodka and whiskey in your room last night? The beer, the cigs? You're overdoing it, again, and I'm not gonna sit here and watch you do it."

"So stop fucking watching," he snapped. "Leave me to my own devices—" You scowled, recognizing a phrase from the last time you'd snapped at him about his drinking. "—and handle your own shit, huh? I can take care of myself!"

The irony tingled as it sat on your skin. You could remind him that you'd taken care of him last night, could remind him about the dozen or so times before you'd had to take care of him when he couldn't do it himself, so inebriated he didn't know up from down or his shirt from his pants.

But you only shoved the door open and climbed out of the car. You reached back in through the open window. "Gimme the flask, Steve."

He scowled at you. "What are you, my mother?"

Absolutely not. I'm here, and she's not. But you pulled back the nasty retort, waggling your fingers again. "Give it here."

Rolling his eyes, he tossed it to you. You caught it, sniffing it. It was more than half full of bourbon—the expensive bottle his dad kept in the back of the kitchen cabinet, judging by the smell of it. You huffed.

"Thank you," you said, trying to soften your voice. You stared at him where he sulked in his seat, refusing to meet your eyes. "I'm just trying to watch out for you, Steve. You won't do it for yourself, not right now. So forgive me if there's one person that actually cares about you." He glanced over at you, brows knit. You pointed into the store Dustin had disappeared into. "He needs you. The other kids need you. Keep it together for them, if not for me, if not for yourself."

You uncapped the flask and tipped it, pouring the liquor onto the pavement at your feet. Steve opened his mouth, but the sound of protest died on his lips as your gaze snapped back up to him.

"This is my battle, not yours," he said after a moment.

"Oh, yeah?" You chucked the flask back at him. He barely caught it. "Then fight it."

You turned on your heel and stalked into the store after Dustin, waiting until the doors had shut behind you before you swiped a knuckle over your eye.

~❊~

December 1984

Christmas was a family affair in your house—except this year, it was especially busy at your house as family and friends alike flitted through your doors. Steve was spending Christmas with you like he always did when his family wasn't in town for the holiday, and this year, he'd brought the gaggle of kids with him. They slipped from room to room and house to house, some staying for only a few minutes (like Lucas and Will, who were celebrating mostly with their families but had wanted to stop in) and some stayed much longer (like Dustin, who had become attached to Steve, and Max, who preferred your company over her family's).

You were happy to have them all, of course, even if the extra noise was a bit much for your ears and the extra bodies meant less space. There was, however, plenty of food to go around and to send the kids home with, as your mother had cooked more than your family could eat.

You were standing in the kitchen, helping to put away newly washed dishes, when Dustin appeared at your arm, looking worried.

"Have you seen Steve?" he asked. You glanced around, expecting him to see him in the kitchen—it had become quite normal for Steve to help clean up after gatherings like this, but he was nowhere to be found.

You put the plate in your hands away and said to Dustin, "I'll go find him, don't worry."

Dustin nodded. "Thanks. I have to leave soon, and I want to say goodbye before I go."

You ruffled his hair, silently melting inside over his attachment to your best friend. Steve had never said it, but you knew he felt the same way about the kid just from how he looked at him.

You left the kitchen and glanced quickly outside, though you were certain Steve wasn't stupid enough to be out in the cold this late at night, especially not with the thick crust of snow outside. The snow outside the door was undisturbed, so you went up to your bedroom—a place Steve had always known he was welcome in when he needed to be away from his parents.

As you had expected, he was sitting on your bed, looking quite dejected. He had a glass in his hand, empty except for a half-melted block of ice. He looked up when you stopped in the doorway.

"Sorry," he said, lifting the glass. "I know I promised I wouldn't, but..."

"Steve," you said softly, decidedly upset that he'd broken his promise—made shortly after he told you he'd finally talked to Nancy, that she'd finally said to his face she wasn't coming back—but trying not to show it. You crossed to your bed and sat down beside him. "What's wrong?"

He shrugged. "Got to thinking."

"About?"

Steve sighed, leaving his head against your shoulder. "I spent last Christmas with the Wheelers." After a moment, he added, "With Nancy."

It's only been a month, you reminded yourself as an uncomfortable twisting started in your gut—the familiar feeling of jealousy that was becoming stronger every time Steve talked about Nancy. But, as you were reminding yourself, it had only been a month since she had quite literally broken his heart.

"Oh, Steve," you sighed.

"I know, you're probably getting tired of hearing about her," Steve said. "It's just..."

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I'm not tired of it," you assured him. You chose your next words very delicately. "Or you. I'm more concerned about how you're...medicating," you said, gesturing to the empty drink.

"It was my only one of the night," he promised.

"Well, that's something," you said dryly.

Steve looked at you, incredibly guilty. "You're disappointed in me." It wasn't a question.

"A little," you admitted.

"I am, too," he said quietly.

Out of words to comfort him, your heart broken by those three words, you held out both arms. He passed you the glass and gave you a moment to put it on the ground before he accepted your hug, his body slumping against yours.

You held Steve and prayed he could not hear the pounding of your heart. The smell of him enveloped you, clean laundry and aftershave and shampoo, all tinged with the slightest bit of whiskey on his breath. A sense of ease settled over you, bringing with it the desire to stay like this until everyone left.

"Dustin's looking for you. He wants to say goodbye before he leaves," you said quietly.

Steve huffed through his nose and held you tighter. Your heart began to pound in your ears. "The kid can wait a second." He buried his head in your shoulder and you understood what he wouldn't say: You come first.

You rested your head against Steve's. "I know we've fought about all this a thousand times, and I've told you this just as much...but if you ever need anything, anybody to talk to—my door is always open, Steve. I'd rather you come to me than to..."

"My vices," he finished for you. He pulled himself away from you and wiped at his eyes, trying only half-heartedly to hide it from you.

"Yeah," you said softly. "You could call it that, I guess."

The two of you stayed that way until you heard Dustin's foot on the stairs. You sprang apart as if you'd been caught doing something nefarious before he could find you. You shooed Steve out the door and kicked the rocks glass beneath your bed; you'd wash it when your parents weren't around to question if Steve really was doing alright like he'd insisted all of dinner.

"Steve?" Dustin called.

"Coming!" Steve said, standing. He gave you a half-smile before he walked out the door, pasting on the face he frequently put on for the kids: the always fine, always good-spirited Steve Harrington. Even as he shut the door behind him, you heard him say, voice pitched differently, "Hey, kid, you headed out?"

You sighed, flopping back on your bed. You glanced at the glass he'd left, fighting the urge to cry. All the unfinished arguments, the broken silences after you chastised him, the times his shoulders had slumped when he'd seen your disappointment on your face—one by one they flashed through your mind.

Maybe you were being too hard on him. Maybe yelling at him wasn't the answer.

But, God, you didn't know what was.

~❊~

February 1985

Steve couldn't recall the last time he'd spent a Valentine's alone. Once he'd gotten to high school, he'd had girls who'd giggle when he walked by on the thirteenth; by the morning of the fourteenth, he was going on a date with one of them.

Yet he'd never spent one with Nancy.

Somehow, it was a surprise to Steve that everything was back to normal Wednesday the thirteenth. There were still girls giggling at him in the hallway, though it wasn't the same group of girls he'd had watching him before. No, they were still ogling Billy as they'd done all year.

Steve found himself avoiding eye contact and feeling sorry for himself, his disappointment sitting heavy in his stomach.

"Hey, you!" Your voice hit his ears before you shoulder-checked him, nearly sending him careening into lockers before he steadied himself. You were surprisingly chipper for this time of day.

"Hi," Steve said. "What's got you all...energetic?"

"Coffee," you answered honestly. "I had an extra cup before I left the house today."

Steve frowned. "Uh...why?" You gave him a deadpan look that had him panicking immediately; he'd forgotten something important, hadn't he? "Well, I just mean—"

You rolled your eyes. "It's my presentation, remember? The one I've been working on since January started?"

"Oh—right, yeah, sorry," Steve said, grimacing. Fuck, had he been drinking the night you'd told him about the project? You'd kill him. But no, he assured himself, he hadn't, or he had to have been every night since to have forgotten so completely. He was just...out of it.

The pair of you walked past another group of girls who were quite obviously eyeing Steve. As he looked awkwardly away from them, they started giggling behind their hands. Steve didn't catch your eye roll.

"Sooo," you began, when the group was out of earshot, "you doing anything tomorrow?"

Steve huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "No," he said forlornly.

"Good!"

"Good?" he repeated, frowning at you.

But you just nodded. "We're going to, as friends, go get milkshakes and fries at that diner on the edge of town, and then we're going to go to that drive-in theater."

Steve's lips twitched. "You've got this all planned out, huh? What were you going to do if I said I had plans for tomorrow?"

You shrugged. "Eh, I don't know. I'd probably take Dustin. He's pretty bummed out about not having a girlfriend still. Especially now with Max and Lucas doing so well."

He sighed. "Yeah, he was telling me about that. Honestly, I don't know why he thinks it's as great as it's cracked up to be."

You rolled your eyes, this time quite obviously. "From you, dumbass. I've watched him use like, six of your tricks to pull girls, all in the last week!"

It was Steve's turn to roll his eyes, even though he knew you were right. "Alright, alright, jeez. Go to your class. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Great," you said. "Pick me up at seven!"

So at six the next evening, Steve was fixing his hair in the mirror before heading out. He felt a little foolish as he realized he'd dressed up for the night as if it really were a date and you were a girl he was trying to impress. The feeling worsened and he felt even his ears get red as he spritzed some cologne over himself. He didn't need to impress you; you were his best friend. You'd seen him in all states possible, so in fact, there was no shot at impressing you from here on out.

Steve walked to his car, checking his wallet to make sure he had enough money for the milkshakes and two movie tickets. You were going out of your way to make him feel less alone on Valentine's Day—after hours of couples kissing in the hallways—so he wasn't going to let you spend a single penny.

He drove to your house and got there early. Your driveway was empty, but the light was on in your bedroom. You appeared at the window as Steve shut the car off and gestured for him to give you a minute.

About twenty minutes later, you flounced out the front door.

Steve's jaw went a little slack at the sight of you. You'd styled your hair differently (and it looked great) and you were wearing a new skirt (which also looked great). As you got in the car, Steve realized you had on a new lip shade (looked amazing, actually) and that you smelled different, more sweet.

Suddenly Steve felt like he hadn't put in enough effort.

"You're early," you said as you pulled the car door shut behind you. "I didn't even have my hair done when you got here."

"You look nice," Steve said, hoping he sounded casual.

You beamed. "Thanks! It's the new skirt my aunt got me for my birthday last year. I haven't had an occasion to wear it yet, so I figured this was a good one for it."

It is. "It looks... You look very pretty." Jesus Christ, all of his best lines, and that was what came out of his mouth when he was talking to his best friend?

You excitedly held out your wrists, oblivious to his fumbling. "Oooo, and smell! I got a new perfume!"

Steve leaned down to sniff. That sugary scent was stronger now. "Whoa," he murmured, sitting back up. He glanced at your face; you were grinning the way you used to when you and Nancy would have what you'd called "girl talk."

"I know, right?" you practically squealed. You put your hands back in your lap. "Okay, okay, I'm ready now."

Steve pulled out of your driveway. You began to fiddle with the radio until you found a station you liked, humming quietly to the song.

"Diner first, then movie?" Steve asked, just to try and dispel the panic rattling around in his skull. Christ, how many times had you done this together? Why was it suddenly...nerve-wracking?

"Mhm," you said, then went back to humming. Apparently, you didn't feel the same buzzing that was wrecking Steve's entire nervous system.

Fifteen minutes later, Steve pulled into the parking lot of the diner. Through the windows, you could see the place was full of couple sipping out of the same milkshake with two separate straws.

Steve glanced at you. "Maybe we should've called ahead."

You giggled, and his heart seemed to leap out of his chest.

He got out of the car and walked to your side. There was a small, knowing smile on your face as he opened your door and offered you his hand.

"Aren't you sweet," you cooed, pinching his hand before you took it. Steve felt his cheeks flush with heat.

There was an empty table by the door that the two of you nabbed. The waitress was barely older than the two of you—perhaps a more recent graduate—who only barely managed to hide her upset as another couple sat in the diner.

"What can I get for you?" she asked.

"We'll take a chocolate and vanilla swirl milkshake, please," Steve said, "and a basket of fries to share."

"Anything else?" she asked.

Steve looked at you. You looked so perfect sitting there in your perfect skirt, all dolled up and pretty. He almost didn't catch it as you shook your head and told the waitress, "That's it, thank you!"

You looked like someone straight out of movie: the pretty girl with all the attention, who deserved every bit of it. The main character in one of those cheesy romcoms his mom had liked to watch when he was kid, though he hardly remembered most of them now.

You were...perfect. His best friend. The girl he'd fought otherworldly monsters for, just to make sure you didn't have to, to keep you safe from the very thing that had hurt so many of his friends.

Fuck, you were...everything.

Shit, Steve thought. I'm doomed.

You clicked your fingers in front of his face. "You alright, Steve? You're staring."

He flushed. "Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm fine, just... Thanks for making this day not shitty."

"Whaaat? Steve Harrington having a shitty Valentine's Day? Come on," you teased.

He shrugged. "This one would have been, so...thank you."

Sympathy softened your face. You reached over and squeezed his hand. "Hey. Any time."

The food arrived surprisingly quickly, and the two of you devoured it quickly. The fries were crispy and flavorful, heavily seasoned, and you wrinkled your nose but didn't say anything when Steve dipped a few into his milkshake.

You took what remained of your milkshakes to the drive-in theater. Steve flipped up the center console so you could scoot close enough to share a blanket against the slight chill that had permeated the night air. He was embarrassingly giddy about how quickly you pressed yourself into his side—as if you hadn't spent your childhoods doing just this on one of your couches on Friday movie nights.

One of the drive-in's waiters was wandering between cars, offering menus and drink tickets. He stopped at Steve's window. "Anything for you and the lady?"

Steve felt your eyes on him as he glanced at the waiter, eyes lingering briefly on the offer of a glass of wine and a beer. But he shook his head. "We're all set, thank you," he said, holding up his milkshake.

The waiter nodded and moved on, and Steve felt you settle more solidly against him, relieved.

Steve wrapped his arm around your shoulders. "Get comfy," he whispered to you. "This movie's a long one."

"Good," you murmured. "But I might fall asleep."

He laughed. "Go ahead."

He thought you might have been joking, but less than twenty minutes later, you were fast asleep on his shoulder. Steve held you there, warmth in his stomach at the thought that you were so comfortable with him, that you trusted him this much.

Things had been better, really, now that you didn't catch him sneaking drinks at every gathering, now that he hadn't touched a bottle in weeks. And it was only because the thought of disappointing you—again—made his blood run cold.

Had it not been for you, if he was being honest with himself, he probably would have spent the night working his way through his father's collection of expensive bourbons and brandies, until his head ended up in a toilet. Not the most appealing night, he had to admit, but one he was all too familiar with.

One he was quite alright with giving up, if it meant having you nestled into his side like this.

"Fuck," Steve whispered, head falling back against the headrest. He glanced at you. Am I in love with my best friend?

But he was quite certain it was no longer a question.

You'd never go for it, he was certain. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many risks you'd have to take, too many reasons for you to not want to be involved with him any more than you already were. Wasn't he (and his drinking problem), after all, your biggest headache?

But if I remove the headache, if I make it easier for her...would she...?

Steve wasn't sure if he was brave enough to find out, but...would it be so bad to try? To take that first step and see?

He held you tighter, another whiff of that sweet perfume blessing him. Even if you'd never want more with him, at least he had this. At least he had now. And he'd do everything he could to get better. For you.

~❊~

July 1985

Hot, oppressive summers were no stranger to Indiana. What was strange was the idea of your best friend working at an ice cream shop. So of course you had to go see him.

On a day as hot as this, there was a line leading out of the Scoops Ahoy store front and wrapping past two other shops. You'd been standing in line for at least fifteen minutes before you even stepped foot into Scoops.

The shop was cute—themed to the ocean in every way imaginable, from the pinstriped blue and white walls to the porthole mirrors to the little anchors decorating everything.

Steve's voice dragged your attention to the counter, the words he was saying with forced enthusiasm like a shock to your nervous system: "Ahoy, sailor! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I'll be your captain, I'm Steve Harrington."

You peered around the line of people, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

Your eyes widened with the glee of a girl who now that the best blackmail she could have ever hoped for at the sight of him. He'd mentioned a work uniform, but had avoided the question when you'd asked how bad it was. Now you understood why.

Steve was a comically stereotyped sailor, decked out in a blue and white uniform that even included a bright red little neck tie. The worst part of it, though, was undoubtedly the awful white sailor hat that read "AHOY" sitting on his head.

You covered your mouth to stifle your laugh, and that was the exact moment Steve looked down the line and realized you were there. His eyes widened—in horror, you presumed—and the smallest giggle slipped between your fingers.

Less than ten minutes later, you were standing at the front of the line and Steve was ripping the hat off his head, looking miserable.

You were just about to crack a joke about his little sailor speech when he held up one finger. "Don't," he said quickly, softening it with a small, "Please."

Your shoulders shook as you held back a giggle.

He groaned. "Oh, come on. Does absolutely everyone I know have to see me in this thing?"

"It's not bad," you tried to say, your point undermined by the quiver of laughter in your voice.

"Uh huh," he said flatly. "Sure."

"It's cute!"

"It's demeaning," he corrected.

"It's on theme," you suggested.

"Don't you dare side with the company," he said, but you could see that you'd softened him a little.

"I wouldn't dare!"

"Hey, dingus!" A head popped through the now-open window behind Steve. "Hurry it up, there's a line!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it!" he snapped. He glanced back at you, apologetic. "That's Robin. She's...a bit of a handful. But, um, anyway... What can I get you?"

"My usual," you said, and Steve got to work on scooping out your favorite combo from the ice cream shop that was near your house.

He handed the cone to you. "It's on the house, by the way," he said, just as the door swung open and Robin took over at the counter, apparently not satisfied with the pace Steve was going at.

"Steve, you don't have to—"

"Of course I do," he interrupted. "Your my best friend."

His eyes locked on yours and held. Your jaw slackened at the fondness on his face, his eyes as open and as vulnerable as you'd ever seen them. They were clear, too, a sight that you'd been treated to more and more as of late, since he'd cleared the house of alcohol. By throwing out, this time, rather than drinking it.

"Steve," you whispered. "You're staring again."

"I know," he whispered back.

You blushed, not used to him not deflecting. "Take me on a date before you look at me like that," you teased. "You'll give a girl ideas otherwise." The heat of your cheeks increased. Fuck, why did I say that? Why'd I say it like that?

"I would," he said quickly. He blushed, more fiercely than you were. "If, um, if you were really asking, I mean."

Heart hammering in your ribs, you said, "I'm really asking, Steve."

Looking as shocked as you felt, Steve exhaled slowly. "Okay, um... How about tonight, then? At seven?"

You nodded quickly, afraid that if you didn't react fast enough, he'd take it back and you'd have to spend the rest of your life pretending it never happened.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked, cheeks now flushed with excitement.

"I, uh—"

"Wait, never mind, don't answer that. I'll think of something fun for us to do," he said.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Okay?" he asked, and you heard the are you that he'd forgotten to actually say.

You nodded. "Okay," you said again. "Really, really okay."

He grinned. "I'll see you tonight. I'll pick you up!"

"Okay!" you said.

You flounced out of the store, feeling lighter than you had in months—years, really—and were already thinking about what you'd wear on the date (did you have anything in your closet Steve hadn't seen yet?) as you drove home.

And yet, the date you were so excited for, would not come for several days. You should have known, of course—this was, after all, Hawkins.

~❊~

Foot tapping nervously, you sat in one of those ridiculously uncomfortable chairs, directly next to Steve's bed. The steady beeping of the machines he was hooked up to kept you from resting, which the doctors had assured you was all he was doing.

Steve had already been asleep in the bed when you'd arrived at his hospital room, following a very disjointed call from Dustin hours afer you'd given up on your date, who'd been hurriedly whispering about substances interacting strangely, Russians, some sort of wildly violent hit Steve had somehow taken, and had then asked, very quietly, "Do you know if he's had a lot to drink lately? It doesn't look like he's reacting to the meds properly."

So now you sat as his side, as you had for the past four hours, and waited while you racked your brain.

Steve hadn't been drinking, you were almost certain. You'd seen him brush off drinks offered by friends, had heard him opt for sodas when out to eat, had watched him drop lemons and limes into sparkling water even though his face twisted at the taste. It was anything but alcohol, as far as you could tell.

And yet...

You took a deep breath and told yourself it would be fine—he would be fine. The monsters and the Russians (had you really heard him correctly?) that Dustin had mentioned would not be Steve's downfall.

Bits and pieces of what had happened at the mall came to you from the others. Nancy sat with you for an hour, talking under her breath about a creature the kids had called the Mindflayer chasing the car Steve had been driving, and Dustin had come in again with a wild story about Steve and Robin getting lost in the vents and beat up and drugged by Russians (surely that had to stand for something, right?) and only when your brain was melted did he pause.

"Oh, and, um. The Mindflayer—y'know, the thing made up of all those people who kept acting strange and disappearing—it killed Max's brother."

You nearly choked. "You mean Billy?" For a moment, all you could remember was Steve's complaints about the guy from the year before.

"Yeah," Dustin said. "So, um, she's not doing too great either."

"Right," you murmured to yourself.

Dustin stood. "I should go check on her," he said. "I'll just be down the hall if anything changes here."

You nodded and watched Dustin leave. Only when the door was firmly shut behind him did you take Steve's hand, squeezing softly. "I'd really appreciate if you'd wake up now," you said quietly. "You're starting to freak me out."

But Steve's eyes remained shut, his breathing even. You watched the screens of the monitors on the opposite wall, relieved that his vitals looked—to your eye, at least—normal.

So you waited.

And waited.

Waited.

Eventually, your eyes began to get heavy. You curled up in the chair as best as you could, your hand still clasped around Steve's, and let your head rest against your own shoulder. You could at least attempt to get some rest while you were here...

You hadn't been in that position very long—though it had been long enough that your neck was starting to cramp and your legs had gone numb—when the blankets next to you rustled.

Steve's grip on your hand changed, tightened as his fingers curled around yours.

"Steve?" you whispered.

He made a soft sound of recognition, head rolling toward you. His lids fluttered for a moment before cracking open, barely a sliver. But it was enough for him to see you, his lips twitching into a half-smile.

Given how bruised he was, you wouldn't be surprised if that was all he could manage.

"Hey," he croaked.

You couldn't help but smile, your body faint with relief. "Hey, how're you feeling?"

Steve paused, taking quick stock of himself. "Pretty bad," he said at last. He sighed. "How long have I...?"

"Two hours," you said. "Well, you've been here for two hours, I don't know...much about before then."

He looked at you for a long moment, apprehensive, like he was trying to gauge how mad you were. "I meant to tell you about all this sooner," he said in a rush. "It's just— Well, there was so much going on and then we were told to keep quiet and then it felt cruel to drag you into all of this when it had mostly left you alone—"

"Steve," you interrupted. "I'm not mad about that. It's okay. Actually, I'm not really mad at all, I'm just a little...freaked out. Dustin keeps rambling about you saving the day but also getting beat up? And everyone has a different version of what happened? And then the news—all that's been on the news for the past like three hours is that Starcourt's decimated and on fire—they still haven't contained that, by the way—and they've given no official reason yet but Dustin says there's a, what did he call it?"

"A Mindflayer," Steve supplied. "Yeah. Big fleshy thing that chased us around town and smashed the roof in. Kept trying to eat us or absorb us or whatever. The kids decided to blow it up with fireworks."

You stared at him for a moment, a stuck breath finally escaping with a quiet sound of disbelief. You shook your head as Steve laughed quietly, shaking his head.

"Russians?" you asked. "That's code for something, right?"

"I wish," Steve snorted. "They drugged me and Robin."

"They drugged you?"

"Mhm, and then they beat us up, in their little underground base," he added, and he sounded loopy enough that you believed him. He lifted one hand to his head, gingerly touching his bruises. "Actually, it wasn't little. It was big and confusing and I got lost like four times. Good thing about it all, though, is that now we're pretty good friends. Me and Robin, I mean."

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on his bed. "Good. You needed a friend other than me and some middle schoolers."

"Hey," he complained, attempting to flick your head. You didn't tell him that it didn't quite land.

In the silence that settled over you, you said softly, "But...you are okay? You will be okay?"

He nodded. "I'm okay," he promised. He reached up and slowly ruffled your hair, smiling. "Pretty sure everything's out of my system but the morphine they gave me." He held up the arm with the IV in it and sighed. "But I guess this means my sober streak's over." He glanced at you, mouth twitching into an awkward line.

You took his hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. His pulse kicked up beneath your fingers. "I won't count it if you won't."

"You're not mad?"

"How could I be? You got drugged against your will and beat up, apparently by Russian spies!" You found yourself laughing at the improbability of it all. You laced your fingers with his. "How did you even...?"

He shrugged. "Had to protect the others."

"C'mon, Steve," you sighed. "Do you always gotta be the one to put yourself in danger? Take the reckless chance?" He shrugged, glancing away from your questions. "I... I get it, really. You always put the kids first. I guess it makes sense now, if you've been getting...chased by homicidal creatures from hell itself, from what the others have said, but..." You nuzzled against his hand, mumbling, "I think I'd prefer you drinking and smoking in excess to nearly dying all the time." Steve raised a brow. "I'd rather take back every argument and every jab I made if it would keep you safe."

He shook his head. "Hey, you are keeping me safe," he said. "Just...in the way you know how. And honestly, I'm...glad that you did. I don't think I'd be able to...show up for these guys the way I have if you hadn't." He glanced over at you. "Or you."

"Steve, you were always there when I needed you—"

"It upset you," he said simply. "Even if I was physically there, I wasn't... I wasn't paying attention to you the way I should have. I wasn't showing up for you like I needed to, not always." He shrugged away the protest you didn't get to voice the moment you opened your mouth. "If I had, I would have asked you on a date a lot sooner." His face fell very suddenly. "I'm sorry I bailed—"

You scoffed. "You didn't bail, Steve, you ended up in a hidden basement and got tortured!"

He huffed. "Yeah. Alright." His lips twitched. "Do you still want to?"

Squeezing his hand, you grinned. "Of course I do." You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Once you don't look like you lost a fistfight."

Steve blushed, shaking his head. "They drugged me!"

"I'm only teasing," you murmured. "But honestly—you should get some more rest."

He shook his head. "I'll sleep when I'm home. Can you grab a nurse?"

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "If I'm gonna be an invalid, I'm gonna do it in my own bed." He glanced at you. "And then maybe you could stay and cuddle up next to me?"

You smiled. "Lemme go see if I can find someone to discharge you."

And off you went, Steve grinning behind you and lazy, content butterflies brushing the walls of your stomach.

~❊~

August 1985

Steve had never thought the perfect date would just happen in his car, but sitting here, parked on the side of the lake, he couldn't think of a time he'd on a better date.

Or maybe it was just because he was finally on a date with you.

The radio was playing soft music, the volume low and somehow sensual. From the cracked windows, you could hear the soft sound of water, the lake lapped at its banks. The remnants of your finished meal had been tossed into the backseat: fries and burgers, a milkshake split between you, which still sat in the cupholder in the console.

And your fingers were laced in his across the console.

Your head rested on his shoulder. As he had been doing for the last five minutes, Steve turned his head to softly kiss the crown of your head. This quiet—it was easy with you, when on any other date silence had made Steve fidgety, his date's expectations obvious.

Your only expectation, it seemed, was to enjoy the view together. And to fall asleep on his shoulder.

Steve's arm, wrapped around you, gave you a gentle squeeze on the next kiss. You hummed happily, nuzzling against him. You mumbled his name.

"Mmm?"

"This is nice," you murmured.

Steve hummed. "Yeah," he said. "I...know it's nothing special, but..."

"Doesn't have to be," you said simply. "I'm happy just to hang out with you."

"Does that mean when it gets warmer you'll be happy when I toss you in the pool?"

"Don't you dare, Steve Harrington." He laughed. You looked up at him, eyes sparkling despite the unimpressed look on your face. "I'm serious! I'll take you down with me."

He brushed your hair out of your face. "Can't say I'd really complain about it."

Your eyes seemed to melt, syrupy with your affection, as you leaned into the touch. Steve felt that familiar flutter in his chest, desperate and needy. Shit, you were beautiful like this, staring at him with an adoration he’d once thought he’d only ever dream. He realized as you smiled that he was staring—noticeably so. But you didn’t seem to mind the look into his eyes at all.

Steve brushed his thumb over your cheekbone. “May I…?”

“Please,” you whispered.

He pulled you closer, arm around your neck. His lips met yours—pillowy soft, gentle. He pulled away with a slight laugh. Your hand cupped his cheek, drawing him close to you. Steve kissed you again, unable to stop his grin. “I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured against you, “for so long.”

“Keep going,” you whispered. “Keep kissing me.”

He did. One by one, he pressed gentle kisses to your lips. At last you whimpered, “More, Steve, please.” He wasn’t sure if it was the request or simply the sound of his name on your breathless lips, that did him in, but his restraint snapped. Fumbling a little, he moved the milkshake, flipped up the console, and pulled your body tight against his own. His hands stayed on your waist, massaging you gently as he kissed you, deeper than before.

“Fuck, Steve,” you murmured. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned into your mouth, gripping your hip. “C’mere, pretty girl.”

You melted, letting him move you, happily adjusting to sit in his lap. His arms slipped up your back, cradling you against him. A hand slipped into your hair and you hummed, returning the gesture. Steve smiled.

“Knew you liked my hair,” he mumbled.

“Who doesn’t?” you asked. You pulled back briefly, running your fingers through it. “It looks a lot better now, you know. Then when you were King Steve.”

He huffed. “You should’ve smacked me upside the head for all of that.”

You rolled your eyes. “I tried, if you recall.”

Steve hummed. “Yeah. I’m just a sucky listener, huh?”

You shook your head. “In the past,” you said. “Right now, I’m in your lap.”

“Thank God for that,” Steve said, pulling you in again. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

And maybe he had taken a while to get here. But every second was worth it. You tasted better than any alcohol that had every touched his lips.

☞ ❊ ☜

[Image Caption: I do not give permission to repost, translate, or publish my work on any other site or app by anyone except myself. I do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI (for audio, art, or writing).]

Stranger Things // Steve Harrington

A comfortable warmth envelops your body. The weight of a hard week sinks you into the mattress. And yet, your deep slumber decides to crumble away. You feel a familiar stretch between your legs. Your walls clench instinctively, earning a heated sigh from the lips that rest just behind your ear.

With eyes still closed, your memory reassembles the pieces: a busy week with no time to relax, no time to really enjoy each other’s company. A busy week that culminated in heavy kisses and hands pinned to the bedsheets.

And now, the man that you love lies pressed against your back, still buried inside you—the exact position from which exhaustion had claimed you both.

The steady breaths in your ear tell you that he has not yet woken, but the shallow thrust of his hips jolts molten heat straight to your core. A moan escapes, and your fingertips grasp for his hip beneath the sheets.

He rouses then, awareness prompting a gentle apology to cascade from his lips. But he has nothing to be sorry for.

In the darkness of the early morning hours, you whisper over your shoulder and beg him for more.

His response is immediate. Sleepy kisses lave along your neck, sloped nose nuzzling behind your ear; an arm slips across your waist to caress your breast before shifting to the apex of your thighs.

The motion earns him a whimper of pleasure as he begins to match the rhythm of his hips with the pace of his skilled fingers.

Your toes curl as you continue to clench around him. Your hands fist the messy, cotton sheets when he finds that one spot that makes you see stars.

His whispered praises send your body soaring, and it's not long before your pleasure breaks with him spilling inside.

A large hand moves to tether you together, an anchor against the ebb and flow of ecstasy that mixes with raw emotion.

As breaths slow and racing hearts subside, the two of you shift face-to-face in one another's arms. I love yous mingle in the small space between bare chests before exhaustion once again creeps in, slipping the two of you back into a contented sleep.

Thank you for reading 🩵

An anticipation flutters in him as his ears attune themselves to the familiar sound of your truck rolling to a stop in his driveway. Each sound is a memory that is resonating in real time: the push of your car door closing in, the chirp of your lock, your footsteps shuffling on his stoop, and the gentle sound when you ring his doorbell. You didn't really have to do that. He hopes that maybe one you'll realize that you don't have to do that.

"Hey," he greets you, recalling a time when he used to just shout that the door was open the first few sessions.

"Uh, hey to you, too," you greet him with a smile and the slightest giggle, "your hair is…different."

He's combed it in a way that has taken a lot of time and care. You notice a bit of a side part with the sides combed back. It's formal and stiff, but you can't help acknowledge the effort he's taken. He frowns, feeling shudders of disappointment and embarrassment at how you reacted. Self-consciously, he brings his fingers to touch the side of his head.

"That's not really fair, " Gator grumbles.

Combing hair, grooming, and any other kind of makeup routine is difficult for any and all of your clients. For those with close cuts or those who are balding, grooming isn't a problem. Gator's predicament is the exact opposite. His brown hair is soft, thick, and full. When he's slicked it back like he used to or combs it too perfectly, it doesn't suit him.

"Hey, you know what I mean…" You raise your hand to hover just above his temple, close enough for him to feel the ghost of your touch. "May I?"

He understands and nods. With a gentle caress, you comb your fingers through his hair. Your touch releases the confines he temporarily placed on himself. The warmth from your hands on his hair feels like a luxury, especially as he feels his hair fall naturally into place. He breathes slowly as you shake out his hair. Your fingers act as liberator and as they leave his locks, he feels free.

"There we go, much better," you say admiring your handiwork.

"Yeah?" Gator's voice rises in genuine want of your honest opinion. "How do I look?"

You find yourself trying to hide an exhale that comes from deep inside your chest, "You're gonna have to bat the ladies away now."

"What if I don't want to?" He asks with a steady and earnest voice.

He leans in a millimeter closer to you, his face directly in front of yours.

His question lives somewhere between rhetorical and pointed—between dancing around an answer that he feels he'd never be able to hear and another answer he desperately wants to know. As he works through these racing thoughts, you look up at him. You contemplate answering but find yourself working through some mental gymnastics of your own. You're not stupid and you can sense where this may be going. It's therapist-client lesson 101: don't catch feelings. You've never had this problem before.

Based on just about everything you've heard about Gator, he might as well wave a red flag outside his house every day. That's what they said. They said he was no good. But the longer you've been working with him, the more he seems to defy everyone's expectations of him.

This can't possibly end well. You think to yourself. So, you do the only thing that makes sense—you deflect to avoid really answering the question the way you want so you can protect your heart.

"Well, maybe you'll get your chance," you say with a smile, your hand gently patting his chest, "maybe there'll be a pretty girl, or girls, who will take notice when we go out today."

"Huh?" The corner of Gator's lips twitch with feigned confusion. "Are you taking me out to a bar or somethin'?"

"Yes, Gator," you say, keenly aware of how your sarcasm coats every word, "I, your therapist, am taking you to a bar mid-morning in the dead of winter in Minnesota."

He steps a little closer and you notice a smirk form at the corner of his lips.

"Now who's a smart ass?"

He's close enough that you can smell the hint of his shower gel and deodorant on his skin. You notice the smoothness of his skin and the moles that adorn his face. Almost against your will, your tongue pushes itself out of your mouth to lick your lips. An embarrassment filled heat colors your cheeks and you're thankful he can't see it. With a subtle clearing of your throat you step back from him and chuckle.

"Spoiler alert," you tease him even though you know you shouldn't, "I've always been a smartass—now let's go."

His lips are parted as he tries think of a comeback that doesn't come to him. So, he just nods and follows you to your truck. Though he's come to trust you about your training sessions, a nagging anxiety always lingers when he doesn't know exactly what you have planned. As if reading his mind, you seek to allay the concerns that you can tell he has.

"So, today's going to be a little more challenging: we're going to the galleria," you pause to gauge his reaction.

It's one of restrained discomfort that he's trying to hide from you. You reach over to grasp his hand in reassurance. He draws in a deep breath and turns his head in your direction.

"It will be fine; you will do great," you declare with confidence.

He notices how you quickly you move your hand from his. It’s the most subtle of moves, but it haunts him.

"You sure 'bout that?" He asks as he puffs his chest. "It's probably really crowded now; Christmas is so close."

"Yes, I am sure," you pause and add with a hint of teasing, "just don't go around calling kids little shits."

You observe how the corners of his lips tremble with a suppressed laugh. The grin that emerges on his soft lips draws in your gaze. Once again, you're glad he can't perceive that.

The drive to the galleria thankfully isn't a long one. He's become attuned with how your car moves. He knows when you've been going down a long stretch of road. His body feels the shifting movements of the truck with each consecutive turn you make. He feels it in his core as your acceleration decreases. All this tells Gator how close you are to your destination.

His knees shake with an anxious energy as you slowly roll your truck into a parking space. He opens his door slightly, waiting for you and knowing you always meet him there. As you pull the door open all the way for him, the bustling sounds of shoppers meets his ears.

He sets his cane on the ground and steps out of the truck, pushing the door closed behind him. Whether it be routine or instinct, he hooks his left hand into the crook of your elbow. You accept it without any second thought.

"Ok, so I know you can obviously tell there a lot of people," you tell him as you lead him to step up onto the sidewalk. "Remember your cane is essential; it's a guide for you but it really helps other people to be more aware and respectful of your space—unless they're assholes of course."

You say it just as a few shoppers zoom past Gator barely missing his cane. They look back at you when they hear your expletive and are greeted with your judgmental scowl. He turns to you, brows raised, the left corner of his lips skipping upwards into a smirk.

"Assholes, huh?" He muses, a playfulness dances through the tone of his voice. "You've been hanging around me too much; I'm rubbin' off on ya."

"You wish," you reply, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

Through the cold air, the sounds of the season flutter around you both: the giggles of children and their little voices listing off their wish lists for Santa, bells jingling, and people conversing on their cell phones about last minute presents and plans. The sounds push through the cold and Gator feels them wrap the two of you in a warmth that goes straight to his heart.

"Can we go to the record store?" You ask Gator, pressing your free hand over the hand he keeps tucked in your elbow.

"Sure," he agrees with a shrug, wondering if he even has a say.

The way Gator's grip tenses at your elbow tells you he senses how small the store is. The sensation reminds you to make it a short trip. The aromatic scent of the paper vinyl jackets, the sound of an album playing in the background, and the concurrent conversations start to overwhelm his senses. He brings his cane closer to his body as he feels bodies shuffle through the tight aisles. Other shoppers walk past him, sometimes accidentally nudging his shoulder or his cane.

"You like vinyl, right?" You ask, noticing his discomfort.

Engaging him in conversation always seem to put him at ease. The question sparks a pause in time that he uses to think on his answer. He's not sure that anyone's really asked him before.He's not sure when the last time as anyone asked him about thinks he liked or didn't like. He nods.

"Yeah," he replies allowing a beat of silence before continuing, "lost most of my collection though, after—everything—ya know?"

"Right," you murmur in thought as you remember the news.

Kidnapping. Corruption. Rituals. Murder. It had all the elements that are closer to fiction than reality. It had all the things you could put into a movie. But maybe movies just mirror real life.

"I'm so sorry 'bout that Gator, really."

You look on him, not with pity, but with sadness and the firm belief that he is deserving of so much more than what he's been dealt. And he can feel your gaze setting off a buzz of energy he can't explain. Whatever it is you do—he's never felt so vulnerable. He wishes he could see you, he thinks, as he bows his head down his hair falling towards his forehead. Taking his hand from your arm, he pushes the strands from his face.

"Well…you win some, you lose some," he states his voice trailing off.

A few more shoppers shuffle around you, looking through the shelves of vinyl. Cognizant of the tight space, you take hold of Gator's hand. Your fingers act as though controlled by something beyond you and you find yours intertwining with his. Holding some records in one hand and keeping Gator's hand in your other, you lead him to the cash register where you quickly pay.

As you leave, it feels less like you're leading Gator as he keeps in step beside you. His sweeps his cane lightly across the ground before him as you navigate the holiday shoppers in the Galleria. You keep a tight hold of his hand as Gator's awareness heightens with every step he takes. The observations in his mind take over and he notices that everyone seems engaged in themselves and their own actions. But he also senses the subtle change in their movements as they maneuver around him, aware and respectful of his space.

You bear witness to how moves with more ease with each step he takes. The anxiety he often holds gradually melts away, moving through the crowd like he belongs.

"Hey," you say as you turn to him and squeeze his hand, "you're really doing a great job. "

He moves to say something but stops when he hears a familiar voice ring out.

"Gator," a woman's voice clears the crowd, the sound of it moving closer towards you.

Gator recognizes it, his heart filling with equal measures of timidity and guilt.

"Dot?" Gator utters and you immediately loosen your fingers from his.

He wishes you hadn't let go, but he works out clearly in his head the reason you did. In a few short moments Dot and her daughter Scotty stand before you. Dot's face shines with empathy and kindness, while her daughter stays quiet at her side. You can't blame Scotty for her apprehension given all the pain and trauma Roy Tillman and Gator had inflicted on their family.

"Are you doing ok, Gator?" Dot asks, a soft kindness imbues itself in her voice and her expression. "You look like you're doing better."

Gator hangs his head down while giving a slight nod.

"Well, I'm tryin'," Gator replies and gestures towards you, "and I've had lots of help."

Dot takes your hand and squeezes it with a kind of gratitude that you feel is almost undeserved. Dot pulls Gator into a conversation. Her genuine concern never disappears as she asks him about life, therapy, and even his sleeping habits. You watch Gator listen intently to each word like a child with his mother. Shifting her weight from side to side, Scotty garners your attention by pointing at your shopping bag. At the same time, Scotty looks you up and down as though she's sizing you up.

"You got some records?" Scotty says, starting with small talk.

"Yep," you reply, turning your full attention to her, "I'm just finishing up the last of my shopping."

Scotty nods, "Did you get any for yourself?"

"No, not this time," you respond, taking note of her genuine curiosity, "trying to make sure I get stuff for others before myself, you know?"

"I would get something for myself," she says with a beautiful simplicity bestowed only to children. "Sometimes it's fun to get yourself a little gift—that's what my mom says."

You wait a few moments to contemplate on her observation while you craft your own reply. You release a chuckle as Scotty gazes at you with a wide-eyed smile and an emphatic nod.

"Your mom is a smart woman, Scotty."

"I know," she says earnestly, "I can tell you're a lot like her; you're really kind."

Scotty's eyes shift back to Gator and Dot as she speaks. Ever observant, you follow the thread of her gaze which seems to be weaving between you and Gator. You swear you catch Gator glance at you quickly before he turns his attention back to his own conversation.

"So what do you want for Christmas?" Gator hears you ask Scotty.

He hears her lists off a few items: a light up hoverboard, a knitting kit, and a kit to make jewelry at home. Your smile is bright and wide as you listen to Scotty relay her Christmas wishes to you. Her honesty and innocence shine through and you envy it.

"What about you? What do you want?" Scotty asks.

"Oh gosh, let's see," you pause in thought, "I'm a sucker for a really good pen and a pretty journal."

Scotty's confusion appears instantly on her face, "A pen and a journal! That's it??"

"I'm a pretty simple girl, Scotty," you say plainly, "I really don't need much."

"Are you sure?" Scotty squints her eyes in disbelief. "I don't believe you."

"You're persistent," you add with smile. "Ok, fine, a girl can always use a pretty bracelet or a nice pair of earrings."

With a look of contemplation that seems wise beyond her years, Scotty gives you a knowing nod that says: I told you so. You turn your attention back to Dot and Gator as they continue to converse.

"You know Scotty's got a Christmas pageant in a week," Dot says to Gator, her voice and eyes full of genuine kindness. "You should come. What do you think Scotty?"

Scotty moves closer to her mom, first looking at Gator and then gesturing back at you. "Sure, but she should come to!"

You blink rapidly with surprise at the unexpected suggestion. You to turn to Gator to take in his reaction to Scotty's request, you see his face is already turned to you with his eyebrows raised. Dot's eyes shift from you to her daughter who looks at you with the brightest smile and a wide-eyed, glee-filled gaze.

"Now how can you say 'no' that face?" Dot added with a shrug and a joyful smile of her own. "You really should come; they always do a good job and it's just a real nice event for the season."

As you look back to Gator, he presents his open hands to you, wordlessly intimating the decision is yours and yours alone. Your eyes move from to Dot and then to Scotty again. Dot does have one thing right—how can you say no that face? With a nod of your head, you give Dot your answer. Scotty claps excitedly as Gator seems to let out a quick sigh.

Dot pulls you closer and asks you quietly, "Would you be able to bring Gator?"

"I can figure it out on my own, Dot!" He exclaims having heard her request, a mixture of embarrassment and indignation coming from deep in his chest.

"Oh, Gator, I didn't mean anything by it, I just thought—," she begins, her words full of nothing but kindhearted truth.

"No, Gator, don't worry about it," you chime in, "it's not a problem, I can bring you."

"Well, it's settled then!" Dot adds before taking Scotty's hand. "We're going to go finish some errands and we'll see you both next weekend."

Gator nods and smiles before giving them slight wave. This time, you hook your hand into his arm, gently leading him through the crowds back to the parking lot. He is hyper focused on moving his cane in front of him and his posture feels a little cold and stiff.

"So do you wanna go anywhere?" You ask him, trying to break the silence that's suddenly filled the air.

Gator shrugs, "No, not really."

His terse response almost makes you want to let him go and leave him behind. But you can't; you care too damn much.

"Ok," you acknowledge while you furrow your brows with confusion. "I guess we'll just go home then?"

"That's fine."

The silence continues as you walk towards the parking lot. When you're back at your truck, you open the door for him and he climbs in quietly. His elbow finds rest on the door and he presses his chin against a clenched fist, once inside. His tight lips, the slump of his shoulders, and his overall demeanor give the distinct impression that he is sulking.

Once you settle into the driver's seat you turn the ignition and begin your drive back to Gator's house. The air in your car is thick with silence as he crosses his arms over his chest. You hate these bouts of childish silent treatment he still clings to. You can engage him but decide against, not wanting to get into an argument with him.

When you pull into his driveway, Gator is quick to open the door. He sets his can down with a loud tap on the cement of his driveway. His movements are cautious but controlled as he navigates his way to the front door. Even in his adult tantrum he impressively manages to find his way to the door. He takes a deep breath before unlocking and opening it.

"What's with the attitude?" You finally ask with exasperation, following him inside.

"I don't have an attitude," he mumbles as he sets his cane against the bookshelf closest to the front door.

"Snapping at Dot, the silent treatment in the car?" You remind him, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet as you step towards him. "It seems like it to me."

He turns around and meets you leaving only a foot of space between the two of you.

"I could get there on my own just fine," he insists with a pout of his lips, "I can figure it out! I'm not helpless."

"No one called you helpless, Gator!" You wave your hands at your side. "Dot was just trying to make it easier for—"

"I don't need your pity!" Gator asserts while taking another step towards you.

"You need to cut it out with that!" You challenge him, hoping that he can feel how hard you are glaring at him. "When have I ever treated you with pity?"

"No," he sneers, "you just treat me like a job!"

A volcano is erupting inside you. It's heating up your face. He's made you upset before but not like this.

"Has it never occurred to you that I like spending time you?!" You shout, all reason leaving your body. "That I want to spend time with you?!"

You watch as Gator's chest rises and falls breathing in the weight if your words. He moves closer and lifts a gentle hand to hover inches from your face. And when he traces a soft caress down the curve of your cheek you can't help but draw in a sharp breath of your own. The heat of his touch is something unexpected while also being something you've been waiting for.

He leans in closer and pauses, wondering if you'll pull away. You can and maybe you should, but much to Gator's relief, you don't. Instead, you lean your head into his large hand and close your eyes. The softness of your skin warms his hand as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear before settling at the crook of your neck.

His lips are finally on yours with a kiss that is timid and soft at the start. The softness of his lips pulls you in and you press your lips harder against his. The scent of you fills him with elation while his other hand pulls you closer to him. He needs more. The softness is not enough.

You feel his grip at your waist tighten before he slips his tongue gently to open your lips and when you don't fight he pushes in deeper. Gator feels your left hand caress down his shoulder until you rest it on his forearm. He can't help but pull you closer to him, his right hand beginning to meander just beneath the hem of your shirt.

Too much. Not enough. Too much.

Your mind and heart are racing as you try desperately to work through the feelings that his lips, his hands, and maybe the inkling of something else are igniting in you.

"Stop, Gator, stop!" You release yourself from his kiss and step back. "I…we can't."

He stands before you and though he can't see your face, he's certain the expression you have must hold regret. His hand falls and his heart follows, moving down to the pit of his stomach.

"Fuck. Fuck!" He swears, running his hands through his hair. "I fucked it up."

"You didn't," You insist, unable to fight moving closer to him. "I promise you didn't."

He steps forward noticing a hint of longing in your voice. He tests the waters before you both.

"No?" A teasing tone leaves his lips as he leans towards you again.

You feel his breath upon your lips as the conflict continues in your mind. Feeling his lips on yours again is a desire and a temptation. He leans in his lips just brushing yours before you back away.

"I can't do this," you say through intense breaths.

"Why not?" He moves closer to you, caressing soft fingers down the length of your right arm.

"It's unethical, I could lose my job, ," you begin spouting reasons. "It's unfair to you."

"You can't tell me you don't feel something, sweetheart," he rebukes with more than a hint of snark to his tone.

Together, his words and tone come straight for your heart.

"You're right, I can't," you confirm, your lips trembling and your stomach flopping with the myriad of emotions swirling inside you. "Gator, I just need time to think…I—I'm sorry."

He scoffs in a combination of disbelief, frustration, and most of all, disappointment. There are so many words he wants to say to you, none of them coming out. A voice echoes inside his mind, as he asks himself if anything he says would make a difference.

"I'll call you before the weekend comes, I promise," you tell him, hoping he knows that you're going to keep your word. "I've gotta go."

Before he can say something—anything— to convince you to stay, he hears the familiar sounds of the door opening and then closing behind you. He hears your gentle footsteps on his stoop, leaving instead of arriving. The sound of your truck pulling away from his driveway leaves a silence that screams in his ears. Frustration riddles his breath as the warmth you bring disappears with your absence.

The only sounds in the room were your soft moans and Steve's panting, paired with the light sound of your bodies colliding.

The two of you were meant to be going to bed, but Steve’s wandering hands and soft kisses being pressed to your skin escalated to him slipping his fingers under the waistband of your sleep shorts.

It led to where you are now – your sleep shorts forgotten on the floor, Steve’s boxers hastily pushed down his thighs and your panties pushed carelessly to the side due to the rush Steve felt to get inside of you.

You were lying on your side, Steve behind you with his palm splayed over your lower stomach as he fucked into you slowly.

Steve had his eyes screwed shut as he breathed heavily behind you. Soft huffs of his warm breath brushed against the back of your neck, your hand gripping a fistful of his blanket.

“Fuck..” Steve grunted, his voice shaky.

You felt as he steadily increased his pace, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as he angled himself a bit better. His large hand remained resting over your stomach, feeling the shape of him bulging with each thrust.

Steve pressed a shaky kiss to your shoulder, his forehead falling against it after. “God, you’re so perfect.” He panted, his voice strained with the effort of his thrusts.

“Feel so good, baby. Always feel so good for me, fuck.” He breathed against you, his lips parting as his eyebrows furrowed.

“Steve, oh my god.” You whimpered, with a voice just as shaky as his. “Just like that, please..”

You heard Steve let out a low and breathy chuckle, lifting his head again as he once again adjusted his angle and pace for you. “Yeah? Like this, baby?” The confidence in his tone made you shiver, as your pussy clenched around him on instinct.

All you could do was nod quickly, a choked whine escaping you. The words left your mind entirely as Steve fucked you just right, his large hand slipping underneath his shirt you were wearing to cup one of your breasts.

“Use your words.” Steve’s lips brushed against your ear, voice low. “Tell me how good I’m making you feel. I wanna hear it.”

Your lips parted, but all that left was a shaky moan of his name that cut off into a hitch of your breath halfway through.

Steve chuckled lowly again, his thumb brushing over your pebbled nipple.

“Is it that good, baby? Can’t even speak now, hm?” The sound of his teasing made your cheeks flush a deep shade of red, heat pooling in your lower stomach.

Your pussy clenched around him again, coaxing a groan from his parted lips. His hand slid back down your body to grip your hip, the sound of skin on skin increasing in volume.

“Yeah, that’s right. My perfect girl, all mine.” Steve continued, a cocky smirk on his face. “Fucking love it when I fuck you dumb.”

You could tell you were close, that familiar feeling tightening in your lower belly more and more as he hit the perfect spot inside of you.

The feeling of his cock pounding into your soaked cunt paired with his teasing praises made you feel as if you were floating, your head tilting back to rest against him.

Steve cursed under his breath, his own climax approaching. His heart was pounding, his ears feeling like cotton was in them as his mind flooded with you and just you. How good you felt around him, the sounds leaving your pretty lips, the way you clenched around him when he teased you with his words, the sound of your soaked pussy as he fucked you.

All of it combined was pushing him closer to the brink, his thrusts slowly getting sloppier.

“‘M so close, Steve..” You finally were able to speak. The pitch of your voice was much higher now, as your climax was approaching quickly.

Steve lowered his hand, releasing your hip. His fingers found your clit, as he wasted no time in rubbing quick circles over it.

A louder moan left you, whining out Steve’s name in a haze of pleasure. “Steve..” You gasped, your hand moving to grip at his forearm. Your nails dug subtly into his skin, while your hips began to move back to meet his thrusts.

“You gonna cum for me?” Steve asked, his thrusts sloppily meeting yours as you fucked yourself on him.

You nodded quickly, while your eyes screwed shut tightly. His fingers continued their abuse on your clit, his cock continuing to pound into you just the way you like.

Steve grunted, “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He warned with a raspy voice. “Gonna fill you up, pretty girl. Make you so full of me.”

His words were the tipping point for you, a high pitch whine escaping you as your pussy spasmed around his cock. Your release made you feel lightheaded, your vision whiting out as you came hard.

Steve followed closely, with a groan of your name and a string of curse words following it as he released thick ropes of cum inside of you.

The once steady movement of his hips grew less consistent, the two of you completely lost in each other. His hand fell from your clit and gripped your hip again, squeezing the skin in his large hand as he finally slowed to a stop.

Your thighs were trembling, feeling spent and satisfied as the two of you panted together in the aftermath of your activities. He remained nestled deep inside of you as you two came down, leaving you feeling so full of him.

The room was still for a few moments, the only sound now being the two of you collecting yourselves with heavy breathing.

Finally, after several moments, Steve lifted his head and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, then your neck.

“You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.” He praised, his voice low in your ear. “So perfect all the time for me. I’m so fucking lucky.”

He slowly pulled out of you, a whimper leaving you at the loss. Steve hushed you with a soft kiss to your lips, licking into your mouth slowly.

Once he pulled back, he sat up and tucked himself into his boxers hastily. “I’ll be right back, okay?” He assured you, quickly disappearing into his bathroom.

When Steve returned, he had a wet wash cloth in his hand. He kneeled next to you on the bed, gently spreading your legs before he removed your panties the rest of the way. He cleaned you up with care, his touch soft.

The warm wash cloth wiped away the collection of your releases between your thighs, Steve gently cleaning up your spent pussy while he whispered soft praises to you. He leaned down and pressed a few kisses to your inner thighs, pulling back to grab you a fresh pair of panties from your spot in his dresser.

Once you were taken care of, Steve disappeared back into his bathroom.

You could hear the faucet running from where you laid, heart still racing and your thighs still feeling that tremble.

Steve returned after a few minutes with a new pair of boxers on, flicking the lamp back off then climbing back into bed next to you. He immediately pulled you into his arms, tucking you safely to his chest.

“I love you.” Steve murmured, a smile making its way onto your face.

You pressed a soft kiss to his chin, “I love you too, Steve.”