I Wish I Did

You reach around him and press three buttons in a row, clearing out whatever nonsense he’d punched in. The microwave beeps obediently and starts to whir. Gator exhales through his nose. You hear him shift, the scuffed heel of his boot scraping across the cracked linoleum as he steps back.

"You always this bossy with your patients?"

You grab a dishrag and toss it over your shoulder, not looking at him. "Only the ones who almost set fire to their drapes last week."

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. It sounds like something trying to crawl up a dry throat and dying halfway.

"I didn’t ask for you."

"No. The state did. Big difference."

That gets him quiet. The microwave hums louder than it should. This place makes noise like it’s protesting every breath. The fridge rattles. The AC groans but doesn’t blow. Somewhere in the bathroom, a slow drip ticks like a clock.

You hear Gator shift again, arms folding. "Used to come through County sometimes. Victim reports and shit. Back when you were still in scrubs. Didn’t peg you for the mothering type."

You glance at him. His face is the same as you remember, minus the way it used to carry too much smugness and swagger. His jaw’s still sharp but there’s tension in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it's the slight beard starting to grow in, maybe it's the scars, or maybe it's just the fact that he doesn’t have his eyes anymore. That tends to shift the dynamic.

"I’m not," you say. "But I am paid to keep you alive, which means making sure you don’t blow yourself up for the third time this month."

"Third?" he echoes, lifting his brows. "Thought it was only twice."

"You don't always hear about the ones I catch in time."

The microwave dings and you open it before he can try. The bowl’s too hot, so you use a towel and grab a spoon. You set it on the table where he usually eats, pushing aside the mess of newspapers and empty cans.

He waits until your footsteps pass him before moving. You can hear the way he tests the space with his foot, like he doesn’t trust the floor to stay where it was yesterday. You almost reach out, almost guide him like you would one of the other clients, but you don’t. He’d hate that. He’s already gripping the edge of the counter like he’s daring himself to make it across the six feet of floor without help.

He does. Barely. His chair scrapes back as he sits down.

“Still got it,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t reply. You pull open the window above the sink instead, let in some fresh air that doesn’t smell like reheated TV dinners and humid bitterness.

Gator takes a spoonful and immediately hisses, half-coughs.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tryin’ to skin my tongue off?”

You glance back. “Didn’t think I needed to remind you soup gets hot. My mistake.”

He says nothing, just sits there fuming, going for the second bite like it offended him personally.

You lean your hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about saying thank you?”

His head tilts slightly. “You ever think about mindin’ your own damn business?”

“Every day,” you reply. “But then you do something stupid again.”

There’s a silence. Not a loud one. Not angry, either. Just... there. Sitting heavy between you. You watch him take another bite, slower this time. He looks like he’s chewing memory more than food.

"You were different back then," you say finally.

He swallows. “Back when?”

“Back when you were a deputy. Still had that dumb truck. Used to roll up like a Hot Wheels car.”

You expect another jab. Another smart-ass deflection. But Gator doesn’t smile. His spoon hovers in midair.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I liked driving fast. Or at all."

You nod. “I remember.”

He sets the spoon down. Reaches for the can of soda you left near the edge of the table. He misses it by an inch. Your hand beats his, pushing it gently toward him until his fingers close around the rim.

He doesn't say thank you.

He doesn’t have to.

Because he knows you’ll be there.

Even when he’s acting like a bastard.

Especially then.

The bathroom is just wide enough for your knee to brush the edge of the tub when you sit him down on the closed toilet seat. The counter digs into your hip, and the mirror above the sink is fogged from the old radiator’s steam pipe that runs along the back wall. It always runs too hot in here, even when it’s cold outside.

“You could’ve told me you were growing a beard,” you mutter, soaking the rag in warm water. “Would’ve saved me from bringing the razor.”

“I wasn’t,” he says flatly. “Just forgot.”

You wring out the rag and lean in, pressing it against the curve of his jaw. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull back. The stubble is rougher than usual. Thicker. It smells like his soap, the kind you buy because he doesn’t care enough to notice brands.

“Well,” you say, voice lighter now, “you forget for another week and I’m charging double. I don’t do lumberjack grooming for free.”

Gator smirks faintly, lips barely moving. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to impress anybody.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Still handsome. Stubborn, moody, difficult, but handsome.”

His brows twitch like he’s not sure if you’re joking. You are. Mostly. But it’s true, too. Even with the band of fabric he wears across what’s left of his eyes, even with the scar cutting down his cheekbone, even with that worn flannel pulled loose at the collar. He’s still himself. Still Gator Tillman. Just quieter now. Bruised around the edges.

You grab the razor and lather his face with a little of the cheap shaving cream he keeps under the sink. Your fingers are gentle but quick. He lets you touch him like this, like he’s used to it now. Like it’s normal.

“You ever nick me,” he says, “I swear—”

“You’ll what?” You lift a brow. “Scowl in my general direction?”

He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.

You start on his jaw, slow strokes with the razor, careful to mind the curve near the scar. Your hand steadies against his chin. The blade whispers down skin. He doesn’t flinch.

“You know,” you say after a minute, “this is probably one of the parts of this job I enjoy.”

“You enjoy shaving me?”

“Yeah.” You rinse the blade. “It’s quiet. Focused. And you stop talking.”

“Convenient.”

“And,” you add, “you’ve got a good face. Nice jaw. Would be a crime to let it get buried under all this gristle.”

“You flirt like a truck stop waitress,” he says.

“Damn right I do.”

He’s quiet again. You move to the other side of his face, press your fingers lightly to tilt his chin. His pulse is steady under the skin. You don’t say anything else. The room doesn’t need it.

You finish, wiping away the last of the lather with the cloth. His skin is warm beneath it. Those few familiar moles and freckles are visible again. You reach to rinse your hands and toss the towel in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.

But before you can turn away, his hand reaches out. Finds yours.

He’s slow about it, like he’s not sure he has the right. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back.

You don’t.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek. Presses it there. Just rests it. Your palm against his newly smooth skin. The tiniest tremble in his jaw.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe for a second.

It isn’t flirty. It isn’t seductive. It’s just... quiet. Needy in a way that aches.

And even though he doesn’t say a word, you know exactly what this is.

You leave your hand there a little longer than you should.

Because he doesn’t get this often. Not anymore.

Because you don’t mind the quiet moments either.

Because it’s the one time he lets you touch him without biting back.

He’s still Gator. Still hard-edged, still impossible. But this? This is the part of him that he never lets anyone else see.

And you’re still here.

Even when he doesn’t ask.

Especially then.

You don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. The knock has a kind of rhythm to it. Measured. Familiar. You open the door and find Nadine standing there with a container in her hands and a smile that means she’s brought something dangerous.

"Oatmeal raisin," she says before you even ask, lifting the Tupperware like a peace offering. "Still his favorite, right?"

You breathe in the smell and nod, already reaching for it. “You spoil him.”

“Somebody has to,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for more invitation.

She’s dressed like always, some kind of floral blouse under a light jacket, gold studs in her ears, her hair pulled back into a bun that’s starting to loosen in the front. She smells like the kind of department store perfume that clings to coat collars and car seats for days.

You close the door behind her and follow her into the kitchen, popping the lid on the cookies before your shoes even leave the mat.

“He’s gonna inhale these,” you mutter, already grabbing a small plate from the cabinet. “And then act like he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”

“He’ll grumble through the whole first one,” Nadine says, “but I guarantee you he’ll have three gone before I get a word in.”

You like her. You always have. She’s one of the few people who knows how to talk to Gator like he’s still human, even when he’s acting like a closed door. She doesn’t tiptoe. Doesn’t baby him. She also doesn’t bullshit, which you appreciate.

She watches you for a moment while you arrange the cookies on the plate, and you know that look. It’s the same one she gives him when she knows he’s full of it.

“You heading out?” she asks gently.

“That was the plan,” you say. “Usually give you two the apartment. It’s kind of your time.”

Nadine steps closer and reaches out, setting one hand lightly on your forearm. Her grip is soft, but there’s something in the way she holds it that makes you pause.

“Stay,” she says. “Just for a bit. Not on the clock. Just cookies and coffee and a little conversation.”

You hesitate. You’ve never stayed during one of her visits. You usually use the window to grab groceries or take a break, let them have this. But her tone isn’t casual, and her eyes are steady on yours.

“I’d like you to sit with us today,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s good for him. And frankly, you could use a break too.”

You don’t argue. Not with her. You nod, slow and small, and she smiles like she’s been waiting for you to agree since she pulled into the driveway.

She walks into the living room ahead of you, calling out as she goes. “It’s me, Gator. Brought cookies.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear him shift on the couch. The leather creaks under him as he turns toward the sound of her voice.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “Thought you got lost.”

“Please,” Nadine snorts. “I’ve been navigating this godforsaken town longer than you’ve been breathing. Don’t sass me.”

You follow them in, quieter. Normally, your footsteps would head toward the door. This time they carry you back across the living room, and the moment you cross into his space, you feel it. He knows you stayed. Of course he does. His head tips, just slightly, in your direction, and even though the cloth he wears keeps you from seeing what’s left of his eyes, you feel his attention land on you all the same.

You sit down on the armrest of the chair across from him, legs tucked close, hands folded in your lap. Nadine takes the couch next to Gator, passing him a cookie and patting his arm when his fingers fumble for the plate.

The three of you sit like that, sharing the space in silence for a few moments while he chews through the first bite and makes a face like it’s too sweet, even though everyone knows it isn’t.

“Still soft,” he says grudgingly, like it’s a complaint.

“You’re welcome,” Nadine replies, taking one for herself. “I’d ask for an actual ‘thank you’, but I know that’s not your style.”

“I don’t say thank you,” he grumbles, “I eat the damn cookie.”

“Good enough,” she says, biting into hers with a grin.

You lean back a little, letting their conversation wash over you. There’s history here. Most of it is dark, but Nadine feels like sunshine even through the dark times. You like that about her.

And even though you’re not saying anything, you feel his awareness of you like gravity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time your fingers drum against your knee, his head turns just a little. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t ask, but you know he’s listening to you the way other people watch with their eyes.

The plate of cookies sits between them. Nadine talks about the new pastor at the Lutheran church and how the coffee’s gotten worse somehow. Gator grunts responses that are half amusement and half disinterest. You stay quiet, sipping from the mug she pressed into your hands without asking.

And you’re not on the clock. You’re not checking your watch or cleaning up the fridge or reminding him to take his meds.

You’re just there.

And he knows it.

Even when he won’t say it.

Especially then.

The door sticks a little when you open it, just like it always does. You push through with your hip and call out a low greeting, already juggling the day’s supplies in your arms. The air smells like toast and the faint trace of whatever cologne he still insists on using, like anyone but you is ever close enough to notice.

He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch, arms folded across his chest like someone tried to tell him how to live. His head lifts slightly when he hears the keys jingle.

“Thought that old lady was comin’ today,” he mutters, not quite facing you yet. “The one who won’t shut up about her grandkids.”

You let the door close behind you with your foot and drop your bag on the counter. “Beverly?”

He grimaces. “Yeah. Beverly. She always brings me sugar-free snacks and tries to get me to do chair yoga. Last week she told me her grandson’s ‘learning percussion’ and made me listen to a recording of him beating on a bucket. Swear to God.”

You laugh into your sleeve. “I’m surprised you didn’t fake a seizure.”

“Came close,” he mutters.

You start unpacking the bottles, setting them in their little row near the sink. One of them rattles too loud and you shake it gently to check how low it is.

“So what, you’re happy to see me instead?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you catch the way his chin tips slightly toward your voice, just enough to count as a yes.

You smile at his silence. He doesn’t say things like that out loud. He doesn’t have to.

“You know what day it is,” you say, already gathering the gauze and gloves.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Therapy.”

“And before that…”

He groans. “Med check.”

You’re already walking over. “Face check.”

“I hate this part,” he says.

“I know.”

But he lets you do it anyway.

You sit on the ottoman across from him and snap the gloves on. The sound makes him flinch a little. He never says why. You just know it gets in his head. You grab the small flashlight and tilt your chin toward him.

“You ready?”

“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?” It comes out like bait, a hook for you to latch onto, even if he knows you never fully will.

“No, but I’ll say something nice about your hair.”

He snorts. “That’s a lie.”

You lean in. Carefully, you reach up and unfasten the cloth wrap that sits where his eyes used to be. You try to keep your face neutral, like always, but it never stops hitting you. The damage is still raw in places, though the burns have healed over into pink, shiny skin with ragged edges where his brow used to be. The scarring is faded but still angry. You’ve seen worse, but somehow this one gets to you more.

Maybe because it was done on purpose. Maybe because you know who he used to be.

He sits still, like he trusts you more than he lets on. The flashlight flicks over the tissue. You check the edges for inflammation, infection, irritation from the cloth or the heat. You wipe around the scars with a warm cloth, slow and careful.

“You’ve still got good skin,” you say without thinking. “Takes care of itself, even when you don’t.”

He makes a noise low in his throat. “You hittin’ on me again?”

You grin, focused on the last patch of scar near his temple. “Maybe.”

He shifts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice lazy and rough. “I might not have eyes, but my hands still work just fine.”

You freeze for half a second, cloth still against his skin, before answering too quickly.

“Didn’t say they didn’t.”

That comes out more breathless than intended. You both go still, the air between you suddenly different. 

You clear your throat, fold up the cloth, and snap the gloves off. Your hands feel too warm now as you settle the wrap back over his face. You move back to the counter, pretending to be busy with the pill organizer.

He shifts again, the couch creaking under him, but doesn’t break the silence.

Finally, you turn. “We should head out soon. Your appointment’s at ten.”

“I know,” he says.

You grab your keys, the bag, and the Tupperware of snacks you packed for him earlier that morning. He doesn’t ask what’s inside, but you know he’ll eat them anyway.

The door clicks shut behind you both, and for a while, neither of you say anything.

But as you help him into the passenger seat of your car, he brushes your hand by accident, and you swear he lingers there just a second longer than necessary.

He won’t say what that means.

You don’t ask.

Especially then.

The chair squeaked under him in a way that always made it sound like it was going to break, like one more hour in this place and the legs would just give out beneath the weight of his bullshit. He shifted anyway, leaned back farther than necessary, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to protect.

He couldn’t see the guy sitting across from him, but he’d built enough of a picture over the last few sessions to feel confident about the assumptions he made. Gator could smell the cologne he used — one of those cheap ones that thought it smelled like wood but really just stung the nose like pine-scented antiseptic.

“Morning, Gator,” the therapist said, voice warm and calm like it always was. Like they hadn’t been through this same dance for six weeks now.

“Sure,” Gator said, not moving. “Let’s call it that.”

The man, Todd was his name, didn’t bite at the sarcasm. He just scribbled something on his clipboard, which Gator had told him on week two was annoying as shit. Clearly, it didn’t stick.

“How was the last week?” He asked. “Anything new come up?”

Gator shrugged. “Didn’t die. Didn’t kill anyone. Banner week.”

More scribbling. Gator hated the sound of that pen. He knew the guy did it on purpose, kept the silence going so Gator would fill it, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.

“You getting out of the house at all?” the therapist asked after a beat.

“You mean besides this circus?”

“Yes.”

Gator scratched at the seam of the cloth over his face, just near the temple. “I walk. Sometimes.”

“Where to?”

“Nowhere. Just… ‘round.”

“Alone?”

Gator didn’t answer. Not right away. The truth was, he hated going anywhere with people, but he hated being seen walking alone more. The blind guy stumbling down the sidewalk with a cane and a band over his face wasn’t exactly blending in.

“Mostly,” he muttered.

The therapist nodded, Gator could tell from the subtle shift of his clothes. “We talked before about connection, Gator. About letting people in. You’ve made real progress on your mindset. You’ve unpacked a lot about how you were raised, about your father’s influence, about what was expected of you. You’ve been doing the hard work. But what we haven’t really explored yet is how to form new relationships — ones that aren’t built on power, or fear, or control.”

Gator’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.

The therapist continued, carefully. “Are there people in your life you’d call close? People you care about, or trust?”

There it was. The question they’d been circling for three sessions. Gator let the silence hang for a long moment, just to make a point.

“Not many,” he said finally. “Most people don’t wanna… get too close to the guy who lit the family name on fire.”

“You aren't responsible for your generational trauma.”

“I know that,” Gator snapped, sharper than he meant to. They'd gone over that shit time and time again, but it still slipped out. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his thigh and exhaled. “Nadine still comes by. She brings cookies. Bitches about her book club. It’s fine.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It’s loud. But yeah. I guess it’s… somethin’.”

“Anyone else?”

Gator hesitated.

“My nurse,” he said after a moment. “Caretaker. Whatever she’s called on the paperwork. The young one. She’s ‘round my age.”

“I'm familiar. What’s that like?”

Gator shifted again, scratched at the side of his neck.

“She’s annoying,” he said flatly. “Talks too much. Makes fun of my microwave technique. Smells like clean laundry and peppermint. Keeps tryin’ to feed me shit I don’t wanna eat. Tells me when I’m being a prick.”

The therapist didn’t speak.

“She’s fine,” Gator added, quieter. “Good at her job. Better than Beverly. Beverly tells me about her grandkid’s little league games like I give a damn.”

“But this one… you let her close.”

“I let her do her job,” Gator snapped, then exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It ain’t like that.”

Todd was silent again, just long enough to make Gator grit his teeth.

“What?” Gator growled.

“You talk about her differently.”

“Jesus,” Gator muttered, throwing his head back against the cushion. “This the part where you ask if I’ve got romantic feelings like we’re in a high school counseling session?”

“No,” he said calmly. “But I am going to ask if you’ve considered the difference between isolation and independence. You’ve been alone for a long time. And it sounds like this person is someone you let in more than most.”

Gator didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled.

After a beat, he smirked.

“Most folks don’t want to fuck up their insurance benefits getting involved with someone who looks like a half-melted action figure,” he muttered.

Todd sighed, more amused than exasperated. “You’re not disfigured, Gator.”

“Says the guy with a functioning face.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Damn right I am.”

“You ever try not doing that?”

Gator leaned back again, his voice dry. “What’s the fun in that?”

And the silence returned.

Like it always did.

Especially then.

You finish lining up his meds on the counter like always, labeled for morning and night, the little clack of each cap clicking into place while he sits in the armchair by the window pretending he’s not paying attention. You’ve already made the bed, opened the window just enough to keep the room from getting stale, laid out his water and snacks on the table like you always do on Fridays in case he gets restless after you’re gone. You’re halfway out the door before he finally says something.

“You smell different.”

You pause, fingers still wrapped around your keys. “What?”

He shifts like he’s not sure if he wants to repeat himself, but then he sits forward and mutters it again, slower this time. “I said you smell different.”

You blink and glance down at your dress, then back toward him. “Okay, creep.”

“I ain’t bein’ creepy,” he says, scowling like he’s already annoyed you made him clarify. “You don’t smell like peppermint.”

“That’s what this is about?” you laugh, stepping back into the room. “You miss the peppermint oil?”

“I don’t miss shit,” he grumbles. “I’m just sayin’. It ain’t what you usually wear.”

You lift an eyebrow. “So what do I smell like?”

He sniffs once, face twisting like he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “Cherry. And somethin’ else.”

“Bergamot.”

There’s a long pause before he snorts. “The hell is that?”

“It’s… I don’t know. It’s just in the perfume.”

He mutters something that sounds like “fancy bullshit” under his breath, but you catch it and smirk. You move closer to grab your jacket from the chair where you left it earlier. That’s when he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm — just for balance, you think, or maybe not — his palm presses against the bare curve of your shoulder.

His hand goes still.

It’s clear the second he notices.

You aren’t wearing your usual scrub top or hoodie. No soft cotton or oversized sleeves. His thumb drags lightly across the edge of your strap, and it’s quiet for just a little too long.

“You wearin’ a dress?” he asks, already knowing the answer. There’s something sharp behind the words, dulled down with effort but still biting around the edges.

You hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Huh.”

You glance at him, at the way his jaw’s set like he’s grinding down something behind his teeth. “I have plans.”

“You goin’ to a funeral or somethin’?”

“No,” you say. “I have a date.”

He leans back a little like the chair just got less comfortable. “Huh,” he says again, but it comes out lower this time. “So that’s what this is.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” you add, pulling your hair back and twisting it into a clip, “but yeah. First date.”

“Who is he?”

You turn halfway toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he lies. “Just curious what kinda guy gets you smellin’ like fruit and soap.”

You don’t respond. The silence stretches until he fills it himself.

“He got two workin’ eyes?”

You blink, slow. “Jesus, Gator.”

“What? That a requirement now?”

“You’re being a dick.”

“I’m just sayin’. I got some questions.”

“He’s a nurse. I met him last month. It’s a drink and maybe a movie. That’s it.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell by the way his foot bounces once against the floor and then stops. His jaw flexes. He folds his arms tighter.

“Must be nice.”

You sigh and head toward the door again. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“I ain’t stoppin’ you from leaving.”

You pause again at the threshold, hand resting on the knob, the weight of the night pressing in against the back of your neck.

Behind you, his voice cuts through — louder now, sharper than before, riding the edge of anger even though it’s dressed up like a joke.

“You better not come back here tomorrow all sex-drunk and forgetting shit.”

You turn slowly, eyes narrowing, pulse climbing in a way you don’t like.

“I’m not gonna be… sex drunk.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just stare at him, both of you standing your ground, both of you pretending that nothing got said that wasn’t supposed to.

You open the door and step out into the night.

You don’t slam it.

But you don’t close it softly either.

Especially then.

The voice in the audiobook was too smooth. It irritated him more than anything. Some guy reading a western like he had ever stepped foot on cracked earth or held anything heavier than a coffee cup. Gator let it drone in the background, something about two brothers and a land dispute, but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. His jaw ached from clenching. He had turned the volume down twice already and didn’t know why he kept turning it back up again.

The apartment was too quiet. Not silent — the fan still clicked every now and then from the corner, the fridge kicked on and off in its usual stubborn rhythm — but it felt like the walls were waiting for something. The kind of waiting that pressed in behind the ribs.

He leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet resting near the edge of the table. The blanket you’d folded for him sat untouched, the faint scent of whatever soap you used still clinging to it. Not the peppermint. The cherry and whatever-the-hell it was. Something citrusy and light, like lotion in a bottle too expensive for anyone normal to buy.

Bergamot. That’s what you said.

Gator scoffed quietly to himself and rubbed a hand across his face.

Fucking bergamot.

You were probably at some bar by now. Sitting across from a man who didn’t know you liked your coffee strong or that you hummed under your breath when you organized his pills. Some guy with decent shoes and clean hands, maybe a little cologne rubbed into his neck, probably wore button-ups that actually fit. Some guy who didn’t need a ride to the damn clinic every week or a guide to find the damn light switch.

The thought made him shift, restless. His fingers curled into the edge of the throw pillow beneath his elbow.

He didn’t care. He didn’t.

But the idea of that guy, this nurse or whatever he was,  trying to understand you, trying to keep up with you, trying to figure out how you worked… it grated. He doubted that pretty boy had ever had to listen, not really. Bet he thought quiet was just silence and not the weight of it. Bet he thought soft touches were enough to keep a woman like you interested.

Gator knew better. Knew it in the way your voice changed when you were serious. Knew it in how you let him hear your breath catch when his hand landed on your shoulder, skin bare and warm beneath his palm. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t pulled away. He had felt the curve of your neck and the shift of muscle under his thumb. That moment had been short but it had happened. He hadn’t imagined it.

He tried to shake the thought but it followed him as he stood, slowly, body stiff from sitting too long. He took his pills with warm water and stood at the sink longer than necessary, fingers braced against the counter, chin tipped forward like gravity was trying to press him into the floor.

The apartment still smelled like you.

Even now. That scent mix clinging to the air like it was trying to haunt him. He swore he could feel it in the fibers of the carpet. His fingers twitched like they remembered the feeling of your arm. The dress. The way your voice sounded when you said first date like it wasn’t anything worth worrying about.

He turned off the audiobook and left the speaker on the table.

His bedroom was dark, only the hallway light bleeding through the cracked door. He didn’t bother undressing. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded behind his head. He tried not to think about where you were. Who you were with. If this guy would touch you the way he would. If he’d even know how.

You didn’t wear that scent for just anyone. That wasn’t a work perfume. That was a look-at-me kind of perfume.

His hand slid over his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before resting lower.

He hadn’t meant to think about it. But now it was there and it wasn’t leaving.

He thought about how soft your skin had felt under his palm. About the sound of your voice when you laughed at him. How your perfume clung to your collarbones. How your thighs probably looked sitting across from some other man. How your legs crossed. How you leaned in when you were listening.

His palm moved lower, breath hitching with it, the fan above clicking like it was counting the seconds between every drag of his fingers. The room felt warmer than it should have, sweat already gathering beneath his shirt. He didn’t bother peeling it off. Just let his hand slip down over his stomach, rough skin catching on the waistband of his sweats, the movement automatic now, familiar. But tonight it felt like more than a routine. Tonight it felt like punishment.

That scent clung to everything you’d touched.

His hand gripped tighter, breath shallow now, pulled through gritted teeth.

He couldn’t see you anymore, sure, but that didn’t mean he forgot. He remembered how you looked when he’d see you at the hospital if he stopped in for a case. Scrubs, sure, but nothing could hide the way you were built. Not dainty, not delicate. You were soft in the way a man could hold onto, something that filled both hands and then some. You moved like you knew how much space you took up, like you didn’t care who noticed. Your hips always shifted before your voice did. Your arms had weight when you reached past him. Your thighs always brushed against the couch cushion when you sat near.

And your tits — fuck. He hadn’t seen them, of course not, but he remembered the way your shirt used to stretch a little across it when you leaned. The sound of fabric shifting when you adjusted the neckline without thinking. He used to steal glances, back when he still had the option. Now all he had were those stored-away pieces, pulled forward with every breath you left behind.

He hated that he couldn’t see you. Hated that all he had was memory and scent and the way your voice got tight when you were trying not to argue. Hated the way your shoulder felt under his hand earlier, warm and bare and real, just for a second before you pulled away.

His grip stuttered, hips pushing up toward his hand as the pressure built sharp and low in his gut. You, somewhere else, maybe laughing at someone else’s dumb joke. Maybe sitting across from some guy who didn’t even know how you liked your tea, or how to tell the difference between your annoyed silence and your tired one. Probably didn’t know how it felt to have your fingers graze his skin and not look at him like he was broken.

Even without his sight, he knew you never looked at him like that. 

The thought hit hard, and he came with a rough sound caught in his throat, more breath than voice, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.

His hand stayed where it was for a minute, chest rising fast beneath it, cooling sweat clinging to his collarbone.

He didn’t say your name.

But his mind did.

Again and again.

The room felt too quiet when it was over. Too empty. The fan kept turning overhead like nothing had happened.

He pulled the blanket up past his stomach and let his arm fall across his eyes, not that it mattered.

All he could smell was you.

And all he could think about was what he’d never get to see.

And what someone else might be seeing now.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Especially then.

You come back around six from doing errands, arms full, the smell of browned meat and tater tots still clinging to your jacket. The casserole dish is wrapped in foil and still hot enough that you have to shift it from hand to hand as you move toward the kitchen. Gator’s already in his chair, angled just slightly away from the television like he’s listening but not watching anything. You’re not sure he even knows what’s on. The remote is resting on the arm of the couch untouched, and the news is just cycling quietly, background noise for a day where you haven’t really talked.

Not that anything’s wrong. Not exactly. You’d come in earlier like usual, checked his meds, done the daily routine. But it had all been mechanical. His tone had been even. Yours too. Everything said had been about what needed to be said, nothing more. You’d caught him listening hard every time you moved though. You knew the silence had weight.

You slide the dish into the oven to keep warm and set the table without asking. He doesn’t offer to help, not that he usually does, but today feels different. Tighter. The quiet clings to the corners of the room. He doesn’t ask about your night. You don’t bring it up.

Dinner is easy, solid, the kind of food that fills without needing much conversation. You set the plate down in front of him, spooned out carefully, hotdish bubbling at the edges, and he mutters a thanks like it caught in his throat.

He eats like he always does, slow but steady, like he’s thinking while chewing, like there’s something behind every bite he doesn’t want to name.

Halfway through, he sets his fork down, not dramatically, but enough that you glance up from your own plate. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, clears his throat, and then says it like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“You don’t gotta stay here all the time, you know.”

You pause, chewing slower, then set your own fork down gently beside the plate. “What are you talking about?”

“You got a life out there. Friends. People. Shit to do.” His voice is too casual. Too careful. “I’m not your whole goddamn schedule.”

“I know that.”

His head tilts slightly like he’s trying to catch your expression. “Just sayin’. People might start to talk. Wonder what you’re doing here every night.”

“You think I care what people think?”

“I think you should,” he snaps, too fast, too sharp. He softens it a second later. “I just mean… don’t wanna be the reason you stop showin’ up somewhere else.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw is set. The muscle near his temple keeps twitching. He was fishing for how your date went in the most Gator way possible.

“You’re jealous,” you say plainly.

He scoffs. “Of what?”

You don’t answer. Neither does he.

You clear the dishes in silence, scraping the plates and rinsing them slowly. Behind you, you hear the creak of the chair as he stands. You listen to the shuffle of his steps, slow and searching. You already know he’s heading toward the fridge before you hear the clumsy sound of the door being pulled open and something rattling inside.

“What are you looking for?” you ask over your shoulder.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, frustrated, “Beer.”

You sigh and dry your hands quickly on the towel, walking over and nudging him slightly out of the way. His fingers are tight around the door handle, jaw clenched, annoyed at himself more than anything else.

“It’s behind the ginger ale,” you say, reaching in and grabbing one from the back. You twist the cap off and press it into his hand.

He mutters a quiet thanks that barely reaches your ears.

“You want one?” he asks, fingers already curling around the bottle like he needs the weight of it.

“I’m working.”

“Pretty sure your shift ends in an hour,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That so?”

He nods. “You can cut out early if you want. Boss says it’s fine.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Just something simmering under the surface you don’t want to touch yet.

He takes a long drink, standing there by the fridge like it took effort to get that far. His head tips toward you again, just slightly. He can’t see the look on your face, but he knows something’s changed. He always does.

You glance at the clock, then back at him.

You grab a beer from the fridge and twist it open without saying anything.

“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask, voice quieter now.

He turns his head toward you like he’s glaring, and even without eyes, you can feel the way it would land if he could actually see you.

You walk past him into the living room without waiting for an answer.

He follows.

You put something on. It doesn’t matter what.

And then, for a little while, the silence between you feels like something else entirely.

Especially then.

The couch dipped a little when you sat back down with the beers, one in each hand, your hip brushing his as you passed him his. He took it without saying anything, fingers brushing yours, the bottle already slick from condensation. The movie was still going, volume turned low enough that he had to listen close, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your voice filled in the gaps.

You’d been narrating parts of it for him. Not the whole thing, just the stupid parts, which was most of it. You’d tell him when one of the girls made a dumb face, or when the monster puppet looked like it came out of a pizza box. He didn’t ask you to, not really, but you did it anyway, casual, soft, like it was for your own entertainment as much as his.

It wasn’t a good movie. He figured that out from the music alone. It had that warbly synth stuff underneath the dialogue, everything sounding like it was filmed in someone’s basement on a camcorder with a dirty lens. But you laughed at it like you’d seen it before, and that did something to him. Made it easier to listen. Made him forget how close your leg was to his.

Your arm had brushed his earlier, and you hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t either. That was two brushes in twenty minutes. He was keeping count now, apparently.

The movie shifted tone around the halfway mark. The music changed. He heard the moaning before anything else. Heard it in that fake, breathy way actresses used to do when they were trying to sound hot and not bored out of their minds. You went quiet, which made it louder.

He lifted his beer, sipped once, then turned his head toward your voice, even though he couldn’t see your face.

“You gonna describe this part too?” he asked, letting the words roll out slow, just a little smug.

You made a sound in your throat like you might actually consider it.

“I mean,” you said, laughing, “I could.”

He turned his face forward again, shoulders relaxed but jaw tight. “Go on then.”

You hesitated, but then, with a breath, you actually did it.

“She’s got her shirt off. Lotta bounce. Hair’s big. Too much lip gloss.”

He grunted, amused. “Classic.”

“Guy’s not even hot. Looks like he borrowed his dad’s chest hair.”

Gator snorted. “You’d think they’d at least cast someone worth lookin’ at.”

“They didn’t cast for that. They cast for screaming volume and tit-to-waist ratio.”

He smirked. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve watched more bad horror than you, probably.”

“You say that like it’s a challenge.”

You didn’t answer right away, but you kept describing.

“She’s on top now. Moaning way too loud. It’s mostly shadow but you can tell the guy’s doing jack shit.”

“Christ,” Gator muttered, lifting his beer again. “Stop.”

You laughed. “You asked.”

He shook his head, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, didn’t expect a play-by-play.”

“You’re lucky I’m keeping it tasteful.”

“Sure.”

You kept talking for a little while after the sex scene faded out, your voice soft and steady as you described the next girl on screen. You didn’t always narrate like this. Just tonight. Just enough. He could tell by the way you spoke that this one wasn’t your favorite. You called her a knockoff Barbie with hair teased too high and makeup caked on like stage paint. You said she moved like a paper cutout and screamed like someone trying too hard to be hot. You described her as tall, fake-tanned, long-legged in a way that didn’t look real.

He didn’t say anything at first, just drank his beer and let your voice fill in the blanks. But you went quiet after a while. You stopped talking somewhere around the time she bent over in slow motion and let her shirt ride up. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, not exactly, but different. Like something was sitting in it, watching both of you.

He turned his head toward you, didn’t need to see you to know what you were thinking. He could hear it in the way your breath caught a little. In the way you shifted your leg but didn’t move away. In the way you didn’t ask anything, but you wanted to. He felt it in the space between your words.

So he said it, casual, low.

“Never been into girls like that.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. But he could hear you thinking.

“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” he went on, setting the beer on the table, voice steady now. “But it ain’t what really does it for me. Sure did for a while. Had enough bikini posters in my room back at my dad's ranch. Well into my 20s. You would have given me shit for it.”

Still quiet from your side. He could tell you weren’t blinking. Probably staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear it. Wondering why he was saying this.

Hell, he wondered too.

“I like soft,” he said. “I want hips I can grab onto. A body I can fuckin’ hold, not worry I’m gonna snap.”

He heard your breath catch again. Not like before. Not annoyed. Just caught. Like you hadn’t expected him to keep going.

“Wanna feel her chest press up when she’s on top. I wanna know she’s really there. I don’t like dainty. Don’t want someone I can pick up with one arm. I want someone who’ll ride me until the couch breaks.”

He let that one sit.

Then, quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “You know what I mean.”

You hadn’t moved, not really. But everything about your body had shifted. He could feel the tension in the way your knee stayed against his. The way your next breath came through your nose instead of your mouth. The way your beer bottle didn’t clink against the table yet, even though you’d stopped drinking five minutes ago.

He didn’t need eyes for this part.

He could hear it. In the air. In your silence. In your body betraying your mouth.

And it was doing something to him too.

Especially then.

You’re halfway through some garbage midnight rerun on the fuzzy local station. Something about mutant turtles, maybe? You aren’t even sure anymore. You’re just there. Still sitting too close on the couch. Still holding half a beer you forgot you were drinking.

It’s later than you’ve ever stayed. Quiet in that way that starts to feel like it means something. You’re stretched out beside him, feet resting against the coffee table, arm close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And for once, it’s not awkward. Not tense. Just easy.

You don’t even know how it comes up. Something dumb on screen. Some residual tension from his earlier words. Some bad pickup line in a parking lot scene. You snort. He scoffs. And then somehow you’re saying,

“Can I ask you something weird?”

He grunts in a way that means yes.

“Have you…” you hesitate, then push past it. “Have you had sex since you’ve been, y’know. Blind?”

Gator doesn’t turn his head, but you can feel the shift in him. The low flick of a breath from his nose.

“Wouldn’t you know? You’re here all the damn time.”

You let out a short laugh. “I mean, I’m not here when Beverly’s here.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a cough. “Yeah, okay. We’ll I’m sure as shit not fuckin’ Beverly.”

You frown. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well what’d you mean then? You think I got a fuckin’ lineup out the door? You think that’s what I’m after now? Walking around with a cane and a fuckin’ scarred up face looking for someone to pity-fuck me? Ain’t exactly in the market.”

You blink, a little stunned by the sharpness of it. But he doesn’t seem mad. Just honest. Tired.

“Wasn’t getting much play before anyway,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Half the time it was just about the badge. And I ain’t him anymore.”9

You don’t say anything to that. But your fingers flex on the bottle, and he hears it. You know he hears it.

He exhales again, like he’s dragging the memory out with him. “Cop buddies tried to take me to Bare Assets after I got out. Thought they were doing me a favor. Got me a dance in a private room. One where it ain't ever just a dance. One of those real feel-good, you-earned-this kind of things.”

He shakes his head, like he can still hear the music. “Was just sad. Couldn’t even get hard. All that perfume and fake giggles and hands on my legs and nothin’. Felt like they were feeding a dog scraps just to watch him beg.”

You blink again. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”

He turns his head slightly. “Not sayin’ I can’t get hard. Just sayin’—”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, well. I can.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

You laugh softly, nervous. “I believe you.”

“It’s just…” He shrugs. “It takes certain things now. More about the other senses than just imagining a good pair of tits. Like I gotta actually pay attention to shit now. Voices, tone, smell. Touch. Not that I get much of that now.”

Silence again. Longer this time. Thicker.

Then—

“Pretty sure I’m halfway there right now.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re stunned.

You see him grinning then, it's not as smug as usual. It's almost nervous then. 

Especially then.

He could tell the second you stood up that you were rattled. The shift in your weight, the scrape of your knee against the cushion, the way you cleared your throat like it might buy you a second.

“I should go,” you said. Light. Dismissive. Trying to pass it off like it was nothing.

He didn’t move. Just cocked his head. “Thought you weren’t on the clock.”

You let out a sharp little laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat. “I’m not, but I also can’t believe you’re propositioning me right now. Real classy.”

He huffed, slightly offended. “Ain’t proposin’ nothin’.”

You kept talking anyway. “I mean, I know Beverly says this job can be uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn’t realize bedside handjobs were part of the care routine.”

He grinned, just barely, but didn’t rise to it. Not all the way. Because he could hear it in you now. That edge. Not just your usual bite. This one was shakier. Like you were trying to push something away before it stuck.

He waited until your steps circled back toward him. Until he knew you were close. Then he reached out, slow and sure, and caught your wrist in his hand.

“Hey,” he said. Quiet, but firm. “Don't go.”

You froze. He had never asked to directly like this.

He could feel your pulse skip under his fingers.

But then it came, sharp as ever. “What is this, Gator? You think I’m just gonna stick around and what, crawl into your lap ‘cause you’re lonely? You think I need this job that bad?”

His jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist, hands up like he’d touched something too hot.

“That's not what I meant,” he muttered.

“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. “Because that’s what it sounds like. You flirt and tease and say shit and then when I react, suddenly I’m the one who’s reading too much into it?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sat there, back against the couch, mouth tight, fists loose on his knees. He could still feel the shape of your wrist in his palm.

“You're not reading into it too much.” He muttered it like it was forcing its way out of his mouth.

His therapist’s voice surfaced, unwanted, in the back of his head. Telling him to make meaningful connections and shit.

Dammit, Todd.

He rubbed at his jaw, annoyed with himself. “Look. You wanna know what it is?” he said. “It’s that I like you. Alright? Not in some sad broken man way. Not ‘cause you wipe my counters and cook me shit. I like you.”

You didn’t speak. He kept going.

“I think about you when you’re not here. Wonderin’ what smartass thing you’d say about whatever trash’s on the TV. Thinkin’ what you smell like when you’re out on a date with some douche. I listen to you hummin’ while you fold towels and I swear to God it makes me feel like my fuckin’ ribs are cracked open.”

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for your wrist again, slower this time. Not pulling, just holding.

“And I know it ain’t your job to listen to this shit. I'm a bastard most of the time and I know you got no reason to care. But if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna choke on it.”

You didn’t pull away. Not this time.

So he held on.

And you stood there in front of him, too close to pretend you didn’t hear him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo, soft under all the heat.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow.

"I think about you other ways too. At other times. When I shouldn't." He cleared his throat, the words rough, the honesty rougher. "Think about how you'd sound. How it'd feel to have you on top of me. I've thought about it."

Your breathing was louder, unsteady, like it had to push its way through. His thumb slid slowly along your inner wrist. Up and down, tracing a gentle arc over the thin skin.

"You don't look at me like I'm broken. I mean..." he let out a breath of a laugh. "I can't fuckin' see it. But I know you don't."

"You're not. Broken, I mean." You finally say. The words feel like a secret, a quiet confession.

He nods, slow, and turns his head a little, just enough that you can see the shape of his profile against the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen. The edges of his jaw and chin and throat. The shadow of his mouth. His thumb keeps moving. Up and down. Over your wrist, then the side of your hand, and then back.

"You're always callin' me handsome and shit. Which is fuckin' wild, by the way. You must be goddamn delusional. But I get it. I hear the tone in your voice when you say it. I can tell the difference. I know it ain't a joke. So that's somethin'. I still got some parts worth lookin' at."

Your chest is so tight it hurts to breathe.

"Gator."

"I do. By the way." He smirks in a way he hasn't done in a while. "Got other parts worth lookin' at. Ones you haven't seen yet."

You let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it was a little stronger. Your voice is quieter now. Less angry. Less annoyed. Just a little... something else.

"I've seen your dick, Gator. I had to make sure you didn't fall in the shower the first couple weeks."

He knows that and he's a little mortified by being reminded of it in this moment. "Okay, well you haven't seen it hard."

That bit of crass boyish humor and defiance were definitely still in him. Todd couldn't cure everything in therapy.

"You think I'd want to?"

"I know you do."

Silence.

"You ever think about me?" he asks. "Beyond the flirting you do every damn day and then try to say it's for my ego. Do you?"

You swallow hard.

"Do I what?"

"Do you ever think about me like that?"

It's your turn to smirk now. "Do you really want me to answer that, or are you just asking to hear yourself talk?"

"I'm blind. Not deaf. And yeah. I want an answer."

He stands, letting go of your hand. You take a step back.

"You're a good-looking guy, Gator."

"That ain't what I asked."

"You're right."

"So."

"So what?"

He reaches for your hand again, fingers searching for a second before finding the shape of it. "I remember what you look like."

It hits you harder than you realize when he says that. And he notices. You know he does. He doesn't miss a single fucking thing.

"Your skin. Your hair. The curve of your waist. How big your eyes are. I remember it.."

Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is racing. You want to kiss him and run away and hide and scream all at once.

"Your scrub tops when you worked at County? Fuckin' hell. All stretched across your tits. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the shit that did to me. Be in the hospital takin' witness statements while half hard." He let out air through his nose, shaking his head. "Then found out you moved on to outpatient stuff and I didn't see you anymore. Then that fucker burnt my eyes out. Sure there's a fuckton more in between everything, but that ain't important right now. The real torture of it all is you're around me everyday now and I can't even fuckin' see you."

He said the last part like it pissed him off more than he could admit. More than he had the words to.

"You can hear me." You say, whispered.

He lifts his head up more, confused look on his face. "Yeah. I can."

You move his hand to your hip, where you have soft sweatpants on. "You can feel me."

Still in that whisper soft tone. It was undoing him. Was this...?

"And you can definitely smell me.. Won't shut up about my scent half the time."

His thumb brushes your hip. "You're wearing that cherry shit again."

"Then use those, Gator. If this is what you want. Then take it."

You didn't mean for it to come out like a challenge. But it does. And you can tell he likes it. Likes that tone. The one where you're daring him.

He's always liked a woman that would talk back to him, he can admit that now.

He slides his hand across the curve of your waist. Fingers spread out and pressing into your skin. The shirt you're wearing is thin, so he can feel your warmth. He pulls your body closer.

"I don't wanna be a joke to you." He whispers.

"You're not." You reply.

He slides his hand down your ass. "Or a pity fuck."

"It's not."

"Then what am I?"

"You're a guy I care about. Who has been hurt and needs someone who cares enough not to hurt him anymore."

His breath hitches and he grabs your ass more firmly, pulling you to his lap. You're straddling him now. His hands are on either side of your hips, still grabbing.

"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, voice a deep growl.

You're both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours. You reach out, running a hand through his hair.

"Whatever you want me to."

He kisses you. Hard and hot and desperate. His hands are on your back, holding you to him. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair. He groans into your mouth, hips bucking up.

"Fuck, I need you," he pants, pulling away. "You feel so fuckin' good."

"We should go to your bed, this couch is awful."

"Yeah."

You stand up and take his hand, leading him. He follows, and he's glad the house isn't big. He'd hate to get lost now.

You close the door behind him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. You walk toward him, stopping between his legs.

"Lie down." You say.

He does.

You climb onto the bed, straddling him. You grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up and over your head. It lands somewhere across the room.

Gator hears the material hit the floor. He can feel your body hovering over him.

You lean forward, kissing his lips. Then his cheek. Down his jaw. His throat. He can feel your bare tits against him, heavy and warm. He lets out a low moan.

Your hands are on his chest, roaming, reaching for the hem of his black t-shirt.

"You ain't wearing a bra when you're workin'?" He pants out.

"You can't see me. What's it matter?"

He groans. "It matters."

You laugh, pulling his shirt up. "Then let's get this off."

He sits up slightly, arms over his head, and you slide the shirt off. It falls to the floor, joining your own.

The dark chest hair and beauty marks strewn across his toned chest are even more handsome up close. You trail your hands down his torso and he makes the prettiest sound.

"Fuck. You touch me like you fuckin' love it."

"Because I do." You confess, and press a kiss to his shoulder.

He shudders. You can't tell if it's from the touch or your words.

You reach for the button of his jeans.

"Do you want these off too?"

"Fuck yeah. Take 'em off."

His cock strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs once his jeans are off. His hands reach out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. "So no bra..." he says, sitting up a little. "Any panties?"

"You'd have to find that out yourself, wouldn't you?"

He smirks, hands tugging the sweats down, exposing your naked thighs. His hands roam from your waist to the crease at your hips where your tummy meets your thighs, searching for a bit of fabric. He finds none. 

"No panties," he whispers. "Fuck."

You kick your sweatpants all the way off, now just completely naked on top of him.

"This is gonna sound fucked up..." you start, a nervous laugh spilling out. "But I'm kind of happy you can't see me right now. I always feel...self conscious? When I'm on top."

He can hear the vulnerability. The softness.

"Why?" he asks.

"I don't know. I mean, I'm not perfect. Always worried the view is going to disappoint."

"Oh, so I'm the blind one and you're the fuckin' deaf one. Got it." He says with a little snort.

You can't help but laugh. "What?"

"I spent the last half hour tellin’ you what I liked."

"Yeah, but.."

"No fuckin' buts." His hands grip the plush softness of your ass. "You think this doesn't turn me on? You think I don't wanna squeeze your hips and thighs and feel those fuckin' tits bounce while you're riding my cock? You think I can't imagine how you look when you're panting and wet? Or how pretty you'll sound moaning my name?"

You're taken aback, but you still manage to clear your throat with a small laugh and tease him. "How do you know I'll moan your name?"

He growls, squeezing you a little harder, and bucks his hips up, grinding against you. You gasp at how good the friction feels.

"I'll make you," he pants. "Trust me, I'll make you."

He's kissing you again, his hands roaming your back. He grips your ass again, hard, pulling you against his cock, just the fabric of his boxer briefs between you.

"Take 'em off," he grunts. "I need you to take these fuckin' things off."

You sit up, moving off him and grabbing the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Lift your hips."

He does and you pull them down, tossing them aside.

"Get on top of me," he commands.

"Bossy." You reply, but you get a good look at his cock as you do and, fuck, he wasn't lying. It's thick and hard, a pretty pink at the tip that matches his plush lips.

You climb back on top of him, settling over his hips.

"Fuck," he groans, feeling your heat. "I wanna touch you."

"You are touching me," you say, breathless.

"Not like that." He replies. "Let me feel you."

You guide his hands to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipples, and he hisses a low curse as he palms your tits.

"These things shouldn’t be fuckin' legal," he groans. "Spillin’ over my hands."

You moan softly. He squeezes them a little harder, teasing your nipples, and you whimper.

"Yeah, that's it. I wanna hear you," he growls, and sits up. "Want these in my mouth."

You lean forward, bringing your tits to his lips, and he groans, laving at them. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, squeezing. He looks so good like this, his mouth on you, sucking, licking, grabbing, moaning.

"Think about these every day," he mumbles, voice muffled by your chest.

"Yeah?" You ask, and he hums, nodding, pulling his head back.

"Always had a thing for 'em. Love a woman with a good pair. Wanna bury my face between 'em."

He kisses you, hot and hungry.

"You're a fuckin' wet dream. God this shit feels like a dream. You know your senses get heightened and shit when you can't fuckin see?"

"I went nursing school, yes." You laugh against his mouth. "But it's more like you develop your other senses more over time like--"

"I'm gonna develop my dick into you, okay? Not the time for anatomy lessons."

"You're cute when you're horny."

He growls. "Shut up."

You grind down on him and he curses, the feeling taking all the bark out of him. "Fuck. Shit. Yeah. I wanna fuck you so bad. God. Need to be inside you."

He can't see your blush, but he can feel the heat coming off you. 

"I'm on the pill, but I don't have condoms," you say, hoping that it doesn't ruin the mood.

He groans, leaning his forehead against yours.

"I'm clean, swear on my life. Sure you could get that info anyway. Ain't been with anyone since..." He swallows hard, his next words barely audible. "Since before."

He's scared, you can feel it.

"It's fine," you whisper, hands in his hair. "I trust you."

His cock twitches and he hisses.

"Fuck, I want you."

"Then have me," you say. "I'm here."

He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers brushing your pussy. You're wet, slick against his touch, and he groans again. His thumbs finds your clit, circling slowly.

"God..." you whine out before biting your lip. "No man has an excuse for not finding it now."

"No man is gonna have the fuckin’ chance."

You shudder at his possessive tone, and he feels the shift in your hips.

"That's right. You're mine. Just mine." He grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers harder.

He rubs your clit for a moment longer, until you're squirming and gasping and rocking your hips.

Then he grips his cock, stroking it a couple times, before guiding the tip to your entrance. "C'mere."

You sink down on him slow, letting him stretch you open. You both moan, the sound a harmony, his low and raspy, yours soft and sweet. He feels bigger than you expected, but the pleasure is sharp, not painful.

"Oh, fuck." He curses. "Jesus, fuck."

You start moving, rocking your hips against him, taking him deeper each time. He groans, his hands gripping your ass, holding you as you ride him.

"Tell me how it looks," he breathes, his voice strained. "Tell me what you look like. I wanna know."

"I don't...I can't say that shit… what if I sound stupid?" You pant out.

"You won't. Please."

You can't say no to him when he begs.

"Your cock...it's so thick and pretty and hard, and it's sliding into me, and the way my pussy's wrapped around it, God..."

He groans, thrusting up. “You like it? How it looks when I'm fuckin’ you?”

"I love it. Fuck."

You're moving faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm, the room filled with the sound of your skin slapping against his. He's thrusting up to meet your hips, and you can't stop the sounds that spill out.

"Wanna feel your tits bouncing," he pants.

You move one of his hands from your hip to your breast. He squeezes one and groans, hand resting just under to feel them bounce. 

"God, I love the way they move. They're fucking perfect. You're perfect."

He moves his other hand up, feeling your neck, then your jaw.

"Open," he rasps.

You open your mouth, and he slips two fingers past your lips.

"Suck," he orders.

You do, swirling your tongue around them. He hisses.

"Just like that. Jesus. Your mouth's so wet. Like a pussy."

You whimper, and he feels your tongue lap at his fingers. He pulls them out and moves his hand to your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The hand still on your hip digs in harder, moving you faster.

"Ride me harder, baby," he pants.

"Yes," you breathe, and you bounce harder, the angle making him go deeper.

"Oh, fuck." He grits. "Feels so fucking good. Your pussy's so tight. So fucking wet. God, the sounds you're makin'."

His words are particularly special or flowery, but the praise is still doing something to you, making heat pool in your belly. Suddenly you're grateful that he never shuts the fuck up.

"You're close," he pants, and you nod, forgetting he can't see it.

"I am," you reply, voice shaky. "Are you?"

"Yeah, baby. So fuckin' close."

You reach down and rub your clit. Gator feels the movement and lets out a broken moan.

"Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. God, you touching yourself.?"

"Gator," you cry out, and he can feel how much you're shaking.

"That's it," he pants. "You're gonna come on my cock. You're gonna come all over it, and then I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck. That's what you want, isn't it? My cum so deep in your pretty little pussy."

You whimper, his words and the movement of his cock and the way he's moaning and growling and hissing sending you over the edge.

"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and you're coming, crying out and shaking and rocking your hips, his name on your lips.

"Yes," he groans. "Fuck yes, that's it. Fuck. Keep going. God, you're so wet. I can feel it. You're milking my cock. Fuck, I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna—"

"Please," you whine.

"Oh, fuck. You're beggin' me. Fuck. Say it again. Beg me."

"Please," you moan. "Please, come inside me."

He's not sure if it's the words or the way you sound when you say them, or the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock, but he's coming hard, holding you down on him and filling you up. He's cursing, the word fuck spilling from his mouth over and over, and you're crying out again, your body shaking as you come a second time.

The sound he makes when his cock starts pulsing in you, the way he fills you, it's like nothing you've ever heard before. He's not quiet, not even a little. And you've never felt this kind of release, not from any other man. You feel lightheaded, dizzy almost, the room spinning around you.

He's panting, trying to catch his breath, his hands still gripping your hips. You can feel his cock softening inside you, but it's still buried deep.

You're both silent, trying to recover, the air thick with sweat and sex.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Fucking hell."

"Yeah," you agree.

There isn't much else that can be said. He’s a sightless man who just fucked someone so thoroughly, it was like he could see every inch of her body.

You reach for the nightstand, finding the glass of water he keeps there. You drink half and offer him the rest, bringing it to his lips. He takes it and gulps down the remainder.

You collapse onto the bed next to him, still naked. His arm is thrown over his face, and he's panting.

"I'm gonna get us cleaned up. Then we'll talk," you say.

The arm that isn't over his face reaches over to stop you as you get up. 

"No you're not." He says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm not sleeping like this and neither are you." You say with a lighthearted eyeroll. "I'll be back."

He huffs but he doesn't actually say anything, keeping his hand on you.

"What is your issue?" You ask, confused now.

"I'm supposed to be the one doin' that shit for you!"

He yells it, but there's nothing mean in his voice. Just frustration and something else. Something sad.

"Gator." You whisper, and move the arm from his face.

He doesn’t cry in the usual way. The damage to his tear ducts and lacrimal glands was too severe. You’ve only seen it once before, early on into working with him. His sockets don’t glisten or brim over like other men’s might. The burns left them scarred and hollow, the skin puckered and shiny in places where the grafts took, ragged in others where the heat had eaten too deep.

When emotion breaks through him, it shows as a raw wetness that seeps at the edges. The sound gives him away more than anything — his breath hitching, his voice breaking, the rough sniffling that seems to scrape at the back of his throat.

"Oh."

"Oh," he parrots, even with his voice breaking. "I can't take care of you the way a man should. I can't..." He shakes his head. "Fuck. I really am useless."

You have the words for it because Todd made sure you did. You remember him sitting across from you in that first collateral session, explaining what to watch for if the past shoved its way into the room. The hitch in Gator’s breathing. The lock in his jaw. The way shame can masquerade as anger. You see all of it now, strobing through the dim. And it feels like none of that actually prepared you for this moment.

Useless.

The word lands wrong in your chest because you know where he learned it. You picture the way he told you about his father in clipped notes and hard pauses, a man who measured worth in bruises and obedience, who called softness a weakness and turned love into a job no one could keep. 

The word useless lived in that house like mold, got into the walls, into the food, into the boy who learned to clean his plate even when it tasted like rot.

You know why the word hits you like a thrown glass now. You can see him reaching for it the way someone reaches for an old injury, pressing just to make sure it still hurts.

He fills the silence with a breath that shakes. “Guess the old man was right about—”

“Stop.” You lean in, press your mouth to the strip of skin above his wrap, right where his skin is smooth and warm below his hairline. “Do not put his voice in your mouth. Not here.” You keep your lips there a second longer than necessary, then pull back only far enough to whisper. “You are not useless.”

He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound dry and stubborn. “Yeah. Fine. But, as much as I can’t stand Todd and his perfect hair and golf tan and dumb boat shoes… he has a point.”

You blink, caught off guard by the picture. Todd is all sweaters and salt-and-pepper and lace-up boots that look more library than lake. You almost correct him, almost say he has a gray beard and a tweed problem and probably gets sunburned looking at a window, but you swallow the impulse. Let him have the cardboard villain if it makes the medicine go down.

Gator turns his face toward your voice like he can find you by the heat of it. “Point is, he keeps sayin’ I gotta say things out loud or they fester. So.” He swallows. His hand flexes on the sheet. “I was a real piece of shit before. I know that. I acted like a man who deserved more than he gave. I liked bein’ mean. I liked when people backed up. I thought the badge and the name made it fine.” He pauses. “It didn’t.”

You slide your palm up his forearm, slow and steady, the way Todd told you helps when the edge gets sharp. He doesn't pull away. You hate that the muscles under your hand are tight and trembling, like he is bracing for a hit that never comes.

“I ain’t like him,” Gator says, voice roughening. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to scare women. I don’t want to hurt ’em. I did enough hurtin’ walkin’ around blind to my own bullshit before I lost my eyes.” His mouth flattens. “And that lady I killed… in my head I said it was an accident like it made a difference. Maybe it does on paper. But I still did it. I was still on my way to murder someone that night, just ended up bein’ the wrong person.”

Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against his skin. You don’t bring up the facts again. Don’t repeat what the report said, or what the lawyer said. You just let him hold the thread in his own hands.

“Now… I wanna take care of somebody,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not own ‘em. Not control ‘em. Just… take care. Bring their coffee the way they like it. Fix the crooked shelf. Keep a hand at their back on the ice so they don’t fall. Sit through the boring shit ‘cause it matters to them. Hold ‘em when they’re sick. Touch ‘em like I know where they’re sore and where they’re strong.” He lets out a breath, soft and wrecked. “And I can’t even see if they’re rollin’ their eyes at me. I gotta ask where the cups are in my own kitchen. Gotta have someone check my goddamn face for infection. It’s funny, in a mean kinda way. Like the universe waited for me to want the right things just so it could get locked behind fuckin’ glass.”

You lean down and kiss the space above his wrap, then the ridge of his temple, then the curve of his cheek where the graft meets the old skin. “You are doing it,” you say. “You’re taking care. Right now. You’re talking. You’re telling me what you want. That counts, a lot more than you realize.”

He breathes like he doesn’t believe you—but maybe wants to. A small laugh escapes, smaller than his pride, shaped like a bruise. “Feels like one of those twisted jokes,” he murmurs. “Soon as I decide I’m ready to be good at somethin’ that actually matters, I’m short a couple tools.”

Your hand slides from his forearm to his bicep, a firmer grip that says don’t run. Don’t look away—even if looking’s different now. He turns his face toward you again, closer this time, like he’s learning you by sound and warmth.

“Yeah,” you say, soft. “Maybe it is a joke.”

You let the beat stretch, then add, calm and sure, “But the punchline’s not that you failed.”

He swallows. Nods once. Your foreheads almost touch.

And you stay like that, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, your mouth on his temple. Both of you listening to the same breath, until the room remembers how to be small and safe again.

Then you tilt your mouth toward his ear.

“Do you want to take care of me,” you ask, quiet but clear. “Right now? ”

He huffs a laugh, trying to pull the moment back to something he can joke about. “Think I could go another round.”

You snort and tap his bicep, gentle. “Not like that.”

There’s a small pause while he tries to figure out what you mean. You can feel him searching the space for you, head turning a little.

“Do you trust me?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he adds, dry, “You helped me the week I kept gettin’ turned around in the shower and cussin’ at the faucet like it was personal. Pretty sure I gotta trust you by now.”

You laugh, soft and fond, and squeeze his hand. “Come on.”

You help him sit up, then stand, then you guide him with your palm at his at his elbow. The little bathroom off the bedroom is warm from the radiator, mirror fogged at the edges, tile cool under your feet. You set him lightly against the sink, steadying him until his knuckles find the porcelain. He’s still flushed from before, chest rising slow, hair mussed from your fingers. A line of dried sweat glints along his collarbone. His mouth is a little swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, a good kind of used.

You take the wrap from his head, careful with the knot, careful with the edges. He holds still, jaw set. When the cloth comes free, he lets out a breath you can feel on your wrist.

“Isn’t it weird,” he says, voice low, “how I still wanna look away or close ‘em when I can tell you’re lookin’ at me like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, already reaching past him to turn the shower on. The pipes knock once, then settle, steam lifting in a thin veil.

“Like I’m somethin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says, almost a whisper.

You test the water with your fingers, then glance back at him, water pattering louder now. “That’s because you are.”

You step him into the tub with you, guide his hand to the tile so he can place his feet, then tug the curtain closed. Warm water finds both of you in a steady sheet. You lift his hand and set it at your hip, then tip your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. You kiss his jaw next, then the notch of his throat, then the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. You tell him what you love as you go, soft against his skin.

“This throat,” you murmur. “How your voice sits low here when you’re bein’ stubborn.”

You kiss the slope of his shoulder. “These shoulders. Big enough to lean on.”

You kiss along his collarbone. “This. Warm. Strong.”

Your mouth trails over the center of his chest, the dark hair gone flat under the spray. “All of this. The way you feel under my hands.”

He breathes out through his nose, steady, like he is letting the words soak in the way the water does. Your palms smooth down his ribs, over the curve of his waist, around to the small of his back. You kiss the flat of his sternum and feel his fingers flex at your hip.

“What happened to me takin’ care of you,” he asks, a half-laugh caught in it, like he is trying not to ruin whatever you are doing.

You smile against his skin and look up at him. “We’re gettin’ there.”

You find the body wash and the little bath pouf tucked on the caddy. “One of those fluffy things,” you say, half laughing.

He makes a face you can hear. “Hate that damn sponge-ball. Feels like bathin’ with a tutu.”

“You’ll live,” you say, smiling as you squeeze a ribbon of soap onto it. You work it until it foams, then curl his fingers around it and lift his hand. “Here. Help me.”

You guide him to your throat first. The puff glides over your skin, slick and warm under the spray. He follows your touch, slow, careful, the lather sliding down to your collarbones. You tip your chin so he can reach, and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to keep his balance.

Then his hand drifts lower.

He circles the top of your breasts and you hear the soft sound he makes when the pouf sinks against you, soap clinging, bubbles collecting at the curves. He moves under, patient, thorough, the drag of mesh and his knuckles leaving heat in its wake. You let out a quiet sound you did not mean to make.

“There’s more than those,” you whisper, teasing.

“Yeah, well,” he says, a smile in his voice, “there’s a lot of ‘em. Gotta make sure they’re extra clean.”

You laugh, breath catching when he lifts and cups you from beneath with the pouf, then you tap his wrist and steer him on. He runs over your shoulders and down your arms, slow from biceps to wrists like he is memorizing your shape through foam. You turn to give him your back and he follows the line of your spine to the small of it. His hand settles at your hip before sliding lower. He soaps the curve of your ass, careful and firm, then between your legs with a touch that is reverent more than greedy. You guide him, small nudges at his wrist, and he listens without argument, washing your inner thighs, the backs of your knees, down your calves to your ankles.

“Good,” you murmur, flushed and clean and dizzy. You tug him forward so both of you stand right under the water. The spray warms your face and rinses the lather off your skin in shining sheets.

“My turn,” you tell him, taking the pouf and running it up his chest. The suds cling to dark hair and stick to his sternum. You work the lather over his ribs, his sides, the planes of his stomach. He stands still, trusting your hands, only shifting when you press his hips so you can get everywhere. You soap his shoulders and the cords of his neck. He tips his head for you without being asked.

You turn for the shampoo on the shelf. Your back finds his chest, the weight of him a solid line. You pop the cap, squeeze the clear gel into your palm, and work it through your own hair first. Then you lift his hands and lace his fingers with your sudsy ones, pulling them up into your hair so he can feel it slip and catch as he lathers. His thumbs skim your scalp. His mouth finds your shoulder, a soft kiss against wet skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the curve there, barely louder than the water.

You swallow, then turn to face him. You pump more shampoo into your hands and reach up, working it through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow circles. He goes quiet the way men do when something good undoes them. You rinse him with your fingers spread, then step closer and tilt your head with his so the spray catches both of you. You close your eyes while the water runs clean, while the last suds slide off your shoulders and down your bodies.

You stay like that for a while, chest to chest, water drumming on your crowns, the bathroom small and warm around you.

His thumb finds your mouth first, tracing the shape of your bottom lip like he is reading a word he loves. He leans in and kisses you, careful and slow, nothing like the hungry mess from before. You can feel how he is touching you just to memorize you. He pulls you closer, chest to chest under the warm hiss of the shower, and you breathe the same steam.

“See,” you whisper against his mouth, “you can be good at taking care of me.”

He grumbles a little, more embarrassed than annoyed.

“And even better,” you add, smiling so he can hear it, “we can take care of each other.

Another soft mutter, as if he's trying to protest but knows you'll see right through it. 

“It’s pretty obvious you like me taking care of you,” you tease, and he kisses you soft again, a little longer this time, like he is sealing something.

You turn the water off and help him step out. Everything after is a blur of warm towels and dripping hair and the small bathroom’s heat. You put a clean wrap on his eyes. You hand him a fresh pair of boxers. You grab one of his black T-shirts from the dresser and tug it over your head, then stop halfway and catch his hands.

“Help me,” you say, guiding his palms along the hem, over your ribs, up to the collar so he can feel how it hangs on you. He smooths the cotton down your sides. It catches on your curves and you laugh. “Kinda tight… my ass is half out.”

“Not gettin’ any complaints here.”

He finds your fingers, and even though you could guide him, he turns and leads the way to the bed with the surety of someone who knows every inch of his room by heart. You climb in, the sheets cool, his body warm. You tuck yourself against him.

“Is it okay if I stay?” you ask. You already know, but you want to hear it.

He lets out a quiet laugh and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to share a breath. That is the answer.

“Ain’t really done the stayin’ thing,” he says after a moment. “Used to just do it and go. Don’t know if I kick in my sleep. Might snore. Could talk, too. No idea.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “We’ll find out.”

He exhales and settles, one hand open on your hip like a promise.

After a long minute he says, almost sheepish, “You probably can’t be my caretaker anymore. Pretty sure this is a violation or whatever.”

“Oh, it’s a violation,” you say, laughing into his chest. “A big one. But I can still be here every day. I’ve got other clients. I’ll be fine.”

“So I’m gonna be seein’ a lot more of Beverly,” he groans.

“You’ll live,” you say. “Just don't end up doing this with her, cause then we’re really screwed.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right.” Then he tips his face toward you. “Ain’t doin’ this with anybody but you.”

You feel his words settle between your ribs. He tucks you closer. You let him.

Theres not much after that. A kiss or two. Maybe a quiet conversation. Something about his father or yours. Something about a dream, or the kind of future you would want if the world was different.

The morning will come and the coffee you make him will be too sweet, but he'll drink it anyway. 

Beverly will show up, late and with another story about her grandkids.

He'll call Karen, just to talk to the girls, and leave another message that goes unanswered.

There will be a text from Todd. A reminder about his appointment.

But right now, in the warmth of his bed, he isn't alone.

And when he wakes up, you'll still be with him and he'll realize, in the small hours before the sun, that it is enough.

The world will go on spinning. But for a moment, right then, everything will feel right.

Especially then.

WOW SORRY FOR THAT EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER!

If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them so I'm extending it until end of October!

A word you never thought you’d use for the face and hair of Hawkins High’s sports programs circa 1981 to 1985.  A jock who used to push kids in lockers, break their camera’s, the kind to stand girls up who would just turn around and beg him to do it again. The popular guy who always seemed to get what he wanted, someone you thought would have his future laid out for him on a road paved of gold. So when you had your first day at The Squawk almost three months ago, and found him not only working the sound board for WSQK’s very own ‘Rockin Robin’ aka your favorite trumpet player to skip band practice with, but that they were also best friends. Like inseparable best friends, finishing each other's sentences kind of best friends, you weren’t sure how many chapters you missed after leaving for college four years ago. 

Steve Harrington was an anomaly, and he was wearing that damn brown bomber jacket again.

It was your favorite of what seemed to be his early winter collection that had started to appear in the form of thick sweaters and fitted jackets once the sun began disappearing after four pm. Another thing you hated almost as much as not being able to put your chipped polished finger on him anymore, was that now, the word favorite is in your vocabulary when it comes to the guy who never even looked your way despite sharing the same homeroom all four years of high school. 

This particular jacket though? It was your kryptonite. The soft suede wraps around his broad shoulders like butter, tapering just enough at the bottom to give the illusion of a loose fit, like it’s tailored special just for him. Its rich earthy brown color brings out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes that you swear changed colors with the season, or maybe it was because Nancy Wheeler finally stopped coming around. 

You’d overheard a conversation between him and Robin a few weeks ago after noticing an extra broody-ness about his presence that she had finally left Hawkins to attend Emerson in Massachusetts. It was all you were able to catch without being caught eavesdropping on your way to map out the next few weeks DJ schedules in Jimmy’s abandoned office. An office you were only supposed to be an assistant too, but now somehow managed to end up being the one to do the job it was made for. It was becoming a full time one too, keeping the station running since its operating hours are no longer the allotted time slots given by the military. Which still seemed like a fresh nightmare for most of the people that decided to stay when the fences finally disappeared.

“Morning!” You greet them, stretching your neck enough to peek out of the open office door, making your presence known since your ever changing schedule keeps you at the station at random times.

Today you’d gotten here at 3am to fill the late night dead air with your own curated mix, something you do whenever Steve or Keith couldn’t. It was easy money, you didn’t even have to talk, just make sure to queue the ads you’ve been having to fight tooth and nail to get in order to keep the lights on. 

“Good Morning!” Robin waves stretching her neck to meet your gaze with her signature toothy grin that lights up the whole room. Her blonde hair is extra frizzy from the snow starting to fall outside, the cold kissing her cheeks with roses. 

All you get is Steve’s back as he continues his path to the studio, giving you a quick flick of his wrist in acknowledgment. It was 50/50 depending on the day, or even his shift if he’d stay mute or give you a short ‘Morning’. Either way, it didn’t matter because he still cared enough to pretend that he likes his coffee black in front of you. A secret that you’ve always kept close after catching him put cream and an absurd amount of sugar in his whenever he thought you weren’t looking– on multiple occasions.

”I put your coffees in there already, three creams and two sugars for Robin, and don’t worry Steve, I left yours black just how you like it.”

Your lips twist at the slight tense of his shoulders.

”Thanks boss!” Robin sings, skipping to catch up with her best friend’s long strides.

”I’m not your boss!” You call back, brows furrowing ñ at the nickname she’s been determined to make stick. They weren’t paying you a radio manager’s wage. 

“Could’ve fooled me!” Her raspy voice carries across the room, before both her and Steve’s go muffled behind the soundproof door.

5 minutes till showtime.

You can see them through the glass that encases them from the cracked window in your office. Steve looks like he’s rambling about something to her, big hands gesturing wildly before they push back his thick mane of chestnut hair, the blonde tips it used to have, long forgotten. It is his personal tell that he’s stressed, besides a thumb flick to the nose which follows shortly after. Robin’s face softens, not meeting his chaotic energy as he takes off his jacket, revealing the cream mock turtle neck sweater underneath it. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but whatever it is makes his shoulders slump, nodding in response with another card of his hair. Relaxing.

It’s unexpected when his eyes shoot across the room, meeting your gaze for the first time in a few days. Averting your stare as quickly as you can, your cheeks feel like they're being raked over coals, they burn hot as you try and refocus on the spread sheet laying on the desk. Quietly vowing to leave the station before they break for lunch as your escape plan. This way you can lock yourself in your dark apartment and sleep off the exhausting seven hours before suffering the kind of embarrassment that radiates from your fingertips and all ten of your toes.

—-

Thursday Early Morning

5:13am. The bright green numbers on your dash feel like an assault as the tires of your Oldsmobile crunch against the snow and gravel leading up the path to The Squawk. From inside, the constant vigil of the studio lights fades into a soft glow, filtering through the glass front entrance doors to cut through the last bit of night and bounce off the shimmering snowflakes that somehow continue to fall.  It’s been four days of this now, the sky alternating between flurries and heavy snowfall. It’s starting to feel like it might never stop, like the universe seems determined to deliver a white Christmas during the one year you and the rest of this town can’t seem to find the spirit. 

Your jaw stretches with a yawn as you try to will the caffeine to hit your bloodstream faster. You pull up beside what should be Keith’s Thunderbird and rub the remainder of sleep from your eyes blinking at Steve’s BMW parked next to the WSQK van.  A newfound anxiety flutters beneath your ribcage, at the memory of how his eyes caught you– like you were intruding on something personal, a secret only meant for his best friend’s ears. Everything with Steve Harrington has felt like a secret lately. An unsolvable puzzle with a missing piece always just out of reach. There’s a determination to find it. With slightly shaking hands, you arm yourself with a travel mug of homemade coffee and a deep breath to collect your courage before heading inside.

He probably won’t even say hi anyway, if you’re lucky he’ll just wave from the studio, maybe, and then you’ll both ignore each other until he leaves without saying goodbye.

Frank Sinatra’s ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ spills from the speakers in the studio, the door propped open allowing the soft trumpets and piano to fill the normally quiet space. He plays a lot of Sinatra on his overnights, a taste you’ve assumed he acquired from Robin, but part of you can’t be too sure anymore. 

Christmas lights that weren’t there the night before are draped around the DJ booth, with even more hanging half hazardly above the soundboard. They twinkle in red, green, and gold, warming the room in a comforting glow. It’s not until you round the corner that you see Steve on a step stool stringing more around the common area, a small pile of multi-colored shimmering garland on the table beside him with tiny Santas and snowmen hanging off the tinsel.

Steve Harrington is decorating for Christmas. 

“You’re not Keith.” You say, finding your voice, trying to break the usual awkwardness between the two of you with some kind of joke. Butterflies waking up in the pit of your gut when you hear it. 

A laugh.

It’s so quiet that if you didn’t see the slight shake of his shoulders, you’d probably miss it. An unfamiliar desperate need to make him do it again tugs at your heart.

”Defintely not Keith.” He huffs, but you can hear the slight smile in his voice. You’d almost forgotten what he really sounds like.

His Nike covered feet step down from the stool, leaving the string of lights to dangle half way on their journey across the room. Turning around, he runs one of his big hands through his messier than usual hair, those familiar hazel eyes catching yours for the second time in one week. A record breaking streak.

He’s wearing dark washed jeans, they fit him snug like all of them do. A navy WSQK sweater stretches over his chest, the letters faded and peeling because Jimmy cheaped out on the printing company.You’re willing to bet Steve’s got three more washes till they're all completely gone. The sleeves are pushed up revealing his permanently sunkissed skin despite the warm weather hiding on the other side of the earth, and they’re dotted with more freckles than you can count. 

“He asked me to cover his shift last minute, something about a pet ferret?” His face twists in the kind of judgment that has an uncontrollable giggle slip past your lips.

The gold in his eyes seems to sparkle at the sound, the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that he doesn’t let win. 

“That explains the smell of his jacket sometimes.” Scrunching up your nose at the memory of the last time you saw Keith, Steve can’t seem to fight his grin off this time, pearly whites gleaming behind plush pink lips.

It threatens to steal the breath from your lungs, teeth digging into your bottom lip with cheeks that start to feel like the surface of the missing sun, warming your skin with something that has you looking away. Suddenly, you have a new understanding for all those girls in high school. 

“I hope you don’t mind, me uh - decorating and stuff.” He scratches the back of his neck, like talking this long to someone that’s not his best friend is hard for him, or maybe it’s just because it’s you. “Robin was complaining about how she’s not feeling very festive this year, and it’s her and vi- it’s her first Christmas dating someone so I was thinking maybe this might help.”

It almost makes you mad at how sweet of a gesture it is, and how it feels like you’ll never quite figure him out. Every time you think you’re close, he sheds another layer. Throwing off your scent.

”Not at all, honestly, I haven’t been feeling very ‘jolly’ myself.” You laugh weakly, finally meeting his softened gaze, making his shoulders relax as if there were a world where you’d actually be mad. “This job has been…a lot.”

You don’t go into anymore detail about how none of this was what you signed up for, or how your home doesn’t feel very much like one anymore, like your childhood was some figment of your imagination the military erased. You’re not sure he’d even want to hear any of it anyway. No need to test the boundaries of this new progression between you and the former king of Hawkins, anyway. 

“Well, if it means anything coming from me, I think you’re doing a great job, all things considered.” He answers with a casual shrug, like he didn’t just shatter all the assumptions you thought he had of you in one sentence.

”It- It does mean something, thanks, Steve.” It feels weird saying his name out loud, despite how many times it’s crossed your mind over the past few months. 

Pink powders the apples of his cheeks, and now it’s his turn to look away.

”Decorate all you want. I’ve got this, like, 4 foot tall Christmas tree I had in my dorm in college that I can dig out and bring into the station tomorrow.” You add, returning to the safety of the original conversation, and you can tell he’s thankful for it.

”Cool.” He grins, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels a little bit.

”Cool.” 

The two of you stand there, not really sure where to go from here until the music cuts off and Steve remembers the job he’s actually supposed to be doing.

”Oh shit!” He gasps, eyes looking like a deer caught in headlights. “I gotta flip the record, I’m sorry, I swear I don’t let it go silent like this normally.”

You want to tell him that you know, because his overnights are some of your favorites to listen to. But you decide it's another secret best kept to yourself instead.

”It’s fine, I’m sure the four people listening will forgive you.” Rolling your eyes playfully, you catch the small grin you get in return as he jogs to the studio room. “I’m gonna go do my job too.”

Grabbing the stack of ad proposals next to his garland, you wave them in your hand, before making your way to Jimmy’s office, the kind of smile that makes your cheeks hurt tugging up the corners of your lips when you’re sure he can’t see it.

—-

Saturday

“Secret Santa!” Robin exclaims from the doorway of Jimmy’s office, bright blue eyes staring at you with the kind of excitement that threatens to be contagious. “We need to do a Secret Santa!”

”There’s like six of us who work here.” Steve speaks up from behind her, a half eaten sandwich dwarfed in his big hand, leaning against the studio room looking far too cool in a maroon sweater and dark washed jeans.

”Okay and? That’s an even number. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect scenario actually.” She gives him a tight lipped sarcastic smirk, before bringing her attention back to you,rolling up the sleeves on her white turtle neck she’s layered with a black The Smith’s shirt on top of. “Here me out -“

”We can do it.” You say simply, closing the radio tower instruction manual that was starting to give you a headache. 

“Wait, really?” She gasps with a smile so big it shows all her teeth, practically vibrating when you nod your head yes. “Oh my god this is so exciting, I’ll get everything together, you don’t have to lift a finger. Let's say a ten dollar budget, nothing too crazy.” 

“Ten dollars?! I don’t like anyone around here enough to spend ten dollars on.” Steve scoffs, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth before crossing his arms.

”Are you kidding me? You don’t like me enough to spend ten dollars on? Her?” Robin points at you, and the urge to hide is the most tempting idea you’ve ever had, especially when Steve’s eyes meet yours from across the room with something you can’t decipher. ”Dustin, Mike? Literally you just hate Keith.”

”Dustin and Mike hardly count. They are here like two hours a week but fine! You win.” He surrenders, throwing his arms up before running an annoyed hand through his hair. His plan to help her feel more festive worked a little too well. 

“I always do!” She sings, throwing a wink at you before sauntering back to the chair and mic that feel like they are made for her to deliver Hawkin’s favorite segment of the day, nudging Steve playfully on her way. ”Hurry up dingus, we’re back on in three minutes.”

”You had to walk around me, I’m already here.” He huffs, kicking off the corner and back into the studio room closing the sound proof door behind them.

You can’t seem to fight the smile that twists at the corners of your mouth as you grab your weekly planner from under the pile of work orders that you’ve been deluding yourself into thinking you can find the fixes in the manual. 

The faint sounds of Billie Holiday’s ‘I Thought About You’ catches in your ears, something shifting in the air as the heat from an unfamiliar stare warms against your skin, sending goosebumps pebbling, begging for your attention. You haven’t risked even a glance through the window of your office since the day that Steve caught you, but something was daring you to do it again.

You aren’t sure what you’re expecting when you look up but it isn’t his eyes already locked on you, holding your gaze after they meet letting you know it’s not a mistake. Butterflies stretch their wings wide as you work up the courage not to look away first. The grip on your pen tightening, teeth digging into your bottom lip watching the slight shimmer of gold around the darkness of his pupils. He studies your face like he’s looking for the answer to something hidden inside of the contours of it, and you think this must be the way you look when he catches you staring.

It’s Robin that unknowingly interrupts whatever was going on, tearing his attention away with a bob of his Adam’s apple and a shake of his head. Saying something that looks a lot like the word ‘sorry’ before switching out the sound effect 8-track for the one she clearly wanted. In the hour it takes for you to wrap up and reach the end of your day, neither of you dare to look up again, and it’s you who leaves with a quick flick of your wrist, not saying a word this time. 

What was that? 

—-

Two weeks before Christmas 

You stare at the name on the small piece of paper you’d grabbed from Robin’s Santa hat on your way out the door. The white wisps of your breath filling the freezing space of your car, too stunned to even be bothered to turn it on. You read it a few more times just to be sure that too many overnights weren’t making you delirious, but there it was, clear as day in Robin’s signature bubble writing. 

Steve

His name plays on a loop as you finally kick on the engine to your car, it finds its way in every thought, sneaking past your efforts to shut it out. ‘Steve’ lingers in the cold breaths you take on your way to the front door of the small apartment you’d rented while your parents house gets rebuilt. It warms against your skin like the hot water from the shower that rinses off yet another long day at the station, following you to bed and curling around you under your covers, meeting you again in your dreams.

—-

 Tuesday

You climb up the short ladder that leads you to the hatch door, pushing up, you give it a good shove, the rusted hinges squeaking as it flings open. The clearest night sky you’ve seen in what feels like weeks shimmers brightly above you. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it was twenty degrees, not when it looked like this. Tightening your scarf and zipping up your coat as far as it will go, you finish your climb up onto the roof.

The cold greets you with a sharp sting, sending a shiver straight to your bones.Too focused on closing the door to keep the heat trapped inside the station you don't notice you aren’t the only one admiring the view. It shuts with a loud thud at the same time someone clears their throat behind you. Jumping at the sound, you turn around with a startled scream just begging to escape and echo through the darkness until your wide eyes meet Steve’s panicked ones.

”Hey! It’s just me! It’s cool, you’re cool, we’re cool.” His hushed words come out with urgency to stop it from happening, a nervous hand running through his already wind swept hair after it seems to work.

Cool seems to be Steve’s favorite word when it comes to you. You weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that. 

”Jesus Christ, Harrington.” You gasp with a hand on your chest, your quick huffs of breath embarrassingly visible in the cold air. 

”Sorry! How was I supposed to know anyone else would come up here?” He exclaims, a slight agitation to his voice that doesn’t last long before asking “Are you okay?”

Your gaze lands on his Nike’s first, wandering up the light wash denim that covers his legs, accentuating parts of him that you’ve been trying not to think about. Tonight he wears a dark brown leather jacket that tapers at the waist just like your favorite one does. While his lack of scarf seems like a choice, it has the moles that cluster around his neck in their own constellations battling for your attention with the ones above him. 

“Yeah, I’m good. No scarf?! Aren’t you col -“ You lose your train of thought when your eyes catch the glowing ember at the end of a half smoked cigarette tucked between two long fingers. “Wait, are you up here smoking?”

His eyebrows furrow together like he’s confused, until realization dawns on him smoothing the wrinkles on his forehead.

”Yeah,” He shrugs, flicking the ash before taking another drag. “I used to in high school, well, mostly at parties when I was drunk trying to look cool. But I don’t know, I picked it back up recently, I don’t smoke all the time, mostly over nights when I’m stressed or bored.” 

“What are you now?” The question comes out before you can even filter and mark it as inappropriate, the look on his face burning your cheeks only adding to your immediate regret.

But then he does the last thing you expect, he answers it — honestly.

“Stressed.” Wind whips his hair around some more before he shrugs in a squeak of leather adding, “and a little bored.”

There’s storm clouds in his stare as he looks at you with an intensity you can feel tingling at your fingertips. Underneath it lives a nervousness that tries to hide in the dark pools of his eyes from letting you perceive him, gauging your reaction by taking another drag.

”I come up here when I’m stressed too.” You say with ease despite the wild thumping of your heart in your ears, taking a few steps closer, your boots crunch against the frozen brick.

“To my spot?” His words come out around white clouds of smoke, a small smile twisting up the corners of his lips.

”Excuse me? Your spot? I’ve never even seen you up here.” Scoffing, you dig your hands deep in your pockets, shuffling closer with chattering teeth you desperately try to hide.

As if on instinct, Steve positions his body to block you from the wind, cinnamon and amber from his cologne tickling at your nose. He was closer than you’ve ever been to him, close enough to have your palms sweat, for your softened gaze to trace the purple bags under his eyes. The pale pink of a healed scar you don’t remember from high school shows its imperfect end from the edge of his beige sweater’s collar, only to hide from you again when he lifts his cigarette towards you in an offering. 

“I’m pretty sneaky. Stealthy, if you will.”  He winks, cold bitten cheeks pushing up at the snort you give him in response.

Your fingers brush with his accepting the nicotine with a spark you blame on the emanating voltage from the tower. 

“What about you?” He asks quietly, his eyes wandering over the details of your face like he was really looking at you for the first time. Maybe he was. 

Despite yourself, you can’t help but wonder if he likes what he’s found.

”Stressed, maybe a dash of depression, maybe.” If you admit to it out loud, that might make it true, but it’s his honesty that pulls out your own.

He nods his head in response, mimicking your previous stance, shoving his cold hands in his pockets. He kicks at the small patch of ice, brows furrowing as he thinks about what he wants to say. The pad of your thumb brushes against the butt of his cigarette still a little wet from his lips, there’s an intimacy there when yours wraps around it, cheeks hollowing as you take a drag. Inhaling him. 

“Honestly, this time of year. It’s never been my favorite.” His gaze is piercing when they meet your eyes again.“The only time I really liked it was when I had a girlfriend and that was like once.”

”Nancy Wheeler.” You hum, biting at your bottom lip wondering if it was a mistake to say her name out loud.

”Yeah,” he sighs, watching you take another drag, eyes lingering just a little on your mouth when you hand it back to him. “But honestly, I’m starting to realize a big part of that was because I didn’t have to spend it alone.” 

“What do you mean?” You ask confused because he’s Steve Harrington, the boy who’s always had it all. “What about your parents?”

”They’re never home — hell, they were gone when the quarantine happened.” There’s a bitterness in his dry laugh, taking one last hit before tossing the cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his sneaker. “They couldn’t get back in, but I think they preferred it that way, part of me thinks I did too.”

“I’m sorry, Steve.” You don’t know what else to say, but it also doesn’t feel like he's looking for much more than that either, giving you just a peek into the closed blinds of his soul. 

The bare trees rustle and snap in the silence between you. It’s not an uncomfortable one, but one that lets you sit with the weight inside of it. Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins, the boy who everyone adored school but always returned to a shell of a home. You can feel the wall rebuild itself around him after revealing more of his hand despite the way both you subconsciously shuffle closer to chase each other's body heat. Steve looks up at the sky, but your eyes stay trained on him. Maybe you were seeing him for the first time too. 

The moon shines bright above, casting shadows on his sharp features, revealing the slight dusting of a five o’clock shadow that covers his jaw you didn’t notice before. Steve Harrington had grown up into a man. You aren’t sure how you missed it until tonight, under a blanket of stars no one’s seen in weeks. What else haven’t you seen?

His gaze finds yours again, the wind making his hair go wild. He holds it like he did in the studio room the other day, and you swear he moves even closer, the toe of his shoe tapping against yours. You can smell the leather of his coat, the tobacco clinging to the fabrics of his sweater mixing with the spice of his cologne in a way that shouldn’t smell as good as it does. A playful smirk teases at the corners of his mouth.

”You’re always looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.” There’s something delicate about the way he stares at you, tugging at the bundle of nerves twisting in the pit of your stomach. Loosening the knots.                                                                                                                                                                                    

“Is there something wrong with that?” You hum quietly.

”N-no.” He smiles with something timid behind it, weary even. “Just no one’s ever reall-“ He’s cut off by the crackle of the walkie talkie you didn’t know he had clipped to his back pocket 

“Radio silence again dingus!” Robin’s voice comes through the small speaker, “Trying to make moves here and you aren’t helping.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve roll his eyes any harder, a loud irritated breath escaping through his nose like a bull. He mouths sorry before bringing the walkie talkies to his lips, pressing harsh on the red button.

”I’m doing you a favor tonight if you remember, watch the tone.” He turns it off after, leaving her no room to respond, determined to get the last word.

”Another day of catching you not doing your job.” You tease with a wink, getting your own eye roll but this one comes with a smile.

”I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He wiggles his eyebrows, starting to back away towards the hatch door. 

Was Steve Harrington flirting with you?

 ”Ugh! Not you too.” You groan, crossing your arms watching him open the rusted metal with ease.

”If the shoe fits.” He shrugs, “Don’t stay out here too long, can’t have you getting sick, the station would probably burn down or something like that.”

”You and Robin ran it just fine.” You argue, with a grin that refuses to go away.

“Yeah, sure.” Steve snorts, climbing down the first few steps of the ladder stopping when all you can see is his shoulders up, “but seriously, it’s cold. I mean it.”

”Okay, Dad.” 

He visibly grimaces at the nickname.

”Yeah, pretty awful isn’t it?” You arch a brow, laughing at his glare for falling into your trap. “I’ll come back in a few minutes, promise.”

He lingers for a few seconds more looking torn, like he wasn’t ready to leave yet, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish he could stay too. But he does the selfless thing you’ve noticed he always does, closing the hatch behind him with one last look catching your small wave goodbye.

—-

Friday

Robin is a ball of energy at seven in the morning, completely consumed by whatever she’s ranting to Steve about when they burst in through the front door together. You watch with an amused smirk from your spot on the lime green couch in the common area, a cup of fresh coffee you brewed for the three of you warm in your hand. She’s so distracted that she doesn’t notice you, but Steve does, almost as if he was searching for you first. The blue hidden in the gold and moss of his eyes are like sunbursts when they find your gaze. His smile is small, but it’s just for you and it’s enough for the butterflies you’ve managed to snuff out all morning with distractions to wake back up. Hiding your smile in your mug, you watch as he nods his head giving Robin a ‘yeah,’ like he’s listening, but something tells you he had stopped a while ago.

Once they get inside the soundproof room Steve peels off the same leather jacket he wore on the roof. Robin follows suit tossing her long navy blue tench coat to the side, lips still moving a mile a minute. He runs two big hands through his hair, the little bit of flurries that had stuck to the ends melting on his fingertips before pushing up the sleeves of his WSQK sweater. And just as you suspected the K at the end of it had already peeled off since last week.

Robin’s lime green polished hands fly all over the place making the people on her ‘Beam me up, this place sucks’ sweater look like they’re actually running. Crossing his arms as he leans against the door frame, Steve seems distracted, but you can tell he’s still actively trying to focus. He’s shaved since the last time you saw him, and the bags that had kissed lavender under his eyes on the rooftop were gone. Maybe that meant he’d finally gotten some sleep. 

His best friend grabs her coffee mid sentence, holding out a finger to give her a minute as she drinks what has to be at least half the cup. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip watching Steve grab his own. Suddenly you wish you’d have gone into Jimmy’s office for this moment as a new fear that maybe something that seemed like a cute idea in the middle of night actually makes you look like a weird stalker. The intrusive thought eats away at your confidence as he takes the first gulp and looks confused peering down in his cup before taking another just to be sure. 

Steve’s eyes lock on yours through the glass, something inside them shifting just like the air between you on the rooftop. A secret revealed that paints his cheeks red, a small gesture that you don’t know has never made him feel more seen as he takes another sip of his coffee made the way he actually likes it today.

—-

“Hey boss, I’m running out for lunch, but Dustin’s got the news report covered while I’m gone.” Robin pokes her head in Jimmy’s office where you’d been for the past hour lost in balancing the books.

”Not your booosssss,” You sing with an annoyed smirk, giving your eyes a break to look up at her. “Isn’t he in school?”

”Winter break!” She grins, shoving her arms into her coat like she’s in a rush, “I’ll be back in like thirty, maybe forty minutes tops!”

She’s gone in a blur of blue and blond before you have a chance to respond, and as if on cue Dustin comes strolling in not even two minutes after her departure. He waves at you with a wide grin, green braces gleaming against the low light. The ends of his long tan trench coat are stained wet, dripping on the checkered floor. Duck boots squeaking against the linoleum. He must’ve rode his bike here like a lunatic.

”Hiya boss!” He greets, turning around to face you walking backwards to the studio room completely oblivious to the angry Steve yelling behind the soundproof glass watching him drip water and salt everywhere.

”Henderson!” You groan, burying your face in your hands before resting it on your desk.

”It’s a compliment!” He argues, getting you to look back up only to see that Steve is now standing behind him with his hands firmly planted on his hips.

”Are you kidding me asshole? Look at the floors.” He huffs, with the kind of outrage a parent would have with their kid. 

“It’s just water, it’ll dry.” Dustin rolls his eyes, pushing past Steve to start setting up but not before adding. “Or you can make yourself useful and mop it up.”

”How about I kick your teeth in, instead?”

“Not the first time you’ve threatened that.” The teenager raises his eyebrows at him, looking unimpressed, letting you know they’re always empty. Of course Harrington is all bark and no bite.

Another endearing quality, unfortunately.

“Yeah, and one day it just might happen if you don’t watch your sass dickhead.” 

It takes every ounce of will power not to snort at the sight in front of you, smiling like the Cheshire Cat at all the ways you’re going to schedule them together this summer. 

If it ever comes. 

“I’ll let you know if I need, I don’t know — like, a car crash sound, or maybe a police siren, but otherwise quiet on set. I have a job to do.” Dustin closes the door to the studio before Steve even has a chance to get the last word in, something you’ve come to find as the clear indicator of who the winner is in these little spats between all of them.

Steve still flips him off through the glass, grumbling to himself about getting the mop so someone doesn’t slip and break their necks. Dustin gives you a thumbs up from behind the sound board switching the ON AIR sign ‘Red’. He taps the sheets of paper you assume is the ‘news’ loudly on the desk to add his own effects as he kicks it off with the weather. Which is snow… always more damn snow. 

You groan, rubbing your temples at the thought of having to clean off your car every day for another week and all the shoveling, so much damn shoveling.

”God, I miss summer.” You mumble, exhaling a defeated breath through your nose grabbing the calculator to finish where you’d left off.

You don’t get very far though, the familiar sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway breaking your concentration. Heat warms your cheeks instantly, teeth digging into your bottom lip daring to look up and meet the hazel eyes you swear have changed colors again. Something new — brighter, something that feels more like Steve.

”H-hey.” He waves awkwardly, giving you a closed lip smile riddled with the kind of nerves that tighten in your chest too. 

”H-hi.” It comes out quieter than you intend, your voice cracking making you try to clear the nerves out of your throat too. 

Steve digs his hands into his pockets, leaning on the door frame with a shyness you’d never expect from him. It’s got a stubbornness about it like he’s worked himself up to do this and is vowing to see it through.

“How’s your uh, how’s your day going?” A hand that can’t help itself comes out of his pocket running through his hair. 

“It’s going,” you sigh, a little defeated tossing your calculator to the side. Suddenly the weight of the last few months makes itself known in the muscles of your shoulders, while your bed starts to sound a little too welcoming for it to only be half way through your shift. “What about y-you? How’s your day going?”

“Not too bad, I passed out on the couch and slept for like 12 hours yesterday. So I’d say feeling pretty good all things considered.” Another card of his hair.

Your eyes catch Dustin watching you both with an amused curiosity. 

“On the couch?! Rest in peace to your back.” You smile trying to crack a joke that somehow works, earning you the twitch of his lips that you were looking for.

”It’s been through worse.” He laughs softly, looking down at his feet before meeting your gaze from under his thick lashes with a shy teasing grin. “Did you switch up the coffee this morning or something? It was better than usual.”

The giggle that bubbles out of you makes Steve’s full pink lips stretch wide over his teeth that look even more brilliant in the daytime. It cracks at the awkwardness that's tried to settle between you.

”I guess you’re not as stealthy as you think you are huh?” You wink, giddy feet bouncing under the desk.

”Apparently not.” He narrows his eyes playfully, “it needed maybe one more packet of sugar though, but hey, who’s counting.”

”Steve, I put in three already.” You scoff with a smile so wide it hurts, heart skipping a beat when his grows like it can’t contain itself either. “Why did you even pretend to like your coffee black in the first place? Such a weird thing to lie about.”

“I don’t know!” He whines, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as he runs his hands down his face, “It’s like I did it once, because you know, you’re pret — “ 

Steve clears his throat catching the words that almost slipped from his mouth, but you catch them, heart thumping wildly at the idea of how that sentence almost ended. 

”I hadn’t seen you since high school, so I wanted to come off more like an adult? I don’t know, it was dumb and honestly, I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you caught me lying or that you let me keep up with it for so long.” He groans, huffing out a laugh scratching the back of his neck.

”Don’t worry, it was pretty amusing, dare I say my favorite part of the morning. You always looked so nervous, like you were about to be caught robbing a bank or something.” You try to hide your laugh behind the back of your hand, when you earn another one of his glares.

”Ha, ha, ha.” He rolls his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his lips gives him away.

”Steve!” Dustin’s voice interrupts you, making his shoulders tense, jaw clicking with instant annoyance.

”What Henderson? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation?” He snaps turning around to face the high schooler, broad shoulders blocking him from your view.

”I’m sorry to interrupt your flirting to ask you to do your job.” Dustin responds with a taunting smile that you don’t need to see to know is there.

“You’re really pushing me today, you little shit. I’ll be there in a minute, just give me a second.” This time Steve runs both hands though his hair before turning around to face you again, the thumb flick you were expecting hitting his nose.

”What is this, the third time now in the past few weeks?” You can’t help yourself, or the teasing smirk that spreads across your face, lashes fluttering a little too much, but the greens in his eyes sparkle because of it.

”Like I said the last time, I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He laughs at your scowl about the nickname, walking backwards towards a very impatient Dustin, like he doesn’t want to stop looking at you until he absolutely has to. 

This time you didn’t have to wonder, Steve Harrington was flirting with you.

————-

Five days before Christmas

Monday

When Dustin said to expect snow this week you didn’t realize that he meant a blizzard. Of course it’s a fucking blizzard.

Your tires spin in the foot of snow that’s already fallen since it started this morning. The smoke from your exhaust comes out in huge plumes, over working your engine until you finally give up and take your foot off the gas. You curse the day you decided to go with the cheaper car that lacked the four wheel drive needed to leave the station tonight. And god, you really wanted to crawl into your bed.

“You’re gonna flood your engine!” 

It’s muffled, but the sound of Steve’s voice is unmistakeable, the timbre of it etching into the corners of your mind lately. Cutting off your engine, you look through the fogged up passenger window to see him and Robin standing at the front entrance of the station, the low yellow light almost turning them into shadows. Robin waves excitedly with mitten covered hands like she didn’t just see you less than ten minutes ago, an oversized crocheted beanie threatening to swallow her eyes. Steve on the other hand, he looks almost as stressed as you feel with only that damn leather coat protecting him from the winter storm quite literally raging around him, Nike’s still on his feet.

Leaning over your console, you start to crank open the window, the glass sticking from the frost, groaning like it might shatter before it gives way to snow fluttering into your car. Maybe this wasn’t your best idea.

”I’m stuck!” You yell over the howling wind jutting your bottom lip out for dramatic effect despite stating the obvious. 

”Steve can drive you home!” Robin volunteers without hesitating to ask him if that's okay, but he doesn’t even flinch at the idea.

”Oh — oh no that’s okay, I live on the other side of town, maybe you guys can just help dig me out?” You suggest instead, heart rate kicking up at the thought of being inside Steve’s car.

You’ve heard a lot of stories about that BMW, most against your will.

”You’re just going to get stuck again trying to get out of here, I’ve got four wheel drive. It’s fine, I can drive you.” He waves you off, taking his first steps towards you and into the storm. He walks past his BMW parked on the other side of the WSQK van that blocked some of the snowdrifts, protecting his car from suffering the same fate. 

”How will I get to work in the morning if I don’t try and get my car out of here now?” You counter, with the kind of nerves that only seem to get worse every time he’s around. 

His steps crunch softly in the snow stopping at your half opened window bending down with a hand on the roof to meet your eyes. Robin follows close behind, tilting her head to the side to listen, a smirk twisting up the corners of her lips.

“I’ll pick you up, you’ll need help digging out your car anyway.” He shrugs like he wasn’t offering to completely inconvenience himself for the next 24 hours for solely your benefit. 

“Steve - I can’t, I- “

”Seriously it’s fine! Steve loooves doing stuff like this, it’s like a hobbie, a kink if you will.” Robin interjects, a little too pushy for you not to narrow your eyes at her. “He’s got like a white knight complex or something.”

“Okay, Robin.” Steve snaps, glaring at her from over his shoulder. ”Also, how is enjoying being helpful to my friends a kink? What the hell is wrong with you?” scoffing incrediously, he turns his back almost completely to you.

“I’m just saying!” She shrugs winking at you like you’re in on the joke, but all you can focus on is Steve insinuating that you’re his friend and why that word has a sting to it. 

Running an irritated hand through his hair, he mouths something to her you can’t hear before turning to meet your gaze again with a softness inside his eyes that doesn’t match the tone he just had. It’s the same way he looked at you under the stars that night. 

“We’ve got two options here, and they are either accept my help now, or after you make me throw out my back attempting to dig out your car in a blizzard that will inevitably still get stuck half way down the hill.” The teasing grin on his pink lips disarms you with the kind of charm only he knows how to have, the kind you remember from high school. “I’ll do whichever one you want, honey, so you tell me.” 

Honey.

The word wraps around you gooey and sweet, covering your insides in sugar, warming your bones, leaving you no choice.

”Fine!” It comes out in a playful huff, the edges of your mouth threatening to curl as you pull your keys out of the ignition. You meet his eyes from under your lashes, giving him one last chance to change his mind. “If you’re really okay with this.”

He nods, those perfect teeth of his tugging his full bottom lip between them, cheeks dusting a pretty shade of pink that’s not just from the cold.

”Oh, trust me, he is!” Robin interrupts, and you watch in real time the way the gold sparkling inside his eyes turn black before they roll in the back of his head.

“Keep running that mouth Buckley, and you’re going to get real familiar with the walk home.” He groans with another hand through his hair, the constant snow fall making the ends wet.

”Empty threats.” She scoffs, completely unphased just like Dustin. “Now let's go before we all get stuck too. No offense to you guys but I don’t want to have a sleep over at The Squawk with Keith.” 

She says his name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and Steve’s face twists in disgust like he can taste it too.

“Couldn’t agree more’.” You add, amused by another display of the two of them sharing the same brain.

Leaning over to crank your window back up, you meet Steve’s gaze from up close, something swirling inside it that you can’t figure out making your heart thump a few beats quicker. He holds you there till you’re sealed inside, leaving the storm muffled just like his voice.

“I‘ll go warm up the car.” 

———-

You never thought you’d be sitting shotgun in Steve’s BMW, or that it would relax every bone in your aching body, loosening the stress knots that have made a permanent home in your shoulder blades. It’s the way the cinnamon and amber fill the small space with the musk of his cologne, and how they mix with the deep tanned leather of the seat underneath you. The heat that blows from the vents only seems to intensify it along with the man next to you. It feels like you’re surrounded by him, encased by him. 

He drives slowly down the winding road that leads into town, the tires crunch as it compacts the thick snow underneath them. It falls from the sky like it’s angry, wind sweeping the wet flakes against his headlights. His wipers squeak working overtime to keep visibility. The full moon hidden behind the deep purple clouds fights to shine its way through the storm, casting a deep lavender glow along the banks. Illuminating the snow that hangs heavy on the edges of the trees that line the bare woods surrounding you. Frank Sinatra’s ‘You Go To My Head’ plays softly from his speakers with a light crackle from years of playing his music way too loud joy riding with Tommy and Carol. 

Steve readjusts slightly in his seat to shift gears, and you catch a whiff of tobacco still clinging to the fabric of his sweater underneath his coat. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you have to fight the urge to lean forward and inhale.  

“Okay, so — secret Santa. We were thinking of having it at the Wheeler’s, since their basement is practically like our second apartment anyway, on top of the fact that it’s way easier to get to than The Squawk.” Robin breaks the silence, leaning forward resting her elbows on the backs of either of your headrests. 

You don’t miss the way Steve’s grip on the steering wheel tightens enough to show the white’s of his knuckles at the name, or the anxious pit that forms in your gut at the idea of being the new face in a group of friends that are tied together by something you can’t even begin to comprehend. 

“Hey! Sit down, are you kidding me?” He scolds, glaring at her from the rearview mirror.

”Sorry, Dad.” She huffs, raising her hands in defense, flopping herself back into her seat. Your lips twitch at the familiar nickname.

”And put your seat belt on too. Jesus, I’m driving in a freaking blizzard Robin.” He only takes his hand off the steering wheel just long enough to run it through his hair.  Robin sticks her tongue out at his reflection, but you still hear the click of her seatbelt before she continues.

“Anyway, I’m thinking around 8 o'clock Christmas Eve. You can make Keith work the overnight shift since you’re the boss and all.” She grins wide when you toss her your own glare from over your shoulder.

”What if Keith wants it off?” You counter with teasing revenge.

It’s Steve that snorts next to you, bringing your attention to the curve of his lips, doing good to keep his eyes on the road.

”Keith was banned from secret Santa, per our agreement, so therefore he has to work and you have to go.” He argues siding with his best friend daring to meet your gaze before adding a little quieter. “Besides, I want you to go.”

Your stomach flips at his admission, cheeks warming enough they could fog the window next to you if you were just a few inches closer. Biting down on your bottom lip, you try to fight off the shy smile that wants to take over your face. Nervous hands pulling at the sleeves of your coat.

”I guess I’ll see what I can do.” You try to play along with a roll of your eyes and a bad attempt at an even voice, but you can tell Robin sees right through it. The heat of her stare threatens to burn a hole in the back of your head daring you to meet it.

”Perfect, then it’s decided.” She finally says, something mischievous dancing around in her tone. “Hey dingus, drop me off at our place first, I forgot I gotta wake up early to help my Mom with something.” 

It sounds casual, the way she lays the trap, but you know exactly what she’s doing and you’re almost positive Steve does too. Especially by the way he stares her down through the rear view mirror before clearing his throat.

“Sounds good.” He nods with a small smile that almost seems nervous, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to gauge a reaction you don’t give despite the wild thumping of your heart in your chest.

Robin Buckley was a menace.

Of course it doesn’t take much longer for Steve to pull into the small parking lot of what you assume is their apartment complex. It’s one of the two in Hawkins, and yours of course is on the exact opposite side of town. Guilt consumes you with the realization of how far out of his way he’s going to not only drive you home, but to also pick you up first thing in the morning as the never ending storm clouds continue to dump what seems like another foot of snow on top of you.

Robin jumps out of the car before it even fully comes to a stop.

”Drive safe, and I’ll see you on Christmas Eve!” She smiles, sticking her head in one last time, throwing Steve a wink that makes him scoff and wave her off.

”Bye. Close the damn door before the snow ruins the leather.” He scolds, trying to dismiss her very obvious ulterior motives, mouthing ‘go’ until she finally obliges. 

The wind outside isn’t loud enough to drown out her cackle after she shuts the door, and despite his annoyance he still doesn’t drive away till he sees her disappear safely into their apartment. Adding yet another quality to the long list of things Steve does that you unexpectedly find extremely endearing. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t know why she’s being so, so - she’s being weird.” He stammers nervously, slowly pulling out and back into the snow storm that’s only seemed to get worse.

”I think that’s just Robin’s general demeanor.” You say casually, like your palms weren’t sweating. 

“That is also true.” He laughs quietly, shifting gears when his tires slide, turning a corner.

“Are you seriously sure this is okay Steve? We're still not that far from the station. It’s getting bad, I can just stay there.”  

As if to prove your point, the wind kicks up, smacking loudly on the side of his car.

”You’re not sleeping at the station.” He responds seriously, shifting again before slowly hitting the gas getting back on the main road. “I would not have offered it if I didn’t want to.”

”Technically Robin offered.”

”We’re basically the same person, so.” He shrugs, a toothy grin spreading across his face that only seems to be more handsome draped in shadows and moonlight. 

Frank Sinatra’s ‘If I Had You’ fills the quiet space between you, the strings and his deep melodic voice turning the snow outside into something magical instead of treacherous. 

“You really like Sinatra don’t you?” The question makes him do a double take, a reveal that warms both your cheeks and sends butterflies soaring deep in your gut giving your cards away about listening to his overnights.

‘I could show the world how to smile. I could be glad all the while. I could change the grey skies blue, if I had you.’ 

”Checking up on me I see.” He grins, shifting again only this time the side of his hand grazes your thigh, the slightest touch sending your body buzzing.

”I mean, I’ve got to keep tabs. I’ve caught you slipping, what? Four times now?” You tease, doing your best to hide your grin. 

”Three. And all of them were your fault.” He corrects, sly eyes finding yours over the console making you giggle.

”Sounds like a deflection to me, Steve.” You sigh, relaxing even more in your seat meeting him from under your lashes. “I just never pegged you for a Frank Sinatra kind of guy.”

He huffs out a laugh, running a big hand through his hair that almost looks like a messy kind of bed head after the amount of times he’s done it throughout the day. 

“I wasn’t until Robin started judging my love for Eddie Money like it was the worst thing she’s ever heard in her life. Which is crazy cause —”

”He makes hits!” You agree, with the kind of excitement that makes a smile stretch so big across his face that it splits in two. 

”Thank you! Yes, he makes hits. But, she disagrees and decided to dedicate the first two months we worked at the station ‘expanding’ my music taste. I tried hiding the fact that I liked Frank outta spite, but apparently you aren’t the only one who listens to my overnights.” He glances over holding your stare for just long enough to make your heart skip a beat.

“You really aren’t stealthy, Steve.” You giggle before adding, “I bet she knows you’re smoking again too.”

”You’re probably right.” He groans at the possibility.

”I hear that a lot.” 

Steve snorts, flipping his blinker on to turn down the road that leads to your side of town, shifting again his knuckles brush against you for the second time sending goosebumps pebbling across your skin. 

“I was so surprised the first time I heard you play ‘My Way’, but honestly Harrington, it kinda suits you. I like it.” Your cheeks warm at your own compliment, something about saying it in his moonlit car has it feeling bigger than intended.

He stays quiet for a moment, letting the song fill the space between you charged with the new feelings that sit on the edge of both of your tongues.

’And I could leave the old days behind. Leave all my pals, I’d never mind. And I could start my life anew, if I had you.’

”Yeah?” He asks quietly, with a kind of soft vulnerability wrapped around the word that’s unmistakable.

“Mmhmm.” You whisper matching his tone turning shy, heart thumping wildly in your chest. “It’s hard not too.”

You aren’t talking about Sinatra anymore, and you think you both know it.

His gaze feels heavy as it crawls over the details of your face in the silence that follows, trying to figure out what’s going on inside your head. You hope whatever he’s looking for is hidden, just like the feelings that are starting to bloom despite how much you’ve tried not to water them. 

“What was it like?” 

The question you’ve been too scared to ask since you’ve been home slips out without warning, nervous fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater that poke out from your coat. 

“Lockdown?” He clears his throat, straightening his posture holding the steering wheel with a harsh grip.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” You try to take it back watching the way all the muscles in his body seem to tense at the memory. 

”No, no, it’s fine.” He responds with a small smile reading you like a book from the corner of his eye. “I don’t mind, just, uh, I wasn't expecting it.”

”Sorry, I have a bad habit of just blurting out whatever pops into my mind.” You laugh nervously, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Oh, I know, I remember your conversational skills on the roof.” He teases, the whites of his teeth shining against the dashboard lights.

“Now look at us because of my lack of conversational skills.” Smirking, you dare to look over at him again, your eyes tracing the moles that dot his profile. 

Steve was always handsome, but was he always this handsome?

“Fast friends.” He chuckles softly, meeting your gaze briefly before focusing back on the road. 

There’s that word again. You guess it’s better than ‘cool.’

The snow falls so heavily outside you aren’t entirely sure how he’s even able to see through it anymore.

”Lockdown was like being trapped in a never ending loop of the worst day of your life.” He says with a low voice, his handsome features going dark at the memory.

Shifting gears again, his Beamer slowly trudges up the kind of hill that you know would have been your car's demise if you had even made it out of the station's parking lot. He leaves his hand to rest on the stick shift this time, the tips of his fingers press softly into your thigh, he doesn’t move them. 

“But at least I had a real excuse for once as to why my life turned out the way it did.” There’s a layer of self hatred sewn into what he’s saying, it’s hard to miss in the way it diminishes the light in his eyes. 

”What do you mean by that?” You whisper, too nervous to talk at full volume, but you lean your thigh further into his touch, keeping him connected to you. The rev of his struggling engine bleeds through the conversation, and you wonder if his car will even make it back.

”I mean look at me.” He laughs, like it’s obvious. 

“I am looking at you Steve.” 

You almost tell him that it’s all you seem to be doing lately.

”My Dad’s a lawyer with his own firm, and I’m a sound guy at a radio station who peaked in high school that can’t seem to get it together enough to leave.” He scoffs like you must need a reminder, running that nervous hand through his hair again, knee starting to bounce. 

“That’s not what I see.” It comes out soft just like your gaze, fingers flexing in your lap fighting the urge to wrap around his.

”Yeah?” His voice cracks a little, but he keeps his focus on the disappearing road. “What do you see?”

’I could be a king, dear, uncrowned. Humble or poor, rich or renowned. There’s nothing I couldn’t do, if I had you.’

“Someone that loves his friends so deeply that he constantly puts his needs last. You’re selfless almost to a fault Steve, and sometimes I have to fight the urge to yell at you to take care of yourself when I see how bad the bags under your eyes get some days.” 

He chuckles dryly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he blinks back tears that threaten to spill like he’s never heard these things about himself before. A storm raging inside of him just like the one outside.

”I see a guy who’s so kind, he’d sacrifice his own happiness for anyone that he loves. And I think that’s exactly why you’re still here. I wouldn’t call that being a failure. Not by a long shot.” 

That’s when you do it, you wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, he does it back with zero hesitation, like he was waiting for you. Keeping you there.

”I think about it all the time you know?” He whispers, the pad of his thumb brushing against your knuckles, butterflies multiplying deep in your gut.

”What?”

”Leaving.”

Frank Sinatra’s deep baritone fills the quiet that falls between you when he turns on your road, letting the weight of his confession hold the space there. A deep longing inside of it to see what lies past where the twenty feet tall fences were. 

“Why haven’t you?” The question feels loaded when it leaves your mouth, and the way his thumb stutters tells you it is.

”I just need to know they’re safe — that they get out of here first. Especially Dustin, that little shit gets under my skin but I love him like he's my kid.” He answers the question with the most selfless kind of reason you should’ve expected. Something else lingering inside of it that he doesn’t want to unpack just yet. “After everything, I just can’t, I can’t. Not yet. Part of me feels like maybe I’ll always live here.”

He pulls into your complex like he’s done it a thousand times before, wheels spinning in the snow before his car propels forward into the first spot, only letting go of your fingers to put the car in park.

”That doesn’t mean you can’t explore what’s past Hawkins, Steve.” You whisper, turning in your seat to face him, already missing the warmth of his hand. “You’re not stuck, even if you stay, you can always see what else is out there, one place at a time, one trip at a time. Bit by bit. The world is big, and it’s not going anywhere.”

His eyes shine, glassy and shimmering under the street lamp above his car. They tell you everything he can’t bring his mouth to speak, your hands flexing in your lap fighting the urge to grab onto him again. Shadows make the moles and freckles that dot his skin look like the last flick of a paint brush, the final touches to a painting and you realize — yes, Steve has always been this handsome, you just didn’t see it before. 

You see it now though.

“Thanks for taking me home.” You smile a little shy, the heaviness of the conversation hanging in the air. 

“Any time, honey.” His full lips twist into something sweet, the new nickname making your body come alive. “Want me to walk you to your door?”

He glances around your well lit parking lot like something could be lurking in the shadows, it feels silly to you, but the expression that furrows deep in the V of his brows tells you that it’s anything but to him.

“I’m already scared you’re not gonna get out of here as it is. I’m just right there.” You point to the door of your apartment, the one conveniently closest to where he’s parked and his shoulders visibly relax. You knew he was going to watch you till you got inside anyway.

”I’ll pick you up around 8?” He asks, his eyes glancing down at your hands that fidget like he missed your touch too.

The bold red numbers on his dash read: 9:38PM. Suddenly tomorrow feels like a million years away. 

“That sounds good.” It comes out in a whisper, your mind frantically searching for anything to say to keep him here even if just for a few minutes more. But it’s all static.

”I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.” He smiles, leaning back into the headrest.

”I’ll make you coffee for your troubles — with four sugars, don’t worry.” You tease, trying to ignore the nervous crack in your voice, but your joke lands earning you a snort in response and it only pushes your cheeks up higher.

“Better make it five.” Steve winks, white teeth gleaming against the dashboard lights at the eye roll he gets.

”Whatever Harrington, it's your body, your diabetes." You shrug, not expecting the genuine full belly laugh you get, quickly doing your best to try and memorize the bass and timbre of it in case you don’t hear it again.

You take one last look at him, committing this moment to memory. His eyes do the same as they trace over every curve and dip of your face, it makes you squirm a little in your seat. Your fingers grab the door handle at the same time he clears his throat leaning back into the leather. He flicks his thumb across his nose, before that big hand of his wraps around the stick shift, signaling that it’s really time to go.

”Please drive safely.” You beg, stepping out of the car and into the snow, remembering all those times he peeled out of the station’s dirt road.

”I will, I will. Don’t worry.” He waves you off with a smirk, “I’ll be thinking about that coffee the whole way home.”

He’s not talking about the coffee. 

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, the wet snow flakes that stick to your cheeks melting from the heat emanating off of them. Shutting the door, you wave at him one last time before trudging up to your apartment, feeling the warmth of his stare on you the whole way. He waits until your keys are in your door before you hear the squeal of his gear shifting, his tires spinning loudly just like yours did at the station. It makes you turn around, and you watch him try to back out again just to get himself even more stuck in the snow that just continues to pile around him. He tugs at his hair trying one more time, finally giving up when smoke starts to come up from the burning rubber of his tires. His eyes meet yours through his windshield, apologetic and nervous, the wind kicking up a notch to add salt to the wound.

”You’re gonna flood your engine!” You tease with a grin, getting the shine of his teeth you were looking for. Bright like the sunshine you missed so much, they break through the storm clouds that threaten to hide his face. 

Steve Harrington was snowed in at your apartment.

—- 

You never thought your place was that small for a studio until Steve was standing in the middle of it, broad shoulders and long legs taking up so much space. His eyes are curious as they absorb his new surroundings, mouth slightly agape unzipping his leather jacket looking around like he’s being let in on a big secret. Nerves twist tight in your gut at the general clutter scattered around your room that doubles as a common area, especially the pair of underwear hanging half hazardly from your laundry basket.

”Sorry for the - the um, mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone, obviously.” You stutter, peeling off your coat in a rush. 

Hanging up your puffer by the front door, you scurry past him to try and clean up what you can, starting with the black lace but the deepening red in his cheeks tells you that it's too late.

”You're fine, seriously. You’re cute — I mean.” He clears his throat like it's closing up, scratching the back of his neck, “It's a cute, cute apartment.”  

You can’t stop the twist of your lips no matter how hard you try, giggling a soft thank you as you speed clean around him. He stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself either, both of you lost in uncharted territory. 

“Here, I’ll take your coat.” You huff throwing away the last of the wrappers you’ve collected, taking a deep breath at the realization that you’re being a bad host. “You can sit on the couch, and get comfortable.” 

Steve looks like a deer in headlights when you walk over to him with an open hand.                     

”Is it okay if I use your bathroom real quick?” There’s a shyness in the way that he asks, slipping his wet leather coat into your grasp, that nervous hand pushing his hair back.

There’s a brief moment of panic as you try and remember the way you left it, but since you weren’t running late today, you’re nintey nine percent sure it’s safe.

”Yeah of course, it’s on the right around the corner, not the left, that's just a closet.” 

He nods, patting himself down like maybe he’s forgetting something before turning around and disappearing into the bathroom with a soft click of the door. A shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding slips out from between your lips as you hang up his coat. The musk of his cologne hits your nose along with the relaxing hint of amber inside of it, and this time, you give in, inhaling a little more.

You take one last look around your apartment for anything else you might’ve missed before grabbing an extra blanket from the closet you warned him about. Your heart thumps a little quicker hearing the muffled sound of the water running in the sink as the reality of Steve Harrington having to sleep on your couch just a few feet from your bed settles in.

You grab the extra pillow you usually cuddle with from its hiding place under your comforter, laying everything out for him on one side of the loveseat.  Staring down at the short piece of furniture, there's a part of you that wonders if he’s even going to fit on it, at least comfortably. Another wave of guilt hits you like a tsunami as you start to think maybe you should be the one to sleep on the couch instead.

The sound of the bathroom door opening stops you from being able to fret about it too much as he emerges from around the corner. His hazel eyes find yours instantly, the gold in them looking warm like honey. A toothy grin cracks his handsome face in two calming the anxiety that had begun tightening uncomfortably in your chest. The sleeves of his brown sweater are pushed up, and the windswept mess on the top of his head had obviously been tamed in his absence. A mental image of him fixing his hair in your small bathroom mirror has the corners of your mouth curling up. It feels like something to check off a bucket list. 

“I like the pink rugs you have in there.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb taking two long strides to the middle of the room, his gaze wandering the posters on your wall like he's trying to piece you together.

“Thanks, I bought them when I first moved back to brighten it up a little.” You sigh with a shrug, looking down before adding “this one too.”

You point to the fuzzy burnt orange throw carpet under both your sock covered feet, a proud smile pulling up your cheeks meeting his eyes from under your lashes.

”I’ve got the last little bit of my favorite summer candle. I usually light it when it snows like this. If you wanna get really crazy, we can even pretend it’s June.” The wiggle of your eyebrows earns you the kind of laugh from him that threatens to become your favorite sound. 

“What does summer smell like to you?” He questions with a soft stare, teeth tugging at his full bottom lip. The warm light from your floor lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. 

”It smells like the beach on the sunniest day of the year — salt water, sunshine, with the smallest amount of sweetness and dare I say a dash of clean linen.” You sigh at the thought of it, side stepping him to light it from where it sits on your kitchen island. 

“Take me away to cocamo or whatever the song says.” Steve huffs, finally flopping down on your couch. A low groan rumbles from his chest as his body molds into the cushions. This time he runs both hands through his hair.

“I’m just gonna change into something more comfortable really quick.” It comes out in a rush, your nerves from before jumbling the words on the tip of your tongue.

”Take your time,” He waves you off with a yawn, “do you care if I use your phone to call Robin while you’re doing that? I don’t want her thinking I’m in a ditch somewhere.”

“Go for it.” You smile, grabbing your softest pajama pants and an oversized shirt doing your best not to over think it, or the fact that you have nothing for him to sleep in.

Disappearing around the corner, you have to ward off the mental image of what Steve sprawled out across your couch in his boxers would look like.

—-

His voice sounds faint on the other side of the door and even though he's speaking in a hushed tone you can still tell he’s annoyed by whatever his best friend is saying on the other end. Judging by the way she was acting in the car, you can only imagine in the privacy of a call.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, probably the same way he did, messing with your appearance. Your mind wanders, replaying the night and how pushy Robin was all of the sudden, and it makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t. Maybe you weren’t the only one figuring out what that flutter in your stomach actually means.

Clearing your throat loudly, you give him a subtle warning of your return, fingers wrapping around the doorknob for ten extra seconds longer before finally coming out.

”You are not basically Dave Hull, you don’t host a match making show, please shut up— I gotta go, seriously? Can it— bye!”

He hangs up, running an irritated hand down his face mumbling something to himself before turning around. His eyes go wide, crimson staining his cheeks clearly oblivious to all the warnings you tried to give him.   

“Sounds like she was super worried.” You tease trying your best to hide your smile and ignore the way his gaze wanders your softer edges, the hardened shell at work hung up with your coat. 

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He snorts with an annoyed groan, “she was just being —“

”Robin.” You finish with a giggle, dragging your feet lazily to your bed, as a guilty conscience has you sizing up the couch again.

”I forget that you understand.” He laughs dryly flopping back down where he was sitting before you changed, thighs spreading wide as he head lulls against the cushions.

”Steve, I really don’t think that couch is going to be big enough for you.” Crossing your arms, you try to think of any kind of comfortable position he could possibly sleep in without his legs hanging over the arm rest. Or worse, propped up in mid air. 

“I think you should take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

”No, nope, absolutely not.” He sits up, squaring his broad shoulders in stubborn finality. 

“Seriously, I re-“

“I mean it, I'm fine, I could sleep standing up if I’m tired enough.” Steve grabs the blanket you laid out for him, leaning back and stretching out with one leg on the arm rest and the other on the floor.   

“See? Comfy.” 

He drapes the quilted comforter over himself to really drive his point home. It doesn’t look comfortable at all, but it’s obvious he’s not going to back down. 

You narrow your eyes at him, staring just long enough to get a laugh before he shoos you away to a bed that’s been calling your name since the station. This time you don’t have it in you to argue, taking one last look at him letting him win after he whispers a final ‘I’m fine, go to bed.”

———

The wind howls loudly outside, noisy gusts blowing against your windows sending in a chill that bleeds through the cracks of the poorly sealed glass. Another harsh blast against your apartment building has the flimsy foundations shake, and despite the thickness of your comforter goosebumps pebble across your skin, teeth threatening to chatter. Glancing over at your alarm clock, bright red numbers flash a harsh 12:34AM at you.

It was the sound of Steve’s light snoring that lulled you to sleep about an hour ago, but now it’s his constant shuffling and re adjusting on the couch that pulls you out of it. A long huff escapes through his nose after turning for what feels like the hundredth time, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s running a hand through his hair.

The wind kicks up again, blowing out the dim flame of your dying candle on the kitchen island, the soft yellow glow disappearing turning the room a deep blue. A shiver runs up your spine at the same time the springs of the couch squeak as he tries to readjust again.

”Steve, just get in the bed.” 

The shuffling stops, both of you holding your breath.

”It doesn’t have to be weird, you’re clearly uncomfortable.” You sit up rubbing the sleep from your eyes finding him in the kind of position that was sure to give him back problems for the next week. 

The internal battle he’s having with himself is evident on his face, and it lasts long enough for the uncomfortable weight of regret to start settling in your chest. Nerves digging your canines into the skin on the side of your thumb. 

“Fuck it.” He huffs under his breath sitting up, grabbing the pillow you gave him that had been rolled up to help support his neck in the pretzel of a position he had put himself in. 

Your shoulders relax for a split second until the realization of what this means quickens the beating of your heart. Chewing your bottom lip, you lift the comforter in a silent invitation doing your best to keep up with the ruse that this wasn’t a big deal, even if it feels like the exact opposite.

Steve stops at the side of your full size bed, running those long fingers through the already messy main on the top of his head. Purple shadows kiss the bags under his weary eyes as he takes in the small space next to you before they meet your gaze.

”Are you sure? I- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He asks with a sleepy rasp in his voice that makes your chest swell.

”I’ve actually never been more sure of anything in my life, if you can believe it.” You give him a lazy reassuring grin, “besides, I’m cold and I’m willing to bet you’re like a human furnace.”

He lets out a soft laugh at the reveal of your ulterior motive, the stress in his shoulders softening as he runs a hand over his face before nodding tossing his pillow down next to yours.

”As long as it’s mutually beneficial.” Steve smiles a little shy climbing under the covers, his weight making the mattress dip in the middle daring you to come closer. 

The bed squeaks underneath him as he adjusts, your metal bed frame smacking against the wall. He settles on his side facing you with a hand tucked under his pillow. You mimic the way he lays, nerves coming out in the form of fidgeting feet, your toes brushing against his under the covers. He’s so close that you can see the smattering of freckles at the corners of his eyes, and every mole that dots along his neck. Amber and tobacco hit your nose, warming you just like the heat that radiates off his body, eyes glowing a golden evergreen in the deep blue light of your apartment.

God he was close, so close.

His gaze traces the lines of your face and you swear they linger on your lips. Even if just for a fleeting moment, catching your breath in the back of your throat.

“Bet you regret offering to take me home now huh?” You tease in a whisper, the tip of your toe catching on his shin. 

“Nah,” he scoffs with a soft grin,“I do however regret not wearing my boots, I wasn't even thinking, rookie mistake.” 

Your giggle makes his full pink lips stretch wide over perfect white teeth. Butterflies flutter in a kaleidoscope of color when he catches your feet with his own.

“I’ll help you,” you hum, as your hand not tucked away finds a new home in the space between you. “Don’t worry.”

There’s a moment of silence while his fingers follow yours, resting close enough for the tips of them to brush. His thick eyebrows marry in the middle of his forehead, thinking hard about whatever he’s wanting to say next.

“Sorry if that was a little much in the car earlier, I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.” He looks up at you from under his lashes, insecurities swirling in the depths of his irises.

“Don’t be,” your voice comes out quiet, swallowing your apprehension as your index finger hooks with his, “I like seeing that side of you.”

His finger flexes at your response, squeezing.

“Yeah?” He questions with the kind of disbelief that cracks open your heart.

“Mmhmm.” You murmur, holding his gaze, toes digging into the top of his foot, silently saying I like you.

You don’t know when it happened, but staring at him in the incandescent light of your room. You’re sure of it now. 

Steve scoots closer, the heat of his breath fanning against your lips. Drawn to him like a magnet, you do the same, the tip of your nose brushing with his. Cinnamon from the Big Red he always chews invades your senses like the left over cologne clinging to his clothes. Another gust of wind smacks against your windows, sending a chill up your spine. Steve’s lips quirk on one side.

“Want to test out your furnace theory?” He breathes, a nervous crack in his voice, as he takes the leap of no return, first. 

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, all you can muster is a shy nod, your legs wrapping tighter around his. Something greedy warms every inch of your skin like it’s a need to have him as close as possible, and here he is offering it to you like it’s all he wants too. 

His big hand finds your hip before sliding to the small of your back, his palm flattening along your spine tugging you to him. It doesn’t take much to close whatever space that was left between you, legs tangling together with bodies pressed so close that you can feel every ridge and dip of him. You look up from under your lashes just to find him already staring down at you, and even with the heavy weight of his mind evident under his eyes, he’s somehow more handsome than he was an hour ago. 

Your palms flatten along his chest, the unbuttoned collar of his sweater revealing the top of a thick patch of hair that hides underneath the cotton. It makes your thighs press into his, your cheeks burning but if he notices he doesn’t show it. The pad of his thumb presses softly running along the dip of your spine, soothing your stiff muscles while his eyes trace over the contours of your face. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel like he can see everything that you’re trying to hide, and when his gaze lingers on your lips you’re sure he can. 

The hand he kept tucked under his pillow outstretches with his arm, sliding under your head to pull the rest of you in. Tucking you under his chin, you bury your face into the side of his neck, thankful for the hiding place. His skin feels just as sunkissed as it looks, and it takes everything inside of you not to nuzzle deeper into him searching for more. 

“Is this okay?” He whispers against the crown of your head, soft fingers running up and down the length of your back. 

“Mmhmm.” You mumble against his throat instead of ‘can I live here?’ curling your fists into his sweater to pull yourself closer.

For the first time all winter, you’re thankful for the snow. 

“Are you okay?” Your question comes out in a murmur, lips ghosting against his skin as you attempt to look up at him failing miserably nosing the sensitive spot behind his ear. 

”Am I — am I okay?” He snorts incredulously, pulling you close enough to feel impossible, turning his head just enough for your cheeks to brush, the heat of his breath pebbling goosebumps along the side of your neck. “Never been better, honey.”

Honey. You want to change your name to honey. Get lost in the gold of it hidden in his eyes.

All you would have to do is lift your chin up slightly, and your lips could be pressed to his. The thought of them being so close quickens your heart beat, breath hitching as the tip of his nose nudges against the side of your cheek. Testing the boundaries like the realization dawned on him too. The sound of your heavy breathing mixes with the howling of the wind outside, filling the quiet space of your apartment, neither one of you daring to speak. His chest rises and falls under your palm, his own heart matching yours, skipping a beat at the tilt of your chin. 

His fingers slide down your spine, fiddling with the hem of your shirt until he feels the slight nod of your head giving him permission. Electricity sparks goosebumps along the soft skin of your lower back the moment the tips of them touch you, a low hum escaping the back of your throat. You swear you feel his lips curve up against your cheek at the sound. Your bodies move together, seeking friction you’re not ready to give into yet, heavy breathes hot against each other's necks. 

Your hands trail down his chest, a greedy need to touch more of him taking over all logical thought. They reach the bottom of his sweater at the same time your nose presses harder into his cheek when the blunt end of his nails drag softly down the dip of your spine. Your fingers slip under the hem, the pads of them meeting the rough hair of his happy trail. His body tenses, the movements of his hand coming to halt. You immediately feel the loss when he pulls it out, long fingers grabbing a hold of your wrist. 

“Hey.” He whispers against your ear, his voice laced with something soft and scared.

You work up the courage to push past the bitter taste of rejection sneaking up on you to pull your head back just enough to meet the heavy gaze of his eyes, eclipsed dark with want, fear sparkling in the depths of them. The tips of your noses brush, and your fingers itch to smooth the lines in the middle of his forehead from the furrow of his brows despite the way your heart drops to the pit of your gut. 

Maybe you read this all wrong. 

“There’s — There’s stuff you don’t know about me.” He starts, the hand on your wrist letting you go so he can thread his fingers with yours, easing some of the anxiety that had started to build. “Things happened to me — happened to a lot of us during that time.” 

You press your forehead to his, the pad of your thumb rubbing softly over his knuckles, silently encouraging him to continue. His face twists like he’s in pain, shame shadowing his handsome features, breaking your heart before he even has a chance to finish. 

”These things, they left their mark on me. It’s — it’s a lot to explain, not really pillow talk.” huffing out a nervous laugh, he swallows avoiding your gaze, he moves his focus to your tangled hands instead before continuing, “my stomach and umm parts of my chest — I’ve got a lot of scars is what I’m trying to tell you pretty fucking badly. A lot of them, and I haven’t really shown them to anyone before. Well anyone —“

”New?” You finish, squeezing your legs around his calf a little tighter remembering the one you saw wrapped around his neck. 

Tears that you don’t let fall sting the corners of your eyes. Seeing him vulnerable like this, leaving himself bare to trust you to help pick the pieces back up has a sharp pain tightening in your chest. A vengeful rage boiling under the surface at the idea of whatever it was that caused him so much pain. The urge to apologize to him eats at you but you keep it to yourself knowing that’s the last thing he would want. Steve Harrington hated pity.  

”Yeah,” He breathes a slight sigh of relief, his eyes finally meeting yours with a worry he can’t seem to shake swimming deep in the pools of them.

”Steve.” His name comes out gentle, a softness about it that has his nose nudging against yours. “You only have to share with me whatever you’re comfortable with.”

You run the tip of your nose along the length of his, breathing him in. 

“I don’t need to see them yet, or ever if that’s what you want, I just — I just really want to touch you.”

Your eyes close, hiding from his gaze that searches for you. 

“I want that too, honey. God more than anything.” He whispers against the corner of your mouth, the silk of his lips waking up every nerve ending in your body.

He lets go of your hand, fingers lazily crawling up your hip before returning to their home on the small of your back. A shiver runs up your spine at how good it feels to be touched by him again, only a few minutes passing but they felt like a lifetime. 

You meet Steve’s stare, an intensity burning in his eyes that wasn’t there before. The kind that gives you the courage to slip your hand back up the bottom of his sweater. Tentative nails raking through his rough happy trail. The feeling of your touch sends a shudder through his body, like it’s been denied this kind of intimacy for a long time. A low groan catching in the back of his throat pressing his forehead harder against yours.

Your touch grows bolder, more curious as your fingers dare to crawl further up. The pads of them are met with uneven skin, evidence of large almost teeth-like shaped gashes lining the sides of his ribs. Despite pinching his eyes closed, he leans further into your touch. Your teeth dig into the fat of your bottom lip, holding in the cry that wants to slip out.

What happened to you?

The blunt ends of your nails find the softer patch of hair on his chest, your hips meeting his on their own accord. Steve tilts his head up, his mouth hovering just above yours as his hands spread wide across the small of your back. He pulls you to him like there’s somehow more space between you even though there isn’t. Your top lip brushes just slightly against his full bottom one, while your fingers dance slowly down the other side of his ribcage. The bumps of identical scars kissing the pads of them again. 

His nose presses into your cheek, a shaky breath tickling against your skin. The blunt end of his nails digging crescent moons into the soft skin of your back when you go over a deeper indentation.

“So handsome.” You whisper, lips ticking just under the shell of his ear as you glide your fingers over the same spot again.

He breathes out a shy laugh, nuzzling deeper into you leaving a whisper of a kiss at the hinge of your jaw. His mouth is so close to where you want it most, a fluttering tickling deep in your gut at the feel of them dragging along your skin. 

“So beautiful.” His voice comes out low against the sensitive spot in the crook of your neck. Its baritone has your body curving soaking in the warmth of him through your palms because touching Steve feels like bathing in sunshine. 

The need for more is insatiable, and he lets you take as much as you want. Your hands wander the broad expanses of his chest, tracing the dips and curves of the pinched skin of his scars until your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. The soft caresses of his fingers against the sore muscles of your back lulling you to the deepest sleep you’ve had in what feels like months but not before you hear a quiet whispered ‘sweet dreams, honey.’

——-

Part Two ✨

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.

Until the knocking starts.

Correction: pounding.

Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.

You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.

But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.

Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s brought a car with her.

A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.

Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.

A boy.

Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t know him. Not really.

Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.

But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.

Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.

Poof. King Steve: dethroned.

Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.

You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.

You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.

He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)

But now, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … Up close, he looks worse.

Biblically bad.

Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.

His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

You glance down at Steve.

His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.

You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.

And something inside you goes still. 

These are... bite marks.

Not scrapes. Not scratches.

Bites.

His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.

Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.

You turn back to Steve.

His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.

You kind of hate him for it.

Because you know this type.

Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.

You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.

Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … It takes two hours.

Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.

It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.

Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.

Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.

You stiffen. Then sigh.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.

You stay on the couch next to Steve.

Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.

You stay up.

Because someone has to. … It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.

Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly. 

Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.

But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” you whisper.

No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.

Your throat tightens.

You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.

His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.

You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.

Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.

You pour three cups anyway.

Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.

Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.

Gives his face a little shake.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.

Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.

It hurts worse looking at him.

Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.

You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.

You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.

And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” you warn.

He ignores that.

Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.

Then: flip.

One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.

You blink at it, betrayed.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

And fuck, it lands.

It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.

You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.

And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.

He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?

You raise your brows like, Try me.

You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.

You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.

In your head, you run through the math.

Ten days. Minimum.

Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.

God help you. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.

Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.

Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.

When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.

You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.   

He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.

The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.

Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—

Jesus.

He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.

You get the hoodie off.

His chest is bare.

And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.

You both freeze.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”

He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.

You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re a sadist.

That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.

But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.

You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.

But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.

Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.

You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.

Something twists low in your stomach.

You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.

Your gaze follows it.

The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.

You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.

Instead, you say:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.

But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.

Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.

One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s a long pause.

Then he does.

His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.

The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead. 

It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.

Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.

And that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.

Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.

No, he goes rigid.

His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.

And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.

A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.

You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.

His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.

Then, he leans.

Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.

Like a plant bending toward light.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.

And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.  

You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.

But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.

You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.

And then a quiet thought hits you.   

A hunch, really.

You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.

You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.

Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.

But you don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.

He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.

And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.

At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.

That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.

It wants to lean in.

Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.

Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.

To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re losing it.

You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.

And beneath that?

Yeah.

Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.

You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.

His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.

His eyes flutter open.

And the look he gives you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.

His eyes are still on you.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.

You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

He nods, a little too slow.

You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.

Then you turn.

And you walk out.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

Not with thunder. Not with rain.

With pressure.

The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.

Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.

The moment before it tips. 

It’s here now. In this room.

In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.

The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.

The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.

His voice breaks the quiet.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.

You can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.

You meet him halfway.

His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.

And then your lips meet.

A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.  

Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.

You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.

His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.

Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.

Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.

You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

But you know.

You just… know.

The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.

So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.

Still, you don’t stop. 

You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.

Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.

Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.

You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.

You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.

His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.

You swallow hard.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.

He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.

You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.

He quiets instantly.

Because your hands are on him now.

You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.

Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.

And Steve unravels beautifully.

You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.

Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.

Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.

So you double down.

You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.  

You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.

What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.

You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

And your body breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.

You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.

And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.

And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … You never ask him to stay.

Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … You learn the little things first.

That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.

And sometimes, you catch him staring again.

Only now, you don’t look away.  

You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."

You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.

Then he moves.

Three steps. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

You do.

First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.

Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.  

You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.

He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.

On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.

He’s watching you. Again.   

You glance up. "What?"

He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“Steve.”

“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”

You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”

He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.

“Yeah,” he says.

But it’s not what he means.

You both know that. … The sex changes, too.

In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.

But at night? He’s something else entirely.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.

And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation. 

He knows you now.

Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.

One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.

“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”

You break on his name.

He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.

And afterward, he stays.

Inside you. Around you.

He never pulls away first. … Not all nights are easy.

Some nights, you wake alone.

You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.    

You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.

He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.

When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.

Lets you guide him back to bed. … Your mornings are different now.  

You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.

It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.

The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.

He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.

Like maybe he was meant to be here all along. … Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count. 

Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.

And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t. … Like tonight.

You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.

It would be so easy to stay here.

To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.

But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.

“Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.

“…Do what?”  

“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.

That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.

Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.

You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”

His hand stills.

“I’m not.”  

“Not what?”

“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”

You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.

“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”

He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”

Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?

You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.  

The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.

Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel. 

That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.

Sinks its teeth in. Festers.   

Until guilt turns into remorse,

Remorse turns into habit,

And habit drags on as penance.

So he made himself useful.

Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.

Diving first. Bleeding first.

Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.

That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.

You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.  

“You’re for you, Steve.” 

He blinks, brows knitting.

“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.

Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.

You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You don’t.

You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.   

You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.

You stay up.  

Because someone has to. … You get used to the quiet.

Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.

To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.

To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.

You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.

So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.

Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.

You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.

“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”

Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.

You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”   

You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.

You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”

Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

But his ears are pink by the time you close the door. …

After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.

Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker. 

“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”

Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.

You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.

“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?

You glance over your shoulder.

Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.

You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”

Dustin beams. “Awesome.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:

“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”

The room goes still.

Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.

Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

“No.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”

You blink at him like, Seriously?

He raises his brows like, Try me. 

You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.

He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.

“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”

You frown. “Our what now?”

“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”

You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”

But Steve isn’t laughing.

“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?” … The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.      

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

You wait.

Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.

Fear.

You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”

He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”

“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”

His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”

“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.

But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.  

“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.

“...I just got you.”

The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.

His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”   

He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.

He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”

You smile into his shirt. “Deal.” … It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.

The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.

“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”

You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”  

He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”

“You needed it.”

Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.

He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.

The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.

You let it breathe.  

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist. 

Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.

Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.

That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.

Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.

The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.   

And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.

You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.

He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.

And he’s learning to let you.

You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You hum. “Just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.

You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:

“I was just… thinking about what you said.”

He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”

“At the gate.”

That’s all you have to say. You both remember.

The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.

I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—

You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:

I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.

You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”

“When?”

He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.

“Not out loud. But you did.”

You think back.

To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.

Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.

Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.

Your fingers find his jaw.

“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

And you do.

Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.

And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it. … The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.

But it’s home.

More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.

The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.

Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.

But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.

And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.

It’s just time, now.

Yours.

Together. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.

She meant hearts. You meant bones.

Maybe she was right.  

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

You've named it something else now, anyway. …

epilogue

You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.

You’ve got prep to do for night.

Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.

“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”

You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”

“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”

He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.

“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”

Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.

But for now, it’s just him.

Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light. And the sun keeps pouring in.