🧸

Because Steve never hesitates.

Never acts like affection is something shameful.

Love pours out of him, as naturally as body heat.

If your hands are cold, he interrupts himself halfway through a story just to catch your fingers and tuck them into his jacket pockets alongside his own, rubbing warmth back into your knuckles while continuing his sentence without missing a beat.

If you yawn during movie night, his arm is around your shoulders before the sound can finish leaving your mouth. “C’mere, sleepy girl,” he murmurs automatically, pulling you sideways against his chest.

If your shoelaces come untied in the middle of the sidewalk, he drops immediately to one knee with a distracted, “hang on, baby.”

Rainwater hisses along the curb while he reties the bow tighter this time, fingers quick and practiced, one hand steadying lightly against your ankle. His knuckles brush your skin through your sock and you have to stand there, holding your breath until your lungs ache with it, staring down at the concentration pulling his brows together.

Wondering what it must be like to love someone with your whole heart and not feel like it’s going to break you open.

He’s warm everywhere, your Steve. Warm hands, warm mouth. Warm stomach pressed against your back beneath blankets. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cedar cologne rubbed into the collar of his jackets. Sometimes vanilla chapstick, sometimes mint gum. Always Steve.

And the kisses are constant too.

Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.

The corner of your mouth while waiting for the microwave to beep. Your forehead when he passes behind you in the kitchen. Your shoulder while you lean over the sink brushing your teeth side by side. The back of your neck when he reaches around you for orange juice in the fridge, mumbling a sleepy, “morning, honey,” against your skin before kissing beneath your hairline.

Sometimes he just looks at you for a second. Expression softening imperceptibly, like some private thought crossed his mind, and then he leans over and kisses your cheek with this quiet little hum in his throat.

Like loving you tastes good.

And god, the neck kissing.

It’s terrible.

And right now, in the middle of a museum gallery so quiet you can hear shoes squeak against polished floors, he’s doing it again.

You’re trying to read the plaque beneath some enormous renaissance painting—something about divinity and grief, oil on canvas—but Steve is behind you, arms folded around your waist while he scans the museum brochure one-handed.

One of his hands has slipped beneath your cardigan, warm palm spread low across your stomach.

“Okay, so,” he murmurs near your ear, voice low enough that the sound vibrates through you, “there’s the Greek sculpture thing upstairs, or... there’s apparently a room with these like, tiny dollhouses?”

You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrifying.”

“Right?” His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Like what if one of them’s haunted?”

Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.

One lazy, distracted kiss.

His lips are soft, slightly chapped from the cold outside. Warm breath spills across your skin afterward, making your pulse jump beneath his mouth. He lingers there, nose nudging lightly against your neck while he keeps mumbling off different sections of the museum.

You feel the shape of his smile against your skin when he finds another ridiculous exhibit.

“Apparently there’s a room that’s just chairs.”

“That can’t be true.”

“No, I swear to god.”

Then his mouth drifts lower.

Open-mouthed kisses this time.

Slow enough that warmth blooms beneath every press of his lips. You feel the faint scrape of his teeth catch your skin playfully before he smooths over it with another softer kiss, his thumb stroking across your stomach.

Your entire body tightens around the feeling.

The worst part is knowing that he isn’t trying to fluster you.

Steve isn’t performing intimacy.

He just never second-guesses affection.

Unlike you.

For you, every touch feels catastrophic.

The second Steve touches you, awareness crashes through your body all at once—your pulse, your breathing, the weight of his hand, whether your hair smells okay, whether your stomach feels too soft beneath his palm, whether someone across the gallery can see this.

Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.

“....and Robin said there’s some painting of a guy eating his own son which honestly seems kinda—”

He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.

“Babe?”

You blink hard, staring at the plaque without reading a single word.

Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.

“Hey,” his hand slides higher, rubbing gently over your ribs. “You okay?”

“Hm? Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Another lie.

Your skin still burns where he kissed you.

And underneath all the panic is something worse.

Fear and hunger, knotted so tightly you can’t separate them anymore.

Wanting him closer, wanting him to keep touching you forever. Wanting to crawl inside every warm, gentle thing he gives you and stay there.

Not knowing what you’d do if he ever stopped.

Because as terrifying as it is to be loved this softly, you think losing it might actually destroy you.

“You wanna sit down for a sec?” Steve asks quietly. “I think I still have that granola bar in my bag if you’re hungry.”

You almost laugh, because of course that’s where his mind goes.  

Care.

Always care.

“No, I’m okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “We can keep going. The uh, Greek sculpture thing sounds good.”

He watches you for a beat longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing against your hipbone through your jeans.

“Okay,” he says finally.

His hand slides up your arm, gently fixing the cardigan slipping off your shoulder. His fingers brush your neck in the process, absentmindedly smoothing your hair back into place too.

And then, because he’s Steve—because affection lives inside him so naturally he doesn’t know how to love except with his whole body—

He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.

Warmth immediately fills the spaces between your knuckles, his callused fingers curling around yours with steady, secure pressure.

He keeps holding your hand the entire walk toward the staircase, thumb stroking across your skin while he talks about haunted dollhouses and ugly marble babies and whether you think ancient Greek people had chest hair.

And isn’t it terrifying, how quickly your body has learned what safety feels like in someone else’s hands?

...

It isn’t just the touching.

You almost wish it was.

Because that would be easier to understand.

A touch can be explained away:

Steve’s just naturally affectionate. Steve likes physical contact.  

But it’s not just that.

It’s the way he loves you without condition. Without making you earn it first.

A few weeks into dating, he showed up at your apartment carrying a bouquet so enormous it nearly blocked his entire face.

When you opened the door, all you could see were flowers.

Soft cream roses crowded against pale pink delphiniums, petals curling delicately at the edges like silk ribbon. Deep burgundy dahlias bloomed low in the arrangement, velvety and dark as spilled wine, white baby’s breath drifting between everything like tiny bursts of snowfall.

And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.

Blue hydrangeas.

Dusty-blue petals clustered together like storm clouds at dusk, edges fading lavender where the light caught them.  

You had pointed them out exactly once while passing a florist downtown.

Three seconds, maybe.  

You remembered slowing briefly in front of the shop window because they looked beautiful beneath the warm yellow display lights. Rain had just started misting softly against the sidewalk and Steve had been halfway through ranting about some middle schooler trying to rent an R-rated horror movie with a fake ID. You’d smiled at his story before murmuring, almost absentmindedly, “Those are so pretty.”

That was it.

You hadn’t even thought he heard you.

But Steve Harrington has a habit of holding onto the tiniest details about you like they're something precious.

“Baby, I swear to god,” Steve was saying now as he stepped inside your apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot, “I had the craziest day today. This guy at work tried to return a tape completely melted.”

The bouquet landed in your arms before he shrugged off his jacket.

“Melted,” he repeated, horrified, running a hand through his hair. “Like, fully warped. Looked like somebody cooked that thing in a microwave.”

You stared down at the flowers.

The bouquet was heavy enough that you had to support it with both arms. Thick stems pressed cool and damp against your palms beneath layers of cream florist paper, the wrapping folded slightly unevenly around the flowers and tied together with rough twine that looked suspiciously hand-done.

Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.

The flowers smelled dizzyingly alive: sweet rose perfume softened by rainwater and the cool, earthy scent of freshly cut stems.

“…um, Steve?”

“—and Keith asked me if I did that,” he huffed, toeing off his shoes. “I mean, can you believe that shit? What does he think I do at work all day, destroy tapes for fun?”

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

You blinked at him slowly.

“What’s…” Your throat tightened strangely around the words. “What’s this for?”

He looked down at the bouquet like he’d genuinely forgotten he walked in carrying it.

“Uh…” His brows lifted slightly. “Flowers?”

He laughed softly after saying it, confused.

But you didn’t laugh.

Because your brain was already doing what it always did: rummaging frantically for conditions. For expectations and hidden meanings tucked beneath kindness.

Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.

Was it an anniversary?

Oh god.

Had you forgotten something?

Your stomach dropped, dates scrambling uselessly through your head too fast to follow. One month? Six weeks? Was there something couples were supposed to celebrate this early? Had Steve done something thoughtful and now you were standing there empty-handed like the worst girlfriend alive?

The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.

“Did I…” You cleared your throat quietly. “Did I forget something?”

Steve’s forehead wrinkled.

“Huh?”

“The flowers.”

“What about ‘em?”

Your voice came out impossibly small. “Why’d you get these?”

“Uh, ‘cause I…” He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose, head tilting. “’Cause I wanted to?”

His confusion only made your chest tighten more.

“Is it our anniversary or something?”

His frown deepened. “What? No.”

“Then… why?”

Steve stared at you for a second, slightly open-mouthed now, the soft amusement on his face fading into gentle concern.

“Baby, they’re just flowers.”

You stared back helplessly.

“But why?” you asked again, quieter this time.

“Well, I…” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “I saw them. And I thought about you.”

The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.

You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.

The hydrangeas were even prettier up close, petals shifting between pale blue and soft lavender depending on how the light hit them. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath caught between larger blooms like stars scattered through clouds.

A single sunflower tucked near the back, drooping sideways because Steve probably had the bouquet strapped into the passenger's seat on the drive over.

Your throat burned.

“That’s it?” you asked quietly.

Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.

His socked feet whispered against the floor as he stepped closer, one hand rising to cup your cheek.

Big enough to hold the entire side of your face, his palm enveloped you in warmth. Your lashes fluttered at the feeling of his thumb sweeping beneath your eye, brushing over the apple of your cheek, soothing something there without even knowing what hurt.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s it. I saw ’em and thought you’d like them.” His mouth tugged into a small smile. “You stared at those flowers for like, ten minutes.”  

You huffed weakly. “It was not ten minutes.”

Steve’s smile widened, encouraged by the sound of your laugh.

“There was this whole wrapping station thing too,” he added, gesturing proudly toward the bouquet still overflowing from your arms. The cream paper rustled softly as he touched it, uneven folds bunching around the stems where the twine had already started slipping loose on one side. “The lady kept trying to help me but I told her I could handle it.”

He tipped his head, inspecting his own work. “Pretty good, right?”

You looked down again.

The wrapping really was crooked. One corner folded inward strangely while another flared too wide, baby’s breath poking free through gaps in the paper.  

It couldn’t have been more beautiful.

Steve’s grin turned sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I think she stopped helping 'cause I was stressing her out.”

A quiet bubble of laughter escaped you, and the second it did, you noticed the way his face changed. Grin softening, eyes gone warm at the realization that he’d made you smile.  

That was the other unbearable thing about him.

How carefully he watches for your joy, waiting for the next chance to do it again.   

He really had done all this just because he wanted to.

No special occasions—he just saw something beautiful and immediately thought of you.

You blinked quickly, staring down at the velvety rose petals before he could notice the dangerous sting gathering behind your eyes.

Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.

Not enough to act on them later.

Certainly not enough to drive across town carrying an absurdly oversized bouquet because of one passing comment you barely remembered making yourself.  

But Steve noticed everything.

The tea you always reach for when you’re sick. The songs you hum in the car without realizing. Which side of the bed you like to sleep on. Which sweatshirt you wear when you’re sad. The way you peel pepperoni slices off pizza before eating.  

The flowers you paused to admire for three seconds on a rainy sidewalk weeks ago.

Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.

“Thank you,” you managed quietly.  

Steve smiled, stepping closer until the bouquet crushed lightly between your bodies, cellophane crinkling in the quiet of the apartment.

“Yeah. Anytime, baby,” he hummed, bending down to press his smile into the curve of your mouth, as natural as breathing.

...

You don’t know why you get like this.

Why your body reacts like it’s bracing for impact when all he’s doing is being gentle. Why his affection makes your chest ache the way it does.

Why your first instinct is always to freeze.

Body going stiff whenever Steve wraps himself around your back in grocery store checkout lines, chin hooked over your shoulder while he complains about magazine prices and rubs his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt.

Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear mid-conversation and keeps talking without even realizing he did it. Sometimes he reaches for your hand in his sleep, eyes still closed, finding you beneath the blankets when his body notices your absence before he does.

And you wonder why, in all those sweet, wonderful moments—when he kisses your forehead while waiting for the microwave to beep, when he pulls you against his chest during movies, when he drops to his knees on dirty pavement because he doesn't want you to trip over your laces, when he holds your face in both hands like it’s something precious—you feel this horrible urge to apologize afterward.

Sorry I’m difficult. Sorry you picked me. Sorry you don’t realize yet there are easier people to love.

Love had always arrived transactional before him.

Conditional.

Dependent on being easy enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, useful enough.

But Steve loves you without condition.

And being seen that intimately by someone so good—someone as warm and earnest and sincere as Steve Harrington—feels unbearable sometimes.

Maybe that’s why nights like this overwhelm you so badly.

A fancy dinner downtown stretches long past sunset, candlelight flickering gold across Steve’s face while he steals bites from your plate despite insisting twenty minutes ago he was “seriously so stuffed.”

Wine leaves his cheeks faintly pink by the time you leave the restaurant. His tie hangs loose, crooked around his throat, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Summer heat still clings to the sidewalks even this late at night, thick with blooming jasmine spilling from flower boxes outside storefronts. Somewhere farther downtown, music drifts through open bar doors, muffled bass and laughter carried through the warm air.

Steve's hand never leaves your lower back, fingers flexing gently against you whenever the crowd thickens, pulling you instinctively closer to his chest.

By the time you drift into the park, your heels are dangling from one hand and your body feels pleasantly heavy from the wine.

The grass is cool beneath your bare feet. Damp earth presses between your toes as you wander deeper along the meadow paths, fireflies blinking through the dark around you like floating embers.

Steve is halfway through retelling some ridiculous story his students had told him earlier that day, pausing every other sentence because he keeps getting distracted trying to kiss you.  

Grass stains smear across the knees of his expensive slacks when he finally pulls you down beside him into the field.

“Steve,” you protest weakly, glancing at his pants.

“What?” he asks innocently, tightening his hands around your waist.

“Those are gonna stain.”

“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, grin lazy. “Worth it.”

You lose track of time there.

Talking between kisses, lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass while Steve points out constellations he names wrong on purpose just to make you argue with him. His fingers comb slowly through your hair while your head rests against his shoulder, skin sticking together in the humid night air.

And by the time he gets you home, you’re half-floating.

Steve crowds you against the apartment door before the lock has even clicked shut.

Both hands on your waist, lips sealing over yours. The force of it nudges you softly into the door, his body fitting against yours as he grunts low into your mouth like he’s been holding himself back all night.

Sweet burgundy wine still lingers on his tongue when his lips part against yours.

He’s warm everywhere.

Warm hands sliding beneath your dress, warm mouth against your throat. Warm breath ghosting over newly exposed skin every time he pauses to look at you.

And he does pause, constantly.

Heavy-lidded hazel eyes drag across your face, your throat, the curve of your body beneath his hands, lips gone slack from that third glass of Merlot though his smile tells you he’s drunk on more than just the wine.

His palms skim along the back of your thighs while he kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his stubble pulling a shaky breath in the shape of his name.

He smiles against your skin, feeling your fingers clutch tighter at his shoulders.

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly.

The bedroom lights stay low when he walks you backward toward the bed.

Blue comforter wrinkling beneath you when he eases you onto your back, following you down, kissing over every inch of exposed skin while your heartbeat stutters harder with each press of his mouth.

Broad palms smooth upward beneath your dress while his lips trail lower, the slow descent of it dizzying; his mouth dragging across your collarbone, the center of your chest, down your stomach, your ribs, each kiss separated by warm breaths and playful nips that make your muscles jump.

And when he kneels at the foot of the bed—nudging your legs apart carefully, lovingly, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin inside your thighs as he settles himself in between—he lets out this quiet little sigh.

Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs against you, pressing the words directly into your skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear while he glances up at you through heavy lashes, tongue darting briefly to wet his lower lip.

You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.

“Steve,” you whisper. “Wait.”

His hands still immediately where they rest on your hips. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard. “Nothing, I just...”

Your head spins pleasantly and horribly all at once from the wine and the heat and the sweet boy kneeling between your thighs looking at you like you hung the moon.

“I should shower first.”

His brows pull together. “Why?”

“Because,” you laugh weakly. “I’m sweaty.”

Steve smiles at that, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s heard all day.

He leans in even closer, nose brushing over your clothed mound before he presses a slow kiss there.

“Baby,” he murmurs against you, “I don’t care.”

“Steve...”

“I mean it.”

His hands glide upward along your waist, warm and heavy as velvet, fingertips grazing your ribs on the way up.

“I like you like this,” he says softly.

Then he takes in a breath.

A deep, deliberate pull through his nose, the warm drag of air against the damp fabric making your thighs twitch around him.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, kissing you there again. “Like summer.”

Your face burns, but Steve only smiles wider, already halfway gone.

“Just stay,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you. We can take a bath after, promise.”

He turns his head to the side, nose nudging affectionately along your inner thigh before he closes his lips around the sensitive skin there. The suction is soft at first, teasing warmth into you before the pressure deepens just enough to sting pleasantly.   

A new love bite starts to bloom, petal-soft and tender, like a flower kissed awake by rain. His mouth traces over it, soothing the flush of it back into softer color with gentle, unhurried pecks.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss over the bruise-tinted skin. “My perfect girl.”

To be loved this intensely feels like it could swallow you whole.

Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.

You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until your breath catches sharply in your chest, a raw, jagged gasp tearing from your lungs.

Steve’s head snaps up instantly.

You jerk your face away in horror, both hands flying to cover your eyes before he can see.

God.

Oh god.

Not now.

Why now?

“Baby, are you—”

His voice cuts off the second your breath stutters again, louder this time.

The mattress jolts beneath you as he pushes upright, fast enough that the bed frame gives a small protesting creak.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

You can feel him at your side immediately, his quick, uneven breaths brushing against your hands where they're pressed tight to your face.

“Baby, what happened?”

His fingers curl around your wrists, firm but impossibly gentle.

Always gentle.

“Did I hurt you? Did I do something?”

“N-no,” you choke out immediately.

“Then what?” His voice starts to break slightly, turning sharp with worry. “What is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head helplessly, unable to form the words, unable to explain.

The lamp clicks on beside you. Warm amber light spills across everything at once: rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, Steve kneeling beside you, shirt open at the collar, belt buckle undone and tie hanging loose around his neck.  

The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.

Slightly uneven in their vase, waterline crooked, the hydrangeas beginning to open wider in the warmth of your apartment.

Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.

Perfect.

A night he’d planned so carefully—reservations at the candlelit Italian place downtown, your favorite wine already waiting at your table, flowers arranged before you’d even walked through the door—

And now you’re crying halfway through sex because your brain can’t handle something as simple as being loved.

You turn your face away again instinctively, shoulders curling inward, but the tears don’t stop. They come harder, messy and humiliating, gasps of air ripping through your chest no matter how hard you try to swallow them down.

You feel Steve’s hand slide up your spine.

Slow, slow passes between your shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide, okay? You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, wiping at your face uselessly. “I-I don’t know w-why I’m—I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry—”  

“No, hey, don’t apologize, baby. Don’t say sorry.”

You resist him weakly when he tries to gather you in his arms.

You can’t look at him.

Can’t stand the thought of seeing the concern on his face after ruining this.

“I just—” You let out a shaky breath, voice cracking completely. “Fuck, I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Steve stills at that.

Then slowly, carefully, he takes your wrists fully in both hands.

You let him this time. Arms trembling the entire way down as he lowers your hands into his lap. You still refuse to meet his eyes, staring instead at the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His crisp white shirt is wrinkled, open at the collar, a faint pink bite mark just above his collarbone where you kissed him during the taxi ride home.  

His gaze presses into you, heavy and intent, trying to read what you can’t say.

“I need you to look at me,” he says quietly.

“I can’t.”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “You can.”

Another tear slips down your cheek. He catches it without hesitation, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

“Please,” he whispers, softer now. “Look at me.”

You finally do.

Steve’s hair is a mess, chestnut strands falling across his forehead where your fingers had been tangled moments ago.

His eyes—warm honey and green and amber all blurred together beneath the low light—are pained, tight with worry and unbearably expressive.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” he says, unshakably certain. “Nothing.”

His lips are swollen from kissing you, parted slightly with how hard he’s breathing.

It’s so painfully clear, how panicked he is.

Steve’s face never hides anything

It doesn’t know how to.

When he’s happy, it shows in the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

When he’s worried, it gathers in his brows, in the tight set of his mouth.

And when he loves, it radiates from him so naturally it feels endless. Like sunlight.

You wonder what that must feel like.

To love someone without fear.

To offer tenderness without expectation, without the quiet dread that grows the more there is to lose.

He reaches up slowly, clearing tear-sticky strands away from your temples, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Still trying to read what hurts, the furrow in his brows asking without words.

You want to tell him.

For him, you’d try.

But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.

How do you explain that being loved by him feels unbearable sometimes?

That every touch lands somewhere deep inside you that still expects pain?

That he gives and gives and gives, asking for nothing in return, and yet some terrified part of you waits for the bill to come due?

How do you explain that it makes you feel broken, not knowing how to take something he gives so easily?

You part your lips, throat dry and aching.

Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.

Patient.

Always so fucking patient with you.

“I just...” Your voice shakes. You stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, because it’s easier than being seen.

“...I just really love you.”

It rushes out so quickly.

And in a horrifyingly beautiful moment of clarity, you realize it’s the first time you’ve ever said it to anyone.

Ever.

Steve goes still. His brows soften, eyes drooping at the corners. His lips part soundlessly for a second.

“Oh,” he breathes.

You feel his hands twitch against yours, squeezing your fingers unconsciously.  

“I love you too,” he says, immediate and certain. “I... I love you so much it’s kind of insane.”

He watches you for a moment, thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles.

“Is that... is that why you're crying? 'Cause you love me a lot?”

A small, startled laugh breaks through your tears; it sounds so simple when he says it like that.   

It isn’t simple.

But maybe it also is.

So you nod, watching him visibly come back to himself, drawing out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping heavily like he’d been bracing too, just in a different way.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. C’mere.”

This time you don’t hesitate.

You fold into him, feeling his arm wrap securely around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

And what you always used to brace against—tonight, you sink into willingly.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You let your eyes slip shut, burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingers crinkling his shirt as you hold on tight.

“I love you,” you whisper again, the words pressed softly against his skin.

Thank you, you mean.

Thank you for being gentle with me. Thank you for waiting. Thank you for loving me like it’s easy.

Thank you.

Heidi didn’t call him out for his bullshit. Heidi didn’t make him laugh like you did. Heidi didn’t roll his eyes when he had kept his cap on during dinner. Heidi was clearly just trying to get into his pants and Gator almost let her. In fact, he went home with her. But the moment her lips touched his, Gator felt dirty. Like he was doing something incredibly, incredibly wrong.

He ended up running out of Heidi’s apartment. She hadn’t even cussed him out for it. You wouldn’t have done that—you would have probably yelled at him and called him an asshole.It had been thirty six days since you had broken up and Gator had had enough.

“Are you fucking kidding me—” you mutter to yourself as you drag yourself out of bed. You grab a nearby sweatshirt and pull it over your head before stomping out of your bedroom. 

Someone—undoubtedly Gator—was banging at your door, apparently not giving a fuck that you had neighbours or that you had to be up in four hours for a shift at the hospital.

“Could you fucking stop that?” You snap at Gator through your apartment door, teeth gritted as you grab your keys. “Or I swear to god Gator, I’ll leave you out there all fucking night—”

“—please don’t.”

The sound of his voice makes you pause. Despite the fact he was banging at your door, he didn’t sound angry. He sounded desperate. Sad even.

You falter. Your keys clatter to the floor but you don’t rush to pick them up. 

“Please, baby—just open the door. Please. I just wanna talk.”

You should say no. You should tell him you had work in a few hours. You should tell him to fuck off. That you broke up with him for a reason, that he was a selfish asshole and he should leave you alone.

But you don’t do that.

Instead you open your front door.

You barely recognise the man standing in front of you. You knew it was Gator because you’d know that gorgeous face anywhere. But it was the defeated, almost broken look on his face that you didn’t recognise. And it was that look that made you step aside to let him into your apartment.

He doesn’t say thank you as he steps inside. He just nods and steps into your space as though he never left.

“It’s one in the morning, Gator,” you say as he sinks down onto your couch, legs spread and large hands resting on his thighs.

“I know,” he mutters, kicking his boots off. “My truck has a clock.”

You take a deep breath in through your nose as you fight the urge to yell at him for his attitude and for taking off his boots like he was expecting to stay. You were starting to remember why you had broken up with him in the first place.

“You wanted to talk,” you begin after a moment. “So talk and make it quick. I gotta be up in like four hours for a twelve hour shift.”

Gator looks up at you properly then, his big hazel eyes looking up at you in a way he never had when you were together.

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he murmurs, pointing at the camouflage sweatshirt you had grabbed before leaving your room.

You look down at the sweatshirt and swallow. Because he was right. It was his. 

“Don’t overthink it,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest and trying your best to keep a straight face. You don’t tell Gator that you had been wearing that damn sweatshirt for almost thirty six days. That you had only washed it once and cried when it no longer smelt like him. You definitely don’t tell him that. Instead, you tense your jaw and look back at your ex boyfriend and try to remind yourself of all the reasons you had broken up with him. You remind yourself that he only started buying you flowers after you had broken up. That he hadn’t wanted to meet your family despite your attempts to have him do so. That he had left you hanging when you had finally said ‘I love you’.

“But still. You’re wearing it,” Gator says. “That means something.”

“It means nothing. It’s just a sweatshirt—”

“—but it’s my sweatshirt. It means something.”

You wanted to throw something at him. Maybe one of his boots. He was such a smug asshole and you just wanted to smack him for it. But you don’t.

“Could you just go?” You ask him, rubbing your temples before gesturing towards your front door. “You clearly just came to piss me off and you’ve done just that so go—”

“—I can’t just go.”

“Why the fuck not—”

“—because I’m fuckin’ goin’ crazy without you!” Gator snaps, his voice cracking the last word. It’s enough to make you look at him. “I’m—shit—I sent you flowers for fuck sake, d’you know fuckin’ desperate I have to be to send you flowers like some fuckin’ sap?”

“The flowers mean don’t shit to me if that’s your attitude about it, Gator,” you retort. “You’re just trying love bomb me and—”

“—I’m not, I’m just—”

“—just what? Just trying to remind me that you never—”

You cut yourself off, your eyes betraying you as they start to well up. You have to look away.

Gator says your name but you don’t look at him. You’re too busy trying to fight the tears that were threatening to fall.

“Are you crying—”

“—could you just fuck off?” You snap, finally looking back at him. Your breath hitches in your throat when you see that he is no longer sitting on your couch but instead, standing right in front of you. “Seriously Gator, could you—”

“—No,” Gator says firmly with a shake of his head as he takes a step closer. “M’not going to fuck off. Not because I want to piss you off anymore than I already have but be—because—I love you.”

The silence that followed was one of the loudest you had ever heard. You blink, wondering if you had misheard Gator until—

“I love you,” Gator repeats, his voice still unsteady but the look he gave you was unwavering. Certain.

You let out a shaky breath before you lift a hand to wipe your eyes, shaking your head.

“No you don’t, Gator. You love stringing me along and you love that I challenge you but you don’t love me—”

“—yes, I do—”

“—no, you don’t—”

“—yes, I do,” Gator practically snarls as he steps right into your space. “I—I fucking love you. I really do. I love you so much that I—I would do anythin’ just to make you smile. I feel like the biggest fuckin’ sap for admittin’ it but I would. And I’ve tried movin’ on but everytime I try I just keep fuckin’ wishing’ it was you on the other side of the table. And I—m’sorry. I’m really fuckin’ sorry for not sayin’ it back t’ya and treatin’ you like I did. For never spoilin’ you like I should’ve. For not going to meet your parents but I—I figured they wouldn’t like you being with an asshole like me and I—I really wanted them to like me—”

“—and you didn’t think to just tell me that?”

Gator rubs a hand over his face in frustration before taking off his cap so he could run a hand through his hair too. You notice how it wasn’t gelled. You once told him you preferred his hair without gel, apparently he had listened.

“No, I didn’t,” Gator admits quietly. 

“Gator, I don’t know if I—”

“Please,” Gator croaks out desperately, reaching for one of your hands and squeezing it. “Please don’t—don’t give up on me. On us. I can do better, baby. I know I can.”

You falter just slightly when he calls you baby. It makes you feel warm, makes your insides feel as though they were made of goo.

But still, you say nothing.

And Gator doesn’t know what else to do.

“Please,” he repeats, his voice desperate once again and you watch in complete shock as Gator Tillman, still holding tightly on your hands, drops down onto his knees in front of you. “Please baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good t’ya.”

“Gator—”

“—I mean it, baby,” he continues, pressing his lips to your knuckles as he remains on his knees. “I’ll tell you every fucking day that I love you. I’ll meet your parents. Grandparents. Whoever the fuck else you want me to meet. I’ll get you flowers. I’ll make you coffee every mornin’ before your shift. Maybe even breakfast in bed. Whatever you want just don’t—please don’t give up on me.”

You were speechless. Genuinely speechless. Because Gator Tillman was not the type of man to beg for anything. He could probably count the amount of times he had said ‘please’ on one hand but the fact he was on his knees begging you for forgiveness? Well—it made you think twice about kicking him out of your apartment. You were still undecided on throwing a boot at him.

You look down at Gator, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment before you give his hands a gentle tug, silently telling him to stand up. He obeys because of course he does. Because he loves you. Because he really would do anything for you.

Gator stands—looking back at you and waiting for you to talk. His hands are still holding yours. Still hoping, praying that you’ll trust him.

“Breakfast in bed,” you ask him quietly with a faint smile. “Really? You're gonna wake up at five in the morning just to scramble some eggs?”

The corner of Gator’s mouth twitches, his hazel eyes sparkling just a little as he looks back at you. “I also make omelettes."

You try not to laugh but it somehow escapes you.

Gator’s eyes soften, he gives your hands another squeeze before he lets go in favour of cupping your cheek with one hand, the other resting gently at the side of your neck.

“I meant every word, baby. I love you and I—”

Whatever he was about to say, whatever speech he had rehearsed, you don’t get to hear. Because your lips were on his before he could finish his sentence. Gator takes a second, maybe two, before he responds and when he does, he lets out a low groan before kissing you back.

Gator kisses you like he was starving, like you were an oasis in the desert, like even the thought of pulling away from you might cause him physical pain.

The hand cupping your face was soft but firm, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss. Your hands tangle their way through his ungelled hair as the hand that had been brushing over the side of your neck trails down to curl an arm around your waist, tugging you closer. His mouth was so eager that it made you feel a little lightheaded, your body humming with need for the man in front of you.

And had it not been nearing half one in the morning, you may have given in. May have fallen into bed (or even the couch, you weren’t picky) with him. But the thought of being up in a few hours was the thing that finally pulled you away from him.

Gator whines at the loss and the sound sends heat rushes through you like molten lava but you shake your head, pulling yourself out of it. Not tonight. 

“I’ll be expecting my omelette and coffee bright and early,” you tell Gator with a soft smile as you gently comb a hand through his hair.

Gator hums, leaning in to press his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a brief moment before nodding. “I’m gonna make you the best damn omelette baby, I promise you.”

It wasn’t perfect and you had more to talk about, a lot more to work out but for now? An omelette, coffee and Gator Tillman loving you? It was more than enough.

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Calum hadn't planned to be home this early. He was going to stay with the crew abroad for a bit longer. It was a break in tour for the festive season. But Calum just wanted home.

Home meant quiet, and warmth, and his bed.

Home also meant you.

The front door clicked shut behind him as he stepped inside, exhaling like he'd been holding his breath for weeks. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, landing exactly where it fell from his shoulder; he didn't care enough to move it yet. The first thing that greeted him was the smell, sweet cinnamon and something faintly woody. You'd been burning those holiday candles again. He remembered you telling him about them over a blurry FaceTime a few nights ago, the screen freezing every other second as you held the phone up to a half-decorated Christmas tree with a proud grin.

For five years you'd decorated the tree together on December 1st without fail. This year, he'd been across the ocean, you didn't want to miss the scheduled date, but you didn't decorate the whole tree.

He appreciated the effort more than his face had expressed.

Still, you'd waited for him to finish it, you could still half together, even if it wasn’t on the 1st.

"I don't want you to miss the whole thing," you'd said. He'd tried to ignore the twinge of guilt he felt then, the same one he felt now.

The living room was dark except for the gentle glow of the string lights around the fireplace, twinkling faintly like they were welcoming him back. Their soft amber hue guided him toward the kitchen, casting long, warm shadows across the walls.

Everything felt familiar, his guitar still leaned against the cabinet where he'd left it, your slippers abandoned by the couch, a blanket half-folded like you'd meant to finish and never did.

He moved quietly, suddenly afraid of disturbing the stillness of the house. He didn't know if you were awake. He didn't know if he'd even have any words ready if you were.

Upstairs, the muffled thump of his bag hitting the floor had stirred you from a light, restless sleep. At first, panic shot through you, sharp, quick, automatic. The kind that always came when the house made noises it shouldn't. You slid out of bed quickly, the cold air meeting your bare legs.

Calum's worn out t shirt hung off your frame, the hem brushing your thighs.

You paused at the top of the stairs, breath held, listening.

A low hum drifting up from the kitchen. A melody she knew by heart. Familiar. His.

Relief washed over her in a warm, dizzying wave.

You padded quietly down the stairs, each soft step bringing you closer to the melodic sound in the kitchen.

Calum stood at the kitchen counter, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers wrapped around a mug he wasn't drinking from. Steam curled up between his hands, fading almost as quickly as his expression.

Y/N lingered in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe watching him for a moment, taking all of him in. He looked exhausted, not just the kind that tour schedules caused, but a deeper tiredness that lived behind the eyes.

As always, your chest tightened with a familiar ache you never said out loud. The worry that you might be part of the reason he looked so worn down. That maybe the distance wasn't just from travel or time zones, but from something growing quietly between you both.

He stared into his mug like he could find peace at the bottom of it, unaware that you'd come down.

Unaware that he looked like a man who had finally reached the place he'd been craving, only to realize he didn't quite know how to settle into it.

You watched him for a moment longer, breath caught behind your ribs, before you finally let a soft sound escape, just enough that he would know you were there.

He spun on his heel so fast it made the hem of his hoodie sway. His eyes swept over you, your messy hair, Calum's oversized shirt hanging off your frame, the way your eyes were slightly puffy from a short sleep. His gaze moved slowly, almost disbelieving, lingering like he wasn't sure you were really standing there.

You spoke first, because he looked stunned, like the sight of you knocked the air out of him.

"You're back," you murmured, giving him a soft, sleepy smile.

He didn't answer, not with words. Instead he closed the distance in three quiet steps, placing the mug on the counter and pulled you into him, arms locking firmly around your waist. His grip was desperate, grounding, like he hadn't touched anything familiar in months. He buried his face in your hair, kissing the top of your head, then your cheek, then the warm skin at the curve of your neck. Each kiss lingered a little too long, as if making sure you didn't disappear.

When he finally eased back, stepping just slightly away, his breath trembled faintly.

"Sorry," he whispered, voice rough. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was trying not to disturb your peace."

"You haven't disturbed my peace, Cal," you say quietly. "You're home. I'm happy you're home."

But Calum's eyes dipped, shadowed by something heavier.

"Feels like I've been disturbing your peace just by existing lately."

Your breath caught, sharp and guilty, as if he'd reached inside and tugged at the exact fear you'd been avoiding. "That's not true," you whisper.

He lifted his gaze, dark eyes warm but closed-off at the edges, like he was trying to protect both of you at once.

"I know," he murmured. "I'm not trying to start anything."

He'd created space between you without even realizing it, and you stepped right back into it, refusing to let the distance settle.

"Then what are you trying to do?"

Calum let out a quiet, pained laugh, one without any real humour.

"I don't know. I just,"

He stopped himself, the sentence hovering unfinished. He hesitated, he always hesitated now.

"It feels like we keep brushing against the same bruise."

The words landed between you with a weight that made the room feel smaller.

You traced a slow line along the edge of the counter, grounding yourself. "I'm scared to admit it's there."

Calum looked down, his jaw flexing, breath uneven.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You're not losing me."

But your voice betrayed you, cracking just slightly, revealing the quiet fear you barely let yourself name.

Calum heard it. He always heard the things you tried to hide.

He stepped toward you again, close enough that you felt his warmth, but still not touching, like he didn't trust himself to.

"Then tell me," he said softly, almost pleading. "Tell me we're okay."

Your chest tightened painfully. You wanted to say yes more than anything. You wanted to give him that comfort, that certainty. But the words got stuck in your throat, snagged on the truth.

"We could be," you whispered.

The silence that followed wasn't empty, it was full of everything neither of you had dared to say.

*

The next morning, sunlight barely crept through the curtains when you woke to the weight of an arm draped firmly around your waist. You blinked, disoriented for a moment before the warmth behind you registered, the familiar, comforting heaviness of Calum’s body curled around yours.

You hadn’t heard him come to bed last night. You’d left him downstairs after the two of you had danced around your problems, circling them carefully like they were something fragile, something that might shatter if touched too directly. You hadn’t expected him to still be here.

But he was.

His chest was pressed against your back, his breathing slow and even, soft snores brushing the shell of your ear. His legs tangled with yours, feet cold against your calves. His arm held you with a kind of instinctive protectiveness, the kind he didn’t even know he had before you.

You exhaled, letting yourself savor the feeling.

It was easier to sleep next to him.

It always had been.

His presence made your mind quieter, like something inside you finally unclenched.

Still, you slipped out of his hold carefully, inching him back just enough so you could slide away without waking him. Even then, he made a sleepy sound of protest, fingers flexing as if searching for you in his half-dreaming state.

You brushed your hand along his arm for a moment, soothing him.

Then you dragged yourself out of the room, down the stairs, into the cool air that nipped at your skin and raised goosebumps along your arms.

As you passed the hallway, you noticed something unusual.

Calum’s studio door, normally closed, often locked, was cracked open.

He never left it open.

Not accidentally.

Not even when he was rushing.

Curiosity tugged at you, subtle but strong.

You paused, fingers grazing the doorframe, listening for any sign he was awake. When there was none, you slipped inside.

The room smelled like him, warm cologne. Soft morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the floor, the desk, the scattered sheets of music.

It felt intimate in a way that made your chest tighten.

This was his sacred space. His sanctuary.

His mind laid out in notebooks and chord charts and scribbled ideas.

You wanted to feel closer to him, closer than you had in weeks.

You wanted to bridge the distance. And that wanting pulled you deeper into the room.

On his desk, his songwriting diary lay closed, a pen wedged between pages like he’d stopped mid-thought. You hesitated only a second before you gently opened it to where the pen rested.

Ink sprawled in hurried loops and jagged lines.

You skimmed the words, your eyes catching on one bold phrase scrawled across the top in darker, sharper handwriting:

“Don’t forget you love me.”

The breath left your chest.

Below it were rough pieces of lyrics, fragments of thoughts, unfinished ideas about holding on, drifting apart, wanting to ask for reassurance but being afraid of the answer. They were raw, unfiltered. The kind of honesty he rarely spoke out loud.

Your heart pulled painfully in your chest.

He’d written this alone, somewhere between airports and hotel rooms.

He’d written this about you.

About the two of you.

About the fear sitting between you like a third presence.

Before you could read more, you heard the thudding of footsteps upstairs, quick, uneven, like Calum had woken and realized you weren’t beside him.

“Y/N?”

His voice was rough, sleep-soft, echoing down the stairs.

You snapped the notebook shut, placing it exactly how you’d found it just as he called your name again, closer this time.

“In here!” you called back, trying to keep your voice steady.

A moment later he appeared in the doorway, hair a messy halo, shirt rumpled, eyes still warm with sleep. The second he saw you in his studio, his brows lifted in surprise.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, not harsh, just genuinely caught off guard.

“The door was open,” you said, glancing around the room. “And it’s peaceful in here. Very… you.”

A hum dipped from his chest, half amusement, half suspicion. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely.

“Mmm,” he murmured, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So you were snooping.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop your own smile. “Not snooping. Not exactly. Just, looking.”

His gaze softened at that.

Not at the words, but at the truth beneath them.

You were looking for pieces of him. For understanding. For closeness. For anything that made the two of you feel less like you were drifting.

And he knew it.

Calum’s eyes flicked from the journal to your face, his gaze landing on you with a kind of naked honesty he couldn’t pull back fast enough. Something shifted, subtle but unmistakable. The soft part of him, the raw part, the part he usually kept tucked behind music and humour and avoidance, it surfaced.

“You read it?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t accusing.

It was small. Quiet. Almost afraid.

Guilt washed through you immediately. Your shoulders dipped, your breath catching as you nodded once. “I… yeah. I’m sorry.”

He frowned, but not with anger. More like confusion. Concern.

“You don’t need to apologise,” he said gently, stepping further into the room. His bare feet made almost no sound on the hardwood floor. “It’s okay. Really.”

But your mind replayed the inked words in looping echoes.

Don’t forget you love me.

People didn’t write that unless they were afraid of the answer. Unless they felt something slipping through their fingers.

“So…” you began, trying to keep your voice steady, even though your pulse hammered under your skin. “What’s it about?”

The question landed between you like a heavy stone sinking through water, slow, inevitable, rippling everything in its path.

Calum froze.

Not dramatically, not noticeably to anyone else. But you knew him too well.

His fingers stiffened. His shoulders held too tight. His breaths shortened, just slightly, like his lungs didn’t want to commit fully to the air.

He looked like someone caught mid-thought, mid-fear.

“You know, just about,” His hand made a vague gesture between the two of you, as if the shape of your relationship could be summed up by the air. “Us. Well, you. And us. You know.”

But you shook your head. You weren’t letting him sidestep this. Not today.

Not after the lyric fragments, the late-night anxiety, the way he’d clutched you in his sleep.

“No, Cal,” you said, stepping toward him slowly, deliberately, until you were close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body. “I don’t know. You have to tell me.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darting briefly to the journal, then back to you. His fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for you but didn’t trust themselves not to shake.

Calum could spill his heart onto paper. He could carve entire worlds out of chords and melodies. He could confess things to a microphone he’d never dare say to someone’s face.

But real words, spoken out loud, unfiltered, those were harder.

You softened your voice, the edges dropping to a whisper.

“If you can write it down, if you can sing it, why can’t you say it to me?”

His breath hitched. A small, involuntary sound. You’d pressed directly into the bruise.

He looked up at you, really looked at you.

In that gaze, you saw everything he tried so hard to hide; The longing. The fear. The exhaustion. The love he wasn’t convinced he deserved.

And the terror that you were slipping through the spaces he didn’t know how to close.

His chest rose in a shaky inhale. His lips parted like he wanted to speak and couldn’t.

His shoulders lifted like he was preparing for impact, your reaction, your rejection, your honesty.

The distance between you wasn’t invisible anymore. It had shape and weight and breath. It stood there like a third person in the room, cornered, unable to be ignored.

Calum looked like he had finally run out of places to hide from it. From you. From himself.

When he finally spoke, the words came broken, halting.

“It’s… I just,” He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustrated at himself. “I don’t know how to say things without making them sound worse. Or too much. Or like I’m the problem again.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them slowly, meeting yours head-on.

“And I don’t want you to forget you love me,” he whispered, voice cracking right through the middle. “I don’t want to give you a reason to.”

His jaw flexed. He hesitated. Calum had probably rehearsed a dozen times in his head and should’ve swallowed it down once more.

“I think you’re, you’re only staying because you’re used to this,” he said quietly, eyes avoiding yours. “Because it’s comfortable.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs “What?”

He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself, frustrated at everything. “I’m just saying, maybe you’re here because you’re used to this. Used to me. Used to how our life works.”

You stared at him, breath frozen in your lungs.

The room went still.

Your breath stopped mid-inhale, a cold shock spreading through your chest.

You stared at him like he’d just spoken in a language you didn’t understand.

“Comfort?” you repeated, disbelief turning sharp at the edges. “You think I stay because it’s comfortable?”

Calum’s jaw tightened. “I just meant, maybe you’re here because it’s what you know. We’ve been together so long, and I don’t know if you’re here because you want this or because it’s easier than starting over.”

A laugh left you, dry, stunned, almost pained.

“You think this is easy?” you said, voice rising. “Calum, I put up with so much. I deal with rumors about you every time you’re not home. I sleep alone while you’re in a different timezone for weeks. I deal with the fact that half the world has an opinion about me just because I love you.”

“I don’t stay because it’s comfortable,” you said firmly. “I stay because it’s you. Because I want you. Not your fame, not the life, not the routine, you.”

Your eyes burned, but you kept going. “And trust me, nothing about this is comfortable?”

“I didn’t mean,”

“No, Calum, you did,” you cut in, voice rising. “You said it because you believe it.”

Calum’s shoulders curled inward, like the words hit him somewhere tender.

He exhaled, a low, defeated sound. “I just meant maybe you’re here because it’s easier than leaving.”

A harsh, humorless laugh left you.

“Easier? Being with you is worth it, but it’s sure as hell not easy. I stay because I love you.”

Calum’s expression crumpled, but the tension in his jaw didn’t ease.

“Then why does it feel like everything I do pushes you away?” he fired back.

Your eyes widened. “Because you are pushing me away! You barely talk to me anymore. When you come home, it’s like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

“And the worst part, It’s working. It’s breaking us. I feel it every day.”

Calum finally looked up, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t want to break us.”

“Then why are you doing everything that makes it feel like you are?” Your voice cracked. “We fought to get here. We worked so hard for this. Why would you throw that away?”

“I’m not!” he snapped back, louder than he meant to. His own frustration flared, but fear lived underneath it. “I’m not throwing anything away.”

“But you are,” you whispered. “And the worst part is, you don’t even see it.”

Calum shook his head, desperate. “I’m not throwing anything away.”

“Are you sure?” you demanded, voice trembling. “Because every time we’re together, you act like I’m wasting your time.”

He looked stunned, wounded, even.

“Y/n. I am never wasting my time with you.”

“Then stop making me feel like you want better than this,” you cried, fingers curling into fists. “Because you say everything’s fine, but you look at me like you’re waiting for something else. Something more.”

Calum stepped backward, hands on his hips, exhaling like the confession hit him dead center.

“I don’t want better than this,” he said, chest heaving. “I want better within us. I want us without, all of this.”

“Then stop avoiding me!” you shouted.

He froze.

“Stop avoiding talking about how you feel. About what you want. About what scares you. Just stop.”

Calum let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You can’t put all the blame on me. I’m not the only one avoiding shit.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

He pressed on.

“You shut down whenever you’re hurt. You disappear into yourself. You wait for me to read your mind and then get mad when I get it wrong.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

“It’s true,” he shot back. “We’re both messed up. We both avoid instead of talking. We both let the silence do the damage.”

You looked at him, really looked, and felt your heart split down the center.

“I want you to need me, Calum,” you said, voice breaking as the truth spilled out. “But I don’t feel needed anymore.”

Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.

Calum’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

His hands shook at his sides. His eyes were wet.

But the words you needed never came, that was worse than him yelling. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears.

“Say something,” you whispered. “Please.”

He didn’t. He just stood there, chest rising and falling too quickly, eyes full of things he wouldn’t say. The hurt settled into certainty.

The argument didn’t solve anything. It just showed the depth of everything neither of you could outrun.

Your throat tightened.

“Right,” you said finally, voice small and exhausted. “Okay.”

You turned toward the hallway, wiping at your cheeks.

“That’s fine,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “If you won’t talk to me, then I’m going to leave.”

You walked down the hallway on unsteady legs, the argument still buzzing under your skin like electricity. Your vision blurred as you entered the bedroom, but you refused to stop.

You moved through the bedroom with shaky hands, grabbing the nearest tote bag and shoving clothes inside without looking. Every movement felt unreal, like you were watching yourself from above, packing the life you built with him into a bag that was far too small.

You didn’t want to pack. God, you hated that you were packing. But something inside you felt like it would break if you stayed in this silence with him any longer.

Your throat tightened as you tried to breathe through it.

Five years together.

Five years of carving yourselves into each other. Five years of trying, of learning, of surviving every distance but this one.

You shoved in the first few clothes you could grab, sweatshirts, jeans, underwear, nothing folded, nothing organized. Calum stood in the doorway, shoulders hunched, arms hanging uselessly by his sides. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold. Just vacant. Bewildered. Defeated.

“Where are you going?” His voice cracked on the words. They were soft, careful, like he was afraid of pushing you further away.

Your hands halted over the zipper.

“I’ll stay with a friend,” you said. It came out steadier than you felt.

Calum nodded once. Slow. Mechanical.

Like he was accepting a sentence he thought he deserved.

And your heart cracked in a way that felt physical by the way he didn’t move to stop you.

You swiped at your cheeks impatiently. You hated crying. You hated that he was seeing you like this. You hated it more that he wasn’t stopping you.

When you brushed past him to get to the hallway, you felt him flinch, so subtle you almost missed it. His breath hitched, a quiet, broken sound he tried to swallow.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to get more things, I’ll probably stay at hers a while.”

You didn’t mean that. Not the second sentence. You said it because you wanted it to shake him, wake him, something.

But he didn’t react, not the way you hoped. No sudden protest. No reaching for you.

Just heartbreak settling into his features, settling so deeply it looked carved there.

The house felt freezing as you walked through it, every step echoing like you were walking out of something sacred. The decorations you’d put up. The lights you’d chosen together. The cinnamon scent still drifting from the kitchen.

You reached the entryway, fingers fumbling with your coat.

From behind you, you heard his footsteps, slow, reluctant, like each one cost him something. When you turned, he was standing a few feet away, barefoot on the hardwood, face pale, jaw trembling.

Tears streamed down his cheeks in total silence.

They weren’t dramatic. They weren’t loud.

They were the quiet kind, the kind a person can’t hold back even when they’re trying to keep everything inside. He just looked at you like you were the last thing tethering him to the ground, and the rope was fraying in his hands.

Your chest tightened painfully. This wasn’t how you imagined the end of your night. This wasn’t how you imagined him. This wasn’t how you’d planned to spend the holidays together. You thought you could fix this, together.

Something in your chest cracked. You swallowed around it.

“Cal…” you whispered.

Calum straightened slightly, breath catching.

Like he thought, maybe, this was the moment you’d change your mind.

You tightened your grip on the bag, though your hands were shaking violently.

“This isn’t what I want,” you said, your voice barely holding. “I need you to know that. I never wanted to walk away from you.”

He made a strangled sound, half inhale, half sob, but still didn’t speak.

Your lip quivered as you stepped closer.

“I wanted you to talk to me. I wanted you to meet me halfway. I wanted you to need me the way I need you.”

You met his eyes. And it broke you.

“I wish you’d ask me to stay,” you whispered. Your chin trembled. “But I know you won’t.”

Something inside him shattered, you saw it, aflicker of pain so raw it almost made you stop breathing.

But he still didn’t speak.

And that silence was the loudest thing you’d ever heard.

5sos Masterlist

If it’s important, they’ll leave a message, you think, but you still linger to see if whoever it is actually does.

Your voice comes through the speaker. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message and I’ll give you a call back.

A beep.

A sigh heard across the room.

Your breath hitches. You know it’s him before he even starts talking.

“Hi,” Steve’s voice says.

Your legs shake and you slowly walk to your couch, sitting down and listening.

“I know it’s late for you. I’m sorry.” Another sigh. “I’m sorry. I just — do you remember that soup you used to make? The one with the potatoes and the onions?”

He laughs, soft and low.

“Wanted it so bad tonight. And I just picked up what I remembered you buying when you made it. But I think I left something out. Maybe garlic? It was fine, not as good as yours.”

There’s another long pause. You hear him sniffle, then laugh again.

“It took me two hours. You used to make it so fast. I tried to do some of the tricks you taught me to dice, but I didn’t…”

He clears his throat.

“I didn’t remember. I remember what you looked like, and what you were wearing — that light blue button-up I got you at Macy’s — and you were dicing chives. But I don’t remember how you did it.”

The back of your throat aches. It hasn’t ached in a while. Your eyes burn with hot tears and your molars crack under the pressure of your jaw, though you don’t notice the pain just yet.

“Anyway. I guess I j— I miss you. And I think about you.”

His voice shakes.

“And I hope you’re okay.”

The silence is only filled by the sounds of both of your hushed breaths. A tear falls down your cheek and your teeth bite into your bottom lip.

“You’re probably out doing something fun with fun people. You don’t have to call back. And for the record, I’m sober. Alright. Well, I’ll —“

You panic. You pick up the phone.

“Hi?” you breathe.

There’s another long pause before Steve softly says your name.

“Hi,” you say again. You haven’t heard him say your name in so long. Not in real life, at least.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey — I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

“No. I was getting ready to.”

“Oh…. What time is it there?”

You can’t help but to laugh. “Same time as you, plus an hour.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”

You bite your tongue. You want to keep the conversation going, but you don’t know how.

“Who gave you my number?”

His voice is small when he says, “Robin.”

You definitely should have known.

“Of course,” you say softly.

“I shouldn’t have called you.”

Your hands shake. You take a deep breath. “It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

Another long pause. You’re breathing in tandem.

“How’s Hawkins?”

It’s the sorest subject you could bring up. You left, he stayed. You begged him to come with you; he begged you to settle down with him. It was a fight you had both ceded to two years ago.

You can’t imagine a worse place on earth than your hometown. The word feels foreign as you say it.

He swallows. “I, uh — I don’t know.”

Your stomach drops.

“You left?” you whisper.

He swallows again. “Yeah.”

You’re supposed to be over Steve. You thought you were. You’re even in a committed relationship now, though you’ve been contemplating ending it. And you never thought Steve was in that equation, why you always left the people you thought you loved.

But it all goes back to Steve, whether you know it or not. Nothing has ever compared to him.

You don’t want him to control your feelings anymore. You’ve swallowed him down with your bitter sadness. But knowing he’s left Hawkins after you begged and pleaded with him to come with you was a blow lower than any you’ve ever taken. You’re immediately angry, waiting to strike at him, to make him feel just as low as you.

“You were right,” he says. “Everything you said about compartmentalizing and — and wanting to play hero — you knew it before I did. And you were right. I should have listened.”

Steve didn’t want to leave. He wanted to settle down in his hometown, have a few kids, be a working father with a stay at home partner. Two vacations a year, an RV in the driveway, nothing but domestic bliss that, for some reason, he didn’t think he could find anywhere else.

“You’re not letting yourself heal,” you’d argued with him. “You’re only staying here because you think you can fix it all if it happens again.”

His response was always, “It won’t happen again. It’s over. We saw it.”

You pleaded with him to at least admit that he was scared. That what’s happened to him has affected him. He simply wouldn’t budge. You left, he stayed, and that seemed to be the end of it.

He says your name softly, like it’s a holy word that he’s not allowed to say.

“I’m so sorry.”

You chew on your lip again. The sharp taste of metal on your tongue makes you feel sick. You never want to taste blood ever again.

“I’m happy for you,” you eventually say, and only because it’s the right thing to do. You don’t mean it, though you wish you did. “Where are you now?”

“Over in — over in Forest Hills. So not that far away. But it’s enough.”

You hum. The short distance move makes you feel better, as dumb as that is.

“Are you still in New York?”

“Yeah.” You laugh a little. “Rent here’s a lot more than it is in Forest Hills, let me tell you.”

He laughs, too. It comes out in a burst, like he’s been holding it in for a long time.

“God, I’m sure. Have you seen Byers?”

“We get dinner sometimes. He’s making another movie now.”

“Another cannibal one?”

“He’s going after global warming this time, actually. He just told me and I can’t even remember what the metaphor is.”

“Will you be in it?”

You laugh again, your body relaxing. The anti-anxiety is kicking in, and things almost feel normal. Almost.

“I’m not an actress, Steve.”

You hear him choke on a gasp.

“Oh, wow,” he says breathlessly.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just — haven’t heard you say my name in a long time.”

Your throat aches again. Tears pool in your eyes, making your vision blurry.

His interruption is your savior. “What about little Byers?”

“Fine. He’s doing good. He’ll crash on my couch if he gets too drunk sometimes. He knows Jonathan will be pissed.”

“Little Byers getting drunk? Never thought I’d hear that.”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “We’re all grown up now, Steve.”

The dead air that follows is maddening.

“I guess we are,” he eventually answers.

Another long silence. Steve breaks it again.

“I missed hearing your voice.”

You close your eyes, evening your breaths. “Steve —“

“Christ, I missed that.” His voice is thick with sadness that he rarely let show when you knew him. “I missed you saying my name so much.”

Your mouth drops just a little. You’re overwhelmed, not sure what to do or say, your bedtime medication cocktail ramping up in intensity. But you’re just like Steve. You missed his voice. You missed him.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m here, Steve.”

His breath shudders.

“What — um — what do you do now? For work?”

He chuckles. “You’re not going to believe what I was doing before I moved.”

“Do I get one guess?”

“One guess.”

“Hmmm. Retirement home receptionist.”

“You just said my worst nightmare out loud.”

You laugh. He laughs.

“Way worse, though,” he says. “Baseball coach.”

“What? That’s a great —“

“And! And, Sex Ed teacher.”

You’re so shocked that you have to process it for a moment. But then you laugh, loud.

“You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious. I guess that’s what they make coaches do.”

You laugh again. Tears spring to your eyes from the emotional release. And you just can’t stop.

Steve’s laughing, too. A sound you missed desperately, one you hardly heard when he was yours and you were his. Always so serious.

“That is genuinely the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”

He groans. “I know.”

“I guess you do have a great resume for a job like that.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles. You can hear the smile in his voice. “It was awful. You wouldn’t believe how many of these kids stayed after class and flirted with me.”

“Oh, ew.”

“It was horrible!"

“Now you know how Ms. Michaels felt when you’d linger at her desk after math class.”

“She was hot!”

You laugh, incredulous. Then you yawn, loud, your eyes closing on their own.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I should let you go —“

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “Just took my sleeping pills before you called.”

He’s quiet now. “You take them, too?”

“Yeah. I somehow got my psych to prescribe me the same ones Owens did. Very lucky.”

“Do you take them every night?”

“Almost always.”

“Me, too,” he says softly. “It’s been so hard to sleep since….”

“I know,” you whisper.

“No. You don’t know.” He laughs, but it sounds pained. “You have no idea. I haven’t slept well since you left.”

Your brain goes blank.

“And when I sleep, you’re there, but it’s not good dreams. It’s — I just keep seeing you —“ he sighs, loud and long. His voice shakes as he continues. “I see you in there. I see you broken and… and then sometimes all I dream about is the last conversation we had. You walking out the door. And I wake up, and I’m so empty. It’s all so empty.”

Your heart pounds.

You’ve spent years doing the same thing you accused Steve of — compartmentalizing. But not your trauma, not the Upside Down. Just Steve. And suddenly, it’s all opened up, forcing you to face it again.

“I swear I can still smell you sometimes,” you whisper, voice slurring a bit with sleep. “I’ve washed my sheets a million times and they still smell like you. That stupid Guy Laroche cologne that you used to drown yourself in. All the guys wear it here and every time I smell it… I want to — to puke. It’s like it only makes sense on my sheets.”

He whimpers. There’s another long silence, both of you contemplating as you struggle to keep your eyes open.

“I know you’re tired,” he says softly. “But I just need you to know that the biggest mistake I’ve ever made was staying here and letting you go.”

You can tell now that he’s crying.

“I miss you like crazy. I think about you all the time. I try so hard not to. I see people, I go out, but you’re always in the back of my mind. I see someone who looks like you and I… I just go stiff. And I know that’s my own fault. I know. I swear I know. I just wish I knew it when I was younger, you know? How the world moves and I need to move with it.”

Your bottom lip trembles, more hot tears tracking down your cheeks and tickling your neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again.

You’re not sure what else to say.

“It was really nice hearing your voice —“

“Steve.”

There’s a slight whine. “Yeah?”

You chew on your thumbnail.

“Want to stay on the phone while we sleep?”

His breath hitches. “Yeah. Yeah. Shit — yeah.”

You hear him shuffling. You smile, body weak, sinking into the couch and resting the phone beside your ear as best as you can. It’s uncomfortable, certainly not as nice as your bed. You owe Will Byers an apology for making him sleep out here when he’s drunk.

You know you’ll sleep well, though. Better than you have in a long time.

“I’ve got about thirty seconds left,” you slur.

“Go ahead,” he says, his voice thick. “I’ll be right here, okay? Won’t go til you wake up.”

You hum happily, smiling gently. “We have a lot to talk about in the morning.”

“Yeah. We do.”

For a moment, you just listen to him breathing. The evidence that he’s alive and safe. That he’s here with you now.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

A ripple of whispers spreads through your fifth-grade classroom.  

You blink, already pushing your chair back. “Did he say what kind of emergency?”

Eli shakes his head, serious as anything. “No. He just said we need to hurry.”

Your stomach gives a small, uneasy flip.

Eli isn’t the type to exaggerate. He’s sweet, careful. Reminds everyone when it’s time to line up after recess and always volunteers to erase the board without being asked. He's the sort of kid teachers trust without thinking twice.

If he’s the messenger, it’s because of something important.

“Alright, everyone,” you call to the class. “Keep reading quietly. I’ll be right back.”

A chorus of shuffling follows as you reach for your cardigan.

“Hurry, hurry,” Eli bounces on his heels, voice small but insistent.

Before you can answer, he reaches for your hand. His grip is tiny, warm, a little sticky—surprisingly strong. You find yourself getting dragged by his bouncy, determined steps, weaving past rows of lockers, dodging a cluster of kids heading to recess. He zigzags through the main hallway, past the water fountain, the art room, taking the shortcut through the library until you arrive at the wide, double doors leading into the gym.

The moment you push them open, chaos erupts.

Bright rubber dodgeballs zing through the air. Sneakers squeak across the glossy, lacquered floor. Laughter and triumphant shrieks ricochet off the walls, punctuated by the occasional, “Yes! Got you!” from victorious first graders.  

Coach Steve's leaned casually against the far wall, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose around his neck. He’s sipping from a blue ceramic mug that reads World’s Best Teacher in chipped white lettering.

Only five months into the job, yet he’s already something of a legend here at Hawkins Elementary. The younger kids adore him—dodgeball days and ridiculous warm-up games where he pretends to be a shark, stalking the gym with dramatic dun-dun noises until they’re all shrieking with laughter. Older kids trust him in quieter ways, lingering after sex ed to ask questions they’re not brave enough to bring home. 

Despite the nerves you remember from his first day, Steve has settled into teaching like it’s been waiting for him all along.

Right now, though, he’s fully in coach mode. Brow furrowed, stance wide, eyes tracking the game like it’s a championship match instead of a bunch of kids still learning how to throw straight.

“Out of bounds! That one doesn’t count.”

“Woah—no head shots, Jacob! C’mon, we talked about that.”

“You okay, Alex? I got you. Here, try it like this. Yeah, there ya go bud!”

Eli, who had been clutching your hand the entire walk across school, suddenly lets go and races toward his favorite teacher.

“Coach Steve! I did it! I got her!”

Steve looks up. Sees you.

And the grin that breaks across his face is so immediate, so fond, it'd be enough to give you both away if anyone was paying the tiniest bit of attention.

“Hey!” he laughs, stepping forward. “Nice work, buddy. Thanks for the help.”

You watch, eyes narrowed in confusion as he ruffles Eli’s curls and slaps a high five against his tiny palm.

Eli puffs up with pride and pivots to sprint back to the game.

“Whoa—hang on, pal.”

Steve drops to his knees, setting the clipboard aside as he reaches for the loose strap on Eli’s shoe. He fastens it with careful, practiced fingers, giving it a quick tug to make sure it’ll hold.

Your stomach melts a little at the sight of him crouched like that: focused, patient, so gentle with this kid who’s staring at him like he hung the moon.

“There we go, champ,” he grins, giving Eli's sneaker a little pat. “Good as new. Now go have fun, alright? Your team missed you.”

Eli nods hard, then rockets back into the game without another word.

Steve straightens and finally turns to you, eyes warm, smile soft—and just a touch guilty.

“Mr. Harrington,” you say, crossing your arms carefully, “what exactly is the emergency you pulled me out of class for?”

His mouth quirks sheepishly, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, I just…” He steps closer, dropping his voice. “Haven’t seen you all morning. I missed you.”

You blink.

“You—” A breathy laugh slips out before you can stop it. “You sent poor Eli to fetch me because you missed me?”

He nods like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Yeah. He's my fastest kid.”  

“No, that's not the...” you trail off, turning your head, failing completely to hide your smile.

Steve steps closer, angling the clipboard between you so that, to anyone looking in, it would look like you’re addressing some very concerning issues with the class roster.

Well, except for the part where his eyes are glued to your face.

There’s this soft intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch, just by holding it. You find yourself staring back, unable to look away, appreciating the faint creases around his temples, how they deepen with his smile, the plush curve of his bottom lip and the rounded apples of his cheeks as they get pushed upward.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, voice all deep and honey-warm. “Just needed to look at you for a second.”

You shake your head, cheeks warming despite yourself.

There’s a reason you’ve been keeping this thing with Steve a secret.

You both realized, pretty early on, that acting normal in a building full of nosy children and nosier adults was a losing battle. You had to learn to bend with it, catching tiny, fleeting moments in the spaces between, holding onto each one as tightly as you can.

It wasn’t perfect. Mrs. Kline, the school secretary, has definitely noticed the two of you laughing a little too freely by the copier. One of your students will occasionally squint at you during silent reading time, wondering why a tiny scrap of paper left on your table at lunch leaves you grinning for the rest of the day.

Still, you make it work.

A shared coffee in the teachers’ lounge before the morning bell. Standing side-by-side near the parking lot fence as the buses roll in. A granola bar tucked under your desk with a note folded impossibly small.

you look beautiful today ◡̈

He repeats the message to you now, even as you roll your eyes and try to look away.

“Seriously, I mean it," he murmurs, tracing your face with his eyes—the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek—before lingering, unmistakably, on your mouth. “Want to kiss you so bad right now.”

You snort, nudging the sleeve of his sweatshirt with a finger. It’s soft, heather-gray, the Hawkins Elementary mascot faint and cracked across the chest.

“That’s deeply unprofessional of you, Mr. Harrington.”  

He groans under his breath, brow creasing as he tips his head back. “God, I love it when you say it like that. Say it one more time?”  

“Jesus—Steve!” you hiss, half-laughing, eyes darting toward the gym floor like the kids might suddenly develop super-hearing over the screech of sneakers and flying dodgeballs.   

Instead of stepping back, he leans in closer, lips parted in that familiar half-pout, eyes full of mock agony. “Can’t help it, honey. You’re fucking killing me over here.”

“Language,” you warn him, simply out of pure habit.

He smirks, lips twitching.

From the far end of the gym, a group of kids cheer triumphantly, “Yes! Coach Steve! We won!”

You both jump back like you’ve been caught doing something much worse than grinning at each other like idiots.

“Uh—great! Great job, gang!” Steve calls, clapping his hands. “Let's get all the balls in the cart and then grab some water, yeah? Five-minute break.”

Then he leans back in, brows raised. “See? Total professional. I’m telling you.”

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re still smiling when he pivots, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one’s paying attention. Satisfied, he turns back to you, brows drawn into a hopeful, pleading slant.

"C'mon," he murmurs, lifting the clipboard up like a partition. "I’ll get another game going. The kids won’t even notice. Just you... me...” He gestures between you, then toward the double doors leading outside. “Five minutes?”

You press your lips together, schooling your expression back into something stern. “Steve Harrington. I am not fucking you behind the school gym.”

"Language!" He gasps, mimicking your tone. “And jeez, who said anything about that? I was just gonna, you know, have a very professional conversation with you… about teaching.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, c’mon, bab—"

“Coach Steve?”

Both of your heads snap down at the same time.

Eli stands there, chin tipped up, hands clasped neatly behind his back like he’s been waiting for his turn to speak. He’s rocking gently on his heels, eyes bright with curiosity as he looks between the two of you.

“Heyyy, buddy!” Steve laughs nervously, voice jumping up an octave. “What’s up? You okay?”

Eli nods.

Then, completely matter-of-fact, he asks:

“Coach Steve, when you marry her, can I come?”

Steve chokes on absolutely nothing.

“When—what?”

“When you get married,” Eli repeats patiently, like Steve’s just being a little slow today. “I wanna come.”

Steve squats down so fast he almost drops the clipboard.

“Eli,” he says carefully, “why do you think we’re getting married?”

Eli shrugs, unfazed. “’Cause you’re prac-tis married.”

“Practice… practice married?”

“Yeah. Like my Auntie Jen and her friend Mark at Thanksgiving.”

Steve blinks. “Okay, and what's... why do you think we’re practice married?”

Eli doesn’t hesitate. He points toward the front of the gym, in the general direction of your classroom. “’Cause you always wait for her outside her door.”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it.

“And you bring her coffee. But you don’t bring us coffee.”

“Well,” Steve murmurs faintly, “that’s ‘cause you’re six.”

Eli shrugs again. “And you talk to her really soft. Like this,” he cups his hand around his mouth to demonstrate, whispering loudly. “Also, you always save her a chair at ass-em-blee.”

Steve rubs a hand down his face, glancing up at you before looking back at Eli. “That’s, uh… very observant of you, buddy.”

Eli isn’t done.

“And you make funny faces at her in the hallway. Oh! And you fixed her pencil sharpener. And, and, there was one time you looked at her, and you didn’t look away for one... two... three...” He glances down at his fingers and starts counting under his breath. “five... six... seven... eigh—”

“Okay!” Steve laughs loudly, holding up his hands. “Okay, buddy, I get it. That’s... that’s a long time.”

Eli nods, clearly pleased with himself. “Auntie Jen and Mark, they used to go everywhere together. And Mark fixed all the stuff around her house. Then later they got married for real.”

He looks between the two of you, satisfied.

“So. I think you’re practice married.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and crouch beside Steve. “Well... I think that’s a pretty solid theory, Eli.”

“Mm-hm, thanks,” he nods confidently. Then he spins back to Steve. “So, when you do the real one, can I come? I’m really good at sitting still. And my mom says when people get married they always eat cake. I love cake.” He spreads his arms wide. “Auntie Jen’s was this big!”

Steve presses his lips together, letting out a short, incredulous snort. “You know what, pal? Sure. Whe—if we get married, you’re more than welcome to come. And we’ll get the biggest cake we can find, okay?”

Eli beams. “Okay!”

He starts to run back to the group, then skids to a stop and turns around.

“Hey, Coach Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You should ask her nicely,” Eli says, serious as anything. “With flowers. Mark did that.”

And then he’s gone.

Steve stays crouched, staring after him, jaw slack.

“…Did a six-year-old just give me relationship advice?”

“Mm, seems like it.”

He stands slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes still following Eli as he rejoins the others.

“You think he spotted it before we did?” he asks quietly. “Back when... you know, we were still trying to figure out what we were doing?”

You smile. “Probably way before then.”

Steve's still distracted when you put your hand on his shoulder, quickly checking to see that no one’s watching before pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.

He blinks, stunned. “Wha—no, wait, shit—”

He reaches for you a full second too late; you’re already headed for the door.

“Language. Have a good rest of your class, Mr. Harrington.”

Steve watches you go, hand frozen at his cheek.

Across the gym, Eli spots you and waves enthusiastically, completely unaware of just how accurate his little theory was.

The proof?

“Obviously,” you say, amused.

That’s it. That’s the moment he loses all remaining composure.

He gestures too broadly toward the dugout. “This is, uh, the team. Well, not all of them. Some are wandering. They do that.”

You step closer, and Steve immediately steps back, bumping into the bench. He pretends this is intentional.

“Do you need me to do anything specific?” you ask.

Steve opens his mouth. He closes it again, nods as if receiving instructions from the universe, then rubs his palms together. “Okay. So. You can keep score. Or hand out water. Or just, generally prevent anyone from running into traffic.”

“Got it,” you say seriously. “Traffic prevention.”

You take a seat on the bench, crossing your legs, clipboard balanced easily on your knee. Steve watches for half a second too long before snapping his attention back to the field.

“Alright, listen up!” he calls, voice cracking just slightly. He clears his throat and tries again.

The kids scatter into something resembling a line.

Steve paces as he talks, explaining drills he’s explained a dozen times before, except now he keeps losing his train of thought. Every time he glances toward the dugout and sees you watching, actually watching, calm, his words tangle.

You hand out cups of water. You smile at the kids. You write things down carefully, like this matters. He appreciates your seriousness. Robin tried to help out once and laughed at him the whole. She almost made herself sick eating all the frozen orange slices.

Steve trips over a bucket.

He recovers quickly, but you notice. You don’t say anything, just glance up, eyebrows lifting slightly, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile.

He feels his ears burn.

At one point, he jogs over to the dugout to grab cones and nearly collides with you as you stand at the same time. You both stop short.

“Sorry,” you say.

“No, my fault,” he says at the same time.

There’s a beat. You’re close enough that he can smell your shampoo. Something clean and unfamiliar. Like peach and coconut. He steps back too fast. He might be dizzy.

You kneel to pick up a cone you dropped. Steve crouches too, immediately regrets it, stands again.

“I’ve got it,” you say kindly.

“Cool,” he says, standing there uselessly. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. If he keeps putting them on his hips he kight actually start to look like a dad.

You hand him the cone. Your fingers brush. It’s nothing. Barely a touch. Steve spends the next ten minutes giving the kids the same instruction three times.

As practice goes on, he starts noticing things he shouldn’t. The way you tuck hair behind your ear when you concentrate. The way you crouch to talk to one of the smaller kids instead of towering over him. The way you glance up occasionally, checking in, not with the kids, but with him.

It’s not flirtatious. That’s almost worse. It’s like you’re treating him as competent. As someone worth paying attention to.

A kid runs up to you crying about a scraped knee. You handle it easily, calm and gentle, like you’ve done this before. Steve watches from the pitcher’s mound, chest tight with something that feels suspiciously like admiration. He's getting way too ahead of himself.

“You’re good at this,” he says later, when you hand the kid back to him with a juice box and a smile.

You shrug. “They’re easy to care about.”

Steve nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “They are.”

The sun starts to dip lower. Parents arrive one by one. The kids grow restless, energy spiking again as the end approaches.

Steve blows his whistle too early. Then forgets what he was going to say.

“Uh, great job today,” he finishes lamely.

The kids cheer anyway. He uses them as some sort of buffer for his messed up words and stupid sentences. They don't notice a thing.

You help him gather equipment. The field empties, the noise fades. Suddenly it’s just the two of you and the soft hum of cicadas.

“So,” he says, then stops. Tries again. “Thanks. For helping.”

“Of course,” you say. You tuck hair into your hat and a stack of bracelets clink around your wrist. Steve is trying really hard not to stare more than he already has. “You seemed like you needed it.”

He laughs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn't think he's come across as competent as he wanted to. “Yeah. I, uh. I don’t usually have help.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just open.

“If you wanted to come back,” he adds, carefully, like he’s afraid of pushing. Like looking like a loser. That ship has long since sailed. Ever since he got sunscreen in his eyes. “You don’t have to.”

“I think I’d like that,” you say. You smile at him then. Not polite. Not small, something honest.

Something in Steve settles. Not completely, but enough. “Cool,” he says. “Yeah. Cool.” Totally not cool.

You shoulder your bag, a canvas tote with Joe Cool plastered in a pettern all over, your water bottle dangles from its strap in your spare hand. You push your sunnies down your face and start toward the gate, then glance back.

“Oh— and Coach Steve?” you add.

He looks up too immediately. “Yeah?”

“You’re doing a good job.” Then you leave.

Steve stands there long after the field is empty, holding a bucket of baseballs he forgot to put away, replaying the sound of your voice in his head and wondering when the next practice is.

-

Steve knows you’re coming today. This should make him more normal about it.

It does not.

He arrives twenty minutes early and spends most of it pretending he isn’t watching the gate. He rearranges the cones twice. Checks the lineup sheet three times. Practices saying hey in his head like it’s a speech he might fail if he doesn’t rehearse.

When you finally show up, same clipboard, same quiet confidence, his shoulders drop in relief so visible it’s embarrassing.

“Oh, hey,” he says, immediately hating how fast it comes out. He tries to be so nonchalant it's like he barely even wants you there. That couldn't be far from the truth.

“Hey,” you say back, smiling like you didn’t just knock the air out of his lungs.

You take your place on the bench like it's second nature already. Steve notices and pretends not to. Then realizes pretending not to is even more obvious.

Practice starts. It’s easier this time. Not smooth. It's never smooth, but it's easier. The kids know the drills now. You know where the cups are. Steve knows, vaguely, how to stand without looking like he’s trying too hard.

Still, he keeps finding reasons to walk past you. Need more water? You good with the score? Have you seen...nevermind, found it.

You answer patiently every time, like this is all completely normal.

About halfway through, Mrs Caldwell, mother of one of the more energetic kids, lingers by the fence after drop-off. Steve notices her watching him and you with narrowed eyes, the kind that have decided something without consulting the facts.

He feels it coming. Too late to stop it.

She smiles brightly when you pass with the clipboard. “You must be his girlfriend.”

Steve chokes on absolutely nothing.

“Oh, no,” you say quickly, kind but amused. “I’m just helping out.”

Mrs Caldwell laughs, waving a hand. “Well, you two look very domestic out here.”

Steve then drops a bucket of baseballs.

They scatter across the dirt. A kid cheers. Steve crouches to gather them, face burning, aware that Mrs. Caldwell is still smiling and you are definitely trying not to laugh.

“We’re not—” he starts, then stops, because whatever he was going to say sounds wrong no matter how he frames it.

You rescue him by kneeling to help collect the balls. “Just volunteering,” you say lightly.

“Sure,” Mrs. Caldwell says, not convinced at all. This isn't the first time this has happened. First she thought it was Nancy, then Mrs Wheeler, and even Joanthan at one point. Steve isn't a harlot. Not anymore, anyways.

When she leaves, Steve stays crouched a second longer than necessary.

“I swear,” he mutters, “I don’t usually...people don’t usually think that.” He thinks it's better if you don't know the truth.

You glance at him, glossy lips curved. You're a lot more relaxed than he expects. Or a lot more relaxed than he is. But that's normal. “It’s fine.”

He risks a look at you. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It was kind of funny.”

He nods, relieved — and then immediately realises kind of funny does not mean uncomfortable, and that somehow makes it worse.

The rest of the day unfolds in fragments.

You helping a kid retie his cleats while Steve explains batting form. Steve handing you his jacket when the wind picks up, then forgetting to take it back. The two of you standing shoulder to shoulder at the fence, watching a kid finally hit the ball after weeks of misses.

When it happens, Steve cheers louder than anyone. You look at him like that makes sense.

Later, while the kids run laps, he finds himself next to you again, leaning against the dugout.

“They’re getting better,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. They really are.”

The field empties the way it always does. Slowly at first, then all at once.

Kids peel away in clusters, voices fading toward the parking lot. Parents wave, engines start. The cicadas grow louder as the noise thins, like they’ve been waiting their turn. Steve watches the last kid run off before he remembers to breathe.

You’re still there. That’s becoming a pattern.

You help him gather the last of the equipment, moving easily around the dugout now, like you’ve learned its angles. Steve notices the way his jacket still sits on your shoulders and feels something warm twist in his chest. He doesn’t comment on it. He’s learned, lately, that not everything needs to be addressed right away.

Mrs Caldwell’s car rolls past one last time. She gives him a pointed look. A smile. Steve groans quietly.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Hawkins just likes to draw conclusions.”

You smile, not unkind. “Seems that way.”

The sun is low now, throwing long shadows across the dirt. Steve stacks the last bucket of baseballs and stands there with his hands on his hips, suddenly unsure what comes next. This is usually the part where he locks up, waves, goes home alone with the echo of the afternoon still clinging to him.

But you’re still here. Waiting.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, step toward the gate, and then stop, like you’re giving him time. Steve recognises the opening even as panic flares in his chest.

He clears his throat.

“So,” he says, immediately hating how small it sounds.

You turn back to him. Patient. Open.

“So,” you echo.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly to the field, then back to you. “I was thinking, after games, sometimes the kids and parents go get milkshakes. At Benny’s. Or—” He winces. “Not that that’s— I mean, I don’t usually—”

You wait. Don’t interrupt. That helps more than you know. He exhales slowly. Tries again.

“I was wondering if you’d want to get one,” he says. “Just us. Or coffee. Or something that’s not… this.” He gestures vaguely at the field, the cones, the dust. “Something a little more grown-up.”

There it is. The truth of it, laid out without drama.

You study him for a moment, grass-stained jeans, earnest eyes, hands that still don’t quite know where to rest. Steve feels exposed in a way that isn’t unpleasant. Just honest.

“I’d like that,” you say.

The relief that washes over him is immediate and obvious. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head slightly like he can’t believe his luck.

“Yeah?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Yeah,” you say. “Milkshake sounds perfect.”

He smiles then, not the easy grin he gives parents, not the encouraging one he gives the kids, but something quieter. Something real.

“Cool,” he says. “I know a place.”

You walk toward the gate together this time, side by side. The field behind you is empty now, quiet and golden, like it’s holding its breath.

Steve locks up, pockets the keys, and follows you to the parking lot, already thinking about what flavour you might choose, already aware that something has shifted, gently but permanently.

The covers are pulled up around you, a small, private world of warmth and shadows. Steve’s weight presses into the mattress, braced above you, sweat slick on his skin, breath uneven. His eyes are half-lidded, mouth parted like he’s caught between concentration and something more fragile.

You can feel him.

Every shift.

Every slow movement.

The way your body responds on instinct, even as your mind drifts somewhere else entirely.

It doesn’t hurt. It even feels… okay. Technically. Your nerves still light up where they always have, your body still knows what to do. But the pleasure slips through your fingers the moment you reach for it, dissolving before it can settle.

Your thoughts scatter.

Hospital lights.

Beeping machines.

Max’s face, too still, too pale.

Steve’s hand slides to your hip, fingers tightening just a little, trying to guide you into his pace. The pressure should ground you. It used to. Instead, a shaky breath leaves your lips, thin and unconvincing.

He freezes.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, concern cutting through the haze. “Are you okay?”

The question feels too big. Too dangerous.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “I’m okay.”

He studies you, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to read a language you’ve stopped speaking out loud.

“Does it… feel good?” he asks quietly.

You nod, forcing the motion. “Mhm. Yeah.”

The doubt doesn’t leave his expression, but he leans down anyway, kisses you—slow, careful, like he’s hoping the closeness will pull you back. His pace picks up slightly, tentative but trying.

You shift beneath him.

Not in response. Not really.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, but there’s no urgency in them. No pull. Just contact. You swallow, words slipping out before you can stop them.

“Maybe… maybe I can go on top?”

Steve closes his eyes.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath shuddering as he stills completely. The sudden absence of movement is louder than any sound in the room. You feel it immediately—the way his body stiffens, then softens, the connection breaking as he pulls away.

The mattress dips as he gets off you.

Cool air replaces warmth.

He sits up, back to you, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a blow that already landed. You catch the glimpse of his face just before he turns away—hurt written plainly there, raw and unguarded.

“Why—” Your voice wobbles. “Why did you stop?”

Steve lets out a quiet, humorless breath, like a laugh that never quite forms.

“Are you serious?” he mutters.

He reaches down, pulling on his underwear, movements stiff and clipped. He doesn’t look at you. His head bows forward, elbows resting on his knees. One hand drags through his hair, fingers catching, tugging hard enough that it almost hurts to watch.

“You think I can enjoy it,” he says quietly, voice tight, “when you’re not even here?”

Your brows knit together. “What are you talking about?” you say, confusion sharp and defensive all at once. “I’m literally right here.”

He scoffs, turning back toward you. One hand braces on the mattress as he leans in, close enough that you can see the strain in his face, the dark circles under his eyes. He snaps your name—sharp, raw.

“That’s not what I mean.”

You pull the covers up to your chest, fingers twisting into the fabric until your knuckles ache. Your jaw clenches as you look away from him, eyes fixed on the far wall like it might offer you an escape.

The silence stretches.

Then Steve straightens abruptly and steps away from the bed.

Drawers slide open too fast. Fabric rustles as he starts shoving clothes into a duffel bag—shirts folded once, then not at all. The closet door bangs lightly against the wall as he reaches inside, movements tense and uncoordinated, like he’s afraid if he slows down, he’ll stop altogether.

You watch him without really moving, without really feeling. Like your body is still under the covers but your mind is hovering somewhere near the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“I’m going back to my parents’ house,” he says, clipped. Final. He pulls on a worn t-shirt, then sweatpants, tugging them up. He doesn’t look at you while he speaks.

A year ago, he’d moved in here. Quietly and without hesitation.

Max had been in the hospital then—machines breathing for her, monitors blinking like cruel little reminders of how close you’d come to losing her. Your mom hadn’t even yelled when she kicked you out. She’d been calm. Cold.

“If you were paying closer attention, she wouldn’t be laying there.”

You’d stood in the doorway with a bag half-packed, shame sitting heavier than grief. Steve had helped you find a place without questions, without conditions. You only had a  twin sized air mattress. He’d slept on the floor, and eventually an actual bed once you could afford it. It was supposed to last until you could stand being alone in a room again. Eventually, he ended up staying without either of you really acknowledging it. 

“So,” you say slowly, the words tasting bitter. “You just don’t like me? You can’t be around me now?”

Steve laughs, but it breaks halfway through. He finally turns to face you, eyes shining, chest rising too fast.

“I’m the one who thinks that?” he says, incredulous. “You don’t even talk to me anymore.”

His voice cracks, just slightly. Enough that it hurts.

“You look at me,” he continues, softer now, “like I’m the last person you want to see.”

Your throat tightens. You open your mouth, then close it again. Because the truth feels dangerous.

It isn’t that you don’t love him.

It’s that loving him feels like something you could lose.

And you don’t know if you’d survive that too.

The room feels smaller with every breath, heavy with words you don’t know how to say yet.

And Steve stands there, duffel bag at his feet, waiting—whether he knows it or not—for you to finally come back.

“I talk to you,” you say softly.

Steve’s head snaps up.

“No, you don’t,” he fires back, frustration spilling over at last. “You pretend I don’t exist. This was the first time tonight you told me about your day in weeks.” His voice rises, cracks at the edges. “You were the one who wanted to have sex, but the moment we started, it’s like you completely disappeared. Same with the times before that.”

You flinch, but he doesn’t stop.

“You don’t think I can tell when you fake it?” he says, eyes shining now. “I just don’t say anything because you already turn around and pretend to go to sleep.”

Something ugly curls in your chest.

You scowl, sitting up just enough to glare at him. “Oh, get over it, Steve. It’s not going to be that good all the time.”

That does it.

It’s like you can see it happen—the exact moment the words land. His face falls, not angry anymore, just… hurt. Deep, his heart clinking to the ground because you had just dropped it, pieces shattering over the carpet.  His jaw flexes, teeth grinding as his fingers curl into his palm hard enough to leave marks.

“Look,” he says, quieter now, controlled but shaking underneath, “I get it. I do. But I can’t be there for you when you don’t even let me try.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you lie back down and turn away from him, grabbing the sheets and wrapping them tight around your body like armor.

“Whatever,” you mumble, staring at the wall. The orange glow from the streetlight casts his shadow there—tall, familiar, breaking at the edges. “It’s not like you ever come with me to go see my sister.”

Steve opens his mouth.

Then he closes it.

The silence tells you everything.

Your throat tightens, anger flaring to keep something else from surfacing. “Just go already,” you say, voice dull. “I know you’ve been waiting for the perfect time.”

His shoulders rise slowly. Fall.

“Are you saying this is it?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You don’t answer.

You curl in on yourself instead, pulling the sheets tighter, scrunching your body smaller and smaller like you might disappear if you try hard enough.

No, you think. Please stay.

“I just want to be alone. I don’t want to be around you right now.”

You hear it then.

The tiny, broken sob he doesn’t quite manage to hold back.

The sound of the duffel bag being lifted. Footsteps retreating. His shadow shrinking against the wall until there’s nothing left of it at all.

The front door slams shut.

The echo lingers long after he’s gone.

And for the first time since the hospital, since the guilt, since the fear—you let yourself feel just how empty the apartment really is.

A week passes, and then another, and somehow the world keeps moving even though yours feels stalled in place.

You don’t hear from Steve. There’s not a call, not a message, not even the soft rattle of his keys at the door when he forgets he doesn’t live here anymore. The apartment settles into a version of itself that feels temporary, like it’s waiting for a decision you refuse to make. You don’t reach out either. Not to him, not to Robin, not to anyone who might ask how you’re holding up and expect an answer you don’t have.

The radio crackles one afternoon from the kitchen, your name slipping through the static along with a request to attend a crawl, and you let it go unanswered. You can’t bring yourself to chase Vecna again, can’t stomach another dead end that leads nowhere except back to the same fear, the same helplessness. 

You especially can’t face Lucas, not with the hollowness behind his eyes, the unmistakable absence of someone who should still be there. Loving Max has hollowed him out, and you can’t look at that kind of loss without feeling it settle somewhere inside your own chest.

It’s your fault. The thought arrives uninvited and refuses to leave. When you close your eyes, you see Max the way she was in that room—broken limbs, blood, her body impossibly still—and the guilt creeps in until it feels heavier than grief itself. It should’ve been you. You were the older sister. You were supposed to be watching her. Instead, she carried Vecna’s plan, Billy’s shadow, the weight of a family that always seemed to take more than it gave, and somehow still paid the price.

You carry that guilt with you into the hospital, arms full of magazines and books you’ve already read once but bring anyway, because silence feels dangerous. You always stay for hours, reading aloud, flipping through quizzes, telling her about celebrities she’d pretend not to care about while secretly loving the drama. You talk enough for both of you, hoping that one day she’ll interrupt you just to tell you to shut up.

You’re late today.

You round the corner toward her room, already rehearsing an apology she can’t hear, when a familiar voice stops you cold.

“How was the movie today, Mr. Harrington?”

Your heart gives a sharp, traitorous jump as Steve answers easily, like this is all still normal. “Same as always. Cobra Kai never dies. Pretty sure her heart rate spiked the second Ralph Macchio showed up.”

The nurse laughs. “See you tomorrow?”

“Always.”

The word lands harder than it should.

His footsteps head in your direction, and instinct takes over. You turn quickly, pressing yourself into the corner of the hallway, clutching the magazines to your chest like they might hide you. You hold your breath, willing him to pass by without looking, without noticing.

He doesn’t.

His steps slow, then stop completely. When you glance over your shoulder, he’s already looking at you, frozen mid-motion with a VHS tape from Family Video in his hand, like he’s been caught doing something private. He looks tired, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep, and the sight of it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

You turn to face him fully, your shoulders dropping as the weight of the week catches up with you all at once. “What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice thin and unsteady.

Steve swallows, glancing down at the tape before meeting your eyes again. “Max always rented The Karate Kid on Fridays,” he says, like the explanation has lived in his chest for days. “I just… thought….”

“It’s Friday,” you say, quietly.

He nods, once, like that settles it.

You stand there in the hallway, neither of you quite sure where to put the distance that’s grown between you. After a moment, he rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

Hope sparks despite yourself, sudden and fragile. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to figure out when I could come by and get the rest of my stuff.”

The words knock the breath from you.

“You have a key,” you say, gripping the magazines harder. “You don’t need my permission.”

Something shutters across his face, careful and unreadable. “Okay.” He gestures vaguely down the hall. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

You don’t watch him walk away. You turn first, forcing your legs to carry you into Max’s room before you can change your mind.

Inside, a nurse is adjusting her IV. “Hi, Miss Mayfield!” she says cheerfully. “Your boyfriend just left.”

The word feels wrong, outdated, like a label that no longer fits.

They know who Steve is—or who he was—but he must not have corrected them. You look at Max, peaceful and unmoving, and wonder what she’d say if she could see you now. She’d tell you your mom was wrong. She’d tell you that blame is easier than love for people who don’t know how to stay. You can’t even remember the last time your mom came to visit.

“It’s so sweet,” the nurse continues, smiling, “that he comes even when you’re not here.”

Something inside you gives way.

The magazines slip from your arms and clatter onto the table, startling the nurse, but you’re already moving, already out the door and down the hall, slipping into the elevator just as a couple steps out looking equally wrecked. You mash the button until the doors finally slide shut, your chest heaving as the elevator begins to descend.

And for the first time all week, the silence doesn’t feel empty.

It feels unbearable.

You don’t even wait for the elevator doors to open all the way. You slip through the narrowing gap the second there’s space, breaking into a run across the lobby, past startled looks and the smell of antiseptic and coffee, straight through the hospital doors and out into the evening air.

The cold hits you all at once.

You stop just outside, shaking, heart racing, suddenly unsure where Steve could have parked or whether you’re already too late. The parking lot stretches out in front of you, rows of cars blurred by the tears gathering in your eyes, and for a moment you think this is it—that you’ve missed him again.

Then you see him.

Steve is walking back toward the entrance, fast enough that it looks like he’s arguing with himself, and he stops short when he sees you standing there. You’re both breathing hard, like you’ve been chasing something you were afraid would get away. His eyes are glassy, rimmed red, and the sight of it makes your chest ache in a way that feels almost unbearable.

“You’re still here,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He shrugs, helpless and honest. “I got in my car, but I couldn’t start it.”

You hug yourself, arms tight around your middle like that might hold everything in place. “I… I didn’t know.”

He frowns slightly, confused. “Didn’t know what?”

“That you were visiting her,” you say, your voice already wobbling. “You never told me.”

Steve looks down at the pavement, scuffing his shoe against an invisible crack.

And that’s when it all finally spills over.

“It’s not fair,” you choke, tears blurring everything. “She’s laying in there, and I’m standing out here like this… perfectly fine.”

He steps forward then, closing the space between you, his hands settling on your shoulders like he’s afraid you might disappear again. You don’t pull away, and the relief that crosses his face is almost painful.

“Honey,” he says softly, steady but thick with emotion, “you aren’t fine. You’re hurting.”

A broken sound slips out of you. “But how am I allowed to be hurting when I had you?” Your voice cracks as the words tumble out. “I don’t know if Max can hear us. I don’t know if she’s alone in there. It’s not fair, Steve. None of this is fair.”

He doesn’t argue. He just pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you fully this time, and you cling to his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. You sob into his chest, body shaking, while he buries his nose in your hair and rubs slow, grounding circles into your back.

“I’m so sorry,” you say between breaths. “I’m so sorry I pushed you away. I thought you didn’t care that she was here. I didn’t know you were coming to see her.”

He holds you tighter. “I didn’t come with you because it breaks my heart every time,” he admits quietly. “And I got so angry at myself, because there was nothing I could do. I’ve messed this up before. I always think if I just understood it better, I could fix it. And I didn’t want to do that with you. I didn’t want you to hate me because I couldn’t make it better.”

You shake your head against his chest, gripping him even harder. “Steve, I could never hate you. I’m so sorry I shut you out. I don’t want you to leave. You’re right… you can’t fix it. But I can’t do this alone.”

His answer comes without hesitation. He presses a kiss to your temple, warm and familiar, grounding in the way only he ever is.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m not leaving, baby. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

Steve’s face is flushed from the cold and from everything he’s holding in, his eyes still red but steady now, fixed on you with that familiar, unwavering care. There’s a crease between his brows like he’s been worried for a long time, and his mouth curves into something small and tentative, like hope is still a fragile thing he doesn’t want to scare away.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself feel it all at once.

The sadness settles in your chest, heavy but honest. The fear lingers too, sharp and real, reminding you that love always comes with the risk of loss. But threaded through it is something softer—hope, quiet and stubborn—and beneath that, love, steady and undeniable, swelling until your heart feels too full for your ribs.

You burrow your face into his chest, arms tightening around him, realizing dimly that you’re holding him just as much as he’s holding you.

“I’m here too,” you whisper.

He exhales, like he’s been waiting to hear that, and holds you a little closer.

After a while—after your breathing evens out and the night settles back into place—you go back inside together. No rushing, no words you don’t need. Just side by side, fingers brushing as you walk down the hall toward Max’s room.

You sit at her bedside in comfortable silence until Steve breaks it by flipping through one of the gossip magazines, launching into a painfully accurate Kermit the Frog voice that catches you off guard. A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, startled and real, and he grins like he’s just won something precious.

Eventually, your fingers find his, lacing together naturally, like they remember how. You rest your head against his shoulder, exhaustion finally catching up with you. The chair digs uncomfortably into your back, but you don’t move.

You close your eyes.