Rose 🥀

You could feel it without looking. That familiar attention, warm and persistent, catching on the side of your face whenever you bent over the counter or reached for the pen behind your ear. He had a way of making being observed feel less invasive than cherished, even when he was trying badly to be subtle about it.

“Stop staring,” you had called without lifting your head.

The rejection came immediately. “I’m not staring.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m organizing!”

“You’ve been organizing that movie for twelve minutes.”

Robin, still holding the phone to her ear, had snapped her fingers and pointed at Steve. “She’s right. You’re loitering in your own workplace.”

Steve had appeared from the aisle with two tapes in hand and a wounded look that wasn’t convincing on him because he was fighting a smile. His hair had fallen flatter than usual from the heat, the front pieces curling slightly where sweat had touched his forehead. The green vest hung open over his striped polo, and he had looked tired in a way that made your chest soften before you could stop it.

You missed him.

Not in the dramatic, tragic way people missed each other in movies with rain on windows and swelling music, but in the smaller, more aggravating way that built over a week of mismatched schedules. Missing him had been finding his sweatshirt in your passenger seat and not having time to return it. It had been hearing a song on the radio and reaching to turn it up, then remembering he wasn’t there to sing the wrong words.

It had been getting home late enough that the phone might wake your parents, so you didn’t call, then lying awake anyway because not calling had made no one sleep better.

Steve had leaned his hip against the counter beside you, too close for work and not close enough for anything else.

“You still coming over after close?” his eyes locked on you and as he asked, voice quieter.

You had kept your eyes on the label you were writing. “Depends.”

His brows had lifted, you could feel him tilting into your space like an owl. “On?”

“Whether my boyfriend keeps distracting me and gets us trapped here forever.”

Steve’s smile could be hears from miles now. “Your boyfriend sounds handsome.”

You gave a exaggerated sigh, hand to your heart. “He’s a menace.”

“He sounds handsome and misunderstood.”

Robin had gagged loudly from the register, her dramatics echoing in the wake. “I am begging both of you to please, develop shame.”

You had smiled then and Steve had saw it before you could've hid it. He always saw the small things first, or pretended he did. You weren't always sure. It was one of his better habits, along with holding doors open with unnecessary flair and buying snacks you mentioned once three weeks ago.

Steve had then reached for the stack of tapes beside you. His knuckles brushed yours softly, it wasn't an accident and not quite a full on move either. It was the kind of contact you both had become good at stealing in public: brief, plausible, and completely enough to keep the day from feeling entirely wasted.

Then the bell above the door had jingled again, and the moment had folded itself away.

That had been happening a lot lately.

By the time the last customer left, the sky had deepened into that washed-out summer blue that came right before complete and utter darkness. Robin locked the front door with both hands and announced that if another human being asked whether Top Gun was in stock, she would thoroughly defect from society.

Steve had laughed from behind the counter, counting the drawer with more concentration than the task required. He seemed to be just as restless as you. You had been sweeping near the front, pushing popcorn kernels, dust, and an abandoned gum wrapper into a crooked pile. Outside then, the parking lot lights flickered on one by one. Moths threw themselves against them with terrible dedication.

Robin stood abruptly with the return bin hugged to her chest. “I’m leaving before I witness hand-holding.”

“You need a ride?” you asked om instinct, your head propping up to look at her.

“No, I need boundaries.” Robin grabbed her bag, then pointed at Steve. Not before missing his eyeroll. “Lock up. Don’t make out near the new releases. That shelf is structurally unstable.”

The door shut behind her with a jangle and a final, theatrical wave.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The store felt different without Robin’s voice filling it. It was quieter usually, but not empty. The lights hummed overhead, the air conditioner rattled again, and outside the glass, the parking lot had gone dark except for two lonely lamps and Steve’s BMW parked beneath one of them.

You could see your reflections in the front window, faint and ghosted: two people standing too close behind the counter, both trying not to grin.

You had been yourself again, staring at Steve while he pretended to finish counting the drawer.

He had one hand on the cash register and the other braced on the counter, head bowed, and his hair falling forward. The compliment from earlier still sat between you, simple and unguarded. Steve said things like that more often now than he had at the beginning of your relationship, but he never seemed fully used to the weight of them. He could flirt in his sleep. He could charm a mother into renting three extra movies and convince a middle schooler he had excellent taste in action films. But sincere tenderness still made him look a little startled by his own mouth.

You loved that about him.

“You’re short two dollars,” you peered up at him from behind.

He blinked, “What?”

“You’ve counted that same stack three times and you keep moving the five into the ones.”

He looked down at the drawer, then back at you. He rubbed the back of his neck on reflex. “Maybe I’m creating a new system.”

“Is the system called being distracted?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile gave him away. And you could feel one start to grow on your own face. “You’re kind of mean after eight p.m.”

You begged to differ. “You love me after eight p.m.”

“Unfortunately, yeah.” that had made you give a fake gasp and a small throw of a bottlecap. That is, until the moment settled.

The word love came out casually, tossed into the room without warning, and still it changed the air. It always did. Not because you doubted it in any way, you held no reason too, but because hearing it in the middle of a normal moment made the normal moment feel less disposable.

Steve noticed the shift, and his deeply warm eyes locked onto your own. His teasing eased into something quieter immediately. “Come here.”

“You’re still working.” Your voice held little real protest.

“I’m spiritually off the clock.”

“That’s not a thing!”

“Then fire me.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re assistant manager.”

“Exactly. Too much power. Very corrupt.” Steve gave a pitying noise as he seemed to light up under your joy.

You laughed and he moved then, catching your hand across the counter and tugging gently. You let him pull you around the side, distantly you felt your shoes sticking faintly to the old tile where someone had spilled soda earlier. When you were close enough, he cupped your face in both hands, and his palms warmed against your cheeks.

“Steve,” you warned, though there was no force behind it

His pleased hum came back unabashed. “What?”

“We’re supposed to close.”

“We are closing.” you felt the need to fix the correction.

“No, you’re holding my face.”

“I’m multitasking.” Then he kissed you once. Quick and soft, barely more than a punctuation mark.

And before you could answer or speak, he kissed you again. Then again, and again, a ridiculous scatter of pecks across your mouth, your cheek, the corner of your lips, and your nose when you turned your head to escape him. His hands squished your face lightly between his palms, and you dissolved into a burst of small laughter despite yourself.

“Stop,” you managed weakly, though you were holding his wrists instead of pushing him away.

Your boyfriend was practically preening under the effect of your giggles now..“No.”

“Steve, I can’t breathe.” You tried to stress the danger.

“You’re breathing fine.”

“You’re assaulting me with affection.” Even the words brought another round of chuckles as you heard how ridiculous it sounded

“Good.” Another kiss landed near your chin.

You giggled, helpless and mortified by the sound, and he grinned against your skin. There was no grace to it. No cinematic sweep, it was just your Steve, tired from work, smelling faintly of detergent and old carpet, and kissing your face in a closed video store because he had missed you and apparently had no better plan for handling it.

It was absurd.

It was exactly what you'd needed.

When he finally stopped, you were both laughing, and you were sure your cheeks were strained by now. His hair had fallen into his eyes, and you reached up to push it back. He caught your hand halfway, kissed your knuckles, and then lowered it without making a joke.

That small seriousness returned.

“Come over tonight,” he murmured softly.

Your words came back just as gentle. “I said I would.”

“I know. I’m just making sure you don’t decide you’re too tired.”

You studied him for a moment still then started talking again. “Are you asking because you want me there, or because you think I’ll go home and fall asleep in my jeans?”

“Both can be true.”

You glanced toward the window. The parking lot was empty now. The rest of Hawkins had settled into its summer-night rhythm: cicadas, distant engines, the occasional shout from the arcade down the strip. You should have been tired enough to want your own bed. You were tired. Your feet ached, and your shirt clung to your back, and your patience had thinned to a dangerous transparency somewhere around customer number forty-two.

But Steve was looking at you with that hopeful restraint he used when he was trying not to ask for too much.

And you weren't ever going to be the one to refuse him. You squeezed his hand. “I’ll come over.”

He exhaled through his nose, obviously trying to hide the relief in it. “Cool. Great. Very casual.”

“Painfully casual.”

“Extremely normal boyfriend behavior.”

You smiled and rolled your eyes, pulling him to you once more to place a kiss under his eye. “Finish closing, normal boyfriend.”

He saluted badly and returned to the register.

You had been yourself again when it was just the two of you in the comfort of his living room, moving with the slow clumsiness of people too tired to be graceful and too fond to stop touching.

Steve dropped onto the couch first, then reached for you before you had fully decided where to sit. You ended up beside him with your legs tucked under you, where one of his arms stretched along the back of the couch behind your shoulders. The television stayed off. Neither of you wanted the noise badly enough to find the remote and scratch at your brains.

Through the front windows, the yard was dark and still. The room smelled faintly of the laundry detergent and the cologne Steve put on in the morning, mostly worn away now. On the coffee table, there was a half-finished crossword, a bottle cap, three receipts, and one of your earrings that you had been looking for since last Friday.

You picked it up and gasped, turning to face him. “You thief!”

Steve looked over, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“My earring.”

His knuckles moved against your shoulder blades slowly, trailing up and down gently. His voice was light and all knowing. "Oh. Yeah. I was holding it hostage.”

You couldn't help but snort at the prospect of envisioning that. “For what ransom?”

“Attention.” Steve's fingers played little shaped into your skin and his smile could be heard clearly.

“You get so much attention already.”

His response came quick and murmured. “Not enough from you.”

You turned the earring between your fingers, pretending to inspect it. “You’re needy tonight.”

He didn’t deny it right away. That caught you more than any joke would have.

“Maybe,” he said and you looked at him then. He had sunk lower against the cushions, head tilted back, eyes on you but not performing anything.

His shirt had wrinkled across the stomach, and one socked foot rested on the coffee table despite the fact that he had complained about Dustin doing the same thing last week. He looked young and worn out and sweet in a way that had nothing to do with being polished.

You set the earring down and reached for his hand.

“Come here,” you motioned forward, your body already stretching for familiarity.

His mouth curved then, his tone a mix of teasing and delight. “I’m already here.”

“Closer.”

That he obeyed immediately should have embarrassed him. It really didn’t. He slid toward you until your knees touched, and until his arm could fold around you properly. You leaned into him, cheek against his shoulder, and felt him relax by degrees. First by his breath, then the muscles under your cheek, and then the hand that had been restless at your side, finally settled against your hip.

Minutes passed without much happening. That was the best part. No nothing. It was only just the sound of your breathing and his, mismatched at first, then close enough to feel intentional.

You thought about saying something important. The night seemed built for it. But importance had a way of making you both nervous. And sometimes you trusted the unimportant things more.

“Your couch is eating me,” you murmured feeling your body thoroughly melted shading the upholstery.

Steve shifted to look down at you with a pout on his lips. “My couch is comfortable.”

“Your couch has a personal grudge against my spine.”

Steve went for an alternate attempt. “It’s vintage.”

“It’s lumpy.” You kept your stance.

“It has character.”

“It has crimes.” He laughed, the sound so raspy against your ear that you smiled against his shoulder.

Then his hand moved to your hair. He just began smoothing it back where it had tangled from the car window, careful with the knots, and his fingers slowed when they caught. The tenderness of it made you quieter than you expected.

“You really were tired,” he murmured against the crown of your head.

“So were you.” Your voice came hushed in the visit of comfort.

“Yeah, but I’m always tired. It’s part of my brand.”

You were safe to say, still unconvinced. “Your brand is hair and bad lying.”

“And charm.”

“And charm,” you allowed, and felt your smile warm as you felt his hold tighten against you.

He hummed with satisfaction as his drowsy and warm eyes fluttered shut. “Thank you.”

You tilted your face up, one hand resting in its position atop of where his heart cavity would be.. “Steve?”

“Yeah?” his voice came warm and honeyed.

“If you have crappy days, you can call.”

His fingers paused.

“I mean it,” you stressed. “Even if it’s late. Even if you don’t know what to say. Even if you just breathe into the phone and make me guess whether you fell asleep.”

He looked down at you, and for a second you worried you had pushed too hard. Steve sometimes needed room to step toward honesty on his own. If you chased it, he could start joking. Not because he didn’t care, but because caring had been made inconvenient for him too many times. Your Steve was a bit of a runner at times.

But he didn’t joke.

His thumb brushed once over your shoulder and head hooked over your shoulder with a soft murmur. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” His mouth tightened a little at the corner, not entirely unhappy, just working through something. “You too, though.”

You frowned on instinct, shifting to look up at him directly now. “I call you.”

Steve remained unagreeing, his fingers now playing small restless movements into fabric. “You call me when there’s a crisis or when Robin says something insane.”

“That’s most days!”

His voice softened to an almost impossible degree. “I mean when you’re sad.”

You looked away toward the coffee table a bit at the direct address.

There remained it: the small, awkward turn. The part where being known stopped feeling flattering and started feeling difficult.

“I’m not sad that much,” you tried to shrug against him going for relaxed ease, and Steve just gave you a look.

You frowned at him, and groaned in the next second. “Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“The face where you know I’m lying.”

“I don’t have a face!”

“You have several.” He sighed, but there was no frustration in it. Steve's thumb and forefinger now pressed against the hem of your top, before rubbing the material together. “I’m not trying to corner you.”

“I know.”

“I just want to be there too.”

That mattered too, you felt it as soon as you heard it. And you felt it settle somewhere behind your ribs

You had both spent so much of your relationship learning how the other person preferred to be loved that sometimes you would forget to ask for your own share. Steve gave rides and fixed things and memorized preferences. You listened, teased him out of spirals, sat close when words got hard. It worked. It really did.

But love, you were learning, could become uneven by accident if nobody admitted they wanted to be held a little longer.

You reached up and touched his cheek. “Okay.”

He kissed your palm, then turned his face enough to press his mouth to your wrist. His eyes seemed impossibly softer now, filled with warmth and a light that rivaled the suns. “Okay.”

The moment might have become too serious if the phone hadn’t rung.

Both of you held different reactions instantly, Steve had stared toward the kitchen phone with open betrayal. His head buried into yours as if to escape what he'd already heard. “No.”

You laughed once, the noise was all loose and airy. “Are you going to answer it?”

His grip on you tightened on pure want to. “No.”

“It could be important.”

Steve seemed to want to stress the difference. “It could be Dustin.”

You let the amused smile grace your lips, your hand coming out to push the wisps of hair that fell over his face. “Then it’s probably loud.”

The phone rang again, more needy for attention. Steve squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into your touch as if he could ignore it. “If I answer and it’s Henderson, I’m changing my number.”

You let the soft pads of your fingers slide against the curvature of his face. Your touches light in their travels and intentional with caress. “You don’t know how to change your number.”

“I’ll move.”

Now, that had you grinning, trying and failing to hold back a roll of your eyes at his dramatics. “Steve.”

He groaned and pushed himself off the couch. Before he left, he put both hands on your shoulders from behind where you sat, leaned down and around the side of you, waiting. You turned your head a little, already smiling. And Steve tilted in as he gave you a quick peck, warm and familiar.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured against your mouth.

You did that same, planting a smaller scaled kiss against the corner of his mouth where your hand grabbed onto his face softly. “You better be.”

He pointed toward the kitchen, with the same theatrical energy of a toddler exploring a room. “If I’m not, avenge me.”

You pushed at his shoulder then, because the noise seemed to ring desperately once more. You listened to him answer with a flat, “Harrington residence,” followed almost immediately by, “No, Henderson, I do not know where your hat is.”

You pulled your knees to your chest and smiled into the quiet of the living room. You heard the sharp intake of breath that seemed to be translated well into his final forms of restraint from the kitchen phone.

There was something strangely comforting about the interruption. The world reminding you that romance did not happen in a vacuum. It happened around phone calls, the sore feet, your lost earrings, and somebody’s younger friend having an emergency involving everything and nothing. It happened while the air conditioner clicked on too loudly and the couch tried to ruin your back. It happened in between shifts, after apologies, amd even before sleep.

Steve reappeared five minutes later, looking both victorious and annoyed. His hands leaned up to stretch behind his head, running through the strands with his fingers.

“Well?” you asked with a grin surely too bright for his betrayed expression.

“He found it in his backpack while yelling at me.”

You let yourself give an over exaggerated gasp, looking up at him as he neared. “Tragic."

“I told him you said he owes me five dollars.” The words were so random that they got you sputtering for a moment, but you cocked your head to the side with a sideline glance.

“I said no such thing.”

His grin appeared once more, and his hands came up to find your free ones, ultimately before letting palm meet palm securely. “He doesn’t need to know that.”

Steve returned to the couch but didn’t sit beside you this time. He sat lower, in between near your knees, then leaned forward until his forehead rested against your thigh. The gesture was so plainly tired that you forgot to tease him.

You set your hand in his hair, letting strands untangle themselves through your fingers. Steve himself seemed to have an instantaneous reaction.

“Hi,” you greeted softly then aloud.

His voice was muffled against your thigh. “Hi.”

The question came light through watching his shoulders tense and intense. “You surviving there?”

“Barely.” There was a groan against your skin.

“Then, you’re very brave.”

“I know.”

Your fingers combed through his hair slowly. He went still under your touch, the same way he did when he was trying not to show how much he liked something. That was one of his tells. Not the hair touching itself – plenty of people liked that– but the disciplined quiet that followed, the effort not to ask for more.

You gave him more anyway, you had a feeling he wouldn't have voiced his wishes.

After a while, he turned his head, cheek against your leg, looking up at you. The angle made him look ridiculously pretty and dear, one eye partly hidden by fallen hair.

“I really did miss you,” he spoke again, and his voice was just as quiet even though it was no longer muffled.

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” He stopped, searching for the right shape of it. Steve's hand on your knee remained tracing. “Work-you doesn’t count.”

You smiled then, a small and awaiting one. “‘Work-me’?”

“Yeah. Work-you is busy and sarcastic and smells like VHS plastic.”

You clicked your tongue, a narrowing of your eyes happened that didn't mirror the humor that was found in them. “That’s just me.”

“No, home-you is different.”

Steve seemed sure in his comparisons. “How?”

“You look at me more.” That made your fingers pause in his hair before it fully settled in.

He seemed to realize how honest it sounded a second after saying it. His gaze dropped to the couch cushion. “Not that you don’t at work! Just—there’s always people, and the phone, and Keith being Keith, and Robin pretending not to listen while fully listening.”

“She does fully listen.” You seemed to share his sentiment and nodded alongside him.

“She hears through walls.”

You resumed stroking his hair, a small laugh erupting from your throat as your nails lightly scratch against his scalp in circles. “And you want to be looked at?”

Steve made a pained sound at that and tried to melt away into your touch once more. “When you say it like that, I sound pathetic again.”

“You sound human.” His eyes lifted back to yours and you could only shrug.

There were so many answers you could have given him. Teasing ones. Romantic ones. Overly neat ones that would have tied the moment with a bow and made a fun memory. Instead, you let the pause exist, even though it felt clumsy and all too unsure in your mouth.

Then you let yourself grin down at him before humming, all matter of fact, “I missed looking at you too.”

His expression changed, slowly enough that you got to see the words land. A softening around his hazel swirl of eyes, then his mouth, and then the rest of him at final.

“Yeah?” Steve whispered as if he didn't want to chase away the words.

“Yeah.”

He rose onto his knees, and you met him halfway. This kiss was slower this time. Less desperate, but not less full. His hand found the side of your neck, and his thumb rested beneath your jaw. You felt his brow draw together again when the kiss deepened, and this time you smiled into it.

He pulled back just enough to notice it. “What?”

You couldn't contain the smile off your face. “Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me!”

“I’m not.”

He seemed sure of his stance.“You are.”

Finally, you just shook your head slightly and looked into his eyes now that they were nearer. “You concentrate when you kiss.”

“I do not.” he made an offended noise.

It did little to wipe the grin off your face. “You do. Your eyebrows get involved.”

He stared at you, offended for approximately two more seconds before he leaned in and kissed you again, firmer this time. You made a startled sound against his mouth, and he smiled this time, clearly pleased with himself.

When Steve drew back, his voice had roughened again. “Eyebrows?”

You tried to answer, but he kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then under your eye, gentler now. Your laughter returned in pieces, quieter than before. He held your face between his hands with exaggerated care and action, pressing kisses across it until you were giggling and twisting away.

“Steve.”

“What?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Steve seemed to come to that natural pause he had when you'd say it. It wasn’t the first time you had said it. Not even close. But sometimes words arrived at a different angle and found a new place, or a new hollow, or a place that had been waiting for it.

The hands loosened on your face, and his words seemed to be more pleading now.“Say it again.”

You could have teased him. Any other night, you certainly would have, but his voice had gone soft in a way that asked without demanding.

You touched his wrist, placing a light peck against the spot. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, he looked younger again. With that entirely too bright and unguarded gleam in his eye.

“I love you too,” he smiled back and that was that.

There was no music that swelled. No thunder rolled in. The phone did not ring again, which was considerate of the universe to you two. The living room remained ordinary around you, dim and warm, and full of small messes and familiar shadows.

Steve sat back on the couch and pulled you with him until you were tucked against his side. You rested your head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow. His fingers traced absent shapes against your arm, never settling on one pattern for long now.

For once, neither of you tried to turn the moment into a promise bigger than it could hold. You had tomorrow’s shifts to survive, parents to avoid waking, friends who would interrupt, and bills and boredom and bad moods waiting in ordinary corners.

But tonight, Steve’s arm was around you, firm and warm. Your hand rested over his ribs, and his lips pressed once to the top of your head, then stayed there.

“You okay?” he questioned softly and mumbled.

You nodded against him, taking to draw your own patterns on the expanse of his top. “Yeah.”

Steve's voice was low, and worn at the edges. “Good.”

After a pause, you added with a sigh, though this time it was less than airy and more reality. “Your couch still sucks.”

His chest moved under your cheek with a laugh. “I’ll buy a new one.”

“No, you won’t.”

the argument was stupid, you knew that. and honestly that made it worse.

it was just one glass, one glass left out on the side that got knocked over because it wasn't meant to be there.

that one broken glass led to a total collapse, but you didn't expect it to go on so long or be so ugly.

"you were being careless" you spat

"it's just a glass" he retaliated

"that's not the point!"

"then what is the point?!"

"i asked you to put it away ages ago"

"then why didn't you do it" his response was laced with a tone of sarcasm, a tone that pushed you over the edge.

huffing loudly, you slammed your hands on the side next to the collection of shards tears falling from your eyes out of pure frustration.

"i shouldn't have to do everything" your voice broke and cracked.

"you don't" he contradicted.

"yes i do steve- i do everything- im always clearing up after you it's exhausting!"

"well then just don't"

"if i didn't we'd be living in a dump!"

it went on and on, spiralling out of hand ending abruptly with you shutting yourself in the bathroom, hiding before you threw a picture frame at steve's head through anger blurry vision.

you knew you weren't arguing over the glass, you weren't actually even arguing. all of this was just a meltdown of built up stress from the last few months of crawls.

getting in the shower, you tried to wash your anger away expecting steve to be on the other side of the door with apologetic eyes and welcoming arms when you were done.

but you were more than wrong.

after your shower you dried and changed in the bathroom, opening the door with a confidence that was completely broken when your eyes locked onto steve, already in bed and seemingly asleep.

your eyes burned with tears, the four years you'd been together, you'd never gone to sleep separately, without saying "i love you"

steve was stubborn, you knew that but he always folded when it came to you. arguments always fizzled out within about an hour, commonly ending with some heavy make up sex way before either of you went to sleep for the night.

the room was too dark to see if steve was still awake, however as you stepped closer he didn't stir.

walking around to your side of the bed, your chest ached painfully when you slipped under the duvet onto the cold mattress.

tears fell onto your pillow when you laid your head down facing away from steve's body, your arms curling around yourself in a pathetic attempt to replace what should have been steve's.

little did you know, he was awake, waiting stubbornly for you to cave and throw your arms around him, burry your head into his neck, fall asleep wrapped in his warmth.

he wanted you to admit you needed him as much as he needed you, and tonight, he got in his own head, suddenly terrified that you didn't need him.

a quiet sniffle echoes around the silent walls of your room before landing in steve's ears.

his heart dropped and he almost rolled over to find you, acting on pure instinct before forcing himself not to.

an hour past, steve drifted off into a shallow sleep as you layed wide awake, cold, hurting and lonely.

your tears had stopped but the emptiness around you and the damp pillow under your cheek was a constant reminder of what had happened.

after crying so much, your throat was dry, a bitter taste in your mouth that you couldn't swallow away.

quietly, you slipped out from under the duvet, tip toeing around steve's side of the bed and out the door on your way to the kitchen.

your mind replayed every part of the argument, every word you said, every word he spat back. you over analysed everything, his tone, the way he went to bed without you.

how could he go to bed without you.

upstairs, feeling the shift of the mattress, steve stirred half waking up and in a sleep haze he rolled over, gravitating where the warmth of your body still lingered.

your pillow, still wet and salty with tears ended up locked under steve's arm, pulled tight against his chest. subconsciously, he breathed in your scent, the simple, instinctive gesture relaxing him significantly.

glass in hand, you walked back to your room like it was second nature, not even thinking about each step you were taking.

when you opened the door you stopped at the threshold eyes locked on steve, asleep on your side of the bed, holding your pillow.

heart sinking, you walked quietly back over, placing the glass on the side before perching on the edge of the bed.

"steve" you whispered, reaching out to hold his arm.

he grumbled softly, shaking his head into your pillow. you couldn't help but melt at the sight of him, at the sweet sounds he was making.

your heart screamed at you to just squeeze in next to him and let yourself be held by him until you fell asleep, safe in his arms.

"steve" you tried again, louder.

this time his eyes fluttered open, settling on you immediately.

"what's wrong" he questioned instinctively, arguing or not, his first thought was to worry about you.

"you're on my side"

"oh" he sat up a bit, looking at his side of the bed then back to you, remembering past events and how you ended up so far apart in the first place.

"steve.." your eyes were stinging again, just desperate to feel comfort from your boyfriend, not even caring about the argument anymore.

"darlin"

he shifted across, lifting the duvet up for you. you wasted no time, practically diving in next to him, wrapping your arms around his body.

the gesture spoke 1000 words and when you felt him physically relax underneath you, you felt like you could breath properly for the first time all night.

"i'm sorry" you whimpered into his chest.

"no darlin i'm sorry- it was my fault and then i just tired to shut you out- i was scared and-"

he cut himself off with a quiet sob, his arms tightening around your body.

"i heard you cry and- fuck- i just felt like what ever id say you'd hate me and- i thought you'd realise you didn't actually need me"

a fresh wave of tears fell from your eyes at his words, your heart shattering into pieces.

"stevie no- i need you, so bad and id never hate you- not over a stupid glass anyway"

"it was stupid"

"so fucking stupid"

you both laughed tearily pulling back to look at each other in the eyes.

he softened and caved first, lunging forward to kiss you, holding you against him with a large hand on the back of your neck.

salt from both your tears mixed with the pure and intoxicating taste of him as you slowly kissed him deeper, savouring every second.

"i'm so sorry babygirl"

"i'm sorry too"

"im gonna be more tidy- i promise"

"and im not gonna be as bossy"

“i love you so much darlin”

“i love you more”

“impossible”

You’d gotten used to being at the Burrow.

It was chaos — noisy, warm, full of mismatched furniture and even more mismatched personalities — but somehow, it always felt like home. Being Ron Weasley’s best friend meant you spent half your free time there, especially during breaks. Mrs. Weasley insisted on it, and Ron never minded. The only problem?

Fred.

Fred Weasley, the embodiment of trouble, the human form of a smirk. He was everywhere — perched on countertops, sprawled across couches, always ready with a joke that left you groaning or blushing.

He teased you relentlessly. Constantly. You were convinced it was just his favorite pastime.

Like the first morning of the summer holidays.

You were sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling something in a notebook probably writing Ron‘s essay for him when Fred leaned over your shoulder, eyes scanning your writing.

“Blimey, Y/N,” he said, mock horror in his voice. “I can barely read that. Is this supposed to be English or a coded message for the Death Eaters?”

You turned sharply, nearly jabbing him with your quill. “It’s notes, Fred.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding solemnly. “From the looks of it, you’ll need a translation spell to read them later.”

“Go away.”

“But it’s fascinating!” He snatched the notebook from under your hand and held it up. “Look at this ‘g’ — looks like it’s running for its life.”

“Fred!”

He grinned, handing it back with an exaggerated bow. “Don’t worry, love. I still like you, even if your handwriting’s a war crime.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like me.”

He smirked, and for a fleeting second — just a second — there was something softer in his eyes. “Don’t I?”

Before you could answer, George strolled in and smacked his twin on the shoulder. “Stop terrorizing Y/N, mate. She’s going to hex your eyebrows off again.”

You hid a smile behind your quill. Maybe you would. Or maybe this time you’d turn them pink.

It was the same kind of teasing at Hogwarts.

In the common room, Fred always managed to insert himself into your conversations with Ron. You’d be talking about Quidditch strategies or homework, and suddenly, a pair of long fingers would start combing through your hair.

“Fred,” you said one evening, trying to ignore the feeling of a braid forming behind your head. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he said innocently, still twisting strands between his fingers.

“Helping with what?”

“Your hair,” he said, his tone all too casual. “It was just sitting there, looking bored.”

Ron glanced up from his chessboard. “Mate, what are you doing to her hair?”

“Improving it,” Fred said.

“I swear, Fred,” you muttered, reaching back to swat his hand away.

He dodged it easily. “You’ll ruin my masterpiece, Y/N.”

“Fred,” you said again, warning in your voice.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Relax. I’m an artist.”

You turned around — which only resulted in his half-finished braid falling apart. He looked mildly offended.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “You’ve destroyed it.”

“I didn’t ask for it in the first place!”

“Tragic,” he said dramatically. “My best work, gone before its time.”

Ron groaned. “You two are worse than mum and dad sometimes.”

“Oi!” you both said at once — and Fred broke into a grin at your synchronized outrage.

The teasing continued through everything.

At breakfast, he’d steal food off your plate, just to annoy you.

“Fred!” you snapped one morning as he snagged your toast right before you bit into it.

He just grinned, chewing obnoxiously. “You weren’t eating it fast enough.”

“That’s because you took it.”

“I’m saving you from cold toast, love. A noble act, really.”

“Then maybe save someone else next time.”

“Can’t,” he said, reaching for your pumpkin juice. “You’re my favorite victim.”

You huffed, shoving his hand away. “You’re impossible.”

But later that same morning, when you’d barely touched your lunch because you were upset about a Transfiguration essay, he quietly slid his plate over to you without a word.

You blinked down at the food. “Fred, you—”

“Eat,” he said simply. “Before Ron eats it for you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he gave you a look — still teasing, but a little softer. You gave in.

It took everyone else about two days to realize that Fred Weasley was completely, hopelessly, and ridiculously in love with you.

Everyone except you.

To you, he was just Fred — the annoying twin who teased you about everything from your handwriting to your posture, who laughed when you got flustered, who seemed to pop up everywhere you went.

When Hermione hinted at it once, you’d laughed. “Fred? No, he just likes irritating me.”

Hermione had given you a look that was far too knowing. “You really can’t tell?”

“Tell what?”

She sighed. “Never mind.”

One rainy afternoon at the Burrow, you found yourself alone in the sitting room. The others were upstairs — Ginny doing homework, Ron and Harry probably playing chess, and Fred and George, you assumed, were plotting new inventions in their room.

You were curled up on the couch with a book when Fred appeared, leaning against the doorway.

“You look cozy,” he said, eyes glinting.

“I was,” you said without looking up. “Until you got here.”

“Ouch,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”

“Good.”

He came over anyway, plopping down beside you, far too close. You scooted away instinctively, but he just smirked. “I don’t bite, you know.”

“I’d argue that.”

He ignored that. “Whatcha reading?”

“Hogwarts: A History.”

“Thrilling.”

You looked up, finally smiling. “I like it.”

“Of course you do,” he said fondly. “You’d probably read a book about goblin tax laws and enjoy it.”

“I would not.”

“You would,” he said, grinning. “And you’d correct me if I said goblins don’t pay taxes.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help laughing. “You’re impossible.”

He watched you laugh, the teasing fading into something else — something quieter.

You didn’t notice.

Fred tilted his head, studying you for a moment, like he wanted to memorize every piece of that smile. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re a lot cuter when you’re not scowling at me.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He grinned again before you could answer. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re weird.”

“I prefer ‘mysterious.’”

“Sure you do.”

That evening, everyone gathered around the dinner table. Mrs. Weasley bustled about, Ron and Harry bickered over the last roll, and George was cracking jokes. You were sitting between Fred and Ginny when a sudden shout rang out from upstairs — followed by a loud bang.

“Fred! George! What have you done now?” Mrs. Weasley yelled from the kitchen.

George shot Fred a look. “You set it off too early!”

“I did not!” Fred said indignantly, jumping up from the table.

Mrs. Weasley pointed toward the stairs. “Upstairs! Both of you!”

Fred groaned, turning to you as he passed. “If I don’t survive this, remember me fondly.”

You smirked. “I’ll try not to.”

He winked. “That’s all I can ask.”

Later that night, when you were getting ready for bed in Ginny’s room, you heard a soft knock at the door. You opened it to find Fred standing there, hair tousled, still smelling faintly of gunpowder and soap.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about dinner. Mum nearly hexed me into next week.”

You grinned. “You probably deserved it.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I did bring you something.”

He held up a small chocolate frog.

You blinked. “Is that supposed to be an apology?”

He grinned. “No. It’s a bribe.”

“For what?”

“ to get you to admit you like me”

You froze, the teasing tone in his voice only half masking something sincere underneath.

“I—”

He smiled wider, the charm flicking back into place before you could say anything. “Relax, Y/N. Just teasing.”

You rolled your eyes, heart pounding. “Of course you are.”

But when he handed you the frog, your fingers brushed — and for a second, neither of you moved.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said softly.

“Goodnight, Fred.”

As he walked away, you caught yourself smiling — and for the first time, you weren’t sure why.